#but the way they fumbled the bag so hard on this makes me feel like they should’ve never | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gojonanami · 5 months

Text

❝ 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐒 ❞

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

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

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

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, so much mutual pining, bed sharing, cuddling, masturbation (f + m), oral (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), semi public sex (sorta), office sex (kinda), amateur's take on moral philosophy and ethics, art by @/nino84391425

✧ wc: 16,821 (apparently i am writing a novel lol) | part one | part three | part four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RING. RING. RING.

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

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

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

Probably not. That would be far too lucky.

~~~

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

It was too much of a risk.

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

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

But he couldn’t possibly be that lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I want us to do that—”

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

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

It didn’t.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you did neither, and instead broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you calling me self absorbed?”

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

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

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

God he’s even pretty when he blushes.

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

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

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

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

“Do I have any other responsibilities?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something you knew very well.

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

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

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

You blink, “how’d you know that?”

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

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

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

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

“What students?”

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

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

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

“No,” and he only smiles wider.

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

“I’m not—“

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

Ah, there is was — you were sinking again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, this wasn’t a dream was it?

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

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

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

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

He raises an eyebrow, “deja vu?”

Your blood runs cold. Fuck.

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you insist.

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

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

Nothing good ever came from your want.

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

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

But you can’t be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck — maybe there was something to worry about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you make the decision for both of you.

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

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

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

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

No, it didn’t matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But why did it hurt so goddamn much?

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

Was it really not a big deal to him?

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

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

Just fine.

“There was a problem with your reservation,”

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

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

One. Bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re both adults—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. My. God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he would, sinking into you, his pretty cock parting your folds, his quiet grunts and moans whispering in your ear, as he works himself inside to the hilt. His lips would find yours as he would rock his hips into you — your cunt would flutter around his length. He would press your thighs apart further, long fingers digging into your soft flesh, the wet squelch of your cunt and the sounds of his skin slapping against yours would ring in your ears.

“S’close, Sugu—fuck,” you would keen against him, instead of your fingers, “please,” and his thumb would find your clit, just as yours did, and you would cum all over his cock, squeezing around his length, as he sinks even deeper, until his tip is brushing against your cunt. The moan of his name slips out, as you press your forearm against your mouth to barely stifle it.

Fuck, you come down from your high, panting. And you glance at the bathroom door, thinking you’ll clean up once he gets out. You roll over in bed, as you pulled the pillow over your face.

This was going to be a long weekend.

Suguru lingers in the bathroom for far too long after that, the embarrassment of the moment still far too fresh in his mind, his cheeks still a dusty pink at the thought. Not only was it bad enough that he was trapped in this hotel room with you for an entire weekend, but now he had paraded out practically half naked for you to see.

Fuck his life.

He had hurried into the shower if only to get a break from being in the same room as you. It had been hard enough to endure the last few weeks as a T.A., but now he had to spend an entire weekend sharing a hotel room — and deal with situations like that one all weekend. Seeing you emerge from the bathroom, only in a t-shirt and shorts, still damp from your shower — wet hair in messy tangles that he wanted to run his fingers through— and that’s why he excused himself to the bathroom. A reprieve if only for a moment. If he had only remembered to bring his clothes into the shower — he wouldn’t have had to finish his shower, with only his discarded clothes to wear that had slipped off the clothes rack and onto the damp floor.

He had stepped out, towel around his waist, as he peeled out, only to see your back to him, the sounds of soft breathing told him you were asleep. And he crept out, silently cursing as the door creaked and rifled through his suitcase for clothes. He had found them, and gone to retreat back when you roused and turned all at once.

God, he sighed, it was such a mess.

But the way you looked at him…lips parted, gaze flicking across his body, the way your eyes lingered a little too long on his torso — and now he had an entirely different problem.

His cock tented against the towel, as his eyes slid to the bathroom door. What if he just hopped into the shower for a second again? The towel dropped to the floor, as he steps back into the shower, turning on the water.

He groans, his fingers slide over his mortifyingly hard erection, teasing his slit as he would imagine you would, as you would open the bathroom door, murmuring his name, “Professor? Are you okay?” And you wouldn’t wait for his answer as you stepped into the shower with him, eyes raking down his body, a teasing grin on your lips, “not very ethical is that?” And your fingers would curl their way around the base of his cock, making him shudder with pleasure, “I can take care of that,” and you would kiss down his chest and stomach, even despite his protests, until you reached where he wanted your touch most.

And god, you would look so pretty on your knees for him, as your fingers pumped him far too slowly, teasing him with a chaste kiss to his tip, tongue dragging against his slit, better than how his thumb did, “s’good for me, Professor,” you’d say, when you heard the hiss he just let out, “I wonder what other sounds you could make for me,” and your lips would close around his tip, sucking lightly, as he gasped, his other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his sounds.

He would look down with half lidded eyes, and see your head bobbing as you took him so well, your fingers toying with his balls, spotting your eyes flicking up to meet his — glazed over and desperate, just he imagined his were. Your mouth would feel so much better than his hand, the wet squelch of his pumping would not compare to you swallowing around him, sucking and licking around his length, his pre-cum and your drool slipping down the corner of your mouth.

You’d swallow around him, as his fingers would slide into your hair. And maybe you would let him fuck your mouth, hips rolling slowly as you adjust, before he slowly would thrust faster. He would repay the favor tenfold once you were done, burying himself in your sweet cunt, until you were begging him to stop. His fingers moved faster around his cock, his low groans and wet squelch bouncing off the bathroom walls, hopefully drowned out by the running water. Fuck, he wished he would feel how it would to have his tip brush against the back of your throat.

He was close, the twitch of his dick in his hand told him so, and he imagined what it would be like to cum in your mouth, watching you swallow his release, if you’d want to, or cumming all over your face or chest, letting his cock drag over your tongue as he pulled out.

Fuck, he shudders, moaning your name against his fingers, he cums all over his hand and the wall of the shower, his release running down mixing with the water. He rinsed his hand off, leaning his head under the water again, hoping it would wash away any traces of you.

It didn’t.

And as he emerged from the shower, making sure any trace of his act had slipped down the drain, but the towel around his neck, wondering if you’d see what he did on his face. But you wouldn’t — because you were fast asleep.

His lips curled as he watched you sleep for a moment, your lips parted, curled up facing away from the bathroom — your feet sticking out of your blanket. He adjusts the blanket for you, and you shift a little in your sleep, mumbling something under your breath, before settling back in.

And he bites his lip before turning away — he would never be clean, would he?

Not when it was you.

“How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you murmur, the smile plastered on your lips nearly starting to chip and crack.

Professor Geto sipped at his drink hiding his frown, long fingers cradling the wine glass far too perfectly, “at least another hour,” he sighs, “when in academia, one must get used to mindless conversing if only it will lead to another needless connection,”

And this day had been nothing but an exercise of that — lectures, panels, presentations — any other word that meant someone or several someones sitting in front of you, talking at you — with only maybe 30% of the people actually listening (if you were lucky or interesting). And now you were one hour deep into a mixer that had you engaging in dry chit-chat that had your mind going numb by the first ten minutes. Your only reprieve being by Geto’s side.

You hated how he could make the dullest of things enjoyable for you, or rather—

You hated how much you loved it

“How pithy — Plato?” And he snorts, as you finish off your own drink, “I’m going to get a refill, do you want anything?” He shakes his head, and you head off to the bar.

You were so restless after sitting for so long. Not to mention the slight rash you got from not washing up soon enough. You woke an hour and half later and cleaned yourself up — luckily Geto had passed out by then. You saw him sleeping half scrunched up, half sprawled out on the couch — one of his legs were hanging off the couch — and even his blanket had slipped off. You stifled a small laugh, taking a quick picture of him — so stubborn that he wouldn’t sleep on the bed with you. Your gaze had softened, as you picked up the discarded blanket and placed it over him softly, your fingers gently tucking some of his hair from his face. You fell asleep again after heading back to bed, and woke up refreshed — while Geto had woken up with a very sore back and neck.

“Can I get…” you look at the menu, ordering your favorite drink, standing by the bar as you adjust your dress, you had opted for a black dress with sheer tights — one you had worn a suit jacket over it. You tap against the bar top, checking your phone as you do.

“Can I get what she’s getting?” A dark haired man sidles up beside you, his mouth curled in a smirk drawing attention to a scar in the corner of his mouth, and his voice drops to a whisper, “though I think I’d enjoy you more than the drink,”

You raise your eyebrows, “and I think you’ve certainly had enough tonight,” you say under your breath, giving an awkward chuckle, but he doesn’t seem to notice as the bartender comes back with your drink. Your eyes flicker over the crowd as you search for Geto but you can’t find him.

“What’s your name, pretty?” And your skin crawls as his dark gaze slides over your body, “mine’s Toji,” and you bite back a sigh, introducing yourself, “it’s very nice to meet you — I’ve met a lot of people tonight but you definitely have been the most interesting,” and the bartender comes back with his drink.

“Then you must have not met a lot of interesting people so far,” you say, eager to look for any out to escape this conversation, “my friend is waiting—“

“No, I’d say that you’re just that interesting,” he sips his drink, “can I get you another drink?”

And right when you’re about to respond, “No, I don’t think she’s interested,” And you tense a moment before you register the familiar voice, Geto smiles at Toji, if you could call that a smile — it reminded you of one a predator gave its new prey, “especially because she’s a student, and you’re most assuredly not,”

Toji raises an eyebrow, “But she is an adult, she can speak for herself, so why don’t you let her, Professor?”

“Because—“ his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach for you but he can’t.

You swallow the lump in your throat. And you know why he can’t.

Geto’s smile wavers, and you intercede, “I can, and I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” you pay your tab, “let’s go back to the hotel, Professor,”

And Toji pulls his card out, handing it to you, “If you change your mind,” he raises his glass, leaning against the bar, before he leans closer to you, whispering, “if you ever get sick of him, call me,”

You give a polite smile, tugging Geto away until you reached the outside of the building, silence filled the space between you two, until you found your way outside.

“What did he say?” He asks as he calls a car back to take you both to the hotel, and you don’t know how to answer that — not without making it worse, “actually, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked,”

“Professor—“

“You’re an adult, he’s right — you should be allowed to make your own choices,” he licks his lips, his eyes still fixed on his phone screen, “I’m sorry if I—“

“Can you let me speak?” you sigh, as you wave your hand in front of his phone so he would look at you, and his eyes meet yours, “you’re fine — I was trying to get out of there — I just felt very trapped.”

He huffs out a chuckle. “When you took that long, I wondered if the group of solipsists had taken you hostage,”

You grimace, “I guess when you believe everyone else is an illusion, you also think manners are an illusion too,” he laughs in earnest now, “now there’s a real smile,” He tilts his head, “the smile you had inside, real scary kind of smile,” you tease, as his eyes can’t quite meet yours.

“Oh yeah?” he suddenly seems very interested in his phone, “our rideshare is almost here,”

“Almost like you were jealous,” and he scoffs.

“Of him?”

“Uh huh, he is pretty attractive, maybe I will give him a call—“ and you notice him grip his phone tighter, and your lips curl, “but I probably won’t, not really my type,”

“Not your type?” he asks.

“More into the intellectuals, that man was far from it — I like an academic, sweater vests, glasses, a pretentious little office—“ and the glare is back, as you laugh, the rideshare sparing him from you continuing this conversation, but you also didn’t get to see the slight smile on his lips as you slipped into the back of the car.

“Just sleep on the bed,” you say for probably the thousandth time, but he only shakes his head, as he sits on the couch, combing out his black locks. Even freshly showered, he looks unfairly hot — a loose gray t-shirt with sweatpants, contacts switched to glasses, and now his hair brushed against his shoulders.

“I’ll sleep on the couch — it was fine last night—“

“Your spinal cord would beg to differ,” and he looks unamused, as he struggles with his comb, “what are you doing?”

“I can’t get this knot out of my hair, and I can’t get you out of my hair either,” he adds, as you roll your eyes, slipping off the bed and walking over. You ease the comb from his fingers, biting your lip at the brush of his fingers, “what are you—“

“It’s easier if someone else does it,” and he sighs, giving in, as your fingers undo the knot in his hair gently, “your hair is really smooth and fine, probably why it tangled so fast,” and he only hums in response, his body relaxing under your touch, as you comb through the rest of his hair. You bite back a smile, he’s almost like a cat, keening under your touch, “feels good?” You murmur.

“Yeah, it does,” and you don’t want the moment to end, you want this excuse to touch him to remain, the first time you’ve been able to breach this wall between you two — and it’d be over in an instant, “I think that’s good,” he mutters.

He lays his head back on the top of the couch to look up at you — pretty obsidian orbs stared back at you — and your heart squeezes. He was so close, within reach, and all you had to do was lean down, press your lips against his, and maybe you wouldn’t have to tiptoe anymore, maybe you wouldn’t have to hide from him, maybe you could be—

“We should go to bed,” he sighs, the moment breaks, as he sits upright, adjusting his pillow on the couch beside him, “we have an early start,”

“Don’t remind me,” you turn back to him, “but you’re right - we should go to bed—“ you grab his pillow, “on the bed,”

“No—“

“Like you said, we’re both adults,” you tilt your head, as he purses his lips, “I think I can handle sleeping in bed beside you, just sleeping, we can even put a pillow between us,” and you add, “if I try anything in my sleep, you challenge me to a pillow fight, and push me off the bed,”

He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I really can sleep on—“ and then you raise your eyebrows, eyes flicking to the hand on his neck. He sighs, “fine, but I really will push you off the bed, I’m a restless sleeper,”

“Then it’s equal opportunity,” you grin, as you slip into your side of the bed, stretching. Suguru is slower to get in, taking his time and adjusting his pillow and blanket before he finally gets into bed, “good night,”

“Good night,” he turns to face away from you as he sleeps and you do the same.

But it wasn’t a good night. Not when you couldn’t fucking sleep.

For someone so smart, you really were very stupid. The bed that seemed expansive and open yesterday now felt Tom Thumb tiny, every shift of your body felt like a ripple effect, as you’d feel the slight shift of Geto right beside you. He was so close — you swore you could nearly feel the heat radiate off of him, the weight of his body beside you felt far too close and way too far — a chasm you could never cross.

And it was close to driving you insane enough to follow your wants all the way down it.

But you couldn’t — but you could look, stare into the void, without becoming part of it.

You shift again to face him this time — how could the back of someone’s head be so beautiful? Jet black locks that you had combed yourself fanned out on his pillow. But you could spot the nape of his neck through the tresses, a lovely spot that you only wished you could lean over and bury your face in. Your eyes began to droop.

Hypnos finally took pity. You could only sleep this way. Your eyes finally flutter shut — you should have known — you were always the most comfortable with him in your sight.

Suguru knew that you had fallen asleep — because your soft breaths fell into a rhythm, the crinkle of your sheets had grown silent, and the loud thoughts that filled up your head had gone quiet. He was glad one of you could sleep.

He surely wouldn’t get a wink tonight.

This was certainly more comfortable than the couch, but at least he had slept on the couch. He would be lucky to get thirty minutes at this rate. This weekend had already been too much — and he felt his will to stay away from you slowly snapping, a few strands away from breaking away completely.

When he had seen you with Toji — he didn’t think, he just acted. He could see you were uncomfortable, the way your body leaned away from him, the way your eyes flickered around the room, and the way you toyed with your glass. It was a simple choice, but what happens when the next person that flirts with you is someone you’re interested in? Would he have to stand by and simply let it happen? Watch as you’re able to date this person but not him simply because of his title?

He was jealous. Not of Toji — but of the idea of you being with someone else — of your attention drifting from him, of you drifting from him. He turned to lay on his back, he really was fucked wasn’t he?

He turns his head to look at you. It never helped that you were effortlessly adorable, even now as you slept. Lips parted, body curled up, your hair falling in your face yet again. His fingers tuck a strand behind your ear gently, and you shift, a quiet hum leaving your lips as you settle back into the arms of the sandman.

How were you so close but so far? You were mere inches away but you might as well be across the country. Because he couldn’t touch you, he couldn’t hold you, he couldn’t kiss you. The kiss he shared with you haunted his dreams — a daydream wrapped up in the nightmare of reality. He couldn’t ask you to wait — wait for your degree to be completed so the two of you could date. It wouldn’t be fair to you, but what about this was fair?

And he turns on his side to face you, his fingers brushing your cheek gently — maybe if he couldn’t be with you in reality, he could allow himself to dream, his eyes flutter shut.

Just for a moment.

And his unconscious allows it — allows him to dream of you.

Dream of your face buried in the crook of his neck, your soft breaths warming his skin, his nose buried in your hair. Your fingers grasped at his shirt, your other hand thrown over his middle. Why was your scent so intoxicating? He sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, and you shift, your leg sliding around his waist, as you pressed closer, pulling a groan from his lips as your core grazes right against his morning…visitor.

And you move again, nose brushing against his collarbone, his name on your lips, quietly whispered like a secret against his skin. It was perfect — you were perfect.

But what if this wasn’t a dream? The back of his mind prods — but that’s not possible, he was home in bed, right? This wasn’t real. It was the same dream he always had, of waking up in your arms, a lazy morning spent together in bed, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the sheets becoming dappled in sunshine.

No, there was no way this was real, he sighs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, but even if it was, he thought as he drifted, he didn’t want to wake — not yet.

A distinct buzz stirs you from your sleep. But you don't want to wake — you were far too comfortable. But the buzzing persists, so you reach blindly for your phone and to turn off the alarm. And settle back into bed, eyes still shut, as you find your way back onto your pillow — or what you thought was your pillow.

Except pillows didn’t move, or have an arm they could wrap around you.

Your eyes open, to find yourself entangled with someone else — your brow furrowing in confusion that melts away to silent horror. Professor Geto.

So much for sticking to your sides.

Fuck.

You tried to extricate yourself to no avail, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush to his body, your legs entangled, aside from your leg thrown over his waist, you realize, a small squeak escaping your lips, as you try and fail to move away. Instead you brush up against something very…hard.

You flush, cheeks burning so hot that it’s truly a miracle he didn’t wake from the heat of your skin against his alone. His morning wood was pressed right against you, nearly between your thighs — just like the last time it was against you — why the fuck would you think about that now? You resisted the urge to press your legs together — lest you have another new problem, and a mess to deal with.

You manage to only pull your head away, urging yourself up so that your faces are an inch or two apart now. His soft breaths warmed your lips, his brow relaxed, locks of black hair fell in front of his eyes. Your fingers reach and tuck the locks behind his ear, tips skimming his skin. And the arm around you almost seems to tighten, and you bite your lip, the comforting presence of his arms far too tempting to drag you into wanting — as if you ever left. Wanting was dangerous, because wanting can only ever lead to need, needing him was as foolish as it was to share a bed with the man you were in love with.

But how foolish was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away? It was okay right? Okay as long your lips didn’t touch, as long you didn’t follow this slope all the way down — it was treacherous to press forward, but why did you want to anyway?

Your eyes flutter shut again for a moment — and your eyes glanced at the morning sky — the sun had just breached the horizon. You could allow yourself a few minutes — even if you had to give up a lifetime with him.

The blaring of your phone only seems to grow increasingly loud, as you give a small groan, rolling over to your phone again, slapping the screen to snooze it again. And your eyes flutter open a moment, lazily flickering over the screen — 8:45 AM.

Your eyes close — before your mind fully wakes — 8:45 AM?

“Fuck,” you shoot up to get up, a tangle of limbs, jolting Geto awake, his eyes popping open, his arm instinctively grabbing you by the waist, and you land with an oomfph back onto the bed—wait, not the bed.

Your hand pressed against his chest, your body against his, noses brushing, your eyes unable to tear away from the other — his eyes were even prettier this close — a dark brown, nearly black, with flecks of another color — purple? You can’t tell if that’s your heartbeat or his that’s racing with how close you are, chest to chest. And even as you try to shift, you make it worse by slipping, your hips rubbing against each other’s.

Fuck.

You both freeze for a moment, his eyes flickering to your lips and back, as yours does the same, before you both scramble apart.

“We’re late. We’re really late,” you spring out of bed, grabbing random clothes from your suitcase, “I’m going to get ready, really fast,” you don’t even bother to look at his expression, and you almost wished your heart had shattered your ribcage, with how fucking hard it’s beating, if only that you wouldn’t have to spend another day in the conference with him.

You sighed, as you brushed your teeth hurriedly while doing your hair — well maybe a lecture or presentation would take your mind off this morning.

So that wasn’t a dream, Suguru was only glad you didn’t even glance at his face when you ran off, or you would have seen the lovely tomato red that graced his cheeks. He could still feel the warmth from your body, slowly receding, and he swore he could still feel you against him, your soft skin, your pretty lips against his neck, and your leg around his waist.

Fuck.

God, he had another fucking problem to deal with — as he shifted awkwardly, his morning wood up and erect with a tent that could put most large circus tents to shame. Fuck, he didn’t have time to take care of this — especially with you in the bathroom right now.

But still, he pressed his inner palm to his lips, how was he going to make it through the rest of the conference with the feeling of your body still lingering in his mind. If the situation was different, the two of you would have woken up with smiles on your lips, spent the morning cuddling without a care, and probably a little more than that—

But the situation was the same, and his eyes slid to the bathroom door, so why was it that he still thinking about you? He wasn’t the type to dwell, he accepted things for what they were — he had his principles and his beliefs, and he stuck to them, unless proven otherwise. He was a man of guidelines, of rules—

So why were you the only person that ever made him want to throw every rule away?

“We are going to be discussing ethical dilemmas faced in universities and how to approach them,” the lecturer begins, “can anyone tell us an example of one such dilemma?”

You both had barely made it into a lecture — barely even speaking as you ran-walked into the conference — choosing a lecture at random, as the two of you ran a good fifteen minutes late. You both arrived, hiding your pants, as you both grabbed water bottles from the back, and sat down.

And of course to make matters worse, your phone goes off, making the entire room turn to look at the two of you. You silence your phone, murmuring a quick sorry as the two of you take your seats.

Could this possibly get worse?

Your eyes glanced at him — it was already bad enough to begin with. Geto had barely spoken a word this morning, even as the two of arrived at the conference, the only words he spoke were to the attendant that parked his car.

You tugged at the collar of your shirt, adjusting your clothes. And if that wasn’t enough, you were going to spend the day sweaty and disheveled. Meanwhile, you stole another glance at your professor — his skin flushed from running, button up not buttoned up all the way, glasses instead of contacts, and his hair in its usual bun, but a few strands were nearly coming loose — he still looked fucking delectable. But he wouldn’t meet your gaze, his body positioned to lean away from yours, his eyes fixed ahead.

You held back your sigh as you focused on the presentation — you just needed to get through today — as the lecturer picked someone who raised their hand.

“A student-teacher relationship is one such ethical problem faced in universities today,” and Geto nearly chokes on his water, coughing slightly, as you feel your cheeks burn at the thought of this morning, “it presents several ethical problems — including the role the professor plays in the student’s education and future, their ability to provide praise or reprimand, and even grant recommendations gives them great power over their student. It leaves the student without much freedom in the relationship.”

Oh, what the fuck.

The rest of the conference is spent in relative silence with a thick film of awkwardness perfectly overlayed. When you both finally return to the hotel room, your only consolation is that you’ll be leaving tomorrow. You toss your things onto the couch, “I’m going to wash up,” you tell him, and he only nods in reply, as you enter the bathroom and shut the door, back pressed against it and sliding down.

Oh this is such a mess. You sigh, maybe a shower will help.

It didn’t. You were still just as much of a mess as you were before. You sighed, as you stood in front of the sink, wiping your hair with a towel. This could be so simple if you both could be together — so easy. There would be no tension, no hurt feelings, no awkwardness — you could just be. But that’s not an option. So the only other option is to let him go.

But you didn’t know how to begin to.

Either way, hiding in the bathroom wouldn’t solve a thing — and you finally opened the door, “I’m done if you want to wash up,” he nods, sitting on the couch, reading a book. His glasses rested on the tip of his nose, lips pursed, and legs crossed.

You walk over, grabbing your things from the couch and put some of your things away in your suitcase. But after all of that is done, you realize one thing is missing — your cellphone.

“Shit,” you murmur under your breath, searching through your suit coat pockets, your pants pocket, anywhere that your phone might be.

“What’s wrong?” Geto says, book in his lap, as he tilts his head.

“Can’t find my phone,” you mumble, cheeks burning — god, it was already awkward enough, and now this?

“Is it on ring?” You nod — your phone was usually on ring, sometimes to your detriment — you cringe at the memory in the lecture this morning, “I’ll call it,”

He calls you — and you glance at his phone screen, your contact is just your name, no picture, nothing. You bite your lip, what were you expecting? A heart next to your name? And the sound of your phone ringing catches both of your attention.

“It’s over here, somewhere,” he says, lifting up some of cushions of the couch, and reaching underneath into the creases, as you walk over — “I found—“

And you were so concerned about your contact information in his phone that you forgot about his contact information in your phone.

The screen flashed with the image of him sleeping all lopsided on the couch from that first night, as you covered your mouth in both horror, but also to stifle your laugh.

His eyes flicker to you, “When did you—“ and you reach for your phone, but he moves it away, “not until you answer my questions,”

“This isn’t class, Professor, I want my phone—“ you reach for it again, and he’s holding it above your head, “oh real mature—“

“Like the picture you have of me as my contact picture?” He raises an eyebrow, a real smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “thought I should resort to my student’s level,”

“Your T.A.,” you correct, as you reach for your phone again, but he’s using his height to his advantage, and he’s beginning to walk backwards, “come on, give it back—“

“Not until I change and delete that photo,” and he’s trying to hold your phone up to your face to unlock it, and you gasp.

“Oh my god, give it back!” And you grab his hand, and he’s grabbing at the other, giggles leaving your lips, as he laughs too, as the two of you struggle for the phone, your fingers closing over it, and over his own fingers as well.

And you realize how close you are to him.

The two of you freeze a moment, laughter on your lips fading away to soft smiles, and his fingers squeeze yours lightly, as he passes you your phone back. But he doesn’t move away — and you don’t either.

“Why did you let go?” and it seems like it’s a force out of your control that draws you together, no matter how much either of you try to let go.

“Because I can’t help giving you what you want,” he murmurs, and the heat of his gaze melts your heart, as you drop your phone onto the couch, and reach for his hand again.

And you lean closer, your other hand gently brushing against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, “So if I ask for a kiss, will you give it to me?” You won’t close the gap anymore than you have — he needs to reach for you too, let himself give into gravity.

He does, as his hand brushes against your cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth across your cheekbone, “will we stop at just a kiss?” He murmurs, leaning so close that your eyes want to flutter shut.

“Only one way to find out,” and his lips brush yours. And it’s not chaste like your first kiss was, no, his lips slide against yours, as his other hand slides to the back of your neck. He swallows your gasp eagerly, if the smirk you feel against your lips is anything to go off of. Your teeth graze against this bottom lip teasingly, drawing a small groan from the back of his throat.

Neither of you couldn’t stop at one kiss, and you both knew that, even as your lips parted for a small breath of air, they found each other again — just as you both always did. Because you could never let him go — no matter how hard you tried.

RING. RING. RING.

And this time it isn’t an alarm. But rather his phone, flashing with a name that brings you crashing back to reality.

The department head.

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, as he parts from you, his warmth leaving all at once, as he grabs his phone, and turns away, “Hello? Yes, the conference is over. Everything went well. No, no, nothing out of the ordinary.”

You stared at his back, this would always be the case wouldn’t it? Even as you crashed together, something would pull you apart, and neither of you could break the cycle. You take your phone from the couch, and crawl into bed, but you could start.

You close your eyes, your fingers brushing against your lips for a moment. You needed to start — otherwise, you would just end up broken.

And you don’t hear him hang up — or see him stare at your figure under the covers — and he would break along with you.

Suguru didn’t know what to say the next morning — especially when it seemed couldn’t even bear to look at him, much less speak to him. You had busied yourself with packing, even before he had awoken. His back ached from the night he spent on the couch, he couldn’t fall asleep for far too long, and by the time he did, he kept sleeping — through his many alarms it seemed.

And it wasn’t the couch that kept him awake.

You both had the most lovely timing, didn’t you? He thought, as he combed his hair in the bathroom, the memory of your fingers running through his hair as you gently undid the knots in his locks still ever present — it seemed like any time you two wanted to act on your feelings, the universe was doing what it could to keep you apart.

Was this fate versus free will?

You both kept choosing each other — but fate kept pulling you apart. Did he have any control over his actions or did he have no control over his actions at all? Was it all predetermined by some force he couldn’t perceive? Some force intent on pulling you apart.

He sighed, as his phone lights up with an email from the department head — department head position opened up in Jujutsu University: Kyoto —

And so maybe he should let it.

The next few weeks pass by far too quick. As your semester picks up, you stop attending Professor Geto’s classes, opting to send an email to let him know, and he replies back with a simple response — Ok. Please let me know when and if you are available to input the grades for the midterm paper.

The rest of your T.A. work is done online and over email — and you do your best to keep busy, keep yourself occupied, and keep your thoughts from straying to him.

And you maybe succeed 10% of the time. It doesn’t help that your unconscious does not wish to cooperate since it seems that once you stopped seeing your professor during waking hours, he’s infiltrated your sleep — sneaking in and out by the time your eyes open.

And then you’re left with the fragments of his touch, his voice, his kisses, and soft, loving words.

Just as you always were it seemed.

And before you know it, the end of the semester comes, and you find yourself in front of that same office door yet again. It felt like an eternal reoccurrence — stuck to repeat the same events again and again in an infinite loop. Was there any exit from this loop?

You didn’t know — you knocked on his office door — but you could try.

“Come in,” you do, entering his office to find him sitting at his desk, hair half up for once. And his eyes flicker up to meet yours, his head tilting at your stare, “see something interesting?”

“Your hair—“ and your cheeks burn — so much for trying — “it’s different,”

“Thought I’d try something different — my hair is growing out,” and you have to repress the want to curl a lock or his hair around your finger, “do you not like it?”

You shake your head, “It looks nice, just different,”

And he hands you the papers he’s graded, “you can input those, I’m just finishing up a couple more, so if you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit?”

“Not at all,” a silence falls over between the two of you, the quiet scratch of his pen as he grades, the occasional ding of his e-mail breaking up the silence. You sneak a glance at him — ebony tresses brushing against his broad shoulders, his brow furrowed that you wished to run your fingers along to smooth his worries from his mind, pretty lips parted as he reads a sentence silently to himself.

Fuck — no, no, you can’t do this.

You busy yourself thumbing your way through the papers, spotting the familiar red scrawls littering these pages, as they once did yours. You were so pissed when you got your first paper back — indignant even — a whole Karen ready to speak to his supervisor. But when his honest criticism and blunt words rang true, you found yourself not only wanting to prove him wrong, but a want to be better. To earn his respect. And of course, later, you wanted to earn a little more than that.

You bite back a chuckle, and here you still were — by his side. Except next semester you wouldn’t be his T.A.

But you would still be a student. And he would still be a professor.

But one other thing that hasn’t changed is how brutal the feedback is — you couldn’t help but feel bad for “Itadori Yuuji” — whoever that was.

“What are you smiling about?” Your eyes snap up to meet his, his head leaning against his palm, elbow resting on the desk.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, but he looks unconvinced, “just thinking about our first time in this office,” and then your cheeks burn at the double meaning, “I mean our first office hours appointment—“

He waves you off, “I know what you meant,” a small chuckle in his cadence, as he continues to grade, “you certainly weren’t happy with me,”

“No I wasn’t,” a small smile on your lips, “but it worked out in the end,” you add, “you got an amazing T.A. after all,”

His eyes meet yours, “More than just that,”

Why can’t you help but get pulled in time and time again? And why can’t you help but ask questions that will only hurt you in the end?

He continues to grade when you finally speak, “What do you think would have happened if I didn’t end up being your T.A.?”

And his pen stops, lips pursed, “We shouldn’t—“

“Why shouldn’t we?” you felt like a child demanding an answer from their parent.

“We agreed—”

“I don’t remember an agreement-”

“It was unspoken—”

You scoff, crossing your arms, “You really are only a professor because an attorney would know that binding agreements can’t be unspoken,” he falls silent, his voice soft.

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” his words are wrought with conflict, pain seeping into every syllable, “I don’t want to keep going down this road only to for you to get hurt in the end — I don’t want to jeopardize your future for something that might not last—”

“But what if it does?” and he swallows thickly, “what if we can make it work? We’re both adults, we can be discreet—”

“So discreet that we end up making out in my office?” he takes off his glasses only to run a hand down his face, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, and you huff out a chuckle.

“A little more discreet than that, we’ll lock the door next time,” it’s his turn to scoff, and you rise from your seat, lips curled, “close the lights, or maybe even kiss in a place that’s not on campus,” but he does the same, meeting you on the side of his desk, his fingers brushing your cheek so gently as if you’d shatter under his touch.

“I don’t want to stand in the way of your career,” he says, his fingers finding your hand regardless, fingers interlacing, “I don’t want you to—”

“It’s my choice, Suguru,” you murmur, as you lean against his warm palm, your fingers sliding against his palm and into his inky tresses, “don’t you owe me a choice, and a drink?” you add, and his lips curl in a knowing smile.

“I do, if you’ll still have me,” and he’s leaning close, sucking the air from the room, and the logic from your minds, as his lips barely graze yours, “shouldn’t we lock the door?”

“Fuck it,” and you pull him into a deep kiss that pulls a groan from his lips that makes your cunt ache, as he’s already pushing you into the lip of his desk, his hand sliding down to your waist.

“Now who’s being unethical?” he murmurs, pressing eager kisses along your jaw, that makes you melt against him, your legs nearly jelly at this point, “what kind of example are you setting as a T.A.?”

You bite back your moan as his lips find the soft spot of your neck, teeth grazing it far too fucking teasingly, “Well students learn by example,” and his hands are slipping under thighs to lift you so you’re sitting on his desk — you spread your legs for him in the dress that you’re in, pantyhose underneath, his heavy lidded gaze raking over your body, “and look at my professor staring at his T.A. so lustfully, even with a clear power dynamic—”

And his fingers find your thighs again, squeezing, before his fingers dig into the sheer hose, tearing holes in it, drawing a gasp from your lips, “How’s that for a power dynamic, princess?” far too pleased, “don’t worry, I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs, “now just be a good girl and spread your legs for me,” he says, as he pulls away the ruined pantyhose, and he’s undoing the buttons on his shirt with one hand — one, two, three — before your fingers take over, leaning to press kisses at each inch of exposed skin, until the shirt falls open.

Then his lips find yours again, his silver tongue asking for you to part your lips and you do — as he extracts every want you have with his burning touch — his lips against yours, his large hands parting your thighs, his knee pressed against your twitching cunt — and only leaves your want for him behind, until it becomes a need.

“Wonder what our students would think of you,” his fingers tease your inner thighs, drawing a whine from your lips, “wanting your professor to fuck you in his office instead of inputting their grades,” he whispers in your ear, as his fingers finally skim the wet patch of your underwear, “so wet f’me, already? Look I think you even soaked my slacks,” he tsks, as his thumb and forefinger find your chin and tilt it up, “what are you going to do about that?”

“Suguru—please,” and he smiles as his finger starts to tease your puffy clit through your drenched panties, “don’t tease—”

“How can I not when you’ve nothing but tease me with your existence?” he pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, “I’ll oblige my favorite student this time—but I won’t be so nice next time,” he adds, biting your bottom lip.

RING. RING. RING.

It was his fucking office phone. You groan, but his finger continues to sink into you, “Suguru—”

“Let it ring,” his lips find yours in a bruising kiss as his finger deliciously sinks into you, “I have all I need right here,” he whispers, and you pull him back into a kiss by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, your hand sliding up and down his chest, while he worked a finger into your cunt, “so fucking wet f’me, so perfect,”

And your hand flies back to support yourself as a second finger begins to sink into you — but your hand grazes his office phone, and the messages begin to play back.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mumble, as you reach blindly for the phone, only to knock it back, as he chuckles and reaches behind you, trying but failing to help — your noses brushing, and he smiles before kissing you again.

Mr. Geto, sorry we missed each other, I was calling, hoping that you would still be in office for the day, but I must have just missed you. I wanted to call to offer you the job as department head at Jujutsu Tech University: Kyoto—

You freeze, your lips parting from his as you look up at him, his eyes wide as he stops the message from playing back any further — and the words settle over the mood like a sheet pulled over a dead body.

And you’re the first to speak, always asking the questions that will hurt you in the end, “You’re moving to Kyoto?”

✧ a/n: so i'm sorry for that ending hahah, i promise there will be a happy ending later on for these two. thank you to @gaylatteart and @laneysmusings for betaing and just being the best. also if i tagged you please comment / reblog because tagging on tumblr sucks, it takes very long.

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @bash1018, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala, @ashhlsstuff, @blue041803, @mwtsxri, @bblgumfairy, @sukunasleftkneecap, @xo-evangeline, @fiannee, @teatreeoilll, @chalametet, @ryukaver, @d1gitalbathh, @saga3ious, @seventhcinema, @satosugucide, @your-l0nely-star, @sokkasmoon, @deegausserr, @hyookka, @oggsyy, @littlebitb, @higuchislut, @ti-mame, @itoshisins, @cerene-dipity, @onionsoop, @sinlillith, @izzythenaive, @akvrae, @lalacute03, @rxndou, @c-themoon, @xxrag-d0llxx, @hqtoge, @sugarxlumps, @hopeluna, @actualdeemon,

#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru smut #suguru geto fanfiction #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto suguru imagines #geto suguru x you #geto x you #geto fanfiction

8K notes · View notes

lushaletta · 2 months

Text

the lamb and her wolf / tom riddle

pairing: tom riddle x fem!reader

content: muggleborn!reader, tom is goin a lil mad

summary: have you fallen into the dark lord’s trap, or has he fallen into yours?

a/n: i wrote this at 4 in the morning so enjoy this stream of consciousness grumpy x sunshine esque tom riddle fanfiction or something.

⋆ ࣪. ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

Tom is in a frenzy of sorts, he’s concluded.

Perhaps it is the sleepless nights and stressful days that cloud his weeks that are causing the weird feeling in his chest. Insomnia-induced hysteria.

There’s a flurry of thoughts swirling around his head recently. All with a common theme; you. The space in his brain that he typically reserved for Ancient Runes or Arithmancy was now composed of you, you, and only you.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

He’s unfocused. And he can’t be, because he’s supposed to be working on the secret that Salazar Slytherin hid in the deep crevices of Hogwarts some years ago.

His fingers tap on the book that he can’t seem to pay attention to as he tries to make sense of this. The disgusting, awful, pleasant fondness he feels for you. For a Muggleborn girl no less.

The only solution to his problem is to kill you. It wouldn’t be hard, he thinks. You’re small and meek and all too trusting of him. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

You are a symbol of everything he despises. Joy. Innocence. You are of the same kind as his worthless father. So why is it that he can’t bring himself to end you? To end your time together? He’s done it before. He’s done it plenty of times and without a second thought.

“Tom!” your horrible, beautiful voice cheers, snapping him out of his thoughts. Oh, great, he thinks. You plague his mind and now you bedevil his reality.

“Hello,” he says after a beat.

You ignore his bothered expression and smile. “I’ve brought snacks! You do like mince pie, don’t you?” He nods weakly. “Good, because my mam’s had some sent. She’s trying out a new recipe. Secret ingredient or something like that. I’m sure you haven’t eaten yet, with your inane study habits, I mean, do you ever have breaks?” You ramble on and he listens with fascination. How could you be talking to him so casually? So endearingly?

You’re far from done. “It doesn’t matter, though. You’ll have a break now. Go on, put your book away, would you?” He does as told. He’s not sure why. You take a seat at his table, fumbling with the paper bag you’ve brought. “Aha! Mince pie! One for each of us. Tell me if you like it, I’ll have Mam send some more. She’d be delighted.”

It’s at this point, where he’s chewing on warm minced pie and watching you do the same, nodding contentedly, that he wonders which life decisions he’d made led up to this. He’s the Dark Lord. A name that the world will soon fear. If all goes to plan, you’ll be reading in terror of all the vile things he’s done in the paper. You’ll be afraid of him, and he can’t help dread it. He dreads the thought of your heartbroken eyes as you realise what a wicked person you’d extended your kindness to.

It’s the frenzy again. What is he even thinking? He dreaded nothing. He looked at his plans with excitement.

“Tom? Hellooo,” you say, singsongingly. He didn’t even realise you’d been speaking. He glances up at you and imagines what you’d think of him once the truth comes out.

“Yes?”

“What do you think? About the pie, I mean.”

He clears his throat, fingers gripping the armrest of his seat. “Good. It’s good.” That draws another pretty smile out of you and he really hates the way it made him feel. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! Also, Tommy,” He quirks his brow. The nickname was a slip of the tongue. You’d never used it and it made you nervous, but he didn’t seem to mind so much. “Are you busy later? I need some help with Transfiguration.”

He’s always busy. Well, he should be. He’s been slacking recently, too preoccupied with your freshly baked desserts and strawberry-smelling hair.

“I could make time for that,” he says decidedly.

Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

You’re immediately on your feet, giddy like how he’d imagine a child to be upon receiving candy. “Thank you! Oh, you’re a lifesaver, truly!” you say, and suddenly a kiss is planted on his cheek.

A full stop. His world pauses and spins on its axis. Your lips felt good. Bad.

What an evil, evil wolf he was.

#🎞 by.ivy #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #hp imagine #tom riddle #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom marvolo riddle

545 notes · View notes

acourtofmenandthirst · 7 months

Text

Love You In The Dark

Azriel x Reader, based on Love You In The Dark by Adele :/

Warnings: angst, swearing

Word Count: 2.4K

“Don’t look at me like that.” Your voice was no louder than a whisper, but he didn’t miss how your words came out trembling, or how your dry throat constricted as you spoke.

He shook his head. You had always known he was a male of few words but you didn’t know that he, in that moment, didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew his words would come out broken, shattered on a muffled scream. He had to blink away the tears just to watch you stuff clothes into your bag.

You were ashamed, truly, that it had come to this. That the only solution you could find was to pack your bag and go. No matter how many nights you lay awake, convincing yourself that you were the crazy one, making up stories and rumors, you’d come to the same conclusion.

Leave before he does.

But what you couldn’t do was go without a goodbye. You knew it would be easier to hastily grab your most valued items and disappear into the high mountains of the Night Court without any words exchanged between the two of you.

But you couldn’t.

And he couldn’t stop watching.

Azriel grabbed for you - he reached out those scarred hands, the ones you loved so much - encircled your wrists and tugged you closer to him. But you stood firm, squeezing your eyes shut and shook his hands off of you. And that hurt him, you knew it, shrinking away from his touch like it burned you. He knew the feeling all too well.

You didn’t mean to, after all. You were being cruel to be kind.

It was hard to navigate the small cottage that had become your shared home. His clothing had taken over your wardrobe - you’d fumbled through piles of neatly folded sweaters and shirts that had belonged to him, that smelled so strongly of night and rain, in search of your own items to stuff in your bag.

In the past few years you and Azriel had been dating, he’d moved into your little cottage. It turned into his reprieve, after spending most of his adult life moving around, he’d never had a place to call home. The winged male spent his time flitting between the House of Wind and the townhouse, the Riverside estate and the cold Illyrian war camps. Once he’d spent a few nights with you, it quickly turned into your shared home.

He still spent time away from you, when his High Lord had ordered him as chaperone for their brother and the moody Fae female, but those nights were some of the longest you’d felt. It was no longer just your bed, it was too roomy and far too cold without him. The kitchen no longer smelled of tea first thing in the morning, and everything felt too spacious when there wasn’t a pair of leathery wings taking up all the space.

The male trailed you everywhere you went. He followed you step-for-step as you turned all around the bedroom in search of your clothes, so often strewn about the tiny area; his broad shoulders filled the doorframe as you swiftly grabbed your soap and salves from the bathroom. You knew he could do more to stop you - he was so much stronger than this. He could grab you in those big arms, hold on to you and never let you go. He could cocoon you in those dark wings and wrap the both of you in warmth - safety - like he used to do in the beginning.

But he didn’t.

And that’s why you continued.

He still wouldn’t leave you alone after what you told him. Once you said you were leaving, he hadn’t left your side. He tried to talk you out of it, to promise things would change, that it would get better - he hadn’t known you’d been thinking about this for the past few months. How you were left with no other choice.

It would hurt the male now - the normally stoich, proud Illyrian whose poker face never faltered. You told him late at night, when you were hoping the darkness would conceal the way his lips parted in surprise, the way his brows furrowed in confusion. But those hazel eyes glinted in the moonlight, and you could have sworn you’d never seen them so shiny. You spent the next few seconds - that moved like centuries - convincing yourself that those weren’t tears brimming in his eyes. His arms moved to constrict around you, to reach for you in the bed that you felt go cold many moons ago. You were too quick, already reaching for your bag and shoveling things inside.

You’d bitten your tongue long enough about it, the two new females that had entered your boyfriend’s life. Not only his, of course, but his family’s - and everyone seemed dead set on playing matchmaker. Not in front of you, for that matter, but you heard them talk behind your back about how perfect these other females were for him.

Gwyn, an angel seemingly sent from the Mother above, who so often trained with him, would be the perfect match - body, mind, and soul.

There was an unspoken bond between them already, one that nobody else on the land was privy to knowing besides them. It was something forgotten long ago, but something you saw renewed in those golden blue eyes each time Gwyn looked at Azriel. She gazed at him with admiration, both his fighting style and his calming presence.

If they weren’t discussing training lessons for the day, it was the jokes poking fun at his brother - how he absolutely drooled watching anything Nesta did - or about the newest book she was reading. Azriel, who had seemingly read every book in existence, nodded along, even adding his own commentary on the novel.

He had built up quite the collection between the books he brought into your shared home, a mix between his old worn favorites and the stacks you had lining the walls and tables. But you soon noticed the fantasy and romance books he held on his lap before bed, the pages were worn and well loved, even the paper smelled different. What was sharing books between friends? There was nothing to it - but you couldn’t help but feel the tinge of jealousy turn your chest red.

Then there was Elain, the third Archeron sister, the perfect opposite to Azriel.

You often heard the High Lady whisper to her mate and newfound family: “Three brothers and three sisters - how perfect is that.” Something Azriel just shook his head about - but never outright refusing. You just listened quietly as if you’d never heard anything at all. You pretended not to see the way he gazed at her - the Seer - or the way his fingers brushed hers when she handed over a plate or pastry.

It was those fingers you knew he didn’t like people to see. The hands that you’d spent years trying to get him to touch you with, to not care what they looked like or how rough they felt. They grazed along her pale skin, so smooth and flawless, in the same soft manner he’d touch you - your thighs, your stomach. And as his eyes held her round ones, you wondered if he imagined the way her body felt, the supple curve of her breast or her straight spine. Azriel had an appreciation for the arts, why would he not be with the most beautiful of the sisters?

She always baked for him. She baked for everyone, really, but always insisted he - it was always him - try her treats. Azriel never complained when it came to food, but he never was one for gushing over how sweet the rolls were or how delicious the jam was. But her insistence with feeding him - such an intimate act in Pyrthian, to any Fae, really - didn’t sit right with you.

You hadn’t felt further from him. It seemed that everything was changing. You were, too. Even though you spent nearly every night together, you felt defeated, unable to compare to the new excitement he must have felt with these two females, both fawning over him. His family only encouraged it, too. Even when you spent those nights together, wrapped tightly in his arms, you felt the space between you grow.

Azriel had given you the world - you never thought that you’d have to spend another day of your life without him. But you couldn’t shake that feeling from you. The feeling that he thought about those other females, that he’d wonder what it would be like to be with them, to spend time with them. Those rare times when you’d join them for parties or intimate dinners, you saw their eyes linger on him, on you. And those hazel eyes next to you often fell to one of the two.

You’d never dared to ask him about them.

You knew leaving wasn’t fair. You didn’t bring any of it up until the day you decided to go. He’d only brushed it off, expressing that he wasn’t actually interested in either of them, but rather in the conversation. There were nights he’d stay late at the River House, where you knew all of them resided together as a family. They’d stay up late drinking and laughing, sharing intimate stories and overly friendly touches.

Once he returned home, he offered you a kiss and then crawled into bed next to you, not pulling you into him or laying half-sprawled over your chest like he normally would. You swore you smelled roses on him that night.

You knew he’d never touched either of them. He wouldn’t disgrace you like that. But his family so often brought it up. Possibly being mates with someone they already had known and loved - let it be the Archeron sister or the favored Valkyrie - they all had much more in common anyway, and it would be far preferable than him spending eternity with an outsider such as yourself.

But that wouldn’t stop him from wondering.

You couldn’t carry on like everything was fine.

So you packed your bags, offering Azriel his fair chance at finding who he might think is his mate. Either one of them would be lovely to him - you knew both the females would offer him the world on a silver platter.

The hardest part would be choosing which one.

“Please don’t go, (Y/N),” he whispered, tilting his head down closer to you. He’d followed you from the bathing room back to your bed, and one of his hands fell to your hip.

“Stop asking me to stay,” you replied, ignoring his touch and continuing with your packing - you were almost done.

He swallowed the lump in his throat - you saw it. His eyes flitted between the two of yours, dragging down to your lips. “And stop looking at me like that,” you added, breathlessly. So you had to break the trance, blinking away any tears that threatened to pool in your eyes.

Azriel almost laughed. The breath came out jagged, loose from his lips, but he could barely stifle the exasperation. “There will never be a day when I don’t look at you like this, (Y/N).” His voice was low but unwavering.

“It’s not you, Azriel,” you huff, resisting the urge to throw everything in your arms to the ground. “It’s not the way you look at me or how you don’t - it’s how you look at them.” His brows knitted in confusion. “The way you treat them is the same way you treat me and - ” you huffed a sigh. “I can’t do it anymore.”

He did lose it - he grabbed your arms - palms hot, burning with emotion. “They aren’t you, (Y/N).”

You stared up at him, anger washing over your sadness. “But you treat them like they are!” Everything fell from your hands as you shook out of his grasp. Taken aback, Azriel straightened and watched you closely. “Do you know how long it took for us to get here? For you to even talk to me? Touch me?” You stifled the urge to pull at your hair. “I feel so defeated - watching you joke and laugh with them. You and I are so far apart now - you’re a whole new person!”

He shook his head, black hair shifting slightly with the motion. “I’m not - we should talk about this. You can’t bottle everything up and then just leave.”

“I’m not just leaving, though, Azriel.” His heart thudded at how you said his name - how you spat it like it burned our tongue. “I’ve been in the dark for so long - you never bring me around your family - because you know they don’t like me.” You cut him off before he could interject. “They keep trying to set you up with Elain or Gwyn! I know what they say behind my back, Azriel, you aren’t the only one who knows the secrets of that River House.”

Azriel’s chest heaved with each stabbing breath he forced into his lungs. His hands flexed at his sides as he held himself back - he wanted to grab you, throw you onto the bed, cage you under his body so you had no choice but to hear him out. He wanted to kiss you, to hold you, to tell you that you were so fucking wrong and he would always choose you over them - over his family.

But he couldn’t.

And he didn’t.

So you took a step back and grabbed the leather bag from the bed. Whatever you already had was good enough - you could rebuy whatever else you needed. Besides, it would probably be better to leave anything that would remind you of the male you were leaving behind. Mother above - if that were the case, you’d truly be leaving with nothing at all.

“I meant what I said, Azriel, every word.” He was surprised at your sudden shift in tone, as your voice fell to a whisper. His shadows hissed in his ears, expecting more yelling - hell they were about to start screaming at him, too. “I love you - I don’t regret a gods damned thing.”

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice cracked. Those hazel eyes were glazed over with silver, finally realizing you’d had this prepared. It was premeditated, you’d fallen out of love with him long ago.

“But I want to live, Azriel. Not in anyone’s shadow, and not while every one of your family members tries to arrange marriage for you.”

Azriel had never lied to you. He wouldn’t start now. There was nothing he could do to stop their silly gossip, to stop wishing for their friends to flirt with him - not without breaking the family he’d worked so hard to build. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

“You’ll survive.”

#azriel x you #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #acotar #angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader

977 notes · View notes

starry-bi-sky · 5 months

Note

the idea of the whole school of Casper high judging wes´s flirting skills and then being horrified that they still somehow kinda work is gold!!

also i feel like somewhere in the future someone in the batfam will ask baby dami how he got the "demon" name since hes a clone and hes just going to look the person in the eye and say "my brothers pet stalker gave it to me"

"MY BROTHER'S PET STALKER GAVE IT TO ME" that's now the only way Damian refers to Wes - that and 'Weston'. And just imagine Danny walking into that room in that moment as he says it, and then perking up and going "Oh are we talking about Wes?" and he walks over to ruffle Damian's hair and affectionately goes, "and he's not my pet, Dames." But he doesn't deny the stalker bit.

(And you know if Wes was there he'd be denying it up and down that he's a stalker - he's an investigator. A detective! Quit calling him that!) And the batfam present all exchange slightly concerned looks with one another and someone -- lets go Dick or Tim or Bruce, goes "Stalker?"

Danny just waves it off with a huff and goes "it's not that serious, don't worry i've got it handled" before changing the subject to something else. Or talking a little bit more about wes without bringing up that he thinks he's a vigilante (which he is).

and also yesss imagine the first time dany goes to bother wes during the middle of lunch and danny says something mildly tame compared to what he normlly does because wes is with a bunch of friends -- maybe he decides to do the "hey Weston, I heard you spreading rumors about me being Phantom?" thing, and he's wearing this bewildered smile

all of Wes' friends are giving Wes this LOOK like 'way to go genius, you got his attention, now what?' and instead of Wes stammering or backtracking, instead he doubles down on it. All of his friends are looking at him like Velvet from Trolls 3 when Veneer revealed that they were phonies. Just utter betrayal.

just. just this face. the entire table is making that face at Wes as he (to them) fumbles the bag so badly that he may as well have tossed it into a gutter. They all watch as Fenton is weirded out by Wes, and the two of them have this back-and-forth with Fenton poking holes at Wes about him being Phantom and Wes just keeps saying he is Phantom, and he should stop denying it.

When Fenton finally leaves, Wes' best friend turns and thwacks him hard in the shoulder and hisses at him what the hell did he just do? He didn't just miss the basket, he missed the entire damn court entirely! he threw the ball into the stands!

And Wes hisses back at him that he has no idea what he's talking about. Wes' friend calls him an idiot. A big dumb idiot. And then Fenton goes and bothers him in the hallway a few days later. And everyone else?? Flabbergasted.

And then it keeps. happening. Fenton keeps?? approaching Wes? And he sometimes he seems vaguely delighted by their conversations, like Wes is saying some of the funniest things in the world? -- and okay, maybe it is funny that he keeps getting accused of being a vigilante, its funny in a weird way. And Wes looks completely annoyed by his existence -- and you know what somehow this tracks because Fenton was dating Valerie for a time and she was completely annoyed by him when they first met. Maybe Fenton has a type???

Either way, nobody knows how to wrap their head around how Wes's cringefail "flirting" techniques are working. By all means, Fenton should be hating this guy because he keeps accusing him of being his parents' worst enemy (self-proclaimed by the Fenton parents), but instead he just appears bewildered but mildly entertained by Wes' antics.

#dpxdc #dpxdc crossover #dp x dc #clone^2 #danny fenton is not the ghost king #sO ngl i had this finished and written like. the day it got sent in i just didn't post it because i had nothing to say in the tAGS #and i have my best thoughts in the tags /j

646 notes · View notes

sinsandsweetness · 8 months

Text

thinking about living across the hall from Frank…

-> always running into him at the most random times. in the elevator or the lovey super late at night or bright and early in the morning. When he’s on his way to a job and you’re coming back from work. Or you’re on your way to study at the library and he’s got his keys and a bag of groceries in his hands. Always giving you a little nod of acknowledgment but neither of you ever have the courage to speak. To actually say hi.

-> until one day where you get locked out of your apartment. You lost your keys or something. And with your luck, your roommate works the night shift at the hospital. You’ve got no way in until morning.

-> So you find yourself stuck. An hour goes by and you’re sitting on the dirty carpet hallway floor. Leaned up against the wall. Eyes fluttering closed because hell it’s been a long day. Frank, on his way home from work, makes his ways down the hall. Concerned at first by the sight of your body laying in the hall. But he gets to his door and it’s just you, half asleep. You give him a soft smile and he finally asks you for your name. You explain your situation and he nods in understanding.

“Well don’t just sit there. C’mon.” He’d wave you into his place, lunchbox in hand. Dirty from a day of construction. In desperate need of a shower and some food.

-> you’re reluctant to come in. Not because of Frank. Or at least not because you didn’t like him. More so… the opposite. You found him intimidating. Handsome. Rugged. You always enjoyed running into him. Smiling at him in the elevator. Trying not to blush too hard. But there’s just this aura about him that makes you a little nervous. Butterflies or something.

-> he’d tell you to make yourself at home while you wait to get ahold of your roommate. Or come up with a plan to get your keys. To call the landlord. Though you doubt they’d answer at this hour.

-> he asks if you’re alright if he showers, “I’ll be quick. You can help yourself to the fridge.” He even grabs you a beer and places it on the table in front of you. Cracking one for himself as he heads for the washroom.

-> it feels weird. Being in a strangers home. It’s empty. Sad almost. Grey walls. Nothing… personal. Nothing that tells you anything about the man. It’s clean. As clean as any of the suites in you cheap ass apartment can possibly get. But it’s bland. It’s a bachelor suite. He’s got nothing more than the necessities. The basics. You can’t help but think about Frank. In this apartment. Every night by himself. He must be lonely.

-> you saunter over to the fridge. Not particularly hungry, but feeling slightly awkward just sitting at his table and doing nothing. There’s enough to make a weeks worth of sandwiches. And a more than a few weeks worth of beer. You take a swig of your bottle.

-> when the water shuts off, you get back to your spot at the table. Checking your phone. The messages with your roommate. He’s probably busy. Drawing blood. Stitching people up. Doing whatever it is he does as a surgical intern.

-> “you get ahold of him?” Franks voice brings you back.

“Oh, no. He’s- he’s probably busy. Works at the hospital so… um… thanks for inviting me in, but uh, I can just wait out there.” You sling your bag over your shoulder, getting up to leave.

“Wait out there? All night?” He asks. Your gaze goes down to his shirt. A little damp where beads of water are running down his neck. Off his beard. You look back up. He’s got such pretty eyes, you notice.

“Yeah, i’ll be alright.” You give him a tight lipped smile. But he’s not having it.

He shakes his head, “here,” he grabs a blanket from the supply closet. And a pillow. A pillowcase. He fumbles with the makeshift bedding for a moment until he makes the couch up. It does look nicer than the stained hallway carpet.

“You can’t stay out there. There’s some real… weirdos in this area. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you.” His concern makes your stomach flutter. Even if it’s just human decency. Courtesy of not wanting you to get mugged or murdered.

“You really don’t have to-“ you try to deny the offer but he grabs your bag. Gently pulling it off your shoulders and placing it against the wall.

“It’s just for the night. I don’t mind. Seriously.” His eyes are serious. Brows furrowed in concern.

-> the couch is cozier than you expected. Worn and used in the most perfect way. It takes you no time to fall asleep. Frank on the other hand, is having some serious insomnia. There’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, right outside his bedroom. Sleeping on his couch. Probably making his blanket smell like her vanilla perfume. It’s making his brain all fuzzy. He can’t think. Well, he can’t not think. You’re wearing one of his tee shirts. He offered it up. No, he insisted. And when saying goodnight from his bedroom doorway, he couldn’t help but notice that your pants were folded up on top of your bag, and your bare legs gleamed in the dim light of the living room, as you fluffed up your pillow.

-> the two of you had some very interesting dreams that night.

-> Waking up to the smell of coffee, you’re blushing hard when he hands you a mug. He tells you he has to leave for work. Lunchbox in hand, jacket on.

-> He didn’t ask for his shirt back.

-> you wave Frank goodbye as you watch him head down the hallway, and at the same time, you see your roommate come out of the elevator at the end. Both of them exchange a nod and a glance. Your roommate jogs up to let you both into your place.

“You coulda came to the hospital. Coulda grabbed my keys,” he says plopping himself down on the couch. Rubbing his eyes. Long night for him as well.

“I didn’t even think about it. He just- Frank invited me in and I was so tired… I mean, it seemed like a better option than sleeping in the hall…”

“Well it was real nice of him. Maybe you should make him a dish or somethin’. Lasagna? Y’know, to say thank you.”

“You just want some lasagna don’t you?” You smirk, rolling your eyes.

Your roommate smiles back. A low chuckle escapes his throat. “The man let you sleep on his couch. You better be sayin’ thank you somehow.”

continued here

(Idk what this is tbh but um… let me know what we think??)

#officially writing for Frank now my loveys <3 #Frank castle x reader #frank x reader #Frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle imagine #frank daydream #frank castle

717 notes · View notes

theywhowriteandknowthings · 3 months

Text

I Hate How Much I Want You | Frankie Morales x Reader | Enemies to Lovers Part 2

This blog is a 18+ space, Minors, do not engage. If you are under the age of 18 you are not welcome here. Your reading and consumption of my work is your responsibility but I will endeavour to mitigate any discomfort for you, the reader, as possible. Once again, this is a 18+ space and minors should not interact.

Specific warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Food mention, weed and cigarettes mention/smoking, Frankie grovels, heavy petting, oral (F receiving), unprotected PiV (reader is on BC and trust around STI’s implied), Softdom!Reader, Switch Frankie, Use of “zorra(slut)” and general filthy mouth from Frankie, Florida Humidity.

Let me know if I missed anything!

[AO3 Link]

Thank you @angelofsmalldeath-codeine for beta-ing this real quick. Thank you for the encouragement from @merz-8 @noxturnalpascal @covetyou @strang3lov3 @beefrobeefcal @medellintangerine and @speckledemerald for all your horny support <;3

Word count: 6k

Frankie Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 3

You did it, you texted him back embarrassingly quickly. Slick fingers fumbling with your phone to pause your porn as his message came through. You had been seconds away from coming. You can’t believe he still wants to help after you ejected him so forcefully him from your home. You send him a text, just about managing with one hand as you continue to toy with your clit. Francisco Morales is not about to cock block your hard-earned orgasm.

You: Fine, I’m free all day.

You’re about to swipe back to your porn when you see him starting to type away immediately. You bite your lip, your spine tingles as you slowly build yourself back up to your peak.

Frankie: I’ll pick up the parts and some lunch, see you at 12.

You don’t respond, nor do you resume the video. Instead, you opt to think about Frankie as you increase the pressure on your clit. The way his muscles flexed under the dark tank top he wore, his salt and pepper waves that curl slightly at the ends. You imagine what it’d be like to have him pressed against your back, bending you over the counter as he fucked you from behind. You ache to feel his scruff scrape along your jaw as he whispers filth in your ear.

You’re coming hard in seconds, Frankie’s name on your lips as you feel your slick drip down the curve of your ass. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you tilt your head back, stretching out in post-orgasmic bliss. You eventually get up, making sure to pee and clean up before settling back down under your sheets.

You’ve never been so excited to see Frankie before, in fact, you often dread it.

It seems that there really is a first time for everything.

~*~

Frankie sits in his truck, parked down the street from your house. The clock on his dash reads 11:47.

He’s early.

Just like you, he’s way too excited to be back here. His fingertips itch as he tries to decide if he should just bite the bullet and leave his truck now. It wouldn’t be seen as over-eager, surely? He’s just making good on a promise to a friend.

Except you’re not his friend, he has made that pretty clear over the last few months. Anxiety churns in his stomach as he wishes he’d brought something to smoke with him. Even a cigarette would suffice. Instead, he’s chewing his lip, torn up over you and the way you looked so desperately hurt last night. He removes his ball cap with one hand before running his fingers through his damp waves, the Florida humidity doing a number on his hair.

He looks over to the plastic bag from the DIY store and his spare toolkit. He sighs as he sees not one, not two, but the three different faucets he had picked out for you. He tries to reason it that he’s just giving you options because it’s the nice thing to do. Really, he just wanted to please you, make amends for his shitty behaviour. Then he looks at the takeout bag in his lap and his stomach growls.

“Fuck it.”

He sighs to himself as he replaces his hat before grabbing the bag of faucets and his toolkit as he heads out of the cab.

He ignores the clock on the dash that reminds him it’s only 11:50.

~*~

The knock at your door startles you, before you grumble internally once again over the fact Frankie is spurning your perfectly good doorbell. But your annoyance is quickly muted by the smugness that comes with a sudden realisation.

He’s early.

You almost dance on the spot with morbid amusement at the fact that Frankie is already here. You don’t bother lingering this time, practically sprinting to the door to gloat. You pull the door open in one smooth motion and your witty remark dies on your lips.

It’s unfair how good he looks. There’s you, in your jean shorts and tank top, suffering from the extreme humidity. Your skin is sticky, your brow is beading with sweat, and you shift uncomfortably as you feel the wet heat pool in your core.

Then, there’s Frankie, a light sheen to his skin as his toolkit hangs off his shoulder, his hair sticks to his forehead and neck. His thick thighs fill his cargo shorts as his belly swells a little over his white tank top. No over-shirt today so you have an unhindered, front row seat to the way his tan skin flexes over his strong arms. Not to mention his neck, thick and freckled. Fuck, you need to stop staring.

His face is flushed, cheeks rosy as he looks you over. There’s a darkness to his gaze that makes you shiver. Clearly neither of you are being subtle.

“So, the sink?” You squeak, your voice embarrassingly high-pitched as you turn away, your heart is hammering in your chest as you try and calm down.

“Sure, I got you a few different options to choose from,” Frankie explains as he trails behind you.

You can feel him, the heat rolling off him is palpable as he shadows your every move.

“You could have just gotten me the one, I’m not fussy,” you say without thinking as you lean against the counter next to the sink, you look up to see Frankie looking a little crest-fallen and you course correct, “But thank you, that was kind.”

“My pleasure,” Frankie says as he sets down the various bags on the kitchen table, “Don’t have to stick around, I promise not to fuck it up.”

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” you say with a shrug as you notice the takeout bag, it’s from your favourite burger place.

He remembered?

Frankie says nothing more as he resumes his place on the floor from last night. He gets to work, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrates. His hat rests next to him on the floor. It’s almost domestic, him fixing your sink as you watch.

You feel a twinge of remorse in your chest as you see the way he can’t keep your gaze. His eyes flit to you every few minutes, as if he can feel you staring. You head to the fridge and grab a pitcher of iced tea, grabbing two glasses from the cabinets. You set down one of the glasses next to Frankie’s cap on the floor.

“I’m real sorry about things went yesterday-,” Frankie starts just as you pipe up.

“About last night-,” you say but you both freeze, eyes locking across the small kitchen, and you can’t help but mirror the smirk that spreads across Frankie’s plush lips.

“Go on, you first,” you insist as you take a deliberate sip of your iced tea.

“I just want you to know I am sorry you heard that shit I said to Will and Alyssa,” Frankie says with a sigh as he rocks up onto his feet, “, I was in a real bad place.”

“That’s not a real apology, Morales,” you say with a smile, appreciating his honesty if nothing else, “Go on.”

“Right,” he nods as he rifles through the plastic bag with the faucets, “First up, which one?”

You cross the short distance and admire the three different options. All options are fairly modern looking, but you linger for a while, selfishly getting closer to Frankie as you pretend to contemplate the options seriously. In reality you don’t care, you just want a working sink. You also just want to be in Frankie’s orbit.

“I like this one,” you say softly, your voice a little husky. You place your hand on the plastic packaging lightly, fingertips lingering as you look up into Frankie’s dark eyes.

“Yeah, that was my first choice too,” he says as he picks up the package, his fingertips brush yours and you don’t pull away, letting the callouses on his hands scrape against the back of your hand. You see the way his neck tenses as you fawn up at him.

“Who knew you had good taste?” You tease as you step away.

“Full of surprises, me,” Frankie says with a low chuckle as he clears his throat.

“On that note,” you say with a coy smile as you lean back against the counter, “You were grovelling?”

There’s a brief flash of emotion on Frankie’s face as he picks up his hat, securing it on his head as he grabs his glass of iced tea. His jaw ticks to the side as he takes a long gulp of the sweet drink.

“Right,” he says as he sets the glass down, turning back to the faucet as he disconnects the old one, “I was an ass,” he says with a sigh as his thick fingers make easy work with the tools and various intricacies of the faucet, “I can’t take it back, but I do want to say I’m sorry, for how I made you feel, and for the things I said.”

“I appreciate that, thank you,” you say with a nod, “I didn’t mean to ambush you like that last night either, I’m sorry too, you were doing me a solid.”

“Don’t mention it,” Frankie says with a huff, “I had it coming.”

“Maybe,” you concede with a smile, “But I don’t think I was completely fair, you’ve had your own share of shit to deal with.”

“My addiction, and my recovery, are my burdens. No-one else’s,” Frankie says with a stern look on his face. You hate how the shift in his tone makes you squirm; you know he’s not telling you off, but it doesn’t feel any less authoritative.

“Understood,” you nod as you gesture vaguely with your hand, urging him to continue.

“But I don’t do well with change,” he says as he continues working, looking away from you, “And Santi brought you into the group without so much as a heads up. I got defensive, I fell into an ugly pattern of behaviours. I’m sorry.”

“That’s very big of you, thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he says with a shrug as he stretches with a groan, “Looks like it’s good to go.”

You hover at his elbow as he tests the tap, the water flows freely and stops abruptly when Frankie flicks it off. The sound of running water halts and you’re left with your hip brushing Frankie’s thigh.

“I really appreciate you doing this, Frankie,” you say, nudging his side with your elbow as you look up to see his eyes already locked on you. He’s leaning his one arm on the counter as he towers over you, and you can’t help but clench your thighs.

“Like I said,” he mumbles as he turns his body towards you. His tongue glides across his lower lip and you can’t ignore the charged energy between you now, “Just helping out a friend.”

“It’s not just about the sink, Frankie,” you say as you tentatively brush your fingertips over his hand.

“Oh? What else is this about?” He asks and there’s a light dancing behind his eyes, a smugness that tells you he already knows but he wants you to say it.

“There’s another reason why I’ve been keeping my distance,” you admit softly as you inch closer to him.

“That right?” Frankie breathes, his voice shaky as he threads his fingers through yours. You can’t believe it, the shift in your dynamic is giving you whiplash.

“Despite everything, Morales,” you say as you bring your other hand up to rest on his sternum. The contact sends heat rippling through your body as Frankie hums deep in his chest, “I think you’re a good guy, and really fucking hot.”

“Yeah?” He rumbles, his free hand coming up to trail up your bicep the contact makes you shiver as you try to stifle a whine, “You think I’m hot?”

“I’m not saying it again,” you say with a little bite to your tone, “But I had to keep my distance, I didn’t want to get hurt.”

“I understand,” Frankie says with a subtle nod, his fingertips skimming your collarbone now, your cunt clenches in anticipation, “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Well, you did,” you say as you slide your hand up to cup his jaw, “But you can make it up to me, if you want?”

“Yeah?” Frankie rasps as he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment.

“I want you to tell me what you want, Francisco,” you say softly as your fingertips move to the back of his head, threading through the damp hair there as you tug lightly, “If you want me so bad, I want you to beg.”

Frankie’s jaw falls slack as a strangled groan bubbles forth from the back of his throat. His half-hard cock stirs in his shorts as you close the gap between you both, pressing yourself against him. Your nipples harden as you feel the way his body shudders under your touch.

“I want to fuck you,” Frankie’s voice is a hushed rasp as he ghosts his fingertips along the angle of your jaw, “I want to make you scream,” he continues as the calloused pad of his thumb brushes against your lips, “I want to please you, querida.”

“Yeah?” You purse your lips against Frankie’s thumb, your lips tingling at the promise his touch brings, “You think you deserve to have me, Francisco? Do you think you can make good on your promises?”

“I will, or I’ll die trying,” his other hand tugs on your own, pulling you against him as he flattens his palm against the small of your back, “Let me try, please.”

You slowly open your mouth, tongue teasing against his thumb as you wrap your lips around the thick digit. A soft moan escapes you as you suck slowly, purposefully, as you maintain eye contact with Frankie. His eyes are glassy as he whines, brow furrowed as you release his thumb with a lewd pop.

“Bedroom, now.”

You order as you push back from Frankie, the sudden action jarring enough that you slip his grasp. A determined growl rumbles from behind you as you stride towards the stairs. You don’t bother looking back over your shoulder, you can hear his heavy footsteps gaining on you and there’s a primal thrill to it. You pick up the pace, practically jogging to your open bedroom door as adrenaline and arousal scorch through your veins.

You’re almost over the threshold when you feel the press of his palms on your waist as he pulls you back against him. You don’t have time to proffer a witty remark before Frankie’s mouth is on your throat. The rough scratch of his facial hair along the slope of your shoulder has you squirming as he nudges your head to the side with his strong nose.

“Going to make you feel so good,” Frankie says with a growl before sucking gently against the column of your neck. His one hand trails down your front and you gasp as he cups your sex through your shorts. His thick fingers tease at the denim where it covers your aching cunt; fingertips swirling over your clothed core, and you can’t help the desperate little sounds you make as pleasure rocks through you.

“Frankie, please.”

You yelp as his teeth nip at the shell of your ear and your panties cling to your cunt, you’re dripping for him.

“Call me Francisco, please,” he huffs into your ear as he walks you forward, “Sounds so good when you say my name.”

“Yeah? You like it when I beg you to fuck me, Francisco?” You ask as your knees hit the edge of the bed, but you stop yourself from falling forward just yet. You know that’s what Frankie wants, but you’re not about to give over control just yet. You feel him straining against you, not wanting to manhandle you aggressively it seems, but you can feel the need in the way his cock presses against your ass.

“I do,” he whispers in your ear, “Let me show you how sorry I am, querida.”

“Show me, Francisco, let’s see if you can make me scream your name,” you lean back as you speak, pressing your cheek against his.

His lips brush against yours as he angles his head down to you, it’s like being struck by lightning. You gasp as he kisses you, almost tenderly, before you let go completely. You kiss him back, pulling his lower lip between your teeth. You’re rewarded with a sharp intake of breath as his lips part for you. You lick into his mouth teasingly, asking for permission and he slots his mouth over yours in response.

His tongue slides into your mouth, dancing with your own as he tastes you. His groans rumbling through you as he delves deeper past your lips, mapping you out, claiming you. You’re pliable beneath his large hands as you feel him bending you at the hip. The hand cupping your sex increases the pressure. The heel of his palm grinds against your clothed clit as his fingertips knead at where your shorts are beginning to soak through.

“On your front,” Frankie growls as he places a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You do as he says, flopping forward onto the bed as gracefully as you can with his large hand still working at you through your shorts. It’s been a while since you last let someone take relative control in the bedroom. Often, you’re used to dictating the pace, your partners needing gentle encouragement – or sometimes a very firm hand – to ensure you got what you need from sex. But this is different, Frankie is different.

There’s a pause as Frankie removes his hand from your cunt, and you’re about to turn over and ask what the hold up is, when his hot palms spread you out. His fingers digging into the backs of your knees as he opens you up.

“Frankie, what are you-?”

You practically choke on your words as you feel him press his face into the apex of your thighs. He buries himself against the damp crotch of your shorts and inhales as he grinds his nose against your core.

“Fuck,” he hisses as you feel him mouth against your covered cunt, his hands travel up the backs of your thighs as he holds you open for him. You squirm at the depravity of his thick fingers pinning you down, his face pressed hard against such a sensitive spot. Being fully clothed only makes you wetter, like there’s something even more profane about the action while your shorts cling tight to your desperate pussy.

“Frankie please,” you whine, and you can’t stop yourself, you didn’t think you’d be begging so quickly, so easily for someone you were ready to kick to the curb only yesterday.

“What do you want?” Frankie asks as his fingertips slip under the hem of your shorts, trailing over the swell of your ass.

“I want your mouth on my cunt, take my shorts off,” you huff into the sheets as you feel the heat burn over your cheekbones.

“Yes ma’am,” Frankie growls as he places a kiss to your inner thigh before his hands are on your hips, “Turn over for me.”

You carefully rotate your body, mindful not to kick Frankie in the face in your eagerness. You lie back and you clench around nothing at the way Frankie is looking at you. His eyes are glassy and blown out with desire, his face is pink in places where the denim of your shorts has irritated his skin. You lower your gaze to see the painfully obvious bulge in his shorts and you swallow around the lump in your throat.

He’s big.

“So pretty like this,” he says absently as he rakes his eyes over your body. You’re still fully clothed but you’ve never felt so bare in your life.

“Frankie-,” you’re about to beg again when he makes a face at you as he hisses between his teeth.

“Please, call me Francisco, I really like it when you do,” there’s a hint of a challenge in his voice and you nod slowly as you stare him down.

“Please, Francisco,” you say as you bring both hands up to grope your tits over your tank top, “Show me how good you are with that dirty mouth of yours,” you spread your legs wide for him as you speak, and the way Frankie’s nostrils flare makes you squirm.

Frankie settles himself down between your thighs as he throws his cap off to the side. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but you aren’t focusing on the hat anymore. Frankie’s calloused hands trail up from your knees, scraping deliciously against the soft skin of your inner thighs. He dips his fingertips under the denim once more and you feel him shudder as they brush the outline of your lace panties.

“Don’t tell me you wore something nice for me?” He asks as he smirks up at you, his cheek resting on your right thigh as he waits for your response.

“No, Francisco, I wanted to wear lacey panties in the middle of summer in Florida, I like the way wet lace chafes just right.”

You’re taunting him and the way his cheek dimples, you know he’s loving it as much as you are.

“Poor baby,” he hums softly as he brings one hand up to pop the button of your shorts open, “Let me help you out. Let’s get rid of those wet panties, yeah?”

You don’t answer, the condescending tone of his voice makes your head fuzzy. You’re so used to being the one doing all the talking, it’s a blissful role reversal for you. You watch as Frankie slowly pulls on the zipper before you lift your ass for him to tug the oppressively tight fabric down. You keen upwards as you feel the humid air hit your slick panties.

“Fu-uck,” Frankie rasps as he drops your shorts to the side of the bed, his eyes firmly fixed on the slick, glistening lace just inches from his face, “I’d ask if this was all for me,” he says as he lowers his mouth to your lace-covered sex, “But I think we both know it is.”

You don’t have time to make a snide comment, nor do you think you could with how blissed out you are. Frankie’s lips latch onto your clothed clit and you cry out as his hot tongue swirls slow, lazy circles over the already drenched fabric.

“Francisco,” you cry out as he pressures your clit just right, you see stars behind your eyelids. You’re embarrassingly close already.

“So sensitive,” he hums as he teases a finger up and down the thin strip of lace covering your core, “So wet.”

You’re about to beg again when you feel the drag of his rough fingertips slide under the seam of your panties. You arch up, your head falling back against the sheets as you once again feel the warm air hit your slick cunt. You hiss a little as the fabric that clings to you peels away with a sharp pinch.

“S’okay, I got you,” Frankie whispers as he rolls your panties off your feet, you force your eyes open, looking down just as he swipes his tongue through your folds. It’s slow, deliberate, and makes your toes curl as the hot drag culminates with his plush lips kissing your clit. The press of his mouth on your most sensitive spot punches a strangled moan from your chest.

“Fuck yes,” you whimper, “Fuck yes, Francisco.”

He doesn’t answer verbally, instead he teases your clit in soft, barely-there flicks of his tongue as he sucks your sensitive bud into his mouth. The pleasure shoots through you as you writhe under him. He shifts slightly, draping your calves over his broad shoulders as he presses his whole face against your cunt.

“So fucking sweet,” he snarls as you feel him shake his head back and forth, lapping at your clit as he moves.

“Fra-,” you stutter, unable to form his full name, pleasure driving every conscious thought from your mind as you build to your peak.

“Go on, come for me,” he goads you as he holds you down with one of his strong arms. You feel the weight of it pin you down as you try and buck your hips. Your spine tingles with every flick of his tongue, every groan that vibrates through your clit.

“I’m-,” you cry out, loud and throaty as you clench around nothing, your gasping pleas filling the room as you come hard. You whine and scream as Frankie keeps going as your body is rocked with overstimulation.

“So pretty when you come querida,” he says softly as he eases off, peppering your slick folds and clit with gentle, teasing kisses, “Can you give me another?”

“Francisco,” you gasp as you feel two thick fingers tease at your entrance, “Want your dick, please.”

“So eager,” he chuckles softly as he eases the tips of his fingers inside you, teasing little pulses right at your entrance that have you arching your back as you whine in frustrated overstimulation, “Where is the fire from earlier? I thought you were in control querida?”

“Fuck you,” you hiss but there’s no bite in it, you know he’s right. You love that he’s right. It’s the kind of fuck you’ve been wanting for years, the kind where you can just let go, let him take what he needs from you while simultaneously giving you more than you’ve ever dreamed of.

“Like I said,” he smirks up at you as you struggle to keep your eyes open, “Come for me again and I will.”

“Stop teasing me and fuck me with your fingers, Morales,” you snap, wresting for some control of the situation.

“There she is, my little zorra,” Frankie hums in triumph as he eases his thick fingers inside you. You want to ask him what that means but you’re blinded by the way he sinks all the way down to the knuckle in one swift motion.

You moan at the way he doesn’t let you adjust, your slick walls already accommodating them with minimal effort. He curls them up as he drags them slowly in and out of you, pushing and pulling at that sensitive spot that makes your whole body twitch. Every time he hits it, he smirks, gauging your reaction as he works you right back to the blinding peak.

“God! Your pussy feels so good, squeezing my fingers so tight,” Frankie babbles, as if to himself before flicking the blunt tip of his tongue against your clit, “Come for me.”

You clamp down hard on his fingers as his verbal command sends you reeling. Your mouth is dry as you cry out soundlessly. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as he fucks you through your orgasm. The languid pace careful, controlled, as he works you through it.

“There you go,” he says softly, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh as he slowly eases out of you, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

You want to say something, anything, but all you can do is gulp in deep breaths as you try and ground yourself. You stare up at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity before you feel the soothing touch of Frankie’s fingers tracing patterns on your thigh.

“Back in the room?” He asks you with a smirk as he lies there, his cheek pressed against your knee as he simply watches you.

“Yeah,” you nod with earnest, “That was just fucking amazing,” you chuckle, and you’re rewarded with a deep rumble of satisfaction from Frankie’s chest.

“Good,” he says airily as he nuzzles his nose against your sensitive skin, “Want to keep going?”

“Fuck yes,” you huff through your nose as you prop yourself up on your elbows, “Just needed to catch my breath.”

“You got condoms?” Frankie asks and you’re suddenly sobered at the request. You’re so caught up in the moment you didn’t even think about using one.

“I do,” you say but you raise an eyebrow at him, “Do you trust me, Francisco?”

“Yes,” he says with a questioning look on his face as he palms his cock through his shorts, “Why?”

“I’m on the pill,” you say as you retreat backwards up the bed, “C’mere,” you say with a curl of your index finger and Frankie moves without hesitation, still fully clothed as you spread your legs for him.

“You been checked recently, Francisco?” You ask as he kneels between your legs, leaning back on his calves as he looks at you with a wry expression on his lips.

“A few months ago, all clear,” he says cautiously as he runs his one hand through his slick hair, “Why, you want me to take you raw?”

You stifle a groan at the harsh language, you’re regaining control over the dynamic slowly. No way are you breaking stride now.

“No, Francisco,” you purr as you manoeuvre up onto your knees, meeting his gaze as you toy with the hem of his tank top, “I want to ride you raw.”

Frankie’s mouth drops open as you push up the edge of his tank top, forcing it up to his armpits as you lock and suck at the swell of his belly. He pulls it up and over his head as he watches you with wide eyes.

He’s sweaty and musky on your tongue as you follow the light curls of his happy trail. You press your nose against his belly as you unbutton his shorts. You whine at the sight of his grey boxer briefs, and the way the fabric darkens over the head of his cock.

“Look at you,” you coo as you palm his length, “Francisco, you’ve been holding out on me,” you say with a smirk as you look up into his lust-blown eyes. He stammers as you cup his balls through his briefs and press a kiss to the tip of his clothed dick. You know he won’t last long, but you can’t help but tease him a little.

“Strip for me,” you whisper against the side of his shaft as you squeeze his balls gently. He groans softly before you pull away, already stripping your tank top and bra as you watch him do as he’s told. His eyes are glassy, it’s as if a switch has flipped in his brain. The realisation hits you immediately.

Frankie likes this. He likes being told what to do.

He pulls his briefs down in one swift motion, letting his thick cock spring free and slapping wetly against his abdomen as he hurriedly pushes his briefs and shorts past his knees. He resumes his position on the bed, kneeling as he rests on his laurels. You salivate at the sight of him, his foreskin straining against the head of his cock.

“Good boy,” you breathe, stomach churning delightfully as you see the way Frankie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, “Legs out,” you gesture for him to straighten his legs and he obeys almost comically fast.

You crawl forward, hands sliding up over his shoulders. Immediately his hands fall to your hips, steadying you as you hover over his lap. It’s surely far too intimate – fucking like this – especially considering how you were at each other’s throats only yesterday. But there’s something about it all that just feels right. You press your forehead against Frankie’s, closing your eyes as his tip notches at your core.

“Oh fuck,” you hiss as you sink down onto his cock, your slick walls clamp down around the intrusion as you split yourself open with his dick. You whine as you reach the base, you’re so full, so snug around his cock.

“Fu-uck,” Frankie echoes as he curls his arms around you pinning you against him, keeping you so impossibly close. You drop your head to rest in the crook of Frankie’s neck. Your lips latching onto his slick skin as you clench hard around him.

“I’m going to move,” you whisper against Frankie’s neck, “Let me use you, Frankie, want to fuck myself on your cock.”

“Please,” he whispers, as you nip along his jaw, “Use me.”

You whimper as you begin to roll your hips forward, lifting up as you savour every inch of his cock raking through you. You catch yourself just before he slips out of you, lingering for a moment, then pushing yourself back down. You cry out at the abrupt stretch as discomfort cedes to pleasure. Frankie’s grip tightens on your waist as you repeat the action again and again.

Each time more and more pleasure rocks through you as you use Frankie’s cock. You know he’s close, his brow is furrowed, and his breaths come in ragged gasps. You’re griding his cock inside you as you lean down to whisper in his ear.

“Fuck me, Francisco,” you say, “Make me scream.”

He groans at the sudden permission to fuck you, body curling around you as he pitches you backwards. He stays buried deep as you’re pushed down into the pillows, your thighs pressed against your chest as Frankie gets you how he wants you.

“Fuck. I’ve wanted this for so long,” Frankie snarls in your ear as he starts to move, his pace picking up rapidly.

“Me too,” you moan as he nudges your g-spot over and over again. You’re whining at every snap of his hips as pleasure arcs through you. Your fingertips dig into his back muscles as you cling to him. He snaps his hips harder and harder until you can’t hold on any longer.

“Francisco!” you cry out as you come hard around his length, your slick walls clamping down hard as you feel him stutter beneath you. He fucks down into you a few more times before he lets out a tight groan as he empties himself inside you. His hips still, your chests pressed together as you grin at one another.

You lie there for a few moments as you both try and catch your breath. Neither of you can stop smiling as you feel Frankie ease his soft cock out of you.

“We need to clean up and we both need to pee,” you say lazily as you roll onto your side. Frankie flops down next to you, a soft oof escaping his lips as he hits the mattress.

“We do,” he agrees as he brushes the back of his knuckles against your cheekbone, “You, ok?”

“Yeah, I’m good, more than good,” you babble as Frankie smiles at you, cheek dimpling delightfully.

“Good,” he says with a soft nod.

There’s so much hanging in the air between you. More than you can worry about right now.

“Let’s get a shower and replace the burgers you brought,” you say as you force yourself up, heading to the bathroom.

“It’s not my fault they’re inedible now,” Frankie grumbles playfully and you smile at him over your shoulder.

“Whatever,” you stick your tongue out at him as you turn on the shower, “Come on, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Alright, but I’m not the one telling Santi about us,” Frankie growls as he catches up to you, wrapping his arms around you as he nuzzles against the back of your head, “I’ll never live it down.”

“Fine,” you agree with a smirk playing across your lips, “That means you have to tell the Millers.”

The statement hangs heavy in the air before Frankie curses under his breath. He realises too late his mistake and you just smile, leaning back into your former arch-nemesis’ arms, wondering how you got here; and what here even is. But you are sure of one thing.

Now you’ve had a taste of Frankie Morales, you’re never letting him go.

Frankie Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 3

358 notes · View notes

fandomwritingbit · 6 months

Text

Sweet Girl pt.2

dad's friend William Afton x fem/virgin reader

Synop: William catches reader outside her house, he can't help but steal her away to show her something new.

Pt. 1 - here

warnings: creepy pinning lol, corruption, coercion (possibly dubcon I'm not too sure), groping, inappropriate relationship. William teaching reader things, smut (hand things Will and reader receiving).

A/n: tis hardly proofread my apologies for any mistakes.

To say he’s been thinking about you would be to put it lightly. Most days he sees you leaving the house headed for your work as he’s setting off for his own, he smiles at you knowingly, sometimes waving or beckoning you over, laughing when you put your head down and pretend not to notice him. It’s been nearly two weeks since the ‘incident’ in your kitchen and try as he might he just can’t get you alone. Every time he comes over to see your dad you are conveniently not there. It’s endearing to him, addictive even. It’s the chase that’s the best part, not that the catch will be too bad either.

It crosses his mind as he rings the bell that he’s mad at your father for interrupting last time he had sweet little you to himself, but he sets the grudge aside, your dad is his way in and he needs to stay friendly. And so here he is, standing on your front porch with a bottle of whiskey to split with your dad. Fuming that the old fucker was making him wait out in the cold like some little kid on prom night, and he wasn’t even going to get his hands on you.

Eventually your dad answers the door, quickly patting William on the back and letting him in for ‘one glass’, which definitely meant the whole damned bottle. To be fair he needed it after a long week of slaving away at his restaurant, before his sights were set on making you his little toy, the thought of a stiff drink was the only thing that got him through it. Especially when his wife and kids were at home, though that’s not a so much a concern anymore.

The night, and bottle, goes fast, the two men talking and laughing together over highschool shenanigans and pessimistic comments about their respective marriages. But as his whatever-th glass comes up empty, William finds his leg bouncing with the need for a smoke, one of his many vices that has him at its beck and call.

“You alright, fella?” Your dad asks, not sure why his friend has suddenly gone quiet and retreated in his own head.

William’s eyes flick over to him, “Yeah, yeah.” He pauses for a second, thinking about what he wants to do before settling on leaving, “Gonna take myself off home, I’m dying for a fag.” He stands as he speaks, patting his pockets to check for his keys but also the tin of cigs he needs.

“Ah the days of smoking, before the Misses made me quit. Miss ‘em everyday.” Your dad muses, the drink making him very thoughtful about the old days. If you were there you’d no doubt have made an ‘Old days of yore’ comment through that timid smile of yours, fuck he needs to get out of here and have a wank, get his head on straight, it feels like he’s been chasing your skirt for years.

William laughs, “No you don’t, costs me a fortune. Right, I’m going, I’ll see you.”

“Yeah, see you.”

You’re in such a rush to get inside your house after a bad day at work, that you struggle to find your keys nestled deep in your bag. You manage eventually though, pulling them out before completely missing the keyhole and slamming them noisily into the door. You giggle at yourself not sure why opening this door is so hard right now when all you want is to get inside and get that kettle on, some tiredness must be catching up with you. You fumble the keys again and this time they slip from your hands, dropping loudly to the floor, the key you need getting mixed up with the rest.

Your noisiness is what makes William reemerge from the side of his house, God he could do a fucking cartwheel at the sight of you right now, his sweet treat in another little skirt. The way you squirmed under his advance last time replayed in his head, just as delicious now as it was then. He watches you from his front step across the road for a moment before he makes a decision, not entirely with his mind, that yeah, he’s going over there, you’re just too tempting.

He whistles yoohoo at you and you flinch, whipping around to face him, your heart jumping aggressively into your throat. You’d been doing so well at avoiding him, well physically. The mental image was there more often than you’d like. It felt dirty, the way he groped you, the feeling of his cock digging into you, but you can’t stop thinking about it, especially when you’re laid in bed. He’s literally the same age as your dad, a father himself, but he does not have the bearing of a kindly paternal type.

You make the mistake of acknowledging him, “Hey, William.” Heat rushing to your cheeks instantly and the guilty feeling in your core he always elicited arising. He can hear the tremble in your voice, it’s so tiny he could have missed it, but he watches your body language intently and you’re dripping with nerves.

He crosses the road over to you, standing almost menacingly at the bottom of your steps. “Hello, sweetheart.” You immediately get chills at his voice, it’s like he speaks directly to your core because you want to cross your arms and press your legs together to hide from him. He continues, “Been well too long since I’ve seen you, I was starting to think you’re avoiding me.” The grin on his face is knowing and he laughs at the visible guilt on your face.

“Oh so you have been?” He snickers, voice thick with mock hurt. “Now why would that be?” You neglect to answer, he knows exactly why, but you couldn’t answer if you wanted to not through the intense embarrassment you’re fighting through. You look over your shoulder at the front door, a sudden thought of your dad being able to hear this exchange makes you freeze, so you move away from it, stepping quietly down the stairs. Another mistake, judging by the grin that spreads across his face.

“You worried your dad will hear something he shouldn't?” He teases.

“No! No… I just… I should go inside.” You’re babbling, unable to meet his eyes. Yeah, you should go inside, get yourself away from this man and his glaring sexual intentions, but you don’t move. You stay right there and rub the top of your arm lost in the sensation in your lower stomach.

“Oh don’t do that.” His eyes raked over you, taking in the way you’re almost shrinking away from him. So pretty, so fucking delicate, just being near you made his cock throb. “Things were just getting exciting last time,” He shook his head, still grinning, “I wanted to wring your dad’s neck.” You glance at him, the harshness of that sentence making your stomach flip. Last time was exciting, just remembering the shameless way his hands slipped under your skirt has your panties clinging to your heat. No one had ever been that insistent with you, that hooked on you, it’s scary.

You bit your lip instinctively, “It wasn’t- it isn’t a good idea.” You don’t know who you’re trying to convince at this point, you know the right thing to do is to walk away, but you don’t want to.

“I disagree.” He’s chuckling as he steps towards you, the closing distance bringing the scent of whiskey and cigarettes to your attention, along with it a pang in your core.

“You would.” You mutter, so quiet it takes him a moment to decipher the meaning. William laughs, your cheeky comment going straight to his cock, he’s going to teach you something else exciting tonight. He reaches down to take your hand and you let him, goosebumps lining your skin when he starts leading you away from the street, and down the side of your house, out of the bounds of the lamppost light.

“I’ve been thinking about you, about your sweet little pussy.” He enunciates the words separately, the crude language somehow making your cheeks even hotter. He’s still holding your hand as your back touches the side of the house, again all alone with this man who seemed to radiate depravity. His gaze is so intimidating that you look down, now greeted with the bulge of his trousers, you almost gasp which earns a dark snigger from him which only intensifies when you look up at him through your lashes.

He brings his head close to yours, “See what you do to me, huh?” He leaves the question hanging before speaking with an unusual sweetness to his voice, “Touch it, sweetheart. Please.”

Your eyes widen and you swallow, an anxiety making your frame ridgid. “I uh- I don’t-” You start, your voice tiny.

William’s eyes narrow, deja vu flickering in his mind. “You said that last time. You don’t, what?” Suddenly his hand is on your hip, sliding up to arch your back, simply revelling in how you yield to him, a perfect toy.

God, you almost feel faint, all you can smell is him, all you can see is him, all you can feel is him. “...I don’t… know what I’m doing.” You confess, tears springing in the corners of your eyes at the embarrassment, only making him grin more. Oh bless your heart, you’re so cute.

“That’s alright, sweet girl. I’ll show you… just…” He lifts your hand, watching your face for any sign of resistance, as he guides you to touch him, exhaling with pleasure when your hand covers him. The sound makes your stomach flutter, you like being able to do that. So you feel him more, exploring his hardness nervously as you flick your eyes from him to his bulge. The hand on your hip slides down lower, taking a handful of your arse and pulling a small whimper-like noise from your lips. That pretty sound is enough to push him over the edge, he’s pushing you firmly into the wall behind you and taking his hand off your wrist to unbuckle his belt. And that clinking noise is something that's going to haunt your thoughts for ages.

He undoes his fly, pulling his boxers down enough to free himself, his dick pressing into your abdomen. When you again reach for him, you’re a little taken aback, he’s warm under your touch and thick, thick enough that your fingers don’t meet when you wrap them around him. You know enough from talk and the internet to know roughly what you’re doing, but it’s hard to think straight with his domineering presence in front of you. Still you begin to stroke him, gently and a little hesitant as you still haven't found your courage yet, not that you think you ever will.

“Here,” William moves one of your hands away, bringing it up between the two of you. You watch confused, briefly thinking you’ve done something wrong. But you catch on quickly when he spits lewdly into your palm, the lack of warning making you flinch.

“Oh.” You say in some kind of unnecessary acknowledgement, letting him guide you back to stroking him, his spit making the action dirtier, but more substantial judging by the satisfied groan you hear slightly above you.

He’s so lost in not only the feeling but how fucking filthy it looks for his cock to be in your hands that when you mumble something in that sweet, quiet voice of yours it goes completely over his head. “Say that again, lovely.” His voice is so low and thick it causes you to shiver.

You hardly even noticed that you spoke aloud and you struggle to get the words out a second time. “I… uh- you’re big- I think-” He grunts at that, his cock and ego throbbing.

He chuckles, a large hand cupping under your chin, thumb resting against your bottom lip and forcing your gaze on him. “Be careful saying things like that, sweetheart.” He warns, his grip not moving as you continue stroking him, your mouth opening slightly at the weight of his words.

This is so crazy, your body is going wild with all the signals from him, his change in breath motivating you to quicken your clumsy pace. That pressure in your core hasn’t lessened, you rubbing your thighs together to calm it doing the opposite.

“Fuck. That’s it, love. Just like that.” He speaks through his teeth, desperately trying to keep the little control he has of himself. That glazed look in your eyes, the flush of your skin, the way you’re pressing against him is going to make him cum, He brings his head close to your neck, his breath agonising against your skin, before he starts to meet your action, thrusting into your fist in a selfish effort to reach his end. And he does, grunting the word ‘fuck’ into your neck as his cum drips from his head, staining your shirt and trickling down the back of your knuckles. You moan at the sight, you just did that.

He laughs into the crook of your neck, bringing his lips against the sensitive skin there, his stubble making you squirm. You’re still in a state of disbelief when he moves your hands away, righting himself as much as he can, because shit, his load is everywhere. He laughs again, you poor little thing.

“God, you’re such a good girl.” Some pathetic noise escapes you at that, those words doing something to your brain, it makes him smirk, of course you like to hear how good you are. “I see your legs pressed together. Are you wet for me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer and that’s not good enough for him, so he uses his knee to press between your legs and separate them enough for his hand to slide under your skirt and trace the shape of your trembling pussy. You whimper, hands rising instinctively to push against his chest, making more of a mess with his cum. That sound is confirmation for him, “I’d bet anything you are.” It’s teasing and you can’t cope with that right now, you just feel desperate, as desperate as he was a minute ago, you need something that you don’t know how to ask for.

You gasp when he pries under the fabric of your panties, “That okay?” You hardly register the question but nod weakly, for some strange reason you trust him. He hums as his fingers slide under the fabric immediately finding them soaked in your slick, what a sweet thing to get so turned on from wanking him off. William traces your entrance, restraining himself from finding out just how tight you are, there’d be time for that later, gathering your slick as he ghosts up to your clit. His middle finger presses firmly against your nerves, sending a jolt of electricity through you, you’re deaf to your mewls but they’re music to him. All that whining just from rubbing your clit, you’re going to sound so good when you learn what else he can do.

You hadn’t realised how tight that knot in your stomach was until he started a toe-curling pace of stroking your perfect spot. You’re so close to snapping already, wound so tight from all this that you’re gripping tightly into the muscle of his arms, to your credit it almost hurts, but he’d let you hurt him just to see how pretty your panicked frown is. And it is fucking stunning. If you’re not careful you’re going to bite through that puffy bottom lip.

He catches your mouth in a sudden kiss that you can hardly reciprocate because you’re hanging on by a thread to your peak, desperate to reach it but a little scared at the same time. You don’t have much of a choice because when his ministrations quicken you fall apart, pussy clenching around nothing as you go through spasming waves of climax. Mascara now wet and sticking your lashes together with the tears that spring to your eyes. It’s so reality-shattering you’d fall if not from him in front of you.

“We are gonna have a lot of fun, sweetheart.”

pt.3 - here.

#fnaf #william afton #william afton x reader #william afton smut #fnaf smut #william afton x you #fnaf movie #steve raglan #steve raglan x reader #fnaf william afton

525 notes · View notes

somnambulic-thing · 3 months

Text

Long Way Home

Eddie x afab!reader || E, 2k ish

||established relationship, fluff, domestic, smut, intimacy, references to Pet Sematary by Stephen King (talk of burying/resurrecting a body), talk of crawling into somebody/nothing graphic, just nerds in love you know the flavor||

A/N: thank you @bettyfrommars and @allthingsjoeq for keeping me sane(ish) while I overthink shit for way too long. <3

The road ahead seems endless, winding on and on like a river of tar whose rigid monotony makes it feel like you’re hardly moving at all.

Your forehead rests against the cool window while your gaze rests on the Milky Way that peppers the clear night sky with its cool ethereal shine. From the speakers, a calm deep voice tells a story about a zombi cat and other atrocities, giving Eddie’s tired mind something thrilling to focus on while he steers the car through the wee hours of a Monday that will very likely be just as dragging as the long way home from the concert that lies behind you. Behind your eyes, moments of the night keep repeating, filling your chest with that special tingling that’s the euphoria of freshly made memories one never wants to forget. Next to you, something cracks, ripping you out of your thoughts, making you flinch before you turn.

“Fuck, Munson,” you groan. “Was that your neck?”

“Aye,” Eddie chuckles and rubs a knuckle over the bag under his eye while keeping both firmly on the road. You know there are copious amounts of willpower and maybe a little magic at work for him not to slam his foot to the gas to cut the last forty minutes down as much as physics and the engine allow. “M’ afraid I’m slowly decaying here.”

The back of your fingers trace over his cheekbone, his profile a sight to behold even in the dark, even with the night chipping away at him.

“I know a good place to bury you,” you say and his lips twitch as he swiftly glances at you.

“You maybe want to give that a second thought, sweetheart.”

“Ah,” you flick your hand dismissively. “You’ll be as good as new. A little stinky, maybe.”

“Aaaand plenty homicidal,” he laughs and combes a hand through his hair, leaving his bangs a little messy. “You’d do that for me?”

“F’course.”

You twist in your seat and reach into the back, fumbling around in the mess of clothes and snacks until your fingers graze the hard, smooth surface of what you’re looking for while Eddie rewinds the tape.

There’s a hiss as the rim of the bottle cap first bends and then gives way with a pop that synchronizes perfectly with the sharp click the play button makes under his fingertip. You pluck a straw out of an empty Coke bottle and transfer it into the full one and Eddie’s lips are already parted and waiting when you bend over in this well-practiced ritual. Not long and half the liquid is gone. Eddie releases the straw with an ahhh and you nearly choke on a laugh and a sip of your own when a happily belched thanks resounds inside the confined space of the car.

“Shit, keep missing that part,” he huffs and you rewind the tape before he can reach out to do so. “Love you,” he says with a tired smile in his voice and you press play again.

—

The trailer park is quiet. So quiet that the silence feels heavy - almost like a scolding - after Eddie finally turns off the engine; or maybe it’s just the exhaustion pulling on your bones, it’s hard to tell.

Eddie slumps his head against the backrest and groans. A pale sliver of light illuminates the outline of his throat, stretched long and exposed, Adam’s apple moving languidly as he takes a deep deep breath and swallows a yawn.

You decide he deserves a treat, are fairly sure he needs one and so you lean in and trace the tip of your nose to the soft spot below his ear where you place a kiss that makes him shiver and tilt his head to the side; an invitation that never fails to rush your blood up to your cheeks and spread this warmth that he likes to kiss so much.

“More,” he hums, hand patting the air between you in search of your thigh. You lace your fingers together and smile into his skin, taking your time to breathe him in, to fill your head with that rush that is his scent. It’s been a long day and the proof lingers in his hairline, more earthy, laced with smoke and sweat; it’s the smell of adventure and time well spent.

A kiss won’t do. You have to taste him.

Baring teeth, you run the edge along salty skin before you sink them in, stirring a raspy groan that vibrates through his throat. A hand cups the back of your head, fingers twitching when you release him from your jaws, tugging with a sluggish impatience as you lick and kiss the bite to soothe. You comply, follow the quiet plea of heavy arms enveloping you to pull you in close. Knees bump as two rigid, tired bodies twist and shuffle to slot together as much as the interior of the car allows. He buries his face in your shoulder, lets himself sink against you and sighs; a heavy, muffled sound that speaks of the relief of being home.

Now you just have to get inside.

“Now for it! Now for the last gasp!” you quote his favorite Hobbit and wind your fingers into the hair on the back of his neck, your nails raking over his scalp in gentle encouragement.

The warmth of a pressed-out breath seeps through your jumper and travels down your spine. Eddie’s hands follow its trail, fingers flexing on your back to grab two fists full of fabric to hold on to. He turns his head enough to free his mouth from your shoulder.

“If you’re not going to carry me, dear Sam, I’ll need a minute,” he says and presses a kiss to your neck before he hides his face again.

Six hours until both of you have to get up and ready for work but you would give him one full hour if he asked for it.

The exhaustion weighing him down goes deeper than mere tiredness and stiffness of joints, is of that kind that comes after catharsis: two hours of violent drums, screaming guitars and eye-watering bass, of shouting ones heart out in an angry choir of strangers that had been kin for one night, a raging rampart between you and the world, a safe place to come out of hiding and get lost between hot, sweating bodies, to bruise and to be bruised in a collective exorcism that leaves mind and soul raw and sore but oh so light and clear.

It had hit him hard this time.

Your hands wander; fingertips rubbing circles into tense, aching muscles right at the back of his skull where you know a night like hits him hardest. Eddie huffs and sighs as you work your way down his neck until a long deep moan is your sign to pay that spot a little extra attention. It’s nothing short of intoxicating, the way he melts into you, his voice so close to your ear—

…oh fuuuck, right there…

— his hands on a quest of their own, gathering up the fabric on your back until the cool night air amplifies the heat of his palms on your skin. You trace your nose along the side of his face, straining your neck doing so; but not for long. Eddie lifts his head at last, brings your foreheads together, firmly, urgently, and a little groan sneaks in between the puffs of air that tickle on your lower lip; it’s almost a frustrated sound, as if he’s striving to overcome the layers of skin and skull separating him from you. His nails dig in below your shoulder blades, the sting sweet and the scratch even more so when he drags them down the length of your back like he’s using his last strength to claw his way into you.

You tilt your head and kiss him. Slow slow oh so slow is the slide of lips and hands, the teasing of teeth and tongues and soon there is more salt to lap from his hot throat and the hard line of his cock straining inside his pants.

“So,” he breaths heavily into your open mouth, “we gonna rock paper scissors out who’s gonna do the fucking or what?”

It’s more a snort than a laugh that leaves you and then the car is filled with giggles and the rustle of fabric as you peel yourself out of his arms. “Why waste time with three rounds of rock,” you say impatiently wiggling out of your long-car-ride-sweatpants and soaked car-make-out panties, “when we both know you’ll lose with paper anyway.”

“Lies,” he rasps and leans back in his seat. “Slander.”

A soft patch of light reveals hooded black eyes over a waning crescent smile and he palms himself while he watches you undress, hissing at the touch before he hooks his thumbs into both waistbands and shoves with everything he has.

Eddie is still shuffling in his seat when you wrap your hand around him; hot and hard and smooth. He yelps then groans and bites the back of his hand while you slowly slide his foreskin back and your thumb over the tip to spread the wetness waiting for you. “M’ not going to last ten seconds if you p-play with me like that, shiiit,” he grits out between his teeth as his hand wraps around your wrist like a plea for mercy. “Just fuck me, please? Just fuck me.”

His hold on you is desperate; impatient hands pawing and pulling as you climb him with such haste you bump your knee on the door and the steering wheel into your back. Impatient hands turn slow and soft as they move to soothe what's bound to bruise.

“You ok, little monster?”

“Perfect, doc.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, feel it twitch and curl and then part for a sharp breath as you reach down to guide him inside you.

Somewhere in his chest, pleasure and fatigue collide and vacate his lungs as a breathy “F-fuuuck,” that’s the sound of a man saved from certain death. You match it with a moan as you sink further down on him and shudder as he fills this aching, hollow place inside you while his nails leave little crescents on your skin.

“Slow slow slow slow slow…” he chants and drops his head to your shoulder. Softly huffed moans tickle your neck as you take him oh so slowly, pull his hair oh so slightly to make him kiss you oh so messily. He’s pliable, molds himself around your form and clings to you like a thin shirt in a downpour. A familiar heat spreads through your loins and up your belly while the glacial pace starts to burn in your thighs and makes them tremble.

“You close?” he pants, voice strained around the edges.

“Not yet… are you?— aaah—“ impatient hands grab your ass and push you down before he wraps his arms around you to keep you that way - full, oh so full of him it makes you gasp and squirm —

“Yeah,” he says, wet, hot mouth smushed into your cheek. “Need you to come first,” he slides a greedy hand in the tight space between you, “s’ my favorite thing, those little earthquakes inside of you—“

“Oh s-shit—“ you jolt, nerves set ablaze by words and fingers alike.

“Fuckfuckfuck feels like m’ halfway to your soul, just… just fucking grind on me, sweetheart— Christ, yes…”

And so you grind grind grind, keeping him buried oh. so. deep. and with a slight tilt of your hips and Eddie’s thumb on your clit your legs are trembling again.

It’s a desperate tangle of limbs, digging of teeth and nails, his hair in your mouth and your name in his over and over and the soft squeek squeek squeek of the seat that’s sticky against your chins and knees.

It’s not an eruption, when the heat has nowhere to go anymore, but a low, heavy rumble and as soon as the first wave rolls over you, Eddie lets go so you can go under together.

You still tense around his twitching cock when your bodies have ceased the writhing and twitching; the air is filled with dissonant panting and the heavy silence of a night that’s much closer to dawn than to dusk.

Eddie’s lips rest on your pulse, nose smushed against your jaw. No teeth; even the last bite has left him now. His head dips in that tell-tale way and he makes a long, low sound that turns into a yawn.

“Dn’t wanna m’ve…” he mumbles.

“M’neither.”

So you don’t.

Not until his cock is soft and slowly slipping out of you and you’re fuzzy with the promise of deep blue slumber. When your state of undress has been reversed, the mess on the seat smudged somewhere on the back of Eddie’s pants, he leans in for one more kiss.

“Guess y’ can carry me in now.”

general taglist: @bettyfrommars @dr-aculaaa @deathbecomesthem @songforeddiemunson @potthealien2423 @raccoonboywrites @eveybitch @jo-harrington @lunatictardis @skrzydlanka @moonbeamsandmayhem @slutforstabbings @eddieslooneymoonie @chaoticgood-munson @storiesbyrhi @mrsjellymunson @the-unforgivenn

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #Eddie Munson smut #my fic

277 notes · View notes

iamnotoriginalphil · 7 months

Text

Accidents Happen (Larissa Weems x f!Reader)

Synopsis: When you accidentally send the wrong person a text, you didn't expect something so good to come from it.

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: smut, face sitting, alcohol, masturbation, swearing

Sitting in the staff meeting was turning into torture. When you weren’t staring down at the smooth surface of the table you were doing your best not to stare at your boss. Larissa Weems; the woman of your dreams. Sometimes literally.

Her voice was washing over you and the words meant little but the cadence, the pitch, the tone, it was all making you melt. When your eyes darted up towards her, her red lips were pursed and you thought you should tune back in. She wasn’t hiding how perturbed she was.

But the way her blue eyes flashed and her body tensed only made heat flow over your skin.

Your eyes met hers, just for a moment, and you bit down on your bottom lip to keep from moaning audibly. They passed over you and it was like you could breath again. But then you were left staring at her.

Her figure hugging dress had your mouth turning dry. Her hair begged to have your fingers buried in it, messing it up. Her lipstick deserved to be smudged by your lips.

You wanted to taste every inch of her and hear her moan in your ear and make her tremble from your touch.

She dismissed you all, the rest of the staff going their own seperate ways as you fumbled with your phone. Only one person could understand your thoughts and your feelings and would listen to your rambling text message.

She looked so fucking hot today. Seriously. She has a face that was made to sit on. And that voice. It should be illegal to sound that good. I just want to hear her moan my name. Is it bad to say that when she’s angry all I can think about is sinking to my knees and submitting to her? Yeah there’s definitely something wrong with me. But today in the staff meeting she was clearly upset and all I was thinking about was helping her work out that anger. In any way she wanted. Ideally with my body. I didn’t even know what she was upset about. I can’t focus when she looks like that. I need to go have a cold shower.

You ran headlong into a warm body, hand clenching around your phone. You stumbled back, a hand grasping your arm above the elbow to keep you from falling on your ass. You looked up, finding blue eyes sparkling down at you, lips curling up into a smile.

“Sorry,” you muttered, immediately looking away from Larissa, stepping back, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

The phone in her hand dinged. You took another step back from her.

“Great meeting,” you said, “really… informative.”

“I’m glad you thought so,” she said, smiling at you.

“Anyway, I should go… do some work,” you said, “that’s what you pay me for, after all.”

She chuckled. You flushed at the sound, not quite meeting her eye. You shuffled around her, continuing your journey down the hallway. You looked down at the phone clutched in your hand. Text sent. Probably for the best. It would stop you rambling on and on about Larissa and everything you wanted to do with her. You locked the phone, cursing yourself for that fumbled conversation and your inability to think straight around her.

And missed the way she stopped in the hallway, looking down at her phone before shooting an interested look at you over her shoulder.

There was nothing like stressed students to knock Larissa from your mind. It was hard to think all the dirty thoughts you loved to indulge in when teenagers were demanding your attention. Reading half written essays and answering questions about the exam was almost as good as a cold shower.

You locked your classroom at the end of the day, desperate for a long hot bath and a good bottle of wine. The morning felt as if it happened about a million years ago rather than just a few short hours. You didn’t even care about food, happy to make do with the slightly old bag of Doritos and the block of chocolate you’d been trying really hard not to devour in one sitting.

Shutting yourself into your quarters you let out a long breath. A long day and a lot of students and you were ready to indulge in something a lot more interesting than thinking about how the quadratic equation would influence the future of a bunch of teenagers.

You sunk into the warm water of your clawfoot tub, leaning back with a soft sigh, wine bottle dangling from your fingers. Closing your eyes, you brought to mind the staff meeting earlier. Larissa, eyes flashing, lips forming words you couldn’t quite hear, long fingers gesturing as she spoke. You shifted, knees falling apart as the fingertips of your free hand began to trail over your skin.

Cupping one breast, you arched up into your own touch, imagining those painted nails on your skin. You took another swig of your wine, head tipping back. Pinching at your hardening nipple, heat began to gather between your thighs. You slowly rolled it, picturing the look on Larissa’s face if it was her touching you. Those blue eyes watching you as you arched up, lips falling open, her name a whisper on your tongue.

You took your time before you let your hand slip further down. Sliding a finger through your folds, you gathered your wetness on your fingertip before you began to circle your clit. It was so easy to imagine her, hovering above you, those perceptive eyes taking in every single stutter in your breathing. You moaned, finger pressing to your entrance.

A loud knocking rung through your quarters. The bottle of wine in your fingers slipped, barely able to catch it before it smashed against white the bathroom tiles. You sat up so suddenly some of the water sloshed over the side. You waited a moment.

The knock came again.

You sighed, standing from the bath, the throbbing between your legs growing duller but no more insistent. You slung your robe on, checking in the mirror to make sure you weren’t showing anything you shouldn’t to a visitor. Happy everything was covered, the bottle of wine still dangling between fingers, you pulled open your door.

“Oh.”

Larissa was standing on the other side of the door, an odd look in her eye. The smile was gone, and you had to fight against the impulse to step further away from her.

“You weren’t at dinner,” she said, forgoing a proper greeting.

“I wasn’t,” you agreed, “was I meant to be?”

“I was hoping to talk to you,” she said.

“Oh.” You didn’t have an appropriate answer, “about what?”

“About how I have a face that was made to be sat on.”

You froze, ice filling your veins and your blood draining from your face.

“What?” Your voice didn’t sound like your own, like it was coming from miles away.

“Also about how you plan on having me moan your name,” she said.

“I don’t…”

“And given you’ve made me think about this all day, I think it’s more than fair that you let me take this frustration out on you,” she said, “with your body.”

All you could do was stare at her. Her eye flicked down your body then back up to your face. There was a very intense throb between your legs at the look she was giving you.

“Or was this text not meant for my eyes?”

She held up her phone, showing you the long rambling text you thought you’d sent to your friend after the meeting. The ice melted into flames on your cheeks and your eyes widened.

“You weren’t meant to see that,” you said, fingers pressing to your lips.

“Perhaps I should come in,” she suggested, voice softening.

“You really don’t have to. In fact, why don’t you forget about it? Just delete the message and pretend this never happened,” you said, tripping over your words.

“I’d much rather talk about it.”

“Of course you would,” you muttered, holding the door open wider.

She stepped past you, brushing against your arm. You shivered, taking a deep breath before turning into the room. She was looking at one of the framed pictures you had on display, something from your time at college.

“You haven’t changed at all,” she said, flashing a smile over her shoulder at you.

“I’ve changed a bit,” you said, doing your best to keep calm. Even if your shame was plastered all over her phone.

She placed it down, turning with her hands clasped in front of her body. You weren’t sure how to talk about the text. The mix up. The way you’d tear her clothes off immediately if she just asked you to.

“I must say, that text was rather a surprise,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “it was completely unprofessional and I should never have sent it. Even if it wasn’t meant for you. And I totally understand if you need to take disciplinary actions. It’s sexual harassment at the least.”

“Do you want me to take disciplinary action?” she asked, eyebrows drawing together.

“…No?”

“I don’t want to do that either,” she said, face relaxing once again.

“Oh. Well. Good,” you said, not sure what to do with your hands, “and I’m sorry again.”

“It does place me in an odd position,” she said, “after all, when I thought this attraction was one sided I never thought I’d have to have this discussion.”

“What?” Her words weren’t making sense.

“Well, a one sided infatuation between a boss and their employee is only an issue if I try to coerce you into something you don’t want and doesn’t need anything done about it. But now we need to figure out what we’re going to do,” she said, eyes wandering down your body, “because I’ve spent all day picturing you sitting on my face and I’m determined to make that happen.”

You exhaled, a curse passing over your lips. Her eyes darkened.

“So what are we going to do?” she asked, voice turning husky.

“I’m going to sit on your face,” you replied, breathless and yearning for her touch.

“I was hoping you were going to say that.”

Her fingers found yours, plucking the bottle of wine from you, placing it down on your sideboard. She was close enough for you to smell her perfume, clinging to her like you hoped it would cling to you. You tilted your head up, watching her as she let herself gaze at you, lingering where your robe was tied closed.

Her hands cupped your cheeks, skin warm against yours. She hovered, just a moment longer, stretching out your anticipation. The first press of her lips was like heaven. The second was transcendent. The third had you gasping, burning for more.

Her hands trailed down your body as her tongue licked into your mouth. You made a keening noise, your own hands finally finding a place on her body, grasping her hips as if they were your lifeline. She wrapped you in her arms, body pressing to yours, making your head spin. She kissed you deeper, mapping your mouth as your muffled moans filled the room.

Her fingers found the tie of your robe, slowly tugging on it until it came free. She stepped back from you, lipstick smudged and eyes dark. They swept down your body, parting your robe, gently pushing it from your shoulders.

An impulse to cover your body with your arms sprung up, standing there under her wandering gaze. She caught your arms, fingers curling around your wrists as her eyes swept over you.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, “entirely too delectable.”

You felt your cheeks heat as she continued to stare at you.

“Let me taste you, darling.”

You weren’t going to deny that request. She lifted you, so easily, in her arms, encouraging you to wrap your legs around her waist. You kissed her that time, needing to feel more, to taste her yourself. Her hands were on your skin and she was kissing you deeply and all you wanted was to give her anything she asked for.

She lowered you onto your bed, slow and careful, crawling over your body. Her lips trailed down your throat, teeth scraping against skin. You arched up and she chuckled, low in her throat and muffled against your body.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she said, those blue eyes finding yours again, “I’ll take care of you.”

Her lips wrapped around one nipple and it was so much better than your imagination had been able to come up with. The throbbing between your legs, not having quite dimmed since she’d interrupted your night, was becoming more insistent. The way she sucked had you gasping her name, fingers burying in her hair, uncaring of the pins within it. Her tongue flicked over the hard bud.

“Fuck,” you groaned, tightening your hold on her.

Her fingers skimming over your stomach, your muscles tightening beneath her touch. She kissed across your chest, giving the same attention to the other breast as her finger dipped into your heat. It ran through your folds, making your hips buck up, seeking out her touch. She sat back, looking down at you as she did it again, lips curling up in a smile. Your hands had fallen to her thighs, fingers digging in as you held on, her skirt rucked up.

“All this for me?” she asked.

She withdrew her finger, looking down at the wetness gathered on her fingertip. After considering it a moment, she drew it into her mouth. Your mouth fell open, watching her suck on her finger, tasting your arousal, eyes falling shut.

“You taste so good, my darling,” she purred, blinking her eyes open.

She climbed off you, ignoring your small whine. She repositioned herself on the bed, her head resting on your pillow. Crooking a finger at you, she lay back, waiting for you to join her. You straddled her waist, looking down on her.

You lent down, kissing her, hoping to convey exactly how much you wanted her. How much you’d always wanted her. She hummed into your mouth, hands running down your back until they landed on your hips.

“I want to keep tasting you,” she murmured against your lips, tugging on your hips.

You allowed her to guide you up her body but hesitated as you reached her face.

“Please, darling.”

You looked down into her blue eyes, finding them blown wide as she stared up your body.

“I don’t want to smother you,” you said, voice quiet.

“You won’t,” she replied instantly, “and if it feels like you might I’ll tap your leg three times, just like this.”

She tapped your thigh with her fingers. You nodded, slowly lowering yourself onto her face. Her hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling you down more firmly. You settled, hands finding purchase on your headboard.

Her tongue ran through your folds and your head fell back, a moan falling from your lips. She did it again, this time humming as she did so. The vibration wracked through your body, your hips rutting against her. Her fingers dug in, nose nudging against your clit.

“Fuck, Rissa,” you groaned, fingers tightening on the headboard.

You’d already been worked up before she’d interrupted, your own hand doing a good enough job. This was so much better. It paled in comparison. Fire was licking through your veins, and she was feasting on you like you were feeding a starving woman. Your hips were rocking against her as her tongue dove into you, driving you higher and higher.

You were beyond caring if you were too heavy or were suffocating her. She was moaning into your cunt, clit between her lips, tongue running over you. Her name was a prayer on your lips and desperation was your closest companion. She was so good at it. A master of your body.

The coil within you was tightening, the wave threatening to crest over you. But she was taking her time, exploring every inch of you. You looked down, finding her eyes trained on you. She gave a sharp suck to your bundle of nerves, eyes smouldering at your breathless curse. Hazily, you thought maybe she was paying close attention to every single response you had to her.

She loosened her hold on your hips, allowing you to begin to rock against her face again. But by that point she’d turned teasing, slowing down, never quite touching you how you wanted. You groaned her name, looking down at her, trying to seem scolding. Just as you did, her tongue thrust into you, fucking you like you’d been hoping she would.

You moaned, rocking your hips faster as her tongue drove into you. Her fingers were digging into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises and you were beginning to feel light headed. You ground down, almost chanting her name, doing anything you could to chase your pleasure. She moaned again and your orgasm crashed over you. Tensing above her, fingers aching from how tightly you were holding onto the headboard, a soundless scream came from between parted lips.

Her hold on you softened, kitten licks cleaning you up. You shuddered, oversensitive and still twitching. You pried your fingers from the headboard, looking down at her. She was watching you, eyes crinkled from smiling. You lifted yourself from her face, heating from the glistening arousal on her skin.

You fell to the bed beside her, boneless and satisfied. Her arm curled around your waist, pulling you to her body. The other hand came up, wiping at her face, seemingly amused at what she found. Reaching up, you turned her face towards you, kissing her until you could taste yourself on her tongue.

“Well, darling?” she asked.

“Well what?” you asked.

“Was my face made to be sat on?” she asked.

“Definitely,” you hummed, kissing her again.

She was slow to pull back, indulging in the kiss for a long minutes. When she did, you whimpered, trying to kiss her again. She chuckled, ducking past your lips, standing from the bed.

“Where are you going?” you asked, watching her walk towards your bathroom, still fully clothed, hair rumpled and makeup smeared.

“Did I interrupt your bath?” She turned in the doorway to look at you.

“Yeah,” you replied.

“The water’s cold now but we could finish that bottle of wine in a new one,” she suggested.

“Yes.”

You climbed off the bed, rushing over to her on shaking legs. She caught you, looking down at you with such fondness. She tucked your hair behind your ear, bending down to kiss you again. You sighed into her mouth, pressing against her as the chill of the air began to pluck at your skin.

“Bath time,” she muttered against your mouth, pulling back.

“Bath time,” you agreed.

You definitely got to hear her moan your name.

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems imagine #larissa weems #principal weems x reader #principal weems imagine

670 notes · View notes

lovelybrooke · 7 months

Text

Darling, Let us Love You (Yandere Ouran High School Host Club) Chapter 1.

Series Masterlist~~Regular Masterlist

(Just for reference, while in readers pov I'll be using he/him pronouns for haruhi. For haruhi's or other characters pov, I'll be using she/her.)

---

Your hand hovers over a cup filled with paintbrushes as your eyes stay trained on your painting. It was not close to being finished, only the base colors being blocked in, but it was still magnificent. It loomed over you on a wall in front of you, definitely the biggest painting you've ever done. It was intimidating, but in a good way, you were proud of yourself.

It was a nice feeling, you've been struggling a lot lately with adapting to your new school. When you first enrolled into Ouran, you didn't really know what to expect. You've never heard much about the school, but that was to be expected. Even after you started classes, you made the active decision to keep to yourself, constantly afraid of even looking at your classmates. You avoided everyone like the plague, spending most of your time in the safety of the first-year art classroom.

It was only in the classroom when you felt like you could actually be yourself. It was extremely large, and left you daydreaming about what the higher level art classrooms looked like.

The teacher was kind, and sympathized with your plight. He could tell from day one that you were pretty awkward, fumbling in any social interaction you were forced into. He knew first hand how the other students at Ouran thought, and so he allowed you to spend time in his classroom, even when he wasn't there.

Now, you spend all your time here, in the art room, alone. It's not like you mind it that much. You've never really been good at making friends, so you didn't mind spending time by yourself. Though, you couldn't deny the loneliness you felt, especially whenever you came home to your grandparents. They were always so worried about you, spending so much time in your room.

A part of you wanted to be better for them, to put yourself out there for them. But it was hard, and you were so afraid of what other people had to think that you rather lock yourself away from anyone than have someone dislike you.

"Excuse me." There was an unrecognizable voice that caused your hand to shake, knocking over the paintbrushes onto the ground. It turn slowly, offering a nervous smile to the stranger.

The stranger jumps, rushing over to help pick up your brushes. "Oh! I'm so sorry." You wave him off, moving towards the ground to pick up the brushes in embarrassment. The stranger however, laughs, his brown hair falling in front of his eyes a bit.

"Don't worry, I was the one to scare you." He say softly, handing you the paintbrushes which you gingerly take, making sure not to get any pain from your hands on him. You waste no time putting the brushes away in your bag, ignoring the stranger as he stares at you with a raised brow.

"You're (Y/n) (L/n), right?" You nod, slightly confused. The stranger must've been able to tell, because he shakes his head while rubbing the back of his head a bit. "I'm Haruhi Fujioka, I'm the other scholarship student." Oh! That makes more sense now, you were sure they seemed familiar but you couldn't tell from where. You've seen him around school once or twice, but lately you've seen them less and less.

"I'm sorry if I surprised you, I just wanted to see if you actually existed." His statement made you even more embarrassed, if that was even possible. You look away from the boy as you sling your bag over your shoulder. You didn't know what exactly to say in this situation, letting out a dry laugh instead.

Haruhi must've gotten distracted, because instead of saying anything, there was silence. You look back in his direction, noticing him staring at your painting. "Did you paint this?" He asks softly, which you nod quickly at. You feel your grip tighten on the straps of your bag as you watch Haruhi silently judge your painting. Your mind could only image what he was thinking. They probably thought it was terrible, that it was childish and boring.

"It's beautiful." There was only sincerity in his voice. "You're so talented." He whispers to you as you stare at him in awe.

The death grip on your bag lightens "thank you" you say, getting a smile out of boy. The smile quickly leaves though when he notices the bag on your side.

"Are you leaving? Let me walk you out." Haruhi takes you hand, leading you out of the classroom. You swear you can hear your brain short-circuit when he takes your hand in his without a worry.

Once out of the classroom, you remove your hand from Haruhi, mind clearing from your embarrassment. You thank him quickly, bowing slightly as you try to walk away from this awkward situation. "(Y/n)! Wait!" Haruhi hurries after you, stopping you in your tracks.

Haruhi looked nervous, his pale face a slight scarlet as he hold out his phone towards you. "C-can I have your number?" He asks with a small stutter. "I just--you're the only other normal person here..." You understand what he's trying to say, but you're still surprised. Nonetheless, you take his phone and punch in your number, handing it back to him quickly.

A smile graces his face when you hand his phone back. "Thank you!" He says. "If you want--we can hang out tomorrow." The suggestion made your heart soar, and you nod with a giggle, giving him one last wave before walking out of the school and on home.

---

"Kyoya? Did you know there was another scholarship student enrolled here?" Haruhi asks the host, who looks at her through his glasses. He smirks, tilting his head.

"Why, of course." He says with a smile. "It's my job to know about the students enrolled at our wonderful academy."

"Sure." She responds, looking at her phone, your number displayed on her screen. There were no messages from you, which for some reason, sent a pang through her chest. What were you doing right now? Maybe you were busy and that's why you haven't texted her yet, that made the most sense. It's only been a day, but Haruhi couldn't help but really want to talk to you again.

"Aww-Haruhi." Hikaru started. "Do you have a crush~" Kaoru finished. She moves away from the teasing brothers, groaning at the matching smirks on their faces.

"No, they're just the only normal person here, of course I want to get to know them." She responds, taking a seat on a near by couch, which the orange haired twins follow her to. She repeatedly checks her phone, for what exactly, she doesn't know.

The brothers look at each other with a mischievous look, "Do you know if they're in our year or not?" Haruhi nods slowly, putting her phone in her pocket.

"Yeah, but I don't think I have any classes with them." Now that she thinks of it, you're pretty quiet. If you did have classes with you, she wouldn't know.

"You don't have any classes with them." Kyoya mentions from his spot off to the side. Haruhi stares at him in disbelief, while the twins giggle together. She knows Kyoya is noisy, but she wouldn't expect him to know your schedule.

"Well that settles it then." Hikaru spoke, now sitting at Haruhi's side.

"We'll just have to meet them on our own time." Kaoru said at her other side. Both of them were shrugging, but she could clearly recognize the playfulness in them. It made her heart sink into her stomach, causing her to shoot up from them couch in a mixture of disbelief and annoyance.

"No, no, absolutely not!" She says, pointing at the two, who were both pouting at her. "You guys are just sign to scare them away!" She yells, brows furrowed in frustration, which only made the brothers more excited.

"Why are you yelling, Haru-chan?" Haruhi straightens her back, eyes widening at the sight of Honey. The upperclassman entered the room with a yawn, rubbing his eyes from the bright light. He must've just woken up from a nap, thankfully he's in a good moods.

"Sorry Senpai, it's noth--"

"Haruhi has a new friend~" The twins say in tandem, giggling when Honey's demeanor instantly changes, his eyes lighting up as a smile decorates his face. With a laugh, he rushes over to Haruhi, wrapping his arms around her in tight hug.

"Really, Haru-chan!?" Honey looks up at the host, eagerness written all over his face. "Can I meet them, pretty please." Haruhi had to swallow down an annoyed groan, patting Honey on the head while shaking her head lightly. Instantly, Honey's smile was replaced with a deep frown, his lip quivering a bit as a stared at Haruhi with sad eyes.

"B-but Haru-chan..." He lets out a small cry "I wanna meet your friend..." He begged, hugging Mori as he was picked up by him. She sighs, shaking her head as she grips the bridge of her noise in frustration. She just wanted to hang out with you, she didn't expect all this to happen, but that was her mistake. She should've known this was how the host would react.

"Haruhi!" Oh no, not him. For the millionth time today, she felt her heart nearly stop. If anyone had to find out, why did it have to be Tamaki. She knows he'd throw it out of proportion, confronting you directing and making sure you weren't a "threat." She gives the club leader a deadpan look, attempting to calm her beating heart. Tamaki didn't look phased, staring at her accusingly. "You didn't tell me you had friend!"

"Yeah, I didn't." She responds blankly. It's almost like I didn't want to. She kept that in her head. Tamaki looks almost hurt at the girls blank stare, but he preservers, straighten his back and smiling at her.

"You should invite them to the host club, we would love to meet them." He sounded pretty insincere, still prompting the other members to look at her, expecting her to agree. The twins were still smiling, like it was permanently etched onto their faces. Kyoya and More look impassive, which was pretty normal, while Honey was ecstatic, nodding his head along with Tamaki's words.

"I just met them yesterday, I think that's a pretty big leap."

"Well." Kyoya spoke up, pushing up his glasses. "We can take this as an opportunity to make sure they aren't a threat to business." Haruhi titled her head, confused and slightly worried. "What would your dear guest think if you started getting close to a random student?, a commoner nonetheless." Kyoya explained.

Haruhi didn't want to admit it, but he was right. It isn't uncommon for guests to get jealous, though Haruhi didn't have to deal with it as much compared to the others. But that shouldn't be a problem, right? You're just a friend, and she planned on keeping you away from the Host Club, but that was ruined.

Haruhi rolled her eyes, nodding her head stiffly, like it was painful to agree. "Fine." She spat out, crossing her arms. Honey was the most excited, smiling from his spot in Mori's arms, while the twins looked like they were already scheming something up. Haruhi, in contrast, was annoyed, a frown on her face and her posture not befitting a host. She wanted you to be her friend, and she knew that you would be drawn away from her if you met the hosts.

She pulls out her phone, hurriedly typing a message before shoving it back into her pocket with a little bit too much force.

She just wanted this day to be over.

---

Haruhi Fujioka: Could you meet me in music room 3 after club activities are over?

That was the first message you received from Haruhi, which made you slightly confused, to say the least. You didn't keep up much with the school, but it was known fact that music room 3 was the club room for the Host Club.

You didn't know much about the Host Club, and what you didn't know was learned against your own volition. Most rumors regarding the others members, non of which you knew. Since you spend most of your time in the art classroom, you haven't seen them around the school and you're pretty sure you don't have any classes with them.

Wanting to meet after club activities was also confusing. You stayed late after school on days you didn't have work, so you knew most clubs went pretty long. You didn't want to hold Haruhi up, but you also didn't want to make Haruhi uncomfortable by suggesting another time to meet.

Haruhi's your first friend here, you didn't want to mess this up.

(Y/N) (L/N): Yeah sure.

You sent the response a few minutes after Haruhi's first message, but Haruhi's response came quickly.

Haruhi Fujioka: Okay great! See you then.

You closed your phone, putting it away in your bag and grabbed your lunchbox. It was pretty small, but was enough for you. You mostly took food from the bakery you worked at. It sold coffee and backed goods, so whenever you could, you'd ask your boss for anything they could give. Your grandparents were old, and you didn't want to worry about you eating, especially when you already didn't have that much money.

Today's lunch two slices of bread with some jam, some vegetables and fruit, a long with a small piece of candy as a treat. You always chose to eat your lunch in a classroom, since the only time you ate in the lunchroom you were stared at the entire time. To this day you didn't know if it was because of the food or your clothes.

You couldn't even get a bite in before someone burst into the room. You jumped, holding onto your lunchbox for dear life as two matching figures enter into the room unceremoniously. It was strange, even their chaos was synchronized, both falling on the floor together. They both huff a bit before two pairs of eyes meet yours, two matching smiles adorning their faces, causing you to gape a bit, fearful.

"Um--hello?" You whisper, placing your lunchbox back down on the table. The two barely acknowledge you as they stand up, recovering from the debacle quickly. They stare at you, almost menacingly, your heart racing in your chest. It races even faster when they both take seats down across from you.

They both prop their arms on the table, placing their chins down on their hands, smirks on their faces. Somehow they were even more synchronized up close, everything down to their creases in their brows were similar. It was kind of unsettling, making you back away from them a bit, hoping they didn't notice.

"So, you're Haruhi's new friend." The boy on the left declares. It wasn't a question, so you didn't know what to do other than nod slowly.

"Aww--you're kinda quiet aren't ya?" The one of the right laughs, his brother laughing a long with him. You bite the inside of cheek, embarrassed. You didn't like them already, and all you wanted to do was leave. You kept eyeing the door, hoping for a way out.

"I--uh--met him yesterday so I wouldn't really call us friends." You mumble, not looking at the two. Your eyes flickered in between your hands in your lap and the door. Would it be considered rude to start packing your stuff up now?

"I'm Hikaru!" The one on the right said.

"I'm Kaoru!" The one on the left said.

So neither of them can sense your discomfort. That or they're ignoring it.

You wave to them, you movement robotic and stilted. "I'm (Y/n). Why are you here?" You cut straight to the point, all this being too much to handle. The twins don't seem to care about question, both standing up and sitting down next to you so that you're now trapped in between the two.

"We just want to learn more about Haruhi's new friend." Hikaru, who you recognized due his voice said. While they haven't spoke much, his voice was much deeper than his brothers, making it slightly easier to tell them apart.

"What's so wrong with that?" Kaoru completed his brother's sentence. You shake your head, you're not going to finish lunch, aren't you.

"Are you friends with Haruhi." You ask, tilting your head towards Hikaru. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, which tells you it's most likely fake, not so surprising.

"Oh~ you don't know?" Hikaru laughs. "We're in the same club together."

"Do you know anything about the school you attend?" You turn your head to look at Kaoru, annoyed at his statement. Sorry that you didn't know something about the person you just met yesterday. "Haruhi's a part of the Host Club."

Your eyes widen a bit but honesty, you're not that shocked. Haruhi's pretty attractive, even you could admit that. Even though they didn't really seem like someone to join a Host Club, who were you to judge someone you just met.

"Oh." You nod, standing up. You were officially tired, and classes were about to start. You didn't want to be late for class, so you grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder. Turning, you don't miss the slight hint to surprise on both the twins faces. You bow slightly towards them, holding onto your bag as you do so. "Well, either way, if you're friends with Haruhi, I hope we can be friends as well."

You don't stay long enough to get their reactions.

---

The sky was a nice shade of pink as the sun descends on the horizon. You can't spend too much time taking in the scenery though, as your main job is finding your way to music room 3. This school was too big for no reason at all. Honesty, why couldn't you and Haruhi just meet someplace that didn't require you to walk up flights of stairs to get anywhere.

Eventually, after getting lost multiple times, you managed to find your way to the music room. The large doors that kept you out were intricate, like everything else in this school, and only served to make you nervous. You questioned even stepping a foot inside, debating leaving Haruhi and coming up with some elaborate excuse. Maybe this was some prank that Haruhi and the Host Club were all a part of, that's why he wanted to meet you after school where others wouldn't see you. You knew it was far fetched, Haruhi seemed nice, but your mind seemed keen on making you feel as scared as possible.

You exhaled quietly before opening the door, taking small steps in. The room was still decently bright due to the amount of natural light. It was honestly beautiful, the pink sky bringing in warm light that made you just a little less afraid.

"Oh! You must be Haru-chan's friend!" You were stunned out of your peaceful state by what sounded like a child. That couldn't be right though, you assumed until you felt something attach itself to you. Looking down, you were met with the sight of a small boy, a bright smile etched across his face. "I'm Honey! It's so nice to meet you!"

You didn't know what to do in this situation, freezing up in peer surprise. You open your mouth in an attempt to say something, but your brain is unable to come up with anything to say as another person comes up behind who you now know as Honey.

"Mitsukuni, you're scaring them." The tall boy say, detaching Honey from you. Honey gasps dramatically, eyeing you with a sorry look.

"Really?!" He gapes. He seriously couldn't tell? " I'm sorry..." He mumbles, laying his head on the taller boys shoulder. You laugh nervously, rubbing the back of your neck.

"I-It's fine." You murmur. "Have you seen Haruhi? I was supposed to meet him here." Honey's eyes lit up, nodding excitedly like he wasn't just moping a second ago.

"Yeah! He was looking for you!" He looked around the room from a top of his friend. "I don't know where he went though..."

"Hey~" Oh no.

"You came~" It was the brothers again. You felt one of them wrap him arm around you, moving your head to see it was Hikaru, who was smirking you down playfully. "We didn't think you would." You cringe slightly underneath his arm, attempting to back away without causing too much of a scene. It didn't work, because the moment you got free from Hikaru's hold, Kaoru was there to wrap his arm around you.

"Hikaru, Kaoru--oh, you're here." There was yet another person, this time a tall boy with glasses. He looks way too mature to be hanging around these weirdos, but the coy smile makes you sink into the floor. "Hello, I'm Kyoya Ootori, you must be Haruhi's friend." You slowly move out of Karou's hold, his arm dropping to his side.

"Yeah, I guess..." You say, moving closer to him. Honestly you just wanted to get away from the twins, whose gaze wouldn't leave you. Kyoya's smile doesn't leave, like it was his default expression. He doesn't look away from you as he calls for Haruhi.

Haruhi doesn't take long to get to you, appearing from deeper in the room. Honestly, you didn't realize how big the room was until then.

Haruhi looked relieved to see you, his face softening when he meets your eyes. Next to him, was yet another new person, causing your shoulders to sag as you await yet another weird social interaction. "I'm sorry." Haruhi says when he reaches you. "I was busy with club stuff."

You nod, bringing your face closer to Haruhi to whisper in his ear. "That's fine, but why am I here?" You couldn't wrap your head around it. Haruhi looks confused for a second, before taking a quick glance around the room and instantly understanding your plight.

"Sorry." He rubs the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep sigh. "They wanted to meet you." He looks annoyed, glaring at his club members.

You nod, still kinda confused. "Alright well, I'm (Y/n), it's nice to meet you." You say, bowing. Before anyone else could speak up, Haruhi was pushed to the side lightly and you became face to face with the blond host that was with Haruhi.

"What do you have with my Haruhi?!" You step away as he yells at you. His Haruhi?, weird but okay. You gape, searching your brain for an answer.

"Uh--nothing? Haruhi was the one who talked to me first." You finally answered. It wasn't a great answer, but the only one you could come up with. At the response, the blonde became less apprehensive, backing away from you while cupping his chin in thought.

"Senpai, leave them alone, you're acting weird." Haruhi spoke blankly. The boy frowns at the statement, becoming kind of pathetic as you visibly deflates.

The twins, who you almost forgot were here, took place on each side of the host. "Come on boss, you're not that weird." They said together. You don't agree but that doesn't really matter. You watch as the blond host becomes even more depressed, crouching down on the floor dramatically while mumbling to himself.

"Is this how they usually act?" You whisper to Haruhi.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." You shake your head.

"It's fine, just wish you would've warned me, y'know?" Haruhi blushes a bit in embarrassment, nodding a long with your words.

"It's not your fault, (Y/n)." You jumped a the sound of Kyoya's voice, he was standing right next to you. "It's not everyday Haruhi brings someone over, it makes sense that Tamaki would be in shock." So that's his name, Tamaki. You've heard of him around school, mostly from the girls who swooned over him. You never expected him to act this...pathetic.

You don't respond to Kyoya, to busy watching Tamaki get made fun of by the twins. It's honestly kinda funny, and nearly brings a smile to your face. The smile never comes however, as you're interrupted by a notification from your phone.

"Dang it, I'm late for work." You murmur.

Haruhi gasps. "I'm so sorry." He says, clearly embarrassed and a little overwhelmed. "I-I'll talk to you tomorrow."

You nod, not wasting time walking out of the club room. You don't really know what today was, to much happening for you to really process. It made you crave getting to work, just so you could be anywhere but inside that room with those people.

Back in the club room, however, Haruhi was holding back from scolding the others. She knew from the very beginning that they were going to blow this out of proportion, she just hopes they don't ruin this for her.

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #yandere ohshc #ohshc x reader #yandere ouran high school host club #ouran high school host club x reader #ouran high school host club #ouran host club

725 notes · View notes