#last time that happened was in my ethics class

[my-pjo-stuff]

"Luke did it because he was selfish and angry with gods ans because Hermes was a shitty dad, if Hermes would be the only god parents out of all olympians, Luke had done nothing."

I hate to break it you you, but that is just factually wrong. While yes it was a big part of his decision, was not the only one. He was never selfish- again I will point towards his offers to Annabeth and Thalia. Those alone show that he was not selfish. Luke had a not of reasons, but the main one was anger for how demigods were treated in general. I also have to disagree with your point of "Luke making himself the "hero" " . A) Because by that logic, applied to others no one would ever be in the right to attempt to change something as it could put their loved ones in danger. Percy too would have endangered his mother, Annabeth ect. by that logic since he made them targets by relation for example. B) Luke "made" Annabeth and Thalia the few is also not the truth. He, again, offered them to join him. They refused. It was their choice to "become the few". I also have to argue against the statement of "My Problem is his (Luke's) hybris to think that he is the one who can change the world, make this "golden age" or whatever where no demigods has to suffer." That too is factually inocrrect. Luke never intended to achieve that ALONE like you are implying. He collected an army and wanted to achieve his goal over Kronos. (You can see it like saying that you want to achieve better working conditions, or bring about better pay for a job. Obviously you won't do that alone- instead most likely with a union, but you still state it like that since that's- well, the language)

Also, can we truly call it hubris considering how close Luke actually came?

Kronos stood in the Throne Room of Olympus- he had destroyed Olympus to the point of needing rebuilding (yk, since Annabeth later got the job as a "reward"). Kronos had already won 99% at that time- as, to be quite frank- Percy and co. didn't have a chance against him. The only reason Kronos got defeated was Luke.

"Percy for exsamples also chosed to be the hero but he did it so Nico doesn't have to do it.

And also that the world has a second chance if he is not abel to safe them ." Is another statement that unfortunatly is partially wrong too. While the part of Percy becoming the child of prophecy to protect Nico is true- the second part about the second chance is never brought up in the books. And since this decision is based on canon that's unfortunatly a moot point.

"By the way did you ever thought about the point that then the olympians are not in charge there are no demigods?"

I did, and there would still be demigod children just not of the Olympians.

The minor gods who joined Kronos would still exist and make kids, you can also assume that the titans or whoever ends up in-charge after would also make kids with mortals. (And even if they don't, there are still the minor gods) The only thing that would change in terms of demigod is just that there would be no more demigods of the OG 12 Olympians- demigods as a whole would still exist. (Also as a short mention, it's not like the demigods would just get Thanos snapped if their godly parent is deposed. There would still be all the living demigods, the demigods who have not reached camp age yet/were still undiscovered and the unborn ones to have the golden age. Meaning that even if ALL gods died and no demigod would ever be born again, you'd still have a good amount of demigods to live the golden age) Please do not take this response as a personal insult! I quite enjoy debates like that. However I remind you- you haven't answered my questions yet unfortunatly : "(.....)In that case, wouldn't you prefer for the person to choose to sacrifise the few (their loved ones) and save the many?" "(...)Is it not cruel too to expect your loved one to inflict such pain for you? Is it not cruel to say that if "They don't do X then I would not want to be loved at all" ? "(.......)What would give Luke the right to (in his eyes) sacrifise litteraly every demigod alive he knows and every demigod that will after him for two people? Even if it pains him to let them go?" I'm genuinly interested to see your standpoints in these questions. I have answered all of yours (if I missed one I'm sorry! Please tell me and I'll of course answer it too) so I'd wager it to be fair to ask you to answer mine.

Percy would sacrifice the world to save those he loves, Luke would sacrifice those he loves to save the world.

And Luke is the one in the right.

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again. 

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

[liberalsarecool]

From Professor Christopher Robichaud, Senior Lecturer in Ethics and Public Policy, Harvard:

“I'll say this, and then I likely won't be saying much more on here for quite some time, to the relief of some, I'm sure. But my farewell warning is this.

Everyone in the days and weeks ahead will use this loss as an opportunity to seek validation for their own hobby horse complaint. Harris lost because she campaigned with Liz Cheney. Harris lost because she didn't embrace Gaza. Harris lost because she didn't choose Shapiro. Harris lost because she wasn't progressive enough (possibly my favorite one).

Take a good, hard look at the map, my friends. Trump has won the popular vote. Trump ran the table. Explaining that with your hobby horse issue isn't going to cut it, tempting and consoling as it may be. The problem isn't the electoral college. The problem isn't that we didn't have a full primary. The problem isn't Harris. The problem isn't that Dems didn't have the right message. The problem isn't even inflation or the border.

The problem is so much worse than any of those things. Those are all technical problems, with straightforward expertise fixes. If only it were so! No, our problem is not technical. It's very much adaptive. A party that embraced the Big Lie, supported an insurrection, and has been selling conspiracy-addled madness for years, [which] was widely and enthusiastically embraced. Voter turnout was profound! People didn't sit this out.

Simply put, the problem--as some of you have rightly posted--is cultural. America, culturally, has completely abandoned a politics of decency and respect and has embraced instead a politics of resentment, revenge, false nostalgia, and bullying. And if you look at the demographics, you also won't be able to comfort yourself that it's just a white thing, or a working class thing, or an education thing. It's multi-class, multi-gender, multi-educational, and multi-racial. That's what winning the popular vote means. That's what running the table amounts to.

A culture that has descended to this level of debasement is not easily fixed. In fact it may not ever be fixed. The timeline for changing something like this is decades--at best--not two-to-four year election cycles. You can extend that in this case, because with the GOP likely controlling all branches of federal government and the courts, they will ensure that mechanisms are in place to keep them in power long after their popularity has waned. You can count on that.

The GOP evolved into a party of rage, lies, and revenge--and it correctly diagnosed that there was and is a large appetite for that. That's what the country wants. At least enough of the country wants it to ensure broad appeal and widespread electoral success. The old GOP will never return, and the Dems have nothing to say to American culture at the moment. Nothing. They've been speaking to a country that's gone, like dust in the wind.

And that's my final thought, which my posts last night alluded to. The America I knew and loved is gone. This new America--nah, I won't even bother. I will say that cultural change is less likely to occur in politics or in the academy. You're not going to get people to see how vulgar they've become through a clever argument or a nice campaign speech, that's for sure.

This would be time for the arts, broadly understood, to step in. The arts can change hearts and minds. Too bad the arts have been systematically dismantled in education in this country, and on the other end, the tech industry's assault on the arts through AI is sure to hollow out any good-faith efforts that might emerge.

And for the rest of the world, America's rightward lurch is, I'm afraid, bad news for you too. I know you know this. Because it's not isolated, is it? It's just at the moment the most prominent example of a burgeoning trend. And this will embolden others in other countries, to be sure. We need not speculate what happens when countries become mired in lies, embrace resentment, and savor bullying. We know exactly what happens. Bloody conflict and global destabilization.

The first quarter of the 21st century will, therefore, in hindsight, be viewed as the seed-planting stage for the absolute shit show that's about to unfold globally over the next two and a half decades. Count on it.

Adopt whatever coping and endurance strategies you have available. You're going to need it.

I think that's all I've left to say.”

The least evolved. The most paternalistic.

The bully. The liar. The most resentful.

This is the reality we are in. FOX and Republicans have been repeating the script for decades.

The Dark Ages are conservative aspirations.

The abdication of values/principles is complete.

'Good faith' no longer exists on the Right. The more reprehensible the action/person, the bigger the addiction. Trump proves this.

Anti-paternalism, anti-fascism and anti-bullying are my paths forward. Join me.

[seeingivy]

casual

suguru geto x f!reader

**loosely based on casual by my beloved chappell roan

—

in the three months that you spend with suguru geto, he leaves a sour taste in your mouth and it’s not only because he tastes like black coffee. and in the two months that follow, before your deeply unfortunate circumstantial reunion, the last five words that you uttered to him, the sentiment behind them, only seems to grow. 

you can go to hell. 

and it’s all you can think when he shows up to the emergency room – a pinkish sunburn across his nose, his hair messily tied back – and eyes dripping in a concern that fills you with a rage. and it’s a deep sigh that he gives you, before reaching for your hand. 

“what happened to you, peach?” 

--

the general education class that you choose to satisfy your values and ethics inquiry is the sociology of religion. counting all the stakes – a stellar review on rate my professors, a night class at the start of the week, and minimal homework – it makes for the most ideal choice. 

“so what’s your major?” 

the downside? the midterm and final project are group assignments. and on any other occasion, you would have appreciated it – getting to split the work, taking some of the load off and sharing the work with someone, except for the fact that you didn’t know anyone in the class – and for the most part, you were expecting some half-brained idiot that would make you do all the work. 

you suppose it’s at least fair that he’s not horrible to look at. in the dimmed lights of your apartment, there’s something almost off putting about your partner, suguru geto. you count seven piercings across his ears – dangling silver pieces almost shining in the glint of the light – and the smallest rim of purple around his eyes. harsh cheekbones, a hard jaw, and wrinkles by his eyes. 

“educational studies. what’s yours?” you state. 

“computer science.” 

you hum in response, filling the two glasses with water and snatching one of the peaches from its container before taking your seat across from him, noting that he has a dimple on the left side when he smiles in response to your gesture. 

“did you want some?” you ask, holding the peach in between the two of you. 

he shakes his head, slumping against the counter in what seems an almost unnatural pose – his long limbs spreading into the space underneath your chair. you wonder if he always had an unusual way of taking up space. 

and it seems that as time goes on, he gets more and more unusual. quietly working through the portions that you split up, except for a few deep breaths here and there, though he would stop once in a while and would almost ask for approval of what he had written, waiting for some confirmation from you that it was okay with you. 

“you’re comparing adam and eve to…orpheus? i’m not really familiar with that.” you state. 

suguru nods, before turning towards you to explain. his eyes waver in the slightest as he turns over to you, his gaze flitting down to your lips, before looking back up at you. 

“you don’t have to be polite. you really can have some if you want, it’s really sweet.” you state. 

suguru smiles. 

“maybe later.” 

you shrug. 

“so orpheus…” 

“it’s a really old greek myth. orpheus and eurydice. to kind boil it down, eurydice is in the underworld with hades. and orpheus is trying to convince hades to let her return to the mortal world, with him.” 

he scoots his chair a little bit closer to you and you’re able to note one thing – that there’s a resonance in his voice, that it hums in his chest when he talks. 

“hades tells him that he’ll let him take eurydice with him, but on one condition. she has to walk behind him.” 

“that’s not that hard.” 

suguru grins. 

“isn’t it?” he asks. 

you pause. 

“you’re being told by this big, all powerful god, that she’s walking behind you. but you can’t look. you wouldn’t even consider the fact that you were being fooled? that maybe she had decided not to follow?” 

“i mean, i guess. i don’t think it would really cross my mind, i…i think i’d just follow out all the way til the end because i’d kind of have faith if that’s what i was promised. and that she’d want to come with me too.”  

suguru pauses, like he’s almost taking in what you’ve said – like it’s the first time he’s heard it – and responds rather slowly. 

“you’re rather trusting, aren’t you?” 

you roll your eyes. 

“is that such a bad thing? what do you think about it?” 

suguru shrugs. 

“it was a worthless pursuit in the first place. there was no way that he wouldn’t have turned around and looked back.” 

“what do you mean?” 

“it’s simple. he loves her. if he hears something that deceives him – like the sound of her tripping over a rock – he doesn’t think. he looks back. if he thinks that she isn’t there, he won’t be able to get over it and he’ll turn around.”  

you pause, mulling the thought over. and you suppose it’s true – that if you really did love something, it would be almost impossible not to check for the promise of their presence. 

“i guess. so what? she goes back to the underworld?” 

“yeah. it’s one of the most tragic love stories.” 

“i guess it’s kind of romantic. that he loved her so much that he had to look back, like it was almost an instinct.” 

and in the split second that the two of you stare at each other, he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours, with the strong taste of coffee lingering on his lips. 

you’ve kissed three people before in your life – the boy you sat next to in the seventh grade, your date to the prom, and now suguru geto. 

the first was overwhelming. a quick locking of the lips, that at the time, made you nearly erupt into a puddle of butterflies. the second was lackluster. waxy from too much chapstick, abrupt from the fact that he was quick to shove his tongue in your mouth. 

and the third was indescribable. only because you could feel it – something lingering under his demeanor that you couldn’t exactly place. there wasn’t a word for the feeling it gave you – though there was one that was close enough. 

curiosity. about what that feeling is, about who suguru geto was, and why he felt so inclined to kiss you upon your third meeting. 

you wanted more of it. 

“you’re right, you know?” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips. 

“about being trusting?” 

he laughs. 

“no. about the peach. it really is sweet.” 

he leans back, eyes fixed on the reading in front of the two of you again, as you reach up to touch your lips, the sticky sweetness of the fruit gone from your skin. 

--

suguru comes around often after the fact. always here and there, an almost abrupt and concise text testing the waters. 

[suguru]: is your roommate home? 

[you]: nope. she’s at the district. 

[suguru]: can i keep you company?

[you]: okay! 

and he always arrives promptly twenty minutes after the fact, to the point where you wondered if he lingered around just to get there as fast as he could. and never empty handed – with dinner, dessert, or a flower that he plucked out of the cement in his hands. 

that was the thing that confused you about him. 

after the very first time you kissed, he had made one thing very clear. 

no attachments. you’re not together. 

but yet, he’d show up sometimes and do nothing but kiss your forehead and sleep in your bed next to you. or make you do something entirely mundane – like watch toy story three with a sheet of cookies in your oven – or watch you study. 

and in the two weeks you had known him, you knew better than to question. your curiosity never stopped you, but you found that you were always left with more questions than the vague answers that he gave you.  

“hey peach?” 

“yeah?” 

“your mom is calling.” 

you widen your eyes, immediately snatching the phone from him, and giving him a weary smile. and you side shuffle into the walkway between the laundry and your bedroom, pressing the phone to your ear and murmuring under your breath. 

“hi mom.” 

“hi doll. how are classes?” 

you pick at the loose thread of your sweater, nearly breaking the seams of the sleeve, noting suguru’s curious eyes – that he’s very poignantly trying to hide – from the kitchen. 

“they’re good, ma. what’s up?” 

“right. i’m so sorry to do this to you, my sweet, but i won’t be home when you get back.” 

“what?” 

“we’re going on a trip to see sheila in new york. and well, her vacation is only during those dates and we want to spend as much time with her as we can.” 

you sigh, the frustration tempering in yoru chest. 

“i already paid for the tickets. i saved up for a month trying to buy a flight back.” 

“darling, i know. i’m really sorry, but you know how it is. she just gets so stressed out that we just wanted to go out there and make her holiday nice.” 

“and what about my holiday? you don’t want me to have a nice christmas with my family?” 

you can feel it burning in your cheeks – that embarrassing feeling that’s been simmering in your chest since you were kid. a mix of an insurmountable amount of envy and dejection, from trying to vie for attention from the second that you realized you never had it. 

“don’t try to make me feel guilty.” she scolds 

“i’m not trying to make you feel guilty! i just wished you would have thought about me too.” 

you hear an irritated sigh on the end of the line, which is your first sign that you had made a mistake. because if there was one thing you knew how to do, it was push your mom’s buttons. 

you wonder if it’s because she sees herself in you – and that utter hatred that she has for herself was now placed on you instead. 

“do you always have to be so curt with me?” 

“i’m not being curt, i just…” 

“maybe when i die, you’ll think back and wished that you had appreciated me more. been more understanding that i’m not just your mother, i am someone’s friend too. that i have my own life. and that at the very least, my friends like to call me here and there. acknowledge me while you do god knows what wherever you are.” 

“okay, well, i –” 

“enjoy your christmas. we’ll see you in the spring.” she states. 

there’s a static on the other end of the line and you drop your phone, staring at the dark screen in your hands for the few seconds that follow. and you must have been standing there for too long, because a few minutes later quiet footsteps accompany you in the dimly lit hallway, suguru’s head obscuring the light from the bulb. 

“hi peach.” 

“did you hear all of that?” 

“no.” he responds. 

you look up at him and glare. and he reaches forward, hands soft on your cheek wiping away the wetness that you hadn’t noticed. you’re not sure when you started crying. 

he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“you’re a liar. if you’re one thing, it’s nosy.” you respond. 

he smiles. 

“maybe when it comes to you. what happened, pretty girl?” 

you shake your head, his grabby hands coming around your waist as he presses you closer to his chest. you can hear his heart thumping against your ear, the metal of his necklace cold on your cheek, as you heave a sigh. 

“nothing.” 

“oh, come on, peach.” 

you look up at him, expectant and full brown eyes waiting for an answer, as you give in. 

“i just thought i would be going home next week for break. but i think i’m just going to stay here.” 

“because your parents are going to…” 

“see their friends in new york.” 

suguru frowns. you can’t tell if it’s pity in his eyes. 

“it’s not a big deal. i just was expecting to go home, that’s all. and it’s not that big of a deal that i’m going to stay here, the weather is nice and it’s probably frigid cold there.” 

suguru pauses. 

“you’re going to be here alone?” 

“yeah. my roommate is from the east coast.” 

“you should come home with me, for break.” 

you look up at him, eyes wide. 

“what?” 

“s’not that far from here, i usually just make the drive. there’s a nice coffee shop on the way that i always stop at for some energy. and my mom is really nice.” 

you shake your head, almost too violently. 

“i can’t just go home with you. i wouldn’t want to impose.” 

suguru pulls back, his fingers fast on the screen, as he murmurs under his breath, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 

“you’re not an imposition to me, peach. i can’t leave my baby here alone.” 

“sure. but to your parents, and…and staying rent free in your house.” 

suguru grins, handing over the phone to you, as you read the texts on the screen. 

[suguru]: can my friend come home with me for break? her name is y/n. 

[mom]: YES!!!!! 

[mom]: A GIRL! 

[suguru]: not like that

[suguru]: but she’s sweet 

[mom]: I’M GETTING EVERYTHING READY 

you look down at the phone, noting the sweet heart emoji that he has near her contact name, the contact photo a picture of the two of them when he was considerably younger, hugging cheek to cheek. 

“and i stay rent free in your apartment all the time.” 

“suguru, this is…weird. i can’t just come home with you, that’s…that’s too much.” 

he shakes his head. 

“it’s casual. we’re just friends, you’re just coming home with me for break so you won’t be here alone.” 

right. you’d almost be inclined to believe him – if it wasn’t for the fact that the time you spent around him, the more curious you got. 

the more that feeling festered in you, wanting to know anything and everything about him, wanting to crawl deep into his skin and memorize everything and make sense of why he was the way he was. 

“you promise?” 

“for sure.” 

--

“you’re a loser.” 

mei mei is never one to mince her words. and you’re grateful for it – because it’s something that you need when you return from your two weeks stay in long beach with suguru over the break. 

because despite the words that he told you, the ones that you didn’t really believe anyway, you come back in a worse state than you expected. 

you think you love him. 

because in the days of uninterrupted time that you spend together, you let your mind wander too far. because in the quiet moments that the two of you had – knee deep in the passenger seat outside the stupid coffee shop you stopped at, giggling in the bathroom when you went to dinner, and tangled in the bed sheets with him every night – you let yourself taste too much. 

let your mind run a little too wild. thinking about meeting his friends at the pier he showed you, of living together in an apartment in the following year. 

and the two of you teeter a dangerous line. putting each other as emergency contacts, swapping your wardrobe in between your flats, and showering together every morning – his soft hands massaging the shampoo into the roots of your hair.  

“don’t be mean.” you state. 

“i’m not being mean, i’m just saying that…” 

mei mei sighs, cheeks in her hand, with an almost irritating look in her eyes – wholeheartedly judgemental. she just didn’t get it. 

“look, he’s friends with todo. that guy i know from the finance club? and i asked around about him, apparently he loves to brag about how he gets girls off all the time. now either he’s talking about you – clearly not the way you talk about him – or he’s talking to someone else.” 

you sigh. because you can’t even put it past him. because in the months you had known him, he was impossible to understand. a futile effort to read. impossible to touch. 

“look, i’ll just ask him later.” 

and when he comes around your apartment, well after mei mei has left, he brings a slice of peach cobbler that his coworker insisted that he take home with him. 

“peach cobbler for my peach!” 

you wince. 

“that was corny. even for you.” 

“i saw an opportunity and i took it.” suguru responds, shrugging as he loops his arms around your waist, chin resting against the top of your head as he eyes the pot of boiling ramen on your stove. 

and you bite the bullet as fast as you can. 

“do you see other girls?” you ask. 

“huh?” 

you swallow hard, dry patch in your throat, as you feel the sweat tickling the top of your forehead. it’s from the heat of the stove. 

“do you see other girls? or guys?”

“no. do you?” 

you shake your head. and you’re unsure how to word the next question – because there was something humiliating, too bare about having to admit that you want more to him – when things were so sweet as they were. 

perhaps you should have known better. coffee was always bitter at the end. 

“why do you ask?”

you shrug. 

“dunno. was just thinking about us. and how we spent break together and all that.” 

suguru presses a kiss to your hairline. 

“yeah? did you have fun?” 

you hum in response. 

“yeah. i really liked the city. and your mom and your sister. it was really sweet of you to take me.” 

you pause, wincing as you decide to be as blunt as possible. 

“and i like you.” 

he laughs. 

“well, i like you too.” 

“no, no, i like you. well, i more than like you, but i…i can’t say those words.” 

there’s a silence. and his arms feel like loose limp noodles around you. and you realize now, that you made the wrong choice. you turn around, only to find hollow brown eyes staring at you, the makings of a frown on his face. 

“suguru?” 

he winces. 

“i can’t.” he whispers. 

“why not?” 

and you’re not sure what it is, but it throws him into a panic. with his facial features scrunched up, eyes hollow, and nervous hands running through his hair. 

“i just can’t.” 

you cross your hands over your chest, the bitter contempt of rejection blooming in your chest, as you look down, picking at the scab on the inside of your palms as you ask again. 

“i said i didn’t want any attachments.” he adds. 

“i know. but can you blame me for being confused? you took me home to see your family.” 

“as a friend.” 

“you didn’t act like my friend while we were there.” 

suguru groans. 

“and that’s my fault, i know that but –” 

that one stings. admitting that he regrets it. 

“okay, well. that’s alright. maybe you should leave now, then.” you state. 

“wait peach, no. i don’t want to leave, i just..” 

you scoff. 

“you don’t want to leave?” 

“no?” 

it comes out meek, almost timid when he utters it. a question. like he can’t even admit it fully – that he wants to stay. and it fills you with anger, searing red hot anger on the heels of being cast aside so nonchalantly, that it comes to a head then and there. 

“do you really think so little of me?” 

“what? 

“i’m not good enough to be your girlfriend. but whatever else you want, that’s fine. i…i thought you thought of me better than some girl you just fuck around with.” 

suguru sighs. 

“you’re not some girl i just fuck around with.” 

“am i not, though?” 

suguru shuts his eyes, the look on his face is so pained – so miserable – that it irritates you. 

“you’ve made it abundantly clear. that you like me a decent amount, but not enough to care about whether or not you’ll lose me.” 

you bite down so hard on your lip that the taste of metallic blood fills your mouth, coupled with warm tears in your eyes. 

“and for that, you can go to hell.” 

--

“what happened to you, peach?” 

you scoff, curling your nose at the old nickname, as he yanks the closest stool – his legs still too long to even be comfortable on the thing as he leans forward, noting the dried blood on your forehead. 

“a car accident. you can leave now.” 

suguru frowns, almost resembling a kicked dog, as he shakes his head. there’s something softer about his expressions now – something you’re sure is a byproduct of the time you spent apart or the fact that you have a broken rib – and you choose to ignore it for the time being. 

“i can’t just leave.” he whispers. 

“and why not?” 

suguru shakes his head. 

“you have a broken rib. and a deep cut on your forehead. forgive me if i’m concerned about you.” 

“i can’t. knowing you, you’ll casually linger around here for a few days, and when you figure it’s appropriate to leave, you’ll be gone with the wind.” 

the two of you sit there in silence, the harshness of the words hanging in the air between the two of you. 

and yet again, suguru geto leaves you with a never ending pit of curiosity. about what he was doing here, to ask how he is – to make it a note to him that his cheeks look fuller, that his eyes aren’t rimmed red anymore, and that he looks good. 

that you like the new hairstyle. that it killed you when he wasn’t around anymore. that you still want him to go to hell. 

suguru twists the silver ring on his pointer finger a few times – a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth – before you break the silence, your curiosity getting the best of you another time. 

“why are you here?” 

“they called me. i’m your emergency contact still.” 

“no, i gathered that. why are you here?” 

suguru pauses, swallowing hard before responding. 

“if orpheus hears something that deceives him – like the sound of eurydice tripping over a rock – he doesn’t think. he looks back.” suguru states. 

you scoff. vague again. 

“right.” 

“no, really. i got the call. and i didn’t think and just showed up. i just…just had to see you.” suguru states. 

he pauses. 

“it’s kind of romantic, don’t you think? that he loved her so much that he had to look back, like it was almost an instinct.”

you turn to glare at him, at the audacity of him repeating your own stupid words back to you. 

“is it? because his carelessness left her in hell with hades.” 

suguru scoffs. 

“i never did tell you the end of the story, did i?” 

you roll your eyes. 

“orpheus becomes so distraught that he uses his lyre to charm death – just so that he can return to the underworld to be with her. and people debate how it happens, him being ripped apart by irate women or getting killed by the menades, but it does happen. he dies and goes to the underworld. and in some versions, people think that he reunites with her in the underworld. and she forgives him.” 

“and why would she do that?” you ask. 

“because he tried his best to do right by her. he was asked to do one thing – to stay away. and that’s what he did, because…because i know you’re right. because you do deserve better, i do think the world of you and think you deserve to be with someone who wants to be with you, the way that you want.” 

suguru pauses. 

“it’s not my fault that i can’t help but look back. i can’t do anything about the fact that i love you.” 

you swallow hard, an embarrassing amount of regret – mixed in with that deep longing that he left in your chest – searing through you. 

“in the casual way, right?” you respond, sarcastically. 

he groans. 

“it’s not casual at all. it wasn’t casual when i leaned forward to taste the sweetness of the peach on your lips – especially when i fucking hate peaches. and it wasn’t casual when i took you home with me, it was…i just couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone. and it’s not fucking casual that i drove three hours when i was supposed to be home this weekend just because i the thought of you sitting in this room alone, in pain, was driving me crazy.” 

you wince, turning to look at him. and it seems that in the mere acknowledgement of his presence by locking his eyes, it seems to fill him with something – something that puts the whisper of a smile on his face. 

“what?” 

“i turned around for you. i didn’t know i would, but now that i have, i…i realize that i probably always would have.” 

“okay?” you whisper. 

“are you going to forgive me for it? not doing it earlier, for…for not getting it right the first time?” he asks. 

you pause, mulling the thought over. and the silence, he takes it as an invitation to plead his case. 

“i’ll beg. i’ll get on my hands and knees if that’ll do something to make it better.” 

you turn to look at him. 

“you…you’re special. i haven’t forgotten about you and…and i know we had something. just let me fix it? i’ll get you a hundred gifts, i’ll tell you a hundred times and i’ll - oh!’ 

he reaches into his bag, shoving his arms into the depths of the pockets, before yanking out a little napkin and reaching forward, opening your hand and placing it in your palm. 

“a tissue?”

“open it.” 

and you oblige, unfolding the tissue to see four little gummy peach rings in the napkin, before turning back to him. 

“peach rings?” 

“for my peach! i eat them all the time now, even though i fucking hate peaches. i only had a few left so i grabbed what i had left when i ran out. and i ate some on the way on accident because i was nervous, worried about you and all..” 

you look down, the sugary crystals on the candy almost sparking in the light, as you look back at him. and he's wholeheartedly different - not the cool, cold guy you left behind, but a weird mess of awkwardness and jitters, and maybe even the tiniest hint of desperation.

he seems wholeheartedly more touchable this way.

“you make no sense.” you state.

suguru frowns. 

“i know. but i’m trying.” he responds. 

and you sigh, wiping your hands at your side, before eating one of the candies. bitter at first, but sweet at the end. 

“suppose that’s my problem then. i’ll have to figure you out.” you respond. 

suguru’s face splits into a smile, his motions so eager as he leans over the railing of the bed, the angle entirely off as he leans forward to kiss you. and it’s entirely different from every other time you’ve kissed him – full and whole, a warm and tender promise behind it. 

“you’re wrong, you know?” you whisper. 

“about what?” he murmurs. 

“the peaches. they taste good.” 

he laughs. 

“is that right?” he whispers, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips, as he wavers his eyes up again, to the cut on your forehead. 

he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the bandages, before pulling back, lips lingering over yours. 

“i think i need one more to decide.”

--

an: idk.

taglist: @porridgesblog @k0z3me @sugu-love @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea  @skzismyhome @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @shotenvinsoot @itzmeme @gojoswifeyyys-world @cutiejg @chilichopsticks @timmytimmytuckyy @dreamxiing @mamamamamarga @skunabby @meisque @hoseokslefteyebrow @yoontaedotin

[vulnerary-prince]

From Harvard ethics professor Christopher Robichaud:

“Everyone in the days and weeks ahead will use this loss as an opportunity to seek validation for their own hobby horse complaint. Harris lost because she campaigned with Liz Cheney. Harris lost because she didn't embrace Gaza. Harris lost because she didn't choose Shapiro. Harris lost because she wasn't progressive enough (possibly my favorite one).

Take a good hard look at the map, my friends. Trump has won the popular vote. Trump ran the table. Explaining that with your hobby horse issue isn't going to cut it, tempting and consoling as it may be.

The problem isn't the electoral college. The problem isn't that we didn't have a full primary. The problem isn't Harris. The problem isn't that Dems didn't have the right message. The problem isn't even inflation or the border.

The problem is so much worse than any of those things. Those are all technical problems, with straightforward expertise fixes. If only it were so! No, our problem is not technical. It's very much adaptive. A party that embraced the Big Lie, supported an insurrection, and has been selling conspiracy-addled madness for years was widely and enthusiastically embraced. Voter turnout was profound! People didn't sit this out.

Simply put, the problem--as some of you have rightly posted--is cultural.

America, culturally, has completely abandoned a politics of decency and respect and has embraced instead a politics of resentment, revenge, false nostalgia, and bullying. And if you look at the demographics, you also won't be able to comfort yourself that it's just a white thing, or a working class thing, or an education thing. It's multi-class, multi-gender, multi-educational and multi-racial. That's what winning the popular vote means. That's what running the table amounts to.

A culture that has descended to this level of debasement is not easily fixed. In fact it may not ever be fixed. The timeline for changing something like this is decades--at best--not two-to-four year election cycles. You can extend that in this case, because with the GOP likely controlling all branches of federal government and the courts, they will ensure that mechanisms are in place to keep them in power long after their popularity has waned. You can count on that.

The GOP evolved into a party of rage, lies, and revenge--and it correctly diagnosed that there was and is a large appetite for that. That's what the country wants. At least, enough of the country wants it to ensure broad appeal and widespread electoral success. The old GOP will never return, and the Dems have nothing to say to American culture at the moment. Nothing. They've been speaking to a country that's gone, like dust in the wind.

And that's my final thought, which my posts last night alluded to. The America I knew and loved is gone. This new America--nah, I won't even bother. I will say that cultural change is less likely to occur in politics, or in the academy. You're not going to get people to see how vulgar they've become through a clever argument or a nice campaign speech, that's for sure.

This would be time for the arts, broadly understood, to step in. The arts can change hearts and minds. Too bad the arts have been systematically dismantled in education in this country, and on the other end, the tech industry's assault on the arts through AI is sure to hollow out any good-faith efforts that might emerge.

And for the rest of the world, America's rightward lurch is, I'm afraid, bad news for you too. I know you know this. Because it's not isolated, is it? It's just at the moment the most prominent example of a burgeoning trend. And this will embolden others in other countries, to be sure. We need not speculate what happens when countries become mired in lies, embrace resentment, and savor bullying. We know exactly what happens. Bloody conflict and global destabilization.

The first quarter of the 21st century will therefore in hindsight be viewed as the seed-planting stage for the absolute shit show that's about to unfold globally over the next two and a half decades. Count on it.

Adopt whatever coping and endurance strategies you have available. You're going to need it.

I think that's all I've left to say.”   

[slvt4em1lyprenti2s]

Forbidden Love: Chapter 1 Next Chapter

Shy?

Masterlist

Criminal Minds Masterlist Emily Prentiss Masterlist

Summary: Professor!Emily x fem!student reader, what happens when profesor prentiss and the reader finally give into their feelings?

Word count: 1.5k

TW: Making out, I think that’s it?

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x female reader

A/N: Should I make this a series? Idk it might be fun!

Studying behavioural profiling is, well, different. It’s like science, criminology and psychology and smooshed into one subject. But the best thing about it, you ask? The teacher. Emily Prentiss is the most divine woman to ever step foot on this earth and no one can tell me otherwise. The way she strides along the front of the lecture all, her raven hair that falls in front of her face when she bends down to click something on her laptop, her eyes that always seem to find mine in a room full of students, her veiny hands that brush over mine when giving back a test. Ugh god, I swear I’m falling in love with this woman. 

It’s 7:45 am on a Wednesday and I’m walking across campus so I can get to lesson a little early to touch up my notes from my other class with Agent Morgan and to go over my- okay I’m bullshtting I just want to see Emily. And to be honest, I think I’m one of her more favourite students so I think she doesn’t mind me being early. 

I push open the door to the lecture hall and start walking down the steps, laptop bag slung over my shoulder that contained notebooks, pens, pencils etc, all the essentials. In my hand I held a travel coffee mug with my favourite hot chocolate in it because I wasn’t too partial to coffee. As I reach the front row I notice that Professor Prentiss has been following me with her eyes and watching the sway of my hips as I walked in. ”Morning Professor.” I try to say as if her eyes all over me weren’t causing a blush to creep up my neck. I took a quick check behind me finding out I was the only one in the room. 

“Hi, y/n. How are you today?” She asked her eyes staring into mine, genuinely curious.

”Good thank you, tired but good, what about you?” I smile as she chuckles lightly at my comment.

“Just about the same as you darling.” She replies with a smirk on her face seeing my face instantly bloom with red at the pet name. I shuffle my bag slightly before she says “I was out on a case for the last two or so days and I, only just, made it back in time to teach you guys. Lucky me hey? The only reason I’m even slightly okay with having to wake up at the ass crack of dawn is because of students like you. You actually listen and care, god knows that kind of work ethic is rare these days.” Emily looks exhausted and about ready to jump into bed at any second but the words that she said seem to cloud my head so I don’t pay much attention to her disheveled state. 

Students like me? What does that even mean? Well, she explained what it meant but I still wasn’t convinced. Nonetheless I responded “Yeah, it really is. All the people in this class want to be profilers or something along the lines of such and yet none of them take their education seriously. I want to throw something at them every time they talk over you. I might actually do it one day, it's so annoying!” She smiles fondly at my words making a cage of butterflies escape into my stomach and I smile back. 

“Now, I can’t have you throwing things at people, can I now sweetheart? That’ll get you kicked off the course. And I don’t think you want that, I certainly don’t want that, and besides don’t worry about the others. You’re doing amazing ah, that reminds me can you stay behind at the end? I just want to speak to you about your grade on our most recent exam. It’s nothing bad, I promise. You’ve done exceptionally well, in fact so well that I want to talk to you about further opportunities you have open to you.” She places her hand on my shoulder as we now stand face to face, she got up halfway through talking to lean on the front of her desk. I smile and subconsciously lean into her touch. The remains of the blush from the pet names yet again lingers but I say a small “Thank you Professor.” 

At that moment the door to the lecture hall swings open revealing another student in their own little world unaware of the building tension in the room. I give her one last smile and go make my way to a seat in the front row. I get out my laptop and notebook and start writing the dates and titles. I could feel eyes on me the whole time, I look up and lock eyes with Emily, finding her already looking at me. She sent me a wink and glanced back down at whatever she was working on. A crimson flush invaded my face and I returned my eyes to my page.

After the lesson I packed up slower than normal so that I’d be able to stay behind a little longer than she probably ment. I put my laptop in my bag and zip it up and grab my now empty hot chocolate. I walk up to Profesor Prentiss’ desk and find she’s already looking at me, again. 

“You know, you should stop staring at me so much. People might get the wrong idea.” I say, suddenly feeling confident, a teasing smirk on my lips. 

“What if I want them to get the wrong idea? What if I want them to think you’re mine?” I quickly shut up at that remark, all my confidence suddenly disappeared and I turned into putty. Heat rose to my cheeks and my head dipped to avoid her piercing gaze, it wasn’t mean, more admiration. But, any look from Emily Prentiss is intense. “Cat got your tongue honey?” She had a shit eating grin on her face as she saw me nod slowly. 

“Anyway, your grade! Okay you scared the highest in the class, and you got full marks. This isn’t anything new for you I'm sure, you’re a bright young woman. But, scoring this high in a test this hard, it opens doors for you. So, I’m here to offer you a chance to shadow me and the team for a week to see how we handle cases and what the job entails really. I also wanted to let you know that if you have any interest in joining the team I would accept you in a heartbeat. You’re a brilliant profiler.” Yet again for what feels like the millionth time today, heat rises to my cheeks. She stalks the way round her desk and stands in front of it. 

“That sounds amazing, oh my god, really?” A smile broke out on my face immediately. She looked pleased at my reaction and took a step closer. 

“Yeah of course really, why would I joke?” She laughed softly. I muttered a small ‘true’ and kept shamelessly checking her out as she still came closer to me and lowered her lips down to my ear and whispered, “Do I make you nervous darling? Is that why you get all shy whenever I’m around?” I nodded again while looking down, her hand found my chin and tilted it up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” I felt a strange tingling in my lower stomach as she said that. 

I looked her in the eye and she bought me closer. “Is this okay?” she muttered, her breath fanning across my face due to the proximity. 

“Yes.” I breathed out. That was all the confirmation she needed to softly press her lips to mine. She held me like I might break at any minute, so tentative and caring it made my heart flutter. My hands found their way around my waist and I pulled her closer. She moved us around so now I was the one against the desk as she deepened the kiss, her tongue moving into my mouth. I instantly let her take control of the kiss and press her hips against mine. A small whine left my lips and I lent into her arms which were on my hips. 

She pulled away and looked into my eyes before whispering, just to me even though there was no one else there, “I don’t want this to just be a fling, just to make that clear.” I smiled wide and pecked her lips once more. 

“Neither do I.” She pulled me in again and we kissed with smiles on both of our faces. We knew we would have to be a secret for a while obviously but it didn’t stop me from fantasising about what was to come.

[wileys-russo]

kiss and make up II a.russo x unc!reader

gif credits to @russogifs & @ohgrays

request - unc era remains her most powerful & my all time fave. kiss and make up II a.russo

you glanced up from your book hearing a knock on your dorm room door, repeated by a few more impatient knocks when you didn't answer in five seconds, only confirming you knew who was there before you even opened it.

"go away!" you called out, not moving from your place on your bed with a roll of your eyes. "babe come on, open the door." a familiar english accent called out, the girl knocking again as you shook your head.

"i am not in the mood to argue again alessia, go away." you repeated firmly. "baby please! i didn't come here to argue, let me in." your girlfriend groaned, and a small thud lead you to believe her head had thumped dejectedly against the wood.

the two of you had been seeing one another for six or so months now and you were normally nothing but enamored with the superstar striker.

her energetic personality paired with her effortless charm and accent was a combination that had you swooning after just a couple of dates. so much so that when she'd asked you to be her girlfriend she hadn't even finished getting the question out before you'd said yes.

you rarely argued, normally too busy being disgustingly smitten with one another and teased relentlessly by your friends for it. though when you did argue neither of you ever backed down both incredibly stubborn and sure you were right while the other was wrong.

last night you'd both been dragged to a frat party with some of alessia's teammates, none of them drinking given the fact they had a game the next day but the fomo of not going was too strong to stay away from the event regardless.

not any sort of athlete yourself you'd had no reason not to drink, and though you'd only had a few it was enough that alessia had accused you got a little too handsy with another girl and disrespected her in front of her teammates and friends.

though your recollection of events was that all you did was dance with a girl from your ethics class you got to talking to, which you only did because your own girlfriend refused to get up and join you. too busied in the company of her teammates to pay you much more attention than wanting you sat on her lap all night while she chattered away to them.

"lessi are you sure this is the best idea? you've got a game tomorrow." you checked in with a slight frown of concern, finishing your makeup and turning toward where she sat on your bed.

"it'll be absolutely fine babe. none of the girls are drinking and i'll be keeping a sure eye on that as captain. i think most of them are just going for a hook up or because they're scared something cool will happen like the foam party last time and we'll all miss out." alessia laughed, making grabby hands at you soon as you were within reach.

"okay, so long as you're sure." you gave in, still not thinking it was a great idea but with no commitments of your own tomorrow you could still enjoy yourself, and parties were never as much fun without your girlfriend.

not that there was a chance in hell she'd ever let you go to one without her anyway.

"sit still please." you warned, settling yourself to straddle her lap as her hands fell to your hips, just slipping up the inside of your top .

"baby do you want this done or not? because i can't be expected to concentrate if you move your hands much higher." you warned with an amused smile as her large hands started to rub up and down your sides, causing you to flinch a little as her rings brushed your ribs.

"i thought women were supposed to be able to multi task?" the blonde teased with a grin, leaning in to press a few sweet kisses to your lips but you pushed at her shoulders before she could take them any further.

she seemed to settle after that, allowing you to finish her makeup as her hands now lay dormant on your thighs, her knee bouncing a little underneath you but you were more than used to that, the english girl hardly ever able to sit entirely still.

"done, you look perfect as always." you complimented, pecking her lips and trying to stand but her arms tightly encircled your waist preventing that. "where you goin?" the blonde rasped, your heart swooning at her thick accent, hand moving to the back of your neck and tugging you into a proper kiss.

"you look so beautiful, my lovely girl, my pretty girl." your girlfriend mumbled as she pulled away, lazily kissing your jaw a few times, focus shifting to your neck. within seconds she found your sweet spot, tongue gliding teasily over the taunt skin before her lips began to shower it with attention.

though before her teeth could join the party to mark you like she so loved to there was a sudden and endless amount of knocking on your door, a mixed chorus of voices yelling for the two of you to hurry up.

"that's our cue." you smiled, cupping her face and stealing one final kiss before you stood, hurrying over to open the door as a horde of girls all piled in, grabbing both you and alessia as you managed to snag your phone before you were dragged away and your door slammed closed behind you.

it was a couple of hours later and you were nursing your third drink of the night, pleasantly teetering on the edge of being tipsy as you sat on alessia's lap, her chin resting on your shoulder as she talked with her friends.

her large hands sat possessively on your hips, squeezing every now and then to gain your attention when someone asked you something and you didn't answer, lips occasionally pressing a tender kiss to the back of your bare shoulder blade or your cheek. but beyond that you were starved for any sort of real attention from the blonde and that was taking its own toll.

admittedly quite bored of the conversations between the group you were sat with, which all seemed to center around team couple drama or strategies for tomorrows game, you found yourself frequently zoning out and watching on as your peers danced and drank around you, seemingly having a much better time.

"wanna go dance?" you leaned back a little and murmured in your girlfriends ear with a hopeful smile. "later baby." she answered, returning your smile and pecking your lips before immediately tuning back into another conversation.

still watching as the party raged on you looked longingly to where you spotted see a group of your own friends playing beer pong.

your best friend alex caught your eye, frantically waving you over as you gestured to your girlfriends hands holding you firmly on her lap and within a second she was in front of you.

"can i steal your girl for a game of beer pong russo?" alex winked, hand finding yours and pulling you up to your feet. "you can but good luck winning with her as your partner." alessia smirked as you scoffed, playfully shoving her head to the side and bending down to kiss her goodbye, tugged away by your best friend.

you'd meet her eye every now and then, watching you protectively as her gaze flickered between you and her friends, making sure you were still within her sight at all times as you finally started to relax and let your hair down a little more.

unfortunately given alex was practically blind drunk and you had horrific aim you'd lost your game, kicked off the table and forced to down a 'punishment shot' of god knows what but it burned as you swallowed it with a grimace.

"the music is calling me babe lets go dance!" alex yelled in your ear as you nodded, telling her you'd go and meet her as you set off back toward alessia who perked up at the sight.

"hi gorgeous." the taller girl smiled happily, quick to tug you back down onto her lap. "alex wants to dance, come with me? please?" you pouted hopefully, cupping her face as you sweetly kissed her, thumb tracing tenderly over her bottom lip.

"mm but i missed you baby girl, just stay here with me." alessias hands gently squeezed your hips and she watched happily as you melted at the term of endearment, ready to give into whatever she wanted as she knew was normally the case if she pushed the right buttons.

but catching your best friend waiting patiently for you across the room, giving you hurry up eyes you snapped out of it.

"baby i'm tired of talking about soccer or whose sneaking around with who, just come dance with me pretty please." you whispered, kissing beneath her ear a few times as her grip tightened, you also knowing exactly how to push her buttons to get what you wanted.

"russo! you listening or what?" but she too was snapped out of it as one of the girls smacked her shoulder, jolting her attention back toward them as she nodded, ignoring your request as you rolled your eyes.

"where you off to?" she questioned as you stood, grabbing your wrist with a raised eyebrow. "you don't want to dance? fine. but i'm not sitting here on your lap all night like some sort of trophy." you tugged your hand away, walking off before she could say another word as a few of her teammates whistled and oohed teasingly.

"shut up!" alessia warned them sharply with a glare as she scowled after your retreating figure, ordering one of the girls to swap seats with her, still ensuring you were within her eyesight as you were twirled away by alex.

"this is mia!" you looked up from where you'd been dancing with alex and a few of your friends to the girl who'd joined you. "oh hey you're in my ethics tut?" you recognised, hugging her in hello as she nodded.

"you're russo's girl right? i've seen you at the games, i'm good friends with lois we have a few classes together." she smiled making you roll your eyes.

"i am. but i also go by y/n!" you replied making her laugh, alex squealing happily as one of her favourite songs came on and she pulled you both into a hug, drunkenly belting out the lyrics and swaying side to side making you grin.

alessia felt her jaw clench as she watched on as alex was swooped away by a boy leaving you to dance with a girl she didn't know, seeing the way her arms wrapped around you, pulling your body into hers and making you laugh.

the way alessia should have been holding you, and the way she normally would make you laugh.

"don't pay them enough attention and they'll find it somewhere else hey less!" one of her teammates teased with a wink, lotte shoving her harshly with a glare for the comment.

she turned to try and check in with alessia but she was already gone, marching her way over to you. "lessi baby! lets dance." you cheered happily as she appeared, face lighting up as mia stepped back and alessia fixed her with a hard glare.

a look which didn't go unnoticed by you as alessia took the half full drink out of your hand, placing it on a table and possessively wrapping an arm around your waist, tugging you away as you quickly sent mia an apologetic look.

"babe what are you-" "we're leaving."

unsure what had happened to cause the drop in her mood you allowed her to guide you outside, her hand falling to the small of your back as she pushed her way through the crowded frat house, the two of you finally inhaling fresh air as you made your way outside.

"less what's wrong? what happened?" you stopped to grab her face with a concerned frown, the taller girl only pulling off your hands and shaking her head, storming off as you hurried to keep up.

"hey baby, talk to me." you grabbed her hand stopping her in her tracks, the two of you alone and a fair way away from the party now. "are you trying to disrespect and embarrass me?" she scoffed suddenly causing your frown to deepen.

"what? of course not, why would you even think that?" you asked, hopelessly confused to where this was all coming from.

"first you yell at me in front of my friends and then you get all handsy with some other girl in view of the whole team when you think i'm not paying you enough attention? im the captain, do you know how bad that looks?" she continued, fixing you with an unimpressed glare as your face hardened.

"alessia please tell me you're joking." you laughed, though there wasn't a drop of humour behind your tone. "you're the only one laughing." she'd warned, and that was enough for you.

"for starters i didn't even want to go to that stupid party in the first place, i'd have much rather spent the night just with you like we normally do before your games." you started with a shake of your second.

"second of all once we got there you basically ignored me all night to talk shit with your teammates who you already spent the entire day with training. you barely made an effort to include me in any of the conversation bar wanting me sat on your lap to show off to everyone that mighty captain russo has a girlfriend." you snarled, pushing at her chest angrily as the taller girl barely moved despite the force you'd shoved her with.

"third of all i wanted you to come and dance with me but of course you were too busy being captain alessia russo tar heels superstar striker!" you mocked with a roll of your eyes, your girlfriend grabbing your hands tightly in hers as you tried to shove her again.

"so you don't get your own way and decide to go throw a tantrum and grind on some other girl to disrespect and humiliate me in front of the team and try to what? make me jealous?" alessia chuckled as you yanked your hands away.

"oh fuck you! of course you make yourself the victim." you shook your head in disbelief, hands flying to your neck as you undid the necklace she'd given you, the small silver A silently claiming you as hers.

'don't talk to me until you pull your head out of your ass." you warned tossing the necklace at her as she caught it, storming away and flipping her off as she called after you.

you made a beeline for your dorm building, alessia watching you go with a glare before she scoffed and headed off toward her own room, head swirling with a mess of different emotions.

and that brought you back to right now as your girlfriend knocked impatiently on your door and whined for you to let her in, neither one of you having spoken since your fight last night.

getting up with a huff you pulled the door open, the blonde perking up as you did so, already dressed and ready in her uniform for her game later.

"have you come to apologise then?" you asked sharply, crossing your arms and fixing her with a glare as you blocked her from entering your room with your body. though really you both knew if she wanted to move you it would be a more than easy task for the taller well built soccer star.

"can i come in so we can talk? please." alessia pleaded, eyes flickering around to the nosy gazes from some of your peers who lingered in their doorway watching the couple.

not particularly wanting an audience for if round two of your argument kicked off you rolled your eyes and stepped aside so she could come in, closing the door after her.

"don't sit. unless you're here to say you're sorry for being a self obsessed jealous asshole, you won't be here long." you snipped as she moved toward your bed, jaw clenching and posture stiffening slightly at your words but she stayed standing none the less.

"i hate fighting with you. can we please forget it happened and just move on?" the english girl asked hopefully, rocking back and forth on her heels as you laughed. "was that your idea of an apology then? get out." you pointed back to the door as alessia groaned, throwing her head back.

"i'm sorry! but we've not spoken all day and it's killing me. i miss you baby, miss my pretty girl." the taller girl pouted taking a step closer and playing with the bottom of your hoodie, looking down at you with her alluringly bright blue eyes and your stubborn resolve wavered for just a moment until you snapped out of it.

"don't you have warm ups to get to?" you pushed her hands away with a raised eyebrow, eyes running up and down her navy blue uniform, number 19 splashed proudly across the front of her chest and given it was coming into the cooler season she'd put a matching navy long sleeve on underneath.

"well yeah but..." she trailed off, pursing her lips and looking anywhere but you as you just raised an eyebrow at her behavior. "you know we always...before every game." alessia hinted still refusing to meet your eyes, as you finally caught on to what she wanted.

"alessia. please tell me you didn't only come here to say a half ass sorry because you want me to kiss you good luck?" you scoffed in disbelief, letting out a bark of sarcastic laughter.

"whats wrong with that? i wasn't lying i hate fighting with you babe and it's part of my pre game routine its our little ritual. i'll play terribly if we don't kiss!" alessia whined, the taller girl grabbing for your hands with another pout.

"you are unbelievable!" you pulled them away, turning around and opening the door, gesturing for her to leave. "just a small one? or on the cheek? a peck even? baby please!" alessia tried again with a whine and a pleading look, hovering by the door.

"fine, but just a peck." you agreed bluntly, her entire face lighting up as she pursed her lips, just moments before they tasted wood as you promptly slammed your door in her face.

"hey!" alessia scoffed with a scowl, only met with a firm request from you for her to fuck off as she huffed, kicking your door angrily and storming off.

~

you glanced down by your side as your phone vibrated over and over, but assuming it would just be your friends trying to convince you to come and watch the game you didn't bother to look.

but as the notifications continue to pour in your curiosity got the best of you and you grabbed the device, flipping it over and quickly realising it had been calls not texts that you'd been screening.

another one coming in you clicked accept, holding it up to your ear. "what al? i'm trying to study." you sighed. "you need to get here and fix this mess!" you frowned at her allusive words. "sorry?" you asked in confusion.

"alessia has missed five sitters, two of them the goalie wasn't even there and she still missed! i don't care what you're fighting about, she needs you." the girl remanded making you groan. "less is a big girl alex! so she has an off day, those happen." you rolled your eyes.

"um excuse me where is your school spirit? this is bigger than some stupid argument and i personally have money riding on this game. and they need these three points to be in a good place for if we want to make the championships!" the girl huffed as you again let out a groan, putting her on speaker and hurrying around to get ready.

"and that's my fault? how! she's the one who messed up and got all moody and jealous over nothing." you scoffed, shoving your feet into your shoes.

"i don't understand how her wanting you causes an issue? if anything babe jealousy is hot! honestly i'll never understand you silly little lesbians. just be happy and in love with each other keep it stupid simple. now get your ass here and save this game!" and with those wise words of wisdom imparted on you your best friend promptly ended the call as you stepped out of your room.

~

"finally! god it's almost half time dude." alex groaned, grabbing your hand and yanking you harshly down into the seat beside her, causing you to send an apologetic smile to the boy next to you who you'd almost sat on.

"what happened to her hand?" you questioned, eyebrows knitted together as you spotted your girlfriend with two fingers taped up together, her usual pink med tape headband making her easy to find on the field.

"got stomped on by that huge number four when she slid in for a tackle, also something that never happens to her!" alex shoved you, clearly insinuating it was somehow your fault.

"okay you clearly don't know her well enough off the pitch then because she is a walking hazard. she's like one of those puppies with massive paws who hasn't worked out how to walk!" you huffed as the whistle blew signalling the first half was over.

"go fix it! now." alex ordered as you were once again manhandled by the impatient brunette. "god you're so bossy. why do i keep hanging out with you?" you huffed quietly causing her to smack you with a playful glare.

hurrying down the stairs you waited by the sideline as the team had already entered the change rooms for their half time talk, well most of the team.

"you came! does less know you're here? she's been a mopey miserable mess man." you jumped as lotte appeared, not playing today due to a small strain in her calf.

"no we sort of had it out before when she came by for her good luck kiss and didn't come with an apology for last night." you rolled your eyes as lotte winced. "look mate we both know she's far from perfect but some of the girls took it too far with the teasing comments. i'm not saying whatever happened was justified but they did push her." lotte squeezed your shoulder with an empathetic smile.

"yeah well until she apologises and speaks to me herself about it i'm still pissed off with her. but i heard she's having a stinker and i think if i don't try to fix it i'm gonna be public enemy number one." you sighed, nodding to where alex was watching on with narrowed eyes.

though before lotte could say another word the team began to file out, lead out by their captain who spotted you almost right away, lotte excusing herself as your girlfriend replaced her.

before she could speak you grabbed her hand, pulling the two of you a little more out of sight in the tunnel. "i'm still angry with you but you have to get out of your own head less. you're better than this!" you reminded firmly but not unkindly as the blonde only nodded.

you cut off her attempt to speak as you balled her jersey in your fists and pulled her into a kiss, pushing her away as her eyes widened in shock. "now go score a goal, captain." you ordered, pointing back to the pitch as alessia could only nod again.

she turned to leave as you did too but before you could take a step your body was pressed against the wall of the tunnel, the english girl looming over you.

"i'm really sorry for last night baby, you were right and i was out of line and i'm so sorry for making you feel ignored. i'm gonna say it all properly after the game but i want you to know that i love you, so much." and with that her hands flew to your cheeks and her lips were back on yours.

angry with her or not there was no denying the erruption of butterflies in your stomach as she kissed you, running her tongue along your bottom lip before it evaded your mouth, the blonde stealing the air from your lungs before the whistle blew and she pushed herself away.

"gonna go score for you now pretty girl." the striker smiled, pecking your lips a few more times with a soft smile before sprinting off as her coach screamed out her name, 19 on her back disappearing onto the pitch as you blinked a few times in shock.

pulling yourself together you hurried back to your seat beside alex who smirked seeing your flushed cheeks as you ignored her teasings, focusing on the game.

and score for you she did, with two cracking the back of the net within ten minutes as alex almost pulled you onto her shoulders with glee. the final score winding up 4-0 you joined in with the rest of the spectators and students, whistling and cheering loudly, not missing how alessia's eyes found yours with a big dopey grin.

leaving her to shower and change you hung back with alex who eagerly recounted with far too much detail how the rest of her night went, rolling your eyes at her midnight encounters with the same boy she'd been hung up on who never paid her any mind unless he was drunk.

a gentle hand on your waist pulled you back from her story telling, alex stopping mid sentence with a knowing smile. "and thats my cue, i'll call you later with the rest. you better look after her russo, i know where you live!" alex warned, jokingly though her words were somewhat serious as alessia nodded feverishly.

"hi." you turned to look at her, the taller girl now changed out of her uniform and into grey sweats and an oversized black and blue tar heels hoodie, one you frequently stole from her. "can i walk you back to your dorm?" alessia asked hopefully causing a small smile to curl onto your lips as you nodded.

"i'm so sorry for my behaviour last night. i shouldn't have let the girls wind me up or have taken it out on you, i know you'd never cheat or do anything like that. i just don't like seeing someone touch whats mine." the possessive words sent your stomach into a flip despite the soft and caring tone they were said with.

"i'm sorry if i embarassed you in front of the team i promise i didn't mean to. i just wanted to spend time with you, even at a stupid frat party. but i shouldn't have just snapped." you apologised, slipping your hand into hers causing a surprised smile to appear on her features as the two of you made your way across campus.

"no you were right babe i was being a dickhead, but i won't lie i do like showing you off." alessia smiled charmingly, bringing your intertwined hands to her mouth and placing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

"why you laughing? that was a nice comment!" alessia frowned as you laughed. "it sounds funny when you say dickhead in your cute little accent." you grinned as the two of you reached your dorm, you letting the pair of you in.

"come here." you squealed as the blonde dropped her kit bag to the floor and wasted no time grabbing your thighs, hauling you up into her arms as your legs wrapped around her waist and she flopped down onto your bed.

"there's much more graceful ways to get me into bed russo." you teased, kissing her nose and beaming as she scrunched it up adorably. "thats baby to you thanks." the girl pouted as you wasted no time kissing it away, alessia flipping the two of you over so she was hovering over you.

"think you forgot something though." she sat up, hips hovering over yours as she reached into the pocket, pulling out the necklace you'd tossed at her last night and shuffling back so you could sit up.

you sat up and held your hair back as you felt her settle behind you, moving to clasp it back around your neck, her lips peppering gentle kisses across the skin before you turned to face her.

you let out a laugh as she playfully tackled you back down to the bed, holding herself up above you with one arm her thumb pawed at the silver A now hanging rightfully back around your neck before they moved to gently traced the curve of your jaw.

bright blue eyes staring adoringly down into yours as you reached up to pull her hair out as it fell around the two of you like a curtain and she leaned down closer, her lips ghosting yours.

"my girl."

[giorno-plays-piano]

Binary Star

Part I

Pairing: academic rival!Satoru Gojo x reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, power play, hurt/comfort, no curse au, this series will get darker as the story progresses.

Words: 1.2k

Summary: It has to pay off, he thinks as he waits for the headmaster to finally announce the valedictorian, knowing she is there too, shifting from one foot to the other impatiently. What face is she going to make when his name will be called? Is she going to cry? To yell at him and publicly demand a re-evaluation? Or will she, perhaps, finally admit he's done a fantastic job and won fair and square?

____________

He is really going to get her this time. This is the finish line, quite literally: the graduation; his last attempt to win and emerge victorious from the very last battle between him and her. It has to be it.

If he couldn't win against her for the last time, Gojo would probably have a mental breakdown right in the middle of the ceremony. Geto standing right next to him rolls his eyes to the ceiling over his friend who's shaking from excitement and fear. Of course, Satoru wouldn't admit it even under torture, but Suguru knows better. The girl his friend has been competing with throughout high school isn't just smart: she's completely insane like Gojo and as big pain in the ass as him. Who knows, perhaps she'll really win this round. He prefers not to think of it.

Satoru searches for her in the crowd, standing on his toes despite already being a foot taller than anyone else in the hall. Is she here? This nightmarish woman who has been pushing him to give high school his all because she dared to take away his crown of the best student during their freshman year? When Satoru saw the scores, he thought he might have had a heart attack. There was no way he was no longer #1.

"That's what you get for messing around the chem lab," Shoko snorted while Satoru dumbly stared at the name of that annoying girl, always the teachers' pet, heading the list. His name was written right under hers.

What the actual fuck?! She got a better score than him? Him, the genius, with his undeniably superior IQ of 180 that he flaunted at any given time? Who did she think she was, Sheldon Cooper or something?

It got him so fired up he actually started studying.

"You're so dumb," Geto eventually said after his friend had gotten in the argument with the girl during their ethics class - again. "You know you could be making out with her now, right? She's the only person who could actually get along with your stubborn ass."

"Wha-a-at? What about you?" Immediately disregarding his question, Satoru was already pouting like a kid. "Wouldn't you date me?"

"Yeah, over my dead fucking body."

To be fair, it's not that Gojo never thought of her that way - she was pretty, even if he was never going to admit it out loud - but she was also so insufferable Gojo really couldn't focus on anything else but beating her in that game they were playing. The best score on the history exam? They both wanted it. Math test? Him and her were working on those questions as if their lives depended on it. Biology project? Satoru made sure to do the impossible, submitting something he would get a Noble prize for, and yet he still somehow managed to get the same grade as her. It was absolutely infuriating.

Why on Earth did she decide she could be better than him? He was Satoru Gojo, after all. The one and only son of Gojo family, who was not only embarrassingly rich but also fucking smart - his parents used to flaunt his talents throughout his whole childhood and continued doing it well into adulthood. He couldn't tell them he was no longer #1. What would his mother say? Dear God, it was hard to imagine what would happen to his father of he learned some random girl got a better grade for that English paper than him. It was, at the very least, unbecoming of Satoru.

But she was unrelenting, irritated with his status of the school genius, and ready to fight him on every occasion. Satoru had no idea what could piss her off so much - in the end, he was the most charming guy around, wasn't he? - but there wasn't a day she'd let him have his way. She was brave, persistent, and knowledgeable, and he hated her very much.

The fact that Shoko and Suguru were asking him to please get together with her and stop antagonizing the whole school only riled up Gojo even more. As if he was going to date that nerd!

When he learned she'd be running for the valedictorian, it was the last drop. No fucking way. She couldn't take it away from him - even if he had never actually cared about being a valedictorian.

If his friends had thought he was obessessing over her, now they realized Satoru went completely nuts. He started studying so much he barely slept: it was a given, considering the bags under his eyes were making his skinny ass look like a starving raccoon. Geto couldn't drag gim out even in between lessons because Satoru was immediately burying his head in the books.

It has to pay off, he thinks as he waits for the headmaster to finally announce the valedictorian, knowing she is there too, shifting from one foot to the other impatiently. What face is she going to make when his name will be called? Is she going to cry? To yell at him and publicly demand a re-evaluation? Or will she, perhaps, finally admit he's done a fantastic job and won fair and square?

Pfft, of course she won't. She'll probably stab him in the parking lot once he tries to get into his car.

But when the headmaster finally announces the results, and his, Satoru Gojo's, name is called, he no longer sees her in the crowd, and the sweet taste of victory suddenly turns to ashes in his mouth.

Where is she? She couldn't have known it would be him. To be frank, he didn't either. How could she leave right before the results were announced?

He gives his speech with a stupid smile plastered all over his face, but his mood has already soured. She had to be there to hear he was named this year's valedictorian! What face did she make? Did she leave right after she heard it wasn't her? Did she cry? Did she run away because she couldn't take it? Wasn't she going to say to him anything at all?

How could she just... vanish?

He doesn't know why he expected her to be the bigger person and come tell him he did great, but he truly did. Suddenly, he realizes he wants her to look him in the face and say he is good enough.

Did he need to be the bigger person, perhaps? But, wait, isn't he a bigger person by default because he's the winner, he wondered. The winner is always the bigger person if he doesn't rub loser's face in the dirt, right?

In the end, he couldn't even enjoy the victory he had been craving for so long.

"She had something urgent come up," Shoko says later in the restaurant, making a tsk-ing sound while Gojo listens to her with a frown on his face. "Something about her family."

Something about her family? What could be as important as the announcement of valedictorian?

"Are you dumb?" With a sigh, Suguru cocks his head to the side. "Plenty of things are more important than this valedictorian crap."

Maybe to somebody else, but not to her, Satoru thinks. Beating him has always been the only thing on her mind, and nothing could have changed that.

__________

He will be mulling over it for a long, long time once he realizes she did not follow him to Harvard despite her scholarship.

Part II

Tags: @minshookie29

[giuliettagaltieri]

Duel of Knowledge

Pairing: Uni Student!Coriolanus Snow x Uni Student!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: The Rival

Warning: academic rivalry, elitism, morally gray reader, greed, Dr. Gaul's laboratory, mentions of mutated animals, Capitol cruelty, nepotism, spoilers

Word Count: 2487

2 of 6

It was a fresh start for Coriolanus Snow.  A life in the university, studying under Dr. Volumnia Gaul. 

After District 12.  He was a different man.  His purpose now was clearer, his actions more calculated, more dangerous.

Society welcomed him with open arms.  The star mentor, the academy protégé, and Crassus Snow’s legacy.

Life was also serving him well.  He no longer had to wear buttons made from the bathroom tiles.  No poisoned rats to dispose of.

Sejanus Plinth’s parents invite him for a luncheon on weekends.  He also met the president a couple of times because of the said couple.  Dr. Gaul has also been most helpful.

Had it not been for her, Coriolanus would still be rotting away in District 12.

The university was almost similar to the academy, only better.

He was with the same set of people he studied with.  Although, Clemensia Dovecot steers away from him now.  Two small scars from sharp fangs reminded her what happens when she crosses Coriolanus Snow.

The lessons are much more difficult than what was taught in the Academy but it was nothing he cannot conquer.  He was blessed with the most brilliant minds.

Connections made in the University are better too.  The people he meets are the ones who are currently the ones ruling the world.

The secrets he learns about them, invaluable.

Coriolanus understands the power that a piece of information can hold.

Information saved his tribute in the games.

Information nearly got him hanged.

Information nearly drove him mad.

There were all sorts of it.  Right, wrong.  It was up to you how you use it.  And use it well, he did.

And then, there was you.

The daughter of Thanatos Swansworth, a former associate of his late father.

He had gotten to know you as the girl who craved his attention and thirsted for his validation.

The last time he saw you, he knew he might have broken your heart.  You were just good at covering it up with your smiles.

And until today, he is seeing that exact same smile from across the room.

The air around you is different.  You are more mature, more sure of yourself.  You carry yourself with confidence like how a real Capitol woman does.

“While ethical implication might raise some concerns about the modified epigenetics, the boldness of the concept and the possibility of pioneering a breakthrough is reason enough to continue this research.  My study can advance the frontiers of science in a way that benefits humanity on a broader scale.”  You spoke calmly to Dr. Volumnia Gaul as she cross examined you for your research.

Coriolanus sat with his back resting against the chair, his calculating eyes watching your firm yet inviting demeanor.

A few more questions from Dr. Gaul did not make you falter, you managed to make every query an opportunity to showcase your work.  It was something that he can commend.

“Miss Swansworth, I would like you to come to my office later on to further discuss these ideas of yours.”  Dr. Gaul grins at you.

A glint of pride is visible in your eyes, making Coriolanus narrow his.

“Of course, Dr. Gaul.”

It seems he has competition for Dr. Gaul’s odd fascinations.

Coriolanus watches you return to your seat, his finger tapping atop his desk.

A focused look was plastered on Coriolanus’ face the entire day, he almost cannot wait to meet you by Dr. Gaul’s lab later.

When classes are over, he makes his way to the secured lab of Dr. Gaul.  The strong smell of formaldehyde greets his nose, he has come to get used to it.

His steps are long and purposeful but he was careful enough to silence his glide.

And he was glad he did.

He finds you crouched in a corner, your skirt touching the floor, you are too engrossed with a mutated animal that was trapped behind the glass.

“You found Thumper.”

The startled squeak you made had a sadistic smile spreading on Coriolanus’ lips. 

You glare up at him before standing up.  “Do not sneak up on me.”  You say coldly.  “Especially here.”

The mutated rabbit in front of you gives a jolt with the sound of your voice, its eyes trained on you.

“What did she do to it?”  You ask silently, looking at the mutated animal with chin slightly tipped higher.

Coriolanus stands next to you to eye the poor rabbit. 

Its once soft fur was replaced with a coarse beard-like iridescent coat.  Its paws were bigger with ears larger than normal, and its eyes, ghostly pale.

“Nothing.  The rabbit was exposed to the toxic aftermath of an outdoor experiment.  We had it captured in case it proved dangerous.”

“Is it?”  You ask, trying to maintain your indifference.

“Do you pity that mutt, Miss Swansworth?”

Both you and Coriolanus straighten your posture as Dr. Gaul saunters inside her lab.

“It simply piqued my curiosity.”  You respond carefully.

Coriolanus leaves your side to sit himself in a desk set off for him and your eyes squint at how he acts so casually in the place.

“That was a good presentation you gave earlier.”  Dr. Gaul says as she cuts open what you think is-...was a salamander.

“Thank you, Dr. Gaul.”  You try to not to sound too giddy, you must have failed as you hear a snicker from Coriolanus.

Her hand stills and she looks at you with those dangerous eyes of hers making you hold your breath.

“You mentioned earlier that your study can advance the frontiers of science and that humanity can benefit on a broader scale.”  She looks at you fully now.  “To whom are you referring to, with this…‘humanity’?”  She waves her blood red glove in the air as she asks.

The scratching of pen stills from Coriolanus’ desk and you match Dr. Gaul’s intense stare with yours.

“Who else but us, Dr. Gaul.  The outcomes of my research will contribute to the collective well-being of the Capitol.  Subsequently, the Districts can derive…some advantages from the positive outcomes we achieve.  We cannot reap the same rewards.”  You tilt your head to the side, looking at her coyly from under your eyelashes.  “Afterall, anyone who is not us is an enemy.”

Coriolanus looks up from his desk to eye you.  Dr. Gaul recognizes the look.  It was the same one Crassus Snow had when he married his wife, and the exact same when he submitted the idea he had stolen from Casca Highbottom.  Dr. Gaul only laughs as she resumes her work.

“Would you be interested in studying under me?”  She asks after calming down from her crazed outburst.  “I see potential in you, just like Mr. Snow.  I would love to watch the two of you rise to power.”

You glance at him from your shoulder and find him already looking at you with so much intensity.  You had your eyes on him as you uttered your next words.  “I would love to, Dr. Gaul.”  With much satisfaction, you watched his jaw tighten, bringing a sly smile to your lips.

Having to work after classes in the laboratory gave Coriolanus a chance to observe you.

You were very much like the person you were before he left, but ironically, also really different.

He recognizes the way your eyes narrow and how your hand finds your chin when you encounter a setback.  You also became really proper.  The smiles you gladly throw at everyone back in the academy are gone.  You attended the social events alone too, no longer following Coriolanus around to get him to ask you to come as his date.

There was also the swarm of boys he loathed.

You did not entertain them of course, kindly declining their invites for coffees and luncheons.

“You seem awfully popular with the male population of the Capitol.”

The comment did not stop your movements, not even for a second.  The decadent caramel tart was far too good to waste a moment.

“Mmh, it appears so.”  You reply to Corioalanus who seated himself in front of you at your table.  You preferred having lunch alone, it gave you time to think.  But apparently, that was too much to ask.

You saw this a mile away.  He was coming to talk to you sooner than later, and here he is.  His caramel tart ignored as the polished man found you more interesting.

Wiping your mouth with a napkin, you reach for your coffee as you locked eyes with him.  Almost taunting him to say something about it.

Now, with his slicked back platinum hair, tight jaw, and eyes so cold and calculating.  He looks every bit like his father.

“Is that all you are here for? To talk about my suitors?”  You lean back in your chair, careful to keep your posture straight.

Certainly, that is not all he is here for.  You have witnessed this all around you, even back in the academy.  Protégés sizing up their enemies and rooting out possible competition.  It was not your fault Dr. Gaul was interested in how your mind works, although you have to be responsible for your mischievous glances after you win an argument against him.

Winning arguments, if only you knew how much he was holding back, to save you the embarrassment, to not scare you away with his twisted arguments.

He is letting you go as you please, letting you think you are winning, it would be far more rewarding when he steals the prize right before your eyes.

Coriolanus wonders if he can get you to cry.

“No.”  He grins charmingly, making your blood freeze.  “The Plinths invited me to golf this Sunday.  They asked me to bring a friend.”

Your eyes dart all around his face, trying to search for something that would give him away.

“What are you playing at?”  You spoke slowly.

Coriolanus only laughs heartily, a hand placed over his chest in feign hurt.  “You wound me.  I simply wanted to catch up.  Afterall…”  His eyes dart to the family crest pinned on your chest, his eyes suddenly darkening, smile sharpening dangerously as he looks up at you with hooded eyes.  “We’re childhood friends, aren’t we?”

He can be very persuasive. 

Especially those eyes of his.

You heave a sigh and gently bring your cup to your lips, taking your time to sip. 

“Alright.”

“Perfect.”  He beams brightly.  There is something awfully unsettling about it.

Coriolanus Snow finds your distrustful nature inviting.  You are right to be wary of him. 

Sunday comes faster than you would have appreciated. 

The Plinths were very kind people.  Partly because they oh so wanted to be accepted in the Capitol. 

You are leaning on the golf cart, arms folded as you watch Coriolanus laugh with Sejanus Plinth’s parents.

Your thinking posture returns as you observe them.  Back in the academy, you do not recall Coriolanus and Sejanus to be very close.  They were acquaintances, yes.  Nothing beyond that.  In retrospect, Sejanus was a really lonely kid.  Everybody loved his money but friendship with him was something the Capitol kids never crossed.  The kindness Coriolanus showed him, he must have mistaken it for bond.

Poor Sejanus.

“Y/N.”  Mrs. Plinth calls you over and you fix your sunglasses back on and you head their way.

“Sorry, needed to cool off a bit.”  You smile at them.

“Oh, of course.  Would you like some refreshments?”  She asked, worried.  You smile at her, watching closely if this is real or not.  It might be.

Coriolanus swings his club and sends the ball flying to the cup.

Mr. Plinth slaps his back showering the young boy with compliments.

You are unaware that it was you who is being watched now.

“It has been difficult for my husband and I.”  Mrs. Plinth says softly as she guides you under the shade and pours you a tall glass of lemonade.

You thank her but are not letting your guard down for whatever she may spring at you.

“Our son is gone but that boy.”  She smiles in the direction of Coriolanus.  “Our son loved him like a brother.  It may be selfish on my part but I see my boy in him.”

You drop your head, watching your reflection in the lemonade.

“And he has the Plinths’ full support for his endeavors.”

This catches your attention and the woman smiles at your expression.

“In every victory Panem has, there is always a Snow behind it.”  She raises her chin to gauge your reaction.  “And a Swansworth to help them see it through.”

You tip your own chin up and watch Coriolanus do a perfect swing.

“And so there is.”  You give her a sly smile and she returns it with her own.

You might have just met an ally.

The day ends and you cannot be upset with how it turned out.

“In a better mood, are we?”  Coriolanus says cooly, lips tugging up to one side.

You shrug as you both enter the building where you both live.  “Mrs. Plinth is not an awful company.”  A playful smile is also thrown his way.  “I also enjoyed the view.”

There it is.

“Oh, you did, didn’t you?”  He stops you dead on your tracks, preventing you from getting in the elevator.

You did not let his height be a great advantage as you met him with a proud smile.  “The golf course, I mean.”

“Indeed, the golf course.”  He nods as he looks down at you, a smirk tugging on his lips.  “The golf course with its blistering heat and dry wind, that golf course.”

“Exactly.”  You smile sardonically.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I must get to my apartment.”

He lets you inside the elevator and he follows closely.

You stand next to him in silence as the elevator ascends.

A couple of times, your gazes meet in your reflection.

“I’m running as president.”

You sigh as your back meets the cold elevator wall.

“I know.”

He looks at you now, arm leaning on the handrail.

“I want you with me.”

You roll your eyes, arms crossing.

“I was afraid you’d ask.”

He chuckles lowly.

For a moment, only the soft whirring of the elevator accompanied by the classical tune playing was the only noise filling the space.

“Forgive me.”  He finally says.

It is long overdue but you appreciate it still.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

The elevator dings and you get off.  He walks you to your apartment. 

“Good night, Y/N Swansworth.”

“Good night, Coriolanus Snow.”

And you gently close the door, your eye contact never breaking until all you see is the hardwood door.

You stand there for a long time, contemplating.  Your apartment is cold and empty but the lights from Capitol reflect inside your apartment, casting a soft glow in your family portrait and you look at your father in the eyes.

“Snow will land on top.”

Hunt for Glory

[slaymitchabernathy]

Professor Snow

The lecture hall is large, every seat filled.

Students nervously whisper to one another, glancing down at the empty podium from time to time. Rumors fly around the room a mile a minute.

It’s the first day of classes at the University and everyone is nervous.

Rightfully so. For taking a class from Professor Snow is a surefire way to fail.

He’s been given the title of the toughest Professor at the University, known for being ruthless with his grading and relentless with his teaching tactics.

Which is why Coriolanus Snow strolls into the hall at a leisurely pace, setting his briefcase down on his wooden desk and slowly pulling out the contents. He’s in no rush.

He grabs a fresh piece of chalk and turns to the large board, not a speck of dust on it. A clean slate.

“My name is Professor Snow,” he says, not bothering to look back at his class, they’re all the same his students, nervous yet eager to be the best, to prove themselves amongst their peers and the Capitol elite.

“You will address me as such,” he continues, writing his name on the board, “our class meets on Wednesdays and Fridays, do not be late, and do not think my class is one you can skip. I will not wait for you to catch up.”

He glances over his shoulder and smirks at the crestfallen faces of his students, all of whom despise a Friday lecture but he doesn’t care. He already graduated and got his degree.

“This is Humanities and Ethics,” he says, finally turning around to gaze up at a class full of students, “this is the highest course level you can take which means you all either studied hard or passed with sheer luck. We’ll find out which one very soon,” he mumbles the last words as he steps up to the lecture podium.

“My class requires a textbook, I also suggest you take notes because as I said before, I will not wait for you and I will not repeat myself. I do not offer extra credit or make-up assignments, you either pass or you fail.”

Several students swallow and nervously eye each other. He can feel the tense energy in the room, everyone wanting to be the best.

He has yet to actually meet a student who can meet his expectations let alone surpass them.

“Now, let’s begin to discuss our first topic, a topic I am well known for due to my family legacy. The Hunger Games.”

꧁ ꧂

Coriolanus hands out the syllabus as his students slowly shuffle out of the lecture hall, most of them not even making eye contact after the hour-and-a-half lecture he just delivered. That suits him just fine, he’s not here to make friends.

A few young girls shuffle towards him, talking in hushed whispers and he manages to catch the last of their words before they reach for a syllabus, “…going to ask my advisor if I can drop the class.”

Coriolanus grins, there’s always those few students who have bitten off more than they can chew, not showing up to the rest of his lectures after being able to drop the class. It happens every year, coming back the next week to a few empty seats. Thinning out the weakest of the herd.

The girls take the syllabus from him with defeated faces but a soft voice causes him to look up from his task, “Thank you.”

This girl is stunningly beautiful, with long blonde hair and startling blue-gray eyes. She could be a model and yet she just listened to him talk about children murdering each other for over an hour. Well, there’s one in every group he supposes.

He simply nods before handing the paperwork to the next student who looks like they’re on the verge of tears.

But a certain scent lingers when she leaves with her friends.

The scent of vanilla.

꧁ ꧂

꧁ Three Months Later ꧂

Coriolanus sits in his office with piles of paperwork surrounding him on his desk. It’s finals season and everyone is losing their minds.

All of his students have been showing up to class with tired eyes and empty brains. They’ll probably hold off on doing their final project for him until the last second, thinking they can slide by.

It happens every year and almost all of his students fail every year. There are the few that slip by of course, but he holds no sympathy for people who procrastinate.

The sound of rain from outside his office window nearly lulls him to sleep, it’s nearly ten o’clock on a Friday evening and here he is grading papers when he should be at home having a drink.

The life of an educator.

A soft knock at the door pulls him away from his grading and he clears his throat, “Come in.”

The door slowly opens to reveal one of his students, one of his more promising students to put it plainly which surprises him.

It’s Soarynn Nightingale, the beautiful blonde girl he noticed on the first day of class. All her friends dropped the course but she stayed, sitting in the front row, always taking diligent notes and asking questions.

She’s the rare bird who possesses both brains and beauty.

“Professor Snow? I’m sorry to bother you sir, but I just had a quick question about the final project.”

He raises his eyebrows, none of his students have approached him about the project yet, too scared or too lazy. Either one will lead them to fail. But not Soarynn.

He nods and gestures for her to take a seat, “Make it quick.”

Her eyes slightly widen but she shuts the door behind her and slides into the seat across from him, brushing her hair behind her ears, “Well, I was actually wondering if you could read over my essay portion of the project, critique it if you could,” she says softly.

Coriolanus leans back in his seat, looking her up and down for a moment. She’s dressed in a blue sweater with her hair pulled away from her face today. She’s probably wearing leather boots to go along with the tote bag she carries around everywhere on campus.

“What makes you think I’d critique your essay?” He asks, a bit of arrogance in his tone but he has the power here. Soarynn frowns and fidgets in her seat, “Well…well you never seem to have an issue critiquing us when we’re in class,” she points out.

She’s got him there.

Coriolanus scoffs a laugh and shakes his head, “We are not in class Ms. Nightingale. It’s late on a Friday night and you’ve come to ask me to read over your essay out of the sheer kindness of my heart.”

“I never said you were kind.”

She’s quick. But he can be quicker.

“Give it to me,” he holds out his hand, “before I change my mind and deem this a waste of my time.”

Soarynn reaches into her bag and hands him a few sheets of paper, her neat handwriting scrawled across the pages. He scans over the essay, searching for weak points and he finds quite a few by the time he’s finished.

He looks up to find her anxiously watching from the edge of her seat. She probably worked all day on this.

“Your argument is weak,” he states, tossing it towards her, “you seem afraid to speak your mind. This is your essay, your argument, defend it. Believe it.”

Soarynn frowns and takes the papers from the edge of his desk, “But I do believe it,” she says, “the Hunger Games are unethical. Anyone with an ounce of kindness can see that.”

Coriolanus smirks, “Well as you previously stated, I am not kind, nor do I find your argument a compelling one. If you want any hope of passing this portion of the final, you’ll change your argument and write the essay again but this time, from the opposite side. Tell me why we should have the Hunger Games.”

Soarynn shakes her head and shoves her papers back into her bag, “We shouldn’t have them. Killing innocent children for pageantry and sport is wrong.”

“Why is it wrong? This is to remind the Districts of their place. They lost the war, they pay the price.”

“But their children didn’t fight in the war,” she shoots back, “they were innocent. And if the Capitol had lost and it was our children in that arena then it would mean that we’re no better than the lowest of District citizens.”

Coriolanus studies her for a moment. She has a very bright mind and she’s passionate which is rare to have both. But she’s a rare bird, Soarynn Nightingale. “Perhaps you’ve chosen the wrong line of profession,” he finally says, “this line of work is…tricky if you have too much of a moral compass. Perhaps you’d be better suited to accounting or history.”

A look of hurt washes over Soarynn’s face and he sees a hint of tears in her eyes, “You’re a whole lot like your mother,” he muses, “I remember her and her righteous heart, always wanting to help others. She didn’t care for the Games either if I can recall although I was rather young and she was not yet pregnant with you. But like I said, it’s your essay, Ms. Nightingale, so do what you want with it but that is my opinion.”

Soarynn sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, “Thank you for your time,” she whispers, gathering her things.

Coriolanus finds himself feeling…bad about hurting her feelings even though she did it to herself. He sighs, rubbing his temples, it’s too late for this shit but here he is, still at work. “Let me drive you home,” he offers, pushing himself to stand after many hours of sitting, “I assume you don’t have a ride at this hour?”

Soarynn stops in her tracks, her hand wrapped around the door handle and her eyes wide, “No,” she says slowly, “my father has a late business meeting tonight.”

Coriolanus hums, he figured as much. “Alright. I’ll drive you home then, don’t want you out on the rainy streets this late at night.”

“I don’t want to trouble you, sir.”

He shakes his head, gathering his paperwork and closing up his briefcase before grabbing his coat off the hook, “I insist. You’re still on Cornelia Street right?”

Soarynn looks surprised that he remembers but Coriolanus was dragged to the Nightingale townhouse one too many times by his father to have dinner with Glen Nightingale and then talk business afterward. He had to be at least ten years old when Mrs. Nightingale was pregnant with Soarynn.

Right before the war.

“I am,” she confirms, opening the door for both of them.

They walk down the hallways in silence, only their footsteps making noise.

Coriolanus guides them to the back parking lot where his car is parked, opening the passenger door for Soarynn who slips in and quietly thanks him.

Coriolanus gets into the car with a tired sigh, turning the keys and listening to his car rumble to life. “I’m surprised you’re here so late, most students have already gone home,” he says, looking over his shoulder to reverse the car.

Soarynn nods and looks out the window once he pulls away from the building, raindrops sliding down the glass separating them from the chilly winter air, “I was in the library,” she explains, brushing her hair behind her ears again, “studying for some upcoming exams for my other classes.”

Coriolanus doesn’t quite care about any classes that aren’t his, not when he isn’t tasked with also being an academic advisor but for the sake of small talk and politeness, he’ll ask her more about her classes.

“What other classes are you taking?”

“Panem History, Panem Architecture, I’m also taking a Chemistry class from Dr. Gaul.”

Coriolanus turns right and raises his eyebrows, “Dr. Gaul hmm? She’s a tricky one, always gave me a hard time during my mentorship.”

Soarynn glances over at him, her interest piqued, “You had a mentorship under Dr. Gaul?”

Coriolanus nods, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “I did,” is all he says.

He’s not willing to get into the gritty parts of his childhood, the war, the Hunger Games, mentoring some girl from Twelve and then following her like a love-sick puppy only to be tricked by her.

When he came back from Twelve, he was a new man. The Victor.

Dr. Gaul mentored him, he was even a Game Maker for a while before he decided to become a Professor.

“But I’m planning on getting into politics,” he adds while turning onto Cornelia Street, “this country is too far gone. It needs new leadership.”

Soarynn hums, probably not too involved or interested in politics. “My father says things were better before the war, people in the Capitol have more power now.”

“The Capitol had more power,” he corrects her, the car slowing to a stop in front of the Nightingale townhouse, “even with the Games, we’re still too lenient on the Districts. But that’s a conversation for a different class from a different Professor.”

Soarynn studies his face for a moment and he studies hers. It’s dark in his car aside from the glow of the street lamp but even in the worst lighting, she’s absolutely beautiful.

“Goodnight, Professor Snow.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Nightingale.”

He watches her get out of the car and walk up to the front door, making sure she makes it inside safely before driving away.

A rare bird indeed.

꧁ ꧂

“As this semester comes to an end, so does this class.”

Coriolanus pretends not to hear the many relieved sighs from his students as he paces in front of them, their final grades written down on the papers in his hand, “Your final grades for this class have been written down on the essay portion of your final project. If you are unsatisfied with your grade you may take it up with the Dean.”

It’s a Friday afternoon and the winter holidays are about to commence, all his students are anxious to get out of here but he has all the time in the world. At least until the clock strikes three o’clock.

“I hate to think this is goodbye,” he continues, “so it’s not. We’ll have one last lecture before you all run off to go enjoy your break.”

A collective groan fills the room and Coriolanus grins with glee. It’s so fun to diminish the younger generation.

He lectures them about small things like the inner workings of the Hunger Games, things he worked on under Dr. Gaul’s mentorship to make sure no one like his Tribute could ever win the Games again.

He paces while he talks, his eyes focused mainly on the floor beneath him or the wall in front of him but every once in a while his gaze wanders to the girl in the front row.

Soarynn.

Her eyes are trained on him, sharp but not calculating like his own.

He finishes with enough time to hand out their final grades, watching the crestfallen faces grow across the class when they realize they’ve failed. There are a few who wear triumphant grins, the few who actually paid attention and learned have been rewarded with a passing grade.

“Class dismissed,” he finally says, gathering his things into his briefcase. He has to swing by his office to grab a few binders before he himself can head home.

He follows the sea of students down the hallway, listening to them discuss their holiday plans, “Professor Snow?”

He looks over his shoulder to find Soarynn walking towards him, a determined look on her face, “I was hoping to talk to you about my final grade,” she says, holding up her essay.

Coriolanus chuckles and gestures towards his office, “Let’s discuss it somewhere private then. Grades are to be kept confidential.”

Soarynn nods and follows him into his office, closing the door behind her. It’s a bleak winter day from what he can see from out his window, there might even be some snow within the week.

“What about your grade did you wish to discuss?” He asks as he opens up his desk drawer, fishing out two binders with reports he’ll have to fill out for the yearly evaluations.

Soarynn makes herself comfortable in the seat he offered to her about a week ago, but this time she looks less nervous and more pissed off.

“You gave me an eighty-nine as my final grade,” she says, crossing her arms. Coriolanus grunts in approval, “Yes I did. The highest grade amongst your peers. You should be very proud.”

Soarynn scoffs and looks up at him, her eyes narrowing, “If I don’t have a ninety or above, it will impact my overall grade average from all of my classes. You’re the only Professor who didn’t give me a ninety or above.”

So even Dr. Gaul gave her a good grade.

A rare bird indeed.

Coriolanus sighs and places the binders into his briefcase, “Ms. Nightingale, there is nothing I can do to change your grade. Tonight I will write my final report for all of your grades and submit it to the Dean tomorrow. It’s out of my hands.”

Soarynn shakes her head, leaning on the edge of her seat, “There has to be something that can be done. Please, I need a higher grade. Just one more point. I even redrafted my essay portion after consulting you for advice. Who else in class can say they went the extra mile?”

Coriolanus watches her skirt rise higher and higher up her thighs unbeknownst to her in her moment of stress. But it does something to him.

Unlocks something within him.

How many times has he watched her twirl that blonde hair around her finger? How many times has she giggled at a male classmate's joke before class started? How many times has she batted her eyelashes at him after asking him a question?

He leans up against his desk, “You’re willing to go the extra mile then?”

“Yes.”

“Do whatever it takes?”

“Yes.”

He nods, letting out a deep sigh, “Lock the door.”

Soarynn blinks once, then twice, “Pardon?”

He sneers, “You heard me, go lock the door if you’re so desperate to improve your grade.”

Soarynn looks over at the door and then back up at him, the realization dawning on her face, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” She asks, standing up so quickly that the chair tips over, “You really think I would sleep with you to improve my grade?”

Coriolanus doesn’t say anything while she continues to spew out nonsense and insults at him, “I am not some cheap whore you can just boss around,” she snaps, pointing an accusing finger at him, “I am a Nightingale.”

Coriolanus takes a step towards her, noticing how she immediately takes a step back, “Let me tell you what you are Soarynn,” he says slowly, just like giving a lecture, “you are a very pretty girl, with a charming personality and a dazzling smile. You’re from a prominent family, you’re well-mannered and in your prime. You’ve probably kissed a few boys but it’s never gone further than that because, above all, you’re a good girl.” He keeps walking towards her, smirking when she almost trips over the chair to back away from him.

“You’re a good girl who’s waiting until marriage because you’re right, you are not a whore. But you will never be anything but a pretty little wife for your future husband.”

He’s backed her into a literal corner now, towering over her while tears fall from her eyes, “And as I mentioned when I drove you home, I plan on getting involved in politics, more specifically becoming President of Panem and I can’t do that without a good woman by my side.”

Soarynn’s eyes widen and her breaths grow shaky at his words, his silent proposition. “I could report you,” she whispers in a trembling voice, their faces inches apart, “you’ve insulted me and my character. You could be fired and arrested.”

He reaches out to take a piece of her hair between his fingers, feeling how soft it is, “But you won’t. You won’t because you’re also a smart girl and you know that being seen with a man like me could be all you need for a life full of luxury.”

Several tears fall down her face and he reaches into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief, wiping them away as soon as they appear.

“So it begs the question, are you willing to do whatever it takes?” He whispers, looking down at her, “Because if you do report me, I can make things very difficult for you darling. And I promise that once you graduate, no one will take you seriously. A pretty thing like you has been bred to be a trophy wife, not a working woman.”

Soarynn bats his hand away, glaring up at him with her stormy eyes, “You’re a monster.”

He grins, “I thought we already came to the conclusion that I do not possess any kindness.”

He wedges a foot between her own two feet, jamming his knee right below her covered cunt and Soarynn gasps, trying to push him away, “If you agree to this,” he says lowly, leaning down so his lips can brush the shell of her ear, “we can take things slowly. We can be smart. You can even graduate before I make my final move.”

She’s not getting out of this, one way or another, Coriolanus will have Soarynn Nightingale as his bride.

Soarynn whimpers, her hands clutching his white button-up shirt with frustration and fear, “I…I can’t,” she gasps, “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

Coriolanus grabs her chin with his thumb and index finger, craning her neck to look up at him, “Your future husband is standing right in front of you.”

꧁ ꧂

꧁ One Month Later ꧂

Moans fill his office, along with the creaking of his desk while Coriolanus fucks Soarynn against it.

He’s got her bent over, one leg propped up on the hardwood piece of furniture so he can fuck her even deeper.

This is by far, his favorite position to have her in.

And he’s got her in all sorts of positions these days.

Soarynn crumpled just as he predicted she would. She accepted his offer, the offer to eventually marry him should he raise her grade and make sure that she passes the rest of her classes with flying colors. Coriolanus has more than enough influence over the other Professors, and Soarynn is an excellent student regardless of his whispering in their ears.

But it’s all part of their deal.

Right now, he’s laying out the groundwork.

Soarynn will graduate at the end of the year, and he’ll turn in his official resignation to the University before announcing his campaign to run for President. He’ll make an official move on Soarynn, a public one that won’t make any fuss since she’ll just have graduated and be on the market for a good husband.

And her father will be pleased that she managed to marry a man of such stellar citizenship, not to mention a man who comes from a family with friendly ties to his own.

In the meantime, he’s been having his fun with her. Getting fully acquainted with the body of Soarynn Nightingale. He fucked her after she agreed to his deal, watched her bleed over his cock like a little virgin whore.

She cried afterward, the guilt and fear overwhelming her but he was quick to wipe those tears and whisper comforting words in her ear.

Coriolanus didn’t intend on torturing the girl, no, he had nothing against her. He just wanted to constantly be pressed against her, preferably with his cock buried in her tight, weeping cunt.

Once she warmed up to him it was much easier to get into her pants. She’d often get nervous about getting caught, both by her father and anyone at the University but Coriolanus assured her time and time again that they’d be fine. She was an adult and a consenting one at that.

Should they get caught, he’d get off without so much as a slap on the wrist. He could even throw her under the bus, claiming she came onto him in hopes of bringing her grades up.

No one would believe her.

“Fuck,” she gasps, arching her back when he lands a hard thrust into her cunt. She’s been learning what she likes more and more, letting him mold her into the perfect little sex doll to fuck whenever he wants.

Sometimes he’ll fuck her before his lecture to get out any tension. Other times he’ll fuck her late at night when he should be grading papers.

His favorite thing to do is play with her in public spaces, offer to tutor her in the library while pumping two fingers in and out of her cunt.

Soarynn is a slut through and through and he’s more than happy to take advantage of that fact, teasing her, getting her riled up before classes.

“Come on darling,” he taunts, “answer the question, which District surrendered first?”

Soarynn had come to him asking for help on a history assignment, so naturally, he had to find some excuse to fuck her. Making her do the assignment while painting her walls with his cum sounded like the perfect studying session.

Soarynn whimpers, her hands grasping at the papers she had placed on his desk, all the questions still unanswered, “I…I don’t know Coriolanus,” she whines, her walls clenching tighter around him.

He slaps her ass hard, leaving a mark and making her yelp, “When classes are in session what do you call me darling?”

He loves to punish her for little things like slipping up his name at the wrong times. Soarynn pants, her hips meeting his with every thrust, she’s getting closer to her orgasm and he is too, “Professor Snow," she whines, her nails gripping the mahogany, “I call you Professor Snow.”

Coriolanus nods, pleased she remembered the proper way to address him. They can’t afford for her to slip up in front of the wrong people, so unless they’re behind closed doors, she uses his proper title. It doesn’t help that it gives him a weird power trip, making him feel above her.

“Very good,” he says, picking up the pace, “it was District Thirteen that surrendered first,” he recalls, “the rest followed shortly after.”

Coriolanus brings one hand down to rub her clit, earning him a shriek since it’s arguably the most sensitive part of her body. “Oh please,” she begs, looking at him from over her shoulder, batting those blue-gray eyes, “please let me cum Professor Snow.”

Coriolanus scoffs and pulls his hand away from her clit to shove her head against the desk, giving him a new and better angle to fuck her in, “You’re too smart for your own good sometimes,” he tells her, “fucking teasing me.”

Soarynn’s moans are a sweet symphony as she tumbles towards her orgasm, “You…you like it though,” she argues, her assignment long forgotten.

Coriolanus hums, his other hand holding her waist tightly, he’ll probably leave bruises but he doesn’t care. He’s getting closer to his orgasm as well which is perfect timing since they both have a class very soon. He lands a few more pointed thrusts into her cunt, targeting her sweet spot every time, making her see stars.

Soarynn moans, her back arches, and her walls flutter around him as she finally reaches her peak. Coriolanus is close after her, his cum leaking from her cunt when he pulls out with a sigh. It’s a sight he’ll never get tired of seeing.

Soarynn rests her head against the desk, catching her breath while he begins the clean-up process, wiping both of them down to the best of his abilities. Soarynn lets out a whimper when he goes to clean her up but he doesn’t let her sensitivity stop him. She belongs to him now so he’ll do whatever he pleases.

“You’ll have to finish the rest of that assignment on your own,” he tells her, throwing another tainted handkerchief into the waste bin. Soarynn finally stands up, pulling her skirt back on along with her tights, “I’m so glad I came to you for help,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

Since their relationship took a rather sharp turn from an academic standpoint to a romantic one, Soarynn has let more of her real personality shine and he’s learned that she can be quite sarcastic as well as feisty when she really wants something.

She’s still pliant and submissive, but once she warms up to him she can be rather pleasant to be around. Coriolanus scoffs and wraps a hand around her neck, pulling her against him, “I’d argue that you’re always glad to come to me for any of your needs darling,” he purrs, grinning when she turns red. Soarynn is easy to put back into her place. A little humiliation is all it takes.

“I’m going to be late,” is all she has to say.

He hums, inspecting her face for a moment to make sure he hasn’t left any telltale signs that she just got fucked but he finds none. She just looks beautiful but that’s nothing new.

“Then I’ll see you later this afternoon,” he murmurs, explicitly looking forward to his last lecture of the day since it means Soarynn will be in attendance. Soarynn nods, giving him a tight-lipped smile, “Yes you will,” she confirms.

He can see the conflict in her eyes again, wondering if what they’re doing is right or wrong. Wondering what she really thinks about him, how she feels about him. It’s a battle she’s been fighting since she came to him about her final grade and he’s quick to remedy it by pressing his lips against hers.

If he’s going to fuck her all the time then he might as well make up for it with a few sweet kisses and a handful of kind words. She feeds off of those, of those promises.

She eagerly returns the kiss, their lips moving in sync. Her fingers tangle in his curls and he groans, he's forgotten how nice it feels to be touched by another person, by a woman. His other hand slides down to her waist, squeezing it. Getting to know Soarynn has been an interesting experience, getting to know her body has been more interesting.

She's so soft, so well-kept, always smelling good. She's a sweet little secret that he's happy to keep in his back pocket. Soarynn sighs into the kiss and he pulls at her bottom lip with his teeth, both of them fighting to land on top but Snow always lands on top.

Laughter can be heard from outside, a group of students passing by, and Coriolanus pulls away from the kiss, looking down at her, "You should get going, wouldn't want a mark on your perfect record." Soarynn rolls her eyes at his teasing, she prides herself on her perfect attendance.

Soarynn nods with a sigh, "Alright, I'll head out first."

Navigating this new relationship has meant dealing with several twists and turns but one thing they could both agree on was never being seen with each other. Neither of them wanted to raise suspicions from other students or faculty members, so when leaving his office or any room after being together, they left separately so as to not raise any suspicions.

It worked out nicely since he always got a good view of her from behind when she walked out.

Coriolanus cards a hand through his curls, glancing in his reflection on the glass of his cabinet that held a variety of photographs and certificates. He looked as handsome as ever.

He looks back over at Soarynn who’s putting her things into her bag, gathering her belongings and her thoughts. She buttons her shirt back up, making sure everything is in place. She puts herself back together at a practiced ease now, they’ve done this so many times it’s muscle memory.

“Good luck on your exam,” he says once she’s finally ready to leave, she gives him a nod and a small smile, more polite than genuine, “Thank you. Good luck with your lecture.”

He nods and watches her slip out of his office, leaving him alone once again. There’s so much to be done between them, setting up the proper place for them to coincidentally run into one another once she’s graduated, making sure nothing slips out.

Coriolanus had worried for a moment that she might run off and tell someone but Soarynn’s got her reputation on the line, and she wouldn’t dare risk it.

He smiles to himself and grabs his briefcase, he’s got her right where he wants her.

꧁ ꧂

꧁ One Year Later ꧂

“Good evening, Mr. Snow.”

Coriolanus gives the doorman a polite nod while walking into his apartment building, a million things on his mind.

Since resigning from his position at the University, he has since announced his campaign for the upcoming Presidential election. He’s already projected to win by a landslide considering how well-liked he is by his peers and the general public.

He’s got the looks, the education, the reputation, and now, the girl.

It all happened so perfectly.

He couldn’t have planned it better himself. And he did plan it.

He met her at the Winter Gala, an event thrown for University students about to graduate in December. She had been wearing red and he was too, it was mere fate that led them to run into each other, Soarynn on the arm of her father, Coriolanus eager to impress and compliment her on her studies.

Glen Nightingale had greeted him like an old friend and he practically was, he was a carbon copy of his father and that seemed to be close enough to Glen who insisted to his daughter that Coriolanus was the type of man she should marry.

Soarynn had hushed him off, claiming she was just focused on graduating, playing the uninterested schoolgirl part exceptionally well.

But by some miracle, Coriolanus managed to convince her to dance with him. It wasn’t frowned upon for students and faculty to mingle at events like this, not when the students were mere weeks away from graduating.

He got her a drink, made her laugh, the whole nine yards.

By the end of the night, Coriolanus was invited to the Nightingale townhouse for dinner next week after Soarynn recalled Coriolanus so generously taking her home one night the year before. That selfless act of chivalry was all Glen needed to approve of their relationship.

If only he knew that for the past year, his daughter had been stuck on the cock of Coriolanus Snow, his own little fuckdoll to play with whenever he deemed fit.

But over that year he had charmed Soarynn, now he just needed to charm her father.

He’d propose soon enough, right before the elections really picked up to give him some traction. Coriolanus had learned many things since he started dating Soarynn, one of them being that people love a pretty girl. Soarynn was as pretty as they came, endlessly charming, always knowing what to say, how to dress, where to stand.

She was perfect.

Since he began courting her however she’s grown to be a bit more…demanding. Coriolanus expected this, of course, this pushback in his plans. Not that she necessarily hated his plans, not when they included her and meant becoming First Lady, but they were on the same level now it seemed, equals.

He hated it.

With a ten-year age gap, there was room for whispers about the two of them, how Soarynn was far too young to be courting a man at his age but they paid them no mind. There were greater things at hand that people just could not see. Besides, Coriolanus preferred someone younger, more naive, and moldable.

He’s seeing her tonight, taking her out to dinner, and then a show, right where the public can see them. He’s just got to get changed before he can leave to pick her up.

He takes the elevator all the way up to the twelfth floor, making his way into his penthouse apartment where not a soul but him lives. He’s brought Soarynn here a couple of times but he’s in no rush to have her move in with him. Not when they’ll be married sooner than later.

Coriolanus sets his briefcase down in his study before making his way to the bedroom to pick out the proper attire for tonight. He selects a black suit, pairing it with a black tie and a red rose pinned to his lapel.

He spends a thorough amount of time doing his hair, ensuring that every curl is in place before he applies cologne. His face is clean and shaven and he looks exceptionally sharp if he does say so himself.

He grabs his coat before heading back downstairs to the lobby where his car is waiting for him. Now that Coriolanus is a rising politician, he can’t be bothered to drive himself places so now he has a driver.

“The Nightingale residence,” he tells the driver who inquires on where to take him. Over the past few weeks, Coriolanus has grown increasingly close to Glen Nightingale who’s a businessman at heart. Perhaps it has something to do with his past relationship with his father, but Glen is quite welcoming towards Coriolanus.

He had admitted to Coriolanus one night after Soarynn went to bed that he worried about finding Soarynn a suitable match for a husband.

“She’s a Nightingale,” he had said, “and my only daughter. I want her with someone responsible, someone who can take care of her and take care of business. She wants to do all sorts of things to change the world but I don’t want her lifting a finger.”

Coriolanus had assured Glen that his darling daughter wouldn’t have to do a thing as long as she was with him. And he meant it too.

Soarynn was too beautiful a creature to work, even if she wanted to. She often talked about using her degree to do some good in the world, and every time she went on one of her little tangents, Coriolanus would nod and listen, placing a kiss on her cheek and telling her how she already made a difference. No need to run out into the world full of evil, wicked people who would gladly sink their claws into her soft flesh.

Thank goodness he was able to get to her before anyone else could hurt her.

Coriolanus looks out the window as they drive through the Capitol streets, a light snow falling down around them. They're getting close to February and he's getting closer and closer to becoming President. He's running against a few other candidates right now but his advisor Quintus Heavensbee has assured him that they'll all drop out of the race in due time.

He just has to be patient.

꧁ ꧂

"Mr. Snow, how are you feeling about your campaign?"

"Mr. Snow! A quick word if you can!"

Coriolanus and Soarynn ignore the news outlets and their pestering questions as they walk into the restaurant. Soarynn looks like an absolute vision tonight in her pink dress made of silk, clinging to her body in all the right places. She keeps her head high and her hand wrapped around his arm as they finally step inside, safe from the photographic eye, "They're persistent," she comments, "I'll give them that."

Coriolanus helps her slide off her shawl and chuckles, "You'll have to get used to it darling, being First Lady won't be any easier." Soarynn smiles at the thought of being First Lady of Panem, a seed he planted in her head when she was having doubts about their secret relationship.

It slightly backfired on him though. Coriolanus had brought it up as a way to calm her, to assure her that she'd have everything she ever wanted at her beck and call if she were married to the President. All the dresses, jewelry, and shoes she could ever want, he would gladly give her.

Soarynn saw things differently though.

She wanted to help, to make a difference. She wanted to host charity events and make clothes for the poor. She wanted to go to the hospitals and speak with the ill, and hold hands with people nearing death.

Coriolanus simply wished to cart her around, keep her by his side, and show her off when necessary. If he took her to the races, she wanted to free every horse, if he took her to the ballet, she wanted every ballerina to get flowers.

She's got a good heart but heaven knows how fucking annoying it can be for him sometimes to hear her drone on and on about repaying acts of kindness. Hopefully, their future children don't inherit this nagging trait.

The hostess gladly seats them at their regular table, right by the window with an amazing view of the Capitol streets. Drinks are immediately served, wine for Soarynn, whiskey for Coriolanus who's had a rather tiring day.

"How was your interview?" Soarynn asks, bringing the glass to her lips.

Coriolanus sighs, taking a sip of his own drink before answering, "It was rather long if I'm being honest, Quintus said it's only a taste of what's to come for this election season." Soarynn raises her eyebrows, she doesn't dabble in politics, only knowing what Coriolanus or her father tells her.

"Well then you'll be fully prepared for when it's time for things to get serious," she decides. It's adorable really how naive she can be about things like this, always wanting everyone to go home a winner.

He smiles and tilts his head, she looks good tonight with her hair pulled back into a bun, a few pieces framing her face. One thing he appreciates about Soarynn is how classy she is, never too much jewelry or makeup, only things that compliment her natural beauty.

"Yes, well how was your day? I believe you mentioned shopping with your friends if I'm not mistaken." Despite dropping his class, Soarynn's friends managed to graduate and have since spent their days shopping and gossiping. Soarynn enjoys shopping and she certainly is no stranger to gossip, but Coriolanus has made it very clear that more things are expected of her since she's in the public eye.

"I did," she confirms with a nod, "and it was good, we went to a few department stores, I mostly browsed. I got some new shoes though. And I got some things for Petunia."

Petunia, was not something Coriolanus could have planned for if he tried.

When Soarynn graduated back in December, Glen told her she could get whatever she wanted, no budget, no questions. Both Glen and Coriolanus expected her to ask for something extravagant like a trip to a District resort or a car. Instead, she asked for a cat.

A kitten more specifically.

Coriolanus had accompanied her to the pet shop where she managed to pick the only kitten who was actively hissing at him the entire time. Since the moment they met, Petunia has been hellbent on attacking him, batting at his ankles, scratching his leather shoes. She's terribly possessive of Soarynn, hissing at him if he gets too close.

Soarynn thinks it's sweet, Coriolanus thinks it's because Petunia is spoiled rotten with toys and catnip.

Every time he sees the cat she's got a new ribbon wrapped around her neck, prancing around the townhouse like she owns the place. She's in for a rude awakening when Soarynn moves in with him because Petunia will undoubtedly come with her.

"Ah, let me guess, a new collar," he teases, grinning when Soarynn rolls her eyes. "Laugh all you want," Soarynn says, "but she's a Nightingale which means she'll only receive the best of the best."

Coriolanus drums his fingers on the table, he's getting a bit hungry and their waiter has yet to come back to take their orders, "Well I'm sure she'll look adorable in whatever you put her in darling." Coriolanus has learned that it's sometimes best to simply nod and agree with Soarynn on certain things.

He finally spots the waiter and his piercing gaze is more than enough to pin the man down and bring him over to their table. Soarynn hasn't even looked at the menu but that's because Coriolanus always orders for her. She's as spoiled as her cat sometimes.

"My apologies for the wait," their waiter says with an uneasy smile, "what would you two like this evening?"

Coriolanus clears his throat and closes the menu, taking his time. He's got all the time in the world these days. "I'll have the smoked salmon, and she will have the lamb stew." He hands the menus over to the waiter who scurries off to put in their order and he shakes his head, "The service here is getting worse, this will be our last visit," he decides.

Soarynn smirks at his decision, well past questioning his every choice which he appreciates. She used to question everything he did and it got old fast. "Well aren't you starting to sound like a politician," she purrs, her smirk growing bigger when he scoffs.

"I've been making these types of decisions long before deciding to run for President darling," he reminds her, "you forget I used to be a Professor."

Soarynn rolls her eyes before finishing off her glass of wine, "Oh, I remember, how could I forget what a helpful teacher you were?"

Coriolanus gives her a warning look, they're in a public place and she needs to watch her tongue but alcohol always makes her feisty, "Careful Soarynn," is all he says, his voice firm yet calm.

He does his best to look past the events that landed them here but Soarynn loves to remind him of how he "took advantage of her" as if they aren't both in on this little plan.

"You certainly helped yourself," she mumbles.

Coriolanus clenches his jaw, he can't punish her here but he can make her regret saying that once they go back to his penthouse. Until then, he'll play nice and enjoy this dinner he's paying so much for.

Then he can remind her of her place.

꧁ ꧂

Soarynn moans so loud whenever he fucks against her sweet spot. It's an erotic sight to watch her below him, her eyes rolling back, her mouth gaping open, her back arching off the mattress.

"If you knew how to keep your mouth shut then you wouldn't have to be tied up right now," he reminds her, his hand pressing down on her lower abdomen, another thing that makes her go crazy.

Soarynn tries to wiggle her wrists out of the necktie he wrapped them with but she fails once again. "Unfair," she gasps when he latches his lips to her neck, "you're...you're not playing fair Coriolanus."

He sits back up while continuing to fuck her and tuts, shaking his head in a disappointed manner, "You should know by now that I don't play fair darling. At least you've been granted the privilege of calling me by my first name now. Remember what you used to call me?"

His other hand wraps around her neck, squeezing until she can barely breathe, he shakes her head like a doll, "What did you use to call me Soarynn? Use that pretty little head of yours and think."

Soarynn whines, her back arching even more when he picks up the pace, "I...I called you Professor Snow," she moans, her walls tightening around his cock. Coriolanus nods, pleased she can remember something from University.

He leans back down until his lips are hovering over her lips, "And do you know what you'll call me once I put that ring on your finger and I win this election?"

Soarynn squeezes her eyes shut but he knows she's about to reach her orgasm, which means she's desperate and will do anything.

"No," she cries, wiggling against his hold, "I don't know what I'll call you."

Coriolanus smiles, pressing his lips to hers, making for a messy and heated kiss filled with lust.

"You'll call me President Snow."

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

[freekicks]

I suppose I’m not sure what you want me to do here. I could explain what a kink is or do some psychosexual analysis on why some men are into “daddies,” but I think all that would accomplish is bringing us both five minutes closer to our last breaths on earth. If it’s not something you’re into, and it’s between two consenting adults, then I don’t see why it’s our business. I’m also unsure how, as someone who is reading erotic stories in their spare time, “daddies” is the subject that compelled you to write a letter to your local advice columnist. I have read things in the realm of smut that would make the common “daddy fetish” story look like “Goodnight Moon.” Come back to me when you reach the cold, hard bottom of the slash fic iceberg. You also seem to be conflating real-world relationships with erotica. These are not the same. Sure, there can be overlap, but to go from “this fictional character crossed a line in a fictional story” to “and that’s why I’m uncomfortable with people who remind me of that character” suggests, to me, that you took a wrong turn or two navigating this ethical corn maze. It’s not even a script limited to gays. I mean, mainstream pop culture is littered with what I would consider “daddy trope” dynamics. There’s a whole genre of beauties falling for beasts. There’s a popular children’s movie about it with a singing teapot and a fruity candelabra. What is a beast, if not a daddy by another name? You be the judge. I’m certainly in no place to dictate what makes you uncomfortable. I can see how you might look at, say, a large age gap between two adults in a sexual dynamic and think, “weird!” I’ve had thoughts like that as well. But I think discomfort in and of itself is not always a surefire sign that something immoral is afoot. Discomfort can be caused by any number of factors—personal experiences, biases, preferences, and so on. [...] Sadly, it’s all too common to see people exploit power dynamics—experience, money, fame, access, etc.—for personal gain. But this isn’t exclusive to age. All three times that I’ve been violated by men, the men have been around my age. Abuse can happen in any dynamic, and while I, too, find comfort in the notion that abuse can be easily sniffed out ahead of time, that there will reliably be telltale red flags, that’s just not how things typically work. I’m also reluctant to abide by the increasingly popular belief that “power dynamics” are inherently manipulative. The reality is, there are power dynamics in every relationship. If you are involved with another person, then you have entered an uneven playing field or two. No two people will be exactly the same age, same economic class, same appearance (I hope????), and so on, and so forth. This is not violence. This is dating. These are things that have to be worked through and navigated with mutual respect. There is risk involved, yes, but risk cannot be entirely avoided in life. I hope I’m not coming across as harsh, Confused! I think, or at least hope, that you’re coming from a place of genuine concern for others and, to be sure, I’d never want to outright dismiss anyone on a subject as serious and prevalent as abuse. But on the other hand, I find myself a member of a community presently under attack by accusations of “grooming” and predation. It’s made me particularly sensitive to insinuations from any political stripe that the gays are sex monsters trolling for their next victim, or that we’re all just victims in waiting, idling around until one of those nasty older gays creeps up and takes advantage of our vulnerabilities. I’m not saying that’s what you’re doing here, but again, what two consenting adults (ADULTS) do is not my business. I can make my own judgments, but I don’t have to give my rubber stamp of approval on it. I don’t have to formally condone or condemn it. If harm hasn’t been explicitly stated, then I won’t read harm into it just because I’m uncomfortable. I am not entitled to a perpetual state of comfort.

-Advice Columnist Hola Papi (aka John Paul Brammer) responding to a letter writer who was uncomfortable about the prevalence of daddy kink in gay erotic fiction.

just thought this might be relevant to a certain fandom right now...

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐒 ❞

❝ BEING PROF. GETO'S T.A. IS SO HARD BECAUSE HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part two of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you're now professor geto's t.a. for the semester, forced to spend time with the man that you so desperately want, either of you barely able to hold back when you're around the other, so what happens when you're forced to go to a conference with him...and there's only one bed.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, so much mutual pining, bed sharing, cuddling, masturbation (f + m), oral (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), semi public sex (sorta), office sex (kinda), amateur's take on moral philosophy and ethics, art by @/nino84391425

✧ wc: 16,821 (apparently i am writing a novel lol) | part one | part three | part four

“On time for once?” Professor Suguru Geto remarks without looking up from his notes on the podium, even as your footsteps echo in the empty lecture hall, “color me surprised,” 

“Couldn’t be late on my first day as a teacher’s assistant, now could I?” and his lips curl in that damnable smile, as he finally glances up from his notes to see you looking far too gorgeous in his button up — one you had oh so generously relieved him of last night, pilfered away in your bag seemingly. 

“But you could be late on your first day as a student?” and you lick your lips, as you draw closer to him, “seems like you’re quite the hypocrite, not very ethical,” 

“Don’t think what we did last night was very ethical either,” you murmur, enjoying the way his dark eyes glaze over for a moment with the thoughts what you both did — the places touched, the moans heard, and the pleasure had — “plus, I definitely have an incentive to be on time now,” your fingers graze his, and why does his touch always feel like coming home. 

“And what’s that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, running the back of his hand against your cheek. 

“Your gorgeous face,” you smile, leaning close as your lips brush, “and some stolen kisses before class,” 

“And what makes you think you’ve earned them, my favorite student?” He teases, as his fingers slide to the back of your neck, and his other hand snakes around your waist, tugging you close. 

“Oh, I have a few ways to earn them, Professor,” your fingers drag down his chest, “but I don’t know if we have the time before class to—“ 

And his lips find yours — needy and bruising, as your fingers clutch at his shirt, the pressed fabric now definitely creased under your touch, “we’ll make time,” he murmurs, as he leans back to drag his thumb down your plush lips, “I still have many things to teach you, and what time is there like the present?” 

He’s leaning down to press a kiss to your lips— 

RING. RING. RING. 

Your eyes snap open, a groan crawls its way out of your throat, as you fumble for your phone to silence the dreaded ringing. You lie back on your bed, a distinct ache between your legs that makes you squirm, and only want to bury yourself back into your bed and possibly the reality that existed within only your dreams. 

But this was sadly reality, and you had about two hours before your first class as a teacher’s assistant for Professor Suguru Geto’s ethics and moral philosophy class. And two hours before you would see Professor Geto for the first time since you had made out. 

You turn over, pressing your face into your pillow. You wondered if you tried hard enough, if you could suffocate yourself before then. 

Probably not. That would be far too lucky. 

~~~

Professor Suguru Geto couldn’t sleep — instead he spent his time staring at his ceiling, the blades of his fans spinning above him, just like his mind was — in circles. It was as if he almost didn’t want to risk his dreams taunting him, it was the same reason he had buried himself in research over the semester break, the same reason he had put off emailing you the materials for the semester, and the same reason he hadn’t seen you since that day you had kissed. 

It was too much of a risk. 

You were risk personified, even for a risk averse theologian he liked to think himself as. But you were the thing of myths, the dangled food for Tantalus, the far too warm sun for Icarus, and the promise of gold for King Midas. But you were not a myth — you were real, his student made of flesh and bone, the same flesh he had pressed into his desk just a few short weeks ago, his legs parting your thighs, his fingers itching to rip your pantyhose off your legs— 

He sighed, this wasn’t helping — his bedside clock blinked back at him mockingly — he only had a few hours before his first class. He should try to sleep even a little. So he did, shutting his eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t dream of you. 

But he couldn’t possibly be that lucky. 

How many times have you stood in front of this office door? Your Professor, to which this office belongs, would joke that it was far too many to count — and you’d be better speculating how many times that Sisyphus rolled the boulder up the same hill. But the last time you had been in it was the thing that made you hesitate now. 

But that was your entire relationship wasn’t it? A game of chicken, wondering who would hesitate first — and neither of you were the type to hold back. Except when it came to this — except when it came to your feelings for the other. 

You shake your head, trying to shake your anxious thoughts free of their eternal bounce around your skull, and grit your teeth before finally knocking. 

“I’m actually right here,” a voice behind you says, making you jump, as you whip around, nearly pressed against his office door. And now you stood face to face with the man who owned it.

And how was it that every time you saw him, he was achingly more perfect than the time before? His ebony hair was half down, black locks brushing against his shoulders, the rest tied up in a neat bun. A crisp white button up underneath a neutral toned knit sweater vest, the shirt very much like the one you had stolen in your dream. 

Perfect. 

“Professor Geto,” you offer a small smile, trying your best to keep your eyes on his, instead of drifting over his form, “it’s good to see you,” 

“It’s good to see you as well, and so prompt,” he says, brushing past you to unlock his office, “made a habit of being on time these days?” 

“Well, when your professor reprimands you in front of the entire class, you try to make a habit of being on time,” why did it feel like your dream was repeating yet again? It’s not as if your relationship with him wasn’t cyclical enough — life imitating dreams was almost far too much. He opens the door for you, letting you enter first, before he follows you in, “and aren’t you the late one this time?” 

His lips quirk, as he rounds his desk, and takes a seat, “You really can’t make it a conversation with me without giving me shit, huh?” 

“Language,” you chide, as you sit across from him, “not very appropriate for an academic setting,” and you have to bite back the want to say that you’ve done plenty of inappropriate things in this office the last time you both were here. 

“Well, our track record isn’t known for being very appropriate, now is it?” Or maybe you didn’t need to say it, because the way he was looking at you told you everything you needed to know. But that didn’t mean either of you would act on it. He licked his lips, mouth parted to say something, his gaze heavy. 

And the moment is broken when his email goes off — you squeeze your bag a little tighter, as you busy yourself with digging through your bag for the materials to go over. That sound was nearly traumatizing in this office, not only did it usually signal the start of some assignment you had to trudge your way through — it also was the sound that had ended your relationship before it even really began. 

“Class starts in an hour, so I thought we could have this meeting just to review the syllabus and see if you have any questions — as well as just overall any questions you had about being a T.A.,” he explains, pressing his pen to his lips, “I understand this is your first time being a T.A.?” 

“It is, I hadn’t really considered it until the department head approached me about that,” and he nods, a flash of emotion that surfaces for only a moment before dissipating, “what will my responsibilities be?” 

“Good question,” a smile pulls the corners of his lips, “obviously, as a T.A., you will have office hours that you can decide with your own discretion—” 

“So it’s okay if I have them once a month at 3:00 AM?” and he rolls his eyes as you bite your lip at the sight — why was everything he did so effortlessly attractive? 

Fucking unfair. 

“Witching hour, how apt,” he murmurs, as he tilts his head, “but they should be weekly, as I’m sure you know, and held not in the middle of the night, when nights should be used for other things,” and you have to bite back your reply, like what? 

And then he continues to explain, “You can also help with some grading — mostly entering grades online for me since you know I love to handgrade,” 

“Oh yes, truly enjoyed having my self-esteem cut to shreds after receiving a paper back,” you scribbled notes down in your notebook, “glad I won’t be on the receiving end this time,” 

“If you’re good, that is,” and you knew it slipped from his lips — from the way his lips parted, the way his body froze for half a second as if he had shocked himself — and he had, because the spark between you two remained, a weed stubbornly cracking through concrete, “sorry—’ 

“You don’t have apologize,” you shake your head, waving him off, “it’s really fine,” 

“It’s not,” he said softly, placing the syllabus down on the desk, “I know we agreed to keep our relationship professional,” 

“We did,” Yes, you both did — sort of. 

“And I want us to do that—” 

And you ask the question you weren’t brave enough to ask the last time you two had seen each other, “Why is that again?” 

When the email had come, it was as if a spell had broken — the rosy colored lenses had come off, only to leave the hard glare of reality behind. Your limbs still entangled while you both reread the email off of his screen — as if it would say something different the millionth time over. 

It didn’t. 

And then the awkward clamor of disengaging, slow limbs pulling apart, as the warmth of his embrace left as quickly as it had come. Silence as the two of you let the news settle in, like a noose tightening around your necks, and you slowly slid off his desk. 

“If I’m your T.A.,” you had said slowly, adjusting the skirt of your dress, “we can’t do this, can we?” and he had only nodded, his gaze unable meet yours, fixed to the rug on the floor of his office, and he could only muster two words as you brushed past him and gathered your things—

“I’m sorry.” 

But even so, you couldn’t remember why it was a bad idea? Why was it so wrong for the two of you to do this? What difference did it make that you were his T.A.? It was still against the rules either way — it was still unethical either way — so why, why did it matter? 

But he knew why, from the way his brow creased with lines and his lips pursed and the way his eyes yet again couldn’t quite reach yours — as if you’d spot something in them that he didn’t want to see. 

“Because we’re going to working together all semester long, with students in class who will see us each week,” he licked his lips, leaning back in his chair, “because it was already problematic if we saw each other without any classes or connection, but now — if you’re my T.A. and my girlfriend, how would I even properly supervise you?” and he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he blows air through his teeth, before his voice grows softer, “how would I focus on guiding you and our students if I’m too busy gazing into your eyes or staring at your lips or wanting to—” he cuts himself off, “you know it’s not a good idea,  most of our students probably wouldn’t notice, but rumors spread and it takes one good rumor to ruin your career,” and he adds, “with how things work, you don’t need me to tell you why it would be worse for you than me, even if I tried to take responsibility,” 

And you did know, knew very well that rumors got out that the two of you were together that nothing would happen to his reputation — perhaps he would be scrutinized a bit more, some judgment and side-eye from other professors and higher ups, but he wouldn’t get vilified like you would. Called a slut or a whore — and those would be some of the kinder names you’d be called, and you can’t imagine what it would do for your career, especially if you stay in academia. And then the rumors would fester and grow, more wondering where your grades came from — whether you had obtained them through honeyed words whispered over pillows and rumpled sheets instead through late nights spent at your desk and weekends practically living at the library. 

“I do know,” you said quietly. But it didn’t mean you wanted to do it anymore than you had that day. A part of you wished he had stopped you when you had turned to leave his office, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into his arms—but this was hardly a romance novel, “and you’re right,” 

He still has his gaze fixed anywhere but your face, settling his syllabus on his desk now, the silence familiarly filling the room yet again, muscles tense if your body didn’t know whether to flee or to draw closer. 

So you did neither, and instead broke the silence. 

“So would T.A.-ing provide an opportunity for me to teach the class?” and he blinks, eyes snapping up now, as a glimpse of sadness slips away behind his now thoughtful expression. 

“Would you want to do that? I don’t know if I could allow you to lead an entire class, only because some students may take some issue with another grad student teaching them—” 

“I don’t blame them with the tuition costs,” you mutter, and he nods, “don’t nod, it’s your salary I’m paying for,” 

He laughs, a noise you wished you could bottle because you knew it’d be the same as bottling happiness, “Well worth your money after how much your writing and understanding of moral philosophy and ethics has improved,” and you roll your eyes. 

“I see your ego is the same as ever,” and his lips curl, as he crosses his legs, and you fight the cruel temptation of your gaze flickering a little downward. 

“Well, Kant did say an ego is necessary to understand the world meaningfully and therefore act in a moral way,”  you tilt your head, being defensive with philosophy? That was a new one. 

But you weren’t one to let things go — as he very well knew. 

“And he also said that an ego can lead you astray from living a moral life if we become too self absorbed,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Are you calling me self absorbed?” 

You bite back a laugh, “Well, you are certainly self interested,” and you gesture around his office, “look at this office,” 

“What about my office?” he gapes at you, and you snort, you’ve seemingly struck a nerve by how wide his jaw dropped. 

“It’s a little…pretentious,” and dare you say it, your professor had a touch of pink painted across his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, 

God he’s even pretty when he blushes. 

“I’m just teasing Professor,” and then you add, “it’s one of my more tedious qualities,” 

And he blinks, before his lips curl in the smile you never tired of seeing, “not tedious, more irritating,” 

You chuckle, before trying to get back on topic, “So you think you could work out me teaching a part of the class?” 

And he nods, “Let me discuss it with the department head — it should be fine,”

“Do I have any other responsibilities?” 

“If it doesn’t conflict with your schedule, you can also attend some classes, students can stay after and ask you questions as well,” and you nod, looking over his class times in the syllabus. 

“I can make the Tuesday one,” and he makes a note, as you rise, “we should go. Don’t want to be late for the first class now do we?” 

And he smiles the same damnable smile, “That would be a terrible first impression,” and his shoulder brushes yours as he opens his office door for you, “after you,” 

God, you thought as you stepped past him, the warmth from the brush of his body still there, this was going to be a long semester. 

If there was one thing you had learned from being a teacher’s assistant for Professor Geto’s class, it was that the students were even more desperate for your professor’s attention than you had thought. You thought your introduction had went relatively well — besides the pointed glares of several….enthusiastic students. 

After his detailed overview of the class, he reaches the resources section of the course syllabus, “Now, I am available at my listed office hours, in which you can make an appointment online. There’s also tutoring services through the university listed as well. And lastly, we have a T.A. for this class, for the very first time,” and he smiles, “Class, please meet your T.A. for this semester,” Professor Geto says your name and gestures to you, sat up in the corner of the lecture hall, and you stand, waving, “your T.A. took this very class last semester and showed great grit and dedication in the class assignments,” you have to stop yourself from shooting him a look, but you can see a hint of a smile on his lips, “She is also a philosophy student, so please, feel free to reach out to her,” 

“Thank you Professor Geto for that…generous introduction,” your pause was slight enough that he caught it, a smile tucked behind an all too fake cough, “I really look forward to working with you all — this class truly had a great impact on my perspective about the world,” and you catch a flicker of an emotion ripple across his face out of the corner of your eye, “my office hours will be posted soon, and I hope we can get to know each other well over the course of this semester.” 

You sit as the students cast their gaze forward again, and the class continues on as usual. You make use of your time by reading for some of your other classes, until class was over. 

And that’s when you really learned something. As requested, you joined Professor Geto at the bottom of the lecture hall to help field questions from the students. 

Except, the students were far more interested in Professor Geto than they were in the course material. 

But maybe it was simply because it was the beginning of the semester right? It couldn’t happen again right? 

It was a good thing you weren’t getting graded because you would earned yourself a zero. As again, the next week, students were only interested in Professor Geto — whether it was because it was for his intellect or — you glanced at the students mooning over him — something else. 

Something you knew very well. 

You were forced to watch a female student flutter her eyelashes, then another brush against him, as she showed him what passage was confusing her, and then another student couldn’t stop staring at his lips. And then you wonder, if it had been another student who kept pestering him week after week, would it have been them instead of you? Would they have shared those moments together? Maybe even they would actually gotten to be in a relationship, instead of watching other people flirt with him—

“Excuse me,” your eyes snap up from your reverie and you see two students, seemingly waiting to speak to you. 

Those students had seemingly taken pity on you and spoke to you about the class, tips, and asked about your office hours. But soon enough, the students filed out one by one until it was just you and Professor Geto. And he’s collecting his things, as he glances at you, lingering still as you check your email on your phone, “Don’t you have class after this?” 

You blink, “how’d you know that?” 

And he’s straightening his notes to place back in his bag, before he turns to look at you over his shoulder, “well you’d always rush off after class so it was either you had class or you didn’t want to be alone with me,” he looks back to his bag and you hear the click of the zipper, “I was hoping it would be the former,” he adds. 

“Well, I never lingered after class when I was taking it either,” you adjust your bag, toying with the strap — why was it anytime you were with him it felt like stepping into quicksand, the more you struggled, the more you sunk — and even if you didn’t move at all, you were still stuck all the same, “didn’t want to get in the way your students stroking your ego,” 

And he raises an eyebrow, “Are we back to my ego again?” 

“I don’t see you shying away from smiles and praise from your students,” and his brow knits together, as he places his bag down on the podium, “no wonder your ego is so large,” 

“What students?” 

“Oh please, the ones swarming your desk after clsss. Didn’t you ever wonder why so many students from different disciplines take your class?” he opens his mouth and then you add, “and don’t say philosophy and ethics apply to every aspect of life,” 

And then he seems to consider the thought, as before his lips curl, as he leans against the podium. 

“Am I detecting some jealousy?” he smirks, and you pause before you scoff — far too quickly. 

“No,” and he only smiles wider. 

He chuckles, “That was convincing. I’m glad your ability to teach is much better than your ability to lie,” 

“I’m not—“ 

“Jealous or not,” and you have to bite back your retort, his gaze freezing you in place, a softness you hated to see — because you didnt know whether it made you want to push him away or pull him close, “there’s only ever been one student who caught my eyes,” 

Ah, there is was — you were sinking again. 

“Really?” you mumble, crossing your arms, “not even one other? You have a habit of unethical behavior for an ethics professor,” 

He’s grabbing his bag, before he’s taking a step forward to whisper, “Only when it comes to you,” and you have to force yourself not shiver at his words warming your skin, “I’ll see you next week,” 

And he’s gone — as you stand in the empty lecture hall next to the podium, the very one from your first dream— and you’re right back where you started. 

Professor Suguru Geto wasn’t the type to make mistakes. He was always meticulous and methodical — he used the very principles to help guide his life — because it gave him a moral framework, a way to interpret the world and his own actions. That’s what had drawn him to ethics in the first place. But then he met you. 

And it seems like he’s made nothing but mistakes since. 

He sat in his office after he practically fled the classroom, forcing his pace to be normal, hoping you didn’t see the flush on his face. Fuck, he tossed the pen he had picked up to start grading away, what was he doing? 

He had told himself it was for the best — again and again when he watches you leave at the end of the last semester. He held his muscles taut as he watched you gather your things, stepping over the crushed pieces of both of your hearts. The two words he had barely choked were the only ones he could manage before he watched his office door shut behind you. 

It was for the best. It was for the best. It was for the best. 

That sentence was on repeat in his mind as he tried to work on his paper over the break — “try” being the operative word. It felt as if even his work hadn't been untouched by you — your impact widespread and all consuming — just as your actual touch was. 

Fuck, he rakes his fingers through his hair, how was he going to survive this week much less this semester? 

He couldn’t afford to be selfish — for your sake and his own. But it didn’t mean he didn’t want to be. He runs a hand over his face — he all but blatantly admitted that he had feelings for you after class. After promising to keep things professional — he was the worst. 

He only wished he was worse enough to do what you both wanted when you asked him in his office why you both couldn’t be together. He wanted to tell you the reasons why you should be — because he couldn’t stop thinking about you despite never seeing you over the break, his heart nearly stopped when he saw you standing in front of his office, and because he couldn’t help but smile when he could see you hesitating in front of the door — but he couldn’t help but smile when it came to you. But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

But he also couldn’t help but toe that damn line in the sand, the one that he had drawn, but the one so desperately wanted to cross. 

And then there was a knock at his door, he sighs, “Come in,” 

The department head enters his office, as Suguru blinks before he gets to his feet to offer his hand, as they exchange greetings, before gesturing for him to sit, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I saw your email about having your T.A. teach part of your class, and I wanted to get a little more detail about it,” Suguru nods, his face composed, but his body tense — paranoia scratching at the back of his mind, no one happened to see them kiss had they? No one was on campus really at that point. And the door was closed — he probably just wanted more information.  

“What questions did you have?” and the department head runs down his list — what topic would you cover? How much class time would it take? Would he be asking the class first? Would he review your materials beforehand? 

“Well, you both seemed to have thought a lot about this,” he leans back, crossing his leg over the other, “I think having her teach a part of a class is fine, but I would like you both to do it sooner rather than later,” and Suguru opens his mouth, but then he adds, “and I’d like to attend that class,” 

Suguru tilts his head, “You would like to attend my class?” He considers his words carefully, “I was under the impression, based on the rules, the only thing needed to allow a T.A. to teach was the approval of the department head,” his anxiety begins to pick away at his nerves, “it’s not unusual for a T.A. to teach here correct?” 

It was his first time having a teacher’s assistant at this university so perhaps this was a quality check? To ensure both you and him were meeting the standards of the university — and his anxiety added, and to make sure no rules were being broken by either of you. 

“Yes, it’s not unusual, and I have my reasons which I’ll discuss with you after the class,” he checks the time and rises from his seat now, “I have another meeting soon — do you think she can present in two weeks?” 

Suguru hesitates, “I’ll have to ask her but most likely that should be fine,” 

“Okay please send an email cc’ing her and confirm the details,” he says his goodbyes, and he’s gone, as Suguru sits and considers this — what could he be planning? 

Or, his nerves add, what could he be looking for? 

Either way, he pulled up your email — it was going to be an interesting two weeks. 

“Deontology determines whether an action is right or wrong based on a set of rules and principles instead of the consequences of the actions,” you speak to an empty lecture hall, your voice echoing in the silence, “therefore an act that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” 

You had come into the lecture hall to practice yet again this week. You were cursing your past self for inflicting this optional task on yourself — it had taken far more time than you had expected (what’s new?), taken far more preparation than you thought (again, of course), and now had the fun added pressure of the department head attending. And why was he attending? A wonderful and complete mystery. 

The last two weeks have been amazing for your mental health, truly. 

You were lucky the lecture hall and the building at large was deserted at 8:00 PM — all of the staff and students had all but fled, and you were left with the perfect place to practice. It had been many nights of honing your presentation to the allotted time, leaving time to pose a thought exercise, time to discuss, and for questions. 

You don’t see the door behind you open, nor do you hear it close, as you use the clicker to go through your PowerPoint, switching to the next slide. 

“For example, killing an intruder, based on the consequence would be wrong, as I hope we all know killing is wrong — otherwise, I worry about what will happen when you get your grades back,” you give a brief chuckle — and hope some of the students would pity you with some laughs, and that’s when you hear a small laugh behind you. 

Your head snaps around, flushing when you see Professor Geto standing by the door. He’s wearing a deep royal purple button up and gray slacks, the sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms. 

God, this wasn’t a dream was it? 

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, his footsteps against the floor grew closer, and your body tenses, until they stop, “go on,” and he leans against the wall behind you. 

“But when you do kill an intruder to protect your family, that’s viewed as right under deontology,” and you can’t focus with his gaze running over you, an all familiar feeling settled over you. Would life imitate dreams again? Would he come over and ask you to continue your presentation as his lips pressed gentle kisses to your neck and shoulder? Would he— 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you can’t meet his gaze, but you hear his footsteps, “should I go?” 

“No, no, it’s just,” you shake your head, “a little deja vu,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “deja vu?” 

Your blood runs cold. Fuck. 

“I don’t recall you ever presenting like this in my clsss before,” you can't decide if his voice is more thick with confusion or curiosity. 

“Yeah, no, sorry it’s nothing,” you brush him off, your eyes fixed on your notes on the podium, and you know he’s still staring, “what?” 

“I see you’re still not a very good liar,” and you scoff, “what is it that’s gotten you so bothered?” 

“Nothing,” you insist. 

“The more you say that, the less I’m convinced,” and now he’s walking closer, closer still — but you’re fixed in place, “what is it?”

“You never let anything go, do you?” And you turn, your breath catching when you saw how close he was — inches from you, his pretty eyes wide at the sudden movement, his breath warming your lips. Black strands fall in his face, and you have to stop yourself from tucking them behind his ear. Stop yourself from wanting to touch him, stop yourself from wanting him to lean forward, stop yourself from wanting him. 

Nothing good ever came from your want. 

“Only when it’s you,” but this man makes it impossible not to want him. Not when his voice is soft, not when the back of his finger, a knuckle brushes against your cheek. And no words are needed — you can hear it in the silence between you both, you feel it in the gentleness of his touch, and in the softness of his gaze. 

And you know you’re in love with him. You are.

But you can’t be. 

“I’m not telling you,” you murmur, looking away — and it seems to break the spell, as he steps back, nodding, a flicker of sadness that slips away under his facade,  “but maybe I will sometime, over a drink,” you add. 

A smile tugs at his lips, “Well we know how well that went, or didn’t go rather, and you know, we can’t anytime soon,” 

“Well sometimes an action that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Using deontology to convince me?” He tilts his head, “not a bad strategy — maybe I’ll have you write a paper,” 

“And willingly subject myself to your red pen? No thanks,” and he snorts, before the smile fades into a frown, brow wrinkled in thought, “what is it?” 

“Nothing, I’m just…” he crossss his arms, “I’m wondering why the department head wants to observe your presentation,” 

“He didn’t give any indication why?” and he shakes his head, “maybe he just wants to evaluate how good a job you’re doing,” you add, “you are relatively green,” 

“Not that green,” and you see his lips pressed together — and is he? — he was — he was pouting. You bite your lip how fucking adorable — but you know you’d be met with a scowl if you said that out loud, “don’t you worry that the dean may suspect something between us?” 

The thought had crossed your mind, but class had been nothing but professional so far, and you’d be too busy sweating bullets (and perhaps dodging them from the students if the presentation went poorly) to even consider your feelings for him. 

You sigh, “Look, nothing to do but get through it, right? It should be fine, we’ll deal with whatever comes after. As long as I don’t choke, and you don’t stare at me too adoringly, we should be fine,” 

And you expect a retort, a cheeky reply, or even a quite sarcastic one, but he only gives a small smile, “Right,”

You feel your cheeks burn and you can’t meet his gaze again without feeling your heart flutter. 

Fuck — maybe there was something to worry about. 

Despite the concerns, the presentation goes off without a hitch. You spot the dean sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, pen and notepad in hand, which did nothing to soothe your poor heart (nor did the far too many cups of coffee and the total lack of sleep). 

It happened quick — a blur of speaking, forcing yourself to slow your words down, a necessity when presenting — as you knew you always spoke faster than you believed you did when presenting. You think you even made the students laugh a few times, led an interesting thought experiment with a rousing debate that ended with no clear answer (as always), and then you answered questions. 

All the while, Professor Geto stood in the back, and you’d catch a glimpse of him by the corner of your eye, his lips curled in that smile that haunted all your nights and days. 

By the time it was done, you had barely realized time had gone so quickly, as you passed the metaphorical baton back to Geto. And you took a seat off to the side, opting to watch him lecture, rather than busy yourself with other work. 

It felt like old times, you thought, as you watched him speak. You couldn’t blame the people that took his class just to watch him speak — he was unfairly beautiful when he spoke, gesticulating as he read a Kant quote. And you kept your face as neutral as possible, but he catches your eye for a moment, corner of his lip twitching upwards. And a flush settles over your cheeks, as you discreetly press your thighs together, trying to look suddenly engrossed with your notebook. 

Your heart ached as much as your body did. You wanted to walk over and just kiss him, swallow his smart words along with his gasp, and feel those hands run along your body. You wanted to know every thought in his head, every part of his day, and fall asleep beside him. 

You glance up to see him still speaking — a black strand falling in his face. You bite your lip, before looking back down. 

This man would be the death of you — and it was even worse being alone with him. You’re thankful that your T.A. check-ins with him were every other week, because you couldn’t imagine having to spend more than an hour with him every other week. 

“You want us to do what?” You blink at the Dean, his lips curled in a smile, his hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Apologies for all the secrecy, I did not receive confirmation about this until earlier today,” he explains, “but I want you two to attend this conference on ethics and philosophy  — it’s over the weekend, two weekends from now. It would be a wonderful opportunity for the both of you to make connections and attend presentations, as well as mingle with prospective students. It would also afford us an opportunity for both of you to help put our university on the map,” 

You glance at Professor Geto, his lips parted in surprise, “Sir, is it appropriate for a male professor and a—“ 

“Don’t worry, the accommodations will be separate and it’s a public event, as long as everything remains professional, there’s no problem, right? As long as you two are okay with it and there’s no problem,” he glances between the two of you, “is there a problem?” 

And Professor Geto’s eyebrows knit together. It was a lose-lose situation — saying no meant raising some suspicions that there was an issue between the two of you, but saying yes meant going on a trip with the same professor you had kissed at the end of the last semester. And if anything happened on this trip...it could be very bad — ethically and otherwise. 

So you make the decision for both of you. 

“That’s fine. I’m happy to attend if Professor Geto is,” and you know you have no choice — you had to spend the weekend with him, alone. At a conference. In a hotel.

“Do you have everything?” Professor Geto asks, as you hand him your suitcase, your fingers brushing as you do.  He lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car, his black t-shirt riding up as he does, a quick flash of the expanse of his muscles—

Fuck, you bite your lip, stop, stop. Professor. He’s a professor. 

It didn’t matter that you had felt him part your thighs, as his lips slid against yours, nor that every time you saw each other, you felt this undeniable ache to touch him, comfort him, hug him, nor that you knew he felt the same and wanted to give in as badly as you did—

No, it didn’t matter. 

You consider his question, scrunching up your face in thought, “I think so, wait,” you snap your fingers as he glances at you, “forgot the rest of my apartment upstairs — you think that’ll fit in there too?” 

He smirks, rolling his eyes as shuts the trunk, “Ha, ha, ever consider becoming a comedian instead of a philosophy major?”

“Every day, but then I think what would my favorite professor do without me?” 

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m your favorite?” 

“Who said it was you?” you grin at him, as he shakes his head and you open the passenger door seat and slide in, as he slips into the driver’s seat. He adjusts his mirrors, buckling his seatbelt, as a sudden wave of guilt bombards you. You had dragged him down this rabbit hole with you — and now the two of you had to spend the entire weekend together, alone. 

You lick your far too dry lips, “Sorry if I roped you into this,” you fidget with your phone, tapping on the screen absentmindedly. 

He starts the car, engine roaring underneath your feet, before he glances at you, brow furrowed in seeming confusion, “What? It’s not you that roped us into this,” 

You purse your lips, “But if I didn’t agree to it—“ 

He sighs, “We were in a position where we didn’t have much of a choice,” his fingers drum against the steering wheel, as his eyes flicker to make sure your seatbelt was on, “it’s not your fault — and it’s not a bad thing — we’ll spend time at the conference, we’ll mingle, and then return to our hotel rooms,” he adds, “don’t worry. Nothing will happen.” 

And his reassurance is almost a punch to the gut instead — and your brain chides you for being so childish — you knew it was for the best, you knew it was the right thing to do, and you knew he was trying what was best for you, and for him. 

But why did it hurt so goddamn much? 

You steal a glance at him as he pulls into the street and begins to drive, dark gaze forward, his hair tied into its usual neat bun, and a chain poked out from underneath the rounded opening around his neck. And then your eyes flicker back out the window.  

Was it really not a big deal to him? 

Because the last two weeks were consumed with nothing, but thoughts of being alone with him. Days spent in conferences, sitting beside each other, whispering thoughts and inside jokes; evenings spent socializing together, waiting for the other to give the signal to leave; and nights walking back to your rooms, fingers brushing as you walked beside each other. You were sure it would take a slight bend of the rules, a gaze that lingers a little too long, to break the paper thin resistance either of you had to the other. The two of you could barely be alone for more than a few minutes without temptation rearing its ugly head — even now your eyes can’t help but trace the curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches his eyes, the way your fingers want nothing more than intertwine with his hand that rests on the console between you two. 

But you don’t. You give a weak smile, glancing out the window as the streets of Tokyo pass you by — “Yeah it should be fine.” 

Just fine. 

“There was a problem with your reservation,” 

And after half an hour of waiting off to the side, with your luggage stacked up and irritation creeping its way to a new high as you watched others easily being checked in to the hotel, you assumed there was a problem. If there wasn’t a problem, you would wonder if this was a new take on Waiting for Godot that would end with the both of youu sleeping in the lobby. You rubbed at your temples, as Geto dealt with the hotel staff, his arms crossed, lips a tight line, “the hotel double booked one of your rooms, so we only have one room available for you.”  

You barely heard the rest of the argument your professor had with the hotel staff, the same phrase ringing in your ears — one room, one room, one room. With nothing more to argue about, they finally escorted you both to your room in awkward silence. And as they opened the door, you spotted it — there was only one single queen sized bed. 

One. Bed. 

You felt your cheeks flush, as you couldn’t even meet Geto’s eyes, as he began to speak heatedly with the manager again. And the excuses began, as the manager wrung his hands, about how no other rooms being available due to the conference and another event happening in town. 

“There is a couch though,” he offers,  pointing to a far too small couch, and the sharp glare that Geto gave him would put even his red pen to shame, “we will see about comping half—“ Geto crosses his arms, “all of your stay here,” and with that, he’s gone. 

“So,” you sigh, glancing at Geto, with a strained smile, “I have dibs on the bed?” 

Was this a cosmic joke? You wondered as you turned off the water of the shower, squeezing your eyes shut. Was this a version of ethical karma for what you had done last semester? An ultimate ethical test that you would surely fail? A fucking prank show? 

You didn’t know. You dried off and got dressed, pulling on a t-shirt and shorts, your hair still damp, as you took a breath and stepped out, towel slung over your shoulders. 

Geto was still on the phone, pacing back and forth — he was trying to call other hotels to see if there was anywhere else with two rooms or at least a room with two beds.

“Yes I understand it’s very last minute—“ he sighs for what must have been the billionth time today, “yes, there was a mistake at the hotel I’m staying at—yes, ok, well, thank you,” he hangs up, setting his phone down. 

“No luck?” You sit on the edge of the bed, wiping your hair, and he shakes his head. 

“The one thing they were right about is that every hotel room is booked solid — not only is our conference in town, but there’s a physical science consortium happening as well,” he rakes his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “I’ll have to give the Dean a call to update him on the situation,” 

You nod, “So what should we do about sleeping?” And he can’t quite meet your gaze, “are there no trundle or rollaway beds?” 

“No, apparently those have all been spoken for,” he grumbles, and he prepares to call the dean, “I’ll take the couch, you can have the bed—“ 

“Professor, we can—“ and his gaze snaps to you, “we can share—“ 

“No, we can’t,” he says softly, “you know we can’t do that,” 

“We’re both adults—“ 

“And we’re still a professor and a student,” he draws the line between you two again, the gash even deeper than before, the gap that’s meant to keep you safe — the chase meant to protect you — so why did it feel more like a punishment? “I’ll take the couch,” and he calls the Dean to update him on the situation. 

You busy yourself with drying your hair in the bathroom, before coming back out to see him hanging up the phone. 

“Well, are we in an ethical bind or should I go sleep in the lobby just to show there’s no funny business?” And he shoots you a look, “there have been stranger bedfellows,” and he opens his mouth, “and a single word comes out of your mouth, and I’ll join you on that couch,” 

And a very pretty flush adorns the tips of his ears and cheeks, “He said it was fine, it was out of our control, but to just document everything, including the hotel’s incompetence for legality reasons,” 

“You’re also a lawyer as well as a professor?” 

“You have to hedge your bets,” he shrugs with a smile pulling at his lips, before he checks the time, “I’m going to take a shower,” he sighs, pulling his hair from the messy bun, letting his black locks down. And you watch him run his fingers through his hair again, sighing, as he heads into the shower. 

You lay on the bed, biting your lip — as you turn over to use your phone, as the shower turns on. And you glance at the closed door — the thought of him in there, pulling his shirt over his head, shedding his pants and boxers. Your cheeks burn, burying your face in your pillow as if that would help (it did not). 

You curl up on the bed, turning away from the bathroom door, using your phone. And a few minutes pass, as you kind of drift off into sleep, and you hear a creak of the bathroom door open that rouses you from sleep. You don’t move at first but you hear shuffling, the sounds of a zipper. You finally turn on your other side, eyes fluttering open, and you’re met with the sight of bare skin. 

You blink, eyes flickering up to see your Professor’s flushed face, before your eyes slowly following a bead of water slip down his bare chest, black hair dotting along the middle of his chest and abs, down to a happy trail that was hidden by a towel wrapped around his waist. His clothes in his hand, and your eyes find his own, your lips parted and mouth impossibly dry. 

Oh. My. God. 

“Uh—“ and his cheeks flare red, as you try your best not to let your eyes flicker downward, “I forgot my clothes—“ and you turn away, as he darts back into the bathroom, “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled through the door. 

“It’s okay!” You reply, your heart thumping against your ribcage, squeezing your eyes shut to only be met the memory of his bare torso, “fuck,” you mumble under your breath, as you turn onto your back, and stare at the spinning ceiling fan above you. A distinct ache below at the thought of him. 

Your eyes flickered to the shut bathroom door. You hear the sound of water running again — maybe he needed to wash up again. Either way, you slid under the comforter, hand slipping into your shorts, you had some time. You wish you could have grabbed his hand before he fled into the bathroom, sat up on your knees, fingers sliding to his cheek. 

“Kiss me,” you’d murmur, and he would, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips sweetly, as your fingers glide up his bare chest. You’d swallow his gasp with delight, as your other hand finds his wet locks, fingers tangling in his black locks, “please,” you would guide his fingers to the hem of your shirt and he would oblige, lifting up and over your head. And your fingers would tug his towel away, letting it fall to the ground. 

Your fingers press against the wet patch on your underwear, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you gasp, imagining it was instead his eager fingers that tugged your shorts down. You sunk one finger in and then another, pumping slowly, and you knew he would get you ready for him. He would fuck you with his thick fingers, as his mouth latched to your clit, sucking gently as he fucked you open. You moaned his name softly, as you imagine his fingers stretching you open. 

“Do you want me, my pretty girl?” He would murmur between your thighs, lips glossy with your release, “s’good for me, taste as good as you look,” and he would press your back gently into the mattress as he would meet your lips again before, rubbing the tip of his cock against your puffy lips, “tell me what you want, Princess,” 

“Please,” you whispered, as you moved your fingers faster, adding a third finger, but you know his cock would feel so much thicker, and reach so much deeper, “fuck me,” 

And he would, sinking into you, his pretty cock parting your folds, his quiet grunts and moans whispering in your ear, as he works himself inside to the hilt. His lips would find yours as he would rock his hips into you — your cunt would flutter around his length. He would press your thighs apart further, long fingers digging into your soft flesh, the wet squelch of your cunt and the sounds of his skin slapping against yours would ring in your ears.

“S’close, Sugu—fuck,” you would keen against him, instead of your fingers, “please,” and his thumb would find your clit, just as yours did, and you would cum all over his cock, squeezing around his length, as he sinks even deeper, until his tip is brushing against your cunt. The moan of his name slips out, as you press your forearm against your mouth to barely stifle it. 

Fuck, you come down from your high, panting. And you glance at the bathroom door, thinking you’ll clean up once he gets out. You roll over in bed, as you pulled the pillow over your face. 

This was going to be a long weekend. 

Suguru lingers in the bathroom for far too long after that, the embarrassment of the moment still far too fresh in his mind, his cheeks still a dusty pink at the thought. Not only was it bad enough that he was trapped in this hotel room with you for an entire weekend, but now he had paraded out practically half naked for you to see. 

Fuck his life. 

He had hurried into the shower if only to get a break from being in the same room as you. It had been hard enough to endure the last few weeks as a T.A., but now he had to spend an entire weekend sharing a hotel room — and deal with situations like that one all weekend. Seeing you emerge from the bathroom, only in a t-shirt and shorts, still damp from your shower — wet hair in messy tangles that he wanted to run his fingers through— and that’s why he excused himself to the bathroom. A reprieve if only for a moment. If he had only remembered to bring his clothes into the shower — he wouldn’t have had to finish his shower, with only his discarded clothes to wear that had slipped off the clothes rack and onto the damp floor. 

He had stepped out, towel around his waist, as he peeled out, only to see your back to him, the sounds of soft breathing told him you were asleep. And he crept out, silently cursing as the door creaked and rifled through his suitcase for clothes. He had found them, and gone to retreat back when you roused and turned all at once. 

God, he sighed, it was such a mess. 

But the way you looked at him…lips parted, gaze flicking across his body, the way your eyes lingered a little too long on his torso — and now he had an entirely different problem. 

His cock tented against the towel, as his eyes slid to the bathroom door. What if he just hopped into the shower for a second again? The towel dropped to the floor, as he steps back into the shower, turning on the water. 

He groans, his fingers slide over his mortifyingly hard erection, teasing his slit as he would imagine you would, as you would open the bathroom door, murmuring his name, “Professor? Are you okay?” And you wouldn’t wait for his answer as you stepped into the shower with him, eyes raking down his body, a teasing grin on your lips, “not very ethical is that?” And your fingers would curl their way around the base of his cock, making him shudder with pleasure, “I can take care of that,” and you would kiss down his chest and stomach, even despite his protests, until you reached where he wanted your touch most. 

And god, you would look so pretty on your knees for him, as your fingers pumped him far too slowly, teasing him with a chaste kiss to his tip, tongue dragging against his slit, better than how his thumb did, “s’good for me, Professor,” you’d say, when you heard the hiss he just let out, “I wonder what other sounds you could make for me,” and your lips would close around his tip, sucking lightly, as he gasped, his other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his sounds. 

He would look down with half lidded eyes, and see your head bobbing as you took him so well, your fingers toying with his balls, spotting your eyes flicking up to meet his — glazed over and desperate, just he imagined his were. Your mouth would feel so much better than his hand, the wet squelch of his pumping would not compare to you swallowing around him, sucking and licking around his length, his pre-cum and your drool slipping down the corner of your mouth. 

You’d swallow around him, as his fingers would slide into your hair. And maybe you would let him fuck your mouth, hips rolling slowly as you adjust, before he slowly would thrust faster. He would repay the favor tenfold once you were done, burying himself in your sweet cunt, until you were begging him to stop. His fingers moved faster around his cock, his low groans and wet squelch bouncing off the bathroom walls, hopefully drowned out by the running water.  Fuck, he wished he would feel how it would to have his tip brush against the back of your throat. 

He was close, the twitch of his dick in his hand told him so, and he imagined what it would be like to cum in your mouth, watching you swallow his release, if you’d want to, or cumming all over your face or chest, letting his cock drag over your tongue as he pulled out. 

Fuck, he shudders, moaning your name against his fingers, he cums all over his hand and the wall of the shower, his release running down mixing with the water. He rinsed his hand off, leaning his head under the water again, hoping it would wash away any traces of you. 

It didn’t. 

And as he emerged from the shower, making sure any trace of his act had slipped down the drain, but the towel around his neck, wondering if you’d see what he did on his face. But you wouldn’t — because you were fast asleep. 

His lips curled as he watched you sleep for a moment, your lips parted, curled up facing away from the bathroom — your feet sticking out of your blanket. He adjusts the blanket for you, and you shift a little in your sleep, mumbling something under your breath, before settling back in. 

And he bites his lip before turning away — he would never be clean, would he? 

Not when it was you. 

“How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you murmur, the smile plastered on your lips nearly starting to chip and crack. 

Professor Geto sipped at his drink hiding his frown, long fingers cradling the wine glass far too perfectly, “at least another hour,” he sighs, “when in academia, one must get used to mindless conversing if only it will lead to another needless connection,”

And this day had been nothing but an exercise of that — lectures, panels, presentations — any other word that meant someone or several someones sitting in front of you, talking at you — with only maybe 30% of the people actually listening (if you were lucky or interesting). And now you were one hour deep into a mixer that had you engaging in dry chit-chat that had your mind going numb by the first ten minutes. Your only reprieve being by Geto’s side. 

You hated how he could make the dullest of things enjoyable for you, or rather—

You hated how much you loved it 

“How pithy — Plato?” And he snorts, as you finish off your own drink, “I’m going to get a refill, do you want anything?” He shakes his head, and you head off to the bar. 

You were so restless after sitting for so long. Not to mention the slight rash you got from not washing up soon enough. You woke an hour and half later and cleaned yourself up — luckily Geto had passed out by then. You saw him sleeping half scrunched up, half sprawled out on the couch — one of his legs were hanging off the couch — and even his blanket had slipped off. You stifled a small laugh, taking a quick picture of him — so stubborn that he wouldn’t sleep on the bed with you. Your gaze had softened, as you picked up the discarded blanket and placed it over him softly, your fingers gently tucking some of his hair from his face. You fell asleep again after heading back to bed, and woke up refreshed — while Geto had woken up with a very sore back and neck. 

“Can I get…” you look at the menu, ordering your favorite drink, standing by the bar as you adjust your dress, you had opted for a black dress with sheer tights — one you had worn a suit jacket over it. You tap against the bar top, checking your phone as you do. 

“Can I get what she’s getting?” A dark haired man sidles up beside you, his mouth curled in a smirk drawing attention to a scar in the corner of his mouth, and his voice drops to a whisper, “though I think I’d enjoy you more than the drink,” 

You raise your eyebrows, “and I think you’ve certainly had enough tonight,” you say under your breath, giving an awkward chuckle, but he doesn’t seem to notice as the bartender comes back with your drink. Your eyes flicker over the crowd as you search for Geto but you can’t find him. 

“What’s your name, pretty?” And your skin crawls as his dark gaze slides over your body, “mine’s Toji,” and you bite back a sigh, introducing yourself, “it’s very nice to meet you — I’ve met a lot of people tonight but you definitely have been the most interesting,” and the bartender comes back with his drink. 

“Then you must have not met a lot of interesting people so far,” you say, eager to look for any out to escape this conversation, “my friend is waiting—“ 

“No, I’d say that you’re just that interesting,” he sips his drink, “can I get you another drink?” 

And right when you’re about to respond, “No, I don’t think she’s interested,” And you tense a moment before you register the familiar voice, Geto smiles at Toji, if you could call that a smile — it reminded you of one a predator gave its new prey, “especially because she’s a student, and you’re most assuredly not,” 

Toji raises an eyebrow, “But she is an adult, she can speak for herself, so why don’t you let her, Professor?” 

“Because—“ his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach for you but he can’t. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. And you know why he can’t. 

Geto’s smile wavers, and you intercede, “I can, and I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” you pay your tab, “let’s go back to the hotel, Professor,” 

And Toji pulls his card out, handing it to you, “If you change your mind,” he raises his glass, leaning against the bar, before he leans closer to you, whispering, “if you ever get sick of him, call me,” 

You give a polite smile, tugging Geto away until you reached the outside of the building, silence filled the space between you two, until you found your way outside. 

“What did he say?” He asks as he calls a car back to take you both to the hotel, and you don’t know how to answer that — not without making it worse, “actually, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked,” 

“Professor—“ 

“You’re an adult, he’s right — you should be allowed to make your own choices,” he licks his lips, his eyes still fixed on his phone screen, “I’m sorry if I—“ 

“Can you let me speak?” you sigh, as you wave your hand in front of his phone so he would look at you, and his eyes meet yours, “you’re fine — I was trying to get out of there — I just felt very trapped.” 

He huffs out a chuckle. “When you took that long, I wondered if the group of solipsists had taken you hostage,” 

You grimace, “I guess when you believe everyone else is an illusion, you also think manners are an illusion too,” he laughs in earnest now, “now there’s a real smile,” He tilts his head, “the smile you had inside, real scary kind of smile,” you tease, as his eyes can’t quite meet yours.

“Oh yeah?” he suddenly seems very interested in his phone, “our rideshare is almost here,” 

“Almost like you were jealous,” and he scoffs. 

“Of him?” 

“Uh huh, he is pretty attractive, maybe I will give him a call—“ and you notice him grip his phone tighter, and your lips curl, “but I probably won’t, not really my type,” 

“Not your type?” he asks. 

“More into the intellectuals, that man was far from it — I like an academic, sweater vests, glasses, a pretentious little office—“ and the glare is back, as you laugh, the rideshare sparing him from you continuing this conversation, but you also didn’t get to see the slight smile on his lips as you slipped into the back of the car. 

“Just sleep on the bed,” you say for probably the thousandth time, but he only shakes his head, as he sits on the couch, combing out his black locks. Even freshly showered, he looks unfairly hot — a loose gray t-shirt with sweatpants, contacts switched to glasses, and now his hair brushed against his shoulders. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch — it was fine last night—“ 

“Your spinal cord would beg to differ,” and he looks unamused, as he struggles with his comb, “what are you doing?” 

“I can’t get this knot out of my hair, and I can’t get you out of my hair either,” he adds, as you roll your eyes, slipping off the bed and walking over. You ease the comb from his fingers, biting your lip at the brush of his fingers, “what are you—“ 

“It’s easier if someone else does it,” and he sighs, giving in, as your fingers undo the knot in his hair gently, “your hair is really smooth and fine, probably why it tangled so fast,” and he only hums in response, his body relaxing under your touch, as you comb through the rest of his hair. You bite back a smile, he’s almost like a cat, keening under your touch, “feels good?” You murmur. 

“Yeah, it does,” and you don’t want the moment to end, you want this excuse to touch him to remain, the first time you’ve been able to breach this wall between you two — and it’d be over in an instant, “I think that’s good,” he mutters. 

He lays his head back on the top of the couch to look up at you — pretty obsidian orbs stared back at you — and your heart squeezes. He was so close, within reach, and all you had to do was lean down, press your lips against his, and maybe you wouldn’t have to tiptoe anymore, maybe you wouldn’t have to hide from him, maybe you could be— 

“We should go to bed,” he sighs, the moment breaks, as he sits upright, adjusting his pillow on the couch beside him, “we have an early start,” 

“Don’t remind me,” you turn back to him, “but you’re right - we should go to bed—“ you grab his pillow, “on the bed,” 

“No—“ 

“Like you said, we’re both adults,” you tilt your head, as he purses his lips, “I think I can handle sleeping in bed beside you, just sleeping, we can even put a pillow between us,” and you add, “if I try anything in my sleep, you challenge me to a pillow fight, and push me off the bed,” 

He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I really can sleep on—“ and then you raise your eyebrows, eyes flicking to the hand on his neck. He sighs, “fine, but I really will push you off the bed, I’m a restless sleeper,” 

“Then it’s equal opportunity,” you grin, as you slip into your side of the bed, stretching. Suguru is slower to get in, taking his time and adjusting his pillow and blanket before he finally gets into bed, “good night,” 

“Good night,” he turns to face away from you as he sleeps and you do the same. 

But it wasn’t a good night. Not when you couldn’t fucking sleep. 

For someone so smart, you really were very stupid. The bed that seemed expansive and open yesterday now felt Tom Thumb tiny, every shift of your body felt like a ripple effect, as you’d feel the slight shift of Geto right beside you. He was so close — you swore you could nearly feel the heat radiate off of him, the weight of his body beside you felt far too close and way too far — a chasm you could never cross.

And it was close to driving you insane enough to follow your wants all the way down it. 

But you couldn’t — but you could look, stare into the void, without becoming part of it. 

You shift again to face him this time — how could the back of someone’s head be so beautiful? Jet black locks that you had combed yourself fanned out on his pillow. But you could spot the nape of his neck through the tresses, a lovely spot that you only wished you could lean over and bury your face in. Your eyes began to droop. 

Hypnos finally took pity. You could only sleep this way. Your eyes finally flutter shut — you should have known — you were always the most comfortable with him in your sight. 

Suguru knew that you had fallen asleep — because your soft breaths fell into a rhythm, the crinkle of your sheets had grown silent, and the loud thoughts that filled up your head had gone quiet. He was glad one of you could sleep. 

He surely wouldn’t get a wink tonight. 

This was certainly more comfortable than the couch, but at least he had slept on the couch. He would be lucky to get thirty minutes at this rate. This weekend had already been too much — and he felt his will to stay away from you slowly snapping, a few strands away from breaking away completely. 

When he had seen you with Toji — he didn’t think, he just acted. He could see you were uncomfortable, the way your body leaned away from him, the way your eyes flickered around the room, and the way you toyed with your glass. It was a simple choice, but what happens when the next person that flirts with you is someone you’re interested in? Would he have to stand by and simply let it happen? Watch as you’re able to date this person but not him simply because of his title? 

He was jealous. Not of Toji — but of the idea of you being with someone else — of your attention drifting from him, of you drifting from him. He turned to lay on his back, he really was fucked wasn’t he? 

He turns his head to look at you. It never helped that you were effortlessly adorable, even now as you slept. Lips parted, body curled up, your hair falling in your face yet again. His fingers tuck a strand behind your ear gently, and you shift, a quiet hum leaving your lips as you settle back into the arms of the sandman. 

How were you so close but so far? You were mere inches away but you might as well be across the country. Because he couldn’t touch you, he couldn’t hold you, he couldn’t kiss you. The kiss he shared with you haunted his dreams — a daydream wrapped up in the nightmare of reality. He couldn’t ask you to wait — wait for your degree to be completed so the two of you could date. It wouldn’t be fair to you, but what about this was fair? 

And he turns on his side to face you, his fingers brushing your cheek gently — maybe if he couldn’t be with you in reality, he could allow himself to dream, his eyes flutter shut. 

Just for a moment. 

And his unconscious allows it — allows him to dream of you. 

Dream of your face buried in the crook of his neck, your soft breaths warming his skin, his nose buried in your hair. Your fingers grasped at his shirt, your other hand thrown over his middle. Why was your scent so intoxicating? He sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, and you shift, your leg sliding around his waist, as you pressed closer, pulling a groan from his lips as your core grazes right against his morning…visitor. 

And you move again, nose brushing against his collarbone, his name on your lips, quietly whispered like a secret against his skin. It was perfect — you were perfect. 

But what if this wasn’t a dream? The back of his mind prods — but that’s not possible, he was home in bed, right? This wasn’t real. It was the same dream he always had, of waking up in your arms, a lazy morning spent together in bed, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the sheets becoming dappled in sunshine. 

No, there was no way this was real, he sighs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, but even if it was, he thought as he drifted, he didn’t want to wake — not yet. 

A distinct buzz stirs you from your sleep. But you don't want to wake — you were far too comfortable. But the buzzing persists, so you reach blindly for your phone and to turn off the alarm. And settle back into bed, eyes still shut, as you find your way back onto your pillow — or what you thought was your pillow. 

Except pillows didn’t move, or have an arm they could wrap around you. 

Your eyes open, to find yourself entangled with someone else — your brow furrowing in confusion that melts away to silent horror. Professor Geto. 

So much for sticking to your sides. 

Fuck.  

You tried to extricate yourself to no avail, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush to his body, your legs entangled, aside from your leg thrown over his waist, you realize, a small squeak escaping your lips, as you try and fail to move away. Instead you brush up against something very…hard. 

You flush, cheeks burning so hot that it’s truly a miracle he didn’t wake from the heat of your skin against his alone. His morning wood was pressed right against you, nearly between your thighs — just like the last time it was  against you — why the fuck would you think about that now? You resisted the urge to press your legs together — lest you have another new problem, and a mess to deal with. 

You manage to only pull your head away, urging yourself up so that your faces are an inch or two apart now. His soft breaths warmed your lips, his brow relaxed, locks of black hair fell in front of his eyes. Your fingers reach and tuck the locks behind his ear, tips skimming his skin. And the arm around you almost seems to tighten, and you bite your lip, the comforting presence of his arms far too tempting to drag you into wanting — as if you ever left. Wanting was dangerous, because wanting can only ever lead to need, needing him was as foolish as it was to share a bed with the man you were in love with. 

But how foolish was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away? It was okay right? Okay as long your lips didn’t touch, as long you didn’t follow this slope all the way down — it was treacherous to press forward, but why did you want to anyway?

Your eyes flutter shut again for a moment — and your eyes glanced at the morning sky — the sun had just breached the horizon. You could allow yourself a few minutes — even if you had to give up a lifetime with him. 

The blaring of your phone only seems to grow increasingly loud, as you give a small groan, rolling over to your phone again, slapping the screen to snooze it again. And your eyes flutter open a moment, lazily flickering over the screen — 8:45 AM. 

Your eyes close — before your mind fully wakes — 8:45 AM? 

“Fuck,” you shoot up to get up, a tangle of limbs,  jolting Geto awake, his eyes popping open, his arm instinctively grabbing you by the waist, and you land with an oomfph back onto the bed—wait, not the bed. 

Your hand pressed against his chest, your body against his, noses brushing, your eyes unable to tear away from the other — his eyes were even prettier this close — a dark brown, nearly black, with flecks of another color — purple? You can’t tell if that’s your heartbeat or his that’s racing with how close you are, chest to chest. And even as you try to shift, you make it worse by slipping, your hips rubbing against each other’s. 

Fuck. 

You both freeze for a moment, his eyes flickering to your lips and back, as yours does the same, before you both scramble apart. 

“We’re late. We’re really late,” you spring out of bed, grabbing random clothes from your suitcase, “I’m going to get ready, really fast,” you don’t even bother to look at his expression, and you almost wished your heart had shattered your ribcage, with how fucking hard it’s beating, if only that you wouldn’t have to spend another day in the conference with him. 

You sighed, as you brushed your teeth hurriedly while doing your hair — well maybe a lecture or presentation would take your mind off this morning. 

So that wasn’t a dream, Suguru was only glad you didn’t even glance at his face when you ran off, or you would have seen the lovely tomato red that graced his cheeks. He could still feel the warmth from your body, slowly receding, and he swore he could still feel you against him, your soft skin, your pretty lips against his neck, and your leg around his waist. 

Fuck. 

God, he had another fucking problem to deal with — as he shifted awkwardly, his morning wood up and erect with a tent that could put most large circus tents to shame. Fuck, he didn’t have time to take care of this — especially with you in the bathroom right now. 

But still, he pressed his inner palm to his lips, how was he going to make it through the rest of the conference with the feeling of your body still lingering in his mind. If the situation was different, the two of you would have woken up with smiles on your lips, spent the morning cuddling without a care, and probably a little more than that—

But the situation was the same, and his eyes slid to the bathroom door, so why was it that he still thinking about you? He wasn’t the type to dwell, he accepted things for what they were — he had his principles and his beliefs, and he stuck to them, unless proven otherwise. He was a man of guidelines, of rules—

So why were you the only person that ever made him want to throw every rule away? 

“We are going to be discussing ethical dilemmas faced in universities and how to approach them,” the lecturer begins, “can anyone tell us an example of one such dilemma?” 

You both had barely made it into a lecture — barely even speaking as you ran-walked into the conference — choosing a lecture at random, as the two of you ran a good fifteen minutes late. You both arrived, hiding your pants, as you both grabbed water bottles from the back, and sat down. 

And of course to make matters worse, your phone goes off, making the entire room turn to look at the two of you. You silence your phone, murmuring a quick sorry as the two of you take your seats. 

Could this possibly get worse? 

Your eyes glanced at him — it was already bad enough to begin with. Geto had barely spoken a word this morning, even as the two of arrived at the conference, the only words he spoke were to the attendant that parked his car. 

You tugged at the collar of your shirt, adjusting your clothes. And if that wasn’t enough, you were going to spend the day sweaty and disheveled. Meanwhile, you stole another glance at your professor — his skin flushed from running, button up not buttoned up all the way, glasses instead of contacts, and his hair in its usual bun, but a few strands were nearly coming loose — he still looked fucking delectable. But he wouldn’t meet your gaze, his body positioned to lean away from yours, his eyes fixed ahead. 

You held back your sigh as you focused on the presentation — you just needed to get through today — as the lecturer picked someone who raised their hand. 

“A student-teacher relationship is one such ethical problem faced in universities today,” and Geto nearly chokes on his water, coughing slightly, as you feel your cheeks burn at the thought of this morning, “it presents several ethical problems — including the role the professor plays in the student’s education and future, their ability to provide praise or reprimand, and even grant recommendations gives them great power over their student. It leaves the student without much freedom in the relationship.”

Oh, what the fuck. 

The rest of the conference is spent in relative silence with a thick film of awkwardness perfectly overlayed. When you both finally return to the hotel room, your only consolation is that you’ll be leaving tomorrow. You toss your things onto the couch, “I’m going to wash up,” you tell him, and he only nods in reply, as you enter the bathroom and shut the door, back pressed against it and sliding down. 

Oh this is such a mess. You sigh, maybe a shower will help. 

It didn’t. You were still just as much of a mess as you were before. You sighed, as you stood in front of the sink, wiping your hair with a towel. This could be so simple if you both could be together — so easy. There would be no tension, no hurt feelings, no awkwardness — you could just be. But that’s not an option. So the only other option is to let him go. 

But you didn’t know how to begin to. 

Either way, hiding in the bathroom wouldn’t solve a thing — and you finally opened the door, “I’m done if you want to wash up,” he nods, sitting on the couch, reading a book. His glasses rested on the tip of his nose, lips pursed, and legs crossed. 

You walk over, grabbing your things from the couch and put some of your things away in your suitcase. But after all of that is done, you realize one thing is missing — your cellphone. 

“Shit,” you murmur under your breath, searching through your suit coat pockets, your pants pocket, anywhere that your phone might be. 

“What’s wrong?” Geto says, book in his lap, as he tilts his head. 

“Can’t find my phone,” you mumble, cheeks burning — god, it was already awkward enough, and now this? 

“Is it on ring?” You nod — your phone was usually on ring, sometimes to your detriment — you cringe at the memory in the lecture this morning, “I’ll call it,” 

He calls you — and you glance at his phone screen, your contact is just your name, no picture, nothing. You bite your lip, what were you expecting? A heart next to your name? And the sound of your phone ringing catches both of your attention. 

“It’s over here, somewhere,” he says, lifting up some of cushions of the couch, and reaching underneath into the creases, as you walk over — “I found—“ 

And you were so concerned about your contact information in his phone that you forgot about his contact information in your phone. 

The screen flashed with the image of him sleeping all lopsided on the couch from that first night, as you covered your mouth in both horror, but also to stifle your laugh. 

His eyes flicker to you, “When did you—“ and you reach for your phone, but he moves it away, “not until you answer my questions,” 

“This isn’t class, Professor, I want my phone—“ you reach for it again, and he’s holding it above your head, “oh real mature—“ 

“Like the picture you have of me as my contact picture?” He raises an eyebrow, a real smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “thought I should resort to my student’s level,”  

“Your T.A.,” you correct, as you reach for your phone again, but he’s using his height to his advantage, and he’s beginning to walk backwards, “come on, give it back—“ 

“Not until I change and delete that photo,” and he’s trying to hold your phone up to your face to unlock it, and you gasp. 

“Oh my god, give it back!” And you grab his hand, and he’s grabbing at the other, giggles leaving your lips, as he laughs too, as the two of you struggle for the phone, your fingers closing over it, and over his own fingers as well. 

And you realize how close you are to him. 

The two of you freeze a moment, laughter on your lips fading away to soft smiles, and his fingers squeeze yours lightly, as he passes you your phone back. But he doesn’t move away — and you don’t either. 

“Why did you let go?” and it seems like it’s a force out of your control that draws you together, no matter how much either of you try to let go. 

“Because I can’t help giving you what you want,” he murmurs, and the heat of his gaze melts your heart, as you drop your phone onto the couch, and reach for his hand again. 

And you lean closer, your other hand gently brushing against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, “So if I ask for a kiss, will you give it to me?” You won’t close the gap anymore than you have — he needs to reach for you too, let himself give into gravity. 

He does, as his hand brushes against your cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth across your cheekbone, “will we stop at just a kiss?” He murmurs, leaning so close that your eyes want to flutter shut. 

“Only one way to find out,” and his lips brush yours. And it’s not chaste like your first kiss was, no, his lips slide against yours, as his other hand slides to the back of your neck. He swallows your gasp eagerly, if the smirk you feel against your lips is anything to go off of. Your teeth graze against this bottom lip teasingly, drawing a small groan from the back of his throat. 

Neither of you couldn’t stop at one kiss, and you both knew that, even as your lips parted for a small breath of air, they found each other again — just as you both always did. Because you could never let him go — no matter how hard you tried. 

RING. RING. RING. 

And this time it isn’t an alarm. But rather his phone, flashing with a name that brings you crashing back to reality. 

The department head. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, as he parts from you, his warmth leaving all at once, as he grabs his phone, and turns away, “Hello? Yes, the conference is over. Everything went well. No, no, nothing out of the ordinary.” 

You stared at his back, this would always be the case wouldn’t it? Even as you crashed together, something would pull you apart, and neither of you could break the cycle. You take your phone from the couch, and crawl into bed, but you could start. 

You close your eyes, your fingers brushing against your lips for a moment. You needed to start — otherwise, you would just end up broken. 

And you don’t hear him hang up — or see him stare at your figure under the covers — and he would break along with you. 

Suguru didn’t know what to say the next morning — especially when it seemed couldn’t even bear to look at him, much less speak to him. You had busied yourself with packing, even before he had awoken. His back ached from the night he spent on the couch, he couldn’t fall asleep for far too long, and by the time he did, he kept sleeping — through his many alarms it seemed. 

And it wasn’t the couch that kept him awake. 

You both had the most lovely timing, didn’t you? He thought, as he combed his hair in the bathroom, the memory of your fingers running through his hair as you gently undid the knots in his locks still ever present — it seemed like any time you two wanted to act on your feelings, the universe was doing what it could to keep you apart. 

Was this fate versus free will? 

You both kept choosing each other — but fate kept pulling you apart. Did he have any control over his actions or did he have no control over his actions at all? Was it all predetermined by some force he couldn’t perceive? Some force intent on pulling you apart. 

He sighed, as his phone lights up with an email from the department head — department head position opened up in Jujutsu University: Kyoto — 

And so maybe he should let it. 

The next few weeks pass by far too quick. As your semester picks up, you stop attending Professor Geto’s classes, opting to send an email to let him know, and he replies back with a simple response — Ok. Please let me know when and if you are available to input the grades for the midterm paper. 

The rest of your T.A. work is done online and over email — and you do your best to keep busy, keep yourself occupied, and keep your thoughts from straying to him.

And you maybe succeed 10% of the time. It doesn’t help that your unconscious does not wish to cooperate since it seems that once you stopped seeing your professor during waking hours, he’s infiltrated your sleep — sneaking in and out by the time your eyes open. 

And then you’re left with the fragments of his touch, his voice, his kisses, and soft, loving words. 

Just as you always were it seemed. 

And before you know it, the end of the semester comes, and you find yourself in front of that same office door yet again. It felt like an eternal reoccurrence — stuck to repeat the same events again and again in an infinite loop. Was there any exit from this loop? 

You didn’t know — you knocked on his office door — but you could try. 

“Come in,” you do, entering his office to find him sitting at his desk, hair half up for once. And his eyes flicker up to meet yours, his head tilting at your stare, “see something interesting?” 

“Your hair—“ and your cheeks burn — so much for trying — “it’s different,” 

“Thought I’d try something different — my hair is growing out,” and you have to repress the want to curl a lock or his hair around your finger, “do you not like it?” 

You shake your head, “It looks nice, just different,”

And he hands you the papers he’s graded, “you can input those, I’m just finishing up a couple more, so if you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit?” 

“Not at all,” a silence falls over between the two of you, the quiet scratch of his pen as he grades, the occasional ding of his e-mail breaking up the silence. You sneak a glance at him — ebony tresses brushing against his broad shoulders, his brow furrowed that you wished to run your fingers along to smooth his worries from his mind, pretty lips parted as he reads a sentence silently to himself. 

Fuck — no, no, you can’t do this. 

You busy yourself thumbing your way through the papers, spotting the familiar red scrawls littering these pages, as they once did yours. You were so pissed when you got your first paper back — indignant even — a whole Karen ready to speak to his supervisor. But when his honest criticism and blunt words rang true, you found yourself not only wanting to prove him wrong, but a want to be better. To earn his respect. And of course, later, you wanted to earn a little more than that. 

You bite back a chuckle, and here you still were — by his side. Except next semester you wouldn’t be his T.A. 

But you would still be a student. And he would still be a professor. 

But one other thing that hasn’t changed is how brutal the feedback is — you couldn’t help but feel bad for “Itadori Yuuji” — whoever that was. 

“What are you smiling about?” Your eyes snap up to meet his, his head leaning against his palm, elbow resting on the desk. 

“Nothing,” you shake your head, but he looks unconvinced, “just thinking about our first time in this office,” and then your cheeks burn at the double meaning, “I mean our first office hours appointment—“ 

He waves you off, “I know what you meant,” a small chuckle in his cadence, as he continues to grade, “you certainly weren’t happy with me,” 

“No I wasn’t,” a small smile on your lips, “but it worked out in the end,” you add, “you got an amazing T.A. after all,” 

His eyes meet yours, “More than just that,” 

Why can’t you help but get pulled in time and time again? And why can’t you help but ask questions that will only hurt you in the end? 

He continues to grade when you finally speak, “What do you think would have happened if I didn’t end up being your T.A.?” 

And his pen stops, lips pursed, “We shouldn’t—“ 

“Why shouldn’t we?” you felt like a child demanding an answer from their parent. 

“We agreed—”

“I don’t remember an agreement-” 

“It was unspoken—” 

You scoff, crossing your arms, “You really are only a professor because an attorney would know that binding agreements can’t be unspoken,” he falls silent, his voice soft. 

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” his words are wrought with conflict, pain seeping into every syllable, “I don’t want to keep going down this road only to for you to get hurt in the end — I don’t want to jeopardize your future for something that might not last—” 

“But what if it does?” and he swallows thickly, “what if we can make it work? We’re both adults, we can be discreet—” 

“So discreet that we end up making out in my office?” he takes off his glasses only to run a hand down his face, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, and you huff out a chuckle. 

“A little more discreet than that, we’ll lock the door next time,” it’s his turn to scoff, and you rise from your seat, lips curled, “close the lights, or maybe even kiss in a place that’s not on campus,” but he does the same, meeting you on the side of his desk, his fingers brushing your cheek so gently as if you’d shatter under his touch. 

“I don’t want to stand in the way of your career,” he says, his fingers finding your hand regardless, fingers interlacing, “I don’t want you to—” 

“It’s my choice, Suguru,” you murmur, as you lean against his warm palm, your fingers sliding against his palm and into his inky tresses, “don’t you owe me a choice, and a drink?” you add, and his lips curl in a knowing smile. 

“I do, if you’ll still have me,” and he’s leaning close, sucking the air from the room, and the logic from your minds, as his lips barely graze yours, “shouldn’t we lock the door?” 

“Fuck it,” and you pull him into a deep kiss that pulls a groan from his lips that makes your cunt ache, as he’s already pushing you into the lip of his desk, his hand sliding down to your waist. 

“Now who’s being unethical?” he murmurs, pressing eager kisses along your jaw, that makes you melt against him, your legs nearly jelly at this point, “what kind of example are you setting as a T.A.?” 

You bite back your moan as his lips find the soft spot of your neck, teeth grazing it far too fucking teasingly, “Well students learn by example,” and his hands are slipping under thighs to lift you so you’re sitting on his desk — you spread your legs for him in the dress that you’re in, pantyhose underneath, his heavy lidded gaze raking over your body, “and look at my professor staring at his T.A. so lustfully, even with a clear power dynamic—” 

And his fingers find your thighs again, squeezing, before his fingers dig into the sheer hose, tearing holes in it, drawing a gasp from your lips, “How’s that for a power dynamic, princess?” far too pleased, “don’t worry, I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs, “now just be a good girl and spread your legs for me,” he says, as he pulls away the ruined pantyhose, and he’s undoing the buttons on his shirt with one hand — one, two, three — before your fingers take over, leaning to press kisses at each inch of exposed skin, until the shirt falls open. 

Then his lips find yours again, his silver tongue asking for you to part your lips and you do — as he extracts every want you have with his burning touch — his lips against yours, his large hands parting your thighs, his knee pressed against your twitching cunt — and only leaves your want for him behind, until it becomes a need. 

“Wonder what our students would think of you,” his fingers tease your inner thighs, drawing a whine from your lips, “wanting your professor to fuck you in his office instead of inputting their grades,” he whispers in your ear, as his fingers finally skim the wet patch of your underwear, “so wet f’me, already? Look I think you even soaked my slacks,” he tsks, as his thumb and forefinger find your chin and tilt it up, “what are you going to do about that?” 

“Suguru—please,” and he smiles as his finger starts to tease your puffy clit through your drenched panties, “don’t tease—” 

“How can I not when you’ve nothing but tease me with your existence?” he pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, “I’ll oblige my favorite student this time—but I won’t be so nice next time,” he adds, biting your bottom lip. 

RING. RING. RING. 

It was his fucking office phone. You groan, but his finger continues to sink into you, “Suguru—” 

“Let it ring,” his lips find yours in a bruising kiss as his finger deliciously sinks into you, “I have all I need right here,” he whispers, and you pull him back into a kiss by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, your hand sliding up and down his chest, while he worked a finger into your cunt, “so fucking wet f’me, so perfect,” 

And your hand flies back to support yourself as a second finger begins to sink into you — but your hand grazes his office phone, and the messages begin to play back.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mumble, as you reach blindly for the phone, only to knock it back, as he chuckles and reaches behind you, trying but failing to help — your noses brushing, and he smiles before kissing you again. 

Mr. Geto, sorry we missed each other, I was calling, hoping that you would still be in office for the day, but I must have just missed you. I wanted to call to offer you the job as department head at Jujutsu Tech University: Kyoto—

You freeze, your lips parting from his as you look up at him, his eyes wide as he stops the message from playing back any further — and the words settle over the mood like a sheet pulled over a dead body. 

And you’re the first to speak, always asking the questions that will hurt you in the end, “You’re moving to Kyoto?” 

✧ a/n: so i'm sorry for that ending hahah, i promise there will be a happy ending later on for these two. thank you to @gaylatteart and @laneysmusings for betaing and just being the best. also if i tagged you please comment / reblog because tagging on tumblr sucks, it takes very long.

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @bash1018, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala, @ashhlsstuff, @blue041803, @mwtsxri, @bblgumfairy, @sukunasleftkneecap, @xo-evangeline, @fiannee, @teatreeoilll, @chalametet, @ryukaver, @d1gitalbathh, @saga3ious, @seventhcinema, @satosugucide, @your-l0nely-star, @sokkasmoon, @deegausserr, @hyookka, @oggsyy, @littlebitb, @higuchislut, @ti-mame, @itoshisins, @cerene-dipity, @onionsoop, @sinlillith, @izzythenaive, @akvrae, @lalacute03, @rxndou, @c-themoon, @xxrag-d0llxx, @hqtoge, @sugarxlumps, @hopeluna, @actualdeemon,

[coochiequeens]

A small victory for women in American politics

Kentucky’s next Supreme Court is shaping up to be a historic one for women. 

Deputy Chief Justice Debra Hembree Lambert will become Kentucky’s chief justice in January. (Administrative Office of the Courts photo)

With the election of Kentucky’s first Black female justice, Pamela Goodwine, women will hold four of the court’s seven seats. Additionally, the court will be led by the first female chief justice, Deputy Chief Justice Debra Lambert, starting in January. 

As of earlier this year, 17 states have female majorities on their supreme court benches, according to a report from the Brennan Center for Justice. Alaska was also poised to gain a female majority after seven women sought a seat on its Supreme Court this summer. 

Goodwine’s election also makes her the first woman in history who will serve at every level of Kentucky’s judiciary branch: district court, circuit court, appeals court and the Supreme Court. . She said in a statement to the Kentucky Lantern that the milestone “reminds me of the women who came before me, paving the way through hard work, determination and resilience, often overcoming significant obstacles to reach their goals.” 

“Their struggles paved the way for our successes today, and it is our duty to continue their legacy and to forge a path for others as well,” Goodwine said. “Throughout my life, education and career, I have faced what many described as insurmountable challenges, but I don’t give up on my dreams when things get hard. I simply work harder to make my dreams come true.” 

Women outnumber men in law schools

Two previous female justices — Sara Walter Combs and retired Janet Stumbo — both say the new majority of women on the high court is a reflection of the increase in women in the legal profession. 

In 2016, women for the first time made up the majority of students in the nation’s law schools, according to the American Bar Association, which says the change came slowly. In 1963, only 4% of first-year law students were female, rising to 20% in 1973, 39% in 1983 and 44% by 1993.

In Kentucky last year women made up the majority of law students at the University of Louisville (53%) and Northern Kentucky University (55%). Female and male enrollment were about even at the University of Kentucky in 2023-24 with 203 women and 206 men enrolled in the law school.

Judge Sara Walter Combs Combs was the first woman to serve on Kentucky’s Supreme Court after being appointed by Gov. Brereton Jones in 1993. She now serves on the Kentucky Court of Appeals. When she began taking law classes at night at the University of Louisville, she said she was one of very few women in her law class. 

“When I started my work career, I was a teacher, and the one thing that women could do, predominantly in that period of our history, was to teach or to be a nurse,” Combs said. “Well, they’re still wonderful professions; it’s just a matter that now there are more options for women beyond those two choices, and I think the more options we have, the better, because we all have different talents.” 

While she was reluctant to “to tie gender and competency to one another,” Combs applauded the women on the Kentucky Supreme Court. 

“They have good legal minds, they have a great work ethic, they’re collegial, they’re everything that a good judge should be. They just happen to be women,” Combs said. “I’m delighted that they haven’t been held back because of that fact, but I would prefer to emphasize the fact of their competence rather than their gender.”

When asked if the majority of women could be a sign of increasing diversity on the bench in the future, Combs said a diverse pool of judges is needed to review cases. 

“I hope it does, because our social problems are very diverse in nature and origin, and I think their solution will require some diversity of approach to how we solve these problems,” she said. 

Change takes time

Stumbo, who was the first woman elected to the Kentucky Supreme Court in 1993 and retired from the Court of Appeals in 2017, said that diversity on the bench — in terms of race and gender — is a change that happens over time. Kentucky judicial candidates are required to be a licensed attorney for some time before seeking election. A district judge requires two years while the Supreme Court requires eight years. 

Retired Justice Janet L. Stumbo stands beside her portrait, painted by artist Tona Barkley, following a dedication ceremony Dec. 6, 2023. The portrait joined others of justices in the corridors of the second floor of the Kentucky Capitol in Frankfort. (Photo by Brian Bohannon)

“The composition of the bar has changed greatly,” Stumbo said. “The number of women who are lawyers, the number of minorities who are lawyers, has increased dramatically, and that’s the way we’ll see more diversity on the bench.” 

Stumbo said that the majority of female justices shows that the electorate in Kentucky is also more accepting of women being in these high-ranking roles. 

“There’s definitely more work to be done, but women are succeeding and succeeding in ways that are getting them recognized as fine litigators and tenacious litigators and people that you’re proud to have representing you,” Stumbo said. 

Judge Goodwine speaks to supporters at her election night watch party in Lexington Nov. 5, 2024. (Kentucky Lantern photo by Arden Barnes)

Women would have won a majority of Kentucky Supreme Court seats no matter how the Nov. 5 election turned out. Goodwine’s opponent also was a woman, Lexington attorney Erin Izzo.

Goodwine echoed those sentiments. She said that each justice on the court “carries unique perspectives and experiences” and that it’s imperative that younger generations see themselves reflected in the highest levels of the judiciary. She said that many have “expressed gratitude to me for being a trailblazer helping to forge a path for others to follow in my footsteps in their chosen profession, and that increases my drive and dedication to ensure that our justice system reflects our community.” 

“This new chapter for our court affirms the progress we have made and also challenges us to move forward with purpose and conviction,” Goodwine said. “We honor the legacy of our forerunners by continuing to uphold the principles of fairness, justice and equality for all. It is a responsibility I take to heart, and I look forward to working with my esteemed colleagues to protect the rights and uphold the dignity of everyone in our state ensuring that the Kentucky Supreme Court is a beacon of justice for all.” 

[harveybwabbit92]

[Taiga arrives to school almost an hour late to his Ethic’s class.]

Taiga: What did I miss in class?

Mebius: Everyone got married.

Taiga: Gee, you miss ONE class!

[Mebius looks around trying to find Taiga a partner, but everybody is taken then looks at Fuma and Akari and gets an idea.]

Mebius: Taiga! meet your new parents! {pushes Taiga over to them]

Akari: We have a baby?!

Fuma, looks at Mebius bemused: How did this happen?

Mebius: Sorry, that's a whole different class.

[The next day]

Akari, patting her cousin on the head: Aww my little Taiga is already reading!

Shio: Wow!

Fuma: He's 4,800yrs old! (that's like 15 in human years.)

Titas: Still, that's impressive.

Taiga: Well, I can also tie my own shoes.

[a few weeks of Taiga driving Fuma nuts later.]

Mebius: alright everyone now that our experiment is over, let’s talk about what our experiences were like and we learned from them, shall we?

[He looks around the room; points at Fuma.]

Mebius: Fuma you experienced family life for this project, I’m curious to see how these last three weeks have changed your outlook on life and maybe your future?

[Mebius shows Fuma a questionnaire on the board: What were your feelings before?, What are your feelings now? What were the pros/con? If the time comes how many children would you like to have?]

Mebius, hold out a tablet: you can log in your answers with thi- *Fuma snatches the tablet*

[Fuma writes his answers down while glaring daggers at Taiga, when he’s done most of his answer are professional and positive towards Akari... Taiga however; there were a lot of words Fuma used were not appropriate to say out loud; Mebius had to stop him from writing anymore and his answer for the kids question? He wrote: ZERO!]

Taiga, sarcastically: Oh Wow, I love you too, Dad!

Fuma: *flips him off*

Mebius: Okay! let’s move on, Shall we?

[cleoluvrr]

The Last Days of Summer I (Rafe Cameron x Heyward!OC)

Warnings: violence, underage drinking, drug use, verbal abuse, jealousy, forbidden relationship, enemies to lovers, gaslighting + manipulation

Synopsis: Stuck in a situation she never dreamed of, Neriah Heyward blurs the line between Kook and Pogue; Rafe Cameron a witness.

masterlist

word count: 3k+

↠━ღ◆ღ━↞

I stand next to the shop, watching as my brother hops into a small, rinky-dink boat, profusely apologizing to our father as he drifts off with his friends up the canal. My father yells after him from the dock, assigning him with the unfavorable chore of cleaning the week’s catch. I shake my head and chuckle humorlessly, unamused by their antics once again. 

“What’s up, Riah?” I hear a voice call out from the boat. The disheveled looking blonde waves at me, smiling brightly as he looks in my direction. 

I tilt my head, pushing off the wall I was leaning against to step closer to the three boys attempting to avoid the wrath of my father.

“Hi, JJ.” I say sweetly, laughing as my sibling swats at the back of his friend’s head and my father curses at him.

“Don’t flirt with my sister-” “Don’t talk to my daughter you little bastard!” The two of them say simultaneously.

The group speeds off into the distance, John B. cackling at JJ getting chewed out by Pope and narrowly missing his barrage of hits. I turn back towards the shop, shaking my head as my father grumbles out his disdain for his son’s friends. I freeze in my place as my dad yells out my name from the dock.

“I don’t want you hanging around them kids. Ever.” He says, wagging his finger at me. “You understand me, Neriah Heyward?” 

 “I understand.” I reply, nodding my head as I continue the journey to my bedroom. “Wasn’t planning on it.” I add under my breath.

“Londyn, let’s be so forreal right now.” I deadpanned, staring across the table at my friend. “Kelce is an asshole.” 

I’m seated on the balcony of the country club, deep inside the Figure 8. I wore a white tennis skirt, the bottoms paired with a cropped, pink sweater I ordered from an inexpensive store online. My friends are dressed similarly, our attire reminding me somewhat of the Powerpuff Girls. The club is a common hangout spot for my friends and I, people watching and gossiping to fill our free time over the summer. 

While my brother runs around with the Pogues, likely doing something illegal, I spend my time on the high side of the island with the Kooks. Although we are siblings, the only thing we have in common is that. Our blood.

This didn’t happen out of nowhere, nor did it happen easily.

Pope and I are both very hardworking and intelligent, that I will admit we also have in common. We were always the smartest in our classes, envied for our perfect grades and work ethic. Not that we had much of a choice if we wanted a shot of getting off this island one day. 

Where we differ once again is our ability to make friends. Pope had his Pogue friends. JJ, Kie, and John B. They’re practically inseparable and have been for as long as I can remember. I, however, didn’t have that same luck.

I had a hard time making friends as a kid. I was shy, a bit abrasive, and a know-it-all. I made it a point to show everyone that I was better than them, and I’m sure that didn’t help my likeability amongst my classmates. I was a loner for 8 years of my schooling, many of my pre-teen years spent eating lunch alone and helping my parents at the shop while my brother was out enjoying life.

You can imagine why I jumped at the chance to go to the Kook academy in ninth grade. 

My brother was smarter than me by miles, I will also admit. However, his attendance was not so great, nor the reputation of his friends. Which is why when the scholarship offer came, it was my name on the letter instead of his. I’m sure he would have flat out rejected the offer, anyway, refusing to be separated from his best friends.

I started at the Kook academy my freshman year of high school, wide-eyed and innocent. Not so surprisingly, I was often picked on in the first semester of my time there. My scholarship student status, being a Pogue, being larger than the rest of the girls my age, both in height and weight. I was never bullied at my old school, despite being widely disliked, so this was something I had not been prepared for.

Once again, I spent my days in the back of the class and eating my lunches alone for months. The emotional torture was worth it if it meant I would get the hell off Kildare Island. Sometime in my second semester there, I met one of my closest friends. Practically my savior.

Londyn Woods. Youngest daughter of a Neurosurgeon and former runway model, sister to a lawyer brother living on the mainland, and my lifeline. 

She was loved by many and envied by many; her beauty could not be rivaled by anyone but her own mother. Despite her looks, status, and popularity, she was the farthest thing from shallow. Even knowing that, I wondered what drew her to me, why she would want to be friends with me.

The only things we have in common look wise are our heights, though she still stood three inches taller than me at five-eleven. The dark brown of my skin contrasted against her toffee-colored complexion. Her slim frame looked even smaller when next to me, dwarfed by my broad shoulders and thick thighs. Her face was chiseled, mine was round. She is so very headstrong, and I am so very not. I can’t help but wonder what the appeal was. However, we have everything else in common. Music taste, style, hobbies, future careers. If you know everything about me, you know everything about her.

She is my person, my protector in a way, and I suppose I am hers as well.

Eventually the Kooks began accepting me, not only because I was harmless but because Londyn began airing the dirty laundry of everyone that tried to pick on me. Everywhere I went, she went. Except the Cut. Not that she hasn’t tried, because she has, many times. But because it’s not safe for a girl like her to be there. Since she can’t come there, she drags me around Figure 8 with her like a puppy in a handbag. 

Which is exactly why I’m at the country club now, begging my friend to listen to my boy advice for once.

“Okay, but he’s so cute!” Londyn whines, stomping her feet like a young child. “And whenever he sees me, he smiles at me so sweetly, and he holds the door open for me, and I need you to please hear me out.” she pouts at me.

“I am hearing you out, and I’m not liking what I’m hearing.” I rub my temples, the effort of talking my hard-headed best friend out of making bad decisions draining my energy. “When has Kelce ever been nice to anyone?”

“He’s nice to me! And you!” She exclaims. I raise an eyebrow at that, looking at her skeptically. “Okay…well he’s never been mean to you. Please, Neriah. I beg of you!” She stands out of her seat, walking to my side of the table.

“Girl, don’t beg me for anything.” I say, rolling my eyes and taking a sip of the iced tea in front of me. 

“Do you promise to be nice to him? For me?”

“No.” I snort, shaking my head.

I watch as my friend gets down, her bare knees on the wooden floor of the balcony. She begins repeating the word ‘please’ numerous times, ignoring my pleas for her to get off the ground. Her antics draw the attention of the older people around us; their faces wearing looks of disapproval as they watch the two of us on the deck. I stood up, grabbing her hands away from my knees and tugging her upwards as heat took over my face.

“Okay, fine! I’ll be nice.” I speak. “Get your ass off the floor.” I whispered harshly.

“Yay! I love you so much.” She jumps up, wrapping her arms around me in a tight embrace. I grumble, pushing her off me gently and sitting back down. She plops down in my lap, stealing my drink for herself despite my protests.

We sat like that for a while, me scrolling through my phone and Londyn toying with my braids in between her fingers while she watched me scroll through the device mindlessly. We hear multiple footsteps walking onto the balcony, neither of us looking up at the sound.

“Aw, how cute.” A familiar voice comments dryly. I lift my head slowly, something nasty itching to leave my tongue when I see the tall, blonde standing by our table, Kelce and Topper not too far away. 

“Rafe.” I say, just as dryly. “How are you? Laying off the coke?” I ask disinterestedly. Londyn tries to keep a straight face, turning her head away to hide her smile. Rafe chuckles humorlessly, tongue poking against his cheek.

“You should try it, Neriah. Maybe you’d lose a few.” He retorts, Thing #1 and Thing #2 laughing at his jab towards my weight. 

“Nice one, Rafe! You should apply for a job at the laugh factory, I know you need one.” I say. “Do you think they employ deadbeat drug addicts?” I ask Londyn who is now standing behind me, hands resting on the back of my chair. She shrugs, failing to stop the laugh crawling up her throat. She coughs and clears her throat, covering up the sound.

Rafe relents, scoffing as he walks to the other end of the deck, sitting at a table with his minions close behind. A small victory for me.

Rafe and I met at the Kook academy a few years ago, when I was a mere freshman and he was a junior. At first I was entranced by him, blinded by his charming smile and powerful aura. Everyone loved him or wanted to be him. I always kept my distance, knowing better than to ever let myself get anywhere near him to save myself the embarrassment of saying something stupid.

That didn’t last very long.

The summer of my freshman year, Londyn dragged me along with her to Midsummers despite my refusal. She actually sat outside my house with her driver and wouldn’t leave until I came out, all dolled up in the pink Selkie dress gifted to me by Londyn for Valentine’s Day. 

“You look so beautiful!” My friend says when I entered the vehicle, clunky, platform sandals banging against the side of the car as I climbed in. I felt strange, wearing clothes someone else bought for me and on the way to a place where only one person wants me.

We arrive at the venue, Londyn trying to hype me up the entire ride there with no results. The taller girl is handed two flower crowns as we walk through the country club, placing one of them on my head gently with the biggest grin on her face. She grabs my hand, pulling me through the crowd of people to the outdoor space where everyone else is mingling. She takes me to her parents, the two figures towering over the rest of the Kooks.

“Neriah! You look absolutely stunning.” Her mother greets, embracing me in a tight hug. “How have you been?” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Woods! You look gorgeous, as always.” I say sweetly, the model pulls away, patting my head endearingly. “I’ve been well, thank you for asking.”

“We haven’t seen you around lately. I’m sure we miss you just as much as our daughter has.” Mr. Woods says, giving me a welcoming side hug.

“It’s really busy at the shop this time of year, my parents have been working me to the bone.” I tell them dramatically, the three of them laughing at my demeanor. “Speaking of parents…if my father asks, you never saw me.” And with that, Londyn drags me off again to hang with other teenagers.

For a moment, I let myself forget about the ongoing class war. I let my guard down and had just as much fun as everyone else. I was just a normal teenager doing normal teen things. I got to dress up nice and be a Kook for a day. I stopped worrying about being careful.

That is where I went wrong. That is when the Devil struck.

I snuck off to the restroom, leaving my friend alone to mingle with the Kook kids. The halls were practically empty, most people outside on the patio. I walk around mindlessly, the music of the gathering outside leaking into the otherwise quiet building. I hear a door open, but ignore it, thinking it was a staff member or something. I continue, the restroom sign in my sight at the end of the hallway.

I was very mistaken.

A hand reached out and grabbed my forearm, dragging me into the door that had just opened. The door shut loudly behind us; my writhing frame roughly shoved against the wall. I try to scream, but a large, warm hand covers my mouth and nose. A body presses up against mine in the dark room, chuckling over my muffled screams. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I notice who it is that has caught me off guard.

Rafe Cameron. The Kook prince himself.

I stop fighting, my own hands grabbing at the one covering my only source of air. Rafe watches me struggle, pressing his hand harder against my face with a look of morbid curiosity. As if he wanted to see how long I could go without properly breathing. He turns on the light with his free hand, wanting a clearer look at my pleading frame and watering eyes. He tilts his head, finally releasing my mouth and nose. 

He doesn’t move, still standing close as my chest heaves and I take in more air than I’ve breathed in my entire life. He looks at me strangely, a mixture of wonder, disgust, and curiosity. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” I exclaim, shoving against his chest harshly. He doesn’t really move, my assault barely affecting him. 

“I think I should be the one asking you that.” He says, squinting at me. “What do you think you’re doing here?” 

“That’s literally none of your business.” I look up at him in disgust and confusion. “Are you insane?” All positive feelings I had for him were gone.

“You see,” He starts, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Everything that happens is my business, because I make it my business. Especially when it comes to rats running around on Figure 8 like they own it.”

“Wow, you are a fucking psycho.” I comment. “Why am I surprised?” He laughs dryly at my words, shaking his head. 

He grabs my face again, fingers tightly gripping my chin. My cheeks squish under his hold, lips forced into a pout. I swipe at his hand again, and he only grips me tighter. I wince, dropping my hands and looking up at him in frustration. He tuts at me, moving my head side to side with disappointment adorning his face.

“Poor little Pogue girl can’t remember her place and needs someone to remind her…” He brings his face closer to mine and I flinch back, my movements halted by the grip Rafe has on my jaw. “That’s okay, I can show you.”

“Rafe, you are fucking insane.” I say, words slurred together out of my forcefully parted lips. He jerks my head roughly, releasing a sound of disapproval. He shushes me, bringing a slender finger to his mouth.

“It’s my turn to talk, Okay?” I don’t respond, eying him warily. “Good girl. You see, life is just so much easier when you follow the rules. When you follow the status quo. But you? You simply refuse to do that. And I don’t like that. I don’t know what your little friend has told you, but you aren’t one of us. You never will be. It doesn’t matter if you go to the Kook school, if you have Kook friends, if you put on a pretty little dress and party with Kooks. You are always gonna be a disgusting gutter rat. Getting all dolled up won’t make me forget that. Make anyone forget that. Do you understand that?” He spits at me.

I nodded, just wanting to get out of that room as quickly as possible.

“I’m glad. Now, I don’t want to have to have this conversation with you again. I won’t be as nice.” He smiles at me, the look making my skin crawl. “Now run along.” He releases me and I shove him away, yanking at the door handle next to me furiously.

“You’re a piece of shit, Rafe. I won’t forget that either.” I say, turning around to face him as I exit the room.

“You look beautiful tonight.” He says, the compliment throwing me for a loop. “I wouldn’t want to have to change that.” At that, I storm out of the room and back to the party. The threat sat heavy on my mind for the rest of the night, spending my time watching over my shoulder to keep an eye out for the older guy.

It was that moment I no longer felt admiration for Rafe Cameron.

I didn’t fear him either, though I did that night. The most emotion I feel for him nowadays is disdain and annoyance. Occasionally anger, but I never show it because that’s exactly what he wants. I never told Londyn about our little confrontation, so it’s been a secret between the boy and I since then.

“God, Rafe is such a creep.” Londyn says annoyedly. I give no reaction other than raising my eyebrows slightly. “He’s been staring over here for, like, five minutes.”

 “Let him. He won’t do anything.”

I glance over in his direction, the two of us locking eyes. He mimics my raised eyebrows, waiting for me to give him a reaction. I keep a disinterested look on my face and look back at my friend, once again ignoring his presence. Everything he does is to get a reaction out of me so he can somehow use it as evidence to prove that I’m some kind of menace to Figure 8.

Londyn and I leave a short time later, the club becoming far too stuffy for the both of us.

[chvnnie]

Thinking about a giant cuddle pile with Chan and Felix and Jisung when I’m sad 😢 just all soft and cuddly with snacks and blankets and snuggles all around 💕

this made my heart really warm 🥺 why not start the day off with something cute and soft

It’s just one of those days where nothing is right.

You woke up late, having to decide between showing up to class on time or brushing your teeth (rip the last stick of gum in your backpack). On the power walk to the science building, you realize there’s a teeny hole in the bottom of your worn out sneakers. Hardly noticeable — until pieces of gravel find it’s way inside.

Oh, did you forget? There’s a quiz today! Open book? What a silly little question, of course you have nothing but your memory to rely on when you’ve only just woken up.

Dropped your coffee literally minutes after buying it. The rice you bought for lunch was cold. Your favorite pen broke, you forgot your water bottle on your rush out. Bad thing after bad thing — it’s a surprise you held in the incoming spiral until you got home.

Their voices fill the hallway. About halfway to your apartment, you pause and take a really deep breath. Normally, Felix inviting his friends over doesn’t bother you. After all, they’re yours too. Jisung you’ve know since elementary school, and Chan you met on your first day of university.

“Shit.” You heard the strange boy mumble beside you, digging through his bag hopelessly. “Shit, shit, shit-“

“Are you okay?” Normally, you’d keep to yourself in class. But he seemed really, really flustered.

“I can’t find my pen. How did this happen? I bought a new pack this weekend and—“

Before he can even finish, you put a blue one on his notebook. Shiny, new. You had gone shopping yourself.

“I’ll give it back.”

He never did, and somehow lost the pen within four classes. So, you gave him another. By midterms, you had bought a pack just for Chan.

From that intro to ethics class blossomed a friendship that you can’t picture your life without. Through you, he met Jisung, and through Chan, you met Felix. The quiet, sweet guy whose roommate broke the lease unexpectedly and really needed someone to fill that vacancy.

Coming home to them is a daily occurrence. One that you typically look forward to. But today. Today you’re exhausted. The tiny apartment is going to be so loud until the early hours of dawn — how much can you take today?

They don’t hear the door open, too busy yelling at each other over Mario Kart. Jisung is losing, and Felix is gloating. The typical.

“Hey, you’re back!” Chan, happily in both the middle of the couch and ranking, flashes you a smile while still focused on the tv screen. “Want in? This race is almost over.”

“‘m okay. Kinda tired.” You force a yawn to make it more believable, dropping your bag on the rarely used dining table. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”

“Are you sure? We—“

“Maybe later?” You’re really trying to keep it together, picking at the skin around your nails. “I just need a bit. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

Chan raises an eyebrow at you, not fully convinced and slightly worried. Deciding it’s better not to press, he just nods, and turns fully back to the game.

You don’t even make it to your bed before the tears start. Body shaking, you change into a comfier set of clothes before lying face down in the center of your big bed. One deep, broken breath and the sobs begin.

Why did today have to happen? Left and right, no matter which direction you took, the outcome was the same. Sucking the life out of you and giving nothing in return.

You feel exhausted. Defeated. Hopeless.

The teeny, tiny knock is barely audible. But the creak, and shutting of the door, breaks through your cries. You don’t move, head too heavy to try and see who it is. They don’t announce themselves either; padding across the room before climbing in the bed with you. Lying right next to you, hiking his leg around your body.

The cologne is a give away. “Come on.” Jisung whispers, coaxing you into his arms. When you grunt, he moves you himself. Head to his chest, pulling you close before covering you both with the duvet.

Remember when you were little, and you fell from the play set? It wasn’t a far drop, but for your tiny body it felt like a lot. Nobody was around, class playing on the other side of the playground. All alone, softly sniffling. Your jeans are ripped, knee poking out and bloodied.

“Ouchie.” You whimper. When you try to stand, you teeter. Unsteady. Painful. How can you get help?

“You went boom.” You hear a tiny voice say, turning around to see a boy your age right behind you. “Did it hurt?”

You nod. “Big ouchie, look.”

He comes over, plops onto the ground next to you. Little brown eyes widen, lips parting in shock.

“Woah!” He leaned closer to get a better look. “You’re brave.”

It’s only of the first things Jisung ever said to you, and if you were to ask him to describe you today, he would say the same thing.

Brave. You’re brave. He’s always thought, and always will.

“Want to talk about it?” Jisung is drawing circles on your back, nails digging in just enough to be soothing.

You shake your head, clinging onto to his hoodie. “Just sad.” That’s what it comes down to — it doesn’t matter that you woke up late, and that the world was crumbling with each step you took. When you woke up, you were already aching.

There doesn’t have to be a reason. There isn’t one. Sadness just stopping in to say hello, and overstaying it’s welcome.

Your friend nods, shuffling in the bed to get more comfortable. Mingled breathing is the only sound, soft and easy. Almost lulling you into a much needed sleep.

Fluttering in and out of consciousness, you don’t notice that the tv has turned off. Jisung is just so warm; he smells good, he makes you feel safe. Why pay attention to anything else when comfort is finally hauling sadness out?

A dip in the bed, and you whine, thinking Jisung is trying to leave you. That is, until a board body presses into your back. Holding you from the other side.

“Are you guys napping without me?” Chan playfully asks, tickling your side lightly. Though you smack his hand away, he sees the teeny smile it brings. “That’s rude.”

“So was you cheating in Mario Kart, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

“You’re just a sore loser-“

“You cheated!”

“What is this?” Felix’s voice breaks up the bickering. You look up to see your roommate in the door, jaw dropped in faux shock. “A cuddle party? Without me?”

When you moved in, the apartment smelled like…burning sugar.

The blonde man was in the kitchen, spilling the most vulgar words you’ve ever heard as he quickly puts on oven mitts. You watched from the front door, not wanting to spook him as he takes the hot pan out of the oven.

He brings it to his face, closely inspecting the dessert. They were supposed to be white chocolate brownies, instead they’re as dark (and hard) as coal. With a frustrated sigh, he drops it on the counter.

“For all it matters.” You make yourself known, resisting a giggle at the way he jumps. “It smells good.”

Huffing a laugh, Felix puts his hands on his hips. “Just because we’re living together now doesn’t mean you have to appease me.”

“It’s the truth.” You say, fully entering the apartment. “What happened? Wrong temperature?”

He presses his lips together. “…I took a nap.”

It’s a shame, really. Tragic. You hate for sweets to go to waste — but oh, how you laugh. Leaning your head on his shoulder and staring down at the burned brownies.

“One day you’ll get it, Lix.”

The tupperware container is filled to the top with the same brownies, the lid almost popping off. Quickly abandoning the treats on your dresser, your roommate rushes to the bed.

And lays right on top of you.

While you giggle, the other two men groan.

“Come on, Felix.”

“This isn’t comfy—“

“It’s not my fault you didn’t leave space for me!”

You can feel the youngest man wiggle, trying to get more comfortable and thus torturing his friends. It isn’t the most practical way to group cuddle, but it is the most heartwarming. Smothered in love that you’ve never really felt worthy of, but are forever grateful for.

What was it that you were so upset about, again?