#knox amazing job as usual!! (<- if my rb wasn't enough for u to realise i loved it)

[starglitterz]

WE ARE SO BACK

okay HOLD ON WE JUST STARTED WHY IS HE ALRDY HOT "The voice, low and wry, edged with dry amusement" so maybe i came. HAHAHSKDKJSDKJ " Less like a scholar. More like— Well. More like a man." do u fuckign hate me just SAY IT im losing my shit rn

oh??? reader calling him PROFESSOR??? knox i know what you are. why is anaxa so emo girl we have to learn to see the art in the science!!!!!!!!! “The human mind imposes meaning where there is none.” im kidnapping you and harvesting your brain (affectionate)

"So you do what you do best. You challenge him." i LOVE this reader sm <3 "But then—Anaxagoras steps closer." WJKADWKAJDKJSADKJ WHAT WHAT WHAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL EVERYBODY STAY FUCKING CALM (she was not, in fact, calm)

"A conversation wrapped in stardust and metaphor" this line is so pretty 🥹 "as his eyes scan the lecture hall, they pause. Just briefly. On you." knox i am in your walls. I AM SO INTO THIS SLOWBURN TENSION THING </3

"It’s a trap, and everyone knows it. He’s handing you something abstract, intangible, and expecting you to apply cold logic to it. A thought experiment designed to test whether you’ll break under paradox or force the universe to make sense." i don't have anything to say here everybody just look at knox's gorgeous prose and weep.

WHY IS ILIAS SO UNSERIOUS my silly king can we get a spinoff ilias x reader fic please i would read the fuck out of that <3 "Anaxagoras arches a brow, unimpressed. "A phenomenon you’ve yet to personally demonstrate."" PLEASE??? we are victims of the sassy man apocalypse!!!

""Stay after class," he says smoothly, as if it’s nothing." FUCKKKK IT'S HAPPENING EVERYONE BE NORMAL STAY NORMAL!!!!!!!!!!!! me when the teacher in the teacher/student romance makes the student stay after class and you alrdy KNOW shits abt to go down.

"You hate that he’s right. And worse—you hate that you like that he knows you well enough to give you something harder. Something that will actually make you think." this tsundere ahh reader this is actually so cute 😭 "YOU DONT LOOK BACK BUT YOU DO SMILE" NO ONE TALK TO ME DONT LOOK AT ME DONT SPEAK IM ON THE BRINK OF ASCENDING TO HEAVEN

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 002. the assignment.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.9k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: chapter twooooo oh my god im so excited for this chapter AUGH IT FELT SO GOOD writing this !! this is when things get GOOOODDDD and im ao HUHUHUHUHU to hear yalls thoughts!! hehe. i hope you like it! <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

You don’t expect to see him here.

The planetarium is dimly lit, the soft glow of projected constellations swirling lazily across the domed ceiling. You hadn’t planned on coming—it was a last-minute decision. Yet, the vastness of space, even simulated, has always steadied you.

But then—

"Of course."

The voice, low and wry, edged with dry amusement, is unmistakable.

You turn.

Anaxagoras is standing just a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes reflecting the cosmic sprawl above. He isn’t wearing his usual academic robes—just a simple, well-fitted dark tunic beneath a long coat, the fabric settling neatly against his frame. He looks different like this. Less like a scholar. More like—

Well. More like a man. 

"I didn’t take you for a stargazer," he says, voice measured, gaze still fixed on the cosmos above.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you, professor."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I do prefer the certainties of physics over the whims of celestial bodies."

"Ah," you hum. "So no fate, no destiny. Just equations and probability."

"Precisely." His gaze flickers up, tracking the slow rotation of the star map. "Though I will admit, there’s a certain poetry to the illusion of it all."

You glance up as well. Orion looms overhead, his belt gleaming sharp and clear. "Illusion?"

"These constellations," Anaxagoras murmurs. "They don't exist as we see them. Stars scattered across thousands of light-years, their arrangement nothing but a trick of perspective. We only think they belong together because of our vantage point." He says, after a pause, “The human mind imposes meaning where there is none.”

Your lips curl. "That’s kind of sad."

He tilts his head. "Is it?"

"Yeah," you say, watching the artificial night swirl overhead. "Thinking you're part of something greater, only to realize it's all a trick of perspective."

For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches you, thoughtful. Then—

"Perhaps," he concedes. "But perspective is all we have."

You glance at him again, but his expression is unreadable. 

There’s always been a distance to him that he maintains… almost religiously.

The hush of the planetarium stretches between you, the weight of his regard heavy. You’re not sure what it is that makes your skin feel so warm, your breath so shallow.

So you do what you do best. You challenge him.

"If constellations are an illusion," you say, "then what of all the truths we believe to perceive?"

His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

You don’t look away.

"We only think things are connected because of our vantage point," you continue, your voice quieter now. "So how do we know if any of it actually means anything?"

Another beat of silence. Then, slow and deliberate, he says—

"We don’t."

Your chest tightens, though you don’t know why.

For a moment, it feels like that’s the end of it. Like you’ll both turn away and let the conversation dissolve into the simulated cosmos above.

But then—

Anaxagoras steps closer.

Not much. Barely enough to notice. But enough that when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Measured.

"We don’t," he repeats, as if the weight of it matters. "But sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

You don’t know what to say to that.

You’re early to class.

Not by much, but enough to claim your usual seat and settle in before the lecture hall fills. Enough to shake off the strange tension that’s been humming beneath your skin since the planetarium.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A conversation wrapped in stardust and metaphor, just another verbal sparring match. Anaxagoras challenged you. That’s all.

But it lingers.

It lingers in the way your heartbeat picked up when he stepped closer. In the way his words—so measured, so precise—felt heavier than they should have. In the way his gaze held yours just a fraction too long, as if entertaining the illusion wasn’t just about the stars.

You exhale, flipping open your notebook. Focus.

The room fills, a murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs against stone. Then, just as the hour strikes, he enters.

Anaxagoras walks with the same deliberate grace he always does, his robes sweeping behind him. But today, as his eyes scan the lecture hall, they pause. Just briefly.

On you.

Something flickers across his expression—gone before you can name it. Then he looks away, moving towards the podium.

"Good morning," he says, voice smooth, effortlessly commanding. "Let’s begin."

You should be taking notes. You should be focused on the equations he’s sketching onto the board, the elegant arc of chalk gliding across the surface. Instead, you remember his voice in the dark, low and certain—

"Sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

Damn him.

You press your pen to the paper, forcing your attention forward.

"Consider the nature of causality," Anaxagoras continues, turning back to face the class. "An event—any event—can be traced backward through a series of causes. But the perception of these events is often subject to our vantage point."

A pause. Then his gaze flickers to you, deliberate.

"One might argue that meaning is an emergent property. That cause and effect are simply the mind’s way of drawing constellations between unrelated points."

Your fingers tighten around your pen.

Is he—?

No. No, you’re imagining things. He’s lecturing. That’s all.

And yet.

His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away, continuing as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just lace the entire moment with subtext so thick it might as well be its own theorem.

Your pulse is ridiculous. You need to get a grip.

The lecture moves on, but now you’re watching him differently. Not just listening, but observing. The way he gestures, the way his mind moves faster than his words, the way his lips quirk slightly when a student offers an answer that surprises him.

You’ve spent weeks admiring Anaxagoras for his intellect. Respecting him as a professor. Arguing with him for the sake of curiosity.

And...

Well, there'a no point dwelling on it, is there?

By the time the lecture is nearing its end, you’ve barely written anything coherent.

Your notes are a scattered mess—half physics, half what the hell is going on? The worst part? Anaxagoras knows. He hasn’t called on you once today, which is unusual. He always prods, always challenges. But today, he’s let you stew in your thoughts, like he’s letting you chase your own tail. 

Infuriating man.

"Before we conclude," he says, dusting chalk from his fingertips, "your next individual assignment."

The room collectively stiffens.

Anaxagoras turns from the board, his gaze sweeping over the lecture hall. Ilias straightens immediately, feigning deep intellectual engagement. You suppress a smile.

"As we’ve explored, physics attempts to model reality through observable forces," Anaxagoras continues. "But what of the forces we cannot measure? What of the unseen variables?"

Ilias perks up at that, intrigued. "Is he finally acknowledging my suffering?"

You elbow him. "Shut up, he’s setting up the assignment."

"Your task," he continues, "is to examine a concept often deemed metaphysical—fate, intuition, divine intervention—" He lifts his gaze, letting the weight of his words settle. "And construct a framework to explain its existence. Or—" his voice sharpens— "prove its impossibility."

A murmur ripples through the students. Anaxagoras doesn’t tolerate pseudo-science in his lectures, so the fact that he’s even entertaining this angle is unexpected.

It’s a trap, and everyone knows it. He’s handing you something abstract, intangible, and expecting you to apply cold logic to it. A thought experiment designed to test whether you’ll break under paradox or force the universe to make sense.

You listen, absorbed—until Ilias leans in again, whispering, "If I were to quantify the force that compels me to sleep in class instead of studying, do you think he’d accept it?"

You stifle a laugh. "I think he’d call it laziness and fail you on principle."

"Damn. Guess I’ll have to go with my second option."

"Which is?"

He grins. "Manifesting an equation that proves I am, in fact, always right."

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. "I’d pay to see you argue that with him."

As if on cue, Anaxagoras glances your way, sharp-eyed.

"Would either of you care to share your insights with the class?"

Ilias, ever the survivalist, doesn’t miss a beat. "We are discussing emergent properties of intelligence, professor."

Anaxagoras arches a brow, unimpressed. "A phenomenon you’ve yet to personally demonstrate."

The class chuckles. You shoot Ilias a look.

"Walked right into that one," you murmur.

Ilias sighs. "Yeah. That’s on me."

His gaze sweeps the class. "You may choose any concept, but your reasoning must be sound. Sentimentality will not be rewarded."

A collective groan. Someone mutters something about dropping the course.

You, however, are too focused on the way he’s looking at you.

He knows you’ll take this further than anyone else. He wants you to.

Then—

"Stay after class," he says smoothly, as if it’s nothing. "I need a word."

You feel the shift immediately. A few students glance between you and him, intrigued. You school your expression, pretending it doesn’t affect you.

"Yes, professor." you say.

He nods, then dismisses the class.

Chairs scrape against the floor. Students file out, some grumbling about the assignment, others already debating what concept they’ll choose. Someone lingers near the door for a second too long, clearly hoping to eavesdrop, before sighing and leaving.

Then it’s just you and him.

Anaxagoras exhales softly, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders before turning to face you fully.

"I’m altering your assignment," he says.

You blink. "What? Why?"

His lips quirk slightly, but there’s something intent in his eyes. "Because the standard prompt is beneath your abilities."

You swallow. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s been paying attention.

"Your mind doesn’t just follow logic," he continues. "It challenges it. So I’m giving you something worthy of that."

You exhale, half-exasperated. "Fine. What’s the twist?"

Instead of answering right away, he steps past you, picks up a book from his desk, and flips it open. When he finds the page he’s looking for, he turns it toward you.

It’s a diagram. A branching structure of choices, converging and diverging like neural pathways.

"Your peers will be arguing for or against metaphysical forces." His voice is measured. "You, however, will go one step further."

He closes the book, meeting your gaze.

"Instead of proving or disproving their existence, I want you to model one."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

His smirk is subtle, but there. "You heard me."

"You want me to… what, exactly? Build a mathematical model for something physics doesn’t even acknowledge?"

"Why not?" he challenges. "If intuition exists, quantify its mechanism. If destiny is real, define its parameters. If the soul endures, find the equation that governs it."

Your fingers twitch at that.

That’s—

That’s significantly more difficult than the original prompt. You’d have to rethink everything from the ground up. 

The soul?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You really don’t like making my life easy, do you?"

His smirk deepens. "Where’s the fun in easy?"

You hate that he’s right.

And worse—you hate that you like that he knows you well enough to give you something harder. Something that will actually make you think.

Your pulse is an uneven rhythm as you meet his gaze. "Alright," you say.

He nods once, satisfied. "Good."

For a moment, neither of you move.

"You’re dismissed," he says, voice softer.

You hesitate. Then turn, heading toward the door.

Just as you step through the threshold, his voice reaches you, quiet but deliberate.

"Don’t disappoint me."

You don’t look back.

But you do smile.

-> next.

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