My Overindulgent Take On The 2nd Anniversary Ssr (playlist)also On Ao3

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.

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

── 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.

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. 

Keep reading

❝ 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,

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.”