#it was all ok until like the last moment
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Man i just remembered the whole ghosting thing that happened at the end of that one collab. What was up with that
#it was like the next thing i did after the zine whose mods never talked again after we had all finished akskskls cursed#it was a wlw fic writer/artist collab which tbh sounded so cool#it was all ok until like the last moment#the writer never replied again??? i wonder what hapened. hope they r okay#i feel asking the mods if they know whats up is too much tho#and i feel weird messaging the writer on anything that isnt that group chat so#thats it ig lol#everytime i come across the art tho its like damn what do i do with u now#haunted.txt
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dream time
#have to get this down before i forget it#been having weird/not good dreams lately until last night (mere hours ago bc its still dark out this morning)#writing this on my way to work and in the dream i was on the bus to work. however an important difference between reality and the dream is#that in the dream i was sharing my bus ride w mr larroquette. as one does#this was like mouse bites era john im sorry thats the best way i can describe how he looked#and i guess it was like we kinda knew each other?? and we ended up talking about poetry writing and stuff#wish i could remember the specifics of that#at some point we got off the bus and got onto another one unfortunately a common theme in my dreams is going somewhere in a complicated way#and on that bus ride i sat next to him again and he was like oh i normally listen to music for this part of my trip#and i was like ope don't wanna keep you from that! but he didnt mind talking for a bit more and we talked abt music#bc apparently id recommended he listen to the album big world by joe jackson and he said he didn't like it on first listen but hed try again#when we got off this bus and were walkin to where i worked (i guess he worked around there too???)#we went back to talking abt writing and i was talking abt my old poetry writing class and the kind of things i wrote#and he expressed an interest in reading those old poems and i was like oh ok i guess ill look for em#but i was thinking to myself noooo those arent good i wrote those in high school you dont wanna read themmm#and then it became like hard to get down the street bc people were moving slow on the sidewalk (classic new york moment)#so we went out into the street to like cut around#and there was some truck like causing things to get backed up#and so john started like yelling at the truck driver to move out of there LMAO#and i think thats all i remember w him. but i just remember talking w him was very calming and comforting#come on man. what are you doing in my dreams#later in my dream i just remember telling people about this so im telling you all now#anyway .
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ayyyyyyy I set up an appointment for medication this Friday (telemedicine but whatever) and I get to see my former therapist again later this month. I’m kind of excited. More than kind of. Little sad, but I’m lonely and want to talk to someone. He’s a real cool dude. I’m a little worried to trauma dump the last 6 months on him, but whatever, it beats sitting there for an hour feeling like I’m wasting his time and struggling to think of things to say. dang dang dang, I’m excited.
#I’m excited to tell him about my mom’s transplant. less so to mention all my dark moments since we last spoke.#ok so I gotta wait a week for antidepressants and then a couple of weeks for them to take effect#that’s a lot of waiting#especially with how rough I’ve been these last couple of weeks#I probably have more appointments I should schedule but we’ll see#I’ve only been able to sleep sitting up#like the dang elephantman#something about laying down freaks me out#it’s uncomfortable and not very restful and just thinking about sleep gives me anxiety#brains are fucky#oof… now it’s setting in. I’ve got an appointment but it’s 5 days away#5 days of… this. anxiety and distraction and my sick brain#this is my fault#well… no. yes. I don’t want to COMPLETELY beat myself up for it#I should have been managing my mental health better instead of waiting until I spiraled out#I should have been managing my health better in general!#this isn’t sexy to say but I hate my body. I’ve run it down. and it’s going to be so much harder getting back to something semi healthy#but I’m trying now 😕 so maybe that’ll count for something#I’ve been realizing that I really really miss going to the gym late at night#that’s what I need now. been doing these little drives at night to distract myself but having an actual place to go would be much better#BUT! too expensive. need to work and make some money. not excited for that but I needs it. I neeeeeeds money. for burgers. and distractions#this is too rambly. I’m sorry. I thought about counseling and got too excited to talk and talk#I talk too much#you can ignore this#text
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#me? about to use tumblr as a diary again? in 2024? unfortunately:/#but here have a waterfall i saw on a hike last week as payment#i am sO tired and exhausted emotionally after dating#there's this guy that i fr thought was going to last and be around for a long time. we spent like every moment together that we could for 2#months straight and if we werent physicaly together we were texting or calling or on ft . just every part of our day had the other in it#not once did i ever feel unwanted undesired or uncared for. not once did i feel that i wasnt sure of his intentions. i felt safer with him#in those 2 months than i ever did with any one else i could think to compare to.#until one day he just didnt think it important to communicate any more. after 3 days of nearly nothing .. hardly any talking . i asked if#he was ok if we were ok. what was going on in his head. he said some ive just been with my buddies and family and havent been on my phone#and just. immediately thats heartbreak yanno. thats :// thats what they say when theres a new girl. but there'd never been a reason to think#there was another girl so i was like ok we're gonna trust bc this dude has been So good in every way. so i said imy but i understand. enjoy#your time with your buddies and with your fam -- i cant wait to hear about it (and hold you)#and i havent heard from him in the 3 weeks since. just randomly#so last night#i send the dreaded 'i miss you' text.#i dont expect to hear back and i accept the hurt that will come with that and the confusion that i've felt settles deeper into my heart#until this afternoon i hop on ig and see a hard launch that was posted an hour after my text was sent#that shit kinda hurt different. but also sent me into a bit of a delirious state where all i could do is laugh bc are you for fucking real#did she see my message? i know it. bc i know him and i know that he wouldnt hide anything from the person he's giving his heart#and his softness to. i can almost imagine how he showed her and promised her theres nothing to worry about#and there really isnt anything to worry about because he genuinely is the type to give his all to the relationship he's in#which feels silly to say after what happened w us. like no there wasnt a title ever#it sucks to call it a situationship because a month ago we were laughing in bed together about how we could never bc we were all in.#just the timing of the hard launch makes me giggle. did my text push them to have a conversation about what they are. was she really the#reason that he went away on me.#im trying not to blame myself . trying not to think about the phone calls i didnt answer. about what i could have done differently. trying#not to think about where we would be if i didnt let my anxieties hold me back. if i wasnt scared about what he'd think of the parts of me#that i keep hidden just a little bit longer than the rest.#and at the same time im trying not to put him on a pedestal. but that pedestal is just where i wholeheartedly believe he belongs#he set the bar for me. he set the standard. i was never too much. i was never too little. he made me feel perfect just as i am
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#when im extra depressed i watch old yt compilations#this week is critical role moments#and ugh. Ugh#i always forget how mf touch-starved and affection-starved i am until i watch those 8 interact w each other#like. always touching. so much touching#i havent had a cuddly / touchy friend in like 6+ years and i am Suffering for it#like as much as w any other people im v touch-averse and dont want that at all#when it comes to friends i am extremely pro touch and genuinely love being affectionate#and i Can't#and sometimes that sucks ngl#no shade to my friends who aren't comf w that obviously#that's 100% gr8 and i would never push or wanna make them uncomf lots of ppl dont like that#i just. used to always have at least 1 friend who /was/ okay with it that i could be as cuddly as i wanted with#and now i dont and it ??? is getting to a point where it is almost painful#like str8 up i've had to talk to my therapist abt this the last 6 months bc its becoming a bit dire#hugs r wonderful dont get me wrong but thats the max amount of touch for my ok-with-touch friends#and the rest r no-touch#whereas im sitting here like 😭😭😭 PLS I JUST WANNA HOLD SOMEONE'S HAND#OR LEAN MY HEAD ON SOMEONE'S SHOULDER OR HAVE AN ARM AROUND A WAIST OR A HEAD IN A LAP#OR STR8 UP SNUGGLIN ON A COUCH#I DESPERATELY NEED IT#ANY OF IT IT DOESNT NEED TO BE ALL OF THAT#I FEEL LIKE I AM SHRIVELLING UP LIKE A SENTIENT RAISIN INSIDE#JUST HAVIN ALL THE LIFE SUCKED OUT OF ME THRU LACK OF TOUCH#I WANT SOMEONE TO RUFFLE MY HAIR OR PAT MY ARM OR KISS MY CHEEK#HELL I'LL TAKE A HAND ON MY BACK PURELY FOR THE PURPOSE OF STOPPING ME FROM WALKING INTO TRAFFIC#WHICH AT THIS POINT I AM TEMPTED TO DO DUE TO EMOTIONAL DISTRESS LMAO (DEVASTATED LAUGHTER)#aiyaiyai and i cant even just go and Make New Friends bc most spaces to do that arent accessible or safe for me#the only friends i've made in the last few years r thru Mutual Autism Vibes~ and they're all anti-touch#WHERE R THE OTHER TOUCH-STARVED CUDDLY AUTISTICS AT ??? WHERE R U ??? COME FIND ME PLS I BEG !!! i feel like im gonna die fr
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real talk in the tags for a second because i have a crush on a girl and i. a hehe. ahehehe.
will be burying this in reblogs and never touching on it again
#so random disclaimer this girl is like a year older than me and in high school it’s like a nono for older and younger batch to like be#a thing so i know i generally have no chance but i like to live in my own insanity and the progression of my crush on her has been absolute#ly cuckoo bananas. so like it started out as ‘i wanna be your friend’ and progressed into ‘shit they’re really pretty’ to ‘wow ur so??’ to#‘fuck i like them’ and then it died down and then by all golly it came back but more of a hallway crush now which is bearable bc i’m#not really a part of their life?? like we know each other but we don’t wave and shit and we don’t like ever interact that much so i was lik#ok this is fine bc they literally never think of me so i’m just admiring from afar. and the FIRST inciting incident was i request them onig#and i expect to not get accepted because according to their friends they onyl accept close friends and i’m like k this is a bad idea probs#but the worst that could happen is i get left in their follow requests right?? RIGHT?? but then within like two hours of reqing. lord.#i got. ACCEPTED. and they requested back. and suddenly it’s +1 tangibility like ok?? maybe we’re not as strangers as i thought we were#i later discovered i was not that special for this but also?? cool?? anyways for a while it kind of laid dead and we never spoke at all eve#tho i was in their acc now (at this time they barely posted but whenever they did it was so?? funny like they would slap the randomest shit#on that acc) and it was still a hallway crush altho my friends r awful (/pos) people who would always make me pass their hallway and i#would run into them so often but at this point we only ever like exchanged glances and they would walk right past me like i wasnt even ther#but THEN the second incident happened which was basically we had to play instruments for this christmas event thing and bc they’re literall#y amazing they played for it and i was roped into it and. i was so gay the whole time. bc who wears a leather jacket to school and gets the#prettiest haircut ever right on the last day before a long break?? and the worst part is whenevr something confusing happened they would#turn to me and this one other person and we’d b laughing together. like we r friends. and they’re so fucking nice they were checking up on#us the whole time i was literally dying i kept dropping my pick and stealing looks AURURUGH and they’re so gen funny and interesting i just#and the first few days of holiday break i just couldn’t stop thinking abt them it was so bad? like that was the moment where i was genuinel#like is this more than a hallway crush… eventually it died back down until the next event we had to play together where they were being SO#SO much more comf w me? like exchanging knowing looks when smt funny happens and that stuff.. at this point i didnt even know what to like#think of my crush on them so i just let it be yk. atp they’re not even waving at me in the hallways at all still so maybe they’re just bein#nice! BUT NO. THAT IS UNTIL I AUDITIONED FOR A BAND (theyr in charge of accepting) AND THEY ACCEPTED ME WHICH COOL BUT LIKE A DAY LATER I#HEARD FROM OUR MUTUAL FRIEND THAT THEY SAID ‘yeaa im so happy i got (my name)’ AS IN IN THE BAND. LIKE. HELLO?? HI U THIUGHT ABT ME?? and#during the first band mtg where everyone’s all awk they kept making eye contact w me and asking if i was good and making sure i got to say#smt before anyone made a decision and it. murdered. me. i’m sorry maybe it’s the fanfic writer in me or this shit is literally nothing and#think they’re just nice to everyone but who cares bc it means they’re nice to ME too. and then last week happened. which was like the nail#in the coffin. INTERACTION ACTIVITY. I IMPULSIVELY ASK IF THEY WANNA B GROUPMATES AND THEY SAY YES. THEY ONLY TALK TO ME AND THEIR FRIENDS.#I ACT STUPID. THEY ALUGH AND TOUCH MY SHOULDER. I ASK ABT THEIR CAMERA AND THEY GO ON A LONG-ISH (cute) RANT ABT SMTH. THEY ASK WHY I HAVE#BIG ASS STACK OF POST ITS. WE TALK. THEY LAUGH AT MY JOKES. SUDDENLY. THEY SAY A FULL HELLO IN THE HALLS. THEY WAVE AT ME A DAY LATER. FUCK
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considering faking my death to get out of this project. would still like to get a passing grade for it.
#googles how to get good grades even though you have died#ok this is about be a rant in a half and way too much info so excuse me but#ive been hyperfixating on our flag like crazy all month long#and i knew that and knew that i was going overboard#and i said all last weekend that i was feeling insane about it#but i didnt realize why until last night when i watched eps 6 & 7 and got mildly disappointed by what happened#because up until that point i was just having so much fun so that one small moment of not having fun#felt like a balloon had suddenly been popped and i was like OH FUCK! I HAVE TO DO THIS PROJECT!!!#like girl the reason we were hyperfixating that hard to such insane levels that we made a theory post about when ed and stede would fuck#was because we were avoiding doing/thinking about the project#and now ive just been sitting here still stuck and worried about this damn thing like holy shit when/how am i going to do this???#like holy shit did you know i was insane because i was stressed? i didnt!!#i have not stopped thinking about our flag all month and i just did not have time for all that!#AHHHH#anyway like......help i have to fake my death#personal
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I don’t think hyeonseong needed to remember dokja’s order to think about him if something goes wrong. I think he’s just always thinking abt dokja
and I love him for that
#Loyal puppy man#going post#Orv#‘Hey can you hit me again? and do it really hard’ kinky#‘no wait. just kill me right now’ UM. I RESCIND THAT LAST STATEMENT.#I don’t remember what his new attribute is how is dokja gonna cheat death this time#HYEONSEONG CHARACTER PROGRESSION FUCKING FINALLY#I’ve missed him…. deprogram your military propaganda boy itll be good for you#‘There is no third option this time’ ok my first instinct was to take him at face value but dokja is always planning and scheming so#maybe he’s just saying that so hyeonseong will make his own third option out of determination.#to teach him to like… not rely on dokja so much#maybe not the best phrasing but I think u get my point#next episode and I’m immediately confirmed right. AWESOME but also#Would have been nice to have delayed that gratification for a bit#let me step into a side character’s pov for a moment instead of having dokja tell me everything#‘I thought you considered me the standard you should strive for. If so then do as I say!’ ‘That’s not the kind of book I want to go by!’#YEAHHHHH HYEONSEONG!!!! MAKE YOUR OWN BOOK! GET THAT CHARACTER GROWTH#‘I see. Well done.’ Dokja you want to be a constellation so bad#It’s already been confirmed tht that’s his goal but it’s been so obvious for a while#Like he keeps putting himself in mentor roles all the time. n constellations aren’t necessarily as close mentors as dokja has been#But they’re still essentially That#WAH HIS HANDS?? HUH???#yeah yeah uh huh I was right dokja was helping hyeonseong learn his lesson on his own also HIS HANDS?????#*HIS ARMS???* GUYS.#‘until the scenario reaches an apocalypse’ bestie ur already in an apocalypse#Ofmy god he has to melt and then cool down a thousand times? what the hell#HUIWON CHARACTER PROGRESSION TOO?? YIPPEE!!!!!#aww a hug……. Even though he must be fucking scorching hot…. How sweet ^_^#and hyeonseong was so polite too he’s such a sweetie#oh I was confused for a second but he literally snuffed the flame! smart
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not my first reaction to this information as i learned it during the intermission of challengers (yes i finally went to see it) and i was having a lowkey breakdown through the intermission and the beginning of the second half a little bit but ummm: well of fucking course i literally dont deserve anything
#why did i even try this hard. i dont think i deserve anything tbh#dont mind me sounding dramatic im actually fine like lol#im sad but ok but also like. i got used to being a failure and a disappointment this last year so#i feel very tired now. it wasnt a bad day overall and im happy i decided against going alone today#bc i wouldve literally ended up crying in public if i was alone lmfao#ah. ahhhhh :/ i really really really was hoping for a better outcome#stupid girl as always#anyway i really am fine i just need to be dramatic for a moment. i truly do not deserve anything i get ever im sorry#if anyone read until this point and wondering what the fuck couldve happened that got me like this#well it's truly not that important in the grand scheme of things and im being stupid#got wait listed for another scholarship lmao </3#truly stupid and foolish of me to even think from the start that i could do this lmao#what's even more stupid is im still like well. well 🤠 hey maybe 🤗#i just know im going to be feeling extremely guilty for even existing even if i end up being able to go at this point lmao#and it's so stupid to even write all this. over something like this when people have real problems and stuff lmao#truly what did i think make me worthy of this chance im so not special and dont deserve this etc etc#all this negative self talk and i will still be sleeping like 😴😴😴 still hoping for the best dont worry#and that's because im stupid#🗒#i will drink tea this day has been lacking tea so critically :/
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#personal#lmao around this time last year i decided to give up on him n LMAO girl if only you knew#i should have just talked to him but djdjjdjdjd idk it felt weird. but he even like. complained one time that we didnt talk all summer#like LMAO..... bro its two ways. u could have messaged me too xjdjjdjdjdj#tho to be fair i think he did show up to a dinner but i wasnt there bc i had just had wisdom tooth surgery n was 1. blown up like a balloon#and 2. so high on pain meds i couldnt function JFJDJJDJDJDJDJ#n e way whatever jdjdjdjd im just laughing at myself bc how did this man become my closest friend from college Zhfnnddnnd#our relationship is so weird. not in a bad way but in an unexpected way#we sat beside each other an entire semester n never talked til the last day like thats so FUNNY IDK#i even said to him that time. bc we were talkin in the hallway n went to sit for the exam n sat in our regular spots of being one seat awa#y and i was like... you know its so funny that we sat beside each other all semester and only talked today#and he was like.... hahha yeah#i was gonna introduce myself but it felt so stupid JDJJDJDJD#i didnt even know his name LMAO#i had him narrowed down to 2 names. bc he was one of like 2 guys that Always showed up in another class' zoom#and LOL i was right. he WAS one of those 2 shjdjsjsj#n e way. then the next sem came n i didnt know whether to say hi to him or not bc we talked ONCE#and i was still wearing my mask at this point and so id try to smile at him with my eyes but never got a response HDNJDJD and so i got soooo#annoyed with him. and even more so bc i kept making friends with ppl and they KNEW HIM??? and i was like WHO IS THIS????#then one time he came up to me n my friends before class n we just talked and i was like o lmao this annoyance im having??? its a big ole#crush BDNNDNDND#and in community college its hard to like. know ppls ages and that day i found out he was 2 years younger so i was like o ok 26 n 28 isnt#bad at all#but thinking back.... first things we exchanged that time was age and i think he was also trying to fish for whether i was single bc he was#talkin about this other guy havin a baby n a wife n i was like o wow !! i didnt know!!#jdjxjdjdjdk god when he found out my age he was like... oh i never would have guessed you were older. you look young ZFHJDJDJDJDJD#oh so you were Looking is that right HJXJXJXJZJZJ GOD LMAO#i look back on so many moments n im like oh duh... he must be interested#but for me its like. i will literally more easily believe literally any other theory so i thought he just liked one of my friends Zhjxjx#ya i dont think so anymorem but i thought that up until like mid january HDHXJJXJDDJJDJ
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im so weird with physical contact and i just kinda assumed that im not a hugger and thats ok! i dont like people in my bubble or touching me and hugs make me uncomfortable and physical contact makes my skin crawl... or so i thought??? idk whats been happening recently but i think i actually reallly love physical contact??? like some switch filpped in my brain and i went from "i love you and id prefer a fist bump over a hug thank u " to "pls hug me actually, i love you braiding my hair ,i dont freak out when i can feel your arms pressed against mine in the back seat of the car anymore, we can share a blanket actually this isnt bad at all"
ive been a no touching person for my whole life, i went on a week long field trip in high school for dance and slept on armchair in the hotel room every night because i didnt want to share a king sized bed with my good friend, and this weekend i woke up realizing that i fell asleep on the couch in my friends arms sharing a pile of blankets?? like?? im not mad but im so confused about how this happened because for my WHOLE life ive hated being touched but since june ive completly changed??
and as a side note how do your explain to your amazing and wonderful friend group who all respect your boundaries very well that actually scratch literally everything ive said in the past about my boundaries and comfort idk why i did that im cool with touching now pls and thank u
#my friend and i stayed up until four am talking#with his hands on my knee as a comforting gesture the whole time#i rode in the back of an uber with my friend last month and her thighs and arms touched mine in the backseat and i was aware of it#but i didnt mind at all#in the past three months ive had my hair braided THREE times by THREE different good friends ?? i would have hated that a year ago#but the biggest what the fuck moment was falling asleep fully spooning my friend this weekend and not even thinking about it#i have ALWAYS been strange about sleeping next to people- i have distinct memories of all my friends having sleepovers in the same bed#and offering me a place to sleep with them and CHOOSING to sleep on the floor or on a couch or an arm chair or just not sleeping at all#because that would freak me out#and this weekend i fell asleep talking to my friend on the couch fully pressed up against her and... i didnt even care#i liked being close to my friends physically#wtf what can just cause this overnight flip#i can literally pinpoint the exact date that my brain flipped to 'physical affection is ok now' it was june 24th-25th#what the fuck
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sociology and anthropology are everything to me … like they are so broad because they are the study of humans and their lives and interactions and feelings and etc etc and its broad enough that you can have a class about genuinely ANYTHING because sociology is engrained in everything around us…and the message my profs leave us with every time is that the human experience is so unique and dynamic and yet universally there are still so many similarities and connections that keep us bonded together. and these studies make us find bits and pieces in humanity literally everywhere like you can look at a piece of string or like garbage on the floor or be placed into the strangest situations and have the most mundane interactions on the street and you will find yourself going like ‘:] wow humans are so interesting and this world is so interesting. why did this happen what made this person like this?’ like!!! i just like how broad this study is and how every class can be abt smth completely different but the main idea will always be about the human experience and connection. i love my major sorry im done now
#never in my life did i think i would acc have a passion for studying bro it sucked the soul out of me up until like last year#and my prof going like studying soc & anthro have made her be able to distance herself from a situation even a really shitty one and just be#like. huh. this is so interesting time to observe. And jts SO TRUE like u notice the little things in like hand gestures or pauses or a way#someone moves their arm or literaly anything and u go like omg this is so <3 what made this person do this rly small thing like even our#smallest subconscious actions are a part of us [symbolic interactionism moment]#and my prof saying how anthro and ethnography projects need u to adapt all the time and be able to let go of yourself and change your#identity and expect new things all the time like thats all ive ever been looking for is constant change & stimulation i need this PLEASW#like this is sociology linguistics psychology language science all put together into one major. to me. and i looove that#ok sorry done
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Sorry abt the occasional digiposting as of late, im coming to terms w/ the fact that it's starting to grow on me orz
#clenches fists.#wondertext#I started watching it w/ some friends recently..for nostalgia reasons in their case‚ but also to introduce me 2 the franchise as well#since it never rly was part of my childhood & i was curious as to what the fuss was all about hsjwjfj#Anyways i never rly took the events all that seriously since I thought shit was so off the wall it was funny But#after nearly 24 episodes i've found myself getting emotionally invested w/ the show at last 😭😭 it's been a journey#ive been progressively getting accustomed to all of its strange concepts . I think im desensitized at this point /lh#like evn the monsters themselves now have me like..ok...Youre not so bad after all. u got a creepy-cute kinda thing goin on &i respect that#(<- Used to find their designs unpleasant. still do a little bit even now tbh sorry But i do appreciate their uniqueness a whole lot)#But yeah i feel Like ive been put thru an entire character arc w/ this thang .#You should've seen the way i used to freak out during the 1st few episodes Everything was So Insane 2 me. it had me flabbergasted#it was like . Lighthearted charming OP song -> Children having a near-death experience in the most surreal way possible#-> Isekai moment -> We get introduced to the ugliest little beasts i've ever seen#-> They spend the rest of the episode almost dying Again -> beast transform into even Uglier beasts & go feral on each other#-> World's calmest most soothing ED sequence that clashes So Hard w/ the tone that was set during the episode it makes ur brain crash.#and thats more-or-less the formula that's been handled throughout the following episodes up until this point#but i suppose I've grown fond of it by now 🧎 I am a Changed man‚ i See the appeal‚ I Understand#well not rly prbablyBut at least each episode keeps me@the edge of my seat now as opposed 2 how i used to enjoy it in more of an ironic way#'tis nice honestly..I've become more appreciative of the kinda vibe the show handles‚ it's got a lot going on :} It's /insanely/ creative
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real sad boy hours
#why? just ‘cause.#actually I’m here at this chess tournament my brother is entered in. sitting by myself in the lobby waiting for him to finish his last game#and I’m honest to goodness trying not to openly weep. I feel so stupid#hold on. give me a second bc just writing this makes#makes me start crying a little and there are people around#life is too short#I love this kid. I’ve loved watching him grow up. and I’m always ALWAYS aware that everything is passing so fast#will I be here with him next year? will he outgrow all of this?#we don’t hang out as much anymore. he’s got his teenage things going on. his own life.#I don’t know. I’m trying to appreciate these moments as much as I can#it’s hard though. I feel like shit. my head hurts. my tinnitus has been driving me crazy#it’s hard to be present when you’re in a fog#last night in the hotel room we didn’t even really hang out. he just played on his phone until he slept. which is totally his right.#I just… I just hope I’m really appreciating this time#ok now I feel stupid for kind of crying in this hotel while lots of people walk around#i don’t know what more I could even do now. it’s not like I’m allowed to go watch him play or I can do anything but wait#I suppose I have to keep asking myself ‘am I appreciating this enough?’ and if I’m not then try to work on that#life is really shitty right now but I know there have been countless times I wish I’d been more present#so I wake up tired today and drink coffee & 5 hour energy and still I’m tired and my head hurts but I’ve still gotta try. just a little.#in a couple of years he’ll be off to college and have his own life#and it won’t be him and I going to the movies or driving him to school or having dinner together#anyway… juuuuust sad. and lonely. straight up not having a good time#but also I’m glad I’m here if only to hang around my brother a little bit#IAN! stop! god I feel so stupid letting myself wallow like this. it’s not helping. it’s just making me sad. focusing on the negatives.#whatevs. I’ve got major depression. suck my butt. I’m allowed to be sad sometimes.#this weekend didn’t really go like I thought#I guess I expected to read more and shoot the shit with my brother and hang out more but it’s whatever. life happens.#my mental & physical health has been bad for a couple months now so I couldn’t have reasonably expected to suddenly be great just because 🤷🏻#oh well!#text
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ANYWAY ANOTHER CRABS TREASURE CAME OUT TODAY YAYYYYY 🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀
#using the last 25 quid in my budget for this month to buy it...... its ok i get paid tomorrow <3#I LOVE U AGGROCRAB <3#so glad they decided to make another soulslike. going under had its bugs but god what a fun and original game#if its anything like GU at all ill be happy hehehe#i probably wont actually START it until i finish elden ring tho.. i dont wanna play more than one soulslike at once skjdh#but YAYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!#going under rly shouldve hit hades popularity instead of hades it has everything it was missing#namely good mechanics/aesthetics/plot that all beautifully inextricably mesh together..#like the 'corporate' artstyle (but more fun). everything being usable as a weapon but shitty quality + breaks easily bc its mass-#manufactured for amazo- cough* a delivery company. just the designs + tightness of each of the dungeons + all the little jokes.. MUAH#the drone system!! each of the characters unique 'mentorships'! also rly great assist options that DONT lock out achievements etc#parody on the corporate working world + capitalism in a light hearted way that actually comes across earnest and not smarmy for once...#u can feel how much love the devs had for every inch of the game it rly shines thru. whereas hades felt like it was made to be sold....#actually i dont think i finished writing my full review of it for steam i should do that sometime#aaaanyway.. back to my gorgeous sticky miso aubergine. its a crime that im single when i cook this well smfh#.diaries#AND going under is on sale for only 4 quid at the moment!!!! i might buy a few gift copies for ppl.. perhaps :3
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❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞
❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞
✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)
✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.
✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings
✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two
“You’re late,”
Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness.
Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks.
And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there.
And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall.
As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large.
“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture.
Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt.
And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out.
You got a B.
A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88.
You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds.
“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare.
Academia was truly hell.
And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,”
You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly.
Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—”
“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?”
“I am, I wanted to—”
He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—”
You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?”
“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze, “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,”
You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—”
“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,”
“I wasn’t—”
“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,”
And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—”
“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.”
The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease.
But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist.
“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin.
“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.
Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?).
You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do.
“See you soon.”
Oh, he would.
“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours.
Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to.
Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it.
“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?”
And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip.
No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal.
“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside.
“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—”
“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,”
“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,”
You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—”
“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,”
You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle.
You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall.
“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,”
“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips.
“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,”
“You will,”
“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,”
“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs.
“You learn fast.”
And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism.
Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again.
You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it.
And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top.
You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck—
It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good.
You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought.
And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss—
And you clearly needed sleep.
“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it).
You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’”
“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action.
“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you.
“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you.
“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—”
“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?”
And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—”
“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch.
“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—”
“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?”
“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck.
“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—”
“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,”
And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.”
BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm.
What the fuck was that?
You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up.
It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working.
You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you—
You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you?
God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade.
Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory—
And then you heard him say your name—
Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?”
“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together.
“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him.
And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall.
Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream.
You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—”
“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today — and a deep royal purple one no less, “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—
You needed to get out of here.
You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head.
“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed.
“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,”
He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,”
God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together.
You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment.
“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”
“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,”
And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom.
But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves—
What the fuck were you doing?
But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor.
You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—).
You needed to stop doing that.
But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right?
Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment.
And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he.
But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back—
But why did his smile look so strained?
There must be something wrong with him.
Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you.
Why had he stopped you?
It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands.
But this, this felt different.
You were different.
But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism.
He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile.
And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm — but not the one he was looking for.
Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you—
There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?”
And it was you.
“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips.
“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?”
“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,”
He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease, “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?”
“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”
“I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,”
“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?”
He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?”
“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,”
“No, but—”
“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it.
And he didn’t want to pull away.
He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—”
“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?”
“But—”
“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,”
And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire.
“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?”
And there’s only one answer — you.
He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours—
RING. RING. RING.
He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there.
A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together.
But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager?
Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you.
And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM.
Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—
And you.
“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him.
His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind.
“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”
And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better.
But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.
He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face.
He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you.
“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,”
“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”
He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip.
And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard.
Fuck.
That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office.
But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms.
As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped.
But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings.
And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to?
It was that time again.
Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart.
Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board — his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name.
God. Fuck.
Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes.
But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.
Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear?
As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes.
“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?”
“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“
“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,”
And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips.
“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—”
“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,”
“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high.
“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up.
And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture.
Double fuck.
Why was this so difficult?
You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore.
For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting.
But you didn’t know how to go in.
The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him.
Or wouldn’t.
But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it.
You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”
And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?”
“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?”
You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?”
“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?”
“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword.
He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross.
“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there.
“But?” You wait for it.
His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,”
You pause a moment, “Really?”
“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,”
“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his?
And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,”
Your breath catches, “Really?”
He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,”
“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take.
“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,”
“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises.
“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—”
“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,”
He stares, “What do you—”
“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,”
“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?”
And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—”
“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,”
And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,”
“I would say it depends,”
“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk.
“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?”
He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—”
“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,”
“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours.
“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips.
“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.
“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more.
“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?”
And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again.
“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.”
~~~~
The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore.
And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks?
Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations.
And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head.
“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you.
“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.”
“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples.
You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave.
It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good.
Maybe it was for the best.
The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with.
Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all?
Oh, great, you were becoming existential.
You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best.
Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.
And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike.
“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile.
“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn.
“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?”
“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?”
“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’”
And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,”
“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,”
“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?”
You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page:
99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this.
You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction.
“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?”
“You had some spelling and grammar errors,”
“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin.
“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow.
“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,”
“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,”
It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again.
“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,”
“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly.
“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,”
And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips.
“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,”
“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?”
And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?”
Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned.
“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—”
“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested —
You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in.
Fuck, indeed.
✧ read part 2 now
✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!
✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,
#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader#suguru geto smut#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru smut#geto suguru imagines#geto x reader#geto smut#geto x you#geto suguru fanfiction#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen fanfic#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#dividers by @/saradika
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