#and it reminds me of how my ex was when i tried to be all romantic lmfao

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - XVI

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters gen. warnings: NSFW, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more

⚠Chapter warnings: A bit more graphic violence. Character death. If you made it this far, you'll be fine...⚠

16. epilogue

John Constantine stands on the rooftop, looking out over the glittering lights of the city. 

He wants a cigarette so fucking bad, but like he can hear you grousing about how he was given a second chance and he shouldn’t waste it, he pops a stick of gum instead. 

It’s not the same thing. 

He misses you. 

He can’t stop himself from thinking about that night, not so long ago, when the two of you headed off an early Apocalypse by the skin of your teeth. He remembers how in the end, somehow he found the strength to stumble to your side, and how whatever small grain of hope he’d allowed himself vanished at the sight of you, the Spear piercing your heart to the hilt, your body deathly still. He’d collapsed to his knees beside you, clutching your cold little hand in his. The knowledge that your eternal soul was saved was hardly a consolation at the moment–he was the one who was supposed to die, not you. 

He’d tried to budge the spear–but couldn't. 

And so he’d clutched at your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles as silent tears slid down his cheeks. 

“She saved me,” Angela had said, making her way on shaky legs over to press his shoulder. 

You saved him too, he realized. If not with anything but the determination of your love, you’d saved him, and he was finally able to save you in turn. That should count for something, but at the moment it was all so raw that he still wanted to curse God for taking you from him in the mortal realm, if not the next. 

If he ever wanted to see you again, he was really going to have to walk the line. 

He and Angela had both jumped as a bedraggled Gabriel surfaced from the bottom of the pool–their wings naught but bloody stubbs protruding from their shoulders. They had looked upon your lifeless body with zero remorse. They dared to say with their usual blind righteousness, “You should rejoice, John. She’s gone home.”  

John had narrowed his eyes, but his scathing tirade died on his tongue as a hulking figure had emerged from the water behind the ex-angel, his eyes glowing that deadly blue. Constantine had felt nothing but the most un-Christian gratification, as Wick seized Gabriel’s head in his massive hands and twisted.

The angel sank back to the bottom of the pool, and Wick stepped over their body to pull himself out of the water, a horrific wound barely knit together over his abdomen. Paying it no heed, he’d collapsed to his knees beside your body, tearing out the Spear and throwing it to clang against the far wall before sinking down to weep upon your shoulder. It had been unsettling for Constantine, not to see a man cry, but the utter despair with which Wick expressed himself. In a way, he found that he envied him. 

“My little bird,” Wick whispered desperately against your lifeless flesh. “I will find you again. I swear, I will find you again.” 

In a strange twist…Constantine found that he actually felt sorry for the dhampir.

Whatever his sins…his love for you had certainly been real, and true. 

But then…you had that effect on people. 

♰♰♰

Constantine continues to stand vigil on the roof, and there is something about the warm desert breeze that night, like a breath of heaven on his skin, that reminds him of you. 

Then something silken soft brushes against his face–and in his mouth. He spits, making a show of expelling something from between his lips. 

“Really? I gotta use the tattoos on you?” 

Laughing, you assume your most corporeal form, appearing in front of him. Your raven-black wings enclose the two of you like a privacy curtain, a cozy little space just for the two of you. Steadying yourself with hands on his chest, you incline your head for a kiss. 

He grants it, his soft lips lingering on yours, his big hands on your waist pulling you closer. “You’re back early.”

“Hmm.”

“I was afraid he might not let you go.” 

You reach up to brush dark hair out of his eyes; he softens for your touch, a small sigh betraying his enjoyment. “He’s happy with our deal.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” 

He has trouble hiding how relieved he is to hear this. Fighting John Wick wasn’t something high on his list of suicidal things he wanted to try out, but he might have had to, had the vampire hunter not been in such a seemingly generous mood. 

He had to admit, he’d never envisioned himself in a polyamorous relationship with a dhampir and an angel. 

At least, that's what they think you are, or some derivative anyway. The black wings are a little wildcard–but then, you had been carrying around a baggie of blood taken from the other Antichrist, which was pierced perfectly by the Spear. Beeman theorizes that it counteracted the blood of Christ in a way that somehow saved your life. And after Constantine’s little deal with Satan…supposedly, you were home free.

Or at least…no longer damned by default.

You liked being an angel, so far. You still had the immense power to help people, but didn't have to get your hands quite so dirty to do it. 

And, he won't admit it, but you're pretty sure John Constantine has a wing fetish.

You think about the first time you'd appeared to him, about a week after your supposed death. He'd broken into your apartment, and was just sitting amongst your things. You'd been trailing him invisibly, not having quite gotten the hang of your corporeal form yet. You didn't even really know what you were, yet. You kind of fancied yourself a sort of guardian ghost for John, your heart breaking all over again as you watched him mourn you. 

You didn't think that he could sense you–but when you couldn't stop yourself from reaching out to touch his face he’d straightened like you'd slapped him. You'd watched as he’d rolled up his sleeves, admiring those corded forearms even as he chanted the words and joined those archaic tattoos. The magic in them felt like being tugged hard by a rope, and suddenly–he could see you. 

You're not sure who was more shocked: him, or you. 

“Y/n?” 

You swear his hands shook as he reached for you. And then his eyes went wide, as his gaze fixed behind you, on what you would soon find were oil-black wings, your feathers shimmering with green and violet highlights in the low light. 

With no concept yet of what you'd become, you’d flung yourself into his arms, and he'd welcomed you gladly. Finally, when you could come up for air again between heated kisses, he demanded, “Have you been here the whole time?”

You nod. “Mostly.” You'd gone to check on Wick for a little while, trying to comfort him in the manic depths of his grief, but he’d been untouchable. 

Then, he’d disappeared. 

You will admit, that you’d been more worried about Constantine, if for anything because you knew Wick was a survivor to the bone.

“I thought…I was a ghost,” you'd admitted. 

Constantine actually laughed, a short, disbelieving burst of mirth. “Oh, honey.” He’d cupped your face in his large hands and kissed you deeply, filling your heart with something like sunshine. Then, his attention had turned to your wings again. He ran an experimental hand down your silky flight feathers, and a delicious shudder ripped down your spine. “They’re sensitive,” you admitted, and the look John Constantine paid you could have melted granite, one angular black brow lifted high.

“Are they now?”

Suddenly you could barely speak past your libido lodged in your throat. “Yes,” you whispered, and his fingers found their way into your hair, drawing you to him again. The new addition of the wings made things interesting between you, but somehow you managed to come together with only one casualty of a lamp you never really liked much anyway. 

It reminded you of the first night you made love in this bed, riding his beautiful cock while he teased your needy little clit with his thumb. Desperate for each other, hardly able to believe that this was real, that you were even allowed to have this blessing after everything you went through…you came together as you held on for dear life, your eyes locked with his as you found bliss with his body joined with yours. 

“There's a Touched By An Angel joke here somewhere,” he’d teased in the aftermath, as you curled up in his arms. 

“I always thought that show sounded like something you'd have to report door to door,” you mused, winning the coveted prize of his mirth, and his lips on your forehead. 

Much later, while you were cooking for him [and you, because God you missed solid food] he told you, “I never thought I’d say this…but we better go find Wick. He's gone on a rampage killing vampires, but I don't know what he'll do when he runs out of fangfaces to mangle.”

You looked back over your shoulder from the stove, your eyebrows raised high. “Where?”

“Last I heard, he was tearing Portland apart.”

“Fuck.”

Constantine offered you a commiserating ghost of a smile. 

“The High Table…are not going to be amused by that?”

“Ah…probably not.”

Your heart fell like a stone. “Will they go after him for it?”

“I would feel sorry for anyone they sent his way, but…”

You sigh. “Can we go tomorrow?”

“I suppose.” He looked down at the table. “Well. I had you to myself for all of 24 hours.”

“John…do you want me to yourself?”

He’d looked up at you through his dark hair, those eyes filled with a mix of heart-crushing sorrow and longing, his long fingers clenching then unclenching upon the table. The bond between you was different, after your transformation, but you still could tell in a rare instance this man was nervous. 

“I’m not saying I think I’m…husband material or that I’d even make a good boyfriend, and I know you deserve better…but…I love you, y/n.”

How far you'd come, that he could say that last part aloud. 

All you had to do was die. 

You’d nodded in earnest, your knees weak. “We can work with that.” 

Suddenly he was on his feet, and you gravitated towards him until you were in his arms again. He kissed you like you were the air he needed to breathe, for so long that you almost burned the chicken, and you found out that when you're that happy your wings flutter, the same way your toes curl. 

♰♰♰

In the end you’d convinced Constantine that you should probably go on your own, not knowing Wick’s state of mind, and you caught up with your dhampir at a cabin deep in the Snoqualmie Forest. It seemed he’d retreated there to heal after tearing through the vampire population of Seattle, almost like he was daring the High Table to come after him. 

It was a beautiful setting, the fir trees towering all around. The cabin was small, rustic, and you wondered if Wick did not build it with his bare hands. The air smelled fresh, and clean, and reminded you of a different time, long ago. Something that came to you as fact, in the fever dream of your resurrection, and somehow you were allowed to retain the long buried memory. 

When you were a young woman, in another life, 300 years ago, vampires ravaged your village, killing and pillaging as they pleased, the dead including your own parents and young sister. A dhampir named Jardani Jovanovich came to hunt them. Tall and true, dark as the devil himself, and from the moment you laid eyes on his tall, terrible form, you’d felt as though you had a fever burning inside you. He’d looked your way from astride his beautiful black horse, as though you’d said his name, and when your eyes met you knew he’d stolen your soul. After he delivered the heads of the strigoi to your village starosta he took you as his wife, and the two of you never looked back, and never separated, until the day you died.

Despite the fearsome man he’d been, Jardani Jovanovich had always been good to you. 

Perhaps it was this memory that gave you the courage to let yourself into the cabin, as though you had every right to be there. It was deathly quiet, and an empty bottle of vodka on the table, along with a pile of bloody gauze, perhaps explained why. You found him in the back bedroom, half-clothed, passed out on his side. 

You weren’t sure there was any good way to go about this that wouldn’t startle him, so you shed your shoes and lay down beside him, taking his hand in your smaller one between you on the counterpane. Now that you’d found him, you wanted to sleep. You’d flown (on the wing!) all the way from L.A., after all. Being an angel–or angel-ish–was strange. You got the sense that you didn’t need food, or drink, or sleep–but you liked to have it. The cold damp wouldn’t kill you, but you certainly felt it. Perhaps this is why you snuggled into Wick’s furnace of a body, as you dozed. 

You half-woke to the sound of him mumbling in his sleep–or rather, the vibration of it from within his broad chest. “Yelena Ivanova, gde ty byl…”

Where have you been?

“I’m here,” you answered softly, not really awake yourself. 

“Hmmff,” he’d answered, holding you closer with a grip that would have crushed a human woman. You managed to worm loose a little, perching on his chest. 

“Jardani,” you’d said softly, brushing back his unkempt dark hair.    

That was when his eyes finally slitted open, slowly focusing on you. Then they drifted up, taking in your wings. Maybe he thought he was dreaming, for he questioned nothing at first, simply taking your face in his hands and kissing you deeply. “Milaya…my pretty little bird, what wings you have grown.”

“You like them?” 

You sit up, straddling his torso, and as his hands gravitate to your jean-clad thighs he seems to begin to realize this is not a dream or a drunken vision–you are here. 

Bolting upright, he seizes you in his arms, holding you hard against him. “Y/N?” His face is buried in the bend of your neck; your name is lost in the distortion of a sob. 

“I’m here,” you told him again, running your fingers through his tangled dark hair. 

“...How?” he asks as he pulls back to look you over again, seemingly in awe of the feathered appendages protruding from your shoulders, but most amazed by the smoothe, unbroken skin over your breastbone. 

You have a scar there, where the Spear pierced your heart. You wondered if you would have managed to heal, had Wick not wrested the blade from your body so quickly. 

You shrugged, because you really didn’t know the answers, and his calloused fingers caressing your chest so gently crossed the wires in your brain. You couldn’t help but lean into him, winning something like a growl from deep in his throat. 

“Do you remember what I told you would happen, when we finally found ourselves a bed?” He'd almost posed it like a threat, his hands ghosting over your breasts, running down the ladder of your ribs. It felt marvelous, and you giggled nervously as you undulated against him. 

“I might recall something of that nature…” 

The sound he made was nothing less than animal, as he fell on your lips and devoured you whole. You let him gladly, giddy with bliss as he seemed bent on tasting every inch of your bare skin with his seeking lips and tongue. “You are so beautiful, my love, my darling little angel, my own heaven on earth.” He whispered this like a prayer upon your skin, consecrated each word with a kiss, and you utterly melted beneath what was nothing less than an onslaught. 

You lost track of how many times you came, in that man’s mouth, on his thick fingers, and with his insatiable cock buried inside you. By the time he was done with you, for the moment, at least, your body was covered in lovebites, full of his cum, and your usually supernaturally sturdy limbs were rendered into utter jelly. You could do nothing but curl up with him under a blanket beside the fire he’d built for you, joyfully stupefied by his relentless affection.  

 Later, you ate soup together made from a freeze-dried packet, and it tasted like a gourmet meal when eaten in the warm glow of his tender gaze upon you, your legs tangled under the table. You talked of what happened after you died, and what you can’t remember but you theorize happened in the interim. You wonder if the High Table witch’s spell was another factor in your taking on a new earthbound form, rather than going on to Heaven like Constantine had bargained for.  Wick found it amusing that you thought you were a ghost. “I felt you,” he tells you regretfully. “But I was mad with grief–I thought I was hallucinating it. I am sorry…I let you down.”

Perhaps he is thinking back on how he wept on your corpse and vowed to find you again–but you were there all along.

However, you shook your head, reaching out for his big hand on the rough-hewn table. “You didn't let me down. We’re both still new to this, aren’t we? And John figured it out.” 

Wick narrowed his eyes a little at the mention of your other beau. It’s funny– you really could not have picked two more opposite sorts of men. “Yes. He is very clever, your John.”

You smiled a little, perhaps masking the bloom of warmth in your heart that flowers any time you are speaking of John Constantine. “He is.”

“He loves you?”

You can't stop your lips from curling a little more. You'd in fact heard it from that stubborn horse’s own mouth.

“Yes.”

“But he was not good to you?”

You sighed. “Things were…complicated.”

“They are not now?”

“Less so, maybe.” Somehow, you thought you were actually telling the truth. Something about the lifted weight of certain damnation brought a lightness to John that was never there before. He is more open, with you, at least. He is, in fact, damn near affectionate, when you're alone together in your own little world. Maybe the truth of this showed on your face; Wick seemed attuned to your every tell. The look he paid you next  was nothing less than wolfish, long in fang and a sharp hunger in his gaze. 

“This does not mean I am letting you out of your promise to me. You will like New York.”

“For a visit,” you answered sweetly, ready to do battle. “But I'm not uprooting from L.A.”

He smirked at this, as though he did not think the matter closed by half. “Hmm. You think I will share you, little bird?” 

“I think…it’s the only way this will work,” you answered him honestly.

“You won't give him up?”

“I can’t,” you admitted. 

“Mmm,” he grumbled, that deep sound from his chest that did not fail to make your pulse quicken. “Stubborn woman. You always were a disobedient wife.” 

There was a sparkle of mirth in his dark eyes that signaled to you that this was an inside joke between you that you just didn’t remember. 

Or so you hoped.

“Honey, we are not married,” you dared to remind him. 

He smirked at you like you said something very funny. “Maybe not yet…but I know how to make you pliant and sweet…” 

The rabbit impulse to run came too late. You barely had time to even squeal before he caught you up in his strong arms and had you on the table, his narrow hips wedged between your thighs, your hands pinned over your head. All you were wearing was your panties and his oversized flannel shirt. You felt utterly vulnerable to him, and it was so terrifyingly wonderful you feared you might burst. “Give me…an hour…between these luscious thighs,” he’d purred, kissing down your neck as you tried to struggle, giggling all the while. “And you'll see things my way.”

He bites off one of the buttons of his own shirt, clearly not caring in the least. 

“That is so not fair!”

“I am not interested in fair,” he chuckled against your skin. “Only in making you mine.”

It occurred to you that not once had that intoxicating power of his surfaced between you. Were you immune, now that you're no longer a vampire? No bewitching scents, no tantalizing magic–the desire between you is fire, but it’s just pure, good ol’ fashioned, human lust, woven through with love, and it was its own potent magic indeed. 

“Jardani…”

He sat up on elbows above you, looking down at you with a warmth that rivaled the red hot coals in the stove as you stroked the hair out of his face, tracing the ridge of his brow. His eyes closed under the lull of your touch, leaning into your hand. 

“You need him, little bird? To be happy?”

“Yes,” you'd answered in a whisper, aware that something binding was happening between you. 

“Do you need me too?” There was a vulnerability in this simple question from this fearsome man that melted you to your toes. 

“Yes,” you confirmed, going for broke. 

His answering smile was like a baring of teeth. “My little angel is greedy.” He kissed you hard, your head pressing down into the table. “Fine,” he grumbled as you gasped for air, and maybe your sanity too. “I will grant you this. I am a generous man, ptichka. You will see.”

You were so delighted that you pulled him down into another tonsil-teasing kiss, holding him closer with your bare legs around his waist. “Thank you.”

He sat up to sweep you with a considering look, your body laid out like a feast for him on the table, and he made a sound that reminded you more of a bear, than a man. “But when you’re with me, malyshka,” he warned you darkly, “you are all mine.” Suddenly too impatient to even bother with removing your panties again, he moved them to the side so that he could sink into the wet heat of your needy cunt, stretching you deliciously while he played with your clit, his voracious tongue mercilessly toying with your peaked nipples. You came on his cock with a ragged scream, the searing pleasure of another release tearing through you like a punishment as much as a blessing. You were impressed that the table held, after the way he pounded into you, finishing with a roar like a battle cry as he filled you again with his seed. 

You held him, as he collapsed on you, and you knew you were going to have your hands full.  

Deep down, a part of you knew that he only agreed to this arrangement out of pure practicality. 

You don't know if he's immortal, per se, but he certainly isn't aging fast. You suspect your own situation might be the same. But John…is mortal, and even if you hate the thought, the fact is that you and Wick have time that Constantine doesn't. 

All the dhampir has to do is be patient. 

And, not piss you off, of course.

You keep telling yourself that just because you were his wife in a past life doesn't mean things are a done deal between you. You have to keep reminding yourself that you barely know him, because when you're together? 

Everything else melts away. 

♰♰♰

Perhaps Wick is patient, but he does not waste time. A month after Snoqualmie he’s already bought a house in Los Angeles, and a cabin in Big Sur. 

Oddly enough, the arrangement suits Constantine just as well. He’d meant what he said, that he wasn't relationship oriented, and you knew it. You had zero interest in molding him into something he didn't want to be. 

Besides.

You have your own thing going. 

You don't move into Wick’s posh manse in the Hills, despite his invitation.

You keep your humble apartment next to Constantine’s. You like your little space, and frankly…you need something of your own. Splitting your time between the two of them…can be intense, truth be told. Blissfully, maddeningly so, but sometimes, you need a break. 

You are having one of those, when you hear a knock on your door. John had been away on an exorcism, clearing out an infestation of aswangs in the Bay Area, and you were afraid you might not get to see him before your upcoming trip to Paris with Wick, to officially receive his release from Service to the High Table.

You missed him.

Eagerly you open the door.

“Hello, handsome.”

John Constantine looks down at you with that half smile that still quickens your heart, leaning on the door jamb. He could push you over with a feather when you see he is not only holding a bottle of delicious red wine, but a bouquet of flowers. 

Who is this man, and where is your surly demon hunter?

You can tell that they came from the gas station around the corner, but they are pretty, and that he even thought to bring them to you fills you with a fluttery glee. 

Amused by your stupefied expression, he lifts one angular eyebrow at you. “Hello, angel.”

You feel the warmth in his eyes to the marrow of your bones–and if you’re being honest, right between your thighs. 

You've really missed him. 

You express your enthusiasm by tugging him inside by his tie, pressing your lips to his. John puts down the wine and the flowers as you breeze by the table–en route to the couch, where you direct him to sit in no uncertain terms. 

The wings complicate things–you've discovered you can glamor them away to mingle with the public at large, but it doesn't actually make their volume disappear. It’s just easier to be on top–good thing you both like it. 

But you notice he flinches a little, and immediately you hold your weight off of him. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a scratch.”

“Let me see.” Frowning, you undo his tie and unbutton his shirt. He lets you do what you want, having long learned it's no good to fight you. 

And, you suspect, he secretly likes being coddled a little. 

What he calls just a scratch is in fact angry claw marks that rake across his entire abdomen. “Oh, John. Why didn't you call me?”

“I just…wanted to come home to you,” he admits, looking up at you with those soulful dark eyes in a way that makes your wings quiver, your most visible of tells these days. 

“Okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

You hold up your hands, and they begin to glow. 

Something else you've discovered? 

You can heal with your touch. 

You found this out when visiting Chas in the hospital, when he was trussed in traction, and the doctors weren't sure he'd ever walk again. Heartbroken, filled with guilt and the wish that it could have been different for him, you'd taken his hand and something poured out of you. 

His recovery within weeks was considered nothing less than a miracle, utterly boggling the medical community. Bless his heart, but Chas kept your secret. It was an ability certain clandestine government agencies, not to mention unscrupulous billionaires, would certainly have snatched you for. 

It also comes in pretty handy with a boyfriend like John Constantine. And others, too. You spend a lot of time in the children’s wards of various hospitals (in invisible form). You've discovered the ability is not infinite, nor without its price. You can run out of juice, and you have to take time to recharge. You will feel like shit tomorrow, but it's a price you'll gladly pay. You've downplayed that particular effect–John doesn't quite know the toll it takes on you, but you prefer to keep it that way. 

It still does not cease to impress you, watching John's skin knit back to its previous milky pale perfection, only the faintest hint of pink scars left behind in your wake. He sighs, his eyes closed, head tilted back in bliss.

“I warned it that my liver wasn’t exactly grade A, but it was determined.”

You narrow your eyes at him playfully. You know he drinks a lot less now, but the bottles still appear with regularity. You lean down, catching his lips with yours. “You taste pretty good to me.”

He chuckles, holding your face in his hands. “Mmm, so do you, Girl Next Door. My favorite vintage.”

“Am I?”

You can't hide your surprise. You'd kind of assumed that he might start seeing Angela on the side eventually. They liked each other, and you weren't exactly in an exclusive arrangement, considering. But he looks at you the way he does when he's afraid he's said something that only belatedly he realizes is hurtful. 

“Yeah.” He cups your face in his big hands, and you feel your wings quivering again. “I know I don't tell you enough, y/n, but I love you. So much.”

You know you were always ridiculous, and becoming an angelic being of some sort has not changed that. Your eyes brim with tears, and your lip quivers. “Oh John. I love you too.”

He sits up to pull you into an embrace, holding you close against his heart. “Jesus Christ. I still don't know what I did to deserve you.”

You think about the journey that brought the two of you to this moment, and the transformations you’ve both undergone. It’s nothing less than incredible, really, and yet that is the miracle of the human spirit. The ability to endure, and to change. The power of love truly is an awesome thing. 

“Hmm. I think…you were just yourself.” He huffs at that, holding you harder. He’s getting better, at not hating himself all the time, but for a man like him it’s still a daily battle. So you tell him, and you will keep telling him, until someday maybe he sees the light that you saw in him all along. 

You stay like that for a long time, just holding each other. 

It's moments like these that you savor to the last second, knowing how very precious they are. Maybe you've never exactly received any direct marching orders from the Big Guy Above, but you can't really refute the existence of some sort of Divine entity after what you’ve been through, and you can’t help but feel like your time with either of your Johns is something sacred. You've learned, if anything, that He or She or The Universe, whatever you choose, works in mysterious ways, and maybe, just maybe, things have worked out exactly the way they should. 

the end.  for now.  until, it all begins again. but that’s another story…

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*starosta - the village elder/mayor figure *strigoi - evil spirits risen from the dead, vampires *aswang - evil, bloodthirsty, sometimes organ-eating spirit from Filipino folklore

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You guys!!!!!! 😭😭😭 Finishing a story is always bittersweet, but I’m so happy to have gone on this journey with all of you! You kept me going with your love and your encouragement, and the way this story evolved thanks to your feedback is pretty cool, I have to say. It NEVER would have turned out like this without you! A huge thanks to @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @discoscoob @donaka-screaming @reallongwire @scarlettspectra @lilithlinen @lilspookymeh @xxjaejaexx-blog1 @casuallyobssessed @girl-at-the-verge @babsharrison @luminousmoon21 @luluvstars @lonelyspadez @desolatewrath @fernpetals @axshadows @junojunimo @nightmare-bean @ghcstpyre and so many others for your kindness and your readership, I really can’t tell you how much it’s meant to be over the course of this story! And a special thanks to @lilspookymeh , I know you haven’t been on in a while but in case you ever read this, your comments and analysis back when I first started this story were just utterly crucial in molding it into what it became, you’re so insightful and I can’t thank you enough! I love you guys! ❤❤❤❤❤

[nandorisms]

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[poundfooolish]

It never occurred to me that I might occupy a great deal of space in someone else's head until a random but active member of a community I mod, who I rarely even speak to, sent another mod a screed about how I'm a manipulative and destructive force out to get them personally, because I told them they had a pattern of rude and dismissive behavior. 

I will cop that it wasn’t my BEST moment, it came after I snarkily and pedantically responded to them about a post that I, admittedly, did misunderstand (Prior to that they had a little tantrum about being told they were rude because they were *checks notes* invalidating people’s fears of horses and implying that people who die by riptide deserve it for going into them so you shouldn’t be scared of them, so I was admittedly about done with them.), 

I'm so bewildered like yeah, I haven't had the BEST interactions with this person, but like, when I'm not talking to them I'm not thinking about them. I thought about them more today when discussing whether or not they should be banned  (I was against, the other for, which is exceptionally funny since I've apparently been actively attacking and belittling them, and I have finally succeeded in destroying their safe space, and can sleep soundly knowing I Won because that’s what I WANTED)

Like when other mod said there was a complaint, I was fully bracing myself for some apt but necessary critique, I was expecting the dark mirror of the flaws I know I have but were maybe not as well controlled as I thought, but the person they described is so warped even the mean brain goblin who recites all my flaws is like 'I can't use any of this....' Even the other mods were like ‘This.... seems like projection...’

Instead the only part of the rant that stuck was 'Aw, they think everyone loves me? They think I'm nice enough to suck cock for approval?' That's nice because I'm usually the confrontational point of the team, I frequently volunteer to do the Stern Talking To(tm) so I just assume I'm not a very popular mod.

[tojicide]

⠀ REMIND ME! ☆ SYLUS QIN.

summary. six months after your breakup with sylus, news broke of you moving on, which is something he simply cannot allow—not if he can help it.

warnings. fem!reader. nsfw, infidelity, pet names, established history, hair pulling, face sitting, oral sex (female receiving) because sylus is a munch, doggy style, missionary, creampie, aftercare

wc. 6.1k

note. … so, this is my first time writing on this platform. i do not stand by anyone’s depicted behavior but… what can i say? I love an unconventional concept. ^.^ see you at the bottom!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Once news broke the N109 Zone of a prospering romance in his district, Sylus couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn. It was when he heard whispers of your name adjacent to another man’s that he began to listen.

He was out the front door of his home within a second, his leg swinging over his bike before Luke and Kieran could have a say in the matter.

The two men stood side by side, shouting a frantic ‘it’s normal to move on, man!’ and a ‘it’s been six months!’ from the doorstep as they watched their white haired boss speed away.

Sylus was sure that if he gripped the handlebars of his motorcycle any tighter, they’d certainly break off.

If he was willing to harm his most prized possession over the pure frustration you’ve stirred within him, you should consider yourself the most lucky yet damned woman alive.

He liked to think he was headstrong, but when it came to you, he lost all of his sense. You consumed him and he gladly let you, because it truly was a blessing and a curse.

For how much he loved to put the pedal to the metal, he’s never once gotten to your apartment as fast as he has just now. He didn’t even bother to properly leave his bike in between the lines of a parking spot before he was practically flying towards your front door, knocking rapidly until you answered.

Surprise is etched across your face as you crack the door open just enough to see who your uninvited guest was, but a strong hand pushed it open even further. “What the fu—”

“Where is he?” he cuts you off with a question, his red eyes scanning your cozy living room like a predator on the prowl.

“Excuse you, I— what? Where is who?” your questions stammer out as your brain tries to catch up to the scene in front of you.

Sylus forces himself to turn around and face you, realizing that his erratic behavior was likely confusing you. He hated the look you were giving him, the one that made him feel like a pure inconvenience to you (even though he certainly was behaving like one).

“Your… boyfriend,” he clarifies, almost choking on the word. The fact that the title was no longer his was already a problem in and of itself, but losing it to another man was something he simply could not allow. “Where is he?”

“Oh, I see,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him as you give him a once over. “You think that you’re going to barge into my apartment and pummel the ever living shit out of my boyfriend?”

“More or less,” he answers, his long strides continuing a bit further down your hallway. “Preferably more.”

You scoff, leaning against the wall with your arms crossed tightly over your chest as you watch your ex–boyfriend scope out your apartment that he’s all too familiar with.

“He isn’t here.”

“So I’ve gathered,” he replies, his head poking into your bedroom.

Sylus did his best to sound nonchalant, though his heart rate was through the roof. He saw no signs of any male presence—no messily discarded clothes, no misplaced shoes, no second toothbrush in the bathroom—which meant that your relationship wasn’t as serious as he’d imagined.

And boy, was he relieved to figure that much out.

You straighten off the wall as he enters your bedroom, hurriedly walking behind him as you speak, “Y’know, since your objective for coming here can’t be achieved, you are more than welcome to leave.”

“Did I say that was my only objective?” he simply asks, his eyes scanning your bedroom.

A bit had changed since he’d last been in here. You changed your comforter to a floral pattern, and you even matched the drapes to the shade of your bedding.

Your attention to detail was something he admired about you, and his attention to detail was something you used to love, though as his eyes fell to your open underwear drawer—you’re growing to hate it. A lot.

“Get out of there!” you exclaim, rushing to shove it closed, only to catch his slender finger in the crossfire.

He winces slightly, lifting his already bruising finger to your line of vision. “You’ve wounded me, sweetie. Kiss it better?”

You scoff, slightly pushing his hand away from your face. In any other context, you would have apologized, but given the fact that Sylus had entered your apartment without invitation and threatened to harm your boyfriend within five minutes of his arrival was enough to make you think that this made the two of you almost even.

A small smirk tugs at Sylus’s lips as he presses his finger to his tongue, soothing the stinging that you caused. Your eyes linger on his mouth for a bit longer than they should, and if he noticed (which he certainly did), he didn’t say anything.

“I see you went shopping,” he mumbled, his eyes falling to your now closed underwear drawer. “That’s a shame, baby. A damn shame.”

You can’t help the scoff that leaves your mouth. “Why’s that?”

“I hate the idea of another man seeing what’s mine,” Sylus answers, tilting his head to the side as he gives your body an agonizingly slow once over, “in such pretty fabric, at that.”

Heat rushes to your face at his implication, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re uncomfortable or if you’re flustered by his forwardness. You figure it’s a mixture of both, but you mask it with an annoyed huff.

“I can do what I want,” you refute, crossing your arms over your chest. “And if what I want is to buy panties that you’ll never have the privilege of seeing me wear, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Sylus clicks his tongue, shaking his head with the slightest smirk curving upwards on his lips. He finds your attitude to be just as adorable as it is frustrating. With the way you look, arms tightly crossed over your chest with the tiniest wrinkle in between your eyebrows, he’d liken you to an angry kitten.

“If you’re trying to rile me up, you’re succeeding,” he states, drumming his fingers on your dresser.

Your eyes flit away at that. “I’m not trying to do anything. In fact, I want nothing to do with you.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s the first time he’s looked remotely upset with you from the moment he arrived. “Your boyfriend may fall for this little act of yours, but I won’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sylus straightens up, his tall frame towering over you. You almost feel antsy under his gaze, but you do your best to hide it.

“I am what your heart truly desires,” he lowly murmurs, his finger tracing from the middle of your collarbones to the valley of your breasts. “And you can lie to him, you can even lie to yourself—but you cannot lie to me. I can see your deepest desires, remember?”

Betrayal is your body’s first instinct. Your breath hitches in your throat the moment the pad of his index finger runs across your skin, and you physically have to fight off a whine from escaping your lips.

In an attempt to salvage the situation, you straighten up, glancing towards your bedroom door. “That’s… bullshit, Sylus. Get out of my head.”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” he replies with a much gentler tone now. “And I’ll do no such thing. Your mind is my favorite place to be.”

He studies his reddened finger for a moment, silently deciding to steer the conversation from its more serious direction. “It still won’t feel better until it gets a kiss from its favorite girl, you know.”

Against your better judgment, your eyes betray you by studying the reddened pad of his finger. It shouldn’t be as enticing of a view as it is. You find it to be almost criminal.

“You can lose that finger for all I care,” you huff, trying not to remember how good it used to feel inside of you.

“So brash.” Sylus forces a pout on his lips, though it doesn’t last long. He presses a kiss to his own finger before he extends his arm to rest on the edge of your dresser, keeping you caged against your drawers.

“You’re awfully lucky that I’m a forgiving man,” he murmurs, his red eyes trained to yours. “You can do almost anything to me and I’d allow it.”

Judging by the way your expression lights up, that seems to give you an idea.

“Really?” you inquire, narrowing your eyes. “Say, if I punched you square in your face, would you allow it?”

“I’m not opposed to finding out,” he answers, his eyelids fluttering as he continues to drink in your beauty. “You know I love it when you’re rough with me.”

That comment forces a flush to your face, and you almost have to pinch yourself to keep your mind from bringing forward all of the memories that proved just how true that statement was.

It infuriates you how easily he could get a reaction out of you, no less than six months after you broke up with him. Perhaps that was why, in a split second decision (one that you’re hardly aware you’re making), your fist goes flying towards his face.

Sylus firmly stops your wielding hand before it can make contact with his cheek. His fingers unwind your fist and bring your hand close, allowing him to press a few chaste kisses to your knuckles.

“Have I told you how pretty you look today?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled by the kisses he’s peppering on your hand. “So, so beautiful.”

Only he would say such a thing after you attempted to inflict bodily harm upon him. You wish you could rationalize his behavior, but you can’t—that’s just Sylus.

Your body betrays you in every way, shape, and form. Your face is flushed, your eyes are half lidded, and the mere contact of his lips on your knuckles is enough for butterflies to flutter in your stomach.

Grasping onto the last bit of common sense you have, you pull your hand from his grasp.

“It’s time for you to go,” you insist, beginning to slide against the dresser to escape his gaze.

Sylus allows you to create a bit of distance between the two of you, lifting his arm up from your dresser to let you walk away. The last thing he wants is to make you feel suffocated—the very reason you broke up with him in the first place.

He tried to do better, but when it came to you, he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t an animal, though. He loved you more than words could ever describe, and he’d allow you anything you wanted. And if physical space was what you wanted, he’d grant it to you.

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he quietly says, his voice carrying an unforeseen vulnerability to it, “but I can’t do what you’re asking of me. I can’t let you give yourself to a bastard who doesn’t deserve you.”

Your eyebrows raise. “How can you be so sure he doesn’t deserve me?”

“I know you, baby. That’s how.”

A beat of silence passes, and he conjures up the courage to continue. “And I’m positive there isn’t a single soul who could possibly deserve your favor,” Sylus reasons, loosely crossing his arms over his broad chest, his toned biceps showing through the sleeves of his black button–up shirt. “Not even myself. I’m man enough to recognize that.”

His answer catches you off guard, but you do your best to maintain your front. You don’t want him to see how his words seem to squeeze at your heart.

“Then why are you here?” you genuinely ask.

Sylus knows he’s backed himself into a corner, and contrary to what you might think, he’d intended to do just that.

He wants you to give him the green light to speak every word that he’s longed to say to you from the moment he’d seen you last, and now that you have, the floodgates are open.

“I’m selfish,” he admits, taking a tentative step towards you. “I’m drunk on you, and I can’t bear the thought of sobering up, even after all this time. It’s unfair, it’s horrible, it’s cruel—I know this, sweetie. But… I find my serenity in your eyes, and with you gone, my life is purgatory. The confines of hell must be more pleasant than what it is that I feel when I’m without you.”

Internally, you’re floored. Gobsmacked, even. Externally, you’re looking at him with the same soft expression you’ve worn this entire time.

Met with your silence, Sylus begins to internally panic. He slowly takes a few steps towards you, and when you don’t attempt to maintain the distance between you, his hands move to cup your face.

“Rid me of this life,” he whispers, his mouth so close that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. “I cannot go on, not without you beside me.”

You truly hate how easy it is for him to reduce you to nothing but putty. You have a new boyfriend, you’ve moved on, you’ve allowed the love that you and Sylus shared to be nothing more than history.

You wanted to believe that moving forward was the best thing you could do, but if that was true, why is it that your heart hadn’t felt full until you laid eyes on Sylus? It seems to beat differently, like it’s finally come back to life in his presence.

Noticing the softening of your eyes, Sylus can’t help himself. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, holding both of you there for a few seconds. The sheer tenderness of his action was enough to make you melt, and you were sure you would’ve if his hands on your face weren’t grounding you.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he admits, tilting your head up so that he can look into your eyes.

Sylus was never one for verbal affection (or being desperate for a woman’s favor) prior to you, but he’d make this exception a million times over if it meant he could have you however you’d let him.

You’ve nearly forgotten all of your allegiances, and you can’t even blame yourself for it. You know that indulging in him is like eating a forbidden fruit, and even then, you can’t forbid yourself from its taste—not when you know how sweet it is. What you feel goes beyond want; it’s pure, unadulterated need.

“No response for me?” he asks.

You shake your head, swallowing the growing lump in your throat. You carefully slide out of his grasp and sit on the edge of your bed, his eyes trailing you as you do so.

You’re a firm believer that nothing is real until you’ve said it out loud, and Sylus is more than aware of that. He doesn’t want to push you too hard, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

As you sit, your thighs naturally part and your skirt rides up just a bit, and the sight of the pink fabric clothing your pussy is enough to elicit behavior that you’ve never once seen from Sylus.

“God, you are a privilege,” he murmurs, taking a few steps towards you. Without hesitation, he slowly descends to his knees before you, his hands trailing up your thighs. “Such a sight,” he adds his eyes flitting to the dampening fabric of your underwear, “such a beautiful sight.”

If his words weren’t enough, the sight of him kneeling in front of you was enough to make you faint. (Or scream. Or cum. Maybe all three at the same time, you’re not sure.)

“Allow me the night,” Sylus pleads, his glowing red eyes finally locking onto yours. His hand moves to brush your hair from your face, tucking it loosely behind your ear. “Just the night. One night to indulge you.”

Lying would be no use, all things considered. He’d already shamelessly eyed the needy area between your thighs, knowing that the arousal collecting there is for him. Your stomach swirls with a mixture of guilt and need, and you honestly feel like you’re in an impossible position.

“Sylus,” you breathe, your heartbeat thumping so hard that you’re surprised your chest hasn’t burst. “This is so wrong.”

He shakes his head as his large, gentle hands move to rest on your knees. “Your pleasure means more to me than a simple case of right and wrong.”

“I wish it was as simple as you make it seem,” you say, a long sigh leaving you.

“Can’t it be?” Sylus questions, his thumbs idly stroking your knees. “Allow me this one night to remind you of how I feel about you, how you feel about me. If you want me to leave you alone by the time morning comes, I will accept that with a smile.”

You’d like to imagine that you’re stronger than this, that the idea of a final night of lovemaking with your ex-boyfriend to get him out of your head for good isn’t appealing—but it is.

It’s something you’ve thought about before (in the dead of night with your hand stuffed down your shorts), but never did you think it could become a reality.

Only now, with him kneeling in front of you, it was.

“Okay,” you sheepishly murmur. “Remind me.”

You know this is absolutely horrible of you to do, but you can’t find the will to deny yourself this. As much as you tried to get Sylus out of your head, you never could. Not long enough for it to make a difference, anyway.

(Perhaps this, a final intimate night between the two of you, will be just what you need to move on for good.)

Sylus knows that his time with you is limited, but he plans to make it the best night of your existence.

(Perhaps if he can remind you of how much he’s willing to give, how much he loves you, how much he’s missed you—you’ll change your mind.)

His large, strong hands trail up as he drapes your legs over his shoulders, pressing a few kisses to your calves and inner thighs. He presses a kiss to the fabric of your underwear, his tongue drawing out to taste the wet spot of fabric.

Sylus isn’t sure what’s come over him, but he honestly feels like he’ll either implode or cry at the sight of you right now. To have you again is something he’s dreamt about more than he’d like to admit, and he plans to show you just how much your absence has affected him as his fingers slide beneath your skirt to hook under the thin fabric of your underwear.

“Thank you,” he mutters against your skin, tugging the fabric down your legs. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters aloud the moment his eyes land on your heat.

He could seriously cum in his pants right now, and if he’s not careful, he will. His hands lock onto your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed to give him better access to your glistening cunt.

“Pussy’s all mine,” he breathes, licking a long stripe up your slit.

You would have replied if he hadn’t buried his face in between your thighs. His tongue laps at your wetness before he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly at it with hollowed cheeks.

A cry leaves your lips at the sensation, your hand gripping onto his white hair as you revel in the feeling his tongue is giving you.

He’s eating you out like a man starved, his own moans rumbling into your cunt, his cock straining against the confines of his pants. Sylus could do this for days if you let him, but after not having you like this for so long, he can’t help himself from needing more.

Within moments, he’s slowly pushing you higher on your bed, still licking at your pussy until he’s physically unable to. He looks up at you with crazed eyes, licking his spit-slick lips as he kicks his shoes off.

“Sit on my face,” he murmurs, moving to lay on your bed. When he’s met with your hesitance, he’s grasping onto your arm to carefully pull you towards him. “I might die without it.”

You’ve never once seen a man so pussy drunk in your entire life, but you’re in absolutely no position to deny him. So, you move to hover above him, your hands resting on your headboard. You hear a satisfied moan beneath you, and he’s soon hooking his arms around your thighs.

“You won’t die without it,” you grumble. “In fact, you might die because of it. Suffocation—”

“Suffocation of this kind might be the best way to go,” he cuts you off, licking a faint swipe against your folds. “In fact, when we’re old and withered, it might be my last ask of you.”

Your face flushes, and you can feel heat rushing to both your cunt and your cheeks. Noticing the coy face you’re making, Sylus can’t help himself from laying a faint smack on your ass, squeezing its plushness as he stares up at you.

“For now, though,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “I want you to let go for me. Can’t have you dangling this pretty cunt in my face without letting me taste it.”

As you hesitantly begin to relax your thighs and lower on top of him, he lifts his head up to meet you halfway and gather your slick on his tongue.

“Very good, baby,” Sylus purrs, dropping his head back onto your sheets as he pulls your hips down the rest of the way, “now sit.”

When all of your weight crashes down on him, a soft gasp leaves your lips at the sheer passion behind the movements of his tongue. He almost seems to be more incentivized. His eyes flutter shut as he mouths at your pussy, the moans leaving his mouth in combination with the absolute filthy sounds of his tongue are enough to drive you insane.

Sylus feels like he’s finally left purgatory and has transcended into heaven. With his pretty girl on his face, taking her on his tongue, making the most beautiful little noises—he’s honestly never felt better.

(Well, there is that whole new boyfriend thing looming in the back of his mind, but he’s sure that you’ll take care of that once he’s done taking care of you.)

One of your hands leaves the headboard to grasp onto his hair, your eyes screwing shut as you rock your hips over his tongue. “Sylus,” you breathe out through a moan. “I’m— oh, shit—”

Sylus’s cock twitches as you moan his name, his eyes fluttering shut as one of his hands help to guide the rocking of your hips. With his other, he palms himself through his trousers, his mouth working tirelessly to make you feel good.

Even as self-admittedly selfish as he is, he can’t bear the idea of putting his pleasure above your own—even if the ache is physically eating away at him. With you writhing above him, the sounds you’re making, the look on your face, it’s all too much—even for him.

Your mouth lulls open as you let out the most beautiful whine he’s ever heard, and his tongue slows down, working you through your first orgasm of the night. He eagerly collects your juices with his tongue, his eyes rolling back as he finally presses a final kiss to your swollen clit.

“I can stay this way forever,” he says against your inner thigh, placing a kiss to your warm skin, “you and me,” he places another kiss, “together.”

You shift to lay beside him, out of breath and looking beautifully disheveled. Sylus licks his lips and lies starry–eyes beside you. Soon enough, a huff of laughter escaped his throat, realizing he might’ve said too much there.

Sylus turns his head to look at you. “Was that enough to get an ‘I miss you too’ out of that mouth of yours?”

You let out a breathless laugh, your hand running over your face. “No,” you lie.

That was the best orgasm you’ve had since your breakup, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You’ve developed quite the attitude,” he muses, rolling on top of you. He slots his lips against yours, licking into your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

“That boyfriend of yours must not fuck it out of you like he should,” he adds, the low volume of his voice rumbling against your skin as he kisses along your jaw, “like I can.”

Before you can think twice, you’re lifting your hips against the bulge in his pants, a soft gasp escapes your lips as you feel the very prominent shape of his hardened cock. With a grunt, Sylus pushes your hips down, his fingers brushing against your inner thighs.

“Such a needy little thing,” he purrs, his hand moving to cup your mound. “First you’re insisting I leave, and now you’re hoping I’ll give you my cock. You’re sending me mixed signals here, baby.”

You’re seeing stars, and your hand grasps onto his wrist, feeling the way his muscles tense as he begins to toy with your clit.

“I want it,” you whine, your toes curling as the pad of his middle finger circles your entrance, “you’re… you’re being a tease.”

“That’s right,” he whispers, licking a long stripe up your neck. “If you want it bad enough, you’re gonna have to prove it, baby.”

Your head tilts to the side as Sylus pulls away from your neck to look down at you. His fingers move to work at the button of your skirt, tugging it down your legs and tossing it onto the floor of your room.

“How?” you ask.

He presses his lips to yours as his hands tug up your shirt, breaking the kiss to carefully pull it over your head. His large hands palm at your breasts, bringing your perked nipples in between his fingers.

“Pick up the phone,” Sylus answers, releasing your breasts to sit up in front of you, his hands moving to undo his belt.

Your curiosity soon turns into something much more lustful as he pulls his trousers and boxers down his thighs. His shirt goes next, the fabric decorating your floor. His cock looks even better than you remember, but he snaps his fingers in front of your face to gather your attention.

“Sorry, what?” you ask, shaking your head to snap yourself out of your trance.

“Pick up the phone,” he repeats, reaching to your bedside table to hand you your cell.

You take the device from him, looking at it with confusion. You were embarrassed that you hadn’t even noticed it ringing, far too distracted by the sight of him stroking his hand along his length, but your embarrassment soon turns into dread as you read the caller ID.

It is, of course, none other than your boyfriend.

“Sylus, that’s— that’s crazy,” you stammer out, looking between his eyes, his cock, and your phone.

He snickers, and he flips you onto your stomach, his hands grasping onto the plush of your hips to pull your ass up. “What’s crazy is the fact that you expect me to fuck you without your boyfriend’s knowledge.”

“You’re above adultery?” you gasp out.

Sylus shakes his head, his hand moving to prod your entrance with the tip of his cock, his other hand grasping onto your hair to pull you back against his chest.

“Obviously not,” he replies, licking along the shell of your ear. “Just wanna show him how beneath it you are.”

Your heart slams against your chest as he takes the device from you and answers the call, holding the phone to your ear.

“Let him hear,” he purrs, slowly pushing his cock inside of you. “The noises you make with my cock buried inside you are such a prize. It’d be a disservice to not share.”

A sharp whine leaves your lips as he tugs on your hair, tilting your head to give himself better access to your neck as he bottoms out inside of you. “Tell him what you’re up to, sweetie,” he simply says, sucking a faint mark onto your neck.

On the other end of the line, your partner begins to blab on about his day, though you’re hardly able to listen, not when Sylus is pushing his cock inside of you like a madman. Your body tenses as he stretches you out, the sensation forcing a moan out of your mouth, though the man on the other end of the line didn’t seem to notice.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, resting his chin on the crook of your shoulder to press an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, “taking my cock so nicely. Missed this pussy so much.”

“—so then, I told him… wait. Are you with someone?”

Your heart rate skyrockets as Sylus draws his hips back only to pound the length of his cock inside of you. “Oh, fuck… y-yes,” you choke into the phone, almost breathless.

“Thank you for your confession, my dear,” Sylus teasingly remarks, knowing that your response was a reaction to how good he feels inside of you rather than an answer to your boyfriend’s question.

He presses a faint kiss to your shoulder as he thrusts into you again, using his grip on your hair to push you back onto your stomach. He then brings the phone to his own ear, watching with a wide grin as you arch your back to take as much of his cock as you can.

“Our friend can’t talk right now,” he says into the receiver, grunting as your walls clench around him. “She’s gotten lost and found herself on my cock, which is such a positive turn of events, let me tell you,” the pace of his hips thrusting into you only seems to get more intense with each word he says, “considering it’s right where she belongs.”

“W-what? Who the fuck are you? I—”

“I can’t stay on the line to talk much either,” Sylus continues, his free hand grasping a bit tighter onto your hair as he tugs on it to fuck deeper and harder inside of you, his skin slapping against yours with each heavy thrust. “Have to make her cum for all the times you couldn’t.”

You’re lost in a whirlwind of sensations, your mouth gaped open as you moan out with each thrust he makes, your back arched as much as you could make it. You can feel a pool of warmth building inside of your lower stomach, and you let out a cry of pleasure.

You haven’t been fucked this good in, well… six months. That much is obvious to the both of you, given the way you’ve been losing your mind with each forceful push of his hips. He knows your body in ways you’ll never understand, and luckily for you, you don’t need to understand in order to receive the pleasure that he’s desperately trying to give you.

“Sylus!” you gasp out, serving as a warning for how close you already are.

“Mm, gotta go, duty calls,” Sylus says into the phone, releasing his grip on your hair to move his hand between your legs, two of his fingers circling your clit. “Call my woman again and I’ll kill you.”

Tapping the screen to end the call, he tosses your phone mindlessly, and it’s only when you hear it drop against the floor do you turn around to look at him.

“Sylus!” you scold.

He gives you a wry smile as he slowly pulls out of you, rolling you onto your back. “I’ll buy you a new one, pretty. Don’t worry.”

You open your mouth to protest, but when he slowly pushes his cock inside of you again, you’re hardly in the protesting mood at all.

Sylus towers over you, his forearm propping him up as he slowly fucks into you, his red eyes trained to yours. “God, baby, I’ve missed you.”

Almost instinctively, your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to you. There was a hidden intimacy of this position that you’ve always loved. He obliges to your request, resting his forehead on yours as he thrusts harder inside of you.

“You take me so well,” he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “So, so beautifully.”

You mewl at the softness of his praise, your eyes glossing over as he continues to fuck you into oblivion, your walls tensing around him. He hisses at the feeling, dipping his head to press a kiss on your cheek.

He can tell that you’re close, and he knows just what you need. He won’t give it to you so easily, though.

“Sweetie?” he breathes out.

You nod your head before breathlessly replying, “yeah?”

Sylus gives you a smirk as he raises his bruised finger to your lips. “Kiss it better. Let me use it on you.”

Protest is not on your agenda anymore, not by a long shot. You kiss the pad of his finger without hesitation, and you proceed to capture it with your mouth, your tongue soothing the bruising.

He smiles at the sight, a groan leaving his lips as he continues to thrust his cock inside of you. “So pretty, baby. God, you’re beautiful.”

Sylus retracts his finger from your mouth to bring it to your clit, his spit-slick finger rubbing it in beautiful, moan-earning circles. He watches as your eyes almost immediately haze over at the stimulation.

He lowers his head to suck on your nipple, his free hand palming at your other breast as means of stimulating you in any way he can. After a moment, he latches onto your other breast, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak.

“God, ah— Sylus!” you moan, your hands wrapping around his neck.

He nips at your breast before he pulls away, a guttural moan leaving his mouth as he feels you clench around his cock. “You gonna come for me again, beautiful?”

You nod your head, rising up from the pillow to press a kiss on his lips, and his large hand moves to cup the back of your head as he kisses you through your orgasm. His fingers gently thread through your hair, giving you the best of both worlds.

“Cream my cock, baby. It’s all yours, always will be,” he mutters against your lips, his thrusts growing slower as he twitches inside of you.

Sylus breaks the kiss to look down at you, a heavy pant leaving him. “Where do you want me?” he breathlessly asks.

As if that were a question you ever responded differently to, he still needed to ask, even though you answered just the same. “In… in me.”

He nods his head as he thrusts inside of you a few more times, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on your cheek as he bottoms out inside of you, stuffing you full of his thick, white cum.

A moment passes in which the two of you simply pant breathlessly to each other, your sweaty foreheads pressed together. It was a beautiful scene by all measures.

“I missed you too,” you finally pant out, a smile breaking your lips. “I missed you a lot.”

He chuckles breathlessly at that. “I missed you even more, sweetie.”

Sylus presses a soft kiss on your cheek before he slowly pulls out of you, traveling slowly to your bathroom before returning with a damp towel. He settles in front of you again, using the warm towel to gently clean up the mess he’s made of you between your legs.

You stare at him with the most lovestruck eyes he’s ever seen, and it only makes him smile. “You tired, baby?” he lowly asks.

Nodding your head, you extend your arms to him, and he pulls you into his arms without question. He lies down on his back, holding you against his chest. His large hand runs over your back while the other one tugs your blankets over the both of you, giving you a bit of warmth.

Not that he needed anything more than your presence. He feels like he’s on cloud nine, holding the woman that he loves, running his fingers through her hair just as he used to.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your ear, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. It’s almost concerning how much he loves you, but he can’t help it.

“I love you,” you lazily return the sentiment.

As you cuddle into his chest, you can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t shown up today, if he’d left you alone, if he let you move on.

You know it’s crazy to think about.

After all, it’s Sylus. Your Sylus. He’s the only person you’ve ever needed, and now that he’s reminded you of that, you won’t forget it.

note: thank you for reading! please interact if you enjoyed!! <3 i don’t even know what the hell this is—we have possessive, dominant, and soft sylus in one go. but hey, it works for me, so i hope it works for you. pls pls pls give me ideas to write more for this sexy man—i never get tired of him!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[theragethatisdesire]

scary dog privilege - best friend!eren x reader one-shot, 18+!!

hellooooo i have had this in my wips for like two entire months and i am giddy and ready to share it. this hopefully will just be a one-shot, but you guys know i love to create a universe for each of my erens so god only knows where we'll end up with this one. best friend eren appears to be my angstiest, broodiest one yet, and i love him lol. wanted to make some use of classic fanfic tropes, so here we get best friend eren and fake dating!! woohoo!!

beware: this is absolute, pure filth once you get into it lol

pairing: eren jaeger x afab reader

wc: 9.1k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

CWs: smut, consensual hook-up, rough sex, biting, dirty talk, oral sex (fem!receiving), alcohol use, cussing, squirting, penetrative vaginal sex, swearing, use of names (baby, pretty baby, my girl), crying, multiple orgasms, eren being a menace per usual, jean's an asshole (i'm so sorry you guys know i love him but it had to happen)

have fun ;)

-

This is a terrible idea, and it had been from the start. You know it and so does he, but you had insisted. Now that you’ve made your bed, you have to lay in it, you suppose. You press your forehead to the cold, tinted window of Eren’s ridiculous muscle car, ignoring the vibrations from the rock music he’s blaring and the consistent fluttering in your stomach, and think back to your conversation earlier that week.

“Come on, Eren. It’s just one night!”

“And what about after? When you run into Sasha at the coffee place or Armin after work? Did we just suddenly ‘break up’?” Eren scoffs, pushing past you to grab a Red Bull out of the fridge. You collapse into one of the barstools in his kitchen, having prepared yourself to accept defeat from the moment you posed the question.

“I just can’t face him alone,” you sigh, “it’s only been four months and Sasha told me he’s hooked up with not one, not two, but three girls already. I haven’t even had a drunken makeout at the bar.”

“So? Just because Jean’s been whoring around doesn’t mean you have anything to prove.” Eren's tone is thoroughly unimpressed as he pops the tab to his energy drink.

“You’re my best friend. I just need one tiny favor.”

“Who would even believe us? It’s not like it’s a huge party- we know everyone going.”

You cock an eyebrow. “How many times have Annie and Mikasa tried to con us into a double date? Connie’s been teasing us for years, not to mention the waiter at lunch the other day–”

“Fine!”

“Fine?”

“Fine. I’ll be your date for one night. But all of the explaining is up to you. And,” Eren takes a sip, leveling a glare at you over the top of the can, “I’m going on the record as saying that this is a bad idea.”

He may be reckless, arrogant, and a bit of a brat, but if Eren Jaeger is one thing consistently, he was right. You chance a glance at your “date”. He’s in his typical uniform: black hoodie, black jeans, the little silver chain he never takes off, key swinging over his chest as he turns the car. He looks good, appealing even. If Jean dares to show up with a girl, she won’t consider you to have downgraded, that’s for sure.

You consider your own outfit, an anxious fist tightening in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jean for the first time as an ex. He would have hated it. Your nothing-to-the-imagination outfit is all thanks to Sasha.

You had clued Sasha in on the plan; you hoped having one more agent in on your secret would help sell the act. Sasha had gone all out, lending you an incredibly low-cut black top and some black leather pants that would have caused at least a twenty-minute argument with Jean. Had he not dumped you, you remind yourself bitterly. Sasha had insisted you borrow her all-black outfit to match Eren’s typical attire “just to be cute”. In hindsight, her enthusiasm about this whole situation should have been a red flag, but you’ve already gotten everything lined up, and it’s too late for regret.

It’s far too late for hindsight, too; you’re already ten minutes into receiving the official girlfriend treatment from Eren. He had worn you down on picking you up, opening the car door, the works. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out a bouquet of roses at this point. You can hear his obnoxious tone now: Even if you’re my fake girlfriend, you’re getting the full package. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Eren parallel parks smoothly on Armin’s quiet street, unusually busy with the buzz of a house party and lined with your friends’ cars. It’s Connie’s birthday, but Armin always hosts. It’s an unspoken rule at this point; you aren’t sure why he keeps volunteering, especially after Sasha had projectile vomited all over his bathroom at the last get-together, but again, dig your own grave and lie in it. You and Armin are in the same boat there.

When the car switches off, Eren takes a moment to consider you, wrapping and unwrapping his long fingers around the steering wheel, a nervous tic he’s had since high school. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you sigh, reaching for the door handle. Before you can wrap your hand around it, Eren leans over and pinches you harshly on the thigh. “Ow!”

“I open the door, remember?” Eren says, visibly annoyed.

You roll your eyes at him.“Isn’t this a bit much?”

“You think I’m going to be caught dead letting my ‘girlfriend’ open her own door? I have a reputation to uphold.”

You decide to bite back a snippy comment about the many girls who cried over Eren in college and cross your arms over your chest, pouting instead. “Fine.”

If Eren can be dramatic, so can you.

As naturally as if he had done it a hundred times, Eren slings his arm over your shoulders on the walk up towards the door; the weight of it, both physically and mentally, is heavier than you’re willing to acknowledge. When you catch sight of Bertholdt, Reiner, and Annie peering through the window, a flutter of nerves erupts your stomach; you reach a hand up to play with Eren’s fingers, absentmindedly spinning one of his rings and trying to sell the look as best you can. “We better pull this off.”

“It’ll be fine, just follow my lead.” Eren pulls you closer, kissing your hairline. Goosebumps rise all over your body; not at the action itself, but how disturbingly easy the affection seems to come to him. As Eren knocks on Armin’s bright red door, you pack that thought away and shove it to the back of your mind to collect dust.

“Hi…guys?” Armin’s friendly smile upon opening the door falters in confusion as he takes you in, absorbing the sight of you two intertwined on his doorstep. Armin’s wide, blue eyes flick between the two of you, and you can see the gears churning in his head, trying to make sense of how awfully close you and Eren are. Pitting your fake relationship against Armin’s intellect is the perfect first test; a nervous sweat breaks out under your skimpy outfit.

“Sup, ‘min?” Eren smiles back, the very picture of nonchalance, extending his free hand to shake Armin’s shoulder.

“Come on in.” Armin, ever polite, turns to allow for plenty of room for Eren to pull you inside. He doesn’t outright ask why Eren’s holding you, but his eyes betray his suspicions. It seems like your plan, as terrible as it is, is working. One down, a dozen or so to go.

Never dropping his arm from around your shoulders, Eren steers you into the living room where one of Connie’s favorite bands is already blasting from the speakers. Annie and Mikasa are curled up together in Armin’s recliner, hands interlocked as usual; Sasha and Connie are positioned at Armin’s bar cart, violently shaking two cocktail shakers apiece; Reiner, Bertholdt, Marco, and Jean are on the couch, arguing over something sports-related. With a sinking stomach, you notice that there’s only one unoccupied seat left in the room.

“My two favorite lovebirds!” Sasha cries, abandoning her cocktail shakers and rushing over to give you a hug. Upon Sasha’s impact, Eren drops his arm and grabs your hand that’s closest to him as a substitute, never taking his hands off of you. His actions are pointed, purposeful; every pair of eyes in the room looks between the two of you in surprise. You can practically feel a hazel-tinted laser beam burning a hole into your forehead. “You guys are so late; honeymoon phase gotcha already?”

“Laying it on a little thick, Sash,” you whisper into Sasha’s ear, cheeks burning. To your chagrin, Eren only curls his mouth in response.

“What?” Connie frowns, still shaking his drinks. “How long has that been a thing?”

You pause, your heart nearly stopping. You should have made up a story, you realize, something to explain–

“Just a few weeks.” The still-strange weight of Eren’s arm around your shoulder returns, and his jade eyes rest on you, adoration beaming through his always-cool gaze. Against your will, butterflies start dancing in your stomach; apparently Eren’s quite the actor.

“Yeah,” you jump in, grateful for Eren’s lead, “we just wanted to feel it out before we told everyone, that’s all.”

“Sasha knew.” Mikasa raises a suspicious eyebrow. Annie smirks at the two of you, a knowing look on her face.

“It’s about time.” Marco appears from the kitchen with a huge bowl of tortilla chips in one hand and salsa in the other. “Good for you guys.”

You can’t help yourself, finally meeting Jean’s eyes. He’s openly scowling at you, which is to be expected; where Eren is a criminally smooth liar, Jean wears his heart on his sleeve. You recognize that face all too well: anger to mask heartbreak, the same face he wore when you used to fight. For the first time, it occurs to you how cruel this plan might be, how Jean might react to you moving on with a mutual friend. Guilt washes over you, cold and heavy.

“Thanks for giving me a heads-up before you moved in on my fucking girlfriend, Jaeger,” Jean snips, taking a long swallow of his beer.

The guilt drops away from you as quickly as your jaw; you’ve forgotten what a prick Jean can be. Eren has been slowly guiding you over to the singular remaining seat throughout the conversation, and after Jean’s comment, he tugs you down firmly onto his lap. He rubs a large palm over your thigh, a blatant gesture of ownership.

“Not your girlfriend anymore, Kirschstein.” You can hear the distinct note of pride ringing through his voice, hear the nasty look leveled at Jean without turning to face him. It’s been fifteen minutes of fake dating, car ride included, and you can already feel the friendship line blurring. Your head spins.

“Anyway,” Armin, ever the gracious host, interrupts, breaking the awkward tension that has settled over the room, “what bar does everyone want to head out to later? Connie gets the first pick, being the birthday boy.”

The conversation in the room picks back up into a familial bickering over the evening’s next destination. All of your friends have become accustomed to the occasional awkward moment over the years now that some of you have begun to couple up; Mikasa and Annie especially are notorious for bickering like an old married couple, no matter who’s around.

“I need a drink,” you murmur to Eren, moving to stand.

“Do you mind getting me one, babe? Don’t want to lose our seat.” Eren pecks you on the cheek, smiling up at you as if everything about your situation right now is normal, natural for him. Jean’s eyes follow you every step of the way, and your face burns.

Over the years you’ve been friends with him, it’s never been lost on you that Eren’s attractive, not after the dozens of women he ran through in his college years. Peeking over your shoulder now, however, feels like you’re seeing him for the first time, seeing him the way the world sees him. Heavy-set dark brows frame his bright eyes beautifully, his jaw’s grown sharp and severe, and his lips are soft and pouty, stretching into a wicked smirk with sharp canines. He had grown into a heartbreaker, and he’s your best friend and now fake boyfriend– you swat away your private admiration as soon as it comes, taking a deep breath to center yourself and rifling through the bar cart in a daze.

“Want me to make you one?” Sasha waves a bright red concoction under your nose. “Connie and I made them- it has three different types of liquor in it, and you can’t taste any of it!”

One sip of the tiny cocktail straw has your nose wrinkling in disgust. You’ve worked behind a bar since the day you turned twenty-one, and the drink Sasha’s offering you tastes like an overly-syruped nightmare. “Um…no, that’s okay Sash. I’ll probably just stick to beer.”

Connie sticks his tongue out at you. “Boring!”

Predictably, Sasha pouts. “Okay, but we’re definitely making you take a shot. We can chill it in the kitchen, want to help me get some ice?”

Holding up a bottle of tequila, she cocks her head toward the kitchen and wobbles her eyebrows madly. You almost laugh; anyone who can’t pick up on a hint from Sasha is walking around with earplugs and their eyes closed.

“Fine. Let me just grab Eren a beer, and I’ll meet you in there.”

“Ugh, couples,” Connie rolls his eyes, wandering over to fiddle with the dusty karaoke machine that Armin claims broke years ago. You’ve always been dubious as to the truth of that, but knowing your friends, you can’t blame him.

Opening the cooler, you smile to yourself; Armin remembered your favorite IPA from the brewery down the road and stocked the cooler accordingly, nestling a few Hazy Daze’s between Reiner and Bertholdt’s domestics. You pick your way through the haphazard seating arrangements back over to Eren, holding a cold Budweiser bottle towards him. He pauses in his conversation with Reiner, grabbing your hand that holds the beer and removing it from your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, brushing them over in a light kiss. He looks you up and down lecherously as he does it, a dangerous curve to his lips.

You return a weak half-smile, doing your best to not appear outwardly shaken by Eren’s behavior and keep the what the fuck? thoughts from showing plainly on your face. Eren waves you off to the kitchen with a light pat on your bottom, innocent as ever.

“How’s it going?” Sasha asks, safe now in the privacy of the kitchen. Her face is already full-flush with excitement and that awful cocktail she was sipping.

“I mean, it seems like everyone’s buying it. Jean looks pissed, though.”

“What were you expecting? He’s always thought Eren had a thing for you.”

“Everyone thinks Eren has a thing for me,” you roll your eyes, “at least it’s working in my favor now.”

Sasha fixes you with a glare, wobbling slightly. “If you don’t think Eren actually has a thing for you, you must be blind. Deaf, too.”

“Sasha–”

“I mean, even if you hadn’t told me, I would have fallen for it. Is it not, like, weird for you guys? That it’s just natural for you two to–” Sasha burps, interrupting herself, and giggles. “Just makes ya think.”

“Sasha!” Connie calls from the living room. “Let’s do Eye of the Tiger first!”

“Woo!” Sasha shouts, abandoning you and running into the room to take part in the newly-revived karaoke festivities.

You stand alone in the kitchen, shell-shocked by Sasha’s observations. The truly irritating thing is that she’s entirely right. Not only do Eren’s little kisses here and there, the constant touching, even the pet names come naturally, it almost feels…nice. It’s as easy for you to receive his affection as it is for him to give it. You peek around the corner, grimacing at Sasha and Connie’s amplified wailing, just wanting to look at him. Really look at him.

Kicked back, beer in hand and jacket thrown over the back of his chair, Eren oozes charisma. Even doing nothing but holding a conversation with Mikasa, the room gravitates around him. Jean’s angry glare never leaves him; Armin has switched to drinking Budweiser, even though you know he hates it; Annie’s nodding along with whatever Eren’s saying; even Sasha and Connie are angling their performance around him, alternating between singing together and holding their microphones towards him, trying to elicit a reaction. He has this undeniable magnetic force, one that you aren’t exempt from.

You’d met him nearly a decade ago, in high school, and initially couldn’t stand him. His hair-trigger temper had hardly cooled with age, and his ego had gotten unthinkably larger, but you grew to find both of them charming– to a degree. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, Eren was the one cleaning you up and getting you drunk after every bad breakup, introducing you to all of your favorite sports teams and lending you jerseys for the games; hell, he even read that smutty fairy fantasy series you’d been obsessed with in college. Had the man you attempted Star Wars marathons with until you both fell asleep really looked like that the entire time?

He catches your stare, beckoning you over with one long, crooked finger. As his girlfriend for the night, you have to obey, even though you would much rather roll your eyes at the cliche.

“Missed you,” he mumbles as you sit back on his lap, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“You too,” you respond accordingly, wrapping your arm lovingly around his shoulder. Eren’s eyes flit down to your cleavage, but knowing him, it’s impossible to discern if it’s part of the act, or Eren being himself.

His hands rest comfortably over the casing of your pants, one on your thigh and one on the small of your back, one thumb rubbing circles into your soft flesh. Reveling in the drag of his rings over your clothed body, you couldn’t help but wonder how they’d feel on your bare skin, on your throat, on your–

Surprising yourself at the dirty direction of your thoughts, you swallow your beer too quickly, coughing. Eren, who had coincidentally been taking a sip at the same time, laughs at you mid-sip, choking beside you and spraying beer out of his nose.

The entire room bursts into laughter; Eren regains his composure and joins in good-naturedly. You giggle along, relief coursing over your body. Sure, Eren might look a little extra handsome tonight and be a bit touchy because you asked him to, but he’s still Eren.

“They’re practically in sync already.” Hitch, Marco’s girlfriend who had apparently joined the party while Sasha and you were in the kitchen, rests her face on her hand dreamily.

“It’s a little freaky,” Annie observes with narrowed eyes, but the slight curve of her lip betrays her. Not only were they believing your little farce, but they were happy for you. That’s enough to make you flush a little, realizing how naturally everyone’s just accepted your fake relationship. Everyone but one person, at least.

Jean suddenly stands, ripping a beer from the cooler and storming into the kitchen. The laughter dies as quickly as it had come, everyone exchanging nervous looks.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Eren offers, nudging you off of his lap. You blanch.

“Eren, I don’t know if you should-”

“It’s fine,” Eren drops a soft peck on your forehead, walking away before you can stop him. You meet Mikasa’s eyes, wide and concerned. To everyone else, Eren’s walking calmly, not a hint of aggression in his gait. But you know him, know him well enough to catch the anger simmering in his eyes, quiet, but there.

Jean and Eren have always been friends, albeit reluctant ones at first, but too similar where it counted not to get along. That had abruptly come to a halt when you had fallen for Jean. At first Eren had been confused, but over time that confusion had melted into constant irritation. Jean and you were wrong for one another, you know that in hindsight, but at the time, you had chalked all the fighting up to a passionate relationship. The constant tears had driven Eren nearly to a breaking point; multiple times you had begged him not to bring his frustration to physical blows. And now, your fake-boyfriend slash best friend and ex-boyfriend with the two worst tempers out of everyone you know are “talking”. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep the worry in your chest.

“Are you alright?” The question comes from Armin, who’s placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry that Jean isn’t taking the news well.”

“There’s no news,” Mikasa says low enough for none of the others to hear over the music, now standing directly behind Armin.

A neat little cross appears between Armin’s eyebrows. “They’re-”

“Faking,” she interrupts Armin, “they aren’t dating.”

Armin stammers, trying to correct her and apologize to you for her at the same time, but you just sigh. “How’d you know?”

“One of you would have told me,” she shrugs, “or at least I’d like to think you would.”

“It’s just…I couldn’t bear to show up alone, not with Jean here and apparently sleeping around since the breakup.” You cross your arms over your chest, grabbing your own shoulders tightly. It’s your fault, you know it is, but you had only wanted to feel a little less pathetic, a little less heartbroken. Drama had been an unfortunate and unexpected side effect.

“Why would Eren agree to that? It seems silly,” Armin muses, noticing your glare and immediately turning bright red, “I- I don’t mean you’re silly, just, you shouldn’t-”

“You know.” Mikasa bumps him. The slightest hint of a smile plays on her face, a knowing look directed at you. You frown, trying to look confused through the pink rising to your face.

A loud crash from the kitchen catches all of your attention, saving you from an uncomfortable line of conversation but making your heart beat that much faster. Dashing to the kitchen door, the entire house party hot on your heels, your thundering heart sinks.

Eren has Jean pinned up against Armin’s cabinets, forearm tight against the other man’s neck. Jean’s still seething at Eren, raw ego washing against the cool anger blazing in Eren’s eyes.

“Need to learn how to watch your fucking mouth, Kirschstein–”

“Eren!” Your voice is surprisingly firm, given the nauseating mixture of embarrassment, confusion, and panic swirling in your stomach. “Let him go!”

“Do you want to tell her what you said, or should I?” Eren hisses, nudging into Jean further. Jean’s eyes dart to you, back to Eren, and for a fleeting moment, you have hope that maybe this all can be resolved peacefully. And then Jean makes a fatal mistake.

He spits directly in Eren’s face.

Just as Eren swings, Reiner collides with the two, just barely catching Eren by his forearm before he can make contact with Jean’s cheek. Bertholdt, as always, is Reiner’s shadow, grabbing Eren by the shoulders and wrenching him away from Jean. It takes Connie, Reiner, Marco, and Bertholdt to restrain both of them, Armin standing in the middle and shouting how ridiculous the fight is above the curses.

“It’s my fucking birthday, Jean, come on bro!” Connie growls, pinning Jean to the cabinets with his back.

“Jaeger- back off!” Reiner manages to pull him back a few inches, hardly able to contain Eren, who’s struggling furiously, in his massive arms. Jean finally relents, slouching into the multiple arms holding him back. After several seconds, Eren does the same, never taking his eyes off of Jean. Into the shocked silence, Armin bravely speaks first.

“Maybe we should leave,” he suggests awkwardly, “take the party elsewhere.”

You pity him, poor Armin and his hosting inclination. Eren finally turns to face you. The wrath laid bare in his eyes sends a chill over your body.

“We are,” he spits, sparing Jean one last threatening glance before storming over, grabbing you harshly by the wrist, and practically dragging you towards the door.

“Eren, wait–” you try to reason with him and dig your heels in, but it’s fruitless. Eren’s strong, stronger than you, and you don’t stand a chance stopping him now that his mind’s made up.

He doesn’t drop the act at the car, ripping your car door open, waiting impatiently for you to step into your seat, and slamming the door behind you. As soon as he turns the ignition, the same angry rock music you had listened to on the way over blasts from the speakers; Eren makes no move to turn it down and neither do you. After so many years together, his temper rarely scares you anymore; it’s more of a nuisance than anything when it flares. You stare out of the window, seething with anger, arms crossed and foot tapping.

Five minutes into the drive, you realize Eren isn’t taking you to your house, but to his. What he’s thinking, you can’t be sure, but you go ahead and start making your plans to give him an earful and call your Uber the moment you get there. You just can’t wrap your mind around why he would attack Jean and embarrass you like that– Eren may have been a hothead, but rarely did he let his temper escalate to that degree, especially against a friend.

Eren whips his car into the driveway, parking with such force you nearly knock your head against the headrest. You reach for your door handle, ready to throw it open, but Eren’s faster. He hits the child lock button and slams his own door behind him, storming around the car.

“The fucking child lock button?” You leap out of your seat once he’s opened your door, glaring up at him with your fists curled by your sides. “Is that what I am, Eren, a child?”

“Come inside.” Eren’s voice is low, dangerous. You’re too angry to indulge his temper.

“No,” you snap, “I’m going home.”

No sooner have you pulled your phone out to call an Uber than Eren snatches it from you, sliding it into his pocket. He repeats himself, more forceful this time. “Come inside.”

You stand rooted to the spot for a beat, so angry you aren’t sure what you want to do more: run home, punch him, or kick his precious car headlight in. Eren simply glares down his strong nose at you, face unreadable as ever, rage still glittering in his eyes.

“Come inside, please,” Eren repeats himself again through gritted teeth. You decide you’ll indulge him and go inside, hear him out, and then punch him. At least it’ll catch him off guard, and you’ll have a better chance of getting your shot in. Without another word, you stomp up the walkway to his house, into the house, and into the kitchen, shoving your shoes off. Stupid fucking kitchens, you think to yourself, kicking your bare foot against the base of his kitchen island. Immature, but the little burst of violence feels good.

Whether Eren’s house smells like him or Eren smells like his house you’ve never been able to decide. The distinct scent of him envelops you: a boyish, sharp smell, laced with a hint of the weed he kept in the living room. Ordinarily it’s a comforting smell, but tonight, it nearly makes you sick with irritation. Fighting with Eren is something you do rarely, but you know the both of you well enough to buckle down. Arguing with Eren means you have a long, nasty, and emotionally gutting night ahead of you. You’re more than ready, fists shaking by your side.

“What the hell was that, Eren?”

He doesn’t answer, swinging the fridge open and grabbing a beer. He twists the top, tossing it aside carelessly and taking a healthy swig, bun bouncing on the back of his head, making no move to acknowledge your presence.

“Answer me!” Your voice rattles the cabinets. “Yeah, was the fake dating a stupid idea? Sure, fine, it was stupid, but starting a fucking fight with Jean on poor Connie’s birthday–”

“You didn’t hear what he said,” Eren says simply, still chugging his beer and avoiding your gaze.

“What could he have said to make you do that? What was so awful that you had to–”

“It was about you.” Eren finally brings his eyes to yours, staring you down through the little hairs that have escaped his bun with such intensity that it nearly knocks you clean on your ass.

Your heart stutters. “You– what did he say?”

“Told me if I wanted to taste your ‘slutty pussy’ so bad, I could just smell his breath. S’why he spit in my face.” Eren’s fingers wrap and unwrap around the beer bottle anxiously.

Your mouth drops agape, tears immediately springing to your eyes. No, you set your resolve, praying your body cooperates. “He…he said that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been fucking him?” Eren spares you another scalding look. Your temper flares at his anger, one fire against another.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Eren snaps, “this whole thing was your idea. What am I to you, just some toy you can dangle in front of your pussyboy ex boyfriend? How long have you been fucking him?”

“I haven’t been fucking him,” you hiss, “he lied because he was jealous. And you’re not some toy, you’re– you’re my best friend. I needed you.”

Eren freezes, eyeing you across the kitchen. His expression has changed, infinitesimally so, a pinch of the fury fading from his face but none of the heat. It strikes you that in the years you’ve known him, he’s never looked at you like this before, not once. “Say it again.”

“You’re my–”

“The other thing.”

“I needed you.”

“Again.”

“I needed– fuck, Eren, what is this? Some kind of game?”

He stalks toward you, silhouetted by the light behind him and looking sinful, closing you in. He’s forceful and shameless as he backs you into the counter, as quintessentially Eren as he can be. “Say it one more time.”

“I…needed you,” you indulge him, brain slowing down to pick up each little detail. His cologne– when did he start wearing cologne?– musky and thick in the air, one of his tattoos peeking above the collar of his shirt, the tangible sensation of emerald eyes dragging along every inch of you.

“I like the way you say that,” his tongue darts out, wetting his lips. You stare blatantly. His mouth is red, pouty, and full, bottom lip a little chapped from where he was chewing it in the car. “That you need me.”

Words are lost on you; even if you could gather something to say, it would probably get stuck in your throat the moment it materialized. His presence is choking you. He brings one of those massive hands up, cupping your jaw, running a thumb over your lip. His posture, looming over you, is demanding, almost hungry.

“Do you still?”

“Still?”

“Need me.”

You blink, eyes still watery. “How?”

“You’re a smart girl,” Eren murmurs, hot breath laced with beer fanning over your face, “you know. You’ve always known.”

You do know. When he ghosted a hand over your thighs at the bar, when you fell asleep on his chest watching a movie, the way he had kissed your head, nearly fought Jean, protected you at every twist and turn. You had kept it relegated to the recesses of your brain, slid a hand between your legs and allowed it to simmer to the surface, maybe for a moment, before pushing it back down. You had always known. He has you on the edge of a cliff, and with a thin gasp, you understand him now: he wants you to jump. And so do you.

“I still need you. Now.”

Something critical snaps in both of you. The countertop digs into your lower back, a beautiful, aching pain blooming up your spine to meet the sting of his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. He’s kissing you; this magnetic, maddening man is kissing you, hard. It’s all tongue and teeth, fingers wrapping in hair, hands exploring familiar places in a new way. Greedy, demanding sounds slip through his teeth as he paws at your clothes, squeezes your curves through the silken shirt Sasha had lent you.

“This shirt is ridiculous,” Eren pants into your mouth, “wish I wasn’t about to rip it off of you.”

A little whimper leaves your mouth at that, and your knees buckle. Eren catches you, grabbing you by your torso and lifting you up onto the kitchen counter; you use the extra height to wrap your legs around his hips. A groan from deep in Eren’s chest rumbles against your lips as he rolls his clothed cock insistently against you. The low, simmering heat in your stomach catches fire; he’s big, even through both of your pants, rubbing himself into where you need him most. A hand creeps up your neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and forcing you to look up at him. It hits you how large he is; six feet and some change of taut, corded muscle, bad intentions, temptation.

His voice is quiet and controlled, so close to your face that his nose moves against yours as he speaks. “I’m going to take you to my room. If that’s not okay with you, I need you to say it right now.”

You nod urgently, relishing the burn in your scalp where he holds your hair tight. “I want it- want you.”

Eren slides you off of the kitchen counter and holds you firmly around his waist, making a beeline for his room. You mouth at his neck, enjoying the little grunts he makes against your ear. You drop unceremoniously onto the bed, left to watch as he tears off his shirt.

Oh, and do you watch. It’s difficult to comprehend that your best friend is the man standing above you. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, but not like this: chest heaving, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, muscles flexing as he reaches for your shirt, ripping it from you and tossing it away. Your eyes draw towards the defined v leading down beneath his jeans, and you wonder how it might taste under your tongue.

Your bra comes next, Eren moving down to take your lips in his again as he deals with the clasp. He pushes you onto your back, kissing down your neck, sneaking harsh bites in between the gentle presses of his lips.

“Careful, Eren– you’ll leave marks,” you gasp, pulling at his hair.

“Good,” Eren replies against your neck, emphasizing his point with another deep bite to your neck, “you wanted everyone to think I was your little boyfriend, didn’t you? Let them see.” 

Your panties grow damp and hot against your core at that; you have no other response than to choke out a stunted moan.

“Fuck, you have no idea,” he growls, traveling down, teeth scraping the top of your breast, “what you do to me. How long I’ve wanted you.”

Your mind falters, caught in the crosswires of Eren’s confession and the way you’re clutching his head to your breasts, fingers desperately threaded in his dark hair and pulling him as close as you could get him. His mouth is so hot it burns, even against your feverish skin. 

“Remember…” Eren muses, mouthing his way down your stomach, “remember college? When you’d wear those slutty little dresses out?”

“I remember,” you breathe, impatient and urging him towards your lower half.

“Used to come home from the bar and jerk myself off, thinking about this sweet little cunt,” Eren tears your pants down your legs, panties following, “could practically see it in those short ass dresses. I’d cum thinking about how you’d sound when I stuck my tongue in it.”

A lewd whine rips out of your throat before you can stop it. Eren’s pressing your thighs open now, and his words and the quick little swipes he’s making across your clit are making you dizzy.

“Fuck…” Eren trails off, eyes wide, “got such a pretty pussy. Just look at you.”

“Eren, please,” you’ve never been the begging type, but the bright green eyes peering up at you from where your legs are propped open by broad, strong shoulders take your sense away.

“I’ve got you,” he shushes you, grinning as he leans into your center. A thick stripe of a lick up the center elicits a groan from you both. “So fucking sweet. Knew you would be.”

Eren hooks his arms around your legs, dragging you down the bed to be flush with his face. Eren’s no amateur when it comes to women, you know that, but you had never dared to let yourself imagine what that might translate to in practice.

He licks little figure-eights around your clit, not quite hitting it; he’s teasing you, the antagonist that he is. You tremble under him, little gasps and whimpers puffing out of your lips. Eren smiles contentedly against your pussy, nose flush with your clit, nudging against it rhythmically as he licks through your folds, circling your entrance. You bring your hands down your body, grabbing a fistful of dark hair and pulling him closer to you; you don’t even know what you want, the singular word more ringing in your head like a church bell.

Eren chuckles. “You need something?”

“Stop fucking with me,” you breathe, inwardly cringing at the desperation in your voice, laid bare for him to see. You brace yourself, looking down to meet his eyes, and instantly regret it. The anger has faded entirely from his face, replaced by an unyielding hunger. A wet, wicked smile plays at his mouth; you can physically feel your cunt dripping just at the sight of him.

“You want me to stop fucking with you?”

“Please, Eren, I need you–”

“That’s all you had to say.”

And then, like he does with everything else in his life, Eren licks into you like his life depends on it, like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His tongue pushes in and out of your hole, swirling around your clit, and you can distantly hear the most obscene sounds you’ve ever heard slipping from your mouth. He’s so good, better than you’ve had in years; you throw your head back against the bedspread, hardly able to focus on breathing.

Just when you think it can’t get any more intense, Eren slides one long finger inside of you, curling it against a spongy spot in your walls that makes you see stars. He chuckles at the loud, long moan that you let out.

“My girl likes being full, doesn’t she?” He pumps his finger slowly, testing your limits. Your walls clutch down on him, begging.

“M-more,” you stutter, barely able to form a coherent word through your panting.

“What was that?” You can hear the shit-eating grin on his face.

“I need– fuck– I need more.”

“Magic word?”

“Please, Eren, fuck!”

“Good, good girl,” he coos, pushing another finger into you, “so sweet and needy for me, yeah?”

Your eyes fly open at the stretch, the fullness of his fingers moving inside you. His other hand comes up to push on your lower stomach; your head snaps up, and you frown at him, panicked.

“W-what are you– oh,” you hate yourself for it, but you can’t even speak as he applies pressure onto your abdomen. You feel strange; it’s just right and too much all at once. The familiar bubble of an impending orgasm swells in the pit of your stomach, but it’s more intense, wetter than you’ve ever felt it. 

“Close?”

“Mhm,” you force out through gritted teeth. Eren moves his elbow slightly, just enough to bear down on your hip bone where you’re pushing your hips up towards him unwittingly. “But it- it feels weird…I, I can’t–”

“Sh,” he murmurs, mouth back against your clit, “you can do it, just for me, I know you can. It’s going to feel so good, you’ll see.”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you teeter on the precipice, blood roaring in your ears. You want to, you need to–

“Cum all over my fucking face baby, give it to me.”

The band in you snaps, your eyes rolling back into your head. You can feel your cunt spasming around his fingers, pushing something out. Liquid sprays from you, all over Eren’s face, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can’t even hear the lewd sounds coming out of your mouth, too surprised at the gushing orgasm. It finally winds down, and once you gather the energy, you shove insistently at his hand still pumping in and out of your sensitive pussy.

“You have the messiest little cunt,” Eren chuckles at you, wiping his face and kissing his way back up to your gasping mouth, “knew you were a squirter.”

He lands a few gentle taps against your sore pussy, and you flinch. 

“I–I’ve never…” you take a shaky breath in between every word, “never done that before.”

Pride illuminates his face. “Really? I knew you could do it– just for me, right?”

You nod, sitting up on trembling elbows. “Your cock, I– I want it in my mouth. Please let me.”

You reach down to fumble with the button of his jeans, but Eren grabs your wrist, pulling your hand up to kiss it gently. “Next time. I’d never forgive myself if I busted before I got to fuck you.”

Too overwhelmed to answer, you simply nod again, sitting back as he shimmies his pants off. Once you catch sight of it, your mouth waters. He’s big, bigger than you thought, wide enough to where your fingers wouldn’t touch if you grabbed it, and long enough to make you gag. The thought goes straight between your legs, cunt still throbbing and clutching around nothing, and a rush of anticipation washes over you.

Eren flips you over onto your stomach, shoving a couple of pillows underneath your hips to prop your ass up. “Christ,” he exhales, landing a sharp smack to your ass.

“Please, Eren- oh!” You jump; Eren’s circling your asshole, using the mess you’ve already made as lube to pop the tip of his thumb in. “Eren…”

“You’d let me fuck you there, one day, I bet,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, you think. Your body tenses in response, the memory of your first glance at his cock fresh in your mind. Eren swears under his breath. “Maybe next time, then.”

You hear him spit, hear the slick sounds of him lathering himself up. You have a brief moment to think to yourself, with the last glimmering shreds of consciousness in your orgasm-dazed mind, that this is Eren. This is your best friend, pinning you to the bed by the back of your neck, rubbing your lower back, admiring you, fucking you. And then the head of his cock is pressing into you, and that last little bit of hesitation gives way.

“Oh, baby,” Eren bends over you to growl in your ear, “never gonna forgive you for keeping this perfect pussy from me all these years.”

“Eren, it’s so– oh my god,” you trail off, eyes rolling back into your head as a few more inches of him sink into you. The way your body stretches for him, the way he fills you, is unbelievable, sweetened by just the slightest burning sensation.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing his forehead into the back of your neck, “you feel so fucking good. Best I’ve ever had.”

You whine at that, pushing your hips back into his and forcing him to bottom out. Eren swears against your skin, nearly collapsing on top of you. Your cunt pulses around him, desperately trying to hold him. You can hardly fathom the weight of him inside you; you’re just so full, the word runs through your mind on a loop.

And when he rolls his hips into yours– you nearly start praying. He drags against your walls so nicely, you nearly cum again then and there. He works up a torturously slow rhythm, grinding his hips into yours. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying your hardest to suppress the obscene groan about to leave your mouth. You taste blood.

“Never giving this pussy up,” Eren grunts above you, “never letting you give this to anybody else again. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

You nod into the pillow beneath your head, tears pricking at your eyes. He’s picking up the pace now, and the exquisite push-and-pull rhythm of Eren moving inside of you coupled with the fact that it’s Eren moving inside of you is destroying any semblance of intelligent conversation you can muster.

“Say it’s mine,” his face is beside yours now. A hand grabs your hair, turning your face towards him. You know how dazed you must look, mouth open in a permanent gasp, eyes watery and full of hearts. “God, you look fucking incredible. Say it.”

“My…my pussy is,” you swallow hard around the delicious knot of shame in your throat, “yours. It’s yours.”

“That’s my girl,” Eren sits back up, thrusting even faster, “my pussy, my girl. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you pant, canting your hips back against his, feeling your next orgasm approach embarrassingly fast. Eren understands, already knows your body as well as he knows you, and moves the angle of his hips just so to hit that spot he had found so quickly with his fingers earlier. You keen, drooling into the pillow, letting him fuck you stupid.

Eren shoves you over the edge for the second time that night. It’s toe curling, almost violent in nature, the way you cum around him, listening to him hiss as you tighten around him, vice-like. He fucks you through your orgasm for just long enough to see you through it, and flips you onto your back the moment you begin to twitch and shove at his hips, desperate for a break.

You slowly blink your eyes open in surprise, letting the tears roll down your cheeks, expecting to see Eren lining himself up, ready to fuck you senseless once more. Instead, he’s studying you, wiping a tear from your face, licking it off of his finger. There’s a moment happening here, an important one, one you don’t have the mental capacity to absorb right now.

“I want to see you now,” Eren says quietly, “need to see your pretty face when I cum, m’kay?”

You nod dumbly, not knowing how to respond to him in the thick air hanging between you. Before Eren can get any more words out of his open mouth, a loud ring startles you both.

Your phone is buzzing on the floor where it fell from Eren’s pocket; the name on the screen nearly stops your heart. Jean.

You stare into Eren’s eyes, a long, silent beat passes between you both. Your hazy mind is scrambling, grasping at anything you can say to take his mind off of the awkward interruption, but to your surprise, Eren cracks a grin. It’s a wicked grin, prettier than the devil himself and twice as evil.

“Your other boyfriend calling? Checking up on you?”

“He’s not my-”

“Better not be. Not after what I did to you tonight,” Eren’s voice drips with ego. Something in his eyes is territorial, carnal.

You find your words, but they come out quiet. “He’s not. Never again.”

Eren’s grin grows darker. He’s nudging your knees apart with his own, reaching down and pulling one of your legs to wrap around his waist. He’s pushing himself in now, the ringing of your phone fading into the background as the all-encompassing stretch of Eren inside you takes over your thoughts.

“Such a good girl,” he coos, thumbing at your bottom lip, “such a good mouth. Always telling me what I want to hear.”

You nod again, urgently this time, pulling your other leg up to hook them around his waist, hold him inside you, make sure he never leaves again. You’re addicted already; addicted to the pressure in your abdomen, addicted to the way his tip kisses your cervix, addicted to the taste of his sweat as you lick a strip of it from his face, cheekbone to temple.

“I…” you aren’t sure how to articulate how good it is, how good he is. A defeated laugh of your own making interrupts you. “You feel so fucking good. I feel so fucking good right now.”

“God, just look at you, all fucked out for me. You love it, don’t you?” Eren kisses your forehead, face to face with you after propping his elbows on either side of your face. “Love how I fuck you like a whore, don’t you? Tell me, baby.”

“I love it,” your voice is quivering, and you’re vaguely aware of tears streaming down your face. You’re overstimulated, you at least know that, but he just feels so good that asking him to stop seems more painful than letting him keep hammering into you.

“My pretty baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Eren rambles, “so pretty when you cry for me.”

You can’t break away from his gaze, not through the tears or the rapid-fire speed of him fucking into you. Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely hold them up; Eren’s letting a flurry of little grunts and groans fly out, grabbing onto your cheek with one hand.

“Gonna cum soon,” he huffs, hips still pistoning into you hard enough to hurt, “gonna cum in your pussy, really make it mine, okay?”

“Okay,” you whimper, clamping down on him at the mere thought of it.

“Fuck, you like that don’t you?” He seethes against your forehead, thrusts beginning to falter. “You want to be mine? Want this pretty cunt stuffed full of my cum?”

You can feel him getting closer now, sloppy thrusts punching into your cervix, the ache of bruises forming on your inner thighs as he uses you, chasing his orgasm. You force your eyes open, meeting bright, hypnotizing green. Your voice is going to break, you know it, you hate it, you love him for it. “I– I want to be yours. P-please cum in me Eren, I need it.”

He slams into you one last time, holding his hips as tightly to yours as he can manage, cumming deep inside you with a breathless curse. You arch your back, relishing the feel of his cum in you, warm and filling. Even in your fucked-out mind, you know it’s a lot; you can feel the drip of it, seeping out around his cock and down onto the sheets. The leaden collapse of his body into yours, the gradual softening of him inside you, grounds you, pulling you down from the clouds and back into the bed.

It’s Eren on top of you, sweaty skin clinging to yours, his cum that you begged him for leaking out of your abused pussy. Your eyes shoot open. He’s incredibly heavy, your breath still coming out in short puffs as you try to catch it. He slides out of you; one last pitiful whimper leaving your lips as you find yourself empty.

“Holy shit,” Eren breathes out into the tension, a humorless and exhausted laugh punctuating his statement. As he rolls off of you, you’re overcome with the urge to smack him.

“That’s one way of putting it.” You scrounge around in the bed, trying to find the edge of the sheets to cover yourself with. Eren lays beside you, arm tossed over his eyes, as if the entire axis of your friendship hadn’t just flipped on its head. After a beat, you speak your mind, testing the waters. “I should probably call Jean back.”

That catches his attention. Eren sits up, scowling at you. “Why?”

“Maybe he wants to apologize.”

Eren snorts, rolling off of the bed and pulling you up with him, bridal-style; you aren’t sure where he’s taking you, but all the fight’s been fucked out of you, and you melt into his arms, eyes falling closed. “Who fucking cares?”

“I might,” you answer quietly, adjusting to the heat radiating off of his body. When your eyes open, you realize he’s carrying you to the bathroom to clean you up. Your heart thuds sadly in your chest, overcome with so many emotions you couldn’t begin to name them if you tried. You almost want to cry again, for a different reason now.

Eren sits you on the toilet, not responding to your small confession. He drops to his knees before you, reaches a long arm behind him over to the fixtures on his obscenely large bathtub, pushing the plug in and turning the water on. You draw your knees up to your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. Satisfied with the water temperature, Eren turns back to you, one hand placed firmly on each of your kneecaps.

“You don’t need him,” he says, solemn as you’ve ever seen him, “and from what I saw tonight, you don’t even want him. You know that now, right?”

There’s something about the way he says it, a hidden thread of pleading woven into his words. Your exhausted brain holds onto that, but your heart refuses to believe in it, broken and beating wildly in your chest.

“I just–”

“I meant it, you know,” Eren avoids your direct gaze, eyes flitting over every feature on your face, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Meant every word of it.”

You pause, wondering absentmindedly if he can hear the pounding of your pulse. “Really?”

“We don’t need to get into it now,” he shrugs, “but you know that. You know I’d do anything for you. You know I’d treat you well. ‘M not a bad guy.”

Your chest aches. “I know, but Eren–”

“So that wasn’t the best sex you’ve ever had in your life?” He fixes you with a singular, raised eyebrow, so serious that you giggle in his face.

“You might have me there.”

“Better than horseface?”

“Watch it.”

The light returns to his eyes; it loosens a hard little piece in your chest, flooding you with warmth. It hits you just how much you love that little sparkle amongst the green, just how much you would give to see it as often as you can. “We won’t talk about it, for now at least. I’ll get us cleaned up, and we can go watch–”

“Mamma Mia,” you blurt, hopeful.

“No fucking shot. But we can watch something else of your choosing, if you let me eat you out again.”

“Eren!” You smack his shoulder, scandalized. Both of you laugh; your fake outrage is twice as funny considering the state of you right now, smeared makeup and bruises on your neck.

He grins crookedly back at you. “That’s not a no.”

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 !! ❞

❝ PROF. GETO IS SO HOT AND NOW HE’S YOUR THESIS ADVISOR !! ❞

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

✧ summary: just when you had moved on, suguru is back in your life as your thesis advisor, and what choice do you have but to deal -- deal with lingering feelings from your breakup, but also yuta's. and through this, you both find out what you all owe to each other.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut , fluff, but also angst depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student, but age is vague, post breakup, dealing with exes, insecurity, semi-exhibitionism, desk sex, fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), oral (f! + m! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, multiple orgasms, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, fanart by @ / kyrraen (pls go follow them, they are so talented)

✧ w/c: 25,305 | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

Suguru never had believed in fate before — before he met you. 

And now it seemed fate had its own plans for the both of you — pulling you together, even when he had tried his best to push the two of you apart. Try he had, and in the end, you both ended up back where you had started — seated across from each other with a pile of papers littered with red pen. 

Except now he himself had found himself littered with you — your tie pin you had given him, the way his fingers wanted to smooth your brow with a kiss as it furrowed while you flipped through your proposal, and how his heart felt whole from the moment you walked in the room. And he knew he would be littered with your marks all his life, more permanent than ink — and he would never be able rid himself of them. 

Or of you. 

When Yaga had come to him with the news, it was already too much to handle. He was being re-assigned to Tokyo to handle duties for both schools for a time — until someone stepped up to handle Kyoto. Yaga didn’t trust anyone else — and since Suguru had worked at Tokyo longer, it made sense to have him go back. 

But then the question of you — the reminder came on the form of your email during their meeting — and you came into his world again the same way you did before — an email for a meeting. But it wasn’t for him. 

Not yet at least. 

It was hard to know what to do, or what you would want. Yaga could have you re-assigned, but the thesis you were working on was in Suguru’s specialty and he knew half the reason you had asked Yaga was to have a department head listed on your thesis. And to rob you of that wasn’t a choice he wanted to make for you. 

He’s done enough of that to you. And he had done it for your future — and he would do this for your future, if you wanted him to. 

You’re speechless when he breaks the news to you — as he expected you would be. But his surprise comes when you reply — he expected anger, frustration, a straight out refusal to work with him — but he did not get any of those — he only got quiet acceptance. 

“Fine, should we stick to the same schedule that Yaga and I agreed to?” And Suguru takes a minute, leaning back in his chair, “what?” 

“I just…I didn’t expect you to accept so readily,” he replies softly, choosing his words carefully, “in my email, I said you could take time to think about it or we could procure a different advisor—“ 

“Professor,” the word sticks in his chest like a right dagger that barely misses his heart, “out of everyone who works in this department I know you are the only one who is capable of pushing me to be my best, even when I don’t ask for it,” you add under your breath, “especially when I don’t ask for it,” 

A hollow chuckle is stuck in his throat, “If you’re sure, it’s your choice,” and he’s looking for a few notes and edits he had written out for you for the schedule you sent along previously. 

“It is my choice,” you echo, your eyes meet his, as he looks up from the papers strewn about the desk, “and I choose this,” and he knows all too well what you mean by your deliberate choice of words— and he did love you for your cutting tongue. 

Even when it was used against him. 

“If you do, then can you choose to come to my old office?” And you’re blinking, brow furrowing — and his cheeks burn, “I left your schedule there — I had a few notes regarding my own schedule,” 

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of a smart remark on the tip of your tongue that you seemingly swallow, as you gather the proposal into your bag, “let’s go,”

The walk over is in relative silence, the campus mostly quiet with the impending end of the semester at bay — as he forces his gaze forward, but that doesn’t stop his traitorous eyes from sneaking glances all the same. Why was it that he was a lighthouse and his eyes were spotlights only made to find your ship on the dark waves of the sea. 

And you stop in your tracks, a glance at your face doesn’t give him the answer — but another face does. 

“Yuta?” And he’s holding your lunch bag — the same one you insisted on taking with you, refusing to spend more money on the overpriced lunch on campus. And the realization hits him all at once, and he’s suddenly toppling headfirst into the waves. 

“You forgot your lunch,” Yuta offers an awkward smile — and Suguru’s eyes find your face again, right before he goes under — the same soft look you gave him. 

Used to give him. 

And he lets the water overtake him. 

~~~

“You forgot your lunch,”

And you never thought a rushed morning would lead to the most awkward moment of your life. Yuta glances between you and Suguru, as you step forward to take your lunch from his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, as if to ground yourself. 

“Yuta, this is Professor Geto, he taught one of the classes I took and he’s taking over as my thesis advisor,” and you’re only lucky Suguru is able to tuck away emotions so easily, a polite smile on his lips as he offers his hand to Yuta, “this is Yuta, my boyfriend,” 

You can’t meet Suguru’s gaze as you say it — but you wonder what you would find — hurt, anger, or nothing at all? And you couldn’t figure out which would hurt the most. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Suguru says, before shaking his hand, and Yuta nods. 

“Likewise,” and Suguru turns to you, hands slipping into his pockets, while yours remained laced with Yuta’s — but how long ago would it had been intertwined in his? “On second thought, I’ll email you my edits to your thesis schedule, I’ll leave you both to the rest of your day,” he gives a stiff smile, before heading on his way. 

And he knew this was a future of his own making — the consequences of his own actions. 

He gives a bitter chuckle. Consequentialism — the morality is centered around creating the right consequences — and wasn’t it right? Right for you to be happy with someone your age? Right to be with someone who you can hold their hand and be with? Right to be with someone who can give you everything and anything you want? 

“I understand the intention of consequentialism, but it just feels so pointless,” you had said while the two of you sat watching TV on the couch, your legs thrown over his lap, the comfortable warmth of your head resting on his shoulder. 

“That’s not where I thought your mind was,” Suguru had chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, but still he indulged, “the point is to get as much good as possible out of a decision correct? The most happiness?” 

Your brow remained furrowed, “But the problem is the cost of it — it can come at the cost of your own happiness if it’s creating the right consequences,” 

“That’s more utilitarianism—“ and you shrug. 

“I understand it’s more complicated, but I don’t see the value in making decisions like that — doesn’t it defeat the purpose because you’re doing it for the outcome — without considering your feelings or the others? You’re nothing more than a happiness pump,” 

And as he sneaks a glance back, watching you and Yuta stand there still, fingers still intertwined, his fingers squeeze the handle of his bag, is that why it feels so wrong? 

He arrived back at his office, fingers turning the knob and finding an empty tomb — the walls stripped down to the bare, a thick layer of dust that clung to the surfaces, the couch he had in the corner of the room likely relocated to another office — that he thought he had finally left behind. But here he was again — right back where he started. 

He dragged his finger through the dust on his desk. Was he nothing more than a happiness pump? Giving himself pain for the sake of others’ happiness — and was the outcome worth it? But he’s swallowing down his pain — a bitter consequence he had to take — because he knew — he would take any pain, if it meant you were happy. 

And you were. 

Right? 

~~~

Yuta knew — he did even before he had started to date you. Or rather, he had suspected. But now he knew.  

The first time he saw the two of you bump into each other, he knew because of the way Geto looked at you — and even the way you looked at him — the hurt flickering in your gaze, even when you refused to look at him. 

Professor Geto has been much more than a professor to you — he was your boyfriend, the same one Yuta had envied for so many months. Only for him to be back in your life again. And he felt like he was right back to where he had started in your life again — a friend. 

And there wasn’t a thing wrong with being your friend — but now that he was more than one, he knew he only wanted even more of you — and to give more of himself. If you would let him. 

But when your fingers curled around his, ‘boyfriend’ slipping from your lips, assuaged his anxiety for a moment, but as he watched your eyes find the back of Geto’s head after he left, it all came back. 

Your fingers squeeze his, “Thank you for bringing my lunch, Yu,” and it brings him back to the moment, and your face is so readable in this moment — as if to make up for the times he couldn’t make sense of you — searching for an indication that he knew, an implication of his emotions, a question unspoken to ask if he knew. 

And he did. 

“Of course, baby,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, and he wants to tell you he does, wants to ask you why you hid it, why you felt you couldn’t be honest, and why you look like you’re still as heartbroken as the day he ran into you outside this building, “I have to go, but I’ll see you later,” but he doesn’t ask. 

“Yuta—“ but he’s only pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, fingers cupping his cheek. 

“I love you,” and your lips curl into a small smile. 

“I love you too,” and it was enough, he thought, as his fingers parted from yours, and he turned to leave. 

It was enough, for now.  

~~~

How do you tell someone something they already know? You snuck glances at your own boyfriend after dinner, as the two of you settled in to watch something to unwind. The day had gone by as expected, but the crawling anxiety only grew as more time passed, the words wanting nothing more than to leave your mouth. 

Why was it you when you had so much to say you couldn’t say it? And now when you had to explain, no words could leave your lips? 

God, how the fuck did you catch yourself in this mess? Your ex as your thesis advisor — was this karma for being unethical? A cruel consequence of the choices you made? Maybe fate? No, it wasn’t fate. Things were better without Suguru in your life, simpler and easier. And you were happy — but now this, this just had the potential to ruin everything. 

But only if you let it. 

And the longer you went without discussing this, the more damage it would be. It was a secret you had chosen to keep — you didn’t think it was pertinent, especially with Suguru in Kyoto. It was a detail you could spare, at least until after you graduated, 

But now it couldn’t wait. 

It was a piano hanging by a string that’s already snapped and it was on its last fibers, swinging back and forth, waiting to see whether you would push Yuta and yourself out of the way — or whether one or both of you would get crushed in the process. 

The walk back to your apartment is an exercise in coping mechanisms to prevent panic or anxiety from settling fully into your skin, holding the string together with your arms seemingly, ready for it to tear you apart. 

But it doesn’t. 

“I have to talk to you,” you say once you and Yuta are sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under the other to prevent you from shaking it, or running away for that matter, “it’s nothing bad — well, I mean it’s not—“ you cut yourself off, shaking your head, “just know I love you, and that hasn’t changed—“ 

And his lips find yours, cutting off your frantic thoughts with a sweet kiss that only leaves you wanting more, but also leaves you with more questions than answers. 

He pulls away, a small smile on his lips, “Breath “ and you sigh, taking a breath, “and I love you too,” your fingers interlace with his, “what is it?” 

But you don’t even know where to begin, except at the point, “You know the ex that broke my heart before we dated?” And he’s nodding, “Professor Geto is—“ 

“Is your ex,” he finishes, and you knew he had figured out, but you hadn’t expected it to come out so matter-of-factly, “I had a feeling and this morning confirmed it,” 

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, “after he moved, I never thought he would move back, much less become my thesis advisor,” you bury your face in your hands, “and I don’t want you to think I was hiding it. It’s just with the relationship being taboo, I didn’t think—“ 

“You were trying to protect yourself and your ex, it’s understandable,” he squeezes your hand, “you couldn’t have expected this to happen,” 

And you’re lifting your gaze to his, “How are you so calm? How are you so…okay?” 

He gives a sigh, “it’s hard, I’m trying to stay rational for you — for us,” you lean against him, “what are you going to do? About your thesis?” 

“I think I’ll have to take Suguru as my advisor. I don’t have much of a choice,” you bite your lip, “I could take another, but no other professor has the same specialization as Yaga, except Geto, and I know he’ll give me good feedback,” 

“But?” You rest your head in your hand. 

“But having to spend that much time with my ex? Having to work on something so important to my career with him? Having to put you through that?” you feel more lost than when you began this conversation, “I don’t know what to do. I already agreed to it, but I think it’s only sinking in,” and you turn to him, “and then there’s you,” 

“What about me?” and you shake your head. 

“How can I put you through watching me spending hours with my ex over the next semester?” And Yuta shakes your head. 

“A decision important to your future shouldn’t just be based on me, it should be about you,” and you purse your lips — another reason why Yuta was so sweet, as you lean against him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he chuckles, running his fingers through your hair, “I’ll keep him as my advisor for now, but if you have a problem, please talk to me okay?” You lean back to look at him, “please?” 

“Of course,” and his lips find yours in a sweet kiss, “and you always deserve me — because I chose you.” You kissed him, his arms curling around you, as you leaned into his touch — the one place that always felt safe. 

And you didn’t know that he just hoped — you’d choose him too. 

~~~

Fuck. How was it you found yourself before Professor Geto’s door yet again? 

Winter break had flown by and now you found yourself back in the office you thought you had left behind not so long ago. Even if it felt like forever. You had spent your time split between working on your thesis, with the edits to your outline that Suguru had provided you, and with Yuta — who was more endlessly understanding than you could have hoped to imagine. And even today, as you headed off to meet Suguru in his office, he had nothing but soothing words for your nerves, sweet kisses, and a promise for a good meal when you got home. 

You hovered before the door of his office — no matter what had happened throughout these months, why did it always feel as if you always ended up here? Pulled against your will into a rotation around him — one that would have you stuck into a constant push and pull — and just when you had let go of his grip, you were pulled back in. And as your fist hovered next to the door, bracing to knock, you weren’t sure if you were ready to fall back in. 

But what you didn’t know as you stood before the door was that the man behind it was more anxious about this meeting than you were. 

~~~

“You’re early,” Suguru glances up from his paperwork, his top of his pen pressed to the seam of his lips, “for once,” 

Suguru himself had nearly been late this morning — ever the hypocrite, he supposed. He could barely sleep the night before, spent catching up on the work piled up for two department heads while the Kyoto campus makes potential temporary candidates jump through hoops. And then there was the other reason, his meeting with you — and all the complicated feelings he didn’t wish to entangle himself in. And yet he always fell deeper into your web, as if he didn’t willingly ensnare himself to begin with. 

He didn’t even know Yaga was sick, but he had seen the change in him. The subtle differences in his demeanor, the bags around his eyes, and the creeping slowness that came with illness. But it still hit like a gut punch to hear it from his mouth, and for him to ask to take over duties for him was a double edged blade of honor and complication. 

Yaga had given him the option to turn it down: to keep managing everything from Kyoto — but he accepted anyway — accepted because he knew that you’d be out of a thesis advisor. And he would be left unable to help from Kyoto with the in person role an advisor played. 

And so he was here. 

When he finally had gotten to lay down, eyes fixed on the familiar ceiling fan again — as he had managed to get his old apartment back by some miracle — and he hates how this place is a husk of itself without you here. But even with you here before him, his eyes snuck at glance at you, it somehow was worse being with you — when he was nothing to you. He could bear to not be your lover, but he couldn’t bear the weight of your hatred, or worse, your indifference. 

You cross your arms, your laptop bag draped on your shoulder, “You’ll never let that go until one of us is dead will you?” 

“That’s assuming we wouldn’t haunt the other,” he replies without missing a beat, as you take a seat across from him, eyes taking in his office. The same set up from before, if not a little less ostentatious and obnoxious — a few missing pictures and awards tucked away, the missing luxury sofa, and the lack of leather bound books lining shelves, instead minimally decorated with a few select titles — including What Do We Owe Each Other, prominently displayed. 

“I have better things to do than haunt you,” you scoff, pulling out your laptop from your bag, “did you forget to finish unpacking?” And he doesn’t offer even a look up at your remark. 

“No, just decided to take a certain person’s advice and try to take a less pretentious approach to my office,” his lips curled in that damnable wry smile of his, “plus not everything has been sent back from Kyoto yet,” and he leans forward, plucking your revised thesis outline from the neat piles lined up on his desk, “but my office decor isn’t why we’re here,” he flips through his notes on your draft, “the outline is in good shape, have you started on your draft?” 

You pull a stapled stack out to slide to him, “I have fleshed out some of my main points and I wanted your thoughts before I dove further,” and he takes it before scanning through it, silent as he peruses the contents. 

His eyes flit up, “You didn’t have to wait for my approval—“ 

“I know, but I value your opinion,” you grumble, eyes averted as you admit it, a graze of your teeth against the bottom of your lip. It draws a small smile from him, hidden away behind his closed fist pressed to his lips, “as my advisor,” you add, and he nods. 

The meeting finished up with much else, as you slide your laptop and things back into your bag. And for the first time your eyes meet his. 

“Have you been sleeping okay?” and he’s blinking a moment, as you continue, “you look tired. You should sleep more instead of working,”

He furrows his brow, “I am slee—“ 

“You have bags under your eyes, Professor,” you roll your eyes, “listen or don’t, but I rather my thesis isn’t re-assigned last minute because you ran yourself into the ground,” you say before turning to leave. 

“I expect your next draft by the beginning of the next week,” and you pause, the click of the knob as you pull the door open. 

“I’ll have it to you by the end of the week.” And you’re gone, door shutting behind you, and he leans back in his chair, a smile that he can’t quite hide on his lips. 

Maybe he wasn’t quite nothing to you after all. 

~~~

“I’m home, baby,” you say, as you walk in, the burden of the day still in the process of sliding off your back as you passed through the threshold of your apartment. You stripped yourself of your cost and your shoes, hanging your bag up, “Yu?” 

You checked your phone with no text or call from him — he said he would be at your place, and that’s when you spot a familiar mop of black hair from the couch. Your lips curl as you round the couch, only to find him fast asleep, his work spread out around him. His first day back seemed as stressful as yours, and yet he hadn’t complained. 

His bags were dark — a product of a bad night’s sleep — a running trend for today seemingly. You ran your fingers through his hair gently, knowing he wouldn’t wake simply by that, but you heard the quiet mumble of words you couldn’t catch. You glanced at the kitchen and found dinner prepped but not made. You smile softly, as you take the throw blanket and gently spread it over him, before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, and then rising to your feet. 

You’re almost done cooking curry when Yuta stirs, the smell of the stewing beef and spices waking him, as he lifts his head, back of his hand rubbing his eye, while he glances at you with the other. 

“Hey sleeping beauty,” your lips curl, doing a bad job of stifling your chuckle at the sight of his black hair askew, “dinner is almost ready,” 

“Dinner? When did you get—“ and he picks up his phone to check the time, a small groan stuck in his throat, “why didn’t you wake me when you got home?” 

“I would have,” you wipe off your hands, as you make your way to the living room, as Yuta swings his legs off the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face, “but you’re so cute when you’re sleeping,” and his cheeks flush an ever so subtle pink — even after this time together, it was so easy to fluster him, “plus, it looked like you needed it,” 

Your hand brushes his cheek, and he’s leaning into your touch, your other hand running fingers through his hair to straighten it out, “I did,” he mumbles, “it was a long day,” 

“Want to talk about it over some rice and curry?” and he bites his lip, before he leans in to press a sweet kiss to you, delighting in the desperate look he gives you when you drag your tongue teasingly against the seam of his lips only to pull away, “don’t pout,” you drag your thumb down his lips, “I’ll kiss you plenty after dinner,” 

“Promise?” And you drag him to his feet and he’s walking to the bathroom as you’re opening cabinets to take plates out, only for his arms to wrap around your middle, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. 

You chuckle, biting back the shiver that runs up your spine at the warmth of his touch, “what’s that for?” 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, meeting your gaze with umbra eyes that has you lost in the only inky black sky you craved. 

“Of course, Yu,” you murmur before his lips find yours again, and you just wished you could live in this moment, as he parted from your lips only to press another kiss to your cheek, but you supposed you could— 

—For now at least. 

“She’s what?” Maki stares at Yuta as he rubs the back of his head, her words nearly ringing out in the empty conference room, “she’s spending a bunch of time with her ex and you’re ok with it?” 

Yuta has made a mistake — the mistake of being twenty minutes early to this student government meeting only to find Maki here alone, scrolling on her phone. Her eyes flitting up only for her to tilt her head and bark: 

“Oi, what is it now?” And Yuta didn’t know if he liked being so seen by her. 

Especially now that he was being judged for his decisions — or rather, raked over the coals for them. 

Yuta purses his lips, “I’m not exactly okay with it, but I don’t know what to do. She has to work on her project with him — I guess, how could I object?” And how could he? Your omission made sense, you were only trying to protect your reputation— and your ex’s by extension. But it didn’t make it sting any less. 

“Doesn’t she have another choice? Couldn’t she work with someone else?” Maki crosses her arms, eyes narrowed, as if she can detect the holes in his lies by pure reflex, “aren’t you worried she’ll go back to him?” And voices every worry almost if she’s ripped it from his mind itself.

“I am, she does have other choices, but I couldn’t be the one to make her choices for her—“ 

“But you couldn’t tell her how you felt about it?” Maki shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as if this conversation is giving her a headache — or more likely, he’s giving her a headache, “how do you feel?” 

Yuta chews his lip, leaning on his arm on the table, “I don’t know, I understand it’s just a project — it’s something for her future — I don’t want to make things more complicated for us,” he mumbles. 

“You mean for her—and for your relationship,” Maki crosses her arms, tilting her head, “Yuta, if you can’t be honest with her, what’s the point of this relationship?” And people start to file into the room for the meeting, so she hisses in a whisper, “you need to figure out what you want — and how to tell her how you’re feeling because it’s going to eat you alive or drive her into her ex’s arms — either way, you won’t be in this relationship,” 

And on that bleak note, she gets to her feet to corral everyone into their seats, leaving him to simmer in her words. His phone lighting up nearly on cue with a text from you— 

Can’t make the meeting this week, babe — Geto rescheduled my meeting with him this week for now, so I’m headed there 

A hint of irritation pricks at him — it had to be today, during the only time that they had together at school? 

Another message comes through. 

I’ll see you at your place after the meeting - love you 💕

He locks his phone, tucking it away in his pocket — as Maki starts the meeting. 

It was fine — he would see you at home. It didn’t matter — Geto had only these meetings, Yuta had much more of you. It was fine. 

He forced his gaze forward, a gnawing dread in his stomach. Right? 

“What do you mean it was expected?” 

You were starting to remember the reason why you hated this man so vehemently when you first met him. His nearly smug expression made you want to leap across the desk and strangle him — though you knew the consequences of that action wouldn’t turn out well for you — nor the proximity for that matter, “what I wrote—“ 

“Is what others have written in papers time and time again,” he cuts you off, and you slump back in your chair, as you flip through the red inked comments he had so thoughtfully ripped apart your first few pages — the precise cuts and slashes enough for red ink to look like blood, “your thesis needs to be a unique take—” 

“And now it isn’t unique enough?” you grumble, crossing your arms, as your cheeks burn, “soon you’ll be saying I’m rambling again,” 

“No, I was able to rid you of that habit a while ago,” you glare at him, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “I would be concerned if you started to regress,” 

“Well, at least it would only be academically,” the words spit like venom from your mouth without a thought, but the hurt that flickers across his face is one that seemingly has too much thought behind it, “sorry, that was inappropriate,” 

“It’s fine,” the hurt is gone from his expression, as unreadable as it always was, “to get back to our discussion, I know you want this paper to be published by journals, and in order to do that, you need to have a perspective that hasn’t been explored before—at least not fully. Your outline reflects that, but your paper is regurgitating ideas that you’ve read,” he’s handing you a list of papers and books, with some noted passages, “read some of these materials, it might help give you some ideas to rework your paper,” and then he adds, “and you knew I’d say this,” 

You knit your brow together, “What?” 

He leans against his arm propped against the top of his desk, “Why else would you want me to see if you were going in the right direction? You always have an idea what you want to write, of where you want your paper to go — and you never wanted my greenlight for a long time now,” 

You hate how he can still see right through you — you hate how easily he can pinpoint your problem without you uttering a helpful word. Even before, it always felt as if he was the only one who saw you, without you having to explain a single thing. 

“You’re right,” and he hated how right he was, “I wasn’t sure where I was going,” this thesis had been weighing on your mind day and night, pricking at your nerves each time you stared at the blinking cursor of the document, “I still don’t,” 

Suguru murmurs your name softly, his gaze as gentle as it always has been for you, a part of you hoped — only for you, “As I’ve always said, the only reason why I push you is because I know you can do more. This thesis would be outstanding for many scholars, but I know you can do more,” he tilts his head, small smile on his lips, “and I know you still can,” 

“What if I can’t?” The question slips out before you can even think it, and he raises an eyebrow. 

“There is no ‘what if,’ I know you can do it,” and you bite your lip, “i don’t have any doubts,” 

“Not even one?” You reply, an eyebrow quirked. 

“Not when it comes to you,” and he said just what you wanted to hear, but you hated it all the more — because how did he know you so well? How did he know you so well and yet not know to talk to you before breaking your heart? 

But it didn’t matter now. And you couldn’t trudge up these feelings now, or maybe ever. 

“I’ll read these materials and rework it,” and you begin to collect your things all the while, getting to your feet. 

“Good,” and you catch sight of his smile in the reflection of your phone, “it’s what you owe yourself.” 

And your eyes meet his for a moment, so why couldn’t he give you what he owed you before? 

“Thank you, Professor.” 

“I’m back,” you call out in Yuta’s apartment, tucking your keys away into your bag, as you slip your shoes off and shrugging off your jacket, but you hear nothing in response, “Yuta?” But not a sound — no quiet voices of the TV, the clatter of dishes and utensils in the kitchen, and no sign of him in the bedroom either. 

You check your phone, as you sit on the edge of the bed, creaking under your weight, and you see his text: sorry baby, Maki took the group out for dinner after, you’re free to join us. And the address is sent underneath. 

But the text was well over twenty minutes ago, and it would take you longer to get there — which meant dinner would nearly be over. You laid back on his bed on your side, typing a reply. 

Sorry Yu, just saw this :(. I’ll come next time. I’ll make something up fast and probably lie down. I’ll see you at home. 

You curl up on the bed, placing your phone down with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Your nose turned into his sheets, Yuta’s scent flooding your senses, and you could nearly feel his arms around you. Almost. 

God, you missed him — especially you two just kept missing each other like this — and it made it all the more important you stayed awake. 

Your eyes flutter open, the sweet siren of sleep growing all the more tempting, a late lunch sitting like stones in your stomach and the need for the sandman’s relief growing headier. 

And before you knew it, your legs were tucked under the comforter and your eyes succumbed to their own weight. 

Your soft breaths filled the silence of the apartment, and even as Yuta came in an hour or so later, only to find you sprawled out messily in his bed, phone still in your hand, did he chuckle. His hands are gentle as he guides you into a normal position for sleep that wouldn’t fuck over your back, putting your phone on charge, and pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

And as he leaves the room to shower, not hearing the quiet murmur of his name leaving your lips. 

“You have to try a little,” you’re nearly waving your ice cream cone in front of Yuta’s face, soft serve dripping onto the pavement, and the soft pink swirl threatening to topple over in front of your eyes, but the risk of losing your beloved ice cream was not as important as advocating for it, “c’mon it’s so good—” 

“Baby, the ice cream is supposed to be your treat for all the progress you’ve made on your thesis, not a taste test, and I have my own flavor—” but as the ice cream hovers in front of his face, Yuta tastes it — the subtle sakura flavor lingering on his tongue, “it’s good,” he concedes, “but not as good as my matcha,” 

It had been a lot to tear you away from your work — it had been weeks in the making of trying to get you to take a break that wasn’t you falling asleep on the couch with your laptop and notes strewn about or a mindless TV break. And the times you both were supposed to have together often ended with one of you being busy or falling asleep. He barely remembered the last time the two of you had spent together that didn’t involve takeout or the couch. 

You pout, “Sakura is so much better,” you grumble, licking at your ice cream, trying to stem the excess melting off the sides of your waffle cone, and he chuckles, as a little of your ice cream sticks to your nose. 

“More for you then right?” he’s pulling a tissue out to wipe your nose and lips before kissing them, “Mm, it’s sweeter on your lips,” and he knows your cheeks are burning as you avert your eyes, biting your lip.

“You’re the worst,” and he laughs, as he wraps his arm around your middle, “but I’ll say you’re right about today. This date was definitely needed,” you lean into his touch, still working on your ice cream, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” 

“You don’t have to apologize, it’s not just you that’s busy—” 

“I know, but it’s mostly been me,” your eyes find his, and he wavers under your glance, “I know we haven’t had a lot of time together, and I promise, it’s only going to last a little longer, once I’m done with my thesis I’m all yours,” 

And it’s hard for him to believe that — but he tries, because he knows you are. 

“I know,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, “I’m just glad we got to do this today, I just feel like we keep missing each other, and it just…it’s been bothering me,” 

And you kiss his jaw, before softly smiling, “You’re not alone,” and his lips find yours again, and again, ice cream starting to run down his fingers and palm, but he could care less about anything else but you at this moment, “You’re gonna make me drop my ice cream,” 

“I’ll buy you another,” and you laugh, kissing him this time, and he melts just like the ice cream into your grasp, your arms wrapped around him tight, “now who’s making our ice cream melt?” 

“You said you’d buy me another anyway,” you nuzzle his neck, “plus I have to leave space to eat you up later,” and you giggle as his cheeks burn, “you blush so easily still, thought you would be used to my teasing by now,” 

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, still feels like a dream,” you pinch his cheek in reply, a smirk on your lips, as you kiss the skin that you pinched. 

“Now, it’s not a dream, is it?” And right as your lips were about to meet his again—

RING. RING. RING. 

Your brow furrows as you ignore it at first, before a sigh catches in your throat, “hold on—“ you check your messages, your brow furrowing, “fuck,” you swear under your breath. 

“What’s wrong?” And you’re tossing your ice cream in a nearby trash can, wiping your hand with one of the tissues the ice cream place had handed you, before texting back. 

“Geto wants to meet today about my thesis. Apparently some departmental meetings got pushed around, and today is the only day he can meet in person—“ 

“Do you have to—“ and you’re shaking your head in exasperation, burying your face in your hands. 

“I have no choice. It’s the only time until a week and half from now, and I can’t wait to get this feedback, otherwise it will throw off my entire schedule—“ 

“But this is the only time we can meet,” he cuts you off, voice catching on the words, as his tongue is caught between holding it and wagging it, “I miss you, baby, we haven’t seen each other in weeks because of our schedules, because of your thesis—“ because of him, “when will our relationship take priority? When will I be important enough to matter?” 

“Yuta,” your voice breaks, “of course you matter to me—“ and your phone vibrates again, cutting you off, and he takes a beat and a breath. He swallows thickly, this wasn’t the right time for this. 

But when would it be? 

“Go,” he says, and your eyebrows knit together, lips parting to refuse, “I’m okay, really. We’ll talk when you get home,” but he’s stepping towards you, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, “promise, we’re ok. Just go. I’ll call you.” 

“You sure?” He wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if he should let you go or stand his ground — but, his fingers cupped your cheek, and kissed your lips — but he was sure that he loved you. 

“I’m sure,” and he wanted what was best for you — and he watches you leave after you say your farewells — even if it wasn’t best for him. 

You shouldn’t have agreed to this. 

Agreed to take this meeting over your date. Agreed to meet in the lecture hall instead of his office. Agreed to have him as your thesis advisor. Agreed to even take a course with him to begin with. You were several steps too close to regret being born, but your real mistake was ever pursuing this man to begin with. 

That was your mistake — and now you are reaping what you sow. 

Literally. 

“Your lecture was compelling — I have so much to learn from you,” you stood outside his lecture hall as students filed out quicker than usual, without the typical quorum that formed after every one of his classes — only to find the reason that a single person commanded his attention, “I didn’t realize how wonderfully interesting philosophy could be as a topic,” her voice already grates on your ears, the elongated syllables of her words nearly enough for you to roll your eyes into the back of your head so far that you were they would get stuck. 

“It’s a fine line between interesting and dry, I’m glad I could walk it for you, Mei Mei,” and you could hear the smile in his tone, the saccharine sweetness enough for you to choke on and die of excess sugar, but unfortunately you don’t, so you have to hear the rest of this conversation. 

“I’m so glad I took Satoru’s advice to see your lecture, it was definitely eye opening,” and you furrow your brow, “he’s been asking me about you — he told me if I stopped by to have you call him,” 

You purse your lips — Satoru? 

A sigh in his voice as he speaks “He sent a real messenger this time? I get his texts, I have been really busy with my duties—“ 

“You know what they say — about all work and no play?” You hear the click of heels against the floor, as she assuredly steps closer, “maybe I can help you with the play—“ 

You knock on the door then, hand possessed, as you spot the woman with whom the voice belonged — her long silver locks tied into a braid that hung past her shoulders, her dark eyes finding yours and brow arched in curiosity, and wine stained lips curled. 

“Professor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but our meeting?” Your voice was laced with irritation you didn't intend to have, “I have a class after this, so unless you’d like to reschedule?” 

Suguru’s lips part, only for Mei Mei to speak first, “I’m sorry about that — that’s my fault — old friends you know?” Her head tilts, as if to say, no, I know you don’t know, “and you are one of Suguru’s little students?” 

“I’m his former T.A. and he is my thesis advisor,” and his girlfriend, you want to add — ex girlfriend, rather, but the words are as taboo as your feelings are, “I’m sure Professor Geto wouldn’t mind speaking to you after our meeting if you could wait,” 

And again Suguru opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off again, “Oh I wouldn’t mind waiting at all, not for him,” she walks past, “I’ll wait for you in your office, Suguru,” and you have to force your expression to be neutral, a knot in your gut, and a fist clenched and hidden around the handle of your bag, “I’ll make myself comfortable,” 

The lecture hall door closes behind her, the click of the door brings silence between the two of you, “I apologize if—“ 

“No, I should be sorry for interrupting,” you cut him off, your throat tied into knots, a distinct dull ache in your chest that surely shouldn’t belong to you — not after all of this, “I should have just rescheduled—“ 

“No, I’m glad you interrupted,” he says, “we have an appointment and she really is only a—“ 

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Professor,” and the title seems to cut this time, slicing through his mask, fraying his calm demeanor and leaving behind a deep frown, “it’s your business, not mine,” not anymore. 

His mouth opens and close, before he speaks, “Maybe not as a professor,” he says softly, taking a step forward, “but I think I do as your—“ 

“I’m not ‘your’ anything—“ you interrupt him, taking a step back,  “I’m only a student, and your advisee, nothing else, Professor Geto,” you’re turning to leave, “let’s reschedule after all, I have somewhere to be,” 

You had to be somewhere that wasn’t here — here with dredged up emotions that had no right belonging to you. Ones that you thought you had moved past, ones that shouldn’t hurt you the way they do now, and ones that you don’t know how to stop from spilling from your lips. 

“You’re not just—“

“Did you hear that she would wait for you?” you don’t turn to look back at him, “I wish you could have done the same,” you give him a second, one second longer than he gave you when he broke up with you, to reply, but he says nothing, “I’ll email you a few times to meet next week, just send me any edits you have on my pages.” 

The door clicks behind you as you leave the classroom behind, wondering if you had ever rid yourself of your feelings, or if you had simply buried it— 

And now, you are starting to unearth it — and your world may crumble underneath you along with it. 

There was something wrong with him. 

But there always was — when it came to you. 

Suguru stared at the email you had sent later that week, opting to skip the in person meeting again for the third week in a row. The semester was over half over — and now the other department head had started in Kyoto, so he had a little more free time — and yet he couldn’t use it to help you, at least not really. 

Your thesis was shaping up — you were on the right track now, and he knew your paper would need little edits before being submitted for peer review. And when it did, a journal would be lucky to publish it. By that standard, he could take a more hands off approach — but he never wanted to be hands off, not with you. 

He wanted nothing more than to take you into his arms, fingers trace the curve of your cheek as he’s done countless times before, and press a kiss to those lips that consume his consciousness. 

But he couldn’t. 

Not when he was the one who had broken your heart, when you had managed to piece it back together, and when you had found happiness with someone else. 

Something he wasn’t sure he could ever do. 

Mei Mei was an unforeseen complication — a donor that made some generous investments in the university — trivial with the amount of wealth she possessed, mostly due to Satoru’s convincing. And Satoru was the reason she had decided to sit in on his class — and he was stuck entertaining her, while his best friend was away on his sabbatical. And he couldn’t resist an opportunity to fuck with him while he was away — his apparent revenge after Suguru had avoided his texts. 

And your reaction was—not what he expected. He pursed his lips, you were jealous right? That’s what you seemed to imply with your words — as if Mei Mei was a friend he would be interested in. The pot calling the kettle black — when you were the one to move on first. A sigh caught in his throat, not that he had any right to complain. Not when it was his fault.  

But when the only person he was truly in love with was in front of him — the pain in your gaze as fresh as it was the day he had broken up with you — it was hard to hold back, especially when he wanted nothing more than to—

And then there was a knock at his door, “it’s me,” your voice came through the wood, his eyes sliding to the time, it was late into the evening, “can I come in?” 

“Yes, come in,” 

“I apologize, I just had a few questions I wasn’t able to ask over email, and since I was on campus, I thought—“ 

He shakes his head, your rambles still as endearing as they always were — though you had kicked the habit in your papers, you couldn’t help but ramble in the way you spoke, “No need to explain, what can I help you with?” 

You lean back, hands folded in your lap, “Do you remember when we discussed the concept of a happiness pump as a criticism of utilitarianism?” 

“Yes, in class, we discussed it — the idea of someone who will do anything to make others happy, even if it makes them miserable,” he tilts his head, as he leans back in his chair, eyes betraying him as he watches your dress ride up ever so slightly as you cross your legs — he forces his gaze to your face, “do you plan on using it in your thesis—“ 

Your eyes could cut stone with its biting glare, “No, I don’t, I wanted to talk about it in context of why you broke up with me — do you plan on being a happiness pump for the rest of your life? Or is that simply for me?” 

His mind moves slowly as his words do, “what—“ 

“Because it’s only for me, it’s flattering — if it’s what you do for everyone, well, it’s just exhausting,” you scoff, twirling a strand of your hair with your finger, “especially when your idea of what will make others happy is so misled,” 

“And how’s that?” He says through gritted teeth. 

And you’re rising from your chair, “You think my happiness means to make yourself miserable, when it does nothing more than make me unhappy,” you’re rounding the desk, fingertips dragging over the edge of the surface, “do you want to spend the rest of your life miserable? Do you think that girlfriend of yours will make you happy?” 

“She’s not—“ and your heels clicking against the wood cuts him off. 

And you’re only drawing closer and closer, and he can’t bring himself to speak — words caught in his throat because he knew anything he uttered would break this spell, and he wanted nothing more than to succumb, “pumped full of unhappiness when it could very well be the opposite—“ and your hand is sliding up his chest, toying with the top buttons of his button-up, lips ghosting his ear as you whisper, “when you know I know exactly how to pump you, don’t I?” 

“Sweetheart, please, we can’t—“ and your fingers finding the buckle of his belt, a gasp lodged in his throat, as your hand grazes his tenting bulge, twitching against your thumb as it runs over the clothed tip, “fuck—“ 

“We could be so happy, like before,” your lips brush against his, and he crumbles under your touch — his resistance crumbles like a statue made to wait, and god, he’s waited so long for this — too long. 

His lips find yours in a bruising kiss, the way he’s wanted to since he had watched you leave that day — the way he should have, the way he should have grabbed your hand and stopped you, pulled you into his arms, and never let you go. 

And he never would again. 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Suguru jolts awake at the sound of his phone, a paper stuck to his face, drool sticky at the corner of his mouth. He tugs the paper away, rubbing his eyes, as his heart slowly retracts from his throat. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair, leaning back in his chair, what the fuck was he doing? Sleeping at his desk again accompanied by wet dreams of you — he thought he had grown from this. But you always sent him right back where he started, his eyes falling to the bulge in his pants. He ignores it, gathering his things and tracing the edge of his desk as he rounded it to leave his office. He took a look over his shoulder at his office that he spent so much time with, he was sure of one thing — he flicked off the light — you would be the one to haunt him. 

For the rest of his days. 

“Baby, aren’t you gonna get up now?” Yuta murmurs in your ear, pressing sweet kisses to the skin behind it, fingers resting against the nape of your neck, “you said you have to practice for your thesis presentation,” 

You mumbled, burying your face in his neck, as the two of you lie entangled on the couch for your mid afternoon Saturday nap, “a few more minutes,” 

The semester had been going by far too quick, days slipping into weeks, and now there was just over a month left in the semester. And soon you’d be graduating — his fingers raked gently through your hair — and he didn’t exactly know what that meant for the two of you. 

He still has a year left in his program, and you were going to be moving on — though you weren’t sure exactly where. And he would be here — but what then? Would it be a long distance relationship ? Would you look for opportunities here? Or would it be something else? 

He didn’t want to think about other possibilities. 

So many of his friends had warned him not to date while in grad school — that it would only end in heartbreak, and the more significant fact that it would always end. Your face nuzzled into his neck, warm breath still warming his skin, as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head — and he never wanted to be apart, not from you. 

“Baby,” you mumble, “what time is it?” And he can’t help but smile at you, as he reaches for his phone. 

“It’s almost four-thirty,” and you groan softly, wrapping your arms around him tighter, “you still have time before you have to go practice don’t you?” 

“No, I reserved the classroom until seven, if I don’t go now, I won’t have enough time to practice,” you kiss his neck, “I have to get as much practice in this month before doing my defense,” You untangle your limbs from his and haul yourself to your feet, his body already mourning the absence of your heat. He watches you make your way to the bedroom to change, the door still open as you strip your shirt off.

His gaze admires you as you do, shifting to sitting up, his chin leaning against the back of the couch, “When is your defense again?” 

“It’s in three weeks,” you sigh, as you tug a shirt over your head, “I’m so nervous, I have to start practicing now or I’ll drive myself insane,” and you’re stripping off your shorts in exchange for some jeans, “my advisor, many of my professors, students from the department, and maybe some undergrads might attend,” you turn, as you finish changing, catching his admiring gaze with a slight smirk, “and unlike you, they won’t just be interested in staring at me,” 

“I think some of them definitely will,” he smiles, and you walk over, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to his lips, “at least, I’ll be, if you let me,” 

Your lips curl, “Oh yeah? I think I’ll be distracted if you keep giving me this puppy dog look, baby,” you kiss his nose, “might make me walk over in the middle of the defense and kiss you,” 

A soft chuckle leaves his throat, “That would cause a scene, but I could also be some moral support — a friendly face,” 

“More than friendly, you’re selling yourself short, Yu,” you kiss him again, and he can taste the lingering salt and butter of the popcorn you two had ate earlier during your afternoon movie turned nap time, “but I think having you there would make me more nervous, so is it okay if we just have dinner to celebrate or cheer me up after?” 

His brows knit together, “You don’t want me there?” but Geto gets to be there? The unspoken feelings he can’t find in him to voice, the words lodged in his chest, ricocheting off his ribs if only to free themselves from his anxious heart to spill from his lips — but they don’t. 

“I do, Yu, of course, but I think having you there will just make me more nervous, I’ll just keep looking at you instead of addressing the whole audience, and…” you bite your lip, “with Professor Geto already having to be there, I think I would spend the whole time worrying about the two of you together than about my defense,” 

And his heart sinks — your ex gets to be there, but he doesn’t? At one of your most important moments? He knows logically the only reason you ask because you can’t ask Geto — but it doesn’t hurt any less. Does he always have to be the nice one? The mature one? Couldn’t he argue with you?

No, but he could ask. 

“Do you think I’ll make a scene or that he’ll—“ and you’re shaking your head, your fingers cupping his cheek. 

“Of course not. I know you would do nothing but support me, but still forcing you two of be in the room together,” you press a kiss to his forehead, “even if you say it’s okay, I know it’s still hard,” his lips part, but you add, “and it would be awkward for me too. And I can’t do anything about Geto, but I can ask you,” 

You could always ask him. He would do anything for you — but did his feelings matter as much to you? 

“Of course, I understand,” your lips curl, and you’re pulling him into a hug, you rake your fingers through his hair. 

“Are you sure?” You murmur, pressing your forehead to his, “you can tell me if you’re not okay with it,” 

He could tell you that he’s not — he could tell you that it’s important for him to come, for everyone to see that he was important to you, for him to see that he was important. But it wasn’t about him. This was your defense, shouldn’t you have a right to have who you want there? 

Even if it wasn’t him. 

“It’s fine baby, I just want to support you,” he kisses your lips, “but I’ll plan something special for after you pass your defense — because I know you will,” 

You kiss him again, softer and fuller this time, as your fingers run down his cheek, “You don’t have to plan anything — I just want you, and maybe some food,” and he chuckles, as you place butterfly kisses all over his face, “I love you,” 

And he knew you did — you loved him — and that was enough, right? 

“I love you too,” and you’re pulling away, as you pull on your shoes and grab your bag. 

“I’ll be home by eight, should I grab dinner?” and he leans back on the couch, nodding, “I’ll see you when I get home okay?”

And he was the one you always came home to — the one you wanted to come home to — and that was enough. 

“See you soon, baby.” 

For now. 

You enter the lecture hall, the door closing behind you with a click that rings in the silence. 

Of course. 

Of course you ended up with the lecture hall you had with Suguru’s class. You round the podium at the bottom, and give a terse chuckle, how had it been so long but so little time? How many days had you watched him lecture here — only to end up falling for him after? Even despite how much you hated him — it was so easy. 

And still so hard. 

You set up your phone to record yourself, if only so you could fine tune your presentation, and see any spots that you struggle. You prop it up, making sure it’s framed correctly on the desk directly in front of you. You run through your presentation once, noting spots for improvements or thoughts for potential questions people could pose during your defense. 

You flipped through a few pages of your notes — wondering how this semester had flown by. 

The rest of your thesis was completed over email — brief email exchanges and your thoughts exchanged through notes scrawled on the pages he scanned to you. It was better this way — you didn’t have to see him. You didn’t have to see the smile on his lips that you didn’t put there, a stray lipstick mark on his collar that you didn’t stain, or the happiness in his voice that you didn’t cause. 

No, you didn’t need to see that. 

But you didn’t know why. 

Why did the idea of him moving on irk you when you had already moved on? You weren’t vindictive — your fingers drumming against the podium — you wanted him to be happy, to find someone who made him happy — maybe in all the ways you couldn’t. But the stubborn thought remained — the same one that kept you up crying every night after he broke your heart and haunted you even in your happiest of nights — that he could have had it all with you — but he didn’t. And now here you both were, fake smiles plastered in front of each other whenever your paths crossed, as if those lips hadn’t murmured ‘I love you’ before in the quiet of the night. 

But why did it matter? You were happy with Yuta, you had moved on, and yet — when you saw Suguru with her, it felt as if the stitches holding your heart together had come undone, and you were back — right where you started. 

But it didn’t matter. Either way the thesis was complete, and now all that was left in front of you was the defense, then you would be done — with this project, with your degree, and with Suguru. 

But would you ever be done with him? 

There was a knock at the door, and you turn only to find Suguru leaning against the frame, “Sorry to interrupt,” 

Apparently you would never be. 

Your shock lasts a moment, before your eyes flicker back to your stack of papers, “Do you need something?” The question comes more bitingly than you intended, but you don’t bother to gauge his reaction, focusing on mindlessly rifling through your presentation. 

“I forgot my notes for tomorrow’s class,” he says, quiet steps ringing in the silence of the lecture hall, “didn’t mean to interrupt,” and you’re gathering your notes, catching a glimpse before you step back from the podium, “are you practicing for your defense?”

“I am,” your answer is as terse as your emails, eyes fixed anywhere but where Suguru stood, as he pulled his file from one of the shelves inside the podium. 

“Do you need any help?” He asks, and you almost want to ask: ‘haven’t you helped me enough?’ But you don’t, only shaking your head in reply. The silence drags on for far too long, “can we talk?” 

Your muscles tense, a bow drawn taut for an argument, but you would draw blood first, “What is there to talk about, Professor—“ 

His calm facade cracks, irritation seeping in like poison through the fractures,“You don’t need to call me that—“ 

“I do,” you cut him off, “because that’s what you are. My professor. Nothing more,” and it’s a line in the sand you’ve drawn since you’ve met again, one he hasn’t dared to toe, much less cross, until now. 

His voice is broken, “We were so much more,” yes, you both were. He was everything to you as you were to him — but that was before. And this was now. 

“Operative words are key, Professor — ‘were’ is past tense,” 

“But we’re here now, aren’t we? How long are we going to avoid discussing this?” 

You scoff, “am I the one who avoided it? Do I have to discuss it now on your terms — when you didn’t even give me a chance to make my own decisions before?” Your fingers curl into fists, “you broke me, you broke me and now you come back wanting to talk as if you didn’t do the breaking to begin with? You don’t get to come back when I’m fixed,” the bottled emotions burst at the seams of its lid, the contents more vile than when they were placed inside, resentment fermented into rage. 

“I know,” he says softly, “I’m not trying to come back, not if that’s what you don’t want. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I left you. I thought it was the best for you—“ 

“Because you know better than I do?” You give a bitter chuckle, “do you know infantilizing it is to have someone make your decisions for you? I know what I wanted, Suguru, and I would have chosen you, every time—“

“That was the problem,” he cuts you off, “I wanted you to choose yourself,” 

“Do you not understand that choosing you is choosing myself too? Because it would have been a choice for me, for us, for us to be happy,” 

And those words seem to sink in the silence, his eyes averting from yours, a hand scrubbing down his face. 

“You’re right,” he finally says, “I’m sorry,” his words are quiet, but heavy — a rock sinking slightly into near still waters, “I wanted you to have everything, but I didn’t take into consideration what that meant to you,” he says, “I suppose I didn’t consider what I owe you,” he adds, and you shake your head, a small smile on your lips. 

“Shut up,” a chuckle leaves your lips despite yourself, cooling the white hot anger to warm wistfulness,  “I wish it could have worked out,” and he nods, a small frown on his lips. 

“Me too,” 

“But maybe it was for the best,” and his eyes find yours, as you step back to the podium to place your papers down, “it was never going to work between us. It was already too complicated to begin with, and when we finally got together, there was a time limit,” you find his gaze again, unreadable, “maybe it was for the best we moved on,” he doesn’t reply, “I should get back to work,” 

He nods, as he turns to leave, casting a glance back over his shoulder,  “Let me know if you need help with anything. Practice or otherwise, has the final formatting of your thesis been approved?” 

“It hasn’t yet, but I believe I followed the guidelines correctly, so there shouldn’t be an issue,” you say, and he nods, as the door clicks open, as he turns the handle, “thank you again, for everything,” and there’s far too much that can encompass everything that he did even in that word, but you meant it all the same. Everything he did had led you to this moment, and you would never be ungrateful for the impact he had. 

“Of course, I’ll always be there for you, anytime,” his eyes find yours, lips curled in a wanting smile that wishes to say more, “even when I actually do move on.” 

And he’s gone in a moment, the door shutting behind him, as your gaze is fixed on the place he just stood — lips parted.

What? 

“Professor,” you stop him, fingers reaching for him, even as you promised you wouldn’t — wouldn’t put yourself here again, wouldn’t find yourself falling into his grasp again, but here you were again — you never learned your lesson. But you wondered if that made you a bad student or him a bad professor, “what do you mean?” 

He’s turning only for your hand to grasp onto the sleeve of his jacket, your name leaving his lips but you cut him off. 

The question wavers on your lips, “Are you not with—“ 

“No, I’m not. She’s just a friend, like I said,” he runs his fingers through his hair, “I know it’s ironic for me to be the one to break up with you, and not have moved on, but, I haven’t,” his fingers brush against your own holding his jacket, before slowly intertwining, “I don’t know if I ever will,” 

“Well, some philosophers believe in endurantism — the past is dead, and we live here and now — we can’t do anything about what happened then — we’re whole right now, and not defined by what happened then, or what happens in the future,” your fingers squeeze his, “if we let this go, we could just exist now — the past erased and the future unclear — but we’re no less whole, are we?” your fingers slowly let go of his — but his don’t. He only clings to your fingers still, stubbornly laced. 

“Perhaps you aren’t,” and he’s gently tugging you closer, you don’t find yourself resisting, but instead leaning into his touch, “but I always find myself clinging to my past — when you’re contained within it,” he lifts your hand to his lips,  “what future do I have without you?” He presses a soft kiss that steals your logic, “and what present is worth being in that I don’t get to spend at your side?” 

“Suguru—“ and he sighs, as draws closer to you, breath warming your lips. 

“Been so long since I’ve heard you say my name,” his lips ghost your jaw, barely not brushing against it, “my name doesn’t sound the same unless it’s leaving your lips,” 

“We shouldn’t,” but even so, the back of his hand lightly drags against your why shouldn’t you? Not when it felt so good, not when it felt this right, and your lips graze his, “Suguru,” you’re murmuring, the faint lingering taste of coffee on his lips, “fuck—“ 

RING. RING. RING.  

Your eyes flutter open to find yourself in bed alone, your hand reaching beside you only to find more of your blanket and more pillows beside you, as it dawns on you. 

A dream. Of course. A sigh stuck in your throat — no, you had watched him leave that night without another word, even though you had so many to say, but none at all. And even now, you didn’t know what to say — to Suguru, to yourself, or to Yuta. 

So you said nothing. And instead, you’re left with an aching in your chest as you grab your phone to find a text from Yuta— 

Had to go in early today— I’ll see you for dinner, baby 

You lock your screen and place your phone on the nightstand, before turning back around to bury yourself in bed — as if staying in bed would bury your feelings along with yourself—

Because that’s not whose text you wanted to see. 

“You’re home,” Yuta says when he walks through the door to find you lying on the couch and scrolling on your phone. 

“No ‘hi you’re home?’” And Yuta snorts, as he strips off his clothes, and walks in to place a kiss on your lips, burying his face in the crook of your neck, drawing a giggle from your lips, “I missed you too,”

“I thought you were going to practice today. Your defense is the day after tomorrow. I didn’t think I’d get to see you out of a classroom until tomorrow evening when it was done,” you run your fingers through his dark locks, “thought I’d have to pry you away from your notecards,” 

“Ha, ha,” you kiss his cheek, brushing your nose against it, “I thought it would be good to take a break tomorrow, and I’m just exhausted after all the practice I did tonight,” you sigh, and he’s on the couch beside you, wrapping his arms around your middle, “this seems like a much better use of my time,” you settle into his arms, “how was your day?” 

Yuta shrugs, kissing your shoulder, “Better now,” and you chuckle, rumbling against his skin, sending a shiver up his spine as you lean over, his cheeks a pretty flush that only makes your lips curl, “it’s been too long since we got time like this. I don’t even know where to start,” he nuzzled the side of your face. 

You turn your head to kiss him fully, lips sliding against his, voice a quiet murmur, “then let’s make our time count,” your sweet kiss grows deeper, your tongue at the seam of his lips that he parts for you. You swallow his moan with a smirk on your lips, your body moving against his slowly, his tenting erection catching on your clit through the far too thin material of your shorts. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, as you slowly begin to grind on his bulge, the delicious friction too much for him as well, head lolling back against the couch, “Yu, s’good,”

“Mm,” Yuta parts from your lips, panting as your lips press eager kisses down his neck, a desperation he hadn’t sensed before from you,  “baby, slow down,” and you almost don’t seem to hear him, as your fingers find their way between your bodies to touch him through his joggers, “ngh, you don’t need to—“ 

But you seemingly do, as your thumb flicks against the tip, a soft hiss escapes his lips, “like that, pretty boy?” You’re murmuring in his ear, “gonna make you feel so good, because you’re s’good f’me,” 

And you’re slipping his joggers and boxers down to free his cock, stroking him from base to tip, lovely beads of precum dripping down his length and your knuckles. 

“Fuck,” he’s covering his face with his hand, his fingers grasping at your hips, before eager fingers slide between your thighs and underneath your underwear, drawing a lovely gasp from your lips, “wanna make you feel good too, baby,” as his fingers circle your dripping entrance teasingly, a smirk on his lips, as he sinks one then two fingers in knuckle deep—

“Yu—“ your hand stills for a moment as his fingers work their way against your drenched insides, “fuck—“ and you’re melting into his arms — and maybe this was just what you both needed. 

“This was so nice,” you mumble against his chest later, pressing soft kisses against his skin as the two of you laid entangled in the afterglow, “it’s been too long,” 

He hums, “It was perfect,” his fingers skim down your cheek, “you know we could have this every day,” and you chuckle, the corner of your lips curled mischievously. 

“Do you have the stamina for that?” you tease, painting a heated flush across his cheeks, as he rolls his eyes. 

“I mean, we could go to sleep like this every night, and wake up together every morning if we moved in together,” and you blink at him, his nervousness overcoming him as he begins to backpedal, “w-we don’t have to! I just thought I’m ready for the next step with you. And I want to—“ 

You cut him off with a soft kiss, pausing his worries and anxiety in the syrupy sweetness of your kiss, before you pull away, “I think I need some time to think about it,” 

And he nods, “take all the time you need, baby,” pressing a kiss to your forehead, but a thought still niggles into the forefront of his mind that he can’t help but dwell on— 

Would you say yes if it was Geto asking? 

It always seemed that you were ready when it came to him. Ready to be with him, no matter what the consequence, willing to make it work — but with him, it felt as if he was always the one chasing, and you were reluctantly within his grasp. 

As you drew closer into his arms as the two of you settled down to sleep, his fingers running softly through your hair, he wondered how long it would be until he felt as if he wasn’t the one desperately holding onto you, even as you seemingly always slipped away. 

Even as he held you against his chest, heartbeat under where your head laid. He knew you were the one who had his heart. 

He could only hope you wouldn’t drop it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” it wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it was always like this. No matter how well prepared you felt, something always managed to go wrong at the last minute. It was always when you were lulled into a false sense of security, only to have a rude awakening—

And this time it came in the form of an email rejecting your thesis formatting as incorrect. An email that came in that morning, but you had slept through, choosing to sleep in past noon after last night. And when your eyes fluttered open, Yuta was gone already for the day, you rolled over to check your email when you saw it. 

Fuck. 

You barely had time to text Yuta what had happened before rushing to the library to seek possible help from the librarians — fuck, you would have paid every overdue library charge if necessary. You didn’t want to wait another semester to present again. It would be more time wasted, more time spent working towards something you’re already for, more time spent in this place that you didn’t want to linger in any longer. 

How had you managed to fuck it up so bad? Now every one of your citations and in text citations would need to be redone, along with reformatting by 5:00 PM today. And it was already 2:00 PM. 

But maybe you were going to have to, as you rushed to pull the library door open, only to find it was closed this weekend due to scheduled maintenance. 

Double fuck. 

Your eyes burned with tears that you didn’t want to shed right now. You had no time to cry. You had no time to panic. But it was all you wanted to do — just crawl into bed and cry. 

You were turning back around to leave, when you nearly ran into— 

He steadies you, his fingers brushing your shoulders, as his lips part to greet you, but his brow furrows when he sees your expression, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

And that wasn’t the right question to ask. 

Tears slip from your eyes before words can, as Suguru blinks, concern flooding his face, as his hand finds yours and he takes you to his office nearby. It takes a few minutes for you to calm down (several tissues later) and you finally explained to him what happened. 

His hand never leaves yours. 

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to waste another semester here, I can’t do that. I want to graduate—“  

“Listen, slow down for a second, ok?” His voice is soft, soothing your anxiety like a balm, even as your nerves flare as your eyes flicker to the time again, “There’s time to fix this and go get it resubmitted before 5:00 PM. But, even if you do have to do another semester, what’s so bad about that?”

You shake your head, biting your bottom lip, “I can’t waste time like that. I already said I was graduating. If I have to stay another semester,” more tears trail down your cheeks, your nails digging into your knees, “how could I face anyone after how hard I worked?” 

Suguru whispers your name, his fingers brushing against your cheek, “what’s another semester? Nothing will change. No one will view you any differently. But the more important thing is how you view yourself — and you know how hard you worked. You’ll be fine,” 

You’re wiping your tears, sniffling, unable to meet his gaze, “How do you have so much faith in me?” 

He gives a brief chuckle, “It’s you — how could I not?” And your eyes finally lift to meet his, as his thumb rubs lightly back and forth across your cheek, before he clears his throat, “we have time to get it resubmitted,” 

“‘We?’” and he stands up to grab a copy of your thesis and the error notes you had shown him. 

“Well I can’t have you do it, otherwise you’ll end up submitting it late,” and you huff, a watery chuckle leaving your throat, “come on.” 

“Suguru?” You call softly, as he turns, blinking at the sound of his name, “thank you.” 

“Of course.” and he smiles that damnable smile that made you fall for him — your heart squeezing and thudding against its bony cage, an aching that left you longing — a glance at your phone with Yuta’s notification that sent that longing sinking like a stone into the pit of your stomach. 

No. It wasn’t that. 

It wasn’t. Not if you let it be. 

“I’m sorry,”

It had been quiet for sometime as the two of you made edits — him on the actual physical copy, while you edited the digital. The quiet scrape of his pen against paper and the clack of your keys are the only sound in his office. The very same one that the two of you had built your relationship from, and now here you were again. Except there was no banter, no smiles shared, nor even a knowing glance exchanged. 

There was only silence. 

Until you spoke first. 

It was a silence you weren’t accustomed to — a layer of awkwardness that had settled between the two of you as if to bandage the honesty that had shredded the false student-professor only relationship you had superimposed on top of the two of you. 

Only for you to claw your way out — and claw him open as well. 

But no bandage can seal a gaping wound for long, and there was only one way to deal with a bandage effectively, by ripping it off. 

His eyes draw up slowly from the pages in front of him, glasses perched on the tip of his nose so precariously that you wanted to push them back, “You have nothing to be sorry for — and you know it’s better to thank than apologize — I’m always here to help,” 

But that wasn’t what you were apologizing for. 

“I meant for the other day,” you say softly, guilt was crawling at your throat. 

His gaze grows heavy, “There’s nothing to apologize for that either. You were right,” he adds, “I made decisions for us, when it should have been a discussion — especially when I said it was for you—“

“I wasn’t sorry I said it,” you gently cut him off, fingers knitted together in your lap, “but I’m sorry for where and how I said it. It wasn’t the time or place for that.”

“It’s really ok,” he tells you, a glance at his face telling you that it really was, “I would have yelled at myself far sooner, and nothing you said wasn’t true,” his hand tugs at his tie, loosening it, his fingers wrapped around the fabric, “I wish I did it differently,” 

You shouldn’t ask the question but it falls from your lips before you can stop it, “What would you have done differently?” 

And he gives a smile worthy of melancholy’s grasp, “I would have kept my promise to you,” and you know which one he means without him needing to say, “I would never have left you, if I hadn’t been too busy being a happiness pump,” and those words stir warm coals in a fire you thought was long put out — but somehow burns still, a flicker of a promise for a spark. 

One you couldn’t stoke. 

“Well, you make an excellent one,” and he scoffs, “no really, I’ve never seen someone so unhappy trying to make someone else happy before,” 

“I wouldn’t say, ‘so unhappy—’” his pout is far too cute for your own good. 

“Can really tell your life fell apart without me,” you say completely teasingly, as your lips curl, only to find his eyes on you still, “what?” 

He only shakes his head, “only regretting not giving you lower than a 99 on your final paper,” and you gape at him as he bites back a chuckle, “I am the department head, maybe I could—“ 

“You mess with my grades—“ and your phone goes off — it’s Yuta. A text asking if everything was ok, before his face lights up your phone screen, and you’re not quick enough to avoid the awkward moment where Suguru sees it, “sorry I—“ 

“Go take it. I have plenty to get through,” 

“But—“ but he’s already back to reviewing your citations as if nothing had happened as you pick up the call, screech of your chair as you get up to take the call, “hey, yeah I can talk—“ and the door is closing behind you as you step outside. 

You don’t see the way he leans back, scrubbing a hand down his face to rest at his lips, “What am I doing?” 

And he really didn’t know — as always, when it came to you. 

“You’ll do amazing,” Yuta pressed another kiss to your lips, as you did the final adjustments to your outfit for the defense, “I can’t wait to celebrate with you,” 

“I know, I can’t wait for it to be over,” you sigh, pulling him into your arms, your chin perched on his shoulder, “you still haven’t told me what we’re doing,” 

He chuckles, his fingers cupping your cheek, “I told you it’s a surprise, so telling you would defeat the purpose,” you turn away to look at yourself again, “you look perfect,” 

“You’re just saying that because you’re too nice,” you grumble and he laughs, as you bite your lip, meeting his gaze in the mirror, “I’m sorry about not having you there,” 

And he feels a twinge in his chest, he had spent the last few days not trying to think about that. It wasn’t important that he was there — it was important that you’d be coming home to him. That’s what mattered — or that’s what he kept telling himself. 

“It’s okay,” he intertwined his fingers with yours, and squeezed your hand, “I’ll be here after, waiting for your good news. Because I know it will be,” and his arms pulled you against him, and he can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t want to let go. 

Even if you were ready to go. 

You barely remembered what you said. 

You remembered how your stomach turned and twisted in knots you didn’t know were physically possible as you made your way to the building where your defense was being held. Your fingers kept twiddling with your phone, checking the location and date listed in your email a million times to ensure you hadn’t missed your defense already or that you didn’t imagine your citations were accepted. You were sure your clothes would wrinkle from the sheer anxiety cladding through your veins, the vibration of nerves enough to beat creases into your freshly pressed clothes. 

And you remembered seeing Suguru right when you walked in. He stood behind the table with the other members of the committee, chatting — and objectively, you hated how unfairly pretty he was. His long, inky hair tucked into a neat bun today, choosing to wear a crisp white button down, opting for no tie, but a off white sweater vest and black suit jacket over his shoulders, and lips curled in a small smile that only grows warmer when he catches sight of you from the corner of his eye. And it must be nerves, the way your heart flutters within your chest and the way that heat clings to your cheeks — nothing more. 

Your eyes slide to him again — no one else. 

You remembered how people filled into the classroom that you were defending your thesis in, as you shuffled around the front, setting up your presentation and notes for talking points. You spotted Maki, Panda, and Inumaki walk in, undoubtedly Yuta’s doing, along with a few of your other friends from the program. Your hands shook ever so slightly, even as you wrung them — a nervous habit you had picked up before large presentations or important milestones. 

And then as people took their seats and it was 4:00 PM, it was time for your defense. You took a breath for a second — and your gaze finds not your friends, but Suguru’s. He offers you a smile, a look that tells you that he believes in you — always more than you ever had. 

So you begin. 

You don’t remember what you said — but you remember speaking as you did a million times before in practice. You remember making an adlib or two that draws a few chuckles from your audience. But what you mostly remember is the few glances you stole from Suguru who listened intently, a mouthed encouragement when you took a pause. 

And soon you were answering questions after concluding the main part of your presentation. You are fielding them from professors and students alike, until there was only time left for one more. There was silence for several moments — it felt like hours, the committee conferring and speaking amongst themselves. 

“I think I can take one last question,” and your eyes darted over the group, finding no hands, until one slowly went up — one you were familiar with, “Professor Geto?” 

Of course he would have a question — no less, the last one. 

“I just had one comment about your thesis, not a question,” and with how he had poked and prodded at the fire of your work from the moment you met him — the way he pushed you head first into the flames, if only to temper the best version of your work, and of yourself. And even though you had burned yourself one too many times, you couldn’t help but reach for it again and again, “after conferring with the committee, congratulations, you passed your defense.”

The audience claps and congratulates you, a sea of shaking hands and kind words while you recover from the defense. But as the crowd disperses, you find Suguru walking towards you. 

A silence settles over the two of you for a moment — a want to speak lingering between you two, but no words said. Why was it always when you had so much to say you found none of the thoughts you wanted to express? There wasn’t enough time — but they would never be.

But he breaks it first. 

“Congratulations on your defense. You did wonderfully,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, as you bite your lip, cheeks burning. 

“No remark about me being on time? Or any little criticisms? I’m shocked. You’ve lost your edge, Professor,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Oh, there will be time for that later,” he replies, his hand slipping out from his pocket only to be placed gently on your shoulder, “but right now, I just want you to know I’m proud of your determination and grit, but mostly, I’m proud of you,”

His name almost slips from your lips as your mouth opens and closes, words stuck in your throat, “Thank you. It means so much,” especially from you. But you can’t say that, “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me,” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” and you chuckle, gaze finding his own, just as it always did. 

“Don’t I? I think I owe you a drink, I never did buy you one after all — purely for networking purposes,” you add, “and a thank you for saving my ass on these citations,” 

And he’s shaking his head, “All I did is what you what have done for anyone else,” 

“And you wouldn’t?” And he shrugs. 

“For a student? Maybe. For you? Always,” and you bite your lip, gaze falling,  “what is it? 

“Why?” ‘Why for me?’ was the question you wanted to ask but you couldn’t push the words past your lips even as they rested on your tongue. 

But he knew the words. 

“You know the reasons,” he says softly, “I know you have nothing but amazing things ahead, and I’d do anything to see you reach your goals,” 

And he would. He did.

“I can agree with that,” a hand clasps your shoulder, Yaga gives a small smile, “good job,” 

“Professor Yaga, oh my god,” you grin, resisting the urge to hug him, “how are you? Are you feeling better?” 

“I’m well enough. Treatment has been honestly shit, but my son is doing a good enough job looking after me,” Yaga rubs the back of his head, “that and balancing classes hasn’t been easy for the kid.” 

“Your son goes here?” Professor Yaga points at a familiar cluster of three, “Panda?” You didn’t really see a family resemblance but you supposed you didn’t have to. 

He nods, “but I’m not here to talk about him,” he holds his hand out to you, “I’m very proud of you. I know you have a bright future ahead. I apologize I couldn’t help—“ 

“You did too much. Thank you Professor Yaga,” and then others are calling for you, “if you both will excuse me,” 

“Of course, I need to speak to Suguru so it’s just as well,” and your attention is pulled, but the corner of your eye still watches him, watches him leave the leave — leaving you behind here. Just as it should be, your gaze sliding back, as your fingers rested against your chest. 

So why did it hurt so much? 

Yuta was late — it seems he always was, when it came to you. 

Even so, this time it was somewhat purposely, but he still had tried to be on time. He wanted to at least hear the very end of your defense, if not in sight, then outside the classroom. But he had run late, trying to straighten out reservations he made at a restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for months. He had finally convinced them to bring out a cake as if to celebrate your birthday, but for your thesis. It was silly, as Yuta half walked half sprinted to the room of your defense, only to find it was over. 

The doors to the lecture hall had been opened after your defense finished, some people filing out, while others lingered to speak to you or others. Yuta held the bouquet of flowers behind him, scanning the group for you — and his eyes fell on you — with Geto. 

You were both off to the side, speaking alone, his hand clasped on your shoulder, before slipping off. And it was clear from the way he looked at you — that he felt the same for you as he always did. And you—

You looked the same, as you always did, when it came to Geto. 

Yuta’s fingers squeeze at the base of the flowers, plastic crinkling under his grasp. He hadn’t asked why you had stopped meeting with him for your thesis — almost a relief to have your correspondence all over email, and not to face dealing with the weekly meetings. He hadn’t asked, but he could assume some sort of argument happened, a discussion, a confession maybe — something you hadn’t broached with him. And a part of him really didn’t want you to. He didn’t want to have the boat rocked on him — but—

As he watched you become pulled away when another professor joined your conversation, and Geto was pulled away out of the room by that same professor — Yuta saw your eyes follow Geto’s back. The two walk past Yuta without notice, engrossed in their conversation, and Yuta catches a few snippets of it before they’re out the door. 

And he turned back to you — he knew he may have to be the one to rock it. Because the ship had already begun taking in water — and it was either he grasped onto the side with white knuckles and went down with it, or he let it go, letting it fall into the wreckage. He glanced away from you, starting to walk off towards the exit — because maybe this ship wasn’t made to sail, but to sink. 

And he couldn’t let himself drown — even for you. 

You checked your phone again as you left — no phone calls, not even a text back. You bit your lip as you made your way back to the apartment. You had already called him three times, but your anxiety was getting the better of you. He had told you he would meet you after the defense, but there wasn’t any sign of him. 

You opened the door to your place, keys jingling as head inside to find him sitting on the couch. You put your things down, as you head to the living room. 

“Yu? Are you okay? You weren’t picking up—“ and you see a bag of his things packed, “Yuta?” 

“Sorry I made you worry, baby, I just thought,” he sighs, unable to meet your gaze as he looks in front of him, “I thought I could wait, but I can’t,” 

“Yuta, what? What’s—“ 

Your name leaves his lips, cutting you off gently, as he finally looks at you, gaze heavy, “we need to break up.” 

You don’t have words. 

No, you have one word. 

“Why?” You ask, as you take steps forward to sit beside him, as your mind struggles to keep up — your certificate still in your hand, the excitement of being done all but extinguished. 

“I’m sorry, but don’t you know why?” He asks softly, and your eyebrows knit together, shaking your head, 

“What are you talking about?” And you’re wringing your hands, fingers nearly in knots, a sigh parting your lips as you try to soothe yourself, “Yuta, I know I’ve been busy this semester with my thesis, but it’s done with. And we can go back to—“ 

“We can’t,” and it was so final — so definitive — and without a way for you to have a choice. Yet again. Were you doomed to repeat this cycle? Again and again. With no change in the outcome. And you don’t know what to say, as you scrub a hand down your face. 

“Okay then,” and your name slips from his lips, as you cross your arms. 

“You don’t understand—“ and your chuckle is so bitter. 

“How can I when you haven’t explained? All you’ve said are cryptic things that I’m supposed to piece together what? What am I supposed to know?” Tears slip down your cheek, forcing your voice to stay steady, the stress of the last few months crashing down around you just as your relationship did, “I know that I haven’t been the best girlfriend. And I’m sorry. I really am,” your voice breaks, “But I tried. I tried to communicate. I tried to spend time with you, even when I didn’t have a minute to myself. You knew I’d be busy. You knew that going in and still—“ 

His voice is gentle, so gentle that it infuriates you — gentle even when he’s hurting you, “It’s not that—“ 

“Then what is it?” You snap — you were tired of running in circles — you needed an answer, a tangible reason why. 

“Geto,” you blink, as the confession settles over his face, “it wasn’t your schedule. It was who you spent it with,” and you’re staring for a moment, expression crumbling under the weight of the truth. 

“Yuta, Yu, no—“ you step towards him, but he only sighs, running a hand through his hair, “it was only for my thesis. Nothing happened between us. I promise,” 

“I trust you when you say nothing happened,” but his eyes lift to meet yours, “and in a way nothing has happened, because you still love him,” 

“yuta—“ 

“I know you love me, in some way,” the words leave his lips slowly, cutting you each syllable, but you can’t imagine how deeply and how long he’s been cut by these thoughts already, “but not like you love him—“ 

“That’s not—“ 

“You know before we started dating, I talked to Maki about how I feel, and I told her I was afraid that you would never look at me the way you look at him,” and the mended pieces of your heart break apart with new cracks with the way his voice wavers, “but all this time, and still, you haven’t. Even today, when I waited outside of the lecture hall, I saw you both together — and I know,” he breaks off, biting his lip, “I know it was him congratulating you, but the way you looked at him hadn’t changed—“ 

You’re shaking your head, “Yuta, no, no, it’s just a look. I don’t even know how I look at him, but it doesn’t—“ 

“I do know how you look. It hasn’t changed,” he’s swallowing, his eyes fall to the floor, “and it’s not just that. Do you see a future with me?” 

“Of course—“ 

“When I brought up moving in, you said you’d think about it, but have you?” you open and close your mouth, fingers grasping at the fabric of your clothes, “have you thought about what happens after you graduate? Or what’s next for us?” your silence is answer enough — sinking in for you, as it already did for him — slipping in between your ribs like a well placed dagger — and it had stabbed him all the same too, “you love me, but I don’t think you’re in love with me,” 

“Yuta, I do, I do love you—“ and he draws close to you, fingers cupping your cheek. 

“But the world doesn’t stop for you when I come near? It doesn’t feel as if I steal your breath when I hold you like this? Does it feel as if you don’t wish to spend a moment without me?” 

“Love doesn’t always have to—“ 

“But it does — to some extent,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “you imagined your future with him didn’t you? Didn’t even want to spend a moment apart?” And he gives a terse chuckle, “we have to break up,” 

You don’t want it to be true. You want to fight him, argue, convince him he’s wrong, that the explanation he’s pieced before you is falsified — a distorted version of how you felt conflated by misunderstandings. 

But you can’t. 

“Yuta, I—“ and he shakes his head, “no, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I didn’t mean—“ your eyes burn with tears, “I’m sorry,” 

He smiles softly, pulling you into his arms, “I knew we had rushed in, but I didn’t want to wait, because I thought I’d lose my chance,” 

“Yu—“ he kisses your cheek, “I do love you, I do,” and he nods, lips curling sadly, before he pulls you into another hug. 

“I know. I love you too.” 

But it wasn’t enough — and it wasn’t right. 

Not for either of you. 

You don’t know how much time you spent in bed after that. The semester had closed out, and you had curled up under your sheets — seemingly a new tradition you had of ending a semester with a break up. You wondered if graduating would end it — and if it didn’t, you might have to reconsider going for your Ph.D. — if only to avoid this pain again. 

You stick your head up out of your blanket, glancing at the light pooling in from the window — because time went on no matter how you felt, and the sun rose each day, despite it all. 

Yuta had grabbed his things and left a while after. You still could feel the brush of his fingers against your skin as he squeezed your hand one last time. 

“You’re still my best friend,” you had told him, forcing your voice to stay even, and he chuckles, a smile on his lips. 

“You’re still mine too.” 

But even so you hadn’t heard from him in a few days — but you couldn’t blame him. You could only blame yourself. It had become so exceedingly clear that he was right. And you didn’t know how you hadn’t seen it. The anger still lingered, but anger was only the remnants of your love for him that still stubbornly clung to life, despite your efforts to move on. 

But moving on wasn’t as simple as finding feelings for someone else — not when you were only ever truly in love with one person. 

You were still in love with Suguru. 

Despite it all — you hadn’t gotten over him, and you weren’t sure you ever would. If months weren’t enough, would years be? Would you ever get rid of the feelings you had for him, wrapped around your limbs, and had snuck into the crevices of your heart. An invasive species that perhaps you would never eradicate. 

But you couldn’t go back now. Not after everything that happened. Not 

Your phone goes off, lighting up on your bedside table before beginning to ring, your fingers slipping from inside your cocoon of blankets. You grab your phone — Professor Yaga? 

“Hello?” 

He greets you with your name, “I hope you’re doing well — I just wanted to reach out to congratulate you again on your successful defense,” you smile, sitting up as you do. The two of you make small talk as he discusses his recovery, reporting that he’s doing well. 

“Thank you so much Professor Yaga, for everything, really,” and he chuckles. 

“Thank you for being so understanding of my situation — it was difficult, but I’m glad Suguru stepped for in me so well, and I’m sure he’ll do well in Kyoto—“ 

“He’s going back?” the question spills from your lips before you can even hold your tongue, “I didn’t know you were—“ 

“I’m not returning yet, but even if I do, I don’t think I will be returning as a department head. So I gave Suguru the choice to stay department head here or move to Kyoto,” and he adds, “I did give him the choice to stay here or move back to Kyoto,”

And your throat is dry, “Oh I see. That’s good for him,” a silence settles over the call for a moment, before Yaga speaks.

“He hasn’t made a decision yet,” Yaga says, and he’s staying for graduation so if you’d like to thank him in person since I interrupted your conversation, II know on good authority that he’s in his office right now,” and he adds, “it’s not too late if someone were to speak to him now,” 

You blink, “Professor Yaga—“ 

“You’re all but graduated so I’m allowed to say this — I wish you both the best. But I know Suguru has never been happier than when he was with you,” you bite your lip, “so for both of your sakes, you should go talk to him,” 

“Thank you, Professor, for everything.” And you hang up without much to do, grabbing your bag and keys before heading out the door. 

He was right, fingers squeezing around your phone — it’s what you owed him — and yourself. 

Suguru sat back in his office, finally done with his papers for his philosophy class. The sun had long fled the sky, along with most staff and students. The end of the semester had come quick, and with it came a quiet and deserted campus with nothing but his grade book and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights in his office to keep him company. 

Not that he was craving company. 

He loosened his tie, unbuttoning a button or two on his shirt and on his cuffs, and then rolled his sleeves up. He was insane for still insisting on teaching a class amongst the insanity, though he did have another professor step in to co-teach the course. He didn’t know why he had stuck to that sticking point when it was illogical — but, as he gazed down at the stack of final papers strewn in front of him doused in his red ink, he knew it wasn’t a logical reason. 

He was rifling through the graded stack, adding the scores to his grade book. This semester has been a mixed bag, a mix of grades — from high to low. Some of the papers were insightful, others were clear that they had only taken this class as a course to blow off. But even of all the high graded essays, not one of the papers compared to yours. 

But of course, no one compares to you, and that’s why he needed to leave. He knew that. He wanted you to be happy — even if that didn’t include him. And after this semester, it couldn’t. Being around you was an exercise of torture — Tantalus who had been starving for decades to get a taste of food, only to be hungrier after that morsel. A bite of the apple only makes you want to devour it, core and all. 

It was just as Aristotle had said — desire was made of both rational and irrational, and his longing for you is rooted in the rational — because yes, perhaps his body craved you irrationally and carnally, but that was far overshadowed by the need for you after experiencing you for himself. This self made inducement would be the death of him, and Aristotle himself would call him a fool. 

But he didn’t need him to — because he was. A fool and a coward, just as you said. He sets down his pen, leaning against his hand, as he looks over at the blank reply email to Yaga with his cursor blinking. It would be for the best if he left for Kyoto again. So you didn’t have to see him again. 

And then there was a knock at his office door. He paused, eyes flicking up only to hear your voice through the door, “It’s me,” 

He hates the way his breath catches at the sound of you, heart picking up as his eyes flicker to the somewhat late hour and back. No words on his lips except the one thing he can say. 

“Come in,” 

And you do — you always liked to tease him that he was the one who was unfair when it came to how he looked, but to him, it was you that was unfair. Your hair askew, chest rising and falling quick, clothes a little disheveled and yet, you were always the most gorgeous person he’d met in his life. 

You shift in the entryway of the door, squirming seemingly under his gaze, “Is this a bad time?” 

Time never was in either of your favor, not ones that she found beguiling, except in a way meant to deceive. But time and time again, he allowed himself to be tricked — if only for a moment with you. 

“No, not at all. I just wrapped up grading the final papers,” and you give a soft chuckle, as you close the door behind you, before taking careful steps forward, eyes finding the stack nearly bleeding from his careful cuts and slashes. 

“How many red pens did you use up? Fifty?” 

“Oh, only forty-nine this time, trying to be more conservative with my usage,” and you scoff, more of a chuckle than a sneer, “plus, I didn’t have a student write several pages over the limit this time—“ 

You gape at him, and he has to bite back his smile,  “It was one page, and you said I could,” 

“Bullied into it was more like it,” 

“Don’t know of a case where a student could bully a professor into anything,” 

“They clearly haven’t had you in their classroom,” and then he adds, a soft smile on his lips, “but I suppose I could see them enjoy being bullied by a student as passionate about the subject — even if my office hours suffered for it,” 

“You loved those office hours,” and he wants to say, yes, when you were there — but he can’t. He told himself he wouldn’t cross that line, “and I did too,” you add, and his eyes find yours — but maybe you would cross it instead, “you remember what you said about not being my professor anymore?” 

And he did — all those months ago at the end of the first semester you had spent in class together, and he’s nodding, mouth impossibly dry, “Well I’m as good as graduated, so you’re definitely not my professor, not anymore,” 

Your name slips from his lips, brow furrowed, a question almost, as if it can’t be what your words implied, but you’re shaking your head, as you pull a folded paper from your bag, unfolding it before sliding it across his desk. 

His eyes fall on it, and it’s the note he had written all those months ago — asking you for a drink, and for so much more. He had admired your determination, your wit, your beauty, your intellect, and so many other things he didn’t have space to say — 

“Suguru,” and his eyes find yours, and god, why was it so easy to get lost in your heady gaze? “We had said we didn’t want to hurt each other — but I don’t think that’s something that can be avoided. You hurt me,” and he nods, lips parting ready for an apology, “but I’ll probably hurt you — and I probably have already,” 

“Sweetheart—“ the pet name falls from his mouth as if it’s second nature, “I—“ 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” and the corner of his eyes burn with tears — is this a dream? Because he swears, it would be the cruelest one so far, “I can’t stop loving you, and I’ve tried to—I’ve tried to move on,” 

“Maybe it would be for the best,” but you’re shaking your head, as you’re slowly rounding his desk, and the truth can’t help but fall from his lips, “I don’t deserve you—“ 

“What did I say about making decisions about us without me?” And he sighs, resistance crumbling as you draw far too close — and he couldn’t bear not to reach out, “you have to take responsibility for your actions, don’t you?” 

“Sweetheart—“ 

“You said you haven’t moved on — is that still true?” 

His fingers reach across the chasm he had carved between the two of you, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw and the swell of your cheek, just he had wanted to for all these months. And just a taste, a brush of your skin, he’d never let you go again. 

“I never could — not from you,” his voice wavers, “every day I missed you — I never wanted to break up with you, I just couldn’t bear to be the reason that you ever hold yourself back from getting something you wanted,” and he gives a bitter chuckle, shaking his head, “who knew I was the one doing that by leaving? And I’m so sorry, I am so—” 

And your forehead pressed against his, his words nearly swallowed with a sob, as he squeezes his eyes shut, tears burning a trail down his cheeks, that you gently thumb away before cupping his cheeks, “I want to hear something other than an apology,” 

His flutter open, lips brushing against your cheek, “I love you, I always have, sweetheart. I never stopped—” his voice breaks, a crack in the dam enough to spill the truth from his lips and tears from his eyes, “and I promise I’ll never break my promises anymore — that’s a contradiction, but—“ and your fingers find purchase on his cheek, consuming the words on his lips with your touch, “I promise, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” 

Your lips curl, eyes watery as you kiss away one of his tears, “Is that a proposal?” you tease, your other hand slides back through his black locks, twisting one strand around your finger, “seems a little fast for that when you haven’t even kissed me properly yet,” 

He snorts softly, clearing his throat ever so slightly, “If memory serves me, we’ve done a lot more than kiss before,” and he’s daring closer, as you lean down, your legs pressed against the lip of his desk, “nearly in this office,” and he’s slipping up from his desk, his breath stolen from his lungs by the whisper of your perfumed skin, and his logic eroded by the heat of your body against his. 

“‘Nearly,’” you repeat with a soft hum, as your lips graze his jaw, “then why don’t we fix that?” your lips find his, a chaste kiss, barely a few seconds when you pull away half a centimeter, and he’s already leaning back in for another and another. 

The familiar feel of your lips against yours makes him wonder how he had survived without you for so long — falling for you was as natural as breathing and kissing you was needed as oxygen. But each kiss only sends jolt over jolt up and down his body, and he wonders if he were to ever stop again, perhaps his heart would too. 

Because all the time he had spent not with you was time spent living — perhaps breathing and existing. But no, he only felt alive when he was at your side — and in your arms. And especially against your lips. Delights in the way your lips part for him like muscle memory, tongue against yours — in a sloppy, desperate kiss that has every ounce of reason sucked from his mind (and likely into your mouth). 

He parts if only for air, a string of spit connecting your lips, that he thumbs away, “If I recall, you had something about me not being very ethical last time we did this,” he remarks, his lips parting before kissing down your jaw, your taste an addiction to his deprived lips — a desert wanderer ready to swallow you whole, “and now here you are,” he’s leaning back, as your hand is splayed back against the wood of his desk, your chest rising and falling, lips kiss bitten red and swollen from his own, “what do you call this?” His finger is toying with the top button of your blouse. 

“A student taking after her teacher,” your lips find his pulse, teeth grazing his skin as if to taunt him, to goad him to go further, but, and his fingers slip behind. your thighs and squeeze no goading was needed — he was ready to devour you. 

And he’s lifting you onto his desk, papers crumpling underneath and pens flung onto the floor, and a gasp caught in your throat as he pins you against it, before tugging his tie off. 

“Looks like I still have plenty to teach you.” 

“Sugu, fuck,” your fingers thread through his black locks, undone from his bun hy your own hands, your nails digging into his scalp. How long have you been in this office with him now? Half an hour? Almost an hour? Time had lost all meaning to you when he had kissed his way down your body. 

Burning kisses that had stolen your thoughts from your mind and left only him in its wake — how had you lived without him? Your fingers had found their way to the back of his neck, as his lips mapped the peaks and valleys of your neck and collarbone. 

“Fuck,” a gasp parts your lips when his teeth teases the juncture of your neck and shoulder, sucking and biting again and agin, until he’s left pretty love bites gracing your across your skin. 

And that sharp tongue of his dragged over the marks left blooming on your skin, as if couldn’t simply get enough of you, and he couldn’t. 

“Suguru, please—“ you’re whining already and he barely began, and the all too smug smile against the swell of your breast only told you he thought the same. 

“Patience, Princess, so needy f’me, aren’t you?” But he obliged anyway, fingers deftly unbuttoning your shirt. 

And now your blouse was nearly shrugged off, your bra undone with your pert nipples still sticky with his saliva and breasts covered in small marks from his teeth grazing your skin. And now he had tugged your skirt down and off, leaving you only in your underwear. 

“You’re making such a mess on my desk, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue, as his large palms slide up your plush thighs and squeeze, drawing a lovely gasp from your lips, before he’s parting your thighs, “but it’s such a pretty mess when it’s you,” and you were so fucking pretty with your legs parted like this, panties translucent from your juices leaking from your dripping folds, even glossy against the wood of his desk now. And he would be sure to make a bigger mess soon enough. 

“Sugu,” your cheeks burn as he stares, your embarrassment melting into a gasp when his fingers drag against your clothed slit teasingly, up and down, so meticulously again and again, until his fingers are sticky with your pre, “ngh, please—“ 

Your plea is enough for him to snap, as he’s tugging your underwear away and off, tucking the ruined panties into his pocket with a glint of his amethyst eyes in the low light of his office. Pretty folds in full display for him, with your swollen clit and glistening slit nearly begging for attention, and he’s more than happy to oblige. 

And he’s running a finger down your lovely folds, gathering precum on his finger, far too slowly for your liking, as he takes his time to circle your clit, “All this just from a few kisses?” lust pools in his gaze with a flicker of amusement, “so sensitive just for me,” your need for him as plain as the juices that seep from your pussy, walls fluttering and aching for something more than the tip of his finger. 

“Suguru, fuck, I can’t,” your toes curl when he finally pities you with a kiss to your needy cunt, nose bumping against your clit teasingly, the friction making your thighs tremble, “please—” 

“Never thought I’d hear my quick witted T.A. beg for me like this, but I have dreamt of it,” you glance down at him, lips glossy with your pre, “I have to make up for time lost, time I wasted without you, princess,” and his thumb rubs at your clit, while his lips press sweet kisses to the flesh of your inner thigh, “it’s what I owe you, isn’t it?” 

“I—” your sentence lost to a moan as he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit, tip of his tongue teasingly lingering around your entrance, and your hips buck into his touch, warm palms coming down to pin you in place against his desk. 

You can barely stifle your moans, fingers flying up to press a hand over your mouth, as the tongue starts to flick and circle your clit, while a lithe finger teases your tight cunt, “I’m not one for sweets, but you may give me a sweet tooth,” and his lips close around your clit, sucking and licking, making your back arch, your arm behind you shaking as it struggled to keep your balance. 

“Fuuuuck, Sugu, I—” you’re panting, head lolling back when he finally sinks a finger into your fluttering walls, the wet squelch of your cunt and your barely contained moans filling up the relative silence of his office, “please—” and a second finger joins the first, a smirk on his lips as he kisses your puffy clit again, a groan when he feels the way your walls clench around his fingers, knuckle deep. 

“Gonna break my fingers at this rate, sweetheart,” he’s grunting, but even so he’s adding a third finger, the stretch far too delicious as it sends stripes of heat up and down your body and right to your spasming cunt, “what are you going to do when I put my cock inside? Our refresher lesson has barely begun,” and he’s enjoying this too much, and when his arms are hooking around your thighs, carefully lying you back on his desk, your hands slipping from his hair, and instead propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Sugu, wh—” and your back arches as he begins to thrust deeper into your cunt, a strangled gasp on your lips that melts into a moan as his lips close around your clit. You can barely make out the obscene noises that leave your lips, as his fingers fuck you open, before he’s sucking hard — once, twice, and then a third time— “I’m—“ 

You can barely find the words before you’re cumming, walls squeezing and fluttering around his fingers while he fucks you through it, lapping at your juices, his name on your lips again and again, until you finally come down from your high. He pulls his fingers away from your twitching pussy, only to bury his face in between your thighs again. 

“Fuuuck, Sugu—“ your moans are broken as your body arches into him, fingers finding purchase on his shoulders, sucking and licking your release eagerly, seemingly hellbent on tasting every inch of you. 

Pretty moans fell from your mouth, muffled as you clasped your hand over your lips, “can’t waste a drop, sweetheart,” he’s slurping and sucking at your cunt, and god, if anyone walked by his office, they would surely hear you both — hear the nasty squelch of your pussy and your barely muffled moans. 

How many times did you orgasm from his tongue alone? You had lost track. Each time he would bring you over the edge with the thrust of his tongue or the suck of his lips, and he would eat you out through it, only building to the next and then the next. 

“Sugu, please, I’m close, fuck—“ and you can’t even hear your own broken voice, not over the lewd sounds of his mouth sucking at your pussy, the coil tight in your stomach and ready to snap, until another hard suck makes you cum, hard.

Your fingers find their way into his hair, clutching at him desperately as you squirt all over his face, drenching him along with his desk, wood sticky and soaked with your release. He’s lapping at your cunt, thighs twitching from your orgasm, until he’s finally pulling away to glance up at you with dark eyes, his chin and mouth glossy with your cum and his spit. His tongue darts out to clean both, before wiping the rest away with the back of his hand, glazed over gaze half lidded with need. 

“S’good for me, Princess,” he’s pressing gentle kisses up your body, “so pliant, and yet you were so mouthy before,” and his lips kiss that mouth of yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as he presses you further into the desk, his arm slinked around your back. And you’re pulling him just as close, hands grasping at the front of his button-up. 

And then you’re pushing him back, forcing him into his chair, as you get to your feet, before sinking to your knees. His breath catches, eyes watching you — your disheveled appearance, hair half mussed, and skin shiny with sweat, “let me show you how mouthy I can be.” 

“Imagine someone walked in now, see your pants down for your favorite student,” your tongue trailed up the underside of his clothed cock — and he could nearly cum looking down at you between his thighs, your kiss bitten lips pressing a sweet kiss to the head of his dick, thumbing at the leaking slit, licking your lips at the sight of the large stain of his precum on his cock, “Sugu, you’re so fucking big, can’t wait to feel this inside,” and his length twitches, a grunt in the back of his throat, as your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, snapping the waistband against his sensitive skin. 

And god, he’s fucking pretty like this. Black locks falling in front of his perfectly sculpted cheekbones with a lovely flush settled over his features 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he’s panting, head nearly lolling back against the headrest of his chair, “gonna tease me after this long?” it’s half joking, half pleading, but you’re only clicking your tongue at him. 

“You made me wait much longer, Suguru — made me cry too,” and his gaze softens, lips parted with an apology that fades into a hiss, as you free him from his boxers, erection slapping against his still clothed abs, “but now I’m going to make you cry,” you press a teasing kiss to his weeping tip, flushed red with need, letting his white pearly release paint your lips, “until you’re begging to cum,” 

A strangled gasp caught in his throat, tracing the pretty veins and curves like it was made for you, “You’re so pretty, Sugu — all of this is for me?” Your fingers slowly stroking his length, his moaning music to your ears, as your other hand teasing his balls, “gonna cum down my throat already? Can’t cum this soon,” you cooed, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair, and yet your fingers squeeze around his base, hips jerking into your touch. 

“Princess, stop teasing—“ his protests had fallen on deaf ears, as you bring your pretty lips to his aching tip, only to trace his slit with the tip of his tongue, salty precum disappearing inside your mouth, and fuck, it’s enough for him to nearly cum there and then, “please,” 

“Didn’t know you could be so polite, Sugu, when begging for your student to swallow your cock,” and finally you let his cock part past your lips, and his head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your tongue swirls around his length. It was already too much for him — so much, just as you were, your tongue tracing and teasing his dick, while your lips sucked along the base. 

And you weren’t doing much better, the weight of his cock against your tongue makes your cunt ache for him, and sneaking glances at his fucked out form — muffled moans of your name as he covers his lips with the back of his arm, as his dark gaze watches you sink his cock into your mouth again. Your hand is slipping into your throbbing pussy for some relief, as you bob up and down his length. 

But he doesn’t miss it, a groan at the sight of you swallowing his dick whole whole riding your own hand, “Does fucking your mouth feel that good, Princess? Feel that good that you need to touch yourself?” And you’re moaning around his length, vibrations of sending shivers up his spine and a groan of your name from his lips, “So fucking good f’me, Princess — too good for me,” he’s grunting, as you let his tip brush the back of your throat now, making pleasure rip up his body, “sweetheart, please, g’nna fuck your throat if you keep that up,” 

And you ease off, letting his cock slap against your tongue as it slips out, “maybe I want you, Sugu,” you’re kissing and licking along his length, “want you to fuck my smart little mouth,” 

Fuck. 

You’re sliding his cock back in, his hips jerking against you as you let him sink all the way in, tip brushing against your throat again. And fuck, the wet squelch of your fingers inside you breaks him, as he starts to give an experimental thrust, a light one that has you moaning around him. He’s gauging your reaction, only for you to force his length down more, barely not blowing his load there and then, as you look up at him, a smile in your eyes as if you’re daring him. 

And he can’t hold back. 

He’s fucking your mouth, your tongue massaging up and down his length as he thrusts inside your warm mouth, his nails digging into your locks as he holds you flush to his body. The sight of you on your knees, taking his dick as drool and pre drip down your chin, eyes nearly rolling back with pleasure as you do, making his cock twitch in your mouth. 

“That feel that good, Princess? Wanted me to fuck this mouth that bad? I should do it more often if that’s what it takes.” he’s almost drunk off the pleasure, thrusts growing a little rougher as he grows close, “fuck, I’m close, baby, where—“ and your hands are sliding around to his lower back, holding him in place as your answer, “shit, sweetheart, you’re going to be the death of me,” and you suck around him as his tip hits the back of your throat again, and that’s it—

He spills, hot cum flooding your mouth and down your throat, as you both moan in unison, large spurts devolving into smaller ones, as he comes down from his high. You don’t waste a drop, swallowing every bit of it, as you finally pull away from his cock with a pop, the sight of your ruined lips with strings of spit and cum still connecting you to his dick is enough to have it twitching again. 

“Sweetheart, you’re s’good to me,” he’s gently pulling you up into his lap, his fingers running through your hair. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t—“ and you’re cutting him off with a soft kiss that steals the words from his mind, your eyes shiny with tears. 

“You do, you do because I choose you, because I love you, and I know you’re sorry,” you cup his cheek, before lightly pinching it, “and if you ever do anything that stupid again, I’m going to kill you and I’ll be ethically and morally justified,” and he chuckles, burying his face in the crook of your neck to press soft kisses to your skin, before pulling back to look up at you. 

“You have my permission to do that, because if I ever leave my soulmate again — it’s only the consequences of my actions,” and he kisses your forehead, before he presses his to yours, “and I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not by my side,” 

You kiss him slowly, wrapping your arms around him, slowly heat building as the head of his cock bumps against the length of your cunt — the sparks grow into flames, threatening to engulf you both. And you would let them if only for one more second of his touch. 

“Sugu, please, I need you,” you murmur, breathing in his pants as your noses bump, “need you inside me,” he cups your cheek, meeting in another kiss, before you’re lining yourself up, weeping cock bumping against your needy entrance. 

“Are you ready?” You ask, and it’s for more than just this moment, it’s for everything that comes after — for every second that you both get to live together, “our phones are off right?” 

He snorts, “I turned it off when you entered my office,” and you laugh, shaking his head, as he places a kiss behind your ear. 

“I did the same before I came in,” his fingers cup your cheek, as you lean into his warm palm, “just you and me?” You echo from your first time together, and his lips curl into the softest smile. 

“You and me, sweetheart,” and you’re sinking onto him, tip parting your spread folds as your walls swallow him whole, inch by inch, and his fingers grasp at your hips, helping you ease onto his cock, pretty lips parted with a quiet murmur of your name. 

And when he finally bottoms out inside you, he’s almost forgotten how good it felt — pleasure ripping up his spine as your hips are pressed flush to the other, “So deep, Sugu, fuck,” your walls are fluttering around him pulling even deeper, clamping down as if he groans, “I’m gonna move,” you manage between pants. 

You lift up to the tip before slowly beginning to bounce up and down, your moans filling his ears along with the squeaks and rattling of his computer chair. His eyes flutter open only to watch your breasts bounce up and down as you ride him, his hands reaching out to squeeze at the pillowy flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. 

“S’big, fuck, Sugu,” you’re moaning, a mess as you fucked yourself on him, but still not quite deep enough, and he begins to meet your thrusts with his own, making you fall forward holding onto him with a whine as he fucks up into you. The sounds of his balls slapping against your needy cunt ring in your ears, the grunts your pussy pulls from his mouth as he drives himself impossibly deep, “ngh, Sugu, fuck, s’good—,” you’re whining, back arching into his touch, nails digging into his shoulders, “please,” 

“That’s it, take my cock, pretty girl,” he murmurs, “so good for me. So tight, never going to leave this cunt at this rate, baby—“ 

And then they hear a door creak open and close nearby, freezing as they do, heart thumping against your ribs, but your wall flutters all the same, “think they’ll see us like this?” He teases, and his cock twitches in your cunt, “spread out and fucked by your former professor’s cock?” And you know he’s only goading you as the footsteps depart, but your walls squeeze at the thought, “want them to see how good you are for me? How well I’ve taught you to take this cock?” 

And he begins to fuck into you again, pistoning up into you, drawing more moans from your lips. He had taught you every inch and curve and vein of his dick, but this refresher would make sure you’d never forget. 

“Sugu, I’m close, I-“ and his hand is slipping between your bodies to rub at his clit right as his cock hits that spot that has you seeing stars as you cum hard around his cock. He watches the place your bodies meet, a white ring of cum around the base of his cock as your walls flutter around him. 

He fucks you through your orgasm, hips stuttering as he twitches inside you, “fuck, sweetheart, where should I—“ and you’re moaning as you manage to meet his thrust to notch him even deeper as he finally cums. 

His thick ropes paints your walls, as he rocks against you slowly, forcing his cum deeper and deeper, your name leaving your lips again and again — reverent whispers and promises muttered in your ear, as he finally stills underneath you. 

You’re leaning against him, mixed releases surely leaking onto his lap and the chair, both of your quiet pants filling the silence, until he’s breaking it. He kisses your lips again and again, before he stares at you — kiss bruised lips and the pretty sheen of sweat that clings to your skin, “It’s not fair you’re this perfect,” he murmurs, a thumb dragging down your lips, “how would I have ever resisted you?” 

“Luckily, the universe did that for us,” and he huffs a chuckle, “and you,” you add in a small whisper, and he frowns, nodding. 

“I did and I never will again, I promise, sweetheart,” he’s pressing sweet kisses to your burning skin, pulling you impossibly closer to him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, “I’m yours — yours to keep, yours to use, yours to love — you have my heart and my soul,” he’s cupping your cheek when you lift your head, “and I’ll never let go, because you’re the only answer to life I need, if you’ll allow to be yours,” 

“You were always mine,” your forehead pressed to his, “that’s never changed, and it never will,” 

“You always one up me, don’t you?” And you roll your eyes. 

“The student has to surpass the master someday, doesn’t she?” his lips curl. 

“Oh you’ve done that a long time ago, Princess,” his lips graze yours again and again, and soon enough you’re shifting on his lap, until the chair buckles under the weight and the seat travels to the bottom of where it’s wheels rested. The two of you are silent a moment, before a giggle escapes your lips, “I think you’ll have to get a new chair,” you murmur, and he’s chuckling, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Why not the chair and the desk?” And you’re blinking before he’s lifting you up, before making you turn, pressing your front flush against the wood of the desk, “and if I’m getting new furniture, I might as well use this to its full capacity, shouldn’t I?” And he’s dragging his erection across your ass, “really make sure it’s broken,”

You gasp, walls fluttering as his tip teased your messy entrance, “don’t you need broken in—“ and he bottoms out in one thrust, as he presses his body against yours, lips pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, before his teeth dig into the sensitive flesh. 

And he smirks as he hears you moan under him, as he soothes the blooming hickey with his tongue, “No, I meant broken, sweetheart.”

“Suguru!” You called from his bedroom, as he smoothed his hair out in the bathroom mirror, a glance over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, “can you come help me?” 

And how could he refuse? He steps out of the bathroom to only find you struggling with your Hakama. The formal garment hangs uselessly around your front, your brow furrowed and lips pursed. 

He suppresses his laugh, forcing his tone to be even. 

“Does my incredibly brilliant girlfriend need help with her hood?” Your pout is enough for him to nearly break his promise that he wouldn’t kiss you when your makeup was done, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes the offending garment from around your neck, and you cross your arms. 

“I can handle reading Hegel’s works — The Phenomenology of Spirit was irritating but doable,” and you scowl at the Hakama in his hand, “but that thing was made to torture,” 

He snorts, “Consider it your last trial before graduation,” 

“No, my last is seeing if my thesis was peer reviewed and accepted for publication somewhere,” you sigh, “I still have to make the edits—“ 

“That can be a later problem, just focus on the moment right now,” he steps behind you after adjusting the Hakama and tying it around the back and front to secure it, before pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “and now you look both beautiful and properly dressed,” 

His arms wrap around your waist from behind, “Sugu, we have to leave soon,” 

“Just a minute, just let this sink in,” he kisses the side of your neck, “have I told you how proud I am of you?” 

“Hmm, just about every second of the last few days,” you lean against him, and nothing ever felt so perfect — his arms were the only ones you belonged in. 

And yet, why did that thought also hurt? 

“What is iy, baby?” Suguru murmurs, ever too perceptive as always, “something on your mind,” 

“More like someone,” you mumble, and you’re laying your head against his shoulder, “I can’t help but feel guilty — Yuta and I just broke up and I’m—“ you’re shaking your head, “I’m so happy, and I hate myself for it,” 

Suguru frowns, “I don’t know Yuta well, but I know he did love you, the same way I do, and I can’t speak for him,” but then he’s squeezing your middle, “but as someone who loves you, I’d want you to be with someone who could make could make you happy,” you kiss his head, “and isn’t that why he broke up with you? You both deserve that chance — even if it’s not each other.” 

“When did you get so smart?” and he pulls you impossibly closer, kissing along the neckline of your kimono. 

“Somewhere between my bachelor’s degree and being your professor,” he adds with his lips curled in a smirk, “though I’d err closer to the time of being your professor,” 

Your head against his shoulder, you lean up for a kiss, as he blinks, before melting into your touch, as you pull back with a grin, “it’s ok if I initiate the kiss,” you chuckle when you catch sight of his pout, “don’t worry I’ll be giving you plenty after the ceremony — and maybe something even more than a kiss,” 

“Is that a promise?” And you tug him close, pressing another kiss to his lips — your lips were already smudged, so why hold back. 

“Always, for you.” 

Yuta knew it was for the best. 

It had been a few weeks that he spent mourning his relationship — but he knew that it was the right choice for him. He had chased after you, it felt as if he was dogging your every step, waiting for you to notice him. And when you did, he still felt as he was your second choice — and that he would live in Geto’s shadow for the entirety of the relationship. 

And he didn’t want that. He didn’t deserve that — and neither did you. More than anything, he wanted you to be happy — even if that wasn’t with him. 

It was for the best. 

And the start to the new semester just proved that. He was starting his final year of his program, he had become the head of the student government (after Maki decided to step down to a more administrative role to focus on her degree), and he had even become a teacher’s assistant to one of his favorite professors. He didn’t have time to focus on a relationship, not when he should be focusing on his future. 

He entered the classroom that day, a little early on his professor’s request to set up the classroom with handouts, only to bump into someone, papers spilling from his hands. 

“Sorry, I—” he leans down to pick up the dropped papers, before glancing up and finds himself looking at just that—

His future. 

A few months later. 

“You’re late,” Suguru Geto remarks, as he shows you his watch on his wrist — the very one you had bought him for his birthday a few weeks before, “but I should expect that by now, shouldn’t I?”

You give a guilty grin, as you find your way to his side, sliding your hands up around his neck, “Yes you should, especially when your girlfriend is a very important lecturer who was kept by all her students — jealous?” 

And he chuckles, his hair tied up in a half bun as usual, your fingers toying with a strand again, before he’s lacing with fingers with yours to press a kiss to the back of your hand, “Very — because your students are stealing my time with my very intellectual girlfriend,” and he leans down to press a kiss to the hollow of your throat, “it sounds like it was a success — I knew it would be,” he adds, “but someone else wasn’t so sure,” 

You roll your eyes playfully, “Yes, yes, you were right — the students found my work interesting, or at least interesting enough not to fall asleep and ask questions—” 

“High praise,” and your lips curl into a smile, “What?” 

“I love you,” he grins back at you, a chuckle on his lips, as he leans down to capture them, his smile apparent against you, as he parts from you, a heat still present in the pit of your stomach, a need for him burning as it always was, “I love you so much, Suguru,” 

“I love you too, princess,” he’s rubbing his thumb back and forth against the length of your cheek, “Good thing too because otherwise, moving in together would be more than a little awkward,” and you pout, and he’s laughing before kissing you again and again, until he’s kissing your pout away with a languid kiss that has you melting into his grasp — breathless when he pulls away, lips utterly kiss ruined and red, “they should be calling us into the viewing soon,” he bites his lip,and you’re nodding reluctantly if only considering whether if you could sway him for another few moments alone. Instead you settle for burying your face in the crook of his neck, lips brushing against his leaping pulse, “you’re sure about moving to Kyoto? I had only chosen Kyoto to give you space—” 

You cut him off with a glance up and a raised eyebrow, “You’re the one who said I could choose, and I chose Kyoto because not only is it a good opportunity for you here to build your reputation as the department head, but because it’s a fresh start for us,” 

His fingers lace with yours, “Well if they keep asking you to lecture in Tokyo, you might develop a commute,” and you roll your eyes, before shrugging. 

“I can handle it,” you squeeze his hand, “as long as I'm coming home to you.” 

“And a cat or a poodle,”and you light up, grinning even wider, “we should ask if they allow pets,” 

“Really? We can—” 

“I heard poodles are a good choice of pet,” and you’re leaning up to kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck, “I made an appointment for at an adoption center after this,” 

“Mr. Geto?” a person comes out of the leasing office, “we’re ready for you both,” 

And you pull away, your fingers interlacing with yours and squeezing his hand, “Are you ready?” 

His lips curl in a smile, “I think we owe it to ourselves, don’t we? Especially they agreed to take us for our viewing after you were late,” 

And you chuckle, as the two of you made your way inside, “I swear you’re going to leave without me one of these days if I’m late enough,” 

“No, I’d never do that. I’ll always wait for you, sweetheart,” he holds the door open for you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “we have all the time in the world after all.” And you grin at him as you walk past him, his fingers reaching into his pocket. 

He had found out his answer to life — watching you greet and speak with the agent, before glancing back at him with a small smile and tilt of your head — his fingers toy with the ring box in his pocket— 

And now he just needed to know yours.  

END. 

Yuta’s own love story will be coming after Professor Gojo’s! 

✧a/n: wow i'm still in disbelief i finished this series. this is my first series on tumblr, and i truly hope you all enjoyed. this part was wayyyy longer than i expected. but i hope i did the series justice.

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @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 , @lalacute03 , @rxndou , @c-themoon , @xxrag-d0llxx , @hqtoge , @sugarxlumps , @hopeluna , @actualdeemon , @enchantedpendant , @serendididy , @soulstealercat , @neuviloved , @simply-a-s1mp , @satorusmochis , @lalacute03

[adragonprinceswhore]

Soft & Hard

Aemond Targaryen x Ex Girlfriend

Summary: How do you forget about Aemond Targaryen when he’s everywhere you look?

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, emotional infidelity, descriptions of self-hatred, situationship, intoxication, smut, heavy petting, drunk sex, P in V, (some) size kink

Word Count: 4000

A/N: This has been plaguing my mind for weeks now, so I really needed to get it out of me and into the world. This can be read as a continuation of my Hockey player Aemond drabble, but can also be read as a standalone. Aemond is a hockey player in this modern AU! 🩵

You prop your feet up to rest on the sides of your bathtub, angling the shower head just right so it hits that spot that sends pleasurable shivers rippling through your body.

Your eyes are closed, and you’re desperately trying to visualise the hot guy from the TV series you’d just binged; mind racing through any arousing scenario you can come up with.

It’s not an easy task; keeping yourself occupied enough to not drift towards the very man you’ve vainly tried to erase from your memory. 

You don’t want to think about him. 

Thinking about him always leads to missing him. 

It leads to longing for him. 

No matter how badly he hurt you. No matter how much you rationalise your reasons for leaving, your stupid heart yearns to fill the hole he’s left behind. 

Pathetic.

You shut your eyes with more force, thinking of the hot TV character. Upping the pressure of the shower head, you imagine it’s him going down on you that’s causing the pleasure building inside. Your hips begin to shallowly sway back and forth, and low whimpering moans slip from your lips. 

As the pleasure builds and builds, the image in your head morphs; the hot TV guys’ hair turns silver, no matter how hard you try to stay focused. 

You’re close, so close, and just as you’re on the edge of pleasure, you hear him,

“You’re so pretty like this”

And you cum so hard you drop the showerhead in your grip, legs shaking as your hips jerk upward aggressively. 

Water sprays across the bathroom as the shower head falls, but you’re too lost in your own bliss to truly care, giving yourself a moment to just disappear into the fleeting, fierce pleasure consuming you. 

After a while, when your legs have stopped shaking and your cunt has stopped clenching around nothing, you turn the rampant shower head off with a sigh. 

The satisfaction of your orgasm is short-lived, promptly followed by the lonely reality of you chasing pleasure alone in your bathroom. You could stay in the tub and make yourself cum 10 more times and it wouldn’t change the loneliness residing inside of you. 

You could try to picture that hot guy from the show fucking you for hours, still you’d feel the same. 

Still, visions of him would cloud your mind. And the chill of loneliness would penetrate your bones, as it does right now. 

Because no one kisses your forehead afterwards, or holds you tight, or whispers sweet things into your ear. 

You're alone, and the warm water quietly splashing around you doesn’t stop the cold porcelain of your bathtub from chilling your heated flesh. 

You shiver. 

Sick of yourself; of your self-pity and hatred, you leave the tub and throw on a dressing gown, already on a search for a new distraction. 

Anything to take your mind off Aemond Targaryen. 

Forgetting Aemond was nearly impossible. 

Not only did your mind remind you of your heart’s longing for the man that broke it. The world did as well. Like when you overheard your colleagues discussing his latest game, and how skillfully he tackled his opponents, landing a blow on them so precise yet hard that they flew into the rink. Or when you got home after a long day and turned on the TV, greeted by him giving a post-match interview all sweaty and panting. 

The only way you knew him. 

Being restricted to seeing the man you’d spent countless nights together with through the TV screen has brought you to the conclusion that ultimately, your relationship hasn’t changed much. 

Sure, you don’t send him nudes anymore. Nor does he fuck you into the mattress of whichever hotel room he brings you to. 

But the distance is the same. The loneliness isn’t new; it always existed between the two of you. He never really cared to let you in. 

You were convenient. 

Pliable. 

An easy fuck. 

You should’ve realised it sooner. Like that time when Alicent Hightower, Westerosi socialite and Aemond’s mother, stopped by one of his practices. You were helping him lace his skates when she appeared, and as soon as he noticed his mum approaching, Aemond’s large hand gently but firmly pushed you away. 

Ms. Hightower’s curious gaze had asked about you, and her son huffed out, “She’s an acquaintance”

An acquaintance. 

Not even a friend. 

To you, Aemond was the first thing you thought about in the morning, and the last thing you thought about before going to sleep. 

To him, you were an acquaintance. 

Pathetic. 

That should have been the last straw. But you kept seeing him. Not even the humiliation and hurt you felt as you excused yourself and ran to the bathroom with tears in your eyes could stop you from craving him. That was the power he had over you.

The power he still has over you, even in his absence. Even if you blocked his number 6 months ago and haven’t seen him once since. 

The actual last straw was a message you’d gotten from an unknown number, asking if you’d send more of those “hot slutpics in dat black thong”. For a second you thought it was Aemond having a laugh, but the message didn’t sound like him, and he isn’t exactly known for being a guy that appreciates humour, or ‘pranks’.

Turns out, the number belonged to Aegon Targaryen, Aemond’s older brother and notorious fuckboy. Word around King’s Landing was that every girl who’d slept with him had gotten chlamydia, and still he seems to find a new conquest to throw his arms around each weekend. 

Perhaps the sleaziest guy in the Seven Kingdoms.

Turns out, it runs in the family. 

You blocked Aemond’s number that night. After swearing to never let your desire for him get the best of you again, you begged your friends to take you out and get you so shitfaced the humiliation Aemond had inflicted on you would be washed away. 

It didn’t work.

You’re still tainted by his touch. 

So you switch tactics. You look for someone else. 

About a month after you’d called things off with Aemond, you thought you’d found a good replacement. A nice, inconspicuous guy who was eager to please; eager to make you like him. You would’ve felt guilty, really, if the dark hole of lonely self-hatred in your chest didn’t outweigh your selfishness. 

And still, Aemond Targaryen was everywhere. 

You’d find him in that adoring look your new partner gave you as you sucked him off in the shower. You’d find him in bed, when you couldn’t sleep and imagined it was Aemond’s heavy arms holding you tight. You’d find him in your fantasies, seemingly incapable of coming with your new partner unless you closed your eyes and pretended the short, curly strands greeting your hand between your legs were actually long, silky and silver. 

Ultimately, your conscience caught up with you, and you broke things off with the new guy as well. He had told you that he loved you, and the sweetest of confessions felt like the sharpest of needles prickling your heart. 

Aemond never said it. 

Oh, how you wish it was him saying it. 

Sometimes, even after six months of not seeing him, you’re still surprised by how incredibly piteous he’s rendered you. 

Yearning for a man who only saw you as a plaything. Who only ever cared for you when you were conveniently there for him to do as he pleased with. Who refused to expose your relationship to his mother, and shared your nudes with his brother. 

Fucking prick. 

Today’s Friday. 

Single and lonelier than ever, you beg your friends to go out dancing with you. It’s become your new weekend ritual; go out and dance until your feet hurt and you’re so tired you collapse on your bed, mind delightfully empty. 

Now, you're back on the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes closed as you sway to the music. 

You always drag your friends to the same place, The Three Towers, a nightclub of the slightly more exclusive kind, with proper DJs and strong drinks. 

They must’ve figured out by now that it was Aemond who introduced you to this place. You see it in the pitiful looks they give you every time you insist on coming here instead of going to any of the many other places in Oldtown. Their eyes say what you’ve known to be true for over six months;

Pathetic. 

It’s not like Aemond likes to go out anyway. He hates crowds, dislikes strangers, loathes the fake people gathering around him to tell him empty words of adoration. 

But that one time you’d wanted to go dancing, he’d brought you here. 

Maybe he brings all his “acquaintances” here. 

You tell yourself that you don’t come here for him, that it just happens to be a great place, but still, every time you catch a glimpse of something silvery in the corner of your eye, dread punches you in the gut. 

Why do you seek him out when you know actually meeting him would destroy you? What if you saw him here with another girl? Maybe one of the models his brother so often gifts his infected cock to? 

Tumultuous thoughts swirl in your mind until you notice that the flash of silver isn’t Aemond’s hair at all, and ease settles over you. Well, something akin to ease. The self-hatred is still there,

Pathetic. 

Your feet quickly carry you to the bar, eager for more of the numbness only alcohol provides. You order another G&T and almost spit it out after the first sip; it’s basically all gin.

Good.

You take three large gulps and move back to the dancefloor, searching for your friends who you’ve lost in the crowd of intertwined bodies. 

You scan your surroundings, and then it happens again. A flash of silver. Only this time, it’s him. 

You remember the first time you saw him. TV appearances and watching him on the ice doesn’t do him justice. In person, his ethereal beauty’s blinding. Just like it is now. One of the spotlights over the sofa he sits on hits his hair, causing it to glow like the beacon of a dark night at sea. 

Calling you in. 

Your feet work by themselves as they walk towards him. You panic, desperately searching for any excuse to talk to him. 

What do you say? 

Suddenly you’re right before him, drink in one hand and the other nervously touching your hair as you dumbly stare at him. He looks up from the drink in his hand, a whiskey on the rocks you’d guess, and meets your eyes. 

His gaze is cold and stoic. 

Unimpressed. 

He raises an expectant eyebrow. 

And yet you say nothing. All the witty, insightful, hard-hitting truths you’d wanted to tell him for the last six months vanish as you stand before him frozen in panic. 

Pathetic.

Pathetic. 

Pathetic!

You have nothing. Your mind’s empty, the only thing you can do is feel. Feel the self-hatred, the loneliness, the insecurity he’s inflicted upon you. 

He rolls his eyes. Aemond’s not known for his patience, “If you’re looking for that new boyfriend of yours, he’s not here”

“I don’t have a boyfriend”, you blurt out, prompted by the shiver running through you caused by the venom dropping from his words. He sounds so hateful. 

He stands abruptly, forcing you to take a faltering step back as he tower over you,

“Come”

He takes the drink in your hand and places it on a nearby table before grabbing your hand and leading you out of the rowdy club. The chill of the night air hits your scarcely clad body as he drags you towards a cab waiting outside, your ears still ringing from the loud music in the club.

He opens the door and pushes on your arm to get in. His touch is still impossibly warm; just as you remember it. 

He slams the door shut and walks around to the other side, getting in and grunting an address you’ve never heard of to the taxi driver.  

You know your friends would be furious if they knew who you left with, so you send them a quick text stating that you’ve left ‘cause you didn’t feel well. 

You place your phone back in your purse and look outside. It seems like you’re driving towards the north part of the city, a place you hardly know. 

The deafening silence in the taxi is so tense, any sane person would ask the driver to stop and get out in a heartbeat. 

Aemond, sitting next to you with his jaw clenched and fidgeting with his customised black and red lighter, sends nervous ripples of fear through your being. You know he’s contemplating something, yet you wouldn’t dare ask. 

Any sensible person would get out. 

But you can’t. 

Because he still smells the same. And it’s everywhere in the stuffy cab. And your heart hurts, a tear threatens to spill, because you’ve missed it all so much; his smell, his hair, his voice, his touch. 

Him.

The silence persists, until you're finally freed as the taxi driver stops and Aemond hands him a few copper stars. 

You get out and take a deep breath of the late summer night's air. The buzz of alcohol still clouds your judgement somewhat, yet you feel more aware of yourself than ever before. 

You look around and see Aemond approach the entrance to a sleek building in that brutalist, modern design, and you follow in tow. He still hasn’t said anything, and neither have you.

You get in a lift, go up to the top floor, and enter a dark flat with only a small table lamp lit by the entrance, obscuring your view of the place. 

Just as you make way to move further into the room, Aemond hinders you. 

He doesn’t allow you entrance to the rest of the space, cornering you against a low side table by the entrance door. He’s so tall, and so broad, you disappear into the wall as he steals all the space around you. 

“Why did you agree to come with me?” 

He’s so close you feel his breath tickle your skin. It’s too dark to truly see the expression on his face, but the shadows cast on him makes him look stern. The smell of him intensifies. You feel warm.  

This is all you’ve wanted. All you’ve feared. 

You still desire him so.

“You told me to”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you know it’s because your reply’s caught him off guard. He’d assumed you’d fight back, jab at him in some way. He tries again,

“My mate saw you at that club last week, you know”

Is he keeping tabs on you? 

“What happened to your boyfriend?” 

How does he know about that? 

You swallow, “Nothing. It just wasn’t right” 

“Hm”

Your eyes are locked together, his mismatched gaze just as alluring as you remember it. Without looking away, he brings a hand up to gently stoke the cold skin of your arm. 

The harshness of his stare falters, 

“Did you miss me?” 

“Did you miss me?” 

The retort leaves your lips before you register it forming in your head. Can’t give in to him that easily. Can’t make your suffering known to the person causing it. 

The harshness reappears. 

“Did he fuck you the way you like?” 

His tone is cold, yet heated with anger. The same hateful tinge from before. 

Your drunk mind works without you operating it, 

“He wasn’t you”

The confession slips out, and so does the pitifulness. The loneliness. The pathetic mess you’ve become. 

Aemond didn’t expect your admission either, eyes narrowing in suspicion, 

“What do you mean?”

Is this the time? 

To tell him how utterly devastated you’ve been without him? How he plagues your mind? How your entire being is tainted by him? 

No. 

“Why did you bring me here?”, you ask, foggy mind finally cooperative enough to let you change the subject.

“Because you wanted me to”, he replies, the gentle hand on your arm suddenly travelling down to caress your exposed thigh before  harshly cupping your cunt. 

A startled gasp espaces your lips. 

His touch is so nostalgic it travels from your aroused core to your heart, and squeezes it painfully.  

His hand is big enough to cover you entirely, and with the heel of his palm, he pushes harshly where he knows your swollen clit lies obscured under your panties. His long finger taps against your hole, and he huffs a quiet, condescending laugh as he feels how moist the fabric is.

When did you get this wet? 

You feel the heat of his touch radiate from his palm to your cunt, so persistent it finds its way through your underwear. He only moves his hand to stroke you over the fabric and press at your clit, but the gratification of finally being granted his touch works you towards release at a speed you’d thought impossible. 

“Still a little slut for me”  

He brings two fingers up to press right over your clit, rough circles demanding that you obey his touch and come for him. 

His breathing hard through his nose, the look in his eye is hard to decipher, 

Arousal? 

Fury? 

Fuck it feels good to be pushed against a wall by him. To be subjected to his rough treatment. Anything to feel his touch on you again. 

Your hips move upwards to meet his fingers; you’re so close to falling apart. 

“You missed me. And that fucker you were seeing couldn’t compare to me. Isn’t that right?” 

He spits out the words, teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he leans even closer. 

Your arms have been hanging limply at your side, and you have to fight the sudden urge to grab him and press him against you. To feel him closer. 

“Did he make you this wet?”

Aemond’s tongue licks the sensitive spot behind your ear and you moan loudly, fully consumed by the way his fingers push you towards release. 

You angle your face so that his mouth is right by yours. With parted lips, you look up at him pleadingly, begging him to kiss you. 

Something in his eye shifts, and a victorious smirk breaks out over his face, 

“Come”

And you do. So hard you see stars and your legs give out. The pleasure is intense, it steals everything from you; your breath, your senses, your self-discipline. 

Your hands fly to Aemond’s biceps, anchoring yourself to him as your body twitches forcefully in the pleasure rupturing you. It’s cathartic; a long awaited release only his hands can coax out. 

When you come back to reality, to the dark hallway you're trapped against Aemond’s body in, the dreaded self-hatred you’d gotten to know so well makes itself known again. 

The brutal reality of exactly how far your pathetic infatuation with Aemond has driven you crashes over you like an ice-cold wave of regret. You feel hot tears well up in the corner of your eyes as they stay casted down, refusing to look up at the man who’s greatest pleasure in life seems to be to torment you. 

Why had he brought you here? Why did he enjoy hurting you? Why had you fallen for it? 

“What did I do to make you hate me so?” 

It’s the alcohol talking. Or maybe it’s the last thing you need to hear from him before you can finally let go. The last shard of your heart crushed in his grip. 

Silence is the only answer he gives you, and without looking up, you push him to move so you can get away from him. Instead of allowing you to leave, he brings one hand to your cheek, engulfing it in warmth, and drags your face upwards to meet his eyes. 

Before you can read his expression, he ducks his head down, letting his lips graze over yours. His tongue comes out to swipe over your lower lip in a slow, gentle caress that feels more sensual than anything you’ve ever experienced, and in retaliation your greedy arms pull him closer, eagerly kissing him back. There’s a slow urgency to the way his tongue seeks out yours, bending your body backwards to taste you deeper. You relish in it. 

You want him to eat you up. To devour you completely. You’re his anyway. 

Without breaking the kiss, Aemond leads you down the dark hallway and into a dimly lit room. The only thing you register is a large bed in the middle, where he takes a seat and keeps you standing between his legs, still kissing you. 

His hands roam over your body; over your exposed arms and legs. They find the zipper at the back of your dress and pull it down, slowly undressing you until you're completely bare. 

He stands for a brief moment to rid himself of his own clothes, and then sits again, guiding you to climb onto his lap. 

You follow his every command in enchantment. You grant him every kiss he seeks, allow him every touch he craves. He can have it all. 

He guides you to sink down on him slowly. You’re still so wet, yet he’s so hard your insides are forced to mould after his stiffness. 

Once he fills each part of you, he wraps your legs around his waist, sighing in satisfaction as he presses your body so close to his the skin of your torso sticks to his. 

“I won’t last long-”, he whispers into your ear, “-a 6 month wait is excruciating”

The touch that you’ve known as harsh and demanding is now so soft. So delicate it slowly picks up the shattered pieces of your broken heart and mends them together again with each gentle caress.

Your hands cup his cheeks, gazing into his lilac and blue stare as you slowly begin to move. 

Aemond doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say that one phrase that you want him to, but the look in his eyes is mesmerising. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable. It’s intimate.

He’s giving himself to you. 

You wrap your arms around him, accepting him. You want all of him, all to yourself. You’ve wanted him for half a year. You’ve wanted him since the first time you met him. 

He meets your hips each time you sink down, and the otherwise carnal pursuit for pleasure feels dreamlike as Aemond’s arms envelop you and you disappear into him. 

You want to say it, but not yet. You don’t dare. Would he retreat again? You know it to be true, but it’s too early. Maybe someday. 

Instead, it’s Aemond who speaks over the moans and sighs of pleasure,

“Don’t leave me again” 

You don’t know how long you fuck, but each orgasm feels more consuming, more powerful, than the last. Ultimately, you collapse together on the bed, legs and arms still intertwined. The familiarity of Aemond’s heavy arms over your waist soothes you, yet the soft sheets of the bed provide a stark contrast to the stiff, clinical sheets of the hotel rooms he’d always brought you to before. 

There’s nothing left between you, no more layers to shed, so you ask him about everything that had led up to your separation. About how he dismissed you in front of his mother, and about the text from his brother. The latter seems to genuinely surprise him, 

“I’ve never shared your pictures with anyone, especially not him” 

Guess Aegon Targaryen isn’t above snooping through his brother’s stuff. 

You talk all night, and Aemond tells you about his strained relationship with his family, “My family has an ability to ruin things for me”, he confesses, “I didn’t want that to happen with you”

As the rays of sunrise begin to seep through the window, you admit to the loneliness that’s been eating away at you since parting from Aemond. 

He cups your cheek again, thumb stroking your cheekbone,

“I fucked up. I’ve missed you more than I thought possible”

Your loneliness hadn’t been solitary. He’d felt it too. You’d shared it. 

You lay your head on his chest, listening to the slow drum of his heart. Before it lulls you to sleep, you remember the last thing you’d like to ask him,

“Aemond, where are we?”

“My place”

A/N: I never know if I should write it as come or cum? After some studious research (not), I decided that come is the original and therefore works better! Thank you for reading, I write these drabble for fun to improve my writing, so don't be too harsh please 🫶🩵

[gojoest]

the one with the role play — gojo satoru

— your husband breaking character during role play after you mention the one thing you shouldn’t have

suggestive, MDNI, established relationship (you’re married), written with f! reader in mind but think i kept it pretty gn, alcohol (nobody gets drunk, just a super quick mention of it as a choice of drink at the bar), strangers at the bar role play (or a failed attempt tbh), based on this talk post of mine, wc: 1.3k

“hey, love”, satoru broke the silence while the two of you were folding the laundry one afternoon. (yes, the strongest sorcerer always helps his wife with chores)

“say, love”, you quickly responded, without looking at him.

“you know, i was thinking — we’ve never tried role play”

“that’s what folding clothes made you think of?”, glancing at him you chuckled, “interesting”, raising an eyebrow teasingly.

“we’ve done pretty much everything but that. you’re not curious?”

now was not the time to tell him that you had done this before, with your ex, and that it was fun. no need to remind him that you had other partners before him and make him lose sleep for days to come, like that one time when he found your diary from high school in the attic and read about all the crushes and boyfriends you had. it took weeks and a lot of coddling on your part (you even had to start a satoru only diary and write his name into little hearts) for him to get over it. so you figured you’d keep this little detail to yourself and take it to the grave. or it would be your husband taken to the grave due to lethal jealousy steaming from the fact that another man had laid his hands on you in the past.

“s-sure”, you stuttered, thinking back to that excruciating memory, then cleared your throat before continuing — “yea, we can do that, why not”

“good then”, he tossed the shirt in his hands aside and stepped closer to you. circling his arms around your waist from behind — one hand eventually resting over your chest while the other stopping at your navel and gently rubbing it — he possessively pressed you against his chest and hummed contently.

“someone’s very excited about this, huh?”, you placed your hand over his and tilted your head back to peek at him.

“oh? can you tell?”, he grinned, playfully pushing his hips against you.

“that giant thing in your pants poking me from behind is giving you away, i’m afraid”

“it’s your fault though”, his head craned down so his lips could reach your forehead and trail soft kisses down to the tip of your nose.

standing on your tip toes you raised your hands to cup his cheeks and pecked him on the lips. “of course, it’s my fault that you’re getting all hot and bothered in the middle of the day like some pervert”

“i always get hot and bothered thinking about you”, he pecked you back, then slowly turned you around (concerned that you might hurt your neck if you kept that position up).

“any ideas?”, you asked.

“8pm, the bar around the corner”

“we’re to enact the classic strangers meeting at the bar, huh? okay. anything else?”

“nope, let’s improvise”

[8:13pm, at the bar]

sitting alone on the stool at the bar counter, you kept playing with your now half empty martini glass, drawing circles with it on the surface. you felt a bit weird sitting here pretending to be single and ready to mingle. but oh well.

he was late. you took another sip of your drink and grabbed your phone to check the time again.

“next one’s on me”, a painfully familiar voice approached you from behind. “if you would allow me, that is”

he was late on purpose, you figured. waiting for you to almost finish your drink so he could easily start a conversation by using such a lame but still quite effective line.

“i don’t normally accept drinks from strangers”, you gazed at him, “but an exception every now and then wouldn’t hurt, i assume”

a puckish smile curved on his lips. “may i?”, taking his sunglasses off, he asked for your permission to sit next to you.

“sure”

you were quite impressed at how seriously he was actually taking this, not breaking character even for a second so far. he had made up a brand new persona of himself, introducing himself as “sato kouya” — the ceo of a leading pharmaceutical company, temporarily living in tokyo for the purpose of a big business project.

“enough about me though”, eyes focused on you, he leaned his elbow on the bar counter and placed his chin on his palm. “tell me about yourself — what’s a beauty like you doing alone?”

you giggled (he was just so cute right now). “you’re lucky that i am alone — if we had met a week earlier, i would’ve still been married”

his expression froze at your words. the smile from a few seconds ago was now bleeding into a confused, almost creepy, look on his face — his lips still stretched into a grin while his eyes told a different story.

“hmmm… how so?”, he spoke in a monotone, his grin slowly fading away.

it would be a lie to say his weird reaction didn’t concern you at all but you decided to brush it off, and continued. “you see, i just got officially divorced. my ex husband and i tried our best to keep the marriage going for as long as we could but we were simply not meant to be”, you sighed. “this was the best for both of us”

“no way”, satoru whined. “no fucking way”

“umm… excuse me?”, you tilted your head in confusion.

“i don’t like this”, his face giving you a dejected grimace — brows knitted, lips pursed into a pout and eyes filled with a mix of panic and sorrow taking over the blue in them and turning it into a darker shade. “divorced? not meant to be? don’t even joke about this”, he almost cried out. the thought alone rubbed him the wrong way, tugged at his heartstrings so intensely that it forced him out of character right then and there, putting an end to your little role play escapade (rip sato kouya, you will be missed).

“satoru”, you caressed his hand, “baby. love of my life. this is just an act, please get it together”

“oh”, he gasped in utter shock after his focus fell on your hand and he noticed you were not wearing your ring. “you even took your ring off? why would you do that?”

great, this was getting worse now.

“because of the role play”, you spoke each word slowly, stressing on the last two very carefully.

“but i’m still wearing mine”, he protested, pointing at his ring, “see? you could’ve still acted fine with your ring on and without bringing up divorce and not meant to be’s”, he cried again, a hangdog look splattered on his face.

“i didn’t want to play the cheating wife, that’s why i took it o—“, you were cut off by another dramatic reaction.

“cheating? CHEATING? you considered this scenario?”, his voice was hitting desperate notes at this point. you couldn’t believe he had lost all reason over a play pretend.

you pinched the bridge of your nose before you spoke, “okay, that’s enough. you’re being ridiculous right now. i’m going home”

he followed after you like a kicked puppy, whining all the way home. but you had to admit — part of you really loved the fact that he went completely out of his mind over something so silly, that he didn’t know what to do with himself just thinking about you possibly leaving him even in a made-up scenario, that you held so much power over him…

extra:

[later that night, in bed]

done reading for the night and ready to sleep, you placed your book on the nightstand and looked over at your husband sitting with his arms crossed next to you in bed.

“still not over it?”, you nestled your head on his chest.

“no. hurts like hell just thinking about it”, he mumbled.

“come on, stop pouting”, you pinched his cheek, “you can’t go to sleep with a grumpy face”

“yea?”, he glanced down at you, “sit on it then — it’s the only way to wipe that pout off of it”

[paradiseprincesss]

the boy is mine | jonathan crane

masterlist

yeah so i wrote this in literally record timing because the music video to the boy is mine is so jonathan crane and his girl coded. i'd like to think i'm keeping u guys fed with all my fics i hope u like !!!

summary: you’re set on doing anything to make that boy yours, and the plan you curated is absolutely purrrfect.

word count: 4.3k

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, oral (f!receiving), bondage/tying up, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, stalking, obsessive behaviour, therapist/patient relationship at one point lol

“perfect.” you whisper to yourself as you poured the last drop of the glittery, pink liquid into the small vile, swirling it around as you popped a cork into the top.

you smiled proudly as you sat on the kitchen floor of your apartment, holding up the vile to get a good look at it under the moonlight. it was fool proof — he’d for sure be yours after you forced him to drink this.

some would say you were a little unhinged, but you preferred the term creative. you were a little obsessed with your old therapist, doctor jonathan crane. you started seeing him when you stumbled across his pictures online, and you knew you had to have him. you booked your first session with him roughly nine months ago, and he was there for you every step of the way.

you didn’t actually need therapy (well…), but you still booked sessions with him because he was yours. it was meant to be. you couldn't unsee it. during your first ever session with him, you made sure to put on your cutest, most feminine and dainty mini dress, paired with some matching high heels. you even did your hair and makeup with precision. jonathan didn’t show it on his face, but when you sat there in that leather chair across from him for the first time, his heart started to beat a million miles a minute.

you were jaw-dropping. he couldn’t believe someone could actually possess such beauty, and though he tried to stay professional, it was proving to be quite difficult. every time you spoke, every time you smiled at him, every time you did absolutely anything — he would become more and more infatuated with you.

“i just wish he didn’t leave me, you know?” you say softly, feigning innocence, “it’s been so hard without a man to take care of me.”

jonathan clenched his jaw silently, he couldn’t believe that a man would be stupid enough to break-up with someone like you. be professional, he reminded himself.

“understandably so,” he said clinically, “i can only imagine how difficult it would be to have a relationship like that end so abruptly.”

“it was so difficult,” you say, your eyes watering, “but, i think i’m slowly starting to move on.”

of course, such "ex-boyfriend" did not exist. this was all part of your elaborate act to make him think you were an innocent, naive girl who was heartbroken and needed someone to save her. that someone being him, of course.

he was made for somebody like you.

you only had seven sessions between the two of you before jonathan abruptly reassigned you to his colleague, doctor webber. she wasn’t anything like doctor crane — she didn’t understand you the way that he did.

good things come to those who wait, but patience wasn’t your thing.

“i’m sorry,” jonathan doctor crane said to you, “as much as i want to continue to be there for you and your journey of growth, i believe that my colleague would be better suited to your…needs.”

“what are you talking about, doctor crane?” you asked, trying to to hide the desperation in your voice.

“i have another patient i must attend to,” he says flatly, informing you that your session had come to an end, “but i wish you all the best.”

and with that, he sent you to see doctor webber. of course, you were heartbroken. how could your soulmate do that to you? but jonathan wasn’t doing it because he didn’t want to see you — it was quite the opposite, actually. he knew that feeling this way about his patient was so very wrong, and if he continued to see you, he wouldn’t be able to control himself.

really, he did this for you.

as you placed your little love concoction on the kitchen counter, you turned on your tv. jonathan was supposed to be doing a segment with the mayor of gotham tonight about the crime rates in the city, and what him and his team at arkham asylum were doing to solve the issue. as his face appeared on tv, you sighed to yourself. he was so handsome in his suit and tie — and those sexy little glasses?

meow.

the chilly gust of wind made you shiver for a moment, but your latex bodysuit kept you warm enough — well, not really. with your little cat ear headband, you toss your hair over your shoulders as you quietly make your way into the silent home. your black pumps were surprisingly silent against the wood floors, and you crept into the living room where a woman sat on the couch watching tv.

you went undetected as she completely missed your presence. stealthily, you creep behind her until suddenly, you yanked her by her hair. she screamed loudly, and your hand immediately went up to her mouth to clasp down on it; you were getting really good at this.

“don’t scream,” you whisper, “i just came here to tell you to stay away from my man.”

slowly, you remove your hand and she looks back at you with sheer terror, “wh-who’s your man?” she asked with fear laced in her voice.

you hated this bitch — she was one of jonathans patients. there was nothing going on between them, you knew that (plus you would’ve murdered her if there was!), but you had spent the last few weeks…"cleaning up the streets."

these ratty bitches had to go; any woman who was his patient or in his life at all had to go. you even dressed the part with your sexy little cat costume and all. you know what they say — in the eternal game of cat and mouse, there are no winners, only survivors.

“doctor jonathan crane,” you said dreamily, but your tone turned sinister within seconds, “and if you ever go see him again, i will find you, trust me. i've already found you once, and you don't want me to come prowling back around.”

the woman nodded frantically, and you went on your merry way. this was the last one, you were certain. you’d even made a list of all the women to threaten so that you could make sure they would stay away from your man. finally, you made your way home and started to wind down from all the break-ins you’d been making recently. it was hard work chasing down all these…mice.

jonathan noticed that his belongings were going missing here and there over the last few months, and he knew something strange was going on. he wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but something was off.

first, little things such as his favourite pen (yes, he has a favourite pen) went missing. then, a few patient files would seemingly disappear along with some sticky notes he had stuck on his desk the day prior. he didn’t think too much of it until one of his credit cards went missing from his wallet — but there weren't any fraudulent charges made.

he even continued to monitor his bank account and freeze his card, but no charges were ever made on it regardless. the last straw was when his spare house key went missing. even for a man as smart as jonathan, he could not figure out who was doing this for the life of him.

you were still attending your regular sessions with doctor webber, but you deliberately booked your appointments on days you knew jonathan was working. you knew you’d run into him either on your way in or way out, and you also knew he wasn’t that booked up anymore since most of his clientele went…missing.

as you said your farewell to doctor webber, you noticed jonathan walking out of his office. he noticed you immediately, giving you a soft smile as you turned to close the door to doctor webbers office. he said your name softly, causing you to almost choke on your own words as you clutched his house keys behind your back.

“doctor crane,” you say softly, “hey.”

“just jonathan is fine,” he said, but he internally scolded himself for saying that, “how have you been?”

“great,” you say sweetly, “doctor webber is…great.”

“that’s wonderful to hear,” he says, “it was nice seeing you again. take care.”

you two parted ways, and once jonathan was back at his apartment — he was to refrain himself from calling you. god, you looked so good today. with those little dresses of yours and good grief, those sexy, little heels you always paired them with. he grabbed himself a glass of whiskey, neat, and took a swig as he thought about you.

why did you have to be on his mind so much, and dear god, why did you have to be so fucking beautiful?

with a frustrated sigh, he looked at his front door, thinking about his keys that suddenly went missing just a week prior. was he overthinking things? was he just imagining it? did he lose his own keys and forget?

he was a psychiatrist for gods sake, why was he driving himself crazy over this? with so many questions and no answers, he made his way to his bathroom as he flicked his kitchen lights off.

the cold water ran from the bathroom sink as he splashed it on his face after removing his glasses, and he looked at himself in the mirror to get a grip. his pale, icy, blue eyes bore into his own reflection, and-

what was that?

he turned around swiftly, turning the tap off, watching as something, no — someone’s perfectly manicured hand ghosted over the edge of his bathroom doorframe.

he couldn’t see anything — the kitchen light was turned off, and the only thing turned on was his dim bathroom light. the master of fear himself felt a little fearful in this moment as he watched the dainty, feminine hand retract and move back into the shadows and he could've sworn he saw...cat ears?

jonathan had to blink a few times to make sure that he hadn’t spilled a vile of his own fear toxin somewhere and that he wasn’t just hallucinating off of it.

hesitantly, he pushed open his bathroom door only to be met with the darkness of his kitchen. his breath hitched as he flicked on the kitchen lights, but he was met with an empty, quiet space. his eyes quickly darted to the front door, but it was locked shut.

but if the door was locked shut, what did he just see? who did he just see? was the scarecrow himself starting to succumb to silly, little, irrational fears? before his mind could start to wander anymore, he heard a familiar sound.

a certain, distinct, and awfully familiar sound of high heels clicking against the wood flooring — and it was coming right from his bedroom. jonathan went over to his bedroom, swinging the door open unsure of what he might see, only to be met with a sight that made him feel weak in the knees.

you were propped up on his bed, in a latex body suit and high heels, along with cat ears to complete your rather sexy costume. you batted your eyelashes at him innocently, and bit your lip as you showed him the rope in your hands.

“how did you…” he whispered, watching you bite your lip as he trailed off.

“doctor,” you purred, “let’s get intertwined.”

“what the fuck…” he whispered once more, watching you as if in a mesmerized trance.

jonathan couldn’t lie — as much as he should have been terrified and calling the cops, he was awfully turned on right now. jesus christ, that latex cat costume that left absolutely nothing to the imagination? yeah, he was hard the moment he saw you.

“i know it’s simply meant to be.” you say softly, and as if his mind could not control his body, he was making his way over to you on his bed.

“um, what-“

“shh,” you hush him, suddenly grabbing him as you swiftly tie a knot around his wrists, “you don’t need to speak, baby boy.”

in mere seconds you had the scarecrow tied up on his own bed, restrained as you looked down at him. jonathan sat there looking up at you — yes, you were hot but you were clearly also insane.

to be fair, so was he.

he didn't bother trying to get himself out of the ropes. he knew that if he tried to struggle you'd most definitely do something not so pleasant to him. also, if he was being honest — this was hot. like, really hot.

"i just need you to do me a favour, baby boy," you giggle, your high heels clicking against the wood flooring once more, "drink this for me, and know that if you refuse, you won't live to see another day."

you held up a vile of pink, shimmery liquid. jonathan looked at you with a raised brow, and hesitantly nodded.

"...i'll drink it if you answer some questions that i have." he says, trying to bargain with you.

"fine," you shrug, "but make it quick."

"alright, first of all, how did you get in here?" he asked.

"easy, i crawled in through your window. next." you say in an awfully innocent voice.

"are you the one that's been taking my stuff?" he asks, and you nod.

"of course, i needed your stuff for my collection." you say whimsically, biting your lip at the thought of your homemade jonathan crane shrine.

in your apartment, you had a wall dedicated to him. it had cut outs of him, printed pictures, his belongings, his address, photos of him when he was younger — the list just goes on. all just regular, boring, stalker stuff, really.

"no more questions," you huff, "drink up, baby boy."

"what is it?" he asked, to which you rolled your eyes.

"an at-home love potion. i'm going to untie you for this — and if you even attempt to run, i will slice your heart in two." you say with an adorable smile.

jonathan doesn't offer a response, but rather opts out for a simple nod. you slowly untie his wrists, handing him the pink, glittery liquid in the vile. you watch him in awe as he closes his eyes and takes it like a shot, smiling to yourself as you realize that he's finally going to be all yours.

this little concoction that you had whipped up was the real deal — you'd even tested it on other men to see if it did what it was intended to do. it worked on them, bringing these men to their knees for you, but it's not like you really had any trouble doing that without a love potion, anyway.

after jonathan drinks it all, he looks back at you blankly. unbeknownst to you, when you were popping the cork off of the potion, he sneakily grabbed a vile of his fear toxin that was stashed by the foot of his bed — just in case you tried to actually murder him.

his plan was to immediately throw the vile at you and watch you succumb to your fears, but if he was being honest, he wanted to see what this shitty little "love potion" could do. he was a man of science, after all.

"i don't feel anything," he said after a moment, "looks like your potion didn't work after all-"

you cut him off with a small giggle, "you don't feel any different?"

"no."

"i've tested it, i know it works," you giggled, "that means if you don't feel any different from before, then you must already love me-"

suddenly, he lunged at you, making you scramble as you tried to fight back. however, he was much stronger than you, making it physically impossible to overpower him. after struggling for a good minute, he had you tied down on the bed like you had him just moments before.

"you're sick in the head," he says, but you could've sworn you saw him smirking, "you're real fucking twisted, you know that? i could call the cops and have you arrested right now."

"do it," you teased, "i dare you to, baby boy."

jonathan suddenly grabbed you by the neck, "what was that?"

you had you refrain from smiling as he choked you softly, feeling yourself get wet from just a second of his touch. you knew exactly what he wanted now.

"sorry," you corrected, "i dare you, sir."

"there we go." he says as he lets go of your throat.

he rummages through his bedside drawer and pulls out some of his own rope, causing your mind to spin at the idea of what he was going to do to you. you didn't run when he untied your wrists initially, but he took a few moments to tie both your wrists up to his bedposts, essentially tying you up so you couldn't move your hands at all.

"oh," you say with a teasing voice, "i see where this is going."

he smirks at you, admiring how sexy you look all tied up in his bed, with your costume and all. he takes his phone out and shamelessly takes a picture with the flash on, and you could feel that you were leaking your arousal down his bedsheets by now.

it seemed that your love potion didn't work on him because, well, he was already obsessed with you.

of course he was — but jonathan was known for his good work ethic. he only gave you up as a patient because it was only a matter of time before he would give in and most likely fuck you on the couch in his office. he just didn't know it was mutual at the time. if he did, well — that's a story for another day.

"maybe i should punish you," he smirks, making his way over to you on the bed, "you've been so disobedient."

"m'sorry, sir," you whimper, "you just make me crazy."

"i know," he cooed condescendingly, "but i think i can fix that, darling."

"you can?"

"i most definitely can," he says lowly, "it might take a few sessions to cure you, but i have a method i think might work on you. i'm gonna fuck you 'till you can't think anymore, no more thoughts after that. sound good?"

you nodded frantically, "mhm, yes. please, fuck yes."

he smirked at you, his hands reaching towards the top of your bodysuit. slowly, he reached his hands behind and unzipped it, slipping it off of you slowly.

"i like the cat costume," he chuckles lowly, "the ears are a cute touch."

you blushed, biting your lip as he slipped you right out of your latex bodysuit. obviously, you wore nothing underneath — not even panties. jonathan groaned at the sight because seriously, no panties? with your wrists tied up and unable to touch him, you were getting pent up real fast.

"i wanna touch you," you whined, "please."

he smirked, "if only you didn't break into my apartment like a stray."

before you could even formulate a proper response, he was crawling between your legs, spreading them out as he got onto his stomach. without warning, he licked a fat stripe up your already soaking cunt, latching his mouth onto your pussy. your back arched at the feeling, and he continued to lap you up.

"f-fuck, jon," you breathed, "feels s-so good."

"i know." he said cooly against your core, lapping up your arousal continuously as you moaned over and over again.

it was sinful how skilled he was with his tongue — it hadn't even been a full five minutes and you were already on the brink of creaming all over his face. he didn't give you any mercy as he continued to eat you out like a starved man, and your wrists were burning against the rope as you tugged on them.

god, the things you would do to run your hands through his soft, dark, and now tousled hair.

"nnnghh," you whimper, "i'm, ah- gon' cum!"

the coil in your stomach snapped as your release hit you like a freight train, making you scream his name as he made you cum. you were left a panting mess, and he finally released the grip he had on your thighs. after wiping his pink, plump lips along with his chin which glistened with your wetness, he smiled softly at you.

"taste s'good," he commented, "you look so pretty like this, darling. tied up and helpless."

"n-need you," you whisper, "baby, please."

this time, he didn't correct you and demand you call him "sir." maybe it was the heat of the moment or maybe it was the realization that he had finally met a woman who was as unhinged as he was. deep down, he was really loving the idea.

he started to undo his belt, making sure to keep his eyes locked on yours, teasing you as he undid his belt at a painfully slow pace. finally, after what felt like an eternity (it maybe thirty seconds at most), his cock sprung out of his pants, hitting his stomach lightly. it was long, veiny, and thick. how was that supposed to fit inside of you? surely it would split you open.

"cat got your tongue?" he teased as he unbuttoned his white button-down, stroking his cock a few times as your hips bucked into nothing.

"uh-huh." you whispered in awe, biting your lip at the thought of how his size was going to stretch you beyond your limits.

with a low chuckle, he lined his thick cock up with your begging hole, pushing in slowly as you felt him stretch your cunt out fully. he was so big and so long, the feeling of him just halfway inside of you was enough to have you pulling against the ropes again. the way the rope was digging into your wrists was degrading but undeniably hot. it was like a silent reminder of how little control you actually had over this whole situation.

"s-so full!" you squeaked, but he kept pushing himself into your tight, warm hole.

"s'okay, you can take it. and if you can't, i'll make you take it." he groaned, finally bottoming out in you.

you were stuffed to the brim with his cock and slowly, he started to thrust his length in and out of you. desperately, you let out a feverish moan. your breaths were short but heavy, and you were a fucked out, cockdrunk mess for him as he picked up his pace.

"you're so fucking tight, my god," he moaned, "i should've fucked you sooner."

"make me cum," you plead desperately, "f-fuck, yes, feels so good, jonathan!"

"yeah? you wanna cum?" he cooed as he continued to fuck your sopping pussy, "you wanna cum on this cock?"

"fuck, yes." you pleaded.

his cock was pressed snugly up against your cervix, so deep that you could feel him in your stomach. he continued to stretch your little hole out, ruthlessly pounding his thick cock into you more and more as you started to see stars. your walls started to flutter around him, letting him know that you were close without having to say a word.

"close already, darling?" he asked, "are you gonna cum for me again, hm?"

"y-yes!" you moaned, "ohmygod- i'm gonna-"

your words started to melt together at one point as you got lost in the pleasure of your high. soon enough, your soaking cunt was tightening up around his fat cock, and a clear liquid poured out from you.

of course — you were so turned on by the way he was screwing you that you'd squirted all over his bedsheets.

"oh, darling," he moaned, "that was so fucking sexy, jesus."

"j-jonathan, baby," you begged, "i-i can't-"

"you can, i promise," he groaned, "i'm close."

"p-please." you started to beg incoherently, the overstimulation making your head spin as your cunt fluttered around his cock again.

he continued to ram your tight pussy until his thrusts started to become sloppier and sloppier, and you could tell that he was close to the edge.

"cum i-inside," you begged him, "i need to be filled, fuck-"

"okay, okay," he panted as his he gave you a few more deep, harsh thrusts, 'm'gonna fill you up, darling."

you nodded, your head spinning as he finally came inside with a low groan, painting your walls white as he stuffed you with his warm seed. he stilled, staying inside of your warm hole for just a little longer to ensure you got every last bit of his cum, before pulling out his semi-hard cock.

he bit his lip as he watched his cum drip out of you (the sight of him biting his lip almost made you cum again), and he reached over to untie your wrists as you slumped down against the pillows. he laughed softly, pulling you into him as you instinctively cuddled into his arms.

he pulled the cat ear headband off your head, which you forgot you still had on, and tossed them to the side.

"i guess i'm going to have a hard time getting rid of you, huh? stalker." he joked, sighing as he took in all the details of your pretty face.

"you won't be able to get rid of me," you say softly, "i'm obsessed with you."

"good, i don't want you around anyone but me." he says, playing with your hair gently.

"i know," you giggle, "but stupid love potion was useless. i should've known you were already in love with me."

the both of you laughed softly, snuggled up in his bed as he told you all about what he did on the side for work — and all about his plans to fear gas gotham city.

jonathan trusted you with this because he knew there wasn't a line in existence that you wouldn't cross for him.

@ciriceimpera @jordyn-yeager @thevelvetvampyre @galactict3a @xanaxiii

@seaamonster @nocturnest @bloodandglitter207 @humbuginmybones @oceanstem

@futurefamousdeadmusician @jonathancraneslittlepet @dolleyednymphette @kpopgirlbtssvt @ll4n4

@ilovetoxicfictionalmen @the-buddy-things @ellebelleshelby @aprilsfrog05 @wiseyouthinfluencer

@minedofmoria @strangeobsessed

[stray-dude]

i have. come to some sorts of conclusions the past few days

probably the easiest to manage bc its just a random conclusion, i do not exactly hate kid laroi's music ? im not gonna say i like it but idk, its not bad. thanks fortnite lmao

also i am technically caught up in understanding deltarune thanks to a friend basically guiding me thru it bc my attention span would not be able to handle it on my own. i have opinions but also idk if theyre all that important.

now what ive spent the past few days doin, i. actually didnt know there was a homestuck continuation so i read it. i think .. i like it. idk im just rambling but like, my favorite character was finally made actually relevant and it started hitting close to home again and it made me feel shit again that i kinda thought i was over but now ? idk, its a lot to unpack specifically so i think i might uh. idk. leave it in tags or smth so if anyone was curious then knock yourselves out, but just know its personal n awkward as hell so its fine if its just ignored.

[hanahaki270]

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ “You Belong to Me” ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

・❥・ Synopsis ・❥・ Having an Uchiha as an ex doesn’t mean anything. Once you’ve managed to make them fall for you, you’re basically stuck with them for eternity.

・❥・ Pairing ・❥・ Sasuke x Fem!reader

・❥・ A/N ・❥・ I finally decided to continue watching shippuden after having it on pause for 5 years.. yeahhh so I’m having a huge obsession with it rn. Also please feel free to send prompt requests for me to write! And I feel like I definitely could have written this out better but I was in a rush and stressed out about Job interviews so mb

♥︎

You finally gathered the courage within you to end your relationship with Sasuke. This wasn’t an easy decision. In fact it was tearing you apart. You still loved him. But the differences between your priorities and his were far too different to the point where they were conflicting with each other.

You might as well have been talking to a wall that day with how blank his expression was after you just announced how you were breaking up with him. The loud silence was killing you inside, does he not care at all?

♥︎

-You wanting to break up with him was like a jab at his ego. The Sasuke Uchiha. The last prodigy of his clan and you wanted to leave him? Though this enraged him, he refused to let you know it. He couldn’t let you have the satisfaction of knowing that this actually affected him.

-After you left the apartment he started to completely trash the place. Everything in it was obliterated into nothingness. But as soon as he went out in public he acted completely fine as if nothing happened.

-Anytime you were around he would make sure you saw him with other girls. He wanted to show you that he could be with anybody he desired without a problem, at any given second. Show you that you weren’t nothing special to him.

-He was lying. Because as soon as you left his vision he treated the girls like shit and pushed them aside after they served their purpose in making you jealous.

-He tried to sleep with random women in the village to further prove that he didn’t need you. (He was really just trying to convince himself) but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. None of them even compared to your beauty. Even the thought of another person lying on the bed you two once shared disgusted him.

-After weeks of this even Sasuke couldn’t believe his own facade. He craved you. He craved your smile, your laughter, Your touch. And is willing to do whatever it takes to remind you that you belong with him.

-He sucked up his pride and begged Naruto to send you two on missions together. So you’d be basically forced to talk to each other . (Naruto uses this against him every now and then)

-During one of the missions, one of your comrades decide to get a little touchy with you. You pay this no mind since you have no interest in the guy, but Sasuke definitely notices it. What’s a worthless ninja doing talking to what’s his?

-A couple of days after that mission, the scenario of another man getting that close to you haunted Sasuke day and night. There’s no way in hell you’d ever willingly decide to be with any other man but him. Right? He needed the reassurance and he needed it now.

-It was 4 am when you opened the door to your apartment after you were awoken by loud desperate banging on the door just to be faced with your ex. He invited himself in, closing the door behind him as he slowly crept towards you.

“Sasuke?”

-He reached for your hand and held it in his, as he focused on you as if there was nothing else in this world. You could tell he developed dark circles since the last time you saw him.

“The day we got together was the day I chose you to be the one I repopulate my clan with. The only one worthy of the surname Uchiha. You’re mine and I’m yours.”

-He noticed how you were at a loss of words so he took this moment to do what he’s been yearning to. He grabbed the back of your head pulling you into a kiss. The kiss was messy and desperate. He kissed you as if you were the oxygen he needed to breathe. And to him, you were.

-Needless to say you were vulnerable to his request and took him back. How could you not?

♥︎

[mahyuume]

MY PRINCE CHARMING!

— synopsis. like all fairytales, the princess always has her prince charming. but they never really explained how that prince courted her.

pairing. 1A boys (katsuki bakugou & shoto todoroki) x princess!reader | genre. romcom, fluff | mlist

reminders! your quirk is "summon", so basically you can summon anything and anyone to your liking along with it under your control! :3 you an activate it either by saying it out loud or manifesting it in your head. (ex. manifesting a whole army and ordering them to take down the enemy is possible.)

KATSUKI BAKUGOU, who's very well known for being brash, tries asks you out with(out) aggression.

“hey princess, come over here for a sec,” bakugou calls out to you from across the classroom, reclining in his desk with his feet up.

right now, you can't tell if the nickname "princess" is just his way of being rude or if it's meant affectionately in a mean way with hidden sincerity. either way, you haven't quite gotten used to it yet. leaving uraraka and tsuyu behind, you make your way towards his desk; which feels like an eternity in his opinion.

“what's your problem, bakugou?” you retort, unintentionally sounding harsh. “what's with your attitude princess?!” he growls, “just cause you’re coming from some stupid royal family doesn't mean you can talk down to the world’s soon greatest hero.” bakugou says in your face with his stupid grin. but right now, not only is he standing a little too close for your liking, but small explosions are going off in his right palm. is he trying to have a conversation by threatening you??

kirishima interjects, sweat dropping as he attempts to defuse the tension between his best friend and the class's princess. “I'm sure she didn't mean for it to come off that way!” he looks at you, hoping for agreement. “yeah, man! you just need to chill.…” denki adds on, but his voice trails off quietly. “also, you should just spit out what you wanted to say.” He says the last part a little louder before whistling and avoiding eye contact with the hot-headed guy who swears at him.

“spit what out? a threat or—“ “yeah! a threat that I'll crush you in training today, pretty girl.”

...

"bakubro,—" before bakugou can realize his mistake, you (along with kirishima and denki) beat him to it. “did you just call me pretty?”

finally, it dawns on him. and he feels like dying when realization hits. “what? no, I didn't. I called you ugly.” “nuh-uh. you called me pretty.” “no, I didn't.” he huffs with a tongue click following, “did all the tiaras and stuff you wear brainwash you and get to your stupid head?” you giggle slightly at his reaction as he looks away, hands in his pockets, ready to walk away from the whole situation. well, he’s trying to salvage his pride. you’ll give him that.

“stop fuckin' laughing brat!” he yells, clearly embarrassment took over. “dude just tell her already!” denki groans, hands in his face as he's already frustrated with how his friend's so freakishly good at stalling a confession. “bakugou, dude... I'm just gonna hang with mina.” kirishima comments, trying to give the two of you some space alone. “yeah, same here," denki agrees while giving a sly teasing smirk to his exploding friend as they both stand up and make their way towards their pink-haired best friend.

and now, it's just the two of you. you in front of his desk, and him with his back turned to you, head down.

“uh, I don't think there's anything interesting on the floor for you to be looking that long.” you tease him, “shut up...” nice. you got him to talk. “is that all? so much for a threat.”

"go out with me."

so straightforward. “...speak up bakugou. I can't hear you!” I said... gooutwithme.” “still can't hear you~!” “I SAID GO OUT WITH ME DAMMIT!” he practically screams as small explosions go off. nervous much?

also as he screamed at you, the multiple heads of your classmates turned towards you and the boy who's most likely going to blow your head off after kissing you trying to comprehend what they just heard.

“show some respect towards your crush!” you deadpan, “shut it!”he scoffs as he finally faces you. “…is it yes or no?” the now less embarrassed or angry (you really couldn’t tell) asks quietly, surprisingly audible over all the chatter about the two of you.

“it would've been nicer if you did this properly,” you say. "wh—?!” “but sure, I accept your challenge of beating you to a pulp in training.” “…” bakugou stands there, looking at you with a mixture of confusion and a ‘what the fuck did you just say’ with slightly pink blush visible on his pale skin.

“...It's a yes, idiot.”

suddenly, he can breathe properly and releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “stop playing around, brat,” he smiles at you as you laugh.

he was nervous over nothing, just like what his friends said.

SHOTO TODOROKI, one of the most strongest guys in your class... no, in UA, verbally expressed he was amazed with your quirk?! is he flirting with you..?

“yn, please excuse my sudden compliment, but I must say your quirk is amazing. especially with your control, it definitely suits a girl like you.” the half-n-half user tells you, straight in the face even. you think you probably– no most definitely look stupid in front of him with your flustered expression, speechless too... “o—oh! you think so?”

...you wish shigaraki could decay this whole school right now and turn you into dust.

todoroki keeps his gaze on you as a small but evident smile shows on his lips. “yes, I think so,” he says in a more softer tone. you think it's much better than his stoic voice you often hear. “is there anything i said wrong? or made you uncomfortable?” you also think about how cute he can be without trying, and you hate it.

quickly brushing off his earlier statement, he sighs and fixes his stiff posture as response. “that's good to know. I wouldn't like upsetting a princess after all.” todoroki smiles at you before turning his heel to leave. “I will be taking my leave now yn,” how nonchalant could he be? “take care. I'll see you at the dorms.”

after todoroki bid farewell, leaving his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, you found yourself wishing he would stay a bit longer.

“wait!” you hastily exclaimed suddenly, reaching out towards him with an arm, but then stopping with a twitch. the volume of your voice higher than you intended, making you shock yourself. todoroki turns around, puzzled by your abrupt gesture. it was probably just a reflex, he thought, dismissing the sudden movement. because surely, you wouldn't want him to stay for anything else, right?

in a surprising turn of events, you sheepishly invited him for lunch or dinner after exams, revealing your want for him to stay.

“um, sorry. would you like to have lunch, maybe dinner? sometime after training and exams.”

having practically asked him out, you blushed as he smiled, agreeing and taking out his phone. “what’s this for?” you inquired, still a bit pink in the face. “well, I do need your number for our date, don't I?” the icy hot user replied with an 'obviously' look on his face.

if you weren't red before, you definitely were now; perhaps even resembling a sunburn. did he just activate his fire quirk or something? the air kept getting hotter the longer you both talked.

“oops! my apologies for that...” you muttered nervously, inputting your number into his phone, adjusting your own contact details as well. 'yn! (≧∀≦)'

SAVE CONTACT ? YES | NO > YES | NO

“cute emoji.” todoroki plainly says, with a hint of adornment in his tone as he looked at your newly saved contact name. he thinks he’ll start using those emojis often. “haha, I know right…”

giving back his phone, you offer walking back to the dorms with him.

“I would like that, as much I like being in your company.” okay. he's definitely hitting on you now. “todoroki... sorry for my sudden ask, but are you flirting with me?” you say a little quickly with a flushed face, looking the other way to avoid his gaze. as you do that, he stops walking.

noticing his presence gone and a few steps back, you look back and suddenly you see his expression as one you’ve never seen before.

“t—todoroki?” you call out to him with a tone tinged with tinged with a new found anxiety and concern due to his sudden silence. unsure if he’s flushed of getting caught or genuinely contemplating if he was or wasn’t. but one thing you were sure about was how crazy the two of you must look, standing in the middle of a hall way going back and forth on each other.

besides all this, you hurriedly apologize for catching him off guard, trying to ease any discomfort you might’ve caused (you hope you haven’t, or else you really wish the league of villains would take you the moment you leave the building.)

“ohmygod, please excuse me for just asking that out of the blue, you really don’t have to—“ “yes. I was.” “huh?” “I was actually flirting with you,” the dual colored hair boy who stands in front of you, smiling bashfully; his gaze struggling to maintain eye contact but always seems to meet yours.

“sorry, was I moving too fast?” todoroki asks you with the gently and sincere tone that you could listen to on repeat. wait, what the hell? he’s just trying to ease the tension between you.

“no!” realizing you responded too hastily, you try to regain a normal composure and talk to him; but your words fail to come out right “ah, sorry… but no! you weren’t, I was just… um…” lord, your words were really failing you. so you think of the only thing sensible to get you out of this situation,

“walk away from me!” you commanded him, and in doing so he does. involuntarily. you gotta thank your quirk for this, honestly.

“wh- wait, yn!” todoroki calls out to you in a shocked but confused tone, “turn me back, right now!” he says as his body still walks away from you, having no control over your quirk.

as you hear him ask to be released, you immediately regret your decision on using your quirk in him.“come back to me.”

after hearing your latest command, he feels grateful as his body obediently changes direction and approaches you, coming within 10 steps. now standing before you, he nervously sweats, unsure of what to do or say. meanwhile, you avert your gaze, looking down as he gazes at you. “i’m sorry I was too nervous!”you exclaim loudly as you attempt to leave, but he interrupts you before you can manage your grand escape.

“please don’t go,” he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper. you stop in your tracks from the surprised by his sudden change in demeanor and how gently he reached out to your arm. looking up at you after a moment of silence, with kind eyes laced with a loving intent, he takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to speak. “what I meant was, don’t be sorry.” he smiles, “and don’t leave.”

you swear you feel a heart attack coming.

“I’m sure you’ve already known, but I just wanted to say...i think you’re amazing. and i would really like to get to know you better.” you feel your heart skip a beat as you realize his true intentions. (as if he didn’t tell you from the beginning) a smile spreads across your face as you reply, “I would like that too.” and in that moment, the nervous tension dissipates, replaced by a sense of excitement for what the future may hold.

“so what do you say,” todoroki starts again; “do you just wanna start the date tonight?” he asks, a hopeful like look casted upon his face. who could say no to a face like that? you gleem at him as the corners of his mouth curl upwards more, feeling a sense of relief.

as he stands there, now going walk with you towards the dorms, he thanks himself for getting over with his own nervousness and complimenting you.

BONUS: “y’know, I didn’t actually know i was asking for a date.” you admit to him as you lean on the kitchen counter, watching your new boyfriend trying to chop chives. “really?” he stops cutting, now looking at you with a surprised smile. “yeah, really…” you chuckle, “I thought I was just asking for you to hang out.” your dual wielder boyfriend laughs, “well I’m glad I took it the wrong way and started flirting with you.” he sighs as he resumes to cooking. “yeah. me too.” you smile at the scene unfolding in front of you.

“stop fucking flirting. it’s making me sick.” “oh shut up bakugou.”

HI GUYS!!! finally posting this after it’s been in drafts since like may I really like how this turned out especially todoroki hehehehehehehheh can u tell I really like him. but anyways, I’m thinking if I should do a part 2 with deku and uhh idk. but anyways!!!!! hope u guys like this 𝜗𝜚.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

could you do a pregnant reader x rafe

a/n: okay but that got my brain buzzing, so i simply had to get all the thoughts out in the form of headcannons (written right before i fell asleep, sorry if it shows)

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

okay, so picture this: he's the asshole frat boy, you're the cute college chick who unlike him is actually there for the education.

also, he's your ex...

you were only together for a few months, but still, that shit was intense, the relationship nearly broke you from all of the high highs and low lows

it was exhausting being in love with an asshole, hence why you're no longer together

he was totally the type of toxic boyfriend to only wanna fuck you without a condom, either by pressuring you or just straight up lying and then rolling the rubber right off either as soon as he got you into doggystyle or like halfway through when you were too cockdrunk to notice the difference.

so that might have been why a month or so after the two of you broke up, you were late...

i'm picturing that you finally took a test at the most chaotic moment: at the beginning of a party in a bathroom, your roommate doing a quick run to a pharmacy while drunk folks try to barge down the door.

when your roomie comes back, you're totally freaking out, full-on melt-down, while she sits on the counter beside the sink and tries to calm you down, thinking up other solutions to your symptoms.

but the damn stick shows you two lines.

you were pregnant.

"so are you gonna tell him?" your roomie asks you, but you're still on a completely different planet, trying to comprehend the result.

"huh?"

"rafe. are you gonna tell him? i mean, i assume that it's him, unless there's somebody else, in which, how dare you not spill."

"what? no, there's no one else. of course it's rafe's..."

"...so? are you gonna tell him?"

but you have no idea if you want to or even should. you don't even have the slightest idea what you might wanna do about it all, if you should keep the baby or not.

but timing really is a funny funny thing, because when you then decide to go home to process everything (because damn, now you can't stay at the party and celebrate the close call), you bump into none other then the man, the myth, the whore himself: rafe fucking cameron.

now, you're straight up crying at this point, just overwhelmed as fuck, so of course he doesn't let you just slip by without figuring out what in the fuck is going on, if there is some douchebag he needs to go beat up.

"there only douchebag you need to beat up is yourself," you spit out before you can stop the phrase.

"oh, come on, baby. you can't still be mad at me? it's been like a month."

"please, rafe... just let me go home..."

"no, not until you tell me what's wrong!"

and when you actually say it out loud, it's like the awful party music fades and the buzzing crowd around you disappears.

"i'm pregnant."

at first, he just stands there stunned, staring straight through you.

if he's holding a glass, then he definitely drops and smashes it on the ground.

but then he grabs your arm and wordlessly drags you with him, all the way up to his room.

that's when, in the dull quiet of his dark dorm room, that it really sinks in.

for a while he just stares at you, letting his eyes scan down your frame, surely imagining what you'd look like in a few months.

and then, out of the blue, he whispers, "marry me..."

"...what?"

"marry me," he utters with more confidence, "i know this isn't exactly how it should go, but babe... i still love you. i never stopped... let me take care of you, let me take care of our baby, let me give you the life we deserve. so what do you say? will you marry me?"

but you just stare back at him as if he's gone mad.

"...no."

your stomach starts to flip as you then see the first signs of rage flare up on his features, "what do you mean no?"

"rafe, i'm supposed to be finishing up my degree, being young and dumb, not getting knocked up by the last man i'd ever want to be forever stuck with."

of course he then totally pops off, pushes you into a corner, yelling, screaming, all the nine yards

saying all this stuff about how you should be grateful that he ever gave you his time of day in the first place, nevertheless get you pregnant with his kid.

sooo, me thinks the next steps in their story gets pretty dark, pretty fast....

we talking him taking you with him home to tannyhill because school is simply too stressful for you and the baby (in his opinion)

mayhaps he straight up locks you in a room and acts all nice, pretends that nothing is wrong with the way he handles it all

forced marriage? yes? no? yes.

him getting fucking FERAL when you start to show?

also him getting feral long before that, taking the chance to make sure you're really, totally, 100% pregnant, if you know what i mean (in other words: all of the creampies ever, just over and over again, fucking load after load deep inside of you + so so much cumplay)

and the ending? i imagine that one day, after your kid is born, you run away, baby in your arms and not much else.

you try and create a quiet little life for you and your child somewhere far away

but eventually (of course, just for the sake of ✨drama✨) he finds you...

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[lucimaaie]

missed you ✧.* tlou

pairings - ellie williams x fem!reader

summary - ellie was just missing you when you showed up at her doorstep

warning - short & not proofread as always

being ellie's ex was no doubt awkward. more at the beginning when everything's fresh and you just have to get used to not being together anymore. seeing something that reminds you of her or not being able to knock on her door and say. "i just need you right now."

then a couple months pass, a year, then three and things were normal. relatively normal for exes, ellie guessed. you didn't talk much besides what was needed or when you happened to end up together.

ellie wasn’t going to admit that she missed you. you were her first relationship, sure. that mattered, she knew that, but something in her head told her she needed to not need you. that that was the mature thing to do: not needing your ex-girlfriend. that’s not what she wanted to call you.

she couldn’t rekindle things again, could she? what if she fucked everything up again and everyone in the town found out? she rolled her eyes at the thought and tried to fix the mess she’d made of her sketch. she’d gotten your nose all wrong and it just didn’t look like you.

the thought that she was forgetting what you look like made her want to knock on your door at..3am in the morning. “damn,” ellie rubbed her eye as she realized the time. she shut her book and walked over to her bed when a quiet rapping on the door stopped her. she waited for it to continue and it did. in that familiar beat that was meant for the two of you when sneaking out to see each other was a big no-no.

ellie realizing it was you, cursed as she searched for pants to put on and a jacket to throw on. she scrambled around to get dressed before opening the door with a startled expression. "hi."

"hi." you sung, swaying from side to side like a child.

ellie tilted her head at your behavior before replying. "are you okay?"

"m'finee. why does everyone keep asking that?" you stepped forward to lean against the doorframe but you ended up leaning and missing the frame altogether.

"woah," ellie barely caught you when it hit her. you were drunk. or high off your ass. or both. either way it was concerning how you got like this and decided to come to her of all people. "you're drunk. like really drunk." her hands wrapped around your waist moved to your arms, pulling you inside before closing the door behind you. "drunk." ellie laughed in disbelief as she looked at you.

she'd wanted to see you, but this wasn't exactly the way she imagined it. regardless, she was happy to see you not so tense around her. "staring." you sang again, flopping back onto the bed.

"shit, sorry. let's get you sober." she grabbed the cup on her desk and walked to the bathroom, but not before taking a glance at you. "ish." it wasn't long before she sat next to you. "here."

you sat up and gulped down the water, something you'd probably regret later, and handed her the cup. "ah," you laid back down.

"ah-ah" ellie pulled you back up. "you are not gonna throw up on my bed. please don't do that."

you opened your mouth in offense. "I wouldn't-" you hiccuped. "do that. I wouldn't do that, el. I promise." you said as if it was the most serious thing on earth.

"i believe you." ellie couldn't help but laugh.

she let out a deep breath as she looked at you in your own world. it was good seeing you be you again. it reminded of her of the nights she'd force you into watching some shitty 80s movie for movie night and listen to you complain about it the whole time. or patrols when you'd gift her some random thing you found who knows where saying "it reminds me of you." with a horrible attempt at a wink. days when there was less to worry about.

"missed you, you know." she said quietly. "a lot actually." the confession didn't come off her chest easily but you wouldn't remember later anyway. call it a test run.

"I missed you too, e." you said so naturally she questioned the truth of it. though it seems she was given her answer when you patted around for her hand. she quickly gave it to you. "we shouldn't have broke up." you slurred.

ellie froze. "don't say that."

"why not?" you pouted, leaning your head onto your shoulder. you looked up at her with slightly glossy eyes.

"cause i'm gonna think it's true.” she disconnected her hand from yours to put her arm around your shoulder. “and you’re drunk which meant i shouldn’t take anything you say to heart.”

“that’s just mean. you should take everything i say to heart.” you nuzzled your head into her neck, making her let out a strained hum. you knew she was touch-starved and was probably doing this to tease her. goddamn you.

“that’s very credible.” she got up. “c’mon, you’re gonna sit up in bed till you fall asleep.” ellie squatted down to take off your boots and set them by the bed.

“will you lay down with me?”

her eyes flicked back up to you at the question. she shut them for a while, trying to keep her head on a straight. “you’re not laying down, remember?”

“fine. will you sit up with me?”

“in bed?”

“yup.” you popped the p like this was some casual occurrence. like the last time you’d been this close wasn’t three years ago.

“okay.” ellie said slowly.

“yay.”

“just like a kid.” ellie smiled as she pulled back the covers and patted the spot. you glared at her for the comment and she matched the energy with a smile in her eyes. “get in, kid.”

“only cause i want to.”

after you slid in, ellie did the same. she looked at the ceiling as you scooted closer to her and laid your head on her shoulder again. this time your hands snuck around her waist. “had no idea you were a cuddly drunk.” ellie smiled as you giggled.

“i’ve grown up.”

“i see.” ellie grabbed on your hands from her waist, feeling brave enough to lace your fingers together. she’d enjoy the closeness for the moment. in the morning, you’d awkwardly apologize and scamper off. probably not talk to her for a while.

“missed you.” you mumbled sleepily before closing your eyes. “missed this.”

“me too,” ellie looked at you in this relaxed state. thankful for the opportunity to see this before the morning hit. but she didn’t want to think about that now. she wanted to think of how cute you looked sleepy. how much you enjoyed her touch. how much she was enjoying your touch. “me too.” she laid her head on yours.

thank you for reading!

[tojilvrs]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ FUCK MY EX! (AND HIS BOSS) ceo!toji fushiguro x fem reader (2.7k)

repost from my old blog!!!

⁂ warnings: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI! toji’s not a bum, reader gets cheated on (not by toji), m receiving oral, pet names, degradation, rough sex, reader’s ex sees them at the end, unprotected sex, creampie, sex as a revenge ploy, some praise, foot on head during doggy (does this have a technical name lol?), also tagging foot fetish JUST IN CASE the last thing counts lol, toji coerces reader, use of the name ‘daddy’ ONCE, spanking, some aftercare, toji steals your panties (and your heart), reader has hair long enough to be pulled

⁂ a/n: this fic literally came out of nowhere i had no plans of writing until i saw twitter porn and a little lightbulb formed above my head. anywho this is not great i wrote and proofread it while i was sleepy so if there’s mistakes don’t tell me i will get embarrassed!!!! THE PACING MIGHT ALSO BE HORRID i was just trying to get my claws on some fictional wiener. k luv u alllll <3

You never thought you could get this low.

You also never thought you’d come home to find your now ex-boyfriend balls deep in his coworker he told you not to worry about.

Way past the stages of hurt and with no more tears left to spill, you found yourself angry. You were pissed at your ex for being unfaithful. Pissed at the woman for fucking around with a man she knew was not available. And pissed at yourself for not figuring it out sooner. Once you got over your sorrows and finally felt able to pull yourself together, you just wanted to rid your apartment of anything that reminded you of him.

That's how you found yourself across the table from that rat bastard's boss. A box full of his old shit perched in your lap and your nails tapping the side of the cardboard. Scanning the room of Mr. Fushiguro's luxurious office and finding yourself filling with rage all over again knowing that the last time you were here, you were helping him get promoted.

"Pleasure seeing you again," you watched as Mr. Fushiguro took a seat in his plush office chair, "though it appears you're here to play the part of 'scorned girlfriend' instead of ‘concerned girlfriend, hm?’ Word travels fast ‘round here.”

"Ex-girlfriend."

"Right," he clasped his hands together over his chest and kicked his feet up onto his desk, knocking over his name plate, “so what're you here for, scorned ex-girlfriend?"

"Just want to give his shit back. Passing it on to you so I won't have to see him and blondie going at it in your breakroom." You watched the man crack a smile before speaking again.

"S'all you’re gonna do?" He knew your answer by the way you tore your eyes off of him and focused them on the box in your lap instead. Slightly slumping down in your chair as if you were a child in trouble trying to evade the scrutinizing gaze of a parent “Oh, don’t tell me you’re just gonna let bygones be bygones and let him get away with it scott free.”

His tone made you feel like your entire situation was almost comical. You looked back up and narrowed your eyes at the man. Scanning his face and watching the scar on his lip twitch when the corner turned up in a smirk.

“Mr. Fushiguro-“

“Don’t have to be all formal now, call me Toji.”

“Okay, what exactly are you implying, Toji?” he sighed before standing up from his desk and fixing his name plate, smirk never falling from his lips and eyes never leaving yours.

“I know he is my employee, but i’m not really… fond of him either. And you’re too pretty of a girl to just let him get away with cheating. It’d make you feel better to hurt ‘em a little bit. Get a little revenge.”

You broke away eye contact from him again to look around his office. Taking note of how sparsely decorated the area was as you pondered and tried to avoid his eyes. It wasn’t the most mature or logical decision, but he was right. It would make you feel better to make him hurt just a little bit. “And how exactly might I go about that?”

Toji laughed a little as he walked around the desk, taking the box out of your lap and placing it on the floor before settling himself behind you. The sweet tobacco scent of his cologne invaded your nostrils as he got closer to you, making his presence feel almost suffocating.

“Y’know what would really get him?” His voice sounded as if it were laced with a honeyed sweetness. The sound surrounding you and ringing around in your ears. He shifted his feet, but you still felt the heat radiating off of him and onto your back.

“What?”You felt him grow closer. Leaning down behind you. So close that you could feel his breath fan against your skin.

“Fuckin’ his boss.”

The lewd suggestion tickled the shell of your ear. Your eyes widening and mouth going dry once you realized exactly what he was proposing to you. You opened your mouth to protest. To tell him how absolutely ridiculous that was, but your words fell short. Closing your mouth again to look down and stare at the indentions the corners of the cardboard box had left in your skin.

You couldn’t say that you hadn’t let your eyes linger a little too long at Toji Fushiguro. Always noticing how easy he was on the eyes when your ex would make you tag along to work events. How his suits would perfectly contour to his body. Showing off his bulging muscles through the fabric. How he seemed to tower over you and everyone else with his height and domineering presence. How your gazes would linger a little too long on each other and how his fingertips would “accidentally” graze your hips when passing you.

You were taken away from your thoughts by the feeling of his fingers slowly caressing up and down your jaw. His touch soft, contrasting the rough calluses that lined his fingers. You also realized he had now moved directly in front of you and you were eye-level with his crotch.

“What’ll it be, sweetness?” The tip of his thumb travelled up to your bottom lip, smearing some of your lipgloss. “Y’gonna let me help you get back at him?”

You slowly looked up at him and nodded your head, still not trusting any words to come out of your mouth. He smiled down at you, removing the hand on your chin to pet your head and using his other to unbutton his slacks.

“Gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget allllll about your little ex-boyfriend.”

You were still looking up at him dumbly as he freed heavy cock from the confines of his pants, subconsciously parting your lips and slightly sticking out your tongue at the sight of him. Relishing in the way he looked at you and the noises he made once his cock makes contact with your awaiting tongue.

“Already so good and fuckin’ obedient. Did he teach you that?” You shake your head and he cackles. Easing his way into your throat. “So you’re just naturally a whore, huh?” He lightly slaps your cheek, not even hard enough to sting, and moves from petting your head to gripping your hair once you take him all the way into your mouth. Testing your limits and pushing his way past the tight ring of muscle in the back of your throat, loving the way you choke and sputter around him. “Takin’ me so good. Bet that motherfucker couldn’t properly stuff your throat.”

Toji’s right- he couldn’t. He also isn’t quite as big as Toji is either, in both length and girth. It also seems that the man in front of you didn’t learn to fuck from porn like your ex did. Only pushing your limits a little bit at a time and not throatfucking you from the get-go. Also making sure you’re not suffocating on him for too long.

You began to move your tongue over the vein that ran on the underside of his cock, watching in satisfaction as he throws his head back and groans. Doing it again and again and watching his face contort in pleasure.

“Shit, baby, got the sweetest fuckin’ mouth.” His voice is huskier now, almost breathy. You watch as sweat begins to lightly bead across his forehead and his hands come off of you to loosen his tie around his collar. The air becoming too thick and hot for him. You suck him off with much more passion as you get used to his size. Bobbing your head up and down his length and occasionally pulling yourself off to lick on the sensitive skin around his balls. Not paying much mind to the spit that has run from your mouth and covered the bottom half of your face.

“That’s it- hah- fuck yeah… that’s it. Gonna cum down that pretty fuckin’ throat” You kept up your ministrations, using your hand to lightly squeeze his balls as you took his full length down your throat once more. Listening as Toji’s pants became progressively more and more uneven. Only taking a few more short moments before his abs tighten and he takes in a deep inhale as he shoots his load down your throat. His leg twitching as the coil in his belly snaps. Pulling off of him to stick out your tongue and show him that you swallowed it all.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?” He gripped your chin tightly and you nodded your head dumbly, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. He smiled and gestured for you to walk over to the plush, black couch he kept in his office. A guiding hand resting on your lower back as he layed you down on your stomach. He took his time running his hands from your calves all the way up to your ass, like he was trying to memorize every dip in your skin. Once he reached the hem of your skirt, he flipped it up. Gently running the palms of his hands over the smooth skin and giving the right cheek a harsh slap and soothing the sting with the very same hand that inflicted it.

“Suckin’ dick make you this wet?” Your slick had soiled your panties, smearing onto your thighs. His fingers lightly ran across the soaked fabric. You felt the couch dip under his weight as he settled behind you, feeling the fabric of his haphazardly pulled down pants and the heat of whatever skin that was exposed press into you.

“Sucking yours does.” you gasp as he pushes your panties to the side to make contact with your swollen clit. The cool air of his office hitting your soaked center makes you shiver. “You’re gentler than I thought you’d be.”

“Oh baby,” He pauses, taking his hands off of you to maneuver himself around, “you haven’t had the worst yet.”

You’re comfused until you feel the tip of his cock prodding your entrance and begin to push in. Your walls greedily sucking him in even though it felt as if he was splitting you in two.

“Tight as a fuckin’ virgin, y’gotta open up for me, girl.” His fingers rub tight circles on your clit. Using that to his advantage to thrust his cock deeper and deeper into you until he’s bottomed out. Your hips arching into him as any remnants of pain begin to wash away and are overtaken with white-hot pleasure. His hands find purchase on your hips as his thrusts begin to speed up. Going harder into you and somehow hitting you deeper each time, causing tears to spring in corners of your eyes.

“Already cryin’ on my cock and we’ve barely even started? Slut can’t handle it?” He slaps your ass again, not caring if it stings. You furiously shake your head as moans and whimpers spill from your lips. Trying your hardest to match his brutal pace with your own hips. “Oh, you think you can take control now, huh? I’d watch it, little girl.”

At first you think he pushes your face into the couch with his hand. That’s until you realize that both his hands are still on your hips and it’s actually his foot that’s found its place on the back of your head as he continues to fuck the memory of your ex out of you. Your pussy clenching down on him at the mere thought of the position.

“Like being treated like a whore don’t you? Shitty man couldn’t do it like I can.” You couldn’t respond back even if you tried. Too caught up in the feeling of being stuffed full by the most skilled man you’ve ever fucked and biggest cock you’ve ever taken. Writhing under him as the pleasure of his tip repeatedly hitting your spot over and over again was becoming almost too much.

Toji must’ve felt the way your pussy began to tighten around him or how your moans were so loud the couch wasn’t muffling them well anymore. His hand snaked around your hip and back down to your clit to rub shapes on it, bringing your closer to your peak.

“That’s right, cum on this cock baby. Hah- cum all over my fuckin’ cock.” He spoke to you through gritted teeth and the sound went straight to your core. It wasn’t long after that your back slipped into a deeper arch and your cunt clenched down on him even harder. A white ring of cream forming around the base of his dick as he worked you through your orgasm and worked himself closer to his.

“Such a good girl. You’re gonna take my cum, yeah? Gonna let me fill you up?” You nodded a quick yes, pussy still quaking from your orgasm. the only thing keeping your hips from collapsing into the couch being the vice grip of his strong hands.

The foot pressed into your head was removed and replaced by his right hand gripping your hair and pulling you up to meet his face. Looking him in the eyes for the first time since he started fucking you and seeing the beast of a man he’s become. Pupils blown, hair messy, and face sweaty as his grunts get louder, more aggressive.

“So pretty baby. You’re my good, pretty girl, right? C’mon, daddy a kiss when he cums. You’ve been so. fucking. good.” The last of his words were punctuated by rough thrusts into your heat. His heavy balls slapping against your clit so hard it was making you jump. You craned your head back even more for your lips to meet his in a sloppy, lust-filled kiss as he lets out a final rough grunt into your mouth. The familiar warmth flooding your pussy as his thrusts begin to let up.

He’s gentle with you for the first time in a while, gently resting your head back down to the couch before slowly pulling his softening dick out, tucking it back into his underwear, and smoothing your skirt back down. Rubbing a hand over the arch of your back and letting you rest on his couch as he pulls off your soiled panties and pockets them for himself. Also noticing a patch of your slick that has soiled the front of his pants and smiling as a mix of both of your releases begin to trickle out of your spent hole. Using two of his fingers to push it back in. The room is quiet for the first time in a long while. Only sound being the oscillating box fan in the corner of the room. It says quiet for a while, until you break the silence.

“Don’t even think I can remember the fucker’s name anymore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You turn over onto your back to face him, watching closely as he fixes his suit to the best of his ability. “Wouldn’t mind seeing you again, if you’d like.”

He turns to face you, smirking again, “Can’t say I’d hate that.”

It’s your turn to smirk at him before letting your head roll over and rest again. Consumed with the thoughts of how that was definitely the best revenge plan you ever participated in.

You’re almost drifting off until that same thought wakes you up again. Sitting up to look at Toji.

“Wait, how was any of that a revenge ploy if he didn’t even see it?” Toji smirks, fixing his tie. Not even a second later you hear a knock on his door before Toji gives the visitor permission to enter.

“You wanted to see m-“ Your ex stops mid-sentence once he sees you lounging on his employer’s couch with his cum leaking out of you. “Wait, what is she doing here?”

“Baby brought your shit by.” Toji kicks the box towards him as he pulls your panties out of his back pocket and swinging them around his index finger. “Anything else you need? Or do you just wanna watch me fuck your ex-girl again?”

[theroundbartable]

Arthur: okay, Merlin. I have a request

Merlin: *sighs* I'm glad you're starting to like my magic, Arthur, but I can't do everything -

Arthur: Make me gay

Merlin: ...

Merlin: like with magic?

Arthur: yes, with magic, Merlin, don't be daft.

Merlin: *annoyingly realises that that is actually possible with magic* why?

Arthur: Remember when you came out to me about your magic and I didn't take it well and you reminded me of how I couldn't possibly relate?

Merlin: yes?

Arthur: Good, because Gwaine just mentioned something about homophobic laws and for once, I want to understand what he meant before I try to change that law.

Merlin: ah. Alright then. If it's for Gwaine

Weeks later

Arthur, busting into Merlin's quarters unannounced: Merlin, I think your magic is broken

Merlin: hmm? What do you mean?

Arthur: It's not working! I don't feel any different! And believe me, I have tried-

Merlin: what exactly have you tried?

Arthur: *blushing* erm just... Normal stuff. Like... Like looking.

Merlin: looking. And you really don't feel any different? Don't want anything when you look at men?

Arthur: no! Yes, I mean- I- I feel the same as always.

Merlin *checks spell. Mutters something under his breath to check if a spell is in effect on Arthur*: nope, not my magic that's broken

Arthur: but-

Merlin: so? *Grinning* so nothing is different at all?

Arthur: *goes tomato red at the realisation* Merlin, I swear, if you're messing with me-

Merlin: *just laughs*

Arthur: oh god!

Merlin: if you ask me, that explains a lot about you

Arthur: Like what?

Merlin: The staring at the knights-

Arthur: I do not stare!

Merlin: you do. You also like men who are strong enough to push you around. Or, now that we're at it, just men who do push you around. You also have a consensual workplace relationship with your ex manservant.

Arthur: *sputterung* you're not insinuating that I would - with you-?!?!

Merlin: you tell me. I'm free by six, if you want to test that theory.