#[slams this down on my professor's desk as my thesis proposal]

[elissastillstands]

Bitter Myths

Fandom: Star Trek: Discovery Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Word count: 2,783 Relationships: Michael Burnham/Philippa Georgiou Summary: Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles mourned. 

As a strong tree which stood proud and graceful—having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, and was just now glowing in full bloom—is snapped by a sudden gust, and falls mightily, its glory of flowers now covered in dust, so too did Patroclus fall.

No matter what Achilles does, Patroclus falls.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896385

-----

Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles mourned.

-----

"Wait, Michael, you use the holosuite?" Tilly asks, her eyes widening in delight when she sees the sliver of the program chip in Michael's hand. "Oh my gosh, what program do you use? We should do the Old Earth adventure ones together; they have one about spies in the 20th century—"

"I'm not interested in those programs."

"Which programs do you like, then?"

Michael's fingers curl around the chip protectively, possessively. "It's a copy of a program we had on the Shenzhou," she says at last. "Lieutenant Commander Stamets helped me salvage it from the ship's black box."

"Oh, that's amazing. What is it?"

"It was one of Captain Georgiou's favorites." She has practiced to keep her voice from snagging on the syllables of Philippa's title, and she only needs a breath's pause when she continues, "It is a simulation of the Iliad, an epic poem from Earth's ancient Greece."

"That sounds so cool! I've heard of the Iliad—isn't it about a war, or something?"

Michael forces her lips to smile faint in Tilly's direction. "Or something."

-----

As a strong tree which stood proud and graceful—having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, and was just now glowing in full bloom—is snapped by a sudden gust, and falls mightily, its glory of flowers now covered in dust, so too did Patroclus fall.

No matter what Achilles does, Patroclus falls.

Achilles knows. Achilles has gone through the motions of the story time and time again. She forbids Patroclus from going in her place. She rushes out onto the field of battle in her wake. They fight back-to-back-on the battlefield. She is always too late—by hours or by minutes or by a split second drawn out into an eternity, Patroclus still falls. It will always be Achilles' fault that Patroclus falls. She spins out strategies like the finest wool, shrieks at the gods for their malice until her voice is hoarse, soaks her hands in phantom blood and dust and weeps until bile rises in her throat and chokes her, and Patroclus still falls. 

And then she starts the program again.

She hacks the program after the twelfth try. Patroclus does not fall, and the shock of it makes her scream at the computer to end the simulation. She slides down to the floor and lies there, curled and trembling in the cold, leaf-like. Patroclus is a story, and Philippa—

Philippa fell.

Michael wipes her cheeks dry and rises to her feet, reaching to restart the program once more.

-----

"Can I play it with you?" Tilly asks.

Michael's first instinct is to snarl like a lion protecting her young, but Tilly's smile is bright and earnest, and curious besides. "If you want," she manages to say. She does not blame her voice for its reluctance, for wanting to cradle what little she has left of Philippa close, as if the stories were gold, or silver tripods miraculously crafted.

"You'll have to explain the story to me, because I don't know anything about old Greeks."

Poets were the guests of kings because stories were—are—power. Stories die if they are untold, but when given voice, they turn clumsy words to birds and bid them fly to rest heavy and piquant on human tongues. The most powerful beings in the Iliad were poets. Helen of Sparta, who told Priam the names of the Achaeans ranged before them like grains of barley settling into fresh furrows and wove the stories of heroes into undying wool, was a poet. Michael has never considered herself a storyteller, but she tries, for Tilly's sake.

"Tell me what's going on in here," Tilly mutters into her ear, fiddling with her greaves after they enter the program.

"I picked Antilochus and Thrasymedes for us. We're high-ranking Achaeans, Greek soldiers, serving under Achilles, who is one of the main heroes for the Greek side. The man armoring himself right now is Patroclus, Achilles' mentor and most trusted friend—" she breaks off then, her words failing her as her limbs do every time.

"Wait, what happens to him?" Tilly gasps. "Oh, no, Michael, does he die?"

"You'll see," Michael says hoarsely.

-----

Saru buzzes at her quarters. She lets him in, and he steps through the threshold and stands in silence, his stance uncertain, searching. Her eyes fall to the briefcase in his hand, and her lungs feel as though they have been burst and pulled from the carapace of her chest.

"Saru, no, I've told you—"

"She would want you to have this, Michael," he says, and his voice is gentle.

"You—you deserve it more than I do—"

"No." The word is clipped. "No, I don't. Michael—" he sighs in soft clicks and holds out the telescope. "This is yours—once both of yours, now yours. It was a travesty for me to take it."

Michael swallows hard. She takes the case, and the metal seems to buzz beneath her hands with the memory of old constellations and falling stars. 

"Thank you, Saru."

"Until tomorrow, Michael.”

He leaves.

-----

"They—they were in love," Antilochus whispers to Thrasymedes as they watch Achilles mourning, covering himself in dust. 

She does not know why she said that, other than the heavy knowledge that stories die when they are not told. Did anyone ever know to say that, to whisper the truth among themselves like the hiss of embers dying, like breath long escaped over the teeth of lovers lying in the sand?

Her voice breaks, more than it had when she announced Patroclus' death to the leader of the Myrmidons, and the crying and shouting is too much for her to bear right then. She calls for the computer to end the program, half-fearing that she could not be heard over the grief around her, and then she is kneeling on the floor of the simulation room, her hands shaking just so. Tilly sits down in front of her and grips her hands with warm, dry palms.

"He loved him," Michael says without looking up. “He loved him, and now he’s dead.” She is no poet—the grammar of Standard is a sloppy, broken thing in her mouth, pronouns and antecedents too imprecise for any clarity of communication, and a cloying anger wells up her throat at the dull blade of language. 

Tilly's eyes are wide, her lips working silently. "Michael, were you and Captain Georgiou—"

"No!" Michael barks, flinching at the words—too ugly, too flat, too imprecise. "I—we—"

She shakes her head silently, because words can go no further.

-----

Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles mourns.

-----

"We were together," Michael says into the dark of their room, after Tilly tells the computer to turn off the lights. "For years."

Tilly is silent for a moment. "How did you keep it a secret?"

"We didn't. Our whole ship knew, both of our families knew, Starfleet knew, everyone knew. But after she died, and I was sentenced. And they tried to make our story more—palatable." Michael's lips twist. "The heroic captain and the mutineer. Much easier than two women who cared for each other."

"That's—kind of awful."

"It is their story."

As a strong tree which stood proud and graceful—having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, and was just now glowing in full bloom—is snapped by a sudden gust, and falls mightily, so too did Philippa fall, and now what they had is covered in dust.

"Why do you go into the holosuite?" Tilly asks suddenly. "Michael, that program is hard to watch, much less—participate in. Is it to remember her, or something?"

Michael almost laughs at that—as if there were ever a time when she did not remember Philippa, the sweet lines on her face and the honey of her skin, the rumble of her laughter through the bones of her ribs, the falling. 

"Or something," she says.

She tells Tilly about the captain then—about how they had grated against each other when Michael first came onboard the Shenzhou, but quickly became close; how funny the captain was, how brilliant and sharp. It is no different than the information in her official biography, but the words still are slow to come to her, smoke-dull and inelegant.

Stories are heavy work. 

-----

Stamets and Dr. Culber sometimes are waiting outside to use the holosuite when she exits from the program. When Culber first came back, she had helped Stamets encode a simulation that could ease him back into the setting of linear time, little by little.

The lieutenant commander still comes into their shifts with red eyes and shaking hands. I still dream about him dead. I still wake up, and he's right next to me, and I still think he's dead, he had snapped at her when she first asked. That's not something that just gets better, Burnham. That's not something you can just forget.

"Where are you two going now?" Michael asks, pocketing her chip.

"A little cafe on Alpha Centauri," Culber tells her with a wink. "It was where we first fell in love."

"It was where we first met," Stamets says. "I thought you were obnoxious; there was no love to be found there." His words are not so much a correction as a fond second telling.

"Enjoy your date," she tells them warmly.

Culber's gaze is soft, and Stamets smiles, a departure from his usual single nod, and his eyes are only touched with pink today. His fingers wrap even more tightly around his husband's hand. There is recognition strung between them now. Tilly must have told them. Isn't that why stories are told, so that they can be sung time and time again until the bowl of the sky rings?

The word for glory in the Iliad is kleos. It means that which is heard. 

-----

The next time Tilly enters the program with her, Michael jumps to the funeral of Patroclus. She and Tilly sit on the rust ground and listen to the lamentations of the living, and Michael closes her eyes as Achilles sings in a shattered voice.

"It was his fault," Michael says into the wind, "that Patroclus died."

"No," Tilly says. "No, it wasn't."

"I loved her."

Tilly nods. "You love her."

She sets her hand on Michael's shoulder, and Michael slumps, stricken by the present tense. Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles lives.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Achilles lead the sacrifices out, sees the blade glint in his hand. Michael had never played the program to here before, and though she knows the story, knows the weight of words like "retribution," she is abruptly furious. She wrenches herself up and dashes to the control panel. Her fingers fly across the interface like eagles hunting for their young, eating up every line of code in their path and spitting them back out, tearing up flesh to feed the future, and the sound of her heart is lead in her ears because all she can think of is how much she hates these bitter myths, these grief lessons, because the necessity of tragedy is not the truth, only yet another story, and people should never be slaughtered for a grieving man's pride, because Philippa is dead and was—is—will always be more than her death, more than grief and anger and a love in the past tense—

Achilles releases the captives, and bids them to return as princes to Troy. 

The Achaeans mill about in confusion before Achilles orders for the funeral games to go on, and they disband, heading for the chariot races. "She never let me play Patroclus," Michael says when they are alone at last in the center of the Achaean camp. She lies back, letting her eyes flutter shut. "She would never play the story, either—we'd always end up fighting for the Trojan side, and strategizing how to win. Or sneaking Cassandra out for a picnic, or weaving with Andromache, or—or challenging Agamemnon for command of the Greeks. Challenging Odysseus to a game of chess! He—maybe it’s because it hasn’t been invented for over a thousand years, but he's so bad at chess—"

The laughter breaks out of her, unstoppable, and she turns to grin at Tilly and lets her cheeks grow wet with tears, light like the fingers of dawn.

-----

As a strong tree which stands proud and graceful, Achilles starts—

Mourning and singing and telling have ever been closely entwined, she reminds herself.

—as a tree which stands proud and graceful, having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, Patroclus glowed in full bloom, and the sudden gust which felled her does not diminish her glory, and when spring comes again, the flowers will grow around her. 

-----

"Burnham, wait a moment," Stamets calls after her.

He takes out a holochip from his pocket and sets it on the conference table. "I thought you might be—" he stumbles for a moment before hurrying on, "—interested in this. I had a bit of code lying around in dev to tweak into a holo program. Hugh said that I should try my hand at things other than astromycelial engineering, and I had to remind him that I actually am highly proficient in all the science disciplines. Actually, you know what? Consider it a favor to me, if you beta it."

The lieutenant leaves without further comment.

Michael picks up the clip, weighs it in her hand like a coin of bronze. She goes to the holosuite to run the program, and the gray of the walls is turned to the gold of dust in sunlight. The blue and silver of her uniform is jarring against the warmth of a Greek agora—Stamets must not have finished coding the personal costumes.

There is a poet in the center of the agora, and listeners milled around her like ants as she sang of heroes before the war, and how they were each the breath of the other. On the hills around the city, the olive trees are in bloom, their petals sweet snow.

Michael sits, and listens, and breathes.

-----

"I don't know Homer, but this—was not in Iliad," Tilly says slowly.

"How do you know that it wasn't in the Iliad?" Michael asks, brushing her curls out of her eyes. They are sitting in a Trojan courtyard, and children run all about them in clothing worn but carefully patched. They play with toy swords and laugh as they canter on wooden horses, and women with hair knotted like wasps' waists sit on the windowsills and talk about the sky and the things hidden in the mountains. "Maybe it was."

Two little girls come up to them, with spears of twigs and ivy leaves, and Michael and Tilly laugh and pretend to shield themselves.

"Would you take a story as ransom for our lives, my ladies?" Michael asks, holding up her hands in surrender.

The victorious warrior plants her spear in the ground. "What kind of story?"

"An adventure story," Tilly says. "One with heroes and monsters.

"What kind of adventure?"

Tilly pauses, and Michael jumps in. "I'll tell you." 

She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial murmur, and the girls lean in eagerly. "Once upon a time, there were two lovers who went into the desert, to save the spirits of the cliffs by breaking a cursed drought of 89 years—"

"How did they do it?" one of the girls asks.

"Tell us!" the other one says.

"Tell us!" the first girl echoes. 

Michael smiles. Her chest aches as she whispers, "With lightning."

-----

They are Antilochus and Thrasymedes and Alcimedon and Eudorus and many others besides. They end the war. They flee from a razed Troy, carrying on their backs the girls with their ivy spears. They sign a treaty, and the Hellespont is filled with ships that do not carry soldiers.

They build a city on the banks of the river Po and call it Rema Magna, and populate it with shepherds and poets and weavers and potters and singers and artists who carve joyful effigies of life on tomb stelae and priests who draw honey from bee-towns, with the Latini and Rutuli and Etrusci, and there is never a war with which to found Rome.

They sing of heroes beyond the beginnings and ends of war, of pale flowers on a strong tree, and through their tellings these things are both sweet and bitter.

Achilles lives, and tells what the poets do not.

[seventven]

Bad Intentions

summary: dr barnes, y/n’s psychology professor and final year thesis supervisor is going through a rough patch in his marriage. following a heated argument at the end of class, dr barnes spots y/n at an on-campus bar. he makes a twisted revelation.

pairing: professor!bucky x reader

warnings: age gap [y/n is around 22 and dr barnes is 39]; he’s kind of a dick(?) and a little creepy(?); implications of stalking, he [violently but consensually] takes what he wants, public shenanigans, academic misconduct, cheating, swearing and drinking.

a/n: the whole story is based on the gif below. y’all i actually used my degree for this. p.s. requests are open and you can send them in here.

“Remember that the seminar next week is cancelled. Enjoy your time off but please don’t forget to do the reading!”

Dr Barnes was only halfway through his sentence when everyone was already getting up to leave. It was a Friday afternoon so it was no surprise that all the students were eager to depart. Almost one hundred psychology majors of varying academic years crammed in the bleak lecture hall and most of them could hardly focus on the topic of the class; no one wanted to be pondering over the validity of intelligence tests on a Friday.

Y/N soundlessly shut her laptop and reached for her bag beneath the desk. It was just past four o’clock and her stomach growled for something to eat. She had skipped lunch to go looking for Dr Barnes, needing to ask him a question about an upcoming assignment. To her dismay, she did not find him like she had hoped. In fact, she didn’t see him until he strolled into the lecture hall fifteen minutes late and grumbled something that resembled an apology to the class.

Dr Barnes was Y/N’s personality and intelligence professor; a big, bearded guy who did his psychology PhD when Y/N was still watching cartoons. Y/N had just started the last year of her undergrad, and after handing in a proposal for her final year thesis, she was assigned Dr Barnes as her supervisor. She wasn’t at all surprised, if truth be told. With the amount of professors going on maternity and paternity leave after their lockdown shenanigans, Dr Barnes was one of the few personality experts left at the university and took on more supervision cases and classes than he had any previous year.

Y/N knew he was busy and that harassing him with more emails about her little predicament wasn’t like to make his day easier. She had emailed him on Wednesday morning, and from her experience with Dr Barnes in previous years, she expected to receive a reply within 24 hours. This was always the case with him.

However, when Friday rolled around and no response had come through her inbox, Y/N knew she had to take matters into her own hands. The ethics application for her project was due on Monday and she simply couldn’t proceed without his advice on the matter. Psychology research ethics were a bitch, and she wasn’t exactly keen on making some stupid mistake and having the university slam her for carelessness.

Y/N took her time packing her things, waiting patiently until the majority of students had departed before finally pushing herself up to stand and slinging her tote bag over her shoulder.

Wanda, her roommate, remained in her seat, jotting something down in her notebook. “I’ll wait for you while you talk. We can go to the library after,” she proposed, and Y/N smiled at the idea, nodding her head eagerly.

Dr Barnes was still by his desk, eyes focused on the screen of his computer as he closed his lecture slides and finally shut off the projector. He looked up from what he was doing and eyed Y/N curiously as she approached him.

“Any questions about the lecture?” He asked, almost absentmindedly, diverting his eyes back to his computer. He proceeded to tap a few buttons, wait a short moment, then slowly close the laptop. He began to gather up the pages strewn across his desk.

“Not about the lecture, no.” Y/N smiled at him politely and walked a little closer, coming to a stop just before his desk. She noticed his beard had grown out a bit longer since she had last spoken to him, looking a little more rugged than usual. “I was wondering if you received my email?”

Dr Barnes lifted his gaze and considered her face for a long moment. Y/N shifted her weight from one leg to the other, feeling herself grow a little uncomfortable under his dark eyes. Dr Barnes seemed a little irritated.

“Have you bothered to read the module handbook before taking this class, Miss Y/L/N?” He tore his gaze away again, turning his attention to the papers in his hands and shoving them into a thick plastic folder. “No, of course you haven’t. No one ever does.”

Y/N remained quiet, her initial polite smile faltering at his sarcasm. She was used to Dr Barnes always acting cheerful and kind, always eager to help whenever he could. In previous years, he had even stayed behind after classes to help her friends out with assignments and often sent out recommendations for readings which he thought would simplify complicated concepts and ideas. Dr Barnes always went the extra mile. On this particular Friday, however, something just wasn’t right.

“Just for a second, let’s pretend that you did go to the incredibly difficult length of opening the document I had posted on the forum, labelled important, and read the excruciatingly long five hundred words it contained.”

He closed his folder and slid it into his brown messenger bag.

“You would then be aware that university policy clearly states lecturers have five working days to respond to any queries via email. To answer your question, yes, I have seen your email but I have not yet had the time to find the appropriate resources to direct you to. You can trust that you will receive your answer by Tuesday.”

He proceeded to shove his laptop into his bag, then checked the time on his watch. To Dr Barnes, the conversation was over.

“But the assignment is due by Monday afternoon,” Y/N reminded him, and the look he shot her in response made her regret she hadn’t just dropped it. To say he looked annoyed was an understatement.

“It’s not my problem you left it this late,” he answered coolly. “You shouldn’t be expecting special treatment from your lecturers. I’m taking twice the normal amount of classes, have about eighty assignments to mark this weekend, and on top of that, I’m in a really bad fucking mood, so don’t expect me to just drop everything for you.”

Behind her, Y/N could hear Wanda hurry to pick up her stuff, eager to remove herself from the room as swiftly as humanly possible. The angry exchange was the last thing Y/N had expected when she approached his desk, and she couldn’t blame Wanda for wanting to get away. The whole thing was just plain awkward, and if Y/N had been in Wanda’s shoes, she’d want to give them some privacy, too.

Wanda’s steps echoed off the walls of the lecture hall, and then the door was swinging shut behind her. It was just Y/N and Dr Barnes.

His eyes met her face again, one eyebrow raised expectantly, his expression almost scornful. He picked up his jacket from the back of his swivel chair and slid into it quietly, the silence discourteous in itself.

“Is that all?”

With her lips parted at his gruff and unfriendly attitude, Y/N lightly nodded her head and took a step back. She had never heard Dr Barnes curse so openly before, and she wasn’t keen on provoking him further. Her eyes remained trained on his clearly aggravated expression for a brief moment before she finally turned towards the exit.

“One more thing.” She hadn’t even made it two feet before his voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned her head towards him, and felt him analyse her face for a fleeting moment before continuing. “For your own sake, I would advise you to learn your place.”

Y/N’s brows only furrowed at his words, lips pursed into a thin line. She was so, so confused at his sudden coldness and strange attitude. What the hell had she done to provoke this? She studied his expression for a long moment and then, unable to read his thoughts, Y/N turned back towards the door and began walking briskly towards it.

“And don’t roll your eyes!” He called after her.

Had she rolled her eyes? She wasn’t sure.

Annoyed at his behaviour, Y/N only muttered, “see you on Monday, Dr Barnes”, and stalked out of the lecture hall without waiting for a response. She let the door slam shut behind her.

Wanda was waiting just outside, leaning on the wall with her bag slung over her shoulder and scrolling through something on her phone. At the sudden sound, she looked up and slid the phone into the pocket of her jeans.

“What was his problem?” She asked in bewilderment. “I’ve never seen him so pissed off.”

Y/N only sighed as they both turned towards the main exit. The corridors had grown deserted, and neither of them felt like going to the library after that, whatever that even was.

“I don’t know. He usually answers my emails the same day and is always like ‘come to me with any questions or problems, I’ll be happy to help’. What a load of shit.” Y/N snorted. “The whole time he spent being a dickhead, he could have spent answering the question from my email. I didn’t ask for papers or resources. I asked a simple yes or no question. That’s all.”

Her friend smiled sadly in her direction, then furrowed her brows when she remembered something. “Didn’t he - just a few days ago - tell you your paper was publication worthy and offer you a place as his research assistant?”

Y/N nodded, honestly unable to believe it now. He was so cheerful that day, radiating kindness and enthusiasm, praising her work until her cheeks grew red. Whatever happened to the Dr Barnes she was so fond of?

“Not only that. He also offered me a ride home the other day. I ran into him after leaving the library at like 11pm. What a weird guy.”

The brunette clapped her on the back, a small comforting gesture as they made their way through the large revolving doors and finally stepped outside.

“If I were you, I’d report him to the Dean. That shit was nothing short of unprofessional. I can’t believe he cussed you out like that.”

The afternoon September sun shone down on them as they took their usual shortcut through the parking lot, then turned left onto the main road towards their apartment. It was only a ten minute walk and Y/N was thankful for the fresh breath of air after what happened in the lecture hall.

Wanda suddenly had an idea. “It’s a Friday. We should go out and grab a drink or two. God knows you need it after that shit show.”

Y/N laughed at her statement but couldn’t bring herself to disagree. Now that she was no longer going to the library - too angered by Dr Barnes to even contemplate the work she had yet to do for him - Y/N was happy to have someone else make her evening plans for her. A few drinks with Wanda were always a good idea, and with the new semester recently starting, they had hardly had a chance to sit down and catch up.

Upon getting back to their shared apartment, Y/N spent some time alone in her room before she needed to start getting ready. She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling with a cushion pressed to her chest, almost vibrating with rage at Dr Barnes’ attitude. She wanted to know what the hell she had done to provoke him like that.

Y/N considered everything that had happened each time she had seen him over the previous few days. She had visited him in his office on Monday to discuss some minor changes she wished to make to her thesis proposal; something about the wording of the questions she would ask her research participants. It was nothing that could have sparked any sort of unpleasant emotions; it was bland. Dr Barnes spent twenty minutes giving her some counsel, and at the end, he told her not to worry. He said she was on track to an amazing grade with the work she had already put in and that she should just relax for a little while.

“Speaking of great work,” he then added, reaching behind him and flicking through some papers on his desk until he pulled out the one he was looking for. He was sitting on the edge of the table, Y/N occupying the chair opposite his desk, only a few feet away.

He handed her the stapled pages. “Congratulations on scoring the highest grade I have ever given on this assignment. It was a great read, even publication worthy. Not something undergrad students get told often.”

Y/N raised her brows in surprise, honestly not expecting the high praise. She smiled and thanked him politely, tucking the pages into her bag.

“You know, I’m currently working on a few research papers and I’m looking for some help with things like literature reviews, gathering data and helping with analysis. It’s a paid opportunity and it always looks great on grad school applications, if it’s something you’d consider.”

Y/N almost jumped with excitement.

“Really? That would be amazing!” She was biting her lip, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Dr Barnes expelled a satisfied little laugh, pleased with her response and eagerness. He held out his hand and offered a little shake to mark a deal well struck.

Y/N accepted it gladly, her own hand tiny in his own. It lasted a second, then it was done, and Dr Barnes was announcing he had to get going to his next class.

Y/N left his office just moments later.

She ran into him again the same evening, just as she was leaving the library some time right before midnight. He was leaving for home, having stayed behind to catch up on admin work, and he had a mug of coffee in his hand despite the late hour. They made small talk for a brief moment on the steps leading up to the main entrance of the building and he asked if she needed a ride home. Y/N declined, explaining that she only lived a ten minute walk away, five if she took the shortcut through the parking lot.

On Wednesday she had sent her email, and on Friday came the lecture. As far as she was concerned, Y/N had done absolutely nothing that could have provoked his bitterness and hostility. Defeated, she got up from her bed and headed for the shower, eager to wash away the anger she felt.

They left their apartment just after 8pm and walked the short distance to the best bar on campus. It was a stereotypically Irish establishment, Guinness flowing from taps, all sticky wooden furniture and rowdy middle aged men mingling with students on a typical Friday night.

Y/N bought the first round of drinks, both her and Wanda deciding to start the night off right with some shots. These were soon followed with glasses of rum and coke, then pints of Guinness with blackcurrant cordial. The alcohol quickly began to flow, and the conversation with it.

They sat at a tall round table near the back, soon having to scream at each other in order to be heard over the shouts directed at the rugby game playing on the large flat screen TV by the bar. It wasn’t long before Y/N began to forget all about her unpleasant experience earlier in the afternoon, every gulp of alcohol making her stress and anger melt away just a little bit more.

“You can’t text him,” Y/N warned, her face scrunching up in disgust. “You’ve broken up with him for a reason. Even the best sex isn’t worth it and both you and I know that it wasn’t even mediocre!”

Wanda only laughed and protested by shaking her head vigorously. She was drunk, closer to plastered. “No! It’s worth it, I swear. It won’t mean a thing!”

Y/N giggled at her argument and looked down suddenly when the screen of Wanda’s phone lit up on top of the table between them. Wanda hurried to cover the screen.

“You’ve already texted him, haven’t you?”

The brunette only smiled and shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.

“He’s meeting us here literally any minute and if all goes well, the sex I get tonight will be mediocre and I’ll have no hangover in the morning.”

“Easier said than done,” Y/N told her solemnly, and rolled her eyes at Wanda’s typical drunken antics. She had a string of lousy ex-boyfriends and a tendency to text them at random the second she felt the familiar buzz of alcohol. Fighting with her about it was just about pointless.

“Great, just who I want to see tonight!” Y/N sighed in defeat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back. I need to use the bathroom.”

Wanda grinned from ear to ear, almost apologetically as Y/N slid from the wooden stool and pulled her skirt down to cover more skin. She turned in the general direction of the bathrooms and waited in line for just under a minute before finally stepping inside. She did her business, washed her hands and fixed her hair. By the time she existed the tiny bathroom, Wanda’s ex had already arrived and made himself comfortable in Y/N’s stool. Feeling her annoyance rising, Y/N decided to opt for the bar instead.

She approached it slowly and awaited her turn to order. The bar was a long, rounded plank of wood with a chandelier made of at least a hundred wine glasses hanging just over it. There was just the one bartender and he was laughing at something one of the customers had said. By the time he got around to taking her order, over five minutes had passed and when Y/N looked over her shoulder to her and Wanda’s table she found it empty. Her eyes quickly darted to the door and she watched in disbelief as Wanda practically dragged her toy for the night out of the bar and probably towards his car. 

Just as the door slammed shut behind them, the bartender placed Y/N’s drink in front of her.

With no where to go and a whole pint before her, Y/N slid onto a nearby bar stool and exhaled sharply in what felt like a combination of annoyance but also amusement. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and realised she had a text from Wanda.

“Sorry for ditching but there was an emergency. Don’t wait up xx”.

Y/N knew exactly what kind of an emergency Wanda meant.

The bartender was just beginning to walk away when Y/N called after him. “Do you mind also giving me a shot of vodka?” She smiled at him sweetly and he expelled a little laugh.

“Tough night?” He questioned, kindness in his eyes.

“Tough everything,” Y/N answered, and tore her gaze away from the man in front of her when someone slid into the empty bar stool to her left. She studied him from the waist up; black jeans, a brown leather jacket, a dark beard and… no fucking way.

“Make that two shots and a pint of whatever beer you’ve got on tap.” Dr Barnes thanked the bartender and waited until the guy had walked away before he turned his gaze towards Y/N.

“What a splendid coincidence.” Y/N’s tone was all sarcasm, fuelled by her anger at him and inflamed by the alcohol in her system. Something about it made her inhibitions go out the freaking window, all politeness and respect forgotten, replaced by bitterness and hostility. She took a big gulp of her beer.

“If you must know, I noticed you when you came out of the bathroom and I thought I’d come over and apologise for earlier,” he stated calmly, clearly holding his alcohol better than she was. Y/N was certain she didn’t see him enter through the front door, which likely meant he had arrived before her and Wanda, sitting somewhere in one of the booths in the back. He’d been there a while.

Y/N turned her head and looked at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised. “That’s funny. Thought the advise was that I learn my place.”

“I shouldn’t have said that to you,” Dr Barnes answered apologetically, all calm and professional, his normal pleasant self. “I was in a bad mood and I took it out on you. Like I said, I’m sorry and I hope we can move past it.”

He awaited her response, watching as she tilted her head back and took three large gulps of her drink. She plainly did it to buy herself more time to compose a response. She wasn’t sure whether she should accept the apology so easily, and the buzz in her head wasn’t helping the situation.

So, instead of giving him the response he was looking for, she turned to him and asked, “why were you in a bad mood?”

Dr Barnes looked away at her question, lifting his head to regard the chandelier above their heads, all dusty wine glasses, twinkling with a warm orange glow. He didn’t say anything until the bartender placed their shots in front of them and grabbed a glass for the beer.

“I, uh…” Dr Barnes looked a little lost for words and Y/N’s watchful eyes on him weren’t exactly helping. “My wife and I aren’t in the best place right now.”

Y/N snorted at that. “Your wife pissed you off so you decided to take it out on a random student? Real professional, Dr Barnes.”

He didn’t respond, only brought his shot glass to his lips and tilted his head back. Dr Barnes was not quite as sober as she had initially thought. The guy was just better at covering up his cloudy thoughts and keeping his snarky comments to himself; something Y/N definitely tended to struggle with. So, when he chuckled at his own misfortune, Y/N shot him an expectant look.

“I… Well, I wouldn’t say random, but yeah, you’re right. Dick move.”

Y/N eyed him with suspicion and waited as the bartender set the beer down and Dr Barnes handed him some cash in exchange. He stalked off towards another customer.

“What do you mean?”

Dr Barnes turned in his stool to face her. With his elbow resting on the bar next to him, thick thighs spread apart and his usually bright eyes hazy with the effects of alcohol, Y/N almost gulped at the sight. There was something very different about him outside the lecture hall. The guy dripped with testosterone and Y/N cursed her drunken self for having these thoughts about him.

The corner of his lips curved up into an amused smile. He considered his words for a brief moment, then shook his head and sighed. “Let’s just say my wife isn’t your biggest fan.”

Y/N’s brows knitted together. “I’ve never even met your wife.”

“You haven’t,” Dr Barnes agreed, then paused to take a long drink of his beer. He licked off the foam that attached itself to the hair above his top lip. The entire time his dark gaze remained trained on her face, weighing his next words. “That doesn’t mean she hasn’t heard of you… or seen you, for that matter.”

Y/N regarded him in confusion, and he took a moment to scan her expression before elaborating further.

“She’s jealous of you,” he explained, and Y/N could only stare at him blankly. This wasn’t making any sense. “Which is why she stormed out of here the second she spotted you.”

“Why on earth would she be jealous? We’ve not done anything… y’know?”

He took another gulp. “You haven’t. What I’ve done is a different story. I’m not exactly great at covering my tracks.”

When Y/N didn’t respond, he continued. It appeared Dr Barnes had no filter tonight, his words escaping his mouth with not a second committed to acknowledge their possible consequences.

“You should consider making your social media accounts private with the sort of things you post. You never know who can find it.”

Was he… stalking her? Y/N’s mind wondered back to her most recent online activity. There was a picture of her childhood dog, a few photos from a trip she took with her family and… significantly more racy lingerie pictures, photos from messy outings with her friends, and late night Twitter musings about all things sex. To any outsider, the whole thing painted a very interesting picture of the kind of person she was.

Her cheeks flushed red.

“Needless to say, she wasn’t impressed when she unlocked my phone to see you in nothing but your little baby pink set.” He took a long drink of his beer, eyes fixated on her reddening cheeks. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

Y/N couldn’t tell if he was scorning or taunting her. Nor did she know what to say, or even what to think. Her lips parted at his honesty about recent events, and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. He was gauging her reaction to his bold words and the sinister implication of what he was really doing looking at her photos. His words brought forth a mix of images to Y/N’s mind that she feebly attempted to push away, something inside of her stirring at the thought. This was bad.

“I thought I had gotten away with it when I made up some lie about how your page was recommended to me by the algorithm, and how I went onto it out of curiosity. How I was shocked with what came up.” He laughed again, a disbelieving little chuckle at his own stupidity, it would seem.

He went on. “Everything was fine for a little while, apart from her suspicion, of course. But all hell broke loose when she woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of me grunting a name that wasn’t hers, my phone in one hand and my cock in the other.”

Y/N stared at him in disbelief, suddenly sobering up at his revelation. She couldn’t believe what was happening, what she was hearing. To her dismay, her body was quicker to respond to the information than her mind, her thighs clenching together at the thought of him him doing that while thinking about her.

“She connected the dots… Me mentioning your name in passing, hiring a new research assistant. She knew my intentions right away.”

Y/N cleared her throat. “Your intentions?”

Dr Barnes smiled, an ominous little smile which hid some deeper meaning. “Don’t act so surprised. I don’t just offer rides home to any student, or try to get alone with them whenever I can. You drive me fucking crazy but you’re so clueless about it. It almost makes the whole thing worse.”

Y/N knew it was the alcohol talking; that these words would never have been uttered had he been sober, but somehow, the detail did not change a thing. Drunk or sober, he said what he said, and Y/N knew that he was not lying about it. He had no reason to.

“Even right now,” he began again, regarding her body in a way which made goosebumps rise on her skin. She felt naked under his gaze, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of the valley between her breasts, then the curve of her hips, and smirking knowingly when his eyes fell upon her clenched thighs.

“Or maybe you’re not as clueless as you seem. Maybe you’re just toying with me to taunt me.”

“Taunt you?”

Dr Barnes laughed quietly and finished the last of his beer, setting the glass down on the bar a bit too roughly. Y/N regarded the wedding band on his finger, feeling a perverse combination of guilt and arousal.

He continued. “If you wanted to get fucked by your lecturer, you would have done something about it by now. But no, I think you just like to torture me. You give me just enough to make me think you want it… a smile here, a visit to my office there, a coffee waiting for me on my desk or your bedroom eyes whenever we make eye contact in the lecture hall. It’s fucking infuriating.”

It was Y/N’s turn to pick up her shot glass and down the contents. She didn’t even flinch at the burn in her throat.

“I’d be furious if I found out my wife had a sliver of the thoughts I have of you about some other guy. I’m pathetic and she knows it. She met me here today to tell me she’s done.”

Y/N tried to look sorry for him, she really did, but no matter how hard she tried to alter her facial expression, the one that appeared was not remorseful. His wife had done nothing wrong; she just picked up her dignity and self-respect, and did the right thing for her. Y/N knew that had she been in her shoes, she’d probably do the same.

Dr Barnes’ behaviour was distasteful, to say the least. It was shameless, shocking and vulgar. And whilst Y/N completely realised the severity of his choices and the revolting thing he had done to some poor woman - his freaking wife - the fact did nothing to cease the budding yearning for him at his revelations. The imagery was just too vivid.

He sighed in exasperation as he slid off his stool. “I’m gonna head off and hope one of my mates lets me crash on their couch. I’ll see you on Monday, Miss Y/L/N.”

He dusted off his jeans and made sure he had his phone and wallet before he stalked off in the direction of the door. Y/N remained where she was and motioned the bartender over.

“Another shot of vodka, please.”

With how quiet the bar had become, it took the bartender less than twenty seconds to set another shot glass in front of her. He smiled kindly at her again, almost empathetically and Y/N wondered if he knew; the guy just looked like he did.

She muttered a quick, “thank you”, tapped her bank card on the reader and threw her head back, downing her shot. Then, on a sudden whim that Y/N had no time to tame, she gathered herself up and followed Dr Barnes out through the exit, hoping to God that he was still nearby.

The old wooden floor creaked under her boots as she trudged towards the exit, and when she finally got outside, she instantly wrapped her arms around herself at the sudden chill.

It was almost midnight, the night dark and moonless. She stopped just outside the door to the bar and glanced around her. The street had a number of different bars and clubs, some of them bursting with people, most of them close to deserted. The street itself was relatively quiet, the old cobble road littered with parked cars, beer bottles and the smell of smoke.

To her left, two girls stood talking until a large navy car pulled up and they got inside, shutting the door behind them.

To her right, stood Dr Barnes, just beneath the flickering neon sign with the bar’s name, a cigarette dangling from the unsmiling corner of his mouth. His phone was pressed to his ear.

“Thanks, pal. I’ll be there within the hour,” he told the person on the line, took the cigarette out from between his lips and tapped off the ash. He was just hanging up when his eyes met Y/N’s.

No words were said. A long moment passed before either of them moved, their eyes regarding each others’ expressions, searching for clues about thoughts or feelings. It felt as though the air itself was holding its breath and when Dr Barnes reached up and took a long drag of his cigarette, something inside of Y/N simply snapped.

She watched as he dropped the butt of his smoke onto the cobblestones beneath his feet and put out the flame with the sole of his shoe. He was looking down and when his eyes lifted again - all dark and hazy with the effects of alcohol and craving - Y/N knew there was no turning back.

Incited by her own drunkenness and the wicked and depravity of the images his words had placed in her head, Y/N inhaled sharply before beginning her descent towards him.

Dr Barnes narrowed his eyes at the sudden determination in her step, but didn’t protest when her fingers hooked around the collar of his jacket and pulled him down firmly towards her. Lips met, the kiss all teeth and growls, and Y/N hissed when his fingers tangled in her hair and yanked her head back. He deepened the kiss with fervency, hands groping at each other’s bodies with urgent desperation.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered into the kiss, dizzy and out of breath.

Y/N dug her fingernails into his shoulders when he harshly pulled her against him. She was trapped between his frenzied arms and heaving chest, a big wall of muscle that made the unholy images in her head descend into perversion. There was something so erotic about the way he desperately craved to make her crumble in his arms, his grip strong and brutal, almost murderous. Y/N whined at the feeling, having never experienced something so raw before. Dr Barnes was not some random college guy, selfish and eager for an instantaneous release.

No. Dr Barnes was a man. Experienced and sensual, lustful and dripping with the purest form of eroticism, Dr Barnes was masculine and powerful, authoritative and forceful. It was a lethal combination which made Y/N’s breath catch in her throat and her hands itch for more of him.

He almost dragged her away from the entrance to the bar and towards the dark alley situated just next to it. Mouths never leaving each other, Dr Barnes was ruthless with the sheer force of his hold on her and she cried out when he drove her back against the stone wall of the building.

The shadows of the alley shielded them from the eyes of anyone leaving the bar or passing by, but the groans and grunts were a dead giveaway that the dark passageway was not unoccupied. Y/N should have paid more attention to how dangerous this was, how fucking awkward it would be if someone she knew caught her like this with her professor. But when he pinned her against the wall, wedged a muscular thigh between her own legs and harshly grabbed her face in his hand, all reservations and hesitancy melted away from her skin.

All that existed was him, his hands holding her in place and touching her everywhere. No inch of skin was spared in his frantic exploration, the short skirt she wore providing access to all the different places he had imagined squeezing and licking and burying his face in. Groping her ass roughly under her skirt, Dr Barnes did not waste any time before forcefully tilting her head to the side and placing his mouth on her neck. It was all tongue and teeth, his hand still holding her face in place and when he was satisfied that she wouldn’t move, his digits skimmed her collarbone and hooked around the low-cut top of her dress. The stretch of the fabric and the lack of bra allowed him to yank the material down from over her breasts, exposing her.

Y/N felt herself gasp, unsure if it was in response to the chilly night air hitting her already hardening nipples, or the feeling of him roughly grabbing the back of her thighs and hoisting her up, back scraping painfully against the wall. He held her there, pinned to the cold surface, and she felt her breathing accelerate when his lips moved hurriedly from her neck, to her collarbone and finally wrapped around a stiff nipple. His mouth was warm, wet and hungry and it made her insides clench with need. A moment later, when he let go of her slightly and she slid down the wall to land on his thigh, still wedged between her legs, she cried out at the pressure it placed on her clit.

“James.” His name fell from her lips along with a feeble exhalation, her eyes screwed shut at the intensity of the feeling. He released her nipple with a wet pop, the skin glistening with saliva, red from the assault. Her feet barely reaching the ground, Y/N did her best to raise her hips and then slam herself down onto his thigh again, grinding on it with determination until he noticed and pressed it harder to her crotch. He aided her in massaging her little bundle of nerves on the rough fabric by gripping her hips and guiding her movements until the friction made her skin raw.

“Too much,” she whimpered breathlessly, and Dr Barnes paused for just a second to gauge her expression. His lips were red, swollen, glistening from the kiss and just like her, he struggled for air. His eyes held a certain wildness to them, a determination and desperation that Y/N had never seen before. He reached down and maintained eye contact as he undid his belt, the button of his jeans and pulled the zipper down. Then, when Y/N realised what was coming, he pinned her to the wall harder than before, cupped the back of her left thigh and lifted it to his hip.

His other hand, frantic, pulled himself out of his jeans and boxers and expertly moved Y/N’s underwear aside under the fabric of her dress. Nails digging into his shoulders and a gasp was the only response he needed when he forcefully drove himself past her lips and entered her until he was fully sheathed inside her cunt. He groaned out at the feeling and his name fell in a breathless whisper from her lips again.

It was rough, shameless and fierce, his hips snapping to meet her own whilst a thin layer of perspiration built up on their skin. Y/N wanted to encourage him, she truly did, but amidst the wild thoughts that this was her professor - a man she was supposed to respect, be courteous towards and above all platonic - she found she didn’t know what to do or say. Her boldness ran out the second she grabbed him by the collar and kissed him, and since that moment, he had complete control.

And so, unable to form any words, Y/N simply moaned at the feeling of him taking exactly what he wanted, furiously slamming himself into her with so much force her legs shook and the skin of her back screamed from the scratches the wall had given her. For him, it was encouragement enough, the little sounds spurring him on further until he was burying his face in her neck and grunting her name, just the way he had when his wife caught him with his cock in his hand.

Y/N only briefly managed to catch her breath before she saw Dr Barnes reaching up and pushing his index and middle fingers past his lips, wetting them generously before finally reaching between them and beginning to skilfully massage her clit. His touch was hard, applying just the right amount of pressure and massaging it in perfect little circles. The combination of being filled up so completely, his thick shaft stretching her in the most blissful of ways, and his fingers working so gracefully against her clit, soon resulted in her feeling the familiar heat in her lower abdomen.

He finished first, his cock pulsating and throbbing inside of her until he filled her up with his load, the feeling enough to push her over the edge and bite into his shoulder at the intensity of it all. Her walls clenched around him sweetly, and he continued to thrust all the way through his and her combined orgasms until both of them were spent.

He pulled out gently and Y/N slumped against the wall, her legs barely able to hold up her weight. She watched with clouded and blurred vision as he stepped back and pulled his trousers back up, quickly buttoning them and fixing his belt. Just like that, it was done. No feelings, no warmth, just the satisfaction of a quick, hard fuck.

Y/N was breathless, her clit still pulsating from her orgasm but the reality of it all quickly beginning to settle in.

“I, uh… I should probably get going,” she told him calmly, almost awkwardly, shifting her weight from one leg to the other when she felt his cum trickling out of her. Her fingers fumbled with the top of her dress, clumsily tucking her tits away. 

He regarded her expression for a brief moment; the reddened cheeks, messy hair and the way she was biting her lip, all disheveled and shy, clueless with what to do next. How do you proceed with life after you’ve just gotten fucked by your professor behind an on-campus bar? The question hung heavily in the air until she noticed him take pity on her predicament and took a step closer.

She stayed unmoving as he hooked his fingers around the bottom of her skirt and fixed it so that everything was covered once again. Then, gently, he reached up and cupped her face in his hands, her back still pressed to the wall. She almost shivered, the adrenaline dropping, the stone feeling so much colder than it had been before.

“Don’t worry about this. Everything’s going to be alright,” he reassured her, and placed a long kiss to her forehead. “It can be our little secret.”

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