#I’m concerned about my literature professor

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Current mood:

[pucksandpower]

Pride and Prejudice and Bullets

mafia boss!Max Verstappen x professor!Reader

Summary: your life is predictable — revolving around teaching about Jane Austen novels and grading term papers — and you like it that way … until an old classmate makes a sudden appearance that turns everything upside down

Warnings: minor character death

The sharp rap at the door jolts you from your late-night reading. You glance at the clock — 2:37 AM. Who could it possibly be at this ungodly hour?

Cautiously, you approach the door, peering through the peephole. Your heart skips a beat. Is that ... no, it couldn’t be. But as you swing the door open, there he stands — the boy who vanished from your high school without a trace nearly a decade ago.

“Max?” You breathe, scarcely believing your eyes.

He doesn’t respond, just pushes past you into the apartment, one hand pressed firmly against his side. As he moves, you catch a glimpse of crimson seeping through his fingers, staining what looks like an absurdly expensive shirt.

“Jesus, Max, what happened to you?” You gasp, instinctively reaching out.

He flinches away from your touch, his eyes wild. “I hear you’re a doctor now. Do your doctor stuff,” Max barks the order at you, his voice rough with pain.

You blink, momentarily stunned. “I’m a doctor of British Literature! What are you even doing here? How do you know my address? Why are you here?”

“Needed a doctor, you’re a doctor,” he grunts, stumbling toward your couch.

The reality of the situation starts to sink in. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I need to call an ambulance.”

“No,” Max snaps, his tone brooking no argument. “Don’t. Are you stupid? I’m here because I can’t go to a hospital.”

Your mind races, torn between concern and confusion. “Yes, right, fuck, I should call the cops. Why do you know my address?”

“Wound. Fix it,” he growls through gritted teeth.

“Yes! Wound. Uhhhh, take off your shirt?” You stammer, fumbling for your phone. “I need to Google this- oh my god that’s disgusting, oh fuck, is the bullet still in there?”

Max’s eyes narrow. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Of course I don’t!” You exclaim, your voice rising in pitch. “I write papers on Jane Austen, not ... whatever this is!”

He groans, both from pain and exasperation. “Fine. First aid kit. You have one?”

You nod frantically, dashing to the bathroom. When you return, Max has managed to unbutton his shirt, revealing a nasty wound just below his ribs.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steadier now. “Antiseptic. Clean the wound.”

With shaking hands, you do as he instructs, trying not to gag at the sight of so much blood. “Max, please, what’s going on? How did this happen?”

He ignores your questions. “Tweezers. The bullet’s still in there. You need to get it out.”

“What? No! I can’t — I’ll hurt you!”

A humorless laugh escapes him. “Trust me, it already hurts. Just do it.”

Swallowing hard, you position the tweezers. Max’s hand shoots out, gripping your wrist. “Wait,” he says, fumbling in his pocket with his free hand. He produces a flask, takes a long swig, then nods. “Okay. Go.”

You take a deep breath and plunge in. Max’s entire body goes rigid, a string of curses flowing from his lips that would make a sailor blush. After what feels like an eternity, you feel the tweezers catch on something.

“I think I’ve got it,” you whisper.

“Then pull it out,” Max hisses.

With a sickening squelch, you extract the bullet. Max lets out a strangled groan, then goes limp.

“Max?” You say, panic rising in your throat. “Max!”

His eyes flutter open. “I’m fine. Just ... give me a minute.”

As you clean and dress the wound, a tense silence falls between you. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, you speak. “Max, please. What’s going on? I haven’t seen you in years, and now you show up at my door in the middle of the night with a bullet wound?”

He sighs, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “It’s ... complicated.”

“No shit,” you retort. “Start talking. Now.”

Max runs a hand through his hair, wincing at the movement. “After I left school, I got mixed up in some ... stuff. Bad stuff. It was supposed to be temporary, just a way to make some quick cash. But things ... escalated.”

“Escalated how?” You press.

He meets your gaze, his eyes hard. “You really want to know?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I run the Dutch Crime Syndicate now,” he says flatly.

You can’t help it — you laugh. It’s a high, slightly hysterical sound. “The Dutch Crime Syndicate? Are you serious? That sounds like something out of a bad movie.”

“Does this look like a joke to you?” Max gestures to his wound.

The laughter dies in your throat. “Oh god. You’re serious.”

He nods grimly. “Dead serious. And now you know why I couldn’t go to a hospital. Too many questions.”

“But ... why me?” You ask, still struggling to process this information. “We were barely even friends in school.”

Max shifts uncomfortably. “I ... kept tabs on people from back then. When I heard you’d become a doctor-”

“A doctor of literature,” you interject.

He rolls his eyes. “When I heard you had become a ‘doctor,’ I made a note of it. Just in case. Never thought I’d actually need to use that information, but ... here we are.”

You shake your head, trying to clear it. “This is insane. You’re insane. I should be calling the police right now.”

“But you won’t,” Max says quietly.

“And why’s that?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time since he arrived. “Because you’re curious. Because part of you, whether you want to admit it or not, is excited by this. By me showing up and shaking up your nice, safe, predictable life.”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again. He’s not entirely wrong.

“So what happens now?” You ask instead.

Max shrugs, then immediately regrets it, judging by his wince. “Now, I rest for a bit, then I leave. And you go back to your life of Jane Austen and tea cozies.”

“That’s it?” You can’t keep the disappointment out of your voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “What were you expecting? That I’d sweep you off your feet and into a life of crime?”

“No, of course not,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Well, well. Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye, Y/N.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Shut up. You’re delirious from blood loss.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “Or maybe I’m seeing clearly for the first time in years.”

There’s a charged moment of silence between you. Then Max groans, breaking the spell. “God, I sound like a bad romance novel. Must be the whiskey talking.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Well, you did show up bleeding on my doorstep in the middle of the night. It’s all very dramatic.”

“What can I say? I aim to please,” Max quips, then turns serious. “Look, Y/N ... thank you. For helping me. For not calling the cops. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you probably don’t,” you agree. “But ... I’m glad you came. As crazy as this all is, it’s ... nice to see you again.”

Max’s expression softens. “Yeah. It’s nice to see you too.”

Another silence falls, but this one is comfortable, almost companionable. Finally, Max speaks again. “I should go. I’ve already put you in enough danger.”

“Wait,” you say, surprising yourself. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere. At least stay until morning.”

He hesitates, clearly torn. “I shouldn’t ...”

“Please,” you insist. “For my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

Max searches your face, then nods slowly. “Okay. But just until morning.”

As you help him settle more comfortably on the couch, you can’t shake the feeling that your life has just irrevocably changed. For better or worse remains to be seen, but one thing’s for certain — it’s going to be one hell of a ride.

***

The early morning sunlight filters through your curtains, rousing you from a fitful sleep. For a blissful moment, you forget the events of last night. Then reality comes crashing back, and you bolt upright in bed.

Max. The wound. The Dutch Crime Syndicate.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. What were you thinking? In the harsh light of day, the whole situation seems utterly insane.

Steeling yourself, you pad out to the living room. Max is still there, sprawled on your couch, his chest rising and falling steadily. He looks younger in sleep, almost vulnerable. It’s hard to reconcile this image with the hardened criminal he claims to be.

As if sensing your presence, Max’s eyes flutter open. He winces as he tries to sit up.

“Morning,” he grunts.

“How’s the wound?” You ask, your voice carefully neutral.

Max prods at his side gingerly. “Better than it has any right to be, thanks to you.”

You nod, then take a deep breath. “Max, about last night ...”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off. “I know what you’re going to say. And you’re right. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you agree, relief washing over you. “Look, I won’t tell anyone about this. But I think it’s best if we just ... pretend this never happened. You should go, and we should forget we ever saw each other again.”

Max nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” you say firmly, trying to ignore the small part of you that’s screaming in protest.

He starts to gather his things, moving stiffly. You turn away, heading to the kitchen to make coffee, needing something to do with your hands.

That’s when you hear it. The sharp crack of a gunshot, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass.

You freeze, your heart pounding. “Max?” You call out, voice barely above a whisper.

“Get down!” He shouts back. You drop to the floor just as another bullet whizzes overhead, embedding itself in your kitchen cabinets.

Max is at your side in an instant, his earlier stiffness forgotten. “We need to move. Now.”

“What’s happening?” You ask, your voice shaking.

“Rivals,” Max says grimly. “They must have followed me here. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never meant to put you in danger.”

Before you can respond, there’s a thunderous banging at your front door. “Open up!” A gruff voice shouts. “We know you’re in there, Max Emilian!”

Max’s face hardens. “The Silver Arrows,” he mutters. “Persistent bastards.”

“What do we do?” You whisper, panic threatening to overwhelm you.

Max’s eyes dart around the room, assessing. “Is there a fire escape?”

You nod. “Through the bedroom window.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice calm and authoritative. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to make a run for it. Stay low, stay behind me. Got it?”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak.

“On my count,” Max says. “Three ... two ... one ... GO!”

You scramble to your feet, keeping low as Max leads the way to your bedroom. The banging on the door intensifies, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood.

“They’re breaking through!” You gasp.

“Almost there,” Max says through gritted teeth. He throws open your bedroom window, then turns to you. “Ladies first.”

You hesitate for a split second, then clamber out onto the fire escape. The metal is cold beneath your bare feet, and you realize with a start that you’re still in your pajamas.

Max follows close behind, pulling the window shut just as you hear your front door give way.

“Down,” he hisses, guiding you towards the ladder.

You descend as quickly as you can, your hands shaking so badly you nearly lose your grip more than once. Max is right behind you, his presence oddly reassuring despite the circumstances.

As your feet hit the alley below, you hear shouts from above. “There they are!”

“Run!” Max yells, grabbing your hand and pulling you along.

You sprint down the alley, your bare feet slapping against the cold pavement. Bullets ping off the walls around you, and you let out an involuntary scream.

“Keep going,” Max urges. “There’s a car around the corner.”

“A car?” You pant. “How do you know?”

“I always have an exit strategy,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice despite the situation.

Sure enough, as you round the corner, you see a sleek black car idling at the curb. A man in a dark suit is behind the wheel, looking tense.

“Get in!” Max shouts, practically shoving you into the backseat before diving in after you.

The car peels away from the curb before Max even has the door closed. You’re thrown back against the seat as the driver weaves through traffic at breakneck speed.

“What the hell, Max?” You finally manage to say, your heart still racing. “Who were those people? Where are we going?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, looking more rattled than you’ve seen him yet. “Those were the Silver Arrows. They’ve been trying to muscle in on our territory for months. As for where we’re going ...” He exchanges a look with the driver in the rearview mirror. “Somewhere safe. For now.”

You let out a hysterical laugh. “Safe? I don’t even know what that word means anymore. My apartment just got shot up! I’m in my pajamas in the back of a strange car, running from a gang war. This is insane!”

“I know,” Max says softly. “And I’m sorry. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid by leaving last night.”

“Well, bang-up job on that one,” you snap.

The driver clears his throat. “Boss, we’ve got a tail. Two cars, about three blocks back.”

Max curses under his breath. “Can you lose them, Daniel?”

The driver — Daniel, apparently — nods grimly. “I can try. Hang on.”

The car suddenly swerves, cutting across three lanes of traffic. Horns blare as Daniel takes a sharp right turn, tires squealing.

You’re thrown against Max, who instinctively wraps an arm around you to keep you steady. Despite everything, you can’t help but notice how solid he feels, how good he smells ...

No. Focus. You shake your head, trying to clear it.

“Max,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I need you to be straight with me. What exactly is going on here?”

He sighs, his arm still around you. “It’s complicated.”

“Un-complicate it,” you demand.

Max is quiet for a moment, seemingly weighing his words. “The Dutch Crime Syndicate ... we’re not just petty criminals. We’re big. International. And lately, we’ve been expanding our reach. The Silver Arrows don’t like that. They think we’re encroaching on their territory.”

“And are you?” You ask.

A ghost of a smile flits across Max’s face. “Maybe a little. But business is business, you know?”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re talking about illegal activities like it’s a corporate takeover!”

“In a way, it is,” Max says. “Just with higher stakes.”

“Boss,” Daniel interrupts. “I think we’ve lost them for now, but we can’t go to any of the safe houses. They might be compromised.”

Max nods. “Good thinking. Head for the marina. We’ll take the boat.”

“Boat?” You echo. “Max, I can’t just leave. My job, my life-”

“Your life will be over if the Silver Arrows find you,” Max says bluntly. “You’re involved now, whether you like it or not. I’m sorry, but there’s no going back.”

The gravity of the situation finally hits you. This isn’t some exciting adventure that you can just walk away from. This is real, and it’s dangerous.

“What have you gotten me into, Max?” You whisper.

His arm tightens around you. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promises. “No matter what.”

You want to believe him. Despite everything, despite the insanity of the past twelve hours, you find that you do believe him.

As the car speeds towards the marina, you try to process everything that’s happened. Your quiet life of academia seems like a distant memory now. In its place is ... what? Danger? Excitement? A chance at something you never knew you wanted?

You look at Max, studying his profile. He seems different from the boy you knew in high school. Harder, certainly, but there’s something else too. A confidence, a magnetism that you can’t deny.

As if sensing your gaze, Max turns to look at you. For a moment, the facade of the hardened crime boss slips, and you see a flicker of the boy you once knew.

“I really am sorry about all this,” he says softly. “If I could go back and undo it all, I would.”

“Would you?” You ask, surprised by your own boldness.

Max looks taken aback. “Wouldn’t you want me to?”

You consider this. “I don’t know,” you admit. “This is all terrifying and insane, but ... I’ve never felt more alive.”

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Well, well,” he says, echoing his words from last night. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Y/N.”

Before you can respond, Daniel announces, “We’re here.”

The car pulls up to a private dock where a sleek yacht is moored. Max helps you out of the car, his hand lingering on your lower back.

“Last chance to back out,” he says, his eyes searching your face. “Say the word, and I’ll have Daniel take you back. We’ll figure out a way to keep you safe.”

You look at the yacht, then back at Max. In your mind’s eye, you see your apartment, your job, your safe, predictable life. Then you see bullets flying, feel the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the unknown.

Taking a deep breath, you make your choice.

“Let’s go,” you say, taking Max’s hand and stepping onto the gangplank.

As the yacht pulls away from the dock, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re leaving more than just the city behind. You’re leaving your old self, your old life.

And as terrifying as that is, you can’t wait to see what comes next.

***

As the yacht cuts through the waves, you find yourself standing at the stern, watching the city skyline grow smaller by the minute. The reality of your situation is starting to sink in, bringing with it a cocktail of emotions — fear, excitement, and a nagging curiosity that won’t let you rest.

You turn to find Max leaning against the railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon. There’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, a reminder that you’re not the only one affected by this sudden turn of events.

“Max,” you say, breaking the silence. “Why did you really pick me?”

He glances at you, a flicker of something crossing his face before his expression settles back into careful neutrality. “The doctor part, obviously ...”

You raise an eyebrow, sensing there’s more to it. Max sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“And you have no one who would miss you,” he continues, his voice softer now. “No contact with family and, as far as I’m concerned, no friends who would notice.”

Your heart sinks at his words, partly because of the stark truth in them, and partly because of the implications. “Notice ... oh fuck, you’re gonna kill me?”

Max’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in what looks like genuine offense. “No. That’s a last resort, too many questions. You’re on my boat now, aren’t you?”

You let out a shaky breath, not sure whether to feel relieved or more worried. “So what then? Am I your hostage? Your accomplice? What exactly is my role in this mess?”

Max pushes off from the railing, moving closer to you. “Right now? You’re under my protection. Beyond that ... I guess we’ll have to figure it out as we go.”

“Figure it out?” You repeat incredulously. “Max, I left everything behind. My job, my apartment, my entire life. I need more than ‘we’ll figure it out.’”

He has the decency to look chagrined. “You’re right. You deserve answers. But right now, our priority has to be getting somewhere safe.”

“And where exactly is that?” You press.

Max glances around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before leaning in closer. “We’re headed to Monaco.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Monaco? As in, the luxury resort town on the French Riviera?”

He nods, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “The very same. I have an ... associate there who can help us.”

“An associate,” you echo skeptically. “Another crime lord, I assume?”

Max’s smile widens. “Something like that. His name is Charles. He’s the heir to the Rosso Corsa Mafia.”

You can’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally getting to you. “The Rosso Corsa Mafia? Seriously? What is this, some kind of international crime syndicate convention?”

“Hey, networking is important in any business,” Max quips, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

For a moment, you’re both laughing, the tension of the past few hours dissipating slightly. But as the laughter fades, reality sets in once more.

“Max,” you say, your voice quiet now. “What am I doing here? Really?”

He sobers, his gaze intense as he looks at you. “Honestly? I’m not entirely sure. When I came to your apartment last night, I was just looking for help. I didn’t plan for any of this.”

“But you must have had some idea,” you press. “You said you kept tabs on me. Why?”

Max is quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. Finally, he speaks. “Do you remember our last day of school together? Before I ... left?”

You furrow your brow, thinking back. “Vaguely. It was just an ordinary day, wasn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “Not for me. That was the day I decided to leave. I was in the library, trying to figure out how I was going to tell my parents I wanted to drop out. And then you came in.”

“I did?” You ask, surprised. You have no memory of this.

Max nods. “You were returning a stack of books. You looked ... happy. Excited about your future. I remember thinking how different we were. How I’d never have that kind of certainty, that sense of purpose.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that. “So... what? You’ve been keeping an eye on me out of some kind of twisted nostalgia?”

He winces. “When you put it like that, it sounds creepy. I just ... I guess I wanted to know that someone from our old life made it. That it was possible to be normal and happy.”

“And now you’ve dragged me into your world,” you say, a hint of bitterness in your voice.

Max looks stricken. “I never meant for this to happen. If I could go back-”

“But you can’t,” you interrupt. “We’re here now. So what happens next?”

Before Max can answer, a crew member approaches. “Sir, we’ve just received word from Monaco. Mr. Leclerc is expecting us.”

Max nods. “Thank you, Rupert. Tell the captain to push the engines. I want to make it there before nightfall.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “This is insane. You know that, right? This whole situation is completely insane.”

“Welcome to my world,” Max says, his tone light but his eyes serious. “It’s not too late to back out, you know. Say the word, and I’ll have the captain turn this boat around.”

You consider it for a moment. Your old life seems so far away already, like a half-remembered dream. And despite the danger, despite the uncertainty, you can’t deny the thrill of excitement coursing through your veins.

“No,” you say finally. “I’m in this now. For better or worse.”

Max’s expression softens. “I promise you, Y/N, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

As you stand there, the salt spray on your face and the wind in your hair, you find yourself believing him. It’s crazy, it’s reckless, but you trust him.

The next few hours pass in a blur of activity. Max is constantly on his phone, speaking in hushed tones in what sounds like a mix of Dutch and French. You catch snippets about “security measures” and “clean identities,” but most of it goes over your head.

As the sun begins to set, casting the sea in shades of gold and pink, you find yourself back at the stern of the yacht. The coastline has long since disappeared, leaving nothing but endless ocean in every direction.

You hear footsteps behind you and turn to see Max approaching, two glasses of champagne in hand.

“I thought we could use a drink,” he says, offering you a glass. “To new beginnings?”

You take the glass, clinking it gently against his. “To new beginnings,” you echo, taking a sip. The champagne is exquisite, of course. You wouldn’t expect anything less from a mob boss’s yacht.

“We should be arriving in Monaco in a few hours,” Max says, leaning against the railing beside you. “Charles has arranged for a car to meet us at the marina. We’ll be staying at his family’s villa in the hills.”

You nod, trying to process this information. “And then what?”

Max shrugs. “We lie low for a while. Figure out our next move. The Silver Arrows won’t give up easily, but they’ll have a hard time touching us in Monaco. The Leclercs practically own the place.”

“And where do I fit into all this?” You ask, voicing the question that’s been nagging at you since you stepped onto this boat.

Max turns to face you fully, his expression serious. “That’s up to you, Y/N. I won’t force you into anything. If you want to walk away once we’re in Monaco, I’ll make sure you have the means to do so safely.”

You consider this. The sensible thing would be to take the out he’s offering. Go back to your life of books and lectures and quiet evenings alone. But the thought leaves you feeling ... empty.

“And if I don’t want to walk away?” You ask, surprised by your own boldness.

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Then I suppose we’ll have to find a place for you in this brave new world of ours.”

As you stand there, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear beneath the waves, you can’t help but feel like you’re on the cusp of something momentous. Your old life is behind you now, growing more distant with every passing moment. Ahead lies uncertainty, danger ... and possibility.

You take another sip of champagne, savoring the bubbles on your tongue. Whatever comes next, you realize, you’re ready for it. Ready for the adventure, the risk, the chance to reinvent yourself.

As the yacht cuts through the darkening waters, carrying you towards a future you never could have imagined, you find yourself smiling. For the first time in years, maybe for the first time ever, you feel truly, exhilaratingly alive.

***

The yacht glides smoothly into the marina, the lights of Monaco twinkling like a galaxy of stars against the night sky. You stand at the railing, taking in the sight of luxury yachts and sleek speedboats bobbing gently in their berths. It’s a world away from your modest apartment back home.

Max appears at your side, his face tense. “Remember,” he murmurs, “stay close to me and don’t say anything unless you’re directly addressed. Charles is an ally, but he can be ... unpredictable.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The reality of your situation is sinking in again, the brief respite of the boat ride fading away.

As the crew secures the yacht, a figure emerges from the shadows of the dock. Even in the dim light, you can tell he’s striking — all lean muscles and sharp cheekbones, with piercing green eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

“Max,” he says, his accent a mix of French and something you can’t quite place. “You’ve brought trouble to my doorstep again, I see.”

Max steps forward, clasping the man’s hand. “Charles. Thank you for this. I owe you one.”

Charles’ lips quirk up in a half-smile. “Add it to your tab, my friend.” His gaze shifts to you, curiosity evident in his expression. “And who might this be?”

Before Max can answer, Charles is already moving towards you, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips in a smooth motion. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. I am Charles Leclerc.”

You stammer out your name, caught off guard by his Old World charm. Charles’ eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Adorable,” he says. “Now, shall we? It’s not wise to linger here.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the parking lot. Max gives you a gentle push, urging you to follow.

As you round the corner, your jaw drops. Sitting there, gleaming under the streetlights, is quite possibly the most ostentatious Ferrari you’ve ever seen. It’s matte black with an eye-catching racing stripe in the colors of the Monegasque flag, and sleek lines that practically scream speed and luxury.

Charles is already sliding into the driver’s seat, while Max ushers you into the back. As the engine roars to life, a thought occurs to you.

“Is this a kidnapping?” You blurt out, your nerves finally getting the better of you.

Charles catches your eye in the rearview mirror, a smirk playing on his lips. “You seem very willing for one.”

Your cheeks flush. “That doesn’t calm my nerves!”

“It is like this,” Charles sighs, accelerating smoothly as he maneuvers through the narrow streets of Monaco. “Do as Max says or we dump your body.”

“What!” You exclaim, your heart rate spiking.

Max shoots Charles a glare. “Charles, do not scare her more than necessary. The poor girl is already terrified.”

Charles shrugs, not taking his eyes off the road as he takes a sharp turn that has you clutching the seat. “I merely state facts, mon ami. Our world is not for the faint of heart.”

You look to Max, seeking reassurance. He meets your gaze, his expression softening slightly. “Ignore him. You’re under my protection, remember?”

“And what exactly does that mean?” You press, emboldened by the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I still don’t understand my role in all this.”

Max hesitates, glancing at Charles. The two seem to have a silent conversation before Charles speaks up.

“You, ma chèrie, are an unexpected variable,” he says, his tone lighter now. “Max has a habit of collecting strays, but you ... you’re different.”

“Different how?” You ask, not sure if you should be offended or intrigued.

Charles’ eyes meet yours in the mirror again, a glint of mischief in them. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? But I suspect you’re made of sterner stuff than you let on.”

The car falls silent as you process this. The streets of Monaco fly by outside the window, a blur of high-end boutiques and lavish casinos. It’s like stepping into another world.

Finally, the Ferrari begins to climb, winding its way up into the hills overlooking the city. The road narrows, becoming more secluded, until you’re passing through an ornate gate flanked by high walls.

The car comes to a stop in front of a sprawling villa that looks like something out of a movie. Marble columns, manicured gardens, a fountain bubbling gently in the courtyard — it’s almost too much to take in.

As you step out of the car on shaky legs, Charles is already striding towards the entrance. “Welcome to Casa Leclerc,” he calls over his shoulder. “Try not to break anything irreplaceable.”

Max appears at your side, placing a steadying hand on your lower back. “You okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Max guides you inside, where you’re immediately struck by the opulence of the interior. Priceless artwork adorns the walls, and you’re pretty sure that’s an actual Fabergé egg sitting casually on a side table.

Charles leads you to a spacious living room, gesturing for you to sit. As you sink into a plush armchair, he busies himself at a well-stocked bar.

“Drink?” He offers. “I imagine you could use one.”

You nod gratefully, and soon find yourself nursing a glass of what’s probably the most expensive cognac you’ve ever tasted.

Charles settles into a chair across from you, swirling his own drink thoughtfully. “Now then,” he says, his tone suddenly all business. “Perhaps it’s time we discussed the situation at hand.”

Max, who’s been pacing near the windows, turns to face the room. “The Silver Arrows are getting bolder. This attack ... it’s a clear escalation.”

Charles nods grimly. “They sense weakness. Your recent expansion has left you vulnerable, mon ami.”

You listen, feeling increasingly out of your depth as they discuss territories, alliances, and what sound like complex financial maneuvers. It’s like overhearing a board meeting for the world’s most dangerous corporation.

Finally, unable to contain yourself any longer, you speak up. “I’m sorry, but what exactly am I doing here? I’m not a part of ... whatever this is.”

Both men turn to look at you, as if suddenly remembering your presence. Charles raises an eyebrow at Max. “Yes, do tell. What is your plan for our unexpected guest?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you’re starting to recognize as a sign of frustration. “I didn’t have a plan. It all happened so fast, and I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“How gallant,” Charles drawls, though there’s a hint of genuine amusement in his voice. “But now we must decide what to do with her. She knows too much to simply let go.”

Your grip tightens on your glass. “I won’t say anything. I swear. Just ... let me go home.”

Max’s expression softens as he looks at you. “It’s not that simple, Y/N. The Silver Arrows saw you with me. They’ll assume you’re involved, whether you are or not.”

“So what then?” You ask, frustration bleeding into your voice. “Am I your prisoner now?”

“Non, ma chèrie,” Charles interjects smoothly. “Think of yourself as ... a valued guest. Under our protection.”

You laugh bitterly. “Some protection. I’ve been shot at, kidnapped, and threatened with bodily harm in the span of 48 hours.”

To your surprise, Charles actually looks chagrined. “Ah, yes. My apologies for that. I have a flair for the dramatic, you see.”

“What Charles is trying to say,” Max cuts in, shooting his friend a warning look, “is that you have options. We can set you up with a new identity, somewhere far from here. Or ...”

He trails off, and you find yourself leaning forward despite yourself. “Or what?”

Max and Charles exchange another of those loaded glances before Max continues. “Or you could stay. Become a part of this.”

You blink, sure you must have misheard. “Become a part of ... your crime syndicate? Are you insane?”

Charles chuckles. “Now you’re catching on, chérie. We’re all a little mad here.”

You shake your head, trying to clear it. The cognac isn’t helping. “I’m not a criminal. I’m a literature professor, for god’s sake!”

“And yet,” Charles muses, leaning forward, “here you are. You could have called the police at any point. You could have refused to get on that yacht. But you didn’t. Why is that, I wonder?”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again. He’s not wrong. Despite the fear, despite the danger, there’s a part of you that’s been thrilled by all of this. A part that’s been longing for something more than your quiet, predictable life.

Max kneels in front of you, taking your hands in his. “I know it’s a lot to take in. And I’m not asking you to decide right now. But I want you to know that if you choose to stay, we’ll teach you everything you need to know. You’ll be protected, valued. Part of something bigger than yourself.”

You look into his eyes, searching for ... you’re not sure what. Deception? Ulterior motives? But all you see is sincerity, and something else. Something that makes your heart beat a little faster.

“I ... I need time to think,” you manage to say.

Charles claps his hands together, breaking the moment. “Excellent idea. A good night’s sleep will do wonders for clarity of thought. Allow me to show you to your room.”

As you follow Charles up a sweeping staircase, your mind is whirling. Two days ago, your biggest concern was finishing grading papers on Jane Austen. Now, you’re being offered a place in an international crime syndicate.

It’s absurd.

It’s terrifying.

And yet ...

Charles stops in front of an ornate door. “Your quarters, mademoiselle. I trust you’ll find everything to your liking. We can discuss more in the morning.”

As he turns to leave, you can’t help but call out. “Charles?”

He pauses, looking back at you with those piercing eyes. “Yes?”

“Why are you doing this? Helping Max, offering me a place here? What’s in it for you?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Let’s just say I have a good feeling about you, Y/N. You might be exactly what our little organizations need.”

With that cryptic statement, he’s gone, leaving you alone in a luxurious bedroom that probably costs more than your entire apartment back home.

As you sink onto the plush bed, your head spinning from more than just the alcohol, you can’t help but wonder: what would Jane Austen make of all this? Somehow, you don’t think even she could have imagined a plot twist quite like this one.

***

The morning sun filters through the luxurious curtains, rousing you from a surprisingly deep sleep. For a moment, you’re disoriented, the opulent surroundings a stark contrast to your cozy little apartment back home. Then the events of the past day come rushing back, and with them, a sudden clarity.

You sit up, your mind made up. It’s crazy, it’s reckless, but you’ve never been more certain of anything in your life. You’re staying.

After a quick shower and change into clothes that have mysteriously appeared in the wardrobe (and fit perfectly, which you decide not to question), you make your way downstairs. The villa is quiet, save for the faint clinking of dishes coming from what you assume is the kitchen.

You follow the sound, finding Max nursing a cup of coffee at a marble island. He looks up as you enter, his expression guarded.

“Morning,” he says cautiously. “Sleep well?”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’ve made a decision.”

He sets down his cup, giving you his full attention. “Oh?”

“I’m staying,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I want to be a part of this. Of your world.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise evident on his face. “Are you sure? This isn’t a decision to be made lightly, Y/N. Once you’re in, there’s no going back.”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “I’m sure. My old life ... it never felt right. Like I was just going through the motions. But this? As terrifying as it is, it feels real. It feels right.”

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face, transforming his features. “Well then,” he says, standing up. “I guess we better start your training.”

“Training?” You echo.

Max nods, his expression turning serious. “If you’re going to survive in this world, you need to learn how to protect yourself. First lesson: shooting.”

Your eyes widen. “Shooting? As in, guns?”

“No, we’re going to teach you competitive archery,” Max deadpans. “Of course guns. Come on, Charles has a range in the basement.”

As you follow Max through the winding corridors of the villa, your heart races with a mix of excitement and trepidation. This is really happening.

The shooting range is state-of-the-art, with multiple lanes and an impressive array of weapons displayed on the walls. Max selects a handgun, checking it over with practiced ease.

“We’ll start with something simple,” he says, holding out the gun. “A Glock 19. Easy to handle, reliable.”

You take the weapon gingerly, surprised by its weight. Max positions himself behind you, adjusting your stance and grip.

“Remember,” he says, his breath warm against your ear, “breathe steadily. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull.”

You nod, trying to focus on the target at the end of the range rather than the heat of Max’s body behind you.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmurs, stepping back.

You take a deep breath, aim, and pull the trigger. The gun goes off with a deafening bang, and you can’t help but let out a surprised scream.

Max tuts, shaking his head. “Don’t do that, it will give you away.”

You turn to him, incredulous. “Like the loud noise wouldn’t? I shot a gun!”

“And missed,” Max points out, nodding towards the untouched target. “Now go again.”

Gritting your teeth, you face the target once more. This time, you’re prepared for the noise and the recoil. You squeeze the trigger, and to your surprise, the bullet hits the outer ring of the target.

“Better,” Max says, a note of approval in his voice. “Again.”

As the morning wears on, you find yourself falling into a rhythm. Aim, breathe, squeeze. The shots become more accurate, your stance more confident. Max is a patient teacher, offering guidance and correction with a gentle touch here, a murmured word there.

“You’re a natural,” he says after a particularly good round. “Must be all those Jane Austen novels. Secret badass under all that propriety.”

You laugh, lowering the gun. “I don’t think Lizzy Bennet ever handled a Glock.”

“Her loss,” Max grins. “One more round?”

You nod, raising the gun once more. As you fire off the last few shots, you’re aware of Max’s gaze on you, more intense than before. The final bullet hits dead center, and you turn to him with a triumphant smile.

“How was that?” You ask, breathless with exhilaration.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher — admiration, certainly, but something else too. Something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Max?” You prompt, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

In one fluid motion, Max closes the distance between you. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is electric, sending sparks through your entire body. You respond instinctively, your free hand fisting in his shirt to pull him closer. The gun clatters to the floor, forgotten.

Max backs you up against the wall of the shooting range, his body pressing against yours. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing heavily.

“I’ve wanted to do that since you opened your door that night,” Max admits, his forehead resting against yours.

You laugh breathlessly. “Even with me in my ratty pajamas?”

“Especially then,” he grins. “You were adorably flustered. And then you went and patched me up without hesitation. I was a goner.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “This is insane, you know that? A few days ago I was grading papers on 19th-century classic literature. Now I’m making out with a crime lord in a secret shooting range.”

Max’s expression turns serious. “Is it too much? We can slow down, or-”

You cut him off with another kiss. “No,” you say firmly. “It’s not too much. It’s ... exactly right.”

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Well then, doctor. Ready for your next lesson?”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

Max’s grin turns wicked. “I was thinking something in the realm of close combat. Very hands-on.”

You laugh, a thrill of excitement running through you. “Lead the way.”

As Max takes your hand, leading you out of the shooting range, you can’t help but marvel at the turn your life has taken. It’s dangerous, it’s completely illogical, and yet ... you’ve never felt more alive.

Whatever comes next, you’re ready for it. With a gun in your hand and Max by your side, you feel like you could take on the world. And who knows? Maybe you will.

***

As Max leads you out of the shooting range, there’s a palpable tension in the air, crackling with unspoken promises. You follow him through the winding corridors of Charles’ villa, your heart racing with anticipation.

“So,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “where exactly are we going for this close combat training?”

Max glances back at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I thought we’d use the gym. Plenty of space, padded floors ... you know, for safety.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Safety, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He stops abruptly, turning to face you. “Y/N, if this is moving too fast-”

You cut him off, stepping closer. “Max, I literally left my entire life behind for you. I think we’re well past too fast.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Fair point. Still, if at any point you want to stop-”

“I’ll let you know,” you assure him. “Now, are you going to show me these close combat moves or what?”

Max’s grin turns predatory. “Oh, I’ll show you alright.”

He pushes open a door, revealing a state-of-the-art gym. The space is impressive, with gleaming equipment and, as promised, a large area covered in training mats.

“Shall we?” Max asks, gesturing to the mats.

You nod, suddenly feeling a bit nervous despite your bravado. As you step onto the mat, Max begins circling you slowly.

“The key to close combat,” he says, his voice low and intense, “is to always be aware of your opponent’s movements. To anticipate their next move.”

You turn, keeping him in your sight. “And how do I do that?”

In a flash, Max is behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist. “By staying alert,” he murmurs in your ear.

A shiver runs down your spine at his proximity. “I thought I was doing pretty well,” you manage to say.

You can feel Max’s chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Not bad. But you’re still too tense. You need to relax, feel the flow of movement.”

His hands slide up your arms, gently adjusting your posture. You lean back into him, relishing the warmth of his body.

“Like this?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max’s grip tightens slightly. “Getting there. Now, if someone grabs you like this, what do you do?”

You consider for a moment, then make your move. You twist in his arms, using the momentum to break his hold and face him. “How’s that?”

Max looks impressed. “Not bad at all. You’re a quick learner.”

“I have a good teacher,” you reply, a bit breathless from the maneuver and his proximity.

For a moment, you stand there, faces inches apart, the air heavy with tension. Then Max moves, swift and sure, sweeping your legs out from under you. You land on the mat with a soft thud, Max following you down, pinning you beneath him.

“Rule number one,” he says, his face hovering above yours, “never let your guard down.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that so? And what’s rule number two?”

Instead of answering, Max lowers his head, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You respond eagerly, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing heavily. “I think I like rule number two,” you say with a grin.

Max laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, we’re just getting started with the rules, doctor.”

He leans in for another kiss, but this time you’re ready. Using the moves he just taught you, you manage to flip your positions, straddling his waist triumphantly.

“How’s that for staying alert?” You ask, feeling a thrill at the surprised and appreciative look on Max’s face.

“Impressive,” he says, his hands coming to rest on your hips. “But you’ve left yourself open.”

Before you can ask what he means, Max surges upward, capturing your lips once more. As you lose yourself in the kiss, you feel him shift, and suddenly you’re on your back again, Max looming over you with a satisfied smirk.

“Distraction,” he says, “can be a powerful weapon.”

You laugh, breathless and exhilarated. “I’ll keep that in mind. Any other lessons you want to teach me?”

Max’s eyes darken. “Oh, I’ve got plenty more to teach you. If you’re up for it.”

You reach up, pulling him down to you. “I’m a very dedicated student,” you murmur against his lips.

What follows is less a lesson in combat and more an exploration of each other. Clothes are discarded, hands roam freely, and the only sounds in the gym are gasps, moans, and occasional laughter.

Later, as you lie tangled together on the training mats, you can’t help but marvel at the turn your life has taken. Just days ago, you were grading papers in your quiet apartment. Now, you’re in the arms of a mob boss, in a luxurious villa in Monaco, having just had the most exhilarating experience of your life.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Max asks, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin.

You turn to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Just thinking about how surreal this all is. A week ago, the most exciting thing in my life was finding a rare first edition at an antique book fair.”

Max chuckles. “And now?”

“Now?” You grin. “Now I’m learning to shoot, engaging in ‘close combat training’, and apparently joining an international crime syndicate. It’s ... a lot.”

His expression turns serious. “Is it too much? It’s too late to back out now, you know. I could have set you up somewhere safe, given you a new identity earlier, but now-”

You silence him with a kiss. “Max, I meant what I said earlier. I’m in this. All of it. With you.”

The smile that spreads across his face is radiant. “Good,” he says, pulling you closer. “Because I don’t think I could let you go now if I tried.”

You settle into his embrace, feeling safer than you have in years despite the objective danger of your situation. “So, what’s next on the criminal training agenda?” You ask, only half-joking.

Max pretends to consider. “Well, we’ve covered shooting and hand-to-hand combat. How do you feel about safecracking?”

You laugh. “Safecracking? Seriously?”

“Hey, it’s a valuable skill in our line of work,” Max defends, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Uh-huh,” you say skeptically. “And I suppose pickpocketing is next on the list?”

Max grins. “Now that you mention it ...”

You swat his chest playfully. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he points out, capturing your hand and bringing it to his lips.

“Here I am,” you agree softly. “So, what happens now? Do we stay here in Monaco? Go back to face the Silver Arrows?”

Max’s expression turns thoughtful. “For now, we stay here. You need more training before we can risk going back. And I need to regroup, strategize.”

You nod, a mix of relief and excitement coursing through you. “So I get to play princess in a Monaco villa while learning the finer points of criminality? I think I can handle that.”

“It won’t all be fun and games,” Max warns. “The Silver Arrows are still out there, and they’re not going to give up easily. We need to be prepared for anything.”

“I know,” you say, your tone turning serious. “I understand the risks. I’m ready for whatever comes next.”

He studies your face for a long moment, as if searching for any sign of doubt. Finding none, he nods. “Alright then. Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

***

The Monaco sun beats down relentlessly as you step out of yet another luxury boutique, arms laden with shopping bags. Oscar and Lando, your assigned bodyguards, trail behind you, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.

“I think that’s the last one,” you say, unable to keep the excitement out of your voice. “Who knew shopping could be so exhilarating?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “I think the exhilaration comes from Max finally letting you out of the villa, not the shopping itself.”

You laugh, conceding the point. “True. I never thought I’d be so happy to see the inside of a Gucci store.”

Lando grins. “Just wait until Max sees the bill. That’ll be truly exhilarating.”

As you make your way towards the parked Ferrari, you can’t help but reflect on the past few weeks. The intensive training, the late-night strategy sessions with Max and Charles, the growing feeling that you’re part of something bigger than yourself. It’s been thrilling, but also claustrophobic at times.

“I still can’t believe Max agreed to this little excursion,” you muse as you reach the car.

Oscar shrugs, opening the trunk. “You can be very persuasive when you want to be. Those puppy eyes of yours should be classified as a weapon.”

You’re about to retort when a sudden movement catches your eye. Before you can react, the air is filled with the deafening sound of gunfire.

“Get down!” Lando shouts, pushing you behind the car as he and Oscar draw their weapons.

Your heart pounds as you crouch behind the meager cover, the sounds of a firefight erupting around you. This isn’t like the controlled environment of the shooting range. This is real, chaotic, and terrifying.

“Y/N, stay down!” Oscar yells over the din, returning fire at unseen assailants.

You nod, too shocked to speak. But as you huddle there, a horrifying realization hits you — you recognize some of the voices shouting orders.

The Silver Arrows. They’ve found you.

Suddenly, a strong arm wraps around your waist, yanking you up and away from the car. You struggle instinctively, but your captor’s grip is like iron.

“Well, well,” a deep voice rumbles in your ear. “What do we have here? Max’s new pet, I presume?”

You crane your neck, looking up into a face you’ve seen before — in photographs, in briefings. Toto Wolff, leader of the Silver Arrows himself.

“Let me go,” you growl, trying to sound braver than you feel.

Toto chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, my dear. You see, you’re my ticket to bringing Max to his knees.”

As he speaks, you become acutely aware of the weight on your thigh. The gun. The one Max insisted you carry, “just in case.” This, you realize with startling clarity, is that case.

Moving as subtly as you can, you reach for the holster strapped to your leg. Toto, focused on the fight around you, doesn’t notice.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, stalling for time as your fingers close around the grip of the gun. “There are other ways to resolve conflicts.”

Toto’s laugh is harsh. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t understand our world. This isn’t a negotiation, it’s war.”

You take a deep breath, Max’s training echoing in your mind. Stay calm. Aim true. Squeeze, don’t pull.

“You’re right,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I don’t understand your world.”

In one fluid motion, you pull the gun free and twist in Toto’s grip. Before he can react, you press the muzzle against his chest and pull the trigger.

The gunshot seems impossibly loud, even amidst the chaos of the firefight. Toto’s eyes widen in shock, his grip on you loosening as he stumbles backward.

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. Then, chaos erupts anew.

“Boss!” Someone shouts, and suddenly you’re being pulled away, strong arms encircling you protectively.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar’s voice says in your ear. “We’re getting out of here.”

As he hustles you towards the car, you catch glimpses of the scene around you. Silver Arrow members rushing to their fallen leader. Lando providing cover fire. And blood. So much blood.

Oscar practically throws you into the backseat of the Ferrari before jumping into the driver’s seat. Lando dives in barely a second later, and then you’re peeling away from the curb, tires screeching.

“Are you hurt?” Lando asks, twisting in his seat to look at you.

You shake your head, still too shocked to speak. The gun is still clutched in your hand, and you stare at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“You did good, Y/N,” Oscar says, his eyes flicking to you in the rearview mirror. “You kept your cool. That’s not easy in a situation like that.”

“I ... I shot him,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Toto Wolff. I shot him.”

Lando and Oscar exchange a glance. “You did what you had to do,” Lando says gently. “He would have killed you without hesitation.”

As the adrenaline begins to fade, the reality of what just happened starts to sink in. You’ve just shot one of the most powerful crime lords in Europe. In broad daylight. In the middle of Monte Carlo.

“Oh god,” you groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “Max is going to kill me.”

Oscar lets out a surprised laugh. “Are you kidding? He’s going to be thrilled. You just took out his biggest rival.”

“Took out?” You repeat, a new wave of panic washing over you. “You mean he’s ...”

“We don’t know for sure,” Lando says quickly. “But a point-blank shot like that ... it doesn’t look good for Toto.”

You close your eyes, trying to process everything. Just hours ago, your biggest concern was whether to buy the Prada or the Fendi handbag. Now, you might have just assassinated a mob boss.

The rest of the drive passes in a blur. Before you know it, you’re pulling up to the villa, where Max is already waiting, his face a mask of concern and anger.

As soon as the car stops, he yanks open your door, pulling you into a fierce embrace. “Are you okay?” He demands, his hands roaming over you as if checking for injuries. “When I got the call, I thought ...”

You cling to him, the familiar scent of his cologne grounding you. “I’m okay,” you assure him. “I’m okay.”

Max pulls back slightly, cupping your face in his hands. “What happened? Oscar said there was a firefight.”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “The Silver Arrows ambushed us. And Toto ... he grabbed me. I ... I shot him, Max. With the gun you gave me.”

For a moment, Max just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, a slow smile spreads across his face. “You shot Toto Wolff?”

You nod, still unsure of his reaction. “I think ... I think I might have killed him.”

Max’s smile widens into a full-blown grin. “Y/N, do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You’ve single-handedly changed the balance of power in our world.”

“I have?” You ask, feeling slightly dazed.

He nods, pulling you close again. “You’re incredible, you know that? I knew you were special from the moment I showed up at your door, but this ... this is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

As Max leads you into the villa, his arm protectively around your waist, you can’t help but marvel at the turn your life has taken. From literature professor to potential assassin in a matter of weeks. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and completely surreal.

“What happens now?” You ask as Max guides you to the study, where Charles is already waiting, phone in hand.

Max exchanges a look with Charles before turning back to you. “Now? Now we prepare for war. The Silver Arrows won’t take this lying down, Toto dead or alive. But with you by my side ...” He trails off, a fierce pride in his eyes.

“You can be unstoppable,” Charles finishes, raising his glass in a toast.

As you sink into a chair, the events of the day finally catching up with you, you realize that this is your life now. Gunfights and power plays, luxury shopping sprees and criminal empires. It’s a far cry from grading papers on Jane Austen, but as you look at Max, seeing the mix of pride, concern, and love in his eyes, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The war may be just beginning, but with Max by your side and a newfound confidence in your abilities, you’re ready to face whatever comes next. After all, you’ve already taken down Toto Wolff. What’s a little inter-syndicate warfare compared to that?

***

Five Years Later

The small apartment buzzes with the energy of five recent college graduates, sprawled across mismatched furniture in various states of relaxation. Empty pizza boxes and half-empty wine bottles litter the coffee table, evidence of their Friday night catch-up session.

“Alright, alright,” Emily says, reaching for her phone. “What should we put on for background noise? Music? TV?”

Jake, lounging on the worn leather armchair, perks up. “Oh! What about that true crime podcast I was telling you guys about? The one about modern mobs?”

Zoe, curled up on the couch, raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Isn’t that a bit heavy for a chill hangout?”

“No, no, it’s fascinating!” Jake insists. “It’s not just gruesome stuff. It’s all about the economics and politics of modern organized crime. Super interesting.”

Lisa, sitting cross-legged on the floor, shrugs. “I’m game. Could be fun to learn something while we drink.”

“Seconded,” chimes in Alex from his spot by the window. “Hit play, Em.”

Emily fiddles with her phone, connecting it to the bluetooth speaker. “Alright, here we go. ‘The Mob in the Modern Age: Episode 7 — The Dutch Syndicate’s Rise to Power.’”

As the podcast’s intro music fades, a smooth, professional voice fills the room:

“In the world of organized crime, power shifts can happen in the blink of an eye. But few have been as sudden or as dramatic as the meteoric rise of the Dutch Crime Syndicate over the past five years. Once a minor player on the European stage, the Dutch Syndicate now controls vast swathes of territory and influences everything from high finance to international politics. But how did this happen? The answer, dear listeners, lies in an unlikely source: a literature professor turned criminal mastermind.”

The friends exchange amused glances. “A literature professor?” Zoe snorts. “Now that’s a career change.”

“Shh,” Jake hushes her, leaning forward intently.

The podcast continues: “It all began with a chance encounter. The Syndicate’s boss, known only as Max Emilian, was injured in a firefight with rival gang members. Desperate for medical attention but unable to go to a hospital, he turned up on the doorstep of a young literature professor in the middle of the night.”

Emily pauses the podcast. “Okay, this sounds like the plot of a bad romance novel.”

“I know, right?” Lisa laughs. “What are the odds?”

Alex shakes his head, grinning. “Maybe our old prof is secretly living it up as a mob wife somewhere.”

The group erupts into laughter at the absurd image.

“Can you imagine?” Zoe gasps between giggles. “Professor Y/L/N in a shootout?”

Jake wipes tears from his eyes. “God, remember how she used to get flustered just operating the projector?”

As the laughter dies down, Emily resumes the podcast.

“What happened next is the stuff of legend in criminal circles. The professor, whose name we now know to be Y/N Y/L/N, not only patched up the crime boss but ended up joining his organization. Within weeks, she had become his right-hand woman and romantic partner.”

The room falls silent, the friends exchanging wide-eyed looks.

“No way,” Alex breathes.

“It can’t be,” Lisa shakes her head. “It’s got to be a coincidence.”

Jake holds up a hand, shushing them as the podcast continues.

“But Y/N’s true moment of infamy came just a month into her new life of crime. During what should have been a routine shopping trip in Monte Carlo, she and her bodyguards were ambushed by members of the rival Silver Arrows gang. In the ensuing chaos, Y/N found herself face to face with none other than Toto Wolff, the notorious leader of the Silver Arrows.”

“Oh my god,” Zoe whispers, her face pale.

“What happened next would change the landscape of European organized crime forever. Y/N, using a gun given to her by Max for protection, shot Toto Wolff at point-blank range. Wolff did not survive the encounter, his death throwing the Silver Arrows into disarray.”

Emily pauses the podcast again, her hand shaking slightly. “Guys ... this can’t actually be our Professor Y/L/N, right? I mean, it’s impossible.”

The room is silent for a long moment, each of them lost in thought.

“Remember how she just ... disappeared?” Alex says slowly. “In the middle of the semester? The department said it was a family emergency, but no one ever heard from her again.”

Jake nods, his brow furrowed. “And it was right around the time this podcast is talking about. Five years ago, give or take.”

Lisa shakes her head vehemently. “No. No way. Our Y/N? The one who cried when we threw her a surprise party for finishing her PhD? There’s no way she shot someone.”

“But think about it,” Zoe says, warming to the idea. “She was always talking about how literature reflects real life, how the best stories come from unexpected places. What if ... what if she decided to live a story instead of just teaching about them?”

The group falls silent again, each of them trying to reconcile the image of their soft-spoken, cardigan-wearing professor with the gun-toting criminal mastermind described in the podcast.

Emily takes a deep breath. “Should we ... should we listen to the rest?”

After a moment of hesitation, they all nod. She presses play:

“In the years since that fateful day in Monte Carlo, Y/N has become a force to be reckoned with in her own right. Known in criminal circles as ‘The Professor,’ she’s rumored to be the strategic mind behind the Dutch Syndicate’s most daring and successful operations. Her background in literature and analysis has proven unexpectedly valuable in the world of organized crime, allowing her to see patterns and opportunities that others miss.”

Jake lets out a low whistle. “Okay, that part I can actually see. Remember how she could break down a text? Find connections no one else saw?”

The others nod, still looking shell-shocked.

The podcast continues: “Last year, Y/N and Max officially tied the knot in what insiders describe as the criminal event of the decade. The guest list reportedly included high-ranking members of various international syndicates, as well as several politicians and business moguls whose connections to the underworld had previously been only rumored.”

“A mob wedding,” Alex says faintly. “Our professor had a mob wedding.”

Zoe suddenly sits up straight. “Wait a second. Guys, remember that weird email we all got about a year ago? The one that looked like spam but had our names in it?”

The others nod slowly, realization dawning.

“It said something about a ‘special event’ and how the sender wished we could be there,” Lisa recalls. “We all thought it was just a weird phishing attempt.”

“Holy shit,” Jake breathes. “She invited us to her mob wedding.”

The podcast wraps up: “Today, the Dutch Crime Syndicate stands at the pinnacle of European organized crime, with Y/N and Max as its power couple. Their story serves as a reminder that in the modern criminal underworld, brains can be just as valuable as brawn. And sometimes, the most dangerous person in the room might just be the one with a literature degree.”

As the outro music plays, the friends sit in stunned silence.

Finally, Emily speaks up. “So ... do we think it’s really her?”

They look at each other, years of shared memories and inside jokes about their favorite professor flashing through their minds.

“I mean, what are the odds of two literature professors named Y/N Y/L/N getting mixed up with the mob in the same year?” Alex points out.

Jake nods slowly. “And it would explain why she just vanished. Why the department was so weird about it.”

“But ... but it’s Y/N,” Lisa protests weakly. “She used to bring us cookies during finals week. She cried when we analyzed sad poems.”

Zoe reaches for her phone. “Only one way to find out for sure. I’m googling her.”

The others crowd around as Zoe types in their former professor’s name. The search results load, and they collectively gasp.

There, staring back at them from countless news articles and blurry paparazzi shots, is an unmistakable face. It’s older, harder somehow, but undeniably the woman who once taught them about Jane Austen and Shakespeare.

“Well,” Emily says faintly, “I guess this explains why she always said Pride and Prejudice needed more action scenes.”

The room erupts into hysterical laughter, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting them full force.

As they catch their breath, Jake raises his wine glass. “To Professor Y/L/N,” he says solemnly. “May her gun be as mighty as her pen.”

The others join in the toast, clinking their glasses together.

“You know,” Alex muses, “I always thought her lectures on Crime and Punishment were a little too detailed.”

Another round of laughter fills the apartment as the friends settle in to re-listen to the podcast, this time with a whole new perspective on their former professor turned criminal mastermind.

As the night wears on, they share memories of their college days, now tinged with the surreal knowledge of where life has taken their beloved professor. And though none of them would admit it out loud, there’s a small part of each of them that can’t help but admire the sheer audacity of it all.

After all, how many people can say their literature professor went on to conquer the criminal underworld?

[pedropascallme]

Office Hours

Pairing: professor!Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: "'I’m sorry,' Your gaze settled on the knot in his tie before moving upwards to look him in the eye. 'I’ve been—I guess I’ve just been getting easily distracted…big room, lots of people.' Hot professor."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), implied age gap (Damien is his actual current age, reader is 20-22), student/teacher relationship, spanking, dirty talk, praise kink, fingering, oral (m & f receiving), p in v, spitting, cum play, Medieval German literature (it needs a warning trust me), mild dom/sub dynamics, kinda softdom!Damien. If I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: Fuck it Damien Haas fic because that man has been tormenting me with his new hair and 5 o'clock shadow. I guess I write for the Smosh cast now.

He wasn’t wearing his glasses today.

His hair was pushed up, and you noticed he fiddled with it out of habit; short bangs falling over his face when he got into a point he was making before he pushed it back out of his face. It was an endless cycle.

His tie was ever so slightly loose around his neck, the first button of his shirt undone so that you could see the muscles in his neck quirk when he laughed.

If only you spent as much time studying for Professor Haas’s class as you did daydreaming about him, you might not be struggling to follow along with the lecture he was giving. But it all went in one ear and out the other; too focused on the way you could see his sharp upper teeth when he smiled at one of your peers, happy to answer a question. You liked the topic, in theory—really, you were taking the class for a reason, if Intro German Literature hadn’t appealed to you, you wouldn’t have signed up for it during your course registration, never mind that the man who taught it was young and pretty and sharp as a fucking tack. But you got so caught up with your own imagination, listening to his voice and the way he read lines of text that you otherwise wouldn’t have tossed a second glance toward.

And suddenly, it was your favorite class, and your lowest grade.

Your eyes flickered to the clock on the wall just as Professor Haas dismissed the class, his own line of sight cornering you where you sat. You packed your laptop away into your bag and began to follow your classmates out of the room when you heard your name called.

“Do you have a minute?” Dr. Haas leaned against the podium at the front of the room, looking concerned. You walked to the front of the lecture hall, fiddling with the straps of your bag and silently encouraging him to speak up again. “You’re not in trouble, I just—your grades are slipping. It feels unlike you.” He furrowed his brow, standing up straight to face you, and you hoped the fluorescent lighting did an alright job of hiding the blush that crept over your cheeks.

Busted.

“I’m sorry,” Your gaze settled on the knot in his tie before moving upwards to look him in the eye. “I’ve been—I guess I’ve just been getting easily distracted…big room, lots of people.” Hot professor.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” and he spoke with such sincerity that you almost believed him, the mortification seeping into your bones as if he knew exactly what was distracting you. “I know you’re a good student—honestly, I don’t blame you for getting distracted in here.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame, especially since Hildebrandslied is usually such an easy read.” You tried your hand at a joke to ease the tension you felt. He smiled.

“We could make it easier. Do you think one-on-one time could help?” He grabbed his jacket, laying it over his arm before returning his attention to you. “I have office hours tomorrow; I could carve out some time afterwards. Why don’t you swing by my office, we can go over some stuff.”

You tried to stop yourself from swooning, “I think that might help, yeah.”

“Great! Bring any questions you have. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You let him walk out ahead of you, leaving you alone in the classroom to consider what it would be like to spend time alone with the biggest crush you shouldn’t have.

~~~

“Come in!” You pushed the door open, standing idly in the threshold and cradling your laptop in your arms. “C’mon, sit.” Professor Haas looked up at you from the seat behind his desk. You’d never been inside his office before, but it had a cozy feeling to it; dark wooden furniture and cushioned chairs, a faint scent of lavender hanging in the air. He had knickknacks on his desk, characters you didn’t recognize, a small German flag hung over the door, and a bookshelf full of titles you were mostly unfamiliar with.

“It’s nice in here.” You spoke up, sitting in one of the chairs opposite him. He took off his glasses.

“Would’ve been nice to have a window. Dr. Topp, in psychology, is across the hall. Great window in his office.” You broke into a smile, and he did the same, keen to break up any awkward feelings to help you focus on your work. “What’d you bring for me?”

You set your laptop out in front of you, “I just…I don’t get it. And I knew I wouldn’t get it, since nobody gets it, because it’s, like, the worst, and it’s inconsistent, and riddled with copying errors—”

“Woah! Take it back a step,” He cut off your frustrated rambling with a laugh, “First things first, tell me which dialogue you’re having the most trouble with.”

“I guess…Hildebrand’s second speech? The one where he’s talking about Hadubrand.” You clicked your mousepad to open the PDF you had of the Hildebrandslied, highlighting the passage you were talking about before turning the screen towards your professor. He clicked his tongue at you.

“Think it might help to have an actual copy?” He arched a brow. You bit your lip, nodding an affirmative. You closed your laptop, watching him stand and walk over to the bookshelf, scanning the spines of the books with his finger before landing on the copy he was looking for, pulling it out of its spot on the shelf and bringing it back over to you.

“Thanks,” you expected him to return to his seat, but he remained behind your chair, leaning over you with his hand on the back of your seat to thumb through the pages until finding the passage you were confused by. “Maybe it was just the screen distracting me. Blue light, or whatever.” You offered, a shy joke to take your mind off of the way he loomed over you.

“Yeah? Wouldn’t be shocked. Helps to have it all down on paper sometimes.” His voice was deep, and it echoed through your whole body. He scanned over the words now, trying to find a good starting point, before letting out a triumphant exhale and pointing to the beginning of a sentence, “Start here.”

You began reading, painfully aware of your professor’s presence behind you and occasionally stumbling despite reading the modern English translation. You stopped when he cleared his throat.

“Tell me what that passage was about,” He prompted.

“I—I dunno, he’s talking about Hadubrand.” You felt yourself suddenly giving into the frustration this book had been causing you all semester.

“But what about Hadubrand? What’s the theme?” He pushed, trying to encourage more than a blunt, apathetic answer from you.

“I don’t know, Professor, you tell me.” You bit back, forgetting yourself and who you were speaking to for a moment, overwhelmed by him. “I’m sorry…” You mumbled, peaking at him from over your shoulder. He crossed his arms, looking down at you.

“What’s distracting you?” His voice was soft and calm, remarkably still for a man whose subordinate just snapped at him.

“I don’t know…” You lied through your teeth.

“Tell me. I can’t help if I don’t know what you need.”

You sucked in a breath, sharp and cold in your nostrils, before letting it out slowly, turning your body in your chair to face him fully. “…You.”

“Hm?” Professor Haas furrowed his brow, mouth parting slightly as if to say something before quickly closing it.

“You’re…distracting me.” You swallowed. The air around you suddenly felt thick, and you were prepared to hear him tell you how wildly inappropriate this was, how you needn’t even explain yourself, that you should just leave.

“Huh.” You watched him bite the inside of his cheek, raising an eyebrow. He walked back to the chair behind his desk, sitting with his legs spread, the fabric of his pants pulled taught over his thighs. “Come here,” he beckoned.

“Wh—” Now your brow furrowed.

“You need a little motivation. Come here. Sit.” He patted his thigh. You stood, pulse quickening as you walked toward him, hesitantly lowering yourself over him, thankful that you had chosen to wear a skirt that offered you the room to spread your legs wide as you straddled him. “That’s it,” he drank you in with his eyes, raking them over you, and you preened at his actions, arching your back into him slightly to give him a better view of you on his lap. “I think…for every wrong answer you give me, I get to punish you.” His voice took a wicked tone.

“And for right answers?” You whispered.

“So confident now,” He teased. “You’ll get what you deserve.” He smiled again, and you realized how beautifully dominant it made him look. “What’s the main theme of the story?”

“I—mm…” You racked your brain, now more distracted than ever, but trying desperately to make Dr. Haas proud, “I don’t know.” You answered meekly. You felt a sharp smack on your thigh, and you yelped, bunching the collar of his shirt in your hands.

“Try again.” He ran his hand in soothing circles over the spot he had hit.

“It’s—is it honor?” You felt him squeeze gently at the meat of your thigh before his hand glided over your skin to knead your ass.

“Good girl.” He gave you a particularly rough squeeze and you moaned, falling forward onto his chest, sticking your ass out to offer him easier access. “That’s right. See what happens when you do a good job?” His fingers dipped under the waistband of your panties. You mumbled a yes into his shirt, and he gave you a light spank. “What’s that?”

“Yes, sir.” You corrected yourself, hoping that’s what he was waiting for. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you flush against him so that your nose touched his.

“You like doing a good job?” His words were growled, and you nodded enthusiastically, “Gonna keep doing a good job?” You nodded again, and he continued his line of questioning. You remembered characters you thought you had no recollection of; names and places that had otherwise escaped you, as if sitting on his lap and letting him manhandle you was all you had needed to succeed. You lapped up the praise he offered you when you did well, and squirmed and whined when he punished your forgetfulness.

After 20 minutes, you found yourself huddled against him, face nuzzled into his neck as he recounted the things you needed more practice with, his hands roaming over your body. He pulled you out of your hiding spot gently, coaxing you to make eye contact with him. “Do you need anything else?” His fingers traced your jawline.

“Mm…” You leaned into his touch, “Need you, sir.” He halted his movements, and his hand found the back of your neck.

“Can I kiss you?” He scanned your face, dropping the façade of dominance; you saw his eyes anxiously searching for signs that he was overstepping any boundaries you had. You almost laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck, and closing the distance between you. You moaned at the taste of him against you, eagerly slipping your tongue into his mouth. He pulled at the hair on the back of your head, stepping back into his dominant role and setting the pace, showing you that he was in charge. He bit at your bottom lip before running his tongue over it to soothe the sting, then repeating the action over again. Your hand came to rest on his chest, fingers sloppily attempting to undo the buttons of his shirt, and he smirked against your lips. You felt one arm wrap around your waist, the other gripping your ass, and he stood up, holding you tight before placing you onto the desk. You wrapped your legs around his hips, and he undid his tie, giving himself space to undo the buttons of his shirt that you had been unable to.

“So pretty,” He broke from you briefly to untuck his shirt from his pants, “So pretty, so fucking good. Smart, pretty girl.” He reconnected his lips to yours, his hand on your jaw forcing your mouth open wide, allowing him to lick into you and watch saliva pool over your bottom lip. “Just needed a little discipline.”

You mewled, reaching out to trail fingers over his now uncovered skin, relishing the warmth of his abdomen as your palm connected to him. He moved down to kiss your jawline, nipping and sucking shapes onto your neck, pulling moans from you as he did so.

“Please,” You breathed out when he sucked on a sensitive spot over your collar bone, biting at the new bruise before licking over it. “More.” You felt his hand reaching between your bodies, flipping up your skirt, fingers pressing against the growing wet spot on your panties. You unwound your legs from around him, giving him space to touch you properly.

“Like this?” He was taunting you, watching you lean your head back on nothing and move your hips against his fingers in an attempt to gain friction where you desperately needed it.

“Yes, s—oh!” You wrapped your fingers around his forearm when he moved your panties to the side, plunging two thick fingers into your heat and moving his thumb in tight circles over your clit.

“There y’go,” He looked absolutely filthy like this; his hair falling over his eyes, muscles in his arm tensing as he pushed his fingers in and out of you, jaw clenched in focus, “need a reward for all the work you did today?”

You whimpered, grinding against his hand and choking on your breath when the tips of his fingers brushed the sensitive spot inside you. “Yes, sir—need you.”

“I know, baby,” He curled his fingers, pressing his palm against your clit and watching you squirm for him, “Let me see how pretty you look when you cum—show me how my good girl looks when she cums for me.” He feathered his fingers over your g-spot; fast, ticklish touches that made your toes curl and your back arch, and he soon had you trembling for him, cunt squeezing him when you came. He removed his fingers, and you felt yourself clench around the emptiness when he brought them to your mouth and told you to suck. “Yeah, good girl…” He palmed himself over his pants, and you hummed, licking your cum off of his hand before releasing his fingers with a quiet pop and reaching down to undo his zipper. He let you, watching you pull his cock from its confines.

You dropped from the desk and onto your knees, pumping his length in one hand and spitting on the other, joining them together to stroke him. He felt heavy in your hands, and you felt excited heat building in your stomach when you took his tip in your mouth, looking up at him from under your lashes to see his mouth agape, eyes focused on your movements. He pulled stray strands of hair out of your face, tugging them into a ponytail and guiding your mouth over him.

“God, I want to fuck your face,” his thumb swiped at the drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. “Want me to do that next time, baby? Use your mouth whenever you get an answer wrong?” You moaned, muffled by his cock in your mouth, thrilled by the promise of a next time. Your jaw quickly became sore, the stretch of his thick cock almost too much, and you gagged when his tip pushed against the back of your throat. He laughed softly watching you struggle to take it, hand guiding you backwards to give yourself room to breathe.

“You wanna get back up here and let me fuck you?” You pulled yourself off of him, clamoring to sit back on the desk and stripping your clothes from your body as quickly as you could, then letting him spread your legs open as he lined himself up with you. “So fucking eager—is this what you kept daydreaming about? Sitting in my class and thinking about letting me fuck you?”

“Yes—yes, sir. All I could think about,” You pulled him closer, letting him crowd you and pressing kisses into his neck while he stroked himself against you, “Needed it.” He grabbed you by the chin to bring your line of sight up to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes while the tip of his cock pressed against your entrance.

“Open your mouth,” you did as he said, shivering when he spit into your mouth before forcing your lips closed with his hand, “Swallow it.” You obeyed, opening your mouth once more to show him you followed his instructions, and he smiled, repeating the action, then dipping his tongue into your mouth to taste himself on you. The head of his cock still nudged your cunt, and you began to feel impatient.

“You want me to fuck you?” He was baiting you, had you exactly where he wanted you, and now all he needed was to hear you beg for it. It worked; rambled pleads and begged gibberish fell from your lips, imploring him to take you, hungry and desperate to feel his cock split you open. He pushed forward, nearly overwhelmed by the wet heat of your cunt as you swallowed the first inch, then the next.

“Fu—ck,” You let out a strangled cry, and he clapped a hand over your mouth.

“Gotta be quiet for me, baby,” though he desperately wanted to hear your moans, he knew it would be best to keep quiet, to not draw any attention to yourselves. Still, it didn’t stop him from pushing the rest of his length into you, watching your face contort in pleasure when he bottomed out. You let out a string of soft, pathetic whimpers, and he pulled you against his chest, letting you muffle your cries into his skin.

“So fucking perfect—fuck!—oh my god…perfect girl, take it just like that.” His voice came out in a growl as he rocked his hips into you roughly, pushing you back with the force of his thrusts until you were lying on the wood of the desk with your legs swung over his shoulders, eyes glazed over with satisfaction, completely cockdumb for him. His hands ventured upwards, squeezing your breasts before reaching back down to massage your clit. You arched into his touch, eyes rolling back and letting out whispered pleas for him to give it to you harder, faster, rougher, please, sir.

He gave you what you wanted; one arm enveloping your legs where they rested against him, guiding your body over his cock and watching the way your cunt hugged him, fluttering around him when he told you how pretty you looked, how his smart girl was taking his cock so well. The fingers on your clit sped up, primed to pull another orgasm from you.

“One more, baby, you can do it—let me feel you squeeze me nice and tight.” He leaned over you, thrusts still harsh and fingers on your clit moving with precision as he brought his lips to yours again. You let your legs drop from his shoulders and wrapped them around his torso, pulling him into you and letting him bury his cock inside of you. He rewarded you with a groan.

“Wanna cum—cum for you,” You stammered, fingers laced through his hair while your other hand gripped his bicep, “make me cum, sir.”

Your words spurred him on, and his thrusts became slow and deep, remaining absolutely carnal, pushing against your most sensitive spot and making your vision blur behind tears that threatened to spill. You pulled him down by his neck for another kiss, climaxing when his mouth connected with yours, legs spasming and thighs squeezing around his waist.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you watched his head loll forward and his eyes squeeze shut, nearing his own high. His thrusts were sloppy now, frenzied with need. He pulled out, fucking his fist before spilling over you; his cum painted your pussy, dripping over your swollen clit, your lips and inner thighs, before disappearing between the plush skin of your ass. He swore he would remember the image forever.

He got on his knees in front of you, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk before nipping at your thighs, licking his cum off of your skin. You sighed, before letting out a whimper when his tongue licked into your hole. He groaned at the way your taste blended perfectly with his own, sucking softly on your overstimulated clit while you tugged at his hair, mewling when he dipped his tongue into you again. He continued his ministrations for a while longer, returning to your thighs and sucking bruises onto the flesh. He returned to your core again, and the messy, wet sounds of his mouth on your cunt were music to your ears.

He stood again, panting, planting his hands on the desk on either side of you and head falling onto your chest. You combed your fingers through his hair.

“C’mere,” he straightened up and pulled you towards him, letting you wrap yourself around him and feel the warmth of his flushed skin against your own. His hand came to grip your jaw and you opened your mouth, "You learn so fast when you're paying attention." He mused, spitting into your mouth and watching you swallow. There was a moment of drawn out quiet; both of you steadied your breathing, remaining intertwined with each other. Professor Haas broke the silence first.

“Was that ok?” He stroked your hair, making ringlets around his finger before letting them unravel and repeating the movement with another strand.

“Just what I needed.” You spoke, voice still shaky from pleasure.

He cupped your cheek in his hand, analyzing your features with heavy lidded eyes. “Can I kiss you again?”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, “Your cum is dripping down my leg. You can do whatever you want.”

“Can’t blame a guy for asking,” He grinned and pulled you into him, taking his time with the kiss and savoring the way you tasted, his tongue occasionally bumping into your own as you patiently explored each other in your post-coital bliss.

“Think you’ll be able to pay attention during class time now?” He leaned his forehead against yours.

“Absolutely not,” you giggled, and he kissed your forehead, “might need more one-on-one time.”

“Yeah?” He smiled, the hand that was cupping your face moved to trace shapes on your back and shoulders, “think we could work something out.”

[halfagonyandhope]

ignite the stars │ch. 14

first chapter (x); previous chapter (x)

Satine Kryze is an internationally-recognized scholar in genocide studies who recently resigned from the Department of State over her concerns regarding the agency's ethics. Ben Kenobi is a tenured professor at Georgetown University studying the use of religion to justify military conflicts. Once high school sweethearts, the two haven't spoken since parting ways for university. That is, until Satine accepts a research fellowship - at Georgetown.

---

“Overall,” says Breha, “it’s an incredibly strong outline.” She smiles at Satine in encouragement, sliding the papers across the table.

It’s Thursday afternoon and they’ve returned to their usual coffee shop; Breha is on her second mug of tea and Satine has finished her chai, now tackling her blueberry scone.

“I added some suggestions for literature you might consider citing as well,” adds Breha. “I’m actually wildly impressed that you put all this together in - what has it been? Just over two weeks since we met?”

“The grant deadline isn’t all that far away,” says Satine. “If I want to be awarded funds for early 2025, I only have until end of April to get the materials submitted. As you know, the reviewing period is…lengthy.”

Breha rolls her eyes. “The waiting is the worst part, for sure,” she acknowledges. “Just being in limbo, not knowing what your future will look like. Not being able to plan for anything.”

Satine laughs. “I think I’ll actually be relieved to get to the waiting part. At least that part is less work.” She puts the papers - filled with her friend’s helpful suggestions and edits - in her bag. “But enough about me. How are you doing? How is Bail?”

Breha is suddenly glowing. “You know what I mentioned last year?” she says, slightly coy.

Satine nods.

“We’ve decided now is the time. We made an appointment with an IVF specialist in a few weeks.”

Satine grins and leans forward to hug her friend. When she pulls back, she lays both hands on Breha’s forearm. “I’m so happy for you and Bail. I know you’ve wanted children for a long time.”

“I can hardly believe it,” says Breha. “The timing never felt right, but eventually we realized we just had to make the time.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. At a minimum, I will be arranging a meal train amongst our friends so that you don’t have to cook the entire first month after your precious bundle of joy arrives.”

“As long as you stick to just arranging it rather than participating,” says Breha. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the range burner incident.”

Satine snorts. “I maintain that the smoke detectors were too sensitive. It’s rather unfortunate that all those detectors in student housing were linked directly to the fire department.”

“By the time we graduated, I think the firemen knew you by name.”

“They were only called to our apartment twice!”

Breha shakes her head. “You’re forgetting about the kettle incident.”

Satine sighs. “I stand corrected. It was indeed three times.”

Breha doubles over with laughter, and Satine can’t help but join in with her.

“You know,” Satine says, knowing where her words will take this conversation. “Ben has offered to help me improve in this area. Or, at least, to oversee my efforts so that I don’t accidentally set myself up for a future career in arson.”

Breha leans forward in interest. “I was meaning to ask you.” She lifts up her mug and points at it. “Herbal tea,” she says. Then she gestures at Satine. “I need the verbal tea to go along with it.”

Satine cackles. “You’ve been planning that joke for two weeks, haven’t you?”

“It’s literally why I ordered tea today instead of a latte.”

They fall into laughter again, but Satine will spare her friend the indignity of needing to beg for an update.

“Ben and I are…seeing each other,” she says, choosing her words carefully.

Breha’s jaw drops. “So quickly? You’ve chosen now to become a rational creature in love? I half expected you two to spend the entire year pining over each other before anyone made the first move. I got very strong Austen vibes from you and Loverboy. Not Pride and Prejudice vibes. Maybe more like Persuasion.”

“It probably would have played out much like that if I were the only one responsible for initiation,” admits Satine. “But Ben’s grown up since I last knew him. He took the first step.”

Breha sits back. “Perhaps he’s smarter than I gave him credit for,” she says. “Listen, did I tell you that when we last met, I went home and told Bail about Loverboy? And - get this - Bail knows who he is!”

Satine blinks at her. “You’re kidding.”

“No joke. Your paramour apparently did some heavy legwork on Bail’s most recent campaign. All, of course, well within ethical guidelines. Bail spoke with him at a few campaign events. He was impressed. And not many people impress Bail.”

“It is a rare honor,” admits Satine.

“We should double date,” says Breha. “I’d like to get to know him, since he’s important to you.”

Satine finishes the last bite of her scone. “I would like that. Maybe in a few weeks, though? Things are still really new, and I don’t want to…rush anything.”

Breha nods. “That’s wise, and understandable. I’m just nosy. In the meantime, I’ll expect updates, though.”

Satine laughs. “And I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

---

That Saturday, Satine meets Ben in Old Town Alexandria for the first time. He’s waiting for her as she gets off the Metro, and he takes her to the indie bookshop on the way back to his apartment. The bookshop is, unfortunately, lacking nooks and crannies sufficient to hide them enough for Satine to feel comfortable kissing him properly, and she endeavors to make up for lost time an hour later as he leads her into his apartment.

He takes her coat, and Satine sets the bag of books she’d just bought down on the hall tree in the entryway. As she looks around, she’s struck by how green everything is - plants line the hallway, rest upon the kitchen countertops, adorn the bookshelves in his living room.

She reaches out to touch one of the larger plants. “What’s this one called?”

“Citronella,” says Ben, moving to stand by her side. “Its scent repels mosquitoes. Perfect for DC in the summer.” And then he takes one of the leaves between his thumb and index finger, rubbing the leaf between them. He holds his fingers up to her. “Smell.”

It’s a lemony, citrusy mix, and Satine finds that it’s actually quite pleasant. “Much better than bug spray.”

He laughs, and she continues moving from plant to plant.

“This one?” she asks.

“Monstera,” he says. “Those can get quite large, but I’ve been making cuts of it and giving them away to keep its size somewhat manageable.”

She looks at him in wonder. “There are so many years I still need to ask you about. Days I wasn’t part of. When exactly did you acquire a green thumb?”

He sits on the couch with a sigh. “During the war, a lot of what we actually did was protect poppy fields. I mean, as an Army Ranger, I was more involved in high risk missions, but my friends - my classmates at West Point - their job as soldiers in Afghanistan was to make sure the Taliban didn’t get access to the poppy fields. The poppies, of course, are the source of opium, and opium is what the Taliban was after. They sold it and used the money to fund their operations.”

Satine nods, and Ben continues.

“Did we do important work over there?” Ben says. “Yes? I guess? Maybe. But we spent so much time protecting farmland instead of people. And then - even though I was back Stateside by the time this happened - a couple years ago we withdrew. Can I say Afghani citizens are really better off now than they were before we got there? Did we actually do more harm than good?” He looks at her. “I don’t know.”

Satine holds her breath, holding his gaze.

“When I got back from the war, I wasn’t in a place where I could apply to graduate programs. I couldn’t focus for the amount of time I needed to even apply. But the images of those poppy fields - that stuck with me. I realized I wanted to grow something that couldn’t be used to do harm.”

As he speaks, Satine walks to him and sits beside him, hip to hip, knee to knee.

“An Army buddy connected me with a farmer in Madison, Wisconsin, who needed some help. He had arthritis and couldn’t do the heavy lifting like he used to. I worked there for the growing season and learned everything I possibly could about his crops. And, as fortune would have it - that farmer was very good friends with someone named Jim Quigon.”

Satine breathes in. “Your doctoral advisor.”

Ben nods. “Jim managed to move some funds around and get my application approved. He was my advisor for the next three years.”

“Anakin said he…he passed away. Right before your defense.”

Ben nods sharply, and Satine can see the way his tendons tense in his neck.

“What happened?” Satine asks.

“He was murdered in Russia,” says Ben, and his tone makes it clear he’s not going to talk about it further. 

Satine can take a hint, and she leaves the subject behind. “I’d always wondered why you chose Wisconsin for grad school.”

“It kept me alive,” says Ben simply, and Satine rests her shoulder against his.

“You need a proper yard someday,” she says. “With room for a greenhouse so you can really go wild.”

As she’d hoped, he laughs, genuinely, at this. “Honestly, a proper yard would be the dream. God, I sound like such a typical millennial. But I could grow you a garden of lilies. Are they still your favorite?”

Satine nods. “Some things don’t change, even if most everything else does.”

She shivers as he looks at her. Ben places a throw blanket around her shoulders and she settles against him, grateful for his warmth, his arm around her shoulders.

She asks him about his work on the farm, the crops he helped grow. She asks about the Wisconsin winters. He tells her about the state’s infamous cheese curds and the only place in the District where one can order said curds that wouldn’t offend his Wisconsinite friends.

And eventually, he’s smiling broadly, and she’s grinning ear to ear, and then she gathers her nerve.

“Ben,” Satine says, and he immediately meets her eyes. “I would like…” she trails off as her voice cracks. “I’d like to try,” she says, this time more firmly. “I’d like to see what I’m comfortable with.”

There’s a beat before he responds. Then, he says, “You’re sure.”

It’s not a question.

She nods.

“Okay,” says Ben. “But you will tell me the moment something happens that you don’t like.”

She nods again.

“Okay,” he repeats.

And he pulls her in to kiss her. Her lips part before his tongue even asks.

It’s heady and heated and more intense than she’d expected - his hand immediately splays across her stomach and then slides up to her breast, cupping her and massaging. She whines.

Ben laughs into her mouth. “I take it you approve?”

“Enthusiastically,” she manages to get out. “Pray, continue.”

She knows he’s smiling.

Her hands find their way to his hair, and she pulls lightly, eliciting a groan. “Two can play at that game,” he murmurs, and his other hand navigates through the layers of fabric of her skirt. Hovering over her pelvis, he asks, “Still good?”

In response, she moves a hand to cover his own and presses his fingers to her center.

She moans against him at the first contact, despite the layers of fabric separating their skin. “Fuck,” she whispers.

And a second later, he’s laying her down, her back against the seat cushions of the couch, his body flush against hers. She bucks her hips, desperate for friction. Her hands flail for a moment before they are drawn to his back, and she pulls him closer.

“You okay?” he murmurs against her jaw, beard scratching her skin.

“Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.” She moans. “Ben,” she whispers. “I know what I want.”

He pauses against her, meeting her eyes. She guides him to lie beside her, both of them on their sides, and he pulls her close so she doesn’t tumble off the edge of the couch. Then Satine hooks her leg over his hip and grabs his hand.

She guides his fingers under her skirt, beneath her undergarment.

Satine’s fingers fall down to wrap around his wrist, feeling the tendons of his forearm as he moves his fingers against her for the first time.

She arches up, breathing heavily.

“Good?” asks Ben, and she nods her agreement, unable to form words.

He dips a finger into her wetness, rubbing it over her clit.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, watching her expression, beginning to work her properly now, tracing her folds and dipping in and out of her heat. He explores her. 

Satine finds it difficult to focus. Her eyes wander as one of his fingers slips into her again; she watches the breadth of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes mimic a solar eclipse, a slight band of gold on the irises bordered on one side by dark pupils and the purest blues on the other. 

He pumps into her a few times, clearly pleased with her heavy breathing, the way her chest rises and falls. He grins when he feels her purposefully clench around him, exploring slightly deeper.

But Ben sees what she responds to most, and he focuses his thumb on her clit, bringing her up, up, up.

She arches into him.

“Please, Ben,” Satine whispers.

He picks up his pace, moving his lips to hers. He doesn’t kiss her but rests there, sharing her air, breathing in sync.

And then he presses his thumb to her clit again, this time harder, harder, harder, and she is gone.

Satine cries out softly and tightens her grip on his wrist as she climaxes, careening over the edge.

“Darling,” he says, and her eyes snap to his, and the tenderness of his expression brings a realization - that she is safe with him. It somehow heightens her orgasm, drawing it out.

Satine collapses against the couch. She’s still breathing heavily, not helped along at all by Ben removing his hand from her skirt to lick the evidence of her arousal from his fingers. She closes her eyes against the onslaught of emotion, the onslaught of stimulation, and Ben gathers her into his arms.

Her eyes flash open. “Wait,” she says, recognizing in his body language that he’s moved from initiating arousal to initiating aftercare. “What about you?”

He chuckles. “You think that wasn’t pleasurable for me as well?” She can feel his smile against her hair. “That was the most erotic sight I’ve had the pleasure to witness in years.”

She doesn’t doubt him; she can feel the evidence of that truth against her. “But…”

“Calculus,” murmurs Ben. “I don’t feel comfortable going any further. That was a massive step, for both of us. Let’s take the victory for what it is and build upon it later.”

When she doesn’t reply, he looks down at her.

“You don’t have to give the same number of orgasms as you receive, you know,” he adds. “Partnership isn’t always equal in the moment, even if it does average out over time.”

Satine pulls him down to kiss her. “Then I look forward to the day you allow me to focus entirely on you.”

He grins, groaning. “Who knew a pacifist could be so absolutely lethal?” he says against her lips.

---

On Friday, she leaves campus early to head to the federal building where she will take her citizenship exam.

Ben kisses her goodbye.

“You don’t need it,” he says, “but good luck.”

She squeezes his hand.

---

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you did not pass.”

Satine drops her purse and kneels down to retrieve it. The jerky motion gives her vertigo, and she sways slightly.

“I’m sorry?” she says, uncomprehending.

Satine has just finished the two portions of the citizenship exam. She’d completed her half-hour interview with the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services official, and she’d finished the ten-question written component.

She’d sworn she’d gotten every question correct. She would have bet her writing fellowship on it.

The paper-pusher looks at her with pity. Satine suspects it is a look he gives out far too often. 

“You didn’t get at least six of the ten questions on the written test correct,” says the man. “USCIS can schedule you for another attempt at the exam in ninety days.”

He probably says more to Satine, but she can’t hear him. She can only hear the blood rushing in her ears and a high-pitched sound of ringing, like she’s just survived an explosion. So she just nods at the man, taking the paperwork he gives her and heading out the door of the federal building.

She’d planned on taking a bus to reconnect her to the Metro, but she finds she’d rather walk now.

It’s a ridiculous walk in the brisk March air, but she needs to process; she needs to move. She checks her phone GPS every so often to make sure she’s on the right path, aware that Ben has tried to call her but not able to face calling him back.

He’d known she had to miss the weekly Friday afternoon seminar to take her exam. He’d known when her exam was scheduled to start and end. And by now he’d know - based on the fact that she hasn’t called him back - that she has failed.

She goes over the exam questions in her mind. She’d taken as much time as she was allowed, even though she’d known the answers immediately. She’d read over each question three times. She’d checked her responses three times.

She’d understand if on perhaps one of those questions, she’d accidentally selected the wrong multiple choice response. But failing meant she got at least five of them incorrect, potentially more.

How is that even possible?

She approaches the Metro station, scans her card at the gate, and heads into the station, still feeling as though she’s acting out a waking nightmare.

Satine makes her way to her line, realizes the train is already there and about to take off. She races, jumping into a car before the doors shut behind her, and she finds an empty set of seats near a window.

She collapses into the seat. Trying to keep her tears at bay, she rests her forehead on the cool glass as the train leaves the Vienna/Fairfax - GMU station behind.

Wiping her eyes, Satine reaches for her phone. Ben is likely worried. She waits until the train is no longer underground and then sends a text.

On the Orange line back to Farragut West. ETA 30 minutes. You still at the office? Want to meet at Dupont Circle in 45 minutes?

They’d originally planned on going to get drinks to celebrate her exam, and though she doesn’t feel like drinking, she does feel like seeing him.

Ben is typing out his reply before she even exits out of the text message thread.

See you there.

Satine drops her phone into her purse and digs for a tissue to wipe at the mascara now running down her cheeks. This time, though, she doesn’t fight the tears, knowing they’ll eventually arrive regardless. There’s probably something helpful about the endorphins released anyway. If she were in a better mood, she’d care enough to look up exactly which endorphins and what they do.

Mercifully, no one on the Metro gives her a second glance - there are, after all, far stranger things that happen within the bowels of DC’s Metro system - and Satine does feel better as she arrives at Farragut West. By now evening has fallen, and she greets the cold air of the city gratefully as she rides the escalator up to the surface.

“Satine!”

As she clears the platform, her eyes lock on Ben’s. And despite everything - despite the day she’s had, despite her tears - she can’t help but smile.

“I thought we were meeting in Dupont Circle?” she says as he envelops her in a bear hug. “Farragut is out of your way!”

She feels him kiss her temple, and then he pulls back. “I wanted to walk with you,” he says, and he doesn’t ask about the exam. He doesn’t push.

Instead, he offers his arm, and she threads hers through it, remembering that first day when he’d offered to walk her to her bus stop. Satine rocks forward to press her lips to his jawline, and they begin their walk.

“How do you feel about Korean/Chinese fusion food?” asks Ben. “Anakin recommended a place in Dupont. I already looked at the menu, and they have vegetarian options.”

“Sounds divine,” says Satine honestly, realizing suddenly how hungry she really is.

“Excellent,” says Ben, and Satine tightens her grip on his elbow.

It’s suddenly easier for her to speak when they’re both facing forward and she doesn’t have to bear the intensity of his gaze. “And…after,” she begins. “Would you like to stay at my place?”

This, she knows, is a step. But she really doesn’t want to spend the night alone after the day she’s just had, and he’s been spending so much time at her place that he’d left an overnight bag there the last time he’d been over in anticipation of when she would be ready. Not that he’d pushed about it - the overnight bag had actually been her suggestion, and the next time she visits his place, she plans to leave one of her own.

The sudden tension in Ben’s arm tells her that he, too, understands the gravity behind her words. Instead of answering, he leans over to kiss her temple again, never breaking stride, and Satine breathes out deeply.

The mist of her exhale mixes with that of his and is whipped away by the evening breeze.

---

That night, Satine turns toward him in the dark, after they climb into bed together for the first time. The sheets are still cool, not yet warmed by the temperature of their bodies.

“I failed the exam,” she whispers to the dark.

Ben rolls over to face her. “Do you want solutions, or do you want advice? Or are you not yet ready to think about either yet?”

She laughs wryly. “I’ve been thinking about solutions since I walked out of the USCIS federal building this afternoon.”

There’s a sliver of moonlight that crosses over his shoulder, but she can’t make out his expression in the dark. “Fair enough. My advice, for what it’s worth: you have one more opportunity to pass the exam. This is not the end.”

“The second exam was my backup plan,” Satine admits. “Now that it’s my only avenue forward at the moment, I’m going to need a new backup plan.”

“If you don’t pass the exam a second time, what will happen?” Ben asks. “Won’t you just be back where you started? A permanent resident with a green card? Could you not live that way indefinitely?”

Satine sighs. “Hypothetically? Yes. But green card holders lack certain protections that citizens have. The green card could be revoked for seemingly no reason. I don’t want that in the back of my mind for the rest of my life.”

Ben hums. “What would you say about expanding our list of target institutions for a potential spousal hire?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, “we have a list comprising several tiers of schools based on strength of the program and how well we fit in there. However, all the schools are American.”

Satine bites her lip. “Ben, what are you saying?”

“The goal is to stay together, right? I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly care what country I’m in as long as I’m with you. If you need to move back to Norway, well…I can just start learning Norwegian. After Arabic and Russian, I don’t think it would be too challenging.”

“Are you…” Satine holds her breath. “Are you saying you’d move to Norway for me?”

Suddenly, his fingers are reaching for hers, and his warm hand covers her own.

“I meant what I said last month. As long as we’re together, what does it matter?”

“But you were referring to sending out applications to use as incentive for Georgetown to give us an offer together. I assumed it was mostly…well, part of the plan.”

“Satine, I said I’d move to Bosnia for you. I meant it. If you need to move back to Norway because you can’t get American citizenship, I’d join you in a heartbeat. If you’d have me, of course. Plus, there’s quite a lot to like about your country. Universal health care, multiple years of paid parental leave, free university tuition, subsidized child care, elder care…actually, I’m not sure why remaining in America was our first choice, now that I’m listing this all out.”

Satine laughs, and Ben pulls her toward him so that their noses touch.

“We wanted to stay,” she murmurs, “because your family is here. Your parents, your brother. And we have community here.”

“We could build community there, too,” he says. “At any rate, it’s just a suggestion for your new backup plan. But I don’t suspect we’ll need to employ it. This, if memory serves correctly, is only the second exam you’ve ever failed in your life - ”

“I really could have gone the entire rest of my life without you reminding me of that traumatizing calculus exam,” Satine interjects.

“As I said, it’s only the second exam you’ve ever failed, so if we extrapolate using that rate of failure, you’re not due to fail another one until your late fifties.”

She scoffs. “That’s reassuring.”

“The point is - I’m confident you will pass the second time around,” says Ben. “Making this entire conversation entirely moot. When do you take it?”

“I got an email a little while ago confirming my appointment for June 7th.”

“June will be a busy month for you. I hear you’re also moving in with that suitor you keep bringing up. How are things with him, by the way?

“He’s annoyingly perfect, actually,” says Satine. “It seems like he’s got everything figured out while I’m over here treading water. I’m very lucky he’s so patient with me.”

“Hmm,” says Ben. “I’d guess he appears far more put together than he actually is, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I’ve yet to see any evidence of that, so I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“But beyond that,” says Ben. “Things are good?”

“As it turns out - how exactly did you put it again? Oh, yes. It turns out that the Venn diagram of people who can get me off and who don’t bore me to tears is actually a Venn diagram and not two mutually exclusive circles. My suitor is the one person who can do both.”

“Impressive. So physically you’re satisfied?”

“Satisfied…yes, in the sense that he recently gave me the best orgasm of my life. But I’d like more. I want more. I think we’re building to it. He’s just very stubborn about going slowly.”

He’s close enough that she can feel his lips turn up in a smile, and he closes the distance between them to press his lips softly against hers.

“Along these lines,” Ben says, pulling back slightly. “I know you overheard Quinlan asking about your and my sex life.”

“Your answer was perfect,” Satine says. “But something my therapist helped me realize…” she trails off, searching for the correct words. Deciding there are none, she just begins anyway. “I know that being with me isn’t easy,” she admits.

When Ben begins to protest, she cuts him off.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t have a permanent job. I’m on a green card. I have cPTSD. We don’t really know how I will respond to certain aspects of sex. The point I’m trying to make is…being with someone like me isn’t easy, and I want you to be able to talk to someone who isn’t your therapist about those difficult parts. Venting is healthy. And I think Quinlan would be a good person for you to talk to, if you need to. Basically…my therapist pointed out that the partners of people who have experienced sexual trauma - they also need a support system. And I’m giving you permission to tell Quinlan whatever you need to, if you need someone other than me or your therapist to help you process it.”

He’s silent for so long that she has to check that he hasn’t fallen asleep.

“Ben?”

“Sorry,” he says immediately. “It’s just…are we actually succeeding? At becoming more emotionally available? Because what you said just now - it sure sounds like we are.”

Satine grins. “I just wanted to wrap all that up in therapy speak to give you permission to boast to me about Quinlan, so that in turn I could fill in Breha.”

Ben bursts into deep laughter. When it subsides, he says, “You can tell Breha whatever you’d like, my dear. I actually think it’s very wise to have a broad support system. Prevents any one person from becoming the entirety of your emotional support.”

“Exactly what my therapist was trying to tell me.”

“Look at us,” he says, amused. “Practicing emotional availability.”

Satine shifts to rest her head on his chest.

She closes her eyes, and her lashes brush against his bare skin. She and Ben exist for a few moments in silence, and then he clears his throat.

“Serenno made an announcement today at the seminar. Some fundraising event for the department, to be held at Riggs Library. Apparently the event has been planned since last semester, but of course I was on sabbatical and you hadn’t yet started at Georgetown. At any rate, it probably would be good for us to make an appearance. As much as I hate these types of events, one donor alone could potentially fund your salary.”

“Do those type of people ever feel guilty about how much wealth they hoard?” Satine sighs. “But you’re right, of course. We should go.” She takes a breath. “Dress code?”

“Black tie,” Ben says. “I’ll have to rent a tux,” he admits. “I don’t think I’ve worn one since we went to prom. Haven’t had the chance to go to many weddings - Anakin and Padma eloped, as did Quinlan and Ventress, obviously - so there was never a reason to invest in one.”

“Tux rentals can cost hundreds of dollars,” points out Satine. “It’s…not a great look on the department to make the faculty rent or purchase such formalwear when we will be the ones doing the dirty work of soliciting funds.”

“Academia,” says Ben with a sigh. “What are you going to do? It’s all part of the game.”

“That it is,” acknowledges Satine. She tangles one of her legs with his, grateful for his warmth against her cold feet. “You looked very handsome at prom,” she says. “And I’d suspect you’d fill out a tux even better these days.”

“For that comment alone, I might consider purchasing the tux outright,” Ben says. “Could we find other occasions for me to wear it?”

“Well,” says Satine, “back when you were proposing this thought experiment, you mentioned the opera. I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to parading you on my arm at the Kennedy Center.”

“Okay, I’m definitely buying as opposed to renting, then,” Ben says, and he kisses her again. It’s a closed mouth kiss, designed specifically not to rile either of them up, but it conveys everything.

“You seem to have a thing about intellectual dates,” says Satine, grinning against his lips. “Shall we also go to the ballet? The orchestra? A jazz ensemble?”

“An inspired idea, Madam,” Ben says. “All of the above.” Suddenly he’s serious, though, and he says, “I know your fellowship pays enough for you to get by, but will you be able to afford a formal gown?”

“If I had more notice, sure,” says Satine. “But since we found out rather late, I’ll just ask Breha to borrow one of hers. She comes from money and she loves this kind of thing. What day is the fundraiser?”

“It’s the week after Spring Break - April 12th, a Friday. So we have a bit of time.”

Satine nods. “I’ll ask Breha this weekend. She’ll be delighted.”

Ben kisses her temple, and Satine rests her head again on his chest.

Despite her earlier tears, her earlier anger, and her earlier fear, she feels only peace.

“Goodnight, Ben,” she whispers.

“Goodnight, darling.”

---

The next day, Satine rings the doorbell to Breha Organa’s row house in the Embassy Row neighborhood near Dupont Circle. Satine looks around the neighborhood as she waits. Named for the large concentration of embassies and diplomatic residences, Embassy Row is one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the country. Satine can’t shake the feeling that she doesn’t quite belong here, even considering the considerably large foreign resident population in the neighborhood. But maybe that’s just her inferiority complex talking after failing her exam, or maybe it’s Secretary Palpatine insidiously infiltrating her thoughts.

Satine turns back to the row house. It’s a stunning red brick home complete with a bay window and a cast iron fence bordering the small front yard, just large enough for some ornamental plants. The row house is not Breha and Bail’s primary home; their main residence is in rural Virginia, where the couple eventually plan to retire. But given Breha’s teaching position and Bail’s hours, the second home had been necessary to prevent an hours-long one-way commute.

At that moment, Breha flings open the door, her smile bright as she greets Satine. She drags her across the doorway and pulls her inside - though it’s March, spring hasn’t yet arrived in the District, and the air is still chilly.

“I have so many ideas,” says Breha, taking Satine’s coat and purse and hanging them in the front closet. “But first we have to stop by the kitchen to say hi to Bail. He’s working with a colleague on a new bill, but he insisted that he see you. He says it’s been far too long.”

And they step into the kitchen, which is warm in both temperature and hue: cabinets painted a soft gold, countertops in earthy tones, and a scented candle lit at the kitchen island. The island is almost entirely covered by papers, with the exception of spaces made for two laptops. At the computers sit Bail and a petite woman who Satine immediately recognizes as Padma Amidala.

Bail pushes his barstool back, smiling as he takes in Satine. “It’s so good to see you, my dear!” he says, hugging her warmly.

Satine returns the embrace. “And you, Bail.” She smiles at him. “Still working as hard as ever, I see.”

“Hopefully someday we’ll have done enough so that I’ll feel I can stop, but today is not that day.” He gestures to Padma. “Have you met?”

Padma steps off her chair and extends a hand forward to Satine. If Satine hadn’t known she was pregnant, she probably would not have noticed, but she’s able to discern a small baby bump.

“I feel like I know so much about you already,” Padma says, smiling warmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Satine.”

Satine takes her hand and returns the smile. “The honor is mine,” she says. At Bail and Breha’s confused glances, she explains. “Ben was Anakin’s doctoral advisor,” she says. “So I interact quite a bit with Padma’s husband at work.”

“Speaking of Ben,” says Bail, but Breha waves him off.

“She’s not going to talk about that in front of you, dear,” says Breha. “I’m much more likely to get juicy updates without a man in the room. So if you’ll excuse us, we have some gowns to try on.”

Padma’s face lights up, and Bail notices. “Take Padma,” he suggests. “She’s the best dressed in Congress bar none, so I suspect she’ll give you good advice. And we could use a break from the bill anyway.”

Padma grins and follows Satine and Breha, with Breha leading them up the stairs.

To Padma, Breha says, “Now, look, I understand my wardrobe is a little…much, but not having children means we had an extra bedroom, and I dearly wanted a walk-in closet.”

Satine, of course, has already “rented” clothing from Breha before, and the wardrobe is not a surprise to her. But she enjoys seeing Padma’s face upon entering the bedroom-turned-walk-in-closet; her eyes brighten like Diwali lights. 

Breha leads them to the black-tie appropriate section of her wardrobe, consisting of at least ten different gowns. Padma glances at Satine and then back at the options. She rolls forward onto her toes and selects a midnight blue gown first, then one in silver, and the next in gold.

“Start with these,” she says, as Breha nods her approval. They both step into the hallway so that Satine can slip into the first dress.

Satine fumbles slightly with the fabric. “How did you and Anakin meet, Padma?” she asks.

“He was presenting his research at a poster day on Capitol Hill,” she says, and Satine can hear the smile in her tone. “I was a Congressional aide. You know how they give the three-minute spiels when they present their posters? Well, he claims he knew he would marry me about one minute into it.” She laughs, amused. “Let’s just say I didn’t end up seeing any other posters that day.”

Satine grins at this. “Okay,” she says. “What are your thoughts?”

Breha and Padma duck back into the room, and Padma studies her. “As much as I like the color, we can find something else that highlights your features better.”

Breha nods. “She’s right. Try the gold one.”

And so they step out again so that Satine can change into the gold. That one ends up being slightly too short for Satine, so she next tries on the blue.

It’s an off the shoulder sweetheart cut, and it falls to the perfect length. When Satine sees Padma’s expression, she knows she’s found her approval.

“That one for sure,” says Padma.

“Blue is definitely your color,” agrees Breha. “When is the event, anyway? Do you need something to cover your arms? Will it be too cold?”

“Middle of April,” says Satine.

“So you’ll want a couple of options depending on how the weather shakes out,” says Padma. “I’ll send some with Anakin next week. I have a few that should work fine.”

Satine stumbles over her new acquaintance’s generosity. “Thank you,” she eventually manages to say.

“Don’t mention it,” says Padma. She smiles at Satine. “Anakin says Ben is the happiest he’s ever seen him, and Ben is the closest thing Anakin has ever had to a father. Ben’s our family, and if you’re Ben’s family, then you’re my family, too.”

Satine swallows the lump in her throat, nodding.

Padma gives her a knowing look. “You love him, don’t you?”

Satine has asked herself this question more times than she can count. She’s decided she’s afraid of the answer - not because she doesn’t know, but rather because she knows all too well.

Of course she’s in love with him. She doesn’t think she’s ever stopped loving him.

But she doesn’t understand why she can’t bring herself to say the words aloud.

Instead, she cracks a smile. “I can’t have you telling Anakin and then Anakin telling Ben what my response to that question is, now can I?”

And, luckily, Padma and Breha accept this with good-natured laughter, and they begin to pester Satine with questions about how good exactly Ben looks when he’s not so tightly buttoned up. Satine indulges them, grateful for the change of topic, trying not to let her thoughts wander too far.

But the panic sinks in regardless.

If she can’t even voice her feelings, will any love she is capable of giving Ben ever be enough?

[chosen-hero-inari]

Whumptober Day 8: Sleep Deprivation

5 Times The Phantom Thieves Didn't Sleep + 1 Time They Did

I

Hey, let’s meet up at Mementos today.

Yusuke’s ashamed of the tension that goes through his back at that text. The literature professor had decided to give them all a surprise take-home paper to write and turn in by tomorrow, and he really needs to work on it.

But, he can’t let his grades come before making sure his friends are ok, can he? Or the people who made those requests. It’s not a problem, he can just work late tonight. And take some time to work on that piece for class.

He’ll be fine with only a couple of hours of sleep.

II

“Makoto?” Sae asks. “You’re back late.”

“Sorry, busy with some work after school,” Makoto replies, yawning. If it’s resolving a Mementos request for another student, then technically it’s Student Council work. It’s her responsibility as Student Council President to resolve it at least.

“Are you prepared for your exam at cram school tomorrow?”

Makoto blinks. “Huh?”

“Makoto! I’m paying for you to go and–”

“No, I meant, erm why would you even bother to ask that?” Makoto chuckles. “Obviously I’m ready for it!”

“Good, even if it’s a practice exam, it’s important to be confident now so you’re even more prepared for your entrance exams.”

Makoto goes to the kitchen and makes herself a pot of coffee. She shouldn’t be up too late.

III

“Does this shit make any sense to you?” Ryuji asks.

“Nope,” Ann sighs. Putting the math textbook down. Two heads are supposed to be better than one, but maybe math homework is just too powerful for that.

“God,” Ryuji says, “I feel like you’re gonna call me a shithead for this.”

“I call you a shithead for a lot of things, what is it?”

“It fucking sucks that Ren asked us to go to Mementos today.”

“Honestly? Hard agree.” They’d invited Ren to their homework session today, but he’d never gotten back to them. Not that he needed it, but you know, it was always nice to hang out.

Except they wanted to do this in the afternoon, when they’d have more time and could meet at a cafe.

Instead, Ren decided today was the best day for requests.

“What if we blocked off Mementos for like, Wednesdays?” Ryuji suggests. “Then we can schedule around it better?”

“But what if a request is urgent. Plus Palace stuff.”

“Ugh, you’re right.”

Ann flops back and lets the textbook cover her face.

“Ann?”

“Yeah.”

“I kinda hate that I can’t tell him no.”

“Yeah, I know but like, it’s whatever?” Ann says. “That’s just part of being a student and a Phantom Thief, I guess.”

IV

Haru practically dives for the phone when she hears it ring. “Futaba-chan?”

“Hey, I got the info you wanted,” Futaba says. “This investor seems pretty clean.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you so much,” Haru says. “I’m supposed to get this report in to the investors tomorrow and I can’t ask for a delay and I wasn’t sure who to trust and–”

“Hey, no problem!” Futaba says. “Just don’t tell them you heard it from me.”

“Thank you, I owe you so much, Futaba-chan.”

“No prob, I’m probably gonna pass out, how about you?”

“I can’t, there are still things I need to arrange with my father’s will and then I’m meeting with lawyers in the morning, goodness I need more coffee!”

“How much have you had?” Futaba asks.

“Oh, four or five–”

“Cups?”

“Pots.”

“Holy shit, Haru!”

“I know, I know,” Haru says. “I was going to do all of this after school but then we had that Mementos run and now I have to do it all before morning.”

“You should have just told Ren you couldn’t make it! He gets we have lives, it’s not like he hangs out with us every time we ask.”

“Mementos is different Futaba, you know that. I’ll talk to you later.” Haru hangs up and gets back to work.

V

It’s not wrong to hack her friends’ phones if she’s genuinely concerned for their well-being, Futaba tells herself.

Besides, taking a quick peak at their calendars is like, barely snooping. She could text and ask them but she’s really hoping they’re asleep.

She’s not, but she doesn’t have school in the morning. She can go to bed at 7am and still get the proper eight hours of sleep a growing girl needs.

She and Morgana are the only ones who aren't students and Phantom Thieves though, and oh boy is being a high school student busy.

Let’s see, Makoto has an exam at cram school tomorrow, Haru had that meeting they were just talking about, Ryuji and Ann were texting (ok texts were a bit more snooping than calendars, but like, it’s important!) about meeting up to do a bunch of homework they’d put off while they were clearing Sae’s Palace, and Yusuke had an email reminder from a teacher about an essay.

And none of them had brought any of this up when Ren asked them all to go to Mementos today.

Damn, looks like Futaba has to be the responsible one.

+1

Ren doesn’t know why Futaba suddenly suggested group movie night, but hey, it’s always good when she wants to be social, and his schedule’s free now that they’ve finished up the requests.

They all gather around the attic, and Ren’s a little worried about them all watching the tiny TV, but it’s not really a problem, because pretty much everyone else falls asleep by the fifteen-minute mark.

“Wow, they’re tired,” Ren says. “Guess they don’t have Mona to tell them to get to bed early.”

“Uh, Ren about that?” Futaba asks. “Do you ask if anyone has stuff going on before saying to meet up for Phantom Thief stuff?”

Ren blinks. “I mean, I guess not but I figure they’ll tell me if it’s super urgent.”

“Ok, but see, I think they don’t,” Futaba says. “I actually asked all of them about it, and they feel really bad about canceling Mementos plans, so they push all their stuff back and do it at night. Like none of them got any sleep the last couple of days.”

Ren furrows his brows. He kinda, hasn’t thought about how his friends are always willing to show up when he calls for a meeting, even on days they’re not normally free to hang out. He just, you know, figured they did the same things he did. He doesn’t have a problem getting everything done before going to Mementos.

Then again, he’s the one picking Mementos days because he has nothing else going on.

“I’m a shit leader,” Ren says head hanging back.

“No, I don’t think you’re shit!” Morgana says. “We just gotta tell them they don’t have to come to Mementos if they’re busy, it’s not a problem to push it back.”

“We could like, make a group calendar?” Futaba suggests. “Plan ahead a little bit? I mean Palaces and emergencies are one thing, but I dunno, maybe everyone can plan better and say if they super duper can’t?”

“Yeah,” Ren says. “But uh, let’s do that later. They look like they need their sleep right now.”

[can-of-w0rmz]

idk about you but I love getting my opinions on one of the titans of English literature from a barely post-pubescent 20-something child on tumblr, a website famous for having users with great reading comprehension, critical thinking and no impulse whatsoever to fall into purity culture nonsense at the drop of a hat. I also love the English courts of law, and anti-sodomy laws, and I immediately and uncritically trust them when they accuse a gay man of being a pedophile. There is nothing wrong, childish or immature about this and I don't need to grow up

PURITY CULTURE??? PURITY CULTURE?????? Oh my bad folks I didn’t realise grooming 16 year old boys as a 30-something year old man was just rebelling against purity culture. And for your information, I’ve done plenty of research into anti-sodomy laws at the time of Wilde’s trials, and I’ve also read multiple sources of shorthand translations of the proceedings of the trials themselves, and anyone with two brain cells could tell that the way Wilde spoke wasn’t the way an innocent man would speak, and the evidence compiled against him was overwhelming, regardless of any bias the court may have had. True, the bias in question is fair to bring up and discuss, but it doesn’t negate his extremely likely guilt. It’s extremely unlikely that the man was innocent, from the evidence itself to Wilde’s tone during his “defence”.

Some sources:

The Trial of Oscar Wilde: From the Shorthand Reports (1906)

“In 1895, the playwright and wit Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) was prosecuted for 'acts of gross indecency' with other men. Parts of his trial were covered in newspapers of the day, but because of British censorship laws, this fuller account was not published in English until 1906.”

–The British Library official website (bl.uk)

famous-trials.com, compiled by Professor Douglas O’Linder from UMKC School of Law, mostly aligning with the shorthand translations of the testimonies from the prior source referenced yet with a few details not included in the 1906 publication to my knowledge.

https://www.famous-trials.com/wilde/327-home

Of course, everything has drawbacks, everything has a grain of salt, not everything is fullproof, there’s room for argument everywhere and of course the two sources I linked there aren’t fully enough for a big picture, and context of the time, surrounding impact, further accounts etc should all be looked into — however, in weighing up the evidence and legitimacy of sources and conflating information on all sides, personally I’m ridiculously extremely confident that Wilde was guilty, and I think the fact that this isn’t really widespread historical information is ridiculous.

You’re right, you shouldn’t take things you see on Tumblr as full proof undisputed fact. You’re right, Tumblr is a hellhole a lot of the time for misinformation and bad literary comprehension and analysis. But that doesn’t mean anything you see anywhere is objectively wrong, and you should do a small molecule of proper research and critical thinking from seeing those posts before spouting bullshit.

And for your information, I’m both queer and Irish myself and shockingly the fact that one of the major idealised queer figures for my country is a rich 19th-century-Narcissus pedophile creep, and nobody says jack shit about it, makes me pretty fucking pissed! Surprisingly!

“Purity culture” catch yourself on lad what in the fresh fuck are you on about. I’m in the age range for the wee boys Wilde fucked, surprisingly if I heard one of my friends was meeting with and having sex with some rich fuck old enough to be their da I’d be pretty fucking concerned I’d be calling cps bro 💀🙏

[glaxelilly]

0004 — Tutor.

{ written part below the cut }

You chuckled and were about to reply to Scaramouche when an email notification popped up. Frowning, you clicked the notification and saw it was an email from your advanced literature professor Lisa.

With a sigh you read it,

Hi cutie,

I’ve noticed that in the last few assignments that you don’t seem to be doing as well as you previously were and I’m a little concerned.

With that said I’ve talked to my TA, Al Haitham, about possibly tutoring you if you’re not understanding what we’re currently learning. He’s agreed if you’re interested!

Please reply with your answer soon,

Professor Lisa

Your eyes were wide as you finished reading the email, even reading it again to make sure you didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.

But no, Professor Lisa did in fact ask Al Haitham to tutor you.

And he agreed.

What the hell?

Prev || Master || Next

╰ Taglist {let me know if you want to be added}

@m0ckin9bird @ghostlysyntaxed @ayanokomu

Okay finally we get to the actual plot😭

[ourtearsofrain]

I'll be coming home, wait for me (J.M.K)

Summary: Your boyfriend knows just how to comfort you when your college schoolwork becomes overwhelming.

Pairings: Josh Kiszka x reader

Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1.5 k

Warnings: college work, frustration/getting overwhelmed from homework

A/N: Thank you Josh for singing Unchained Melody at Beale Street, it has been plaguing my mind since then.

As you sit at your dinner table, you stare at the blank word document on your laptop in front of you; the cursor blinking back at you, almost mocking you for the past hour and a half as you tried to come up with anything you could write about the most recent literature unit that had consumed the last month of your life. You realize the silence had become deafening, suddenly overwhelming you to the brink of tears as you slam your laptop closed and stand up so abruptly that the chair you were occupying falls backwards. With tears threatening to spill from your eyes, you grab your laptop and hastily make your way to yours’ and Josh’s bedroom. After tossing your laptop onto your bed, you begin pacing back and forth, trying to ground yourself with the feeling of carpet under your feet.

When you find that to not help, you turn to music, grabbing the first album you find in Josh’s massive vinyl collection and place it on the plate of your turntable, starting the player and lowering the needle. As you hear the beginnings of Stand By Me start to play, you realize the album you had grabbed was the custom vinyl Josh had made for you for your one-year anniversary that had both of your favorite love songs from the 50’s to the 70’s on it.

Thoughts of your boyfriend finally push you over the edge, and you begin to sob as you sink to the floor, leaning back against the foot of your bed with your hands over your face. Josh was all you wanted, all you needed right now, but you knew that him and the other boys were recording today, meaning he wouldn’t get home until far after you had fallen asleep. Just as these thoughts cross your mind, you hear the jingle of keys outside your front door and hear the front door unlock. You shrug it off and begin to convince yourself it’s just your hopeful imagination playing tricks on you and focus back on the music coming from the speakers across from you.

“I won’t cry, I won’t cry

No I won’t shed a tear.

Just as long as you stand

Stand by me”

You let out a humorless chuckle, recognizing the irony between your situation and the lyrics of the song. Suddenly, you hear Josh call out from the front entryway. “Honeyyyyy, I’m hooooooome.”

Confused, and hoping you haven’t hit the point of auditory hallucinations, you call out to him, “In here love.”, your voice breaking midway through the sentence. You hear the sound of his keys being set on the dinner table, and the scraping of the chair you had knocked over being set upright.

“Honey,” you can hear the concern and worry in his voice, “Why is there a chair knocked over? Are you ok?”

He enters the room, eyes immediately landing on you as he quickly makes his way over to you, crouching down at your side and beginning to rub your shoulder and thigh closest to him in slow, comforting movements.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asks as you take your hands away from your face to look at your boyfriend.

“I have this stupid fucking essay I need to finish and I’ve been trying to work on it for the last hour and a half but have gotten nowhere, and I’ve known about it for a week but have been too overwhelmed with the other coursework for this class that I haven’t been able to start it until now, and now it’s due tonight, plus I have to finish the book notes assigned today and this professor doesn’t accept late work. God I fucking wish I had transferred out of this class when I still could, tell me why the fuck I have to take it anyways, I’m a History major not a fucking English major why do I need to take this class.” Your thoughts catch up to you as you realize Josh is home way earlier than he should be. “Wait why are you home? I thought you said you were recording at the studio with the other guys all day today?”

Gently taking your hands in his, he traces slow circles into your palms with his thumbs. “First, I’m gonna need you to breathe love, ok? Can you do that for me?” You take a deep, shuddering breath in, releasing it slowly as you look into Josh’s soft, sympathetic gaze.

He offers a small, warm smile in return. “Good job honey, that was very good, thank you. To answer your question, we all thought we would need way more time than we did, and we finished up early so we all got to leave.”

“Oh. That’s good.” is all the response you can offer, as your mind quickly drifts off towards the impending essay due date and panic rises in the pit of your stomach once more.

Noticing your change in demeanor and the look in your eyes becoming more and more distant, Josh lightly takes ahold of your chin, to ensure you are looking at him, and with the other hand still holding your own, gives a gentle squeeze to comfort you. “Hey hey hey love, look at me ok? What can I do to help you?”

Your throat tightens as tears well behind your eyes once more, both from the kindness and patience of your boyfriend as well as frustration from the situation at hand. “I- I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok sweetheart, you have nothing to apologize for. How about we take a break from trying to write, and then when you go back and try again, I will be right here beside you. I may not have been the best at English in high school, but I’ve spent enough time with Jake that I know how to sound like a genius by using enormous and intelligent sounding vocabulary within sentences to the point of them becoming almost nonsensical. I swear he has thesaurus.com bookmarked on his phone, it’s insufferable sometimes.”  

The joke and his impression of Jake causes you to laugh, and he smiles widely, satisfied that he got the reaction he had hoped for. The song on your record player changes, and with you still partially stuck in your thoughts, Josh notices before you do. “Love, listen. It’s our song.” He flashes you a small, kind smile and offers his hand to you. “Dance with me?”

As the first lyrics play, you allow Josh to help you to your feet, immediately wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in the crook of his neck as he rests his hands on your back, swaying the two of you along gently to the music. You hear him softly humming the ending of the chorus, and he begins singing along as the verse begins.

“Lonely rivers flow

To the sea, to the sea

To the open arms of the sea

Lonely rivers sigh

“Wait for me, wait for me”

I’ll be coming home, wait for me”

The two of you continue to slowly sway together as the chorus begins again and the song ends, gradually fading out and into another. Josh tenderly runs his palms up and down your back as you breathe in his comforting scent and allow yourself to relax completely, feeling safe in his arms as he holds you. After a few minutes of comfortable calm and silence, you pull away from him just enough to look at him, and place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Thank you honey.”

“Of course, love. Anything for you. Feeling better?” he asks, gazing at you with a soft and hopeful look in his eyes.

“Yeah, thanks to you. I should be alright to try and start working again.”

“You sure? We can take a longer break if you need.”

You begin to pull away from Josh, keeping one hand on his arm to pull him along as you make your way to your bed, where your laptop still sat discarded. “Mhm, I’m sure. I really need to get this done by tonight. I promise I’ll take breaks if I need them though.”

You sit cross-legged in the middle of your bed near the headboard, placing your laptop in front of you and opening it. Josh climbs onto the bed and positions himself behind you, leaning against the headboard and pulling you into his lap. He wraps his arms around your torso and rests his cheek against the back of your shoulder. “Alright… but know that I’m holding you to that promise, ok love?”

You chuckle, and lightly lean back against him into his embrace. “Would expect nothing less from you, honey. Thanks again, for your support and patience, and for this.”

He mumbles a soft “Mhm, of course.” bringing his face up to kiss the side of your head. And with the presence of your boyfriend now offering comfort and safety, you begin to work again with a new sense of calm and focus.

[ladamedusoif]

Visiting: Chapter Three - Ghosts

(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.

Chapter Summary: The gorgeous New England fall settles in - and so does Lydia, feeling more at home among her friends and colleagues at Barrow than ever. And then comes Evan’s Halloween party, with costumes, cocktails, and closeness on a couch…

Word Count: 5.7k

Rating: Mature; will become Explicit in later chapters.

Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41, about to turn 42, and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; reference to relationship breakdown; reference to chronic pain and implied autoimmune-related pain; references to serial killers in a Halloween costume context; briefly illegal shenanigans in the back of a car if you're liable to be concerned about this.

A/N: This is fluff. After the horrors of Kevin Lacroix last chapter, it was nice to write our gang in a more relaxed and fun setting (even if, as you’ll see, you could cut the tension with a knife).

This was originally one long chapter but will now appear as chapters 3 and 4.

(A subtitle for this chapter might have been: In Which Rose Works Out Her Tim Rockford Feelings. You'll see what I mean.)

The title of this chapter is taken from Laura Marling's song 'Ghosts', which resonates really perfectly with Lydia’s own back story: The ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.

I've included links to more thematic/featured songs in Further Author's Notes at the end, to avoid spoilers.

See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.

Taglist: @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal

“I’m giving you two weeks - that’s plenty of advance warning here. I need to make sure you two understand the assignment.”

Evan exhales and pushes his seat back from the round table in the staff lounge, where you are eating lunch with Ben on a random Tuesday in mid-October. Evan’s expression is one of deep concern. 

Ben puts down his sandwich and brushes a couple of crumbs from his dark green pullover. 

“Do we understand the assignment? For your Halloween thing? At your house?”

“For the Halloween party, yes. Are we clear on the theme? This is important.”

“Is this because David is coming?” Ben asks mischievously. Evan has been involved in an on-off “thing” (his term, not yours) with David, a drama professor based in Boston, for the last six months, and this party would mark his introduction to the Barrow circle.

Evan ignores Ben’s question. You stifle a giggle and stir your noodle soup. He’s spent the last twenty minutes issuing your invites to a Halloween party at his apartment, accompanied by detailed explanations on the importance of sticking to the theme. 

“Cinematic Horror And/Or Serial Killers. It’s pretty broad, I think we’ll be okay.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Ben catches your eye and gives you a knowing look. “I have some questions, Evan. When you say ‘serial killers’, is that exclusively the killers themselves or are associated characters from the films an option?”

“Associated characters are fine. One of my friends from Boston is already dressing as Gale Weathers from Scream, though, so cross that one off your lists.”

Ben briefly looks confused, before returning to his lunch with a shrug. 

“I also have a question, Evan,” you say, innocently. You can see Ben trying not to laugh as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “Fiction or non-fiction?”

Evan rolls his eyes. “What?”

“Well, do the characters have to be fictional, or can they be cinematic representations of real people as depicted in horror or serial killer movies?”

“Just stick to the theme. And you” - he points at Ben - “no niche literary or historical costumes.” He picks up his can of sparkling water and walks off.

You lean in, whispering. “I didn’t know this was so serious. I knew Halloween was a big deal here, but…”

Ben looks pensive as he finishes his lunch. “I’m still not entirely sure I understand what he means by ‘understand the assignment’.”

As the glorious New England fall settles in, making the Barrow campus a riot of copper and gold, you have that curious sensation of having been here forever while feeling like no time at all has passed. Your little community of friends and colleagues have, for the most part, made you feel like you were at home, not just “visiting”. 

After the shenanigans at the beach away-day in September, you prove you can walk the walk as well as talking the talk. As soon as you got into work on the following Monday, you’d knocked on Ben’s door to volunteer as a tutor for one of the additional support workshops he was organising as part of the diversity and inclusion project across the faculty.

He seemed to appreciate your outsider perspective, regularly seeking out advice or feedback on how best to look after the students involved. You’ve never seen anyone look as pleased as he did to receive a printed and bound copy of the hundred-page report your institution had compiled a couple of years ago on support strategies. 

He shrugged when you mentioned this, having watched him leaf excitedly through the document. “I’m just a nerd for this stuff.” You shook your head. “You care. They’re lucky to have you.”

You shouldn’t have favourites, really, not when you’re teaching such a range of classes, but the students in that particular workshop group are a joy: hard-working, insightful, kind, and funny. They have no sense of entitlement or expectation based on privilege. They come into each group meeting spilling over with things they want to tell you and the rest of the class: books read, movies watched, artworks discovered, songs played on repeat. Their intelligence and perceptiveness only underlines how toxic the attitudes of, ahem, certain colleagues are.

They seem to like you, too - though not as much as they like Ben, who is clearly a bit of a cult favourite. You overhear a group in your support workshop talking excitedly one morning about seeing him coming onto campus on his black-framed bicycle, two pannier bags attached to the back.

“He’s just so cute on his little bike, ohmygoooooood!” The other students had scrunched up their faces and made high-pitched noises to signal their agreement. “Protect this man at aaalllllll costs,” agrees another. “Did you see his little space tie at orientation?? He’s so baby and so old man at the same time, I just cannot with him.”

You daren't ask what they say about you.

Outside of work, the arrival of more of the belongings you’d had shipped over has helped make the once-spartan apartment into a home. The crocheted blanket you made sits on the back of your small sofa, ready to be pulled over you as you read or watch TV. The living area is dotted with trinkets from your travels and photographs, especially of your little nieces. A bright green Japanese kintsugi bowl, a gift from your sister a year after your ex-partner had left, takes pride of place on the low coffee table.

It might only be home for a year, but you’ve tried to make the apartment feel like you. Your framed print of a Raoul Dufy painting of Paris hangs on one wall, comforting pinks and blues in the abstract but familiar depiction of the city. You treated yourself to two small Diptyque candles at the airport duty free on your way to the US, and their scent acts as a reassuring comfort whenever you walk back through the door after a day at work. As has been the case everywhere you’ve ever lived, there are books and magazines everywhere, some neatly shelved, far more in random piles. You’d even managed to track down a cheap second-hand sewing machine at a local thrift store, and had convinced Ani to drive you to the nearest large craft store to stock up on fabric and patterns.

It’s become somewhat of a running joke that you are obsessed with the fall. You tried to explain that it was, in part, because it was so different to what you were used to. 

“We just get meh.”

“Meh?” Evan repeated, sipping his coffee in the staff lounge one day, as you explain. “Meh?”

“Yes, meh. It gets dark too quickly. It’s kind of always…damp, and it makes my stupid fucked-up joints and body hurt. And we don’t get those crisp, gorgeous colours in the landscape. More like fog and sludge and rotting leaves and just: meh. Here, though! Campus is just like a picture book.”

“If you think this is good, you should see the lakeside trail just outside town,” Ben adds. “Best way to see it is by bike. Could be fun if you wanted to hire one and explore it?”

A week later, and you’re back on a bike for the first time in a long time, trying to keep your focus on staying upright while taking time to admire the incredible surroundings. The colours of a New England fall are spread across the landscape like an extraordinary patchwork quilt, all oranges and golds and reds and the occasional evergreen, and the blue of the lake provides a perfect contrast. You stop pedalling for a moment, resting your feet on the ground as you take it all in.

“Wow.” 

Ben, a little further ahead, slows and comes to a halt before walking his bike back to you. He follows your gaze to look at the picture-perfect scene in front of you, as nature offers a final performance of spectacular colour before the winter snows arrive. 

“It’s really something, isn’t it? Fall does not look like this where I’m from.” 

You nod, awestruck. “Sometimes I just can’t believe I get to be here.”

Two weeks after Evan’s micro-managed invitation to his Halloween party, and you think - no, make that hope - you’ve created a costume that fits the brief. Ani is coming over to meet up before you head over together, and you put out a bowl of candy corn (a revelation to you, even if Evan never fails to remind you that “it tastes like crayons.”)

You’re adjusting your curly blonde wig, carefully teasing out some of the curls around the ends, and checking your drawn-on moustache in the mirror when your phone lights up.

ANI: SEE ME. SEE ME NOW.

You raise an eyebrow and go to the intercom panel near your front door. Someone is standing at the door of the building in a top hat and morning suit, curly dark hair carefully arranged around their shoulders and a pair of tiny dark glasses perched on their nose. 

The curious figure is carrying a Barrow Farmers Market tote bag.

“Fucking hell.” You press the button to let Ani in, and leave your front door ajar. They swish into your apartment a few moments later, a vision in a dove-grey morning suit they’d found at a local Goodwill and a top hat borrowed from the student drama society. Ani had asked you to pin some grey fabric around the hat a few days earlier, but hadn’t revealed any more about their costume plans.

“Well?? Do you see me now?” They twirl around for your approval.

“That’s genuinely incredible. Vampirism really suits you.”

Ani grins, admiring themselves in the mirror that hangs near the front door before taking a seat on the arm of your sofa. “I look fucking fantastic, even if I shouldn’t be able to see my reflection. Any Mina Harkers at this party better watch out.” They look you up and down. “And you’re…?”

You stand up. In addition to the wig and pencil moustache, you’re dressed in a three-piece tweed suit (another Goodwill find, which you’d been able to easily tailor to fit with your trusty sewing machine) with a shirt and tie, topped with a white lab coat. 

Ani still looks confused. You tap a name badge you’d made for exactly this eventuality. They peer at it, reading it aloud, and finally join the dots:

Dr F. Frankenstein (Fronk-en-STEEN)

“Oh, wow.” Ani shakes their head. “You must be the first person in Halloween costume party history to go dressed as Young Frankenstein before he becomes the crazy scientist. Evan is gonna have notes.”

You shove your hands in the pockets of the lab coat and make a haughty face. “It’s pronounced Fronk-en-STEEN.”

Ani laughs and stands up, picking up their bag (which contains two bottles of wine). “Okay, Fronk-en-Steen, let’s go see if anyone can outdo you for niche costume choice of the night. That pencil moustache is kinda hot, by the way.”

Evan opens the door dressed in a truly horrible dress, a messy grey wig styled in a bun, and wielding a toy knife. He looks in a foul mood, even discounting the Norman Bates-as-Mother costume.

Ani wheels around, ready to do their Dracula routine. “SEE ME. SEE ME - fuck! Are you okay, man?” 

Evan scowls, stepping back to let you in. “I’ve got to take meds to get rid of that bastard chest thing I’ve had, and they specifically state no alcohol or other drugs to be consumed while taking them. So I’m stone-cold sober at my own party, while everyone else is enjoying my spooky margs.” He jerks his head in the direction of the crowd of guests. 

You step over the threshold, both curious and reluctant to find out what a “spooky marg” involves. Ani remains outside. 

“You gotta invite me in, dude.”

Evan rolls his eyes and brandishes the plastic knife. “Would you like to come in, vampire? You’re so lucky this is a toy.”

Ani winks behind their little glasses. “Nuh-uh! Stakes only!”

Evan’s apartment is a decently-sized mid-century two bed, and most of the party guests are milling around the open-plan living and dining area. In addition to the select group of colleagues who made the list, he’s invited a few of his friends from Boston and New York to come up for the night. You scan the room, hoping to spy the elusive David.

“Spooky Margs and a selection of other beverages are in the kitchen with some snacks. Help yourselves. And make sure to remind someone all night that they did not understand the assignment.” Evan points with his toy knife towards a familiar figure clad in a beige mac, who’s talking to some of Evan’s friends. 

Ben wheels around at the sound of Evan’s voice. He’s wearing a white shirt, a 1970s-style striped tie, and a pair of vaguely vintage-looking grey dress pants. There’s what looks like a toy police badge clipped to his belt.

He’s hearing Evan’s admonition for what is evidently the millionth time since he arrived, and rolls his eyes. “I keep telling you, I did understand! Cinematic horror or serial killers!” He looks pleadingly in your direction. “Lydia was there. We asked Evan some clarifying questions, didn’t we?” 

You nod, but Ani pulls a face. “Not convinced Columbo fits the brief, my guy. Did he get many serial killers?”

Evan nods enthusiastically. “See? SEE? Ani gets it. Fuckin’ Columbo, Ben.”

In the time they’ve been upbraiding him, you’ve been studying Ben’s costume more carefully, a smile of growing recognition dancing around your mouth. You clear your throat, and all three look directly at you.

“He’s not Columbo.” 

“So who is he, then?” Evan asks, irritated. Clearly, the lack of spooky margs is having an effect on his mood.

You move beside Ben. “Mind if I show them the evidence, Detective?” 

“Not at all, Doctor.” 

The white lab coat must be imbuing you with some sort of scientific spirit. You begin to jokingly lecture Ani and Evan, pointing out parts of Ben’s outfit like he’s a specimen on display. Some of the other party guests turn to watch.

“To the untrained eye, Professor Morales’ costume may well look like a typical Columbo effort. But there are some vital clues that prove he is, in fact, not Columbo and is completely appropriately dressed for the theme. Exhibit A: the side parting in his hair, and the way it is styled - or, sorry to say this Ben, the way he’s tried to style it. Exhibit B: no cigar. Exhibit C: the contents of his pockets. Could you show these to the group, Professor?”

Ben nods with exaggerated formality and reaches into his coat pockets.

“An old street map of San Francisco. A pocket guide to codes and codebreaking. A pair of glasses - pretty sure these are not part of the costume. Colleagues, this is in fact Detective Dave Tosche, one of the leading figures in the Zodiac case.” You look to Ben for confirmation, your eyebrows raised expectantly. 

“You’re so close.”

You chew on your lower lip before it hits you. “Ah! An important distinction. You’re Mark Ruffalo playing Dave Tosche in David Fincher’s 2007 based on a true story serial killer masterpiece, Zodiac. Serial killer, cinematic, he’s entirely on theme, he’s even from the Bay Area.”

You do a neat little bow. Ben laughs hard. “I knew you’d get it, Dr Fronk-en-steen!”

Ani rolls their eyes. Evan pinches his nose. “I swear to god, on your first day in graduate school they should warn you that if you become an academic you’ll end up working with fucking nerds for the rest of your life.”

The host’s irritation at his enforced sobriety aside, the party is relaxed and enjoyable. Evan has compiled an exceptionally well-curated playlist that mixes Halloween-themed songs and party bangers with random tracks from a ‘Spooky Sound Effects Vol. 1-5’ album he’d found in a thrift store. Evan’s friends are a fascinating and entertaining group of people: friends from college; former colleagues; people who work in fashion; writers, artists, and people who run tiny community theatres. 

You’re swapping Paris stories with Drew, a 6’4” Boston-based art teacher dressed up as Shelley Duvall in The Shining, while finishing off a vodka and tonic (you are still building up to trying a Spooky Marg, disarmed by their lurid green colour). 

Drew points to your now-empty glass. “Think it’s time for you to try Evan’s concoction, babe. Would you believe me if I told you it was actually pretty good?” he offers, raising his own glass of the icy green beverage.

You pull a face. “I guess I can’t know until I try it. Okay. Here goes nothing.” You cross to the kitchen in search of the green nectar, bopping gently to the strains of ‘Cuff It’ pumping out of Evan’s speakers. En route, you spot Ani in the open-plan living area, flirting outrageously with someone dressed as Tippi Hedren in The Birds, enormous fake bird sticking out at a rakish angle from their blonde wig. 

Ben has had the same idea as you. When you enter Evan’s tiny kitchen, he’s standing by the counter - still wearing his overcoat - and pouring himself a glass of the frosty green goo from a large jug. 

“Ohhhh, yes. Yes. This is good. You can try it first.”

“I thought you were a scientist, Dr Fronk-en-Steen? Scared of an experimental substance?”

You join him at the counter and give him a sceptical look. “As a good scientist, I’d at least like to know what’s in the experimental substance.”

Ben sips the drink cautiously and narrows his eyes. “There’s definitely tequila. Lots of tequila. And triple sec. And something…minty? And then an extra booze layer that I can’t quite place.” He coughs suddenly, eyes watering. “Yep. Pretty…pretty potent.”

You scan the counter and spot a bottle of crème de menthe and one of vodka tucked alongside the tequila and triple sec. “Detective, I think we have our answer. Oh well. I guess it’s designed to make us merry. Or spooky. Or just really, really unwell.” 

You pour yourself a glass, clink it off Ben’s, and lean against Evan’s countertop. You’ve taken off your lab coat and jacket. Ben gestures towards your outfit.

“That’s a great costume, by the way. Inspired choice not to go for the obvious ‘mad scientist’ version.” He peers closer. “And that is an excellent drawn-on moustache.”

You beam, delighting in the fact that he’s so impressed by your efforts. “It’s weird, I’ve kind of always wanted to go to a costume party where I had a drawn-on moustache. Maybe I want to feel like an early Hollywood villain.”

He laughs. “Or is it because of Jeanne Moreau with the fake moustache and cap in Jules et Jim?” 

Your mouth drops open. “Shit! That’s it. God, that would have been a good costume. Easy to do, as well.” 

Ben nods in agreement. “But I think Evan would have actually tried to kill you for not - what was the phrase? - not understanding the assignment.” He takes another sip of his Spooky Marg, wincing slightly. “And thank you, by the way, for proving that I did what I was told.”

You look him up and down, taking in his costume. “It’s so obviously not Columbo. Where did you get all the bits of the outfit?”

“Coat and pants are from a bigger branch of Goodwill in the next town over. Shirt is just a white shirt. Nothing exciting there. Got the badge in a toy store. The map and code book are my own.” 

Of course they are. 

He holds up his tie. “This belonged to my dad. Authentic 70s size and stripes.” 

You smile softly at that detail. “It is an excellent tie and no mistake. I’m just wondering about how far you took the attention to detail, though - didn’t Tosche have one of those shoulder holster things on for pretty much the entire movie?”

Ben blushes. “Uh…well. You know I believe in the details. And the accuracy.”

You tilt your head quizzically. “In what sense?”

“In the sense that I do care about the attention to detail, so I, uh…”

He moves to take off his overcoat. And there they are: a pair of brown leather shoulder holsters, albeit without any handguns (real or fake). Insane green drink aside, he really looks the part as an old-school hard bitten TV detective. 

It’s also impossible to ignore the way the combination of the snugly-fitted shirt and holsters seems to exaggerate (or maybe emphasise?) just how broad Ben’s shoulders are. 

Have they always looked like…that?

Either way, you’re impressed. “Wow. I mean…wow. It’s the whole package. No toy pistols, though?”

He furrows his brow. “I was struggling a bit with whether this fed into the more problematic aspects of how policing is presented in popular culture - what do they call it, ‘copaganda’? - , and guns for me are just…no.” He shakes his head. “Felt weird enough getting the holsters but, like I said - attention to detail.”

You nod. “You could just use yours to store snacks, or something. Might get a bit, um, melted, though. Body heat, and all.”

Ben laughs, and nods his head towards the living room. “Come on. Grab your Spooky Marg and let’s go see if Tippi Hedren’s been turned vampiric yet.”

Three Spooky Margs later, and you’re buzzed. Thankfully, so is pretty much everyone else - with the exception of Evan, of course, and a lone guest dressed as the Babadook who’s been sitting, motionless, at the dining table all night. 

Wig off, you’re chatting and eating pumpkin spiced cookies in the tiny kitchen with David, who has proven to be charm personified (and gorgeous to boot). Hair neatly styled and wearing a simple outfit of slacks, shirt, and jacket, it took you a moment before you realised he was dressed as Norman Bates. 

That’s one way to do couples’ costumes. 

In solidarity with Evan, David has limited himself to one Spooky Marg for the evening, and is sipping on tonic water and lime. Evan sticks his bewigged head into the kitchen and beckons you and David to join the rest of the party in the living area. “Come on! It’s Spooky Lip Sync for your Afterlife time.”

You glance sideways at David, who grins. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any death drops.”

“Lyyyyyyyydiiiaaaaa!” Ben beams and waves frantically at you from the smaller sofa, gesturing for you to join him. You realise why he seems so eager to have you join him when you see what’s happening on the couch.

He’s pinned against one end, holding his head at an awkward angle to avoid getting hit in the face by the fake bird stuck in Tippi Hedren’s hair as they throw their head back and laugh while Ani whispers sweet nothings into their ear. 

All the Spooky Margs in the world couldn’t make Ben Morales comfortable in this scenario. 

Even so, he’s definitely merry, albeit in an extremely smiley, benevolent kind of way. He’s got a beatific smile on his face as you approach. “Lyddie, sit. Sit. Sit in the seat.” He motions as if he’s about to stand and give you his space on the couch.

You laugh and put a hand on one of his shoulders, gently pushing him back into his spot. “Absolutely the fuck not. I’m not sitting beside someone getting turned into a vampire, Benjamin.” You settle onto the padded arm of the couch on his left, leaning ever so slightly into him as you do so. “M’sitting on the arm of this sofa right here.” 

“Mmmmkay.” He sips his lurid green drink and hums with satisfaction. Drew, his Shelley Duvall wig swapped for a longer, darker one, emerges from the hallway clad in a wafty, bright red dress. 

“Pssssst. Lyd. Lyd.” Ben leans in to whisper theatrically in your ear. “What’s a Spooky Sync Afterlife anyway?”

Evan glares at him and fiddles with his phone until a tinkly piano melody emerges from the speakers and Drew starts to dance, lip syncing along to ‘Wuthering Heights’:

Out on the wily, windy moors

We’d roll and fall in green

He’s uncannily good, nailing each of Kate Bush’s dance moves as he mouths along. From your spot on the arm of the couch, you fling your arms in the air, waving along in time to the music and matching Drew word for word in a perfect lip sync. 

When the song reaches the middle eight, Drew advances towards you and pulls you up to join him. Ordinarily you’d run for cover, but the Spooky Margs have relaxed your inhibitions just enough and you join in, widening your eyes and extending your arms as you beg Heathcliff to let you in at his window. As the song’s closing guitar riff starts, Drew wraps his long arms around you, playfully pretending to drag you off to some uneasy underworld before embracing you in a delighted hug as the other guests whoop and cheer.

You hastily retreat back to your seat as Drew takes his bow. Ben breaks off his applause and raises a hand to high five you as you settle back onto the arm of the couch. 

You’re not quite ready for it, your centre of gravity thrown off by the slightly awkward seating position and the effect of the drinks. To your horror, you begin to topple ungracefully off the couch in the direction of Evan’s living room floor, closing your eyes and bracing for impact. 

Strong arms catch you gently around the waist mid-fall and pull you back to an upright position. A slightly slurred, but reassuring voice: “I’ve got you.” 

This is mortifying. 

You open your eyes and turn to face him, wanting to cringe yourself out of existence.

“Um…whoops?” If the ground could open you up and swallow you now, that would be most helpful. 

But Ben’s wearing that contented smile again, evidently trying not to laugh but with a look in his eyes that reassures you he’s not making fun of you. Not in the slightest. 

You crack in unison, giggling like misbehaving children. 

You look down to where your left hand is still resting on his bare forearm, his shirt sleeves rolled up and exposing the warm, lightly golden skin below. 

He has arm freckles.

Lowered inhibitions or not, reality kicks back in. You move your hand away, concerned you’ve overstepped a mark. 

“Sorry. Thanks for catching me. Sorry.”

His smile fades and he reciprocates, pulling back and blushing as he pushes his glasses back up his nose. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I… Just didn’t want you falling.”

Another tiny crackle of electricity goes off in your brain, as if an unseen force is soldering together synapses that have long been out of use.

The signal, this time, is a little stronger, amplified no doubt by physical proximity and Spooky Margs. 

You angle your body and reach behind you, catching hold of his left arm and moving it back into position so that it’s lightly bracing you, forearm against your back and hand holding you at the waist. 

“’S just in case I fall again. Safety is paramount.”

Ani, left alone for a moment while Tippi Hedren goes to the bathroom, leans round and looks at you both. 

“Could use a sholster holder for better counterbalance or some shit? Hold on to a sholster holder.” They start laughing at their malapropism. “Sholster holder. No wait, that’s not it. Sholster. Holder. No. Oh, fuck it.”

Ben looks up at you, coffee-brown eyes twinkling. 

“I am kinda curious about the sholster holder,” you say. “Never seen one before.”

“Oh, well in that case…” He motions with his head and taps the holster strap on his right. You extend your right arm, stretching across his shoulders to rest your fingers against the leather. 

The electrical current in your brain continues to pulse. 

Evan introduces a lipsync by “Musty Springheeled”, who performs ‘Spooky’. Musty had been introduced to you earlier in the evening as a mild-mannered poet called Dani. They’re transformed now, enormous backcombed blonde wig and layers of black eyeliner complementing their long black vintage-style dress. 

You sway gently to the music, careful not to overreach again. Not that you’d be likely to fall. Not with a large, warm hand at your waist and your fingers resting lightly on his shoulder. For better balance, as Ani suggested. 

Musty extends their elegant arms in front of them as they mouth the words, hands passing back and forth in front of their face:

Just like a ghost

You’ve been a-haunting my dreams

But now I know

You’re not what you seem

You feel the caress of soft, wavy hair against your neck as Ben rests his head on your shoulder. Instinctively, you reciprocate, lightly shifting your head to lean against his. 

Evan keeps an eagle eye on Musty Springheeled. Tippi Hedren has rejoined Ani on the couch, and they’re wrapped around each other and swaying along to the song, caught up in their own little world.

It’s only David, alert and observant, who notices just how contented the detective and scientist seem to be, nestled into one end of the sofa. 

“Fuck it. I’ll drive you guys. Come on, nerds. Party’s over.”

Evan, still in his Mother Bates dress but wig discarded, is jangling his keys at Ben, who yawns and offers a thumbs up in acknowledgment before grabbing his mac.

There isn’t a cab to be had in Barrow, but Evan is determined to get the local guests home so that he - and everyone else staying with him - can go to bed. Some of the visiting contingent have already left, decamping to an AirBnB the next block over. Others are staying in Evan’s guest room or on his couch and sofabed. 

Evan starts a head count. “Okay. So… that’s Lydia, Ben, Ani in the back, Dani up front. Right?”

Dani, still in their Musty Springheeled dress, nods. Ani appears from the kitchen, Tippi following close behind. “And Cass. Cass is, uh, coming with me.”

Who the fuck is Cass?

Tippi Hedren waves a tiny wave. “Hiiiii. I’m Cass,” they say in a quiet, sweet British accent. 

Evan cocks an eyebrow at Ani, then realises the numbers don’t add up. “Lydia, Ben, Ani, Cass, Dani up front… fuck. Fuck.”

You pull on your lab coat and knee-length wool overcoat, eyes half-closed with sleep and Spooky Margs. “I can just walk, y’know? Not too far.”

“The fuck you aren’t,” Ben mutters. “I’ll walk. It’s fine.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “You live further away, Benjamin! Fuck. Make it make sense.”

David’s eyes flit between you, Ben, and Evan. “Who would be getting out first?”

Ani and Evan point at you in unison. You raise a hand, sheepishly. “I mean it, it’s close.”

“I mean, desperate times etc. So,” David sets out his proposal, “Ben, Ani, and Cass go in the back. Lydia sits on Ben’s lap for the short journey. You drop Lydia off, you’re good for the rest of the journey.”

Your eyes widen. “I don’t think that’s legal!”

Evan rolls his eyes. “Of course it fucking isn’t legal. But I want you fuckers to go home.”

David turns to Ben. “And you don’t mind having Lydia on your lap for a few minutes?”

Your face heats. A side effect of all those Spooky Margs, you think. Ben’s ears have turned pink, too. Definitely something in the drinks. Crème de menthe has a weird effect.

“Sure. Sure! Mmmhmm.” Ben nods quickly. “But only if that’s okay with you?” He turns to you. 

There’s something endearing to you about the fact that, even with several extremely strong cocktails on board, even being more buzzed than you’ve ever seen him, and having spent most of the night holding you steady on the couch, he still wants to check that you’ll be comfortable. 

You nod. “Just a bit worried I’ll be too heavy, is all.”

Ben scoffs gently and shakes his head to assuage your concerns. 

“Oh, thank FUCK.” Evan exhales with relief. “Nerds! Come on!”

It must be twenty years since you’ve been in a car like this, perched on your friend’s lap on your way home from a party. You try to hold yourself up slightly, worried despite yourself about what Ben might think if he had to feel all of your body weight on his (strong-feeling) thighs. 

You’ve never been small, not as an adult. As a student you envied those tiny, petite friends who always seemed to appeal to men and women alike, their compact, light frame fitting perfectly on the lap of whatever lucky person they were flirting with at the party. They never had to worry about stuff like this, right? Too busy being picked up and carried around by boys desperate to assert some kind of masculinity, who never cast a second glance at the unappealing, taller, serious-faced friend.

That said, even if he did think you were disturbingly heavy, Ben hadn’t given you the slightest indication since you’d clambered into the back of the car and settled yourself around him carefully, balancing yourself by resting an arm over the back seat. He arranges his arms firmly around you.

“Like a human seatbelt, Lyddie.” You giggle sleepily.

He murmurs. "I've got you."

Evan drives carefully, the Barrow streets mostly deserted save for occasional groups of student revellers in costume. Ani is leaning into Cass, ostensibly examining the fake bird still sticking out of their carefully-coiffed hair, but in truth taking the opportunity to rest a hand on Cass’s knee. 

In the relatively cramped confines of the back seat, you have to lean your head on Ben’s shoulder to avoid thwacking your skull off the car roof. The scruff on his jaw brushes lightly against the top of your forehead. His breathing is steady, and oddly calming, but there’s this…frisson running through your body at the same time.

It’s been so long since you’d been this physically close to another person, the odd hook-up aside. No wonder it feels so good. Anyone would feel the same if they’d been a bit touch-starved. 

Right?

“So I guess this experience is fairly standard for the visiting professor?” you ask. He laughs, and you can feel it resonating against you from his chest. 

“Ohhh, yeah.” He pauses. “For the nice ones, anyway.”

Evan pulls up at the kerb outside your building. You open the door and unfold yourself carefully from your position on Ben’s lap, until you’re eventually upright. You wave cheerily and turn to walk to the main door of the building, smiling happily. 

You’re only a couple of steps away when the car door opens again. You look over your shoulder, instinctively.

He’s standing on the pavement, hands in his coat pockets, looking down at the ground for an instant before meeting your eye. 

“Hey, Lydia?”

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)

Further A/N:

Huge thanks to lovely @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for thoughts, excited responses, and reading parts of this in draft! And for introducing the word "frisson" into the equation... sigh.

The idea of Lydia on Ben’s lap in the car came from @cutesyscreenname, and this got me thinking A LOT about physical proximity for these two nerds and what it might unleash…

Costume references: Ani as Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992).

Lydia as Gene Wilder as Dr Frederick Frankenstein in the earlier parts of Young Frankenstein (1974). "It's pronounced Fronk-en-Steen."

Ben as Mark Ruffalo as Dave Tosche in Zodiac (2007) (that's him on the left, obviously). (Bonus: SHOULDER HOLSTER SUPREMACY)

Evan as Norman as Mother Bates in Psycho (1960)

Cass as Tippi Hedren in The Birds (1963)

This is the specific performance of 'Wuthering Heights' Drew does at Evan's party (this is one of my absolute favourite songs, ever, and I would have been just as into this as Lydia is):

'Spooky' by Dusty Springfield, lip synced by Musty Springheeled/Dani:

[lovedovechels]

I’m taking the SAT this year and I know nothing about it help

Hi, I'm from the Caribbean and here we do CSEC and CAPE instead of SATs so I'm not familiar with such. I'm sorry that I won't be able to offer advice based on my experience with SAT however I can tell you what has worked for me throughout high school and university whenever I had a big exam to prep for.

1. Creating a study time table and sticking to it: I studied every day leading up to my exams and I studied for around 4 to 5 hours each day. Sometimes more or less depending with how familiar I am with the information and how much work I'd assign to myself to complete within that day. Also, after class revise each day's work.

2. Reading: read excessively, read all the recommended books and literature mentioned by your teachers.

3. Practice: I did a lot of practice questions from websites and text books that catered to the topics I needed to study. Also I answered questions from past papers. Regarding the questions that I got incorrect, I'd spend time researching and better understanding the concepts behind them.

4. Seek help: whenever I didn't understand a concept, I'd email my professor and ask for clarification. For my final year project, every concern or query I had was directed towards my professor who offered clarity and also recommended certain books I should read to better facilitate my research project. Through her assistance and my ability to seek out help when I needed it I secured an A in my research project.

I'd also reach out to a friend. In my second year of University I was having a hard time grasping certain statistical concepts and calculations. I reached out to a friend and with her help I was able to understand the concepts and complete the calculations correctly. As a result of her help I managed to secure an A in the course as well.

5. Try different studying methods: personally, writing the information down and speaking out loud were the best approaches. Also I'd study for 20 minutes take a 10 minutes break and then study again for 20 minutes and so on and so forth.

6. Familiarise yourself with the layout of the exam: In university, my professors were big on true and false, short answers, multiple choice and essays. I usually practiced questions with a similar layout and also paced myself so as to be aware of how efficient I was at managing the time I took to answer the questions.

7. Whenever you feel like giving up or you're tired, rest but also don't get too comfortable resting and lose focus. This is your future and it's important to dedicate yourself to each and every step and process that gets you to the life you want to enjoy.

8. The most important thing is to not become overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of prepping for the exam and actually completing the exam. You've got this! As long as you put the work in by studying, practicing and staying focused you'll ace this! Best of luck!

If you have any other questions, don't be afraid to spam my ask. I'm always willing to answer.💕

[lorna-d-m]

Chapter Five: Parent Teacher Conferences

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x fem!OC (Alice Greene)

Summary: Professor Laszlo Kreizler is a workaholic. Between teaching university courses, running the Kreizler Institute, and minding Stevie -his ward-, he does not have time for relationships. That is until he meets Ms. Greene, Stevie's English teacher, at open house. Can he open his heart to the possibility of love?

Word Count: 3,192

W: mentions of drinking, bullying/hazing

A/N: I unexpectedly had to go out of state for a week and then move into my on-campus apartment when I came back but in my time before classes started I got this finished :) Yeehaw senior year here I come

previous chapter

Although the university semester and the public school system did not line up exactly, there was enough overlap to swamp both Stevie and Laszlo in work. They were two sides of the same coin. Stevie worked his ass off studying and writing papers while Laszlo burned the midnight oil grading exams and essays. He almost fell asleep at his desk with his reading glasses on, trying to understand a student’s ill-conceived paper, when Stevie told him to call it a night.

Laszlo received an email from the school reminding parents, and guardians, the week after progress report cards the school would host a parent teacher conference night. He suspected it was to designate a night for all the overbearing parents to heckle the teachers after grades came back. After all, his office hours were always booked after midterms with crying freshmen begging for extra credit or another chance when they never did the reading to begin with. He always listened, some students had valid or extenuating circumstances, but he was better known for being unrelenting.

Stevie’s grades were excellent. Not valedictorian, but reflective of his work. Laszlo did not consider attending the conference until he received an email from Ms. Greene. 

Dear Dr. Kreizler,

I hope you are doing well, and I hope midterms have not overwhelmed you. As difficult as they are for students, I know grading is no walk in the park either. 

I’m sure you saw the school’s reminder about parent teacher conferences, but I wanted to personally invite you. I have some concerns about Stevie, and I would like to discuss them with you in person. If you are unavailable that night, please let me know and we can schedule another meeting. 

Thank you so much!

Ms. Alice Greene

Laszlo reflected on the last few weeks. In their weekly conversations, she mentioned she thought some of the students might be giving Stevie a hard time. He anticipated it would settle when the novelty wore off, but now he was not sure. Laszlo rearranged his schedule, ensuring he wouldn’t be stuck at the university or working at the Institute and miss the evening.

He asked Stevie if he would like to attend the conferences as well, not mentioning the email from Ms. Greene, but stating that if they were discussing him it was only fair for him to be present. Stevie declined and joked that with Doctor Kreizler there he had the best defense. Laszlo was glad Stevie still thought so, even in jest. Stevie’s only request was for him to bring back dinner after the conference. The refrigerator was empty after midterms, and he wanted to eat something other than eggs and toast. Laszlo laughed and promised to bring back whatever Stevie wanted. 

Apparently, Alice did not learn from her previous mistakes. At open house, the cookies she hand-baked and decorated were barely touched by the parents. And yet, she made cookies for the conferences. Alice decorated them like books, giving each of them a classic literature title, and arranged them on a cookie carrier. 

This far into the year, her classroom was not spotless and picturesque like it was at open house. She swept the floors again, finding half a dozen discarded pens and pencils, and rewrote the information she kept on the whiteboard. Parents and administrators loved to see objectives, standards, and assignments in clearly visible spaces. Looking around, she realized several of the desks never made it to their original places after their group discussions, so she rearranged them. A few desks positioned across from her desk would be suitable for the evening.

The first parent arrived with a sheepish student in tow, and she gestured for them to sit down and take a cookie. Neither did.

***

An hour later, Alice was dying for an iced coffee. She knew drinking one at this time would keep her awake half the night, but she needed something to make her smile. A few of her conversations were genuinely productive, exploring what she and the parents could do to better support the student, addressing her concerns, and building positive relationships. 

However, she had just as many discouraging conversations from parents insisting their child was right and she was incorrect. Bitsy warned her in a more affluent area the parents were more involved and typically more self-righteous, but her expectations did not match reality. They had the audacity to tell her all the ways she did her job incorrectly

She was tired, and she wanted to go home. Iced coffee wasn’t a strong enough drink, but she might settle for it on her drive home. 

Laszlo debated visiting Stevie’s other teachers. He performed well in their classes, and as far as he knew they had no matters to discuss with him. Still, since some of them were communicative with him when he emailed them, he decided to drop by a few classrooms. Laszlo kept his visits brief as he knew he was expected elsewhere. Additionally, he did not want the ice to melt in his surprise.  

“Are these the same recipes as before? 

“What?” Confused, Alice looked up from her desk. He stood by the cookies she no doubt painstakingly designed, and yet looked as if they hadn’t been touched all night. “Oh,” she smiled, “Dr. Kreizler.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Greene.” His sheepish smile was genuine. “I brought you a gift, but maybe I should call it a bribe in exchange for some of these cookies.” He set the iced coffee on her desk and sat down.

“You didn’t have to do that. I would have let you take some home anyway.” She picked up the coffee and read the label. “Decaf? You are intuitive, Dr. Kreizler.” Alice reached into the minifridge behind her desk and grabbed the bottle of coffee creamer. Laszlo did not know how she took her coffee, so once he learned she kept supplies in her classroom he reasoned black was fine and she could sweeten it to taste.

His cheeks reddened, and he hoped it was not terribly noticeable. “I thought you would appreciate a pick me up without it keeping you awake.” She thanked him and urged him to take some cookies. Laszlo debated between them, knowing the flavor was the same, but there were implications based on the titles he chose. 

“Dracula and In Cold Blood. Interesting. I’m totally not judging you based on that now,” she laughed.

“As a literature teacher, what’s your formal determination?” Laszlo evaluated people professionally, and for fun, so he was curious about her opinion. 

“Well,” she took another sip of her coffee and smiled mischievously. He liked the way she crinkled her nose. “Dracula is a classic, and honestly underrated. It’s much more humorous than people think, and the original sotry is often overlooked. And In Cold Blood, well, you must be a true crime junkie. Based on a true story, but obviously dramatized. You probably researched the real case while reading and felt better for knowing the truth.”

Laszlo wiggled his eyebrows. Impressive. He took a bite of his sugar cookie. “And you? What books would you choose?” This was his opportunity to read her.

She checked her watch on her left wrist and playfully sighed. “I was saving these two until the end of the night, but I think you will be the last parent I see tonight.”

“I’m honored,” he demurred.

“And it’s only fair since I judged your taste,” she hesitated for suspense, “so I’ll take Pride and Prejudice and Count of Monte Cristo.”

Laszlo thought for a moment. Her first choice did not surprise him, but her second did. He grappled with the Count first. “The Count of Monte Cristo is complicated, and so are you. You enjoy unraveling plots, and you’re a sucker for a tragedy. As for Pride and Prejudice, you are a romantic, but with particular taste. You want to be swept off your feet as if you were in a Jane Austen novel, but that has not happened yet.”

He tended to push people too far, and Laszlo feared he was too blunt. Ms. Greene was taken aback, the nervous set of her mouth said that, but her eyes told him it was true. She stirred her drink with her straw and took another sip. 

“You’re very insightful, Dr. Kreizler.” She met his eye and held it. He never noticed the flecks of color and how they glimmered even under the fluorescent light. Laszlo wondered how she would look in warm light, candlelight, moonlight. A door slammed down the hall and broke them from their trance. “But, I think we should talk about Stevie.”

“Yes, of course. You’re right,” Laszlo agreed. He pulled a small notebook and pen from his suit jacket pen. At the top of a clean page, he wrote the date and “Conference — Stevie”.

“Stevie is doing well in class. I’m sure you know that from checking his grades and his progress report. That’s not what I’m concerned about, unless his grades start to drop, of course.” Laszlo took notes as she spoke. “I noticed that in my class at least, Stevie doesn’t have a solid group of friends. Which, some kids don’t and that’s completely fine, but there’s a group that has been antagonistic toward him.” His pen scratched to a stop.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Pretty much since the beginning of the year. I know it can be difficult when you don’t fit in—” Laszlo arched an eyebrow, but she ignored it. “— and I’ve spoken with him several times. I’ve done everything except go to administration which he expressed he does not want. However, if the situation escalates then I will have no choice.”

Laszlo sighed wearily. “I have noticed Stevie being quieter, less chatty, than before. On the other hand, he has been out of the house more, too, and I think he has friends in another class”

“I’m glad,” she said. “At least he has some support even if it’s in another class.”

“Stevie has support in your class. You’re an excellent teacher, and I appreciate you telling me what has happened. If you had not noticed, I don’t think anyone would. They lack your observational skills.” She blushed, remembering their earlier conversation. 

Having settled their official business, the conversation wandered again. She asked about his work at the university and the Institute, and he happily answered. Alice noticed his chest seemed to puff up with pride when he spoke about his students and he grew more animated. She enjoyed listening to him, and he made sure to reciprocate and ask her questions when appropriate. 

Alice soon finished her coffee, but she made no moves to leave her desk or pack her stuff. It was only Bitsy’s knock on the open door, and immediate regret, that made her realize how late it grew. Laszlo’s head whipped around at the knock.

“Just checking on you and letting you know I’m headed home. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Thanks, Bits. I’ll talk to you later.” While Laszlo was turned, Alice mimicked a phone by her ear, signaling Bitsy to call her later.

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you close friends with Ms. Sussman?”

“She’s my work wife, and before that, she was my school sister. Bitsy is the one who told me this school was looking for English teachers, so I have her to thank.” For more than just the job. Alice doubted she would have met Dr. Kreizler any other way.

“It’s good to have friends nearby. As much as John annoys me, I cannot imagine working without him.” He chuckled and glanced at the watch on his right wrist. “My, it’s grown late. You can’t have eaten if you’ve been here all night.”

“What do you mean?” She giggled. “You saw me eat these two cookies and drink this coffee. That’s my dinner.”

“That does not count as a meal.”

“Of course it does, when you count the half a dozen cookies I had between baking them and setting them out.”

He scoffed. “That is not a meal. Delicious, but not a meal,” Laszlo teased. “Would you like a late dinner and to continue our conversation?”

Alice froze. Laszlo’s piercing brown eyes never left her face even when she wished they would. Her cheeks flushed, and she knew if she spoke she would stammer. A million thoughts ran through her head, and she would trip over the words. Alice desperately wanted to accept. Laszlo was handsome, respectable, and polite. An excellent conversationalist, and he listened to her.

Conversely, he was a parent and she was his child’s teacher. It was a moral dilemma, and it must be a breach of ethics. If anyone knew, they could accuse her of favoriting Stevie at Dr. Kreizler’s request, or even worse exchanging sexual favors for better grades. Alice imagined the red tape they would have to go through to be together. 

She took a deep breath in before speaking. “I would like to accept, but I can’t.” The expectant smile disappeared from his face, and it tugged at her heart. “This isn’t a good night for me. I need to check on Georgie, and you need to get back home to Stevie.” He twitched at the mention of Georgie. Alice couldn’t resist a snicker. “Don’t worry, he’s not my boyfriend or anything. He’s my handsome tuxedo cat, and I fear what he will do if I don’t feed him dinner soon.”

Relieved, Laszlo chuckled. He was such a serious man that Alice liked seeing him laugh. She admired the crinkles by his eyes and the way he cracked a smile. His whole face scrunched. 

“Cats and children are not so different. I know Stevie is perfectly capable of making dinner, but I promised him I would pick something up on my way back.” He checked his watch again and stood. “It’s late, and I should leave.”

“Wait, Dr. Kreizler,” Alice scrambled for a post-it-note and pen. “Just because tonight isn’t a good night doesn’t mean I don’t want to have dinner with you.” She wrote her phone number in pink ink.

He blinked twice and accepted the sticky note. “Thank you.” His round cheeks flushed rosy red, and she found it adorable. “I will plan another night, and I should let you return home to Georgie.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Kreizler,” she grinned.

His brows pinched together in thought. “Please, call me Laszlo. There’s no need for such formalities.”

“It’s funny. I still want to call you Dr. Kreizler. Goodnight then, Laszlo.”

He entered the hallway, conscientious that half the lights were dimmed to denote the late hour. His leather messenger bag threatened to slip off his shoulder, but holding a paper plate of cookies he didn’t dare fuss with the bag. Laszlo glanced around for a desk or a table in the hallway to set them down so he could fix it, but instead, he found the blustering figure of Coach Connor.

Laszlo gave the coach an obligatory nod and continued on his way. He did not visit him during the conferences, and his absence was noted. Curious, Laszlo hesitated in the hallway. 

He heard Ms. Greene — Alice! — greeting the coach, and he noted the difference in her tone of voice. It was colder, more rigid and reserved, but still seemingly pleasant. However, Laszlo recognized the difference with a small smile. She wanted the conversation to end as quickly as she could. It was only a minute or two later that Coach Connor reappeared in the hallway, red-faced and grumbling. He became the target of his frustration. 

“Get the hell outta here, can’t you see it’s late?” Laszlo stepped back, but Coach Connor insisted on being in his face. “You shouldn’t be here.” Laszlo opened his mouth to protest, but when he did Coach Connor knocked the paper plate of cookies from his hand. He stormed off, but not before Laszlo could cut in with the final word.

“I see she didn’t offer you any, Coach. Perhaps there’s a reason why.” 

Once he was out of sight, Laszlo knelt to the ground to pick them up. He was not the type of man to leave a mess behind him, and he would hate for her to see them scattered on the floor when she left her classroom. 

***

Laszlo returned home with a box of pizza from Stevie’s favorite pizzeria. He sprung for garlic knots and extra marinara as a treat and poured himself a glass of wine. Stevie commented it was later than expected, considering the conferences ended at eight and it was going for ten now, but Laszlo insisted it was because of a big party at the pizzeria slowing down orders. Stevie shrugged, not pressing the matter, but clearly not believing him. He regarded Laszlo with a suspicious eye.

Laszlo ate and spoke normally, but the sticky note with her number burned a hole in his pocket. He thought about what he might text her, or if he should call her instead. Which restaurant would she prefer? If he went too formal would she be intimidated? But if he went more casual would she be disappointed? Laszlo knew he wouldn’t sleep, but he did not mind. 

Alice scratched Georgie’s ears. He purred while he ate, and he did not allow her to do anything else in her apartment until he fed her. She couldn’t set down her bag, slip off her shoes, or fill her water. Demanding, but her little darling, so she gave him his regular meal and a treat. 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and sure enough Bitsy’s face covered the screen as her call came in. They shared locations once years ago trying to find the right café and never undid it. Now, Bitsy could tell precisely when Alice arrived home to ask about her evening. She spoke quickly and almost tripped over her words. 

“What happened with you and the doctor? And don’t you act coy with me or lie to me.”

“Well,” Georgie arched his spine as she ran her hand down his back, “he brought me another coffee, but it was decaf this time since it was evening. We talked about Stevie, of course, and you know my concerns about him.”

Bitsy cut her next sentence off. “You know that’s not what I want to know. Tell me what happened after!” 

“Okay, okay,” she laughed, knowing she had every ounce of Bitsy’s attention, “we talked for a long time, and he asked me to dinner. I said no—”

“—What?! Are you crazy?

“No to tonight, Bits, not to anything. I gave him my number so we could plan something for another night.”

“Thank God, you almost gave me a heart attack there.”

“I’m not stupid. Maybe a bit impulsive, or foolish even, but not stupid.” She thought for a minute, knowing she had been standing on the edge of a precipice. Alice took the plunge, giving him her number, and she knew everything would change. She just didn’t know how yet.

Next chapter

taglist: @scuttle-buttle @fictionlandslanddreams @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles @hardlyinteresting @sapphiredreamer26 @aedeluca @alycu1 @linkpk88 @rachreads @fandom-princess-forevermore @groovyponypatrollamp @to-fat-to-give-a-crap @kateris-world @eli-the-thinker

[mrhaitch]

hi mr haitch!! i have a question (or questions)!! so i think it’s pretty cool that you have a phd (especially in something literature related (i think??)) cause that’s what i wanna do as well, so is it okay if i ask for some advice??

i’m in my final year of my english lit undergrad and i’m freaking out a little cause of ma/phd applications. do you have any general advice for someone wanting to go into that field? also i’m really really worried cause im beginning to feel like my gpa isn’t good enough for me to get into a good school. (and part of the reason i’m asking you on anonymous is because the prospect of admitting that to any of my real life professors or advisors is utterly humiliating.) the thing is, i know i’m a really good student and i’m really good at what i do. i know that whatever sample essays and writing that i submit for my applications are going to be really good. i’m a research assistant, i’ve presented at postgrad conferences, and i know i’ll get glowing recommendation letters. (sorry if i sound unbearably arrogant).

but i’m sort of really terrified about my gpa. my cumulative gpa is 3.4, so that means that even if i get a 4.0 gpa for my remaining two semesters, my cumulative won’t go above 3.6 at most. unfortunately, there was one semester where there were a few extenuating circumstances that caused my grades to drop, and on top of that, my university has a sort of general education system in the first year, where you have to take modules outside of the major you’re pursuing. so having to take maths and other sciences really didn’t help my gpa. but overall, my gpa has never dropped below 3.00 in any of my semesters, and i’m an honours student.

so my question is, how much does all of this actually matter in terms of applications? does it matter if my cumulative isn’t that good if my gpa for most of my individual semesters is okay and my transcript makes it obvious that i do well for the most part in the modules that relate directly to my degree? i mean, i’m not expecting to get into like oxford with that low of a gpa (but i’m still going to apply and then be disappointed at my rejection) but is it “okay” to not be the top student grade-wise, if everything else in my application points towards me being pretty good? i’m just so scared that i won’t get into any good schools at all. i keep having actual nightmares about me getting rejected from all the places i apply to, i probably haven’t slept in a week.

i know this is long, and i’m sorry if it’s a lot, but i would really, really appreciate your advice.

- a really stressed out and anxious undergraduate

Depends on your university, essentially. My grades were far from stellar (quite average in a lot of ways, as I oscillated wildly from being high achieving to barely attending).

My advice for anyone wanting to pursue a PhD is this: find a good supervisor. Ignore the university itself, look at who you want to learn from. Not just professionally or academically, but as a person. I was ridiculously, insanely lucky to meet my supervisor through my MA programme where he taught novel writing. We quickly discovered we were kindred spirits in a lot of ways, seeing things on similar lines. He liked my work and I appreciated how direct and insightful his feedback was.

Because of that he could and would go to bat for me, and you need that. If your grades aren't at the usual level, a good prospective supervisor can override those concerns. If you've got a good proposal, and you can get your ideas across in an interview well, then you can still get there regardless of where your grades are.

In my case - actually - my proposal was pretty vague, and kind of terrible in hindsight. It was more like a shopping list of things I was interested in at the time, but I was fortunate they asked for a sample of my creative work - according to my supervisor that was all the evidence he needed to push for me to get a place.

And if you don't get in on your first attempt, there will be other opportunities. As an undergrad my dissertation was supervised by a guy who worked in construction for thirty or forty years who chose to retrain through the Open University and work as an academic for the last few years of my life.

Just take a deep breath and arm yourself as best you can. You've got this.

[die-lian-hua]

hello remuria professor 🫡 i come here with a question that has been bothering me for far too long: if egeria was the mother of all, gentlest kindest most lover-of-life goddess, how could she let her most faithful follower (erinnyes) slaughter the vishaps and dragons? i “get” the anger towards the other humans, but if they (vishaps) were the original inhabitants of those lands, why were they also the “enemies”? 🤔

well, unless u know some source I have missed… she didn’t, actually we can infer from the text that exact opposite has happened.

First, Egeria had been sealed by the Goblet of primordial sea and therefore out of commission for an indefinite period of time up until after Remuria had sank and Celestia—by their own volition—decided to free her and make her the hydro archon. At some point this goblet was under the possession of Vishap King Scylla, who’s implied to be the Hydro Sovereign—previous heart of the primordial sea before Egeria herself—and at another point he and Remus were friends enough that Scylla granted him this goblet which he used to build Remuria. So as far as Erinnyes was concerned, Scylla was a friend of Remus and therefore an enemy and a threat to the Lochfolk and Egeria’s rule, one that she needed to get past to attain the goblet and free Egeria.

In actuality, Remus went crazy because of the prophecy and in his attempts to free the Fontainians of this curse he did a lot of cruelty that turned Scylla against him and made the dragon an enemy of Remuria with the intent to destroy it

In Chanson d’Erinnyes (take anything in this book with a few grains of salt bc Erinnyes literature is Genshin’s equivalent of the Arthurian cycle which gets ever so confusing with its multiple sources and the book follows the fictionalized version of the story from Spledor of Tranquil Waters’s description rather than the real one) the knight herself vows to “destroy the white dragon” but we don’t know if this was before or after Scylla decided to betray Remus. It was this intention to go against Remus and Celestia itself that made Erinnyes rally the royals of “barbaric lands” to her side. Keep in mind any territory in Fontaine that was not taken in Remus and Boethius’ conquest were considered to be “barbarians”. The “barbarians” were often described as bloodthirsty and blinded by violence and revenge—this is direct implication to Erinnyes bc she was the barbarian blinded by her vengeance for what Remus did to her tribe

now there’s a gap in information that for some reason Remuria records loooove to skim past so we don’t have a lot of information that is concrete?

The next thing we know is that Hydro Dragon Scylla attacked Remuria with his army of vishaps and an army of barbarians he recruited. Now where did this army of “barbarians” come from? There’s no other alternative besides Erinnyes, because that’s what she had been doing for the previous years. So we can infer that at some point, Scylla and Erinnyes joined forces to invade Remuria (which makes a lot more sense bc Egeria herself was very empathetic towards dragons) but we have yet to get any text about how they reached this agreement. We can take a wild guess, bc usually “resolving a conflict peacefully” and “gaining an ally” is Erinnyes language for beating the shit out of someone until they yield and come to your side

TL;DR from the implied history it would seem Erinnyes’ relationship with Vishaps started as “a friend of my enemy is my enemy” and ended with “an enemy of my enemy is my friend” but I’m not sure about her actually slaughtering vishaps

[silkythewriter]

hi hiii! so... um, is it okay if i request a matchup for mha and/or hxh? i think the way you write matchup is really cute, sooo i'd like to try (if it's okay of course!)

ah right, about me, i use she/her pronouns. i'm in my early twenties!! (≧◡≦) i'm a literature student. i'm quiet, and kinda awkward especially if we just met :( but but! once we're close, i can be veerryyy loud and clingy. that said, i'm an emotional person. i'm the type of person who watches a show and think about it for the next few days... but well, i think i'm quite.. rational? it is not often i let my emotions control myself (mainly because i'm supposed to be the "calm and collected one", but anywayy-). i don't have many friends (i think it's because i take too long to respond when people talk to me, or because i often don't get the context they're talking about), but i love helping people!

i love daydreaming. i love writing too heheh but i rarely do it these days. i love cats, they're cute. i don't like loud and rude people, they're scary.

i think that's all? if this is too long i'm so sorry :(

thank youuu. you're cute and i love ur writing! ♡♡

Match up for MHA and HXH<3

Summary!: Match up for MHA and HXH!!

Small warning!: I love doing match ups EEEEEE their so fun!!😭anyway I apologize for bad grammar or spelling mistakes! Also I don’t know your sexuality so sorry if this isn’t to your liking!

Small note!: AHH THIS IS MY FIRST MHA AND HXH REQUEST IM PRETTY SURE SO YAY \(^ヮ^)/ I will be working on HC a bit less it won’t make much of a difference I just wanna post HC for like a week before going back maybe? I’ll still be working on the ones I have now though!

Fandom!: HXH and MHA!

Daily song suggestion!:

For HXH you got: leorio!

You guys probably met in college while walking to have break off campus, and you guys ended up going to the same small cafe

At first you thought he was following you so you did kind of freak out- I mean have you seen this man? He looks way more older then he actually is so it’s fair to be scared at first

He tried walking ahead of you cause he knew he was probably scaring you, but he couldn’t catch up cause you were basically jogging/speed walking so he tried doing the same but it only made the scene look so much worse 😭 it now looked like he was chasing you which made you panic worse then before. You quickly tried throwing anything at him, including the notes you took and whatever work the professor gave you. Cause right now that wasn’t your concern

Once he realized what you were doing he tried yelling out but a paper basically slapped his face making him tumble back wards

“Hey!- Wait I’m not following you! Jeez!” He yelled out trying to make you turn around so you could collect your stuff, which you did. He ended up apologizing and helping you pick up some of papers and pens you dropped. He offered to take you to the cafe he was heading at which surprise surprise was the same one you were going to!

Once you guys got there and ordered it was pretty awkward till he started making jokes about the situation which got you giggling and his simp self had to get your number so here we are

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

You guys were in an awkward stage for a bit sense you guys were busy and didn’t have much time to talk. But once spring break rolled around (let’s say you guys have one or two weeks if the college gods give mercy) its when your relationship steady a bit! He knows you were a bit awkward cause of not knowing him of course but he didn’t mind waiting out this period and he tried helping a lot for you to loosen up and know him better But trust me once you guys got out of the awkward stage you’ll be happy you stayed!

He loves Your clinginess cause he himself is quite clingy too, so it’s just a win win on both ends! He’s very loud aswell so depending on how much your comfortable with him except him to talk like he’s shouting

One time he took you to his house to watch a movie and he picked A Dog's Purpose(this movie made me cry so hard) he knew it was sad of course but he didn’t expect for you to be a bit down for the next few days/thinking about it, he’s the kind of guy who watched a movie and maybe gets sad for a few minutes before moving on so you guys has different reactions, he isn’t that rational unlike you so sometimes your the one having to calm him down 😭

Oh! If you ask for it he gets you cat as a gift especially if you talk about wanting one, I will say he’s probably a bit more of a dog person but he’s chill with cats cause you are, he thinks the ginger or black cats are the prettiest

He loves sneaking up on you while your writing and watch from behind your shoulder, it’s a bit creepy but he finds you writing to be so cool! He loves how your words flow so nicely together and much more! If you let him proof read or just give his opinion he’s always giving positive ones, not even to be nice for the hell of it, he genuinely just loves your writing!

Overall he absolutely loves your personality no matter if you quite one day but clingy and laughing the next! He loves you no matter what mood your in! <3

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

For MHA you got: Aizawa!

You guys met at a local cat cafe that you frequented!, he just got out of patrol and popped in sense the owner was basically his friend by how much he came In

He saw you when you were playing with a tabby cat(I hope that’s how you spell it (￣▽￣)) and his heart melted at the sight of you playing with it as it jumped onto you lap and making itself comfortable

When he grabbed his coffee he was quick to take a spot near you as the same cat you were playing with came over to him and rubbed along his leg, you stared at the cat silently morning the lost of the adorable cat, he noticed pretty quick and picked up the cute feline as well as his coffee while walking over and taking a seat

He placed down his coffee while putt the cat softly on the ground letting it walk around the both of you before deciding to lay down under the table. You only shyly waved and said a small “hi” that was barely above a whisper. He could sense how shy and a bit timid you were so he started up the conversation by asking what your doing and other common questions. Once you guys got comfortable giggles and chuckles filled the small cafe as you guys connected over how busy life is and etc. it was only when the last person left did you two realize how late it was getting, you could only give a small smile before excusing yourself due to how late it was.

And ohhhhh the blush on this man’s face when you handed him that small peace of paper with a rushed scribble of your number with a small cat drawn on the side

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

As you’ve seen he doesn’t really mind you being shy at first. He’s not the best at caring a conversation or talking to people in general really, but he has had some practice especially with being a teacher and pro hero at the same time, he’s in introvert sure but when it comes to you he doesn’t know how to explain this feeling of knowing you for year like old friends that go way back. It’s an instant connection

He doesn’t pounce on his feelings to quickly due to being scared of rejection and also due to his schedule and how packed it is. But once you confess to him or he feels like it’s time he doesn’t regret it a bit

Loves that your learning about literature to be honest, I feel like he reads books and poetry in his spear time so he would love to take a look at it and read how nicely you words feel to read, might even ask to bower some to read if you have any other pieces!

He isn’t much of a loud person himself but doesn’t mind how loud or quiet you are to be honest! He enjoys the company you give him in any shape or form and loves letting you ramble about different topics and such and will give small in put or just nod along while listening intently

Activity avoids any emotional shows or movies to make sure your comfortable, he knows it doesn’t impact that much and you wonder about it for a couple days but still he’d rather let you choose if anything to make sure your happy with any movie nights you do! He knows your a rational person but even then he wants you to enjoy the night and not have your head stuck around a show or movie

He has 2 cats no questions ask, you know he treat them like his baby’s, ones also named after a mixs of yours and his name since you guys adopted it together!

He understands the frustration with loud people I mean, just look at mr blond guy, he’s a great example so he’ll makes sure to get you outta the way if he ever comes and will just take the hit for the team since he’s already use to it but still annoyed by it

Overall he adores you to death and back and would adore you no matter what! Quirk or no quirk you still look just as amazing in his eyes 💞

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

AHHH SO SORRY FOR HOW LONG THSI TOOK WITERS BLOCK HIT ME HARD STILL HOPE YOU ENJOYED

[pointofreturn]

professor's pet, pt. 3

The next semester, I signed up for the professor’s literature class. Several of my friends were in the class. We were loud and silly and everyone was trying to impress each other with their opinions on the texts the professor built his career on. But he had that special ability to make us feel comfortable enough to be our weird, nerdy selves. The class was a real-life Dead Poet’s Society, at least for the few weeks we were together.

He seemed unable to hide his focus on me. If I leaned my head over to rest, he’d lean into my ear to ask if I was okay instead of listening to the student speaking. During a guest lecturer’s speech, I got up to excuse myself and he followed just after, prompting an intimate moment translucent to the entire class, pressing to make sure I was okay. He gave me a box of Thin Mints and walked me out to the parking lot late when no one else was around and my car smelled like weed. He always held the door for me and never failed to provide a chivalrous hand to help me. One day, I remind him about something he forgot to send me, and he earnestly promised to be better to me, better for me. Surely, he’s naturally a gentleman, and all of these happenings are little things that happened to every other woman he had eyes for, but there was a slow flame burning between us.

And I’m not the only one who felt it.

Two of my friends approached me and asked what was going on between us. I don’t say that anything is, but I don’t say that anything isn’t either.

“I knew it! He treats you differently. It’s really noticeable.”

“I’ve never seen him act that way with anyone. I can’t even get him to answer an email.”

I wished I’d been more willing to see the warning signs. But as always, I was intoxicated with his obsession with me. I couldn’t help but continue to provide the temptation, continue playing the chess game.

Just before spring break, I borrowed an expensive book of his for a prospective project. It was March 2020. COVID destroyed the world overnight. I stayed in Florida and he went back to the Midwest. We didn’t see each other for two years.

Yet, we kept in touch, even though there was no reason. He remembered texted me each year on my birthday and Thanksgiving and even early on Christmas morning when the last thing on his mind should be a student. I have a distinct memory of him saying he didn’t do things like that because he too often forgot. We talked occasionally about my thesis and Ph.D. applications.

He started texting me late at night. But no boundaries were crossed, yet.

We talked about seeing each other when he came back. I decided to stay at Another University for another degree, hopeful I’ll be able to establish a long-term career and finally achieve job stability. I take classes and teach online, staying concerned and vigilant about COVID long after the rest of the world decided to leave it behind.

During the time the professor and I were separated, I met my friend Jane. We quickly became close, she moved to Florida, and we started hanging out regularly.

*

In the spring, the professor returns.

I still work remotely, but Jane sees the professor often. She tells me they talk about how wonderful I am, and how we should hang out with her and her husband. I told her nothing about the seemingly endless slow burn.

She comes over to my house one night, gushing.

“Isn’t he so cute? And single? I almost can’t believe it…”

“Yeah, he’s a mystery! No denying that.”

Jane pauses, lighting another cigarette and sipping on a condensed glass of wine.

“Have I told you I’m in an open relationship?”

I’m caught off guard; I don’t expect this.

“Oh…that’s interesting!”

“Yeah—our rules are ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ unless it’s important or an emergency.”

“And that’s worked for you?” I already knew it hadn’t, or it wouldn’t forever.

“Oh yeah! Being open makes the marriage so much better.” She has that devil look in her eyes. “I’ve had a few boyfriends since we’ve been married. And now, I might have my sights set on a new one…”

“______?” His name burns on my tongue. I’ve always hated saying it.

“Of course! If I can ever figure him out. I think he’s flirting back at me, but I can’t tell if that’s just his personality.”

I smile, not really wanting to continue the conversation but trying to look unbothered.

“What is it?” she drags the cigarette stub. “I can tell there’s something you want to say.”

At this moment, I trust her, I think she’s my friend.

And in a lapse of judgment, I tell her about our flame.

I explain the situation to her with as much ration as I can. And that’s what it is—a situation between a student and professor quickly nearing sticky territory. I tell her the situation is confusing for me and there’s something unexplainable about the connection. I tell her I can’t deny my attraction to him and I’m not sure where this will ever end up.

“Hmm,” she says after I finish. She holds herself in that way I’m unsure of. “Well, I wouldn’t take him too seriously.” She finally puts out the cigarette, burnt through the filter.

“But I’m still gonna try to fuck him anyway.”

I should have known at this moment to cut her off.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Decolonisation of mathematics: It's 'liberal-minded cultural imperialism' | Prof Jane L Hutton

Andrew: Top academics have warned the government that new guidance for Universities risks "politicising" the subject of mathematics. For maths degrees, professors have to explain how they are presenting a "multicultural and decolonised" view of the subject. The academics sent a joint letter, seen by GBNews, that such guidance risks politicising the subject of mathematics and presenting a skewed perspective on its history, and infringes on the academic freedom of mathematicians to teach their subject according to their best professional judgement.

One of the dozen professors who put their name to the letter is Professor Jane Hutton from the Department of Statistics at the University of Warwick, and she joins me now.

Can I ask you first and foremost about this notion of decolonisation? Because I understand that this came in largely through the Humanities, English Literature, that kind of subject, the Social Sciences. But surely, mathematics and sciences, these things should be immune to those other culture war concerns.

Hutton: Well, yes, that's interesting. I mean, this time next week I'll be in Cameroon in Africa, at the African Institute of Mathematical Sciences with 60 students from all over Africa, my eleventh time of going out to volunteer to teach that. And when I was there in January 2022, I watched something about Critical Race Theory set up by North American liberals, and frankly, the Africans were appalled. They're not interested in becoming a colony, succumbing to cultural imperialism from North American liberals. They want to learn mathematics. And those of us who are mathematicians are well aware of how international the subject is.

Andrew: Can I ask you, to what extent do mathematicians in this country feel under pressure to accommodate these palpably ideological ideas within their subject?

Hutton: Very much so. I am willing to speak out, but very few of my colleagues are, and they will send me emails and thank me for speaking out, but they will not allow themselves to be identified. I'm talking about colleagues, senior managers, professors, IT staff, cleaners, gardeners. They know I'll speak out, but they're appalled by this behaviour, and other issues coming from this whole North American liberal imperialism.

Andrew: Professor Hutton, can I ask you what specificially are they asking you to do, exactly? I've seen, for instance, people say that in engineering, for instance, when you're teaching about Isaac Newton you should discuss his problematic views on race, as that was in any way relevant to the law of motion. What are they specifically asking mathematicians to do in these courses?

Hutton: Well, they're not even actually asking mathematicians to cover an intelligent and intellectual discussion. They're asking us to propagate their ideas. For example, they will have particular views on, say, [Kanakanahalli] Ramachandra, or in statistics one of the things we teach is the Rao–Blackwell theorem. C.R. Rao is an Indian, David Blackwell was an African-American. But we don't spend our time focussing on that, we focus on the mathematics. And there's a time and place for everything, as Aristotle pointed out, you don't evaluate mathematics by the standards of poetry, or poetry by the standards of mathematics.

And what surprises me, you know, I'm not a historian, I'm not a philosopher, but it's the sheer ignorance of so much of what these people propose, and the reluctance -- it's intellectually lazy. So, you can't ask a question like "how come Critical Race Theory says that being white is an absolutely dreadful thing, you can't say you don't have these prejudices, you are irredeemably white, but if you're a man, you can become a woman just by saying so. Why are these two completely, thoroughly, genetically physically-centred properties treated so differently?” But I know perfectly well that I am likely to get a whole lot of abuse for even raising the question.

Andrew: But of course, identity politics has very little to do with mathematics. Surely, in mathematics the answer is either right or wrong? I don't have any expertise in this area, but you can correct me if I'm wrong about that.

Hutton: Yes, and that makes mathematics very unpopular. I've had to deal with people trying to teach us that in teaching, we must never tell a student they’ve got the right answer or the wrong answer. To which I say, you're a parasitical hypocrite. We wouldn't be talking to one another, using the equipment we're using, without a lot of people getting things very, very precisely right, in engineering and mathematics.

Andrew: So, is this quite commonplace, the idea that students should not be told that they are wrong? How can they possibly improve?

Hutton: Yes, I acted both training PhD students as teachers, and junior colleagues as teachers, and that used to be the standard rhetoric from the social sciences. "The mature learner knows that there's no right answer."

Andrew: But does this not patronise students needlessly? Aren't the students annoyed at being patronised in this way?

Hutton: Yes. Yes. I put up an article saying debate on gender dysphoria is being silenced. The equality officer stirred up a manager to sound of outrage and said, "you put it on a noticeboard where students might see it!" So, I asked the PhD students [..] what they thought of this and they said "thank you very much for talking, we are appalled that at the University of Warwick," which is not particularly bad, we have a very good Vice Chancellor, "at the University of Warwick, to discuss the topic which is subject of a public consultation, we have to go into an office and lock the doors and whisper." Why is this what the University of Warwick is offering us?

Andrew: Professor, that is at least reassuring that some of the students themselves are not putting up with this.

==

Time to decolonize the Hypothetical Humanities out of education and society itself. You might laugh, but this is literally colonization - ideological, cultural colonization.