#Unlocked Youth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vastiitas · 8 months ago

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Runaway Turned Thief, His First Horse, and its Consequences.

Cole's first horse after the razing of his hometown is a dark bay no-spot appaloosa mare. She's built for long distance riding, and bursts of extreme speed for outrunning trouble. While she can go quite aways, there is definitely a lack of stamina in maintaining a sprint in comparison to a fully committed race horse.

He steals her from two drug mulers who had been camping out in the wilderness. This is where he ends up with most of his supplies that he keeps with him 'til Deadlock, including a second revolver to go with his first, a analog hunting rifle that he uses extensively for hunting and self-sustenance, and dressing knives. (Before then, he had a bed roll that was on its way out, carried in a ragged pack, a multi-tool, a foldable knife, and a water bladder; one extra set of clothes. Having a horse allowed him to pack greater inventory, travel further, and carry more quality of life items such as a wire set to cook over fires, rope, etc. Etc. In the case of meeting @/quick-drawn, she also allowed him to pack game to bring back home.)

He is on the verge of becoming 12, having left the orphanages some months prior (having been inducted into the system at 11 and spending time being tossed around for about 6-8 months). The whole debacle is a bit of a shit show with him waiting for the dark of night, pressed flat to the ground on his stomach amidst the cover of large rock and sage bush rooting between the crevices. He is, at this point, learning to be a little more clever with his thefts, scoping out the individuals, the layout of the camp (but fails at this time to consider escape plans, terrain.)

Sky turns indigo, then a void of black fractured by the salt-scatter of stars. Fire's died out to embers and the men retire to their tents. Cole scrapes himself up to his feet, scurries down the path tied between hasty and careful and rifles through their supplies like a shambling animal that's wandered someplace it don't belong. He ransacks ammunitions, the aforementioned firearms, some cans of food and a flask engorged with gin, amongst an assortment of other things; gathers and piles them up in the saddle bags on the Appaloosa.

Men start rousing as he's on the tail end of packing - the one stirring with a need to take a piss - and the little heist becomes a smash-and-grab operation where he's cutting the reins with a knife and blasting down the mountainside as they start yelling and searching for their firearms.

Later on, when it's deemably safe and he's lost them, he rummages through her saddle bags and finds papers reading Honeysuckle and his face scrunches up sour. Amber-brown eyes dart up from crinkled black print to the dark pits of the horse's. "Y'don't seem like a Honeysuckle."

He doesn't know why, but the name Maria falls off his tongue much easier. Fits her features more, he thinks. (It is, absolutely, a lapse back into his religious roots. Finding the name like a prayer, which he utters in both thanks and apology. Most of all, the significance just falls down to lyrics of Plastic Jesus: Goin' 90 I ain't scary, 'cos I got the Virgin Mary assurin' me I won't go to hell.)

She's a playful mare, likes to 'sneak up' on him while he's turned away despite the very obvious noise of her shoes hitting the ground. Likes to nuzzle her head into his neck, or knock into his back, set his hat off-kilter. Loves hoofing at creek/river/brook water - though that's a learned habit when he decided to splash at her on a non-eventful, idyllic day at a lakeside shore. Steady girl - he'll call her lady, sometimes. There are days where he'll share a beer with her, too.

He is somewhere in the throes of 13 when he unfortunately re-crosses paths with his victims. It's serendipity on their end, an accidental run-in out in the wilderness near an ol' gutted hunting lodge. The owners recognize Honeysuckle and they sneak up on him like he'd done with them, except instead of running off with a horse and materials, they put a gun to him and have him flag up his hands. They don't know what to do with him (there's an additional man to the original duo) and they murmur amongst themselves in Spanish after beating him to the ground and tying him up; they converse like this thinking the boy can't understand.

There's not a lot going for them to toss him towards a lawman; not a lot of pretty coin for a petty thief, not in these days where the economy and infrastructure's been starved out to a post-war drought. One of them suggests killing him out back. There's nothing really stopping them, and they could re-collect their stolen goods and continue on their way. They'd lost money because of the kid's stunt, lost out on 50% of what they could mule with only 1 horse instead of two.

Third man finally says, Sell him. Some place beyond the border where English is just a rumored language spoken only on tv sets. Labor camps need more hands. Sold men are cheaper than the free ones. He gets his reckoning, we make-up our money and then some.

In English, they tell him that in ancient times the law would have his hands severed from the wrists for theft and they knot up the binds on his hands aggressively tight to prove the point.

And then they'd travelled South, days piling into days. The ribbed rope would gnaw the skin raw, chafing towards bone like it's trying to eat him alive, and the entire thing leaves his wrists risking sepsis and scars; bloody, mangled.

they're stopped by in some post-war abandoned location along the way to rest that's filled with rusty tools and broken beer bottles. Some sort of logging warehouse. Cole finds a shitty piece of glass on a countertop and palms it; clenches his hands around it even when it threatens to nip cuts and draw blood. The men get ready for bed. Cole starts sawing at rope fibers. One of the men check up on him while he's just about free - the binds snapping loose as he realizes something isn't quite right.

Cole doesn't know where the guns are; his hands are in too much pain to aim straight anyway. First man goes down with Cole tackling him right into exposed pipes, gritty sawblades. Commotion brings the other two out: one tries to grab him from behind, while the other moves to sling a punch to the gut. Cole kicks wildly, butts his head into the nose of the man who's got hands on him. He's dropped to the floor. His knees ache from impact but it's his wrists that are screaming and he chokes out a strangled noise of pain, blearily grabbing at a slaughtered beer bottle that he's landed right next to.

Man in front of him's had enough, is going for his gun when Cole launches up into him with the bottle in hand. The serated glass punctures cheek flesh, into an eye socket. Man screams. Cole reels the glass back and keeps jamming it back down - and his face is soaked by the gore of it. The screams stop coming, and there's a thick hand that gloves around his shoulder. By some blind, desperate instinct, his other hand has found the handle of the dead man's gun when he is swung around with a fist cracking into his jaw. The glass bottle crashes into the floor. A gunshot spears the air. A third body cripples to the floor, blood guttering from the stomach. He spits on them, staggering to his feet: hablo español, hijo de puta - ir a la mierda.

He shambles out from the building, doused in blood, brain matter, and tries to put on a brave face, but he starts breaking down and ends up mumbling in a sort of low-key hysterics to maria "im sorry, im sorry, im sorry" -- doesn't know what he's apologizing for, that he stole her, that he killed her previous owners, that he's alive. Between the adrenaline and everything crashing in all at once, it's the first time he's reduced to tears since the times before the war.

Exhausted, he falls asleep outside. Leaves the men as is and weakly cuts their horses free (too tired by it all, he doesn't think to search their pockets for money, to rifle through saddle bags before releasing their mounts.) It's a mistake, because the news will later search for the horse owners, talk about a bloody horror scene found in the stomach of a logging complex. But, until then, the next few days are of travel, trying to find a main road while his wrists are pounding hellfire.

He ends up stumbling into a gas station in the middle of bumfuck nowhere looking like road kill. The attendant is startled right out of his seat as Cole walks up to him and shoves forward a fistful of ruddy-colored bills.

His voice rattles like pennies in a rusted gutter; tinny, scraping. He croaks, "I got some money for a band-aid and some rubbin' alcohol."

Man thinks this kid's been in a motor vehicle collision, says, "Kid you're going to need a lot more than just a band-aid" as he unlatches the medical kit from the wall. He seats Cole down on a plastic foldable chair, patches him up free-of-charge to the best of his ability the way a gas station attendant can offer. Man adds in a pair of gloves to make sure the gauze don't shift around too much. Man asks questions.

Where's your parents? What happened?

Cole says war got them. That he got into an accident.

Man tries to have Cole clean up in the bathroom, says there's snacks waiting outside while he phones for the police. Cole washes up, peels off his clothes for the last set he's got, and pockets the medical supplies the man had been using. He walks off, leaving the bathroom -- just does not come back inside -- and hitches back onto Maria and starts to ride off before anyone can come.

He leaves a few crumpled dollar bills on the sink.

#Hc: youth #hc: head up in the clouds;;#Hc: history #this too has been sitting in my drafts for a fat ass minute n only like 2 ppl know the contents of it SHKDHDIA #Tldr; cole's first horse after the war's named maria and he grows up with her til deadlock #she is a long-range mare with good sprint but it's a sprint not meant to be maintained for too long #impish personality - playful - likes to sneak up behind him despite not being very sneaky #He stole her; the owners find him - it does not bode well #He has rope burn scars on his wrist that he hides with gloves for the majority of his youth #Just because they're so damn noticeable and he's not in the business of entertaining the nosey and concerned #These days he doesn't really care due to the fact that he's mottled all over -- forgets that they're there for the most part #The memory of all this is also very far away for him tbh - like he's basically forgotten abt it unless u say smthing that just Unlocks it #This is also the cause of a few lines w a thread w quick drawn:#(You stagger out of this matted in blood and flesh and feel like Death's fucked up little butcher and #you have never wanted it to rain more in your life.#God did not answer this prayer.)

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sutorus · 1 year ago

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THE GRUDGE PROFESSOR!GETO for KINKTOBER 2023!

DESCRIPTION: everybody loves professor geto, and judging by the thousands of viewers you get on every live, a lot of people love you, too. but you and professor geto hate each other. you’ve had enough of his humiliation rituals, and decide to do something about it.

PAIRING: mean professor!geto x student!reader

WC: 5.3k i am an unstoppable beast

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. fem reader, afab reader, teacher/student dynamic! adult age gap! (reader is in college, unspecified age), sw/camgirl!reader (don’t like don’t read! no shaming 😤), strong language, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, darling), reader calling geto "sir", unprotected relations, creampie, afab reader and terms

A/N: this switches between povs a lot so i hope that’s okay or at least readable lol! also i set out to write him so much meaner but he’s just kind of a simp... enjoy?

reblogs are very much appreciated i'll uwu for u :pleading eyes emoji:

it is said that those who cannot do, teach.

geto suguru could have done many things. he had the brains, the muscles, the features, the traits. the ambition to succeed in any field he desired. satoru says in a world ruled by the strong there is no place for humility.

but humility is not why suguru became a teacher. neither is ineptitude. no, he’d become a teacher because it was the right thing to do.

to use his gifts to help shape new generations, help unlock potentials long dorment and buried deep under years of a lackluster schooling system. geto suguru prided himself, above all, in being a righteous man.

but japan’s most upstanding citizen for 28 years in a row held a shameful secret. a secret in the shape of you.

he saw the darkest sides of himself on your face (eyebrows scrunched, eyes shut tightly, jaw slack as you—), your voice (higher in pitch with desperate moans that sound almost scared on the brink of your—), your body (taut and plump in all the right places, glistening with sweat, bouncing up and down on a—).

when you walked into his classroom that fateful day, the world tilted on its axis. his first thought was, fuck, then, it can’t be, then, most embarrassing of all, i’ll finally find out what she smells like.

(he did, when you went up to his desk to hand over your test. a whiff of vanilla, argon oil shampoo. too sweet, too youthful. and he’d watched you leave, tennis skirt flowing like a water lily, dick already chubby in his pants.)

it was slowly starting to consume him.

the first time you spoke in class, he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. it was really you. the cute, slutty girl he’d been milking his cock to for the better part of a year.

god, when you finally said his name. you would never in your wildest dreams think that he’d been imagining those words coming out of your mouth, of him coming out of your mouth, dripping out of you, all over you—

he was losing it. this was not like him. this was never supposed to happen, and he has to put an end to it.

everybody knew of geto suguru, the prodigy professor. already getting a phd despite not even being 30, handling the administrative slack for the department while managing office hours every day of the week, promoting student events, helping organize spirit weeks and charity drives.

everything he did, he did for others. those not as capable as him — which was most people. in other words, it was really, really hard to hate him.

but you damn well managed to.

and to think you were excited to take his class. everybody told you to run, not walk, to sign up for his twentieth-century Japanese philosophy chair.

“oh, professor geto is just the best,” they’d said. “he makes it sound so interesting and engaging, he gives the most life changing assignments, he really cares about us.”

bullshit.

the first time you stepped into that classroom, suspiciously full for a philosophy class, you felt a shift in the air almost immediately.

and sure enough, professor geto suguru was eyeing you down like he’d just seen a ghost. it made you self conscious, like he’d taken one look at you and decided right then and there you were too dumb for the class.

it made your blood boil. sure, you stood out a little bit from the actual philosophy majors, but that doesn’t mean he gets to judge you. he literally doesn’t know you!

but fine, first impressions are tricky like that. for all you knew, you could’ve been misjudging him right there.

however, with each passing day, you grew more and more assured in your suspicions.

you knew the man had it out for you, always calling on you to answer when he knew you weren’t paying attention, never grading your papers above a B even though you did everything right, somehow managing to fucking avoid you during his excessive office hours.

his looks were almost the most infuriating part of it.

his beautiful face constantly set in that nonchalant look, his big veiny hands always gesticulating, his huge fucking arms straining the fabric of those dress shirts, his ear gauges and man bun contrasting the prim and proper image the rest of him conveyed.

under different circumstances, he’d make your mouth water. under different circumstances, you’d imagine him going down on you all night long, singing praise about how good you taste and how tight you are.

but in this timeline, you absolutely loathed him. and he loathed you too. why? you didn’t know.

but you knew for a fact that it was personal.

“i don’t care,” megumi said around a mouthful of meatball, cutting your monologue short. “i’m not doing it.”

you sigh, melting into your chair. “megumi. please. i am literally begging you, i just need some hard evidence so i can go report his ass.”

he eyes you curiously. “report him for what?”

“i don’t know. bullying? sexism? whatever the hell his problem is,” you pick at your food, huffing in annoyance.

“you’re overthinking it,” megumi replies, dismissively.

“okay, how about this,” you lean forward, putting an elbow on the table. “if you write the assignment for me, i’ll get your dog that expensive halloween costume you’ve been wanting.”

megumi lifts an eyebrow.

“you need to get one for each,” he says simply.

you grin. “deal.”

suguru really does give it his all to make your life with him a living hell. pulls out all the stops, years of friendship with gojo satoru paying off as he comes up with ploy after ploy to get you to drop his class.

it feels bad, being mean to you. but for the hidden, twisted parts of him, it feels delicious.

watching you huff and puff, all hot and bothered when he corrects your answers on the spot. watching you nibble on your pen at the increasingly difficult exams he hands out. letting himself wonder if you missed a stream this week because you were too busy cramming for a make up test.

he knows he’s pushing you to your limit, and even if there’s some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing you so agitated at his hands when it’s usually the other way around, he doesn’t enjoy upsetting you.

the problem is, suguru knows it’s either he gets his shit together or he continues tormenting you, and, well.

the spirit is willing but the flesh is so, so weak.

he knows it’s getting worse, too, because he’s not infatuated by you only when you’re undressing on his screen, or all dolled up in class.

when you tie your hair up in a ponytail, when you suck on a hangnail, when you lick your thumb to erase a smudge on your paper… all of it drives him wild.

he can’t teach with a permanent half chub anymore. this has to end, one way or another.

you sit down in front of your computer, adjusting the camera before turning it on. soon, viewers start trickling in, little dings notifying you of their messages.

you smile, waving at the screen.

“hi everyone! i know i’m a little bit late today, i hope you can forgive me…” your eyes scan the chat, giggling at the compliments. “‘you look tired, sad face’, ah. i’m sorry. i guess i’ve been a little stressed lately.”

your robe falls over your shoulder as you readjust your position. a few donations come in, accompanied by supportive messages.

“you guys are so nice. it’s not a big deal, it’s just this dude giving me a hard time at college.”

you absentmindedly trace your collarbones, reading what your viewers are saying.

“you’ll kill him for me? that’s so sweet,” you joke. “nah, it’s not a student. it’s a professor. exactly, ynlover444, a grown ass man picking on me!”

you sigh deeply, allowing your body to finally unwind and relax on your chair. you prop a knee up against the armrest, giving your viewers a little peek in between your legs. you’re wearing one of your favorite sets, trying to get in the mood after the week you’ve had.

“ugh, sometimes i wish i could just…” you suck in a breath, clenching your hand into a fist before releasing it. “sit on his face and get him to shut up, you know?”

you laugh at the countless me firsts that flood the chat, bringing a finger to your lip.

“anyway! enough about that horrible man,” you reach beside you to grab a box your viewers know all too well by now. “let’s get to the fun stuff, shall we?”

as always, satoru is no help.

“why don’t you just fuck her?” he asks, eyebrows arching above his sunglasses. “ya gotta just fuck her.”

suguru clears his throat before taking a drag of his cigarette. “i’m not fucking a student.”

satoru shrugs. “everybody does it. besides, you basically already do.”

suguru wonders, not for the first time, why he ever told his friend about his situation. about your streams, that he’d stumbled upon randomly and innocently and had gotten instantly hooked, about you barging into his classroom like an angel at hell’s gates, about you you you you, everything about you.

“that won’t fix anything.”

satoru clicks his tongue, swirling his soda inside the can.

“poor, naive suguru. did you not just tell me about what she said on her stream?" and yes, regrettably, suguru had told him. "it’ll fix everything.”

suguru doesn’t even let himself consider it, except he does.

at this point it’s no secret that he’s thought about being inside you, but now that you’re here it’s just too real and too risky and completely fucking wrong.

it goes against the entire life he’s built for himself.

he’s lost. he wants you so fucking bad, wants you close, wants you so far away, wants to ravage you and never have to see you again.

it’s fight or flight. if he got you alone, it could go either way, he realizes that.

suguru wonders what part of him will win by the end of all of this.

your heels clack on the linoleum floor of the hallway as you approach professor geto’s classroom, megumi’s graded paper clutched tightly against your chest.

the thing about megumi is that he's a star student. he’s never gotten anything below an A on any of his essays, makes the dean’s list every year, tutors his seniors. so the big, bright B- on the page tells you everything you need to know.

damn right it’s personal.

you don’t even bother knocking, slamming the door open while still trying to contain your indignation.

geto is sitting at his desk, piles of papers sprawled on top. he has his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a surprised look on his face that would be cute if you didn’t want to slap it right off.

he says your last name like he’d been expecting you all his life.

“to what do i owe the pleasure?”

your jaw clenches as you take a few loud steps towards him. you slam megumi’s paper down on his desk, leaning over.

“professor geto, i demand an explanation. a real one, this time.”

the man takes a deep breath, lips twisting disapprovingly. he smoothes the paper over.

“as i already explained in my notes right here, the structure is fine, but i couldn’t help but miss a more in-depth analysis of the four nodal concerns of philosophy that we talked about in class, such as—“

“no,” you interrupt. “just no. you know you’re bullshitting me and i’m sick of it. this paper deserved an A!”

“miss—“

“what’s your problem with me?” you spit out. your eyes finally meet and there’s nothing in geto’s that could answer your question. your chest is heaving, lips wobbling and hands shaking, trying to contain your anger.

geto clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “like i said, your paper could’ve used a bit more—“

“no it fucking couldn’t have, because it’s not my fucking paper, it’s fushiguro’s fucking paper and the only reason you gave it a B is because i was the one who handed it in!”

he sits up, straightening his posture.

geto sounds austere when he asks, “do you realize how much trouble this could be for both of you if i reported it?”

you can’t believe this man. he’s been picking on you the entire semester and when you finally confront him about it this is what he chooses to focus on.

“are you fucking kidding me?” that earns you a stern look from him, eyebrow raising taller than that fucking high horse he sits on. “professor geto. what did i ever do to you?”

there must be something earnest in your voice because geto sighs, getting up from his chair.

he walks until he’s standing in front of you, leaning against his desk and crossing his feet.

“do i bother you?” is all he says. it surprises you.

you jut your chin out. “as a matter of fact, you do.”

the man hums.

“i bet that’s really difficult for you,” he speaks like he’s sympathetic, like he understands. he sounds almost sheepish when he says, “i bet sometimes you wish i would just shut up.”

you blink rapidly. “no, it’s not like that. it might shock you but i genuinely do enjoy your class, it’s just that—“

“or maybe you wish you could shut me up,” he continues, ignoring you. “maybe going as far as to say that you could… sit on my face to get me to shut up.”

your mouth goes dry.

before your brain can fully process the shift in the atmosphere or the fact that your professor is maybe possibly hitting on you, you realize where those words are coming from.

it’s what you said. about him. on stream. right before fucking yourself on your hot pink dildo.

you can’t speak, can barely even look in his general direction.

you had really thought things couldn’t get any worse. had barged into his office with nothing to lose, almost hoping he would cordially invite you to remove yourself from his class permanently.

but now? now you have no idea what’s going to happen to you.

“i…” you start, the words dying in your throat. geto chuckles, crossing his fat fucking muscly arms across his chest.

he says your name, low and syrupy. “is it true? you’d like to?”

you can feel your face flush hot in embarrassment, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that you’d never walked into his classroom.

you have half the mind to apologize to him, right now.

“it’s just a figure of speech,” you try. geto clicks his tongue.

“what a shame.”

your wide eyes shoot up and meet his. “w-what?”

he smiles sweetly.

“it’s a peace offering. you can take it, or we can forget you ever said anything,” and isn’t he just so slimey, actually, when he’s the one who brought it up. he had said it, and now…

now you can finally allow yourself to look at him.

those delicious, broad shoulders, the ever-present bored look, the stubborn fringe that falls out of his bun.

you could so easily forget what you came here for.

“so, like, a truce?” you ask, taking a daring step forward. geto nods, uncrossing his arms. “and you stop treating me like i’m fucking dumb?”

he tilts his head. “i think you’re a very smart young lady. determined. entrepreneurial…”

“geto—“

“professor geto,” he corrects you, hands reaching out to graze your hips. “you’re intelligent. i just like to push my students.”

you both know that’s a lie, but it’s okay, because now you know exactly why you got under his skin and it makes your own burn.

you run a hand down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“then… push me, professor.”

it’s so incredibly lame, the porn line you hit him with, but to your surprise it works, a low groan rumbling deep in geto’s chest.

he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing your lips together.

it’s ravenous, the way geto dips his tongue inside when you gasp in surprise. you moan against his mouth, slipping a leg in between his two.

he’s half hard already when he rubs up against your thigh.

geto picks you up with ease and sets you down on his desk, and it’s so fucking cliché, the papers crinkling under your weight, the pens clattering to the floor. but it turns you on beyond belief.

you share a few open mouthed kisses, an exchange of tongue and moans and hot breaths between your lips.

if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit that you've fantasized about it before. a silly idea, at first, something you'd just blurted out mid-stream.

but that little seed had been planted, and when you got yourself off that night, you might've imagined for a moment that it was your mean professor's cock squeezed tight inside you, making you come undone.

geto slips his hands under your skirt, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer to him. you line up your crotch with his, moving your hips in tight little circles that make the both of you groan.

his fingers are tugging your underwear down, down, the soft patch sticking to your gooey cunt. he lets the soaked fabric dangle from your ankle, grazing the back of his knuckles on your core.

“mmm, fuck,” geto breaks the kiss, swallowing. his pretty lips are flushed and shiny, parted around his panted breaths. “you always get this wet or am i special?”

he’s smirking, the bastard, leaning back in to kiss your neck.

god, you smell so good, like lotion and perfume and sunshine and sin.

“shouldn’t you know?” you sneak your fingers up into his bun, pushing your chest against him. he works his lips expertly on your skin, using just the right amount of teeth, of pressure.

geto hums against your neck, kissing a line up to your jaw. he snakes a hand under your skirt, thumb pressing down hard to rub on your clit, two fingers slipping inside.

you immediately clench, a soft, drawn out mewl leaving your lips.

the slide of his fingers against your walls send a chill down your spine, filling you up so perfectly. you feel the thin skin at your opening stretch around him, burning at the friction as his fingers plunge in and out of you.

“god, look at that,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pulls the hem of your skirt up. “do you hear that, baby? so fucking wet for me.”

you whine, hands cupping his jaw so you can kiss him again.

“please…” you mumble against his lips. “more…”

you wonder how much of what you can say he's heard before, which exact words have left your lips and sent him over the edge. it makes you self conscious, oddly, like he can see right through you.

not-so-kindly ignoring your request, geto removes his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

you watch as his eyelids flutter in pleasure, a hum rumbling low in his throat.

he looks so good like this, just edible.

you pull him in for a kiss before he can, relishing in the surprised little noise he lets out. your knees are wobbling, feet dangling from your seat as you taste yourself on his tongue.

he swallows your moan hungrily, forearms trembling with the need to hold back.

geto knows this is wrong, so wrong on so many levels, puts both your positions in jeopardy, it makes him feel perverted and primal and so fucking alive.

he’s been watching you fuck yourself on those silly toys for god knows how long now, knows every spot that makes your hips buck, knows exactly how to make you cream like a debased slut around a cock.

it should feel unfair, how easy it’s going to be for him to make you cum, only if it weren’t for the fact that your mere presence is enough to get him hard as fucking diamonds.

“tastes good, huh?” he whispers, thumb caressing your chin. you nod, smiling devilishly.

“tastes better on your tongue, prof.”

geto groans low like a starved animal, holding your throat in his hand with a loose grip. he’s overwhelmed, that much shows, not knowing what to do with you or where to start. but there’s one thing he’s sure of.

he presses one last kiss to your spit-slick lips before dropping to his knees.

you can hardly believe it. sulky, big bad bully professor geto suguru on his knees for you. you prop a foot up on his desk, your sole skidding on a piece of paper.

“scoot closer, please,” he asks, cordial even like this. you bring your ass to the edge of the desk, your dripping pussy hovering over his face.

he looks so good under you, hair already disheveled, a delicious tent in his tailored pants.

you tuck the hem of your skirt into the waistline so you can watch as he sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s fucking relieved.

you throw your head back, fingers buried in his silky hair as geto’s fingers find their way back inside.

he fucks them in and out of you lazily, pushing out strings of slick. geto slurps it all up, spreading your wetness all over your clit and sucking it back in his mouth.

god, his cock is straining in his pants but he doesn’t dare touch it, can’t until he’s inside you. you taste like fucking heaven, like all his fantasies, like he always knew you would.

you’re whining softly, bucking your hips into his face almost shyly, as to disrupt his pace.

you sound so much better in person, although he can’t wait to have you moaning into his ear without needing the headphones.

“god, this perfect pussy,” geto mumbles into you, his breathing labored. he runs a thumb all over your cunt, gliding it over your soaked lips. “been dreaming about it for so long.”

“yeah?” you ask. “tell me. tell me how you stroke your cock to me every night.”

and every night might be overselling it. geto is a busy man.

but your words do make him realize that no girl he’s had since he found your stream has satisfied him quite like you do. your flirty smile, your moans, the way they sometimes turn into uncontained giggles as you stuff your pretty cunt with a dildo.

so he tells you, blush spreading across his cheeks.

“fuck, i do,” he tongues your clit, tracing lazy circles. “i do. just look what you do to me.“

and there it is, that cheeky, slutty giggle, directed at something he said this time.

he takes his fingers out, spreading your opening with both thumbs as he licks you all over.

geto gulps, tongue dipping inside of you, sucking your clit into his mouth, sliding down to your entrance, every clench of your pussy pushing out more and more slick for him. no one's ever eaten you out as thoroughly as this.

“oh, fuck, sir,” it slips out casually, the way it would were you talking to any other professor. but given the circumstances, you revel in the deep moan geto buries into your cunt.

you trap your lips between your teeth to keep anything else from tumbling out, but it’s useless.

“please, sir, i’m so close—so close just keep doing that, yeah just like that—“

“fuck,” he mumbles, pulling away to suck in a desperate breath. then, “fuck,” sultrier, right into your core.

you grind against his face, finding purchase in his hair as a final few flicks of his tongue push you right into the crest of a mind-numbing orgasm.

it’s so good, so much better than when you're alone. the friction so perfect, his long, thick fingers plugging you up last minute to viciously fuck into you.

“god…,” you breathe out, legs trembling as he runs his hands up your thighs.

his chin is glistening, bubbles of spit and cum gathering in the corner of his mouth. he looks so good like this, like he was meant to please you and nothing else.

geto feels like a fucking teenager, so goddamn close to busting in his pants at the sight of you. his dick hurts, balls tight and the head throbbing where it’s tucked into his underwear.

“please, sweetheart,” he can’t hold himself back any longer, slick fingers already undoing his belt.

you get to work on his zipper, pulling his pants down along with his underwear and damn.

you figured he was big. he was a tall man, broad shoulders, shoes the size of a yacht, and the bulge in his trousers was a pretty good indication. but it couldn’t have prepared you for the sheer size of him.

longer than it is thick, cleanly shaven, pretty veins and ridges and standing angry red in attention. god, you want it inside you.

he notices you looking.

“do you need more prep? i can—“

“no, fuck no, suguru, need it inside me now,” you wrap a hand around him and he hisses, caging you in with his arms on the desk.

he huffs out a laugh, blowing the fringe framing his face. “what happened to sir?”

you kiss down his jaw, squeezing right below his tip.

“sorry, sir,” you say against his ear. “are you going to punish me for my slip up?”

geto groans, pulling on your hair hard and making you face him.

“take your shirt off for me,” he instructs, and you obey, maneuvering around his tight grip on the back of your head.

his spirit is so unbreakable.

here you are, teasing him, coaxing him to rough you up, push you around, relieve both your frustrations properly once and for all, but he’s just so… adoring, and hungry, and just so irrevocably into you, and you find out that’s so much better.

geto relents his hold on you to unclasp your bra, cupping your breasts and sucking a nipple into his mouth. you whine, caressing his hair.

“so fucking perfect,” he massages your tits, looking mesmerized.

“yeah? they haven’t gotten old to you yet?”

he laughs, so cute, and you can barely remember that just hours ago you hated the sight of him. you stroke his cock up and down, squeezing harder at the tip trying to milk all that delicious pre he’s been wasting on the inside of his boxers.

“no, f-fuck—never gonna get old,” he pushes your boobs against each other, imagining his cock sliding in between them, his balls nestled underneath, his load blown all over your pretty face—

fuck, he’s gonna cum if he keeps going like this.

he rips your hand away from him, ignoring your knowing smirk and pushing his tongue into your mouth.

“i’m gonna fuck you now, okay, sweetheart?” you moan, nodding, shimmying your hips so he can have the perfect angle.

a big hand clasps your thigh to wrap your leg around his hips as his tip pokes around your entrance.

you’re whining in anticipation, clenching around nothing, nails clawing his clothed back.

when he slips in, it feels like coming home. you’re like warm honey around him, cunt pushing him out but clinging to him at the same time, with every stroke. it’s fucking maddening.

“ahh, g-god, sir, ‘s too big—“ you swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling the tip of his cock in your guts.

he’s huffing, concentrated, bullying his cock into you inch by inch with shallow thrusts until he finally bottoms out.

“fuuuuck, angel,” he grips your waist with both hands, like he could just fuck you up and down his length if he wanted to. “took me so well, look at that.”

you do, dropping your heavy head to look at where you’re connected. you clench around him and he whines, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in.

the metal legs of the desk skid on the floor, papers and pens raining down to the floor as geto starts roughly plunging in and out of you.

you let out little ah, ah, ahs in time with his strokes, the ache deep in your stomach finally starting to fade.

“f-fuck, you’re gonna—topple us over, suguru, go easy—“

“can’t,” he chokes out, wheezing as he pushes his cock in as far as it can go.

he gives shallow little thrusts, his length straining the fine skin at your entrance so good, hitting a spot inside you over and over that makes your head spin.

your fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him in to whine right into his ear.

he’s so big, stretching you out so thin that you feel every ridge and vein, can feel both your heartbeats inside your cunt.

“ohhhhh fuck, fuck sir, please please touch me—“

he grabs your ass before you can even finish your sentence and presses you flush against his hips.

geto’s tip is kissing your cervix now, his balls sticky and creamy against your ass, your clit grinding against his pubic bone as his thrusts violently shake the both of you.

“fuck, wanna do it so fucking loud but i can’t, we can’t, what if someone walks in—“

you moan wantonly at his words, expecting to be chided, but geto seems to love it despite his worries because his cock kicks deliciously inside of you.

“look how loud you’re being, listen to yourself,” he grunts out, the belt pooled around his feet clanging with every stroke, the absolutely lewd squelches from your pussy resonating in the entire classroom.

you two sound so good together, better than you’ve ever had, better than he could’ve ever imagined.

“so loud, so wet on this cock,” he spits out, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “do those toys make you feel this good? this full? answer me.”

“hahh, n-no, no one but you,” you can’t think straight, head thrown back in pleasure and eyes squeezed shut. “only you, sir.”

geto whines like he’s aching, pounding into you mercilessly and making a mess under the two of you.

“fuck yeah, that’s right. i’m making you feel good, baby?”

“mm-hm,” you mumble, tongue lolling out. geto's going so hard now, has you pressed up so tight against him, body caging you in, fucking every breath and thought right out of you. “close.”

“yeah?” he speeds up his effort slightly, and you’re sure he’s going to have desk-edge shaped bruises on his thighs tomorrow. “gonna cum on my cock? cream all over me?”

you let out a long, drawn out whine, tits bouncing up and down with the force of geto’s thrusts.

“let me see your face when you cum, darling,” he cups the back of your neck, breathing hard through his nose. “keep your eyes on me. that’s right, sweetie, so good, you’re doing so good.”

you preen at the praise, feeling suddenly self conscious with the man's laser focus attention on you.

you coo out little noises, growing in desperation, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his hips piston in and out of you.

your pull him into you closer and rub your clit against him, grinding helplessly as your orgasm creeps closer and closer.

the moment you open your eyes and meet his hungry ones, you’re cumming. your walls spasm around him, making the glide of his dick impossibly wetter with your release.

geto chokes on a sound, his cock hostage of your pussy’s vice-like grip as your greedy cunt milks him for all he's got.

“f-fuck, baby, look so pretty when you cum, always look so fucking sexy so fucking perfect that you’re gonna make me bust, i’m gonna cum for you god gonna cum inside, gonna blow my load all deep inside this pussy—“

it’s the most desperate he’s ever sounded, speaking through clenched teeth and a soaked mouth. you moan in return, letting him use you.

he slams his forehead down your shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times and cums, his balls drawing up so tight that it hurts. he fucks it into you with shallow thrusts, panting, almost wheezing in pleasure.

it feels like it lasts forever, his orgasm. like all of the blood in his body goes straight to his balls to push out the thickest, most satisfying nut of his life into the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

you feel it fill you up so good, hear it, too, squelching and sticking to both of you.

geto’s body slumps against yours and you stay like that for a while, catching your breaths. there’s cum sliding out of you, down his balls, onto some poor student’s essay you have your ass on top of.

when he pulls out of you, he takes a beat to watch it spill out of you some more, his face and chest red, his smile groggy.

“god, this,” geto has to fight the urge to say thank you for letting him fuck your brains out. he swallows.

“yeah,” you blink away the haze, feeling sore and fucked out. “this.”

“…is probably going to happen again, right?”

he knows it shouldn’t. he knows it will.

maybe both parts of geto can learn to coexist.

you grin, touching the tip of your tongue to his lips.

“well, i still haven’t made good on that promise of sitting on your face, have i?”

the next morning, in class, the students erupt in happiness at the news that professor geto had an accident that ended up ruining most of last week’s graded papers he had in his possession.

so he decided to give everyone an A for their troubles.

and finally, finally, there was peace in the world.

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