Text
*
#just got an email from my advisor#telling me that I got a summer fellowship I applied for#from one of the british studies centre that runs out of our university#so it’s official! i’m spending half the summer in london (and hopefully also the south of france for a week)!#doing research and working on the second year project that’s going to be a test case for my dissertation#this is amazing#not only the travel but having named fellowships and successful grant writing on my CV is a big deal#now I just have to wait until Wednesday#to see if the jewish studies center will accept my grant proposal for a month of intensive Portuguese at the University of Lisbon (and work#in the state archives there)#the best part of this#is that#(if I also get approved for that)#I’ll be able to fly to Taiwan for the two weeks in between the end of my research stay in London and the start of my course in Lisbon#and see my best friend in person for the first time in 2 years#I’m dying to know for sure so I can tell her#me stuff#not the stones#ngl I’m also just excited to be in London again#my little LSE alumna heart hates being gone for too long
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
academia is terrifying why do my professors know each other
#just got an email from my undergrad advisor saying she ran into my grad advisor at a conference and they talked about me#terrifying thing to read!#on the bright side. me and some of the irls someday. if all goes to plan.#can’t wait to chat about advisees with you <3#rambling
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
.
#i feel like my life is falling apart rn and i know that a good bit of that is amplified by way of being 19 but it really is bad rn#i got a job at the end of summer and i absolutely love it but my grades at school have been suffering really really bad bc i just dont have#the energy after working weekends and im failing like 3 classes and for my scholarship i have to keep at least a B and 2 of the classes i#think i can fix but im probably gonna have to pull out of one of them which freaks me tf out bc my dad pays the tuition that isnt covered by#my scholarship and hes gonna be so disappointed and im really fucking bad at asking for help especially from him bc it makes me feel like a#little kid and so ive been lying to him about my grades for weeks so now it feels like its too late to ask for help and even once i email my#advisor emailing her takes so much out of ke that i dont even have the energy to meet with her so its a useless endevor but i also know that#the only way to fix this is to get help and idk what im doing im just a kid and god i wish i could flash forward to 20 years from now when#this shit wont matter and ill have things relatively figured out and the stuff i dont im not too worried about and fucking hell being 19#sucks so much
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Man, fuck the government, and fuck their shitty third-party contracted predatory unemployment programmes, and fuck their subcontracted third-third-party web designers with inaccessible data privacy information you're expected to blindly fucking accept because you're terrified of being sanctioned, lest you be scorned by the people making the decision if you deserve a quarter of fucking minimum wage to live off, or £0 instead
#I got 1 email about this bs portal in march and my employment advisor has said fuck all about it since#now I get an text on a day the office is 'closed' saying I've got an appointment for 2pm tomorrow when I'm busy#quite certain that was mentioned neither at my last appointment nor in the email convo I had with the employment advisor yesterday#then I see there was an email 5 days ago from a generic no-reply email about the online portal saying its where we should get all our info#go on it & don't want to accept cookies without seeing privacy policy - it just says 'privacy policy' in plain text no hyperlink no nothin'!#website so shit you can't SCROLL!! and I've tried it on desktop and it's no better#whole thing makes me want to just AAAAARGH
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cool cool cool I’m biting him.
#ra speaks#personal#not fun blorbo thought this is about my advisor who spaced and didn’t come to the meeting last Friday and emailed me mid week#like heyyyy we should meet :) and I’m like cool! I’m at [redacted] without internet. does Monday work?#and he’s like wow sorry I missed that haha yeah Monday works. sometime in the afternoon?#me: yes. does 2 work for you? *crickets*#and now I’m sitting here. sweaty. gross. just got back from drive. want to do laundry and shower.#and he’s not. fucking. HEREEEEEEEE
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
guys what if i told you i fucked up college so badly already
#it'll be fine it'll be fine i know it'll all work out but oh god#i um. loved opening my Applying To College email (which i never check because it is all spam) for the first time in months to like...#uh a LOT from the super selective school at my uni that i got accepted to but am not yet enrolled in...? and i think i may have...#missed? my chance? to enroll? maybe? but it may also be that nobody Can enroll until their junior year? and i just get priority#in classes within that school/major? uh? maybe? god i need to email. someone.#but i don't know if it's... my advisor my advisor for that school or that school's general “questions?” email#dante dicit#college#vent#might delete#good lord why didn't they email my student email... through their institution...#(it's not their fault i assumed that they would automatically know my student email which was My Bad)
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
jesus fucking christ it's good to have a contract though
#i was having trouble feeling excited about it bc my immediately subsequent job was to field emails from people with technical questions#but in fact. it's good to have a contract#~$85/yr dental insurance! a vision plan that is only worth it in glasses-purchasing years but at least is worth it then‚ and exists now!#if you get trapped in University HR Department Harassment Investigation Hell for more than 6 months you can just go straight to arbitration#if you're working with chronic hazard exposure they have to give you regular hazard-specific preventive care!#every J1/F1 worker just gets $1200! because immigration is fucking miserable!#there is now a review process meant to prevent people from getting fired because they 'failed their prelims' in cases where that is#overtly a fig leaf for either 'advisor got bored of your project' or 'you are a woman in a mechanical engineering lab'#and while that one's not grievable for complicated reasons we DO get to put grad workers on the review board.#anyway. um. i think i did an okay job at my negotiations job‚ overall. is my main thought here#box opener
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
I FINISBED MT THESIS DRAFT !!!!!!!!!!!!
#restraining myself from emailing it to my advisor instantly like NO WE STILL NEED TO DO A FINAL FULL READ#but..... its not just getting there anymore! she GOT! Im soooooooo fucking excited#scout talks#just english major things <3#its also a beautifully unpublishable 17k words#which is also 12 pages over the upper upper limit so ill have to do some serious cutting lol#but for now just. i feel like my baby is graduating middle school or something#ur soooo close and im so excited and happy and proud and sad but mostly excited!!
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
i swear some people only became professors for the power trip n not bc they actually want to help people learn
#gom.txt#bc why was i dropped from one of my classes for my grade which is only low bc i missed the exam#bc the professor didn’t even make it visible until the day of and i check assignments the day before#and i didn’t know about the course commitment policy#so i tried emailing the guy being as respectful n apologetic as i can bc i actually like the class in terms of what we’re learning#n he just doubles down on me missing the window to consult with him when he didn’t even send anything until yesterday l#and he sent it to my school email instead of directly on canvas so i didn’t see shit til my advisor contacted me abt it#like shouldn’t a professor jump at the fact that a student is desperate to be a part of the course they’re teaching#and there’s a one week window for him to recind it and put me back in the class but he just full on refuses#like now i’ve got a penalty withdrawal on my permanent record#the only upside is i was taking 5 classes so i’m still a full time student with 4/ 12 credits#but i’ll have to take summer courses to stay on track for spring 2025 graduation#this whole thing pissed me off and made me cry a little#anyways feel free to join me in sending dr. cornelison the second bad vibes#my advisor was very kind and patient abt it tho i would have had a meltdown without her#this is getting to long let me eat and then take this fuck ass exam#icb i thought statistics would be my problem class
1 note
·
View note
Text
grad admissions FINALLY got back to my advisor (+ me lol) re: how to actually fucking apply so i am now a go for applying 👍
#sasha speaks#just have to finish editing my research paper and personal statement#...and fill out the application again cause they want me to apply to the MSLIS instead of the MA even though the latter is already#filled out and ready to go 🙄#whatever i just want to get this OVER WITH ALREADY#three weeks of utter bullshit...just say i'm in already#grad admissions didn't even email me i got the instructions forwarded from my advisor today. fuckers#whatever! i can actually proceed now
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
❝ 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 !! ❞
❝ PROF. GETO IS SO HOT AND NOW HE’S YOUR THESIS ADVISOR !! ❞
✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (yuta x f!reader) (part six of the prof geto series)
✧ summary: just when you had moved on, suguru is back in your life as your thesis advisor, and what choice do you have but to deal -- deal with lingering feelings from your breakup, but also yuta's. and through this, you both find out what you all owe to each other.
✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut , fluff, but also angst depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student, but age is vague, post breakup, dealing with exes, insecurity, semi-exhibitionism, desk sex, fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), oral (f! + m! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, multiple orgasms, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, fanart by @ / kyrraen (pls go follow them, they are so talented)
✧ w/c: 25,305 | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five
Suguru never had believed in fate before — before he met you.
And now it seemed fate had its own plans for the both of you — pulling you together, even when he had tried his best to push the two of you apart. Try he had, and in the end, you both ended up back where you had started — seated across from each other with a pile of papers littered with red pen.
Except now he himself had found himself littered with you — your tie pin you had given him, the way his fingers wanted to smooth your brow with a kiss as it furrowed while you flipped through your proposal, and how his heart felt whole from the moment you walked in the room. And he knew he would be littered with your marks all his life, more permanent than ink — and he would never be able rid himself of them.
Or of you.
When Yaga had come to him with the news, it was already too much to handle. He was being re-assigned to Tokyo to handle duties for both schools for a time — until someone stepped up to handle Kyoto. Yaga didn’t trust anyone else — and since Suguru had worked at Tokyo longer, it made sense to have him go back.
But then the question of you — the reminder came on the form of your email during their meeting — and you came into his world again the same way you did before — an email for a meeting. But it wasn’t for him.
Not yet at least.
It was hard to know what to do, or what you would want. Yaga could have you re-assigned, but the thesis you were working on was in Suguru’s specialty and he knew half the reason you had asked Yaga was to have a department head listed on your thesis. And to rob you of that wasn’t a choice he wanted to make for you.
He’s done enough of that to you. And he had done it for your future — and he would do this for your future, if you wanted him to.
You’re speechless when he breaks the news to you — as he expected you would be. But his surprise comes when you reply — he expected anger, frustration, a straight out refusal to work with him — but he did not get any of those — he only got quiet acceptance.
“Fine, should we stick to the same schedule that Yaga and I agreed to?” And Suguru takes a minute, leaning back in his chair, “what?”
“I just…I didn’t expect you to accept so readily,” he replies softly, choosing his words carefully, “in my email, I said you could take time to think about it or we could procure a different advisor—“
“Professor,” the word sticks in his chest like a right dagger that barely misses his heart, “out of everyone who works in this department I know you are the only one who is capable of pushing me to be my best, even when I don’t ask for it,” you add under your breath, “especially when I don’t ask for it,”
A hollow chuckle is stuck in his throat, “If you’re sure, it’s your choice,” and he’s looking for a few notes and edits he had written out for you for the schedule you sent along previously.
“It is my choice,” you echo, your eyes meet his, as he looks up from the papers strewn about the desk, “and I choose this,” and he knows all too well what you mean by your deliberate choice of words— and he did love you for your cutting tongue.
Even when it was used against him.
“If you do, then can you choose to come to my old office?” And you’re blinking, brow furrowing — and his cheeks burn, “I left your schedule there — I had a few notes regarding my own schedule,”
You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of a smart remark on the tip of your tongue that you seemingly swallow, as you gather the proposal into your bag, “let’s go,”
The walk over is in relative silence, the campus mostly quiet with the impending end of the semester at bay — as he forces his gaze forward, but that doesn’t stop his traitorous eyes from sneaking glances all the same. Why was it that he was a lighthouse and his eyes were spotlights only made to find your ship on the dark waves of the sea.
And you stop in your tracks, a glance at your face doesn’t give him the answer — but another face does.
“Yuta?” And he’s holding your lunch bag — the same one you insisted on taking with you, refusing to spend more money on the overpriced lunch on campus. And the realization hits him all at once, and he’s suddenly toppling headfirst into the waves.
“You forgot your lunch,” Yuta offers an awkward smile — and Suguru’s eyes find your face again, right before he goes under — the same soft look you gave him.
Used to give him.
And he lets the water overtake him.
~~~
“You forgot your lunch,”
And you never thought a rushed morning would lead to the most awkward moment of your life. Yuta glances between you and Suguru, as you step forward to take your lunch from his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, as if to ground yourself.
“Yuta, this is Professor Geto, he taught one of the classes I took and he’s taking over as my thesis advisor,” and you’re only lucky Suguru is able to tuck away emotions so easily, a polite smile on his lips as he offers his hand to Yuta, “this is Yuta, my boyfriend,”
You can’t meet Suguru’s gaze as you say it — but you wonder what you would find — hurt, anger, or nothing at all? And you couldn’t figure out which would hurt the most.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Suguru says, before shaking his hand, and Yuta nods.
“Likewise,” and Suguru turns to you, hands slipping into his pockets, while yours remained laced with Yuta’s — but how long ago would it had been intertwined in his? “On second thought, I’ll email you my edits to your thesis schedule, I’ll leave you both to the rest of your day,” he gives a stiff smile, before heading on his way.
And he knew this was a future of his own making — the consequences of his own actions.
He gives a bitter chuckle. Consequentialism — the morality is centered around creating the right consequences — and wasn’t it right? Right for you to be happy with someone your age? Right to be with someone who you can hold their hand and be with? Right to be with someone who can give you everything and anything you want?
“I understand the intention of consequentialism, but it just feels so pointless,” you had said while the two of you sat watching TV on the couch, your legs thrown over his lap, the comfortable warmth of your head resting on his shoulder.
“That’s not where I thought your mind was,” Suguru had chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, but still he indulged, “the point is to get as much good as possible out of a decision correct? The most happiness?”
Your brow remained furrowed, “But the problem is the cost of it — it can come at the cost of your own happiness if it’s creating the right consequences,”
“That’s more utilitarianism—“ and you shrug.
“I understand it’s more complicated, but I don’t see the value in making decisions like that — doesn’t it defeat the purpose because you’re doing it for the outcome — without considering your feelings or the others? You’re nothing more than a happiness pump,”
And as he sneaks a glance back, watching you and Yuta stand there still, fingers still intertwined, his fingers squeeze the handle of his bag, is that why it feels so wrong?
He arrived back at his office, fingers turning the knob and finding an empty tomb — the walls stripped down to the bare, a thick layer of dust that clung to the surfaces, the couch he had in the corner of the room likely relocated to another office — that he thought he had finally left behind. But here he was again — right back where he started.
He dragged his finger through the dust on his desk. Was he nothing more than a happiness pump? Giving himself pain for the sake of others’ happiness — and was the outcome worth it? But he’s swallowing down his pain — a bitter consequence he had to take — because he knew — he would take any pain, if it meant you were happy.
And you were.
Right?
~~~
Yuta knew — he did even before he had started to date you. Or rather, he had suspected. But now he knew.
The first time he saw the two of you bump into each other, he knew because of the way Geto looked at you — and even the way you looked at him — the hurt flickering in your gaze, even when you refused to look at him.
Professor Geto has been much more than a professor to you — he was your boyfriend, the same one Yuta had envied for so many months. Only for him to be back in your life again. And he felt like he was right back to where he had started in your life again — a friend.
And there wasn’t a thing wrong with being your friend — but now that he was more than one, he knew he only wanted even more of you — and to give more of himself. If you would let him.
But when your fingers curled around his, ‘boyfriend’ slipping from your lips, assuaged his anxiety for a moment, but as he watched your eyes find the back of Geto’s head after he left, it all came back.
Your fingers squeeze his, “Thank you for bringing my lunch, Yu,” and it brings him back to the moment, and your face is so readable in this moment — as if to make up for the times he couldn’t make sense of you — searching for an indication that he knew, an implication of his emotions, a question unspoken to ask if he knew.
And he did.
“Of course, baby,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, and he wants to tell you he does, wants to ask you why you hid it, why you felt you couldn’t be honest, and why you look like you’re still as heartbroken as the day he ran into you outside this building, “I have to go, but I’ll see you later,” but he doesn’t ask.
“Yuta—“ but he’s only pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, fingers cupping his cheek.
“I love you,” and your lips curl into a small smile.
“I love you too,” and it was enough, he thought, as his fingers parted from yours, and he turned to leave.
It was enough, for now.
~~~
How do you tell someone something they already know? You snuck glances at your own boyfriend after dinner, as the two of you settled in to watch something to unwind. The day had gone by as expected, but the crawling anxiety only grew as more time passed, the words wanting nothing more than to leave your mouth.
Why was it you when you had so much to say you couldn’t say it? And now when you had to explain, no words could leave your lips?
God, how the fuck did you catch yourself in this mess? Your ex as your thesis advisor — was this karma for being unethical? A cruel consequence of the choices you made? Maybe fate? No, it wasn’t fate. Things were better without Suguru in your life, simpler and easier. And you were happy — but now this, this just had the potential to ruin everything.
But only if you let it.
And the longer you went without discussing this, the more damage it would be. It was a secret you had chosen to keep — you didn’t think it was pertinent, especially with Suguru in Kyoto. It was a detail you could spare, at least until after you graduated,
But now it couldn’t wait.
It was a piano hanging by a string that’s already snapped and it was on its last fibers, swinging back and forth, waiting to see whether you would push Yuta and yourself out of the way — or whether one or both of you would get crushed in the process.
The walk back to your apartment is an exercise in coping mechanisms to prevent panic or anxiety from settling fully into your skin, holding the string together with your arms seemingly, ready for it to tear you apart.
But it doesn’t.
“I have to talk to you,” you say once you and Yuta are sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under the other to prevent you from shaking it, or running away for that matter, “it’s nothing bad — well, I mean it’s not—“ you cut yourself off, shaking your head, “just know I love you, and that hasn’t changed—“
And his lips find yours, cutting off your frantic thoughts with a sweet kiss that only leaves you wanting more, but also leaves you with more questions than answers.
He pulls away, a small smile on his lips, “Breath “ and you sigh, taking a breath, “and I love you too,” your fingers interlace with his, “what is it?”
But you don’t even know where to begin, except at the point, “You know the ex that broke my heart before we dated?” And he’s nodding, “Professor Geto is—“
“Is your ex,” he finishes, and you knew he had figured out, but you hadn’t expected it to come out so matter-of-factly, “I had a feeling and this morning confirmed it,”
“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, “after he moved, I never thought he would move back, much less become my thesis advisor,” you bury your face in your hands, “and I don’t want you to think I was hiding it. It’s just with the relationship being taboo, I didn’t think—“
“You were trying to protect yourself and your ex, it’s understandable,” he squeezes your hand, “you couldn’t have expected this to happen,”
And you’re lifting your gaze to his, “How are you so calm? How are you so…okay?”
He gives a sigh, “it’s hard, I’m trying to stay rational for you — for us,” you lean against him, “what are you going to do? About your thesis?”
“I think I’ll have to take Suguru as my advisor. I don’t have much of a choice,” you bite your lip, “I could take another, but no other professor has the same specialization as Yaga, except Geto, and I know he’ll give me good feedback,”
“But?” You rest your head in your hand.
“But having to spend that much time with my ex? Having to work on something so important to my career with him? Having to put you through that?” you feel more lost than when you began this conversation, “I don’t know what to do. I already agreed to it, but I think it’s only sinking in,” and you turn to him, “and then there’s you,”
“What about me?” and you shake your head.
“How can I put you through watching me spending hours with my ex over the next semester?” And Yuta shakes your head.
“A decision important to your future shouldn’t just be based on me, it should be about you,” and you purse your lips — another reason why Yuta was so sweet, as you lean against him, burying your face in the crook of his neck.
“I don’t deserve you,” he chuckles, running his fingers through your hair, “I’ll keep him as my advisor for now, but if you have a problem, please talk to me okay?” You lean back to look at him, “please?”
“Of course,” and his lips find yours in a sweet kiss, “and you always deserve me — because I chose you.” You kissed him, his arms curling around you, as you leaned into his touch — the one place that always felt safe.
And you didn’t know that he just hoped — you’d choose him too.
~~~
Fuck. How was it you found yourself before Professor Geto’s door yet again?
Winter break had flown by and now you found yourself back in the office you thought you had left behind not so long ago. Even if it felt like forever. You had spent your time split between working on your thesis, with the edits to your outline that Suguru had provided you, and with Yuta — who was more endlessly understanding than you could have hoped to imagine. And even today, as you headed off to meet Suguru in his office, he had nothing but soothing words for your nerves, sweet kisses, and a promise for a good meal when you got home.
You hovered before the door of his office — no matter what had happened throughout these months, why did it always feel as if you always ended up here? Pulled against your will into a rotation around him — one that would have you stuck into a constant push and pull — and just when you had let go of his grip, you were pulled back in. And as your fist hovered next to the door, bracing to knock, you weren’t sure if you were ready to fall back in.
But what you didn’t know as you stood before the door was that the man behind it was more anxious about this meeting than you were.
~~~
“You’re early,” Suguru glances up from his paperwork, his top of his pen pressed to the seam of his lips, “for once,”
Suguru himself had nearly been late this morning — ever the hypocrite, he supposed. He could barely sleep the night before, spent catching up on the work piled up for two department heads while the Kyoto campus makes potential temporary candidates jump through hoops. And then there was the other reason, his meeting with you — and all the complicated feelings he didn’t wish to entangle himself in. And yet he always fell deeper into your web, as if he didn’t willingly ensnare himself to begin with.
He didn’t even know Yaga was sick, but he had seen the change in him. The subtle differences in his demeanor, the bags around his eyes, and the creeping slowness that came with illness. But it still hit like a gut punch to hear it from his mouth, and for him to ask to take over duties for him was a double edged blade of honor and complication.
Yaga had given him the option to turn it down: to keep managing everything from Kyoto — but he accepted anyway — accepted because he knew that you’d be out of a thesis advisor. And he would be left unable to help from Kyoto with the in person role an advisor played.
And so he was here.
When he finally had gotten to lay down, eyes fixed on the familiar ceiling fan again — as he had managed to get his old apartment back by some miracle — and he hates how this place is a husk of itself without you here. But even with you here before him, his eyes snuck at glance at you, it somehow was worse being with you — when he was nothing to you. He could bear to not be your lover, but he couldn’t bear the weight of your hatred, or worse, your indifference.
You cross your arms, your laptop bag draped on your shoulder, “You’ll never let that go until one of us is dead will you?”
“That’s assuming we wouldn’t haunt the other,” he replies without missing a beat, as you take a seat across from him, eyes taking in his office. The same set up from before, if not a little less ostentatious and obnoxious — a few missing pictures and awards tucked away, the missing luxury sofa, and the lack of leather bound books lining shelves, instead minimally decorated with a few select titles — including What Do We Owe Each Other, prominently displayed.
“I have better things to do than haunt you,” you scoff, pulling out your laptop from your bag, “did you forget to finish unpacking?” And he doesn’t offer even a look up at your remark.
“No, just decided to take a certain person’s advice and try to take a less pretentious approach to my office,” his lips curled in that damnable wry smile of his, “plus not everything has been sent back from Kyoto yet,” and he leans forward, plucking your revised thesis outline from the neat piles lined up on his desk, “but my office decor isn’t why we’re here,” he flips through his notes on your draft, “the outline is in good shape, have you started on your draft?”
You pull a stapled stack out to slide to him, “I have fleshed out some of my main points and I wanted your thoughts before I dove further,” and he takes it before scanning through it, silent as he peruses the contents.
His eyes flit up, “You didn’t have to wait for my approval—“
“I know, but I value your opinion,” you grumble, eyes averted as you admit it, a graze of your teeth against the bottom of your lip. It draws a small smile from him, hidden away behind his closed fist pressed to his lips, “as my advisor,” you add, and he nods.
The meeting finished up with much else, as you slide your laptop and things back into your bag. And for the first time your eyes meet his.
“Have you been sleeping okay?” and he’s blinking a moment, as you continue, “you look tired. You should sleep more instead of working,”
He furrows his brow, “I am slee—“
“You have bags under your eyes, Professor,” you roll your eyes, “listen or don’t, but I rather my thesis isn’t re-assigned last minute because you ran yourself into the ground,” you say before turning to leave.
“I expect your next draft by the beginning of the next week,” and you pause, the click of the knob as you pull the door open.
“I’ll have it to you by the end of the week.” And you’re gone, door shutting behind you, and he leans back in his chair, a smile that he can’t quite hide on his lips.
Maybe he wasn’t quite nothing to you after all.
~~~
“I’m home, baby,” you say, as you walk in, the burden of the day still in the process of sliding off your back as you passed through the threshold of your apartment. You stripped yourself of your cost and your shoes, hanging your bag up, “Yu?”
You checked your phone with no text or call from him — he said he would be at your place, and that’s when you spot a familiar mop of black hair from the couch. Your lips curl as you round the couch, only to find him fast asleep, his work spread out around him. His first day back seemed as stressful as yours, and yet he hadn’t complained.
His bags were dark — a product of a bad night’s sleep — a running trend for today seemingly. You ran your fingers through his hair gently, knowing he wouldn’t wake simply by that, but you heard the quiet mumble of words you couldn’t catch. You glanced at the kitchen and found dinner prepped but not made. You smile softly, as you take the throw blanket and gently spread it over him, before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, and then rising to your feet.
You’re almost done cooking curry when Yuta stirs, the smell of the stewing beef and spices waking him, as he lifts his head, back of his hand rubbing his eye, while he glances at you with the other.
“Hey sleeping beauty,” your lips curl, doing a bad job of stifling your chuckle at the sight of his black hair askew, “dinner is almost ready,”
“Dinner? When did you get—“ and he picks up his phone to check the time, a small groan stuck in his throat, “why didn’t you wake me when you got home?”
“I would have,” you wipe off your hands, as you make your way to the living room, as Yuta swings his legs off the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face, “but you’re so cute when you’re sleeping,” and his cheeks flush an ever so subtle pink — even after this time together, it was so easy to fluster him, “plus, it looked like you needed it,”
Your hand brushes his cheek, and he’s leaning into your touch, your other hand running fingers through his hair to straighten it out, “I did,” he mumbles, “it was a long day,”
“Want to talk about it over some rice and curry?” and he bites his lip, before he leans in to press a sweet kiss to you, delighting in the desperate look he gives you when you drag your tongue teasingly against the seam of his lips only to pull away, “don’t pout,” you drag your thumb down his lips, “I’ll kiss you plenty after dinner,”
“Promise?” And you drag him to his feet and he’s walking to the bathroom as you’re opening cabinets to take plates out, only for his arms to wrap around your middle, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.
You chuckle, biting back the shiver that runs up your spine at the warmth of his touch, “what’s that for?”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, meeting your gaze with umbra eyes that has you lost in the only inky black sky you craved.
“Of course, Yu,” you murmur before his lips find yours again, and you just wished you could live in this moment, as he parted from your lips only to press another kiss to your cheek, but you supposed you could—
—For now at least.
“She’s what?” Maki stares at Yuta as he rubs the back of his head, her words nearly ringing out in the empty conference room, “she’s spending a bunch of time with her ex and you’re ok with it?”
Yuta has made a mistake — the mistake of being twenty minutes early to this student government meeting only to find Maki here alone, scrolling on her phone. Her eyes flitting up only for her to tilt her head and bark:
“Oi, what is it now?” And Yuta didn’t know if he liked being so seen by her.
Especially now that he was being judged for his decisions — or rather, raked over the coals for them.
Yuta purses his lips, “I’m not exactly okay with it, but I don’t know what to do. She has to work on her project with him — I guess, how could I object?” And how could he? Your omission made sense, you were only trying to protect your reputation— and your ex’s by extension. But it didn’t make it sting any less.
“Doesn’t she have another choice? Couldn’t she work with someone else?” Maki crosses her arms, eyes narrowed, as if she can detect the holes in his lies by pure reflex, “aren’t you worried she’ll go back to him?” And voices every worry almost if she’s ripped it from his mind itself.
“I am, she does have other choices, but I couldn’t be the one to make her choices for her—“
“But you couldn’t tell her how you felt about it?” Maki shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as if this conversation is giving her a headache — or more likely, he’s giving her a headache, “how do you feel?”
Yuta chews his lip, leaning on his arm on the table, “I don’t know, I understand it’s just a project — it’s something for her future — I don’t want to make things more complicated for us,” he mumbles.
“You mean for her—and for your relationship,” Maki crosses her arms, tilting her head, “Yuta, if you can’t be honest with her, what’s the point of this relationship?” And people start to file into the room for the meeting, so she hisses in a whisper, “you need to figure out what you want — and how to tell her how you’re feeling because it’s going to eat you alive or drive her into her ex’s arms — either way, you won’t be in this relationship,”
And on that bleak note, she gets to her feet to corral everyone into their seats, leaving him to simmer in her words. His phone lighting up nearly on cue with a text from you—
Can’t make the meeting this week, babe — Geto rescheduled my meeting with him this week for now, so I’m headed there
A hint of irritation pricks at him — it had to be today, during the only time that they had together at school?
Another message comes through.
I’ll see you at your place after the meeting - love you 💕
He locks his phone, tucking it away in his pocket — as Maki starts the meeting.
It was fine — he would see you at home. It didn’t matter — Geto had only these meetings, Yuta had much more of you. It was fine.
He forced his gaze forward, a gnawing dread in his stomach. Right?
“What do you mean it was expected?”
You were starting to remember the reason why you hated this man so vehemently when you first met him. His nearly smug expression made you want to leap across the desk and strangle him — though you knew the consequences of that action wouldn’t turn out well for you — nor the proximity for that matter, “what I wrote—“
“Is what others have written in papers time and time again,” he cuts you off, and you slump back in your chair, as you flip through the red inked comments he had so thoughtfully ripped apart your first few pages — the precise cuts and slashes enough for red ink to look like blood, “your thesis needs to be a unique take—”
“And now it isn’t unique enough?” you grumble, crossing your arms, as your cheeks burn, “soon you’ll be saying I’m rambling again,”
“No, I was able to rid you of that habit a while ago,” you glare at him, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “I would be concerned if you started to regress,”
“Well, at least it would only be academically,” the words spit like venom from your mouth without a thought, but the hurt that flickers across his face is one that seemingly has too much thought behind it, “sorry, that was inappropriate,”
“It’s fine,” the hurt is gone from his expression, as unreadable as it always was, “to get back to our discussion, I know you want this paper to be published by journals, and in order to do that, you need to have a perspective that hasn’t been explored before—at least not fully. Your outline reflects that, but your paper is regurgitating ideas that you’ve read,” he’s handing you a list of papers and books, with some noted passages, “read some of these materials, it might help give you some ideas to rework your paper,” and then he adds, “and you knew I’d say this,”
You knit your brow together, “What?”
He leans against his arm propped against the top of his desk, “Why else would you want me to see if you were going in the right direction? You always have an idea what you want to write, of where you want your paper to go — and you never wanted my greenlight for a long time now,”
You hate how he can still see right through you — you hate how easily he can pinpoint your problem without you uttering a helpful word. Even before, it always felt as if he was the only one who saw you, without you having to explain a single thing.
“You’re right,” and he hated how right he was, “I wasn’t sure where I was going,” this thesis had been weighing on your mind day and night, pricking at your nerves each time you stared at the blinking cursor of the document, “I still don’t,”
Suguru murmurs your name softly, his gaze as gentle as it always has been for you, a part of you hoped — only for you, “As I’ve always said, the only reason why I push you is because I know you can do more. This thesis would be outstanding for many scholars, but I know you can do more,” he tilts his head, small smile on his lips, “and I know you still can,”
“What if I can’t?” The question slips out before you can even think it, and he raises an eyebrow.
“There is no ‘what if,’ I know you can do it,” and you bite your lip, “i don’t have any doubts,”
“Not even one?” You reply, an eyebrow quirked.
“Not when it comes to you,” and he said just what you wanted to hear, but you hated it all the more — because how did he know you so well? How did he know you so well and yet not know to talk to you before breaking your heart?
But it didn’t matter now. And you couldn’t trudge up these feelings now, or maybe ever.
“I’ll read these materials and rework it,” and you begin to collect your things all the while, getting to your feet.
“Good,” and you catch sight of his smile in the reflection of your phone, “it’s what you owe yourself.”
And your eyes meet his for a moment, so why couldn’t he give you what he owed you before?
“Thank you, Professor.”
“I’m back,” you call out in Yuta’s apartment, tucking your keys away into your bag, as you slip your shoes off and shrugging off your jacket, but you hear nothing in response, “Yuta?” But not a sound — no quiet voices of the TV, the clatter of dishes and utensils in the kitchen, and no sign of him in the bedroom either.
You check your phone, as you sit on the edge of the bed, creaking under your weight, and you see his text: sorry baby, Maki took the group out for dinner after, you’re free to join us. And the address is sent underneath.
But the text was well over twenty minutes ago, and it would take you longer to get there — which meant dinner would nearly be over. You laid back on his bed on your side, typing a reply.
Sorry Yu, just saw this :(. I’ll come next time. I’ll make something up fast and probably lie down. I’ll see you at home.
You curl up on the bed, placing your phone down with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Your nose turned into his sheets, Yuta’s scent flooding your senses, and you could nearly feel his arms around you. Almost.
God, you missed him — especially you two just kept missing each other like this — and it made it all the more important you stayed awake.
Your eyes flutter open, the sweet siren of sleep growing all the more tempting, a late lunch sitting like stones in your stomach and the need for the sandman’s relief growing headier.
And before you knew it, your legs were tucked under the comforter and your eyes succumbed to their own weight.
Your soft breaths filled the silence of the apartment, and even as Yuta came in an hour or so later, only to find you sprawled out messily in his bed, phone still in your hand, did he chuckle. His hands are gentle as he guides you into a normal position for sleep that wouldn’t fuck over your back, putting your phone on charge, and pressing a kiss to your forehead.
And as he leaves the room to shower, not hearing the quiet murmur of his name leaving your lips.
“You have to try a little,” you’re nearly waving your ice cream cone in front of Yuta’s face, soft serve dripping onto the pavement, and the soft pink swirl threatening to topple over in front of your eyes, but the risk of losing your beloved ice cream was not as important as advocating for it, “c’mon it’s so good—”
“Baby, the ice cream is supposed to be your treat for all the progress you’ve made on your thesis, not a taste test, and I have my own flavor—” but as the ice cream hovers in front of his face, Yuta tastes it — the subtle sakura flavor lingering on his tongue, “it’s good,” he concedes, “but not as good as my matcha,”
It had been a lot to tear you away from your work — it had been weeks in the making of trying to get you to take a break that wasn’t you falling asleep on the couch with your laptop and notes strewn about or a mindless TV break. And the times you both were supposed to have together often ended with one of you being busy or falling asleep. He barely remembered the last time the two of you had spent together that didn’t involve takeout or the couch.
You pout, “Sakura is so much better,” you grumble, licking at your ice cream, trying to stem the excess melting off the sides of your waffle cone, and he chuckles, as a little of your ice cream sticks to your nose.
“More for you then right?” he’s pulling a tissue out to wipe your nose and lips before kissing them, “Mm, it’s sweeter on your lips,” and he knows your cheeks are burning as you avert your eyes, biting your lip.
“You’re the worst,” and he laughs, as he wraps his arm around your middle, “but I’ll say you’re right about today. This date was definitely needed,” you lean into his touch, still working on your ice cream, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,”
“You don’t have to apologize, it’s not just you that’s busy—”
“I know, but it’s mostly been me,” your eyes find his, and he wavers under your glance, “I know we haven’t had a lot of time together, and I promise, it’s only going to last a little longer, once I’m done with my thesis I’m all yours,”
And it’s hard for him to believe that — but he tries, because he knows you are.
“I know,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, “I’m just glad we got to do this today, I just feel like we keep missing each other, and it just…it’s been bothering me,”
And you kiss his jaw, before softly smiling, “You’re not alone,” and his lips find yours again, and again, ice cream starting to run down his fingers and palm, but he could care less about anything else but you at this moment, “You’re gonna make me drop my ice cream,”
“I’ll buy you another,” and you laugh, kissing him this time, and he melts just like the ice cream into your grasp, your arms wrapped around him tight, “now who’s making our ice cream melt?”
“You said you’d buy me another anyway,” you nuzzle his neck, “plus I have to leave space to eat you up later,” and you giggle as his cheeks burn, “you blush so easily still, thought you would be used to my teasing by now,”
“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, still feels like a dream,” you pinch his cheek in reply, a smirk on your lips, as you kiss the skin that you pinched.
“Now, it’s not a dream, is it?” And right as your lips were about to meet his again—
RING. RING. RING.
Your brow furrows as you ignore it at first, before a sigh catches in your throat, “hold on—“ you check your messages, your brow furrowing, “fuck,” you swear under your breath.
“What’s wrong?” And you’re tossing your ice cream in a nearby trash can, wiping your hand with one of the tissues the ice cream place had handed you, before texting back.
“Geto wants to meet today about my thesis. Apparently some departmental meetings got pushed around, and today is the only day he can meet in person—“
“Do you have to—“ and you’re shaking your head in exasperation, burying your face in your hands.
“I have no choice. It’s the only time until a week and half from now, and I can’t wait to get this feedback, otherwise it will throw off my entire schedule—“
“But this is the only time we can meet,” he cuts you off, voice catching on the words, as his tongue is caught between holding it and wagging it, “I miss you, baby, we haven’t seen each other in weeks because of our schedules, because of your thesis—“ because of him, “when will our relationship take priority? When will I be important enough to matter?”
“Yuta,” your voice breaks, “of course you matter to me—“ and your phone vibrates again, cutting you off, and he takes a beat and a breath. He swallows thickly, this wasn’t the right time for this.
But when would it be?
“Go,” he says, and your eyebrows knit together, lips parting to refuse, “I’m okay, really. We’ll talk when you get home,” but he’s stepping towards you, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, “promise, we’re ok. Just go. I’ll call you.”
“You sure?” He wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if he should let you go or stand his ground — but, his fingers cupped your cheek, and kissed your lips — but he was sure that he loved you.
“I’m sure,” and he wanted what was best for you — and he watches you leave after you say your farewells — even if it wasn’t best for him.
You shouldn’t have agreed to this.
Agreed to take this meeting over your date. Agreed to meet in the lecture hall instead of his office. Agreed to have him as your thesis advisor. Agreed to even take a course with him to begin with. You were several steps too close to regret being born, but your real mistake was ever pursuing this man to begin with.
That was your mistake — and now you are reaping what you sow.
Literally.
“Your lecture was compelling — I have so much to learn from you,” you stood outside his lecture hall as students filed out quicker than usual, without the typical quorum that formed after every one of his classes — only to find the reason that a single person commanded his attention, “I didn’t realize how wonderfully interesting philosophy could be as a topic,” her voice already grates on your ears, the elongated syllables of her words nearly enough for you to roll your eyes into the back of your head so far that you were they would get stuck.
“It’s a fine line between interesting and dry, I’m glad I could walk it for you, Mei Mei,” and you could hear the smile in his tone, the saccharine sweetness enough for you to choke on and die of excess sugar, but unfortunately you don’t, so you have to hear the rest of this conversation.
“I’m so glad I took Satoru’s advice to see your lecture, it was definitely eye opening,” and you furrow your brow, “he’s been asking me about you — he told me if I stopped by to have you call him,”
You purse your lips — Satoru?
A sigh in his voice as he speaks “He sent a real messenger this time? I get his texts, I have been really busy with my duties—“
“You know what they say — about all work and no play?” You hear the click of heels against the floor, as she assuredly steps closer, “maybe I can help you with the play—“
You knock on the door then, hand possessed, as you spot the woman with whom the voice belonged — her long silver locks tied into a braid that hung past her shoulders, her dark eyes finding yours and brow arched in curiosity, and wine stained lips curled.
“Professor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but our meeting?” Your voice was laced with irritation you didn't intend to have, “I have a class after this, so unless you’d like to reschedule?”
Suguru’s lips part, only for Mei Mei to speak first, “I’m sorry about that — that’s my fault — old friends you know?” Her head tilts, as if to say, no, I know you don’t know, “and you are one of Suguru’s little students?”
“I’m his former T.A. and he is my thesis advisor,” and his girlfriend, you want to add — ex girlfriend, rather, but the words are as taboo as your feelings are, “I’m sure Professor Geto wouldn’t mind speaking to you after our meeting if you could wait,”
And again Suguru opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off again, “Oh I wouldn’t mind waiting at all, not for him,” she walks past, “I’ll wait for you in your office, Suguru,” and you have to force your expression to be neutral, a knot in your gut, and a fist clenched and hidden around the handle of your bag, “I’ll make myself comfortable,”
The lecture hall door closes behind her, the click of the door brings silence between the two of you, “I apologize if—“
“No, I should be sorry for interrupting,” you cut him off, your throat tied into knots, a distinct dull ache in your chest that surely shouldn’t belong to you — not after all of this, “I should have just rescheduled—“
“No, I’m glad you interrupted,” he says, “we have an appointment and she really is only a—“
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Professor,” and the title seems to cut this time, slicing through his mask, fraying his calm demeanor and leaving behind a deep frown, “it’s your business, not mine,” not anymore.
His mouth opens and close, before he speaks, “Maybe not as a professor,” he says softly, taking a step forward, “but I think I do as your—“
“I’m not ‘your’ anything—“ you interrupt him, taking a step back, “I’m only a student, and your advisee, nothing else, Professor Geto,” you’re turning to leave, “let’s reschedule after all, I have somewhere to be,”
You had to be somewhere that wasn’t here — here with dredged up emotions that had no right belonging to you. Ones that you thought you had moved past, ones that shouldn’t hurt you the way they do now, and ones that you don’t know how to stop from spilling from your lips.
“You’re not just—“
“Did you hear that she would wait for you?” you don’t turn to look back at him, “I wish you could have done the same,” you give him a second, one second longer than he gave you when he broke up with you, to reply, but he says nothing, “I’ll email you a few times to meet next week, just send me any edits you have on my pages.”
The door clicks behind you as you leave the classroom behind, wondering if you had ever rid yourself of your feelings, or if you had simply buried it—
And now, you are starting to unearth it — and your world may crumble underneath you along with it.
There was something wrong with him.
But there always was — when it came to you.
Suguru stared at the email you had sent later that week, opting to skip the in person meeting again for the third week in a row. The semester was over half over — and now the other department head had started in Kyoto, so he had a little more free time — and yet he couldn’t use it to help you, at least not really.
Your thesis was shaping up — you were on the right track now, and he knew your paper would need little edits before being submitted for peer review. And when it did, a journal would be lucky to publish it. By that standard, he could take a more hands off approach — but he never wanted to be hands off, not with you.
He wanted nothing more than to take you into his arms, fingers trace the curve of your cheek as he’s done countless times before, and press a kiss to those lips that consume his consciousness.
But he couldn’t.
Not when he was the one who had broken your heart, when you had managed to piece it back together, and when you had found happiness with someone else.
Something he wasn’t sure he could ever do.
Mei Mei was an unforeseen complication — a donor that made some generous investments in the university — trivial with the amount of wealth she possessed, mostly due to Satoru’s convincing. And Satoru was the reason she had decided to sit in on his class — and he was stuck entertaining her, while his best friend was away on his sabbatical. And he couldn’t resist an opportunity to fuck with him while he was away — his apparent revenge after Suguru had avoided his texts.
And your reaction was—not what he expected. He pursed his lips, you were jealous right? That’s what you seemed to imply with your words — as if Mei Mei was a friend he would be interested in. The pot calling the kettle black — when you were the one to move on first. A sigh caught in his throat, not that he had any right to complain. Not when it was his fault.
But when the only person he was truly in love with was in front of him — the pain in your gaze as fresh as it was the day he had broken up with you — it was hard to hold back, especially when he wanted nothing more than to—
And then there was a knock at his door, “it’s me,” your voice came through the wood, his eyes sliding to the time, it was late into the evening, “can I come in?”
“Yes, come in,”
“I apologize, I just had a few questions I wasn’t able to ask over email, and since I was on campus, I thought—“
He shakes his head, your rambles still as endearing as they always were — though you had kicked the habit in your papers, you couldn’t help but ramble in the way you spoke, “No need to explain, what can I help you with?”
You lean back, hands folded in your lap, “Do you remember when we discussed the concept of a happiness pump as a criticism of utilitarianism?”
“Yes, in class, we discussed it — the idea of someone who will do anything to make others happy, even if it makes them miserable,” he tilts his head, as he leans back in his chair, eyes betraying him as he watches your dress ride up ever so slightly as you cross your legs — he forces his gaze to your face, “do you plan on using it in your thesis—“
Your eyes could cut stone with its biting glare, “No, I don’t, I wanted to talk about it in context of why you broke up with me — do you plan on being a happiness pump for the rest of your life? Or is that simply for me?”
His mind moves slowly as his words do, “what—“
“Because it’s only for me, it’s flattering — if it’s what you do for everyone, well, it’s just exhausting,” you scoff, twirling a strand of your hair with your finger, “especially when your idea of what will make others happy is so misled,”
“And how’s that?” He says through gritted teeth.
And you’re rising from your chair, “You think my happiness means to make yourself miserable, when it does nothing more than make me unhappy,” you’re rounding the desk, fingertips dragging over the edge of the surface, “do you want to spend the rest of your life miserable? Do you think that girlfriend of yours will make you happy?”
“She’s not—“ and your heels clicking against the wood cuts him off.
And you’re only drawing closer and closer, and he can’t bring himself to speak — words caught in his throat because he knew anything he uttered would break this spell, and he wanted nothing more than to succumb, “pumped full of unhappiness when it could very well be the opposite—“ and your hand is sliding up his chest, toying with the top buttons of his button-up, lips ghosting his ear as you whisper, “when you know I know exactly how to pump you, don’t I?”
“Sweetheart, please, we can’t—“ and your fingers finding the buckle of his belt, a gasp lodged in his throat, as your hand grazes his tenting bulge, twitching against your thumb as it runs over the clothed tip, “fuck—“
“We could be so happy, like before,” your lips brush against his, and he crumbles under your touch — his resistance crumbles like a statue made to wait, and god, he’s waited so long for this — too long.
His lips find yours in a bruising kiss, the way he’s wanted to since he had watched you leave that day — the way he should have, the way he should have grabbed your hand and stopped you, pulled you into his arms, and never let you go.
And he never would again.
BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
Suguru jolts awake at the sound of his phone, a paper stuck to his face, drool sticky at the corner of his mouth. He tugs the paper away, rubbing his eyes, as his heart slowly retracts from his throat.
A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair, leaning back in his chair, what the fuck was he doing? Sleeping at his desk again accompanied by wet dreams of you — he thought he had grown from this. But you always sent him right back where he started, his eyes falling to the bulge in his pants. He ignores it, gathering his things and tracing the edge of his desk as he rounded it to leave his office. He took a look over his shoulder at his office that he spent so much time with, he was sure of one thing — he flicked off the light — you would be the one to haunt him.
For the rest of his days.
“Baby, aren’t you gonna get up now?” Yuta murmurs in your ear, pressing sweet kisses to the skin behind it, fingers resting against the nape of your neck, “you said you have to practice for your thesis presentation,”
You mumbled, burying your face in his neck, as the two of you lie entangled on the couch for your mid afternoon Saturday nap, “a few more minutes,”
The semester had been going by far too quick, days slipping into weeks, and now there was just over a month left in the semester. And soon you’d be graduating — his fingers raked gently through your hair — and he didn’t exactly know what that meant for the two of you.
He still has a year left in his program, and you were going to be moving on — though you weren’t sure exactly where. And he would be here — but what then? Would it be a long distance relationship ? Would you look for opportunities here? Or would it be something else?
He didn’t want to think about other possibilities.
So many of his friends had warned him not to date while in grad school — that it would only end in heartbreak, and the more significant fact that it would always end. Your face nuzzled into his neck, warm breath still warming his skin, as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head — and he never wanted to be apart, not from you.
“Baby,” you mumble, “what time is it?” And he can’t help but smile at you, as he reaches for his phone.
“It’s almost four-thirty,” and you groan softly, wrapping your arms around him tighter, “you still have time before you have to go practice don’t you?”
“No, I reserved the classroom until seven, if I don’t go now, I won’t have enough time to practice,” you kiss his neck, “I have to get as much practice in this month before doing my defense,” You untangle your limbs from his and haul yourself to your feet, his body already mourning the absence of your heat. He watches you make your way to the bedroom to change, the door still open as you strip your shirt off.
His gaze admires you as you do, shifting to sitting up, his chin leaning against the back of the couch, “When is your defense again?”
“It’s in three weeks,” you sigh, as you tug a shirt over your head, “I’m so nervous, I have to start practicing now or I’ll drive myself insane,” and you’re stripping off your shorts in exchange for some jeans, “my advisor, many of my professors, students from the department, and maybe some undergrads might attend,” you turn, as you finish changing, catching his admiring gaze with a slight smirk, “and unlike you, they won’t just be interested in staring at me,”
“I think some of them definitely will,” he smiles, and you walk over, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to his lips, “at least, I’ll be, if you let me,”
Your lips curl, “Oh yeah? I think I’ll be distracted if you keep giving me this puppy dog look, baby,” you kiss his nose, “might make me walk over in the middle of the defense and kiss you,”
A soft chuckle leaves his throat, “That would cause a scene, but I could also be some moral support — a friendly face,”
“More than friendly, you’re selling yourself short, Yu,” you kiss him again, and he can taste the lingering salt and butter of the popcorn you two had ate earlier during your afternoon movie turned nap time, “but I think having you there would make me more nervous, so is it okay if we just have dinner to celebrate or cheer me up after?”
His brows knit together, “You don’t want me there?” but Geto gets to be there? The unspoken feelings he can’t find in him to voice, the words lodged in his chest, ricocheting off his ribs if only to free themselves from his anxious heart to spill from his lips — but they don’t.
“I do, Yu, of course, but I think having you there will just make me more nervous, I’ll just keep looking at you instead of addressing the whole audience, and…” you bite your lip, “with Professor Geto already having to be there, I think I would spend the whole time worrying about the two of you together than about my defense,”
And his heart sinks — your ex gets to be there, but he doesn’t? At one of your most important moments? He knows logically the only reason you ask because you can’t ask Geto — but it doesn’t hurt any less. Does he always have to be the nice one? The mature one? Couldn’t he argue with you?
No, but he could ask.
“Do you think I’ll make a scene or that he’ll—“ and you’re shaking your head, your fingers cupping his cheek.
“Of course not. I know you would do nothing but support me, but still forcing you two of be in the room together,” you press a kiss to his forehead, “even if you say it’s okay, I know it’s still hard,” his lips part, but you add, “and it would be awkward for me too. And I can’t do anything about Geto, but I can ask you,”
You could always ask him. He would do anything for you — but did his feelings matter as much to you?
“Of course, I understand,” your lips curl, and you’re pulling him into a hug, you rake your fingers through his hair.
“Are you sure?” You murmur, pressing your forehead to his, “you can tell me if you’re not okay with it,”
He could tell you that he’s not — he could tell you that it’s important for him to come, for everyone to see that he was important to you, for him to see that he was important. But it wasn’t about him. This was your defense, shouldn’t you have a right to have who you want there?
Even if it wasn’t him.
“It’s fine baby, I just want to support you,” he kisses your lips, “but I’ll plan something special for after you pass your defense — because I know you will,”
You kiss him again, softer and fuller this time, as your fingers run down his cheek, “You don’t have to plan anything — I just want you, and maybe some food,” and he chuckles, as you place butterfly kisses all over his face, “I love you,”
And he knew you did — you loved him — and that was enough, right?
“I love you too,” and you’re pulling away, as you pull on your shoes and grab your bag.
“I’ll be home by eight, should I grab dinner?” and he leans back on the couch, nodding, “I’ll see you when I get home okay?”
And he was the one you always came home to — the one you wanted to come home to — and that was enough.
“See you soon, baby.”
For now.
You enter the lecture hall, the door closing behind you with a click that rings in the silence.
Of course.
Of course you ended up with the lecture hall you had with Suguru’s class. You round the podium at the bottom, and give a terse chuckle, how had it been so long but so little time? How many days had you watched him lecture here — only to end up falling for him after? Even despite how much you hated him — it was so easy.
And still so hard.
You set up your phone to record yourself, if only so you could fine tune your presentation, and see any spots that you struggle. You prop it up, making sure it’s framed correctly on the desk directly in front of you. You run through your presentation once, noting spots for improvements or thoughts for potential questions people could pose during your defense.
You flipped through a few pages of your notes — wondering how this semester had flown by.
The rest of your thesis was completed over email — brief email exchanges and your thoughts exchanged through notes scrawled on the pages he scanned to you. It was better this way — you didn’t have to see him. You didn’t have to see the smile on his lips that you didn’t put there, a stray lipstick mark on his collar that you didn’t stain, or the happiness in his voice that you didn’t cause.
No, you didn’t need to see that.
But you didn’t know why.
Why did the idea of him moving on irk you when you had already moved on? You weren’t vindictive — your fingers drumming against the podium — you wanted him to be happy, to find someone who made him happy — maybe in all the ways you couldn’t. But the stubborn thought remained — the same one that kept you up crying every night after he broke your heart and haunted you even in your happiest of nights — that he could have had it all with you — but he didn’t. And now here you both were, fake smiles plastered in front of each other whenever your paths crossed, as if those lips hadn’t murmured ‘I love you’ before in the quiet of the night.
But why did it matter? You were happy with Yuta, you had moved on, and yet — when you saw Suguru with her, it felt as if the stitches holding your heart together had come undone, and you were back — right where you started.
But it didn’t matter. Either way the thesis was complete, and now all that was left in front of you was the defense, then you would be done — with this project, with your degree, and with Suguru.
But would you ever be done with him?
There was a knock at the door, and you turn only to find Suguru leaning against the frame, “Sorry to interrupt,”
Apparently you would never be.
Your shock lasts a moment, before your eyes flicker back to your stack of papers, “Do you need something?” The question comes more bitingly than you intended, but you don’t bother to gauge his reaction, focusing on mindlessly rifling through your presentation.
“I forgot my notes for tomorrow’s class,” he says, quiet steps ringing in the silence of the lecture hall, “didn’t mean to interrupt,” and you’re gathering your notes, catching a glimpse before you step back from the podium, “are you practicing for your defense?”
“I am,” your answer is as terse as your emails, eyes fixed anywhere but where Suguru stood, as he pulled his file from one of the shelves inside the podium.
“Do you need any help?” He asks, and you almost want to ask: ‘haven’t you helped me enough?’ But you don’t, only shaking your head in reply. The silence drags on for far too long, “can we talk?”
Your muscles tense, a bow drawn taut for an argument, but you would draw blood first, “What is there to talk about, Professor—“
His calm facade cracks, irritation seeping in like poison through the fractures,“You don’t need to call me that—“
“I do,” you cut him off, “because that’s what you are. My professor. Nothing more,” and it’s a line in the sand you’ve drawn since you’ve met again, one he hasn’t dared to toe, much less cross, until now.
His voice is broken, “We were so much more,” yes, you both were. He was everything to you as you were to him — but that was before. And this was now.
“Operative words are key, Professor — ‘were’ is past tense,”
“But we’re here now, aren’t we? How long are we going to avoid discussing this?”
You scoff, “am I the one who avoided it? Do I have to discuss it now on your terms — when you didn’t even give me a chance to make my own decisions before?” Your fingers curl into fists, “you broke me, you broke me and now you come back wanting to talk as if you didn’t do the breaking to begin with? You don’t get to come back when I’m fixed,” the bottled emotions burst at the seams of its lid, the contents more vile than when they were placed inside, resentment fermented into rage.
“I know,” he says softly, “I’m not trying to come back, not if that’s what you don’t want. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I left you. I thought it was the best for you—“
“Because you know better than I do?” You give a bitter chuckle, “do you know infantilizing it is to have someone make your decisions for you? I know what I wanted, Suguru, and I would have chosen you, every time—“
“That was the problem,” he cuts you off, “I wanted you to choose yourself,”
“Do you not understand that choosing you is choosing myself too? Because it would have been a choice for me, for us, for us to be happy,”
And those words seem to sink in the silence, his eyes averting from yours, a hand scrubbing down his face.
“You’re right,” he finally says, “I’m sorry,” his words are quiet, but heavy — a rock sinking slightly into near still waters, “I wanted you to have everything, but I didn’t take into consideration what that meant to you,” he says, “I suppose I didn’t consider what I owe you,” he adds, and you shake your head, a small smile on your lips.
“Shut up,” a chuckle leaves your lips despite yourself, cooling the white hot anger to warm wistfulness, “I wish it could have worked out,” and he nods, a small frown on his lips.
“Me too,”
“But maybe it was for the best,” and his eyes find yours, as you step back to the podium to place your papers down, “it was never going to work between us. It was already too complicated to begin with, and when we finally got together, there was a time limit,” you find his gaze again, unreadable, “maybe it was for the best we moved on,” he doesn’t reply, “I should get back to work,”
He nods, as he turns to leave, casting a glance back over his shoulder, “Let me know if you need help with anything. Practice or otherwise, has the final formatting of your thesis been approved?”
“It hasn’t yet, but I believe I followed the guidelines correctly, so there shouldn’t be an issue,” you say, and he nods, as the door clicks open, as he turns the handle, “thank you again, for everything,” and there’s far too much that can encompass everything that he did even in that word, but you meant it all the same. Everything he did had led you to this moment, and you would never be ungrateful for the impact he had.
“Of course, I’ll always be there for you, anytime,” his eyes find yours, lips curled in a wanting smile that wishes to say more, “even when I actually do move on.”
And he’s gone in a moment, the door shutting behind him, as your gaze is fixed on the place he just stood — lips parted.
What?
“Professor,” you stop him, fingers reaching for him, even as you promised you wouldn’t — wouldn’t put yourself here again, wouldn’t find yourself falling into his grasp again, but here you were again — you never learned your lesson. But you wondered if that made you a bad student or him a bad professor, “what do you mean?”
He’s turning only for your hand to grasp onto the sleeve of his jacket, your name leaving his lips but you cut him off.
The question wavers on your lips, “Are you not with—“
“No, I’m not. She’s just a friend, like I said,” he runs his fingers through his hair, “I know it’s ironic for me to be the one to break up with you, and not have moved on, but, I haven’t,” his fingers brush against your own holding his jacket, before slowly intertwining, “I don’t know if I ever will,”
“Well, some philosophers believe in endurantism — the past is dead, and we live here and now — we can’t do anything about what happened then — we’re whole right now, and not defined by what happened then, or what happens in the future,” your fingers squeeze his, “if we let this go, we could just exist now — the past erased and the future unclear — but we’re no less whole, are we?” your fingers slowly let go of his — but his don’t. He only clings to your fingers still, stubbornly laced.
“Perhaps you aren’t,” and he’s gently tugging you closer, you don’t find yourself resisting, but instead leaning into his touch, “but I always find myself clinging to my past — when you’re contained within it,” he lifts your hand to his lips, “what future do I have without you?” He presses a soft kiss that steals your logic, “and what present is worth being in that I don’t get to spend at your side?”
“Suguru—“ and he sighs, as draws closer to you, breath warming your lips.
“Been so long since I’ve heard you say my name,” his lips ghost your jaw, barely not brushing against it, “my name doesn’t sound the same unless it’s leaving your lips,”
“We shouldn’t,” but even so, the back of his hand lightly drags against your why shouldn’t you? Not when it felt so good, not when it felt this right, and your lips graze his, “Suguru,” you’re murmuring, the faint lingering taste of coffee on his lips, “fuck—“
RING. RING. RING.
Your eyes flutter open to find yourself in bed alone, your hand reaching beside you only to find more of your blanket and more pillows beside you, as it dawns on you.
A dream. Of course. A sigh stuck in your throat — no, you had watched him leave that night without another word, even though you had so many to say, but none at all. And even now, you didn’t know what to say — to Suguru, to yourself, or to Yuta.
So you said nothing. And instead, you’re left with an aching in your chest as you grab your phone to find a text from Yuta—
Had to go in early today— I’ll see you for dinner, baby
You lock your screen and place your phone on the nightstand, before turning back around to bury yourself in bed — as if staying in bed would bury your feelings along with yourself—
Because that’s not whose text you wanted to see.
“You’re home,” Yuta says when he walks through the door to find you lying on the couch and scrolling on your phone.
“No ‘hi you’re home?’” And Yuta snorts, as he strips off his clothes, and walks in to place a kiss on your lips, burying his face in the crook of your neck, drawing a giggle from your lips, “I missed you too,”
“I thought you were going to practice today. Your defense is the day after tomorrow. I didn’t think I’d get to see you out of a classroom until tomorrow evening when it was done,” you run your fingers through his dark locks, “thought I’d have to pry you away from your notecards,”
“Ha, ha,” you kiss his cheek, brushing your nose against it, “I thought it would be good to take a break tomorrow, and I’m just exhausted after all the practice I did tonight,” you sigh, and he’s on the couch beside you, wrapping his arms around your middle, “this seems like a much better use of my time,” you settle into his arms, “how was your day?”
Yuta shrugs, kissing your shoulder, “Better now,” and you chuckle, rumbling against his skin, sending a shiver up his spine as you lean over, his cheeks a pretty flush that only makes your lips curl, “it’s been too long since we got time like this. I don’t even know where to start,” he nuzzled the side of your face.
You turn your head to kiss him fully, lips sliding against his, voice a quiet murmur, “then let’s make our time count,” your sweet kiss grows deeper, your tongue at the seam of his lips that he parts for you. You swallow his moan with a smirk on your lips, your body moving against his slowly, his tenting erection catching on your clit through the far too thin material of your shorts.
“Fuck,” you murmur, as you slowly begin to grind on his bulge, the delicious friction too much for him as well, head lolling back against the couch, “Yu, s’good,”
“Mm,” Yuta parts from your lips, panting as your lips press eager kisses down his neck, a desperation he hadn’t sensed before from you, “baby, slow down,” and you almost don’t seem to hear him, as your fingers find their way between your bodies to touch him through his joggers, “ngh, you don’t need to—“
But you seemingly do, as your thumb flicks against the tip, a soft hiss escapes his lips, “like that, pretty boy?” You’re murmuring in his ear, “gonna make you feel so good, because you’re s’good f’me,”
And you’re slipping his joggers and boxers down to free his cock, stroking him from base to tip, lovely beads of precum dripping down his length and your knuckles.
“Fuck,” he’s covering his face with his hand, his fingers grasping at your hips, before eager fingers slide between your thighs and underneath your underwear, drawing a lovely gasp from your lips, “wanna make you feel good too, baby,” as his fingers circle your dripping entrance teasingly, a smirk on his lips, as he sinks one then two fingers in knuckle deep—
“Yu—“ your hand stills for a moment as his fingers work their way against your drenched insides, “fuck—“ and you’re melting into his arms — and maybe this was just what you both needed.
“This was so nice,” you mumble against his chest later, pressing soft kisses against his skin as the two of you laid entangled in the afterglow, “it’s been too long,”
He hums, “It was perfect,” his fingers skim down your cheek, “you know we could have this every day,” and you chuckle, the corner of your lips curled mischievously.
“Do you have the stamina for that?” you tease, painting a heated flush across his cheeks, as he rolls his eyes.
“I mean, we could go to sleep like this every night, and wake up together every morning if we moved in together,” and you blink at him, his nervousness overcoming him as he begins to backpedal, “w-we don’t have to! I just thought I’m ready for the next step with you. And I want to—“
You cut him off with a soft kiss, pausing his worries and anxiety in the syrupy sweetness of your kiss, before you pull away, “I think I need some time to think about it,”
And he nods, “take all the time you need, baby,” pressing a kiss to your forehead, but a thought still niggles into the forefront of his mind that he can’t help but dwell on—
Would you say yes if it was Geto asking?
It always seemed that you were ready when it came to him. Ready to be with him, no matter what the consequence, willing to make it work — but with him, it felt as if he was always the one chasing, and you were reluctantly within his grasp.
As you drew closer into his arms as the two of you settled down to sleep, his fingers running softly through your hair, he wondered how long it would be until he felt as if he wasn’t the one desperately holding onto you, even as you seemingly always slipped away.
Even as he held you against his chest, heartbeat under where your head laid. He knew you were the one who had his heart.
He could only hope you wouldn’t drop it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” it wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it was always like this. No matter how well prepared you felt, something always managed to go wrong at the last minute. It was always when you were lulled into a false sense of security, only to have a rude awakening—
And this time it came in the form of an email rejecting your thesis formatting as incorrect. An email that came in that morning, but you had slept through, choosing to sleep in past noon after last night. And when your eyes fluttered open, Yuta was gone already for the day, you rolled over to check your email when you saw it.
Fuck.
You barely had time to text Yuta what had happened before rushing to the library to seek possible help from the librarians — fuck, you would have paid every overdue library charge if necessary. You didn’t want to wait another semester to present again. It would be more time wasted, more time spent working towards something you’re already for, more time spent in this place that you didn’t want to linger in any longer.
How had you managed to fuck it up so bad? Now every one of your citations and in text citations would need to be redone, along with reformatting by 5:00 PM today. And it was already 2:00 PM.
But maybe you were going to have to, as you rushed to pull the library door open, only to find it was closed this weekend due to scheduled maintenance.
Double fuck.
Your eyes burned with tears that you didn’t want to shed right now. You had no time to cry. You had no time to panic. But it was all you wanted to do — just crawl into bed and cry.
You were turning back around to leave, when you nearly ran into—
He steadies you, his fingers brushing your shoulders, as his lips part to greet you, but his brow furrows when he sees your expression, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
And that wasn’t the right question to ask.
Tears slip from your eyes before words can, as Suguru blinks, concern flooding his face, as his hand finds yours and he takes you to his office nearby. It takes a few minutes for you to calm down (several tissues later) and you finally explained to him what happened.
His hand never leaves yours.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to waste another semester here, I can’t do that. I want to graduate—“
“Listen, slow down for a second, ok?” His voice is soft, soothing your anxiety like a balm, even as your nerves flare as your eyes flicker to the time again, “There’s time to fix this and go get it resubmitted before 5:00 PM. But, even if you do have to do another semester, what’s so bad about that?”
You shake your head, biting your bottom lip, “I can’t waste time like that. I already said I was graduating. If I have to stay another semester,” more tears trail down your cheeks, your nails digging into your knees, “how could I face anyone after how hard I worked?”
Suguru whispers your name, his fingers brushing against your cheek, “what’s another semester? Nothing will change. No one will view you any differently. But the more important thing is how you view yourself — and you know how hard you worked. You’ll be fine,”
You’re wiping your tears, sniffling, unable to meet his gaze, “How do you have so much faith in me?”
He gives a brief chuckle, “It’s you — how could I not?” And your eyes finally lift to meet his, as his thumb rubs lightly back and forth across your cheek, before he clears his throat, “we have time to get it resubmitted,”
“‘We?’” and he stands up to grab a copy of your thesis and the error notes you had shown him.
“Well I can’t have you do it, otherwise you’ll end up submitting it late,” and you huff, a watery chuckle leaving your throat, “come on.”
“Suguru?” You call softly, as he turns, blinking at the sound of his name, “thank you.”
“Of course.” and he smiles that damnable smile that made you fall for him — your heart squeezing and thudding against its bony cage, an aching that left you longing — a glance at your phone with Yuta’s notification that sent that longing sinking like a stone into the pit of your stomach.
No. It wasn’t that.
It wasn’t. Not if you let it be.
“I’m sorry,”
It had been quiet for sometime as the two of you made edits — him on the actual physical copy, while you edited the digital. The quiet scrape of his pen against paper and the clack of your keys are the only sound in his office. The very same one that the two of you had built your relationship from, and now here you were again. Except there was no banter, no smiles shared, nor even a knowing glance exchanged.
There was only silence.
Until you spoke first.
It was a silence you weren’t accustomed to — a layer of awkwardness that had settled between the two of you as if to bandage the honesty that had shredded the false student-professor only relationship you had superimposed on top of the two of you.
Only for you to claw your way out — and claw him open as well.
But no bandage can seal a gaping wound for long, and there was only one way to deal with a bandage effectively, by ripping it off.
His eyes draw up slowly from the pages in front of him, glasses perched on the tip of his nose so precariously that you wanted to push them back, “You have nothing to be sorry for — and you know it’s better to thank than apologize — I’m always here to help,”
But that wasn’t what you were apologizing for.
“I meant for the other day,” you say softly, guilt was crawling at your throat.
His gaze grows heavy, “There’s nothing to apologize for that either. You were right,” he adds, “I made decisions for us, when it should have been a discussion — especially when I said it was for you—“
“I wasn’t sorry I said it,” you gently cut him off, fingers knitted together in your lap, “but I’m sorry for where and how I said it. It wasn’t the time or place for that.”
“It’s really ok,” he tells you, a glance at his face telling you that it really was, “I would have yelled at myself far sooner, and nothing you said wasn’t true,” his hand tugs at his tie, loosening it, his fingers wrapped around the fabric, “I wish I did it differently,”
You shouldn’t ask the question but it falls from your lips before you can stop it, “What would you have done differently?”
And he gives a smile worthy of melancholy’s grasp, “I would have kept my promise to you,” and you know which one he means without him needing to say, “I would never have left you, if I hadn’t been too busy being a happiness pump,” and those words stir warm coals in a fire you thought was long put out — but somehow burns still, a flicker of a promise for a spark.
One you couldn’t stoke.
“Well, you make an excellent one,” and he scoffs, “no really, I’ve never seen someone so unhappy trying to make someone else happy before,”
“I wouldn’t say, ‘so unhappy—’” his pout is far too cute for your own good.
“Can really tell your life fell apart without me,” you say completely teasingly, as your lips curl, only to find his eyes on you still, “what?”
He only shakes his head, “only regretting not giving you lower than a 99 on your final paper,” and you gape at him as he bites back a chuckle, “I am the department head, maybe I could—“
“You mess with my grades—“ and your phone goes off — it’s Yuta. A text asking if everything was ok, before his face lights up your phone screen, and you’re not quick enough to avoid the awkward moment where Suguru sees it, “sorry I—“
“Go take it. I have plenty to get through,”
“But—“ but he’s already back to reviewing your citations as if nothing had happened as you pick up the call, screech of your chair as you get up to take the call, “hey, yeah I can talk—“ and the door is closing behind you as you step outside.
You don’t see the way he leans back, scrubbing a hand down his face to rest at his lips, “What am I doing?”
And he really didn’t know — as always, when it came to you.
“You’ll do amazing,” Yuta pressed another kiss to your lips, as you did the final adjustments to your outfit for the defense, “I can’t wait to celebrate with you,”
“I know, I can’t wait for it to be over,” you sigh, pulling him into your arms, your chin perched on his shoulder, “you still haven’t told me what we’re doing,”
He chuckles, his fingers cupping your cheek, “I told you it’s a surprise, so telling you would defeat the purpose,” you turn away to look at yourself again, “you look perfect,”
“You’re just saying that because you’re too nice,” you grumble and he laughs, as you bite your lip, meeting his gaze in the mirror, “I’m sorry about not having you there,”
And he feels a twinge in his chest, he had spent the last few days not trying to think about that. It wasn’t important that he was there — it was important that you’d be coming home to him. That’s what mattered — or that’s what he kept telling himself.
“It’s okay,” he intertwined his fingers with yours, and squeezed your hand, “I’ll be here after, waiting for your good news. Because I know it will be,” and his arms pulled you against him, and he can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t want to let go.
Even if you were ready to go.
You barely remembered what you said.
You remembered how your stomach turned and twisted in knots you didn’t know were physically possible as you made your way to the building where your defense was being held. Your fingers kept twiddling with your phone, checking the location and date listed in your email a million times to ensure you hadn’t missed your defense already or that you didn’t imagine your citations were accepted. You were sure your clothes would wrinkle from the sheer anxiety cladding through your veins, the vibration of nerves enough to beat creases into your freshly pressed clothes.
And you remembered seeing Suguru right when you walked in. He stood behind the table with the other members of the committee, chatting — and objectively, you hated how unfairly pretty he was. His long, inky hair tucked into a neat bun today, choosing to wear a crisp white button down, opting for no tie, but a off white sweater vest and black suit jacket over his shoulders, and lips curled in a small smile that only grows warmer when he catches sight of you from the corner of his eye. And it must be nerves, the way your heart flutters within your chest and the way that heat clings to your cheeks — nothing more.
Your eyes slide to him again — no one else.
You remembered how people filled into the classroom that you were defending your thesis in, as you shuffled around the front, setting up your presentation and notes for talking points. You spotted Maki, Panda, and Inumaki walk in, undoubtedly Yuta’s doing, along with a few of your other friends from the program. Your hands shook ever so slightly, even as you wrung them — a nervous habit you had picked up before large presentations or important milestones.
And then as people took their seats and it was 4:00 PM, it was time for your defense. You took a breath for a second — and your gaze finds not your friends, but Suguru’s. He offers you a smile, a look that tells you that he believes in you — always more than you ever had.
So you begin.
You don’t remember what you said — but you remember speaking as you did a million times before in practice. You remember making an adlib or two that draws a few chuckles from your audience. But what you mostly remember is the few glances you stole from Suguru who listened intently, a mouthed encouragement when you took a pause.
And soon you were answering questions after concluding the main part of your presentation. You are fielding them from professors and students alike, until there was only time left for one more. There was silence for several moments — it felt like hours, the committee conferring and speaking amongst themselves.
“I think I can take one last question,” and your eyes darted over the group, finding no hands, until one slowly went up — one you were familiar with, “Professor Geto?”
Of course he would have a question — no less, the last one.
“I just had one comment about your thesis, not a question,” and with how he had poked and prodded at the fire of your work from the moment you met him — the way he pushed you head first into the flames, if only to temper the best version of your work, and of yourself. And even though you had burned yourself one too many times, you couldn’t help but reach for it again and again, “after conferring with the committee, congratulations, you passed your defense.”
The audience claps and congratulates you, a sea of shaking hands and kind words while you recover from the defense. But as the crowd disperses, you find Suguru walking towards you.
A silence settles over the two of you for a moment — a want to speak lingering between you two, but no words said. Why was it always when you had so much to say you found none of the thoughts you wanted to express? There wasn’t enough time — but they would never be.
But he breaks it first.
“Congratulations on your defense. You did wonderfully,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, as you bite your lip, cheeks burning.
“No remark about me being on time? Or any little criticisms? I’m shocked. You’ve lost your edge, Professor,” he chuckles, shaking his head.
“Oh, there will be time for that later,” he replies, his hand slipping out from his pocket only to be placed gently on your shoulder, “but right now, I just want you to know I’m proud of your determination and grit, but mostly, I’m proud of you,”
His name almost slips from your lips as your mouth opens and closes, words stuck in your throat, “Thank you. It means so much,” especially from you. But you can’t say that, “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me,”
“You don’t owe me anything,” and you chuckle, gaze finding his own, just as it always did.
“Don’t I? I think I owe you a drink, I never did buy you one after all — purely for networking purposes,” you add, “and a thank you for saving my ass on these citations,”
And he’s shaking his head, “All I did is what you what have done for anyone else,”
“And you wouldn’t?” And he shrugs.
“For a student? Maybe. For you? Always,” and you bite your lip, gaze falling, “what is it?
“Why?” ‘Why for me?’ was the question you wanted to ask but you couldn’t push the words past your lips even as they rested on your tongue.
But he knew the words.
“You know the reasons,” he says softly, “I know you have nothing but amazing things ahead, and I’d do anything to see you reach your goals,”
And he would. He did.
“I can agree with that,” a hand clasps your shoulder, Yaga gives a small smile, “good job,”
“Professor Yaga, oh my god,” you grin, resisting the urge to hug him, “how are you? Are you feeling better?”
“I’m well enough. Treatment has been honestly shit, but my son is doing a good enough job looking after me,” Yaga rubs the back of his head, “that and balancing classes hasn’t been easy for the kid.”
“Your son goes here?” Professor Yaga points at a familiar cluster of three, “Panda?” You didn’t really see a family resemblance but you supposed you didn’t have to.
He nods, “but I’m not here to talk about him,” he holds his hand out to you, “I’m very proud of you. I know you have a bright future ahead. I apologize I couldn’t help—“
“You did too much. Thank you Professor Yaga,” and then others are calling for you, “if you both will excuse me,”
“Of course, I need to speak to Suguru so it’s just as well,” and your attention is pulled, but the corner of your eye still watches him, watches him leave the leave — leaving you behind here. Just as it should be, your gaze sliding back, as your fingers rested against your chest.
So why did it hurt so much?
Yuta was late — it seems he always was, when it came to you.
Even so, this time it was somewhat purposely, but he still had tried to be on time. He wanted to at least hear the very end of your defense, if not in sight, then outside the classroom. But he had run late, trying to straighten out reservations he made at a restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for months. He had finally convinced them to bring out a cake as if to celebrate your birthday, but for your thesis. It was silly, as Yuta half walked half sprinted to the room of your defense, only to find it was over.
The doors to the lecture hall had been opened after your defense finished, some people filing out, while others lingered to speak to you or others. Yuta held the bouquet of flowers behind him, scanning the group for you — and his eyes fell on you — with Geto.
You were both off to the side, speaking alone, his hand clasped on your shoulder, before slipping off. And it was clear from the way he looked at you — that he felt the same for you as he always did. And you—
You looked the same, as you always did, when it came to Geto.
Yuta’s fingers squeeze at the base of the flowers, plastic crinkling under his grasp. He hadn’t asked why you had stopped meeting with him for your thesis — almost a relief to have your correspondence all over email, and not to face dealing with the weekly meetings. He hadn’t asked, but he could assume some sort of argument happened, a discussion, a confession maybe — something you hadn’t broached with him. And a part of him really didn’t want you to. He didn’t want to have the boat rocked on him — but—
As he watched you become pulled away when another professor joined your conversation, and Geto was pulled away out of the room by that same professor — Yuta saw your eyes follow Geto’s back. The two walk past Yuta without notice, engrossed in their conversation, and Yuta catches a few snippets of it before they’re out the door.
And he turned back to you — he knew he may have to be the one to rock it. Because the ship had already begun taking in water — and it was either he grasped onto the side with white knuckles and went down with it, or he let it go, letting it fall into the wreckage. He glanced away from you, starting to walk off towards the exit — because maybe this ship wasn’t made to sail, but to sink.
And he couldn’t let himself drown — even for you.
You checked your phone again as you left — no phone calls, not even a text back. You bit your lip as you made your way back to the apartment. You had already called him three times, but your anxiety was getting the better of you. He had told you he would meet you after the defense, but there wasn’t any sign of him.
You opened the door to your place, keys jingling as head inside to find him sitting on the couch. You put your things down, as you head to the living room.
“Yu? Are you okay? You weren’t picking up—“ and you see a bag of his things packed, “Yuta?”
“Sorry I made you worry, baby, I just thought,” he sighs, unable to meet your gaze as he looks in front of him, “I thought I could wait, but I can’t,”
“Yuta, what? What’s—“
Your name leaves his lips, cutting you off gently, as he finally looks at you, gaze heavy, “we need to break up.”
You don’t have words.
No, you have one word.
“Why?” You ask, as you take steps forward to sit beside him, as your mind struggles to keep up — your certificate still in your hand, the excitement of being done all but extinguished.
“I’m sorry, but don’t you know why?” He asks softly, and your eyebrows knit together, shaking your head,
“What are you talking about?” And you’re wringing your hands, fingers nearly in knots, a sigh parting your lips as you try to soothe yourself, “Yuta, I know I’ve been busy this semester with my thesis, but it’s done with. And we can go back to—“
“We can’t,” and it was so final — so definitive — and without a way for you to have a choice. Yet again. Were you doomed to repeat this cycle? Again and again. With no change in the outcome. And you don’t know what to say, as you scrub a hand down your face.
“Okay then,” and your name slips from his lips, as you cross your arms.
“You don’t understand—“ and your chuckle is so bitter.
“How can I when you haven’t explained? All you’ve said are cryptic things that I’m supposed to piece together what? What am I supposed to know?” Tears slip down your cheek, forcing your voice to stay steady, the stress of the last few months crashing down around you just as your relationship did, “I know that I haven’t been the best girlfriend. And I’m sorry. I really am,” your voice breaks, “But I tried. I tried to communicate. I tried to spend time with you, even when I didn’t have a minute to myself. You knew I’d be busy. You knew that going in and still—“
His voice is gentle, so gentle that it infuriates you — gentle even when he’s hurting you, “It’s not that—“
“Then what is it?” You snap — you were tired of running in circles — you needed an answer, a tangible reason why.
“Geto,” you blink, as the confession settles over his face, “it wasn’t your schedule. It was who you spent it with,” and you’re staring for a moment, expression crumbling under the weight of the truth.
“Yuta, Yu, no—“ you step towards him, but he only sighs, running a hand through his hair, “it was only for my thesis. Nothing happened between us. I promise,”
“I trust you when you say nothing happened,” but his eyes lift to meet yours, “and in a way nothing has happened, because you still love him,”
“yuta—“
“I know you love me, in some way,” the words leave his lips slowly, cutting you each syllable, but you can’t imagine how deeply and how long he’s been cut by these thoughts already, “but not like you love him—“
“That’s not—“
“You know before we started dating, I talked to Maki about how I feel, and I told her I was afraid that you would never look at me the way you look at him,” and the mended pieces of your heart break apart with new cracks with the way his voice wavers, “but all this time, and still, you haven’t. Even today, when I waited outside of the lecture hall, I saw you both together — and I know,” he breaks off, biting his lip, “I know it was him congratulating you, but the way you looked at him hadn’t changed—“
You’re shaking your head, “Yuta, no, no, it’s just a look. I don’t even know how I look at him, but it doesn’t—“
“I do know how you look. It hasn’t changed,” he’s swallowing, his eyes fall to the floor, “and it’s not just that. Do you see a future with me?”
“Of course—“
“When I brought up moving in, you said you’d think about it, but have you?” you open and close your mouth, fingers grasping at the fabric of your clothes, “have you thought about what happens after you graduate? Or what’s next for us?” your silence is answer enough — sinking in for you, as it already did for him — slipping in between your ribs like a well placed dagger — and it had stabbed him all the same too, “you love me, but I don’t think you’re in love with me,”
“Yuta, I do, I do love you—“ and he draws close to you, fingers cupping your cheek.
“But the world doesn’t stop for you when I come near? It doesn’t feel as if I steal your breath when I hold you like this? Does it feel as if you don’t wish to spend a moment without me?”
“Love doesn’t always have to—“
“But it does — to some extent,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “you imagined your future with him didn’t you? Didn’t even want to spend a moment apart?” And he gives a terse chuckle, “we have to break up,”
You don’t want it to be true. You want to fight him, argue, convince him he’s wrong, that the explanation he’s pieced before you is falsified — a distorted version of how you felt conflated by misunderstandings.
But you can’t.
“Yuta, I—“ and he shakes his head, “no, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I didn’t mean—“ your eyes burn with tears, “I’m sorry,”
He smiles softly, pulling you into his arms, “I knew we had rushed in, but I didn’t want to wait, because I thought I’d lose my chance,”
“Yu—“ he kisses your cheek, “I do love you, I do,” and he nods, lips curling sadly, before he pulls you into another hug.
“I know. I love you too.”
But it wasn’t enough — and it wasn’t right.
Not for either of you.
You don’t know how much time you spent in bed after that. The semester had closed out, and you had curled up under your sheets — seemingly a new tradition you had of ending a semester with a break up. You wondered if graduating would end it — and if it didn’t, you might have to reconsider going for your Ph.D. — if only to avoid this pain again.
You stick your head up out of your blanket, glancing at the light pooling in from the window — because time went on no matter how you felt, and the sun rose each day, despite it all.
Yuta had grabbed his things and left a while after. You still could feel the brush of his fingers against your skin as he squeezed your hand one last time.
“You’re still my best friend,” you had told him, forcing your voice to stay even, and he chuckles, a smile on his lips.
“You’re still mine too.”
But even so you hadn’t heard from him in a few days — but you couldn’t blame him. You could only blame yourself. It had become so exceedingly clear that he was right. And you didn’t know how you hadn’t seen it. The anger still lingered, but anger was only the remnants of your love for him that still stubbornly clung to life, despite your efforts to move on.
But moving on wasn’t as simple as finding feelings for someone else — not when you were only ever truly in love with one person.
You were still in love with Suguru.
Despite it all — you hadn’t gotten over him, and you weren’t sure you ever would. If months weren’t enough, would years be? Would you ever get rid of the feelings you had for him, wrapped around your limbs, and had snuck into the crevices of your heart. An invasive species that perhaps you would never eradicate.
But you couldn’t go back now. Not after everything that happened. Not
Your phone goes off, lighting up on your bedside table before beginning to ring, your fingers slipping from inside your cocoon of blankets. You grab your phone — Professor Yaga?
“Hello?”
He greets you with your name, “I hope you’re doing well — I just wanted to reach out to congratulate you again on your successful defense,” you smile, sitting up as you do. The two of you make small talk as he discusses his recovery, reporting that he’s doing well.
“Thank you so much Professor Yaga, for everything, really,” and he chuckles.
“Thank you for being so understanding of my situation — it was difficult, but I’m glad Suguru stepped for in me so well, and I’m sure he’ll do well in Kyoto—“
“He’s going back?” the question spills from your lips before you can even hold your tongue, “I didn’t know you were—“
“I’m not returning yet, but even if I do, I don’t think I will be returning as a department head. So I gave Suguru the choice to stay department head here or move to Kyoto,” and he adds, “I did give him the choice to stay here or move back to Kyoto,”
And your throat is dry, “Oh I see. That’s good for him,” a silence settles over the call for a moment, before Yaga speaks.
“He hasn’t made a decision yet,” Yaga says, and he’s staying for graduation so if you’d like to thank him in person since I interrupted your conversation, II know on good authority that he’s in his office right now,” and he adds, “it’s not too late if someone were to speak to him now,”
You blink, “Professor Yaga—“
“You’re all but graduated so I’m allowed to say this — I wish you both the best. But I know Suguru has never been happier than when he was with you,” you bite your lip, “so for both of your sakes, you should go talk to him,”
“Thank you, Professor, for everything.” And you hang up without much to do, grabbing your bag and keys before heading out the door.
He was right, fingers squeezing around your phone — it’s what you owed him — and yourself.
Suguru sat back in his office, finally done with his papers for his philosophy class. The sun had long fled the sky, along with most staff and students. The end of the semester had come quick, and with it came a quiet and deserted campus with nothing but his grade book and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights in his office to keep him company.
Not that he was craving company.
He loosened his tie, unbuttoning a button or two on his shirt and on his cuffs, and then rolled his sleeves up. He was insane for still insisting on teaching a class amongst the insanity, though he did have another professor step in to co-teach the course. He didn’t know why he had stuck to that sticking point when it was illogical — but, as he gazed down at the stack of final papers strewn in front of him doused in his red ink, he knew it wasn’t a logical reason.
He was rifling through the graded stack, adding the scores to his grade book. This semester has been a mixed bag, a mix of grades — from high to low. Some of the papers were insightful, others were clear that they had only taken this class as a course to blow off. But even of all the high graded essays, not one of the papers compared to yours.
But of course, no one compares to you, and that’s why he needed to leave. He knew that. He wanted you to be happy — even if that didn’t include him. And after this semester, it couldn’t. Being around you was an exercise of torture — Tantalus who had been starving for decades to get a taste of food, only to be hungrier after that morsel. A bite of the apple only makes you want to devour it, core and all.
It was just as Aristotle had said — desire was made of both rational and irrational, and his longing for you is rooted in the rational — because yes, perhaps his body craved you irrationally and carnally, but that was far overshadowed by the need for you after experiencing you for himself. This self made inducement would be the death of him, and Aristotle himself would call him a fool.
But he didn’t need him to — because he was. A fool and a coward, just as you said. He sets down his pen, leaning against his hand, as he looks over at the blank reply email to Yaga with his cursor blinking. It would be for the best if he left for Kyoto again. So you didn’t have to see him again.
And then there was a knock at his office door. He paused, eyes flicking up only to hear your voice through the door, “It’s me,”
He hates the way his breath catches at the sound of you, heart picking up as his eyes flicker to the somewhat late hour and back. No words on his lips except the one thing he can say.
“Come in,”
And you do — you always liked to tease him that he was the one who was unfair when it came to how he looked, but to him, it was you that was unfair. Your hair askew, chest rising and falling quick, clothes a little disheveled and yet, you were always the most gorgeous person he’d met in his life.
You shift in the entryway of the door, squirming seemingly under his gaze, “Is this a bad time?”
Time never was in either of your favor, not ones that she found beguiling, except in a way meant to deceive. But time and time again, he allowed himself to be tricked — if only for a moment with you.
“No, not at all. I just wrapped up grading the final papers,” and you give a soft chuckle, as you close the door behind you, before taking careful steps forward, eyes finding the stack nearly bleeding from his careful cuts and slashes.
“How many red pens did you use up? Fifty?”
“Oh, only forty-nine this time, trying to be more conservative with my usage,” and you scoff, more of a chuckle than a sneer, “plus, I didn’t have a student write several pages over the limit this time—“
You gape at him, and he has to bite back his smile, “It was one page, and you said I could,”
“Bullied into it was more like it,”
“Don’t know of a case where a student could bully a professor into anything,”
“They clearly haven’t had you in their classroom,” and then he adds, a soft smile on his lips, “but I suppose I could see them enjoy being bullied by a student as passionate about the subject — even if my office hours suffered for it,”
“You loved those office hours,” and he wants to say, yes, when you were there — but he can’t. He told himself he wouldn’t cross that line, “and I did too,” you add, and his eyes find yours — but maybe you would cross it instead, “you remember what you said about not being my professor anymore?”
And he did — all those months ago at the end of the first semester you had spent in class together, and he’s nodding, mouth impossibly dry, “Well I’m as good as graduated, so you’re definitely not my professor, not anymore,”
Your name slips from his lips, brow furrowed, a question almost, as if it can’t be what your words implied, but you’re shaking your head, as you pull a folded paper from your bag, unfolding it before sliding it across his desk.
His eyes fall on it, and it’s the note he had written all those months ago — asking you for a drink, and for so much more. He had admired your determination, your wit, your beauty, your intellect, and so many other things he didn’t have space to say —
“Suguru,” and his eyes find yours, and god, why was it so easy to get lost in your heady gaze? “We had said we didn’t want to hurt each other — but I don’t think that’s something that can be avoided. You hurt me,” and he nods, lips parting ready for an apology, “but I’ll probably hurt you — and I probably have already,”
“Sweetheart—“ the pet name falls from his mouth as if it’s second nature, “I—“
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” and the corner of his eyes burn with tears — is this a dream? Because he swears, it would be the cruelest one so far, “I can’t stop loving you, and I’ve tried to—I’ve tried to move on,”
“Maybe it would be for the best,” but you’re shaking your head, as you’re slowly rounding his desk, and the truth can’t help but fall from his lips, “I don’t deserve you—“
“What did I say about making decisions about us without me?” And he sighs, resistance crumbling as you draw far too close — and he couldn’t bear not to reach out, “you have to take responsibility for your actions, don’t you?”
“Sweetheart—“
“You said you haven’t moved on — is that still true?”
His fingers reach across the chasm he had carved between the two of you, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw and the swell of your cheek, just he had wanted to for all these months. And just a taste, a brush of your skin, he’d never let you go again.
“I never could — not from you,” his voice wavers, “every day I missed you — I never wanted to break up with you, I just couldn’t bear to be the reason that you ever hold yourself back from getting something you wanted,” and he gives a bitter chuckle, shaking his head, “who knew I was the one doing that by leaving? And I’m so sorry, I am so—”
And your forehead pressed against his, his words nearly swallowed with a sob, as he squeezes his eyes shut, tears burning a trail down his cheeks, that you gently thumb away before cupping his cheeks, “I want to hear something other than an apology,”
His flutter open, lips brushing against your cheek, “I love you, I always have, sweetheart. I never stopped—” his voice breaks, a crack in the dam enough to spill the truth from his lips and tears from his eyes, “and I promise I’ll never break my promises anymore — that’s a contradiction, but—“ and your fingers find purchase on his cheek, consuming the words on his lips with your touch, “I promise, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,”
Your lips curl, eyes watery as you kiss away one of his tears, “Is that a proposal?” you tease, your other hand slides back through his black locks, twisting one strand around your finger, “seems a little fast for that when you haven’t even kissed me properly yet,”
He snorts softly, clearing his throat ever so slightly, “If memory serves me, we’ve done a lot more than kiss before,” and he’s daring closer, as you lean down, your legs pressed against the lip of his desk, “nearly in this office,” and he’s slipping up from his desk, his breath stolen from his lungs by the whisper of your perfumed skin, and his logic eroded by the heat of your body against his.
“‘Nearly,’” you repeat with a soft hum, as your lips graze his jaw, “then why don’t we fix that?” your lips find his, a chaste kiss, barely a few seconds when you pull away half a centimeter, and he’s already leaning back in for another and another.
The familiar feel of your lips against yours makes him wonder how he had survived without you for so long — falling for you was as natural as breathing and kissing you was needed as oxygen. But each kiss only sends jolt over jolt up and down his body, and he wonders if he were to ever stop again, perhaps his heart would too.
Because all the time he had spent not with you was time spent living — perhaps breathing and existing. But no, he only felt alive when he was at your side — and in your arms. And especially against your lips. Delights in the way your lips part for him like muscle memory, tongue against yours — in a sloppy, desperate kiss that has every ounce of reason sucked from his mind (and likely into your mouth).
He parts if only for air, a string of spit connecting your lips, that he thumbs away, “If I recall, you had something about me not being very ethical last time we did this,” he remarks, his lips parting before kissing down your jaw, your taste an addiction to his deprived lips — a desert wanderer ready to swallow you whole, “and now here you are,” he’s leaning back, as your hand is splayed back against the wood of his desk, your chest rising and falling, lips kiss bitten red and swollen from his own, “what do you call this?” His finger is toying with the top button of your blouse.
“A student taking after her teacher,” your lips find his pulse, teeth grazing his skin as if to taunt him, to goad him to go further, but, and his fingers slip behind. your thighs and squeeze no goading was needed — he was ready to devour you.
And he’s lifting you onto his desk, papers crumpling underneath and pens flung onto the floor, and a gasp caught in your throat as he pins you against it, before tugging his tie off.
“Looks like I still have plenty to teach you.”
“Sugu, fuck,” your fingers thread through his black locks, undone from his bun hy your own hands, your nails digging into his scalp. How long have you been in this office with him now? Half an hour? Almost an hour? Time had lost all meaning to you when he had kissed his way down your body.
Burning kisses that had stolen your thoughts from your mind and left only him in its wake — how had you lived without him? Your fingers had found their way to the back of his neck, as his lips mapped the peaks and valleys of your neck and collarbone.
“Fuck,” a gasp parts your lips when his teeth teases the juncture of your neck and shoulder, sucking and biting again and agin, until he’s left pretty love bites gracing your across your skin.
And that sharp tongue of his dragged over the marks left blooming on your skin, as if couldn’t simply get enough of you, and he couldn’t.
“Suguru, please—“ you’re whining already and he barely began, and the all too smug smile against the swell of your breast only told you he thought the same.
“Patience, Princess, so needy f’me, aren’t you?” But he obliged anyway, fingers deftly unbuttoning your shirt.
And now your blouse was nearly shrugged off, your bra undone with your pert nipples still sticky with his saliva and breasts covered in small marks from his teeth grazing your skin. And now he had tugged your skirt down and off, leaving you only in your underwear.
“You’re making such a mess on my desk, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue, as his large palms slide up your plush thighs and squeeze, drawing a lovely gasp from your lips, before he’s parting your thighs, “but it’s such a pretty mess when it’s you,” and you were so fucking pretty with your legs parted like this, panties translucent from your juices leaking from your dripping folds, even glossy against the wood of his desk now. And he would be sure to make a bigger mess soon enough.
“Sugu,” your cheeks burn as he stares, your embarrassment melting into a gasp when his fingers drag against your clothed slit teasingly, up and down, so meticulously again and again, until his fingers are sticky with your pre, “ngh, please—“
Your plea is enough for him to snap, as he’s tugging your underwear away and off, tucking the ruined panties into his pocket with a glint of his amethyst eyes in the low light of his office. Pretty folds in full display for him, with your swollen clit and glistening slit nearly begging for attention, and he’s more than happy to oblige.
And he’s running a finger down your lovely folds, gathering precum on his finger, far too slowly for your liking, as he takes his time to circle your clit, “All this just from a few kisses?” lust pools in his gaze with a flicker of amusement, “so sensitive just for me,” your need for him as plain as the juices that seep from your pussy, walls fluttering and aching for something more than the tip of his finger.
“Suguru, fuck, I can’t,” your toes curl when he finally pities you with a kiss to your needy cunt, nose bumping against your clit teasingly, the friction making your thighs tremble, “please—”
“Never thought I’d hear my quick witted T.A. beg for me like this, but I have dreamt of it,” you glance down at him, lips glossy with your pre, “I have to make up for time lost, time I wasted without you, princess,” and his thumb rubs at your clit, while his lips press sweet kisses to the flesh of your inner thigh, “it’s what I owe you, isn’t it?”
“I—” your sentence lost to a moan as he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit, tip of his tongue teasingly lingering around your entrance, and your hips buck into his touch, warm palms coming down to pin you in place against his desk.
You can barely stifle your moans, fingers flying up to press a hand over your mouth, as the tongue starts to flick and circle your clit, while a lithe finger teases your tight cunt, “I’m not one for sweets, but you may give me a sweet tooth,” and his lips close around your clit, sucking and licking, making your back arch, your arm behind you shaking as it struggled to keep your balance.
“Fuuuuck, Sugu, I—” you’re panting, head lolling back when he finally sinks a finger into your fluttering walls, the wet squelch of your cunt and your barely contained moans filling up the relative silence of his office, “please—” and a second finger joins the first, a smirk on his lips as he kisses your puffy clit again, a groan when he feels the way your walls clench around his fingers, knuckle deep.
“Gonna break my fingers at this rate, sweetheart,” he’s grunting, but even so he’s adding a third finger, the stretch far too delicious as it sends stripes of heat up and down your body and right to your spasming cunt, “what are you going to do when I put my cock inside? Our refresher lesson has barely begun,” and he’s enjoying this too much, and when his arms are hooking around your thighs, carefully lying you back on his desk, your hands slipping from his hair, and instead propping himself up on his elbows.
“Sugu, wh—” and your back arches as he begins to thrust deeper into your cunt, a strangled gasp on your lips that melts into a moan as his lips close around your clit. You can barely make out the obscene noises that leave your lips, as his fingers fuck you open, before he’s sucking hard — once, twice, and then a third time— “I’m—“
You can barely find the words before you’re cumming, walls squeezing and fluttering around his fingers while he fucks you through it, lapping at your juices, his name on your lips again and again, until you finally come down from your high. He pulls his fingers away from your twitching pussy, only to bury his face in between your thighs again.
“Fuuuck, Sugu—“ your moans are broken as your body arches into him, fingers finding purchase on his shoulders, sucking and licking your release eagerly, seemingly hellbent on tasting every inch of you.
Pretty moans fell from your mouth, muffled as you clasped your hand over your lips, “can’t waste a drop, sweetheart,” he’s slurping and sucking at your cunt, and god, if anyone walked by his office, they would surely hear you both — hear the nasty squelch of your pussy and your barely muffled moans.
How many times did you orgasm from his tongue alone? You had lost track. Each time he would bring you over the edge with the thrust of his tongue or the suck of his lips, and he would eat you out through it, only building to the next and then the next.
“Sugu, please, I’m close, fuck—“ and you can’t even hear your own broken voice, not over the lewd sounds of his mouth sucking at your pussy, the coil tight in your stomach and ready to snap, until another hard suck makes you cum, hard.
Your fingers find their way into his hair, clutching at him desperately as you squirt all over his face, drenching him along with his desk, wood sticky and soaked with your release. He’s lapping at your cunt, thighs twitching from your orgasm, until he’s finally pulling away to glance up at you with dark eyes, his chin and mouth glossy with your cum and his spit. His tongue darts out to clean both, before wiping the rest away with the back of his hand, glazed over gaze half lidded with need.
“S’good for me, Princess,” he’s pressing gentle kisses up your body, “so pliant, and yet you were so mouthy before,” and his lips kiss that mouth of yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as he presses you further into the desk, his arm slinked around your back. And you’re pulling him just as close, hands grasping at the front of his button-up.
And then you’re pushing him back, forcing him into his chair, as you get to your feet, before sinking to your knees. His breath catches, eyes watching you — your disheveled appearance, hair half mussed, and skin shiny with sweat, “let me show you how mouthy I can be.”
“Imagine someone walked in now, see your pants down for your favorite student,” your tongue trailed up the underside of his clothed cock — and he could nearly cum looking down at you between his thighs, your kiss bitten lips pressing a sweet kiss to the head of his dick, thumbing at the leaking slit, licking your lips at the sight of the large stain of his precum on his cock, “Sugu, you’re so fucking big, can’t wait to feel this inside,” and his length twitches, a grunt in the back of his throat, as your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, snapping the waistband against his sensitive skin.
And god, he’s fucking pretty like this. Black locks falling in front of his perfectly sculpted cheekbones with a lovely flush settled over his features
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he’s panting, head nearly lolling back against the headrest of his chair, “gonna tease me after this long?” it’s half joking, half pleading, but you’re only clicking your tongue at him.
“You made me wait much longer, Suguru — made me cry too,” and his gaze softens, lips parted with an apology that fades into a hiss, as you free him from his boxers, erection slapping against his still clothed abs, “but now I’m going to make you cry,” you press a teasing kiss to his weeping tip, flushed red with need, letting his white pearly release paint your lips, “until you’re begging to cum,”
A strangled gasp caught in his throat, tracing the pretty veins and curves like it was made for you, “You’re so pretty, Sugu — all of this is for me?” Your fingers slowly stroking his length, his moaning music to your ears, as your other hand teasing his balls, “gonna cum down my throat already? Can’t cum this soon,” you cooed, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair, and yet your fingers squeeze around his base, hips jerking into your touch.
“Princess, stop teasing—“ his protests had fallen on deaf ears, as you bring your pretty lips to his aching tip, only to trace his slit with the tip of his tongue, salty precum disappearing inside your mouth, and fuck, it’s enough for him to nearly cum there and then, “please,”
“Didn’t know you could be so polite, Sugu, when begging for your student to swallow your cock,” and finally you let his cock part past your lips, and his head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your tongue swirls around his length. It was already too much for him — so much, just as you were, your tongue tracing and teasing his dick, while your lips sucked along the base.
And you weren’t doing much better, the weight of his cock against your tongue makes your cunt ache for him, and sneaking glances at his fucked out form — muffled moans of your name as he covers his lips with the back of his arm, as his dark gaze watches you sink his cock into your mouth again. Your hand is slipping into your throbbing pussy for some relief, as you bob up and down his length.
But he doesn’t miss it, a groan at the sight of you swallowing his dick whole whole riding your own hand, “Does fucking your mouth feel that good, Princess? Feel that good that you need to touch yourself?” And you’re moaning around his length, vibrations of sending shivers up his spine and a groan of your name from his lips, “So fucking good f’me, Princess — too good for me,” he’s grunting, as you let his tip brush the back of your throat now, making pleasure rip up his body, “sweetheart, please, g’nna fuck your throat if you keep that up,”
And you ease off, letting his cock slap against your tongue as it slips out, “maybe I want you, Sugu,” you’re kissing and licking along his length, “want you to fuck my smart little mouth,”
Fuck.
You’re sliding his cock back in, his hips jerking against you as you let him sink all the way in, tip brushing against your throat again. And fuck, the wet squelch of your fingers inside you breaks him, as he starts to give an experimental thrust, a light one that has you moaning around him. He’s gauging your reaction, only for you to force his length down more, barely not blowing his load there and then, as you look up at him, a smile in your eyes as if you’re daring him.
And he can’t hold back.
He’s fucking your mouth, your tongue massaging up and down his length as he thrusts inside your warm mouth, his nails digging into your locks as he holds you flush to his body. The sight of you on your knees, taking his dick as drool and pre drip down your chin, eyes nearly rolling back with pleasure as you do, making his cock twitch in your mouth.
“That feel that good, Princess? Wanted me to fuck this mouth that bad? I should do it more often if that’s what it takes.” he’s almost drunk off the pleasure, thrusts growing a little rougher as he grows close, “fuck, I’m close, baby, where—“ and your hands are sliding around to his lower back, holding him in place as your answer, “shit, sweetheart, you’re going to be the death of me,” and you suck around him as his tip hits the back of your throat again, and that’s it—
He spills, hot cum flooding your mouth and down your throat, as you both moan in unison, large spurts devolving into smaller ones, as he comes down from his high. You don’t waste a drop, swallowing every bit of it, as you finally pull away from his cock with a pop, the sight of your ruined lips with strings of spit and cum still connecting you to his dick is enough to have it twitching again.
“Sweetheart, you’re s’good to me,” he’s gently pulling you up into his lap, his fingers running through your hair. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t—“ and you’re cutting him off with a soft kiss that steals the words from his mind, your eyes shiny with tears.
“You do, you do because I choose you, because I love you, and I know you’re sorry,” you cup his cheek, before lightly pinching it, “and if you ever do anything that stupid again, I’m going to kill you and I’ll be ethically and morally justified,” and he chuckles, burying his face in the crook of your neck to press soft kisses to your skin, before pulling back to look up at you.
“You have my permission to do that, because if I ever leave my soulmate again — it’s only the consequences of my actions,” and he kisses your forehead, before he presses his to yours, “and I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not by my side,”
You kiss him slowly, wrapping your arms around him, slowly heat building as the head of his cock bumps against the length of your cunt — the sparks grow into flames, threatening to engulf you both. And you would let them if only for one more second of his touch.
“Sugu, please, I need you,” you murmur, breathing in his pants as your noses bump, “need you inside me,” he cups your cheek, meeting in another kiss, before you’re lining yourself up, weeping cock bumping against your needy entrance.
“Are you ready?” You ask, and it’s for more than just this moment, it’s for everything that comes after — for every second that you both get to live together, “our phones are off right?”
He snorts, “I turned it off when you entered my office,” and you laugh, shaking his head, as he places a kiss behind your ear.
“I did the same before I came in,” his fingers cup your cheek, as you lean into his warm palm, “just you and me?” You echo from your first time together, and his lips curl into the softest smile.
“You and me, sweetheart,” and you’re sinking onto him, tip parting your spread folds as your walls swallow him whole, inch by inch, and his fingers grasp at your hips, helping you ease onto his cock, pretty lips parted with a quiet murmur of your name.
And when he finally bottoms out inside you, he’s almost forgotten how good it felt — pleasure ripping up his spine as your hips are pressed flush to the other, “So deep, Sugu, fuck,” your walls are fluttering around him pulling even deeper, clamping down as if he groans, “I’m gonna move,” you manage between pants.
You lift up to the tip before slowly beginning to bounce up and down, your moans filling his ears along with the squeaks and rattling of his computer chair. His eyes flutter open only to watch your breasts bounce up and down as you ride him, his hands reaching out to squeeze at the pillowy flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.
“S’big, fuck, Sugu,” you’re moaning, a mess as you fucked yourself on him, but still not quite deep enough, and he begins to meet your thrusts with his own, making you fall forward holding onto him with a whine as he fucks up into you. The sounds of his balls slapping against your needy cunt ring in your ears, the grunts your pussy pulls from his mouth as he drives himself impossibly deep, “ngh, Sugu, fuck, s’good—,” you’re whining, back arching into his touch, nails digging into his shoulders, “please,”
“That’s it, take my cock, pretty girl,” he murmurs, “so good for me. So tight, never going to leave this cunt at this rate, baby—“
And then they hear a door creak open and close nearby, freezing as they do, heart thumping against your ribs, but your wall flutters all the same, “think they’ll see us like this?” He teases, and his cock twitches in your cunt, “spread out and fucked by your former professor’s cock?” And you know he’s only goading you as the footsteps depart, but your walls squeeze at the thought, “want them to see how good you are for me? How well I’ve taught you to take this cock?”
And he begins to fuck into you again, pistoning up into you, drawing more moans from your lips. He had taught you every inch and curve and vein of his dick, but this refresher would make sure you’d never forget.
“Sugu, I’m close, I-“ and his hand is slipping between your bodies to rub at his clit right as his cock hits that spot that has you seeing stars as you cum hard around his cock. He watches the place your bodies meet, a white ring of cum around the base of his cock as your walls flutter around him.
He fucks you through your orgasm, hips stuttering as he twitches inside you, “fuck, sweetheart, where should I—“ and you’re moaning as you manage to meet his thrust to notch him even deeper as he finally cums.
His thick ropes paints your walls, as he rocks against you slowly, forcing his cum deeper and deeper, your name leaving your lips again and again — reverent whispers and promises muttered in your ear, as he finally stills underneath you.
You’re leaning against him, mixed releases surely leaking onto his lap and the chair, both of your quiet pants filling the silence, until he’s breaking it. He kisses your lips again and again, before he stares at you — kiss bruised lips and the pretty sheen of sweat that clings to your skin, “It’s not fair you’re this perfect,” he murmurs, a thumb dragging down your lips, “how would I have ever resisted you?”
“Luckily, the universe did that for us,” and he huffs a chuckle, “and you,” you add in a small whisper, and he frowns, nodding.
“I did and I never will again, I promise, sweetheart,” he’s pressing sweet kisses to your burning skin, pulling you impossibly closer to him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, “I’m yours — yours to keep, yours to use, yours to love — you have my heart and my soul,” he’s cupping your cheek when you lift your head, “and I’ll never let go, because you’re the only answer to life I need, if you’ll allow to be yours,”
“You were always mine,” your forehead pressed to his, “that’s never changed, and it never will,”
“You always one up me, don’t you?” And you roll your eyes.
“The student has to surpass the master someday, doesn’t she?” his lips curl.
“Oh you’ve done that a long time ago, Princess,” his lips graze yours again and again, and soon enough you’re shifting on his lap, until the chair buckles under the weight and the seat travels to the bottom of where it’s wheels rested. The two of you are silent a moment, before a giggle escapes your lips, “I think you’ll have to get a new chair,” you murmur, and he’s chuckling, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Why not the chair and the desk?” And you’re blinking before he’s lifting you up, before making you turn, pressing your front flush against the wood of the desk, “and if I’m getting new furniture, I might as well use this to its full capacity, shouldn’t I?” And he’s dragging his erection across your ass, “really make sure it’s broken,”
You gasp, walls fluttering as his tip teased your messy entrance, “don’t you need broken in—“ and he bottoms out in one thrust, as he presses his body against yours, lips pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, before his teeth dig into the sensitive flesh.
And he smirks as he hears you moan under him, as he soothes the blooming hickey with his tongue, “No, I meant broken, sweetheart.”
“Suguru!” You called from his bedroom, as he smoothed his hair out in the bathroom mirror, a glance over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, “can you come help me?”
And how could he refuse? He steps out of the bathroom to only find you struggling with your Hakama. The formal garment hangs uselessly around your front, your brow furrowed and lips pursed.
He suppresses his laugh, forcing his tone to be even.
“Does my incredibly brilliant girlfriend need help with her hood?” Your pout is enough for him to nearly break his promise that he wouldn’t kiss you when your makeup was done, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes the offending garment from around your neck, and you cross your arms.
“I can handle reading Hegel’s works — The Phenomenology of Spirit was irritating but doable,” and you scowl at the Hakama in his hand, “but that thing was made to torture,”
He snorts, “Consider it your last trial before graduation,”
“No, my last is seeing if my thesis was peer reviewed and accepted for publication somewhere,” you sigh, “I still have to make the edits—“
“That can be a later problem, just focus on the moment right now,” he steps behind you after adjusting the Hakama and tying it around the back and front to secure it, before pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “and now you look both beautiful and properly dressed,”
His arms wrap around your waist from behind, “Sugu, we have to leave soon,”
“Just a minute, just let this sink in,” he kisses the side of your neck, “have I told you how proud I am of you?”
“Hmm, just about every second of the last few days,” you lean against him, and nothing ever felt so perfect — his arms were the only ones you belonged in.
And yet, why did that thought also hurt?
“What is iy, baby?” Suguru murmurs, ever too perceptive as always, “something on your mind,”
“More like someone,” you mumble, and you’re laying your head against his shoulder, “I can’t help but feel guilty — Yuta and I just broke up and I’m—“ you’re shaking your head, “I’m so happy, and I hate myself for it,”
Suguru frowns, “I don’t know Yuta well, but I know he did love you, the same way I do, and I can’t speak for him,” but then he’s squeezing your middle, “but as someone who loves you, I’d want you to be with someone who could make could make you happy,” you kiss his head, “and isn’t that why he broke up with you? You both deserve that chance — even if it’s not each other.”
“When did you get so smart?” and he pulls you impossibly closer, kissing along the neckline of your kimono.
“Somewhere between my bachelor’s degree and being your professor,” he adds with his lips curled in a smirk, “though I’d err closer to the time of being your professor,”
Your head against his shoulder, you lean up for a kiss, as he blinks, before melting into your touch, as you pull back with a grin, “it’s ok if I initiate the kiss,” you chuckle when you catch sight of his pout, “don’t worry I’ll be giving you plenty after the ceremony — and maybe something even more than a kiss,”
“Is that a promise?” And you tug him close, pressing another kiss to his lips — your lips were already smudged, so why hold back.
“Always, for you.”
Yuta knew it was for the best.
It had been a few weeks that he spent mourning his relationship — but he knew that it was the right choice for him. He had chased after you, it felt as if he was dogging your every step, waiting for you to notice him. And when you did, he still felt as he was your second choice — and that he would live in Geto’s shadow for the entirety of the relationship.
And he didn’t want that. He didn’t deserve that — and neither did you. More than anything, he wanted you to be happy — even if that wasn’t with him.
It was for the best.
And the start to the new semester just proved that. He was starting his final year of his program, he had become the head of the student government (after Maki decided to step down to a more administrative role to focus on her degree), and he had even become a teacher’s assistant to one of his favorite professors. He didn’t have time to focus on a relationship, not when he should be focusing on his future.
He entered the classroom that day, a little early on his professor’s request to set up the classroom with handouts, only to bump into someone, papers spilling from his hands.
“Sorry, I—” he leans down to pick up the dropped papers, before glancing up and finds himself looking at just that—
His future.
A few months later.
“You’re late,” Suguru Geto remarks, as he shows you his watch on his wrist — the very one you had bought him for his birthday a few weeks before, “but I should expect that by now, shouldn’t I?”
You give a guilty grin, as you find your way to his side, sliding your hands up around his neck, “Yes you should, especially when your girlfriend is a very important lecturer who was kept by all her students — jealous?”
And he chuckles, his hair tied up in a half bun as usual, your fingers toying with a strand again, before he’s lacing with fingers with yours to press a kiss to the back of your hand, “Very — because your students are stealing my time with my very intellectual girlfriend,” and he leans down to press a kiss to the hollow of your throat, “it sounds like it was a success — I knew it would be,” he adds, “but someone else wasn’t so sure,”
You roll your eyes playfully, “Yes, yes, you were right — the students found my work interesting, or at least interesting enough not to fall asleep and ask questions—”
“High praise,” and your lips curl into a smile, “What?”
“I love you,” he grins back at you, a chuckle on his lips, as he leans down to capture them, his smile apparent against you, as he parts from you, a heat still present in the pit of your stomach, a need for him burning as it always was, “I love you so much, Suguru,”
“I love you too, princess,” he’s rubbing his thumb back and forth against the length of your cheek, “Good thing too because otherwise, moving in together would be more than a little awkward,” and you pout, and he’s laughing before kissing you again and again, until he’s kissing your pout away with a languid kiss that has you melting into his grasp — breathless when he pulls away, lips utterly kiss ruined and red, “they should be calling us into the viewing soon,” he bites his lip,and you’re nodding reluctantly if only considering whether if you could sway him for another few moments alone. Instead you settle for burying your face in the crook of his neck, lips brushing against his leaping pulse, “you’re sure about moving to Kyoto? I had only chosen Kyoto to give you space—”
You cut him off with a glance up and a raised eyebrow, “You’re the one who said I could choose, and I chose Kyoto because not only is it a good opportunity for you here to build your reputation as the department head, but because it’s a fresh start for us,”
His fingers lace with yours, “Well if they keep asking you to lecture in Tokyo, you might develop a commute,” and you roll your eyes, before shrugging.
“I can handle it,” you squeeze his hand, “as long as I'm coming home to you.”
“And a cat or a poodle,”and you light up, grinning even wider, “we should ask if they allow pets,”
“Really? We can—”
“I heard poodles are a good choice of pet,” and you’re leaning up to kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck, “I made an appointment for at an adoption center after this,”
“Mr. Geto?” a person comes out of the leasing office, “we’re ready for you both,”
And you pull away, your fingers interlacing with yours and squeezing his hand, “Are you ready?”
His lips curl in a smile, “I think we owe it to ourselves, don’t we? Especially they agreed to take us for our viewing after you were late,”
And you chuckle, as the two of you made your way inside, “I swear you’re going to leave without me one of these days if I’m late enough,”
“No, I’d never do that. I’ll always wait for you, sweetheart,” he holds the door open for you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “we have all the time in the world after all.” And you grin at him as you walk past him, his fingers reaching into his pocket.
He had found out his answer to life — watching you greet and speak with the agent, before glancing back at him with a small smile and tilt of your head — his fingers toy with the ring box in his pocket—
And now he just needed to know yours.
END.
Yuta’s own love story will be coming after Professor Gojo’s!
✧a/n: wow i'm still in disbelief i finished this series. this is my first series on tumblr, and i truly hope you all enjoyed. this part was wayyyy longer than i expected. but i hope i did the series justice.
✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala @ashhlsstuff , @blue041803 , @mwtsxri , @bblgumfairy , @sukunasleftkneecap , @xo-evangeline , @fiannee , @teatreeoilll , @chalametet , @ryukaver , @d1gitalbathh , @saga3ious , @seventhcinema , @satosugucide , @your-l0nely-star , @sokkasmoon , @deegausserr , @hyookka , @oggsyy , @littlebitb , @higuchislut , @ti-mame , @itoshisins , @cerene-dipity , @onionsoop , @sinlillith , @izzythenaive , @lalacute03 , @rxndou , @c-themoon , @xxrag-d0llxx , @hqtoge , @sugarxlumps , @hopeluna , @actualdeemon , @enchantedpendant , @serendididy , @soulstealercat , @neuviloved , @simply-a-s1mp , @satorusmochis , @lalacute03
#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader#suguru geto smut#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru fanfiction#suguru geto fanfiction#geto x reader#geto smut#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#suguru geto x you#suguru x reader
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
having a normal one :) having the normalest one Ever :)
#im gonna fucking freak out#i am fully going to fucking freak out for real#i just.#my graduation is supposed to be on saturday#the ceremony is on saturday and i put in my application and paid my fee for it and i have my degree and i have my regalia i HAVE everything#but the website about graduation says that all confirmed participants will receive an email. APRIL 14TH asking to confirm their degree and#name for marching order#i just realized it said that. i swear the last time i looked at it it ONLY SAID anything about confirming name pronunciation#but. i never. received a fucking email asking me to confirm my degree type and my name for the marching order and i#i dont know if theres anything i can do about it now to fix it and im so fucking upset#im so fucking upset like i dont know what to do with myself right now im about to just get in bed#i feel like im about to puke#like. the whole week i've been feeling like i was going to get to the ceremony on saturday and my name wouldnt be on the list#and now im finding out that might be a fucking reality!! which is!! fucking GREAT!!!#i never received anything otherwise telling me that i was intelligible to walk either#i never even received the fucking email to APPLY for graduation in the first place. my advisor emailed me the last day saying that i#'shouldve gotten an email about application' like the day before the deadline. and i happened to see it ON the exact last day#but i never got anything from anyone about ANYTHING on this and im. so#like.#i dont even know if theres anything i can do now#i already missed the fucking party they had for the education graduates last month because i missed the email for that#six. fucking years of school and going through so much shit and heartache to get this stupid fucking degree#and now i might not even be walking in the fucking graduation i PAID for already#i fucking hate it here i just realized my fucking keyboard corrected ineligible to intelligible shut UP#mdndbrjkrbrvejfkt
1 note
·
View note
Text
doctor and doctor | S.R.
in which you add a degree to your repertoire
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: fluff
content warning: i tried my best and the process described is pretty accurate to my graduate school but there might be some discrepancies. mentions of marriage and anxiety.
word count: 470
a/n: my brain has been rotting this finals week so i just needed some good academic validation fluff to write. i also got in a car accident this morning (I'm fine lol someone hit my car) so fluff was mandatory. hoping to get a lot of writing done over the school break.
There was an old joke that only five people would ever read your dissertation, you, your supervisor, your two examiners, and your unlucky partner or spouse who has to act as an unpaid proofreader for you. It was something you had heard for the past four years.
Of course, in your case, your boyfriend had three PhDs of his own and was more than happy to read through your dissertation, even though it was pushing five hundred pages.
The BAU’s jet had just landed after a three-day case in Georgia, and you had just hung up after talking with Spencer. You complained about feeling like a sitting duck, waiting to hear from your doctoral advisor to see if your thesis was accepted, and he told you he imagined it wouldn’t be long now.
You had been offered a teaching position starting in the new semester, but it was contingent on your dissertation being approved.
That all led to the email sitting in your inbox, you left your laptop open on the kitchen counter, leaving the email unopened, which is how Spencer found you when he got home.
“Angel?” He said, slightly alarmed, you stood still in the kitchen, watching your laptop like it was going to combust.
Pointing at the device, you took a deep breath, “I got the email.”
Hastily, he set his bag on the couch of your shared apartment before joining you in the kitchen. “Did you look at it?” He asked, leaning over and looking at the screen that displayed your still unopened email. You shook your head, “Were you going to?”
“What if they didn’t accept it?” You whispered, not moving your eyes from the screen.
He waited a moment, “Do you want me to open it?”
You shook your head again, “No, I’ll do it.” You told him, in a sudden surge of bravery, you leaned forward and clicked on the email. Automatically, the email popped up with a burst of confetti – an effect from your email browser recognizing the word ‘congratulations.’ You gasped and Spencer wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.
It all faded away. The nerves from the past four years, because you had done it.
“I’m so proud of you,” Spencer murmured. “So, so proud.”
You twisted in his arms to look at the screen and read the email in its entirety. “My degree will be officially conferred on the next date designated by the university. Oh, my goodness,” you said, overwhelmed. “I really got my PhD!” You said excitedly, bouncing on the balls of your feet.
“So, when we get married, we’ll both be Dr. Reid,” Spencer said, glancing over at the email before looking down at you fondly.
Your smile spanned from ear to ear, “Yeah!” You said excitedly, the smile dropping from your face, “Wait, what?”
#criminal minds#spencer reid fanfic#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fanfiction#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#criminal minds fluff#written by margot#emily prentiss#spencer reid#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfiction
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
are we talking about broke therapists yet?
I've been out of things for a couple of years now, which is why I'm willing to talk about it, and maybe the pandemic has helped things a little, but holy shit the counselling and psychotherapy field is not equipped to help its practitioners in the gig economy.
Of all my interests and talents, I pursued a degree in psychology because being a therapist is supposed to be a safe, stable, well-paid job. Every therapist I met who was registered before 2008 worked and lived under that assumption. And oh boy are all the fee structures--registration, supervision, continuing education, conferences--set up for that scenario.
After getting my Master's, I struggled like hell to get a job. It was especially bad because to get my license, I needed a supervisor to take me on. To take me on, most supervisors wanted me to already have a caseload and client base. To get a caseload and client base, I needed a job.
Friends: Every single job I heard back on wanted me to have my license before I could even land an interview.
Professors and career advisors and professional development specialists all advised me very earnestly to just keep cold-calling people on the supervision list, and it began to feel a lot like my parents' friends telling me to hit the bricks and hand out resumes. That's what worked for them, right?
I finally got a supervisor who agreed to take me on, and I'd be able to use her clinic for advertising and workspace, and we were doing the paperwork to send in with my registration, when she called me up and said, "Is this job going to be your only source of income? If you're trying to depend on getting clients and building your practice for your basic needs, this is not going to work out. This has to be something you're doing on top of a basic salary. Okay, so you're not working anywhere else right now? I'm sorry, I can't move forward with this."
Even once I landed a supervisor and a job building my own private practice, I struggled. I have ADHD and am not great at self-promotion, so trying to do all my own advertising, scheduling, bookkeeping, billing, and records management (on top of counselling) was an enormous strain. One my bosses, supervisors, and other senior professionals watched with a slightly critical eye, but consoled me about because in their early days, their clinics had had business managers, receptionists, filing clerks, and accountants, and getting used to doing everything online yourself was a bit of a learning curve, wasn't it?
I counted my pennies very carefully, because I had to pay my supervisor roughly $180 for their services every 6 hours of in-person counselling I did. This meant that to break even I had to charge my clients an average of about $30 (plus room rental and service fees) an hour--and my clients, being people with complex trauma, were frequently poor, disabled, unemployed, and had no health benefits, so even $10 or $20 a session was a lot for them.
Maybe it would have been easier if I could have taken some of those nice comfortable organization positions where they find clients and funding for you and you work 40 hours a week and get benefits and a pension, but I had to be disabled into the bargain, so working 40 hours a week just isn't possible for me. I start passing out from stress and exhaustion. Older colleagues gave me serious-faced advice about approaching my employer and asking them for some flexibility and accommodation in my schedule, and I tried to explain across the gap between us that employers simply did not hire me if I made the slightest noise about the workload. They weren't going to invest in me as a person; they were hiring 40 units of work a week, and if I wouldn't do it there were a dozen applicants after me who would.
At one point I broke down enough to email my licensing body because the Annual General Meeting/Professional Development Conference was coming up, and I wanted to attend, but I could not produce $500 to do it with. Was there some kind of way I could attend anyway? I felt ashamed to have to ask, and then absolutely mortified when the response came from the organization president, who needed to personally sign off on me being too poor to attend the single most important event in my profession's calendar year.
I honestly felt so ashamed all the time at how I was apparently failing to be a successful therapist, failing to be rich and successful, and every time I mentioned it around mentors and bosses, I could feel myself shrinking from a person to a problem to be solved. My closest therapist-friends and I have reflected on how much more difficult, poorly-paid and underworked, our various career starts have been than we were ever warned about. About the classmates and coworkers who couldn't get disability exceptions when they fell behind in their registration requirements, or burned out and left the field, or dropped their registrations and took up as life coaches, or moved their whole family somewhere exceptionally remote or rural because it was the only good job available, or worked for some godforsaken app skirting the bounds of malpractice like BetterHelp.
I like those conversations, because I feel less like an absolute fuck-up in them. There's less "Hey Lis, you were so talented in grad school, I really admired you, what are you doing now?" "Oh, I, uh... am professionally disabled, so I get government benefits, and I... sell embroidery patterns on Etsy now."
My own therapist kept asking if and when I felt like going back to being a counsellor, and I finally told him: I don't, actually. I don't want to go back and do it like I was doing it before. It was a profession I loved to the depths of my soul, and it profoundly did not love me back. I can't even imagine what would have to change, in me or it, to make it have a space in it that could fit me.
All of which I was way too scared to admit to at the time, because the more I let people know I was struggling, the more they hinted that maybe I just wasn't in a place in my life where this was a job I could do, and I needed to take a little break and wait to come back until money and disability just weren't issues for me anymore.
Eventually my cups of doubt and exhaustion did overflow, and I quit. I'm here now, living a much different life. And at the very least, all my years of helping people in bad life situations set me up perfectly for my own. I already knew what form to fill out for financial assistance, which student clinics to access for mental health support, and which government agency would, if pressed, cough out pharmacy coverage for the genuinely destitute. It gave me that much.
I hope this is just me being in extraordinary circumstances, sitting at the intersections of a few different shitty life situations that most people skip right past. Because it's on one level comforting, but another deeply infuriating, if I'm not, and I've just missed it or we've just all been too afraid to admit it to each other.
601 notes
·
View notes
Text
Greater of Two Evils
Summary: Your brother is a powerful man and so is Aemond Targaryen. You’re caught as a pawn between the two men. You have to chose between two evils and unfortunately for you, you chose wrong.
Rating: Explicit, Minors Do NOT Read, 18+
Word Count: 4.3k
Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: DD;DNE, Non-Con/Dub-Con, Choking, Rough Sex, smut (p in v, fingering, oral sex (f receiving) jealousy , possessiveness, incest-y vibes from brother, unwanted creampie, breeding kink, coercion, mentions of birth control/emergency contraception not being allowed/available to reader, Aemond wants reader pregnant, men being dicks, degration, praise, Capitalism and the Elite, swearing
A/N: This is a spite fic dedicated my first hate comment. I hope you wait even longer now. 💋
Not yet proofread.
Your brother was a powerful man. One of the most powerful in Westeros. Many say he didn’t deserve his position, both of you coming from near nothing, but your brother was born with a gift your parents would often say was a “creative and hungry mind.” He was 10 years old when he started a small lawn care business in the Riverlands that grew to a full-fledged company at 14 he (and your parents due to his age) ran. At 16, he sold that company, got an internship at River’s Corp. When he freshly graduated University in Oldtown as the top of his class, giving a speech that would be remembered as one of the best speeches Oldtown Univeristy had ever the opportunity of hearing, he asked if you would like to move to Dorne with him, get out of the Riverlands and have an opportunity at Sunspear University. Seeing the chance at freedom and knowing your brother would most likely be paying for your schooling (since he had just been offered a high ranking position at Sunspear Industries) you took his offer and moved in with him a week after you graduated high school in the Riverlands.
That was three years ago. Your brother is now CFO of Rhoynar Industries and you’re in your third year of University at Sunspear studying Political Science. When you first moved in with your brother, the first two months were happy and spent everyday in your high-rise apartment’s swimming pool. But your brother had changed, or maybe, he was finally able to let his true self free during his college days as many young adults often do and his personality shift just took you longer to notice. His controlling behavior started innocent, nagging at your to keep the house tidy, then turning into commenting on what you wore out, turning into full blown comments about your appearance, weight, hair color. He made you dye your hair color black, to match his own natural color. Long gone were your auburn waves but you didn’t notice it then, well you did, but you weren’t as disturbed by it. Telling yourself he wanted you to look the part of perfect sister.
But then, halfway through your first semester, he told you that your Early Education major wasn’t good enough for him. He demanded you change it and when you tried to argue, he simply took your laptop, reminding that he bought it, and emailed your academic advisor that you’d like to change your major and wanted to meet with them first thing tomorrow morning.
That should’ve been the straw that broke the camel’s back, you should’ve left that night. Packed your things and went back home to the Riverlands; be with your parents.
I’m every aspect of your life, you always fell short of the greatness of your brother: courage was not exempt.
That next morning, you went with puffy eyes to your advisor’s office and changed your major, dropping out of your current courses and signing up for secondary 8-week courses for your new major that would, in your brother’s words “thankfully start next week.”
You could easily summarize your life in Dorne these past few years: the Seven Hells.
All of this leads you to this moment. Your brother and you were invited to King’s Landing by the head of Targ Corp for an annual celebration they held for their most loyal alliance corporations. It was easy, your brother and his team of associate executives played a simple game: play nice with each other and keep everyone else from rising above. Being around these people made you want to vomit. These posh-assholes were some of the most dangerous and hateful people you’d ever laid eyes on, all wrapped in clothing that were one of their low-level employee’s entirely yearly salary. You didn’t want to be here, not a single bit, but your brother held the carrot stick of Univeristy tuition and free-housing over your head so you played along like the good sister you were expected to be.
You had just gotten out of the shower when you brother came barging into your hotel room without knocking, holding a garment bag.
“Hey!” You shouted, covering your naked self with a towel, “Can you knock next time?” You briefly wondered how he had gotten in, you made sure you locked it twice, then you saw the keycard he had kept for your room sliding back into his pant pocket.
“Wear this tonight,” he disregarded your fluster and laid the garment bag down on the bed you were sitting on.
Your brows furrowed, looking at your own brother with trepidation. He knew you had brought one of the black dresses you had picked out a month ago and he had agreed to it then. Why had he changed his mind so suddenly?
You slowly opened the bag to reveal a dark green, dress that showed off entirely too much skin than you were comfortable with around these vampires.
You began to shake your head, “No, I don’t want to wear this one. It’s cold out and I want to wear the black, long sleeve one I-“
You were cut off with a harsh hand grabbing your jaw.
“Wear it or we’ll see how long you can pay for that expensive schooling on your own.” He spat into your face harshly.
Once he let go, you brought your hand up to rub at your jaw where there might be bruises now. Your skin was sore and your bone ached. “You know what, maybe I don’t want to even get this degree. Maybe I’ll move back in with mom and dad and just fucking live my own life again.”
As you sat on the bed angrily with tears of resentment brimming your eyes, you could feel your brother’s stare on you, boring holes into everything he deemed imperfect about you.
“Do this for me,” his voice was softer, “And I’ll give you anything you want.”
You finally looked up to him, disbelief in your eyes.
He kneeled to reach your eye level, you wrapped the towel around you tighter, “There is a man here I need you to impress. Do this for me and I’ll give you anything you want. I mean it.” His hand came up to brush your nude knee, you moved away instinctively.
You swallowed your unease. “What’s his name?” Your voice was so small.
He smiled at your acceptance, if you willing to work with him on something, if you giving in. “Aemond Targaryen,” he stood, returning to his business-like self. “He’s the son of the CEO, Visery’s. Aemond is a year older than me and he’s in politics. We-“ he paused, smiling at a memory, “We met in University…..He never really liked me.” He looked to you, “He’s the last legislator we need on our side for this deal that Roynar Industries and Targ Corp. are working up.”
“He’s against Targ. Corp?” You sounded flabbergasted, wondering why a Targaryen, the most infamously loyal family in the country, is an against his family’s own interests.
Your brother nodded and laughed, “Yeah, he fucking hates his dad.” He chuckled to himself some more before, “I just need you to win him to my side.”
You heard the implication and you skin began to crawl, stomach turning, “You seriously want me to fuck him?”
Your brother shook his head and chuckled as if you were crazy, “Just win him to our side.” He walked up to you again, towering over you as you sat, uneasily at the edge of the bed. He raised a hand and tapped the side of your head three times, “Use that political science knowledge I paid for.”
And then he left, making you feel like a tool.
You dressed yourself in the green gown, put on simple yet elegant makeup, and wore your dyed black hair up with a silver sun pin that your brother had picked out in his words, “to honor Roynar Industries.” You only felt branded.
Making your way down into the large event room of the hotel in which Targ Corp had set up for the celebration, you were handed a glass of something in a flute glass. The waiter had told you, in truth, but you were too nervous and occupied with looking elegant that you hadn’t really heard.
You spotted your brother across the event space standing with someone Martel from Roynar Industries that has offered for you to go ride on his yacht with him at least three times. Then you could see he was with some silver haired man, probably from Targ Corp. The Targaryens were known for their loyalty, ruthlessness and silver hair. Targ Corp. was the most powerful company in Westeros, they had their hand in everything and could turn anyone’s head the way they wanted. Coming it second was Roynar Industries and the old saying, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” was prevalent in the relationship with the two corporations. They worked together in most large projects in Westeros and you knew the each of them was waiting for the other to fall.
You walked the perimeter of the event, scanning the crowd for someone you knew or the person you were after. Although, you had heard Aemond Targaryen’s name before you had no idea what he looked like. You used your context clues though and assumed he had silver hair, he was probably tall and lean like all Targaryen men are and most likely flirtatious.
“Great,” you breathe, remembering a girl from Sunspear a few years ago that recalled a horrible relationship with an older man by the name of “Aegon Targaryen.” One in which he not only expected sex from her, he cheated when she refused. You briefly wondered how Aemond was related to this Aegon.
“Are you looking for me?” A deep, soft voice sounded beside your ear. You stopped dead in you tracks and turned like a scared bunny to the stranger.
The stranger. The silver haired stranger who checked nearly all your boxes for the stranger you were searching for. Had he been right?
You gathered your composure quickly, “And you are?”
“I’m assuming the man you’re looking for if you’re his sister,” he pointed behind you to your brother who was not chatting up a dark haired lady and a curly haired man with a cane.
You gave a quick, nervous laugh and stuck out your hand, “Nice to meet you, Aemond. I’m Y/N.”
Aemond looked down at your outstretched hand between the two of you, his his eye flicked up to you. You realized then, only one moved, however, the other, the one that intercepts his scar, is quite realistic. He ran his fingers slowly across your palm before grasping it gently but not shaking. The act was sensual and strange, you tried to pull away but he quickly snaked his hand up your arm and wrapped his large hand around your bicep, pulling you closer to him. He leaned in, “Aren’t you tired of being a pawn for your brother?”
You pulled back to look at him square in the face, at his perfect, angular face that was so sharp. “What the fuck do you mean?” You whispered, wondering what all he knew and how.
“I think you know exactly what I mean.” He whispered into your ear. If you had not been in the edge of the event, you two would be quite a spectacle to behold but someone, this man, this stranger, had planned this. He had to. You were both in the shadows, the outskirts, not to be seen unless looked for and Gods, you hoped someone would look for you. He made you uneasy, uncomfortable, and warm in places you shouldn’t be given the circumstance of your situation. He looked down to your cleavage, “Tell me, did he pick out this dress? This color?”
You furrowed your brows, trying to figure out how Aemond knew this. “Wha-“
“Did he tell you that him and his colleagues have a bet if we’ll fuck tonight or not?”
You looked back to your brother who was laughing with some of his associates from Roynar Industries. “How do you-“
“I have eyes and ears everywhere, I’m two steps ahead of him and always have been. He has such a problem being number two doesn’t he?” His voice was thick with hatred and his grip on your arm was bruising.
“Get the fuck off of me!” You just about screamed, pushing from Aemond. He let go and took a step back, look at you up and down. He resembled a wild predator, maybe that’s what he was. You smoothed your dress, “Fuck you, you stupid bitch,” you spat angrily, adjusting a strap of your dress. “I was just told to be friendly with you. I’m not a sex worker you ass! I wouldn’t fuck you in a million years.” You downed the alcoholic liquid in the glass before setting it on the ground at your feet. Aemond only watched you with a newfound amusement. It made you angrier. “I’m only helping my brother out until I graduate then it’s fuck this place, fuck Westeros and most of all….” You looked him up and down, finally realizing that he was goddamn handsome, dangerously so, if his personality wasn’t so off-putting, “fuck you.”
You stormed away before he could say anything back. You didn’t want to be here anymore, you wanted to return to your room and cry into your pillow until you fell asleep. You were angry and hurt. How could your brother set you up like this? How could a complete stranger be so fucking brash and horrible? How could you be so stupid to believe your brother’s hunger for power would never come to this? Setting you up for his own benefit?
You’re certain your brother saw you in your way out of the venue, he always has tabs on you, but you knew he wouldn’t rush to your aid or to scrutinize you in front of people he wanted to look good for.
You slam your hotel room door and sink against it, hands over your face, crying on the floor. You sit like that for some time before a knock vibrates against your back and rings in your ears.
“Go away,” you try to say through sobs.
The knock comes again.
“I said go away!” Your shout this time is uncomely for a young woman you could hear your brother say in your head but you don’t care.
“It’s Aemond,” come the voice from the other side of the door.
The raises a fire in your heart as you angrily fling the door open to see the posh, pissy man from before. Mascara is running down your cheeks and your hair is falling out of its updo but you don’t care. “Go away,” you remind him dangerously, beginning to slam the door he puts his foot in the way and hand stopping you from breaking his foot ever so casually.
He pushes the door open with ease and steps into the room, making you step back and further. “We both have a problem and I’m here to propose a deal.”
Your brow quirks and your arms cross, “A deal?”
“A deal,” he echos. “I propose that you and I team up, I’ll offer you whatever he did, you offer me information to take your brother down and out.” He takes another step toward you and you take a step back in response, feeling the back of your legs hit the bedside.
“Why would I agree to that? I’m already getting my college paid for and a place to stay during. Why would I agree to everything I have in turn for you to ruin my brother? He’s horrible but I still love him.” You shook your head, “He’s done a lot for me-“
“I can offer more.” He moved in closer, making you lean uncomfortably against the bed.
“I don’t know you-“
“I will offer you more. You can get to know me, we can form a partnership. A friendship you could call it.” His voice was suggestive.
“Your offer of more is a friendship? I don’t need-“
“I can fuck you, can he?”
His words slapped you across the face. “What?” You mumbled like a dumb baby, confused and shocked. Maybe a little turned on.
Aemond brought his hands up your side and pushed you down to sit on the bed, he kneeled down and kissed the inside of your knee. Everything felt so wrong but he looked so goddamn handsome, you wanted it even if you said you wouldn’t fuck him.
“They have a bet, they want us to fuck.” He explained, “Let’s do it, prove we are into each other. You feed me information on him and the legalities of Roynar Industries.” He kissed your other thigh, you leaned back slightly involuntarily, it had been so long since a man had touched you, your brother wouldn’t allow you to date. “And I’ll slowly give you an out.”
Your breath hitched as his long, slender hand reached under your silky dress and trailed its way toward your core. “Slowly?” You questioned him breathlessly as his his thumb found your clothed clit on contact and began working against it. You could feel wetness pooling as he worked you open and your thighs began to move accommodate him as he moved closer and his other hand slid the dress higher and higher.
“Yeah sweetling, it’ll start with dates, then you staying at my flat in King’s Landing, then moving in.” Your dress was high enough to show off the lacy, black panties you wore and Aemond groaned, making you clench and buck your hips up to meet his ministrations.
“Sounds-sound like,” you were breathless and drunk on the attention he was giving you, “you want more than a fucking spy.” You fully laid back and lifted your hips so Aemond could pull your panties down your legs and off.
He ran a dexterous finger though your folds and watched it disappear into you with ease as you moaned. “Yeah maybe,” his voice was husky, “maybe I like putting your brother in his place. Second to Aemond fucking Targaryen. Always has been, always will be.”
He added a second finger, moving dangerously against your g-spot and the coil in your lower abdomen began to tighten. You lifted your back off the bed in a silent scream as he added a third finger and his mouth sucking at your clit. The intense and sudden pleasure gave way to a sharp, nearly painful orgasm and Aemond fucked you right through it.
When the wave of pressure came down, Aemond lapped at the wetness he expelled from you on your cunt and on his own fingers, moaning at the taste.
You laid on your back, trying to regain your senses and trying to remind yourself you were fucking a complete stranger, you should stop here before it was too late but you snapped out of your senses as he rose, half nude already and unzipping his black dress pants, pulling them and his underwear off in one swipe to reveal the longest, thickest cock you’d ever seen. The idea of taking such a thing inside you made you nearly swell with pride and excitement at the opportunity.
Aemond saw the look on your face and gave his hard cock a quick stroke. “Are you on birth control?”
You shook your head, “He wouldn’t let me, said the side effects are too dang-“
“Well I don’t have a condom,” he said, climbing atop you and pushing you up the bed, not giving you a choice, another reason to get the fuck out now. “I’m clean,” he offered before biting your collarbone then kissing the bite mark.
“I’m-I’m clean.” The voices in your head telling you to get out now.
He moved to the other side of your head and kissed your neck sensually, “You want me to fuck you raw?” Practically growling into your artery as he thrust the tip of his hard cock to your clit, making it harder and harder to say no.
“Uh, just, uh, pull out?” You squeaked as he did it again. You just wanted the fucking thing in you already, stretching you out in the way you wanted.
You felt his smile against your skin, “sure thing sweetling,” it sounded unconvincing.
You felt the tip breach you slowly then push forward even slower. Aemond raised to watch himself split you apart, groaning as you pussy sucked him in with a need unknown to you.
When he finally bottomed out, jutting painfully against your cervix he gave you a sound to adjust and gods, was he fucking endowed. You felt his cock throbbing with need and you wanted to please him, to let him know you were worthy so you bucked you hips against his and let out a moan at how fucking full you felt.
He only chuckled darkly and began his rough assault on your cunt. Pounding without warning or abandon into your heat, pushing your thighs to your chest and bending you in half, positioning you in a way that had him hitting your spot over and over until were moaning his name and your pussy began to flutter.
“Slow-slow down,” you pleaded, it felt like too much.
“Oh, poor little sister can’t fucking take it?” He once slammed extra hard after his demeaning question, it made you shriek. “Poor baby,” he wiped a tear forming in your eye with a sarcastic worry. “She played with the big dogs and didn’t know what she’s in for-“ he grunted, “you should be lucky I’m not fucking you in the ass.”
He pulled your dress down, ripping the shoulder straps to reveal you tits. Smiling like a wild man, he grasped them both harshly before sticking his tongue out and licking each nipple back and forth, making you squirm and tighten around him. “Fuck,” he groaned.
Then, as if a lightbulb went off, he pulled out and flipped you over, pulling you to your knees and ripping your dress and destroyed bra from your body. He entered you harshly again and pulled your back to his chest. His mouth on your ear, nibbling then biting, “I need to make you mine. Announce your brother who you belong to- who owns you now.”
His hand traveled down your belly to the bulge of his cock outlined in your lower stomach. “Do you feel me? Do you feel me up there? Feel me practically in your womb?”
You could, it was painful the way he bullied your cervix but the way he pleasured your sweet spot made you clench and fight off an orgasm that waited to burst.
He laughed into your ear, “Fuck, cum on this cock, I know you need to. Come on me and I’ll give you what you need.”
What the fuck did he mean what you need?
But that didn’t matter, he brought his hand to play with your clot as his pounding continued and you couldn’t fight off the orgasm anymore. Your body tightened and the coil snapped, pulsing around his cock, milking it, you screamed his named and he pinched your nipples as you came on his cock.
I’m your haze, he slowly let you fall to to bed as your ass remained up, his hands firmly handing you in place. “Such a good girl. A better girl than I’d thought you’d be. Oh, a perfect girl for me.” His pounding was relentless as he chase his own high.
You barely registered him saying, “Oh gods, we’ll be perfect together,” before you felt him still behind you, then the pulsing of his cock as warmth flooded you. He let out a groan, a triumphant groan, as he came inside you.
A shaking sob left you as you realized you’d been tricked, betrayed again, used again.
He stayed inside you for some time before pulling his softened cock out and putting on his clothes. You collapsed onto the bed, feeling the evidence of his orgasm slowly slide from your body. You grabbing the pillow ahead of you and hid your face in it. That was, until you felt his hand caress your nude back and the bed shift with the weight of him sitting beside you.
“Hey sweetheart, it’s okay. Don’t cry. I need to know you’re gonna remember our agreement.”
You furrowed your brows, “Fuck you, there is no agreement anymore. You lied to me.”
Aemond chuckled and pushed a strand of hair from your face, “Think of it as the lesser of two evils. Marry me and have everything you’d ever wanted or keep being a pawn for your brother.”
“You’re nuts if you think I’d marry you after a single fuck.”
He looked back down to your thighs, where his seed slowly seeped out, then back to you with a smug grin. “I think your brother would kill you if it was all over the press that you suddenly fell pregnant and unwed. We all know he’s a religious freak now.”
You furrowed your brows, “I’m buying emergency contraceptive as soon as you leave this room.”
He chuckled, “I’m not leaving then.”
“Who said I’ll get pregnant anyway?” You were angry, so angry you couldn’t make sense of his hand sneaking up your neck, holding it tightly.
“My father owns the press. If they say you are, then you are. Imagine what your mother would think, your father? Oh, your reputation would be ruined and your brother would be embarrassed of you.” He grit through his teeth, “And I’ll have people watch you, I already do. They give me updates, they follow you, they’ll know, I’ll know if you are. And then,” he let go of your neck, “You won’t have a choice. I won’t give you one.”
“You’re a fucking psycho.”
He chuckled, running his fingers along your arm, “I’m the easy choice. I’ll give you everything, just give me yourself.”
#fanfic#house of the dragon#a song of ice and fire#gameofthrones#smut#aemond targaryen#game of thrones#aemond x you#aemond one eye#hotd aemond#aemond fanfiction#aemond smut#aemond x reader#house of the dragon aemond#aemond#prince aemond#hotd modern au#hotd smut#hotd fanfic
716 notes
·
View notes
Note
idk if you are doing requests right now but i have one!
recently i got rejected from my dream university and all of my friends got in, so may i have a nanami (either adult or teen) comforting the reader about it:(? i'm really sad and upset about it. it can also be for the ones who got rejected from their dream job!
thanks and i love your writing! 🍪 a cookie for you!
Oh baby :c I'm so sorry. You know, I actually have a story for this one...
Feat Reader x Teen!Nanami, aged 18/19.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
"I just..." You sniffled, wine drunk and puffy from hours of crying, your phone pressed, sloppy and drunk, to your ear, "I just...know it was the right place for me, y'know? It's not fair. Everywhere else...everywhere else accepted me but the one I wanted. We could have been close. No more travelling to see each other. I'm really sorry."
The silence while you spoke, on the other end of the line, bore gravity, open and warm. A low, slow voice trying to be that of reason.
"You have nothing to be sorry for." Kento rumbled, a year ahead of you and weaving between bustling crowds between classes. "They don't deserve you, frankly."
You sniffled again, pressing your phone harder to your ear as if it would make Kento concrete against you. As if it would bring him to your arms, and your bed, so much less pathetic than crying over the phone. You turned your laptop aside so you didn't have to read the same University rejection email again, and again, and again.
"Listen." Kento pressed, and you heard the crowds fade as he slipped down a quite alleyway. "Listen to me. I'll still come to see you. Wherever you are, we can work it out. I'm...I'm in this for the long haul."
You pressed your fist to your head, eyes closed and your throat thick with tears. "I dunno, Kento, you'll...you'll find some lovely girl. Get fed up with me, I...I get it."
"Not going to happen."
"And if it does, I understand, I--"
"No. You're stuck with me, actually."
"'Stuck with you', what's wrong with you--"
"--how long have you got--"
You laughed, bubbling through your tears despite yourself, and you could swear you heard Kento smiling on the other end of the phone. Another, heavy pause, a mathematical silence.
"...there are other ways. We'll look into...options."
You weren't taking it in, still tangled in your own grief and failures. You sniffled, nodding. Kento's voice sounded pained, reluctant.
"I...I have to get to class. I'm so sorry." You shook your head as if he could see.
"No, it's... I've kept you too long--"
"Not long enough."
God you missed him. You dreamed of a life living in each others' pockets, instead of running into each others' arms at train stations.
"...I love you. You know that, right?"
Your face puckered again, threatening more tears.
"No more crying. And no more wine."
You laughed, pressing the glass to your forehead. "How did you know...?"
"I always know when you've been drinking wine."
Reluctantly, with heavy goodbyes, you hung up, and looked at your glass with a thread of guilt, before pouring the rest of the wine away.
Kento tapped his phone, thoughtful. He looked down to the lecture hall, to his next class. He looked across the student square, to Student Services.
He refused one path, and took the other, grassy and less trodden upon. He sat down on front of an advisor with a tight smile.
"Good morning. I was hoping...we could talk about a University transfer."
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
Listen, Anon. I'm so sorry. But your life's direction and worth is not determined by anywhere that rejects you. It's determined by the places that accept you, and what you build upon the bricks already there.
You're doing so well. Don't give up. Boyfriend!Kento wouldn't give up on you.
#jjk#pseudowho#pseudowho answers you#Haitch#kento nanami#jjk nanami#nanami kento#kento nanami x you#kento nanami x reader#nanami fluff#jujutsu kaisen nanami#nanami kento fluff#kento nanami x y/n#nanami#nanami kento x reader#nanami kento x you#nanami x reader#nanami x you#jujutsu nanami#kento#nanami x y/n
142 notes
·
View notes