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imagine being fwbs with gojo n in the middle of folding you like a lawn chair he noses at your cheek n goes “hey do u wanna be my girlfriend?”

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ BEST OF THE BEST — GOJO SATORU.

contents. fwb! satoru, fem! reader, minors do not interact, unprotected sex, mating press, creampie, non canon compliant (suguru and shoko are ur friend group >:( tyvm), very cheesy ending my b, yes i made a reference to this is where you’re weak, right? sue me, petnames (sweetheart, sweet girl, princess, baby)

“bet you were waitin’ for this all day, huh sweetheart?” satoru always has a way with words—a very unique, special, and irritating way with words that routinely manages to get under your skin.

you would scoff—in fact, you would call him quite a colorful variation of words if his thick cock wasn’t pressing comfortably against your sweet spot.

so instead, you gasp a quiet, “f-fuck—right there.”

“yeah, i know,” he chuckles, “this is where you need me, huh? where you’re weak?”

you can’t do anything but whimper at that, hands wrapped tightly around him as they claw into his shoulder. he always wears the marks you leave like a good sport too—shows up to the gym in a tank top that shows them off good and well, right for suguru to see them clear as day. you almost block satoru right on the spot when he sends you a selfie in the mirror, showing off the angry marks with a wink following.

it’s a bit of a predicament, fucking your high school friend and not letting anyone know. the idea of shoko and suguru finding out that every other night, satoru is in your bed as his cum leaks out of your abused cunt is enough to make you nauseous—but never nauseous enough not to open the door for him.

the most unfortunate fact you’ve learned in your life is that satoru knows how to fuck—in fact, he knows how to fuck you well enough that you let him come back. it’s a bit shameful, really, the way you let him knock on your door, the way you open it and let him in, the way you actually fuck him and let him sleep in your bed until the morning.

and then (because he’s an asshole) he wakes up, gives you a sly wink, and murmurs i’ll be back soon, yeah? keep that bed warm for me, sweetheart.

“c-close, toru—‘m gonna….gonna—”

“gonna what? cum? already? barely even fucked you yet,” he hums, hooking your leg over his shoulder before all but pressing you in half. you mewl at the way his tip brushes past your folds and splits you in half—deeper this time with the new position. “look at that,” he coos, staring down at the way his cock slips in and out of you, “takin’ me so well, sweet girl. i think you can go a bit longer, don’t you?”

“m-more, more—need—”

“i know, i know,” he grins, “need me to fuck you dumb, don’t you? don’t worry, princess. i’ll give you more.”

his hips snap into you, pelvis rocking against yours as his pre cum and your slick mix, making a mess between your bodies as it coats your skin. you gasp, pulling satoru closer as his head falls to tuck into your shoulder, his labored breaths fanning against the shell of your ear.

“‘s good,” you whine, “f-feels good, toru.”

“yeah? feel that? squeezin’ me so tight, i can barely move,” he groans, letting out a sweet, low sound into your ear that has your spine shivering—you think you could come undone from that, from the sounds he makes as your walls flutter around him.

you think everything about satoru is enough to send you over the edge, from the sound of his voice to that pretty face of his when he spills into you.

you know he’s close—you can feel the slight twitch of his cock as his pace gets sloppier, as his thumb finds your clit and rubs desperate circles into the sensitive nerves, as he practically presses your knees to your shoulders and bullies his throbbing cock deep into your dripping cunt. and you’re close too, head spinning as your eyes flutter shut and your lips part with a broken wail.

“c-close—‘gonna cum, toru,” you gasp, voice coming in labored pants as his breath hitches.

you look perfect like this—like you’re his, like your body was made for him to touch in sinful ways, like it was his cock that was always supposed to fit into you and make you fall apart. his hand grabs yours, and without thinking, both of your fingers interlace.

“baby,” he hums, his nose pressing into your cheek as he kisses the skin softly, “‘m gonna make you mine, yeah? wanna be my girlfriend? my sweet girl? you want it, right?”

you should be shocked—you should stop and ask him what he means, what he’s playing at, what he thinks he’s doing toying with your mind.

instead, you gasp, pulling him closer as your walls spasm around him, back arching and eyes rolling back as the coil in your belly snaps and you cum. hard. harder than he’s ever made you before. does the idea of being his really do that to you? does the idea of being his sweet, precious girl outside of your bed at night really send you hurdling over the edge like that?

evidently, it does—and your high sends him right into his own. like he needs you to fall apart so he can too, like the way he knows you feel good makes him feel good too. maybe he does want you, maybe it’s not a sick joke. the way his voice cracks with a strained call of your name certainly says as much—the way his hand tightens its grip on yours, the way his hips rut desperately as he presses impossibly closer, the way he presses hot, scattered kisses along your cheek and jaw as he groans through his release.

it’s messy. it’s filthy. it’s downright dirty the way satoru fucks his cum into you, letting it drip down your thighs and mark your skin—but it feels like being his.

you think you might want that.

he’s gentle when he finishes—carefully unhooks your legs from his shoulders before running a hand along your thigh and squeezing as he observes the cum dripping between your legs. you huff when he collapses over you, glaring at him as his weight presses onto your form.

“you’re heavy,” you grunt, smacking at his shoulder.

he hums, nose pressing to your jaw as he kisses it. “not moving till you answer me.”

“satoru, don’t joke about—”

“how rude,” he gasps, “you think i would joke while i’m balls deep in—”

“oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with your hands, “please stop talking.”

he grins, chuckling as he shuffles up to bury his face into your neck, pressing a gentle kiss to the skin. “you don’t wanna be my girlfriend? that’s gonna hurt my feelings, y’know.”

satoru has always been like that, wearing an easy grin and plastering that playfulness on like a second skin. you can hear it though—the slight unease in his voice. you can’t fathom letting everyone know that sometimes, you let satoru fuck you…but maybe knowing that sometimes, you hold hands, and maybe kiss, and perhaps snuggle on the couch, and potentially even share a bed to sleep, not just fuck, but sleep—maybe they can know that. 

that doesn’t sound so bad. 

“that depends,” you hum, pretending to think, “how good at being a boyfriend are you?”

“excellent,” he plays along, “best of the best.”

“that’s just big talk. you could be lying for all i know,” you point out—but your fingers slip into his hair, twirling the sweaty strands along your fingers. 

“well, you’ll just have to let me prove i’m a good boyfriend—so that means i have to be your boyfriend. sorry, it’s the only way.”

if satoru hears the giggle you try to hide as you sigh exaggeratedly, he doesn’t mention it, lips pulling into a giddy smile as he pulls his head out of your neck and presses his forehead to yours. your hands cup his cheeks, squeezing gently.

“i guess if this is the only way,” you shake your head theatrically, “you can be my boyfriend. for now.”

“i’m grateful,” he snorts—and then there’s a peck to your lips. one, two, three gentle kisses before he presses a lingering one. it’s sweet, and slow, and just a bit needy as he presses deeper into you. “now i can tell suguru the scratches on my back are yours. he’s been asking a lot.”

leave it to satoru to speak and ruin the moment just by opening his mouth.

“satoru,” you hiss, throwing him a sharp look, “i think you’d be a better boyfriend when your mouth is shut.”

“then i can’t kiss you,” he gasps, “that’s the best part of being my girlfriend.”

and just to prove it, he kisses you again—and maybe, although you hate to admit it, he’s right. it is the best part. 

i wanna be his girlfriend :(

Brooklyn Baby - G.S.

Synopsis. Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades. Said Suguru doesn’t want to fuck anyone else but you. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rock star! AU, fwb-to-lovers, unprotected sex, oral sex (male receiving), fingering (female receiving), Suguru is sinfully sexy and in l*ve with you, Satoru is a menace, pet names (darling, my girl), Suguru has tattoos and piercings, swearing.

Word count. 3.2k (DAMN I got carried away)

A/N. Happy Valentine’s day! *throws somewhat-fluffy smut at you and leaves* 

Art by @_3aem on X.

Also, wild west! AU longfic with someone dropping on Sunday night (EST), keep your eyes peeled yeehaw.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades.

You did. Your fans did. Hell, you’ve even caught your overworked band manager sneaking a few too many glances. 

And, you conclude, the groupies currently batting their lashes at him definitely did. 

You watch as they swarm to him during open rehearsal, giggling at his pretty smiles. 

Whatever, part of the job anyway.

It’s not like you two were dating. Yeah, a few fucks here and there throughout the years - but what’s one to do when on the road and in such close proximity with a guy that’s practically walking sex? 

Trying not to scowl, you turn away from the commotion, continuing to tune the strings of your trusty Fender. You’ve had your fair share of die-hard fans, so lately why did it bother you so much when Suguru entertained their thinly-veiled advances? 

“Ohoho~ Quite a look on your face there, why don’t you go and caress his biceps too?~” you hear idiot brigade member #1, Gojo Satoru, cackle from beside you. 

If looks could kill, Satoru would’ve been 6 feet under and rotting already. “I thought you stopped writing band fanfiction, Satoru.” you raise a brow. 

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.” he whines dramatically, clinging onto you and shaking you back and forth as if to knock the memory of his Wattpad tendencies out of you. “WHY ATTACK ME JUST CUZ YOU’RE JEALOUS? C’MOOON ADMIT IT.”

You were not jealous. 

Suguru knew you were jealous.

Sneaking a glance, he had to fight the urge to coo at the adorable little furrow of your brows. How unprofessional would it be if he walked off mid-conversation to kiss that pout off your lips?

He knows it’s just sex for you. But - foolishly - every time he held you he could only hope that he ran through your mind as often as you did through his. It elated Suguru to know you were getting that worked up over him. 

That is until, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Satoru draping himself all over you, whispering god-knows-what into your ears. 

The rational part of Suguru knows Satoru is a very touchy person, but why was he so…close? And why weren’t you pushing him off?

Smile tightening into something a little more artificial, he turns to the girls fawning over him. “Well, ladies, I’m sorry to say I’ve gotta go practice before Shoko yells at me again. I’ll see you all in the front row, yeah?” he lies smoothly, disappointed whines following him as he makes a beeline for your figure.

“Well! What have we here, Satoru, are you done tuning?” Suguru pops a head between yours and Satoru’s overly close ones, interrupting whatever conversation you were heatedly whispering. What was so important that you two needed to be that close to talk anyway?

He narrows his eyes at Satoru’s surprised ones, an invisible conversation taking place between them before Satoru cracks a smug grin. “Alright alright. I’ll go tune my guitar.” he rolls his eyes, heading for his electric blue Gibson. 

Your confused gaze meets the twinkling eyes now boring down at you. “Done with the meet-n-greet already?” you question, eyes darting to the group now watching you two like hawks.

The smile on Suguru’s face grows, “Yeah, remembered I didn’t do my pre-concert rituals right.”

“Oh?”

“Wanna help me with it?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. Quickly setting down your guitar, he drags you out into the corridor - hand tightly in yours and pointedly ignoring Satoru’s wolf-whistles. 

Hallway sex is overrated, Suguru believes - which is why he heads for the dressing room. 

“Pre-concert rituals” his ass, Suguru just thinks he might pass away if he doesn’t get his hands on you right now. Make you feel like his.

It’s not long before the door is locked and he has you bent over the vanity, knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt. 

“S-Sugu! Why now? The concert- Hah-” You gasp in pleasure as two long fingers probe inside of you, ruthlessly searching for the spot that Suguru knows would have your toes curling and eyes watering deliciously. 

“Fuck the concert, darling. Barely even started and already so wet f’me.” he drawls out over your whimpers. “Wanted you to come over y’know? And save me from those groupies trying to get in my pants.” 

In your lust-hazed mind, you find the words to respond to him, “You s-seemed to - hah - be enjoying that.”

“Of course not.” he leaves a trail of kisses down your back, “Wasn’t my favorite girl.” he whispers into your heated skin.

He’s being rougher than usual, he knows. In the back of his mind he wonders what it was that he was so pissed at. But all thoughts of that are thrown out the window once he presses into that plushy spot inside your wet core, drawing a sinful whine from your mouth. There.

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over. 

“Hngh- Suguru, more!” you grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers. 

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick rings. 

Suguru was definitely losing his sanity. 

Anyone could walk by. The concert was about to start any second now. But he couldn’t give less of a fuck, too focused on how his fingers were being sucked back in every time he pulls out, your pretty pussy dripping all over his numerous bracelets.

He has to hold back a moan at the way your ass jiggled every time your hips buck to meet his fingers. 

Leaning down over you, he hums lowly into your ear “So desperate for me, hm?”. Pressing the erection straining against his trousers against you, he huffs out “I’m the same, darling. You drive me absolutely mad.”

He feels the way you squirm in impatience at the large outline of his dick, raising your ass in an attempt to get more friction. Eyes crinkling in satisfaction, he pushes down on his girl’s slutty hips, cold rings digging into the small of your waist. 

“Now now…not yet.” he tuts mockingly. 

“Please, Suguru. Please let me cum.”

Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Suguru knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close. 

His hand moves from your waist, leaving behind purple marks to remember him by. They wander the expanse of your body - groping your curves, and pinching your nipples through your thin top - delighting in your mewls.

God, you were perfect. He really needed to take his time with you later.

Suguru’s hands, nail polish chipped and fingers calloused from years of playing, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him through the vanity mirror in front of you. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones. 

Suguru was so feral. The man that was usually the personification of grace and poise was falling apart at the seams. His eyes wild and grin spread devilishly as his fingers abuse your cunt never-endingly.

“Look at me when you cum.” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse.

You don’t know what it is that sends you over the edge - maybe it was his lustful words, or the way his fingers quirked just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Suguru’s fingers, hands clutching the vanity table and eyes locked with Suguru’s in the mirror, mouth dropping into a gasp.

“Fuck! Suguru- Suguru!” you whimper.

Suguru watches in wonder as you ride out your orgasm, using him. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Let them see how beautifully you fall apart because of him.

Finally pulling out, Suguru inspects his fingers. “Now now. That won’t do.” he purrs. 

His tongue erotically licks up your juices covering his rings, still holding eye contact with you through the mirror. He catches the way your thighs press together at his lewd act. ‘Oh? Want some?“ he teases. 

Before you can retort, he’s bullying his fingers into your mouth, making you taste yourself. 

The way you moan around him sends blood rushing straight to his cock. Fuck, he has to steel himself from cumming in his pants right then and there - that wouldn’t be very “sex icon” of him. 

You have no idea what you do to him.

Not willing to wait any longer, he leisurely takes a seat on the spacious vanity sofa. You whine at the loss of contact before catching the predatory look in his eyes. Suguru was going to eat you alive. 

“Come on, darling. Show me how badly you want me.” he grins, legs spreading and prominent bulge on display. 

You take a second to admire the view. Tousled black hair falling enticingly along Suguru’s muscled shoulders, tattooed dragon peeking through where his shirt was messed up. His eyes lustful, and locked on you. 

He was devastatingly handsome. Your mouth waters at the chance to get what so many people would kill for.

Suguru chuckles as you struggle to unbuckle his belt - did rock stars have to always wear such complicated trousers? 

Finally, you pull them down along with his boxers to expose his creamy thighs. Suguru’s throbbing erection lays on his abs, flushed a delicate pale pink.

Your pussy quivers with excitement as you press wet kisses to Suguru’s leaking head, precum dripping down his length to where you’d gently grasped him. A strangled hiss leaves his mouth as you swirl your tongue around the slit. You find yourself lost in his heady taste - he tastes so good.

“Having fun, darling? C’mon now, use me the way you want.” he murmurs, need laced into his voice.

You’ve never gotten used to how big Suguru is. Soft groans leave his mouth as you flatten your tongue and take him in inch by inch, eyes locked with his blown-out ones.

Suguru’s back arches as the heat of your mouth envelops him, hands bunching your hair into a messy ponytail. His pornographic groans echo across the dressing room as you suck on his cock, tongue swirling in just the way you knew he liked.

He can’t even catch his breath with the way you bob your head so heavenly, sucking the soul out of him. It drives him wild to think about how he’s got his lead guitarist on her knees, choking on his cock as your fans wait outside. 

Suguru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as you pop off his cock to take his heavy balls into your mouth, moaning around them as you suck on both erotically.

Shit, he was really feeling it today. 

Through the bangs now sticking to his forehead, he makes out the way your thighs grind against each other for relief. 

You were, too.

If this keeps up he really will lose his sanity.

“As much as I’d love to paint your pretty face with my cum, I think we both prefer it inside, no?” he grits out, cock twitching at the strings of spit and precum connecting you to him as he pulls you off. 

“Need you inside me so badly.” you nod, brain foggy and filled with only Suguru.

He’s quick to lift you into his lap, resting your ass against his pulsing cock, sly grin spreading at the way you’re already so fucked out. 

Suguru feels like he could cum just from the sensation of your juices smearing all over his length, pussy dripping and aching for his throbbing cock. 

“Oh yeah? How bad?” he purrs, eyes half-lidded and already knowing the answer.

“Please. I want you to fuck me so badly, Suguru.” 

“Badly enough that you’d fuck me out there - where everyone is? Show ‘em who I belong to?”

“Yes.” 

At your whimper, Suguru thrusts fully inside you, a moan of relief leaving you both as you finally get what you’ve been craving for. 

“Shit, so tight. Always so good for me, darling.”

Once you start, it’s hard to stop, Suguru finds. 

It happened when he first fucked you in high school - in his car after your first show, running on adrenaline and teenage hormones. And, years later, it’s happening now as he sheathes himself in your wet cunt. 

He just can’t get enough.

He fucks you animalistically, cock ramming in and out of your hole in a way that makes it feel like you’re missing something without him. Nothing in the world other than your two connected bodies. He feels you clamping down on him deliciously, ego growing at you struggling to accommodate his size. 

“F-fuck, darling. Hah- It’s s’tight. Take it like my good girl.”

“Hngh- Suguru, faster!” you groan, fingers delicately playing with the nipple piercings peeking out of his barely-buttoned shirt, euphoric at his drawn-out moans. 

Unlike Satoru - who takes off his shirt every chance he gets onstage - Suguru was one to shy away from showing skin, slutty piercings and tattoos hidden to the world. It just makes it all the more satisfying as you lick a long stripe along the dragon on his shoulder. 

Feels like your little secret. You wanted to be the only one to see this ethereal sight.

“Ah- So good, darling.” Suguru leans back, allowing you more room to play with him as you please. Cock twitching - so close - as you bore into his eyes, sucking his flashy piercings. 

He ramps up his pace, bouncing you on his cock in a way that was carnal. It was so feral, the way his balls sting as they smack your ass, a ring of spit and precum forming around his base. 

His cock aches for release, but he wants to see you cum first. His pretty girl, cumming all over his throbbing cock.

You pull yourself off his swollen nipples and attach your mouth with his, tongues swirling sensually as he kisses you like he needed you to breathe. 

He’s almost as unforgiving with his mouth as he is with his cock. Almost.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“YOOO I don’t know if ‘pre-concert rituals’ was a code-word for something else but we’re on in twenty minutes.” the unmistakable voice of Suguru’s best friend - and occasional bane-of-his-existence - made you two jump apart. 

“The ultimate cockblock.” Suguru sighs out - his pace, however, does not slow down. Each harsh thrust makes it difficult to muffle your yelps of pleasure from Satoru, who was still calling for you two from outside.

Noticing your predicament, Suguru grins dangerously. “Oh? My poor girl finds it hard to stop her moans? Aww, better try harder unless you want dear Satoru finding out.” he mocks in your ear. 

Both humiliated and turned on by his words, your dripping pussy clenches around his cock. He lets out a choked-up groan, biting hard into the crook of your neck to stop it.

A satisfied smile spreads across your face, “Who should try harder now, Suguru?”

Ah, perfect. You were perfect, perfect for him.

As Satoru’s yells about “cutting a chunk out of Suguru’s pay” disappear across the hallway, both of you let out exhales of relief.

“Dangerous game you played there, mister.” you raise a brow, teasingly.

He chuckles out, before pulling you to him closer by the waist. Lips ghosting over your own, he whispers “Only with you, my darling.” 

Slightly more clear-headed but still dripping with lust, you meet the bounce of Suguru’s hips with your own. Eyes still locked with yours, he stuffs you with every inch - tip kissing your cervix so painfully good. 

The steady slapping of skin and synchronized moans fill the room, blocking out the cheering of the audience awaiting your band. 

Yet, the air crackled with something different this time. For the first time, it didn’t just feel like just mindless fucking.

Bite mark on your neck stinging, you could feel Sugurus heartbeat thundering under your touch - synchronized with your own.

In this moment it felt like just you two in this world. 

You wanted to be the only one in his world. Not his fangirls, not some manager, not anyone else. 

Maybe that was the reason for your courage, feeling like everything has finally come to a boiling point. 

“S-Suguru.” you breathe out as you feel yourself getting closer. 

“Mhm?” brows furrowed, he looks up at you with a tenderness in his eyes that does not translate to the merciless cadence of his hips. 

“Be mine.”

And that’s all Suguru ever wanted. 

With a final hard thrust of his cock, he pulls you into a searing kiss that sends you both over the edge. He cums in hot spurts, thick ropes of seed filling your quivering cunt. It was feral - and it made you feel like his. 

Suguru’s seed drips down the side of his length, forming a white ring at his base as he fucks it deeper into you, letting you ride out your highs together.

As your climaxes bate, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over the mark from before. “To be yours is everything I could ever want, darling.” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin.

Embracing him, you gather his beautiful black locks in your hand, fingers deftly taking the hair tie around your wrist to tie his long hair into a messy ponytail. 

Pulling back, you admire Suguru’s angelic features. Face flushed, lips swollen, and dark eyes half-lidded as he stares up at you in surprise.

“Wanted to see your pretty face.” you huff out a low laugh.

The expression on Suguru’s face is indescribable, such pure adoration in his eyes. 

Voice low, he murmurs words meant only for you, “I…I’m in lov-” 

“HEYYY I’m serious, stop doing the devil’s tango and GET THE FUCK OUT.” Satoru’s voice bellows once again through the door, shattering the little bubble you and Suguru had found refuge in.

“Ah- um-”

“You-”

Both of you stammer out at once, chuckling at how shy you were acting with one another even after all that had transpired in this room.

“We should probably go, before Satoru and Shoko pop a blood vessel.” Suguru jokes. You laugh out in agreement as he carries you tenderly to the washroom, his interrupted words weighing heavily on both your minds. It’s okay, you have time. 

Rapidly cleaned up and dressed, Suguru stops, a hand on the dressing room doorknob. “”Hey..” he starts almost-hesitantly, “After the concert, would you maybe want to-”

“Yes.” you interrupt, excitement lacing your voice. 

Chuckling in pure euphoria as you both exit, your smiles turn more sheepish as you’re faced with a bored-looking Shoko and an impatient Satoru tapping his foot. “You horny lil’ fuckers almost missed the show, think of my poor fans~” he exclaims, though the glee in his eyes at your intertwined hands was very evident.

“Hope the sex was good at least.” Shoko drones out, eyes flitting over your guilty flushed faces. 

‘Oh yeah, and Suguru - next time you dump your fangirls on me, I chop your balls off.“ she chirps out, pointing her drumsticks threateningly at his neck as you all head back.

Blinding lights. 

Deafening screams.

Hair pulled into a messy ponytail, he was fatally beautiful onstage.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades. 

But he only wanted to fuck you.

A/N. MMMMM long-haired men.

Plagiarism not authorized.

☾ .⭒˚ your fragrance ♡ rafayel x afab reader

⋆.˚ ☾ pairing: rafayel x afab!reader (very fem!reader)

☾ .⭒˚ genre: smut, pwp, pwf

⋆.˚ ☾ word count: 10.4k (how?????)

☾ .⭒˚ content warning: mdni, switch!raf (like he’s both sub and dom in this, if you don’t like that then this may not be for you), knee humping, standing sex, against the wall sex, sorta rough sex, references to rafayel’s lore (no more than what’s talked about the actual memory), dry humping, slightly aphrodisiac sex, dub con if you squint really really really hard, ejaculating in pants, panty ripping, pheromone kink, lots of teasing (calling raf a cat/kitty), cum play? kinda, nipple teasing, slight use of y/n, reader is mc, second person pov

⋆.˚ ☾ video link: absolutely not necessary to watch this to enjoy the fic/smut but it gives a lot of context and also a visual for the fic <3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaxo4sxm0rc

☾ .⭒˚ a/n: the raf fic is here!! based off the 5* rafayel memory ‘your fragrance.’ the build up is realllllllly long on this one since i wanted to stay as true to the memory as possible. you can def just skip to the smut if you’d like!

i struggled to write raf a lot but enjoyed it so much like he’s so fun to write. i’m def a sub girly so i love writing dom partners, thankfully i hc raf as a switch. if you do not like fics where raf is a switch, then this may not be for you! 

i can’t believe this fic ended up being 10k words too, i was thinking it would be a quick lil smut lol. i don’t even know how my zayne fic ended up being my shortest fic. enjoy my loves!

also this is dedicated to my bestie who is actually rafayel’s number one slut. follow her on x @/myusuchaa for so much good raf and other purple haired boy content. she is the master of rafayel lore, truly his wifey. a queen to us all.

⋆.˚ ☾ 18+ only ☾ .⭒˚ minors dni ⋆.˚ ☾ 18+ only ☾ .⭒˚ minors dni ⋆.˚ ☾

you let out an exasperated sigh as your foot taps irritably against the protective painting tarp rafayel always has laid out on the ground of his makeshift art studio, stray paint brushes strewn about. impatiently, you waited for rafayel to finish changing on the couch behind you, careful not to peek. 

somehow, being rafayel’s bodyguard also made you his keeper. and rafayel was not easy to keep. always dragging you with him on odd trips even if you had work, pestering you at all hours of the day and night, disappearing and unable to be contacted for days on end. this particular time it was the latter; rafayel had gone mia three days before his important collab launch party with a high end perfume brand. now, on the night of the party, rafayel was still unable to be reached.

thomas had called you, in a sheer panic, as he always did when he needed help wrangling rafayel. he knew you were the only one in this world that could level with rafayel. and he’d never told you this before, but you were also the only one who could bend rafayel’s unbreakable stubbornness; a perfect match for the purple-haired obstinate artist. and thus, thomas had personally designated you as rafayel’s keeper. 

and so, you found yourself at rafayel’s massive house, in the most extravagant evening dress you owned, hauling him off to his own damn party.

his annoyingly alluring voice cuts into the silence of the studio, “you can turn around now and give me a hand with something else.” you snap around to be met with the sight of rafayel, irritatingly and devilishly handsome in his expensive white dress shirt and designer cardigan, leaning lazily against the sofa with the tie you’d previously used to tie his hands with, woven in between his fingers. he grins and holds it up to you expectantly, “put this on for me.”

“don’t you have hands?” you snap, but your feet have a mind of their own, and you’re already approaching him on the sofa. 

“my hands are numb from being tied up by you for so long.” you roll your eyes, knowing he’s being dramatic. while he waits deceptively patiently for you to give in, he leisurely takes a wristwatch out of his pocket to put on, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “clock’s ticking, keep it up and we’ll be late at this rate.”

you gape at him. the sheer audacity of this man, as if you’re the reason he’d be late. he only smirks at you, and it just infuriates you all the more. how he could so easily annoy the hell out of you and look so beautiful doing it. but you keep your mouth shut, and exasperatedly lean down to put on his tie for him, doing your best not to strangle him with it. it feels strangely intimate, and the brief reprieve finally gives you an opportunity to speak to him.

“thomas said you have to be present for all parts of the event. there will be reporters at the entrance taking photos, and…” you rattle off, before you realize rafayel is being uncharacteristically silent, “are you even listening?”

you look up from the tie in your fingers to glance at rafayel’s face. he doesn’t look the least bit interested in your words, instead his eyes are fixated on your wrist. you tap his chest to get his attention but he remains still, eyes still on your hands atop his collarbones. you curiously wave your hand in front of his face, hoping to snap him out of his trance. fortunately you do, but unfortunately rafayel grabs your wrist suddenly and urgently.

“...what’s the matter?” the bewilderment is unmistakable in your voice. you’re used to rafayel’s erratic and quirky behavior, but this was alarming, even to you.

finally his gaze breaks away from your wrist and he speaks, “i heard you talking about the event…” but just as quickly as you’d diverted his attention, it's back on your wrist. his voice is unusually clouded, deeper than usual. his eyes are back on your wrist that’s enclosed in his fingers, as a strange expression crosses his face. it almost feels as if he’s trying to hold himself back, but you’re unsure from what. 

“your hand…” he trails off, inexplicable emotions caught in his hoarse voice. he suddenly tugs you towards him by your wrist, and you stumble forward. 

“rafayel?! wait!” as you fall forward, your feet run out of space and hit the bottom of the sofa, causing you to tumble on top of him. he catches you easily, sitting you on top of his lap while he brings your captured wrist right up to the side of his face. the awkward position forces you to settle your legs on either side of his thighs, straddling him against the designer couch. the half knotted tie comes undone and you’re left clutching the smooth material in your hands. if it weren’t for the compromising position you found you and rafayel in, you'd be slightly disappointed at seeing your hard work unraveled. 

the grip on your wrist tightens impossibly, almost possessively, “hold still.” his command is not totally unusual; rafayel is always demanding things of you, his precious bodyguard. but his voice comes out in a strange and sensual husk, leaving you confused, nervous, and weirdly burning. his silky smooth dress pants shuffle under you, and you’re reminded of the expensive clothes you’re pressed up against, likely worth more than a month of your hunter salary. 

“your suit! it’ll get wrinkled.”

“i don’t care…let me smell this…” he trails off, his voice sounding impossibly far away. you can feel the tickle of his inhale against your wrist and it makes you shiver, goosebumps forming under his touch.

“what is that?” he asks, mostly to himself, lost in his own little world, “it smells good. and smells familiar…”

it wasn’t at all uncommon for rafayel to be mysterious and even enigmatic, but this was a whole other level of confusion for you, “what…what’s wrong? did something happen?” 

his behavior is starting to worry you. he’s unusually breathless, and you can see a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. the last thing you needed was him getting sick! you could already hear his needy whines in your head at the mere thought. demanding to be taken care of and waited on. you almost want to smile at the thought of it; you act constantly annoyed with rafayel but deep down you know you can’t live without his antics. 

“no, i’m fine. very well, in fact,” but despite his words, rafayel sounds anything but. his voice, normally a bright and charming, albeit annoying, timbre, is now a hoarse and needy rasp. his ticklish touch on the inside of your wrist reminds you of where you got the perfume that he was so intoxicated by.

“come to think of it…i tried an unreleased fragrance in the back office of the exhibition hall. it was made with special ingredients,” you scratch your chin with your free hand, trying your best to recall the name of it. 

“perfume? you spritzed the perfume sample on your wrist?”

you glance at him, concern and confusion written all over your face. isn’t that what you do with perfumes? rafayel shifts his gaze to your eyes, but his breath remains on the inside of your wrist. it’s deafeningly silent and you realize the scent of the perfume gradually grows stronger as your body temperature rises at the proximity of your body to rafayel’s. you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you’re sitting on his lap, and his face is so very close to your own. 

he’s still lost in his own thoughts as he murmurs, more to himself than you, “it’s a bit bitter like fermented plants…but very fragrant.”

“it could be a mixture of artificial chemical stuff. now, unhand me please,” you’re desperate to detach yourself from him, unsure if you can trust your body when it’s pressed so readily upon rafayel’s own hard and sturdy stature.

“no.” 

your jaw drops at his audacity. but before you can berate him, he’s reaching his free hand to undo the buttons of his collar, as if the clothing is restricting him and making it hard to breath. his purple eyes are glazed over, and a beautiful faint blush paints his cheeks. his exposed collar and chest have you biting back your words, completely losing your train of thought. you squirm at the sight, but rafayel’s hand on your thighs grip you in place, not letting you move a single inch. 

“i could’ve sworn i’ve smelled this fragrance before,” he presses your hand against his cheek as he continues to slowly inhale the scent by the mouthful. it wouldn’t be completely out of the question, the unreleased scent had been developed for his artworks for the collaboration, so it’s very likely he could’ve sampled it during production. 

“we can worry about it later. let’s go. everyone is waiting” you urge, feeling yourself blush as he shifts slightly under you, brushing against your sensitive inner thighs. you pull your hand away from his cheek, only for rafayel to yank it back, like a child unwilling to share his favorite toy.

“let me smell it again,” his demand is meant to be gentle, but comes out rough and urgent. you sigh, letting him melt into your hand again. it’s almost endearing; you quite like being so intimate with rafayel.

“you know, for someone who hates cats, you sure are acting like one,” you tease, “a kitty that found some catnip to be exact.”

the mere mention of cats is usually enough to set rafayel off, pouting like a little baby that’s been teased. but instead, he just distractedly responds, “so then are you a cat? i am not a cat. and also, you’re not allowed to say that. i just couldn’t resist…”

you roll your eyes but can’t help but grin at his adorableness, tempted to just give in to his touch, savoring every moment you possibly can before the bubble bursts.

“what is this weird perfume…” he’s talking to himself again, inspecting your hand carefully. his jumbled thoughts have you worried for him again. although rafayel did often have energy that bordered on adhd, this was much more intense than that.

“are you alright?” you repeat, softly. he doesn’t respond, but leans his cheek into your touch, his lips turning so they’re practically kissing your palm. like this, he inhales the scent with his parted lips. his adam's apple bobs as he gulps, almost feverishly. his hand reaches to further loosen his collared shirt, pulling it open to let the cool air soothe his burning skin. 

“it must be an allergic reaction. this isn’t perfume. how dare they use such underhanded methods to trap me…” his words both confuse and scare you. you’re growing increasingly worried about his flushed and sweaty complexion, his collarbones shining under the faint glow of the city lights through the massive windows. his words fill you with a terror you do not understand.

rafayel holds the area between the bridge of his nose and his forehead, like his head is pounding, before returning to grip the collar of his dress shirt. his hand that holds yours is shaky as he rocks slowly underneath you, inhaling as much of the perfume as he can. his lap brushes against yours and your brain short circuits at the feeling of him pressed against you.

“h-huh?” is the only thing you’re capable of getting out.

“who gave you the perfume? who sent it?” his questions are increasingly alarming you, but you do your best to keep calm. you can tell he’s nervous as well, and the sight makes your chest squeeze. wanting to comfort him, you cup his cheek in your palm and he leans into the touch so contentedly and groaning in satisfaction. truly like a cat.

you blushed despite yourself. it was so difficult to not be aroused in this compromising position. you’d long since had a crush on rafayel, always craving his silly antics and theatrics. missing him intensely when he’d disappear for days at a time. 

“no one. um, why do you look like you’re drunk?” you try to deflect from the burning between your thighs, hoping he can’t notice how hot and bothered you’ve become. 

“i’m not drunk. i just don’t like the scent,” he pouts, but nuzzles your hand against his cheek like a cat getting cheek scratches. he turns his lips back into your palm, opening his mouth until you can feel his teeth graze your skin. he groans as he continues to inhale the scent, making you bite back a moan of your own at his gentle nibbles. 

“rafayel…you…” but you find yourself at a loss for words as he continues to breathe in your scent like it's the oxygen he needs to survive. your own breaths start to come out in shallow pants, and you squirm in his lap. rafayel moans softly into your palm, biting down gently to get you to stop. 

“are you trying to run away again?” he asks, almost painfully, his eyes piercing into yours, so intense and searching. the glassy look in them reminds you of how much you’re worried about his current well being.

“rafayel, you don’t look so good. shouldnt you go to the doctor?” you use the hand rafayel isn’t gripping to take his face between your free fingers and inspect his beautiful and flushed features. 

rafayel’s breath hitches at your touch, goose flesh littering the skin where your touch singes, “i’m not going anywhere.” and though he doesn’t say it, you can feel what’s left unsaid.

and neither are you.

but he continues, dazed, “you’re gonna lock me up again…you’re with them. i just know it. don’t think i’m unaware of what you’re about to do.” he has both your wrists in his hands now, gripping them on either side of his neck. “y/n, i won’t fall for it again. not this time.”

though his words scare the shit out of you, you’re unable to concentrate on anything but his eyes that are trained on your neck, where your pulse thrums erratically in anticipation. you’re suddenly hyper aware that your heart is beating so fast you can hardly hear him anymore, despite his face being mere inches from yours. your breath is close enough to mingle with his. it seems he notices too, because he inhales deeply and throws his head back, gasping.

it's then you realize it's not just the scent of the perfume that's setting rafayel off, but your own scent mingled with it. 

“rafayel, snap out of it!” you beg. but rafayel can’t seem to hear you as his cold hand grips the side of your neck, where you’d also dabbed the perfume along. your breath catches in your throat at the icy touch, unsure of what to do.

rafayel senses your hesitation, “don’t worry. i’m not gonna do anything to you.” his voice is a throaty groan, and you’re honestly unsure if that’s even what you want. his body is almost on top of yours now, his breath deafening in your ear. and all you can think about is how you’d wish he’d press into you harder, until you’re suffocating, only able to breathe him in. 

but you go with your better judgment, pushing him gently, putting some distance between the two of you. he glances up from your neck, eyes unfocused, and says nothing. he finds himself staring at your lips that are parted slightly to let out the short pants of breath you’re wheezing out. he leans in slowly so he can breathe in as much of you as he possibly can, just nearly closing the proximity between your lips. 

suddenly, your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your little bubble with rafayel, “its thomas! he probably wants to remind us of the time. let's head out!” you shove your phone until rafayel’s hands, forcing him to take thomas’s call for you. 

while he’s distracted, you slip out from beneath him and bolt to the nearest bathroom. as you move your legs, you’re made acutely aware of the slick that has formed in your panties. but you focus first on furiously washing off the scent from your wrists and neck. as you scrub, you glance up at the mirror in front of you. you swear at the site of yourself, unbelievably disheveled and undeniably aroused. 

as you continue to adamantly scrub, you can faintly make out rafayel on the phone with thomas, just outside.

“no, we’re not going to make it. i need to take care of something urgent. don’t call again please, bye.” when you turn off the faucet, you go to lean against the wall adjacent to the sink, trying to steady yourself and collect your thoughts. you turn around and gently rest your forehead against the wall, sighing into the cool surface against your burning skin, willing the arousal between your legs to go away. you try to remind yourself of poor thomas all alone at the exhibition right now. your guilt is short lived as you hear the patter of rafayel’s feet approaching the bathroom.

“where are you going?” rafayel’s words are right behind you, and his hand presses against the bathroom wall that your forehead rests on. you whip around and find yourself trapped between rafayel’s hard body and the solid wall behind you. you back up instinctively, but find yourself hitting the cold surface before you even take a single step back.

“gotcha,” rafayel smirks softly, and you tremble at his proximity to you. his other hand grips a towel bar to your left, while his other hand leans against the wall to your right, so you’re utterly trapped against him. he’s so close, close enough that you can feel his rapid breaths fanning across your parted lips. as rafayel’s eyes roam all over you, from your lips to your heaving chest, you feel very much like a lamb caught in a lion’s den. except you don’t want to escape.

“rafayel…” you murmur using both your hands to gently push against his chest, unintentionally brushing against the exposed skin below his collar, under his unbuttoned dress shirt. you’re hoping he’ll have mercy and release you, afraid that the palpable sexual tension in the air would cloud your, and rafayel’s, judgment. 

he shivers as your wet hands brush against his chest, knuckles turning white as they grip the towel bar next to you. his breath comes out in shallow pants, chest heaving up and down, with a light sheen of sweat painting his pale skin. the sight snaps you out of the moment, reminding you that rafayel seems like he might have a fever.

“let’s go to the hospital…i’m worried about you,” your hands shift to grip his open shirt, bringing the fabric together to cover him up. rafayel’s hand releases the towel bar to take both of your hands into his, trapping them against his chest. 

“what will it take for you to believe that i’m okay? i’m exactly where i want to be,” his gruff voice invades all your senses while his eyes burn holes through your own. he presses himself further into you, until his forearm is resting against the wall above you, only your joined hands pressed against his chest separating the two of you. he leans down, his face now impossibly close to yours, and for a second you find yourself lost in his purple and blue cosmic eyes. 

you take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself to reality, and remind yourself that rafayel’s actions are only fueled by the strange effects the perfume has on him. he’s not in his right mind, and you need to think for him. 

you whisper, craning your neck up to look into his eyes, “you’re not yourself right now. let me help you, i can take you to the doctor.” 

rafayel leans down, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. he breathes you in, the smell of the perfume, still potent despite the scrubbing, mixed with your pheromones invading his very being. slowly, almost like it pains him to do so, he lifts his head away from you. he releases your hands and uses that same hand that gripped them to lift your chin towards him.

“do you know the only thing you could do that would help me?” his hooded eyes lock yours in. his voice is the soft purr you know and love, slightly tinged with a rough and carnal desire that shakes you to your core.

“name it. i’ll do it for you.“ part of you knows that rafayel isn’t going to ask you for anything regarding his health but you can’t stop the words from coming out of your mouth. you’re stepping into very dangerous territory and you can’t hold yourself back.

“kiss me,” his voice is low, but the assertive demand in it is undeniable. his command makes you shift in between his legs against the wall, becoming hyper aware of how deeply your bodies pressed into each other. you know you want to, you’ve wanted to for some time now. but you can’t shake the idea that the strange effects of the perfume are clouding rafayel’s judgment and inhibitions.

“r-rafayel…” you stutter hesitantly. trembling ever so slightly, you lean in to peck his flushed cheek. you watch, slightly amused, as rafayel’s ears get even pinker.

“why must you always make me beg?” he whines. his lips stick out in a signature rafayel pout, one you’ve grown to absolutely adore, no matter how annoying it can be. 

you can’t help but laugh breathlessly, your chin still in his grip, “i don’t make you. you just love to beg.“

with your face still in his grip, he sighs dramatically, “then i won’t beg anymore.” he brings his face to yours and captures your lips with his. he swallows your surprised squeak, which is quickly replaced by a throaty moan of longing and anticipation. rafayel absolutely devours your noises, his lips so commanding against your own, bending them to his every will. they’re so soft, and you can’t help but think they fit so perfectly slotted against your own. 

though you can taste the urgency on him, rafayel takes his time with you, engraving the taste and feel of you in his mind forever. he takes it so tortuously and deliciously slow that you find yourself nibbling on his bottom lip, begging him to take you fully. 

you can just feel his maddening smirk against your lips. instead of indulging you, rafayel laces his practiced fingers under your dress’s skirt and onto your thighs. only when you yelp in surprise does he finally slip his tongue into your mouth, always intentionally doing things to take you by surprise. 

the new sensation of your tongues on each other seems to have rafayel equally feral, because you feel the unmistakable press of his erection into your stomach. needing to do something with your hands, you trace the outlines of his chest muscles, enjoying the feel of them finally against your fingers.

rafayel’s hands venture to your back, expertly undoing the zipper of your dress, and then your bra. gasping into his open mouth as his fingers return to the pebbling skin of your nipples. he gives a harsh flick to each, and your knees buckle against the sensitivity. you sink down against the wall, lips still attached to his for dear life, but rafayel shifts so that he catches you with his knee instead. the mid length black dress your wore rides up and serves as a sheer layer of protection between your dampening panties and his knee. the friction of his leg against your crotch is unbearable, forcing you to throw your head back in pleasure.

your reaction only serves to spur rafayel further, as he begins to knead his knee into your cunt slowly. your body turns to mush at the ecstasy of his knee against your most sensitive region, but rafayel holds you steady with his hands gripping you from the swell of your underboobs. 

burying his face into the crook of your neck, he inhales again. unbeknownst to you, he practically comes undone at the smell of you alone, “you say i’m always whining but look at you.” 

you whimper at his teasing words right against your ear, clutching the back of his neck for support as he continues to hump his knee into you. 

suddenly, rafayel stops, letting his knee still against your increasingly damp cunt. you can’t help but whine as you look up into his amused eyes. there’s mischief in them as he grins, “i’m getting tired. you’re going to have to do the work.”

despite your lust clouded brain, you can still think coherently enough to see through his brattiness. you narrow your eyes at him, “you’re tired? let me take you to the hospital. i knew you weren’t feeling well.” you duck down to escape his arms that cage you in, but he only lowers them so that they now trap you at the waist instead.

“you’re so mean to me y/n,” he huffs, “can’t you tell how vulnerable i am right now?”

“because of the perfume? why does it affect you so much?” you murmur, squeezing his cheeks slightly. 

from rafayel’s expression you can tell he’s unwilling to share too much information. and as annoying as that was, you trusted him wholeheartedly and knew better than to prod him too much. you would take what you could get.

he rests his head on your shoulder, unwilling to meet your stare. dusting your hair behind your ear, he sniffs you again, practically consuming the scent. you shiver at the slight breeze he creates at your exposed neck, “i-it’s not just the perfume. i’ve dealt with this scent before, and i’ve developed a tolerance to it.” 

you hold his neck against your shoulder, and gently knead his damp skin, letting him inhale the smell like his life depended on it, “then why?”

rafayel sighs, releasing the wall behind you but instead trapping you by wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing your bodies together. you sigh in satisfaction as his erection presses warmly against you again, your pussy craving his touch

finally he speaks, but his voice is low and almost feels dangerous, “the marine plant the perfume is extracted from…on its own no longer does anything to me. but when it’s exposed to another scent that i cannot control myself around…the reaction it causes can be extremely potent.” 

the sensations of his body pressed tightly against yours makes your brain practically non-functional, so you’re not following his train of thought, so you ask dumbly, “like the air?”

you can practically hear rafayel rolling his eyes in his voice, “i need air to survive but do you think i can’t control myself at all times of the day?”

“okay well i’m confused! and to be fair you do act like an idiot at all times of the day so how am i supposed to know?!” he ignores you, taking another lungfull of the scent on your skin into his body. this time, he growls through an intense shiver, his grip on your body tightening against him. as if the very smell of your skin drove him into a lust filled craze. 

and that’s when you realize what he meant.

“o-oh,” is all you can squeak out. strangely enough, the idea that your scent is what is driving rafayel to madness makes you leak further into the puddle that had formed in your panties. 

rafayel groans again, one his fists releasing your body to gently pound into the wall behind you, “i-i can smell the arousal in your scent. it’s driving me insane.” 

knowing he can smell the dampness between your thighs is both utterly embarrassing and completely erotic. your heart lurches, wanting nothing but to take his discomfort away and make him feel good, “h-how can i help you?” 

reluctantly, he removes his chin off your shoulder and turns to face you, gripping your biceps in his hands, almost to the point of pain, “do you mean that? because you can’t take it back.”

shivering at the implications of his words, you nod slowly but more sure than ever, “yes. let me help you. i want to help you” 

“i-if you want to help me…” rafayel’s voice is doubtful, like he’s scared you will deny him before he’s even gotten the chance to put his request out. between your thighs, you feel his knee creeping its way back against your leaking cunt. the shock to your recovering clit causes you to clutch rafayel’s firm shoulders and throw your head back with a breathy moan. rafayel feeds off your pleasure, imagining what you would sound like when you were actually stuffed to the brim with him. 

“i want…i need to see you cum all over me,” rafayels throaty plea makes you blush profusely. you almost want to smack him across the head for his shameless words, but the pout on his face reminds you that he’s absolutely serious that this will help him. that seeing you come undone for him will help take the edge off of the effect the perfume is having on him. 

“o-okay.” you gulp, nodding. the relief on his face is mixed with unbridled excitement that makes you squirm in anticipation of what's to come. your feet shift, which causes you to grind down on his knee once more. unable to withstand the unintentional teasing any further, you languidly moan and grind your leaking cunt against him to relieve some of the pulsing tension in your gut. 

your broken groans grace rafayel’s ears and you can actually see his eyes light up with pleasure while his ears burn an even deeper red. his breath is shaky as he dips his head back down, inhaling deeply and dusting a kiss to the pulse point on your neck. you shiver as he gently uses his tongue against your neck to soothe his raging desire. 

his reaction intrigues you, and you can’t help but want to tease him further, just a little. peering at him through your eyelashes, you tip toe upwards so you can fan your bated breath across his face, letting him bask in your scent. your tongue reaches out to gently swipe across his bottom lip, all the while you continue to pleasure yourself using his thigh. 

rafayel is unable to contain his excitement as he watches you use his body for your own gratification. he pants desperately into the crook of your neck, high off your pheromones invading all his senses. through both your whiny moans, you reach out to graze his cock through his dress pants. 

rafayel hisses at the slightest contact, and his reaction ignites your confidence, provoking you further. you grip him through the silky smooth trousers, holding his throbbing erection in your hand, using your thumb to tease where you think his slit would be. 

“fuck–hah, be gentle please baby. m’sensitive,” he whines through gritted teeth. your cunt clenches at his words, so teasing yet so endearing from rafayel’s lips. you can feel the coil in your gut tightening as you continue to hump into rafayel’s knee, using his body to chase your own high. your black dress has ridden up, and now the only barrier between rafayel’s knee and your sopping pussy is your equally soaked panties. you bite your lip and pray that rafayel doesn’t notice the moist streaks that are starting to appear on his expensive pants. 

through your hooded eyes, you can see rafayel is enjoying this just as much, if not more, than you are. his eyes are thick with lust, and you can practically see the pulse of his neck pound against his delicate skin. he desperately gasps for air, or maybe he’s trying to breathe more of you in, as you near your earth shattering climax. 

“touch yourself for me,” you purr at him, purposely jutting your bottom lip out in a pout. he obliges obediently, one hand quickly undoing his belt and slipping in to grab his unbelievably hard cock into his hands. 

as you watch his face contort in pleasure, you’re filled with the need to grab him into your own hands. “can i touch you too?” you ask innocently with wide eyes, imagining just how smooth he will feel in your bare hands. 

rafayel whines, still obediently pumping his cock in his hands, “yes please, i need you to touch me.” at his plea, you let your hands find their way to his hands, still diligently pumping up and down. you wrap your smaller hand over his and mimic his motions. you gasp at the sheer size of him, your fingers just barely able to wrap around his girth. you can feel his veins throbbing against your fingers, begging you to continue further. the sheer amount of pre cum that already coats his fingers, and now yours, makes you wonder how delicious his spend would feel inside you instead.

“you’re so dam beautiful when you – fuck – use me like this. dreamed about this for s’long,” he bites out, his hands finding your nipples once more. his long artist fingers tease you expertly, taking the peaks and rolling them gently.

his skilled hands and filthy words accelerate the intensity of your body’s peak quickly approaching you. his entire body is flushed and burns under the pumps of your fist, likely exacerbated by the effects of your scent. you respond to his endless stream of gasps and swears with breathless mewls of your own, whispering sweet words into his ear.

“let me cum rafayel, please. want to cum for you s’bad,” you beg against him, despite him having given you all the power already, knowing the begging will drive him insane. 

rafayel drives his knee further into you as your core grinds into him like second nature. your wrists vigorously pump his leaking cock, the thick heat of it feeling absolutely unreal against your palm. with your free hand you thread your fingers through his long soft hair, gripping gently. with a strangled groan rafayel sinks his teeth into your neck, sucking at your pulse point as if he’s trying to devour your scent. reluctantly he pulls away, throwing his head back in pure pleasure once more. 

“f-fuck you drive me fucking crazy y/n,” he pants, his thick length throbbing at your vigorous pumps along his shaft, almost as if his heart was beating inside it. the endless precum that falls from the tip coats your fingers, making a wet mess in rafayel’s pants and your palm.

he groans in disappointment when you release his erection, but his eyes are trained on your every movement. overcome with your aching need for the gorgeous purple haired man before you, you bring your soaked fingers to your lips and slowly insert your index and middle finger into your parted mouth. you make a show of letting your tongue lap up his essence from your digits, never letting your eyes break contact with his as you devour him off your fingers. you can’t help but let out a muffled moan at the taste of him, sweeter than you could have ever fathomed, so deliciously rafayel.

he nearly hyperventilates as you peer at him through the tears of pleasure that had beaded onto your eyelashes. “look at you, hah, like a fucking masterpiece,” his thumb caresses your lip as his breathless praises make you squirm against his knee. the pre cum on his thumb swipes onto your tongue, and you itch to taste him again. you shift yourself so that you can take his thumb into your mouth, using your tongue to swipe all the slick off his slender fingers. 

rafayel shivers at your touch, his mind a mush of lust and adoration as he watches your eyes roll back at the taste of his cum on your lips. 

“you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, drunk off your pheromones invading his senses. you only smile at him and tip toe up to press your lips against his, wanting him to be able to taste himself on your tongue. he groans into your mouth at the odd sensation of being able to taste both himself and you all at once. both his hands come up to thread in your hair, pulling you as deeply into him as he possibly can. you can feel his exposed chest against your own, his heart pounding rapidly against the swell of your dress covered breasts. the proximity lets him control every twitch of his quads against your cunt and you cry into his mouth at the stimulation. 

as you continue to fuck yourself onto his knee, you find yourself on the cusp of your orgasm, nearly blinded by the ecstasy of his leg wedged between your thighs and the salty taste of his slick on your tongue, “raf-rafayel, m’gonna cum.”

despite his furious blush, he smirks at you, as devilishly handsome as ever, “you gonna cum on my knee baby?”

if it weren’t for the cloud of pleasure fogging your every nerve you’d surely have a snarky retort to throw back at him, but the need to have him is so great you can’t think of a single thing. without even needing to enter you, rafayel has rendered you utterly fucked out. 

so instead, you nod eagerly as your grinding against his knee becomes increasingly sloppy and erratic. rafayel, entranced by the utterly fucked bliss in your eyes can’t stop himself from falling deeper into the abyss that is you: your voice, your eyes, your smell, your soul. he finds himself realizing that, though he’s seen millions of dollars in once in a lifetime artworks, even creating some of his own to add to this infinite world, the entire universe pales in comparison to you. the thick haze of emotions overwhelms him and he finds himself begging, once again.

“p-please cum for me, my love. i need to see it,” rafayel begs into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. the sensation makes your entire body shiver, causing your cunt to quiver further into his soaked knee. you’re not used to his voice, normally teasing and bratty voice, being this needy and adoring. it’s all enough to shove you viciously into your orgasm. you cling onto rafayel as you release all over your panties and his leg, still languidly grinding into you. 

you can’t stop the screams that rip out of your mouth, pure ecstasy and satisfaction laced into your very breath. rafayel holds you tightly against him, cooing into your ear, talking you through the waves of pleasure, as the excruciating ecstasy makes tears spill out of your eyes and onto your cheels. 

rafayel eyes widen in pure awe as he watches every shiver and twitch of your orgasm against his leg. he throws his head back, swearing as your scent becomes exponentially more potent. the smell of your spend is thick in the air, mixing with your pheromones and the perfume until it overloads every nerve in his body. the throbbing in his cock grows unbearable even with nothing touching it, physically twitching uncontrollably as he explodes inside his slacks. 

you cry out one last time when your thighs collapse from the intense climax, and rafayel catches you by your waist, holding you steady against him and the wall behind you. the movements against your cunt slow as you ride out the final waves of your orgasm. with nothing separating his thigh from your cunt but your soaked panties, rafayel can swear he feels your clit throb against him, the aftershocks of your climax wracking your body, just as the effects of his own orgasm sear through his. 

you’re a panting and sobbing mess against his flushed chest. your legs are completely useless, supported solely by rafayel’s strong and safe arms around your waist and his knee still wedged between you. he rests his face in the mess of your hair, breathing you into him. unbeknownst to you, rafayel is reeling from his own climax as he holds you protectively against him, almost for dear life.

through the comfortable silence that has blanketed the bathroom, rafayel’s voice vibrates on the top of your head, “you smell so fucking good baby.”

you smile contentedly against rafayel’s chest, your hands reaching up to smooth his curly hair away from his sweaty forehead, “do you feel better?”

he smiles against your head, taking another deep breath of you into him. his voice is thick with satisfaction, but also unrelenting hunger, “yes, but…” you wait for him to finish his thought, but there’s only silence.

“rafayel?”

his reply comes out strangled and heavy against the top of your head, “i-i need more. i need you.”

you shift so you can look up at him. he doesn’t speak, but his hooded eyes tell you everything he’s thinking. maybe it’s the post orgasm haze, but you find yourself being unable to deny rafayel, wanting nothing more than to please him.

getting on your toes so you can reach him, you let your bottom lip brush against his, relishing in the way his breath catches in his throat, and whisper, “take me rafayel.” 

“sh-shit,” he mumbles and presses his lips the rest of the short distance into yours. he tears into you with such torrid intensity that your knees buckle. as his palms hold your face in place, you cling onto his shoulders for support, the feeling of him enveloping you so overwhelmingly addicting. as your legs give out under the excruciating anticipation of what’s to come, you hook your knee into rafayel’s waist. he grips your thigh, lifting it to hook around his back. his hand kneads into your bare skin as he reluctantly tears his lips from yours.

“you can’t stand anymore?” his cocky grin contrasts the deep blush on his cheeks. before you can snap back at him, he hoists you up against the wall. instinctively you yelp, wrapping your other leg against his waist as he holds you securely against the cool tiles behind you and his solid abdomen.  

his lips simultaneously find yours again, locking deeply with an unrelenting passion that quite literally takes your breath away. as your breath becomes his, your thighs clench at the crushing intensity of his lips, wanting him deeper, harder. his tongue explores every inch of you, and you whimper into him at the pure need that was manifesting in your gut once more. 

feverishly, rafayel breaks away, like he cannot possibly wait another second. he doesn’t even break a sweat as he balances your squirming body with one hand, his other hand reaching down to pull off his belt that he’d undone earlier.

you want to ask rafayel if it’d be more comfortable to go to his bed or even the studio sofa, but you’re rendered speechless as he pulls his cock out of his slacks. you’d felt it in your hands earlier, but seeing it in all its glory under the light was a whole different story. 

rafayel definitely took pride in how he presented himself, his hair, his clothes; everything about him was pristine and curated just how he wanted others to see him. and his manhood was no different. he stood absolutely proud against his naval, his impressive length erect enough to touch just below his belly button, curving straight up. he’s unsurprisinglt well groomed, but with a dusting of pubic hair along his happy trail to his glorious cock. like rafayel himself, it was nothing short of art.

but then you noticed that he has trails of white cream smeared all over his delicious length, matted into the hair along his pelvis. far too much to be just pre cum. 

“d-did you cum earlier?” you can’t stop the grin that forms on your face as you realize rafayel had finished earlier just watching you pleasure yourself against him. literally came undone at the mere thought and sight of your pleasure.

rafayel averts his eyes, hiding under his tousled bangs, his face tomato red, “sh-shut up!” his reaction only makes you laugh and want to provoke him more.

“you’re such a bad boy rafayel, cumming without me touching you,” you coo, using one hand to scratch his hair soothingly, “just an eager little kitty for me.”

rafayel’s eyes narrow as his lips form his signature pouty grimace, “i am not a cat.”

you open your mouth to tease him more, but rafayel pushes you harder into the wall so he can free one hand to rub his thumb against your lips. you yelp at the feel of the stone cold wall being pressed further into your burning skin. with his finger on your mouth, his eyebrow raise at you pointedly.  his eyes light up with an intense and burning warning, “i’m about to fucking ravage you. are you sure you want to keep teasing me?”

his words shut you up instantly. you shake your head vehemently and obediently, your cunt aching at his promises, needing nothing more than to be filled with him.

“good girl,” he murmurs, his hand moving off your lips to reach under your dress, hooking his finger into the waistband of your panties. you shiver at the feel of his palm on your waist, as he attempts to pull them off of you. but he quickly grows impatiently frustrated at the tangle of your bodies. 

“i’ll buy you another pair, ‘kay?” you’re about to protest but rafayel wastes absolutely no time, bunching the delicate material in his fist and tearing it off you. you gape as the sound of fabric ripping sounds in the air and watch the lace material fall to the ground. 

“r-rafayel! i liked that pair!” you scold, hitting his shoulder in a mixture of disbelief but also arousal at his primal urge. you know you should be more upset but you find yourself just melting into a puddle at his unabashed behavior. i mean honestly you wore those in hopes that he might see them anyways. 

“i’ll buy you as many as you want, if you let me rip them off of you,” he grins in feigned apologeticness. at your expression he continues, this time earnestly, “m’sorry, just can’t wait anymore.” and with those words, rafayel sheaths himself into you. you yelp at the alarming stretch, his girth much more than you’re used to. even with the thick slick of your combined orgasms, it’s slightly painful to accommodate him.

simultaneously, rafayel cries out huskily as he enters you, your grip down there absolutely strangling his erection. the finish of your first climax thickly coats his cock, but it’s just barely enough to offset the stretch from how thick he is. his strong arms hold you securely in place as his pelvis slowly begins thrusting up into you, pushing you up the wall at every stroke.

the angle he has you in meant every single thrust hits your cervix, his cock unbelievably lengthy. the curvature causes every stroke to drag deliciously against your g spot which makes you cream uncontrollably at each thrust, a ring of white forming at the base of his cock that splashes into you with every vigorous stroke. your clit rubs roughly against his pelvis, his coarse happy trail rubbing against it with every movement, stimulating your body beyond belief.

“fuck you’re taking me so well baby,” rafayel moans into your ear, swallowing another mouthful of your aroma. you whimper as you feel him getting unbelievably harder at your scent alone, his solid flesh brushing against every single corner of your gummy walls. his veins throb inside of you as he twitches in pleasure. “so fucking tight, all for me yeah?”

“raf, s’big. feel s’good,” you slur, the haze of ecstasy starting to cloud your consciousness. his thrusts go harder, deeper, at your praises, and you cry out, unable to stop your thighs, and simultaneously your cunt, from tightening around him. 

a strangled moan leaves his lips at your movements, his damp forehead pressing against yours as one of his hands leave your thighs to grip the wall next to you. “sh-shit are you always this tight or is this jus’ for me?”

before you can respond, rafayel is babbling huskily into your ear again, “wish you could see yourself right now. you look so beautiful, so fucked out, all for me huh?” 

your eyes squeeze shut at his filthy words, and you can’t help but clench down on him again. your profuse arousal coats the hair along his pelvis, creating the most filthy and lewd noises as rafayel continues to bounce you onto his cock, his stamina absolutely unreal. your lips chant his name, over and over, your brain only filled with him. 

“look at me y/n, need to see you,” rafayel begs into your neck, still absolutely inhaling your pheromones, getting harder at every intake, “jesus you smell so fucking good.”

you force your eyes open, fighting the ecstasy from taking over completely. as he shifts to stare into your eyes, he gives you the most gorgeous rafayel smile that threatens to short circuit your brain and stop your heart. there’s an overwhelming swirl of emotions in his purple-blue eyes: lust, mischief, adoration, respect, longing, and…so much love. 

it’s all enough to make you want to confess the feelings you yourself had forced deep down, trying desperately to forget them for the sake of your friendship and working relationship. rafayel keeps staring into your eyes, straight into your soul, and you finally open your mouth to try and find the words, “i–”

but instead, he cuts you off, bending down so your lips brush against each other again, “i know.” with those words, he presses himself needily into your waiting mouth

grateful that he doesn’t need you to say the words, you return his kiss with equal fervor, doing your best to convey all the things you had wanted to say.

the bruisingly passionate kiss pushes you towards the edge as rafayel continues to bounce you ruthlessly onto his cock. you’re forced to pull away from his lips to let out a strangled cry of pleasure. through the overwhelming ecstasy, rafayel takes the opportunity to shove his hand in between your bodies, easily finding your clit. the stimulation forces you to scream out uncontrollably, your eyes and head rolling back into the wall. 

“jesus look at how soaked you are y/n,” he mumbles in awe, eyes glued to where your bodies connected, “look, baby.”

at his urging, you force yourself to lift your head off the wall and glance down at his fervent ministrations. the sight you’re met is enough to make you finish all over him right then and there. 

the veins in rafayel’s thick forearm bulge as he paws at your clit furiously, the slick glistening on his thick length and splatters as the force of his thrusts rattle you deliciously against the cold wall. as he pulls out of you entirely with each thrust, you can see the throb of each vein of his cock, aching to be thrust back inside you. 

“raf-rafayel,” you gasp out, “i–”

“i-i know baby, i can feel it. squeezing the life out of me,” he groans, shifting your entire weight onto his right arm while his left forearm slams into the wall above your head, anchoring him and allowing him to fuck into you with a new mind numbing intensity. 

his chin digs into your shoulder as he hammers into you relentlessly, “ffuuck baby, gonna make me cum all – shit – over you huh?”

the force of the orgasm that chases you is utterly blinding, and against your better judgment you plead with him, “p-please cum inside raf, i want to feel you.”

you can feel his panting breath hitch by your ear, and he whispers, “are you sure? don’t tease me y/n. y-you can’t take it back. please.”

“won’t take it b-back,” you wail as his thrusts bruise your walls, the painful pleasure edging you closer and closer to your undoing. “please rafayel, need you inside me s’badly.”

at your begging, rafayel goes absolutely insane. he slams you so vigorously against the wall that you can practically feel the entire house shake. every throbbing thrust pushes against your more sensitive spots, bullying right into your cervix. his breath becomes increasingly erratic and he sinks his teeth into your neck to contain his throaty moans. 

the sudden sensation of his teeth against your pulse, so dangerously aggressive yet gently teasing, sends you barreling into your orgasm. “cumming, cumming, m’cumming raf,” you wail repeatedly, unable to form any other words as tears stream down your face and onto his ruined dress shirt. 

your hand roughly tears at rafayel’s hair as he continues to ravage both your clit and your aching hole, finally sending your body into the mind numbing explosion of your climax. your cunt grips onto him for dear life, throbbing uncontrollably to the sloppy rhythm of his thrusts. you ride the endless waves of your orgasm, vision blurring as tears continue to spill from your eyes. 

“raf, s’too much,” you whimper, fingers releasing his hair and reaching down to scratch at his back, trying to relieve any of the overwhelming pleasure that threatened to make you lose consciousness. you couldn’t bring yourself to care about how you were destroying rafayel’s expensive shirt under your nails. your legs tighten around his waist as he continues to pound you into the wall. you’re almost sure your body will be battered and bruise tomorrow, not that you’d complain. 

“m’sorry,” he pants, but only thrusts harder and faster, “jus’ hold onto me love. m’so – ffuuck – so fucking close.” you nod obediently, still riding the last receeding waves of your own orgasm, pussy quivering around every ridge and vein on his shaft. 

“jesus if you could feel how tight you’re squeezing me right now,” rafayel grits through clenched teeth, “you want me to cum inside you that bad? that you’re gonna force it out of me?”

your lids feel so heavy as the pleasure of your orgasm ebbs into exhausted satisfaction, and you murmur, “m’not doing anything raf, you jus’ feel so good. so deep.”

at your praises, rafayel lets out a strangled groan and comes undone inside of you. you cry out as the warmth of his spend fills you, soothing the ache from the ravaging your poor cunt just took. he shoots rope after rope of it into you, a never ending stream of him emptying inside of you.

rafayel rests his forehead against yours, his forearm still using the wall above your head to support him. you both pant into each other as the quivering of your cunt squeezes every last drop of him inside you. he shivers at the feeling of your womanhood throbbing around his softening member, completely spent.

rafayel does his best to keep himself, and you, upright. his arms shake slightly, the aftershocks of his own orgasm devastating every muscle in his body. you can feel his biceps trembling, you fight to keep your eyes open, “s’okay raf i can stand.”

“okay love,” he murmurs into your hair, taking in one last whiff of your scent, before pressing a gentle kiss onto your forehead. you whimper as he slips out of you, your sore hole still wanting nothing more to be filled by rafayel. you do your best to ignore the thick streaks of your collective spend dripping down your legs. as you unhook your thighs and let your feet touch the floor, your body gives out.

rafayel catches you before your knees can crash into the tiled bathroom floor. you don’t have to look at his face to know he’s smirking at you.

“need me to carry you baby?”

as you hold yourself up clutching his arm, you narrow your eyes at him, “no. shut up.”

rafayel chuckles, the smile in his eyes glowing brightly at you, “come on y/n, let me take care of you.”

your snappy refusal is cut off by your squeal as rafayel scoops you into his arms, like a princess. you wince at the feeling of the smearing of dampness between your thighs as rafayel hooks his arms under your thighs. you hadn't even noticed that he’d put his belt back on. 

“always with the theatrics rafayel,” you grin, unable to stop yourself from burying your face into his chest. he smiles in response as he carries you through his home. you breathe in rafayel’s scent, an intoxicating blend of sea salt, cardamom, and arousal. 

“you love me.” 

you sigh to yourself, love him you absolutely did. but that was a conversation you two would need to have another day. 

looking up, you find yourself in rafayel’s room, his white curtains billowing as the night time breeze cascades through them. as rafayel sets you down on his plush king sized bed, your phone rings from the inside of his pocket. you’d almost forgotten you’d given him your phone when thomas had called earlier. 

the phone keeps ringing as rafayel sits besides where you lay, attention focused solely on you. you pat his thigh, “raf? can you pick up my phone?”

rafayel grimaces as he grabs your cell phone from his slack pockets. “it’s just thomas,” he grumbles like a child, “i told him not to call again.”

he takes one look at your unamused expression and sighs in defeat, “fine fine.” 

rafayel picks up the phone, snapping, “what thomas?” 

“speaker phone,” you mouth at him, only able to hear thomas’s erratic mumbles through the phone. he rolls his eyes, but puts the call on speaker, holding it up between you two.

“you guys better be half dead in a ditch or actually dead,” he threatens sulkily, “how could you guys not show up?”

“didn’t i say not to call again?” rafayel fires back, but his tone is teasing. you know rafayel cares about thomas a lot, even if he makes the agent’s life hell. 

“thomas, i’m so sorry! i’ll make it up to you i swear,” you apologize, feeling horribly guilty. you could only imagine how many angry sponsors and reporters he had to deal with. 

as rafayel holds the phone with one hand for you to speak into, he notices your black dress had ridden up to reveal glistening streaks pooling down your legs. he uses the index finger of his free hand to scoop up the spend that continues to drip down your thighs. your breath hitches as he smirks at you, his hand creeping up further, into your inner thigh. 

“you owe me so many dinners,” thomas grumbles, but you have a difficult time paying attention to the rest of his words as rafayel’s hands venture further up, dangerously. you give him a warning look, but his fingers only trail up further to tease you, grazing against your bare slit. 

“are you guys even listening to me?” thomas demands through the phone, his tone is as pouty as rafayel normally is.

“y-yes, i’m sorry,” you try to keep your voice as steady as possible, “i’ll uh, i’ll get you take out tomorrow!” you swat at rafayel’s lingering hands but he doesn’t budge. his ears are pink and you notice his breaths are coming out in short pants as he quietly climbs onto the bed at your feet. you do your best to keep your own moans from bursting uncontrollably out of your lips as his fingers relentlessly tease you.

“yes, and i want boba too. with extra – wait. what are you guys doing?” rafayel and your eyes snap to each other and then to the phone. you’re about to speak when thomas’s shrill voice cuts in again.

“you guys better not be doing what i think you’re doing! i swear to g–”

“‘kay gotta go bye bye thomas love you!” rafayel interrupts sheepishly, ending the call with his thumb. there’s a brief moment of disbelief and silence before you both burst out into laughter. 

you clutch your stomach, trying to catch your breath as the uncontrollable giggles keep coming. but the thought of thomas makes you feel guilty again, “rafayel maybe we can still make it to the party if we hurry. we can’t just leave thomas –”

rafayel shushes you with his finger, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans over you, “i just got an idea for a painting and i have to start right now.” 

you’re no stranger to rafayel’s spontaneous bouts of inspiration. in the past, he’d literally drag you to the oceanside and not ten minutes into the excursion, he’d race home needing to get started on an idea he had right then and there. and sometimes he’d forget you at the beach.

“right now? but we’re not in the studio,” you squirm as rafayel leans closer to your face, shifting his body so that he’s kneeling at your feet, in between your legs. 

“oh. i meant a different kind of painting. maybe on your stomach,” your brows furrow in confusion at his words as he smirks mischievously at you. you squeak as he climbs to hover over you, his body pressed against your still sensitive areas. your body heats up again as the feel of his hardening cock against you. 

his thumb presses against your bottom lip, the salty taste of him invading your senses once more, “or maybe…on your beautiful face.”

the implications of his words finally hits you all at once, and your face burns like a wildfire. you hit his shoulder weakly and unconvincingly, already succumbing to the arousal pooling back in your thighs as you watch the desperate need return to his eyes. 

“r-rafayel!” 

“then again you’re already a piece of art,” he murmurs, his voice groggy with desire. he presses a kiss to your parted lips, then to your exposed collarbone, and then to your covered breasts, “but you know me. i like to take my time with my art.” 

oh you were utterly fucked.

© aeyumicore 2024. please do not steal ♡

taglist: @queenashen @kttriangle @lyssa-211 @jeikeun

Why Can't I Keep My Fingers Off You? - G.S.

Synopsis. There were two things missing in the scene in front of you: 1. The aphrodisiac chocolate your friends had given as a gag gift last Christmas that had been hidden away in the back of your refrigerator. 2. Your dear fiancé.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected sex, Satoru’s blindfold gets used, overstimulation (male + female), lots of cum, aphrodisiac sex, multiple rounds, making Gojo Satoru cum in his pants, breaking the bed, mating press, pet names (my girl), swearing.

Word count. 3.0k

A/N. Can you tell it’s ovulation week. Art by @_3em on X.

Ah~ It’s the 21st century, they should really make these curses self-exorcizing. 

It’s been a long day of dealing with countless curses and five droning clan meetings (all of which he missed, oops). Now, Satoru loiters around your shared penthouse apartment - waiting for you to come back home from work.

Hmm, maybe he’ll quickly drop by and see what the first years are up to? He probably didn’t have a class right now. 

But first, Satoru grins, opening the refrigerator to grab at the secret stash of sweets all the way in the back - something sweet.

---

It was odd to step into a tense silence suffocating your home - usually used to being met with whines of “how dare you take so long!” and “you won’t believe what that emo kid did today.” as soon as you walked in through the door.

Was Satoru running late on a mission today?  

It wasn’t surprising, the man had to be everywhere - it’s not like he always has the time to teleport and welcome you home. Yet, you still couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was off as you made your way into the kitchen.

Cursing whoever invented the work week, the cold air of the refrigerator hits you as you open it to grab a drink, wondering when your fiancé will be home.

Wait.

Tired brain distinctly noting the lack of that familiar flash of hot pink, you double-take as you glare at the back of the refrigerator - as if willing it to materialize in front of you. Where was that?

“That” being the gag gift your friends had given you last Christmas to playful wolf whistles. Some large slab of “aphrodisiac chocolate” - probably normal chocolate - that you’d skeptically thrown in with your secret candy stash for a rainy day. 

Satoru had ransacked your goods again, you sigh. But if he was home…then where was he?

“Toru? Are you home?” you call out in confusion, only to be met with a deafening silence. 

Concern etched on your face, you set the drink down to look for Satoru, footsteps thumping against the hardwood floors at each tense step. 

Approaching the bedroom, a low, unmistakable moan filters through the heavy door. Satoru.

Heartbeat racing and worry coursing through you, you cautiously push the door open - only to be met with a sight that makes your heart stop.

There, sprawled across your bed in just his boxers, a delicate flush spread enticingly along his sculpted body, was your Satoru. 

Something about this scene felt more than a simple evening nap. The air was heady and thick with something. Maybe it was that familiar hot pink wrapper lying empty at the foot of the bed. Maybe it was the way Satoru’s usually vibrant eyes were half-lidded, curtained by his tousled hair. 

Or maybe it was his hand squeezing the large outline of his achingly hard cock through his boxers. Circling the dark spot around his leaking tip. Massaging his heavy balls. Teasing. 

“You’re home‘ he rasps out, voice strangled and snapping you out of your trance. 

“Wha- yes. Toru, what happened?” you sputter out, eyes locked on the way his cock twitched animalistically at the sound of your voice.

In the blink of an eye, Satoru’s gotten up from the bed, muscled arms caging you against the wall. His rock-hard erection presses into your front, precum smearing through his boxers against your work clothes.

“You’re home.” he repeats, sounding as strained as if he were about to snap any second. Losing his sanity with each breath that fans your hair.

You could feel the pulsing of your cunt as your eyes flit from the sheen of sweat decorating his body to the blindfold haphazardly hanging off his neck. Satoru finally raises his eyes to look at you.

Oh, he’s already lost his sanity.

Pupils blown, those blue eyes you love now a lustful black - a predatory glint in them that made a carnal part of your cunt twitch. His mouth spreads into a wolfish grin, teeth bared as if ready to eat you up. 

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Toru…you okay?”

“You’re home.” he breathes out, as if a prayer. 

“Satoru.”

The simple call of his name sealed your fate.

The buttons hit the ground before you realize what he’s doing. Ripping your shirt off, pulling off your bra, fisting your clothes in his hands as if it killed him to see you clothed. 

Too impatient - too starved - to remove your skirt, he pulls it to shreds off your hips.

“Woah- slow down there.” you squeal as he drops to Satoru knees, biting down on the thin fabric of your soaked panties, tugging with his teeth. You know he’ll buy you ten more to replace what he’s torn, but jeez where was the decorum?

“Can’t” he slurs, peeking up at you with dazed eyes. Was your Satoru even here with you?

“What?” 

“Can’t stop.” he murmurs lowly, voice sending vibrations to your twitching cunt. 

And before you know it, sharp teeth bite around your panties, ripping them to shreds. Looking up at you with hooded eyes, miles away, grinning devilishly around the soaked fabric in his mouth. 

Shit, what have you gotten yourself into.

Despite your thobbing pussy, you soothe “Now, Toru. Why don’t we just-”

“Shut up.” he mutters. And he does - words catching in your throat as Satoru dives nose-deep into your dripping cunt. Hot tongue urgently lapping at your juices, as if a man dying of thirst..

Nose rubbing your pulsing clit in rough circles, he breathes you in so sinfully, letting out a throaty groan as he does. He bullies his tongue past your dripping folds, stretching you, dipping in and out of your quivering entrance. Over and over. In and out.

You were losing your mind with each rough push of Satoru’s warm tongue. Dizzying pace forcing lewd whimpers out of your mouth that mix with the squelches of his mouth on your pussy. 

You buck your hips desperately into his face, and amidst his merciless abuse on your cunt, you barely notice the way he presses his body against yours. 

Shit, so this is why he’s so fucking feral - Satoru’s cock was painfully hard, swollen and throbbing against your leg. Fuck- you weren’t gonna be able to walk for a while.

He grind his hips into you, precum soaking your bare legs. With a low whimper at the back of his throat, Satoru’s tongue fucks you in a way you knew he wanted to with his cock right now. Rough and unrelenting.

Maybe it’s the harsh abuse of his mouth on your swollen lips, nose catching on your clit just right. Or maybe it’s the feeling of your slick dripping down the corners of his mouth, onto your thighs and mixing with the precum of his aching erection. 

Before you can even register it, you’re cumming all over Satoru’s mouth, grip tight on his white locks and hips riding his pretty face.

Greedily lapping at your quivering cunt, he moans as his eyes roll to the back of his head at the sweet juices pooling around his tongue. 

In the back of your mind, you recognize the feeling of Satoru’s warm cum smearing against your leg. Did- Did Gojo Satoru just come in his underwear while eating you out?

Sinfully, he licks at the mixture of your juices dripping down your legs, eyes closed as if tasting a delicacy. He was going to be the death of you.

As soon as your high bates, Satoru stands to his full height. Towering above you with eyes that looked like he wanted to positively eat you alive.

“T-Toru…are you okay?” 

But your fiancé stays silent, throbbing erection still straining painfully against his wet boxers as he shoves you against the cold wall. Rough hands on your hips, presenting your dripping cunt to him and arching you to his will.

A large hand smacks the wall beside your head, plaster crumbling under his strength. Shit, if he keeps going at this pace then nothing in the house will survive Satoru - including you. 

You feel the cum-soaked fabric of his boxers grinding against your ass, his hands pulling and groping every bit of skin he can reach.

“Toru, take it off.” you whine out, words dripping in lust.

You don’t need to tell Satoru twice. With grace that he wouldn’t give your clothes, his boxers are on the ground, painfully hard cock hitting his abs. 

You can feel the slick dripping down your legs as you look behind your shoulder to see one hand wrapped tightly around his large cock. Pulling in slow, languid motions up to the furiously flushed tip. His heavy balls twitch as he thumbs the prominent vein along the side.

“I want-”

You can’t even finish your sentence before Satoru’s bullying his massive cock into your snug cunt. Plush walls desperately trying to adjust to his size as he sheaths himself in your hot core. 

You moan at the delicious stretch of your pussy. It’s not like you haven’t done this before - yet, where Satoru was usually suave in sex, right now it was replaced by pure, feral need. With his tip kissing your cervix as he pushed animalistically into your cunt - you didn’t know if you’d make it out alive. 

“Hah- Toru it’s too big. Ah! I can’t-.”

“You will.” he grits out, teeth clenched and brows furrowed. 

Satoru presses into you inch by fucking inch, groaning at the tight ring of muscles trying to both push him out and suck him in desperately. It was so animalistic.

It seems Satoru’s body moves before his mind, hips fucking into your dripping pussy recklessly. Harsh thrusts, not even pulling all the way out to ram into you as he usually does - as if he can’t bear to part with your wet core. His balls sting your cunt as they smack against you at his unforgiving pace, strings of slick and cum connecting him to you.

“Ah- So good f’me, my girl. Always- so good.” he gasps out at the heavenly feeling of your dripping cunt sucking him back in at each thrust. “Hngh! Mmm more. I need more. Need it so bad.”

Hands arching your back into him now grope the expanse of your skin, before wrapping around your body to lift you off the floor. 

“Ah! Toru, what- hngh-” you choke on your words at the new angle. 

Satoru’s body bows into you, cock still slamming inside you at a feral pace midair. Not even a hair’s breadth between your bodies. 

With one hand he forces you to look up at him, capturing your lips with his in a searing kiss. Pretty mouth sucking your tongue as he did with your cunt.

If you were in a better state of mind, you’d notice the slight glow tinging his lustful eyes. The electricity thrumming through his fingers. Yet you already knew - Satoru was absolutely losing it.

Your feet dangle off the ground as he holds you securely, length reaching impossibly deeper inside you. Prominent vein grazing that one spot over and over.

“Hngh- Oh my god, Toru. S’too much!” you pull away to whine. 

“Open your mouth.” he murmurs raspily. As if body on auto-pilot, your mouth opens, tongue lolling out for what he was about to give.

Satoru’s stream of spit is warm on your tongue, making you clench around his merciless cock. He lets out a drawn-out groan, eyes boring down at you, holding a glint of the same insanity he has when he exorcizes curses, “My nasty girl. Can’t get enough of you.”

You moan at his words, hands reaching behind you to grab on the blindfold dangling on his neck. “Toru more-” you gasp out, your tight grip causing him to bow his head with a groan, cock twitching ferally. 

“Fuck! More? You fucking want more?” he groans out, voice wrecked with pleasure. 

You let out a yelp as his teeth dig into your neck - hard enough that you were sure you’d have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow. Like a lamb to slaughter, he was going to eat you up. Yet, your grip on his blindfold never waves, pulling him closer as he fucks roughly into your snug cunt. 

Ass burning at the friction of his pelvis. Pussy dripping onto your bedroom floor. Unforgiving. Gojo Satoru was unforgiving. “Ah! Toru s’good.” 

You both cum with strangled gasps. A low keen at the back of Satoru’s throat, and he’s pumping hot ropes of cum into your awaiting pussy. Tears stinging your eyes at your sensitivity, all you know is a wave of pleasure as you ride out your climax on the ramming of his hips and the how full you are of his seed.

His hand still draws hurried, desperate circles on your clit. You squeal at the overstimulation, tears clinging to yours lashes. “Toru- hngh!” you can barely get out the words, his hips slamming into yours mercilessly as Satoru milks his cock desperately on your quivering pussy. 

“Shut up. You said you wanted more. You’re gonna get more, my little slut.” he mutters carnally.

Ah, you can’t do this. You were going to fucking pass out.

“One- more.” he moans.

Your thighs clench around him, pushing your plush walls deeper as he lets out raspy whimpers with each thrust. “Hah- hngh.” 

“Shit- Toru I’m-” Your climax hits you with a jolt, body twitching in pain and pleasure from the oversensitivity as your cunt flutters around his cock - not even being able to tell when Satoru’s orgasm ends and when yours starts. 

You feel a tear hit your shoulder, overstimulation too much for his poor cock as his seed coats your walls once more. It drips out of you, forming a pool on the floor as he pulls out - for only a second before you’re thrown on the bed. 

Orgasm-hazed brain barely having time to register what is happening before Satoru stalks towards you from the foot of the bed. Unhurriedly approaching you as you scoot towards the headboard.

Your pussy jumps exhaustedly at the sight of him - eyes darkened and narrowed at you like a predator that has spotted his prey. A devilish smirk stretches across his swollen lips, glossed prettily with spit and slick. 

Toru, I-I don’-” you words slur out. 

“One- one more, my girl. Please.” Satoru whimpers, throat shot from what transpired just before. His cock twitches, glistening with cum and slick, dripping onto the fresh bedsheets. 

As he looms closer, you wonder how the fuck Satoru was still holding up - was this all because of the chocolate? You have half the mind to wonder whether he was using reversed cursed technique to keep you both alive.

You mewl deliriously at the feeling of your legs being thrown on his shoulders. Eyes blown and face flushed your favorite shade of pink, he licks a long stripe up your ankles, voice cracking as he moans sinfully. 

Satoru’s flushed tip teases your entrance, dragging along your swollen folds. Fuck. Shit. Maybe you wouldn’t even mind dying if it was with his cock rammed in your snug cunt.

Barely even lucid, he thrusts harshly into you - your tight entrance readily sucking up his flushed tip. You both hiss at the sensitivity. Surely, one of you was going to pass out. 

Hand moving to grasp the blindfold around his neck, you pull him to you. Your hamstrings burn in protest as Satoru bends down to attach his lips with yours, moving down until you were folded in half. 

Tongue tangling with yours, half-lidded eyes bore into yours, fiery with an intensity that made you unsure if either of you would make it out of this alive. 

Heartbeat roaring in your ears, you don’t notice the crack! of the bed and neither does Satoru. Too caught up in desperately reaching whatever number orgasm it was this night. 

Moans incoherent, your body convulses, nails dragging down the expanse of his sculpted back as the bed creaks in protest. A strangled groan leaves his mouth, cock throbbing inside you - or maybe that was your quivering cunt. At this point you really didn’t know anymore. 

“Shit- ah! Fuck. I’m- M’cumming. M’cumming. Hngh- cumming!” he whines out, voice ragged and breathing unstable. Delicate tears streak down his face, dripping onto your quivering body below him. Salty.

You can only let out exhausted whines, too fucked out to form any proper sentences.

Hot seed gushing inside you again, it overflows out of you, cunt dripping and too full to take anymore. Yet, Satoru still fucks into you until he sees stars and his poor cock is cumming dry. You can barely even feel your climax, distant tingles and the only thing on your mind being Satoru Satoru Satoru. 

The air leaves your lungs as he collapses on top of you. Skin flushed and sticking to yours. Body twitching as his poor cock neverendingly shoots blanks inside of you. Which number was this even?

That’s when you black out.

Floating in and out of dreams of blue, blue skies and mini Satorus running around, you wake up with a start. Well, as much of a start as you could with your entire body aching as if you got run over by a truck - and then an entire zoo after.

Bleary eyes taking in your surroundings, you distinctly realize that you’re spread out on the living room couch. 

What happened.

“Hey, you okay?” a hoarse voice sounds from beside you. You could barely recognize it as your fiancé’s, words jagged from…whatever it was before.

“You…are you okay?” you rasp out, raising a brow exhaustedly. Satoru chuckles sheepishly, tenderly smoothing over the blanket placed on top of you. What a change from before - are you sure this is the same guy?

“Well…the wall is crumbling, we broke the bed, and I’m pretty sure my dick won’t work again for the next couple years.” he gets out in one breath. At your silence, he continues “And I think my favorite blindfold is out of commission.”

“...wow.”

“Wow.” 

“You lecher, you ate from my secret stash, didn’t you?”

“...”

A few days later, opening the refrigerator, you’re met with a wall of hot pink. A sticky note on top reading in Satoru’s hasty scrawl, “This time you take one too :D”

A/N. Wrote this while watching The Garfield Show.

Plagiarism not authorized.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤman reimaginedㅤ౨ৎㅤ3.9k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©jwhoozi

synopsis. regardless of how zayne is worshipped in akso hospital— idolised as a man of unimaginable feats— he's no god; he's nothing but a man running on twisted desires. one, perhaps the only one, of those being you.

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, kinda violent imagery, oral (m! recieving), vague temperature play (not my fault, blame zayne), religious imagery, 1/4 proof read (as always :3), pet names: dear & darling, lmk if i shld add anything (oneshot so beastly, i think i dissociated as i wrote this)

from vyon. i can and will!! fight everyone on this characterisation of zayne!! idec, i don't wanna hear it!! look at his field of jasmine flowers and tell me that he's all alpha sigma in the bedroom without feeling shame and i'll still fight you actually... he actually came to me in a dream last night and told me that i needed to correct how he was written; made him into a little bit of a yapper but i can see him becoming a yapper during intimacy in my mind's eye so vividly that idc 🤗 took me a gruelling two weeks to finish this... i need to reconnect with my family now

do not repost / copy / translate.

Zayne has always been stern on the fact that the essence of his being was far removed from the basis of heaven; everything that he was made from stood against everything that heaven was known to be. He's long known that every life unwanted is breathed into him to prolong his punishment, if not to torture him like so, he'd be long dead to keep the world in balance. His bones were made by blacksmiths whose hammers have seen more blood than metal; his flesh stitched by the butchers who keep their carcasses hanging by the head; his organs arranged by surgeons who keep an ear close to the open chest on their table to hear the heart splutter dead; blood drawn from the disease riddled; cells made from the children that never made it into the world.

Still, he thinks if heaven had the capacity to ever come close to him, it'd never compare to this moment— never come close to the settling of your calloused hands over his slacks, your teary eyes looking up at his expression in search of validation. It surely wouldn't, he has no doubt about it. Zayne's hands settled on your cheek, a low grunt shudders from him through your body as he traced his fingers up, wiping your tears away with an elegance removed from the moment.

Zayne is no more than a man ruled by simple desires, every want in him fluctuated beneath a single layer of skin that erupts through his pores whenever you're close, it's why he managed to get himself cursed in the first place. Zayne knows that, he makes no effort to feign ignorance to himself. In another life, perhaps he'd be less man and anything else more and never allow you to your knees to serve him. In this life? He was chalked up of nothing but pure grieving desires; anything you offer to him, he'll take no questions asked. He would've followed the wisps of you back down to hell at Hades' feet and made a home beside you after light graced his face and gave him enough temporary assurance to turn back to see your shadowed features. It's wrong, it's unjustly cruel to have you on your knees for his mundane pleasure but his head swims with the warmth of your lips wrapped around him so he disregards the guilt that tells him no.

Days where he didn't have a shift at the hospital, either of his or others' he'd graciously offered to cover, used to come unsettling. His bare hands itched where ever he lay them, some gentle reprieve came from when he reached into his fridge and felt the cool air kiss upon his fingers like the cold metal of a scalpel; the towel draped over his shoulders after a needed shower came without the threat of twisting around his neck to strangle unlike his stethoscope— an unnerving flight of fight response kicked in whenever he tried to relax.

He'd made his peace with the gnawing discomfort when he was at home, flicking through patient reports and eyes always steady with his phone in view in case anything had happened to his patients, in case they needed his capabilities. Zayne would feel this way even in sleep. It's why he always finds himself in the hospital, picking up stray shifts for co–workers that he doesn't truly know; even then, he's a man of rational practices so he knows that even through the discomfort, the promise of null action is just as important for his body and mind.

Somewhere along the line of his stationary life, you entangled yourself into those lacklustre days. Creating a ragged incision down his chest and clawing your way to his beating heart, squeezing it in time with your deafening breaths and forcing him into your tempo; you've corrected his timid heart to beat in time with your soft steps across the wooden flood of his apartment and stitched him up so messily that it'll leave an inevitable scar. You uprooted all that he knew, made a home of.

The pillow underneath your knees will never truly recover from your weight, the feathers will always know how it felt to give you little measly comfort as you gagged around him. Zayne's head falls to the back of the couch, his scrunched up expression turned up to the ceiling as a pleasured sigh leaves him. His curt words of affirmation burning through your skin despite how far away they felt, your head heavy as your nose met the neatly clipped tuft of hair peeking out through his boxers. You feel your breath escaping you through your nose, face scrunched up as you forced a gag to settle back down.

You're unaware of Zayne's eyes on you until his hands are on your cheek, alleviating the burning heat of your cheeks and grounding you back into the moment, and guiding you back. "Breath."

Dizzying images of Zayne settled in your eyes, mirages of the concern in his otherwise blissed face collecting in the tears sat in your waterline as he pulled you to your feet. You stumbled, your legs feeling weak from kneeling. "You haven't cum yet," the clear oxygen runs heavy through your system.

"I'd rather you not pass out," he informed, an unamused look on his face as he guides you onto his lap. "Plus, this night is about you as much as it is about me."

There's a softness to the moment, one of his hands on your back and the other on your waist, that allows you to slump into his arms. "Give me a second then." The few seconds you take to catch your breath in an attempt to steady your mind feels impossibly tedious. Still, Zayne is meticulous in his ministrations, tying down all the nasty thoughts that cloud his head with refined touches.

Zayne— plastered in the heat of the world, stubborn frigid in all that he wants— offers you an out. "We can stop here if it's too much." His voice is gentle, a husky promise that denies the desirous part of him that beats loudly against his ribs, the him you've created with your fingertips makes an attempt to rip through his skin.

He isn't aware of his heavy, irregular breath on your shoulder until you shake your head against his chest. His otherwise ironed shirt crumpled in your fist as you say, "no, it's okay, I can keep going for you."

The next breath he takes feels as though he's squeezing out all the oxygen that's ever been available to him, it shudders through his entire being as your words ring in his head. This moment, you've stated, was for his pleasure. Zayne wants to confirm that you're sure, you've no doubts about it despite having slept with him so many times over the course of your relationship but he hears 'for you' again distantly and it feels as though you're not close enough even though every part of you that could stick to him undoubtedly is.

The world turns on its head, screeching to a halt as the clock continues ticking on the wall of Zayne's bedroom; he hovers over you in the new position, a hand stabilising himself by your head as he ducked his head down. It's nothing to be questioned as his lips met yours in a fervour that you've never imagined possible to come from the man but you respond anyways merely because it's Zayne. In its desperate need, improbable heat— as he manages to pry open your mouth and ease in his loving intrusion— it's Zayne at its brutal core. You've barely had a chance to reciprocate even a quarter of the searing vehemence of his tongue licking over the plaque of your teeth before he's moving down, kissing and sucking on your skin of your neck.

His teeth scrape over your skin as you gasped, licking over your teeth to chase after his taste, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth so it doesn't feel so empty without Zayne. Nimble and methodical fingers have already managed to work through the buttons of your shirt and despite the moment, you find yourself embarrassed when he brings his head back to study you.

You see a blurry image of yourself reflected in the field of green of his irises, each unclear feature swarmed with the fluttering of adoration. "You're staring," you pointed out, bringing up your hand to cover his face, his eyes so you couldn't see yourself in them anymore.

Zayne's face is foreign to you as his lips crack up into something resembling an amused smile, a crackling of chuckle lights your palm on fire as he hold his hand over yours. You give him an aggrieved look as he keeps your hand against his cheek, "aren't I allowed to stare?" His eyes are invasive, flickering from the slope of your collarbones, hooking onto your wet lips, clawing into your every ministration, features and softness laid bare. "Aren't I?" He asks again, his eyebrows raising slightly.

You don't answer but you must have given something away— you know you have because his amusement smooths out into unadulterated affection as he turns his head to press a kiss onto your palm. An itch settles beneath your skin where his lips meet, one you know you'll never be able to soothe even if you hammered through the spot with a nail. You struggle to know how Zayne will move as the moment softens throughout the room, turning into something malleable. He's nothing but slow, full of pliable details ebbing silky as he lowers his head back down.

His hair tickles as he ducks his head into the fold of your shoulder and neck, each otherwise perfectly laid strand creasing as they dust over the skin of your jaw. Squirming a little, you find your hands on his shoulders, the usual attentiveness in his actions running a little deeper than they always do. Zayne sucks at the skin of your neck, his teeth scraping along the expanse of unmarked flesh as he brings a knee between your leg. A sturdy arm comes over your front, a hand settling on your shoulder, arm running down the stretch of skin between your chest, and elbow down on your rib. "Don't move," a mere whisper that etches deep to your bones, "you're running from me."

"Running?" Your eyebrows crease and you squirm again, the heels of your feet digging into the mattress as you feel yourself move up the bed, weight shifting as your head hits the bottom of a pillow. "Oh," falls out your mouth dumbly as you realise you have been inching away from him. "Sorry." You allow your hands to fall from Zayne's shoulders, fisting the bed cover into your hands.

"Don't apologise," his soothing voice calls. When you turn your head back to look at him, his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips pressed thin, "you don't have to apologise." Zayne takes one of your hands and moves them back to their place on his shoulders. "Just let me care for you, keep still, hm?" You're more astutely aware of the aether core pounding in your heart now, its vibrant light pouring through your skin and how often Zayne has had the chest piece against your bare skin, how his eyes narrowed from behind rectangular frames as you shuddered from the cool metal.

You think that your heart has managed to resonate with his evol without your knowledge— with how often he's got his hands on you, professionally or otherwise, it wouldn't be too surprising. After a moment, you realise that Zayne is still waiting for an answer so you nod your head, opening your hand to press your palm against his shoulder blade. "Staying still."

Zayne gives you something close enough to a smile and lowers his head back down.

It's haunting how you recognise his moves enough to predict what he'll do and respond in kind, your head inches off the bed as you meet his lips again, legs parting under him as he slides a hand over the inside of your thigh. Intimacy with Zayne is staggering purely due to how cold he runs— you think it's all natural how his fingers run like ice over quivering flesh despite how warm his chest is when he's got you pinned underneath him. He's burnt where you've touched him, charred into muscle and cartilage are your fingerprints, your teeth, every mark of your nails that flame impossibly red. You're nothing short of heaven.

The fabrics of Zayne's adoration for you exists around him as a second skeleton, as your hips raise slightly for him to catch the waistband of your joggers and your hand falls next to his in an attempt to push them down without moving your lips from his. Pants and moans are transcribed into his tongue, he remembers the taste of every one, he'll think of them when he misses you, when he's forced away from his short instance of heaven as he wishes his hands ran a little warmer. The lingering salt of previous whines echo in his head, all from weeks and months ago flowing back to the cusp of his mind as your bare thighs finally grace his fingers. He wraps a hand around the meaty flesh, groaning into your mouth at the simple touch.

A shivering inhale from you makes Zayne's mouth turn cold as the oxygen is sucked all up, he takes the chance to move back down. He's got a hand sneaking up the half unbuttoned pyjama top you're wearing, another hand impossibly far away from your heat; you can't tell if it's too much or not enough. A gasp sounds in time with Zayne's hand over your chest, you feel a hardening nipple press up against his palm; the rest of the buttons trip over the loosening wear of the fabric and slide off your stomach. Your skin turns cold where he takes in a stuttering deep breath, his face hidden from you as he mouths at your other breast. "So," he murmurs, lips closing around your nipple. A lilting whine only acts to spurn him on, his hand dragging down your side and his nails light over the path that his palms works onto your skin, his teeth catch onto your nipple. "So— you drive me crazy." He confesses after cutting his own thought off prematurely, his saliva pooling around a stiff nub.

"You must know that right, dear?" Zayne continues talking, offering curt words in his impassive tone, slightly out of breath with his hair dishevelled. His cold hands are blistering upon your skin, lighting up nerves scathingly. Adding a little pressure between his teeth has you impossibly light–headed, one hand on your hip and the other close to your cunt. Zayne is nothing more than a drunken mouthpiece of his loving whenever he has you under him, all the words he's forced frozen in his throat over the course of years spilling out as your heat melted away the labyrinth he's had them locked in. "Do you do it all on purpose, knowing I'll never rid myself of it?"

You're moaning a 'please' before you know it when you feel a deft finger pushing against your slit through wet fabric. "If you're asking like that," he glances up at you, head tilting, "there's nothing else for me to do but oblige." The intrusion comes unpleasant first, walls tightening around a sole finger and quivering at the rigid temperature. Zayne lowers his torso closer to you, allowing you to wrap both arms around his shoulders; his eyes are still on you, studying each scrunched up wrinkle on your face with an almost apologetic look on his face. He leans down to press a kiss at the end of your eyebrow as his middle finger tactfully stills inside you.

"Keep going," you pant out, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck. "S'fine, you don't have to keep worrying."

Zayne wants to doubt your words, he'd never want any memorable pain tied back to his name when it comes to you, but he knows you've stubbornly pushed through worse. You're a shedding of God, one he doesn't really care for, a child of man that managed to cheat death nearly daily. "Don't keep quiet if you can't take it." He urges one final time.

You manage a breathless chuckle, "we both know I'd never take anything that hurts quietly, Zayne."

The response you're given makes you shatter, icicles spreading throughout your skin as Zayne shakes his head, a small smile on his face. Taken away from you are the next few moments to appreciate it as Zayne continues thrusting his finger inside you, managing to get in his ring finger, his palm kisses your wet folds with every decisive thrust. He bends his thumb upwards to work circles on your clit— that alone has you quivering, a hand going to grasp at his wrist but your arms are weak with his relentless work into making pleasure burst in your system.

The fables of heaven has never been described in any physical manner, nothing of soft clouds under foot, feasts that melt sweet on the tongue, wine that runs smooth down the throat; it exists only as the promise of eternal pleasure, therefore, is it a lie or an exaggerated truth if Zayne calls you his heaven? When he finally manages to pull that blissful cusp of orgasm over you, the response is delightful; your legs shake idly by your sides and you're clawing for something for to hold onto though you both know nothing will be solid enough in your grasp to keep you grounded to the moment.

His first thought is to offer you an apology, when he pulls three fingers out and watches you cry, shaking your head as your hips move back down in a search for him. The brief moment where he's away from you doesn't last too long as he aligns his aggrieved tip against your wet entrance, bringing his head down to press a chaste kiss on your lips. "I'm here," he comforts. "Right here, darling, relax for me."

You take in a breath from the heated room and keep it locked in your throat as the stretch burns through your body; nails digging into Zayne's shoulders. A broken whine eases through clenched teeth as Zayne pushes in slowly, miniscule inch by inch and keeps a hand on your face, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead and muttering idle love confessions. When a sigh smooths over your eyebrows, you know he's finally sunken all the way in. "Do you need another reminder to breath?" You hear his deep voice distantly, coloured in layers of amusement.

You huff, blowing away the trapped bit of oxygen in your throat.

"There you go," his words are nearly shy off being a sweet coo as his hand travels over your stomach, pressing down on the heated skin. "Feel me?"

His words causes a ricochet of mindless nods, "yeah, yeah— please Zayne." Your legs wrapped around his hips, feet filling into the dimples on his lower back. Zayne, with no other choice, gives you what you want. There's nothing that feels wrong about the moment, he's more certain of the fact than he'd ever been about anything that came previous to him. The pressure of the balls of your feet pressing into his skin, nails digging scars where he'd never allow anything else to draw blood, the weight of you brokenly calling his name like you were the one to have met your God. Each thrust back into you creates the stern foundation of Zayne's cruel and selfish humanity, it's like he's never known anything else— he's not sure he even wants to.

Nothing of his will ever want to know anything that's not you later on; rejection will the inevitable end of any attempt of a rebound that he'll try to introduce to his home. Zayne understands this notion, how would you expect him to go back to his previous norm when he's learnt how it feels to love at your feet? You could maybe remove yourself of him but Zayne is a stubbornly, almost idiotic, lover; he'll give chase after your scent in the wind and after the whisper of your laughter in the trees. 

The moment your legs shake, trembling back down onto the mattress as you squeeze around him so delightfully, Zayne finally knows the sinful taste of heaven. He knows what how it feels to be weightless, as his feet met with the opaque clouds that gave away to his unassuming strides, as light followed his every move, how angels would echo his every devious thought in their hymns until God catches on. How much would He resent Zayne? Nothing but mere man, of flesh and bones; no more and no less, singing the praises of another one of His creations and stripping the holy title from God to plaster onto a husk of bones and absolute divinity. Whatever heaven is, Zayne knows he'll never care for it.

There's no basis in its existence. You, on the other hand. You writing underneath him, you with your blunt nails that'll be stained in his blood, you as you found your high in his timely thrust, you calling his name, you turning boneless as you came with a moan. You, you, you. Pants stained his name, a hand dusts over his cheekbones, brushing hair back from his forehead. Zayne meets the gates of heaven with his last shaky thrust, sloppy in aim as his weight expels through his bones and he falls down onto your sweaty chest.

A laugh passes through your lips before you're aware of it, wiping away salty sweat caught on the bridge of his nose with your sleeve pulled over your palm. "You got so into it," you pointed out with a smile on your face. Zayne drags his face to look up at you, his chin hovering over your collarbone. "I didn't even think you heard me when I said I was going to cum."

Zayne gives you a thoughtful hum and you give him an exaggerated frown. "Where you thinking about work again—?"

"I was thinking of how much I adore you," he cuts you off with a pointed look, "but it seems as though I'll have to rethink how much exactly."

"Nooo," you reached out for his face. "I was kidding! Please tell me how much you adore me."

He gives you an unimpressed look but says nothing more as he straightened up, pulling himself away from you. Your face turns an unruly colour of red when his eyes linger on where he was previously so intimately joined to you, snapping your legs closed. Zayne raises an eyebrow at you, if he has anything verbal thoughts on it then he doesn't express it as he gets to his feet. "Shall I go over every feature I adore in detail in the shower?"

You think he's joking as his arm hooked under your legs and the other spanned across your back. It's why you pressed your lips into a straight line, giving a thoughtful nod, "yes, in excruciating detail too."

He manages to wash your body thrice, help you shave, exfoliate, and keeps you stewing in the hot water long enough for you to feel light–headed as he shared a detailed, Shakespearian bible passage for each of your features that had managed to catch his eye over the years you've known each other.

❝ business trip

summary: in which zayne shows how much he missed you after the business trip

warnings: foreplay, cowgirl, unprotected sex, light choking, rough sex, dominant zayne, overstimulation

as the movie plays in the background, you stare at zayne intently, thinking of his reaction when he saw you today.

“do you have a question for me, zayne?” you ask.

zayne rests his arm on the couch and furrows his eyebrows. “what do you mean?”

you stand up and proceed to sit on his lap, facing him. your hand is resting on his shoulder as zayne brushes your hair to the side.

“how was your…trip?” he asks hesitantly, finding the right word. “was it okay?”

“not at first,” you answer. “after all, i could always see you whenever i wanted to. then, i slowly got used to it.”

“got used to being alone again? right?”

you nod. “sure, but it's not…” you were cut off when zayne suddenly fixed your posture and now you're laying on his lap, his arm supporting the weight of your body.

“indeed, it'll become dull regardless,” zayne replies.

you, then, covered zayne’s eyes using both of your hands. he's staring at you so intently that you had to stop it. “... you've been staring at me.”

“like this, i can't see you know.”

you grin. “shh. be quiet.”

zayne takes one of your hands and pulls it down. “you wanted me to say something?” his voice became soft that it's tickling your ear.

you caress your fingers over his lips then his face while you ask, “why did you act so normally at the station? i was disappointed.”

when you're about to remove your hand, zayne takes it and rests his cheek on it. he leans in and whispers, “what did you want me to do in front of all those people?”

your mind suggested not so innocent ideas so you blush and turn away. “we haven't seen each other for a few days. didn't you miss me or worry about me?”

zayne plays with your hand as he responds, “the weather was nice there, and you responded to all my messages. so you must've been fine.”

the atmosphere was comforting and zayne's presence makes you feel at ease.

“now, do you want to tell me something?” he asks again.

you avoided his gaze and replied, “i…missed you.” you saw zayne take the remote and turn off the tv so you question him, “why did you turn off the tv?”

“are we really here for a movie?” he responds with a question.

“isn't that what you want?”

zayne stands up and hovers over you. now, you're underneath him and he's supporting his weight by placing both of his arms on both your sides.

“i've changed my mind now. is that okay?”

your mouth runs dry, unable to respond. instead, you lift your hands to pull zayne's face closer to you, lips barely touching as both of your breaths fan each other. you stare at zayne's eyes first before trailing your gaze to his lips then back again.

zayne took the hint and leaned in to close the gap between your lips, now moving his lips around to take your mouth into his.

you can feel the shift in the atmosphere as it went from comforting to hot. is it because of the fact you're kissing zayne? or is it because of your bodies exchanging heat. you're not sure. all you know is that you missed him and wanted to make up for the days you didn't see him.

zayne breaks the kiss and proceeds to pepper kisses on your cheek down to your neck. he sucks it slowly making you gasp in response and you pull him closer to you that his body is touching yours.

“do you want to continue?” he asks.

“yes,” you whisper ever so softly before zayne takes off his clothes and you help him unbutton his shirt and as he removes yours as well.

zayne kisses you again as he takes off your pants and you do the same for him. the couch isn't the biggest place to have sex but right now you just want to take him, whether you're on a bed right now or not. perhaps zayne feels the same way, as you feel his urgency to take you again and again.

“just tell me if i hurt you, alright?”

you nod.

zayne plays with your clit as you feel your wetness pool around his hand. your hand finds the back of his neck and just pushes him down to you so you're both out of breath. he suddenly inserts two fingers and pumps them inside and out.

you whimper in response and your hips matched the movement of his fingers, attempting to ride them. zayne kisses the side of your head and continues to prep you.

just as when you're about to reach your orgasm, zayne pulls out his fingers, making you whine loudly.

“shush. if you're going to come, it must be on my cock.”

he stands and carries you so that you're sitting on his lap, the tip of his cock touching your pussy.

“ride me. show me how much you missed me,” zayne says.

without a word, you sink into his cock, already loving the feeling of being so full of him before moving your hips up and down. zayne places his hands on your waist and helps you ride him.

the living room is filled with zayne's grunts on how good you feel around him, your sinful sounds coming out from your mouth, and the sound of skin slapping every now and then.

then, one of zayne's hands found itself on your neck, choking you slightly. you gasp and the weight of your body falls on him as you continue fucking yourself on his cock.

“zayne!” you gasp, feeling your high coming. you grope one of your breasts and when zayne saw this, he removed your hand and he took it upon himself to add more stimulation for you.

“are you going to come?” he asks, still playing with one of your nipples.

“yes, yes, yes…” you panted slightly.

“go on. come on my cock.” he whispers in your ear and nibbles it slightly.

you came undone around him and you can feel zayne spilling everything inside you. you stopped moving your hips and just relished the feeling of being filled with his load.

however, it just doesn't end here. zayne missed you so much that he still wants to continue. he changed your position so now you're laying on your back, his cock still inside you, and he rocked his hips hard and fast.

you're still high from your orgasm that zayne's sudden movements stimulated you.

“wait! i’m still sensitive!” you managed to scream but it went deaf on zayne's ears.

“i intend to show you how much i missed you,” zayne replies, his voice deep and husky. “don't you want that?”

you can't reply because your brain turned mush and could only think of him and his cock that's fucking your pussy. your legs wrap around his waist and pull his hips closer to you and that you don't care what will happen if zayne didn't pull out.

zayne is panting slightly and took your mouth again because he can't help himself. your lips so delectable that he had to taste the cherry lip balm you put on.

the couch is creaking slightly because of zayne's movements but neither of you didn't care. you craved each other and that's all in your minds.

not so soon, both of you came undone and some of his load slipped out and made a mess on the couch.

you're honestly tired and you can't feel your legs anymore but zayne looks like he doesn't want to stop. maybe, he really did miss you. he just has another way of showing it.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

© reinxcoffee

❝ 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐒 ❞

❝ BEING PROF. GETO'S T.A. IS SO HARD BECAUSE HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

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

✧ summary: you're now professor geto's t.a. for the semester, forced to spend time with the man that you so desperately want, either of you barely able to hold back when you're around the other, so what happens when you're forced to go to a conference with him...and there's only one bed.

✧ 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, so much mutual pining, bed sharing, cuddling, masturbation (f + m), oral (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), semi public sex (sorta), office sex (kinda), amateur's take on moral philosophy and ethics, art by @/nino84391425

✧ wc: 16,821 (apparently i am writing a novel lol)

“On time for once?” Professor Suguru Geto remarks without looking up from his notes on the podium, even as your footsteps echo in the empty lecture hall, “color me surprised,” 

“Couldn’t be late on my first day as a teacher’s assistant, now could I?” and his lips curl in that damnable smile, as he finally glances up from his notes to see you looking far too gorgeous in his button up — one you had oh so generously relieved him of last night, pilfered away in your bag seemingly. 

“But you could be late on your first day as a student?” and you lick your lips, as you draw closer to him, “seems like you’re quite the hypocrite, not very ethical,” 

“Don’t think what we did last night was very ethical either,” you murmur, enjoying the way his dark eyes glaze over for a moment with the thoughts what you both did — the places touched, the moans heard, and the pleasure had — “plus, I definitely have an incentive to be on time now,” your fingers graze his, and why does his touch always feel like coming home. 

“And what’s that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, running the back of his hand against your cheek. 

“Your gorgeous face,” you smile, leaning close as your lips brush, “and some stolen kisses before class,” 

“And what makes you think you’ve earned them, my favorite student?” He teases, as his fingers slide to the back of your neck, and his other hand snakes around your waist, tugging you close. 

“Oh, I have a few ways to earn them, Professor,” your fingers drag down his chest, “but I don’t know if we have the time before class to—“ 

And his lips find yours — needy and bruising, as your fingers clutch at his shirt, the pressed fabric now definitely creased under your touch, “we’ll make time,” he murmurs, as he leans back to drag his thumb down your plush lips, “I still have many things to teach you, and what time is there like the present?” 

He’s leaning down to press a kiss to your lips— 

RING. RING. RING. 

Your eyes snap open, a groan crawls its way out of your throat, as you fumble for your phone to silence the dreaded ringing. You lie back on your bed, a distinct ache between your legs that makes you squirm, and only want to bury yourself back into your bed and possibly the reality that existed within only your dreams. 

But this was sadly reality, and you had about two hours before your first class as a teacher’s assistant for Professor Suguru Geto’s ethics and moral philosophy class. And two hours before you would see Professor Geto for the first time since you had made out. 

You turn over, pressing your face into your pillow. You wondered if you tried hard enough, if you could suffocate yourself before then. 

Probably not. That would be far too lucky. 

~~~

Professor Suguru Geto couldn’t sleep — instead he spent his time staring at his ceiling, the blades of his fans spinning above him, just like his mind was — in circles. It was as if he almost didn’t want to risk his dreams taunting him, it was the same reason he had buried himself in research over the semester break, the same reason he had put off emailing you the materials for the semester, and the same reason he hadn’t seen you since that day you had kissed. 

It was too much of a risk. 

You were risk personified, even for a risk averse theologian he liked to think himself as. But you were the thing of myths, the dangled food for Tantalus, the far too warm sun for Icarus, and the promise of gold for King Midas. But you were not a myth — you were real, his student made of flesh and bone, the same flesh he had pressed into his desk just a few short weeks ago, his legs parting your thighs, his fingers itching to rip your pantyhose off your legs— 

He sighed, this wasn’t helping — his bedside clock blinked back at him mockingly — he only had a few hours before his first class. He should try to sleep even a little. So he did, shutting his eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t dream of you. 

But he couldn’t possibly be that lucky. 

How many times have you stood in front of this office door? Your Professor, to which this office belongs, would joke that it was far too many to count — and you’d be better speculating how many times that Sisyphus rolled the boulder up the same hill. But the last time you had been in it was the thing that made you hesitate now. 

But that was your entire relationship wasn’t it? A game of chicken, wondering who would hesitate first — and neither of you were the type to hold back. Except when it came to this — except when it came to your feelings for the other. 

You shake your head, trying to shake your anxious thoughts free of their eternal bounce around your skull, and grit your teeth before finally knocking. 

“I’m actually right here,” a voice behind you says, making you jump, as you whip around, nearly pressed against his office door. And now you stood face to face with the man who owned it.

And how was it that every time you saw him, he was achingly more perfect than the time before? His ebony hair was half down, black locks brushing against his shoulders, the rest tied up in a neat bun. A crisp white button up underneath a neutral toned knit sweater vest, the shirt very much like the one you had stolen in your dream. 

Perfect. 

“Professor Geto,” you offer a small smile, trying your best to keep your eyes on his, instead of drifting over his form, “it’s good to see you,” 

“It’s good to see you as well, and so prompt,” he says, brushing past you to unlock his office, “made a habit of being on time these days?” 

“Well, when your professor reprimands you in front of the entire class, you try to make a habit of being on time,” why did it feel like your dream was repeating yet again? It’s not as if your relationship with him wasn’t cyclical enough — life imitating dreams was almost far too much. He opens the door for you, letting you enter first, before he follows you in, “and aren’t you the late one this time?” 

His lips quirk, as he rounds his desk, and takes a seat, “You really can’t make it a conversation with me without giving me shit, huh?” 

“Language,” you chide, as you sit across from him, “not very appropriate for an academic setting,” and you have to bite back the want to say that you’ve done plenty of inappropriate things in this office the last time you both were here. 

“Well, our track record isn’t known for being very appropriate, now is it?” Or maybe you didn’t need to say it, because the way he was looking at you told you everything you needed to know. But that didn’t mean either of you would act on it. He licked his lips, mouth parted to say something, his gaze heavy. 

And the moment is broken when his email goes off — you squeeze your bag a little tighter, as you busy yourself with digging through your bag for the materials to go over. That sound was nearly traumatizing in this office, not only did it usually signal the start of some assignment you had to trudge your way through — it also was the sound that had ended your relationship before it even really began. 

“Class starts in an hour, so I thought we could have this meeting just to review the syllabus and see if you have any questions — as well as just overall any questions you had about being a T.A.,” he explains, pressing his pen to his lips, “I understand this is your first time being a T.A.?” 

“It is, I hadn’t really considered it until the department head approached me about that,” and he nods, a flash of emotion that surfaces for only a moment before dissipating, “what will my responsibilities be?” 

“Good question,” a smile pulls the corners of his lips, “obviously, as a T.A., you will have office hours that you can decide with your own discretion—” 

“So it’s okay if I have them once a month at 3:00 AM?” and he rolls his eyes as you bite your lip at the sight — why was everything he did so effortlessly attractive? 

Fucking unfair. 

“Witching hour, how apt,” he murmurs, as he tilts his head, “but they should be weekly, as I’m sure you know, and held not in the middle of the night, when nights should be used for other things,” and you have to bite back your reply, like what? 

And then he continues to explain, “You can also help with some grading — mostly entering grades online for me since you know I love to handgrade,” 

“Oh yes, truly enjoyed having my self-esteem cut to shreds after receiving a paper back,” you scribbled notes down in your notebook, “glad I won’t be on the receiving end this time,” 

“If you’re good, that is,” and you knew it slipped from his lips — from the way his lips parted, the way his body froze for half a second as if he had shocked himself — and he had, because the spark between you two remained, a weed stubbornly cracking through concrete, “sorry—’ 

“You don’t have apologize,” you shake your head, waving him off, “it’s really fine,” 

“It’s not,” he said softly, placing the syllabus down on the desk, “I know we agreed to keep our relationship professional,” 

“We did,” Yes, you both did — sort of. 

“And I want us to do that—” 

And you ask the question you weren’t brave enough to ask the last time you two had seen each other, “Why is that again?” 

When the email had come, it was as if a spell had broken — the rosy colored lenses had come off, only to leave the hard glare of reality behind. Your limbs still entangled while you both reread the email off of his screen — as if it would say something different the millionth time over. 

It didn’t. 

And then the awkward clamor of disengaging, slow limbs pulling apart, as the warmth of his embrace left as quickly as it had come. Silence as the two of you let the news settle in, like a noose tightening around your necks, and you slowly slid off his desk. 

“If I’m your T.A.,” you had said slowly, adjusting the skirt of your dress, “we can’t do this, can we?” and he had only nodded, his gaze unable meet yours, fixed to the rug on the floor of his office, and he could only muster two words as you brushed past him and gathered your things—

“I’m sorry.” 

But even so, you couldn’t remember why it was a bad idea? Why was it so wrong for the two of you to do this? What difference did it make that you were his T.A.? It was still against the rules either way — it was still unethical either way — so why, why did it matter? 

But he knew why, from the way his brow creased with lines and his lips pursed and the way his eyes yet again couldn’t quite reach yours — as if you’d spot something in them that he didn’t want to see. 

“Because we’re going to working together all semester long, with students in class who will see us each week,” he licked his lips, leaning back in his chair, “because it was already problematic if we saw each other without any classes or connection, but now — if you’re my T.A. and my girlfriend, how would I even properly supervise you?” and he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he blows air through his teeth, before his voice grows softer, “how would I focus on guiding you and our students if I’m too busy gazing into your eyes or staring at your lips or wanting to—” he cuts himself off, “you know it’s not a good idea,  most of our students probably wouldn’t notice, but rumors spread and it takes one good rumor to ruin your career,” and he adds, “with how things work, you don’t need me to tell you why it would be worse for you than me, even if I tried to take responsibility,” 

And you did know, knew very well that rumors got out that the two of you were together that nothing would happen to his reputation — perhaps he would be scrutinized a bit more, some judgment and side-eye from other professors and higher ups, but he wouldn’t get vilified like you would. Called a slut or a whore — and those would be some of the kinder names you’d be called, and you can’t imagine what it would do for your career, especially if you stay in academia. And then the rumors would fester and grow, more wondering where your grades came from — whether you had obtained them through honeyed words whispered over pillows and rumpled sheets instead through late nights spent at your desk and weekends practically living at the library. 

“I do know,” you said quietly. But it didn’t mean you wanted to do it anymore than you had that day. A part of you wished he had stopped you when you had turned to leave his office, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into his arms—but this was hardly a romance novel, “and you’re right,” 

He still has his gaze fixed anywhere but your face, settling his syllabus on his desk now, the silence familiarly filling the room yet again, muscles tense if your body didn’t know whether to flee or to draw closer. 

So you did neither, and instead broke the silence. 

“So would T.A.-ing provide an opportunity for me to teach the class?” and he blinks, eyes snapping up now, as a glimpse of sadness slips away behind his now thoughtful expression. 

“Would you want to do that? I don’t know if I could allow you to lead an entire class, only because some students may take some issue with another grad student teaching them—” 

“I don’t blame them with the tuition costs,” you mutter, and he nods, “don’t nod, it’s your salary I’m paying for,” 

He laughs, a noise you wished you could bottle because you knew it’d be the same as bottling happiness, “Well worth your money after how much your writing and understanding of moral philosophy and ethics has improved,” and you roll your eyes. 

“I see your ego is the same as ever,” and his lips curl, as he crosses his legs, and you fight the cruel temptation of your gaze flickering a little downward. 

“Well, Kant did say an ego is necessary to understand the world meaningfully and therefore act in a moral way,”  you tilt your head, being defensive with philosophy? That was a new one. 

But you weren’t one to let things go — as he very well knew. 

“And he also said that an ego can lead you astray from living a moral life if we become too self absorbed,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Are you calling me self absorbed?” 

You bite back a laugh, “Well, you are certainly self interested,” and you gesture around his office, “look at this office,” 

“What about my office?” he gapes at you, and you snort, you’ve seemingly struck a nerve by how wide his jaw dropped. 

“It’s a little…pretentious,” and dare you say it, your professor had a touch of pink painted across his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, 

God he’s even pretty when he blushes. 

“I’m just teasing Professor,” and then you add, “it’s one of my more tedious qualities,” 

And he blinks, before his lips curl in the smile you never tired of seeing, “not tedious, more irritating,” 

You chuckle, before trying to get back on topic, “So you think you could work out me teaching a part of the class?” 

And he nods, “Let me discuss it with the department head — it should be fine,”

“Do I have any other responsibilities?” 

“If it doesn’t conflict with your schedule, you can also attend some classes, students can stay after and ask you questions as well,” and you nod, looking over his class times in the syllabus. 

“I can make the Tuesday one,” and he makes a note, as you rise, “we should go. Don’t want to be late for the first class now do we?” 

And he smiles the same damnable smile, “That would be a terrible first impression,” and his shoulder brushes yours as he opens his office door for you, “after you,” 

God, you thought as you stepped past him, the warmth from the brush of his body still there, this was going to be a long semester. 

If there was one thing you had learned from being a teacher’s assistant for Professor Geto’s class, it was that the students were even more desperate for your professor’s attention than you had thought. You thought your introduction had went relatively well — besides the pointed glares of several….enthusiastic students. 

After his detailed overview of the class, he reaches the resources section of the course syllabus, “Now, I am available at my listed office hours, in which you can make an appointment online. There’s also tutoring services through the university listed as well. And lastly, we have a T.A. for this class, for the very first time,” and he smiles, “Class, please meet your T.A. for this semester,” Professor Geto says your name and gestures to you, sat up in the corner of the lecture hall, and you stand, waving, “your T.A. took this very class last semester and showed great grit and dedication in the class assignments,” you have to stop yourself from shooting him a look, but you can see a hint of a smile on his lips, “She is also a philosophy student, so please, feel free to reach out to her,” 

“Thank you Professor Geto for that…generous introduction,” your pause was slight enough that he caught it, a smile tucked behind an all too fake cough, “I really look forward to working with you all — this class truly had a great impact on my perspective about the world,” and you catch a flicker of an emotion ripple across his face out of the corner of your eye, “my office hours will be posted soon, and I hope we can get to know each other well over the course of this semester.” 

You sit as the students cast their gaze forward again, and the class continues on as usual. You make use of your time by reading for some of your other classes, until class was over. 

And that’s when you really learned something. As requested, you joined Professor Geto at the bottom of the lecture hall to help field questions from the students. 

Except, the students were far more interested in Professor Geto than they were in the course material. 

But maybe it was simply because it was the beginning of the semester right? It couldn’t happen again right? 

It was a good thing you weren’t getting graded because you would earned yourself a zero. As again, the next week, students were only interested in Professor Geto — whether it was because it was for his intellect or — you glanced at the students mooning over him — something else. 

Something you knew very well. 

You were forced to watch a female student flutter her eyelashes, then another brush against him, as she showed him what passage was confusing her, and then another student couldn’t stop staring at his lips. And then you wonder, if it had been another student who kept pestering him week after week, would it have been them instead of you? Would they have shared those moments together? Maybe even they would actually gotten to be in a relationship, instead of watching other people flirt with him—

“Excuse me,” your eyes snap up from your reverie and you see two students, seemingly waiting to speak to you. 

Those students had seemingly taken pity on you and spoke to you about the class, tips, and asked about your office hours. But soon enough, the students filed out one by one until it was just you and Professor Geto. And he’s collecting his things, as he glances at you, lingering still as you check your email on your phone, “Don’t you have class after this?” 

You blink, “how’d you know that?” 

And he’s straightening his notes to place back in his bag, before he turns to look at you over his shoulder, “well you’d always rush off after class so it was either you had class or you didn’t want to be alone with me,” he looks back to his bag and you hear the click of the zipper, “I was hoping it would be the former,” he adds. 

“Well, I never lingered after class when I was taking it either,” you adjust your bag, toying with the strap — why was it anytime you were with him it felt like stepping into quicksand, the more you struggled, the more you sunk — and even if you didn’t move at all, you were still stuck all the same, “didn’t want to get in the way your students stroking your ego,” 

And he raises an eyebrow, “Are we back to my ego again?” 

“I don’t see you shying away from smiles and praise from your students,” and his brow knits together, as he places his bag down on the podium, “no wonder your ego is so large,” 

“What students?” 

“Oh please, the ones swarming your desk after clsss. Didn’t you ever wonder why so many students from different disciplines take your class?” he opens his mouth and then you add, “and don’t say philosophy and ethics apply to every aspect of life,” 

And then he seems to consider the thought, as before his lips curl, as he leans against the podium. 

“Am I detecting some jealousy?” he smirks, and you pause before you scoff — far too quickly. 

“No,” and he only smiles wider. 

He chuckles, “That was convincing. I’m glad your ability to teach is much better than your ability to lie,” 

“I’m not—“ 

“Jealous or not,” and you have to bite back your retort, his gaze freezing you in place, a softness you hated to see — because you didnt know whether it made you want to push him away or pull him close, “there’s only ever been one student who caught my eyes,” 

Ah, there is was — you were sinking again. 

“Really?” you mumble, crossing your arms, “not even one other? You have a habit of unethical behavior for an ethics professor,” 

He’s grabbing his bag, before he’s taking a step forward to whisper, “Only when it comes to you,” and you have to force yourself not shiver at his words warming your skin, “I’ll see you next week,” 

And he’s gone — as you stand in the empty lecture hall next to the podium, the very one from your first dream— and you’re right back where you started. 

Professor Suguru Geto wasn’t the type to make mistakes. He was always meticulous and methodical — he used the very principles to help guide his life — because it gave him a moral framework, a way to interpret the world and his own actions. That’s what had drawn him to ethics in the first place. But then he met you. 

And it seems like he’s made nothing but mistakes since. 

He sat in his office after he practically fled the classroom, forcing his pace to be normal, hoping you didn’t see the flush on his face. Fuck, he tossed the pen he had picked up to start grading away, what was he doing? 

He had told himself it was for the best — again and again when he watches you leave at the end of the last semester. He held his muscles taut as he watched you gather your things, stepping over the crushed pieces of both of your hearts. The two words he had barely choked were the only ones he could manage before he watched his office door shut behind you. 

It was for the best. It was for the best. It was for the best. 

That sentence was on repeat in his mind as he tried to work on his paper over the break — “try” being the operative word. It felt as if even his work hadn't been untouched by you — your impact widespread and all consuming — just as your actual touch was. 

Fuck, he rakes his fingers through his hair, how was he going to survive this week much less this semester? 

He couldn’t afford to be selfish — for your sake and his own. But it didn’t mean he didn’t want to be. He runs a hand over his face — he all but blatantly admitted that he had feelings for you after class. After promising to keep things professional — he was the worst. 

He only wished he was worse enough to do what you both wanted when you asked him in his office why you both couldn’t be together. He wanted to tell you the reasons why you should be — because he couldn’t stop thinking about you despite never seeing you over the break, his heart nearly stopped when he saw you standing in front of his office, and because he couldn’t help but smile when he could see you hesitating in front of the door — but he couldn’t help but smile when it came to you. But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

But he also couldn’t help but toe that damn line in the sand, the one that he had drawn, but the one so desperately wanted to cross. 

And then there was a knock at his door, he sighs, “Come in,” 

The department head enters his office, as Suguru blinks before he gets to his feet to offer his hand, as they exchange greetings, before gesturing for him to sit, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I saw your email about having your T.A. teach part of your class, and I wanted to get a little more detail about it,” Suguru nods, his face composed, but his body tense — paranoia scratching at the back of his mind, no one happened to see them kiss had they? No one was on campus really at that point. And the door was closed — he probably just wanted more information.  

“What questions did you have?” and the department head runs down his list — what topic would you cover? How much class time would it take? Would he be asking the class first? Would he review your materials beforehand? 

“Well, you both seemed to have thought a lot about this,” he leans back, crossing his leg over the other, “I think having her teach a part of a class is fine, but I would like you both to do it sooner rather than later,” and Suguru opens his mouth, but then he adds, “and I’d like to attend that class,” 

Suguru tilts his head, “You would like to attend my class?” He considers his words carefully, “I was under the impression, based on the rules, the only thing needed to allow a T.A. to teach was the approval of the department head,” his anxiety begins to pick away at his nerves, “it’s not unusual for a T.A. to teach here correct?” 

It was his first time having a teacher’s assistant at this university so perhaps this was a quality check? To ensure both you and him were meeting the standards of the university — and his anxiety added, and to make sure no rules were being broken by either of you. 

“Yes, it’s not unusual, and I have my reasons which I’ll discuss with you after the class,” he checks the time and rises from his seat now, “I have another meeting soon — do you think she can present in two weeks?” 

Suguru hesitates, “I’ll have to ask her but most likely that should be fine,” 

“Okay please send an email cc’ing her and confirm the details,” he says his goodbyes, and he’s gone, as Suguru sits and considers this — what could he be planning? 

Or, his nerves add, what could he be looking for? 

Either way, he pulled up your email — it was going to be an interesting two weeks. 

“Deontology determines whether an action is right or wrong based on a set of rules and principles instead of the consequences of the actions,” you speak to an empty lecture hall, your voice echoing in the silence, “therefore an act that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” 

You had come into the lecture hall to practice yet again this week. You were cursing your past self for inflicting this optional task on yourself — it had taken far more time than you had expected (what’s new?), taken far more preparation than you thought (again, of course), and now had the fun added pressure of the department head attending. And why was he attending? A wonderful and complete mystery. 

The last two weeks have been amazing for your mental health, truly. 

You were lucky the lecture hall and the building at large was deserted at 8:00 PM — all of the staff and students had all but fled, and you were left with the perfect place to practice. It had been many nights of honing your presentation to the allotted time, leaving time to pose a thought exercise, time to discuss, and for questions. 

You don’t see the door behind you open, nor do you hear it close, as you use the clicker to go through your PowerPoint, switching to the next slide. 

“For example, killing an intruder, based on the consequence would be wrong, as I hope we all know killing is wrong — otherwise, I worry about what will happen when you get your grades back,” you give a brief chuckle — and hope some of the students would pity you with some laughs, and that’s when you hear a small laugh behind you. 

Your head snaps around, flushing when you see Professor Geto standing by the door. He’s wearing a deep royal purple button up and gray slacks, the sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms. 

God, this wasn’t a dream was it? 

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, his footsteps against the floor grew closer, and your body tenses, until they stop, “go on,” and he leans against the wall behind you. 

“But when you do kill an intruder to protect your family, that’s viewed as right under deontology,” and you can’t focus with his gaze running over you, an all familiar feeling settled over you. Would life imitate dreams again? Would he come over and ask you to continue your presentation as his lips pressed gentle kisses to your neck and shoulder? Would he— 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you can’t meet his gaze, but you hear his footsteps, “should I go?” 

“No, no, it’s just,” you shake your head, “a little deja vu,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “deja vu?” 

Your blood runs cold. Fuck. 

“I don’t recall you ever presenting like this in my clsss before,” you can't decide if his voice is more thick with confusion or curiosity. 

“Yeah, no, sorry it’s nothing,” you brush him off, your eyes fixed on your notes on the podium, and you know he’s still staring, “what?” 

“I see you’re still not a very good liar,” and you scoff, “what is it that’s gotten you so bothered?” 

“Nothing,” you insist. 

“The more you say that, the less I’m convinced,” and now he’s walking closer, closer still — but you’re fixed in place, “what is it?”

“You never let anything go, do you?” And you turn, your breath catching when you saw how close he was — inches from you, his pretty eyes wide at the sudden movement, his breath warming your lips. Black strands fall in his face, and you have to stop yourself from tucking them behind his ear. Stop yourself from wanting to touch him, stop yourself from wanting him to lean forward, stop yourself from wanting him. 

Nothing good ever came from your want. 

“Only when it’s you,” but this man makes it impossible not to want him. Not when his voice is soft, not when the back of his finger, a knuckle brushes against your cheek. And no words are needed — you can hear it in the silence between you both, you feel it in the gentleness of his touch, and in the softness of his gaze. 

And you know you’re in love with him. You are.

But you can’t be. 

“I’m not telling you,” you murmur, looking away — and it seems to break the spell, as he steps back, nodding, a flicker of sadness that slips away under his facade,  “but maybe I will sometime, over a drink,” you add. 

A smile tugs at his lips, “Well we know how well that went, or didn’t go rather, and you know, we can’t anytime soon,” 

“Well sometimes an action that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Using deontology to convince me?” He tilts his head, “not a bad strategy — maybe I’ll have you write a paper,” 

“And willingly subject myself to your red pen? No thanks,” and he snorts, before the smile fades into a frown, brow wrinkled in thought, “what is it?” 

“Nothing, I’m just…” he crossss his arms, “I’m wondering why the department head wants to observe your presentation,” 

“He didn’t give any indication why?” and he shakes his head, “maybe he just wants to evaluate how good a job you’re doing,” you add, “you are relatively green,” 

“Not that green,” and you see his lips pressed together — and is he? — he was — he was pouting. You bite your lip how fucking adorable — but you know you’d be met with a scowl if you said that out loud, “don’t you worry that the dean may suspect something between us?” 

The thought had crossed your mind, but class had been nothing but professional so far, and you’d be too busy sweating bullets (and perhaps dodging them from the students if the presentation went poorly) to even consider your feelings for him. 

You sigh, “Look, nothing to do but get through it, right? It should be fine, we’ll deal with whatever comes after. As long as I don’t choke, and you don’t stare at me too adoringly, we should be fine,” 

And you expect a retort, a cheeky reply, or even a quite sarcastic one, but he only gives a small smile, “Right,”

You feel your cheeks burn and you can’t meet his gaze again without feeling your heart flutter. 

Fuck — maybe there was something to worry about. 

Despite the concerns, the presentation goes off without a hitch. You spot the dean sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, pen and notepad in hand, which did nothing to soothe your poor heart (nor did the far too many cups of coffee and the total lack of sleep). 

It happened quick — a blur of speaking, forcing yourself to slow your words down, a necessity when presenting — as you knew you always spoke faster than you believed you did when presenting. You think you even made the students laugh a few times, led an interesting thought experiment with a rousing debate that ended with no clear answer (as always), and then you answered questions. 

All the while, Professor Geto stood in the back, and you’d catch a glimpse of him by the corner of your eye, his lips curled in that smile that haunted all your nights and days. 

By the time it was done, you had barely realized time had gone so quickly, as you passed the metaphorical baton back to Geto. And you took a seat off to the side, opting to watch him lecture, rather than busy yourself with other work. 

It felt like old times, you thought, as you watched him speak. You couldn’t blame the people that took his class just to watch him speak — he was unfairly beautiful when he spoke, gesticulating as he read a Kant quote. And you kept your face as neutral as possible, but he catches your eye for a moment, corner of his lip twitching upwards. And a flush settles over your cheeks, as you discreetly press your thighs together, trying to look suddenly engrossed with your notebook. 

Your heart ached as much as your body did. You wanted to walk over and just kiss him, swallow his smart words along with his gasp, and feel those hands run along your body. You wanted to know every thought in his head, every part of his day, and fall asleep beside him. 

You glance up to see him still speaking — a black strand falling in his face. You bite your lip, before looking back down. 

This man would be the death of you — and it was even worse being alone with him. You’re thankful that your T.A. check-ins with him were every other week, because you couldn’t imagine having to spend more than an hour with him every other week. 

“You want us to do what?” You blink at the Dean, his lips curled in a smile, his hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Apologies for all the secrecy, I did not receive confirmation about this until earlier today,” he explains, “but I want you two to attend this conference on ethics and philosophy  — it’s over the weekend, two weekends from now. It would be a wonderful opportunity for the both of you to make connections and attend presentations, as well as mingle with prospective students. It would also afford us an opportunity for both of you to help put our university on the map,” 

You glance at Professor Geto, his lips parted in surprise, “Sir, is it appropriate for a male professor and a—“ 

“Don’t worry, the accommodations will be separate and it’s a public event, as long as everything remains professional, there’s no problem, right? As long as you two are okay with it and there’s no problem,” he glances between the two of you, “is there a problem?” 

And Professor Geto’s eyebrows knit together. It was a lose-lose situation — saying no meant raising some suspicions that there was an issue between the two of you, but saying yes meant going on a trip with the same professor you had kissed at the end of the last semester. And if anything happened on this trip...it could be very bad — ethically and otherwise. 

So you make the decision for both of you. 

“That’s fine. I’m happy to attend if Professor Geto is,” and you know you have no choice — you had to spend the weekend with him, alone. At a conference. In a hotel.

“Do you have everything?” Professor Geto asks, as you hand him your suitcase, your fingers brushing as you do.  He lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car, his black t-shirt riding up as he does, a quick flash of the expanse of his muscles—

Fuck, you bite your lip, stop, stop. Professor. He’s a professor. 

It didn’t matter that you had felt him part your thighs, as his lips slid against yours, nor that every time you saw each other, you felt this undeniable ache to touch him, comfort him, hug him, nor that you knew he felt the same and wanted to give in as badly as you did—

No, it didn’t matter. 

You consider his question, scrunching up your face in thought, “I think so, wait,” you snap your fingers as he glances at you, “forgot the rest of my apartment upstairs — you think that’ll fit in there too?” 

He smirks, rolling his eyes as shuts the trunk, “Ha, ha, ever consider becoming a comedian instead of a philosophy major?”

“Every day, but then I think what would my favorite professor do without me?” 

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m your favorite?” 

“Who said it was you?” you grin at him, as he shakes his head and you open the passenger door seat and slide in, as he slips into the driver’s seat. He adjusts his mirrors, buckling his seatbelt, as a sudden wave of guilt bombards you. You had dragged him down this rabbit hole with you — and now the two of you had to spend the entire weekend together, alone. 

You lick your far too dry lips, “Sorry if I roped you into this,” you fidget with your phone, tapping on the screen absentmindedly. 

He starts the car, engine roaring underneath your feet, before he glances at you, brow furrowed in seeming confusion, “What? It’s not you that roped us into this,” 

You purse your lips, “But if I didn’t agree to it—“ 

He sighs, “We were in a position where we didn’t have much of a choice,” his fingers drum against the steering wheel, as his eyes flicker to make sure your seatbelt was on, “it’s not your fault — and it’s not a bad thing — we’ll spend time at the conference, we’ll mingle, and then return to our hotel rooms,” he adds, “don’t worry. Nothing will happen.” 

And his reassurance is almost a punch to the gut instead — and your brain chides you for being so childish — you knew it was for the best, you knew it was the right thing to do, and you knew he was trying what was best for you, and for him. 

But why did it hurt so goddamn much? 

You steal a glance at him as he pulls into the street and begins to drive, dark gaze forward, his hair tied into its usual neat bun, and a chain poked out from underneath the rounded opening around his neck. And then your eyes flicker back out the window.  

Was it really not a big deal to him? 

Because the last two weeks were consumed with nothing, but thoughts of being alone with him. Days spent in conferences, sitting beside each other, whispering thoughts and inside jokes; evenings spent socializing together, waiting for the other to give the signal to leave; and nights walking back to your rooms, fingers brushing as you walked beside each other. You were sure it would take a slight bend of the rules, a gaze that lingers a little too long, to break the paper thin resistance either of you had to the other. The two of you could barely be alone for more than a few minutes without temptation rearing its ugly head — even now your eyes can’t help but trace the curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches his eyes, the way your fingers want nothing more than intertwine with his hand that rests on the console between you two. 

But you don’t. You give a weak smile, glancing out the window as the streets of Tokyo pass you by — “Yeah it should be fine.” 

Just fine. 

“There was a problem with your reservation,” 

And after half an hour of waiting off to the side, with your luggage stacked up and irritation creeping its way to a new high as you watched others easily being checked in to the hotel, you assumed there was a problem. If there wasn’t a problem, you would wonder if this was a new take on Waiting for Godot that would end with the both of youu sleeping in the lobby. You rubbed at your temples, as Geto dealt with the hotel staff, his arms crossed, lips a tight line, “the hotel double booked one of your rooms, so we only have one room available for you.”  

You barely heard the rest of the argument your professor had with the hotel staff, the same phrase ringing in your ears — one room, one room, one room. With nothing more to argue about, they finally escorted you both to your room in awkward silence. And as they opened the door, you spotted it — there was only one single queen sized bed. 

One. Bed. 

You felt your cheeks flush, as you couldn’t even meet Geto’s eyes, as he began to speak heatedly with the manager again. And the excuses began, as the manager wrung his hands, about how no other rooms being available due to the conference and another event happening in town. 

“There is a couch though,” he offers,  pointing to a far too small couch, and the sharp glare that Geto gave him would put even his red pen to shame, “we will see about comping half—“ Geto crosses his arms, “all of your stay here,” and with that, he’s gone. 

“So,” you sigh, glancing at Geto, with a strained smile, “I have dibs on the bed?” 

Was this a cosmic joke? You wondered as you turned off the water of the shower, squeezing your eyes shut. Was this a version of ethical karma for what you had done last semester? An ultimate ethical test that you would surely fail? A fucking prank show? 

You didn’t know. You dried off and got dressed, pulling on a t-shirt and shorts, your hair still damp, as you took a breath and stepped out, towel slung over your shoulders. 

Geto was still on the phone, pacing back and forth — he was trying to call other hotels to see if there was anywhere else with two rooms or at least a room with two beds.

“Yes I understand it’s very last minute—“ he sighs for what must have been the billionth time today, “yes, there was a mistake at the hotel I’m staying at—yes, ok, well, thank you,” he hangs up, setting his phone down. 

“No luck?” You sit on the edge of the bed, wiping your hair, and he shakes his head. 

“The one thing they were right about is that every hotel room is booked solid — not only is our conference in town, but there’s a physical science consortium happening as well,” he rakes his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “I’ll have to give the Dean a call to update him on the situation,” 

You nod, “So what should we do about sleeping?” And he can’t quite meet your gaze, “are there no trundle or rollaway beds?” 

“No, apparently those have all been spoken for,” he grumbles, and he prepares to call the dean, “I’ll take the couch, you can have the bed—“ 

“Professor, we can—“ and his gaze snaps to you, “we can share—“ 

“No, we can’t,” he says softly, “you know we can’t do that,” 

“We’re both adults—“ 

“And we’re still a professor and a student,” he draws the line between you two again, the gash even deeper than before, the gap that’s meant to keep you safe — the chase meant to protect you — so why did it feel more like a punishment? “I’ll take the couch,” and he calls the Dean to update him on the situation. 

You busy yourself with drying your hair in the bathroom, before coming back out to see him hanging up the phone. 

“Well, are we in an ethical bind or should I go sleep in the lobby just to show there’s no funny business?” And he shoots you a look, “there have been stranger bedfellows,” and he opens his mouth, “and a single word comes out of your mouth, and I’ll join you on that couch,” 

And a very pretty flush adorns the tips of his ears and cheeks, “He said it was fine, it was out of our control, but to just document everything, including the hotel’s incompetence for legality reasons,” 

“You’re also a lawyer as well as a professor?” 

“You have to hedge your bets,” he shrugs with a smile pulling at his lips, before he checks the time, “I’m going to take a shower,” he sighs, pulling his hair from the messy bun, letting his black locks down. And you watch him run his fingers through his hair again, sighing, as he heads into the shower. 

You lay on the bed, biting your lip — as you turn over to use your phone, as the shower turns on. And you glance at the closed door — the thought of him in there, pulling his shirt over his head, shedding his pants and boxers. Your cheeks burn, burying your face in your pillow as if that would help (it did not). 

You curl up on the bed, turning away from the bathroom door, using your phone. And a few minutes pass, as you kind of drift off into sleep, and you hear a creak of the bathroom door open that rouses you from sleep. You don’t move at first but you hear shuffling, the sounds of a zipper. You finally turn on your other side, eyes fluttering open, and you’re met with the sight of bare skin. 

You blink, eyes flickering up to see your Professor’s flushed face, before your eyes slowly following a bead of water slip down his bare chest, black hair dotting along the middle of his chest and abs, down to a happy trail that was hidden by a towel wrapped around his waist. His clothes in his hand, and your eyes find his own, your lips parted and mouth impossibly dry. 

Oh. My. God. 

“Uh—“ and his cheeks flare red, as you try your best not to let your eyes flicker downward, “I forgot my clothes—“ and you turn away, as he darts back into the bathroom, “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled through the door. 

“It’s okay!” You reply, your heart thumping against your ribcage, squeezing your eyes shut to only be met the memory of his bare torso, “fuck,” you mumble under your breath, as you turn onto your back, and stare at the spinning ceiling fan above you. A distinct ache below at the thought of him. 

Your eyes flickered to the shut bathroom door. You hear the sound of water running again — maybe he needed to wash up again. Either way, you slid under the comforter, hand slipping into your shorts, you had some time. You wish you could have grabbed his hand before he fled into the bathroom, sat up on your knees, fingers sliding to his cheek. 

“Kiss me,” you’d murmur, and he would, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips sweetly, as your fingers glide up his bare chest. You’d swallow his gasp with delight, as your other hand finds his wet locks, fingers tangling in his black locks, “please,” you would guide his fingers to the hem of your shirt and he would oblige, lifting up and over your head. And your fingers would tug his towel away, letting it fall to the ground. 

Your fingers press against the wet patch on your underwear, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you gasp, imagining it was instead his eager fingers that tugged your shorts down. You sunk one finger in and then another, pumping slowly, and you knew he would get you ready for him. He would fuck you with his thick fingers, as his mouth latched to your clit, sucking gently as he fucked you open. You moaned his name softly, as you imagine his fingers stretching you open. 

“Do you want me, my pretty girl?” He would murmur between your thighs, lips glossy with your release, “s’good for me, taste as good as you look,” and he would press your back gently into the mattress as he would meet your lips again before, rubbing the tip of his cock against your puffy lips, “tell me what you want, Princess,” 

“Please,” you whispered, as you moved your fingers faster, adding a third finger, but you know his cock would feel so much thicker, and reach so much deeper, “fuck me,” 

And he would, sinking into you, his pretty cock parting your folds, his quiet grunts and moans whispering in your ear, as he works himself inside to the hilt. His lips would find yours as he would rock his hips into you — your cunt would flutter around his length. He would press your thighs apart further, long fingers digging into your soft flesh, the wet squelch of your cunt and the sounds of his skin slapping against yours would ring in your ears.

“S’close, Sugu—fuck,” you would keen against him, instead of your fingers, “please,” and his thumb would find your clit, just as yours did, and you would cum all over his cock, squeezing around his length, as he sinks even deeper, until his tip is brushing against your cunt. The moan of his name slips out, as you press your forearm against your mouth to barely stifle it. 

Fuck, you come down from your high, panting. And you glance at the bathroom door, thinking you’ll clean up once he gets out. You roll over in bed, as you pulled the pillow over your face. 

This was going to be a long weekend. 

Suguru lingers in the bathroom for far too long after that, the embarrassment of the moment still far too fresh in his mind, his cheeks still a dusty pink at the thought. Not only was it bad enough that he was trapped in this hotel room with you for an entire weekend, but now he had paraded out practically half naked for you to see. 

Fuck his life. 

He had hurried into the shower if only to get a break from being in the same room as you. It had been hard enough to endure the last few weeks as a T.A., but now he had to spend an entire weekend sharing a hotel room — and deal with situations like that one all weekend. Seeing you emerge from the bathroom, only in a t-shirt and shorts, still damp from your shower — wet hair in messy tangles that he wanted to run his fingers through— and that’s why he excused himself to the bathroom. A reprieve if only for a moment. If he had only remembered to bring his clothes into the shower — he wouldn’t have had to finish his shower, with only his discarded clothes to wear that had slipped off the clothes rack and onto the damp floor. 

He had stepped out, towel around his waist, as he peeled out, only to see your back to him, the sounds of soft breathing told him you were asleep. And he crept out, silently cursing as the door creaked and rifled through his suitcase for clothes. He had found them, and gone to retreat back when you roused and turned all at once. 

God, he sighed, it was such a mess. 

But the way you looked at him…lips parted, gaze flicking across his body, the way your eyes lingered a little too long on his torso — and now he had an entirely different problem. 

His cock tented against the towel, as his eyes slid to the bathroom door. What if he just hopped into the shower for a second again? The towel dropped to the floor, as he steps back into the shower, turning on the water. 

He groans, his fingers slide over his mortifyingly hard erection, teasing his slit as he would imagine you would, as you would open the bathroom door, murmuring his name, “Professor? Are you okay?” And you wouldn’t wait for his answer as you stepped into the shower with him, eyes raking down his body, a teasing grin on your lips, “not very ethical is that?” And your fingers would curl their way around the base of his cock, making him shudder with pleasure, “I can take care of that,” and you would kiss down his chest and stomach, even despite his protests, until you reached where he wanted your touch most. 

And god, you would look so pretty on your knees for him, as your fingers pumped him far too slowly, teasing him with a chaste kiss to his tip, tongue dragging against his slit, better than how his thumb did, “s’good for me, Professor,” you’d say, when you heard the hiss he just let out, “I wonder what other sounds you could make for me,” and your lips would close around his tip, sucking lightly, as he gasped, his other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his sounds. 

He would look down with half lidded eyes, and see your head bobbing as you took him so well, your fingers toying with his balls, spotting your eyes flicking up to meet his — glazed over and desperate, just he imagined his were. Your mouth would feel so much better than his hand, the wet squelch of his pumping would not compare to you swallowing around him, sucking and licking around his length, his pre-cum and your drool slipping down the corner of your mouth. 

You’d swallow around him, as his fingers would slide into your hair. And maybe you would let him fuck your mouth, hips rolling slowly as you adjust, before he slowly would thrust faster. He would repay the favor tenfold once you were done, burying himself in your sweet cunt, until you were begging him to stop. His fingers moved faster around his cock, his low groans and wet squelch bouncing off the bathroom walls, hopefully drowned out by the running water.  Fuck, he wished he would feel how it would to have his tip brush against the back of your throat. 

He was close, the twitch of his dick in his hand told him so, and he imagined what it would be like to cum in your mouth, watching you swallow his release, if you’d want to, or cumming all over your face or chest, letting his cock drag over your tongue as he pulled out. 

Fuck, he shudders, moaning your name against his fingers, he cums all over his hand and the wall of the shower, his release running down mixing with the water. He rinsed his hand off, leaning his head under the water again, hoping it would wash away any traces of you. 

It didn’t. 

And as he emerged from the shower, making sure any trace of his act had slipped down the drain, but the towel around his neck, wondering if you’d see what he did on his face. But you wouldn’t — because you were fast asleep. 

His lips curled as he watched you sleep for a moment, your lips parted, curled up facing away from the bathroom — your feet sticking out of your blanket. He adjusts the blanket for you, and you shift a little in your sleep, mumbling something under your breath, before settling back in. 

And he bites his lip before turning away — he would never be clean, would he? 

Not when it was you. 

“How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you murmur, the smile plastered on your lips nearly starting to chip and crack. 

Professor Geto sipped at his drink hiding his frown, long fingers cradling the wine glass far too perfectly, “at least another hour,” he sighs, “when in academia, one must get used to mindless conversing if only it will lead to another needless connection,”

And this day had been nothing but an exercise of that — lectures, panels, presentations — any other word that meant someone or several someones sitting in front of you, talking at you — with only maybe 30% of the people actually listening (if you were lucky or interesting). And now you were one hour deep into a mixer that had you engaging in dry chit-chat that had your mind going numb by the first ten minutes. Your only reprieve being by Geto’s side. 

You hated how he could make the dullest of things enjoyable for you, or rather—

You hated how much you loved it 

“How pithy — Plato?” And he snorts, as you finish off your own drink, “I’m going to get a refill, do you want anything?” He shakes his head, and you head off to the bar. 

You were so restless after sitting for so long. Not to mention the slight rash you got from not washing up soon enough. You woke an hour and half later and cleaned yourself up — luckily Geto had passed out by then. You saw him sleeping half scrunched up, half sprawled out on the couch — one of his legs were hanging off the couch — and even his blanket had slipped off. You stifled a small laugh, taking a quick picture of him — so stubborn that he wouldn’t sleep on the bed with you. Your gaze had softened, as you picked up the discarded blanket and placed it over him softly, your fingers gently tucking some of his hair from his face. You fell asleep again after heading back to bed, and woke up refreshed — while Geto had woken up with a very sore back and neck. 

“Can I get…” you look at the menu, ordering your favorite drink, standing by the bar as you adjust your dress, you had opted for a black dress with sheer tights — one you had worn a suit jacket over it. You tap against the bar top, checking your phone as you do. 

“Can I get what she’s getting?” A dark haired man sidles up beside you, his mouth curled in a smirk drawing attention to a scar in the corner of his mouth, and his voice drops to a whisper, “though I think I’d enjoy you more than the drink,” 

You raise your eyebrows, “and I think you’ve certainly had enough tonight,” you say under your breath, giving an awkward chuckle, but he doesn’t seem to notice as the bartender comes back with your drink. Your eyes flicker over the crowd as you search for Geto but you can’t find him. 

“What’s your name, pretty?” And your skin crawls as his dark gaze slides over your body, “mine’s Toji,” and you bite back a sigh, introducing yourself, “it’s very nice to meet you — I’ve met a lot of people tonight but you definitely have been the most interesting,” and the bartender comes back with his drink. 

“Then you must have not met a lot of interesting people so far,” you say, eager to look for any out to escape this conversation, “my friend is waiting—“ 

“No, I’d say that you’re just that interesting,” he sips his drink, “can I get you another drink?” 

And right when you’re about to respond, “No, I don’t think she’s interested,” And you tense a moment before you register the familiar voice, Geto smiles at Toji, if you could call that a smile — it reminded you of one a predator gave its new prey, “especially because she’s a student, and you’re most assuredly not,” 

Toji raises an eyebrow, “But she is an adult, she can speak for herself, so why don’t you let her, Professor?” 

“Because—“ his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach for you but he can’t. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. And you know why he can’t. 

Geto’s smile wavers, and you intercede, “I can, and I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” you pay your tab, “let’s go back to the hotel, Professor,” 

And Toji pulls his card out, handing it to you, “If you change your mind,” he raises his glass, leaning against the bar, before he leans closer to you, whispering, “if you ever get sick of him, call me,” 

You give a polite smile, tugging Geto away until you reached the outside of the building, silence filled the space between you two, until you found your way outside. 

“What did he say?” He asks as he calls a car back to take you both to the hotel, and you don’t know how to answer that — not without making it worse, “actually, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked,” 

“Professor—“ 

“You’re an adult, he’s right — you should be allowed to make your own choices,” he licks his lips, his eyes still fixed on his phone screen, “I’m sorry if I—“ 

“Can you let me speak?” you sigh, as you wave your hand in front of his phone so he would look at you, and his eyes meet yours, “you’re fine — I was trying to get out of there — I just felt very trapped.” 

He huffs out a chuckle. “When you took that long, I wondered if the group of solipsists had taken you hostage,” 

You grimace, “I guess when you believe everyone else is an illusion, you also think manners are an illusion too,” he laughs in earnest now, “now there’s a real smile,” He tilts his head, “the smile you had inside, real scary kind of smile,” you tease, as his eyes can’t quite meet yours.

“Oh yeah?” he suddenly seems very interested in his phone, “our rideshare is almost here,” 

“Almost like you were jealous,” and he scoffs. 

“Of him?” 

“Uh huh, he is pretty attractive, maybe I will give him a call—“ and you notice him grip his phone tighter, and your lips curl, “but I probably won’t, not really my type,” 

“Not your type?” he asks. 

“More into the intellectuals, that man was far from it — I like an academic, sweater vests, glasses, a pretentious little office—“ and the glare is back, as you laugh, the rideshare sparing him from you continuing this conversation, but you also didn’t get to see the slight smile on his lips as you slipped into the back of the car. 

“Just sleep on the bed,” you say for probably the thousandth time, but he only shakes his head, as he sits on the couch, combing out his black locks. Even freshly showered, he looks unfairly hot — a loose gray t-shirt with sweatpants, contacts switched to glasses, and now his hair brushed against his shoulders. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch — it was fine last night—“ 

“Your spinal cord would beg to differ,” and he looks unamused, as he struggles with his comb, “what are you doing?” 

“I can’t get this knot out of my hair, and I can’t get you out of my hair either,” he adds, as you roll your eyes, slipping off the bed and walking over. You ease the comb from his fingers, biting your lip at the brush of his fingers, “what are you—“ 

“It’s easier if someone else does it,” and he sighs, giving in, as your fingers undo the knot in his hair gently, “your hair is really smooth and fine, probably why it tangled so fast,” and he only hums in response, his body relaxing under your touch, as you comb through the rest of his hair. You bite back a smile, he’s almost like a cat, keening under your touch, “feels good?” You murmur. 

“Yeah, it does,” and you don’t want the moment to end, you want this excuse to touch him to remain, the first time you’ve been able to breach this wall between you two — and it’d be over in an instant, “I think that’s good,” he mutters. 

He lays his head back on the top of the couch to look up at you — pretty obsidian orbs stared back at you — and your heart squeezes. He was so close, within reach, and all you had to do was lean down, press your lips against his, and maybe you wouldn’t have to tiptoe anymore, maybe you wouldn’t have to hide from him, maybe you could be— 

“We should go to bed,” he sighs, the moment breaks, as he sits upright, adjusting his pillow on the couch beside him, “we have an early start,” 

“Don’t remind me,” you turn back to him, “but you’re right - we should go to bed—“ you grab his pillow, “on the bed,” 

“No—“ 

“Like you said, we’re both adults,” you tilt your head, as he purses his lips, “I think I can handle sleeping in bed beside you, just sleeping, we can even put a pillow between us,” and you add, “if I try anything in my sleep, you challenge me to a pillow fight, and push me off the bed,” 

He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I really can sleep on—“ and then you raise your eyebrows, eyes flicking to the hand on his neck. He sighs, “fine, but I really will push you off the bed, I’m a restless sleeper,” 

“Then it’s equal opportunity,” you grin, as you slip into your side of the bed, stretching. Suguru is slower to get in, taking his time and adjusting his pillow and blanket before he finally gets into bed, “good night,” 

“Good night,” he turns to face away from you as he sleeps and you do the same. 

But it wasn’t a good night. Not when you couldn’t fucking sleep. 

For someone so smart, you really were very stupid. The bed that seemed expansive and open yesterday now felt Tom Thumb tiny, every shift of your body felt like a ripple effect, as you’d feel the slight shift of Geto right beside you. He was so close — you swore you could nearly feel the heat radiate off of him, the weight of his body beside you felt far too close and way too far — a chasm you could never cross.

And it was close to driving you insane enough to follow your wants all the way down it. 

But you couldn’t — but you could look, stare into the void, without becoming part of it. 

You shift again to face him this time — how could the back of someone’s head be so beautiful? Jet black locks that you had combed yourself fanned out on his pillow. But you could spot the nape of his neck through the tresses, a lovely spot that you only wished you could lean over and bury your face in. Your eyes began to droop. 

Hypnos finally took pity. You could only sleep this way. Your eyes finally flutter shut — you should have known — you were always the most comfortable with him in your sight. 

Suguru knew that you had fallen asleep — because your soft breaths fell into a rhythm, the crinkle of your sheets had grown silent, and the loud thoughts that filled up your head had gone quiet. He was glad one of you could sleep. 

He surely wouldn’t get a wink tonight. 

This was certainly more comfortable than the couch, but at least he had slept on the couch. He would be lucky to get thirty minutes at this rate. This weekend had already been too much — and he felt his will to stay away from you slowly snapping, a few strands away from breaking away completely. 

When he had seen you with Toji — he didn’t think, he just acted. He could see you were uncomfortable, the way your body leaned away from him, the way your eyes flickered around the room, and the way you toyed with your glass. It was a simple choice, but what happens when the next person that flirts with you is someone you’re interested in? Would he have to stand by and simply let it happen? Watch as you’re able to date this person but not him simply because of his title? 

He was jealous. Not of Toji — but of the idea of you being with someone else — of your attention drifting from him, of you drifting from him. He turned to lay on his back, he really was fucked wasn’t he? 

He turns his head to look at you. It never helped that you were effortlessly adorable, even now as you slept. Lips parted, body curled up, your hair falling in your face yet again. His fingers tuck a strand behind your ear gently, and you shift, a quiet hum leaving your lips as you settle back into the arms of the sandman. 

How were you so close but so far? You were mere inches away but you might as well be across the country. Because he couldn’t touch you, he couldn’t hold you, he couldn’t kiss you. The kiss he shared with you haunted his dreams — a daydream wrapped up in the nightmare of reality. He couldn’t ask you to wait — wait for your degree to be completed so the two of you could date. It wouldn’t be fair to you, but what about this was fair? 

And he turns on his side to face you, his fingers brushing your cheek gently — maybe if he couldn’t be with you in reality, he could allow himself to dream, his eyes flutter shut. 

Just for a moment. 

And his unconscious allows it — allows him to dream of you. 

Dream of your face buried in the crook of his neck, your soft breaths warming his skin, his nose buried in your hair. Your fingers grasped at his shirt, your other hand thrown over his middle. Why was your scent so intoxicating? He sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, and you shift, your leg sliding around his waist, as you pressed closer, pulling a groan from his lips as your core grazes right against his morning…visitor. 

And you move again, nose brushing against his collarbone, his name on your lips, quietly whispered like a secret against his skin. It was perfect — you were perfect. 

But what if this wasn’t a dream? The back of his mind prods — but that’s not possible, he was home in bed, right? This wasn’t real. It was the same dream he always had, of waking up in your arms, a lazy morning spent together in bed, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the sheets becoming dappled in sunshine. 

No, there was no way this was real, he sighs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, but even if it was, he thought as he drifted, he didn’t want to wake — not yet. 

A distinct buzz stirs you from your sleep. But you don't want to wake — you were far too comfortable. But the buzzing persists, so you reach blindly for your phone and to turn off the alarm. And settle back into bed, eyes still shut, as you find your way back onto your pillow — or what you thought was your pillow. 

Except pillows didn’t move, or have an arm they could wrap around you. 

Your eyes open, to find yourself entangled with someone else — your brow furrowing in confusion that melts away to silent horror. Professor Geto. 

So much for sticking to your sides. 

Fuck.  

You tried to extricate yourself to no avail, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush to his body, your legs entangled, aside from your leg thrown over his waist, you realize, a small squeak escaping your lips, as you try and fail to move away. Instead you brush up against something very…hard. 

You flush, cheeks burning so hot that it’s truly a miracle he didn’t wake from the heat of your skin against his alone. His morning wood was pressed right against you, nearly between your thighs — just like the last time it was  against you — why the fuck would you think about that now? You resisted the urge to press your legs together — lest you have another new problem, and a mess to deal with. 

You manage to only pull your head away, urging yourself up so that your faces are an inch or two apart now. His soft breaths warmed your lips, his brow relaxed, locks of black hair fell in front of his eyes. Your fingers reach and tuck the locks behind his ear, tips skimming his skin. And the arm around you almost seems to tighten, and you bite your lip, the comforting presence of his arms far too tempting to drag you into wanting — as if you ever left. Wanting was dangerous, because wanting can only ever lead to need, needing him was as foolish as it was to share a bed with the man you were in love with. 

But how foolish was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away? It was okay right? Okay as long your lips didn’t touch, as long you didn’t follow this slope all the way down — it was treacherous to press forward, but why did you want to anyway?

Your eyes flutter shut again for a moment — and your eyes glanced at the morning sky — the sun had just breached the horizon. You could allow yourself a few minutes — even if you had to give up a lifetime with him. 

The blaring of your phone only seems to grow increasingly loud, as you give a small groan, rolling over to your phone again, slapping the screen to snooze it again. And your eyes flutter open a moment, lazily flickering over the screen — 8:45 AM. 

Your eyes close — before your mind fully wakes — 8:45 AM? 

“Fuck,” you shoot up to get up, a tangle of limbs,  jolting Geto awake, his eyes popping open, his arm instinctively grabbing you by the waist, and you land with an oomfph back onto the bed—wait, not the bed. 

Your hand pressed against his chest, your body against his, noses brushing, your eyes unable to tear away from the other — his eyes were even prettier this close — a dark brown, nearly black, with flecks of another color — purple? You can’t tell if that’s your heartbeat or his that’s racing with how close you are, chest to chest. And even as you try to shift, you make it worse by slipping, your hips rubbing against each other’s. 

Fuck. 

You both freeze for a moment, his eyes flickering to your lips and back, as yours does the same, before you both scramble apart. 

“We’re late. We’re really late,” you spring out of bed, grabbing random clothes from your suitcase, “I’m going to get ready, really fast,” you don’t even bother to look at his expression, and you almost wished your heart had shattered your ribcage, with how fucking hard it’s beating, if only that you wouldn’t have to spend another day in the conference with him. 

You sighed, as you brushed your teeth hurriedly while doing your hair — well maybe a lecture or presentation would take your mind off this morning. 

So that wasn’t a dream, Suguru was only glad you didn’t even glance at his face when you ran off, or you would have seen the lovely tomato red that graced his cheeks. He could still feel the warmth from your body, slowly receding, and he swore he could still feel you against him, your soft skin, your pretty lips against his neck, and your leg around his waist. 

Fuck. 

God, he had another fucking problem to deal with — as he shifted awkwardly, his morning wood up and erect with a tent that could put most large circus tents to shame. Fuck, he didn’t have time to take care of this — especially with you in the bathroom right now. 

But still, he pressed his inner palm to his lips, how was he going to make it through the rest of the conference with the feeling of your body still lingering in his mind. If the situation was different, the two of you would have woken up with smiles on your lips, spent the morning cuddling without a care, and probably a little more than that—

But the situation was the same, and his eyes slid to the bathroom door, so why was it that he still thinking about you? He wasn’t the type to dwell, he accepted things for what they were — he had his principles and his beliefs, and he stuck to them, unless proven otherwise. He was a man of guidelines, of rules—

So why were you the only person that ever made him want to throw every rule away? 

“We are going to be discussing ethical dilemmas faced in universities and how to approach them,” the lecturer begins, “can anyone tell us an example of one such dilemma?” 

You both had barely made it into a lecture — barely even speaking as you ran-walked into the conference — choosing a lecture at random, as the two of you ran a good fifteen minutes late. You both arrived, hiding your pants, as you both grabbed water bottles from the back, and sat down. 

And of course to make matters worse, your phone goes off, making the entire room turn to look at the two of you. You silence your phone, murmuring a quick sorry as the two of you take your seats. 

Could this possibly get worse? 

Your eyes glanced at him — it was already bad enough to begin with. Geto had barely spoken a word this morning, even as the two of arrived at the conference, the only words he spoke were to the attendant that parked his car. 

You tugged at the collar of your shirt, adjusting your clothes. And if that wasn’t enough, you were going to spend the day sweaty and disheveled. Meanwhile, you stole another glance at your professor — his skin flushed from running, button up not buttoned up all the way, glasses instead of contacts, and his hair in its usual bun, but a few strands were nearly coming loose — he still looked fucking delectable. But he wouldn’t meet your gaze, his body positioned to lean away from yours, his eyes fixed ahead. 

You held back your sigh as you focused on the presentation — you just needed to get through today — as the lecturer picked someone who raised their hand. 

“A student-teacher relationship is one such ethical problem faced in universities today,” and Geto nearly chokes on his water, coughing slightly, as you feel your cheeks burn at the thought of this morning, “it presents several ethical problems — including the role the professor plays in the student’s education and future, their ability to provide praise or reprimand, and even grant recommendations gives them great power over their student. It leaves the student without much freedom in the relationship.”

Oh, what the fuck. 

The rest of the conference is spent in relative silence with a thick film of awkwardness perfectly overlayed. When you both finally return to the hotel room, your only consolation is that you’ll be leaving tomorrow. You toss your things onto the couch, “I’m going to wash up,” you tell him, and he only nods in reply, as you enter the bathroom and shut the door, back pressed against it and sliding down. 

Oh this is such a mess. You sigh, maybe a shower will help. 

It didn’t. You were still just as much of a mess as you were before. You sighed, as you stood in front of the sink, wiping your hair with a towel. This could be so simple if you both could be together — so easy. There would be no tension, no hurt feelings, no awkwardness — you could just be. But that’s not an option. So the only other option is to let him go. 

But you didn’t know how to begin to. 

Either way, hiding in the bathroom wouldn’t solve a thing — and you finally opened the door, “I’m done if you want to wash up,” he nods, sitting on the couch, reading a book. His glasses rested on the tip of his nose, lips pursed, and legs crossed. 

You walk over, grabbing your things from the couch and put some of your things away in your suitcase. But after all of that is done, you realize one thing is missing — your cellphone. 

“Shit,” you murmur under your breath, searching through your suit coat pockets, your pants pocket, anywhere that your phone might be. 

“What’s wrong?” Geto says, book in his lap, as he tilts his head. 

“Can’t find my phone,” you mumble, cheeks burning — god, it was already awkward enough, and now this? 

“Is it on ring?” You nod — your phone was usually on ring, sometimes to your detriment — you cringe at the memory in the lecture this morning, “I’ll call it,” 

He calls you — and you glance at his phone screen, your contact is just your name, no picture, nothing. You bite your lip, what were you expecting? A heart next to your name? And the sound of your phone ringing catches both of your attention. 

“It’s over here, somewhere,” he says, lifting up some of cushions of the couch, and reaching underneath into the creases, as you walk over — “I found—“ 

And you were so concerned about your contact information in his phone that you forgot about his contact information in your phone. 

The screen flashed with the image of him sleeping all lopsided on the couch from that first night, as you covered your mouth in both horror, but also to stifle your laugh. 

His eyes flicker to you, “When did you—“ and you reach for your phone, but he moves it away, “not until you answer my questions,” 

“This isn’t class, Professor, I want my phone—“ you reach for it again, and he’s holding it above your head, “oh real mature—“ 

“Like the picture you have of me as my contact picture?” He raises an eyebrow, a real smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “thought I should resort to my student’s level,”  

“Your T.A.,” you correct, as you reach for your phone again, but he’s using his height to his advantage, and he’s beginning to walk backwards, “come on, give it back—“ 

“Not until I change and delete that photo,” and he’s trying to hold your phone up to your face to unlock it, and you gasp. 

“Oh my god, give it back!” And you grab his hand, and he’s grabbing at the other, giggles leaving your lips, as he laughs too, as the two of you struggle for the phone, your fingers closing over it, and over his own fingers as well. 

And you realize how close you are to him. 

The two of you freeze a moment, laughter on your lips fading away to soft smiles, and his fingers squeeze yours lightly, as he passes you your phone back. But he doesn’t move away — and you don’t either. 

“Why did you let go?” and it seems like it’s a force out of your control that draws you together, no matter how much either of you try to let go. 

“Because I can’t help giving you what you want,” he murmurs, and the heat of his gaze melts your heart, as you drop your phone onto the couch, and reach for his hand again. 

And you lean closer, your other hand gently brushing against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, “So if I ask for a kiss, will you give it to me?” You won’t close the gap anymore than you have — he needs to reach for you too, let himself give into gravity. 

He does, as his hand brushes against your cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth across your cheekbone, “will we stop at just a kiss?” He murmurs, leaning so close that your eyes want to flutter shut. 

“Only one way to find out,” and his lips brush yours. And it’s not chaste like your first kiss was, no, his lips slide against yours, as his other hand slides to the back of your neck. He swallows your gasp eagerly, if the smirk you feel against your lips is anything to go off of. Your teeth graze against this bottom lip teasingly, drawing a small groan from the back of his throat. 

Neither of you couldn’t stop at one kiss, and you both knew that, even as your lips parted for a small breath of air, they found each other again — just as you both always did. Because you could never let him go — no matter how hard you tried. 

RING. RING. RING. 

And this time it isn’t an alarm. But rather his phone, flashing with a name that brings you crashing back to reality. 

The department head. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, as he parts from you, his warmth leaving all at once, as he grabs his phone, and turns away, “Hello? Yes, the conference is over. Everything went well. No, no, nothing out of the ordinary.” 

You stared at his back, this would always be the case wouldn’t it? Even as you crashed together, something would pull you apart, and neither of you could break the cycle. You take your phone from the couch, and crawl into bed, but you could start. 

You close your eyes, your fingers brushing against your lips for a moment. You needed to start — otherwise, you would just end up broken. 

And you don’t hear him hang up — or see him stare at your figure under the covers — and he would break along with you. 

Suguru didn’t know what to say the next morning — especially when it seemed couldn’t even bear to look at him, much less speak to him. You had busied yourself with packing, even before he had awoken. His back ached from the night he spent on the couch, he couldn’t fall asleep for far too long, and by the time he did, he kept sleeping — through his many alarms it seemed. 

And it wasn’t the couch that kept him awake. 

You both had the most lovely timing, didn’t you? He thought, as he combed his hair in the bathroom, the memory of your fingers running through his hair as you gently undid the knots in his locks still ever present — it seemed like any time you two wanted to act on your feelings, the universe was doing what it could to keep you apart. 

Was this fate versus free will? 

You both kept choosing each other — but fate kept pulling you apart. Did he have any control over his actions or did he have no control over his actions at all? Was it all predetermined by some force he couldn’t perceive? Some force intent on pulling you apart. 

He sighed, as his phone lights up with an email from the department head — department head position opened up in Jujutsu University: Kyoto — 

And so maybe he should let it. 

The next few weeks pass by far too quick. As your semester picks up, you stop attending Professor Geto’s classes, opting to send an email to let him know, and he replies back with a simple response — Ok. Please let me know when and if you are available to input the grades for the midterm paper. 

The rest of your T.A. work is done online and over email — and you do your best to keep busy, keep yourself occupied, and keep your thoughts from straying to him.

And you maybe succeed 10% of the time. It doesn’t help that your unconscious does not wish to cooperate since it seems that once you stopped seeing your professor during waking hours, he’s infiltrated your sleep — sneaking in and out by the time your eyes open. 

And then you’re left with the fragments of his touch, his voice, his kisses, and soft, loving words. 

Just as you always were it seemed. 

And before you know it, the end of the semester comes, and you find yourself in front of that same office door yet again. It felt like an eternal reoccurrence — stuck to repeat the same events again and again in an infinite loop. Was there any exit from this loop? 

You didn’t know — you knocked on his office door — but you could try. 

“Come in,” you do, entering his office to find him sitting at his desk, hair half up for once. And his eyes flicker up to meet yours, his head tilting at your stare, “see something interesting?” 

“Your hair—“ and your cheeks burn — so much for trying — “it’s different,” 

“Thought I’d try something different — my hair is growing out,” and you have to repress the want to curl a lock or his hair around your finger, “do you not like it?” 

You shake your head, “It looks nice, just different,”

And he hands you the papers he’s graded, “you can input those, I’m just finishing up a couple more, so if you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit?” 

“Not at all,” a silence falls over between the two of you, the quiet scratch of his pen as he grades, the occasional ding of his e-mail breaking up the silence. You sneak a glance at him — ebony tresses brushing against his broad shoulders, his brow furrowed that you wished to run your fingers along to smooth his worries from his mind, pretty lips parted as he reads a sentence silently to himself. 

Fuck — no, no, you can’t do this. 

You busy yourself thumbing your way through the papers, spotting the familiar red scrawls littering these pages, as they once did yours. You were so pissed when you got your first paper back — indignant even — a whole Karen ready to speak to his supervisor. But when his honest criticism and blunt words rang true, you found yourself not only wanting to prove him wrong, but a want to be better. To earn his respect. And of course, later, you wanted to earn a little more than that. 

You bite back a chuckle, and here you still were — by his side. Except next semester you wouldn’t be his T.A. 

But you would still be a student. And he would still be a professor. 

But one other thing that hasn’t changed is how brutal the feedback is — you couldn’t help but feel bad for “Itadori Yuuji” — whoever that was. 

“What are you smiling about?” Your eyes snap up to meet his, his head leaning against his palm, elbow resting on the desk. 

“Nothing,” you shake your head, but he looks unconvinced, “just thinking about our first time in this office,” and then your cheeks burn at the double meaning, “I mean our first office hours appointment—“ 

He waves you off, “I know what you meant,” a small chuckle in his cadence, as he continues to grade, “you certainly weren’t happy with me,” 

“No I wasn’t,” a small smile on your lips, “but it worked out in the end,” you add, “you got an amazing T.A. after all,” 

His eyes meet yours, “More than just that,” 

Why can’t you help but get pulled in time and time again? And why can’t you help but ask questions that will only hurt you in the end? 

He continues to grade when you finally speak, “What do you think would have happened if I didn’t end up being your T.A.?” 

And his pen stops, lips pursed, “We shouldn’t—“ 

“Why shouldn’t we?” you felt like a child demanding an answer from their parent. 

“We agreed—”

“I don’t remember an agreement-” 

“It was unspoken—” 

You scoff, crossing your arms, “You really are only a professor because an attorney would know that binding agreements can’t be unspoken,” he falls silent, his voice soft. 

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” his words are wrought with conflict, pain seeping into every syllable, “I don’t want to keep going down this road only to for you to get hurt in the end — I don’t want to jeopardize your future for something that might not last—” 

“But what if it does?” and he swallows thickly, “what if we can make it work? We’re both adults, we can be discreet—” 

“So discreet that we end up making out in my office?” he takes off his glasses only to run a hand down his face, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, and you huff out a chuckle. 

“A little more discreet than that, we’ll lock the door next time,” it’s his turn to scoff, and you rise from your seat, lips curled, “close the lights, or maybe even kiss in a place that’s not on campus,” but he does the same, meeting you on the side of his desk, his fingers brushing your cheek so gently as if you’d shatter under his touch. 

“I don’t want to stand in the way of your career,” he says, his fingers finding your hand regardless, fingers interlacing, “I don’t want you to—” 

“It’s my choice, Suguru,” you murmur, as you lean against his warm palm, your fingers sliding against his palm and into his inky tresses, “don’t you owe me a choice, and a drink?” you add, and his lips curl in a knowing smile. 

“I do, if you’ll still have me,” and he’s leaning close, sucking the air from the room, and the logic from your minds, as his lips barely graze yours, “shouldn’t we lock the door?” 

“Fuck it,” and you pull him into a deep kiss that pulls a groan from his lips that makes your cunt ache, as he’s already pushing you into the lip of his desk, his hand sliding down to your waist. 

“Now who’s being unethical?” he murmurs, pressing eager kisses along your jaw, that makes you melt against him, your legs nearly jelly at this point, “what kind of example are you setting as a T.A.?” 

You bite back your moan as his lips find the soft spot of your neck, teeth grazing it far too fucking teasingly, “Well students learn by example,” and his hands are slipping under thighs to lift you so you’re sitting on his desk — you spread your legs for him in the dress that you’re in, pantyhose underneath, his heavy lidded gaze raking over your body, “and look at my professor staring at his T.A. so lustfully, even with a clear power dynamic—” 

And his fingers find your thighs again, squeezing, before his fingers dig into the sheer hose, tearing holes in it, drawing a gasp from your lips, “How’s that for a power dynamic, princess?” far too pleased, “don’t worry, I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs, “now just be a good girl and spread your legs for me,” he says, as he pulls away the ruined pantyhose, and he’s undoing the buttons on his shirt with one hand — one, two, three — before your fingers take over, leaning to press kisses at each inch of exposed skin, until the shirt falls open. 

Then his lips find yours again, his silver tongue asking for you to part your lips and you do — as he extracts every want you have with his burning touch — his lips against yours, his large hands parting your thighs, his knee pressed against your twitching cunt — and only leaves your want for him behind, until it becomes a need. 

“Wonder what our students would think of you,” his fingers tease your inner thighs, drawing a whine from your lips, “wanting your professor to fuck you in his office instead of inputting their grades,” he whispers in your ear, as his fingers finally skim the wet patch of your underwear, “so wet f’me, already? Look I think you even soaked my slacks,” he tsks, as his thumb and forefinger find your chin and tilt it up, “what are you going to do about that?” 

“Suguru—please,” and he smiles as his finger starts to tease your puffy clit through your drenched panties, “don’t tease—” 

“How can I not when you’ve nothing but tease me with your existence?” he pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, “I’ll oblige my favorite student this time—but I won’t be so nice next time,” he adds, biting your bottom lip. 

RING. RING. RING. 

It was his fucking office phone. You groan, but his finger continues to sink into you, “Suguru—” 

“Let it ring,” his lips find yours in a bruising kiss as his finger deliciously sinks into you, “I have all I need right here,” he whispers, and you pull him back into a kiss by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, your hand sliding up and down his chest, while he worked a finger into your cunt, “so fucking wet f’me, so perfect,” 

And your hand flies back to support yourself as a second finger begins to sink into you — but your hand grazes his office phone, and the messages begin to play back.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mumble, as you reach blindly for the phone, only to knock it back, as he chuckles and reaches behind you, trying but failing to help — your noses brushing, and he smiles before kissing you again. 

Mr. Geto, sorry we missed each other, I was calling, hoping that you would still be in office for the day, but I must have just missed you. I wanted to call to offer you the job as department head at Jujutsu Tech University: Kyoto—

You freeze, your lips parting from his as you look up at him, his eyes wide as he stops the message from playing back any further — and the words settle over the mood like a sheet pulled over a dead body. 

And you’re the first to speak, always asking the questions that will hurt you in the end, “You’re moving to Kyoto?” 

✧ a/n: so i'm sorry for that ending hahah, i promise there will be a happy ending later on for these two. thank you to @gaylatteart and @laneysmusings for betaing and just being the best. also if i tagged you please comment / reblog because tagging on tumblr sucks, it takes very long.

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @bash1018, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala, @ashhlsstuff, @blue041803, @mwtsxri, @bblgumfairy, @sukunasleftkneecap, @xo-evangeline, @fiannee, @teatreeoilll, @chalametet, @ryukaver, @d1gitalbathh, @saga3ious, @seventhcinema, @satosugucide, @your-l0nely-star, @sokkasmoon, @deegausserr, @hyookka, @oggsyy, @littlebitb, @higuchislut, @ti-mame, @itoshisins, @cerene-dipity, @onionsoop, @sinlillith, @izzythenaive, @akvrae, @lalacute03, @rxndou, @c-themoon, @xxrag-d0llxx, @hqtoge, @sugarxlumps, @hopeluna, @actualdeemon,

The Assistant (officeAU!Geto x Fem!Reader x officeAU!Gojo)

based on this request, tumblr hates me.

Plot: Senior Partner at the prestigious Gojo Group's legal department, Geto Suguru never expected to fall for his newly-hired personal assistant. But when his lifelong best friend and boss takes an interest in you, Suguru fins his own feelings rapidly escalating into an uncontrollable obsession.

Tags: Office!AU, Geto POV, Love Triangle, Slow Burn, Secretary!Reader, Lawyer!Geto, CEO!Gojo, Office Sex, Oral Sex (m.receiving), Doggy Style, Degradation, Praise, Pining, Jealousy, Obsession, Sexual Coercion, Abuse of Authority, don't get your hopes up; this isn't a threesome, MDNI obviously.

A/N: Number one bestie, you still owe me Gojo smut. But here, 14k words to quench your thirst for Suguwu.

Masterlist | AO3 | Requests

“How about this one? She’s pretty hot, don’t you think, Suguru?” Satoru waves yet another paper in Suguru’s face, his excitement wearing off the moment he catches his best friend pinching his nose bridge between his fingers.

“Satoru, we are picking associate candidates, not swimming-suit contest winners.” Suguru chides in a calm tone, crossing out the woman’s name from his list with a red line that’s identical to the line above and the ones that rank above it too.

This is the 78th candidate whose CV is rejected by the two men, their task of finding Suguru the perfect assistant turning rather daunting after five emptied cups of instant coffee.

Suguru insisted he could’ve done it alone—similar to how he’d insisted he could’ve kept handling his own affairs by himself and argued against a congratulatory party in honor of his promotion. But certain wishes outweigh others, and in the legal department of Gojo Enterprises, Satoru’s word is as good as the law—one of the many perks that come with being the president’s only son.

“What’s wrong with swimming suit contests?” The white-haired man sulks, long limbs hanging gracelessly from over his chair’s backrest. He zooms in on the woman’s picture one final time before crumpling the paper into a ball that’s flung straight into the garbage bin by the door. "Hey, that was a three-pointer!"

Sigh.

Even though the two of them have been friends since Suguru can remember himself, sometimes it feels as if only one of them outgrew their fourth-grade selves. It’s nothing new for Satoru to confuse play time with work time, yet as the man who will come to inherit the entire Gojo empire, he should at least focus on how to better the company, not tear it apart.

“Nothing wrong with swimming suits or gravure models, but we should choose someone based on their skills. Remember what your father always says: a business is only as successful as—”

“‘Its team is,’ yeahyeahyeah , spare me the preach. My ears are tired of that old man’s nagging.” Satoru spins around in his chair, the rollers squeaking under his weight. “Just because someone’s pretty doesn’t mean they can’t be competent. Take me for example.” His thumb and forefinger shape an angle below his chin.

A quiet chuckle evades Suguru as he sorts the files before him and slides the next batch across Satoru’s side of the table. “Fine, if we don’t find someone who checks both criteria, then you can be my assistant.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Satoru rips another instant coffee packet open. “My hands are full already.” Throwing his head back, he empties the powder into his mouth and washes it around until the sugary substance dissolves.

“I can see that,” Suguru murmurs, masking his distaste by returning to work.

The stacks of paper soon decline, with Satoru needing a cursory look to dismiss the candidates and Suguru meticulously processing their accomplishments down to their high school extracurricular activities. Work at the firm is hard enough as is. He’s seen far too many young, ambitious interns crack under pressure and pop pills into their mouths like candy just so they can keep up.

Narrowing down his options, Suguru gets a decent idea of what he’s looking for: adaptability, flexibility, and drive. Those traits are common to all three finalists, with two of them having touched a variety of fields and the other having a background in volunteer work.

He’s all but decided on candidate number 99 when a paper plane crashes into the side of his head.

“Oops!” Satoru’s shoulders scrunch up coyly, though both he and his partner know it was very much intentional.

Suguru catches the plane, appreciating the craftsmanship behind the carefully folded wings, before he sets it on the table.

“Satoru.” His voice gains a slight edge after he spots candidate 42’s face decorating the underside of the aircraft, a comically large mustache drawn on top. “Was anyone else to your liking, or did the rest become fodder for your fleet?”

He watches his friend fish a paper crane out of his jacket, clearly pleased with himself, and he has every right to be, considering the paper is seamlessly trimmed without any scissors. Cute. Suguru smiles, withholding his praise lest it become another point of distraction.

Rolling his chair away, Satoru jumps up and slams the desk with enough force to break it. “Number 98!” He declares.

“98?” Suguru asks, and in seconds, Satoru is found hovering above his shoulder, one hand drumming against the leather chair and the other covering the (presumed) woman’s picture.

“Good grades, prestigious papers, and all that education shit you’re so fond of.” His forefinger trails between the lines. “University of Tokyo, Department of—blah blah , Essex something something, worked three years as a paralegal for the Kamos. Whole damn package, and the best thing?” He draws his palm away, slowly enough to build anticipation. “She’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Satoru, I told you—”

Whatever was supposed to complete that sentence withers at the tip of Suguru’s tongue, amber irises blown as they take in every detail of your face, animating your features as if you’re truly there with them, and for a moment, he tricks himself into thinking you are.

He sees your lips—those pretty lips he swears taste like honey without kissing them—drawing away from your teeth, the mellifluous sound of your laughter coating the rumble of prints being made somewhere in the background. He knows that a picture can’t possibly hold such power, and yet the subtle floral notes in your perfume reach him, prevailing so easily over the stench of ink and coffee and enchanting him into agreeing with his friend.

She is gorgeous. Perhaps the most gorgeous woman he’s laid eyes on.

You are.

“Come on, Suguru. This one’s super cute!” Satoru argues in your favor, his jaw piercing his friend’s shoulder. “Seriously, if you’re not hiring her, then I am. I can always lay off one of my—”

“Looks like you are off the hook, Satoru. This one will do.”

“And this is the kitchen. I recommend making the most of our espresso maker or heading to the cafeteria on the first floor—unless you don’t mind your coffee tasting like watered-down sugar.” Suguru nods toward the pyramid of instant coffee boxes stacked in the corner, conscious of the doe eyes that track his every gesture.

The picture barely did you any justice. You are so much prettier in person with your well-fitting two-piece suit and the pocket notebook you carry, penning down everything he says, down to the locations of kitchenware and the names of employees you meet along the way. He can’t tell whether you’re not confident enough in your ability to memorize things or simply overzealous. No matter the case, he finds your little habit endearing, but then again, the opinion of a man who endeared himself to you ahead of your acquaintance is not to be taken at face value.

“What’s the matter?” He cocks his head to the side, gaze drawn to the pen stilled in your grasp. “Too much info?”

“More like too many handles and blinking lights. One wrong button, and the whole building detonates.” You glance at him over the pages, your tone delineating a smile he cannot see.

He returns it, piecing the bang that typically never bothers him behind his ear. “Sato—I mean, Senior Partner Gojo received this as a gift from Zen’in Naobito when we moved to this building.”

“Is that so? I thought Zen’in Group was notoriously at odds with Gojo Group.”

“Oh, they are. But it’s common business tactics to trade one overpriced gift for another to see who breaks bank first.” Suguru hums, grabbing a clean mug from the rack and initiating the twelve-step process required to brew a single cup of coffee. “If I remember correctly, our side sent them a private sushi chef. His work hours were paid; the fish, not so much. Sugar?” He smirks, stirring the amount you call in your coffee.

“What happened after? Off the record.” You tap your notebook shut, and the smile he thought he heard is there, seen on your lips and felt in his heart, warmer than the beverage his hand offers.

“They kept him around for about a month before politely declining our generosity. I guess there’s a limit to how much bluefin tuna the rich can stomach.” His narrowed eyes crinkle fondly while he watches you blow the steam from your face and take your first sip. “Hope it’s to your liking.”

“The coffee or the story?”

“Both. But mostly the coffee.”

“It’s really good.” You nod appreciatively. “Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it.” Suguru disposes of the used coffee beans, failing to, however, rid himself of the soft smile perching on his lips. “It’ll take a while to get used to it, so feel free to come to me whenever you need more coffee. Or another story.”

“I could never disturb you for something like that.” You shake your head along with your hands. “What kind of assistant asks her boss to make her coffee?”

The word “boss” carries a negative connotation coming from your lips; the few inches that keep you apart rapidly expand into miles, and he hates that. It’s a gap he doesn’t want to see widened any further.

“How about you think of us as partners, then?” Suguru takes a leap while the distance’s short. “None of us gets paid to make coffee either way.”

You seem hesitant to agree, holding the weight of his stare until your determination crumbles. “Fine. But only till I get the hang of it. Then you’ll be greeted with a cup of freshly brewed espresso on your desk every morning.”

“That’s very thoughtful, but I’d rather be served tea instead. Red with one sugar?”

Overzealous , he decides as you hurriedly flip through the pages to scribble his order.

He wonders what your handwriting is like. Whether it’s scrawled and stumpy or eloquent and delicate, which isn’t the most fascinating thing to wonder about a person, but he can’t help himself from trying to pierce through the hardcover for a glimpse at your thoughts, unwittingly attracting your attention.

You share a look that flourishes over a second and withers within an eternity, its remains scattering into an airy chuckle as the machine cuts in with a sudden choo .

“I’m s-sorry!” You bow your head, bottom lip sticking out while you fail to suppress your amusement. “I didn’t expect it to sound like this. It’s just like—”

“Mhm, it does resemble the bullet train to Sendai a bit, doesn’t it?”

Suguru doesn’t necessarily think of himself as a funny man. But witnessing the little dance your fingers perform as you struggle to keep the cup steady, he might as well be the funniest man in the whole wide world.

“Shall we get going?” He prompts. “I still haven’t shown you to your office.”

“Please lead the way. Partner.” You add, unaware that the man who cruises you by almost trips over his feet. In his mind, at least.

Walking among the cubicles where various paralegals have their noses buried within tower-height stacks of memoranda, Suguru goes over your shared schedule and what is expected of you in the upcoming days, silently praying that you don’t question his insistence to wipe his sweaty palms against his slacks. He hasn’t been this stressed since he and Satoru were studying for the bar exam, and even then, it wasn’t him he was stressing about.

He recites, and you diligently take notes, up until the compact desks lessen and you find yourselves standing in front of an open space with its own reception. The senior partners’ offices—or, in other words, your boss’ and his boss’ offices.

“Hey, Shoko. Got anything for me?” Suguru asks the disinterested brunette seated at the front desk.

The woman’s eyes dart between the two of you. She acknowledges your presence with a curt bow, hardly bothering to put out her cigarette in the tray behind her. “Just this.” She pulls a yellow folder from one of the drawers and hands it to him, smoke wafting when she speaks. “It’s a letter of intent; Nanami brought it himself. Says it’s important.

“How much longer do I have to keep this up?” Shoko asks, a red imprint from where her wrist was previously propping her cheek against her elbow.

Suguru takes out the papers, skimming through the lines before stuffing them back inside and giving her a tiny smile.

“Thank you for your service, Shoko. You are fired.”

“Yay!” The woman excites in the same deadpan tone, grabbing her bag and almost knocking you down with how quick she is to flee the company premises.

“Is she—”

“Don’t worry about her.” Suguru’s attention returns to you. “She’s just a friend filling in for us.”

The way he uses the term friend is deliberate. Normally, he wouldn’t care what people make of his and Satoru’s relationship with the third member of their group, but he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea.

Tucking the folder under his armpit, Suguru proceeds to lead you to your office, situated in the same open space although much closer to the wooden door that spells his full name and title in capital gold lettering—another of Satoru’s fanciful insistences.

Your desk is half as wide as the reception’s, yet twice as spacious as the cubicle ones. The company’s logo bounces across an idle computer screen, dust particles dancing amidst the glaring light of high noon. There is a telephone and some stationery that’s either sorted in a silver pencil holder or frames the hefty planner at the center, though it’s the sticky notes dangling from its pages that end up piquing your interest.

Suguru suffered through the teasing of a lifetime for spending his entire weekend summarizing case files just so your first days wouldn’t be hectic.

(“Good for you, Suguru.” Satoru snickered from his sumptuous recliner, a tennis ball bouncing from the wall back to his hand. “Getting your first crush at the age of 28. What’s next? Drawing your initials in little hearts for her to see how well your names fit together?”

“Shut up." Suguru clicked his pen against his head, stretching his feet below the workbench-turned kotatsu. "Some people happen to function better in organized environments.”

“Mhm , all I’m hearing is Suguru and Y/N sitting on a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Satoru sang at an annoyingly gleeful pitch.)

“This,” you reel him back to the present. “You did this?”

Your eyes gleam like twin stars in their sockets. Clear, brilliant, and bright, but most importantly, boring into his.

Good for you, Suguru. Getting your first crush at the age of 28.

Suguru nearly waves his hand over his face to disperse his friend’s voice. It’s not a crush. He doesn’t think it is. Admitting to what is beautiful and reacting to it is a natural human response that has nothing to do with feelings of any kind. This is ephemeral.

“Y-yes.” A dry cough clears the hoarseness in his throat. “Thought it’d make your life easier if you knew where to focus instead of running around like a headless chicken.” He shifts through the pages in your hands. “Naturally, the indicators attached to closer dates are more urgent than the ones pushed further back, though they’re also sorted by color. Green means you can do it at your leisure, while bright pink means—”

“Danger, death, don’t skip?” You smile, and he nods eagerly. A bit too eagerly. Just like a schoolboy who was praised for giving the right answer, even though you were the one who answered correctly.

Maybe kissing on a tree wouldn’t be so bad.

“Thank you for doing this. And for hiring me.” You suddenly grow timid, bottom lip trapped in a shy smile as you extend your hand to him. “Working for this company is a great opportunity on its own, but working under—with ,” you correct yourself, “someone who values their juniors and goes the extra mile for them is like hitting the lottery.” A chuckle slips. “Apologies, the different colored sticky notes got to me.”

Soft. So damn soft. Your hand is so fucking soft, enveloping his own, that he curses himself for not coming up with the idea of a handshake when he first welcomed you at the lobby. It is a problem because he doesn’t want to let go, and when he does, he does so begrudgingly, his rougher finger pads dragging over your smooth skin and lingering above your polished fingernails with such delicacy as if they were freshly bloomed rosebuds.

“There are more in the drawer.” He nods toward the first drawer, a smirk coming as an afterthought. “Paper clips too.”

“Don’t tell me there’s a stapler in there too!” You gasp dramatically.

“Guess you’re gonna have to see for yourself.” His head droops to the side, and he smiles.

Your head droops to the side, and you smile back. You. Smile. Back.

The notion settles in his heart before registering in his brain, nestling where nothing can pry it off and inking itself as an indelible memory that’s bound to haunt him throughout the review of the Tengen shares redistribution, on which he better get started.

“Well, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

He manages about three steps away when your voice has him stopping in his tracks.

“Mr. Geto, you shouldn’t have!”

There are quite a few things he shouldn’t have done. For starters, waking up two hours ahead of his alarm, mixing the salt with the sugar in his morning tea (though something tells him that was the work of someone else), wearing his watch on the wrong wrist, and letting himself be smitten with his brand new assistant, whom he’s barely known for half a day. But you don’t know about any of those things. At least he hopes you don’t.

So, which one is it?

He turns around slowly, jaw almost dropping at the flower field spanning between your arms, roses redder than the blood boiling in his veins and peonies pinker than the tinge rising high on your cheeks—an arrangement bound with ivory wrapping paper.

“How do you like your welcoming gift?” The harbinger of disaster, conveniently known as his best friend, boss, and apparent competitor, makes his entrance.

“You are—”

“Gojo Satoru—local entrepreneur of the year, number one in Forbes’ 30 under 30, featured on the cover of Times magazine, most eligible bachelor in the world after his highness, the Archduke of Austria, and ringleader of this establishment—in the flesh!” He introduces himself like a certain character from Game of Thrones would, taking an excessively dramatic bow and rushing to your side with a wolfish smile that sharpens his otherwise gentle features.

“And you must be Y/N, right?” Without hesitation, Satoru hops into first name basis, cerulean eyes casting an indiscreet look over his sunglasses as he bends forward, hands kept on his knees. “My, you are even more beautiful in person! The picture did you no justice at all!”

And just like that, every single word that’d steadily been brewing in Suguru’s mind is taken away from him, Satoru praising you with the same ease and unparalleled confidence he bought the extravagant bouquet in your embrace, one that befits a lifelong lover more than a newly acquainted colleague.

“Mr. Gojo, I—I don’t know what to say.” Your eyes remain glued to the flowers, tense shoulders slightly squirming.

“Hmm, how about you start with dropping the honorifics? I hate having barriers between me and my employees.” He didn’t seem to hate barriers when he made Ijichi address him as Grand Emperor Gojo for a month straight as punishment. “We are all the same age here. Call me Gojo unless,” he smirks playfully, tilting his head to where you can no longer escape him, “you feel bold enough to call me Satoru.”

“Satoru.” The monotone intonation of his name carries a warning the white-haired man heeds, sparing you in favor of using his friend’s shoulder as an armrest.

“Suguru! Are you done with showing our”—our?—“lovely new assistant around?”

“What’s with the flowers?”

“The flowers?” Satoru chuckles boisterously. “What are you talking about? That’s how I welcome every new member of our team!”

“I don’t remember receiving any flowers when I signed my contract.” A mumble is met with a light elbow to his neck.

“You get paid enough to afford your own.” Satoru huffs, switching back to his amicable persona in the blink of an eye—your watchful eye that’s been studying them without daring to interfere. Another chuckle, accompanied by a poke to Suguru's cheek. “Tulips or dahlias? Name it, and I’ll turn your office into a greenhouse.”

“Please, don’t.”

“Are the two of you close?” Your voice forces the two men to break from each other, a furtive glance shared among them.

“Suuuuper close!” Satoru squeezes his friend’s shoulders into another unwanted embrace. “Been best friends since—third grade, was it? Hah, remember the time you called principal Yaga mom during morning assembly, and he started growing out his beard ‘cause he thought he wasn’t manly enough? Hilarious.”

Anger seethes in Suguru’s guts like a shaken can of soda about to combust, fizzling out before it can reach its boiling point. “Satoru.” He grits his teeth. “Weren’t you supposed to be at the shareholder meeting?”

“The shareholder—” He repeats, almost surprised, laughing awkwardly to himself. “Oh, turns out I wasn’t needed much. Left Ijichi in charge; he should be fine. Probably .”

A caricature of Ijichi suffering a mental breakdown while trying to placate those senile, cymbal-hitting monkeys plays in both their heads, barring yours.

“Ijichi is President Gojo’s personal assistant.” Suguru explains, pinching Satoru’s sleeve away from his body—except he doesn’t budge. “He’s been working under Satoru for the past four months as his secretary, reporting directly to his father since his only son wasn’t so good at budget handling and had his allowance cut. Isn’t that right, Satoru?”

“Let’s not talk about such tedious subjects in front of Y/N.” The man pulls away at once, running a hand through messy strands of white.

“I actually don’t mind—”

“Measuring up to all your quirks and abiding by your crazy filing system should bore her enough on its own.” He cuts you off, speaking behind his palm as if his words are meant solely for you. “Has Suguru shown you his little planner? Took him two all-nighters to put it together, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

He rests assured in his victory, not counting on you being the one who knocks him down a peg.

“Mhm, he already did, and I already thanked him. I’m a firm believer that a clear desk means a clear mind, and a clear mind means efficiency.” The flowers are at last unloaded upon your desk, their lengthy stems covering about two-thirds of the furniture. “Cluttering your workspace with a bunch of unnecessary items will only stagger your progress and make you fall behind. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Gojo?”

It’s rare to catch Satoru at a loss for words, yet there he stands, completely still and utterly speechless at your mercy, his expression akin to that of a wrongfully sprayed kitten.

The two of you turn to Suguru, seeking some sort of recognition that would settle the score. Any other person in his shoes would side with the authority in the room, but your referee decides to sit this one out.

He knows what Satoru is thinking. Substance is dull without style, and tri-colored dango tastes best in spring. He never had to choose one over the other, but giving you a piece of his mind would make him look indecisive—or worse, shallow—and he doesn’t want that. He wants to look good in front of you, or else he wouldn’t have worn his most expensive suit and bailed out of the most important meeting of the month.

He dug his own grave, and unexpectedly, the helping hand that pulls him out belongs to the one who first cast dirt upon his casket.

“Thank you for the flowers, Mr. Gojo. They might not have a place on my desk, but they’ll sure make a lovely centerpiece for my table at home. Peonies, right?” Your smile is effortlessly disarming. “I don’t know much about flowers, but I hear they symbolize good fortune.”

“They do?” Satoru asks, slapping the stupefied expression off his face. “I mean, yeah! Of course they do!” He bounces back, soft dimples obliterating a deep-carved frown. “I hope your time here brings you lots of good fortune. I know the place already seems more fortunate with you around.”

You chuckle warmly, locking eyes with an impressed Suguru. No one’s ever made Satoru both lose face and helped him save some over the span of a single five-minute conversation. No one but Suguru himself.

He made the right choice by hiring you.

“The rumors about the future head of the company were true. You really are everything they make you out to be.”

“Huh? What rumors? What do they say about me?” Satoru chases you to your desk, an imaginary tail wagging behind him as he watches you pick up your notebook and flip to a blank page.

“How do you drink your coffee?” A tap of your pen. “I know it’s not much, but...I’d like to repay your kindness.”

Oh no. Here we go again.

“I’m pretty easy. I drink my espresso with six sugar cubes, my cappuccino with nine pumps of caramel syrup, sweet condensed milk, whipped cream, and caramel drizzle on top—and, of course, the six sugar cubes. In the summer— oh crap, I almost forgot, I also like mocha, both white and regular, again same toppings—I usually go for iced lattes with—”

Two minutes into taking his order, and about twenty seconds after your pen stops moving, you glance at Suguru for help. The man simply shrugs, amusement hinted in his cat-like eyes.

There is a good reason why the kitchen’s loaded on instant coffee, and that’s because it’s the only thing that can quench Satoru’s sweet tooth on the spot. You’re going to have to figure that out on your own, just like every other unfortunate soul in this company did when they stupidly offered to treat him.

“That reminds me!” A finger snap concludes his monologue. “Suguru, you know what day it is?”

“Tuesday?”

“You mean one-plus-one Tuesday. Ah, you have no idea how much I've been looking forward to my weekly croquette sandwich; wouldn’t have gotten out of bed if it wasn't for it. Erm , and you ,” he says, again running his fingers through his hair as he bestows you with another laid-back smile. “The two highlights of my week.”

Suguru sighs, convincing himself it’s the prospect of leaving so much work behind that doesn’t excite him and not the sight of Satoru’s affections being subtly reciprocated.

“So, you coming?” Satoru asks.

“I’m gonna have to pass.”

“What?” He gapes, hand clutching his chest like a child who just found out they’re adopted. “Why?”

“Because we are meeting with Tengen’s representatives at the end of the week and they’ll withdraw their investment unless we have a clear model for their merger.” Suguru reminds him. “Besides, Satoru, you don’t need me to buy lunch when you can literally buy out the place with one of your cards.”

Fixing his glasses higher over his nose, Satoru opens his mouth to complain, deciding against it at the last minute. He shoots a haughty look in Suguru's general direction. “Well, if you’re really that busy, then—ah, guess it can’t be helped. Least you can do is be responsible and send a replacement. And who could that replacement be—hmm, if only there was an available candidate.”

He scopes the place with a palm horizontal to his eyes, stopping once he supposedly detects your presence. “What do you say, new girl? Perhaps this could be our chance to get to know each other. I bet there’s so much you’re dying to ask me.” He says with a stare far too playful to be deemed salacious.

Round glasses come off as Satoru leans against your desk and plays up his charms. You are drawn to the blue spirals in his eyes, mesmerized by their sublime beauty, and in a way, it’s nature’s will for the stars to seek the skies, but Suguru can’t stand for it. Not when such bitterness floods his palate, spreading into his bloodstream like poison that prompts his body to move against every volition that isn’t his own.

“Let’s go.” He rasps in a nearly menacing tone, claw-like fingers closing around Satoru’s shoulder. “Your treat.”

"She is scary!" Breadcrumbs fall from Satoru's mouth as he takes another bite out of his lunch, tonkatsu sauce overlining his cupid's bow. "Terrifying even."

"I thought you said she was hot." Suguru states wryly, still in the process of peeling the fifteen layers of wrapping paper that encompass his sandwich, when he pauses to offer Satoru a couple of napkins.

He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like thank you, and wipes his lips clean, only to dirty them with another sloppy bite.

"She is," he agrees after gulping down, snowy eyelashes fluttering shut to a moan that has people from different tables turning heads to theirs. "Both scary and hot. Scarily hot. Mmm, so damn good~"

Another obscene sound vibrates in his throat, and this time, Suguru fails to hide his disgust, staring at his friend like a disappointed mother at a parent-teacher conference.

"What?" Satoru asks, the blue in his eyes expanding as he touches his cheek. "Is there something on my face?"

"Satoru." Suguru shakes his head, speaking in a quiet voice all the while pleading with him to stop acting grossly in public.

It's safe to say his request isn't received well, although it takes just one mention of your name for Satoru to let go of his grudge and perk up again.

"Did you see how mean she was to me?" The giddiness in his tone fails to match his words. "Ready to walk all over me with those heels. Bet she would have if you weren't there."

"And? Giving up already?" Suguru teases.

"Who said I am?" Satoru chugs his coke. "Just hafta try harder."

Any joy Suguru might have felt at his friend's misery ends up parching in his throat, squinted eyes casting an inexcusably hard glare on the sandwich he grips with malice.

"God, did ya see her smile? Bet her lips taste like heaven."

"And what does heaven taste like?"

"Probably as good as this," Satoru says, nodding to his half-finished meal, "but sweeter. Infinite times sweeter. I'll let you know once I find out for myself."

Every word that comes out of Satoru's mouth causes Suguru's fingers to clutch tighter and tighter until the croquettes explode out of his sandwich, splattering the table and his hand with bits of potato and sauce.

"Ah. Sorry, I wasn't—" Suguru drops the remains on his plate, cleaning his fingers one by one. He isn't even sure what he's apologizing for.

"Want me to get you another?" Satoru offers. "I could go for seconds."

"It's fine. Not hungry anymore."

Gardenia or tuberose?

The same question repeats in Suguru's brain, begging to distract him from the slew of paperwork he's been asked to sign, but not from the actual distraction that is bent over his desk, making him question not just his sanity but also his self-control.

Tuberose.

He doesn't think much of either is left when he breathes in the perfume dabbed around your shirt's open collar, alluring to the point where he catches himself chasing after your neck like a hound dog—heavy breath hitching in his chest.

Gardenia.

He doubts he has any left when his amber eyes peer into your cleavage, tracing the contour between your supple breasts down to the first popped button of your shirt—large palms aching to seize them.

Tuberose.

He realizes he is not half the decent man he was about a month ago when his cock twitches at the sight of your pencil skirt riding higher on your thighs, the black seams of your sheered stockings promising a fast track to your tight little cunt—and how he’d love to gain access to that.

Gardenia or tuberose; who cares?

Figuring out the notes in your perfume is about the last thing Suguru cares about when every inch of his body urges him to blow your back against the lavish mahogany, signing the rest of these documents in a mix of your spit and tears. But it's what helps keep those intrusive thoughts from spilling out.

"One more signature here." Ignorant about his dark impulses, you shuffle through the papers and point at another blank place of signature he needs to fill. "It's a referral agreement for Miss Mei's services. She said the terms were verbally agreed upon, but feel free to go over them again and suggest any adjustments."

"That won't be necessary." With a few quick flicks of his pen, Suguru jots down his name. "Thank you for your hard work."

He struggles to meet your eyes without first halting at your tits as you collect the documents and hug them (regrettably) close to your chest, pulling away from his desk to stand before him.

"Thank you for your hard work, Mr. Geto!" A sweet smile is plastered on your face, and he can't help but wonder whether you'd continue smiling at him if you ever caught a whiff of the filth festering in his brain.

He doesn't like what his feelings have matured into. He's not proud that every time your eyes cross, he muses over what they'd look like rolling to the back of your skull or how sometimes he'll lock his office door and beat his cock to the thought of your pretty nails digging in his thighs while he bullies his length into the heat of your throat.

He hates that those aren't even his own thoughts but were rather instilled in him by Satoru, who couldn't be more vocal and descriptive of his own fantasies if he wanted to. He's the same way about his advances, and it drives Suguru insane to see his friend making such quick headway because he remains Mr. Geto while he gets to be Satoru.

It's all because of that damn merger...

The first time Suguru heard you address Satoru by his first name came right after a business meal he was forced to sit out of. Someone had to deal with the last-minute amendment Tengen requested to their already-filed and approved work plan, while another entertained their prospective investors. Seeing as Satoru was the face of the company, he couldn't possibly miss such an important meeting, and so they divided responsibilities.

Suguru stayed back to deal with the crisis, but not without sending you on his behalf—all pretty and dolled-up in your navy halter dress and black pumps, shining like the evening star by Satoru's side, only to come back completely drained of light with the worst shoe bite known to man.

Ever the observant gentleman, Suguru ran to the nearest drugstore, returning to the office with his heart in his mouth and a bag full of supplies that dropped from his hands the moment he saw his best friend kneel before your feet, tying the shoelaces of a newly bought pair of sneakers.

Thank you, Satoru.

The same scene repeated itself many a time, his lesser romantic gestures outdone by a price tag he couldn't match and words he couldn't brace himself to say just yet.

A fluff of white hair orbited around your desk at a constant, like a bumblebee who'd discovered an inexhaustible source of nectar, and you grew close enough not to swat it—him—away. You'd answer his jokes with mirthful chuckles, and he'd answer your “Here's your stomach ache of a cappuccino, Satoru” with platinum-coated Mont Blanc pens and luxury Moleskine agendas. Plural.

Light touches, flirty smiles, and heart-eyes in both your voices, whose volume bypassed his closed door as an irritating buzz that had Suguru wondering whether there had been a change of offices.

The breaking point came two nights ago, when, in the spur of jealousy, he heaped you with enough work to keep your desk lamp burning all night long. He regretted it as soon as he got into his car, and then he stepped on the pedal, driving to that one Chinese place he and Satoru frequented while they were still students—driving again like a maniac to ensure the food reached you hot.

But great minds think alike.

By the time Suguru made it back into the office, a proper candle-lit dinner was held over the scattered papers on your desk that then doubled as coasters. A second chair was drawn near yours, two silhouettes huddled together. Shoulders nudging, chopsticks lifted—and he refused to stick around long enough to watch his best friend feed dumplings directly into your mouth, along with whatever was bound to follow.

Which pulls him back to the current reality of his foggy windows and the cold tea on his desk, with present-you staring at him, oblivious to his dilemma.

He knows he has no right to feel this way. You aren't his property, and contrary to what the media wants the world to believe, Satoru isn't some heartless womanizer who changes girls the same way people change socks. In fact, Suguru can't remember the last time he saw Satoru this invested in a person. You hitting it off is a good thing. He should be happy.

He should be.

He really should.

But he isn't.

He really isn't.

And he doubts he'll ever be, because in his whole life, he's never envied anything that Satoru has. Not his money, not his status, not his prestige—not anything. You're the first thing he's ever envied—the first he's ever wanted. Because you are his assistant, and within the wretched spiral of his desires, that should amount to something.

You should be his.

"So.” Suguru takes a sip of his tea, trying his hardest not to cringe at its unpleasant, lukewarm taste. "Any special plans for the holidays?"

You shake your head slowly and then with more confidence again.

"That's good." He blurts out, masking his relief with a low chuckle. "I mean—"

“I get it.” You chuckle back. “Not a big fan of the holidays, are you?”

“Not a hater either. Satoru,” he mentally curses himself for bringing him up now, “is the one who gets all excited about Christmas. Gives him the perfect opportunity to put on a show without being chastised by President Gojo. Hard to argue back when he brings up the morale of the team."

“Well, everyone seems to be excited for the party." You add. "Especially the interns; heard them gushing about it with Assistant Manager Haibara."

"I don't suppose Intern Fushiguro was with them, was he?" Suguru smirks as you confirm his suspicions. The boy might be Satoru's protegee, yet the two are like night and day when it comes to means of entertainment.

"It's Intern Kugisaki and Intern Itadori's first Christmas at our company, and the press always finds a way to glorify anything related to the Gojos." Suguru continues. "The annual Christmas party isn't an exception. Outsiders need a special invitation, and only a select few make the cut."

"We should consider ourselves lucky, then." You point out.

"Mhm," he hums. "Come think of it, it's your first Christmas with us too. Are you excited?" A teasing lilt colors his voice.

"Definitely am!" You humor him. "Especially after hearing about the ugly sweater contest."

"Fan of the sport or the prize?"

"Both. But five days at a deluxe resort in Okinawa do sound enticing."

"I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you." Suguru folds his arms over his chest and tilts back against his chair. A condescending look spreads over his features.

You mirror his stance, sticking your right heel out. "And why is that? Are you competing perhaps?"

He snorts as if the notion alone is plain ridiculous. "I'm not, but Nanami is."

"Nanami? Manager Nanami?" You blink in disbelief, trying and mostly failing to contain your laughter. Not like he can fault you. A man as practical and square-minded as Nanami sporting sweaters that feature 3D reindeer heads is a sight one must see in order to believe.

"He's oddly passionate about this." Suguru explains. "He's won every contest for the past four years, just to enjoy a little time off."

"I should give it my best then."

"I'll be cheering for you." He promises with a wink, picking up on the faint blush that dusts your cheeks. A small victory.

You bite your lip and cast a gaze to the floor before lifting your head in search of the clock on his wall. He sighs internally.

"So." You return to the beginning of your discussion.

"So." He repeats with a softer tone.

"I guess I'll be seeing you at the party?"

"Guess you will." He nods, gesturing toward the door. "You may go. I need to finish these first.

You nod back and hold onto the door knob, turning around one last time to bow at him. "There's an extra umbrella on my desk. Feel free to take it."

Before Suguru can even consider his answer, you turn into smoke, leaving him with a hopeful smile he scolds himself for. A thoughtful gesture can't possibly undo all the sorrow and anguish he experienced over the course of a mere month.

And yet he still finds himself skipping to your desk, grinning now at the little piece of paper that dangles from the umbrella's handle. It's not a spare, that's for sure.

As lightning cracks the gloomy skies above, Suguru faces toward the window, tracking the thunder's tail down to gray cement, where colorful umbrellas dance around like anemones. Yours twirls like the most beautiful flower of all, vivid petals drawing into themselves as you're ushered into a white SUV by a hand belonging to a man he knows all too well—driven away while Suguru stands there watching, feeling as if cold rain pours over him instead.

He sets down the umbrella and returns to his office.

After the fifth replay of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" blasts over the speakers, Suguru begins to reconsider the answer he gave you less than 24 hours ago.

He hates Christmas—the buzz, the fuss. The forced happiness and the self-inflicted festive glee. The repetitive songs and the continuous camera flash. The stuffy atmosphere and the nausea-inducing blinking lights. How every snack gets labeled with an ambiguous "Christmas flavor," as if a holiday can have a taste in the first place; he hates all that.

But most of all, he hates not being the one to stand beside you under that damn mistletoe—a spectator among spectators and an outcast even among them.

Champagne trembles in his hand as he watches the crowd gather around you and Satoru, smothering you with cheers that sound a beat above the music, excessive clapping synchronized for the sake of a four-letter word chanted like a prayer. Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!

You don't give in to their demands. Not immediately, at least. There is some awkward fumbling, a hand weaving through semi-combed strands of white, and the pointy end of a heel dragging incomplete circles. You shake your heads in unison, giggling, making a very weak effort to get yourselves out of this predicament, though the people know exactly what they want. Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!

It's quick and painless. Chaste, as Satoru leans forward and pecks your cheek, grinning a shit-eating grin from one ear to the other when he pulls away and waves off the jeers. Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Louder this time. His lips move soundlessly, wordless speech bubbles emerging in faux protest as if he isn't dying to kiss you, as if you aren't dying to be kissed by the most important man in the room, as if this poorly executed play isn't staged.

Suguru finds himself wishing you'd get it over with, yet he can't bring himself to turn away. Much like everyone else, his gaze is fixed on you, enchanted by you since day one, and imprisoned in a dismal spell that continues to wring his heart for all its worth, threatening to leave him shattered.

You take initiative this once. Stepping in front of Satoru, your fingers seek the hem of his cream-colored cashmere sweater. You pull him to you, reeling and reeling and reeling, and—

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Geto!" A pair of impressionable eyes widen before him, stretched arms springing from the man's body as he jumps before Suguru like a jack-in-the-box.

"Haibara." He acknowledges with a sigh, uncertain of whether he should be thanking him or scolding him for blocking his view.

By the time his junior pulls aside, the spectacle is already over. Everyone has returned to their previous positions, resuming their conversations away from you and Satoru, who are left gleaming like Christmas ornaments, tinged red from head to toe.

"Mm, these taste so good! Mr. Geto, you need to try one," Haibara says, lifting a platter of canapés from the buffet behind them.

Suguru forces himself to smile as he throws a salmon spread into his mouth. He swallows without understanding any flavor, washing the crumbs away with some more champagne, the buzz of alcohol promising to dull out his affliction.

"Are you enjoying the party?"

"Very much so!" Haibara answers full of excitement. "So many new faces have gathered since last year; I'm so glad to be a part of this. Nanami even let me help with his sweater design!"

"Is that so?" Suguru chuckles wryly, scanning through the guests for the blond.

He spots Nanami loitering by where your desk is normally stationed (the majority of furniture relocated for the sake of opening up the space), and while he cannot see the front of his burgundy sweater, he can easily make out the antler headband sitting on both his and Itadori's heads, the two men seeming to have joined forces.

The discussion between Haibara and Suguru soon turns stale, with the former gushing about the inner happenings of the sales department and the latter absently nodding in approval, his attention monopolized by the exchange between you and Satoru.

Even when the occasional guest butts in, you remain inseparably bound to each other through your clothes (both of you dressed to the nines despite your intent to partake in the contest), your gestures, and the hands that gain familiarity over time. His slips around your lower back as he whispers in your ear; yours throws a playful punch at his shoulder, while you giggle at whatever he just said.

Probably some crappy Christmas pick-up line, Suguru decides. Something like, Wanna pop by my apartment later? No need for any mistletoe when we're both under my sheets, followed by a Satoru! Not here; people are watching .

"Mr. Gojo and Ms. Y/N sure look friendly." Haibara's observation comes as the final nail in the coffin.

Suguru murmurs in a low tone. "Think she's interested in him?"

"Hard to find a person who isn't interested in Mr. Gojo." Haibara earnestly replies.

“Right…”

"But the same goes for you too, Mr. Geto." Haibara's voice prompts Suguru to face him. A soft smile plays on the younger man's lips, his cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink. "I've been looking up to you since I first started working here. All of us do, even Nanami."

"You do?" Suguru draws confidence from his junior's timidity, enough to bestow him with a lopsided smile. "Why is that?"

"Because you are a hard worker!" Haibara declares. "Mr. Gojo is brilliant, but he was born into it. For us to reach him, that's impossible. You, on the other hand—you built yourself from the ground up. You are not only meticulous and good at your job, but you are also immeasurably kind! Both before and after your promotion, you've cared for us juniors and made the company a hospitable place for everyone. You are the goal we aspire to reach; you are our role model."

Working with someone who values their juniors and goes the extra mile for them is like hitting the lottery.

A role model, huh...

Your words mix with Haibara's, swirling round and round at the languid pace of alcohol in his brain, inebriating enough for him to not reject them like he otherwise would. He knows what needs to be said. I'm the one who's grateful. I wouldn't have gotten this far if it weren't for such capable juniors. Satoru is the one you should be thanking instead.

Satoru, Satoru, Satoru .

It's all him; it's always him. Everyone and everything in this room is here because of him, yet for the second time, Suguru is thanked for his efforts. For the nights he spent reviewing reports, fixing typos, and making overseas phone calls. For buttering clients up and spending every waking minute of his life networking. For talking people through their breakdowns and promising them their work makes a difference; that they matter.

It's almost enough to make up for all the unconditional praise his best friend received since birth, though Suguru refuses to let that be his consolation prize. Not when the perfect winning prize lies right ahead of him and waltzes into his office. Alone .

A glassy sound is produced as Suguru drops off his champagne and smiles at his colleague from over his shoulder.

"Merry Christmas, Haibara."

The door creaks softly behind Suguru as he enters his cloakroom-turned office, the faint click of a lock muffled out by the fading party music, its people fading with until it’s just you and him, away from distractions and interruptions, but more importantly, away from Satoru.

You haven’t noticed him yet. Your back’s turned on him, the golden threads of your sweater twinkling in the dark while you rummage through the coat racks, feeling out every texture with your fingertips. Wool, nylon, leather, and finally, cotton. The dark-colored jacket is slung over your arm, with your other hand digging into each pocket for… something .

Something that falls to the wayside once you become aware of the man’s presence and let out a tiny shriek.

“Mr. Geto!” There you go with that damn honorific again. “What are you doing here?"

"Am I not allowed into my own office?" Suguru sneers as he paces farther inside, his palms clasped behind his back.

"Y-you just scared me, is all."

He settles against his desk to study your startled features. You look even more beautiful when there's no one to steal your shine—a modern-day princess Kaguya, beckoned by the moonlight to return to its cratered land, although he’s made up his mind. Unlike the emperor in the story, he won’t let you escape him.

"Wasn't my intention." Drowning out his adoration, he cocks his head to the side and nods at your jacket. “Leaving already?”

“No, uh.” You fidget awkwardly, shoving whatever it is that your fingers caught back in your pocket. “Satoru asked—”

“Satoru, huh?” His tongue clicks in distaste. "You do anything Satoru asks?"

“What?” You question your own hearing, though he knows you heard him just fine. He sees it trembling in your eyes—feels it fanning against his jaw as he pulls away from his desk and stands before you, looking down on you in more than one way.

"I said, you'd do anything as long as Satoru is the one asking?"

"I...I'm not sure I understand."

"You don't?" His tone is syrupy, yet not sweet—a smile too condescending to be compassionate. "Allow me to rephrase, then. If Satoru asked you to spread your legs for him, would you?"

"Mr. Geto, I think you had too much to drink.” You chuckle nervously, gesturing toward his shoulder while simultaneously avoiding his stare. “Should I call you a cab? I don’t think you’re in a condition to drive.”

“No.” Suguru snaps, swatting your hand away. “No, you don’t get to play good assistant now. I asked you a question. Answer.” 

He doesn't miss the hesitant bow of your head, which only confirms his suspicions. You want his best friend, and for once, he doesn't care that you do. It doesn't upset him. If anything, it offers him greater incentive to keep going without regard for your feelings or his own.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?" The last vestige of bitterness follows him to the coffee table, where he grabs a seat by one of the two chairs, wood screeching like nails across a blackboard. Mounting one leg atop the other, "Can't say I blame you. President Gojo is growing too old to be running things, and Satoru already handles the majority of his affairs. Won't be long until he assumes office, and when he does, whoever is on his side will benefit the most."

Your silence encourages Suguru to continue. "But as things currently stand, you aren't all that important to him, are you? And if you were to suddenly lose your position, his interest in you would probably diminish."

"What do you want?" Your voice is meek when you speak—a pitiful sound begging to tug at his heartstrings.

Except he has no pity left.

Suguru leans forward and spreads his thighs over the cushion. His elbows prop against them, with his intertwined fingers providing a seat for his clenched jaw—dark eyes ever drilling holes into your fragile skull.

“It’s not about what I want, but about what you want. You said that working at this company is a great opportunity, and you’re right. It really is. I’d hate for you to lose it over a simple matter of allegiance.”

“Allegiance?” You echo.

He nods. “Don’t you think an assistant should be loyal to the one who hired her? You get paid to do what I say, not whore yourself to Satoru. If I tell you to jump, you should jump, and if I tell you to drop on your knees and stick your tongue out, that’s exactly what you must do. Getting the picture now?”

“Is that…so?” A hum answers your question. “Very well.”

Amber irises harden below knitted eyebrows, their transparent warmth giving way to opaque desire as he watches you approach with steady strides, his cock stiffening in his pants from the sharp intonation of your heels alone. 

Something has shifted within you, though he can’t pinpoint exactly what. It’s like he sees you for the first time, confidence emanating from your very being as you drop off your jacket and gracefully sink on the floor before him, pleated skirt pooling around your bent knees—cherry lips licked together as your hands trail up his slacks and undo his belt, zipper next.

Is this really happening? Was it really that easy?

“Could you lift your hips, please?” You ask demurely, in the same considerate way you’d offer to refill his cup every morning. 

A moment passes before Suguru obliges, part of him failing to separate fantasy from reality. He’s dreamed about this so many times that if it weren't for the soft palms rubbing up and down against his thighs, he’d be pinching himself awake. But you are definitely real, and you’re definitely there, and despite his conscience screaming that this is all wrong, he doesn’t let a future regret hold him back.

Shimmying out of both underwear and pants, Suguru’s cock springs free, already hard and twitching in anticipation, its slight curve pointing at your agape mouth. Your warm breath sends tingles up his spine as you inch closer, your lips rounding and then puckering hard around the fat tip. It's almost enough for him to lose composure, kissing his teeth when he feels your tongue drag a teasing circle on the underside of his shaft, wet and hot and far more skilled than he's ever imagined.

You let go before any praise evades Suguru, studying his lustful expression with a complacent smile that ends up rubbing him the wrong way. How many smiles have you offered Satoru while looking up at him like that? How many times have you practiced your technique on him to hone it to perfection? How many laughs have the two of you shared at Suguru's expense, knowing he's hopelessly wrapped around your dainty little finger?

Quick to wipe the hubris from your face, he takes hold of his cock and delivers a derogatory smack across your cheek.

"Test my patience one more time, and you'll be crawling out of here." His voice retains its smoothness even as he rubs the leaky slit against your lips, smearing a thin coat of glossy precum before he pushes his way back inside. "Better give me a good reason why I should keep an ungrateful slut like you around."

Suguru takes his time to explore your mouth, mapping out the wet cavern in its entirety. Your teeth are tucked behind your lips, their gentle firmness complementing the expert strokes laid by your tongue. Your cheeks hollow to accommodate him, air sucked and drool wetting his throbbing cock, some of it trickling to your chin. It's an extremely tight fit that grows tighter with every inch he stuffs you with, hitting the back of your throat long before he's wholly sheathed.

"Fuck." His head tips back in pure bliss. “Fuck, you feel amazing.”

Doe eyes flick up, their lecherous innocence holding him captive. He thought he'd forsaken all affection held for you, yet his heart begs to differ, lurching at the sight of your bare knees bruising against the polished marble.

He's tempted to call it quits and pull you to his lap, praying that the sweet words piling in his brain seep into your ears like poetry and register as an apology. That, somehow, you forgive the selfish arms cradling you and excuse the greedy lips drinking from your mouth as if it were a chalice; that you allow a heathen like him to express his reverence with deep thrusts and profound pleasure that will make you worship him as much as he longs to worship you, names tangling in a breathless mantra.

He's about to do just that when suddenly he's reminded of how moments ago you were locking lips with his best friend in front of a live audience, and the resentment within him swells anew, expanding like a black hole set on devouring him. He shouldn't hope for more, because you won't be coming back for more. After tonight ends, you'll go running back to Satoru, and he'll be lucky if his attorney's license doesn’t get revoked. 

So much for being a role model.

Might as well enjoy himself while it lasts.

Brushing the sticky strands of hair away from your face, Suguru pulls them into a makeshift ponytail that he uses as leverage to drive himself in deeper, letting out a stuttered groan once he bottoms out. Tears well in your eyes as he holds you completely still, heavy lashes blinking rapidly to filter them out. 

"Lookin' so pretty with my cock in your mouth."  Suguru rasps in a candied tone, his thumb rubbing against the apple of your cheek with tenderness before he forces your head to bob back and forth on his length. "Wonder what Satoru would say if he saw you like this. Perhaps we should call him in, mm ? Have him see what good that little mouth is when it's all plugged and can't talk back. Maybe he'll want to take turns using it. Maybe you’ll walk outta here with a bonus. My capable—ngh—assistant promoted to office slut." 

There’s no way for you to respond. Even if he pulls back this instant, the wit he fell in love with will still be gone. Right now, you’re nothing more than a hole for him to take out his frustrations—no better than an average whore choking on dick.

The party music continues to blare strong in the background, your soft gagging barely enough to mute the rounds of applause that still reverberate in his gauged ears—so he fucks your face faster and harder, his hips slamming forward in tandem with the mean fingers gripping your skull, each thrust producing a sound more sinful than the one before.

He’s hellbent on erasing that kiss from his memory, keen on replacing his friend’s taste with that of his cum, and he’d be damned if he didn’t feel amazing in the process, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against your jaw purely addictive.

And when he catches you rubbing your thighs together, he almost busts on the spot.

“You—hah—you really don’t care who it is, do you? Whether it’s me or him,” Suguru stammers, his tone whinier than he’d hoped. “As long as there’s cock in your mouth, you’re satisfied, aren’t you? Be honest; you aren’t even doing it for the job. You just get off on being used.”

He’s slowed down enough for the pleasurable vibrations on his cock to be felt, your eyes screwed shut with a hand lost between layers of skirt, searching for some sort of relief—relief he decides you don’t deserve.

“Ah-ah-ah! Who said you could cum, hm ?” Suguru chastises you by yanking you off his cock, a string of saliva chasing after your jaw as you stumble backward. “Told you to give me a reason not to fire you, and you did what exactly?” He tilts his head curiously. “That’s what I thought. Absolutely nothing. Not even worth the trouble.” 

“W-wait!”

Before he has the chance to leave you high and dry on the floor, you scramble across your garments and tug at his pants in a pathetic attempt to get him to sit back down. He indulges. Not like he was serious about leaving anyway.

Your palm wraps around the base of his cock as you lean closer, licking a sloppy stripe from the base to his tip, and then all the way down again, sucking one of his balls into your mouth while simultaneously jerking him off. 

“Fuck, you’re nasty.” Suguru breathes out, grabbing at the arms of his chair—his hips bucking into your palm. “Such a nasty little slut. Must really want this cock, huh? Come on. Show me how much you want this.”

Your eyes shine as though he praised you, and this time, you hold nothing back. You moan like you’re the one who derives pleasure, humming and even mewling as you switch from one ball to the other, your nose nuzzling to his warmth.

You pump him without a break, furiously rotating your palm over his cock head and squeezing right below with a ring shaped by your thumb and forefinger. Only he knows how he manages to hold back, pleasure so dizzying that his head spins, rearranging the furniture in the room.

“Th-that’s enough.” He voices amidst a broken moan, gently prying your wrist away—your mouth unlatching soon after.

Everything falls back into order as Suguru provides you both a much-needed reprieve, which you spend soaking in each other’s expressions. Dark strands of hair have fallen from his bun, clear beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The shadows cast by the blinds conceal his flushed complexion, whereas the contrasting light exposes yours. Your chest heaves with every labored breath you take, mascara smudged beneath your eyes, and lipstick transferred from your lips to his cock, painting the pink tip scarlet red.

You look utterly debauched, but it’s not enough for him to call it a day. He wants more of you on him and more of him on you—more evidence that tonight wasn’t a figment of his imagination, taking place in the men’s room in between insufferable business meetings. Rather than keeping things a secret, he wants the whole world to know what transpired behind the closed doors of his office, and that sparks an idea.

He needs to put more of him in you.

With a small smile playing on his lips, Suguru helps you up, steadying you against his arms until you're able to stand on your own. You thank him with a hoarse voice and wobble on your heels as you're made to follow him to his desk, assuming position without him needing to speak a single command. You bend over the hard surface like you did the previous day and all the days before that, except your skirt's now rolled well over your thighs, and nothing obscures his view of your panties.

“How eager,” Suguru murmurs as he caresses the curve of your bare ass down to your clothed cunt, parting with a sigh when his pointer traces over the drenched fabric and prods it into your slit. “So wet from sucking my dick? Sure you weren’t thinking of someone else?” 

“N-no.”  

“No?” A smirk rings in his tone. “You don’t sound too sure.” 

“Y-yes. I mean, n-no—oh fuck, r-right there!”

Your hips push back against Suguru’s hand, grinding against the long fingers that tug your panties to the side and slip into your wet hole.

He lazily works you open, each thrust concluding with his fingertips curling right into your sweet spot, coaxing soft whimpers to spill from your lips.

He pulls out once he feels you're sufficiently stretched, taking a second to admire the thin essence that dribbles down his digits before he uses it to lather up his cock, fighting back moans of his own whilst fisting himself to the lewd sight of his assistant offering herself to him.

Under different circumstances, he would've taken things slow. Under different circumstances, you’d be threading your fingers through his hair and sitting where you could comfortably watch him disappear between your thighs. You'd call out his name, and he'd lap at your juices until you're unable to hold yourself from cumming all over his face. Only then would he pepper your trembling thighs with kisses and tell you how well you did for him—what a good girl you are; his good girl.

“Doesn’t matter.” Suguru says for himself to hear, and it really doesn’t. Those ideal circumstances he dreams about are a thing of the past.

With a firm hand pressing on your back, he straightens you against the desk and runs his swollen cock head through your folds, voice laden with desire when he whispers, “Let’s see whose name you moan now, mm? ”

His thoughts hush as soon as his girth catches into the tight entrance of your cunt—a sigh gritted through his teeth as he finally sinks in.

He gives you a second to adjust, when in reality, it's him who needs the breather. All the longing and desire, the frustration and despair that'd been pooling in him for the past few weeks, culminate in this one perfect moment where your velvet walls hug his throbbing length, constricting around every inch he feeds inside you.

It's cathartic.

He remains breathing through his nose for a good while, too scared to open his mouth, lest he say something embarrassing enough to want to smack his head with the silver name plate on his desk right after. He's aware of how ridiculous it'd sound if he suddenly blurted out that he loves you, yet the warm feeling coursing through his veins can only be described as such. 

Luckily, his final choice of words ends up being far more sensible.

“S-so fucking tight—”

“For a whore?” You interrupt, your droopy head lifting from over your slumped shoulders to bestow him with yet another winsome smile. God, you’re pretty.

“Never called you a whore.” Suguru's lips crack into a smirk of their own, while his fingers knead the fat of your ass, spreading your cheeks for him to see the point where you connect. A pearly ring has formed at the base of his cock from your fluids combined, his balls snugly squished between your hips. God, this is so hot.  

His gaze shifts away. If he keeps looking, he just might cum without getting to even fuck you properly.

“You didn’t? My bad. Must have been someone else.” 

"Aren't you cheeky?" A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest, escalating into a loud groan as his hips pull back and jerk forward in a thrust that knocks both the wind and smugness out of you, the recoil causing your body to jiggle against the desk. "That fucking audacity of yours is what got you in this place to begin with."

You try to say something that he doesn't care to hear, muting your words with a sharp thwack across your ass. You whimper in response, clenching so hard around him that he repeats the motion on the other cheek for good measure, your pathetic whines going straight to his cock. It's scary how much he enjoys this.

"Talking about other men," Suguru begins his recital of your crimes, his hips rutting in time with the smacks inflicted on your reddening flesh. "Accepting gifts and whatnot, letting yourself be paraded around like a fucking trophy"—the hardest slap yet—"guess that really makes you a whore."

Your body doesn’t know how to react, whether to moan from the pain or cry from the pleasure, with your upper half squirming and your lower half stilled against him, taking everything he gives you without complaint.

He pounds into you like an animal, wrapping strong arms around your waist to bring you closer, his cock barely withdrawing before being slapped back inside, fucking straight into your pulsing core.

“D-don’t worry.” Suguru sounds delirious when he talks, with more and more ebony locks cascading from his disheveled bun down his face and shoulders. “We’re gonna fix that, mm? Gonna be mine from now on. Mine to kiss." His weight is held against your body as he leans forward, large frame dwarfing you as he plants his lips on your nape. “Mine to touch,” his arms squeeze even harder, “and—ngh, all mine to fuck. My. Fucking. Assistant.” He growls, punctuating every word with another thrust.

Suguru feels himself nearing his release, his balls tightening the longer your pussy grips him, until a knock on the door causes the sweat on his body to go cold and forces him to sober up.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” 

With quick reflexes, Suguru slaps a hand on your mouth, concentrating every bit of his willpower on figuring out the best course of action, all the while the knob rattles at Nanami's attempts to break into the room, complementary pangs echoing against the wood.

“I just need my coat; open up!” 

Whatever took over Suguru seems to have vanished into thin air, leaving him to fend for himself. It’s only then that the severity of the situation becomes apparent. Not only did he coerce his assistant to fuck him, but he did so at a company event where reporters from every major news agency have gathered for a chance to dig up dirt on the Gojos. If word gets out, they're all done for. Suguru, Satoru, the company—every person’s livelihood that depends on the Gojo name will go to waste.

He's hit rock bottom, drowning in self-deprecation, when your fingers curl around his hand and drag it away from your mouth, your thumb squeezing the inside of his palm in a motion that compels him to trust you.

"Manager Nanami?” Your voice sounds so worn out that it's barely recognizable, but it's good. It makes your next sentence more believable. "I'm so sorry for the holdup, but I wasn't feeling too well. Could you, um, give me five to ten more minutes? I promise to bring your coat out myself."

For what feels like an eternity, silence reigns both inside and outside the room, the two of you holding your breaths while the man on the other side of the door decides your fate.

“Fine.” Nanami finally speaks. “Please don’t take too long. I have a train to catch."

"Thank you so much!" You sigh in relief, your forehead pressing forward against the furniture.

A few moments pass before Suguru braces himself to talk, feeling too flustered to let relief wash over him just yet. "Why did you do that? Why would you—"

"Because I'm your assistant." Only half of your smile is visible from that angle, yet it somehow appears more genuine than the previous ones. "You said it yourself. An assistant should be loyal to the one who hired her. It's my duty to look after you."

Your words make Suguru come face-to-face with a realization that, for the longest time, he's conveniently ignored. You aren't equals. You never were. No matter how hard he's tried to bridge the gap between you, it's still there, paralleling the one between him and Satoru, except in both cases, the sore loser remains no one but himself.

"Now, let's hurry up." Your ass rubs impatiently against his pelvis, reminding him that his cock is still snuggled in your cunt. "We don't have much time."

Postponing soul-searching for as long as he can, Suguru picks himself up and slips a hand between your thighs, easily spotting the neglected nub that throbs above your abused pussy lips.

His thumb swipes over your clit, testing a combination of short circles and light flicks that have you seesawing back and forth between his hand and hips, soft moans of pleasure playing like music in his ears. He much prefers them to your sobs.

"F-feels so good, ahh."

"Such a good girl. Learned her lesson, hm?" He hums, lusciously massaging your insides with his cock, his pace far more forgiving.

He gets to relish everything this time. From the intimate way you hold onto his free hand while pushing back to meet his thrusts, to the stuttered Mr. Geto's that complement your pretty whimpers. He feels himself burning up, the heat from your core circuiting his own body and permeating the deepest parts of his soul. He's drunk on you, feeling more heady when inhaling your perfume than he did sipping champagne all night long.

"Mr. Geto, I'm gonna—" The rest of your sentence is cut off, sharp nails digging into his flesh while your shoulders tense up.

"Gonna cum, sweetheart?" Suguru asks, adrenaline rushing to his thick cock that insists on kissing your cervix while his fingers continuously assault the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. "Go ahead. My pretty assistant worked hard for it, didn't she? Proved how much she—f-fuck, she deserves her boss' dick. Cum on this dick, baby. Wanna feel you cum all over me."

"Please, Mr. Geto, pleasepleaseplease , right there, ahhh , please fuck me." Your begging has him losing his mind, the dam between his thoughts and his tongue breaking as he goes on to praise your very existence, no filter whatsoever.

"You were worth the wait. Wanted to do this since d-day one," Suguru pants out, shaking his head with a faint smile. "No, even longer than that. Been wanting you since I saw your picture, fuck—" He bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. "Feels like I've been waiting on you forever." 

His confession overlaps with your release, your walls spasming and contracting while the rest of your body goes limp. Suguru knows he won't last much longer, his pace growing sloppier by the minute as the aftershocks of your bliss reel him in, sculpted abs clenching in sync with his heavy balls until his hips come to a complete stutter, ropes upon ropes of his creamy seedy sputtering into your warm cunt.

A string of curses is unleashed as he groans your name, and he's still shuddering when he pulls out, staring wide-eyed at the mess he made. His cum flows out of your hole in a steady stream, trickling down your thighs as if taunting him to plug it back in. He doesn't think he's ever finished this hard in his life, and yet his cock insists on twitching even in the comfort of his palm.

Mesmerized by the sight of your spent pussy squirting out your shared fluids, Suguru makes no real effort to dress himself until his eyes spot the sparse drops that have dribbled from his weeping tip to the carpet below, and panic rings in his head like an alarm.

Frantically, he scans the dimly lit room for some paper—a cloth or a towel; anything that'd help him clean up—only to be struck with disappointment. He keeps none of these items around, and while he's mostly proactive about emergencies, he doubts plowing his assistant qualifies as one.

He's off to find the light switch (not without awkwardly tripping in his pants like a penguin first) when you sneak up behind him, your outfit put back together, with a tissue hanging from your open fingers.

"Whores always clean after themselves." You smile sweetly as Suguru accepts the offering.

The dark-haired man crouches to pick up his pants after wiping his cock clean. A smirk is plastered on his face as he tucks himself back into his underwear and crumples the used paper into a ball that gets tossed in the bin beside him.

"Gonna keep holding that against me?" He asks once he's gone back to looking somewhat presentable.

"Hmm, probably until Monday." Your chuckle placates his heart, only to make it thrum against his chest a second later. "Unless...you don't mind speeding up the process."

Your eyes pierce through him, shining brighter than the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. He almost wishes the room were kept in darkness, for the sole reason that his surprise remains hidden, hope lumping in his throat.

"What are you suggesting?"

You clutch onto your jacket while pacing around the room, halting in front of the stacked bookshelves mounted on one of the four walls. Your head tilts slightly as you explore his collection of hardcovers and attempt to read the cursive characters on one of his certificates, your smile losing its vibrancy as you go back to facing him, your eyes focusing anywhere but his.

"Rather than neither of us doing anything special for the holidays," you finally speak, "how about we do nothing special for the holidays together?" You lick your lips together, cringing at the way your voice cracks over the last syllable. "Say, outside Meiji Memorial Museum around 6 p.m. tomorrow?"

Suguru catches himself holding his breath, nitpicking your words even when they leave no room for ambiguity. "Are you asking me out?"

Your head is held low as you nod. "I figured after what just happened, you might be interested."

The lump in his throat dissolves only to recur immediately after.

"What about Satoru?" He asks in a hushed tone, prepared for disappointment.

"Satoru is," a small smile creeps up, "he's the most amazing person I've ever met, and will probably meet in my entire life. But," you gnaw on your lips, briefly meeting his eyes, "I have a preference for dark-haired workaholics." He nearly disputes the color of his own hair, relying on the reflection in your eyes to confirm his identity.

"Is that how you see me?"

"That's how most people in the office see you. If you were to ask me, I'd add kind to the list. Generous. Warm. Sly," you giggle before whispering the next word, "sexy."

Heat rises to his cheeks as Suguru wordlessly gawks at you. To say he's taken aback is an understatement. Part of him feels so ecstatic that he could grow wings and fly off into the night sky, while another part wants him to fall at your feet and beg for forgiveness.

He's such an idiot. No, more than an idiot, he is an irredeemable bastard who deserves none of your sympathy after what he did, and yet you don't seem to blame him one bit. If anything, you gaze at him with more affection than you've ever shown to either him or Satoru, affection that obliterates any doubt.

It's him. For once, and for all, and against all odds, it's him who gets to stand under the mistletoe beside you.

"If you're gonna reject me, please do it now." You squint in the cutest way imaginable. "I don't want to ruin my make-up."

Suguru smiles, allowing himself to openly fawn over your concerned expression.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that. Might wanna," he says, vaguely gesturing at your face.

Your knuckles turn black after rubbing below your eyes. Horrified, you dig another tissue from your pocket, hurriedly scrubbing wherever you deem necessary. "Better now?"

"I'd still dash straight to the elevator if I were you." Suguru chuckles at the face you make, taking a step forward. He runs his tongue along his lips, his voice reduced to a purr when he speaks. "You're right. Don't think I can wait until Monday to see you again." The proximity between your heads begs to be nullified, and he's made up his mind. He can't afford to lose you. Not as an assistant, and certainly not as a woman. He's shameless like that.

Bringing his palm to your cheek, Suguru pulls you toward him, planting a soft peck on your lips that tastes like finally.

By the time he draws away, you're both smiling—breathless, despite the kiss lasting less than a second. His hand glides from your neck to the curve of your shoulder, caressing tenderly, while yours rises to his forehead, having mustered enough courage to tuck the the loose strands of hair behind his ear.

"I should probably go first." Your announcement prickles his heart like a thorn. Walking into this room, he'd braced himself for losing you, yet now he can't even stomach the idea of spending a minute without you. "Don't want Manager Nanami to lose his train."

Not being left with much of a choice on the matter, Suguru nods, sighing softly as he watches you grab Nanami's coat and loop it around your arm, heading for the door. Your goodbye is postponed as you turn around with a jewelry-sized box in hand, the same item you were caught fumbling with when he entered the room earlier.

"This is from Satoru." You explain. "I don't know why or what's inside, but he said I should be the one who gives it to you."

When Suguru accepts it, you smile again and bow your head. "Merry Christmas, Suguru."

On second thought, he's so happy he could die.

Suguru is tinged red from head to toe as he sends you off with the same wish, undoing the silver ribbon that holds the box together after the door closes behind you. It's too small to contain an explosive mechanism, that's for sure, but he doesn't hear much of any rattling as he shakes its contents. His confusion grows tenfold once he lifts the lid and is greeted by the folded piece of paper within.

Unfolding it, the note reads a single sentence whose meaning registers in waves that crash over him along with the memories of the past month, the truths and the lies debunked with every repetition of those seven pesky little words.

Now you know what heaven tastes like.

A/N: I know what y'all wondering, and yes. Nanami did win the competition. Oh, and Satoru totally didn't plot behind the scenes for Suguru to make the first move. totally.

Hope you enjoyed this, and I'd love to hear your thoughts, since this is my first time writing for Suguru.

Disclaimer: He did nothing wrong and he remains a pookie.

Somehow.

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

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

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

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

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

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem)

“You’re late,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You got a B. 

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

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

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

Academia was truly hell. 

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

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

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

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

“I am, I wanted to—” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will,”

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

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

“You learn fast.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you clearly needed sleep. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

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

What the fuck was that? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you heard him say your name— 

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

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

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

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

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

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

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

You needed to get out of here. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck were you doing? 

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

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

You needed to stop doing that. 

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

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

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

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

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

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

Why had he stopped you? 

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

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

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

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

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

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

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

And it was you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but—” 

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

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

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

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

“But—” 

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

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

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

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

It was that time again. 

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

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

God. Fuck.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

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

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

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

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

Or wouldn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But?” You wait for it. 

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

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

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

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

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

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stares, “What do you—” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I would say it depends,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was for the best. 

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

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

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, indeed. 

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

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

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。what’s mine is yours

synopsis. suguru is a good best friend—he shares everything. just this once, he shares you too

word count. 2.1k (it's short i promise)

contents. fem! reader, reader is suguru's girlfriend, minors do not interact, virgin satoru <3, cuckolding, fingering, safe sex (who am i ?? jk suguru would not let satoru hit raw lol), petnames (princess, baby, and sweetheart), suguru teaching satoru how to fuck <3

notes. dash pls look away. i am horny at 1 am

satoru, for all his big talk and loud front all these years, is still a virgin. suguru finds it a tad bit funny—but out of the kindness of his heart, he decides to help his best friend change that.

how? you, of course.

“be careful how you handle her,” suguru says with a sly smile, “she’s still my girlfriend—and i have to take care of her. isn’t that right, baby?” his gaze turns to you, finger stroking your cheek gently as you whimper.

“so wet,” satoru mumbles, fingers sinking curiously into your dripping cunt, flexing slowly to pump in and out of you as you whine. his fingers are long, maybe longer than suguru’s—but not nearly as skilled.

“yeah?” suguru chuckles, “bet you like that, huh? careful though, satoru—don’t get used to this. she’s still mine.”

suguru, the ever gracious best friend, has always been one to share. he decides perhaps he can extend the favor to include his girlfriend too—but you’re precious, sweet and kind and oh so doting. he can’t share you permanently. no, it’s a one time thing—after that, satoru will have to find his own perfect little pussy to savor.

“you really get all of this? all to yourself?” satoru marvels, thumbing your clit as you gasp, your hand reaching over to clutch at suguru’s pants. his hand rests over yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles as he hums soothingly.

“yeah,” your boyfriend grins, “every day. whenever i want. right, baby?”

“uh huh,” you nod—and then you cut yourself off with a squeal when satoru’s fingertips brush against that sweet spot deep within your walls, making you flutter around him with a tight squeeze. he doesn’t find it as easily as suguru, doesn’t know how to angle and curl the tips of his fingers when he sinks into you.

and fuck, satoru thinks, suguru is so damn lucky.

“she’s a vocal one,” he chuckles, “you’ve been living the dream.”

“you should hear her when you use your mouth,” suguru chuckles—how embarrassing. you want to crawl onto his lap and hide away in his neck, hide away from satoru’s eyes that are watching you so carefully. satoru has good eyes—the best, even.

but you also like it. for some reason, when his eyes stare down at you with a darkened shade of blue you’ve never seen before, you feel the slick pooling from your core, smearing down your thighs and glossing over his fingers, wetter than ever.

satoru has that effect on people—even if he is a bit inexperienced.

“do i get to do that too?” he asks, sending your boyfriend a lopsided smirk.

suguru raises a brow, tightening his hand’s grip on yours before grunting a low, “don’t get ahead of yourself, satoru.”

“you said it yourself, suguru,” he chuckles, “what’s mine is yours.”

“not her,” suguru growls. and then, sweetly, he turns to you before pecking your forehead with a gentleness he keeps for only you. “you ready, princess?”

“princess,” satoru repeats thoughtfully, “yeah i guess you’re a bit of a princess, aren’t ya?”

“p-please,” you sniffle, tugging on suguru’s wrist, “need more, sugu.”

“yeah? he’s not doing his job, is he?” suguru pouts in sympathy, but his eyes are laced with amusement—like he’s enjoying the show in front of him. you’re sure he is, if the throbbing erection he sports is of any hint.

“hey,” satoru gasps, wounded, “i’m doing exactly what you told me—”

“here,” suguru throws him a condom, cutting him off, “put that on. you’re out of your mind if you think you’re feeling her. that’s only for me.”

“fine,” satoru huffs. you watch as he rolls the condom over his neglected cock—it’s red, swollen and aching, flushed at the tip and drooling with pre cum as he hisses when his hand wraps around it.

it’s pretty, you’ll give him that. satoru isn’t as thick as suguru, but he makes up for it by being a bit longer. he curves a bit with a thick vein running along the underside of his cock, balls heavy as they hang painfully, achingly full. he’s neatly trimmed—messy white strands of hair unlike suguru’s dark ones. you don’t know which one you prefer, if you could even pick one of you had to.

you watch with wide, fascinated eyes as his mouth parts with a low gasp when he accidentally teases the tip a bit as he clumsily works the rubber over himself. he’s sensitive at the head—just like suguru. gives those sweet little breathy whimpers when his slit is thumbed at. it’s cute, you think, maybe not as cute as suguru—but it’s still pretty adorable.

“go slow when you go in,” suguru warns, “if you hurt her, i’ll kill you.”

“she’s tough, she can take it,” satoru pats your cheek with a sly grin, “aren’t you, princess?”

“watch it, satoru,” you hear suguru growl, “don’t get too comfortable.”

“aw, it’s all in good fun, right? she’s taking it so well.”

you do take it well—you let satoru’s fingers play with your for ages, let him learn where to find that sensitive spot is in the back of your walls, let him rub your clit slowly—even if you ache for those fast circles suguru always gifts you with. and now, you’re even letting him slide into you, slowly but surely, inching his hardened cock into your impatiently wet cunt with agonizing patience.

“that feel good, baby?” suguru asks you once satoru’s buried to the hilt, splitting you almost in two as you breathe unevenly and nod. and satoru? well, he’s not faring any better—grit teeth and clenched jaw, panting harshly as he focuses on not cumming right then and there.

you’re tight—way tighter than his hand, and way warmer too. fuck suguru for making him wear the condom, and fuck suguru for landing such a perfect pussy too. he doesn’t know how he’s meant to go back to using his fist after a taste of this.

“you can move now—go slow at first, and then go faster when she’s close. she likes that. and don’t forget this,” suguru’s hand travels to your clit, giving a soft little pat that makes you whimper before he rubs it with those quick circles you love so much. “she likes when you touch this too. they all do—so when you get yourself your own girl to fuck, make sure you remember that.”

“i know what the clit is,” satoru grumbles, “i’ve watched porn, y’know.”

“i bet,” suguru chuckles, “is this your first time seeing a clit in person? pretty, isn’t it? everything about her is pretty.”

“suguru,” you whine in embarrassment, burying your head back into the pillow as much as you can, “you talk so much.”

“baby,” he insists, “someone has to humble him. he’s all bark and no bite.”

“i can too bite,” satoru grunts—and to prove it, he angles his hips to pull out, almost completely, before thrusting back into you. you cry out—clutching suguru’s hand tightly as your tits bounce. satoru let’s out a choked moan, gasping as you squeeze around his sensitive cock, eyes fluttering shut with pleasure.

it’s so good. suguru has it so good. you’re so good—perfect, even.

“f-fuck, more, need more,” you sob, and because suguru can’t help himself, his hand grabs at your tit, pinching and tugging at your nipple as he lets you squeeze his other hand in yours. “please, please—faster.”

“you heard her,” suguru hums, “she needs it faster.”

satoru’s good at fucking you—for his first time, he’s got your back arching and toes curling rather quickly. the blunt head of his cock brushes against your sweet spot with ease, long and curved enough to nudge against it with every roll of his hips. of course, no one knows how to fuck you until you see stars like suguru—but he comes to a close second.

your gasps have turned into long, wanton moans, and satoru moans in sync, head falling next to yours on the pillow as his breath fans over your shoulder with every harsh pant. his hips are rutting into you, slamming desperately as he feels you squeeze around him with every deep thrust. you can hear the squelching sound of your arousal as he bullies into your dripping cunt, smeared along the insides of your thighs. it’s messy, it’s rushed, it’s desperate and it feels so, so good.

satoru has never felt this good—and you? well….you have to admit you’ve never felt like this before either. it’s new, maybe not better, but certainly not worse.

“oh, fuck,” satoru groans, voice cracking as he whines against your shoulder, “f-fuck your so tight—‘s so good. so, so good….’m not g-gonna last much longer.”

“are you close, baby?” suguru strokes your cheek, watching as your eyes squeeze and your face twists in pleasure, “can’t have him be the only one cumming. that’s no good.”

“close! ‘m…’m so close, sugu. gonna cum,” you gasp as you nod.

if satoru wasn’t so lost on the feeling of your tight walls constricting around him, fluttering so perfectly that he almost feels like he can’t move, he might have protested that you addressed suguru and not him—he’s the one fucking you after all. it should be him you’re telling that you’re close, not your boyfriend. just because suguru is your boyfriend doesn’t mean he’s the one who gets to bear the reward for making you cum.

right now, that’s satoru.

“aw c’mon, sweetheart, you’re gonna—o-oh, shit,” he cuts himself off with a breathy moan, “you’re gonna make me cry. say my name too, yeah?”

“satoru,” suguru warns lowly.

“see? jus’ like that. yeah, pretty? say it just how suguru did,” satoru, murmurs against your ear, biting your earlobe softly.

your hand, much to suguru’s dismay, tugs from his grasp so your arms can wrap around satoru’s neck and cling to his large figure as he towers over you, fucking you mercilessly. his pace is frenzied now—that steady ache building up in his throbbing length is about to burst, and that coil in your belly feels like it’ll snap any second too.

“s-satoru, please—‘m c-close, so close,” you mewl, “wanna cum.”

he grins, blue eyes raking over your body as his thumb finds your clit and rubs harshly over it in that way you’ve been craving.

“yeah? you close, pretty? ‘s good to hear. i am too,” he murmurs lowly, finishing the sentence off with a shaky gasp as you squeeze around him.

and then you fall over the edge—he sends you hurtling into your high before you can ever register it. it’s new, satoru thinks—it makes his hips stutter for a second when he feels you spasm around his cock like that, sucking him in and squeezing around him enough that he chokes on a whimper and cums right then and there too. he thinks it’s a miracle he held out just long enough to cum after you, thanking anyone who’s listened to his prayers of lasting. it’s almost impossible not to finish immediately with how your walls hug around his length.

by now, his hips have lost any rhythm they might’ve had before, sloppily rutting into you as he desperately rides out his orgasm, thick ropes of cum spilling into the condom that separates him from fully feeling your warmth. he’s sensitive—his cock is throbbing even as he lets go of that built up tension in the form of white, hot release. you milk him until he’s almost certain he’s got nothing left to give, dry and worn out from the way you pulse so harshly around him.

“so good—m-make me feel so good,” satoru breathes in wonder as he finishes, thumb slowing itself along your clit before his body slumps over yours.

it’s hot, it’s sweaty, it’s a mess of limbs as he rests over you, still quivering over your body from the aftershocks of his orgasm. it’s earth shattering—how you make him feel. has he really been missing out on this all this time?

“you’re heavy,” you grumble, patting at his shoulder. he chuckles into your neck, catching his breath.

“yeah? heavier than suguru?”

“i’m careful enough to collapse next to her,” suguru mutters from the side.

“fuck, that was amazing,” satoru rolls over, sprawling himself on the mattress next to you, chest heaving as he breathes, “i see why suguru spoils you so much. you keep him happy, huh?”

“oh yes,” suguru drawls, eyes narrowing. gently, he grabs your wrist and tugs at you, making you sit up as you eye the bulge in his pants and the large wet spot of pre cum staining the fabric. “you’ll see just how happy she makes me in a second here—she’s good with her mouth too.”

idk what possessed me to write this i rly don't. all i know is i want them both carnally

NO PART TWO — please STOP commenting that

── lucifer can’t help but become flustered at your reply when he had asked if you were going to buy the tube of lipstick you were admiring—deep shade of crimson red in all its glory, contained in a small glimmering glass tube. “yes, it has the same shade of red as your irises” he still remembers the way you looked at him with such eagerness. that was only a minute ago. now, lucifer can’t shake the uncomfortable stir in his slacks because all he’s thinking about are your lips. your lips wrapped around his cock while wearing that sinful shade—the one that reminded you of his eyes. he mentally curses himself for thinking such lewd thoughts but those were cut short when the image of your scarlet-stained lips clouded his mind once again, desperately sucking on his tip. maybe he’ll make you wear that lipstick later tonight, to test it out.

WHAT ARE YOU THE GOD OF, AGAIN?

feat: Lucifer ( 1182 ) ∻ Mammon ( 1748 ) ∻ Leviathan ( 1315 ) synopsis: turns out, fallen angels can have more than one sin. cw : afab!reader | overstimulation (f!receiving), squirting (if you squint); servicedom!Lucifer, oral (f!receiving), some sacrilegious connotations (heavy in Lucifer's, but they're literally a fallen angels though so that should probably go without saying) | implied nsfw; confessions; pretty tame, actually, it’s mostly just heavy-petting and fluff and i swear i *tried* to make it slutty but we’re in our ~feels~ with Mams today | oral (m!receiving); soft!Levi (but *not* sub!Levi); kinda bimbo!reader; kinda collaring but ~stylish~ a/n: check the bottom for links to the other brothers+undateables on this theme, coming soon to a theater near you

∻ Lucifer ↠ p r i d e ⤲ g r e e d

As the avatar of pride, LUCIFER knows a thing or two about confidence. After all, to be proud is to feel deep pleasure at one’s achievements, and you’d be hard-pressed to name a single thing Lucifer ever wanted that he hasn’t achieved.

But there is nothing–nothing–in heaven or hell or any realm between that gives him more pride than you.

Your sweet laugh, your infectious smile, the way your eyes close when you’re so fucked you nearly forget how to breathe… every piece of you makes him feel alive in ways he never thought possible; a startling truth he’s reminded of every time you say his name. A hard truth he can no longer pretend to loathe when he’s between your legs, coaxing out your third orgasm of the day, your hands knotted in his dark hair and voice weakly repeating his name like a prayer.

Lu-ci-fer.

Each syllable slow and broken, but there–there, for him, because of him. Not Mammon, or Diavolo, or that other wretched human–him.

It’s the only prayer he’d ever grant. God may have made you, but Lucifer has claimed *you, and he will spend every day for the rest of eternity proving that. You are *his, and not in the way Mammon is his to torture or he is Diavolo’s to command or Satan is the very flesh from his bone; no, you are his because you chose him.

Who wouldn’t be proud of that? Who wouldn’t want to spend their days on their knees, worshiping every crevice of your perfect body, pulling every sinfully hedonistic sound and look and quiver from you–you, the one who changed everything without even trying. Who would ever be so stupid as to think they could have had enough of you?

You could have anyone in the devildom at your altar, but you choose him to be your disciple. And he reminds you why for the third time that night, dragging his gloved fingers slowly in and out of your drenched cunt, his sharp nose rubbing against your clit as your legs shake on either side of his head. “Just like that, my love,” he murmurs into your fluttering core. “Keep saying my name. Be a good girl and give me another, and I’ll let you cum on my cock next.”

You struggle to catch your breath, barely able to keep your chest upright enough to try and lock eyes. Lucifer’s dark gaze meets yours, a smirk tugging on his lips when you start to tremble from a brief puff of hot air against your sensitive clit. You’re not sure if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away when your fingers dig into his scalp but damn it all, the only thing your body is capable of doing is moaning each syllable of his name like it’ll be the last thing you ever say.

“P–please, Lu–Luci–I just want–you–”

He slaps your clit, but it’s the way he chuckles at how your body spasms that sends shivers down your spine. “Is this not enough?” His face hovers over your folds, thumbs gently spreading you apart. “Aren’t my fingers and tongue good enough for you?”

He asks as if he wouldn’t spend the rest of your life between your legs; as if the mere act of giving you pleasure hasn’t made a mess of his own pants once or twice already; as if he weren’t the one watching you with pleading eyes, a look of barely-veiled desperation begging you to let him keep worshiping you.

Your lower lip trembles, and your initial protest of, “s’not the same–” is drowned out by an obscene moan as Lucifer plunges his tongue inside you completely. A thumb continues to rub at your clit, and faster than you thought possible, your thighs are clenching the demon’s face. If he’d been a normal man, he wouldn’t have had the strength to keep your hips pinned with one hand *and *a steady pressure on your clit with the other, while simultaneously pulling away enough so your liquids completely cover his lower chin and blissed-out smile–but Lucifer is not a normal man.

He is a demon, and demons take what they want… and he wants you. Now, and tomorrow, and for the rest of his existence. To be on his hands and knees, servicing you, pleasing you–

Never has he felt like this before. Never has he felt so helpless, so weak, so–human.

It’d make him furious, if it wasn’t for the fact that you hoarsely whisper his name, kiss-swollen lips sounding holier than any saint. If it wasn’t for the way your hand finds his, fits in his, holds his so gently, as if you’re afraid he might be the one to break, not that he’d broken you.

“Good girl.” Lucifer stands and kisses your sweat-slick forehead. Humans, *he thinks in equal parts disgust and reverence. *So… fragile.

Your eyes flutter in exhaustion but stubborn refusal at missing a single second with your lover; drenched in sweat, breathing as if you’d just run a marathon. Weak, and fragile, and human, and–he needs you. He needs you, now, and tomorrow, and forever, but if he didn’t get you right this second, there would be hell to pay.

So despite knowing your body can’t handle much more, he unzips his pants, gently stroking your inner thigh to try and relax you for what’s to come. “I knew you could do it, my love. Do you want your reward?”

Eyes still closed, you nod instantly. Hands already lifting from the bed and reaching for him, weakly trying to sit up so you can provide him even just a fraction of the pleasure he’d been providing you. “Ah!” Lucifer slaps your hand away, gently stroking his leaking cock as he settles between your legs once more. “Use your words. Do you want your reward?”

“Yes,” you breathe, settling back on your forearms and forcing your body to awaken as you watch your lover with giddy anticipation. “Lucifer, please, please, I want–I want you inside me–”

With a growl, Lucifer bends over you, catching a leg and hitching it over his hip. The mewl of desperation you let out when he hesitates nearly makes him cum on the spot.

“You’re a desperate little thing tonight, aren’t you?” he coos mockingly, gently stroking your face before he grips your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. Your hand catches his wrist, increasing pressure to match his, until you’re writhing beneath him–made all the worse by the heat you can feel from his cock, but not him. “That’s alright, my love. I’ll give you what you want. Just one more, alright? I have work to do.”

It won’t be the last. You know it, he knows it, probably even God knows it–but that doesn’t matter. Not when you feel like heaven, not when you pull him close and tell him over and over and over that *you need more, you need him,**Lucifer please–*

Maybe his father was right. Maybe not all humans are bad–maybe some of them are worth serving, after all.

∻ Mammon ↠ g r e e d ⤲ s l o t h

If anyone were asked who the greediest one in all of the Devildom was, it would unanimously be considered MAMMON. It is his sin, after all; he is the physical embodiment of excessive desire, and just as Beel’s appetite for food knows no bounds, Mammon’s cravings for material things is equally limitless.

So why is it you who can’t get enough?

You’d gone to Mammon’s room earlier with the copy of notes he’d asked for. It started out innocent enough; you knocked, he let you in, then he begged you to stay and help him study. It was like every other day, from the way he sat so close to you on the couch that his thigh was flesh against yours and how he managed to barter correct answers for kisses, and today, like every other day, you found yourself settled comfortably in his lap, arms lopped around his neck as you read off questions from the last multiple choice quiz he’d failed.

The only difference seemed to be in how Mammon was getting an unusually large number of questions right.

“If I didn’t know better,” you laugh breathlessly as Mammon trails his lips up the hollow of your neck, “I’d say you’ve been studying.”

“‘Course I’ve been studying,” he murmurs, hot air tickling the sensitive skin below your jaw, “whaddya call this?”

“Fun,” you tease, pulling back to cradle the white-haired demon’s face. “And I believe you’re the one who said studying could never be fun–”

“Stand corrected,” Mammon huffs, immediately diving forward to capture your lips once more. His hands roam down to your hips, where he squeezes the flesh gently. Feeling emboldened, you rock your hips, then giggle when Mammon’s forced to pull back from your kiss with a groan so low, it rattles your bones. “Studyin’ is fun. S’long as it’s with you, though.”

You laugh and lightly kiss his lips. “Good answer.”

Once, twice, then on the third, one of Mammon’s hands darts up to your head and holds you in place. His lips, so soft against yours, so sweet on yours, move slowly. Gently, he parts yours with his, and as his fingers start to twine in your hair, he dips his tongue in.

This kiss is like no other the two of you have shared… and you’ve shared a lot. The quick, chaste ones when you first began this arrangement; the teasing, smirking ones he’d steal when he got an answer right you’d expected to be wrong; the open, messy ones that were almost more moan and spit than actual lips and air and inevitably led to someone’s shirt being ripped off; the gentle, caring ones on exposed shoulders or foreheads at the end of your “study” sessions that, somehow, so slowly you didn’t even notice, became more intimate than the way he filled you perfectly.

But this… this kiss was somehow all the old yet something new, all at once. It was deep, and not just in the way he sucks on your tongue but how he pulls you in to him, fingertips pressing into your skin as if he couldn’t get close enough–not that you mind, as you wrap a hand around the back of his head and try to bridge the very atoms of space between you. His lips move slowly, his air warm but fresh as he doesn’t even pull away to breathe; instead letting you be the one to give him life. His palms, large and slender on your frame, slowly travel over your body, from the base of your spine to cradling your cheek, and then he pauses. He pulls back. He rests his forehead against yours, wipes a thumb across your cheek, and breathily laughs. “You’re so–beautiful, ya know that? Prettiest treasure I’ve ever seen.”

And how are you supposed to respond to that? To being flattered by the Avatar of Greed, who’s notorious for never being satisfied; to being kissed like you mean something to him, to your first, to who you hope to be yours forever–to the growing dread in your heart that one day, likely soon, the Avatar of Greed will want more than you can give, and he’ll leave you.

And yet–every time you try to speed things up, try to hastily slacken his tie or unbutton your shirt and try to remind him why he should stay, stay now and stay forever, his hands catch yours. “Not yet,” he whispers, and when you whine in protest, he merely starts to kiss you like that again.

Like you’re what he cherishes most in the world. Not his gold, his clothes, or his car–but you. And you always would be.

“Mammon,” you breathe into his lips, “please.”

“Not… yet,” he answers. His hands trail along your sides, lightly bunching your shirt before letting the material fall as he cradles your face. You catch his wrists and pull back from his kiss with a pout.

“Why not? Don’t you want me?”

Mammon has the audacity to laugh. “Are ya serious? Can’t you tell?” He snaps his hips up, chuckling at the harsh intake of air you suck in when his cock, straining hard against the zipped fabric of his uniform, slides against your clit. “‘Course I want ya, silly girl. I want ya s’bad, makes me stupid.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his chest, only for Mammon to catch your wrists, keeping you pinned against him. “Evidently not, since we’ve spent all this time studying.”

Mammon shakes his head, his smile soft and contagious as he leans towards you. “Ya know what they say, precious… practice makes perfect.”

His lips silence whatever snappy retort you don’t have time to conjure, and instead, you lose yourself in him. In the way his lips move in tandem with yours; the way his hand presses between your shoulder blades, arching your back into his chest; the way his eyelashes flicker against your cheek every so often; and the low way he whispers your name when you try gyrating your hips against his.

“Ya tryin’ to be the end of me or somethin’?” he drawls in exasperation, resting both palms on your hips to still your movements. He rests his forehead against yours, staunchly avoiding your gaze as he keeps you still.

“I’m tryin’ to get laid,” you drawl back, dragging your fingers down Mammon’s wide shoulders to rest on his abs–just the way you know he likes. “I thought–that’s what you wanted?” Mammon tenses, and you pull away. Your hands come up to grab his chin, forcing him to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, and despite not protesting at the way you move his body, his eyes refuse to meet yours. “Mammon? Isn’t… that why you invited me? To fuck?”

He holds out for precisely 1.4 seconds, before his eyes flick to yours and he loses all composure. “Yeah,” he admits, and he doesn’t know whether to be encouraged or heartbroken at the way you seem to be able to breathe again. “But–”

He pauses. He watches your eyes widen, he feels the air catch in your throat, and then he watches your neck remain still. One heartbeat; two heartbeats; three heartbeats–

“Jus’... wanna take my time with ya today, s’all.”

There’s something more desperate about the way he sucks on your neck now, something that has you squirming and moaning and pulling his head back before just the feeling of his lips on your skin makes you unravel.

“What’s so special about today?”

Mammon shakes his hair free of your grasp and latches onto your neck again. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close. “Nothin’. Somethin’. Dunno, jus’... jus’ realized somethin’. S’nothin’.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing…” you tease, rather enjoying this secretive side of him. “Doesn’t feel like nothing, either.” With a pointed roll of your hips, Mammon lets out a groan, and he bites your neck in retaliation. Just a little nip; not enough to break skin, but enough to bruise. Enough to leave a mark that won’t fade for a few days, at the very least.

The first mark he’s ever left.

“Mammon!” you scold, but it lacks bite; especially when the white-haired demon meets your gaze while licking a soft stripe along the already-bruising skin before pressing a gentle kiss on the most tender spot.

“Like it when ya say my name,” he responds, pressing kisses all the way up to your lips. “Like it better when ya moan it.”

So you do; over and over and over, even though he does nothing besides kiss you. Occasionally, he’ll bounce his leg; and occasionally, he’ll let his hands roam to cover your breasts, teasing your painfully erect nipples briefly before trailing back to your hips; but that’s all.

“I think I like whatever it is you’ve realized,” you say when the two of you finally break apart. Your breath is heavy in the air, chest heaving as fingers trail up and down Mammon’s still-clothed chest.

Mammon smiles. “You don’t even know what it is.”

You hum in agreement, then laugh. “Don’t have to. Not if it means you’ll keep kissing me like that.”

Meeting Mammon’s gaze makes your heart do funny things. Both rapidly beating and seizing at once, shrinking four sizes but growing so large it might burst; making you feel so full, so complete that it just slips out before you can even think to catch it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Time freezes. The weight of the world hits like an ice bath, and it’s all you can do to close your eyes. Your fingers knot in Mammon’s shirt, and you try to memorize the way the fabric feels; the softness from his detergent, the heat emanating from his chest beneath, the steady pulsing of his heartbeat, the rough callouses of his fingers as they wrap around your wrists–

“Hate to one-up ya, precious, but I know I’m in love with ya,” he says, and time comes crashing down. “S’what I realized today, and s’why I wanna take my time with ya tonight, and s’why I’m gonna spend every day by yer side, doin’ whatever ya want, s’long as you let me–”

The rest of his confession is cut off by your lips, but for once, Mammon doesn’t mind being interrupted. Not if it means he can take his time with you tonight and prove to you that an eternity of him by your side is something to be certain of.

∻ Leviathan ↠ e n v y ⤲ p r i d e

LEVIATHAN thought he knew what pride was. He thought it was the feeling he gets when he finds a rare Ruri-chan doll that they stopped manufacturing decades ago and he has the highest bid, or maybe when he beats a tournament he spent all weekend holed up in his room competing in, or maybe even accurately translating the hidden chapters of TSL that appeared after seven years of radio silence.

But none of that comes close to the way he feels right now; to the way his heart threatens to burst in his chest as you softly lick the underside of his heavily erect cock, tits threatening to burst over the top of your maid uniform, remnants of his last orgasm still glimmering on your breasts.

“What’s wrong, Leviachan?” you ask, sweetly popping off his cock and lazily flicking your wrist. “You look flustered.”

Levi lets out a pitiful whine and sinks lower in his gaming chair. A hand reaches out to knot in your roots, guiding your mouth back to where he desperately needs you. “Don’t-don’t tease,” he tries commanding, but the way his voice cracks gives him away. “This is–this was your idea, remember?”

And it was; it always is. Because even though it makes Leviathan’s heart so full to see you on your knees for him, it never happened because of him. You decided when the best time to suck him off is; and like your perfect plaything, Leviathan always let you. He could never say no to you, his pride and joy. His favorite collectible; the only one of your kind.

It irritates him, a little. The fact that you hold this much power over him. The fact that you can show up in a trench-coat while he’s in the middle of beating his latest video game (a puzzle game, one that requires complete concentration or you have to restart from scratch), and with a simple unknotting of a belt and ring of a bell, have him wrapped around your finger.

If it wasn’t the maid outfit you wore beneath your coat, it was the fluffy handcuffs you attached to his wrists before sinking to your knees that rendered him speechless; and if it wasn’t the way you sunk to your knees, nuzzling your cheek against his thigh and batted your pretty eyelashes as you begged your Leviachan to help you feel good that broke him, it was seeing the dainty choker spelling out his name in silver letters along your throat.

His release had splattered over your chest before he could even process what he was looking at, and by the time his mind caught up to his body, you were already suckling at his flushed cockhead once more.

Leviathan’s wrists yank weakly against the handcuffs as his hand travels from your scalp to where the lowlight of his gaming console illuminates the silver letters dangling against your throat. His heart stalls as he hooks his index finger around the chain, and a throaty giggle slips out your lips as he yanks you forward with just his finger.

No, he wasn’t imagining it when he came; that really is his name, adorning your body, for all the Devildom to see.

“Mine?”

With a smile, you nod. A smaller hand wraps around Leviathan’s slender wrist, and your press a kiss to the pulsepoint just within. “M’all yours, Leviathan. Figured the others should know, too.”

The handcuffs were just for show–or if they weren’t, they are now, because Leviathan snaps them with ease. He stands roughly, stumbling slightly as his pants catch around his ankles. His grip on your neck never falters as he raises you with him, then tugs you backwards on top of him as he collapses on the floor.

“Need you,” he mutters through feverish kisses, plastered messily all over your face and neck. His hands fumble with your get-up, and although you laugh when he rips the material clean off your body, your whine of, “Levi, that was expensive–” causes him to nip your ear.

“I’ll buy you another.”

He doesn’t even both removing your skirt–if that’s what that sliver of material could be called, anyway. It barely hides your ass, pooling atop your thighs in the place he wishes his hands to go. With the fluffy handcuffs, now broken, still decorating each write like cotton candy bracelets, Leviathan lifts the pads of his fingers to your mouth. Obediently, your lips part and you lick them slowly, tongue wrapping around each digit like it had just been lapping at his cock.

Leviathan whines. He flips you on your back, hovering over you as your own hands messily unbutton his shirt, lips meeting in a sticky conglomeration of spit and desperate pleas to feel each other. His spit-slicked fingers are gentle compared to the ferocity with which he kisses you, stroking between your folds before dipping in, catching your release and spreading it along your clit.

“All for me… r-right, baby?” Leviathan pants as he pistons one finger in and out of your gummy walls. “All dressed–dressed up for me, all wet–all wet for me–”

“Yes,” you mewl, “for–for you, Levi–only for you!”

That’s all it takes for Leviathan to lose the last of his composure. He slides into you without warning, filling you to the brim. The breath is knocked loose from your lungs, and the way Leviathan is quick to cover your lips with his, swallowing any further moans or whimpers of his name.

He pulls back when he feels your walls fluttering around him. Your heels dig into the small of his back, pressing his hips even deeper into you–as if that was possible. As if Levi hadn’t taken advantage of every single second to be buried as deep as possible within you.

Tenderly, Levi brushes some of your sweat-slicked hair out of your face, and even more careful, he presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, right above where his name sits pretty. “You look so pretty… is this because—because of me, b-babe? You look all pretty—because I—make you f-feel this way?”

You nod desperately, carding your fingers through his silky purple locks. “All–all ‘cause of–of you, Levi–”

That’s all it takes to push him over the edge, and with him–you. You come undone around him, meekly burying your moans into the taut muscle of his bicep as the world briefly fades to white.

Levi is filled with that feeling again; the one that makes his chest seem too small. The one that causes all sounds but your staggered breathing to fall away, and all sights but the one of your flushed cheeks and lovesick smile and fluttering lashes disappear to darkness, and all feeling but the sensation of you snuggling into his chest feel as foreign as the human world.

He may be a shut-in, he reasons as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck. He may be an otaku, and awkward, and you might be able to do a hell of a lot better than him–but he did this. He makes you do bold things, like wear a maid outfit under your coat all day just to tease him, or bring handcuffs you know can’t hold him just to see if he’ll listen, or make the absolute prettiest sounds he’s ever heard in his life. He makes you feel better than you’ve ever felt, and that makes him feel good.

Really good.

Good enough to start pressing light kisses up your neck, teeth catching on your new silver chain, hand gently trailing along your side. “D-don’t forget that,” he says through grit teeth. You link your fingers with his, slowly parting your legs to reallow him entrance. “I make you feel good, right? Me. Don’t–don’t ever forget that.”

“Never,” you promise–and just like that, the heart Levi didn’t think could get any fuller grows two sizes.

| Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor | Barbatos, Diavolo, Simeon, Solomon |

SPOILED ROTTEN FT. JUJUTSU KAISEN MEN

featuring: sugar daddies gojo satoru, nanami kento, getou suguru, fushiguro toji, and how they spoil slash fuck you.

contains: female reader. modern au. age gap: charas are late thirties to early forties + reader is early twenties. unprotected sex. female receiving oral. fingering. thigh riding. praise + pet names. approx 0.4k words for each character.

GOJO SATORU

satoru insists that you keep him company as he sends email after email, about what and to whom you’re not certain—but he does this almost every saturday night. he hands you his phone and tells you to go on that website you like and pick out whatever you want while you wait for him, just so he can have you around.

he looks over every few minutes, eyeing the little screen in your hands as you ask for his opinion on different items. he’s always honest, telling you which dresses he wants to see you in, and which he’d rather burn—he loves anything short, but that’s no surprise. though as much as you enjoy it, adding things to your cart can only cure your boredom for so long.

“so fuckin’ needy, hm baby?” he purrs against the shell of your ear as he leans over you, cock buried in your slick cunt. he has you bent over his desk, laptop shut and shoved to the side—all because you couldn’t keep your greedy hands to yourself.

“please, ‘toru,” you whine, pressing those sinful palms against the cool glass as you attempt to push yourself back on his cock, hoping for some friction of any kind. unfortunately, he’s not keen on you doing so—pulling his already loosened tie from his collar.

“be a good girl, would you?” he hums, looping the fabric around your wrists and pulling it taut. your hands are now immobile, banished to rest at the small of your back for the foreseeable future.

he leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades before grabbing onto your hips, thrusting into you at the exact pace you’ve been yearning for. he marvels at the loud squelch of your pussy, and the way you leave a sheen of your arousal on his shaft—like you’re marking your territory.

“fuck,” he hisses, digging his nails into the fat of your hips as your velvety walls start to suck him in. “squeezin’ me so tight, baby. you gonna cum for me?”

you’ve long been reduced to a whimpering mess, responding with nothing but a choked out moan as your vision blurs with ecstasy. he leans over you right as you cum, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck as he releases into you. he’s reaching down to undo his tie before you even finish—wanting you to grab onto him like you always do.

“there she is,” he coos, feeling his heart swell as you immediately place your hand on top of his, lacing your fingers. “my good girl.”

NANAMI KENTO

kento would have dropped everything to be there, at your college graduation, but work is work—and besides, he thinks it’d be rather inappropriate for him to show up there, even if he was the one who paid for the final two semesters.

nevertheless, he bought you the prettiest dress to wear underneath your graduation gown, one that he knew would hug your waist and compliment your hips—an expensive, champagne coloured, silk dress. you sent pictures of course, all dolled up and flaunting the silver k pendant that always sits right above your tits—and kento has to ignore the twitch of his cock for the remainder of his meeting.

two weeks and one hellish business trip later, and his first stop is not his place, but yours. the fact that you’re wearing nothing but his diamond initial and a smile as you greet him is proof that you deserve absolutely everything he gives you—and it has him dropping to his knees like you’re some type of god.

“missed you sweetheart,” he sighs into your cunt, and you’d almost think he was talking to it rather than you, but he definitely isn’t. “i’m so proud of you,” he confesses, glancing up at you through his lashes as he hovers his mouth over your clit. “wish i could’ve been there to see it.”

“kento!” you gasp, watching with wide eyes as he dips his tongue between your folds—lapping at the mixture of your arousal and his saliva before gently sucking on your clit. “‘s okay, you’ve done enough, f-for me.”

“you deserve it, sweetheart,” he groans, and the light graze of his stubble against your thighs has you shamefully bucking your hips into his face. he barely notices—fully committing himself to the hot makeout session he’s having with your pussy, absolutely coating your cunt in his spit. he needs to breathe though, opting to slip two fingers into you as he flicks his tongue over your clit.

“oh god, kento, ‘m gonna cum,” you pant, and he reaches up to intertwine your fingers, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you need—break it for all he cares, maybe he’d get a few days off.

you dig your nails into the back of his palm as you cum—clamping your thighs shut around his head which, in hindsight, only allows him to eat you out through your orgasm. your chest heaves as you come down from your high, and kento leans up to kiss you—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. he stands upright, keeping a knee between your legs as he reaches for his belt buckle.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, noting the slight look of confusion forming on your face. he frees his cock from his dress pants, lazily pumping himself as you gawk at the sight. “you think that was all i’d give you?”

GETO SUGURU

suguru thinks it’s utterly adorable when you start worrying about his spending habits, clinging to his arm and telling him you don’t need another pair of shoes—it never fails to make him want to blow even more money on you.

one of his favourite things to splurge on is lingerie—because it’s something that doesn’t run cheap, and the look on your face as he absolutely ruins it is priceless. he’ll pick out a few sets, ones that he would kill to see you in—pardon him for being a little selfish—and he’ll sit and watch as you give him a personal show. if they’re really expensive, he’ll fuck you in them—seeing just how much he can tug and pull at the delicate fabric before it breaks.

so, when you pad towards him wearing that—the daintiest, most angelic baby blue set he’s ever seen, coated in thin lace that reveals everything, and paired with matching thigh highs that strap to the little band of fabric clinging to your waist—he knows he’s going to fuck you in it, and hopefully, maybe, destroy it in the process.

“c-careful sugu,” you warn, but it doesn’t sound threatening in the slightest. your panties didn’t pass the test—ripping rather easily, and your bra, well it’s useless anyways—his words. that leaves you laying atop suguru’s satin sheets in nothing but your socks, garter belt, and the straps that unite them as one.

“hm? am i goin’ too hard for you, angel?” he slows the pace of his hips at your words, scanning your features for any signs of pain. he has one of your legs resting on his shoulder, fingers tangled in the fishnet material and evidently creating less holes.

“no, but,” you pause as he repositions you, more or less folding you in half as he pushes your legs against your chest. he thrusts into you again, and the new angle has you seeing stars immediately. you can feel his true size, the full weight of his cock as it drags against your walls. “don’t—ah—don’t ruin it sugu, ‘s expensive.”

“you’re so sweet, angel. always lookin’ out for me, huh?” he grunts, noting the subtle gathering of your arousal at the base of his cock. you moan—a breathy little whimper of his name, unintentionally spurring him on. his hands vanish from your legs, reappearing as they grab onto the belt instead.

you’re all babbles and incoherent sentences now, losing all sense of reality as he fucks you dumb—lace fabric threatening to tear from his grip alone. you don’t even notice the belt searing into your skin and, surely leaving an indentation—because you’re too busy creaming on his cock.

“mm, so sweet,” he sighs, dropping to his knees and tonguing at your clit—accelerating the rate at which your mixture of cum seeps out just below. he reaches up, using his large palms to massage the spot on your waist where the fabric snapped. “guess we’re going shopping, hm angel?”

FUSHIGURO TOJI

toji knows that his line of work is much different than yours—but he also knows that by the end of the week, you’re both stressed, and you more or less desire the same type of relief. so, every friday night he’ll pick you up from your minimum wage job—the one he’s hellbent on having you quit, and he’ll bring you to his place for the weekend.

the purring engine of his slick black sports car is unmistakable—you know he’s there before he even sends the text. he watches as you near the vehicle, hand hanging out the open window with a cigarette resting between his middle and index fingers.

“what’s with the long face?” he huffs, noting the slight pout clinging to your lips as you settle into the passenger seat. he turns his head, taking one last puff of his cigarette before flicking it into the near empty parking lot and focusing back on you.

“bad day,” you mumble, and that’s all he needs to hear—he’s fully aware that you want him to make you feel better. within mere minutes, your back is pressed against the steering wheel as you sit on one of his thighs, stripped down to nothing but your oversized sweatshirt and—are those his favourite black lace panties?

“fuck, you wear these to work?” he gawks, lifting the excess material up and over your tits. he runs the back of his index finger over your clothed cunt—and the fabric is wet. “if you’re tryna make me jealous princess,” he pauses, flicking his eyes up to meet yours. “it’s working.”

“no toji, i—” you start, but you’re cut off by your own moan as he drags you along his thigh—the lace of your panties brushing against your clit in the most heavenly of ways. “i knew i was seeing you t-tonight,” you pant as he nips at your neck, grinding you down onto his leg some more. “‘m yours, all yours.”

“you’re a real sweet talker, princess,” he chuckles, cock straining against the confines of his tight black trousers. “you gonna behave tonight?”

you barely have time to choke out a yes before he slips a hand into your panties, spreading your lower lips and pushing his middle finger inside. your mouth drops open in a silent scream—one that doesn’t stay silent for very long as he curls his finger upwards, hitting that sensitive spot.

“every time you cum for me,” he hums, adding a second finger and scissoring them inside you. “i’ll add a thousand to your allowance.” his grin triples in size, and you’re sure he’s dripping pre cum as he allows his thoughts to run wild. “and if you’re real good, you can finally quit this fuckin’ place.”

18+ MINORS DNI

Some spicy Micah Content because the lack thereof makes me sad so I shall fix it myself! So yeah once again MINORS DNI

2:22 am

Warnings: phone sex (or is it called video call sex?), mutual masturbation, Micah just being needy, x fem reader

It was late. You had work in the morning, he had work in the morning but he couldn’t take it anymore. After finally seeing you face to face, getting to hold you, kiss you, being back home just didn’t feel the same. He wanted you in his arms again. As Micah finally went to bed his mind wandered to his second night there.

To be honest he wasn’t fully sure how it happened. One moment he was giving you soft little kiss the next thing he knew your legs were thrown over his shoulders and he was watching you fall apart on his cock. He feels like it’s completely your fault. You pulled his hair it was only right he pulled your clothes off. But now that he was thinking about it he couldn’t get the image out of his head. How pretty you looked covered in sweat, the way you called his name, the way you came undone in his arms, all of it drove him crazy. He thought he’d lose his mind seeing like that, even thinking about it now made his mind hazy.

And his body was definitely feeling it as well. A tent was already growing in his pants as he turned on his side and groaned in frustration. He was supposed to be going to bed. But now he’s pulling out his phone praying you’re awake.

Micah Yujin: Hey angel, you up?

You responded a lot faster than expected

My Angel <3: I-

My Angel <3: I was just about to text you the same thing why are you up???

Were you up thinking about him too? That was the only thing that made sense in his head. As cute as it was it only riled him up more. He sat up in his bed as he turned his led lights on. Sleep wasn’t gonna happen anytime soon. He now had other plans.

Micah Yujin: I miss you

Micah Yujin: so I can’t sleep

My Angel <3: …

My Angel <3: I miss you too

He knows you have no idea how much of any effect you had on him. He took a deep breath. Video sex was not something he ever did but he needed you, somehow, some way.

Micah Yujin: weeeelllll

Micah Yujin: How about we call then?

Micha Yujin: I have an idea to help us both sleep but only if you’re ok with it

There a pause of no response. Micah was starting to get anxious. Maybe you knew what he wanted and you weren’t comfortable with? Just as he was about to type an apology you replied.

My Angel <3: ok but mind if I don’t have a shirt on? I took it off cause its hot in my room

Fuck. This was torture at this point. He was so tempted to just press the call button and see for himself, but he wanted the upper hand tonight. He wasn’t about to embarrass him self.

Micah Yujin: I mean I’ve already seen everything~

Micah Yujin: Just don’t be upset if I stare a little too hard ;)

After a moment of psyching himself up he finally pressed the call button. He almost hung up immediately when saw you, your face a tinge of red and your chest on full display. You weren’t even looking at the screen, like you were trying to avoid his gaze. Damn you were cute. He’s hoping you didn’t here the whimper that came from him before he composed himself and smirked.

“Whats the matter angel? I’ve seen you with a lot less on than this. Don’t be shy~ we both know how shameless you can be. Do I need to bring up what happened that lovely night in your room? Hm?”

Your eyes snapped up to glare at him as you became even redder.

“Shut up! It’s different like this since I can’t tell where you’re looking exactly! Besides you were the one gawking like an idiot, don’t think I didn’t here that little squeak you made a second ago! Now what did you have planned?”

Now it was his turn to blush. Seeing that you managed to get back at him a little you gave him that smug little grin you did whenever you managed to get the upper hand. He’d be salty if it wasn’t so cute.

“Well if you must know I was looking at my beautiful angel. As far as my plan… well… uuuh… its a little embarrassing.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to explain himself. Micah’s mind was racing. He knows it’s not completely inappropriate to ask, he’s made love to you before. However he didn’t wanna come off as desperate or do something that made you uncomfortable.

“Ok so you are more than free to say no, I understand if this request isn’t something you’re comfortable with but…. I literally can’t stop thinking about you and… that night.”

You started to giggle a little, relaxing a bit.

“And you wanted to get on me for thinking about it? You got some nerve Micah~”

Micah quickly became flustered as you called him on his bs. It was nothing new but the circumstances made it hard for him to keep it together. Before he could retort you spoke again.

“Its fine if you were, I may or may have not been in the same predicament…”

You quickly looked away as Micah starting putting two and two together. His eyes light up before donning the most shit eating grin he could muster.

“SO THATS WHY YOUR FACE WAS RED! My my my angel, exactly naughty things were you doing before I messaged you hmmmm????”

“Wouldn’t you love to know.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes at him. He suddenly lowered his eyes and deepened his tone of voice.

“You’re right angel, I would love to know what you were doing before I called. Actually… how about you show me? Only if you’re up to it.”

He tone softened again at the end. While he desperately wanted to see you, he also wasn’t going to make you do anything you didn’t wanna do. You looked at him a little shocked. You could never handle his random moments of boldness. You back away from the camera, now showing the bottom half of your body. You weren’t wearing any underwear. Micah gulped at the sight as you shyly opened your legs to him.

“Ya know, it’s unfair if you’re the only one getting a show here…”

After snapping out of his trance Micah quickly sat up and yanked his pants off. You couldn’t help but chuckle and how eager he was. He back up his chair so you could see down to his thighs. His cock was throbbing, twitching every now and then, aching to be touched. Damn you wanted him so bad. And he wanted you. He wanted to be inside of you, to make you scream, to feel your skin against him. This was so unfair. He hand firmly gripped his cock and his sighed in relief as he started stroking himself.

“I wish you were with me angel, I want you to touch me like this, and I wanna touch you… fuck I wanna touch you so bad. But I can’t. So I want you touch yourself for me ok?”

You obeyed him quietly as your fingers reached down to massage your folds. They were already glistening from the work you had put in before Micah had interrupted you. You were mesmerized by the view on your screen. Micah’s eyes were becoming hazy as he watched you please yourself, wanting to catch every detail. His hands were speeding up ever so slightly as he got more into it, low groans passing by his lips. The sight alone made you moan. His groans grew louder in response. Slowly you began to pump your fingers in your leaking hole, signing in relief as your walls finally had something to clench around. It was nothing compared to Micah’s fingers or his cock, just like his hand was nothing compared you. You both knew this but this was the best either of you could do.

“M-micah….hah- I need you so badly~ “ you whined at him causing his hazy eyes that were threatening to close to focus on your movements again. You words only spurred him on more. He loved that you wanted him, no, you needed him.

“Y-yeah? You pretending those fingers are mine angel? I reach much deeper than your fingers can though right? Fuck- you’re do pretty like that angel~ I don’t think I can take it much longer.”

You could barely focus on what he was saying, you desperate attempts to get the tension. In you stomach to snap taking all of your attention. You managed to nod at his words before whining. “Hah~ I’m so close… wanna come so bad Micah!” Micah leaned forward, not far from coming his self.

“Fuck, let me see angel. Let me see you come for me. God your so sexy I- fuck, fuck!”

It didn’t take long for both of you to fall over the edge, your hips twitching as your orgasm finally hit by you. You finally managed to focus to see quite a lovely sight. Micah had his hand tossed back, panting, basking in the after glow of his orgasm. Cum coated his hand as his abdomen flexed randomly. After coming down from his high his face turned bright red and hid his face from you. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh now you get shy? What was all that dirty talk earlier huh?” Micah got even more flustered as he looked back at the screen wanting to retort, but he kept tripping over his words.

“H-hey! J-just like you said it feels different this way! I-i don’t know I’ve never done this before!” Micah was more red than he was before. As much as he teased you he rarely could take a dose of his own medicine.

“Anyways its late and we both have work in the morning. Thanks for…. Helping me out? Ugh I’m sorry I’m being so weird about it I just… can’t wait to see you again.”

You couldn’t help but agree with him. After finally getting to see him face to face. It just wasn’t the same without him. After chatting a little the two of you called it a night.

“Talk to ya tomorrow yeah? Do get too riled up while I’m gone~ I love you~” you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Goodnight loser. I love you too.”

One Night || Sherlock x Reader (smut below cut)

He showed up minutes to noon.

You’d been up late studying, pouring over textbook after textbook that you’d been too tired to bother putting away when you finally crawled into your bed in the young hours of the morning. Your flat was as cluttered as it had ever been with a disarray of notes occupying every surface the eye could see and beside your open laptop, a cold cup of tea sat forgotten amidst the middle of it all, half empty with a shallow ring forming on the wood beneath it.

Your eyes were slow to open at the sound of the incessant knocking on your front door and you stretched with a groan, your half asleep mind fumbling to remember if you were expecting company then. The knocking grew louder, faster, and only after determining that the visitor was definitely not going to stop did you throw your legs over the side, the wood cool cool beneath your feet.

You didn’t bother to move a single hair, despite how atrocious your bedhead surely was, and your eyes fought against every instinct to fall back shut and crawl back into your bed as you stumbled to the front door. Whoever it was had the indecency to wake you from your near-coma and as punishment, they would be forced to endure your unkempt state and most likely harrowing morning breath.

You had barely unlocked the bolts when the door flung open, nearly knocking right into you, and the tall dark blur of the consulting detective swept past you into your flat.

“Y/N, you won’t believe what I saw on my way here.”

You blinked at him, your mind suddenly on as high alert as it could be, and you pushed the door shut behind you. He’d yet to even spare a glance in your direction as he rushed through the room like a storm, his hand running along every surface he passed until he plopped unceremoniously to the spot you’d occupied most of the night before. You watched him fumble with the teacup and he took a sip before promptly spitting it back out into the porcelain.

“Gah, it’s cold.”

“Yeah,” you rasped in a tone that called him out for stating the obvious. “It’s been out all night. Why would you just drink from random cups?”

“Not random,” he mumbled, “it was yours. And I love tea. Can we make tea?”

Your arms crossed as the cogs in your head started to turn. Leaning against the arm of your chair, you peered down at him as he begun to flip through the pages of your various textbooks with both hands, eyes flitting wildly from one page to the next as though he could absorb all the different passages simultaneously.

Though, this was Sherlock, so perhaps he could.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

The question went ignored.  

“These are boring.” A look of disgust curled the edges of his lips as he moved on to the other open books spread out, finding nothing of interest in those either. “Why are you reading these, Y/N? They’re so boring.”

“They’re for my classes, Sherlock.”

“You already graduated,” he protested, at last turning those bright blue eyes your way. His brows furrowed. “These aren’t for forensics. Why are you studying anatomy now?”

“I enrolled in a nursing program.”

“Why?”

“Because—because I needed a change.”

“Change is upsetting.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not surprised you would say that.”

“Oh. Oh!” In an instant, he was at his feet once again, all but leaping over the coffee table to cross the room to you. His hands clamped onto your arms and he leaned in, like he often did when he had a breakthrough on one of his cases. “Y/N, you’ll never believe what I saw on my way here.”

“You said that before. So what was it?”

“I was on my way over here and there was a car parked down near Mr. McGillis’s shop—you know the one, with the knives and the clocks?”

“Yes. You took me there two weeks ago on one of your cases.”

“Yes! That one. Well you’ll never believe it but the car—a dog was driving it!”

You cocked your head with a most perplexed expression, one eyebrow raised in disbelief—and not because of his story, but rather the enthusiasm with which he was relaying it.

“I know! Isn’t that the oddest thing?” He let out a burst of laughter and his eyes shined wildly. “Well, of course it wasn’t really driving, but there were two dogs in the front seats and the small one had its paws up on the wheel—here, I have a picture. You have to see!” As he fumbled to reach into his pocket for his mobile, his grip on your arms fell and you took a step away.

“Sherlock.”

His hands abandoned his search and he looked at you once more, a stupid little smile that, in any other circumstance, would have been charming gracing his lips. “Y/N.”

You held out your hand. “Sherlock, give me your list.”

This time, it was he who looked at you in confusion. “My list?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Your list.”

Recognition hit and for a moment, he said nothing.

“I don’t have it,” he lied.

“Yes you do. You always do. Give it here.”

“No.”

“No?”

Like a petulant child, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin.

“If you want it, you have to take it from me.”

You eyed him up and down, reading everything from his posture to his stubborn glare and letting out a resigned sigh, you took a step forward. Your hand slipped into his pocket.

“It’s not in there.”

You glanced at him. “Then wh—“ As your understanding took root, you drew back and glowered. “Sherlock.”

“Go on, love. Take it.”

He was challenging you, his eyes glinting playfully—dangerously—and he pulled the corner of his lip between his teeth with a smirk. You took another step forward as he lifted back the side of his coat and cautiously, as though you could be burned, your fingers slipped into the pressed pocket of his trousers, brushing the crumpled note hidden inside. Before you could pull away, his arms wrapped snugly around you and all but pinned your body against his own, chest and legs and hips pressed firmly together.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned. “Are you always this warm when you’ve just woken up?”

“Sherlock, you’re crushing me.”

His arms loosened ever so slightly but he didn’t let go and he didn’t give you any space to escape from his embrace. It was enough, however, that you could pull your hand out from his pocket, clenching the crumpled paper between your fingers.

“My god,” he groaned again, his deep voice rumbling against your form in a most confusing and pleasant way, “you smell absolutely divine. How is it you always smell so delicious?”

His head dipped and you felt his nose bury into the skin of your neck, into your messy hair, and he hummed against you, sparking tiny shivers that wracked up and down your spine. You were nearly distracted enough to forget the entire purpose of standing so intimately close to him but with how oddly he was behaving, it didn’t stray far from your thoughts. You unfolded the note and did your best to smooth it with the little dexterity your single hand would provide.

As you struggled to see the words from over his shoulder, your eyes widened.

“What the fuck, Sherlock? Ecstasy?”

“It’s fascinating. I can’t believe I’ve never tried it before.”

“Sherlock, why would you take ecstasy?”

For a man who so seldom felt any strong emotions and even rarer still wanted to feel them, it was a most peculiar whim and you found yourself at a loss for words.

“For a case,” he mumbled. His face was still so close to yours, the tip of his nose drawing a delicate path along the line of your jaw. “The victim was drugged at a nightclub and the assumption is that it was the dosage that killed her. Obviously I had to adjust it for my stature.”

In your younger years, you had become well acquainted with it while you were away at university. You were no stranger to its effects or the dizzying euphoria that it created, but seeing that high experienced through Sherlock was jarring and alien to say the very least. You read over the number written out beside the long pharmaceutical name and your eyes widened again.

“I can’t believe you took this much. Jesus Christ—“ you tried to push away but his arms held you against him with alarming strength. “So you, what, figured you would overdose to see if it would kill you?”

“No,” he murmured so softly against your neck. “On the contrary, I’ve never felt so alive. Do people feel like this all the time?”

“When they’re high, yes. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

“And appealing.”

It would have been impossible not to notice the way his firm hands began to slide across your back, fists curling and uncurling in the fabric of your sleep shirt as though it were an instrument he was all too eager to learn.

His breath fanned warmth against the shell of your ear as he gasped your name. “I feel so strange. And you feel so good.”

This was getting to be too much.

“That’s the drugs talking, Sherlock.”

Your hands rose up between you and as they slid over the smooth fabric covering his chest, he let out a moan that once again left you shivering, unsure if it was your body reacting to the proximity of your situation or if it was a thousand tiny alarms setting off at the sound.

“Fuck, it feels so good when you touch me.”

At that, you shoved him back with every ounce of strength in your body. He stumbled on his feet and looked at you in confusion—dare you say dejection—and his lip pulled down into a pout.

“Why did you do that?”

With the distance returned between you, you were able to clear your mind of the strange illusion he’d cast. Your hands fell to your hips, lips pulling into a most unpleasant scowl. “Damnit, Sherlock, how could you be so foolish?”

“Please.” In an extravagant motion, he waved the pesky thought away and his eyes remained locked on your form, raking up and down over and over in a slow way that made you feel far more exposed than you were. “I’ve done much worse than this.”

“Yes, as though I need the reminder.” Your eyes clamped shut and you pinched the bridge of your nose.

What were you going to do with him? How long has it been since you’d had to deal with someone this high on this particular drug—he might as well have taken Viagra with the way he was carrying about. You let out a sigh, mind searching everything you’d read about drug interactions since beginning your studies and everything you knew from before then, scrambling to remember if you had anything useful for the situation at hand.

You had nothing.

You couldn’t think clearly.

Your eyes snapped open, suddenly, when his face was buried into your neck again—only this time, his tongue lapped out, tracing a lazy pattern against your skin up to your ear and before you could properly prepare for it, his lips closed over the sensitive flesh of your lobe, nibbling and pulling and breathing in a way you never—not in a million years—would have expected from him.

“Sherlock.” Your voice was needy, pleading, but whether you were pleading him to stop or to keep going, you hadn’t the foggiest.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he moaned against you. “Softer than velvet. I wonder if you’re this soft everywhere.”

His warm fingers squeezed your fleece-covered thigh, running up and down with enough force to bruise and his other hand had somehow snaked its way underneath your shirt in your momentary distraction, sliding up and up and up along your ribs until he could very nearly—

“Sherlock Holmes, watch your hands!”

You all but jumped away from him, catching yourself on the edge of the chair to keep from falling backwards in the clumsiest way.

Focus. You needed to focus.

The man looked almost as dazed as you were sure you did and his lips were moist and red and if you weren’t so utterly astounded, it would have turned you on like nothing ever had.

Okay, so it did that anyway—

“I’d like to watch my hands touching every inch of you.”

Fuck.

When his lips stretched into a smirk once more, you almost lost it. You stepped around behind the chair and held your hand up, signaling him to stop before your hormones could cloud your judgement.

“Sherlock, stop it. This isn’t you and I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re high as a kite.”

He made that face again—the one that relayed the depths of his confusion, looking a breath away from upset with his bright blue eyes as wide as could be.

“But I want this.”

“Now you do. Tomorrow you’ll regret it.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

He took a step closer, around the side of the chair you hid behind, and your feet mirrored his to keep distance between you.

“No, Sherlock, please. Your not thinking straight. You need to go sleep this off.”

“Sleep is the last thing I need right now.” His voice was the embodiment of pure sex. He took another step and so did you.

“Then go take a shower. I recommend a cold one.”

“I’d be more inclined if you joined me.”

The thought crawled into your mind and made a nest of its own and for a single moment, you thought your feet might betray every rational thought you had and take him up on the offer.

You couldn’t let that happen.

You darted past him in a quick burst and plucked your purse from its spot beside the door.

“No. I—I have to go to work. I’ll be late for my shift.”

Sherlock stared at you, expression unchanged. “No, you’re lying. I may be ‘high as a kite’, as you put it, but I can still read you like an open book. Or open—“

“Nope.” Your voice pitched and you shrugged your purse onto your shoulder. “Not lying. Gotta go.” Your hand twisted the knob. Without sparing a glance back at him, you called out to him over your shoulder. “The towels are under the sink.”

You slammed the door shut behind you and lasted all the way to the stairwell before you fell back against the wall and let out a long-held groan.

What the hell was he doing to you?

Keep reading

my overindulgent take on the 2nd anniversary ssr (playlist) also on ao3

rating: explicit word count: 4488 content: afab reader (gender neutral), first time, very attentive artem wing, oral (both receiving), lots of tension, unprotected "activities"

mdni.

his lips are on yours before you even fully pass the threshold into his apartment, hands fumbling to drop his keys and flip the light on without separating from your skin. you scramble to grab hold of something, settling for his fingers as you ground yourself and press yourself against him, relishing in the sensation of his tongue on your own. your mind is blank, unable to think, unable to do much of anything but respond to the man above you as he steals the breath from your lungs.

“can i... can i push my greed a bit further?” artem’s lips are at your ear, and his voice, a low and husky whisper you’ve never heard from him before, has heat racing down to your core. from all the time you’d spent with him, you’d believed that you’d seen all sides to artem wing. throughout your investigations in the NXX, as well as from being his partner both in work and in romance, you prided yourself on being able to see right through him. but now, with his voice hoarse with lust and his bright blue eyes holding your gaze as though he wants to eat you alive, you realize that you’ve made a grave error in your assumptions.

no, you don’t know all there is to discover about artem. but you’re desperate to become more acquainted.

“you haven’t answered me.”

artem’s voice comes out in a whisper as he takes in your disheveled form, the heave of your chest and the swollen state of your reddened lips, the fact that he is the reason behind your downright sinful appearance. his breathing is heavy and his fingers tremble with exertion as he holds himself back from moving a muscle until he has your permission to do so. but then you’re nodding wordlessly at him, wrapping your arms around his shoulder, and suddenly all else is lost on him.

a shaky moan falls from your lips unbidden as he lowers his head to your neck, his teeth worrying your skin and leaving lovebites in their wake. his fingers tighten their grip on your waist and hold you even closer, his rapid heartbeat seeming to meld with your own. then, abruptly, he’s pulling away with an airy laugh, pressing his forehead to yours.

“what is it?” your voice sounds pathetic even to your own ears.

artem chuckles again. “i.. i’d originally wanted to take this slow with you. to build up to it, i guess. but now..” he lifts his head slightly, gently brushes his thumb over your cheek. “now, i’m not sure if i can.”

his admission nearly knocks the air from your lungs. 

“then.… then don’t.” 

your response is immediate and barely audible, but of course artem hears it. his eyes widen slightly and he silently searches your face for any sign of hesitation, but when he finds none, the corners of his lips turn up into a smile before he presses them almost frantically against yours once more.

you feel yourself being gently guided backwards until there’s the press of a wall against your back, dampened by one of artem’s hands. the other slides down your side to land on your thigh, hiking it upwards until your ankle rested on his hip to provide him the space to slot his leg between yours.

your gasp at the contact quickly morphs into a wanton moan as you process his clothed thigh pressed against your core. he’s resumed his assault along your neck, this time placing sloppy kisses over your sensitive skin, the feeling of his tongue making you shiver as his hand travels towards your chest. he squeezes gently, only enough to get your attention, and only adding more pressure when you tug him closer. he shifts to acquiesce, his leg inadvertently sliding higher underneath you; a foggy and distant part of your brain begins to realize how wet you’re getting and you scramble to warn him: “a-artem mmmh! your.… y-your pants are gonna-“

“leave them.” his tone leaves no room for debate and he clutches you tighter. your mind is reeling, his every move throwing you for a loop with the only thing keeping you afloat being the fingers you have anchored in his hair. your hips begin to buck forward of their own accord, and though you’re embarrassed you can’t seem to stop yourself. artem doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, your reactions almost spur him on, his ministrations becoming more insistent as your movements grow more urgent.

artem’s every touch feels like fire that causes the pressure in your core to build embarrassingly quickly. your voice has devolved into tiny, pitiful whimpers, pitch and volume rising the closer you get to your peak, and when you feel artem’s tongue on the shell of your ear you think you might shatter. but then you notice a dull-but-noticeable strain in your thigh that breaks straight through the haze in your mind. you try to ignore it, to subtly shift into a more comfortable position to not lose grip of the orgasm that was just on the precipice, but your squirming does little to impede the discomfort—

“here, hold on.” artem places a gentle kiss to your temple before pulling away, smiling fondly with a small laugh as you whine in protest of the loss. “your legs are getting tired in this position, right?”

before you have a chance to ponder how the hell he’s always so perceptive, your center of gravity shifts unexpectedly as you’re lifted into the air by artem, his strong arms holding you tightly against his body. you squeal loudly, your arms flying to wrap around his neck.

“i can walk, artem.” you mumble the words into the crook of his neck. “you don’t have to carry me.”

“i know. i want to.”

and so you fall silent as artem quietly carries you bridal style to the bedroom. he places you gently on your feet in front of the bed before turning you around to have view of your back as you feel a gentle touch at the zipper of your dress. the powder blue fabric is gingerly peeled from your frame, followed tentatively by your underwear, until you stand bare before him. you want this, you’re certain of it, but something you can’t explain aloud makes you curl into yourself a bit, makes your arms fly up to cover your chest. his heated gaze runs over your bare shoulders over your back, then gently rests a hand on your shoulder to coax you into facing him once more. when you meet his eyes, he’s smiling softly down at you, a gentle flush of red painted across his cheeks.

“don’t be nervous,” he says gently. “we don’t have to do anything if you’re uncomfortable.”

your heart swells so much you feel it may burst.

“no, i want this,” you say; the words come out steadier than any others you’ve spoken all night. “i want you .” you emphasize the declaration by placing your hands at his waist, yanking the fabric of his shirt from being tucked into his slacks.

he doesn’t need to be told twice.

its unclear when artem shed his jacket, but at least that’s one layer down, leaving him to make quick work of his tie instead. at your insistence, he leaves the task of undressing the rest of his garments to you; such was his honor with you, after all. as you slowly work through the buttons of his dress shirt, you feel a shift in the air that urges you to look up at artem’s face. his blue eyes are hooded as he gazes down at your exposed form, his breathing slightly more labored. you feel your throat go dry from the intensity of his stare and suddenly you’re in a trance, not breaking eye contact with him as your fingers tug at the remaining buttons of his shirt. his fingers twitch beside him as he steels himself once more against the urge to take you into his arms; lacking the same self-restraint, you rush through the final two buttons, hurriedly tugging the garment from his shoulders to allow him to do exactly as he craves.

you reach to free him of his slacks but he instead clutches your face in his hands, crashing his lips to yours with fervor— there will be time for that later, it seems. you’re nearly breathless as he’s pulling away with peppered kisses to your jaw and neck, tongue trailing across your neck as he slides further down your body, committing the taste of your skin to memory. his mouth falls over your breast and you cry out, cradling his face in your hands as you feel your knees buckle a bit, sending you falling backward onto the bed. hands at your back and cradling your head cushion your fall, and after a brief kiss to your lips, artem continues his journey down the path of your body, stopping only once he reaches the apex of your thighs.

you have approximately three seconds to process what’s about to happen, during which you rapidly cycle through the full spectrum of human emotion, and then you feel his tongue timidly slide over your clit, then again with more confidence. your form goes rigid as you keen high in your throat, legs subconsciously inching closed until met with artem’s strong hands. he holds you open as he eats you like a man starved, tongue exploring every inch of you to discover what makes you fall apart the most. your back starts to arch away from the mattress and you reach out with a desperate hand, aiming to take hold in artem’s hair until you pull away almost immediately, scared that you would hurt him. before you manage to pull away completely his hand grabs your wrist, gently returning your fingers to rest at the crown of his head.

the ever-attentive attorney.

you push the guilt back into the recesses of your brain as you clutch artem’s hair like a lifeline, hips rocking against his mouth chasing down the high you’d lost prior. you’re coiled up like a spring, every muscle tensed as you approach your peak, your moans echoing loudly through the room. there’s a gentle prod at your entrance before he coaxes a finger inside you, and a second, somehow knowing exactly how to curl them within you to have you shaking with need.

“a-artem, i-“ you’re so close it hurts, and below you, artem hums his assent, the vibrations against your core drawing a whine from your lips. your eyes fly open and you take in artem’s appearance— the small wisps of hair that cling to a slight sheen of sweat forming on his brow, the alluring shade of crimson dusting his face, and his eyes, staring up at you with an emotion you can’t quite place but feels a lot like wonder. it’s enough to send you hurling over the edge at breakneck speed, curses falling from your lips unrestrained as you jolt sharply in his arms, unable to go far due to his grip on your leg. artem works you through your high, lips and tongue and fingers acting in tandem to milk your pleasure down to the very last drop.

you’re panting by the time he rises from you, for more reasons than one. his hair, assaulted by your grasp, frames his face in disarray, and you can just barely see hints of wetness around his mouth that’s curled into a tender smile as he leans forward to kiss you. marveling in the taste of your arousal on his tongue, you feel an almost carnal desire to please him, to see him as unwound as you felt. so, when he pulls away for air, you mirror what he did to you, trailing your mouth down his torso while occasionally sucking bruises into the delicate skin. you can hear his breath hitch as he puts a hand on your hip, and you use the moment to flip the two of you so that you’re seated atop him. you move your assault lower, and lower, until your gaze level with the gold buckle of his belt. finally you’re able to finish your task and remove the offending garments, very pointedly ignoring the sizable wet spot on the fabric.

and then you pause.

your eyes are locked on the length of him— and length is quite the descriptor. rock hard, almost painfully so, reddened at the tip with a drop of clear liquid threatening to spill over.

right. so that’s what they look like up close.

of course artem once again senses your unease, and tries to cover his embarrassment at being so exposed with an awkward cough. “i- you.. you really don’t have to-“

“i know. i want to.” you flash him a mocking grin, which immediately dissipates when you catch sight of how his chest is heaving already, of the marks on his skin that are starting to bloom from your handiwork.

still, you’re not exactly sure how to go about this. you’ve seen it in porn of course, but doesn’t everyone say that it’s all fake anyway.…? you decide that, like with most things, following artem’s lead is probably the best course of action. you take him into your hands gently before shyly licking a strip from the base to the tip of his length. need begins to pool low in your belly when you hear him inhale sharply, a breath shakily released as he shifts to get more comfortable underneath you. his reaction blesses you with self-assurance and you lean in again, this time wrapping your lips over the tip of him as your tongue glides in gentle circles around him. your reward this time is a soft but very much audible moan alongside a loving hand in your hair. that’s all the encouragement you need.

as you gradually press your way further down artem’s length, you come to learn a number of things. his displays of pleasure aren’t through his voice, though there are moments in which your ears are graced with a soft gasp or broken whimper. instead, artem uses his body. you feel his enjoyment in the twitch of his legs as you manage to slide your warm mouth an inch lower, the jerk of his hips when you learn to hollow your cheeks around him. the fingers at your scalp tighten just once before releasing when you’re finally able to almost take him to the base, as though he desperately wants to hold you still and buck into your mouth with abandon. he’s far too much of a gentleman for that, though, and you’re not quite brave enough to initiate yet, so you settle into a rhythm at your own pace, using his responses as a guide. eventually, you make the fascinating discovery that, even if they’re hard already, some people will stiffen even more right when they’re about to cu-

“w-wait! wait!” a hand is at your jaw before you can move again, gingerly but insistently pulling you up and away from artem’s length. he sounds frantic, eyes wide and skin slick with perspiration. “i didn’t want to.… i was about to.… i-i want..” you hardly hear him over the blood rushing in your ears; you want him so badly the desire threatens to devour you alive.

you lean toward him at the same time he sits up and reaches for you, your lips meeting once again as you place your hands on his shoulders. you’re seated directly on top of him, and artem’s hands fall to your waist, rocking you forward and drawing moans from both of you. rosy crescent moons blossom on his skin as your nails curl into the flesh of his shoulders, the wetness between your legs building with each slide of your hips. he pulls back when your body begins to tremble, gaze desperately searching yours with a silent question, one you can answer with certainty. you nod slowly and artem presses an almost amusingly chaste kiss to your temple before reaching an arm backwards towards the nightstand.

“let me grab a condom,” he says simply; his words are like a record scratch in your brain, filling your stomach with butterflies and your brain with white noise. your hand reaches out to clasp his wrist before you can stop yourself, and you’re unable to meet his eyes when he turns back to look at you.

“i-i mean, we’re already getting married.” you speak so quietly it’s a marvel you can even be heard. “so.. you don’t have to.”

artem says nothing for a while, blinking rather adorably in confusion and shock as he processes your words. he takes a deep breath through his nose, asks you in a quiet voice if you’re sure, to which you assure him that you are. another brief moment of silence, and then he cradles your cheek affectionately.

“alright, if you.… if you’re sure. but there’s something else we need.”

he fumbles around in the bedside drawer before fishing out a small bottle of lubricant. you rise to rest on your knees as he covers himself with it, the quiet hiss he lets out at the contact sending heat straight to your loins, before he places a bit more onto his fingers and reaches for you. not that you feel you need it (you’re already obscenely embarrassed by how drenched you’ve become) but still he makes sure to prepare you, and you certainly aren’t going to refuse letting him touch you again. his hand leaves you far too quickly, but it’s replaced with something different, something stiff and warm and pressing right against your entrance-

it takes all of your willpower and more than a little encouragement from artem to be able to relax when he finally enters you, your whole body going rigid at the foreign intrusion. it’s a tight fit, and there’s no way you can take it all in one go, the stretch already enough to make you wince slightly under your breath. warm hands caress your back as he tries to distract you from the pain, his lips falling gently over your forehead, your nose, your cheeks. 

slowly, you manage to take the majority of him. at first it’s hard to keep air in your lungs and your eyes are tightly scrunched shut, but after a few seconds you’re able to take a deep breath to steady yourself, and the discomfort becomes pretty minimal. to take its place is a pleasure you’ve never known before that licks its way from where your bodies are joined to the top of your head as well as your toes. the flames are fanned even more by artem’s expression, mouth agape as his forehead falls against yours, breathing ragged and heavy.

“you’re okay?” he asks carefully, and you nod almost desperately.

at your approval, he shifts, taking careful hold of your hips as he slides out of you. the drag of him through your walls alone is enough to have your toes curling as you inhale sharply at the unfamiliar feeling. he pulls out until only the tip remains before easing back in inch by inch, the groan you both release in tandem enough to thoroughly embarrass you if you were still lucid enough to care. you’re able to take him to the hilt this time and even though artem wants to give you a moment to adjust you’re immediately asking, begging him to move. you don’t give him time to protest and rock your hips forward, your head flying back as you arch closer into artem’s touch. he takes full advantage and wraps his arms around your waist, mouth finding your collarbone as he begins to thrust upwards into you, holding your legs apart as he becomes mesmerized gazing at the area where your bodies meet.

you realize that you were wrong before— artem may not have been vocal initially, but he sings for you now. he flips you to your back once he notices your legs getting tired, and the salacious groan he gifts you when he enters you again after the readjustment is so sweet you nearly melt into the mattress. a distant part of you feels guilty over the scratches you’re sure will be littered across his back tomorrow, but you can’t help it as he presses into you again and again, stretching you open. you swear you can feel each fervent thrust all the way in your throat as your back bends up towards him; he makes use of the position by running his tongue over your nipple, nibbling at the perky bud and sending a shiver down your spine. 

you feel yourself being repositioned, your pelvis being tilted the slightest bit higher, before he’s pounding into you again. he’s so much deeper at this angle, hitting a spot within you that makes you will yourself not to scream, a plan that’s shattered the moment artem presses his thumb to your clit. you feel delirious as your cries join his in rapturous chorus.

“artem, i-i’m gonna-” your voice shakes when you try your best to warn him.

he can’t even respond, collapsing over your form as he chases his high along with yours, his fingers finding yours and lacing them together. his mouth falls to your ear and he speaks like he’s reciting a mantra, sounding utterly wrecked with his soft whispers about how perfect you are, how lucky he is, how grateful he is…

it’s all more than you can take.

your brain is blind to all but artem’s name as you come a second time, even more like a freight train than the first, electric shocks traveling through your body. your hips buck wildly out of your control, chest heaving as your lungs struggle to maintain any oxygen you take in. artem chokes out a gasp when you tighten around him, his hips stuttering and his fingers pressing almost painfully into your skin. his head settles into the crook of your neck as he finally peaks himself, any noises being muffled into your shoulder. you whimper as he spills thickly into you, the sensation of him twitching inside you making your toes curl as your body shakes from the aftershocks. once you both come down from the cliff, you each have to take a moment to collect yourselves, and the room, now only filled with the sounds of rapid breathing, suddenly feels entirely too quiet.

artem is the first to speak. “i didn’t hurt you, did i?”

“no, i’m fine.” you comb your fingers through his hair comfortingly and grin at your fiancé. fiancé . “better than fine.”

“good. then hold on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“huh- w-wait, artem! ”

there’s no time for you to relax before artem’s lifting you into his arms again, this time heading in the direction of the bathroom. he places you gently in the shower, the cool tile like heaven for your flushed skin, and steps in behind you before busying himself with turning on and adjust the water.

“are you going to carry me everywhere from now on?” you mumble, pouting slightly with embarrassment.

artem chuckles, pauses in his task as he leans forward and leaves a lingering kiss on your shoulder. “indulge me for tonight?”

there’s a sense of elation in his tone that spreads warmth through your bones, any attempts at being stubborn instantly quelled on your tongue. you don’t even deny him the honor of being able to bathe you, resting your head against his shoulder as he massages body wash into your skin, firm hands working the warmth of the water into your muscles. you hear him grab a washcloth that he uses to scrub your skin clean. it’s incredibly relaxing, and you don’t mean to turn to more indecent thoughts, but it’s hard to hide the sharp gasp as you feel artem’s hands travel over the swell of your ass, nails gently scraping against you as he brushes the cloth across your skin. your inner turmoil only increases when he kneels behind you, washing the backs of your legs with the cloth so tantalizingly close to where you want it most, though it never reaches.

when artem stands again you’re fighting to keep your breathing level, your hands in rigid fists at your sides. he reaches around you to wash your front, pouring more body wash into his hands. he presses the cool gel into your collarbones, fingers dancing over the delicate skin, and you feel a tickle at your ear as he leans over your shoulder to observe his work. you bite your lip as he reaches your chest, the duality in the feeling of his hand and the texture of the washcloth enough to make your brain as foggy as the glass that surrounds you.

“a-artem?”

“hmm?”

“where did you- how did you learn to do all this?”

no response from behind you as the hands on your torso freeze, and when you chance a look in his direction, you can see the hints of pink coloring his ears under his hair.

“i’ve…researched.”

you blink.

“r-researched?”

more silence aside from the water hitting your skin. for a moment you forget what’s happening and giggle in spite of yourself.

“i must say i’m surprised, mr. wing.” you turn your head to face him, curl a strand of his hair around your fingers. “tell me, what did this research of yours entail- ah! ”

your teasing dissolves into a startled moan as artem’s free hand suddenly travels down your body to your core, rubbing soft circles around your clit with two slender fingers. he’s watching you now, heated gaze burning into yours as your words die unceremoniously behind your lips; likely for the best, as you won’t turn down another demonstration instead.

——

artem wakes far earlier than you and he gently pries himself from your dreaming form, smiling fondly at your unconscious protest at the separation. satisfied when your breathing evens out, he leaves the bed and grabs the piles of clothes strewn about the room, padding across the apartment to the bathroom to throw the laundry into the machine.

his face grows uncomfortably warm as he spots the stain on the leg of his pants. a part of him admonishes himself for behaving so impulsively, for forgoing all of the plans he’d carefully laid in a single moment of weakness. but then he remembers what he received as a result: the sound of your cries, the feeling of your body under his hands, the look of bliss on your face when he—

best not to continue down that train of thought.

instead, he smiles as he considers you now, his own tiny fragment of forever nestled in his bed, the ring that now adorns your left hand.

artem wing is not a man to often rely on luck, but now? he’s certain he’s the luckiest man alive.

WHAT ARE YOU THE GOD OF, AGAIN?

feat: Lucifer (1182) ∻ Mammon (1748) ∻ Leviathan (1315) synopsis: turns out, fallen angels can have more than one sin. cw: afab!reader | overstimulation (f!receiving), squirting (if you squint); servicedom!Lucifer, oral (f!receiving), some sacrilegious connotations (heavy in Lucifer's, but they're literally a fallen angels though so that should probably go without saying) | implied nsfw; confessions; pretty tame, actually, it’s mostly just heavy-petting and fluff and i swear i tried to make it slutty but we’re in our ~feels~ with Mams today | oral (m!receiving); soft!Levi (but not sub!Levi); kinda bimbo!reader; kinda collaring but ~stylish~ | a/n: check the bottom for links to the other brothers+undateables on this theme, coming soon to a theater near you

∻ Lucifer ↠ p r i d e   ⤲   g r e e d

As the avatar of pride, LUCIFER knows a thing or two about confidence. After all, to be proud is to feel deep pleasure at one’s achievements, and you’d be hard-pressed to name a single thing Lucifer ever wanted that he hasn’t achieved.

But there is nothing–nothing–in heaven or hell or any realm between that gives him more pride than you.

Your sweet laugh, your infectious smile, the way your eyes close when you’re so fucked you nearly forget how to breathe… every piece of you makes him feel alive in ways he never thought possible; a startling truth he’s reminded of every time you say his name. A hard truth he can no longer pretend to loathe when he’s between your legs, coaxing out your third orgasm of the day, your hands knotted in his dark hair and voice weakly repeating his name like a prayer.

Lu-ci-fer.

Each syllable slow and broken, but there–there, for him, because of him. Not Mammon, or Diavolo, or that other wretched human–him.

It’s the only prayer he’d ever grant. God may have made you, but Lucifer has claimed you, and he will spend every day for the rest of eternity proving that. You are his, and not in the way Mammon is his to torture or he is Diavolo’s to command or Satan is the very flesh from his bone; no, you are his because you chose him.

Who wouldn’t be proud of that? Who wouldn’t want to spend their days on their knees, worshiping every crevice of your perfect body, pulling every sinfully hedonistic sound and look and quiver from you–you, the one who changed everything without even trying. Who would ever be so stupid as to think they could have had enough of you?

You could have anyone in the devildom at your altar, but you choose him to be your disciple. And he reminds you why for the third time that night, dragging his gloved fingers slowly in and out of your drenched cunt, his sharp nose rubbing against your clit as your legs shake on either side of his head. “Just like that, my love,” he murmurs into your fluttering core. “Keep saying my name. Be a good girl and give me another, and I’ll let you cum on my cock next.”

You struggle to catch your breath, barely able to keep your chest upright enough to try and lock eyes. Lucifer’s dark gaze meets yours, a smirk tugging on his lips when you start to tremble from a brief puff of hot air against your sensitive clit. You’re not sure if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away when your fingers dig into his scalp but damn it all, the only thing your body is capable of doing is moaning each syllable of his name like it’ll be the last thing you ever say.

“P–please, Lu–Luci–I just want–you–”

He slaps your clit, but it’s the way he chuckles at how your body spasms that sends shivers down your spine. “Is this not enough?” His face hovers over your folds, thumbs gently spreading you apart. “Aren’t my fingers and tongue good enough for you?”

He asks as if he wouldn’t spend the rest of your life between your legs; as if the mere act of giving you pleasure hasn’t made a mess of his own pants once or twice already; as if he weren’t the one watching you with pleading eyes, a look of barely-veiled desperation begging you to let him keep worshiping you.

Your lower lip trembles, and your initial protest of, “s’not the same–” is drowned out by an obscene moan as Lucifer plunges his tongue inside you completely. A thumb continues to rub at your clit, and faster than you thought possible, your thighs are clenching the demon’s face. If he’d been a normal man, he wouldn’t have had the strength to keep your hips pinned with one hand and a steady pressure on your clit with the other, while simultaneously pulling away enough so your liquids completely cover his lower chin and blissed-out smile–but Lucifer is not a normal man.

He is a demon, and demons take what they want… and he wants you. Now, and tomorrow, and for the rest of his existence. To be on his hands and knees, servicing you, pleasing you– 

Never has he felt like this before. Never has he felt so helpless, so weak, so–human. 

It’d make him furious, if it wasn’t for the fact that you hoarsely whisper his name, kiss-swollen lips sounding holier than any saint. If it wasn’t for the way your hand finds his, fits in his, holds his so gently, as if you’re afraid he might be the one to break, not that he’d broken you.

“Good girl.” Lucifer stands and kisses your sweat-slick forehead. Humans, he thinks in equal parts disgust and reverence. So… fragile.

Your eyes flutter in exhaustion but stubborn refusal at missing a single second with your lover; drenched in sweat, breathing as if you’d just run a marathon. Weak, and fragile, and human, and–he needs you. He needs you, now, and tomorrow, and forever, but if he didn’t get you right this second, there would be hell to pay.

So despite knowing your body can’t handle much more, he unzips his pants, gently stroking your inner thigh to try and relax you for what’s to come. “I knew you could do it, my love. Do you want your reward?”

Eyes still closed, you nod instantly. Hands already lifting from the bed and reaching for him, weakly trying to sit up so you can provide him even just a fraction of the pleasure he’d been providing you. “Ah!” Lucifer slaps your hand away, gently stroking his leaking cock as he settles between your legs once more. “Use your words. Do you want your reward?”

“Yes,” you breathe, settling back on your forearms and forcing your body to awaken as you watch your lover with giddy anticipation. “Lucifer, please, please, I want–I want you inside me–”

With a growl, Lucifer bends over you, catching a leg and hitching it over his hip. The mewl of desperation you let out when he hesitates nearly makes him cum on the spot. 

“You’re a desperate little thing tonight, aren’t you?” he coos mockingly, gently stroking your face before he grips your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. Your hand catches his wrist, increasing pressure to match his, until you’re writhing beneath him–made all the worse by the heat you can feel from his cock, but not him. “That’s alright, my love. I’ll give you what you want. Just one more, alright? I have work to do.”

It won’t be the last. You know it, he knows it, probably even God knows it–but that doesn’t matter. Not when you feel like heaven, not when you pull him close and tell him over and over and over that you need more, you need him, Lucifer please–

Maybe his father was right. Maybe not all humans are bad–maybe some of them are worth serving, after all.

∻ Mammon ↠ g r e e d    ⤲   s l o t h

If anyone were asked who the greediest one in all of the Devildom was, it would unanimously be considered MAMMON. It is his sin, after all; he is the physical embodiment of excessive desire, and just as Beel’s appetite for food knows no bounds, Mammon’s cravings for material things is equally limitless.

So why is it you who can’t get enough?

You’d gone to Mammon’s room earlier with the copy of notes he’d asked for. It started out innocent enough; you knocked, he let you in, then he begged you to stay and help him study. It was like every other day, from the way he sat so close to you on the couch that his thigh was flesh against yours and how he managed to barter correct answers for kisses, and today, like every other day, you found yourself settled comfortably in his lap, arms lopped around his neck as you read off questions from the last multiple choice quiz he’d failed. 

The only difference seemed to be in how Mammon was getting an unusually large number of questions right.

“If I didn’t know better,” you laugh breathlessly as Mammon trails his lips up the hollow of your neck, “I’d say you’ve been studying.”

“‘Course I’ve been studying,” he murmurs, hot air tickling the sensitive skin below your jaw, “whaddya call this?”

“Fun,” you tease, pulling back to cradle the white-haired demon’s face. “And I believe you’re the one who said studying could never be fun–”

“Stand corrected,” Mammon huffs, immediately diving forward to capture your lips once more. His hands roam down to your hips, where he squeezes the flesh gently. Feeling emboldened, you rock your hips, then giggle when Mammon’s forced to pull back from your kiss with a groan so low, it rattles your bones. “Studyin’ is fun. S’long as it’s with you, though.”

You laugh and lightly kiss his lips. “Good answer.”

Once, twice, then on the third, one of Mammon’s hands darts up to your head and holds you in place. His lips, so soft against yours, so sweet on yours, move slowly. Gently, he parts yours with his, and as his fingers start to twine in your hair, he dips his tongue in.

This kiss is like no other the two of you have shared… and you’ve shared a lot. The quick, chaste ones when you first began this arrangement; the teasing, smirking ones he’d steal when he got an answer right you’d expected to be wrong; the open, messy ones that were almost more moan and spit than actual lips and air and inevitably led to someone’s shirt being ripped off; the gentle, caring ones on exposed shoulders or foreheads at the end of your “study” sessions that, somehow, so slowly you didn’t even notice, became more intimate than the way he filled you perfectly.

But this… this kiss was somehow all the old yet something new, all at once. It was deep, and not just in the way he sucks on your tongue but how he pulls you in to him, fingertips pressing into your skin as if he couldn’t get close enough–not that you mind, as you wrap a hand around the back of his head and try to bridge the very atoms of space between you. His lips move slowly, his air warm but fresh as he doesn’t even pull away to breathe; instead letting you be the one to give him life. His palms, large and slender on your frame, slowly travel over your body, from the base of your spine to cradling your cheek, and then he pauses. He pulls back. He rests his forehead against yours, wipes a thumb across your cheek, and breathily laughs. “You’re so–beautiful, ya know that? Prettiest treasure I’ve ever seen.”

And how are you supposed to respond to that? To being flattered by the Avatar of Greed, who’s notorious for never being satisfied; to being kissed like you mean something to him, to your first, to who you hope to be yours forever–to the growing dread in your heart that one day, likely soon, the Avatar of Greed will want more than you can give, and he’ll leave you.

And yet–every time you try to speed things up, try to hastily slacken his tie or unbutton your shirt and try to remind him why he should stay, stay now and stay forever, his hands catch yours. “Not yet,” he whispers, and when you whine in protest, he merely starts to kiss you like that again.

Like you’re what he cherishes most in the world. Not his gold, his clothes, or his car–but you. And you always would be.

“Mammon,” you breathe into his lips, “please.”

“Not… yet,” he answers. His hands trail along your sides, lightly bunching your shirt before letting the material fall as he cradles your face. You catch his wrists and pull back from his kiss with a pout.

“Why not? Don’t you want me?”

Mammon has the audacity to laugh. “Are ya serious? Can’t you tell?” He snaps his hips up, chuckling at the harsh intake of air you suck in when his cock, straining hard against the zipped fabric of his uniform, slides against your clit. “‘Course I want ya, silly girl. I want ya s’bad, makes me stupid.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his chest, only for Mammon to catch your wrists, keeping you pinned against him. “Evidently not, since we’ve spent all this time studying.”

Mammon shakes his head, his smile soft and contagious as he leans towards you. “Ya know what they say, precious… practice makes perfect.” 

His lips silence whatever snappy retort you don’t have time to conjure, and instead, you lose yourself in him. In the way his lips move in tandem with yours; the way his hand presses between your shoulder blades, arching your back into his chest; the way his eyelashes flicker against your cheek every so often; and the low way he whispers your name when you try gyrating your hips against his.

“Ya tryin’ to be the end of me or somethin’?” he drawls in exasperation, resting both palms on your hips to still your movements. He rests his forehead against yours, staunchly avoiding your gaze as he keeps you still.

“I’m tryin’ to get laid,” you drawl back, dragging your fingers down Mammon’s wide shoulders to rest on his abs–just the way you know he likes. “I thought–that’s what you wanted?” Mammon tenses, and you pull away. Your hands come up to grab his chin, forcing him to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, and despite not protesting at the way you move his body, his eyes refuse to meet yours. “Mammon? Isn’t… that why you invited me? To fuck?”

He holds out for precisely 1.4 seconds, before his eyes flick to yours and he loses all composure. “Yeah,” he admits, and he doesn’t know whether to be encouraged or heartbroken at the way you seem to be able to breathe again. “But–”

He pauses. He watches your eyes widen, he feels the air catch in your throat, and then he watches your neck remain still. One heartbeat; two heartbeats; three heartbeats–

“Jus’... wanna take my time with ya today, s’all.”

There’s something more desperate about the way he sucks on your neck now, something that has you squirming and moaning and pulling his head back before just the feeling of his lips on your skin makes you unravel.

“What’s so special about today?”

Mammon shakes his hair free of your grasp and latches onto your neck again. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close. “Nothin’. Somethin’. Dunno, jus’... jus’ realized somethin’. S’nothin’.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing…” you tease, rather enjoying this secretive side of him. “Doesn’t feel like nothing, either.” With a pointed roll of your hips, Mammon lets out a groan, and he bites your neck in retaliation. Just a little nip; not enough to break skin, but enough to bruise. Enough to leave a mark that won’t fade for a few days, at the very least.

The first mark he’s ever left.

“Mammon!” you scold, but it lacks bite; especially when the white-haired demon meets your gaze while licking a soft stripe along the already-bruising skin before pressing a gentle kiss on the most tender spot.

“Like it when ya say my name,” he responds, pressing kisses all the way up to your lips. “Like it better when ya moan it.”

So you do; over and over and over, even though he does nothing besides kiss you. Occasionally, he’ll bounce his leg; and occasionally, he’ll let his hands roam to cover your breasts, teasing your painfully erect nipples briefly before trailing back to your hips; but that’s all.

“I think I like whatever it is you’ve realized,” you say when the two of you finally break apart. Your breath is heavy in the air, chest heaving as fingers trail up and down Mammon’s still-clothed chest. 

Mammon smiles. “You don’t even know what it is.”

You hum in agreement, then laugh. “Don’t have to. Not if it means you’ll keep kissing me like that.”

Meeting Mammon’s gaze makes your heart do funny things. Both rapidly beating and seizing at once, shrinking four sizes but growing so large it might burst; making you feel so full, so complete that it just slips out before you can even think to catch it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Time freezes. The weight of the world hits like an ice bath, and it’s all you can do to close your eyes. Your fingers knot in Mammon’s shirt, and you try to memorize the way the fabric feels; the softness from his detergent, the heat emanating from his chest beneath, the steady pulsing of his heartbeat, the rough callouses of his fingers as they wrap around your wrists–

“Hate to one-up ya, precious, but I know I’m in love with ya,” he says, and time comes crashing down. “S’what I realized today, and s’why I wanna take my time with ya tonight, and s’why I’m gonna spend every day by yer side, doin’ whatever ya want, s’long as you let me–”

The rest of his confession is cut off by your lips, but for once, Mammon doesn’t mind being interrupted. Not if it means he can take his time with you tonight and prove to you that an eternity of him by your side is something to be certain of.

∻ Leviathan ↠ e n v y ⤲ p r i d e

LEVIATHAN thought he knew what pride was. He thought it was the feeling he gets when he finds a rare Ruri-chan doll that they stopped manufacturing decades ago and he has the highest bid, or maybe when he beats a tournament he spent all weekend holed up in his room competing in, or maybe even accurately translating the hidden chapters of TSL that appeared after seven years of radio silence.

But none of that comes close to the way he feels right now; to the way his heart threatens to burst in his chest as you softly lick the underside of his heavily erect cock, tits threatening to burst over the top of your maid uniform, remnants of his last orgasm still glimmering on your breasts.

“What’s wrong, Leviachan?” you ask, sweetly popping off his cock and lazily flicking your wrist. “You look flustered.”

Levi lets out a pitiful whine and sinks lower in his gaming chair. A hand reaches out to knot in your roots, guiding your mouth back to where he desperately needs you. “D-don’t tease,” he tries commanding, but the way his voice cracks gives him away. “This is–this was your idea, remember?”

And it was; it always is. Because even though it makes Leviathan’s heart so full to see you on your knees for him, it never happened because of him. You decided when the best time to suck him off is; and like your perfect plaything, Leviathan always let you. He could never say no to you, his pride and joy. His favorite collectible; the only one of your kind.

It irritates him, a little. The fact that you hold this much power over him. The fact that you can show up in a trench-coat while he’s in the middle of beating his latest video game (a puzzle game, one that requires complete concentration or you have to restart from scratch), and with a simple unknotting of a belt and ring of a bell, have him wrapped around your finger.

If it wasn’t the maid outfit you wore beneath your coat, it was the fluffy handcuffs you attached to his wrists before sinking to your knees that rendered him speechless; and if it wasn’t the way you sunk to your knees, nuzzling your cheek against his thigh and batted your pretty eyelashes as you begged your Leviachan to help you feel good that broke him, it was seeing the dainty choker spelling out his name in silver letters along your throat.

His release had splattered over your chest before he could even process what he was looking at, and by the time his mind caught up to his body, you were already suckling at his flushed cockhead once more.

Leviathan’s wrists yank weakly against the handcuffs as his hand travels from your scalp to where the lowlight of his gaming console illuminates the silver letters dangling against your throat. His heart stalls as he hooks his index finger around the chain, and a throaty giggle slips out your lips as he yanks you forward with just his finger.

No, he wasn’t imagining it when he came; that really is his name, adorning your body, for all the Devildom to see.

“M-mine?”

With a smile, you nod. A smaller hand wraps around Leviathan’s slender wrist, and your press a kiss to the pulsepoint just within. “M’all yours, Leviathan. Figured the others should know, too.”

The handcuffs were just for show–or if they weren’t, they are now, because Leviathan snaps them with ease. He stands roughly, stumbling slightly as his pants catch around his ankles. His grip on your neck never falters as he raises you with him, then tugs you backwards on top of him as he collapses on the floor.

“Need you,” he mutters through feverish kisses, plastered messily all over your face and neck. His hands fumble with your get-up, and although you laugh when he rips the material clean off your body, your whine of, “Levi, that was expensive–” causes him to nip your ear.

“I’ll buy you another.”

He doesn’t even both removing your skirt–if that’s what that sliver of material could be called, anyway. It barely hides your ass, pooling atop your thighs in the place he wishes his hands to go. With the fluffy handcuffs, now broken, still decorating each write like cotton candy bracelets, Leviathan lifts the pads of his fingers to your mouth. Obediently, your lips part and you lick them slowly, tongue wrapping around each digit like it had just been lapping at his cock.

Leviathan whines. He flips you on your back, hovering over you as your own hands messily unbutton his shirt, lips meeting in a sticky conglomeration of spit and desperate pleas to feel each other. His spit-slicked fingers are gentle compared to the ferocity with which he kisses you, stroking between your folds before dipping in, catching your release and spreading it along your clit.

“All for me… right, baby?” Leviathan pants as he pistons one finger in and out of your gummy walls. “All dressed–dressed up for me, all wet–all wet for me–”

“Yes,” you mewl, “for–for you, Levi–only for you!”

That’s all it takes for Leviathan to lose the last of his composure. He slides into you without warning, filling you to the brim. The breath is knocked loose from your lungs, and the way Leviathan is quick to cover your lips with his, swallowing any further moans or whimpers of his name.

He pulls back when he feels your walls fluttering around him. Your heels dig into the small of his back, pressing his hips even deeper into you–as if that was possible. As if Levi hadn’t taken advantage of every single second to be buried as deep as possible within you. 

Tenderly, Levi brushes some of your sweat-slicked hair out of your face, and even more careful, he presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, right above where his name sits pretty. “You look so pretty… is this because of me, b-babe? You look all pretty b-because I make you f-feel this way?”

You nod desperately, carding your fingers through his silky purple locks. “All–all ‘cause of–of you, Levi–”

That’s all it takes to push him over the edge, and with him–you. You come undone around him, meekly burying your moans into the taut muscle of his bicep as the world briefly fades to white.

Levi is filled with that feeling again; the one that makes his chest seem too small. The one that causes all sounds but your staggered breathing to fall away, and all sights but the one of your flushed cheeks and lovesick smile and fluttering lashes disappear to darkness, and all feeling but the sensation of you snuggling into his chest feel as foreign as the human world. 

He may be a shut-in, he reasons as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck. He may be an otaku, and awkward, and you might be able to do a hell of a lot better than him–but he did this. He makes you do bold things, like wear a maid outfit under your coat all day just to tease him, or bring handcuffs you know can’t hold him just to see if he’ll listen, or make the absolute prettiest sounds he’s ever heard in his life. He makes you feel better than you’ve ever felt, and that makes him feel good.

“Never,” you promise–and just like that, the heart Levi didn’t think could get any fuller grows two sizes.

Really good.

Good enough to start pressing light kisses up your neck, teeth catching on your new silver chain, hand gently trailing along your side. “D-don’t forget that,” he says through grit teeth. You link your fingers with his, slowly parting your legs to reallow him entrance. “I make you feel good, right? M-me. Don’t–don’t ever forget that.”

| Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor | Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon |

A Ruined Otaku

Warnings: Dom, Degradation (light), Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: i wanna make Levi cry (also just one oro for him!! I forgot to add the second:(()

-

Leviathan is many things. The third born. The Avatar of Envy. An angel turned demon. A Grand Admiral. He can summon an old creature, scales embedded with everything lost to the sea and kill with a simple squeeze of his hand. He’s something old and powerful, a minimalist body to hold the power and horror that resides. Leviathan, is an old demon, scales and teeth, thirsty for blood and poisonous to the mind, and yet, with all the power and title that he carries, he still lays beneath you, legs spread and cock oozing with semen, a gag shoved in his mouth- a simple makeshift of your underwear that was stained with arousal- soaked with his own drool as tears form in his eyes like dew that forms under the bright moon of Devildom. His hands are clawed into the cheap fabric of the small bed- a futon, if he was to be more specific- the fabric ripped and stuffing fluffing out of the sheet. 

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Hello Rosh, I hope you're doing well :) for the kinktober I'll like to go for number 6 with Simeon + fem reader! Thank you so much! Also I just wanna let you know that I've always enjoyed reading your works ♥️

Overstimulation With Simeon + Fem! Reader

Simeon once said he wouldn't mind falling if it were for you.

The angel was willing to fall if it meant he could love freely, and bare himself to you; mind, body and soul. He does the same now, letting himself indulge in the pleasures of the flesh with you, utterly vulnerable and so wholly in love.

And now that he's had a taste, Simeon finds it hard to not give you his everything.

“S-Simeon, it's too m-much!”

You whine, legs trembling under the angel's movements as he thrusts inside you, utterly rough and deep. You've already cum thrice, and even then Simeon's intent on bringing you on the brink of pleasure again and again. He's relentless, snapping his hips to meet your's, the sound lewd, and not something you'd associate with an angel like him.

But he's always been full of surprises, and that undying devotion for you.

The angel halts his movements, until what's left is both your sighs and huffs, and Simeon inspects your form, eyes trailing in the fear that he's hurt you.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, gaze fixated on your face, carefully searching for any signs of discomfort.

“No,” You rasp out, finally having got an opportunity to catch your breath from.tbe overstimulation. “Want to feel you,” You attempt to widen your legs further, your cunt messy with your combined fluids. “Want you to fuck me.”

Simeon chuckles softly, leaning to press his lips onto yours, sliding back inside—picking up the pace from where he left off. When a thumb comes to rub at your clit, you moan at the extra stimulation, and the angel takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss further.

He's certainly grown bolder.

“Mhmmph!” You cry into his mouth, still sensitive from previous orgasms, and the angel grabs your hand when you attempt to reach your nether regions. Intertwining it with his own fingers, he presses into you, a moan escaping when you clench around him.

Simeon leans back, thrusting harder into you. Hair clings to his forehead, and yet, in such a lewd act he still looks as angelic as ever.

His thumb never leans your clit. A spot he's abused many times—the angel knows the ways to bring you to the throes of pleasure. Simeon feels as if he's your devotee, worshipping you like you were always meant to be. Two fingers, slick with your arousal slide into your mouth, muffling the whines and gaps that spill past your lips.

“It's too much! I—I,” The words die in your throat as another sob wrecks your body, now your fourth orgasm for the night. Simeon feels it in the way you clench around him, and he stops, revelling in the moment.

When he looks at your hand for any signal, he finds none.

"Safeword, MC?"

"G-Green," You gasp out, and Simeon is back to his relentless ministrations, snapping his hips into yours with renowned vigour, intent on you making you write under him as long as he pleases.

"S-So sinful," He mutters, the sound nearly drowned out by his movements. “Such a sinful human you are, t-tempting an angel.”

And yet Simeon thrusts harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he abuses your clit further. Slow, tortures circles—driving you wild.

Your love is something his angelic heritage won't allow him, but Simeon has never been a strict follower of rules. They're made to be broken, after all.

And what is one more sin, if only to love?

Masterlist

BTS

Jin (Kim Seokjin)

The Man in the Pink Cape - 01  02  03  04  05  06  07  08  09  10  [Completed]

Ad Infinitum 

Backstage Passes

Base to Base

Bold

Best of Me

Yoongi (Min ‘Suga’ Yoongi)

Aberrations - Playlist || 01  02  03  04  05  06  07  08  09  10 || Drabbles || Read on AO3  [Completed] 

Accounting Afterglow

Amour Propre || Blind Spot

Behind the Stick

Bankshot

JHope (Jung ‘Hobi’ Hoseok)

Absinthe - 01  02  03  04  05  06  07  08  09  Epilogue  [Completed]

Accendo

BADLANDS - 01

Blackout

Bold

Namjoon (Kim ‘RM’ Namjoon)

Asylum - 01  02  03  04  05  06  07  08  09  Epilogue  || Read on AO3  [Completed]

Anarchy

Boketto

By the Book

Jimin (Park Jimin)

Alchimia - Letter || Orientation || Prologue  01  02

Agent Provocateur

Bells and Roses

Blackthorn Creek || Moodboard

Taehyung (Kim ‘V’ Taehyung) 

Ambrosia - 01  02

AGL

Adulation

Achilles Heart (ft. Jungkook) - Prologue  01  02  03

Bach Bencher

Jungkook (Jeon Jungkook)

Azure - 01  02  03

Azaleas

Achilles Heart (ft. Taehyung) - Prologue  01  02  03

Babesitter

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

All Rights Reserved. © RandomBTSPrincessa.

magic in your fingertips || jjk

⇢ summary: growing up with jeon jungkook at hogwarts includes many things: awkward first impressions, potion spills, invigorating quidditch matches. but most of all, it means you never, ever get to be top of the class, and you will never forgive him for it. (hogwarts au/childhood rivals to lovers au)

⇢ genre: fluff with a sprinkle of angst

⇢ word count: 9.33k

⇢ note: there are two things i love most in this world: jeon jungkook and harry potter. this is the result. features quidditch player!jungkook and best friends!tae and jimin. enjoy!!

[year one]

You are eleven years old when Jeon Jungkook begins to thoroughly ruin your pitiful, magical little life.

Hogwarts is something akin to a home to you already, and it’s only been a single day since the whimsical, ancient castle walls have claimed you as one of their own. The moment that a dusty, talking wizard’s hat sat atop your head and deemed you a member of your beloved house only occurred twenty four hours ago as well, but it feels as though it’s been centuries, as if you’ve always belonged to this beautiful school full of wizardry. You can still hear Professor Dumbledore’s words echoing in the back of your mind, bidding you all goodnight and wishing you a happy school year.

And here you are now, bright-eyed and giddy, in your final class of the very first day: Potions. You’re seated towards the very front of the classroom, quill and parchment out for your newest teacher to see that you are going to take their class seriously. It’s more than a bit strange to you that wizards and witches use quills—long, feathered instruments that you were to dip into ink—instead of pens like you’d previously done in your Muggle school, but, nonetheless, you are determined to make this school year your own and learn everything you possibly can. Even as other first years nervously bounce their legs beneath their desks and glance at the daunting professor slamming the front door open, there is nothing in your young mind that can stand in the way between you and a fantastic first impression.

The Potions professor is a tall man with long, charcoal-colored hair and a hooked nose, and he begins the lesson in one of the most startling manners you’ve ever experienced: by instantly demanding you all open your textbooks to page 126, select a partner, and begin making a hiccupping potion. With no roll call and no wonderful display of magic surging forth from his wand, he does absolutely nothing your previous professors have done to ease you into the way they conduct their class. Only these instructions are muttered from his monotonous voice, and the rest of the first-years immediately shoot up from their seats and scramble around to search for a seemingly intelligent partner.

You are still sitting in the front, mouth hanging open at the professor’s completely inappropriate introduction, when someone taps your shoulder. Spinning around in your seat, you wind up face-to-face with a boy who has the largest brown doe eyes you’ve ever seen.

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—CYBΞRSΞX (TEASER #1)

pairing. jeon jungkook | female reader | [_]

genre & au’s. smut, humor / camgirl!reader, camboy![_], rich boy!jjk, my neighbor is a cam girl au 

words. 710

warnings. (vague) mentions of masturbation & sex, dick & porn talk, not too much action since this is a teaser ;)  [nc-17]

notes. gosh i’m so excited for this fic!! i hope you guys will enjoy reading it as much as i’ve enjoyed writing it <33 feedback is much appreciated!!

[teaser #1] ♡ [teaser #2]

teaser synopsis. the first time jungkook finds his neighbor’s cybersex account.

It’s late into the night when Jungkook stumbles across your video.

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Taehyung: *might feel slightly uncomfortable or scared*

Jungkook: Wait.. hold my beer

for @jung-koook​  💜 

Jeon Jungkook, Behind Run! BTS Episode 108