#enjoy this three am art I just did | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gojonanami · 1 year ago

Text

❝ 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐒 ❞

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RING. RING. RING.

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

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

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

Probably not. That would be far too lucky.

~~~

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

It was too much of a risk.

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

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

But he couldn’t possibly be that lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I want us to do that—”

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

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

It didn’t.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you did neither, and instead broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you calling me self absorbed?”

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

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

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

God he’s even pretty when he blushes.

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

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

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

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

“Do I have any other responsibilities?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something you knew very well.

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

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

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

You blink, “how’d you know that?”

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

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

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

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

“What students?”

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

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

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

“No,” and he only smiles wider.

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

“I’m not—“

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

Ah, there is was — you were sinking again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, this wasn’t a dream was it?

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

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

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

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

He raises an eyebrow, “deja vu?”

Your blood runs cold. Fuck.

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you insist.

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

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

Nothing good ever came from your want.

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

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

But you can’t be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck — maybe there was something to worry about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you make the decision for both of you.

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

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

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

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

No, it didn’t matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But why did it hurt so goddamn much?

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

Was it really not a big deal to him?

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

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

Just fine.

“There was a problem with your reservation,”

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

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

One. Bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re both adults—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. My. God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was going to be a long weekend.

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

Fuck his life.

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

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

God, he sighed, it was such a mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t.

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

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

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

Not when it was you.

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

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

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

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

You hated how much you loved it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Professor—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of him?”

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

“Not your type?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He surely wouldn’t get a wink tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much for sticking to your sides.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could this possibly get worse?

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

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

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

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

Oh, what the fuck.

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

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

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

But you didn’t know how to begin to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you realize how close you are to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RING. RING. RING.

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

The department head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was this fate versus free will?

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

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

And so maybe he should let it.

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

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

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

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

Just as you always were it seemed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck — no, no, you can’t do this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We agreed—”

“I don’t remember an agreement-”

“It was unspoken—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RING. RING. RING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8K notes · View notes

inkskinned · 1 year ago

Text

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

#writeblr #warm up #this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru #but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist #ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school.#like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it.#was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes.#but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create''#when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work #part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just #like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent.#speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r #ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week #this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice.#''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism #imagine if we said that about literally any other profession.#''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt?#u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky''#we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY #''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''

11K notes · View notes

krysmcscience · 8 months ago

Text

It’s finally done, guys – five whole pages of Narilamb AU comic AND MORE be upon you! (If you have trouble reading any of the text, view the full-size! These pages are huge!)

Yeesh, this took forever. <:)

There’s probably a ton of inconsistencies and anatomy/perspective wonkeries, but this was mostly just comic practice, so Oh Hekkin Well, Lol <:D

(Yes, I am aware the Gateway’s door isn’t present in the Afterlife, and the actual way in is just a pentagram portal. Yes, I put the door in there anyway because Artistic License, i.e. it felt more impactful for there to be a prison door of sorts to walk through to freedom, rather than just a bland boring portal on the ground. 😠)

anyway, i hate backgrounds so much lmao

Alternate ending and a buttload of bonus art under the cut, followed by goofy AU rambles and headcanon stuff:

I’m calling it the Revival AU. It’s not all that creative a title, and someone else has probably used it already, but I am too lazy to really care, LOL

Alternate ending page, which you will Definitely need to view the full-size for, Whoopsie Daisy:

The alternate ending was actually the first ending I finished things off with, because I had a brief badbrain moment where I forgot the emotional beat I initially wanted the comic to end on, and I tend to write comedy, anyway. I later remembered and drew out the proper ending, but I preserved and finished this one, too, because it still makes me giggle.

They had to go back for the followers off-screen in the AU’s real ending. And by ‘they’ I mean just the Lamb, because they weren’t about to ask three newly freed cats to go back into what used to be their prison. The Lamb DID spend some time watching Narinder and the bois enjoying the outdoors first, though:

In other news, here’s the Lamb and me making fun of my anatomy-drawing ‘skills’:

Meanwhile, if you’re wondering why the Lamb is just a-okay with how things went down vis a vis Their Murder, this bonus comic should answer at least some of your questions:

Ah, yes, also this is how they get engaged outside of the alternate ending. Forgot to mention that bit. XD (I already refuse to believe that Narinder is capable of flirting normally, so why would his initial marriage proposal be any better???)

Oh, and before any of them get a chance to actually head back to the cult grounds, there is one potential problem:

And by ‘problem’ I mean something Narinder intends to ignore for At Minimum a thousand years. Cuz he’s a petty bitch like that. :D

what do you mean i drew the lamb too tall compared to the background? clearly they’re standing on top of baal and aym lmao, why else would you think those two aren’t in this one??? (aym and baal got way too excited about finally being outside, you see, and their silly modes are nothing to sneeze at)

And, speaking of heading back to the cult grounds, I’m sure y’all would love to know how the Lamb’s followers felt about the brand new change in management:

It all went better than expected. <:D Tiny ramble now, feel free to skip down to the next comic.

Before you ask, no, the Lamb does not have any actual powers anymore, other than the immortality Narinder definitely grants them. The Red Crown just thinks it’s funny to suggest otherwise, and Narinder does nothing to discourage this. Also, the Lamb and Narinder aren’t actually married here yet, but, uh. Pretty safe to say that particular ritual directly follows the events of this comic. XD

Given how quickly he mellows out in canon, Narinder probably chills out a lot in this AU once he’s in charge of the cult, too, if only because 1.) He’s finally free, and 2.) He’s equally smitten with and distracted by the Lamb. He’s definitely in charge at least 95% of the time, though, because the Lamb never actually wanted to be a cult leader and, now that their time as a vessel is done, they just want to be a normal(ish) sheep who’s wholly devoted to their hot new divine husband.

Some followers do still have some valid concerns about these two being together, though, which I’m sure at least a few of you might share…

Unfortunately for any such concerns, the Lamb is a bonafide masochist in this AU. :D

They’re also 100% a sub, obviously

Anyone at all: Your relationship is problematic and potentially toxic

The Lamb: fuck yeah it is, it’s so hot~ OuO

Here’s just the last panel, made transparent for whatever nefarious purposes y’all might have for it:

Additional exchange Narinder and the Lamb have at some point, probably after the Lamb does a fatal whoopsie while out on a mission trip or in response to things getting a little too sadistic in the bedroom, ahaha:

Look, there is a very important distinction between life and death, and if you don’t understand that, then you’re probably not worthy of being the God of Death, anyway. (At least, according to Narinder, and ONLY Narinder.)

Last but not least, have these shittens:

~Such creative naming conventions I have utilized, lololol~ :D Anyway, there's a few deets on them in the rambles down below.

The rest is all ramble, so before I get to that, I’ll just say – likes and especially reblogs are very much appreciated!!! :D If you happen to really really REALLY like my stuff, meanwhile, I do have a link in my bio to my ko-fi page, where I’m accepting commissions and donations if you’re especially generous… ÓuÒ

Now, BE FREE IF YOU AIN’T DOWN FOR READING MY GOOFY RAMBLES

First ramble is re: Baal’s question of ‘Did it really work?’, since I didn’t feel like expanding on it in the comic proper, and it’s arguably pretty vague? He doesn’t ask because he doubts Narinder or his capabilities, exactly, but because neither Baal nor Aym have ever actually seen their god at full power before (he’s still technically not at full power here, either). It’s not expressly stated how soon the brothers were brought to Narinder after his imprisonment, but whether it was early on or after a length of time for Shamura to (somewhat) recover from his attack, he must have already been weakened, since I have no doubts that there was a huge battle that accompanied the Bishops working together to trap him. So, between that fight with all four of his siblings, sharing his power with a variety of vessels over time, and being chained immobile for a thousand years, he must have been severely weakened by the time he lent the Red Crown out to the Lamb, which would have only weakened him further.

I like to think this is how the Lamb is able to defeat him if they refuse to be sacrificed, despite how it took all four Bishops working together to subdue and chain Narinder in the first place.

All that aside, the three cats have been trapped in the Afterlife for so long that Baal also wanted verbal reassurance that they are all, indeed, actually able to leave it now – something that I headcanon isn’t possible without a significant amount of power (i.e. the Red Crown’s cooperation with its bearer/vessel).

(On a semi-related note, I don’t headcanon Aym and Baal as twins. I like sweetheart big bro Baal and snarky little goth bro Aym too much to have them be that close in age.)

Ah, teeny thing: If you noticed I switched up the art style for Narinder on the second page, that was intentional. It's sort of a visual indicator that there has been a Big Change for him - that being, how much power he has after sacrificing the Lamb. As for why I changed up his arms in the grass rollin' pic, I don't really subscribe to the notion that his arms are spooky bones because they're horrifically injured (beyond chain-chafing scars, that is), but rather just because he's the Bishop of Death, so he can change how normal-to-spooky they look at will. At some point I might doodle out how I imagine his appearance to range between least to most eldritch... 🤔

Next ramble, regarding Narinder’s feelings towards the Lamb...he was initially too focused on being freed from his imprisonment to form any real attachment to them. They were a tool for his use, first and foremost, but he did notice their intense devotion towards him. It was impossible not to notice, because the Lamb was always very happy to see him, even if it was because they died during a crusade (yet again). He wasn’t originally planning to revive them once he was freed, either, because he saw no real point to it – after all, they were already dead when they first met him, just as any other mortal would be when meeting him in the Afterlife, so death has very little real consequence in his eyes. But, once the chains were off, and it really sank in that he stood to lose the most devoted follower he’s ever had, he decided…why put their soul to rest for good or leave them stuck in the Afterlife when he could just as easily revive them again? And why not reward them for their hard work, anyway? Not only would it cost him nothing by comparison, but the future devotion that could come of it would surely make up for his (bare minimum) effort in reviving them.

He wasn’t expecting to get a full dose of that devotion and a smiling face so soon after killing them, though~ :3c (because the Lamb is a bonafide freak, and not-so-secretly into the fucked up power dynamics going on here, lol)

I should mention here that I am firmly of the belief that any non-god/vessel who crosses through the Gateway and into the Afterlife just straight up dies. So, Aym and Baal? Also straight up dead, from the second Shamura brought them through. Their souls were just never put to rest so that Narinder could have some company – if only according to Shamura. Narinder kept the two around mostly out of bewilderment, because honestly, who are these kittens, and what is Shamura’s game here, anyway??? They never even explained anything, they just tossed these kittens into the Afterlife and LEFT!!! At any rate, Aym and Baal being dead is how I explain why their souls apparently become lost in the void if they’re killed, along with the added complications required to revive the two because of it.

So, with those deets in mind, and given a bit of time, if Narinder hadn’t chosen to revive the Lamb, and also hadn’t chosen to put their soul to rest, they still would have woken up at some point, despite being as straight up dead as Aym and Baal. Who, don’t worry, were also properly revived while Narinder was waiting for the Lamb to wake up. Because I am also firmly of the belief that, first, the dead cannot leave the Afterlife without the use of a ritual/relic (and can't stay in the living world for long regardless), and second, dead followers’ devotion isn’t anywhere near as potent as that of the living, given how much more the living stand to lose.

Final ramble, regarding the Lamb’s feelings towards Narinder, and why they’re so devoted to him…

Well, you don’t spend most of your life on the run with your steadily-dwindling herd, trying to evade the ongoing genocide of your species, without becoming a little fucked up in the head. Maybe a lot fucked up in the head. Life is suffering, so might as well have fun with it, right? Maybe start finding death and pain to be kind of hilarious, even a little bit hot, once everyone you know and love is dead and gone, leaving you all alone? And maybe after that, there’s something comforting in how, despite the cold, cruel uncertainties of life, at least you can always count on the inevitability of death, patiently waiting for you until your very last breath? Who knows. Either way, as soon as the Lamb was killed, and they learned that the literal God of Death was offering them a second chance at life and vengeance via effective immortality, they were 100% ride-or-die-devoted all at once. Turns out death is kinder than life – go figure. (Of course, it helps that Narinder is 100% their type.)

They weren’t put off by Narinder’s thinly-veiled sadism or manipulations, either – they’re not too different in those regards, albeit opting for vastly different methods. It’s a very ‘two sides of the same coin’ sort of deal. In order to stay alive once they were made the last of their kind, the Lamb had no qualms with using others to their advantage, and that did not change once they were revived and expected to run a cult. They didn’t care for the position of authority, though – being a sheep and all, they’re much more of a follower than a leader, and thus greatly appreciated Narinder’s need for control. With how they had to keep on their toes for so long, the Lamb was also pretty good at reading people by the time they died, so they could recognize that a lot of Narinder’s posturing was just that – posturing. Dude’s 95% bluster and only 5% bite. He could obviously be vicious when he wanted or needed to (the Bishops' injuries were clear proof of that), but underneath his outer layer of cruelty was a generous layer of tsundere, and underneath all THAT was a soft squishy middle sibling velcro cat in desperate need of attention and affection.

(Which, for the record, he Did Not feel comfortable getting from Aym and Baal – Narinder still has no idea why the fuck Shamura sent them to him, beyond acting as keepers at best or trying to sabotage his attempts to escape at worst. Which, he thought HE sabotaged in turn, by guiding the kittens into being his devoted disciples instead. He thought he was very clever for it. ‘I outsmarted Shamura!’ he thought, despite that there was never anything there to outsmart. ‘What do you mean, Shamura sent your kittens to me for company?’ he demands of Forneus later. It may or may not lead him to pull Shamura out of Purgatory just so he can shake them and scream about how they should have Fucking Explained that!!!)

But, getting back on track as to why the Lamb was so willing to be sacrificed, I cannot stress this enough – if you pay even a minimal amount of attention to what he’s saying, Narinder is REALLY NOT SUBTLE about his intentions. ‘Death is of little consequence.’ ‘Followers are for you to use to your advantage.’ ‘Sacrifice a follower to absorb more power.’ So, yeah, the Lamb knew exactly what would be expected of them once the other Bishops were dead. They knew Narinder would expect them to die for him one last time. But, after all, death is of little consequence (not to mention hot), so when the time came, they wanted to see him freed, even if it meant oblivion for them in the end.

He’d given them a second life, and the ability to avenge their kin, and they felt indebted to him for that – so, while they were still pretty glum about the possibility that they might not get to see him free of his chains, nothing beyond their devotion and debt to him mattered. They never wanted all the drama and expectations that came with the Red Crown’s power, anyway, so, better for Narinder to have it back so that he could deal with it. What he did with the Lamb afterward would be up to him, and seeing as he was their god, they’d accept his decision gladly.

Were they in love with him by that point? Oh, obsessively so, but only in the devotional sense – romance was nowhere on their mind nor radar. That is, until he unexpectedly revived them again, told them he still needed them, and then offered down his hand to help them up.

The Lamb fell HARD for him in that moment. :3c

And now, a tiny shitten ramble. Lu and Li are twins, because sheep tend to have those a lot, and are conceived not long after the Lamb and Narinder’s marriage ceremony. Lu is the minutes older one, but Li is much more mature. I have put no further thought into these two, other than that they are utter menaces, birthed by the Lamb, cling hard to both their parents but especially Narinder (who spoils them rotten), and they are both genderfluid, using whichever pronouns/names they feel like at any given time. They are also both intersex, same as the Lamb, who was initially infertile up until Something Something Vague Magic, which I have also put no further thought into ¯\_(シ)_/¯

oh, and before anyone tries to suggest i headcanon this AU’s lamb as trending more female due to them giving birth or whatever, no, no, a thousand times no, they might have a vag, but they've also got a dick, and even if it's not as big as they'd like, they still know how to use it

Finally, the very tentative name for the Lamb in this AU is Yazdi, which is really just another name for the Baluchi breed of sheep XD (Not that the Lamb is this specific breed, I just didn’t like any of the other sheep-related names I found, ahaha...)

THAT’S ALL FOR NOW (collapses into an exhausted pile of goopy limbs)

#fanart #comics #cult of the lamb #cotl #narilamb #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #cotl shitten #cotl mystic seller #cotl aym #cotl baal #aym and baal #this is why i have been especially quiet lately XD #even just the bonus stuff took several days to finish because i don't know the meaning of DOODLE anymore apparently #everything must be fully inked and colored with backgrounds I Fukken Guess #at least using medibang's sumi brush keeps me from focusing on making my lines perfect :\#and yeah i copy-pasta'd a lot of my own backgrounds don't at me bro #if you're on desktop and want to full view but don't know how: right click the image - open in new tab - zoom in as needed :)#feel free to ask questions about the AU if you want - but uh - this is basically the extent to which i've thought it through LOL #edit: oh right - aym and baal really out there assuming narinder already put the lamb's soul to rest so the body's just fodder now lmao #last edit i hope: fixed the transparent cult certified freak image 8|#nope - one more edit: there is one (1) loophole for how living mortals can be in the afterlife without dying #that loophole is currently narinder XD #'sorry universe but the god of death says i can be in here so back off with your rules and regulations'

2K notes · View notes

u3pxx · 10 months ago

Text

ah, dungeon food... delicious in dungeon!

1 | 2 | 3 | one out of three dungeon meshi illustrations i did for a class! 🍲🐲

id in alt text | like this art? it's a print, here! | like what i do? support me on ko-fi!

hi there! this is actually the first illustration i finished out of the three but i decided to post the falin one first because it seemed fitting when the dragon episode came out pftt

and since a while has passed, i'm very happy to say that i got a high grade for the mock covers i did! which i'm really happy for since ngl, the venn diagram of "drawings for school that i got a high grade for" and "drawings for school that i'm actually proud of" is very, very small lmao

to save time, i had to forgo coloring in the lines for this drawing which gives it a fair amount of contrast, while i still enjoy looking at it, i wonder what it would look like if i softened it with colored lineart.

i used a different pen for inking this and i was actually surprised at how quick i was! if you don't know, i love doing lineart but i usually am terribly slow at it, inking this one was a pretty fast ordeal!

i streamed this over on the klapollomb server as i was drawing it and i just distinctly remember that after the flats stage and onto shading it: i paused, pen in my hand, looking at the screen with a blank look before i typed into voice chat in all caps, "I FORGOT HOW I RENDER" ASKSKSK

it's been a while since i've actually drawn anything digital that's like, a fullass piece, so yeah 😭 i can forget sometimes. i've been doing trad art for school for like 2 years straight now so the moment i got the opportunity to do digital art i went all out lol

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #senshi of izganda #marcille donato #chilchuck tims #laios touden #sunnysidedraws #sunnysidemeshi #described #id in alt text

2K notes · View notes

sunsburns · 7 months ago

Note

need art taking my virginity

oh my gosh whaaaat who said that

oh my gosh now it's writing itself oh noooo stop thisss

but all jokes aside, i know this would take place at stanford. you were strictly friends at the time, in the same bio med class and you were in his dorm room, finishing up the last details on your final project that was due at midnight. the second you turned it in, art practically jumped for joy while you tossed yourself onto his bed, kicking your laptop to the side.

he would offer some celebratory drinks which consisted of a six-pack from the mini fridge before he sat beside you. the both of you clink your glasses together and drink, enjoying the rest of your night together.

after three drinks on an empty stomach, the two of you were moving slower, giggles escaped your lips while art told you a story from when he was in the academy.

holding your half-empty bottle to your chest, you couldn't stop yourself from staring at his lips, the way they turned and moved or how he pouted and frowned. you watched the way they curved when he said your name.

when he reached for your shoulder, you finally looked at him in the way. there was a redness to his cheeks all of a sudden, and a shy smile tugged at his mouth when he looked at you. "i thought i lost you there for a second. am i that boring?"

"what? no. of course not." you blinked at him, a little embarrassed, "sorry, i just... i got distracted."

it was ridiculous how fast the two of you were on each other after that. he took the bottle from your hands and placed it aside, reaching over you as he did so. before he could lean back, you had cupped the back of his neck and kissed him. a quick, tight-lipped kiss to test the waters.

when you pulled away, he stared at you, looked at every detail on your face before he wrapped an arm around you and kissed you harder. a deep kiss that had you shutting your eyes tightly, holding him with both of your hands while he pulled you onto his lap.

when his tongue ran over your lower lip, you grew a little shy but parted them for him anyways. he caressed your cheek as his teeth crashed against yours, his tongue reaching for yours. your lips moved in tandem, slitting against each other with ease.

your tongues flicked playfully against each other. you giggled at the odd sensation, which quickly turned into a moan as he lightly sucked it into his mouth.

"art..." your moan left him moaning as he deepened the sloppy kiss further.

"i like you," he muttered into your mouth, "like, i really like you." he started to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, mouthed at your neck. "i think you're smart, and really pretty."

"i really... i really like you too," you were blushing, your fingers curled into his hair, pulling slightly when he sucked a bruise into your neck.

art's red tennis polo is the first thing that came off after he gently led your hands to the hem of it. you ran your hands over his chest and that had him sighing against your lips. your shirt is discarded next, and the moment that was gone, art was reaching to cup your breasts, digging under your bra, his warm hands against your skin.

you tried to unbuckle his belt, moaning into his mouth. when he started to tug at your nipples after tossing your bra aside your mind stuttered, "art," you tried to say. "art-"

"yeah?" his big hands were running across your skin, leaving a hot trail behind them. he stopped when they were on your ass, just holding you there while your curled a strand of his hair in your finger.

you could feel his hard dick poking at the inside of your thigh, it made you frown as he looked up at you. his eyes were big and blown wide, darker than you remembered them, lust swirling behind them while he looked at you like you were the embodiment of the sun. you ran your thumb across his lower lip.

"i've never done this before," you whispered.

something softened within him, and he brought one hand up to cup your cheek and bring you closer. when your forehead rested against his, art kissed your cheek sweetly, "that's okay. we can stop if you want-"

"no," you quickly told him. "i want this. with you. i just... i just don't know. i want you to talk me through it."

he nodded, and kissed you again, slow and sweet before he said, "okay, yeah. just relax."

you could have sworn you had turned into nothing but mush in his hands by the time the both of you had stripped yourselves of your clothes. art led you to lay back on the bed, and he made sure to kiss every part of your skin, leaving marks here and there as he learned what made you moan and whimper or what made you arch your back towards him or tug at his hair.

he stayed hovering over you, watching you closely as you mewled under his touch, his fingers sliding in and out of you at a slow, tantalizing pace. his name came out breathless from your mouth, and yours was a restrained grunt at the back of his throat when you tried to palm at his cock.

you could've felt sparks at the ends of your fingers, an impatient turmoil in your stomach. "c'mon art. fuck me already."

he nearly laughed, watching your arch against him when he pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you waiting. art shifted one hand holding his weight up beside your head while the other rolled a condom over his dick.

he pressed his tip against your entrance, running circles against your clit with his thumb. when he started to push against the tight ring of your slick cunt, you were letting out a startled whimper.

"fuck, you're so tight." he muttered, dropping his weight against you.

you groaned, "fuck, art. get your fatass off me." you tried to sound annoyed, but your pants and breathly moans told him otherwise.

"shut up, i know you like it." art let out a strangled snort, slowly pushing the rest of himself in. his pace was steady, drawing out every little sound from your wrecked body, unable to hold back any of his own.

the both of you come soon after.

#this ended up being longer than i thought #i love silly sex tbh #especially when you're comfortable with ur partner #art’s lockerroom #art donaldson x reader #art challengers #art challenge #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x you #challengers smut #faye’s writing ✧˖*°࿐

702 notes · View notes

macfrog · 7 months ago

Text

birth of venus sex on fire chapter twelve

these two mean the world to me. thank you for coming on this journey with them. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: if you love something, you let it go.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, lurve, fingering, masturbation, cum eating, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, size kink, daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, some angst, soft!joel, cocky!joel (we missed him!)

word count: 12.6k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

“Alright, let’s get into it.”

He sits on the other side of the table, legs crossed and balancing the notebook on his knee. Twirls a pen around his thumb, catching it without looking. He’s too busy scanning the page in front of him, the list of questions he’s about to drill you on.

Let’s get into it, he says, and then stares silently at the scribbled lines.

Your shadow splits a shard of sunlight across the office. Knee jerking, palms clammy and fingers twisting around each other. You glance down at your outfit – the pointed heels Martha swore went with your dress, the jewelry she promised didn’t look tacky – and straighten your skirt.

Let’s get fucking into it.

“What are your responsibilities in your current role?” he asks.

You swallow. It feels like sandpaper. “Well, uh…”

He doesn’t look up. Not to ask the question, not to wait for your answer. Just stares down, spins the pen, bites his lip until it turns white.

Focused. Razor sharp. You’re not even in the same room.

You turn on your heel and begin pacing. “I manage my boss’s schedule, from nine a.m. Monday to nine p.m. Sunday. I get everything in order, plan out his days, make any bookings. I take calls, I answer emails, I…”

He’s still not looking. He bounces his foot, leather shoes catching the sun. His watch face leers back at you. There’s not a mark of ink on the paper in front of him.

“Hey,” you click your fingers, “Are you even listening to me?”

Joel shakes the frown from his face. “Huh? Oh,” he clears his throat, straightens in his creaky chair, “Yeah, I’m listenin’. I’m…I’m here.”

“Come on, man,” you huff, “You said you’d help me out.”

“And I am. I’m helping you out.”

You glower. “What did I just say?”

His shoulders wriggle. “You know…paperwork, and…Is this –? Is this really what they’re going to ask?”

“I don’t know,” you groan, collapsing into the couch opposite. Your arms cross, like some crumpled tantrum of a woman. “I found it online. They’re all art director questions, supposedly.”

He turns the notebook around. The first sheet flops over.

“Describe yourself in three words,” Joel recites.

“I was gonna go creative,” you count on your fingers, “driven, and then I couldn’t decide between perceptive or observant.”

He squints, tongue clicking against his teeth. He stares at your raised fingers. Thoroughly unimpressed.

“Right,” he stands, “Yeah, I don’t know, kid. A company like this, taking on a new art director, and this is what you think they got waitin’ for you? I mean, what’d I ask you?”

You scoff, twisting to watch him cross over to the window.

Between the sun and your deflated spirit, he stands like some kind of god. High up on the top floor of his skyscraper, towering over the streets. Towering over you.

He’s haloed by the blazing sun. Light arrowing from behind, spilling all over his wide shoulders and dipping in every fold and crease of cashmere. The northern compass point, the magnetic pull turning everything towards him.

Joel’s fingers snap, a hair away from your nose. “Tip number one: don’t stare at the interviewer like that. Asked you a question.”

“Wasn’t staring,” you mumble, shifting when he sinks down at your side. “You really don’t remember what you asked me?”

“Of course I do. I’m asking if you do.” He fiddles with a thread on the couch at your back.

You straighten as though his hand might be iron hot. “I remember…remember you asking what success looked like to me.”

Joel nods once.

“Remember you asking why I wanted out of my old job.”

“Yep.”

You flick a finger around the office. “I remember you asking what I’d change in here. How I’d make the office better. But I don’t know what interior design has to do with being an art director, Joel.”

He smiles. “This,” he shakes the pad, “is generic bullshit.”

“Generic bullshit,” you echo, pinching it from his grasp. You read over the bullet points – your strengths, your weaknesses, how you do under pressure.

“Yes,” Joel says. “Doesn’t tell ‘em a thing about you. Well,” his eyes widen, “I guess it tells them you tried searching their damn questions, the morning of the interview.”

A small, tired sigh falls from your lips. You melt back into the couch, horizontal under Joel’s extended arm. “I just want to be prepared,” you whisper. “I want to be the best person they meet.”

“What makes you think you ain’t already?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t even know which three words describe me.”

He chuckles. “How about more than capable? Hm? The dream assistant. Future art director.”

“Cheesy,” you mutter, batting him away. “I just…I really want it. I want something that feels like mine, you know? And I know I’d be fucking good at it.”

He falls quiet. He thumbs the corner of the pages, knuckles brushing against yours in a way that feels deliberate. Feels familiar.

It’s as though he might turn his hand, open his palm for yours to slip safely into. Lock his fingers through yours, squeeze once for good luck, twice to double it – and a third time, to tell you something he knows would make you flee.

But you don’t flinch, and neither does he.

Instead, he pulls himself up – a mighty groan as he straightens.

You bite back a snark about his age. Stupid fifty-year-old boss, stupid old bones. Stupid smartass.

Joel whips open the bottom drawer of his desk – the one you’d come to know as his junk drawer – and heaps diary after diary on the mahogany surface. Their leatherbound covers and splintered spines, the warped pages packed between.

With a tiny ha (and a click in his joints that you notice even from across the room), he pushes himself back up.

“September, September…” the pages flutter between his thumbs, “…September second, right?”

“What are you –?”

“Here,” he says, and reclines back beside you. He slides the diary into your lap. “September second, two o’clock.”

Your eyes narrow, following an inky trail linking geometric sketches and games of tic-tac-toe; the words college and assistant, a crude drawing of a house.

“So…” your lips purse, “…on September second, you were doing no work and doodling in your planner. What about it, Joel?”

He taps the top of the page, finger settling right below a name.

Penned in his neat handwriting – the trademark font that, after three years, you’re used to finding on sticky notes and signed with the letter J. It’s underlined, then boxed in by more scribbled lines. So familiar, you barely even take it in at first.

You blink twice.

It’s your name. Your full name.

“This is the day of my interview?” you ask.

Joel dares one fleeting glance at your lips. “Mhm. These are the notes I took, the day we met.”

You look down to the diary and back again. Almost an entire page of nonsense scribbles, hieroglyphic trains of thought bleeding from one drawing into another.

You frown. “You really didn’t listen to a fucking word I said, did you?”

He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “You had the job before your ass hit that chair, genius. All that interview was, was playing ball. Seeing how hard you could swing.”

But you’re more confused than you were before he emptied his desk. You flick through the book, spine dangling loose from the pages.

There are no other notes, no other candidates’ names – only reminders for Lunch with Mom and Massage 10AM. Meetings with past clients, deadlines long gone. One obnoxious, hot pink gel pen autograph in May, marking Martha’s birthday.

Yours is the only name he bothered to jot down. The only interview he thought to memorialize – in a gallery of distracted doodles.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

He plays with his tie as he admits it. Nervous schoolboy, avoiding your eye like he did back on Maple Street. It’s a side to him you didn’t know existed, not until a few weeks ago – and seeing it again, you realize how much you missed it.

“There were four other interviews before yours. Every single one of them sat in that lobby waiting for Martha to call down. You –” he taps your hand, “– you got in the elevator and brought yourself up. You remember how shocked Martha was to see you?”

Sure I do, you think.

She stared you down the entire walk over to her desk. She stuttered and stammered her way through a sentence, once she realized who you were. She kept peering over the top of her monitor to steal glances at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

“I…I just thought I looked a nervous wreck,” you tell Joel.

He hums. “Well, you stood up when I opened my door. You held your hand out first. You were scared shitless – I knew you were – but you never lost your footing. You got no idea just how impressive you are, all by yourself.”

He taps on the sheets in your lap. “Now – find me a question on your list that tells them all that.”

It’s not as if you don’t know how these things go. You’ve sat in on plenty of interviews with Joel before – catching anything each quivering candidate says that might’ve slipped through his net, placing bets with yourself on who he’ll pick.

After a few months, he started asking what you thought.

You came to notice the discarded resumes of men you’d deemed sycophants, ladder-climbing leeches in tight, tawny ties – in piles to be shredded. There wasn’t a suit in the building that you and Martha hadn’t been asked to screen, before they were even considered for hiring.

Joel has the sharpest bullshit detector you’ve ever known. You don’t get to where he is without the radar for it. He knew exactly which guys were assholes of the highest order – he was just making sure you always did, too.

Stupid, stupid smartass.

A polite knock at the door interrupts your thought.

“Joel?” Martha calls, “Joel, your ten o’clock is here.”

He curses under his breath. His eyes shift sideways. “Who the hell is my ten o’clock?” he mumbles.

“Salazar,” you whisper, lips closing around a giggle. “Quarterly, remember?”

“Goddamn it,” he groans. He stands up, holding a hand out to pull you to your feet. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’ll be an hour, tops. We can pick straight back up.”

“It’s okay,” you slot the diary and notepad under your arm, “I should get back to work anyways.”

“Calmed your nerves, at least?”

You smile. “Sure.”

“Liar.”

“Tip number two: don’t ask dumb questions, Miller.”

“Oh,” he scoffs, “We’re starting a list now?”

“Mhm. Three can be: don’t doodle during the interview.”

He elbows you towards the door, leaning close. “Four,” he murmurs, “Don’t get yourself fired.”

You grin as you slip outside.

“You couldn’t handle this place without me.”

Mr. Salazar loves to tell a story.

Joel’s still stuck with him, almost two hours after the guy showed up. With a pointed finger and something that felt as sacred as a blood oath, Martha made you promise you’d leave on time.

Whether we’re still in that office or halfway to Timbuktu, do not wait up. Just go, alright? Or I will hand you your ass, sweetheart.

Thirty minutes out, you’re pacing back and forth. Body humming with jittery nerves, what feels like a glass ball of anxiety rolling around your stomach. A text from Rand weighing down the phone in your blazer pocket: Ready when you are.

You suck in a ticklish breath. “Fuck,” you exhale, jamming your knuckle into the call button for the third time.

The wall rumbles as it delivers the elevator straight ahead. The doors part, and your distorted reflection stares sheepishly back at you.

You blink.

She blinks back.

Your shoulders life with another fractured inhale – and so do hers.

Some tiny, half-there version of yourself. Shrunken and shriveled. She moves when you move, only with half the confidence and double the pressure on her shoulders. She looks like she needs a wine date with Martha.

Scared fucking shitless, you think. Three words to describe me.

The doors close again, swallowing her whole, and –

“Nope,” you decide, spinning on your heel.

The shades are tilted enough to obscure the three figures to shadows: Joel, rocking mindlessly in his chair, Salazar talking with his arms, and Martha hunched at the other end of the couch – losing the will to live.

She’d probably welcome the excuse, to get the hell out of there.

Your knuckles rap against the door.

The investor’s lively cadence never slips – where there’s an audience, there’s a show to be had. He twitters on even over the grounding bass of Joel’s voice, the quick click of Martha’s heels.

Her shadow crosses over to the door and she whips it open. Her voice is a sharp whisper.

“You swore to me, you’d –”

You shake your head and grab her arm. Nervous, you mouth, trying to pull her over the threshold.

She won’t fucking budge. She plants herself in the doorway. Her chin lifts, eyes narrowing to study you down her pointed nose – and then she glances over her shoulder.

One second, she exaggerates the shape of the words, holding a finger up.

“Martha –” you hiss, but the door is already closing, and her shadow is already retreating.

You spin around, dragging yourself over to your desk. Another breathe squeezes past your hammering heart, trembling as you let it go. Your phone buzzes again.

This is pathetic. It’s pitiful. You bulldozed your way this far – against all your good sense. Red wine antidote, all that courage now feels more like a weak-kneed hangover.

You fiddle with a pen holder. Your body feels flimsy like rubber.

The door opens again.

“Hey,” Joel says, turning you to face him. He doesn’t look you in the eye – just slips your purse from your shoulder, squeezes your hand. “Walk with me.”

“No,” you wobble in his grasp, “Your meeting –”

He links his arm through yours, locking elbows. “Martha’s got him talking about some ski trip. We got ten minutes. Walk with me.”

Your breath sputters. “I can’t – I can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?”

“I’m flapping, Joel.”

“Flapping,” he repeats, and the word never sounded more ridiculous than it does with his Texan twang. “What are we flapping over?”

He sways as he walks. It’s no different, no less comfortable than it was a few weeks ago. Just you, Joel, and the Parisian sunset. The light swimming in the Seine, the sweet air circling you both.

Your heel scuffs against the carpet. “You know,” you catch yourself, “just this potentially life-changing job interview I have in, like, twenty minutes.”

“Huh,” his brows quirk, “No big deal, then?”

Your eyes roll. “It wouldn’t be, if you hadn’t given me some big speech about not losing my footing. Now look at me. I’m all over the goddamn place.”

“Take it in baby steps,” he says. “Let’s just get you there first. All you gotta do is walk in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like they’ve been wondering what goes at that little desk.”

“You said the CEO is nice?”

“She is,” he reaches for the call button, “Likes red wine and racecars.”

Your brows flinch. “She likes…What?”

Joel smirks. “I didn’t say we talked for long. That’s all I got on her.”

He drags you into the elevator, hitting the button marked P. Your reflection stands a little taller, little straighter next to his. Mimicking his posture; the still stance and level head. The coolness you’re sure wouldn’t slip even if the world ended tonight.

“Look at that,” he mutters. “You made it to the elevator.”

“Shock,” you whisper, hugging yourself.

You face each other, inches apart. Nerves and momentum upsetting your equilibrium. The bones of the building drum up your spine as you plummet, floor numbers blinking down to zero.

Joel rests his ankles either side of yours. He knocks your feet softly, smiling fondly when you lift your head.

“Read over their website on the drive over,” he says, in the same polite voice he uses with clients. “Their values, the way they operate. Names and faces, all that shit. Keep it fresh, okay?”

You force your cheeks into a flat smile. “Okay.”

“Look at that,” he says. “Killer smile. Getcha any job anywhere.”

“Gross,” you giggle. “Did you wonder, before you found me?”

“Did I wonder what?”

You tilt your head. “What went at my little desk.”

He itches his nose, laughing into a closed fist. He’s blushing, though he’s trying hard to hide it. “Sure,” he shrugs, eventually giving in, “Knew it must be somethin’ pretty special. And you were.”

The elevator dings, and the doors rattle open.

Joel taps your heel and you sulk, leading him out into the garage.

Rand catches sight of you instantly. He jumps out of the Rolls, a wide grin on his lips, and balls his fists. “How we feelin’?” he asks, giving them a hearty shake.

“Little nervous, aren’t we?” Joel replies, patting your arm. “But we’re almost there.”

You’re holding onto him again. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“We’re still in the building,” you utter, tracking Rand’s kiddy jog around the car.

Joel turns, lips at your temple. “Closer than you were five minutes ago, baby.”

The driver grabs the door, turning his palm to usher you inside. “Figure we’ll get there with ten minutes to spare. Always good to be early to these things, right?”

If it weren’t for the six-inch heels on your feet and the seven-figure man on your arm, you’d reach to tighten backpack straps that aren’t there. It’s the same feeling: first day of school, walking into the unknown. Pushed off by grownups who know better.

You’re a grownup, too, you remind yourself.

The same feeling, and the same determination, too. The resolve to walk in there – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – and be the thing they’ve been waiting for. Be the thing you’ve been waiting for. So –

“Fuck it,” you decide, slipping free from your boss’s grasp. “Let’s do this.”

“Attagirl!” Rand claps his hands and dances back to the driver’s side.

Joel helps you into the backseat, passing your purse over when you’re settled. “Okay?” he asks, one arm leaning on the roof.

“Yep,” you chirp – a crack in your voice that you both ignore.

“Call on your way back if you feel like it, let me know how it went.”

The strip lighting in the garage strains your eyes. “What if you’re still hearing about Salazar’s ski trip?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t ask dumb questions, remember? If you call, I’ll answer.”

“Thanks, Joel,” you whisper.

He clicks his teeth. You’re welcome.

“Next step, little tiger. Go get ‘em.”

After you interviewed with him, Joel took all of twenty-four hours to offer you the job. He said he would’ve called sooner – that afternoon, if he could’ve – but there had been a holdup with the paperwork. His next question was how soon you could start.

He was that sure.

On your first day, you were shown to your new desk. Wiped clean, drawers bare. A bloated water stain in the wood – the mark of a fern plant Martha thought was treated a little too much like an actual child by your predecessor.

She offered to have Joel order a new desk, but you told her you loved it – water stain and all.

You loved the view on each side – the sprawling city, the sun needling between buildings. You loved Martha’s company, and Joel’s daily ritual of strolling over to stretch his legs and, more importantly, gossip.

The job made you feel grown. A little kid in the big city – yes, sir and no, sir, caffeine for breakfast and paperwork for lunch. It was big enough that you wondered whether you’d really fill it – like you wondered if you’d ever fill your desk.

What supplies did a personal assistant need? You spent more time on your feet than sat at your desk. What knickknacks would you collect?

Well, looking at it all now: a jumble of pinched pens and hand-me-down magazines from Martha. A Wonder Woman stationery set your mom bought you; the chipped Kandinsky mug you make coffee in every day.

A plastic ruby ring, from a riverside stroll in Paris.

Looking at it now – you wonder how it ever all fit. Almost three cardboard boxes, plus an oversized Swiss cheese plant. Your desk is empty again, back to the way you found it.

Because you got it.

You got the job.

Junior Art Director. Jesus fucking Christ.

You were in Joel’s office when the call came through. Laying out travel plans for a business trip, organizing documents into the order he’d need them. Busying yourself purely to distract from playing the interview back in your head.

The entire thing was a blur, the interview – film reel already burning in your memory. One second you were traipsing into the building, the next – strolling back out, sun on your face and spring in your step.

It came back in flashing vignettes: the creative director’s cropped bob, her scarlet lips. The rhythmic dunk of her teabag into her mug, her quiet mhms as you spoke.

Her smile grew wider, the longer the meeting went on. Her tea went cold. She asked to see pictures of your artwork – made some passing comment about your skill being of some use for an upcoming project.

She liked you. Better yet, Joel noted – you liked her.

He walked back into his office just in time to hear the tail end of the phone call. Your shaky thank you, the teary goodbye. He waited until you turned, one hand lingering on your shoulder, and gasped when you broke into a giddy grin.

He pulled you into a bear hug, beats of raucous laughter through his chest. You sniffled into his shirt, staining the material with wet mascara.

What’d I tell you? he murmured into your hair, rocking you side to side. What’d I fuckin’ tell you?

A clumsy mash of work blouses and party dresses fills the office.

Glitzy gold and pressed linen, heels and loose ties. A bottle of champagne on a spreadsheet coaster, an overfilled balloon knotted around your chair. The word Congrats swirled in glitter pen.

Martha fills the latecomers in. She orders everyone to drain their glasses and grab their coats. There’s a dive bar not far, she says, with karaoke and a jukebox. Cheap drinks and heavy measures.

A dive bar. The dive bar. AC/DC and all.

You linger over by your desk, alone, swirling the bubbly in your glass. A little more than awkward, what with the gold party hat your coworkers forced over your head – and the heavy heart it’s doing little to soothe.

Your last day as Joel Miller’s personal assistant is over. As of five-thirty, you don’t belong in this office. Come Monday, you’ll have a whole new job, a whole new title behind your name.

It’s as thrilling as it is utterly terrifying.

Martha had your leaving party organized less than an hour after she heard the cheers from Joel’s office. Proof, you told him, that she’ll be just fine on her own.

Proof, he countered, that she has a very selective work ethic.

He’s in good hands, if her current crowd management is anything to go by. She rounds everybody up like cattle, corralling them into a buzzed herd.

“We are leavin’ in five minutes, alright?” she yells over their babble. “Five minutes!”

Rand dips between the bodies, smiling when he catches your eye. He wanders over, tactically dodging Martha’s waving arms.

“Hi, baby,” he says, arms wide.

“Thanks for coming,” you mumble into his suit jacket, wrists crossing at his spine.

He wriggles his tie straight, keeps one arm tight around your shoulders even when you pull away. “Of course,” he says, a dutiful nod. “You were always my favorite. Don’t tell the general over there.”

You smile, feeling it dampen when your eyes slip back over to the sliver of light under Joel’s door. He’s been locked in there all afternoon – the only proof of life the pacing his shadow has done.

Rand cocks his head towards the shuttered office. “He not coming?”

“No idea,” you pick at a hangnail, “Some emergency, apparently. I haven’t seen him since lunch.”

He frowns, watching as you shot what’s left of your champagne. It’s bitter – a sharp sting all the way down.

“I mean,” you gulp, “he’s my boss. He’s at every other party we have. What’s the difference this time around?”

Rand’s eyebrows wiggle. He swallows his first answer. He knows the difference as well as you do.

Still – he says, “He’s a lot of things, is Joel, but he ain’t an ass. He’ll be there.”

Across the room, Martha lassoes the party – leading them over to the elevator. She pauses, beckoning you over their heads. A thin-lipped scowl on her face, before she’s distracted by stragglers.

“Good Lord,” Rand scoffs, a gentlemanly arm through yours, “Bet you ain’t gonna miss that.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Surprisingly, I think I’ll miss her the most.”

As you hover at the back of the bunch, waiting for your very sternly instructed turn to step into the elevator, you glance back at Joel’s office.

The shades are split, pierced somewhere like six feet up. Sliver of lamplight peering through; silhouette of something – someone – staring back.

Come on, you want to call. We’re heading to the bar. Let’s pretend I never broke your heart and you never broke mine. We can dance and kiss like nobody’s watching. We can be okay, you and me.

Martha claps three times as the elevator announces its arrival.

“We’re up, comrade,” Rand quips, and pulls you out of Joel’s sight.

The bar looks the same as it ever did. All chipped mahogany and distressed leather; secret messages etched in secret corners. Slipping between shadow and tacky neon light to order a drink, feeling it hit the back of your skull before you’ve even swallowed the first sip.

It’s no Oasis Wine Bar, but it’ll do.

You’re crammed into a booth opposite some blotchy intern. Kid doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. Martha nudges you closer and closer to the lacquered panel wall, her elbow knocking into yours and splashing your drink over your knuckles.

The group is already a colorful spectrum of drunk: a couple suits slung over the bar, a handful screaming at some vintage arcade game. Rand cuts a merry figure at the bottom of the table, swaying as he garbles to Martha and Deb.

Like a replica of that first night – a playlist of dusty rock tunes, fingertips salty from picking at peanuts. The buzz of conversation fueled by swigs of bitter vodka.

You don’t remember it feeling this shitty, though. This lonely.

The intern leans over the booth, quickly yanking his tie before it folds into a flickering candle. He forces a relieved laugh, then asks, “Are you having a good night?”

“I guess,” you raise your voice over Martha’s cackling, “It’s a little bittersweet, you know?”

His head bobs in a tipsy nod. He looks from face to face, trying to latch onto any conversation that’ll take him. But they all turn away, distracted by some guy in a tropical shirt and his cryptocurrency conspiracy.

The intern stares down at his drink, thumbs tapping the glass.

Poor kid.

You knock on his beer, trying not to look too pitying. “How’s the internship? Liking it?”

He brightens, straightening in his seat. “Yeah, it’s been good,” he chirps. “I’m learning a lot. Mr. Miller is a great boss.”

It’s like being sucker punched by a toddler. Huge blue eyes and rosy cheeks, an unsteady grip around his Budweiser. If he didn’t look so much like a fucking Disney cartoon, you’d lose your nerve.

The alcohol sours on your tongue. “Yeah,” you mumble, sinking back into your seat. “Yeah, he’s – he’s a good guy.”

“Why isn’t he here tonight?” he asks.

“He’s – uh…” You throw a helpless look to your coworker – but she’s too busy showing off pictures of Henry. “…He’s busy tonight, I guess.”

“I’ll bet,” the kid replies. “He’s an important dude.”

“Uhuh,” you elbow Martha’s waist, “He sure is. Would you excuse me?” you ask, and the intern raises his hands. “I’ll be right back.”

Martha and Deb shuffle out of the booth, drinks in hand. You edge your way through the horde to the back of the bar – stopping to refill on the way.

As the muscleman behind the bar tops off your glass, something catches your eye.

Lit only by a flickering Coors Light sign – the red and blue melding into streaks of violet – an iron staircase lingers in the corner. You didn’t spot it last time – or if you did, you were too busy flirting with your boss to pay it any mind.

You drift over, evading the sloshed stagger of one of Joel’s mailroom guys, and click up the steps towards the glowing red of an EXIT sign. Your hip swings into the push bar. The heavy door groans open.

It’s no cooler out here than inside – but it’s deserted. Beer dripping from the lips of toppled bottles, candles wavering in clear pools of wax. A gentle hum from overhead – the string light canopy.

A kitschy little rooftop. A humble hideaway.

Alone, you cross your arms and amble over to the parapet.

The street snoozes, a story below. Leaves flutter along the curb, crushed by the scuffing soles of strangers. Their footsteps echo as they wander off into the dusky night.

No Rolls, you notice. Nowhere to be seen. Not parked on the road, nor in the lot across the street. Nothing but a couple of guys on bikes, standing in the cold light of a store front.

He’s not here. He didn’t come.

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Whatever emergency he’s dealing with, it’s taken half his day from him. Martha didn’t even bother to ask if he needed coffee, or to fill him in on her neighborhood politics since the new couple moved in next door.

Still – there’s never been anything he couldn’t drag himself away from. Not where you’re concerned. He abandoned an investor for a solid ten minutes last week, just to walk you to the parking garage and tell you shit you already knew.

He could find a way to make it to this, right?

You scoff into your glass, swallow a heavy sip. Swallow back the quiet disappointment, the burden of a broken heart trying desperately to remember the shape it used to be. Before private jets and business trips, before work parties and closed office doors.

Before Joel.

But he swaggered in, didn’t he – suit and tie and that signature smirk. He changed everything, overnight. He fit in all the spaces you thought no one ever would – nestled his way behind your ribcage, kept you warm, kept you safe.

You can’t remember the shape your heart used to be. You don’t fucking want to.

At least, even when you were fighting, he was still in the game. At least he was still sat on the other side of the checkered plain, nudging his king closer to your queen. You never intended on letting him win – but he never intended to in the first place.

He was only ever in it to watch your eyes light, any time he got close.

Now, the board is cleared. Pawns split in two, knights crumbled to dust. And you miss it.

You miss him.

And missing him is – feeling the absence of him in every room. The empty seat next to yours, your empty hand at your side. The weight you know by heart around your waist, the name always on the tip of your tongue.

Missing him is coming up with a million ways that every other man isn’t him. They don’t make you laugh the same, they don’t make you ache. They don’t know your favorite movie; they won’t pull over just to pinch the greasy bacon from your breakfast sandwich.

Missing him is looking for him. Everywhere. Hoping – Jesus, praying you’d walk out of your interview and he’d be stood, arms crossed, leant against the car. Wishing he’d show up again at your door – flowers in hand, kiss on your lips.

Missing him is existing in the negative space he left behind. Flecks of color fluttering in the breeze, fading as though they were never here in the first place.

The door chunks open over your shoulder, and falls closed with a slam. Right on cue. You don’t even flinch when he rolls a chilled beer against your arm.

Missing him is knowing him. Better than anyone ever has, or anyone ever will.

He’s here. He was always going to be here. Because it’s you, and because it’s him.

Joel holds for all of three seconds, then places the beer between your elbows. He leans back against the stone wall.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, taking a sip. His rugged, twelve-hour-day form softens before your eyes.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and he smiles.

“Missed you too, pretty girl.”

You lean in, face smushing into his chest, and snake your arms around his waist.

Joel takes the weight of you like it’s nothing; kisses your head and rests his chin there.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you mumble, feeling the strange chill of tears on your cheeks.

“Are you kidding?” his voice rumbles through your skull. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, you know that.”

The alcohol lining your gums sweetens. It might just make the initial hit worth the trouble.

“I had a pretty shitty night,” you admit, sneaking a glance at him.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “You ‘n me both. Pretty shitty month.”

His cologne is fresh; woodsy and clean. His rough beard on your skin, his tired collar between your fingers. The landscape of a man you know inside and out.

Joel’s hands lift from your waist, past your ribs and around your shoulders. He lifts the broken heart charm from your chest – so tiny in his large hand, nervously twinkling in the light.

You don’t flinch, this time. Barely even notice his eyes on it.

His expression stiffens. His jaw clenches. His eyes are glassy, lined with tears behind his stone-set snarl.

“I’m sorry for what he did,” he grits, swallowing thickly. “I wanna kill him for it, you know that?”

You lift one shoulder, dropping it with a sigh. “He did what he did,” you hush, “He was a scumbag.”

Joel’s upper lip twitches. Twists, then settles when you trace it with your thumb.

“You didn’t deserve it,” he says. “You didn’t deserve none of what he did to you. You were just a kid, you –”

He lifts his head like coming up for air. Sucks a ragged breath between his teeth, shakes the tears from his vision.

“Hey,” you take his jaw, turning him back to face you, “Look at me. Look.” You flash a cheesy grin, nose scrunched and eyes crinkled. “I’m okay, Joel, look.”

His laughter betrays him, breaking from his chest and shattering the wolfish glare. He cups your head, cradling you against his chest again.

There’s nothing between you, now. No spiteful words or suffocating tension; no hurt and no blame. One heart broken and the other bruised, still beating the rhythm of a language only they know.

Still seeking the other out, through all of it.

“What we had,” Joel says softly, “it can’t have been nothing to you, right? Was it really just…?”

“No,” you shake your head, squeezing him, “It was never – You were never just anything to me. I think…” you sigh, “…I think you just pressed on a bruise I had. A bruise I thought I’d gotten pretty good at hiding. And you just…you twisted your thumb into it.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t know about no bruise,” he says. “It wouldn’t’ve mattered if I had, darlin’, I –”

You take his wrists, following the sleeves of his jacket up to his collar. “I know,” you hold his cheeks, “I know it wouldn’t. But you saw straight through me – and the more you saw, the more you cared. And that scared me.”

He blinks down to your lips. “Why?”

“Because it’s never like that, Joel. No one has ever been like that. I was so scared that I’d fuck it up – that you’d figure me out.”

“You gotta fill me in a little here. Figure you out?”

“All my shit. Blake, my dad. All of it.”

Joel frowns. “You think I don’t got shit I didn’t want you seeing, too? My dad, Avery – that ain’t exactly dating profile material, baby.”

You can’t help but laugh. As raw as an open wound, the most vulnerable conversation you’ve ever had – on the roof of a dive bar, with your boss.

And he’s as fucking breezy as though you just handed him the forecast for the day.

“You’re a better man, Joel, than all of them. You mean more to me than anyone. And before I knew it, you had me wrapped around your finger, and…”

“…And I was pressing on that bruise.”

You wince. “Little bit.”

His tongue prods at the inside of his cheek. He scans the rooftop, glimmers of gold in his eyes, and nods.

“Listen to me,” he says, holding onto you. His thumbs swipe your tears away. “I would not hurt you for the world. I wouldn’t. That goddamn email – I just – I didn’t know what else to do. I panicked, and I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Shut up,” he smiles, “I never meant to scare you. I never meant to hurt you. And if we never go back to what we were, then – I guess I gotta live with that. But you? God, baby, I miss you.

“I miss hearing you laugh. I miss being the one to make you do it. I miss talking to you, miss hearing what you think on things. Miss your goddamn Bart Simpson socks ‘n all.”

You turn into his palm, masking your giggle. “Asshole,” you murmur.

“All I want to do is take care of you,” he says. His shoulder jerks, an earnest shrug. “’s all I want. And you don’t make it easy, that’s for sure – fightin’ back at every damn turn. But – I don’t know,” his eyes thin, “Sometimes I reckon it’s what you want, too.”

“Oh,” you wrestle a simper, “You reckon, do you?”

“I reckon,” Joel repeats, bending the word in an exaggerated drawl. “See what I mean?” he tickles your waist, “You’re a pain in my ass.”

Your head tips back with laughter – the first real laugh you’ve heard pass your lips in weeks. Since you were rolling around your bed, poking his ribs for not being able to use chopsticks. A silly, girlish giggle.

The world bursts into color again.

Joel chuckles, too, as you squirm in his grasp. His hands plant on your waist, forehead rolling against yours.

Your lips brush. Your body ignites.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he whispers. “That okay?”

“Shut up,” you echo, letting his lips crash into yours.

He tastes exactly the same as you remember. Strawberry and lemongrass. Sweet, in a way that wakens you. Brightens you, full of life and full of color.

It’s as though only a second has passed since you last felt him like this. Felt his scruff on your cheeks, the warmth of his tongue slipping past yours. Your skin feels like satin on his; your body filling in all the worn gaps that time has taken from his.

Fitting against him like you were carved with him in mind. Chiseled from the same slab of marble, finally found one another through the opaque stone.

He pins you to the parapet; one hand firm on the small of your back, the other at the base of your skull. He leans in, claiming every sense in your body as his own – and you offer them over gladly.

He kisses you like it’s all he’s thought about since that last morning at your place. Like he’s making up for lost time.

Hell, you’re both making up for lost time.

Joel breaks for air, panting against your lips, then instantly kisses you again.

Your hand threads through his hair – the soft salt and pepper, the feathered flicks at the nape of his neck. “Joel,” you kiss him once, twice more, giggling, “We’re like teenagers.”

“I love you,” he replies, kissing down your neck. “So much. So – goddamn – much.”

He trails down to your collarbone, where your chest lifts to meet his hungry lips. He drags teeth and tongue between your cleavage.

There’s a delay in the time the words take to sink into your skin. Like they’re stopping to light every atom of your being first, before they reach your brain. Every bone, every muscle and every cell.

“You…” you breathe, pulling him upright. “…You what?”

“I love you,” he repeats. “That scare you?”

Oh.

“N-no,” you press your finger to his swollen lips, “You…Say it again.”

He pauses. Nods, when he seems to make it up in his mind. His eyes flit from yours down to the mess of your lipstick, and back up.

A man possessed, so it looks, he admits it between labored breaths. “I’m in love with you,” he says. “Have been for a while, I think. You got a terrible habit of driving me fucking insane, pretty girl.”

Oh, shit.

You knew it already. This isn’t news.

He as good as told you in the copy room – and before that, in his office. He told you in Martha’s dining room, told you in your kitchen. He told you every time his lips found yours in Paris, and every time his eyes met yours before that.

If you went back and looked, there’d probably be a trail of clues jotted down in his diary – September second, two o’clock. Great AP score, enthusiastic and friendly. I think I’m in love with her.

He’s always loved you.

It’s just different hearing him say it.

Different to how it felt the last time someone said it to you. Different to how it sounded. There’s no ringing in your ears. There’s no focal shift in your vision.

There’s no…fear.

Joel takes hold of your shoulders. “Don’t run off on me again,” he says, kissing your cheek.

“No, I’m not…I don’t – want to,” you burble, playing with his collar. “You’re just…You might be a couple steps ahead of me.”

“Baby,” he says, a little laugh to it. “That’s okay. I don’t mind. I’m good where I am.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says, and leans in again. “I’ll wait, as long as it takes.”

You melt into him; his strong hands and steady chest. Teeth taking his bottom lip, releasing it with a little pop. Your fingers twist around his hair, tugging lightly.

A low growl sounds from Joel’s throat. His hips rut against yours, fly of his jeans catches on the material of your skirt.

It nestles somewhere between your thighs. Solid, swollen. Blood hammering beneath denim, grinding into your body. He’s hard.

“We keep goin’ the way we’re goin’,” Joel hints, “and we’re gonna have a problem that ain’t solved so easily.”

You release him, licking your lips. “You think I can’t feel it already?”

He sucks on the skin over your carotid. “You think I ain’t been dealin’ with it for the last three weeks?”

“Poor Mr. Miller,” you pout, “Let me deal with it.”

His cheeks lift, brows drop. Cocky. The Joel you’re used to. The Joel you want.

The Joel you fucking need, right now.

“C’mon,” you slip a hand down his front, cupping the weight of him, “I miss my daddy.”

He squeezes your ass, catching you in a rough kiss when you writhe forward. His teeth graze your ear. “I wanna touch you, baby. I wanna feel you again. This little cunt,” he slips a hand between your legs, “She’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about.”

Fuck.

It was a feeble attempt, anyway – matching his ego. Utterly futile. The guy makes you lose your fucking mind.

You’ve done things for him that you’d never dream of doing for anyone else – would wring their necks for even asking – and here you are, keening into Joel, grinding your dripping pussy into his palm for all the street to see.

“She’s all yours,” you whine, the words tearing from your throat in a desperate plea. “All yours, Daddy.”

“That’s my girl,” Joel murmurs against your temple. “I’m gonna take you home, okay? Fuck you nice ‘n hard, make you feel better.”

You moan against his shirt. “Can we go back to yours, Daddy?”

It throws him for one heavy beat. He pauses, breath hot against your jaw, and then presses a barely-there kiss to your lips.

“Yeah, darlin,’” he whispers. “Let’s go back to mine.”

You push off his chest, cunt throbbing with each step towards the fire door. Fingers locked through his – a siren leading her sailor down the wrought iron stairs of Sam’s Saloon. Swimming through bodies, bathing in neon light, breathing in tobacco and tequila.

Joel eyes the booth where his employees sit – folding spinning tops out of beer caps, wagering bets on who’ll still be hungover come Monday.

He turns to whisper in your ear, when a voice strikes like lightning between you.

“Hey!” Martha yells, waving from the corner booth.

You’ve never wanted her to fuck off so badly.

“Just where the hell do you think you two are goin’?”

Joel stumbles into your side, hiding a teenage sort of glee behind your back. It’s contagious – and it riles Martha even more.

You throw your arms in the air, eyes bulging. Take the fucking hint, Martha. “Home?”

“It ain’t even eleven,” she protests, making to stand. “This is your goddamn leavin’ night – what are you doing?”

But you’re already retreating, following the pull of Joel’s hand around yours. Skin like fire, spattering with every touch. There’s nothing – man, myth, or Martha – that could stop you from following him.

You yell it as you swing through the doors.

“Grabbing a paddle!”

Joel leads you with his hands and with his lips down a neighboring street, where his Lamborghini sits at the side of the road. It blinks to life, headlights blinding.

A bruiser of a car – all bulk and brawn and bullish, like the thing is actually rearing. Something of a sharp smirk to it, the same devilish grin its owner so often wears.

He opens your door, steady hand lifting you into the passenger side, and strides around the car. His hand is back between your legs before he’s even switched the ignition on.

“Get – your damn – seatbelt on,” you giggle, slurring the words against Joel’s lips. “I am not letting you drive me home without one.”

His breath is hot and heady, spilling over your tongue with each punch of laughter from his chest. “Alright, alright,” he concedes, clipping the belt into place. He holds his hands out, awaiting your approval.

When you nod, his fingers slip between your thighs.

“You whore,” you snicker – though the sound scatters when he finds your clit. You grab your own belt, yanking it loose from its holder. “Jesus, Joel –”

“There she is,” he coos, pulling out into the road.

He circles her gently at first, massaging over your panties. Middle finger pulsing over the hood, matching the rhythm of your heartbeat flocking south.

Your back arches; nails dig into his wrist. “Daddy,” you gasp, knees parting. Heat quickly soaking through lace and onto leather. “’m gonna – make a mess,” you croon.

“Make a mess, darlin’, it’s okay,” Joel beckons, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Driving me crazy, watching you like this. Dirty little girl.”

“Let me…” you reach for his thigh, “…Wanna touch you, Daddy.”

He grunts – a sound of refusal. “Give me one first, baby. Here,” and he hooks the slippery lace to the side, fingers parting your folds, “Let Daddy feel you right here.”

Your knee lifts, leg folding against the door, and Joel pushes inside. Two fingers knuckle-deep in one thrust. You yelp.

“Oh, baby,” he tuts, “She’s so wet. She miss her daddy that bad?”

“Yeah,” you whine, watching the thick shine he draws from your cunt. You lift your hips to open wider – and he slots a third finger in.

“Look at her,” he growls, “desperate little cunt. That feel better, darlin’?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you mewl, though you’re not fucking listening to a word he’s saying.

You watch, boneless and blathering, as your hand lowers – replacing where Joel’s was on your clit. Rubbing little circles while he fucks you with his thick fingers. Your back curls again, tits threatening to spill out of your dress.

“Keep doin’ that,” Joel instructs, wrist jacking faster. “You’re close, ain’t you?”

“Shit,” you gasp, walls clenching around him. “So – close, Joel – fuck.”

The car slows to a stop. A red glow seeps through the windshield, lighting your smirk in a dangerous tinge.

Your pussy drools onto the leather seat, throbbing over Joel’s hand. Syrupy and honey-sweet, coating him in a glistening mess the harder he fucks you. A sticky sound, the slap of skin on skin, the beats of your moaning in between.

“Look at me,” Joel says, and you tear your eyes from between your legs. “Keep playing with it. C’mere.”

He tilts your jaw with his free hand and slips his tongue past your lips – the taste of him more dizzying than any drink from that bar. He kisses you until you’re right there, sucking on his tongue, teetering on the edge of your first climax. Crying into his mouth to stop from screaming at the ceiling.

“Daddy, need –”

Joel’s wrist pounds against your clit. He laughs across your tongue.

“Come on, baby,” he groans. “Let me feel her.”

“Say it,” you beg, your head lolling on his shoulder. The streetlights begin to bleed into the car. The light flicks to yellow. “Need you to – to say it.”

He nuzzles his nose against yours, turning to let you taste the words.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you break wide open.

The car rolls off again as you come with a violent shudder, crying into Joel’s chest. Daddy Daddy Daddy, fuck me fuck me fuck me.

“I know, I know,” Joel says, riding your high out to the horizon. He stares at the road ahead, only daring a glimpse at the sodden mess between your thighs when you start to come around again.

He works your swollen cunt, fingers gleaming with your orgasm. Slips them over his tongue, licks them clean – and then pushes them back between your sensitive lips.

You rock with the moving car, pulse still rattling your lungs. Your eyes drift down, down: Joel’s spread legs, the shape even bolder in his jeans than before.

You got a terrible habit of driving me fucking insane, pretty girl.

Weak and still quivering, you slip your hand over his belt – feeling his stomach jolt the second you touch it. The dark trail of hair from his navel, the thicker it grows – the harder he tenses.

“Easy,” he clips, adjusting in his seat. “Alright, darlin’. We’re…You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“Good,” you shrug, “I bet you have a good lawyer.”

You slump into his lap, the armrest solid against your ribcage. Trembling fingers loosening his belt, picking at the button of his jeans, husking them loose when he lifts his hips.

“Jesus,” he clears his throat, “Won’t let me drive without a seatbelt, but you’re – you’re fine with – fuck.”

He’s heavy and rock solid, so wide you can barely hold him. Big enough that it takes no effort at all to pull him free. Shaft silky smooth, tip flushed red and leaking deliciously.

Fuck, he’s so pretty. He’s so –

“– pretty, Daddy.”

Joel lifts his hand and holds you at the back of your neck, grip tightening when you dab his head along your bottom lip. “Prettier when you’re playin’ with it, angel.”

Your tongue circles his tip – salt and sweat stirring you from your orgasmic haze. You dribble down his cock, spit racing to the twists of thick hair at his base.

The sound he makes is guttural – a roar of a groan from his chest – when you sink down on him. He fills your mouth instantly, nudging the back of your throat in one.

The car swerves some. Joel curses over your head.

You slip back up – slow. Let your tongue trace every ridge, every vein along the way. All of it perfect perfect perfect – all of it him. Chasing streaks of saliva, the pearly shine of precome beading from his slit.

One hand stroking his hilt, lips suckling around his tip. Kneading his weighty balls – massaging them in your palm, dragging your tongue down to kiss the cushiony skin.

“Pretty girl,” Joel rasps, hips canting to meet every lick, every stroke. “You’re gonna make me come if you don’t stop.”

Mhm, you mumble, gagging around the intrusion. Tears sear across your waterline, spilling from the corners of your eyes. So big, so pretty, so perfect.

He nuzzles deep, stretching the column of your throat wide. “Baby,” he warns, voice sharper, “Baby, you gotta – you gotta stop now.”

Maple, he’d said – that day in your shower. If you say it, I stop.

Say it, you dare him silently.

“I’m gonna – c-come, darlin’,” instead.

Say. It.

“You want that?” he growls, hand surfing over your hair to cup your skull. “You wanna make your Daddy come?”

Your voice flattens, mutes under the strain of his cock. You moan instead, the sound weak and muffled.

“Shit,” Joel says, stomach tensing tensing tensing. “Shit, angel, just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He twitches deep inside. He’s there. Right there.

You slacken your jaw and lick up his shaft, two hands wrapping around it. They slip around the sticky spit, swirling and squeezing while you kiss his tip.

He holds you steady, slowing the car to watch as he fills your mouth.

Two, three warm spurts across your tongue, dripping down the back of your throat. You lap up every drop, tongue swirling the salt around your lips before you swallow it down.

Joel rasps as he steers the car into a dim lot. He strokes your head, jerks when you play a little too much with him.

“Attagirl,” he sighs, “Careful with it. Tryna fuckin’ kill me.”

You giggle, swiping kitten licks at his tip before you slip him back into his underwear. You bat Joel’s hands away, buttoning his jeans and threading his belt back together. Planting heavy kisses into the plush of his tummy.

When the darkness is pierced by flickering fluorescents, you push yourself up.

“Where are we?” you ask, twisting in your seat.

“Home,” he says simply.

A plain man in a dark suit strides over to the car as soon as it parks up. The click of his shoes bouncing off the walls.

Joel swipes at your chin with his thumb. He slips the digit past your lips and you suck it clean. “Dirty girl,” he utters, stealing another hasty kiss before swinging out of the car.

You hop out the other side, tottering around the Lamborghini to meet him at the back.

The attendant’s name badge reads Owen. “Long day, Mr. Miller?”

Joel pats his shoulder in greeting, reaching for your hand. “Long day,” he agrees, and makes for the elevator.

Your head swivels, taking in each lavish vehicle parked under luminous light. Emblems with horses and bulls and wings – plenty more than you don’t even recognize. Each car polished to perfection, groomed within an inch of its life.

Joel flicks the button at the top of the panel. The doors glide closed – smooth and silent. You barely feel it as it scales the building rapidly.

“Wait a second,” you stare at the dazzling PH, “Do you live on the top fucking floor?”

He bites his lip. “Might do.”

You step back. “So you let me bring you into my – my shitty little apartment, and meanwhile you’re –?”

“Woah, woah,” he cuts in. “Your apartment is not shitty.”

“It’s not a fucking penthouse, Joel.”

“It’s a nice apartment!” he protests, squeezing your shoulder. “Do you always gotta be so goddamn dramatic?”

“I bet you could fit my entire place inside your living room. Right? Am I right?”

He clicks his teeth and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Naw,” he says, like a little kid. Twisting his toe into the marble floor. “Dressing room, more like.”

The doors part just in time for him to escape your drumming fists – his boyish snicker filling the cream hallway.

You spill out after him, pulse fluttering dangerously through your veins.

“You know what my place doesn’t have?” Joel says, fishing for his keys. “A poster of Richard Gere. I could use one of those.”

“Oh,” you feign amusement, “Well, you can have mine. I won’t be able to look at it now, anyways.”

He slots the key in the lock and turns. Drinks in the sight of you – on a comedown from only the second-hottest car ride you’ve ever taken.

“Your apartment,” he lifts a finger, “has you in it. It wins, every time.”

Your jaw clenches. Your heart begins a warning drum in your chest. Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you fall.

Too late, you think.

The door sweeps open, and Joel beckons you forward.

“Ladies first.”

You slip by, stepping into a regal hallway. Smooth stone on either side, dark wood under your heels. All marble and mirror, classy, glassy décor. Golden spotlights which glow to life overhead, the deeper your footsteps echo.

It’s dark, and a little moody. Manly. The perfect marriage of masculine and chic. Cold steel and warm wood.

It looks like him. Classy and luxurious – but homey, warm. Everything that draws you to him, and everything that makes you want to stay.

Joel follows silently at your back, much the same as he did in his little white house. Looking to his feet when you turn back, fiddling with the strap of his watch.

You wander to the end of the hall, where the apartment widens. A towering living room – sylvan and rustic, the same muted tones bleeding through. Cityscape backdrop, pristine glass fire. A coffee table homing ornate vases and books on woodworking; a faux fur blanket over the couch and beside it, a worn flannel shirt.

You love it. You love all of it.

And loving his apartment is probably a bit of a copout, right? The easier way, the safer way to admit something much scarier. It’s just fragments of Joel, after all. It’s all the parts you’ve come to like best.

His heart, his soul. The kid with the freckles and scruffy hair, all grown up. Thrown into a big city, thrown into a big job. Thrown into a million-dollar penthouse – and still, he turns everything he touches into…home.

Joel presses his lips along your shoulder, perches his chin on your collarbone. Quiet, a little bashful – hiding from every secret he’s letting you in on just with being here.

Your eyes catch a brushed-gold frame on the sideboard, and you float over.

Faded by the sun and the years in between, there’s a peachy tint to the photo. A dreamy lilac sky, dark cedars fringing the background. A squint mailbox, cherry red with the name MILLER printed on.

Two boys, one as filthy as the other. Matching denim shorts and lanky limbs. Smeared with paint, in the midst of a brawl which nearly blurs their figures into nothing more than one head of dark hair, the other sandy.

You’d recognize him anywhere, though. Even with his arm hooked around his little brother’s neck.

“Tommy started it,” Joel says, elbowing your side. “See that smudge on the mailbox? He pushed me headfirst into the thing.”

Your chest leaps. “Who won the fight?”

He takes the frame and dusts it with the sleeve of his jacket. “Mom did,” he replies. “Threw the camera down ‘n dragged us inside. Grounded us for a week, made us repaint the entire thing.”

“How is your mom?” you ask.

Joel nods. “Good. She’s askin’ after you.”

“She still asks about me?”

“Yeah,” he says. “’cause I still talk about you.”

It prods low in your chest. Aching, stitching itself back together thread by thread. A wound twelve years in the making, the doing and undoing of everything you ever knew. Family and love; hurt and loss.

It’s okay to lose some things, you reckon. It’s okay to let them go. To watch that beat-up Toyota tear off for the horizon. To leave that man and his ring and the promises he’ll never fulfill.

There’s someone better waiting down the line, anyway. It starts with a page of doodles; it ends with your heart in his hands.

The safest place it’s ever going to be.

You cross your arms around Joel’s neck and pull him against your body. Pull him against the wound.

“I want to go see her again, tomorrow.”

“I think she’d like that.”

“Then I want to come back here and spend the whole weekend with you.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that, too.”

You kiss him softly.

“And I want you to take me to bed right now, and show me how much you love me.”

The twinkling city is the only light left on this side of the apartment.

Half-drunk in a half-dim room, you stumble in backwards – tripping over thin air and collapsing onto the bed, pulling the six-foot shadow of your ex-boss-now-something on top.

The laughter rumbles from Joel’s chest. “I’m too old for this, pretty girl,” he says, sucking a mark into your neck.

“No big deal,” you titter, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. “I’ll keep you going.”

He hovers over you, watching as you peel the clothes from his body. The heavy clink of his belt on the floor, the ruffle of slacks down his legs. He shakes the shirt from his arms and your lips connect again in the darkness.

Hips between yours, he drags your dress from the hem up over your arms. A hungry glimpse, tongue dabbing at the corner of his mouth – like it’s Monday morning all over again, and you’re on your knees in front of him for the first time.

Back when flirting was as harmless as delivering coffee and running errands. Back when he was one third of a fuck, marry, kill debate with Martha and Deb. Back when neither of you knew these versions of yourselves even existed.

Joel lowers – taking your nipple in his mouth.

“Shit,” you pant, fingers searching for the elastic around his waist.

He helps you tug his boxers off. His cock sways between his legs, smatter of come and damp saliva across your stomach as he guides you up the mattress. He takes the lace from your hips in his fist and rids you of it in quick motion.

“See what you do to your daddy?” he asks, tapping the weight of his cock against your mound.

You reach down, wrapping your fingers around him. He’s stubbornly solid again – throbbing under your touch. He shudders when you swipe a gentle thumb over his tip.

“Already came once ‘n you got him hard all over again,” Joel adds.

You take your lip under your teeth, stroking his cock. Your clit flutters at the thought of him pushing in. The stretch that feels so impossible, the punch of pain each time he reaches the end of your pussy.

It steals a sob from your lips. “I wanna ride you, Daddy,” you sputter, a solid shove on his shoulders.

He rolls onto his back, hands finding your hips as you mount his waist.

“Let me ride you,” you’re panting, lowering onto the dense muscle of his stomach. Quickly coating the trail of pubic hair with a pearly sheen. You rock back and forth, taking the stalk of him in one small hand.

“Let me ride – just wanna ride –”

“Alright, alright,” Joel hastens, sitting upright. He slips an arm around your back.

You whine. “You never let me, Daddy, I just wanna –”

“Shh,” he holds your jaw, “I’m gonna let you. I’m gonna let you, baby. Just gotta go slow, alright? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” you tell him, hands on your hips.

“I know,” Joel replies, “I know you can. Always do, huh?”

He slides his tip through your core, teasing your entrance. So wide that you can already feel your little hole struggling with just his head. He’s covered in you – your slick blending with his, your breath swapping.

“Three weeks, angel,” he fusses, beginning to edge you down. “Too goddamn long,” he adds, “You know how much I missed this pretty cunt?”

Your pussy sucks his length in, blooming for him. Warm and snug, spongey walls pinching every inch as he penetrates her. Like they’re made for each other, the same way you and Joel are.

“She missed you more,” you gasp, head tilted back to the ceiling. “I missed you more.”

Joel’s teeth pluck at the column of your throat, still raw from the memory of his dick. “Doing so good for me,” he hums, “Little more, okay?”

You collapse forward, boneless and weeping against his chest. The pain and the pleasure hammering through your veins – Joel’s thunder and your lightning. Every nerve on fire, every hair on your body standing to attention.

He holds you steady, hands still locked around your waist, cock still filling you up inch by inch. When your clit reaches the coarse hair at his base, Joel kisses from your chest up to your jaw.

“You feel that, baby?” he asks, two fingers lifting your chin. “Feel Daddy inside you? All of him, darlin’, you got all of him in there.”

You wiggle in his lap, hips aching with the effort of holding his full length. “So big, Daddy.”

Joel tenses, teeth gritting. “I ain’t gonna last long,” he admits, grip firm on your hips.

“That’s okay, baby,” you coo, nudging him back into the mattress. His cock slips from your slit, drizzled with slick. You feel so empty without him – electricity fizzling into nothing, walls clamping around nothing.

You brace yourself over his torso – reaching between your legs to guide him back to your entrance.

Beneath hooded lids, heavy with lust, Joel watches as you drag his tip through your folds. He presses his thumb to your clit, rough circles around the swollen hood, and parts your lips with his fingers.

His cock lines up, and you sink down.

“Christ, darlin’,” Joel groans. He flicks at your clit, his other hand coming up to pinch your nipple.

“I – Fuck,” you moan, bouncing on him. “Feels so – good, Daddy, I –”

You fall forward into the headboard – staying upright only with your fingers locked around the wood. You’re slipping, already barreling your way towards another orgasm.

You grind forward, rutting into Joel’s palm, falling back on his cock. Your spine curls; hands drop to claw at his chest, ground yourself there.

The edges of your vision begin to blur. It’s not like this, it’s never like this. No one has ever fucked you this good, this rough and this loving.

Joel’s balls slap against your ass. He bucks his hips, knees lifting to bump you forward.

“Attagirl,” he says, slipping a hand around your neck. He brings you down, nips at your lower lip. His forehead slides against yours. “Can feel you closing, darlin’,” he chuckles, “You gonna come for me?”

“D-dick,” you hiss.

He smirks. “Always look so pretty when you let go. You don’t wanna show Daddy how pretty you are?”

You writhe over him, biting down hard on your climax.

“My beautiful girl,” Joel murmurs in your ear. “Come for Daddy.”

And it throws you under.

Blinding, deafening. Every nerve in your body overcome, each one flipped to feel only Joel. His cock, buried deep inside, your walls clamped around him; his teeth on your skin, tongue soothing the scrape.

It’s never like this.

Never so euphoric, never such a perfect meld of bruise and bliss. The feeling of your body changing, altering down to the very last atom – blossoming anew. Fresher, purer, lovelier.

When you come back around, you’re on your back.

Legs wrapped around Joel’s waist; arms linked around his neck. He must’ve flipped you, the second you came.

He slips back inside, suckling on the skin beneath your ear, and drives his hips into yours. Ignores your yelps, your short breaths – just fucks into you like you’ll be gone in the morning.

Fucks into you like he’ll never get to do it again. Like he hasn’t been doing it for weeks. He fucks you so hard that it hurts; an ache already burning that you know you’ll still feel walking into work on Monday.

“Good girl,” he chants, over and over. “Daddy’s girl.”

Like a fever come over him – beads of sweat dotting his skin, flush in his cheeks. He fucks you mindless, senseless, wordless. Sobbing beneath him, each word soaking into the next.

Good girl. Good girl. Daddy’s girl, that’s it. Daddy loves you so much, baby. Gonna fill this little cunt up so good.

When your walls pull tight again, your third orgasm flooding from every pore in your body – Joel’s movements halt.

He comes with a painful jolt – his cock shunting into you once, twice, until he’s pumping you full of his come. Twitching deep within you, pulsing warm and messy inside your pussy.

He comes with a sound like song. Your name, entangled in a throaty groan – lips tucked somewhere between your neck and shoulder.

You finally hear it – for the first time in your life.

How it’s supposed to sound: low like thunder, Texan in its swing. No one else, you realize, has ever gotten it right – this right – before. As if only his lips were meant to speak it, his tongue designed to carve around the letters. His vocal cords strung to send the sound to your ears.

It’s his, you decide. Your name – and every other piece of you. All of you. It all belongs to him, now.

“Fuck,” Joel pants, one hand on the headboard to steady himself. He lets it rain down over you: “I love you so much, you know that?”

“Come here,” you whisper, and he falls into your body, “Come love me forever.”

Half-conscious and full bliss, you laze in Joel’s bed – all fucking night.

Strong arms hooked around your shoulders, heart to heart. Breath shared, whispering nothings and everythings in the space between your lips. He’s still buried deep inside, still tucked between your legs.

Bundled in satin sheets, kept warm by his body around yours. Talking shit, poking fun, flirting and fucking around. You play with his hands, sizing your open palm against his. You compare the scars and scrapes on your skin, spill the bloody story behind each one.

“Alright, big girl,” Joel yawns, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m beat. You killed me.”

You snuggle under his chin. “Get some sleep, old man.”

He takes a second to respond. He’s already going. This is probably the closest he’s been to actually sleeping for a good three weeks.

“Love you,” he exhales then, like the thought just lapped past his lips again.

You smile. Take his big hands in yours and lift them closer to your chest, tuck your chin over your interlocked fingers.

Something deep inside you lurches. Tries to escape. You tighten Joel’s grip, as if choking the words on their way up.

Joel’s breathing slowly begins to draw out – tiny sighs passing his lips. Your thumbs trace the short hair between his nose and top lip, combing it, nail ghosting over the lines on his lips.

A warm feeling floods through your body. Suddenly – it starts in your chest and washes over in waves, dousing you and the world around you in a dreamy rose. Like a sunset paints its way across the walls, the glint of gold where the light catches on the tower in the distance.

Peace, you think.

Only – there’s no end to it. No sleek black car to drag you away. No broken promises and half-truths. The ache in your chest pulls gently – a reminder, no longer a threat.

This will never leave. He won’t let it. It’s as safe as you are, now, wrapped in his arms. Nothing and no one to break you apart.

“Joel?” you whisper.

His eyelashes flutter, like even asleep he knows it’s something worth hearing. Like everything you could possibly say – What should we have for breakfast? My foot itches. Did you know Martha box dyes her hair? – it’s all worth hearing.

You gulp. “Joel, I wanna – I wanna tell you something.”

He crackles to life, words melting into one another. “…What is it…darlin’…?”

Your lips morph around voiceless words. Your tongue lifts to the back of your teeth, trying to force the sound out.

It’s everything, you think. You’re everything. Say it. Say it say it say it.

But he’s already dropping off again. He’s already being swept away somewhere you’re too tense to reach. And you’re not brave enough to push through the fog on your own, stick a trembling hand into the unknown and swipe for his.

So you let it go. Watch the words float off somewhere Joel can’t hear them.

You shrink yourself, slotting your head beneath his jaw, your cheek to his chest. He sighs into the crown of your head. His heartbeat thuds a familiar bassline into your ear. Hi, old friend. I missed you.

Maybe in the morning, you can swing by your place and grab a bag. Pack a few days’ worth of clothes, spend the first few mornings of your new career drinking velvety coffee in bed next to Joel. Sharing the mug, sharing the newspaper, sharing the shower when it’s time to get up.

Maybe you should call Martha, and apologize for skipping your party. She can fill you in on the night – the drunken dramas, the secrets spilled. She won’t ask about you and Joel – she’ll just know. And that’s enough.

Maybe you’ll throw the phone to the end of the bed after you hang up, discarded amongst the tangle of sheets, and lie back down next to a still sleeping Joel. Lay your head on his chest, like it is right now. Listen to his heartbeat, run your fingers across the dark hair.

And maybe you’ll think over the same three words currently racing through your head. Maybe you’ll try to piece together a sentence for him to hear, when you’re ready to say it out loud.

Maybe by morning, you’ll be brave enough to admit it to yourself, first.

That…yeah.

You love him.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #fic: sex on fire

950 notes · View notes

darilarostarg · 6 months ago

Text

To Taste

Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

Summery: Daemon sees a pretty little Lady at a feast, and cannot help himself.

Warming: SMUT, this is literally just pussy eating lol episode five took a toll on me

Words: 686

He didn’t mean for it to happen. His plan was to take his fill of wine and then somehow get himself to the nearest brothel. But then he saw you. Sitting alone at the end of a table, as your older husband gorged on the feast and ignored you entirely. Last time he did this, he was banished for nearly six moons after nearly causing an uprising in the Westerlands after he was caught balls deep in the daughter of Lord Reyne, two moons before she was to be wed. But you just looked so pretty, so soft, so lonely…he honestly couldn't help himself.

So here he was, on his knees, your skirts gathered around your waist, under a damp and drafty stairwell in the Tower of the Hand, with nothing but the sound of dripping water and your pretty moans. With ease, he hooked one of your legs over his broad shoulder, forcing it to wrap it around his neck just as he sinfully runs his tongue between your gooey folds; it's just as much a treat for him as it is for you. Daemon enjoyed eating out for his own pleasure, he got off on how responsive ladies were to his fingers and tongue.

"Such a sweet, little cunny," he muses as he comes up for air, eyes flitting up to your face just before he's enveloping your clit to his mouth. Your juices continue to coat chin, making it easier for him to slip his tongue downwards and glaze over your needy hole. He loved how your body melts into his ministrations, searching for more pleasure by carding your fingers through his long silver hair to press his face further into your folds.

“My Prince,” you sigh, head lolling back into the wall when he stiffens his tongue to then dip it inside of you. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs and ass, making sure he can keep you spread enough for him to slightly nudge his nose against your clit as he moves his tongue within you.

Your fingers tighten on his roots, pushing his head back a bit and pressing him closer to you. At the same time, your hips are bucking softly after he slips two fingers into your heat, pulling his tongue from you to flick it against your clit.

Daemon can feel your leg start to weaken in stance while your other does as predicted: tightens around the back of his neck. He wouldn’t be able to pull away from the taste of you if he tried.

He continues to curl his fingers inside of you, gliding over that soft spot that has your knees buckling and breath hitching in the back of your throat. He knows how to toy with you, giving you more and more but making sure you don’t fall over the cliff without his permission. The art to his pleasure was menacing, but one he’s learned to master throughout his time in brothels, and his own, as well as other Lord’s beds. Daemon had always taken his time with his lovers… to explore, to satisfy, to taste.

The decision is split second: Daemon places your other leg onto his shoulder and keeps you pressed to the wall for him to devour. You let out a small gasp of shock at the sudden movement, but that is soon overshadowed by a long moan escaping due to him managing to slip three fingers into you while his ring covered pinky ghosted over your other hole.

However, this wasn’t your undoing, for that only arrived when he pulled his lips back a bit to spit on your clit before tonguing down the bundle of nerves and continuing to open you up on his fingers.

“Daemon! Oh, fuck! oh, fuck! Ohhh, fuck,” you whine as quickly as you can muster, both hands sinking deep into his hair so your nails scratch along his scalp as your thighs clamp tightly around his head. The feeling causes him to groan into your pussy, reeling in the pain as he plunges you into the fiery pits below.

Authors Note:

Little mini blurb as a treat in celebration of the season finale! I am currently re-working my OC story, so I haven't been writing much else recently, but trust a sex scene will always make me wiggle out of my little dark hole.

My masterlist can be found by click here!

You can add yourself to my taglist here or ask in the notes!

Taglist: @yn-jackson@ilikechocolatemilkh@velathaheigeros@anthonys-viscountess@multiversemayhemme

#daemon targaryan #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen blurb #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #hotd #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader

622 notes · View notes

mrs-hwangh · 4 months ago

Text

a boxers heart.

chapter one

Kim Geonwoo x Fem!Reader

Summary: one day was enough to change your lifes forever. Geonwoo is your best friend, you help his mother with her coffee shop and became part of a legendary trio with Geonwoo and Woojin. However.. nothing will ever be the same again after the Smile Company entered your lifes.

wc: 2.1k

an: the story will follow the dramas events. Adjustments were made to include our character into the storyline.. other then that.. watch the two characters fall in love with each other ✨️

Enjoy

______________________________________________

He strikes again! Kim Geon-woo landed a fatal blow on Hong Woo-jins side! Sending him directly on the floor once more!

Will he stand up again just like he did earlier? It definetly does not look like this.

And three! two! one!

We have our winner! Kim Geon-woo won the tournament with an outstanding performance!

This year was truly something else. The pandemic hitting us out from the blue, causing for endless troubles.. These young men however proved us that the struggles we faced, still wanting to organize this grand show off, all of our hard work for making it work.. everything payed off!

We are proud to announce this years winner and to honor every other contestant who took part.

And let's not forget Hong Woo-jin! This finale was special because both of these young men went over their limits to decide the title of this years winner!

Now, have fun and enjoy your time!

Ladies and Gentleman, we'll hopefully meet again on the next years tournament!

The commentators praised the two while the cameraman focused on sharing close ups of the said fighters.

"He won! My Geonwoo won!"

His mothers melodic voice ringed through her small coffee shop, the small Samsung screen showing the broadcast.

"He's the best!"

You joined her cheering, engulfing her into a hug since she awaited you with open arms.

"I'm so proud of him!!"

His mother was the biggest sweetheart anyone could imagine. She truly loved her son and did everything in her power to ensure him a safer future.

You helped her once when she was cleaning up her store on her own.

Other then Geonwoo sometimes, she has no employees helping her to run the shop.. so you decided to offer your help.

It wasn't something you felt obliged to do, you just did it because you enjoyed helping others in general.

Ever since then, you decided to head over her shop to help her with everything, you didn't take money since you were payed well from another job you did sometimes.

With art.

Commissions payed you great.. this was more then enough for you to work for her for free.

"Do you want to head over? I can take over the shift until you return"

You offered but she was quick to decline.

"Thank you but I will stay here, what about you going to see him? I'm sure that it'd make him happy"

She offered you a warm smile.

... should I?

"Are you sure?"

His mother quikly nodded and pointed at the door.

"Enjoy his win together, make this day even more special as it already is!"

You were pushed out of the coffee shop with a gentle push.

She smiled at you as you waved her goodbye.

Now... where would he go after such a big win..

...

Time passed and you decided to just call him, finding him would be impossible otherwise.

'Hey y/n!'

"Congrats woo! You did it!!!"

'Thank you!'

You could hear his chuckle from the other side of the line, but there was another voice

'Hey who is that?'

The second voice was the one of a male, he had company..

"Am I interrupting right now...?"

'No, why? Did something happen?'

'Geonwoo who is this? Is this a girl??'

'Damnit Woojin!'

He whisper yelled that but you had to admit that it was funny.

"No, no don't worry everything is fine.. I just thought of meeting up with you to celebrate your win.. but I don't want to eh.."

'aaaa now I get why you asked me if you were interrupting earlier- No no, do not worry over this, I actually want to introduce you to someone! I'll send you our location, we'd be very happy to celebrate it together, with you!'

You could literally visually imagine his smile as he spoke. Your heart fluttered whenever he spoke.. whenever he smiled.. whenever he talked with you

He may be a boxer, but oh was he pure hearted. If politeness was a person, it'd be him. You need help? He's there. You need a shoulder to lean on? He'll stay by your side until the worst is over.

I'd love to meet him! I'll hurry over!!!

'Whoa whoa! That smil-'

Geonwoo hung up and you made your way to the location he had sent you.

They were eating. Perfect. You'd kill for a good meal now.

"Who was this?? Ohhh man you looked so happy!"

Geonwoo brought his hand to his forehead, resting it while he fought the urge of gifting him a second experience of their fight earlier today.

"A good friend of mine"

But Woojin didn't buy that.. not that easily.

"Yeah yeah.. let's believe that"

He smirked at him while taking the claw to turn the meat around.

Geonwoo was quick to snap it out of his hand.

"Not yet"

Woojin was left confused.

"... what? Hey I'm older, show me some respect"

"But they are not ready"

"I'm hungry."

"They need another minute. At least."

The hungry man wanted to say something but the doors bell interrupted his thoughts.

A girl entered the scene. She looked over the desks until her eyes met his.

"It's her.. from the call?"

Geonwoo nodded. He waved her over as he stood up to greet her and she sprinted towards him.

"Look who showed u-"

"Congrats to our champion!!!"

You jumped at him and hugged him real tight. He was taken aback but swung his arms around you immediately. He chuckled at your action and tightened his grip on you, spinning you around while thanking you. He put you on the ground again after the final spin and that was when you spotted the other man.

Wasn't he his opponent..?

"Let me introduce you to Woojin. Woojin, this is y/n and y/n this is Hong Woojin. We fought earlier at the arena"

You greeted him and complimented him on his fighting skills aswell.

"It's a pleasure to meet you y/n, and thank you"

Geonwoo and you sat down and looked at the meat.

"I think it's ready, you could turn it around no?"

Geonwoo took the claw again and turned the meat, leaving Woojin speechless.

"You disobeyed me when I asked you to do it!"

"It wasn't ready earlier"

"It was!"

"No"

"But-"

"It still needed some time, you see there is a me-"

"That's not fair!"

"It is"

"Okay, cut them now!"

"No"

"Why?!"

"They're not ready yet"

"They are!"

You sat there trying not to laugh, it was funny enough that that Woojin guy tried to make Geonwoo serve that meat while it was clearly not ready.

The trio sat there in silence until you spoke up.

"I think you can cut it now"

"Oh yes it's perfect"

Geonwoo took the scissor and cut the pieces.

Woojin.. well he let his head fall dramatically on the desk, whining that his marine comrad ignored him.

"The world has got to be kidding me"

".. is honesty really that bad?"

Woojin shot his head up and looked at Geonwoos eyes.

"You know what. Let's move on."

You and Geonwoo erupted into a heartfilled laughter and Woojin joined you soon enough.

"Let's raise a toast to the best boxers!!"

"Thank you!"

Said the two in unison as everyone prepared their bites to enjoy their meal after the great day.

"How did you actually meet? Was it after the tournament or during it?"

You were curious, Geonwoo never mentioned Woojin before after all.

"He waited at the hall asking each of his victims to go and eat with him."

Woojin said, side eyeing your friend.

"I thought that he was fooling me at first but he was serious about that" "Ahh yes that sounds like him"

You looked over and lightly hit Geonwoos shoulder.

"I'm glad you asked him, he seems like a fun guy"

Woojin felt a sense of pride as your words left your mouth, grinning widely.

"How did you actually meet Geonwoo?

"Well.. I came across his mother's coffee shop and I help her out ever since then. He happened to enter the shop while I was refilling something. Which was kinda funny because he thought that I was stealing something and oh did he get mad"

"He? Mad??"

Woojin may have only met him today but that.. that guy was more then honest and polite throughout the whole day.. him and mad didn't feel right in the same sentence.

"Oh yes."

You stood up, took a stable stance and mimicked Geonwoos face.

"Who the hell are you?"

Geonwoos eyes widened. Your voice was lower, you did something with your face that did not look like him at all.

"It wasn't that ba-"

"Answer now or I'll call the police"

Woojin nearly choked on his glass of water when you tried to copy his voice.

"Okay but be honest! How would you've reacted if a stranger was roaming freely in your mothers shop?!"

Geonwoo stood up for his defense, attacking your sides while he tickled the hell out of you.

"Wait wait w- sto-op!"

Your laughter filled the place as you tried to free yourself of his attack.

"No."

"Geonwoo!"

He continued his merciless attack until you were both gasping for air. He because he couldn't get over his laughter and you because of the tickling.

"I am feeling like a third wheeler right now"

Woojin put a fake pout and you literally became breathless.

"Woo please-"

"Okay, you shall be forgiven"

"Thank you for your mercy, your majesty"

This is how the whole afternoon went by, you three bonding with each other, exchanging stories and experiences while the restaurants owner regretted their life's choices.

What nobody of you all knew was the sudden visitor.. a man dressed in a suit.. visiting Geonwoos mothers coffee shop to offer her a deal.

It seemed too good to be good, a startup company offering to help the ones in need?

"Thank you so much sir"

"She signed the paper and gave it to the man."

"I have to thank you miss"

"Woojin.. are these original?"

Geonwoo pointed at Woojins shoes, your gaze followed his finger as you spotted the said shoe.

But.. it does look fake.. no?

"Yes. 1.2 Million won"

Geonwoos eyes widened at this.

"What?! That's the rent of our coffee shop!"

Woojin chuckled and shook his head. Your friend looked at you in disbelief.

"Did you hear that??"

You nodded but waited for Woojin to say something..

"Bro.. these are fake"

Thank god.

Geonwoo was relieved upon hearing that.

"It's obvious if you look at the cap, it's shinier. The true ones don't.."

Their voices blended with your surroundings as you took in the scene.

Late night walks weren't rare but this one.. this was somehow special.

The two continued their talk until they realized that you were walking behind them.

"Hey y/n!"

They took a few steps back and swung their arms around you, holding you in their middle.

"You're so small.. we nearly lost you"

Woojin said and you jokingly punched him.

"I'm sorry Mt. Everest"

The three of you continued the chatter as you walked through the streets.

Woojin went to his home at some point leaving you with Geonwoo alone, on your way to the shop.

"Today was quite a handful huh"

You joked, but you had a point.

He won the match, he found a new friend, your trio got created and the restaurant owner now knows about the marines divisions.

"Haha yes.. thank you"

He turned to you, locking your gazes.

"You coming over after the match. It meant alot to me"

"Well.. you're my best friend after all, I'll always be there to support you"

Geonwoo was speechless but his smile was priceless.

"Now let us surprise your mother, I bet she's thrilled to congratulate you on your big day champ"

He nodded and you two arrived at the shop where his mother was. "My Geonwoo! You did it!!"

She sprinted to him and hugged him, really proud of her son. Her eyes then shifted to yours and a warms smile appeared on her face.

"Did you celebrate the win?"

"Yes!! The other fighter.. Hong Woojin was also with us. It was real fun!!"

"I'm glad! Now let's go home everybody"

You three closed the shop and made you way to the apartments.

A black car drove past you as you walked further into the street.

Geonwoo and you looked back at it but the plate was unknown to the both of you.

You turned around again, joining the topic his mother was talking about.

But little did you know that this day would change your life's forever.

#woo do hwan #kim geunwoo #hong woo jin #bloodhounds kdrama #bloodhounds #geonwoo x reader #dohwan x reader #woodohwan x reader #bloodhounds x reader

395 notes · View notes

starglitterz · 11 days ago

Text

♡ YOU KNOW YOU LOVE ME!

what was meant to be a simple heist goes awry when you're interrupted by a shockingly cute security guard & a couple of rival art thieves. did you mention that one of them is kind of your ex?

✧ feat ; ayato, childe, diluc, scaramouche x gn!reader (3.6k words)

✧ warnings ; highly suggestive, thief + cop au, robbery, weapons, reader is a tease, one (1) ginger insult, reader loves bullying men (as they should)

✧ a/n ; be gay do crime that's all i have to say! jk HJSDSJD this has been rotting in my drafts for almost THREE years. i reread it and the writing style was so unserious that i suddenly got motivated to continue it and then i finished it in a night. Yeah. anyways this is my #grandcomeback and also first post of 2025! i really hope you all enjoy this :> if it flops i will cry myself to sleep /j btw this was proofread by the loml @musings-of-miss-j who has a SUPERB harbingers series that u should totally check out 🙂‍↕️😋

please reblog with comments ! it helps a lot :)

"hey! you there!" a baritone voice behind you yells, shattering the midnight peace of the museum and jolting you out of your reverie. tightening your grip around the gleaming purple gnosis you came here for, you slip it into your pocket quickly before turning around with a smile that would assure anybody of your innocence. "who? little old me?" you bat your eyes, blinking slowly at the man. your eyes have long adjusted to the darkness, so even with his similarly coloured outfit you're able to pick out the faded gold badge at his chest reading 'diluc'. "what are you doing back here?" his tone doesn't change in the slightest as he flicks his flashlight over to you, the beam practically blinding against the dark surroundings.

"it appears that i've gotten lost," you laugh awkwardly, doing your best to feign being a naive tourist, "i was told that there were late tours offered at the teyvat museum." diluc still looks exceedingly suspicious, and as his gaze travels behind you your mind snaps into overdrive so he doesn't notice the missing artifact. suddenly bursting into tears, you run forward and bury your face in his shirt, "i! was! so! scared!" you punctuate each word with an even louder wail and he freezes beneath you, the close contact entirely unexpected. "there, there…" he pats your back with the enthusiasm and warmth of a polar ice cap, and with your face hidden in the fabric you permit yourself a triumphant smile - you've managed to divert his attention for now, at least.

"i am so terribly sorry about this," you begin to apologise profusely before looking up at him with teary eyes, "but would you mind walking me to the exit? i'm afraid i'll get lost again." at his hesitant expression you sniffle loudly, exaggerating it as much as possible until he caves, "fine. but stay close, there's been rumours floating around about artifact thieves lately." when he starts marching away, you hurry to catch up and ask curiously as if you aren't one of them, "artifact thieves?!" "yes. the type to steal priceless elements of history and sell them on the black market," he spits with disgust in his eyes. "oh, how terrible! i can't understand why anyone would do that instead of leaving them here for the public to enjoy," you gush, "surely there are other ways to make money."

yeah, you could become an art thief instead. not that you haven't tried that; you just found it too tedious to craft a believable enough fake and ensure the painting wasn't damaged while sneaking it out. diluc doesn't deign to reply besides a single nod of his head, and you try to start up another conversation, "i suppose you're not the type to befriend random visitors, huh?" the corner of his lips tug up into a barely perceptible smile, "only the ones who appear after closing hours." "can't you make an exception for me?" you wink, though you doubt he can even see it through the darkness blanketing the museum. "hmph," is the only answer you receive, and your chit-chat ends with a dramatic sigh from your end.

to be frank, you couldn't care less whether this ‘diluc’ likes you or not. it's just in your best interests for him to remember you as some flirty ditz who'd leave their head at home if it wasn't screwed on and not a calculating, manipulative burglar. this heist is one to remember for sure though, you don't think you've ever escaped with the goods in your pocket while talking to the security guard on duty. you've knocked them out beforehand and slept with them after, but never during the job, so tonight marks a first for you.

through your eyelashes, you glance at diluc, absorbing every detail about him in a split second; it's a trick you've learned from years of living on the street where figuring out who's going to hurt you and who won't is crucial for survival. he's pretty enough that you wouldn't mind spending the night with him, with fiery red locks tied neatly into a high ponytail and crimson eyes which sparkle like rubies. perhaps you could make this a double heist and steal his heart too!

your train of thought is interrupted as diluc comes to a halt without warning and you bump into his back (which you note is surprisingly toned). "what-" you start to complain, but he holds a hand up which silences you immediately. "i heard something," he whispers, practically inaudible, and you instantly start to babble, "what?! are they artifact thieves?! are we going to die?!" diluc groans before grabbing you and hiding behind a wall, pulling you flush against his torso as one of his gloved hands covers your mouth, "shut up."

now this is close contact; you can feel the quick rise and fall of his chest, his racing heartbeat, and his every muscle tensing in preparation for a fight. if you weren't so preoccupied with the fact that this is delaying your getaway, you'd probably make a stupid quip. actually scratch that, you're going to do it anyway, "at least take me on a date first," you mumble as you shrug away his hand, and he looks at you with the most disbelieving expression, "you can still make idiotic comments in a situation like this? you've either got nerves of steel or you're a total dumbass." "depends on your type," you smile, and he drags a palm down his face exasperatedly, "i- you know what, never mind."

"ow!" "shut the fuck up, idiot. it's bad enough that i had to get paired with you, but if you get us caught i'm going to kill you." "rude. you could just ask nicely." "i have no interest in talking to you." "yet here we are." "can you seriously keep quiet? i'm telling the tsaritsa never to put me in a team with you again." "aw, stop, you'll hurt my feelings." "do you even have any of those left?" "hey! i'll have you know i am a very emotional person." "that's like me saying i'm an upstanding member of society."

you freeze in diluc's arms, running through every curse word in every language you know in your mind. you'd recognise those two voices anywhere. out of all the nights the fatui could have been planning a robbery, it had to be tonight?! archons, your luck is awful. "okay, this has been fun and all, but i've got to go," you start wriggling out of his embrace, planning to smash a window and escape because you'd honestly risk getting caught by the cops instead of the fatui. "what?! are you insane?! there are obviously two robbers there," diluc whisper-shouts, brows furrowing in a peculiar mix of confusion and worry. "and i'd prefer not to die, so i'm going to leave before they come here!" you retort, continuing to slide out of his arms. however, he doesn't relax his grip and you roll your eyes before elbowing him in the stomach. the sudden attack surprises him and he lets go with a groan, which is more than enough time for you to make a break for it.

unfortunately, diluc delayed you long enough that you end up running right into the two fatui members' line of vision. "wait, who are you?!" one of them asks, and the other one continues, "turn around, or i'll shoot you right now." fuck, is all you can think as you slowly rotate to face them with a sheepish smile, perhaps they wouldn't recognise you. "hey, aren't you y/n?!" well, there goes that plan. "no…? who's that?" "nah, you definitely are," the ginger walks towards you slowly before tilting your chin up to face him with his index finger. the game's up, so you sigh, "hey, childe... it's been a while."

"i knew it was you! i'd know that pretty face of yours anywhere," he beams gleefully, and you smirk, "you still find me pretty? never knew you had a thing for criminals." "i do, it's my fatal flaw," he frowns before continuing, "except when they steal my money, in which case they become my enemies instead." double fuck. he still remembers that. "it wasn't that much! just about ten million mora or so, i know you've got tons left where that came from," you hurry to defend yourself. "that's not the point! the point is that you stole my money after i oh-so-kindly let you stay in my house!" childe says, and you're not taking this one lying down, "liar! you invited me over after you saw me at the bar!"

"can you both shut up? i'm losing braincells just listening to this shit," scaramouche cuts in, rolling his eyes so far back you swear they're going to get stuck that way. "really? because when you opened your mouth i think my iq just dropped by 10 points," you retort. scaramouche gapes at you for a second, clearly not used to someone talking back to him. "take a picture, it'll last longer," you wink, feeling the situation slide itself back into your grasp once more; you aren't planning on going down without a fight. "i don't have a kamera, and anyway who wants photos of dead people?" he fumbles for a reply and childe snickers, "cat got your tongue, scara?" "more like y/n's got your wallet," the balladeer jabs back, a smug grin curving his lips at the witty reply. childe's eyes widen at the insult, "hey! i'll have you know that i gave it to them willingly-"

taking advantage of the argument between the two of them, you unhook a rope from your waist and toss it up to the skylight. you're in the common center area of the museum, which has a square gap up to the roof and offers you a perfect shot for your hook to sail upwards and catch at the ledge. the instant you press a button the cord retracts, pulling you up with it. "and now y/n's getting away! so long, suckers!" you cheer as you zip upwards. "isn't that my line?!" you hear scaramouche yell as they scramble to find a way after you. seconds before you slam into the window like an unfortunate bug, you pull out a gun and shoot the glass, watching with glee as a spiderweb of cracks forms across it. thanks to the momentum of you gliding through the air, your boots easily smash through it when you kick harshly as you reach it, and you land with a loud thud on the roof. "ouch," you groan, "that's going to leave a bruise tomorrow." glancing at your surroundings, you inhale the fresh night air stained with the smog from all the polluting factories and listen to the buzz of the highways, busy even past midnight, "nothing like the city."

just then, you hear a thump behind you, and then a deep voice that sounds strangely familiar, "you'll be admiring it from a prison window after this." you spin around sharply, and the sight nearly makes you fall off the edge of the building with surprise, "diluc?!" at this, he freezes, and it's evident that he thought his disguise would be more than enough to conceal his identity. with a cough, he says, "no, i'm the darknight hero." "no, you're clearly diluc. i just met you like fifteen minutes ago and even i can recognise your hair in that stupid suit, it practically glows," you fold your arms over your chest, making idle conversation while your mind races to come up with an idea to save yourself. "my suit isn't stupid," diluc can't stop himself from defending his outfit, just because he had barely any sewing skills did not give you the right to insult the piece of clothing. "it's literally a mask and a black coat."

"back to the matter at hand," diluc- sorry, the darknight hero, clears his throat loudly, clearly eager to change the topic, "you're under arrest." "oh yeah? since when are you a cop?" "i'm not." "then you obviously don't have the power to arrest me, idiot." smarting from yet another insult, diluc tries his best to maintain his composure, "i meant that i'm going to take you in to the police station and then you'll be under arrest." "should have just said that," you shrug, and you can almost see diluc fighting to rein his temper in - this is too easy.

"okay, well, this actually hasn't been fun at all, so i'm leaving," you turn around again and stroll away, hoping that there'll be a ladder on the edge of the roof. you don't really see a diluc as a threat, because to be honest he seems more like a kid playing dress-up. what kind of self-respecting adult who cared as much for the law as he did would choose to be a vigilante? maybe if he got a better costume you could take him seriously. and that turned out to be a huge mistake on your part, because the next moment, a lasso whizzes through the air and loops around your ankles, quickly pulling into a deadknot that would take you ages to untie.

you want to throw a tantrum, crying and stomping your feet at diluc, but what good would that do when this issue sprung from your own cockiness? "listen, how much do you want? i'll give it to you, any amount. i know how much security guards make, and trust me, it'll be nothing compared to what i could give you," the words spill out of your mouth in a jumble, and you seem to take on the role of a confident salesman selling a product you know is worthless. it's embarrassing how much this sounds like a plea. "i don't want money. i want the streets and artifacts of teyvat to be safe from people like you," diluc ignores your further attempts at bribing him, although he does give you a strange look when you offer up a kiss, as if he's genuinely considering it. does this man actually get no bitches?

“ah, a kiss, hm? is that what you want?” you lean forward almost desperately, grinning at him like a maniac, “c’mon, mr darknight hero! i promise i’m a really good kisser~” you lick your lips as if to prove your point, and your smirk deepens when his ruby gaze follows the motion. “just give me a second to touch up my lipstick, ‘kay?” while he’s still stunned from your offer, you fumble in your pocket and pull out a taser. diluc only snaps back into action when he sees the weapon clutched in your hands, and though he dodges, you manage to stumble forward without your bound ankles and ram the buzzing probes into his chest.

a strange noise, a mixture of a whimper and a groan escapes his throat as he falls to his knees in front of you, body twitching like a dying bug. rummaging in his pockets, you find a knife and giggle as you slice through the ties on your legs, “see? this is why it’s always great to have men on their knees for you. i forgot my knife today, so i hope you’ll be okay with me borrowing this.” as he glares at you through blurry vision, a mockingly pitiful smile curves your lips and you pat his head like you’re petting an overzealous guard dog, “now be a good boy and stay here, okay, diluc? ah, sorry, i mean mr darknight hero!” dipping your head, you press a fleeting kiss to his cheek, relishing in his flustered gasp, “i’ll give you a proper kiss next time~” you burst into laughter and skip off, leaving him tied up and blushing with the same restraints he had used on you.

“why is this stupid place so big?!” you mutter to yourself as you whiz across the rooftop. the museum is under renovation, so a lot of the walls of the rear wing are covered in scaffolding and tarp that only serve to slow you down as you try to escape. you’re seriously regretting being a cheapskate earlier and not parking at the official parking lot, instead you had hid your getaway car almost a kilometre away from the location just to avoid a parking fee. don’t judge! things like this are how rich people stay rich. but just as you’re skidding across the glass-roofed observatory, you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“not so fast, thief.”

you groan as exaggeratedly as you can, making a big show of how troublesome it is for you to turn around, “hello again, childe. hat guy.” “my name is scaramouche!” he seethes, scowling at you with a glare furious enough to thaw antarctica. “listen, y/n,” childe steps forward, raising both hands in magnanimous surrender, “let’s make a deal.” “not interested.” you stick your tongue out, slowly backing away. childe continues as if he didn’t hear you, but the twitch in his brow is enough to give away his act, “you give us the gnosis, and i’ll forget all about the money you owe me.” “i don’t owe you, genius,” you scoff, “i stole it. i’m obviously not going to repay it.” “you really are an idiot,” scaramouche massages his temples, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth than here at this moment.

“well!” childe puffs himself up, pretending that his ego isn’t hurt, “i thought you and i had chemistry, y’know? we could hang out again if you just give me the gnosis.” his voice drops an octave lower to emphasise his last few words, and you feel a familiar shiver up your spine. “childe, we slept together once, and sleeping with a ginger was not one of my proudest moments,” you retort, though you feel a twinge of guilt as childe fusses with his hair, “hey! uncalled for!” to be honest, he’s not wrong. the two of you did have chemistry, and the night you spent together was… well, let’s just say you could barely walk the next day. but dating isn’t your style, especially not when it’s someone who belongs to a rival group in the world of art theft. you prefer one night stands – it’s easier to keep things simple with no strings attached.

“just give us the gnosis, and we won’t kill you. is that a better deal?” scaramouche interrupts, evidently tired of childe beating around the bush. “scara! i was this close to getting them to crack!” childe pouts, and scaramouche rolls his eyes heavenward – if there was ever a time for him to believe in the gods, it would be now as he prays for mercy from his partner’s stupidity. “you’re cracked in the head if you think so,” scaramouche drags a palm down his face and sighs, “you only think with your dick.” “what?!” childe’s aghast at this accusation, “that’s not true!” “i think it is.” you helpfully supply, and that draws both men’s attention back to you.

“whatever! just hand us the gnosis, and things won’t get messy.” childe withdraws his blades, and you realise he’s finally getting serious. scaramouche steps closer as well, and you can’t move backwards anymore, you’re already teetering on the ledge. a fall from this height definitely wouldn’t leave you in the best condition. it’s too early for you to die, you haven’t even seen your favourite artist live yet! “fine. you want it?” you pull the gnosis out from your pocket and a wicked smirk graces your features, “then come and get it~!” you toss the item up in the air, letting the way it sparkles in the moonlight speak for itself as you lean backwards and salute, “see you on the other side, losers!”

with that, you fall off the roof while scaramouche and childe fumble to catch the gnosis.

“hey! that dumbass!” childe rushes to the edge to check on you, only to realise that… you aren’t there?! contrary to what he expected, your bloody corpse isn’t lying there. you’re climbing down the scaffolding like a monkey, weaving in and out of the metal bars until you reach the ground. looking back up at him, childe thinks he can make out a final playful wink before you hop into a black car that’s just pulled up at the back. behind him, scaramouche yells, “childe!” “what is it now, balladeer- what?!” the gnosis is shattered on the stone roof, shards of purple and silver gleaming in a manner that almost seems taunting. “it was a fucking fake!” scaramouche yells, kicking the broken pieces furiously, and childe can’t stop the lovestruck expression that plays across his face, “y/n really is a master thief…” “snap out of it, idiot! what are we going to tell the boss?!”

meanwhile, you’re in the passenger seat of an inconspicuous black car, chuckling to yourself as you toy with the real gnosis. “you’re lucky i told you to bring more than one imitation,” a suave voice sounds from the driver’s seat, “and that i was there to save you.” “thank you, oh great master ayato,” you giggle, pretending to bow, “you’re a lifesaver. literally.” he smirks, gloved fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel, “you could have been in and out. you just like playing too much.” “hey!” you whine dramatically, “it’s not my fault the security guard was so cute!” “hmm…” he reaches out and tilts your chin to face his piercing blue eyes, “don’t say stuff like that or i’ll get jealous, you know?” “s-shut up.” you pout, folding your arms across your chest and turning away to look out the window, “just drive, you blue-haired weirdo.” “that’s no way to talk to your boss now, is it?” he laughs goodnaturedly as the two of you speed away, “i just wish i could be there to see the look on captain wriothesley’s face when he realises it was us again.”

#✏️ — quill writes !#diluc x reader #childe x reader #scaramouche x reader #ayato x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #tartaglia x reader #wanderer x reader #kamisato ayato x reader

219 notes · View notes