❝ 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!!
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∘ desc: months after divorcing your ex-husband, you must both be on your best behavior for your daughter's birthday party. will seeing each other again bring up old feelings that you tried so hard to bury?
∘ ft: ex-husband!geto
∘ word count & a/n: 3.8k | this has been in my wips forever and im so happy to finally get this out, i hope you all enjoy reading <3
The sound of children’s laughter filled the air, blending in with the bass of the party music. The backyard was completely decorated with balloons and streamers, colors representing your daughter’s favorites. As much as you adore your little girl, you can confidently say that you’ve been dreading this day. Not the celebration part of course, but the person that you would be forced to run into.
Glancing around the yard, you feel your heart skip for a second as you spotted him–Suguru. He had a huge smile on his face, crouching down to give his daughter a kiss on her forehead. You could tell how happy she is to see him, watching her jump up and down at the excitement of just seeing her father. Even now, after everything that’s happened, he was still undeniably him. The quiet confidence and the beaming smile. It was frustrating how attractive he still was, especially considering how you’ve spent the last year trying to forget it.
His gaze flickers to yours, catching you staring. He held your eyes in his, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turned back to your daughter. You break eye-contact at the same time, your fingers tightening around your drink. It was the first time that you’ve both been in the same space for more than five minutes since the divorce, the tension between you bubbling up.
“Mommy!” your daughter’s voice broke your trance, and you turned to see her running toward you, her tiny hands clutching box. “Daddy said that you can help me open this!”
You smiled, but your chest tightened as Suguru approached behind her, his presence looming larger than life. For her sake, you kept the smile on your face, even as your pulse quickened with every step he took.
“Of course, birthday girl,” you said, setting your drink down to take the wrapped box from her hands. You knelt down to her level, plastering on your best smile, even as you felt Suguru’s presence settle beside you.
“Here,” Suguru said, his voice low as he handed you a pair of scissors from the nearby table. You flinched slightly at how close he’d gotten, his arm brushing yours as he crouched beside you. You hated how good that one second of touch felt.
“Thanks,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze as you carefully opened her gift.
Your daughter squealed with delight as you revealed a plush animal inside, her little hands grabbing it before you could fully pull it out. She hugged it tightly, looking up at both of you with a beaming smile.
“I love it daddy, you’re the best!” she declared, skipping off to show her friends.
Left alone, you stood up quickly, awkwardly brushing imaginary dust from your hands. Suguru rose too, his movements slower, more deliberate.
“You didn’t have to get that,” you said, your tone abrupt.
“She wanted it,” he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes were on you, and for a moment, you felt pinned under the weight of his gaze, unable to escape.
You opened your mouth to respond, but a group of kids ran between you, cutting off whatever sharp remark you were about to make. Suguru chuckled softly, the sound pulling your focus back to him.
“She’s happy,” he said, nodding toward your daughter, who was now showing off her new toy. “That’s all that matters, right?” He tilted his head at you, his face unreadable.
You hated how easily he could shift the conversation, deflecting any tension with his calm demeanor. You hated even more how your chest tightened at the sight of him being so effortlessly good with her.
“Right,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.
The rest of the party passed in a blur of small talk, laughter, and the occasional shared glance that lingered a second too long. You tried to avoid him as much as possible, but Suguru seemed to always be nearby—helping you cut the cake, handing out goodie bags, and playing games with your daughter.
It was infuriating how natural he made it all look, like he hadn’t made the choice to leave this life behind. Like he hadn’t left you.
By the time the party wound down and the last of the guests had said their goodbyes, the house was quiet again, like it usually is with just you and your daughter. She was upstairs, tucked into bed after an exhausting but joy-filled day with her family and friends. You stood in the kitchen, trying to clean up the remnants of the cake, when you felt him enter the room.
“You don’t have to stay, I can clean up on my own” you said without turning around.
“I know,” Suguru said, his voice soft but steady. He grabs a garbage bag and begins to help you out anyways, taking down some balloons and other decorations. “You look good today.”
You turned to face him, your hands clutching a dishrag. “Why are you even here?”
His dark eyes met yours, and for the first time in this entire day, the mask he’d been wearing began to crack. There was something raw in his gaze—regret, longing, something you didn’t want to name, fearing that you would only begin to crack too.
“Because I can’t keep pretending,” he said, taking a step closer. “Not after today. Not after seeing you like this.”
“Seeing me like what?,” you throw the rag down, completely exasperated. “Seeing me continue to be a good mom despite all of the shit you put me through? Seeing how happy she still is, despite the fact that you don’t make the effort?”
Suguru flinched at your words, his expression tightening. He looked down for a moment, his jaw clenching before he met your eyes again, the softness in them now sharpened by frustration.
“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, but there was a weight to his voice that made you pause. “You don’t think that I care? As if it doesn’t kill me to be apart from you both?”
“You left, Suguru!” Your voice cracked, the emotions you’d been bottling up all day finally breaking free. “You decided this wasn’t what you wanted anymore. You don’t get to stand there and act like you’re the one hurting, you weren’t fair to us the moment you walked out that door for good.”
He took another step closer, the distance between you shrinking as the tension swirled like a storm between you both. “You think this was easy for me?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, like he was holding something back. “I made mistakes, I know that. But don’t for a second think I stopped loving her, or stopped loving you.”
Your breath hitched, his words hitting you like a brick. “Don’t,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Don’t say things like that just because you feel guilty. How could you stand there and say that, after everything?”
“It’s not guilt,” he said firmly, his hand twitching at his side, longing to reach for you but knowing that he shouldn’t. “It’s the truth.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The room felt too small, the air too thick, and the weight of everything unsaid between you threatened to crush you both.
“Then why did you leave?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Suguru sighed, running a hand through his hair, his frustration evident all over his face. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do. For you, for her, for everyone. But I was wrong. I just wish that I realized that before...”
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Your hands were trembling, and you didn’t know if it was from anger, sadness, or the way he was looking at you now—like he was desperate, like he was afraid you might slip away for good. At this point, you didn’t even know what you truly wanted.
“Don’t do this,” you said, your voice trembling. “Don’t make me feel like this again.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softer now. “I just... I need you to know that I still love you. That I never stopped. And today—seeing you, seeing her—it made me realize how much I want this back.” He was so close to you at this point, his face mere inches away from your own. His hand reluctantly reached for your chin, and you allowed him to tilt your head up to fully face him. His words began to sink in, tugging at your heart. Before you could even wrap your head around it, he speaks up again.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Tell me I haven’t lost you completely.”
Your breath hitched, the room closing in around you as the weight of his confession hung in the air. Your head is telling you to take a step back and let him go for good. Nevertheless, the choice was yours now—to let the past consume you both, or to take the first step toward something neither of you could fully let go of.
Wordlessly, you closed the small distance between you, your hand reaching up to grip the front of his shirt. The fabric bunched beneath your fingers as you looked up at him, the storm of emotions in your chest threatening to spill over, just like the tears filling your lash line.
Suguru froze, his breath catching as his eyes searched yours for a sign, any indication of what you were about to do.
“You don’t get to do this to me,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “You don’t get to walk back in and say things like that—make me feel like this again.”
“I know,” he said softly, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested against his chest. “But I can’t pretend anymore. Not when I still—”
You didn’t let him finish, some part of you doesn’t think that you’d be able to handle what he was going to say next. Before he could say anything else, you pulled him down, capturing his lips with yours. It was a kiss full of longing with a faint sign of anger, and Suguru responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you as if he was afraid you might slip away if he let go again.
The kiss deepened, months of hurt and unspoken feelings pouring out between you. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, the familiar feeling softening your heart as the walls you built around it began to crumble. When you finally pulled back, breathless and shaken, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed as if he was afraid that you wouldn’t be there when he opened them.
“Tell me you don’t feel it too,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’ll walk away. I’ll let you go.”
Your grip on his shirt tightened, your body betraying the answer your mind hadn’t fully caught up to yet. “I hate you for making me feel this way,” you said, your voice cracking. “But I can’t lie to you. I still—”
Suguru’s lips were on yours again before you could finish, cutting off your words with a kiss that left no room for doubt. Whatever you had both tried to bury between you was rising to the surface now, unstoppable and undeniable. There was no question how you felt about one another, and you both made it your mission to prove it.
His hands began to explore your body, feeling hot to the touch as they rested beneath your thighs. He lifts you up as you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. He pulls away to chuckle against your lips.
“You always know exactly what I want you to do, huh?” Suguru teased, his voice a low murmur as he carried you effortlessly toward the once-shared bedroom. His smirk sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of frustration and desire building in your chest.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, though the breathless edge to your voice betrayed you.
He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he pressed his lips to the column of your neck. “Oh, I’m not. But I remember how you used to look at me like this… how you’d crave it when I took control.”
You bit back a retort as he kicked the bedroom door open with ease, the familiar space pulling memories you’d worked so hard to suppress back into focus. He set you down on the edge of the bed, his hands firm but gentle as you laid back, his body moving to hover over yours.
His eyes found yours, darker than you remembered, the heat in his gaze setting your nerves off. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his hands sliding up just enough to make your breath hitch, his fingers hooking underneath the waistband of your pants. “And I will.”
Instead of answering, you pulled him down, crashing your lips against his again. It was messy and heated as his weight pressed you back against the mattress. His hands were everywhere, exploring like he was trying to memorize every inch of you all over again, and you let him.
“God, I missed this,” he muttered against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone before his lips soothed the spot with a kiss. “Missed you.”
The confession made your heart clench, but there was no time to linger on it. Not when his hands were slipping beneath your shirt, his touch electrifying as he pushed the fabric up and over your head.
“Prove it,” you challenged, your voice steady despite the way your body trembled under his touch. You made quick work of his belt, tugging on his waistband as best as you could.
Suguru’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, his eyes gleaming with determination. “Oh, I will,” he promised, his voice dripping with certainty. He helped you completely take off his pants before he slipped off yours, his knees hitting the carpet of your room so that he was eye-level with your cunt. Only one thin piece of fabric was left between him and you, his intense gaze making you want to run away and hide. He wouldn’t let you though, hands gripping your thighs to keep them from closing.
“Don’t hide from me, beautiful,” he finally pulls the fabric completely off, kissing up the side of your thighs. His thumbs pull your folds apart, a groan leaving his lips at the sight of you. “Let me show you how much you mean to me.” He wastes no time, his tongue poking out to prod at your slick folds. Your fingers dug into his hair, locking onto the dark strands as you used what little strength you had to tug. He continues on, stroking firmly at your clit, looking up at you to watch your face contorted in pleasure. He loves making you feel good, he craves your moans and soft gasps as the overwhelming feeling of his tongue washes over your body.
“God, you taste even better than what I remembered, baby,” you gushed around his tongue, not being able to respond as your brain fogged over. “What’s the matter sweetheart, can’t even respond to me anymore?” He loved pissing you off, even in a moment like this. You want so badly to respond to him and wipe that stupid smirk off of his face. Before you could do that, he slips two fingers inside, his lips wrapping firmly around your clit as he begins to steadily move them inside of you.
The combination of his tongue and fingers was too much, your body trembling as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak. His fingers worked inside you with deliberate precision, curling just right to press against that spot that made your breath hitch every time.
“Look at you,” he rasped against your clit, his breath hot and teasing. “So perfect for me. Taking everything I give you like you were made for it.” His voice was laced with pride, the smugness in his tone only making your desire burn hotter.
Your grip on his hair tightened, a feeble attempt to pull him closer or maybe to anchor yourself as your body threatened to unravel. He chuckled, low and rough, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.
“Suguru,” you finally managed to gasp out, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his free hand sliding up to grip your hip, holding you steady as you squirmed under his touch. “Say my name, princess. Let me hear you.”
Every word, every flick of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Your thighs quivered around his head, the heat coiling in your belly threatening to snap. He could feel it, too, the way your body clenched around his fingers, your breaths coming quicker, more erratic. Before you could reach your peak, he abruptly stopped his movements, completely ruining your high.
A frustrated whine escaped your lips, your body twitching in protest at the sudden loss of stimulation. Your eyes flew open, locking onto Suguru’s face, which was now hovering just above yours. The smug grin plastered across his face made your frustration burn hotter.
“What the hell, Suguru?” you breathed, your voice trembling with a mix of desperation and annoyance.
He tilted his head, feigning innocence, his eyes never leaving yours. “Patience, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone eerily calm. “I didn’t say I was done with you.”
Your breath caught as his hands slid up your sides, his touch firm yet teasing. He pressed his body against yours, pinning you beneath him, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You’re going to come when I say, and not a second before. Understood?”
The heat pooling in your belly flared again at his words, even as you glared up at him. You wanted to defy him, to push back against the control he always seemed to wield so effortlessly, but the intensity in his eyes left you speechless.
“Say it,” he pressed, his voice dangerously low, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Yes,” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Good girl,” he praised, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss that left no room for doubt about who was in control.
This time, he wrapped his hand around himself, giving his raging hard-on some much needed attention. He took his time, covering his cock with your juices, looking at you with such a stare that made you want to crawl away and hide from his gaze forever. Continuing to hover over you, he hooked one leg up with his arm, his other hand guiding himself to your entrance.
You nearly sobbed with relief at the feeling of his tip prodding at you. He slowly begins to fill you up, enjoying the way your walls seem to perfectly take every inch of him, even though so much time has passed. “Feel s' good,” he murmured, his voice rough as he began to pick up on a steady rhythm. “Let me take care of you properly.” You couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or your cunt, but you didn’t care as his movements began to pick up even more. Every pump inside of you felt deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your ass, showing you no mercy.
Pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes scrunched closed as he felt you squeeze around him. “You’re so tight,” he whispers against you, hips beginning to stutter from the feeling of your pussy choking him for everything that he has. “Pussy trying to milk me huh?” His movements were driving you relentlessly toward the edge. Pressing his lips against yours, he kissed you through it all, swallowing every noise that left your lips. Your body trembled beneath him, legs shaking against his body.
“Don’t hold back,” he murmured, his voice soft but commanding. “I’ve got you. Let go for me, beautiful.”
And with a cry that was equal parts his name and a broken gasp, you did, the tension in your body releasing in a wave of euphoria. Suguru didn’t stop, riding out every tremor with you, his own high coming shortly after yours as his dick twitched inside of you, spurts of cum filling you up quickly. His name fell from your lips like a prayer as you held each other through every wave of pleasure.
When you finally came down, your chest heaving and your limbs trembling, he looked at you, a stupid smirk plastered on his face that you can’t help but giggle at. As your laughter faded into the quiet hum of the room, Suguru brushed a strand of hair from your damp forehead, his touch tender. Something so raw in his eyes struck you harder than any words in this moment could.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your mingled breaths. For once, there was no smugness in his expression, only sincerity that matched the ache in your own heart.
You swallowed hard, the weight of everything between you settling in again. “This doesn’t fix anything, Suguru,” you said softly, your fingers tracing absent patterns along his chest. “There’s still so much—”
“I know,” he interrupted, his tone serious now. “I know I can’t erase my mistakes and what I did to you and our family. But this, tonight, can be a fresh start, if you’ll allow it to be.” You studied him for a long moment, searching for any hint of doubt or deceit, but all you saw was the man you once fell in love with some time ago, laying his heart on the table for you. Slowly, you nodded, though your heart still felt guarded. “I don’t know if I can forgive you completely. At least, not right now.
He smiled softly, a hopeful look in his eyes. “I’m not asking for that right now. Just allow me to spend every single day making it up to you, and every day after that.”
As he pulled you closer, cradling you against his chest. You allowed your eyes to close, letting your brain imagine what life might look like in the next years to come. Old wounds may never heal, but maybe it was time to let him back in again. If not for your own heart, but for your daughter who so desperately craves the equal attention of both of her parents that love her more than they do anything else. It wasn’t long before you fell asleep, the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat bringing you comfort that you thought you’d never be able to feel again.
For a moment, you’re able to forget the pain and anger that once filled your heart, and replace it with the newfound hope of making something whole out of the broken pieces left behind.
Summary: Suguru was drawn to you from the start, however your lineage shared a similar flaw to his own and in his perfect world, there were no exceptions.
W.C: 4.3k
Themes: (warnings in red) one shot, dark, dead dove lite, some smut, references to murder/death, reader insert, second person pov
A/N: After the break of the first half, it’s a slight time skip, just a year. This nightmare of a fic is short and sweet, but a lot happens.
~~~
It had been just a couple of years since the day that Suguru last said goodbye to his old life and chose to walk down his own path. No regrets, he thought. His life should have been his own from the very start and it was a cruel joke with what jujutsu society had initially planned to do; to script a predetermined fate for him instead, to force the shovel into his hand and to dig the same early, shallow grave as his friends would have done.
It was sickening, in its own right. To take a canvas so perfectly untouched and mar it with ink from a well that wasn’t his own and he couldn’t help but want to spill the pot. If it were up to him, regardless of the mistakes he’d make, then it would still be his own story to tell at least. What felt more cruel was to be left behind as just another tool to use, another weapon in a limited arsenal yet discarded as soon as the value was lost.
(Except for the blue-eyed ghost from his past, they’d use him until there would be nothing left.)
He simply couldn’t set an example with that, at least not for the two girls he had adopted. After all, what good could possibly come from anything at all when the only lesson that such a society taught was that sorcerers were born to be led to slaughter? No, Suguru wanted something different for them, something that should have been given to his old friend in fact; the freedom of an actual childhood.
Despite this, he was still sure to remind them that they were simply better unlike the filth that had otherwise locked them away before. The non-sorcerers, who hurt what they couldn’t understand, that abused them and refused to see beyond their own ignorance. He would remind them whenever they showed even a flicker of empathy for the ordinary people of the world, quick to extinguish such a silly thought away from their still uncorrupted minds.
Perhaps it was cruel to do so, but they didn’t know any better.
Reminding them as many times as he had to do so, again and again, that if the regular people of the world knew about sorcerers and what they were capable of, then their own history risked repeating once more.
After all, humans loved to destroy what they couldn’t understand, blaming themselves later on in history books when the apologies didn’t have any weight to them any longer; when the lives that they destroyed were buried long ago, forgotten and already lost to time.
He would remind them of how he slaughtered—massacred—those who dared invite such cruelty in the village they were kept in and how he struck down every last one of them. How he dipped his hands into their blood and wore the stained aftermath like a badge of honour.
Maybe the world didn’t deserve to understand, he thought. It was true that the ordinary people could earn their place and even worship the strong as their gods if they were given a chance to do so, but they’d always remain beneath them all the same. If he was willing to sever his own parents from the world for their own flawed existence, then there was nothing left in the world that could stop him alone.
And while taking a trip to the city, all these thoughts festering in his mind, trying to push them away for just a moment. Trying to give the girls a childhood worth remembering and looking back on, that’s when he spotted someone unfamiliar but captivating all the same—you.
Sporting an all too familiar work uniform, it seemed that you were in the midst of having just completed a mission of some sort, evident from how worn out you looked. He watched as you slipped into a nearby cafe, clad in layers of dust that hung onto your frame.
What a sight for sore eyes, he thought.
“Maybe we’ll stop somewhere and get something sweet?” he announced to both Mimiko and Nanako, both of his hands occupying their own. He didn’t personally care about interacting with the common people, but he bit his tongue for certain moments.
He wasn’t going to make them miss out on life just because of the prejudices he had.
And as he followed you in, his eyes focusing on you and how you acted, he found a certain charm behind your actions. Maybe it was the way your eyes seemed to convey exactly what you were thinking—fumbling your order with wide eyes and reluctantly accepting the fate of your new name, when called out to be known as “Kaka” in the busy joint. Standing just a few people behind you, he very clearly heard you say “Keiko”, though.
Maybe it was also the way that you didn’t seem to push his girls away when he instructed them to infiltrate your table and to steal your attention for a little bit while he ordered. Watching as you instead accepted your fate to entertain the two young siblings that took over the seats opposite with what he concluded to be genuine kindness. He glanced on and off as you smiled and you wowed at whatever it was the girls talked about you with.
Suguru of course, shamelessly played his way over to the table, feinging both ignorance and concern over his “lost” girls, handing them both a pastry each accompanied with hot chocolate. There was something endearing with how you interacted with them that he couldn’t just shake away; the first impression already made and set in stone.
“Ah, there you both are,” he said, ruffling their as they smiled at one another—so young and yet already understanding of his intentions, keeping their mouths perfectly zipped shut as they stifled giggles at the idea of him having a crush (and one so obvious, too.)
You blinked at the guy before you, flashing a glance at his features. He seemed significantly older than the two but not enough to be their father.
“Oh, are you their brother?” you asked.
“Not exactly, I see them more as daughters,” Suguru replied, his lips easing into a friendly smile, “you could say that I saved them from a bad situation so it’s been just us three for a while.”
You smiled in understanding while maintaining a polite tone, “How kind of you.”
Extending a hand that you were still cautious enough to not reciprocate to, he clicked his tongue in resignation and introduced himself anyway, “I’m Suguru by the way and these two are Mimiko and Nanako,” he paused, studying your reaction, “and you are…?”
You were about to introduce yourself but then your eyes narrowed as he spotted your name scribbled incorrectly on the paper cup, reaching out to turn it towards him. With embarrassed haste, you attempted to blurt it out in an effort to correct him, “Kei-“
“—Kaka?” he couldn’t help but snort, the two girls giggling beside him. He didn’t mean to bully you, but he did want to have a silly story to introduce you with in the future.
“It’s Keiko,” you muttered in a resigned tone, taking the cup back and gulping down a sip.
Suguru leaned back as you did so, studying the way your lips pressed against the slotted lid. You seemed tired from the way you glanced at him, but not bothered enough to push away his company completely. Maybe you wanted to be alone after what was likely a busy day but didn’t have the heart to say something rude in front of children. He knew just how intensive those missions could be and considered leaving you alone, but he didn’t want for you to just slip away either.
To lose you to the city, to allow you to fade away as just another fleeting face in the crowd, never to be seen again.
Tokyo was like that, after all. Maybe to an extent, all major cities were. You’d see someone and you’d bond with them in your mind, maybe spin a whole fabricated story riddled with what-ifs and maybes, only to never see them again. He didn’t want to reduce you to just another ghost that haunted his memory though (he had enough of those already) and besides, he could tell that there was more to you than just being a pretty face.
“So, you’re a sorcerer, aren’t you?” Suguru was quick to ask, his eyes locking in on the uniform you wore. He needed to keep your attention for just a minute longer, if he could help it. He knew how this looked too and didn’t want to come across as an out-of-touch person trying to hit on you without knowing anything about you (even if he did have the girls help him out in that regard).
You nodded as you took yet another sip, recognising right away that this was no ordinary encounter, “Oh, yeah. Just moved a here couple of weeks ago from Osaka, actually.”
Suddenly, your interest was piqued and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he wanted from you. The very act of jujutsu was rightfully concealed from the prying eyes of the public and for obvious reasons, so he had to either be involved or was a sorcerer himself to have made such a conclusion. Lowering your cup and studying him, he seemed to be laughing at something in particular. Your eyes settled on the darker-haired girl, (Mimiko, was it?) sitting opposite you, her fingers dabbing at her lips while she stared at yours. Quickly, you wiped off the foamy residue left from your latte, thankful that at least someone let you know.
Suguru leaned in closer as the girls tucked into their pastries, his elbows resting on the table, “So, what brings you here?”
You considered how to respond to his question as your fingertips drummed around the paper cup. There was nothing rude about the way he asked it, but you were still wary about being too honest. You didn’t mind the company that the three offered you, but your reasoning for coming to work in Tokyo was shallow at best.
“The pay is better here,” you admitted, reading his reaction carefully. You had a mixed bag with admitting such a thing; some people cared a great deal, immediately making assumptions about your character while others didn’t care at all.
“Hm, but the spirits are a lot worse around here, no?” Suguru asked, his tone sounding curious but laced in bitterness. “The pay is great, but it comes at a cost.”
He didn’t want to admit it too soon, especially since he didn’t even know you existed until just ten minutes ago, but he didn’t like hearing that someone that he harboured a potential interest in was doomed to be just another cog in the machine; another part to be replaced rather than repaired.
It wasn’t your fault, many were just simply too blind to see just how disposable they really were in the shackles of jujutsu society. Not to worry though, he thought, he would help bring you to the light.
You tilted your head to the side as you hummed, finding his reaction interesting but fair, “I mean, yeah? I suppose they are, but not everyone has a choice in how they earn their living, you know? I’d rather have a fighting chance to live a better life if I can help it.”
Suguru nodded, continuing to chat with you while both you and the girls ate and sipped on whatever you had left. Again, you didn’t mind, finding the company interesting and almost pleasant in a way. Maybe his words might have seemed blunt and maybe even rude to others, but you appreciated that he didn’t mince his words.
You did find it curious, though, that he remained somewhat cryptic about what he truly did. You didn’t know all too much about him just yet, but his name did ring some sort of bell, seeming familiar in your mind—maybe you heard it in passing? The big shots of Tokyo were rampant here and in your short time spent in the city, you had already shaken hands with your fair share.
And maybe, just maybe, it was poor judgement on your end to have followed him back so soon, but the shyer sibling of the pair insisted that you did so and being a once quiet kid yourself, you weren’t one to dampen someone’s spark, no matter how faint. Mimiko seemed to have taken a liking to you and wanted to show you just about everything that she thought you’d like—mostly drawings but also a plush doll similar to the features you had. You did find it amusing though, that Nanako’s side of the room in contrast, was more orderly and even composed, more like an actual preteen’s room seeking independence more than Mimiko’s side.
Suguru in the meantime watched on from the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the frame. He brought you here partially to entertain Mimiko’s request but also to prove a point to you, that he wasn’t after you as a caretaker. Admittedly, this was an insecurity he had, needing to prove to you for some reason that he wasn’t just some lost kid barely breaking into his twenties with two extra mouths to feed, but someone reliable.
He walked you back after meeting with you either way, already convinced that you might be the perfect one for him which was admittedly, a rare moment of clarity for someone like him. Suguru was very selective with the company he chose to keep and even while his found-family was growing in steady numbers and there were already suitable candidates to consider, this also meant nothing if the girls he sought to protect didn’t think the same.
No, it had to be someone that they all liked. Strangely though, he didn’t resent this sort of system. Perhaps the sisters were a blessing of some sort, acting as some sort of filter to determine who was worthy and who wasn’t. Mimiko, so kind-hearted, would settle on someone gentle. Nanako, more guarded and even selective, would only allow those who didn’t pose a threat to get close.
And as he walked you back in the slowly darkening skies, the golden hour hues soon to be replaced with blanketing darkness that threatened to sweep over, he couldn’t help but already fall for you. He admitted more than he should have, telling you about the girls and allowed you a glimpse into his idolised perfect future, but he didn’t reveal too much too soon.
Not yet.
You parted from him with more questions than answers, just as he had so intended, wanting nothing more than to write you into his own story. Leaving you behind with just a name and a phone number, daring you to contact him again if you too, had felt something in between the lines.
Indeed, it wasn’t the last you saw of him as you met with him a second time after that, and then a third time and soon a fourth. Slowly, but surely, he entangled you into a mess that he spung with his own matter yarn, expecting you to navigate through the knots with no needle in place. It was by sixth meet or perhaps the seventh, that you learned just how cruel he could be but also just how kind—especially so as the city continued to break you down just as it did with everyone else, just as he predicted it would with you too.
(And at your most desperate, he offered you salvation. Happy to break you away from the predetermined mundane, eager to welcome you into a life where love didn’t have to be hidden—a place where you didn’t have to pretend.)
It was though his words slowly poisoned you into a sweet surrender, spreading venom through your once hopeful mind, keen to rid the idea that the world deserved to be helped at all. He reminded you that cursed spirits were a result of human negativity, so therefore the problem lied within people, not you, not him and certainly not the girls. He convinced you with carefully curated words that you could be so much more, planting the seeds of his own personal hatred into the core of your mind—sprouting what he thought to be a justified blame.
People weren’t worth fighting for, he would tell you, repeating it as many times as he had to do so before it would echo as an innate truth in your thoughts.
Lingering, festering. Settling into a known truth.
Yet, at the same time, it didn’t feel like a forced decision on your end to surrender to his will when you packed up your old life behind to see a promising future with him and the girls. If was with your own pledge that you vowed to not become another body in a casket, be it figurative or literal.
No, this was something you grew to want as well.
(A sweeter existence without the bitter aftertaste that followed.)
~~~
“We both share the same flaw, you know,” Suguru gently murmured, half asleep on the bed that you both now shared. His black hair loose, cascading against his sharpened features.
“We do…?” you asked, meeting his longing gaze. The skies outside were dark by now and the girls were sound asleep in their room down the hall. A bedside lamp offered a dim light, offering just enough of a glow to illuminate the troubling thoughts brewing on his face.
Suguru gently cupped your cheeks before answering you, fully understanding that you simply just didn’t get it yet. Not fully, at least. His touch brushed against your flesh like cushioned silk against his own skin, his barren eyes desperate to find life within yours.
It was ever since you told him that your parents weren’t sorcerers either, that he felt an even stronger connection to you. Something that flipped a switch in his mind as he became fully convinced that this was his true fate—one where he had to liberate you, to erase the imperfections that held you back.
In his vision for a perfect world, there was simply no room for mistakes and that included ordinary people. Including your parents. Even if your family did manage to somehow create art from unskilled hands (just as his own had done so too), then that still didn’t make them artists. The world was corrupted with negativity and they deserved to meet their end the very same way.
“Maybe it was meant to be this way,” Suguru mumbled again, sounding even more cryptic than before, “both sorcerers born from nothing.”
“…Suguru?” you asked, your voice laced with a hint of caution, unsure whether or not you should have been trying harder to break him away from his nonsensical thoughts. His expression was so serious, so angry and yet, he looked at you with such love, almost unconditional.
(You were his future.)
“I want to protect you,” he concluded, taking both of your hands and pressing them to his lips. His eyes were dead set on you as you watched him move back, ready to take a break from whatever darkness festered in the back of his mind.
He kissed at your shoulders, silently announcing to you that he was back to normal again. He peppered love bites along your neck and down to your collarbones, a little ritual that he spent the last year or so carefully defining. Suguru was territorial and his lips bruised you in places that were visible, where the ending cuts of clothes didn’t fully cover or reach, as if to show you off in a way that others couldn’t even dream of having.
He wasn’t shy about how much he loved your body either, with how his hands constantly roamed around your flesh, mapping out every single inch of your skin with such tender love and care.
It didn’t take too long for you to learn that his sexual appetite was insatiable either with most nights ending with him spearing his cock in-between your legs, pounding you into a flustered state as if his life depended on it.
Each night would start similar; so deceptively gentle. Soft kisses and careful worship, but if your body was his temple then he only saw it as right to be the one who got to ruin you as he pleased.
You’d surrender to him nightly, with your hands wrapping around his back and pulling him down by the shoulders. You’d hug his taut body flat against yours, rubbing flesh and skin alike into sweating passion.
And this night should have been no different, yet something about it felt off. As if he made a decision just now with you, perhaps for you… without you?
But you didn’t think too much of it for now, your mind melting at his touch as his tip teased at your entrance. Suguru loved to take his sweet time with you before he claimed you every night. He loved nothing more than to rub the head over your clit, testing the waters with your slick heat tempting him inside just below.
“So fucking perfect,” he would say, an unending cycle of varying praise remixing at his lips. Sometimes he would simply whine, so intoxicated before entry and desperate to stake his claim.
He pushed himself in when he couldn’t take it anymore, swiftly easing himself into your glossed sex, so ready to take him in. Every time he plunged into your core and every time he felt your walls tighten and your thighs clench around him, he could feel himself being driven to madness from just lust alone.
You cried his name as he impaled you and as his hips bucked against yours—your fingers desperately grasping at his back to gift you comfort. His relentless rutting driving you almost manic, but unchanged from his usual pace. Sometimes, he worried about being too vanilla for you as his desires were admittedly simple, but just from hearing your aching screams and needy moans and the way your breathing seemed to shudder from when he slammed into you from impact alone, he knew that he permanently had you; you were his and he was yours.
And as he emptied himself into you yet again, he pushed himself into you until the wave rode itself out completely. It was almost mesmerising of a sight, to see you so flustered and slightly tinged red, salted beads of sweat prickling down your body; your pretty pussy so full of him and perfectly spent.
Pulling away from you, he concluded something darker, promising you something you didn’t yet understand, “I’ll do it for you. Just for you.”
~~~
Perhaps you should have seen the warning signs with just how erratic he was acting just a couple of nights ago. Since then, the sex had died down in intensity and the words he drove himself insane with were no longer uttered, but his passive claim on you felt almost personal. It no longer felt as though you were simply his lover nor just a girlfriend, but someone who had intertwined with his very own soul.
So, at the mention of him cheerfully suggesting to meet with the people responsible for bringing you into the world, perhaps you should have read more in between the lines. Maybe you should have deflected his direction or even lie about their whereabouts, but you didn’t.
Deep down, you knew what he was up to. The the man you fell for—the very same who confessed to razing villages and killing their residents, the one who killed his very own kin for the sake of a better world, free from humanity’s own doomed confinement, was now driven to dip his hands in even more blood.
(And for your sake that time.)
It was almost sickening to hear; with his smooth words falling onto your corrupted ears, with how he truly did believe that it was all for a greater cause.
“You’d still choose me in the end, right?” he asked you, holding your hand as you faced your family home. He was about to go in, to do something unspeakable but all for you.
You nodded, albeit cautiously. Accepting that the world was simply just too cruel. You felt as your own tears spilled from your eyes, salting your cheeks while your heart fluttered in your chest; fully understanding what it was that he was about to do.
You knew better than to stop him.
You’d be a hypocrite if you called for exceptions.
It was a maddening sight, all things considered as you watched the loveless walls of your childhood interior, devoid of happy memories that could have been photographed and adorned around the various rooms, decorated by Suguru in the heat of something terrible. Ivory white concrete, splattered from the aftermath of crimson slashes, like sprayed ink from the finest well—blood that was spilled again and for your cause.
Suguru only ever wanted to liberate you.
To free you.
So maybe that’s how it all had to be.
You watched as the life disappeared from the faces of those who raised you a final time, like a light giving out. Deep, dark blood pooled at their heads, almost void like, the reflected lights overhead seeming almost like stars.
Blood that was thicker than honey and yet it didn’t feel so sweet.
A part of you however felt troubled as the death finally settled, something that you couldn’t quite shake off. You started to feel it at first in the mornings, just maybe a week ago. A sweeping nausea that would overcome you; a sickness that was perhaps too telling, too frequent by now to be written off as a coincidence.
You couldn’t help but wonder…
If you were both born from such equally flawed lineages, then what if the unborn child you carried was woven from the same sort of cloth?
What if they were born simply… ordinary?
Would he accept it… spare it? Or would he…?
You clutched at your stomach, almost sickened by the thought.
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