mattymattymerduck

[mattymattymerduck]

❝ 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,

#holy FUCK #geto suguru #jjk rec

[mattymattymerduck]

I've been seeing some no nut November posts about Gojo and I've been overtaken by the thought because while I'm certain he's obsessed with you and he wouldn't dream of going a month without marking you as his own, his God complex would completely take over.

I bet when Geto or Yuuji dare him to last a month he hesitates, because how easy would it be to act like he's following all the rules and be completely desperate to have you (he always is, even if it's just moments after you've cum around him and he's consumed by the ache of it all), he can't help but hold himself to the standard he always has - he has to prove that he's the best.

And he's the pinnacle of self control even with his childish tendencies so yeah, he's not allowed to cum for the month but that doesn't mean YOU can't cum for a month. And if he can't find satisfaction in his own body you'd better believe he's going to pull twice the amount of pleasure out of you to compensate.

The frustration makes him just a little bit harsher with you, pressing your hips down on his thigh hard to make you grind down, holding your chin tightly when you stutter and sputter about how close you are, about how much you miss being filled up by him as he all but growls at you to be a good girl and cum extra hard for him.

A few weeks in and he decides that it's not cheating if he fucks you, the challenge is to keep himself from cumming, not to devoid himself of pleasure, after all. What's the harm in folding you in half and gorging himself on the feeling of your desperate cunt clinging to him? He eats you out until you're almost crying for mercy before he smirks up at you with all the charm in the world, lips and chin drenched in your sweetness, before he demands one more climax from you, then he'll be satisfied.

So he yanks your tired body closer to his hips and he slowly, so unbelievably slowly, presses his cock into your abused pussy. Like a man with all the willpower in the world, like it's not the most dazed with pleasure he's ever been. He almost could have fooled you if you couldn't feel him throbbing between your walls. He fucks you slowly, intentionally, feeling every inch of you scrape his length, digging fingers into your thighs until they bruise, biting down on your collarbone and chest until you're writhing and gasping for him. He holds his own release off until you fall apart beneath him and then he pulls out, furiously hard and hungry for more but forcing himself to be absorbed by your bliss, mesmerizing himself on the goosebumps that rise on your skin when he runs his fingers sweetly through your hair, the way you're absolutely glowing with sweat and satisfaction and adoration.

#sorry for going feral i cant help myself #you cant change my mind on this sorry it's canon #dont even get me STARTED on Geto during NNN #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk smut #afab reader

[mattymattymerduck]

a spin on a classic

[mattymattymerduck]

More to Give

Summary: Obi-Wan reflects on all the times you’ve asked him questions he couldn’t answer, and all the sacrifices he made before he knew what they meant.

Warnings: Angst, no resolution (sorry), excessive descriptors (oops)

Word count: 1.4K

A/N: Hi friends! I wrote this little thing to try and practice since I haven’t written in a while, hope you enjoy it!! Doesn’t have much of a plot but hey, who needs it? Would love to get some feedback on it, so please comment! 

This wasn’t the first time he had seen you, face glowing in the daybreak.

Years before, when he was still young, he liked to watch the sun reflect off the stray strands of your hair. The shine would bounce off the curves of your nose, highlight the arch in your brow. Obi-Wan wasn’t much of a romantic, but the sunrise on your face could make him believe in anything.

Back then he would fumble just to have a moment of your attention. Stumbling on words like one of the younglings over their practice sabers. He was so young, watching the world revolve around you and that easy smile on your lips. What he would give to see that smile again.

Love was a word torn from his vernacular. Not in the way most outsiders of the order thought it would be, he loved his masters and his friends and his parents easily, loudly, but the word to explain the weight of his heart when your eyes gleamed escaped him. Maybe it was just that love wasn’t a large enough word for him. Maybe he yearned, maybe he hadn’t yet known the warmth your attention afforded him. Maybe, he would humour himself, you were two halves of the same whole.

The world played cruel jokes like that though, especially on him. One day he was braiding your hair in the grass, laying on an itchy blanket while your hands traced his jaw, feeling like the rising sun was the greatest of his worries. The next he was on a cool metal bunk, flying off with Qui-Gon to a series of uninterrupted missions. The next time he was in Coruscant long enough to visit the field etched into his brain, the grass had been long dehydrated and overrun with the local fauna. You, of course, were left burnt into his memories like the afterimage of the sun on his retinas.

He could sunbathe all he liked, under the twin suns of Tatooine even, but he would stay cold.

This also wasn’t the first time he had heard you, with that voice like a drug channeling through his veins, ask for something more.

More than he was allowed to give.

Keep reading

#just a friendly (forceful) reminder that I will be writing for obi wan #the premiere got me feelin some sort of ways #🥴🥴🥴🥴 #obi wan x reader #kenobi imagine

[mattymattymerduck]

THE MULTIVERSE OF YOU

Multi Part Series Masterlist // Want More Marvel?

Stephen Strange x Fem!Apprentice!Reader

!!MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS SPOILERS!!

Description: When America couldn’t control her powers, she accidentally ripped (Y/N) from her life on 616– her friends, her work, her ever increasingly distant and cold mentor Stephen Strange— and to quite possibly the wrong place… here. Only able to keep track of her home through comic books and movies, (Y/N) stayed for five years… until America comes back to correct her mistake.

Warnings and Tags: MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS SPOILERS, NWH storylines, Mentions of Daredevil, Language, Mentions of Alcohol and Alcoholism, Mentions of Celebrities / MCU Correlations, Like Bit of a 4th Wall Break

9/?

1. Deja Vu

2. Re-Entry

3. Echoes

4. Getting Caught Up

5. Outside Knowledge

6. Needed

7. Of Lies, Envy and Doorknobs

8. Study… Date?

9. You Tell Me

TAG LIST: @s1xthirty , @iknowrocknroll , @colorfuly-blog04 , @lovecleastrange , @fandom-lover-4 , @singhfae , @mavsketch , @sokoviansorceress , @thewinterpoet2

#this is such a fun concept!!! #i cant wait to see where it goes #i really enjoy that it's not just about the romance too having a side plot helping petey is so well done #and I love their relationship 🥲 #fic rec #dr strange x reader

[mattymattymerduck]

Can you write something with neck kisses and dry humping, please?

Bumpy Ride || Steven Grant x Reader

-> Rating: 18+

-> Word Count: 3.7k

-> The handsome man who you see on your commute to work every day is always on your mind. Thank you to @foxilayde as always for cheering me on!

TW/CW: exhibitionism, very light dub/con elements but Steven is very much into it~ absolutely pathetic subby!Steven, dry humping

Crumpling your bus ticket up in your palm, you slowly exhale the frustration of an extremely long, painful night. Perhaps it was premature to say that you would never go on another date again, but you certainly considered putting an indefinite halt to your midnight escapades to meet potential suitors.

It had started out okay! He was punctual, attractive, and smelt really good. Small talk was limited, launching into interesting conversations about his job as a bouncer at one of the trendy club venues in the city. An hour in you were convinced that maybe he would be the one to break your man-fast.

That was until he started lifting his phone off the tabletop. You could excuse the first time, what if it was important? The second time was a little irritating. By the fifth time, along with a rather politically-charged comment about your outfit of choice, you’d excused yourself to the bathroom and snuck out of the back door, leaving him to pay the bill.

It didn’t necessarily come as a surprise to you that the date was a flop. Randomly messaging the first match in your tinder direct messages for a date because the handsome stranger on the public transport to work had left you feeling a little hot under the proverbial collar wasn’t the greatest way to ease the ache that settled between your thighs whenever you saw him sat at the back of the busy bus.

Lifting your phone out of your handbag, you note the rather excessive ten notification you’d received on your tinder app. Refusing to even give the misogynistic prick another second of your time, you skip opening the app to read the vitriol he had no doubt flooded your chat with and delete it from your apps altogether before throwing it back into your bag that you had set on the seat beside you.

The fluorescent lights brightening the seating area with a silvery glow reflect your visage against the window beside you. There was nothing truly scandalous about your outfit, as your date had implied. A simple, white silk button-down shirt with the collar open just enough to see the start of your cleavage that you had paired with a black skirt and plain heeled pumps. If he thought this was deserving of a scarlet letter, you wondered what he thought of the majority of women that stumbled out of his club most nights.

“Uh- Yeah, Canning Town, please? Cheers.” The recognizable voice causes your eyes to snap away from your reflection and towards the front of the bus. You could be entirely blind and still know exactly who it was- your fellow commuter on your bus ride to work in the morning.

Skittish as he takes up the change that the bus driver returns, he’s so occupied with counting out the coins in his palm that he doesn’t even notice you sat at the back. He’s clad in his pale grey workers jacket that you often saw him wear on mild mornings, paired with a rather extravagant geometric button-down tucked into his dress pants. Maybe it’s the lighting, but he looks even more exhausted than he usually does, which was significant because you often found him falling asleep against people in the crowded morning shuttle.

Briefcases and buggies had always separated the two of you when you had seen him, so you hadn’t really had the opportunity to speak to him. At all. Regardless of this fact, he was always willing to throw you a meek smile of acknowledgment even if it was clear that he didn’t feel like it, his brow creased with weariness and dark circles bruising his under eye.

Despite his enervative appearance, you inexplicably found him rather attractive. His sharp cheekbones were always highlighted silver with the white lighting above his head, contrasting his tanned complexion. His thick curls often looked disheveled from the incessant summer breeze, and you frequently caught him pushing his fingers through the strands, aiming to tame them. His sense of dress certainly wasn’t the most trendy, but you could tell he made an effort to look smart.

Most importantly, he was incredibly polite, never hesitating to give up his seat to the elderly or pregnant women. Every now and then he would entertain the children on the bus, if he had the energy, talking animatedly about something that never failed to captivate the kid's attention for the whole twenty-minute journey. It was endearing, and his energy always seemed lighter when the children waved him goodbye at his stop.

If the sight of him didn’t spark anxious arousal across your skin it would have been hilarious, the irony. It was just this morning that you had been caught out by the bustle of the unusual hustle on the bus, forced to stay on your feet in the standing area of the floor and hold onto the handle strap for dear life to prevent you falling forward. The embarrassment that flushed through your system as a particularly harsh swerve from the overzealous driver that had your ass dragging across the pair of hips behind you swiftly transitioned to wicked desire upon seeing who they belonged to.

His poor legs couldn’t carry him off the bus quickly enough when it was his stop, his nervous disposition that you had noticed after weeks of observing him clearly getting the better of his clear desire to grind his hips into yours if the erection in his trousers was anything to go by. Perhaps the Gods had decided satire was on the menu tonight, putting the two of you together on an empty bus after you had ingested far too many mojitos and attempted to satiate the twisting need that he had set in you with a random, misogynistic and poorly thought out tinder bio.

Settling into a seat somewhere in the middle of the bus carriage, you can’t help but smile at the way he mirrors your earlier sigh of exasperation. Maybe it’s his downcast expression, or the effects of the especially strong cocktail you had finished before leaving your date, but your legs are carrying you down to the seat beside him before you can talk yourself out of it. If fate wanted drama, you’d give it a show to remember.

“I don’t bite, you know?” You smirk, dropping into the seat and shocking him out of his quiet sulk. His body jolts from the surprise, and his palm clutches at his chest with the way his heart fails.

“Bloody hell!“ he yelps, his head whipping towards you with a startled expression. You can’t help the amusement that bubbles inside you because he looks utterly terrified to have you sat next to him, starting a conversation.

“I thought you’d finally make your way over to say hello,” you muse, smoothing the collar of his jacket out despite it lacking any creases to set straight. The gorgeous stranger shapes his mouth to speak but the words struggle to materialize for a moment.

“No-what? I- I didn’t even see you! I swear, I just sat down, I wasn’t really lookin’!” He rambles frantically, clearly concerned that he had caused offence by unwittingly ignoring you. His voice, his accent sounds a little off- as though he’s shittily impersonating the Oliver movie from ‘68. Why does it make you want him more, the absurdity of it?

“I’ll forgive you if you explain why you’re on the bus this late,” you arch your brow playfully, “I feel like that’s a reasonable deal.”

He takes a moment to settle from the shock of you just *materializing*, letting out a shaky exhale and nodding weakly. In the process, you catch the way he looks you up and down to take in your outfit. He’s never seen you in anything other than workwear and these clothes suited your figure far better, though he’s careful to ensure his view skirts around your cleavage. Still a gentleman.

“Yeah- Uh, I was workin’ late. Needed to make up some hours after a few days off work…” he trails off slowly when he notes the way you’re looking at him. Careful not to be too intense, you watch him through your lashes and act totally enraptured by this small talk. It’s not entirely unrealistic to say you were, it was by far the most interesting conversation you’d had all day.

“You work at the museum don’t you?” You ask, twisting your body slightly so you’re facing him. “I’ve seen you head that way a few times.”

“Y-Yeah, I’m a gift shop-ist. I work in the gift shop,” he repeats himself, adorably shy. “It’s uh- not terribly excitin’-“

“We’ll agree to disagree then, because I think it’s incredibly interesting that you get to work at a place like a museum.” Your insistence makes him smile weakly, his hand moving to rub at the side of his neck in what you assumed was a nervous tick.

“I suppose it is. Wait… What are you doin’ on the bus this late?” He turns the table on you now as the tightness in his shoulders dissipates, clearly having relaxed a little as he points up and down the length of your body awkwardly. “Have you been out?”

“I was on a date. It was shocking,” you muse, pulling at the collar of your shirt to draw attention to your cleavage. This time his eyes zero in on the area and a flush covers the bridge of his nose. “He thought it was rather inconsiderate that I was going to attract every man in the room ‘dressed like that’, as he put it. Said I was on a date with him rather than every man at the bar.”

“Well… Uh, that’s a bit rude,” he mumbles weakly, forcing his eyes up to your face again. “I think you look quite nice, I mean-“

“You think I’m attractive?” The liquid courage induced by the cocktails is spurring you on to flirt excessively with him. In every other situation, you’d take it slowly, ease him into a playful conversation, but you can’t help the warmth and exhilaration that settles in your abdomen at the thought of kissing this beautiful stranger that had occupied your thoughts all day. His nervous reactions make you feel sexy, almost powerful, completely dissimilar to the machismo your date had tried to seduce you with.

“Aha-“ he laughs nervously, scratching at the back of his head in another nervous habit. “Ah- Attractive? Yeah, I think so.” He’s trying so hard to come across as suave, but his bumbling is breaking down the facade quicker than he can build it up and it simply endears you to him further.

Reaching between the two of you, you carefully brush some of his ebony curls from his forehead in an attempt to breach his personal space without overwhelming him. The graze of your touch against his forehead reveals the warmth of his blush and you’re almost certain you hear him keen softly at the simple physical contact.

Inching your body closer so your knee knocks against his when the bus sways with the bumps in the road, you caress the soft flesh of his temple with the curve of your knuckle, reaching his cheekbone and following the arch down his face ever so slowly.

“I have something in mind that could improve our rather miserable day,” you whisper softly. You were concerned at first that you were taking this a little too quickly, but the stranger beside you is nodding his head gormlessly, entirely dumbstruck by the sudden turn of events.

It’s at this moment the liquid courage provided by the cocktails from earlier came into effect, your heart hammering against your sternum as you considered what you were about to do for barely more than five seconds.

Not allowing the logical half of your brain to talk yourself out of what you considered to be an infallible plan, you take him utterly by surprise by swinging your thigh over his own and hovering over his lap. He yelps out, mostly out of shock rather than discomfort, and throws his hands up in the air with his palms out as though he’s in surrender. Judging by the panicked expression on his face, he doesn’t know where he should hold you, if at all.

“Uhm- I-“ he’s struggling to verbalize his thoughts, taken aback by your confidence and your tits that you had settled just in front of his gorgeous face. His inability to decide whether to look down at your cleavage or up into your eyes is enough to make you giggle tipsily, enjoying the total control you have over him.

“I need you to do me a favor,” you murmur, moving your fingers through his curls and taking a firm grip just at the root. “Can you keep an eye on the doors for me?” The last thing you needed was someone getting on at the next stop and ruining what could be the most fun you’d had in months. When he doesn’t respond immediately, you pull his head back by his hair, forcing him to look into your eyes for his answer.

The sight causes white-hot arousal to warm the base of your spine. He’s gazing up at you with unfocused eyes through his thick, black lashes, nodding slowly and murmuring a soft ‘Yeah, Yeah definitely’ though you’re almost positive that he didn’t hear a single word of your request. His chapped lips are parted, the dusting of red over his cheekbones making him look so pretty.

Lowering the weight of your hips into his own, you hear a devastating whine work its way past his throat with the first drag of your cunt against the seam of his trousers. You thank the you from a few hours ago for choosing to wear your skirt and lace panties to the date because you can feel the throb of his already hardening dick through the paper-thin material. The surge of gratifying power that rushes your veins at the knowledge that you had done this to him, along with the intoxicating effect of the drinks you had consumed had you executing something you had very little opportunity to experiment with during sex - dominance.

Pulling his head back by the hold you have on his hair, you watch as his mouth falls open with a long, slow grind of your hips. He’s so focused on the bliss that you evoke from him that he doesn’t notice the forceful grip he holds you with, almost strong enough to imprint the grooves of his fingerprints into your pelvis. The pupils of his eyes are zeroed in on the motion of your cunt shifting back and forth across his erection.

“Hey,” Your voice dips slightly with the ardent ache that buzzes between your tensed thighs.

“Mhmm- uh-huh?” His expression morphs into something akin to pitiful need when you grab ahold of his face forcefully.

“Eyes on the door.”

The deep rock of your hips against his cock that you end the order with has him fumbling a nervous nod, eyes suddenly glued to the double doors at the front of the bus, doing his best as a look-out despite the fact he’s probably seeing in double vision with how good you’re making him feel.

The instant compliance has you moaning softly when paired with your clit pushing just perfectly on the seam of his trousers, the extra friction sparking delirious pleasure. It’s too much and just right all at once, fingers letting go of his chin to brace against his broad shoulders and steady yourself as your thighs strain. The clothes he wears do him no justice, hiding the strong physique he carries under the stupid patterned shirts that you’d grown excited to see in the mornings.

Intoxicated by the ache that settles deep in your abdomen, you can’t help the praise that falls from your lips before you even realize that you’re talking. ”Awww. Pretty baby, does that feel good? Yes, it does, I know you like that.”

Whimpers catch in his throat, utterly wretched as his hips shift underneath you. He’s chasing the friction against the bulge in his pants, his chest heaving a little as he keeps his eyes cemented at the door of the bus, not wishing to disobey you.

“Oh yes,” you gasp softly at the noises he makes, sparks blooming through your pussy at the indecency of them, “Don’t stop making those noises, oh you’re such a good boy for me, just a little louder.” You’re babbling, slurring your words slightly as his hips push into yours and roll your clit just perfectly.

Disappointment is not an option it seems, because the moans that sound from his chest are utterly pathetic and you swear you’ve never been so turned on. The pitchiness at the end of each whine floods your cunt and you have to bury your face into his tanned neck to muffle your own noises to be able to hear him.

Pressing sloppy, desperate kisses against his neck seems to exacerbate his pleasure, the sobs wracking his chest loud enough now that you’re certain the bus driver can definitely hear both of you over the engine. He seems to have a particularly sensitive spot just at the junction of his jaw that causes him to buck up between your thighs when you take the skin there between your teeth.

“Such a good baby,” you whisper in his ear after sucking a deep purple bruise on his jawline that you know is going to earn him funny looks at work tomorrow, breathless as you focus your effort into grinddingg just right, shaky hand working its way between your legs to push your panties to the side. The fabric is ruined, completely soaked through after needing him all day and finally having his cock between your thighs. Refusing to waste any time, you continue to drag your sopping cunt against the fabric of his trousers, staining the crotch area with dark patches where your slick soaks into the material.

“Hah, shit-! That’s-“ He’s unable to complete a sentence now, so worked up. The jolts of the bus against the uneven road had your hips bumping into his forcefully and adding to the pleasure that rocks through the both of you with the contact.

“That’s good?” You finish the words for him, and he’s nodding dumbly, hands mindlessly slipping down your back and grabbing ahold of your ass as he tries to push impossibly further into the wet heat between your legs. The fabric that separates you both makes him sob needily, the sound bouncing off the laminated glass through the bus.

“I’m- oh fuck that’s… I’m-“ his eyes dart between your bodies, abdomen heaving as his high starts to build so quickly he can barely stop it. It’s so good he’s almost trying to escape the friction you’re giving him, hands grasping at whatever they can get ahold of to brace himself and he’s drooling.

“Are you gunna cum pretty baby? Come on, cum in your pants, let him know how good I’m making you feel.” You sound so broken right now, breath ragged against the shell of his ear as you force your hips down into him to chase your own high.

“Oh God- oh God oh God!” His stunning face contorts as he shouts loudly, jaw dropping open as he cums in his pants underneath you. It’s so intense you feel his cock pulse against your clit through his pants, his voice utterly wrecked as he prattles utter nonsense through his orgasm.

The cry of bliss that you’re unable to smother as your own release slams through you is heinous. You’d not blame the whole of London transport for banning you from this night onwards from ever using their services because the debased sound of your soaking folds dragging across the now drenched material of the trousers you grind on to chase the obliterating orgasm that blooms from head to toe is truly indecent.

Even when you’re slumping against him, spent and shaking against the warmth of his heaving chest with your head on his shoulder, you don’t want it to end. The pad of your thumb rubs against the head of his cock through his pants even as he’s jolting with overstimulation. You only stop with a tipsy giggle when he slaps your hands away desperately.

“Oh my god,” you close your eyes for a moment, your lashes brushing against the skin of his bruised neck. Even the afterglow is acute, a buzz ringing from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. It’s made even better when you feel his lips press lingering kisses to your hairline, silently thanking you for the wild sexcapade you had sprung on him. It’s yet another endearing thing that makes your heart ache for him.

His strong arms hold you for the rest of the journey, eyes still set on the doors for you so that you can recover from the outpouring of effort you’d put into making him feel good without much interruption. His muscles are slack beneath you, the most relaxed you’d ever seen him. It made you oddly happy to know you could do that for him.

Some five minutes later, the tannoy announces your stop and you find it hard to pull yourself away from him and grab your bag to leave. The golden glow of the streetlights that you pass dance across his bronzy cheekbones as the bud comes to a stop, his smile a little dopey and sweet, and for the first time in a long time you find your stomach twisting with butterflies.

“This is my stop… What’s your name?” You ask softly, knowing that it’s usually what you start with when meeting a potential suitor but you were never one to do things conventionally.

The post-orgasm haze only seems to shake from the delirious man when he watches you walk toward the doors you had insisted he keep an eye on. It takes him a second, but he seems to figure out exactly who he is as those same doors open up. “Uhh- Steven! My name is Steven!”

“Hey, Steven… I’ll see you here tomorrow, yeah? We can plan a date for after work!” You don’t wait to hear his answer, stepping off and throwing him a wink when the doors close behind you. He’s in shock, and you laugh at the adorably shocked raise of his brows as the bus starts its engine and drives past you, leaving you standing in the dark but feeling incredibly light.

END

🏷 Taglist: @polaroidpetal @foxilayde @mylifeisactuallyamess @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @crystalchrysalis19 @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart @buckys-other-punk @anxious-sappho @youngr0se95

#🥵🥵🥵🥵 #fic rec

[mattymattymerduck]

Wow

Just a fluffy smutty little something. Peter deserved a treat after the events of NWH.

Words: 1600 ~ Pairing: MCU Peter Park x fem! reader ~ Content: set post movie. Oral sex, kissing, dry humping, swears, a tablespoon of angst, a little bit of praise kink, for a treat.

Thank you @skvatnavle and @a-reader-and-a-writer for the look-over! I wrote this with my pal @full-time-make-believer in mind. hope you like it.

It’s been a year since Peter’s life changed beyond recognition. A year of the shitty little apartment. Studying until he falls asleep so he doesn’t have to think about how alone he is. A year of inching closer to friendship with M.J and Ned, although he can only see them when they’re on Spring or Summer break.

A year of carrying a torch for M.J. Sweet M.J who doesn’t remember everything they went through together. The longer he carries the torch, the heavier it gets.

But it’s hard to let go.

It’s that dead time between Christmas and New Year when he passes a little bookshop in Manhattan and sees you.

He’d come out for a walk to clear his head. He’d been thinking about going to this casual party deal some people in college had invited him to, but he wasn’t in a party mood. Hadn’t been, if he’s honest, since the whole multiverse deal. Hard to feel much after that, Peter finds. Everything’s harder now.

The bookshop is quirky. Cute. The window is stacked with titles from all different cultures and time periods, arranged cleverly in the colours of the rainbow.

You’re at the counter, reading, a steaming cup of tea at your elbow. There’s a silver star-shaped clip in your hair, and you look kind of magical, the battered book holding all your attention, your lips pursed, chin cupped in your free hand.

Before he realises what’s happened, he finds himself standing in the shop. It smells of fragrant peppermint tea and pages fresh off the printing press. It smells nice. Homely; welcoming.

“Hey,” you say. “Can I help you?”

Peter lets his gaze drink you in. You’re even prettier up close. “Just browsing. Thanks.”

“No problem. You want some tea while you look around?”

“Um… sure.”

“What kind?” You wave a hand to encompass the mason jars of teabags on the counter. “We have peppermint, fennel, cinnamon and clove, camomile and moroccan mint.”

Peter studies the jars, unsure. He normally drinks tap water in his apartment. Sometimes coffee if he’s studying late. Otherwise it’s soda.

“Peppermint, thanks,” he says eventually.

You make the tea with a sort of casual grace that he finds mystifying, offer it to him. When he takes it, your hands brush. Your gaze darts to his, and Peter knows you feel it too, the little spark of something that, maybe, is worth exploring.

He sips the tea and browses the books in your shop.

***

He comes back the next day, and the next. Every day, you make him tea. He’s starting to actually like Peppermint tea.

You talk about books and college and tea and coffee and slow walking people in the city and rain and snow and the unbearable summer heat and terrible custom licence plates you’ve seen on huge gas guzzling cars.

On his fourth visit, you exchange names.

On his fifth visit, you exchange numbers.

****

It’s snowing as Peter walks you home from a cosy date. The two of you spent hours cafe-hopping. The streets of New York are 24/7, and you’ve managed to drink a coffee, tea or soda in eight cafes, while talking, constantly talking and holding hands, exchanging kisses that taste of herbal tea and sugar cookies, before Peter notices that you can barely keep your eyes open.

“C’mon. I’m taking you home.”

“No!” You protest. “I’m fine!”

“You nearly fell face first into that tea.”

“It was decaf! I can get coffee next time!”

He gently tugged you from the seat. “Home now. Coffee next time.”

And that’s how you end up leaning heavily on him as you walk home. He’s talking to you softly, keeping you awake, really, until he delivers you to your door. You live in a tiny walk-up on a sad-looking street, but you only have to share with one other person, and they’re away visiting a relative, you tell Peter. You say it feels luxurious to be alone in an apartment in New York.

You’ve woken up a little by the time you reach the fifth floor. You just about manage to get your key into the door before your eyes droop again.

“C’mon, sleepyhead,” Peter murmurs, and as he grins at your loopiness, he realises that it’s been a long time since he felt this content. This happy and relaxed.

So when you say, “Stay, Pete. Stay,” he says yes.

You take off your clothes haphazardly. Your whole apartment is a study in splashes of colour. Stuff everywhere, messy but not dirty. Like a Jackson Pollock painting reimagined with furniture, clothes and books.

It’s so very different from Peter’s grey shoebox that he wants to burrow into the colour, lose himself. Stay here and be one of the much-loved items in your possession. Belong to someone again.

He lets you lead him to the bed. You’re weaving in your tiredness, and half-dressed, you pull him down with you.

“Hold up, baby. Shoes.” He sits, takes off his sneakers, sets them neatly under the bed, takes off your boots and put them down there, too, then finally surrenders to your tugging. You roll on to your side and he follows you, curling around you, spooning your back. It’s warm and cosy and it feels right.

“Peter?” You ask sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“Yeah.” He kisses the top of your head. You smell of peppermint.

*****

Peter wakes up to you plastered all over him. You’re half on top of him, your head tucked under his chin, your legs wrapped around his. Your hand is spread over his lower belly, dangerously close to a raging morning erection.

He shifts uncomfortably, unsure what to do.

You murmur his name, lean up, press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“You stayed,” you whisper.

“I did.”

“Mmmmmm,” you hum approvingly, stroking your hand up and down his torso. “So warm. And you’re jacked! I don’t know how I never noticed.”

Peter feels a blush creeping up his neck. “Well, we’ve.. Never been this close before.” Every nerve ending is on fire. He wants to touch you, but doesn’t know where to start. What you’d like. He’s thought about it a lot. Brought himself to orgasm near every night since your first date, wanting his hands on you. Wanting his mouth on you. Wanting your mouth on him.

“I like being this close to you.”

“Me, too,” he responds, shyly.

You gaze at each other for heartbeats that stretch, and finally, you let out a breathy laugh.

“What?” Peter asks, enchanted by you.

“I can’t look at your mouth any longer without kissing it.”

You close the distance, wiggle around so you’re on top of him, and when you kiss. Peter threads a hand into your hair and settles the other on your lower back, holding you to him. You spread your legs so you’re straddling him, and Peter bucks up into you on instinct, and the instant bliss is heady, dizzying.

“Oh, God,” you moan. “Peter.”

He’s beyond speech so he makes a noise in his throat that he hopes conveys how much he wants you.

You spend a long time just grinding into each other like that, kissing and nipping each other’s mouths, no words needed. Peter discovers that he loves it when you tug at his hair gently, when you call him such a good boy. When you wriggle up and down over his clothed cock.

He’s just gotten to worrying he might lose it right there in his pants when you slide down, start working at the zipper. “Want to touch you.”

“Yeah,” he says, because all his blood is below the belt and has been for the last hour. “Yeah. Do that.”

He sinks a gentle hand into your hair when your mouth ghosts over him, and then when you take him in, he has to exercise every iota of control not to spill on your tongue right then. He can hear the staccato of his own breathing as you savour him like ice cream, little kitten licks and sucks that are driving him past the point of sanity. He’s an incoherent mess, spread out bonelessly on your bed, the pleasure so intense that the rest of the world has fallen away. You stroke the tip of your tongue over his sensitive glans once, then twice - fuck! That feels amazing, never stop that, oh god it’s too much - and he’s gone, giving you everything he’s got, groaning your name. His climax seems to go on and on, and you work him through it until he’s shuddering from over sensation and presses gently on your shoulder.

You drop a soft kiss on his flat belly.

“That was… wow.”

You lean up on your elbow. “You liked it?”

“Like is way too benign a word. It was…. Wow.”

You grin. He grins back, takes a couple of breaths to reorient himself. “C’mere. Now it’s time for me to make you say wow a lot.”

You go into his arms willingly, and afterwards, you stay in bed all day.

#hi I'm obsessed #what incredible writing #i'm 🥴🥴🥴 #fic rec

[mattymattymerduck]

Look, if I introduced a WIP on here excitedly and then promptly never mentioned it again, it doesn’t mean I’m not working on it, it means I’m slowly rotating it in my mind like a rotisserie chicken and then went out to the grocery store to buy several other rotisserie chickens while I wait for it to cook and then slowly started rotating those rotisserie chickens and repeat

[mattymattymerduck]

Yes I re-read my own fics because I wrote them for ME

[mattymattymerduck]

Trying to convince yourself to write like

[mattymattymerduck]

Thinking about that part in Cyberpunk 2077 where Johnny says "and if I want your body I'll fucking take it!"

#johnny silverhand x reader material #is that taken out of context? yes #am I thirsty for keanu reeves? also yes #johnny silverhand x v #johnny silverhand x reader

[mattymattymerduck]

More to Give

Summary: Obi-Wan reflects on all the times you’ve asked him questions he couldn’t answer, and all the sacrifices he made before he knew what they meant.

Warnings: Angst, no resolution (sorry), excessive descriptors (oops)

Word count: 1.4K

A/N: Hi friends! I wrote this little thing to try and practice since I haven’t written in a while, hope you enjoy it!! Doesn’t have much of a plot but hey, who needs it? Would love to get some feedback on it, so please comment! 

This wasn’t the first time he had seen you, face glowing in the daybreak.

Years before, when he was still young, he liked to watch the sun reflect off the stray strands of your hair. The shine would bounce off the curves of your nose, highlight the arch in your brow. Obi-Wan wasn’t much of a romantic, but the sunrise on your face could make him believe in anything.

Back then he would fumble just to have a moment of your attention. Stumbling on words like one of the younglings over their practice sabers. He was so young, watching the world revolve around you and that easy smile on your lips. What he would give to see that smile again.

Love was a word torn from his vernacular. Not in the way most outsiders of the order thought it would be, he loved his masters and his friends and his parents easily, loudly, but the word to explain the weight of his heart when your eyes gleamed escaped him. Maybe it was just that love wasn’t a large enough word for him. Maybe he yearned, maybe he hadn’t yet known the warmth your attention afforded him. Maybe, he would humour himself, you were two halves of the same whole.

The world played cruel jokes like that though, especially on him. One day he was braiding your hair in the grass, laying on an itchy blanket while your hands traced his jaw, feeling like the rising sun was the greatest of his worries. The next he was on a cool metal bunk, flying off with Qui-Gon to a series of uninterrupted missions. The next time he was in Coruscant long enough to visit the field etched into his brain, the grass had been long dehydrated and overrun with the local fauna. You, of course, were left burnt into his memories like the afterimage of the sun on his retinas.

He could sunbathe all he liked, under the twin suns of Tatooine even, but he would stay cold.

This also wasn’t the first time he had heard you, with that voice like a drug channeling through his veins, ask for something more.

More than he was allowed to give.

Keep reading

#obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi #obi-wan x reader #shameless reblog #timezone reblog

[mattymattymerduck]

More to Give

Summary: Obi-Wan reflects on all the times you’ve asked him questions he couldn’t answer, and all the sacrifices he made before he knew what they meant.

Warnings: Angst, no resolution (sorry), excessive descriptors (oops)

Word count: 1.4K

A/N: Hi friends! I wrote this little thing to try and practice since I haven’t written in a while, hope you enjoy it!! Doesn’t have much of a plot but hey, who needs it? Would love to get some feedback on it, so please comment! 

This wasn't the first time he had seen you, face glowing in the daybreak.

Years before, when he was still young, he liked to watch the sun reflect off the stray strands of your hair. The shine would bounce off the curves of your nose, highlight the arch in your brow. Obi-Wan wasn't much of a romantic, but the sunrise on your face could make him believe in anything.

Back then he would fumble just to have a moment of your attention. Stumbling on words like one of the younglings over their practice sabers. He was so young, watching the world revolve around you and that easy smile on your lips. What he would give to see that smile again.

Love was a word torn from his vernacular. Not in the way most outsiders of the order thought it would be, he loved his masters and his friends and his parents easily, loudly, but the word to explain the weight of his heart when your eyes gleamed escaped him. Maybe it was just that love wasn't a large enough word for him. Maybe he yearned, maybe he hadn't yet known the warmth your attention afforded him. Maybe, he would humour himself, you were two halves of the same whole.

The world played cruel jokes like that though, especially on him. One day he was braiding your hair in the grass, laying on an itchy blanket while your hands traced his jaw, feeling like the rising sun was the greatest of his worries. The next he was on a cool metal bunk, flying off with Qui-Gon to a series of uninterrupted missions. The next time he was in Coruscant long enough to visit the field etched into his brain, the grass had been long dehydrated and overrun with the local fauna. You, of course, were left burnt into his memories like the afterimage of the sun on his retinas.

He could sunbathe all he liked, under the twin suns of Tatooine even, but he would stay cold.

This also wasn't the first time he had heard you, with that voice like a drug channeling through his veins, ask for something more.

More than he was allowed to give.

"How come you only have this one braid?" You'd asked, young and sweet and brash as you'd always been with him. Obi had twisted on the ugly blanket under him to look at the adoration in your eyes while you twirled the section of hair. "Did it look weird when it was growing out?"

"Yes," He snickered, the way he could when he was too young to forget how to, "it's tradition, I guess." and you both shrugged because there were more important things in life - like how that ladybug had yellow wings instead of red.

"Why do you devote yourself to so much violence?" The angles of your face were sharper here, defined with the years between the questions. Your fingers were outlining the bruises and scuffs of his knuckles. Obi thought that your touch was a better medicine than anything Qui-Gon could have given him.

"It's not the violence we're devoted to, we're peacekeepers." But he knew this ignored your point. He just hoped it acknowledged it enough to keep your hand on his.

"Which you keep through violence." You scoff, but there's a softness in it that you save for Obi, and he can see it clear as day.

"Not if I can help it." He nearly grumbles, fighting against his impulse to tell you he's the most diplomatic Jedi you're likely to meet, that the way his lightsaber cuts through training dummies makes his fingers tingle at night. That he can hardly bare to imagine using it against anyone real once he's given the order.

Your hand wraps around his and softly squeezes, and he's back to the itchy blanket and the grass that holds your outlines a bit too well.

He thinks it must count for something, all the times he's lain in this grass, watching clouds graze overhead, closing his eyes and dreaming of the wind as your breath on his skin. He knows it doesn't.

"Don't you think you know yourself better by now?" Your tone is incredulous, not far from what it was when he knew you last. But your eyes have a life in them that he never knew before, something that came since his unannounced absence. It had taken you a handful of spare touches to realize you were still in love with him; it only took Obi one glance to say the same.

"It doesn't matter how well I know myself, the Order will refuse it. They have these rules in place for a reason." He's stern, but not unrelenting. Where his tongue is sharp his eyes are soft, and his brows are curved in a battle between sympathy and austerity. Even he doesn't know what way he wants the scale to lean.

"They have the rules so that your taste of power won't corrupt your morals, you understand how the world changes, how everything is fleeting." You know better than anyone that death will come, he hears it echo but it's never spoken. He draws himself back to the day he left you, to every night afterwards when he chased the dreams of your laughter and wondered if he'd ever really make it back to you. Eventually, he convinced himself he wouldn't. He still wasn't sure if he had, if his body was here but the boy you had once traced every curve of had long been given up to the force.

He was afraid of the words about to spill from his lips. He didn't think the heartbeat in his throat was enough to stop them.

"If I let myself have you I don't know if I could-" He didn't have to finish the sentence, it hung in the air like dense humidity, weighing you both down. You twisted away from him, staring at the reappearing sun, grounding yourself in the cool marble railing supporting you. There was a warm breeze that hardly seemed to touch you, but Obi felt disheveled in the way his hair was being whisked to the side. He hardly entertained the thought that it wasn't the wind's fault.

"It's not supposed to be this hard." It sounds like it should be spiteful, the way it tumbles out of you, but it sounds the way honey does when it drips into tea; dissolving into the space between you, trying to keep its shape but falling apart at the last second. "It's been years Obi, if we aren't allowed to feel this then why won't it go away?"

He can't look at you when your voice cracks, because he feels it in his own throat too. He has no answers. He watches the skyline pull itself away from the silhouette of city buildings as your eyes concentrate on a ladybug climbing up your sleeve.

"We're both doomed to our own destinies, aren't we? How cruel." You say this to the ladybug, interrupting its path with your finger and inspecting it wistfully once it climbs on.

"Perhaps-" His eyes follow the insect along your finger until it flies away. "we haven't reached the end yet. Perhaps there's more for us." It feels like an empty promise before he can finish saying it. He knows nothing will change unless he does, and he knows that the catalyst for that would have to be world-shattering.

"Obi," The sound of it is more heart-wrenching than anything else you've said tonight, meeting your eyes takes all of his energy. Your palm rests against his cheek with so much care he's winded. "the truth hurts, but it's better than your sweet lies."

When he sighs, the heaviness weighing down his lungs doesn't leave with the air. He's careful pulling you in, wrapping an arm around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

It felt like a goodbye, it might have been. Every touch from Obi-Wan felt like it would be the last.

"I wish that I had more of myself to give to you." He can imagine the sad smile on your lips and fear bites at him, he knows this will haunt him for the rest of his life.

"That makes two of us."

#obi wan kenobi #obi wan x reader #obi-wan imagine #obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan x reader #star wars #star wars fanfiction #obi wan fanfiction #reader insert #second person pov #sw fanfic #kenobi x reader #ewan mcgregor x reader #Ewan McGregor

[mattymattymerduck]

Hi! I was just wondering how old are you? Love your blog!

Hi, hello, I have no idea how long this has been in my inbox for I'm so sorry! Currently 21, I think I started this blog when I was 16ish?

#dunno how the hell it's been that long #aj answers

[mattymattymerduck]

I don't know if you're still doing prompts, but if you are, can you do 42 and/or 44 with Loki? Thanks!

Why not? I don’t write Loki enough ^^ This is the last one though!

You certainly didn’t ask anyone to place Loki in your care, actually it was more of a lost bet type thing. Fury refused to make a decision so Tony had the brilliant idea of competing for the babysitter gig. For once in your life, you wished Rainbow Road would cut you a little slack, or that Bowser knew how to drive better than you did. 

So one Mario Kart crash led to another and next thing you knew, you had a makeshift god living under your roof. In all honesty, they had chalked him up to be much worse than he actually was, aside from his rebellious nature and all the sarcasm he was like any overly-angsty drama queen. 

And if he didn’t think he owned the place, you’d have gotten along great. 

“IF YOU USE UP ALL THE HOT WATER ONE MORE TIME I’M GOING TO BAN YOU TO THE COUCH FOR A MONTH.” You had tried the polite approach, the annoyed-but-indoor-voice approach, and even the next-time-you-can-fight-me line, but Loki refused to listen.

If there was one thing he knew he valued above all else, it was his privacy, and desperate times called for desperate measures. 

“But my dear, how could you possibly manage that?” He gave you his most charming smile, eyes glimmering with ‘I’m a god and you’re just a mortal.’ Sometimes your fist really wanted to connect with his Asgardian nose. Fury would forgive you - probably. 

“Believe me my dear, I have my ways.” He liked to forget that you had pummeled him to oblivion when he thought it was a good idea to make Germany kneel. 

~~~

He used up all the hot water. 

He was almost absolutely sure that if he poured some on your right now, it would boil instantly. You were fuming.

Usually he wouldn’t be so intimidated by a woman wearing nothing but a towel, but what could he say? You were something special. And he was well aware of the fact that you could kick his ass at any time. 

He didn’t complain too much when he moved into the living room.

~~~

He thought he was being rebellious, making you pay for taking away his room. And at first it made you angry and uncomfortable and maybe a little in awe when he stopped wearing clothes around the place. 

You got used to it fairly fast, and it got old even faster. The good news was you found a way to make him follow orders too. You weren’t particularly proud of yourself, but hey, kissing a god’s not the worst thing you could do. 

“My parents are coming over in 10 minutes so please put some clothes on.” You didn’t have time to clean the house and supervise Loki, maybe it was too much to hope that he could take care of himself for once. 

“But where’s the fun in that?” He hopped off his place on the couch and trailed you like a really tall (almost naked) puppy. 

“Loki, don’t start.” You would have thrown the dirty plate in your hands at him if it didn’t end in more cleaning for you. 

“Don’t be cruel darling. What do I get in return?” His voice was smoother than the water running down the drain. The glare you sent went straight through him - probably towards his ego - and he spared you the most devilish smirk you had ever seen. 

You put the newly cleaned plate on the counter and walked right up to Loki. If he was intimidated before, this was a whole other level, and he enjoyed every searing moment. 

He closed his eyes after he was backed up into the fridge and your fingers were freezing their prints into his jaw. Your kisses were like a drug, ice on a summer day, a good breeze after a life in the dungeon. He couldn’t help it if he lived for them, or if he was a complete sucker for your lips. And also, what kind of trickster would he be if he didn’t milk this treat for all it was worth? As far as he knew it was the only time you’d ever kiss him, so a little obedience was worth it. 

The feeling of fireworks dancing over Loki’s skin didn’t last long enough. When you pulled away the colours behind his eyes dimmed again and  he was left wanting more; always more. One day he might give into his urge to chase after your lips, but that would be after he could swear those beautiful E/C eyes wouldn’t hurt him. 

He went to get dressed without another word, stuck wishing the tingle on his lips would never go away. 

#can't believe I wrote this YEARS ago #and I'm still in love with him #Loki x Reader #shameless self advertising

[mattymattymerduck]

If loki had a Spotify account

#this is BEAUTIFUL #loki laufeyson #loki #art!!

[mattymattymerduck]

How dare you give me bottom Loki and top Loki in a span of a week? Are you trying to kill me?