#lol apparently this is mostly fantasy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gojonanami · 1 year ago

Text

❝ 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,

#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru smut #suguru geto fanfiction #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto suguru imagines #geto suguru x you #geto x you #geto fanfiction

8K notes · View notes

fandomsandfeminism · 11 months ago

Text

Oof yall. The 2023 Hugo controversy has gotten much, much worse.

The Hugo's are another big Scifi/Fantasy book award, basically only second in prestige to the Nebulas. It's held by WorldCon, so who runs the awards changes each year- its handled by whatever group is doing the con.

And in 2023, it was held in China. And at the time, the finalist list took FOREVER to come out, and when it did, Babel (which had won the Nebula and Locus awards already) wasn't even nominated. Which everyone thought was *suspicious*

And NOW the actual nomination ballot data has come out. And not only do some of the counts... seem.....weird. BUT we've found out that not only Babel, but also Xiran Jay Zhao (who wrote the Chinese Yugioh book lol), and Sandman were disqualified late in nomination for being "ineligible" with no explanation for WHY.

The obvious explanation is Chinese censorship, either for the queer content, though other queer works were still included (including Legends and Lattes and Nona the Ninth), or some other political themes. Kuang and Zhou have content in their books that the Chinese government might not...love. but I dunno why Sandman got snubbed then? This is all speculation, but since the people actually running 2024 WorldCon are refusing to answer questions, what should we think? Neil Gaiman apparently tried to get answers and was basically brushed off.

And people are piiiiiiiissed

Mostly, I feel bad for T Kingfisher, who won Best Novel at the Hugo's for Nettle and Bone. Nettle and Bone was a great book! And now this win is always going to have this sheen of ick on it.

#hugos #2023 hugo awards #hugo awards #rf kuang #babel an arcane history #xiran jay zhao #t kingfisher #neil gaiman

274 notes · View notes

yellowrabbitfurry · 2 months ago

Text

Sup losers! /silly

This is my blog! Pretty neat, huh?

My name is Oliver, but I also go by Ollie, Killer, Kills, Bee, or Pap. My pronouns are He/him and it/its

(please please please ask me about my fantasy AU for the Vees or my OCs, I wanna talk about them so bad and if I ramble about it I might write something or draw their designs but I NEED someone to want me to pleaseeee)

Fandoms I’m in:

UTMV, FNaF, VotV, Subnautica, Dredge, Hermitcraft, Hazbin Hotel, Indigo Park, Poppy Playtime, Gravity Falls, Steven Universe, Digital Circus, Pokemon, Epic the Musical, SCP, (more things to be added)

I’m a furry, obviously lol

Theriotypes:

Wolf, Irish Setter dog, Fox, Brown British longhair cat (that also has Luna moth wings now btw. Very complicated I know 👀)

Fictionkin types:

Killer Sans!

The thing from Carrion

Swap Papyrus

an angel? A star? A god? Idk some divine ass crechur with way too many wings lmao

Deer satyr thing (?? Is that still just called a satyr?? Idk)

Horror sans

Error Sans!!

Fresh Sans 😎 (specifically the parasite lol)

I’m also plural!! I don’t exactly know much about the terms and such when it comes to it but I’m learning!!! I have exactly ONE!!! Head mate and it’s Error!!! He also goes by Puppeteer (or Pup!)

Things I do:

*I write fanfiction!! Mostly for UTMV, and I’m kinda slow, but apparently I’m really good! Anything I’ve written eventually be linked below, somewhere (as soon as I figure it out lmao) I don’t TECHNICALLY take requests, but give me them anyway! If I get inspired, I might write something (no nsfw)

*I make Therian masks! Only for me, but I will definitely be posting whatever I get finished with.

*I make things out of cardboard! So far I’ve made Sundrop, Glam Freddy, and Vox!

*I’m also teaching myself to draw! I’m not very good, so don’t expect anything- buuut if I make something I’m proud of you’ll definitely see it.

Fanfic Masterpost:

Nest (Bad Sans Poly)

Meetings (Utmv OC stuffs)

Alive (VotV)

You can chat to me about anything you want, as long as you don’t make it weird (you know the kind of weird) I’m kinda bad at keeping conversation at first, but I’m a really good listener if you wanna ramble or vent! You can chat to me about anything you want, as long as you don’t make it weird (you know the kind of weird) I’m kinda bad at keeping conversation at first, but I’m a really good listener if you wanna ramble or vent!

And please, don’t get upset if I never answer your asks or reblog something I’ve been tagged in. I get nervous sometimes and put it off (or sometimes Tumblr breaks and won’t let me) and then I get even more nervous after a while cause I feel like it’s too late ;-;

That should be all for now! Thank you for taking the time to read this! (I hope I did it right lol)

(Credits for the divider used in this post goes to @/Killerssideblog, go check them out if you want! Credits for the autism banner goes to @/melmeldotpng with the art on said banner by @/angelsemotes)

57 notes · View notes

withoutzeuzey · 1 month ago

Text

I'm gonna post this wip here as well because idk when im gonna finish it...

This drawing was inspired by the old circassian corset tradition (which i'll be infodumping about under the cut)

Let me give you a little detail about this drawing because I love talking about circassian culture. Traditionally, circassian women were required to wear corsets from puberty until marriage. They wore it day and night. (Well ofc they changed the old corsets into clean ones but basically they wore it all the time) On the wedding night, the bridegroom initiated the consummation of the bond by cutting the laces of the corset one by one with a sharp dagger. This required high skill and any scar on the bride's body, no matter how small it is, brought great shame upon the groom. This procedure also helped showing how much self-control the groom has (haha)

I know everyone loves knifeplay with Abysswalker (me too) so it always reminded me of this tradition whenever i heard someone mention it lol. As circassians are mostly people in diaspora, Rafayel's story always makes me think of my culture and people, that's why i love drawing paralells between them. I think this tradition just fit Abysswalker and the princess but i might make a circassian backstory for my mc because it feels nice implementing things from myself to the story.

Here are some references to the circassian corsets. The one on the left is apparently a kabardian corset and the other 2 are back and front of adygean corset. I went with the kabardian corset even tho im abkzah because it got more reference like the pic above lol

The corset has been used for good posture, small waist etc but unlike european corsets (which have been a thing in caucasia for much longer than europe), circassian corsets restrict the chest area much more because small bosom was the beauty standart for them. The wood in the corset is a bit crazy,, so sad for the women who were required to wear those. Im not advocating for corsets but still, it's fun to learn about traditions like this and implement them to the fantasy genre

#love and deepspace #rafayel #fanart #circassian traditional clothing #zeuzey's oc #abysswalker

29 notes · View notes

hariet436 · 6 days ago

Text

Okay so…guns were a thing very early on. Like since China invented firework and we had gunpowder, which was essential for the existence of cannon, and guns, ofc. But gun that can shoot multiple times at once without reloading (revolver) only exists around the 1800s.

The fantasy world in Ikemen prince, however, is said to be set in Late Medieval time. After a quick google search, that time is around 1300-1500. Despite knowing that sometimes the time period is just for the aesthetic of it, I can’t help but compare the technological advances of the ikepri timeline to ours, and to be honest, clothing and designs aside, everything is pretty alright.

That is until Gilbert gets in the picture. You see, this guy has something and has manufactured something that shouldn’t existed until 500-300 years into the future of the ikepri world. Throughout the routes, you can see that gun existed, but they’re mostly matchlock, wheel locks pistols (which matches the period of time btw), and people mostly use those for hunting, not fighting in war.

But in this cg!! (And maybe the revolver Gilbert gave mc) we can clearly see that the gun model Gilbert uses is a revolver, something that shouldn’t exist for another 300 years! Apparently, people knew how to make multi-shot guns before then, but because there were no way of creating required parts with available technology.

So either Obsidian’s technology is 500 years ahead of time, OR Gilbert himself is 500 years ahead of time lol.

#ikepri chevalier #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri gilbert #the timeline is fucked because of a twink lol #chevalier knows he can’t invent these things yet bcs he would mess with the pace of the world then

20 notes · View notes

canmom · 2 months ago

Text

the adventure of canmom at weird weekend (part 1)

is this 'adventure of' joke getting old? like I've already done the 'translate into scots gaelic' variant. it's not exactly an adventure if it's a half hour bike ride is it? ah fuckit

This weekend was the Weird Weekend film festival in Glasgow! it's the tiny kind of film festival with one screen and folding chairs - they did get their hands on a real beast of a projector mind you...

Look at that concentrated beam of pure film. Kind of awesome to actually see a lightfield intense enough to scatter off random bits of dust in the air honestly.

This is apparently the fourth time this festival has run - though as is often the case I'm terribly out of the loop and only heard about it when @birdfriender told me it was on lol. It's also only my third time going to a film festival (the previous times both being Annecy, a very different kind of festival). It was a great time: the organisers have excellent taste and there's a lot of deep cuts, and made some good friends among the attendees.

On Friday night I showed up for the opening evening of interactive film - this included a short film/video essay commissioned for the festival based on of all things the Goncharov meme (seriously...), followed by a brief history of interactive film including the amusingly ill-fated venture of a certain former Microsoft guy called Bob something (I really should have written this down), and then someone called Puke ("everyone’s favourite genderfluid body fluid") came out dressed like this to oversee the actual event...

...and we watched of all things Final Destination 3 with the DVD feature that lets you switch in alternate scenes at various points (mostly death scenes). This was actually a pretty good time since it was my first time seeing a Final Destination film, and there was a good energy in the audience (although it seemed like the film always picked the opposite of what we voted for - not sure if that's a thematic point or programming error lol), but I'm glad the rest of the festival was more obscure stuff.

On Saturday, the festival proper began! I am reminded of a certain line in Exordia, in which the alien Ssrin gives her assessment of humanity, opening with "You’re a species of gangly distance runners, adapted to sweat and throw stuff. You like watching each other fuck." And indeed, there were few films this weekend that did not offer an opportunity to watch someone fuck. That's art for ya babey.

Looking back the clear highlight was Louise Weard's film Castration Movie I: Traps, but more on that anon - let's start at the beginning. I ended up catching all but one of the films over the course of the weekend and there was maybe only one I'd call an outright miss, so great going in all.

On Saturday we opened with a pair of Hungarian films directed by György Révész, about an incredibly up himself intellectual-in-exile named Dr. János Bátky - the self insert of author Antal Szerb. the first film, The Loves of a Dilettante, sees Bátky going through a series of affairs with women around him - in each case abruptly ending the relationship because it doesn't conform to his specific fantasy. The reasons become increasingly absurd: at first Bátky wishes instead that his partner is a certain Countess, but when he chances to meet the lady herself, he refuses to believe she is who she says she is; at last another woman at the library turns out to be the secret admirer who has been sending Bátky gifts in the post, and he cannot stand to be pursued instead of the manipulative pursuer he fancied himself to be, and spurns her as well.

Bátky is very much the butt of the joke in this film, and the ending sees everyone pretty much done with his bullshit; at the same time, he is an entertaining character, with a nonstop patter full of literary allusions, bizarre tangents and dubious observations. Not so charming that I can quite see why all these women are throwing themselves at him, but that's the conceit of the film I suppose! The actor playing him, Iván Darvas does a splendid job of making this sideburned wanker come across as interesting enough to carry a film.

The second Bátky film, The Pendragon Legend was a major tonal departure from the first - and also featured a different cast, despite including a number of the same characters. (Funnily enough Iván Darvas returns, but as a different character.) This time, rather than a study of Bátky's foibles, we have a complicated conspiracy at a stately home in wales, tying in with biological experiments, immortal sorcerors and the Rosicrucians, assassination plots, affairs; the works. It ends up a lot of fun, although the sheer number of characters made it a little hard to keep track of everything. Here, Bátky is pulled in as almost an observer of all the shit going down, and comes across a lot more sympathetic as a result.

All in all, a pretty fascinating pair of films and window into Hungarian cinema. With both these films set in London and Wales but voiced entirely in Hungarian, it seems to present an amusing alternate universe in which Hungary is the language of the UK, but nobody knows where Hungary is. It's a very old-school 'from outside' view of the UK, full of tea-sipping aristocrats and walks in the park and intellectual conversations in a library - it's quite funny to me. I haven't seen a ton of Hungarian film (mostly animation), but everything I've seen has been fascinating, and terribly literary.

vimeo

A whole lot of the films in this festival were restorations of various out of print films, and that includes to the next one, Treasure Island directed by Scott King. This film has absolutely nothing to do with Stephenson's book, instead referring to the island near San Francisco where mail was processed during the second world war.

The basis of the story is the historical Operation Mincemeat, in which the British constructed a false identity for a corpse and planted it to mislead the Nazis; here the story is transplanted to the American invasion of Japan, but the focus is hardly wartime intrigue, instead the psychosexual inner lives of the two Americans who are involved in constructing the fake identity for the corpse. One of them secretly has two wives, one a white civilian woman and the other a Japanese woman who works in translation for the military; the other habitually invites other men for group sex with him and his wife and has a whole lot of hangups about how he is not gay, and that corpse is not at all sexy thank you.

As the film progresses, both of them are increasingly struck by visions of the dead man talking to them and the line between 'reality' and fantasy gets blurrier. It's a very well crafted and engaging film; shot in black and white in 1999, it aimed to challenge the rather sanitised and straightforwardly heroic picture of the 'Greatest Generation' who fought the war, presenting a more 'warts and all' look with the sexuality and racism and so forth in full view. I found it very effective! And it was cool to have the director there, a bearded American guy who spoke very confidently about his intentions for the film - I got to ask a question about how he kept all the fantasy and more literal elements straight while scripting the film.

(Do you find that when you get a Q&A session like this, you really want to ask a good question? Because I do. It's very silly. But like if I am going to hold the mic and get the spotlight on me... sure I don't want to waste peoples' time, but also I kinda want to come off well lmao. If I can get people to go 'ooh that's a good question' I feel like I've won audience Q&A, a real thing that is reasonable to want.)

In the afternoon we got a massive block of trans films old and new. We opened with Scarecrow in a Garden of Cucubers featuring Holly Woodlawn; Jaye Hudson of the TGirlsOnFilm Instagram account (which I was not previously familiar with) gave an introduction, telling the story of how Woodlawn came into the orbit of Warhol's 'Factory', and reading out some funny anecdotes about her experience on set. As Jaye talked about it, at that point in the 70s, trans girls were kind of the flavour of the month and we appeared in a bunch of films at the time, of which this was one.

The film sees a girl called Eve Harrington moving to New York in pursuit of the dream of becoming an actress; there she meets a series of weirdos from taxi-driving nuns to 'Mary Poppins', the drag empress of a kind of roommate finding service who's always trailed by worshipful boys. Most of the film sees Eve trying to find an apartment and a boyfriend, and running into various 70s archetypes along the way: a werewolf (also played by Woodlawn in boy mode), political lesbians, a plant-obsessed hippy, and finally a taciturn amnesiac Russian woman and her brother, a little person in a cowboy outfit who does pro wrestling. It's an intriguing slice of the 70s and of New York in particular.

Apparently this film has long been out of print and only narrowly evaded being lost media, so it's pretty sick to see. (And honestly despite the long cultural shadow they cast, I don't actually know that much about the girls around Warhol's 'Factory', so I was glad to get a look in.)

vimeo

Next up we had 'An Untitled and Perfectly-Legal Coming-of-Age Clown Parody Film' - not hard to figure out what film this is (The People's Joker), especially with the still and trailer right there, but while the courts in the US seem to have come down on recognising it as a valid Fair Use defence, the legal status is still a bit up in the air in the UK.

This one got a lot of buzz for thumbing its nose at Warner Bros.' copyright empire - and of course being part of a recent wave of trans girl directed independent films such as I Saw The TV Glow. It's a trans girl coming of age story built around the Batman milieu, and clearly by people with a pretty thorough knowledge of Batman's cinematic history and DC universe deep cuts (the final act involves a musical number with Mx. Mxyzptlk, played as a puppet, which I'm sure means something if you read the comics).

It's largely shot on greenscreen, with all kinds of mixed media and animation segments - deliberately going for a grungy, chaotic look where it doesn't try to match lighting and animation styles (there's a whole bunch of indepedent animators contributing brief segments here, much as in Barber Westchester). The story concerns Joker the Harlequin, a trans girl who finally moves away from her controlling mother after being drugged with 'Smylex' for most of her life; now in Gotham she can transition, have a dodgy relationship with a trans guy (who is also a version of the Joker, and - spoilers - a former Robin), and build an 'anti-comedy' club with most of the usual Batman villains before going to confront the cultish institution which controls all legal comedy in post-'cyber war' America.

The film's strongest aspect is, fittingly, jokes - throwaway lines about the casually dystopian setting ('drag was outlawed after the explosion at RuPaul's fracking ranch' got a big laugh); a running joke of namedropping cancelled comedians with 'before the unpleasantness, of course' 'of course'; the playful riffs on past Batman films. The core story, though, is a fairly by-the-numbers queer/trans coming of age about self-acceptance, parental mistreatment and finding community, and a bit of a satire on SNL which is perhaps more specific to the director's history - I get the purpose of this kind of narrative and I certainly needed it at a time, and wrote similar stories myself, but it's a kind of story I'm kind of increasingly tired of hearing. I don't mean to say it's bad for that - just it doesn't resonate the way it might have ten years ago.

Honestly, I think trying to make a 'trans movie' kind of paints you into a formulaic corner. A corner very deftly avoided by the next movie, Louise Weard's Castration Movie Part I: Traps. This was the theatrical debut of this movie, though it's been available to download on Weard's gumroad for some time.

vimeo

Louise Weard made herself kind of notorious for her previous movie, ten years ago, Computer Hearts, but even more so for her castration scene supercut at the Fantastic Fest '100 Best Kills' event a couple of years ago - something that has left her feeling a bit pigeonholed into castration scenes. Part of the joke about Castration Movie is then that it's eight hours (only half of that presently available) of trans girls being sad (emotional drama) without any castration until the very end of the movie. It doesn't even come up in the first half.

Technically, this is a four hour long movie - the first part of an eight hour long movie! - consisting largely of very long takes of naturalistic conversations shot on an incredibly grainy camera, now and then mixing that with musical montage and sex scenes. Something I'd raise an eyebrow at on description, and I want to kind of lead with that because like, no joke, this is legit one of the best movies I've seen; those four hours absolutely fly by. Incredibly sharp character writing, incredibly strong naturalistic acting - and unreasonably funny, just way too much.

The first hour or so focuses on Turner, an aspiring film director who spends his time working odd jobs at a film crew and increasingly torpedoing his relationship with his furry-artist girlfriend - someone he clearly isn't very compatible with and views with little actual interest, and his efforts to try and salvage the relationship ring false in ways he's clearly unable to see. But at every turn he doubles down and builds on his resentment and sense of emasculation, until he's picking fights with a living statue in the street and busting into his ex's room late at night.

Along the way we get all sorts of darkly funny conversations - Weard has an incredible eye for subtext and awkwardness, and can lend an ultimately very unsympathetic character like Turner enough sympathetic motivation to make his downward spiral completely human and convincing. It's both sad and terribly funny, perfectly pitched.

The punchline sees him posting to /r9k/ - and at this point we cut to a new story about 'Traps', the film's actual main character, a sex worker in Vancouver played by Weard herself, who is caught up with the drama of various partners and her own completely unresolved shit around transition to make her an entirely unsuitable would-be mentor figure to her friend Adeleine, who's kind of the deuteragonist of this act, cracking under the pressure of being the only one in the house with a shit but paying office job while her boyfriend gets top surgery.

The first act sets us up a frame to look at the second - Traps is a pretty messed up person, but in a deeply understandable way, and it serves in ways to show that the shit she's going through is not some unique trans girl thing but very much the torment of being a human. Desperate for connection and fucking it up, digging ourselves deeper while convinced it's the right thing to do. Along the way, we see her having various kinds of nasty sex, injecting DIY HRT, taking a bunch of cocaine, a trans guy getting top surgery, and various other fun things that I could never stream on twitch (or you bet I'd be planning a screening right away) - but it's also in many ways incredibly matter of fact about all this shit we get up to in a way that feels incredibly real.

It's a film that benefitted a lot from viewing with a largely transfem audience who would laugh at certain lines in the right spirit - I have no idea how this whole thing would come across if you aren't trans and don't know what 'agp' means (about the person saying it as much as anything) lmao. But if you are, it's like the film I never even knew I needed. It's way too real: from amusing setups like the polycule who has the access to DIY HRT trying to drag you into an argument about Dune before one of them wakes up and has a panic attack or daft conversations about boobs, to the pinpoint depiction of the kinds of neuroses we end up carrying from our shitty tenuous work, and of course the friction and fireworks of trying to care for each other when we're all burned out from carrying our own shit. Weard is fearless, and does seem to rather revel in being transgressive, but this is not edge for edge's sake.

And honestly this is 100% what 'trans film', if we can't help but have such a category, needs to be I think - a story heavily informed by the specific fucked up experiences of being trans but not like, About Being Trans(TM) in the way People's Joker was. Uncompromisingly honest (but with plenty of humour) about how we are, which is to say painfully human, rather than cheerfully painting the sort of freeing subculture we'd like to think we have.

I got to talk to Weard quite a bit on Sunday (ending up in a pub with her and a number of other mostly trans festivalgoers), and it turns out the slightly ludicrous length of the film wasn't even planned, with the original idea to edit it down to something like a standard 90 minutes - but when it became evident after shooting the first forty minutes or so that these long scenes were kind of absolute gold, someone (I forget who now) made the case that they shouldn't be cut down at all and to just go for the full behemoth. And honestly? They were fucking right. This did not feel like a four hour film, somehow. There were definitely other films this festival where my mind wandered and I kind of checked out a bit, but not this one.

As a chaser (ha ha) to that, we had Louise Weard's 'Unsee' segment, screened just once in the hour before the clocks change (which is in a certain sense lost to time, or at least that's the joke of this segment). An elaboration on the experience of presenting the castration scene supercut at the '100 Best Deaths' event, it dives into a reprise of that supercut before increasingly alternating with scenes of a kind of introspective monologue on how people reacted to that event and how far Louise herself started to end up feeling like the butt of the joke (even as random cis women accused her of being transphobic lmao).

As the video progresses it segues into an increasingly ridiculous sequence where two of Weard's friends step in (as substitute Louise Weards) reading out her essay of Lacanian film analysis on castration scenes in movies, while Weard (behind the camera) gives them directions to frame the shot to better show her cis ex's boobs. In between, more castration scenes! So many, most of them unfamiliar to me (funny moment when I finally recognised one and my brain was like hey! that's Sálo! and I found myself turning to face Violet with an excited grin before my brain caught up with that)

Among other things, the narration talks about the whole arc being a transgressive tgirl filmmaker who frequently faced some rather ridiculous accusations of being a transphobe or nazi troll (by TV Glow's Jane Schoenbrun, although it seems they have since made up), all in a time when it seems like a lot of her contemporaries in the transgressive film scene actually do seem to end up going nazi; the trouble of getting pigeonholed as the castration person, and so on - but also kind of playing with like oh, fifteen more castration scenes, that's what you want right? So many swerves, and the supercut was in fact very funny (I wonder if I find it easy to laugh instead of wincing since I actually have been castrated lmao), ending in a scene which is constructed to suggest Louise actually cut her balls off for the bit - though since she showed the prop penis earlier it was pretty clear that she didn't. (Yet..?)

It's a really clever bit and superbly entertaining bit of filmmaking, all told. I'm a full Louise Weard convert at this point, can't wait for castration movie part ii.

This post has gotten pretty long now, so I'll write up Sunday tomorrow. Do go watch Castration Movie tho, it's worth your time.

#film #louise weard #castration movie #film festival #the adventures of canmom

23 notes · View notes

party-lemon · 11 months ago

Text

okay so. the kiss, right? after gathering information and reading so much meta (and fanfiction, because honestly, it has helped form my opinion on this also), I've come to a very long conclusion.

let's start with the fact that crowley apparently didn't realize he was in love with aziraphale. which goes against SO much fanfic and beliefs of SO many good omens fans. as someone who started watching after season 2 came out, i didn't think much of it because i wasn't as familiar with the characters. but now i get why people might have been confused by that writing/plot choice

but it's also really interesting. crowley is, essentially, TOLD that he's in love with aziraphale. and that's fascinating because he's been on earth for 6000+ years, how does he not know that, how does he not know what love is?

but for 6000+ years, he's been surrounded by HUMAN love. human love is fleeting, it's dramatic, it's romantic, it's sexual, it's silent, it's all these different things. human love is not only confusing, but it's distinctly HUMAN. and though they've taken up many human things in their thousand year stay, aziraphale and crowley are distinctly not human. crowley watches films and listens to music, sure, but he might see human love as something fantastical. humans watch fantasy films and read sci fi books and consume media and we think "that would be cool if we could experience that." we know it's fantasy, but it would be cool if it wasn't.

i think crowley kind of viewed human love like that. he knows it exists, but also it's sort of shrouded in fantasy. he's almost...indifferent to it. like it would be cool if it happened, but it won't. i think what he knows he feels for aziraphale is a distinctly NOT human kind of love, of which i don't think we're entirely meant to understand, because they're an angel and a demon and they've been alive for millenia and have known each other as they are for 6000+ years. from what we've seen, it's this deeply burrowed fear of losing one another, this desire to simply spend time together, share things they enjoy, exchange philosophical musings, pester each other, save each other, etc, etc.

and like i said, i think they know that that's love. it's unspoken, sure, but i think they both recognize that this deep, distinctly NOT human thing is love, in their own way. they've just been careful not to show it too much because they didn't think they could (flashbacks of "you go too fast for me, crowley"). after the not-pocalypse, they seemed a little more open to showing it, especially aziraphale.

but then nina lets crowley know that, not only is this distinctly not human love (she doesn't know they're not humans, of course) showing very clearly, but it LOOKS like human love. they look and act like a human couple. and i think crowley realizes that he loves aziraphale in a very human way also, that it's not just a fantasy, it's not off limits just because they're an angel and a demon.

so then the final fifteen happens and both aziraphale and crowley are desperate, and i think crowley kisses aziraphale, mostly, as a last push to show aziraphale what he's feeling. everything beforehand was him silently screaming how he loves aziraphale and wants to be with him in their not human way and that didn't work so he decides to show him in this distinctly human way. he's saying he wants to be with him and love him like a human, and kisses him, because it's what HUMANS do.

not sure if this made sense, and decipher that scene how you will obviously, but that's what i think, after being obsessed with this show since august lol

#good omens #good omens 2 #ineffable kiss #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce #good omens meta #aziraphale #crowley #long posts

81 notes · View notes

twsted-kinks · 1 year ago

Note

Broooo your smuts 🥵🥵 and you do watersports?? Can you do something about the twst cast taking it in their mouth? Whether reader is riding/fucking their face or character is holding them down and forcing it, but humiliation + piss PLEASEEE. The riddle gangbang when he got stuck on the knot is so hot that i wanted to send something abt it but its rare to see watersports in twst lol

Also can i be 💦 anon?

Sjsjsns I have an anon now? Yes definitely you can be 💦 anon. And thank you for enjoying my writing! I'm not gonna write all characters at once cause that's a lot, so I'll write for the dorm leaders for now. Will probably write more characters later but gonna start with them for now. Also this got a but more out of hand and kinda become more of what its like being in a relationship with them and piss kink activities snsndndn. There's still some humiliation there but these became more generalized.

TWST Dorm Leaders and MC/Reader's Piss Scenarios/Headcanons

Content Warning: some guys have dicks some guys have cunts, piss, piss drinking (both on purpose and accidental), golden showers, piss marking, piss being used as tea, humiliation and praise, dom/sub dynamics, unhealthy jealousy, dubcon scenarios (mostly just being annoyed), whatever the fancy word is for finding crying hot

(Note: MC/Reader and each character (seperate at least this time) have a pre-established relationship)

Riddle

At first, Riddle wants nothing to do with piss. The first time he accidentally pisses himself while you two are intimate, everything stops immediately, and he's crying, apologizing, everything. Even when you tell him you like piss, when he feels like he's about to pee himself, Riddle safewords and goes to the bathroom. He seems really embarrassed and, at this point, your sex life is mostly vanilla with him, so you don't push the subject really. But now you have to find a different way to get your piss fix, so you decide to pursue some solo fantasies, one of them just so happens to include drinking piss from a teacup.

So, one day you're chilling in your bedroom at the Ramshackle dorm, pouring your own piss from a teapot into a little cup, when you're pulled away for a moment because Grim got his claws stuck in a couch cushion. Just as you're pulling Grim's claws out, trying to not hurt him or ruin the couch, Riddle decides to stop in for a visit. Not even thinking, you tell Riddle to just wait in your room until you get Grim free. Once you finally do, you get back to your room to find your boyfriend has poured himself his own cup and sipping with a delighted smile. You pause in the doorway as he finishes the cup and asks you "I don't think I've ever had this type of tea before? It's a strange taste, but also an enjoyable one. I quite like it." You take a deep breath, step into your room, and close the door behind you. "Riddle," you say in a calm voice, "I love you, so I won't lie to you. That isn't tea. That's my... urine."

After a beat of silence, Riddle screams, face red, cup dropped, and collars you with his spell on instinct. Riddle is panicking. He just told his partner, the person he loves dearly, that he likes the taste of their piss. He's in such a state if panic that he doesn't even think to question why your piss would be in a teapot in the first place. It takes a moment to calm him down and get him to a point he can have a coherent thought. You apologize to him and explain your piss kink, hoping that he won't dump you for this. His face is still red and his hands are shaking, but he talks with you. Riddle is still hesitant, but the fact that he loves you and apparently likes the taste if your pee has him come to the conclusion that he wants to try this fetish out with you.

After trying some stuff out, Riddle finds that he ABSOLUTELY has a piss kink too and gets very subby with anything piss related. You controlling his bladder, watching him piss, pressing on his bladder, you holding his little dick as he pees for you. All of it riles him up and has him melting for you. Though, his favorite piss related activities have to do with drinking your piss. It's almost like he'd addicted. From him giving you head and pissing on his face, you riding/fucking his face and forcing your piss down his throat. It's so good. It's also now a regular thing for your dates to include one of you pissing into a teapot and making eyes at each other while you sip on your cups.

Leona

Leona is not shy about his piss kink. Every time he fucks you, he has to either pee on your or inside you. It's also a regular occurrence for him to piss on you or make you open you mouth and drink his piss at random times. What's really happening is either he can smell his sent is fading off of you or he smells someone else's scent on you. Everyone needs to know that you're his. The other beastmen can smell it plain as day and know to treat you both with respect and fear because of Leona's claim on you. But, non-beastmen have a hard time picking up on it.

You're hanging out with your buddies during lunch when someone gets a bit too close to you. At points this person would even wrap an arm around you. You pull his arm off you the first time, but, when he does it again, you chew the guy out and you and your buddies kick him out of the table. Still, there was enough of him getting to close to you where Ruggie decided to snap a picture and send it to Leona.

Now, Leona's been having a shit day already, so, when he sees a picture of you and someone else's hand on your shoulder, he is livid. It's not long before he is storming into the cafeteria, pulling you away, and dragging you to a secluded area of the garden. You try to ask him what's wrong, but he just growls for you to get on your knees. You've had enough of his shit though. Anytime he's in a mood, he thinks he can just wip his dick out and have you take care of him. Well, now you're pissed. You've been having a shit day too.

"No!" You growl back. "I'm tired of always being the urinal.. You get on YOUR knees for once!"

Leona is taken aback. His cheeks turn a light shade of red, and he turns his back to you. "Tsk, if you're not into it-"

"That's not what I said, and you know it!" You yank on his tail, making him hiss. "Now, if you want to pee on me, get on your knees and let me pee on you first."

Leona hesitates. You grab a fistful of Leona's hair and tug both his tail and hair at the same time. This time you earn a mewl from the beastman. "Yes or no, Leona."

"F-fine." Leona mutters.

Now, Leona is on his knees in front of you as you undress yourself, freeing yourself to reveal your lower body. You grab his hair and yank it, making him look up at you. You take a breath in, relaxing, and your stream starts. It starts weak but quickly gets to full force as you drench his face. You aim your stream downward, soaking his uniform. He groans, and you can see his cock start to get hard through his pants. You focus your stream on his cock and watch as he begins stroking himself through the wet fabric.

And that's how you learn how to get Leona into a subspace. Turns out Leona is a little piss slut who becomes the perfect fuck toy when you give him a golden shower. He'll deny it with a blush and fight you whenever you want to dom, but simply sitting next to Leona and complaining you need to take a piss will get him on his knees between your legs. You also discovered you can get Leona to cum untouched by simply pissing on his face and calling him things like "a desperate little kitten" and "my pretty urinal slut."

Azul

Azul crying during sex is a common occurrence. The first time he squirted ink had Azul sobbing, but you were able to convince him you actually found it very sexy by licking up what ink you could. Azul finally gets that it turns you on, but still it embarrass him to no end. He still cries just about every time you have sex with him. You were concerned at first, but you can't help but find his tears cute and even sexy. Azul is a needy sub, crying as he begs for you to fill his cunt with your cock/strap, and will whine for you to make him cum again and again until he can't physically take it anymore. He needs you to fuck him and ruin his cunt, slap it, stretch it wide open, just abuse it.

Though, one day you stuff Azul a bit too much. You double stuff him, fucking his cunt with a two dildo strap/a dildo and your cock. Azul cums HARD and becomes an absolute mess. He squirts ink all over your torso along with covering you in piss. He's out of it af first, but, as soon as he realizes what happened, he's freaking out and sobbing. You have to stop everything you're doing and go into comfort mode. It takes a while but he finally calms down. Again, he's hesitant when you say you find it sexy, but you eventually convince him. The two of you don't really bring it up again for a while until Azul asks you about why you like it one day. He admits to looking up some watersports stuff and wants to try some stuff with you. What he really wants though, is for you to control his bladder.

One day, you're bringing him big glass of water to his office while Jade and Floyd are there, and Azul tries to play everything off as normal with a very obvious blush on his face. Jade and Floyd can at least tell you're there for fun and not work, so they leave you and their boss alone.

Kalim

Not really humiliated once he figures out he has a piss kink. Just loves drinking your pee, begs for it with puppy dog eyes. Him figuring it out is an adventure though. You were fucking his cunt hard with your strap/cock. He was just so out of it and he thought he was just gonna squirt, but he just ended up pissing all over you. Post nut clarity had him apologizing with a deep blush, but you telling him you're into it has him relieved and surprisingly very excited. He ends up drinking a lot of water before having sex with you and pissing all over you when you fuck him. When your bring up you pissing on him, Kalim is ALL for it.

The first time you pissed on him, he got unbelievably turned on, jerking off his clit while your stream soaks his hair and chest. When you tell him to open his mouth, he eagerly opens it. You don't even have to tell him to drink, as soon as your piss touches his tongue, he's drinking it down. Turns out, he loves the taste of your piss. It actually becomes almost an addiction for him. He gives you a pleading look daily and will pull you into whatever semi-private place he can get to so you can piss down his throat. And please, PLEASE, runs your fingers through his hair and call him a good boy as he drinks your piss. He'll be happy to eat your cunt out/suck you cock too! Especially if him getting you off rewards him with your piss.

Does Jamil learn about Kalim's kink? Yes, yes he does. Who else would do Kalim's laundry? He doesn't say anything, but you do notice the look he gives you sometimes. Its actually kinda funny. Kalim will give you puppy dog eyes, and Jamil will glare at the two of you.

Vil

Vil is mostly a dom and is definitely the type to have a discussion about kinks before actually doing anything together. At first, he wants nothing to do with piss, he finds it kinda gross but won't tell you that when he finds out it's a major kink for you. It's a soft no for him (at first) when it comes to subbing. As a dom, he can't see himself getting off to it, but he's willing to do some watersports for your sake. It starts out rather tame with him giving you golden showers and gracing you with allowing you to drink his piss.

One day though, something clicks. You mentioned trying out some bladder control, which he agrees to, so he comes up with a little scenario. By the time he lets you pee, he has you crouched with your legs spread on a table/bed with him holding a champagne glass up to your urethra. He commands you to piss until the glass is filled a bit and then commands you to stop. He holds the glass to your lips and makes you drink. He repeats this a couple of times and gets curious. You love drinking piss. There has to be something to it. Why doesn't he have a taste. He takes a sip, and it all goes down hill from there.

He still usually doms you, but, when he subs, oh boy. He tries to act all put together, but once he's fully in subspace he's begging for your piss. Call him a dirty slut as you piss all over him and make him lick up your piss from the ground. Make him hold his piss until he can't hold it anymore and point his cock to his face as he pisses all over himself. You're cleaning the mess though once the session is over, but you also get to enjoy a nice bath with Vil as well.

Idia

Idia is shy when it comes to anything dealing with romance let alone sex, so there's no way he's telling you he has a piss kink. Luckily, with you often just spending time in his room while he is busy gaming means you've been through a good amount of his manga collection where he's done a pretty bad job of hiding his hentai.

One day, you get the opportunity to introduce watersports to your sexlife with Idia. Idia is so focused on his gaming because of an online event, he just tells you to come into his room without him scrambling to last minute clean whenever you visit. You enter and are ready to just chill on Idia's bed when you notice a bottle sitting on the floor by Idia's desk, a bottle with a suspiciously yellow liquid. You go over to his desk and pick the bottle up. Confused, Idia looks over and freezes as you examine the bottle. Before Idia can freak out, you unscrew the cap and start drinking. Idia watches and you take gulp after gulp and finish the bottle with a sigh. You comment that "he should drink more water" but, instead of responding, Idia just faints.

This event does open the door for talking more about sex with Idia though, but whenever you do Idia is getting hard by just talking about it. Once watersports is introduced into your sexlife, it goes from 0 to 100 almost immediately. Idia is absolutely ravenous. Idia already loves it when you sit on his face and now, with the element of you pissing in his face and in his mouth, he's cumming untouched as you drench him. Mix your degrading words with some praise and he's absolutely in subspace. Use him as your urinal PLEASE! Just mention the need to go to the bathroom, and he's fully in subspace and is on his knees.

He also loves pissing on you and you controlling his bladder, but his favorite thing is when you hold his dick as he pisses. Now whenever he has a serious gaming session, he has empty bottles ready. He just gives you a signal, and you pull his cock out of his pants and hold it along with the bottle for him to piss in. Does he always get hard whenever this happens? Yes, but you gladly jerk/suck him off as well.

Malleus

Malleus already has a big thing for marking you with bites and hickies and you marking him back is a serious turn on. One day though, you greet Malleus and his usual smile turns into a frown as he leans in and sniffs you. You know fae have a better sense of smell than humans some on par of most beastmen. Apparently, Malleus smells your friends' scents more than his own and is upset by it. Without thinking, you joke about him claiming you with his piss, and Malleus looks at you with a light bulb going turning on in his head. He's never thought about doing that before, but now he really wants to.

So, now Malleus regularly marks you with his piss. It can be during sex or just casually when you two are hanging out. There will be times you two are walking together outside of the Ramshackle dorm and Malleus starts sucking and nibbling on your neck. You immediately know what that means and your nightly outdoor makeout session starts. You hand easily slips into Malleus's pants and rub your fingers along Malleus's slit. Malleus moans into your mouth as you slip your fingers inside and run your fingers along the tips of his still sheathed cocks. It doesn't take long for his cocks and balls to slip out of his slit and into your hands. You're undoing each others bottoms and Malleus's cocks rut against your stomach. That's when Malleus starts to piss all over your torso as you two continue to makeout. Malleus whines when you pull away, but laying against some rubble and opening you legs to reveal your cock/cunt has him eagerly and his knees for you and begging you to mark him too. You grab his horns and pull his face to your cock/cunt and begin pissing on him. He moans as you drench his hair and face. He eagerly opens his mouth and lets you piss fill his mouth and drip down his chin.

All the beastmen and fae can smell Malleus's scent on you. Even if you wash yourself after, Malleus's scent is strong and they avoid you in fear of Malleus getting jealous. Your scent on Malleus isn't as strong, so he asks you to mark him whenever he smells your scent fading or after he bathes. Yeah, he can't go out in public being soaked in your urine, but some quick magic dries him off and makes him presentable while leaving the scent of your piss marking on him.

187 notes · View notes

spreadableshareable · 8 months ago

Text

my brat resume

first off, this blog is extremely 18+. NSFW. no minors allowed at all.

i'm 27, bisexual, and a cis woman. american. my main kinks should be pretty apparent from my blog lol but it's mostly cnc, humiliation, bondage, and torture.

*special shoutout to dommes / lezdoms / fem tops: i need you. i want you. please humiliate me and teach me and correct me and make me a good girl/pet/thing/object for you*

i love public humiliation so asks are not only welcome but encouraged. please help me admit what i'm into to mean strangers on the internet. messages are also welcome, but PLEASE be respectful.

my main limits are nothing gross like bathroom stuff (bladder control is ok and tbh welcome), throw up, animals, etc.; no major bruising/cutting/actual damage; no insults or humiliation about my looks or body; no involving or alluding to details of my actual life (aka let's keep this a fantasy space); and obviously nothing involving outsiders that aren’t consenting. I'm open otherwise and will obviously tell you if you cross a line. I hope you'll do the same for me.

#me

31 notes · View notes

kanmom51 · 1 year ago

Text

JK on GMA

AWKWARD...

The JM question... JK with his "yes, in New York", pointing back like it's far away.

Well, so far away apparently that he couldn't join one of the shortest lives ever JK had, and one he couldn't get over fast enough.

*Side note: probably not going to post about that live, given there was really nothing post worthy in it. Other than him loving the cake, him being a little sick, him telling us there will be more performances and he has a schedule following the live, him telling us he slept 2 hours last night, up at 4:30 am (meaning he went to sleep at 2:30 am, I guess fulfilling his promise to ________ seven days a week).

Like I said, he couldn't wait to get it over fast enough.

And back to GMA.

Yeah, not a great interview...

Poor boy.

He was not ready for that kind of interview. And he is one that needs to prepare. The interviewer was, excuse my French, I am not going to mince words, crap.

The sound in the studio was bad. He didn't have a proper mic. The interviewer was shocking. Yeah, not good.

Euphoria

Dynamite

Seven

Oh, and did I mention the camera work for the pre-taping was not great either?

But let's leave that aside for a second and talk about something interesting. Something obviously not only I noticed.

Now, we've all agreed that this song is about sex, true?

True.

And we have also agreed that the song is gender neutral, true?

True, but not for the rap.

The rap has male pronouns and is clearly sung to a male.

Tightly take control, tightly take his soul Take your phone and put it in the camera roll (Uh) Leave them clothes at the door What you waiting for? Better come and hit ya goals He jump in it both feet Going to the sun-up, we ain't gettin' no sleep Seven days a week, seven different sheets Seven different angles, I can be your fantasy Open up, say, "Ah" Come here, baby, let me swallow your pride What you on I can match your vibe Hit me up and I'ma Cha Cha Slide You make Mondays feel like weekends I make him never think about cheatin' Got you skippin' work and meetings Let's sleep in, yeah (Seven days a week, ooh)

(That swallow your pride line is...ok...).

In the recorded song and the MV Latto is the one rapping, mostly, JK does the singing.

But in the performance, JK did part of the rap.

Loud and clear.

So, someone clearly went and told him he just cannot sing the lyrics as is, and went and changed the line "I make him never think about cheatin'" to a female pronoun - her. Cause Scoot, he has A LOT of money banking on this song, and ain't no one, especially not JK, going to ruin it for him with no explicit queer shit.

Thing is, it comes out worse in a sense, lol.

Cause that mix of female pronoun with lines that are clearly male intended kind of makes your mind go to other places which I will not detail here right now (well, if you have one and it's not empty like the y/ns that will listen to her and swallow it like the imbeciles that they are).

And yeah, JK's English might not be the greatest, but he most definitely knows what the lyrics he's singing are.

He knows what it means when he sings "fucking you seven days a week" and he knows what the lyrics of the rap part are as well, it being his damn song. And he definitley knows what "come here, baby, let me swallow your pride" means too.

So, JK singing this rap, with the male pronouns, talking about explicit sex acts with a man, this my friends was a definite no no from the Scoot. NO SIR. NOT ON HIS WATCH.

Do we have to say closeted once again? And prices to pay as well?

So yeah, JK had an almost free hand with the photo shoot concept, and obviously had styling choices of his own in the MV and the performance today (cough JM mirroring going on again cough). I think it's also safe to say he was involved in the MV concept itself and the storyline and idea for the scenes. And we don't know just how much say he had with the lyrics of the song (although it's clear that he does feel a connection with the song, and I'm not surprised either with some of the mirroring going on there to JM's Like crazy), but clearly for JK's part, there are no female pronouns.

So, if he wanted to rap, having to say the word her in the rap was a price to pay, which he did. All with the 4 buff tattooed male dancers prancing around him.

For a song about a clearly hetro man singing about having sex 7 days a week with a woman that is kind of a weird, let's say, choice of backup dancers, I have to say.

Or not, seeing that this man does not have one straight bone in his body...

Thinking back though to that line he inserted the her...

"I make him never think about cheatin'"...

This one rings so JK...

"I make JM never think about cheatin'"...

Yeah, that sounds about right...

#Jungkook #JK #JK Seven #JK GMA #Jikook #Kookmin #Minkook #Jimin #JM

139 notes · View notes

thenexusofsouls · 3 days ago

Text

Meta: Freya's Psychology - How it Differs From Ravenna's, and Where She Falls on the Morality Spectrum

{i am the caretaker of souls} Just some random philosophical notes on Freya... She is different from Ravenna. Like, and duh, of course she is, there are layers and levels of villains, not all are the same, they're not a monolith, etc. and so forth, but... where is that line past which you say they aren't able to be rehabilitated? Where's the line between truly evil and only partly so? Between evil and affected by trauma? Evil and affected by trauma? How much evil is an acceptable level of "understandable" based on someone's trauma? Some? All? None?

I'm watching Winter's War right now because it happens to be on and I'm just... always fascinated by the interactions between Freya and Ravenna. First of all... seriously, they are both QUEENS and by "they" I mean the actresses, heh. They have amazing versatility with emotion and facial expression and it's like candy for a writer like me to watch them play in a scene together because it feeds my soul, heh, but that aside. When I watch Freya and Ravenna together, the differences between them are so apparent. SO apparent.

I've always wanted to do a deep dive into Freya's character and even compared to Ravenna's, and really get into the question of... is Freya really a sympathetic character, or can she be, or should she be... or am I just sympathetic towards her because I happen to like the character? This is not going to be that because, quite honestly, sometimes I can't tell. Or maybe it is. We'll see how well I'm able to probe her mind right now, haha. I'm in a mood, lol.

My own personal alignment is Lawful Good with Neutral Good tendencies, meaning that I will always be and champion good, and I will usually follow rules and laws but not simply for what they are. If good can and should be furthered by breaking a rule of law, I will consider it. Like for me, good comes first, law second. Lawful Good is the alignment of paladins and the classic White Knight trope in writing, although I of course would never place myself in that category which I often idealize in its purest form when I see it in fictional media. I'd say I'm the realistic life version of what that alignment could idealistically or optimally be under some fantasy conditions, heh, which isn't so pristine or heroic by any means. I'm mostly just a wet blanket to most people, I've noticed, haha. Having said that, I guess that's why I love and tend to gravitate towards writing paladin types.

So... here's a little window into my writing for you, heh... if I'm writing someone who is morally ambiguous, and especially if they are a full-on villain, it's hard for me. Very hard. I don't understand those mindsets very often and so it's difficult for me to get inside the heads of villains or morally gray characters. But... I try, because I do love the psychology of morality and to analyze the reasons behind characters' motivations, the lies they tell not only others but themselves as well, and the ways in which they justify what they do. The way my mind works, though, is very black and white, very specific... which doesn't help me write characters who don't 100% or cleanly fit the definition of a hero or a villain. Understanding where those lines are, why points are sympathetic about a character and which are not justifiable, and how to write villains and anti-heroes accurately and true to their characters despite the limitations of my own brain is something I very much struggle with.

If I can find something sympathetic about a character, there's a chance I can write them, because that's what I use as my anchor. Writing 100% evil characters doesn't interest me at all. I need ones that are evil for very sympathetic reasons, or who do evil things but then also do good things or have good qualities. Those are my biggest challenges as a writer, because it's harder to find that balance in my writing them of what my brain wants to do and what is true to the character.

In watching Snow White and the Huntsman and The Huntsman: Winter's War, I always found myself kindof fascinated by Ravenna while really hating her, heh. Not even her tragic backstory could make me sympathize with her. I enjoy watching her from an entertainment point of view, but I don't feel badly for her, nor do I feel that her actions are justified by her traumatic childhood. But with Freya, for whatever reason, despite me being Lawful Good and that alignment usually not tolerating people who do really terrible things, I always feel so sad for her and so sympathetic towards her. I've never written a thread in which Freya essentially admits that her anti-love policies are crap, that she still loves and wants to be loved, and that she's just done all of this as one long stint of improperly processing the trauma of losing her daughter and being betrayed by a lover. And yet, she reveals almost all of that in the actual movie.

Going back to what I said about seeing the differences clearly between Freya and Ravenna in their scenes together, I notice so much more emotional faltering on the part of Freya than Ravenna. I think I only saw Ravenna cry once in Winter's War, and that was nothing more than her eyes tearing up as she said, "Do you think think I wanted a child? Do you not think I wanted love? But I was not meant for such things. I have a higher calling." I don't believe her when she "cries" during that line. It comes across as performative rather than genuine emotion. The character, I mean, not the actress. The supposedly spontaneous display of actual emotion feels just as stilted and contrived in the moment as does any other of Ravenna's "emotions." Freya, on the other hand... I believe her emotion is real. The way her eyes dart around, the hard swallows, the uncertainty in her expression. And later, when Ravenna starts killing her Huntsman, if Freya's panic for their safety isn't love, I don't know what is.

I refuse to make Ravenna a muse, even though she's been bugging me to do it for about two years now. The reason I won't is because 1) I don't think I would write her well, even though I have kindof dabbled with her as a guest muse as times, 2) I have nowhere to go with her, no development goals, no endgame of redemption, nothing to push her towards. I don't just write characters I like, I write ones that I want better future for, alternate futures for, or that I feel have a plethora of untapped potential for scenarios that were never explored in canon. Ravenna... is a cold-hearted conqueror, she always will be, and nothing and no one can ever change her. But if we look at what Ravenna's done, and what Freya's done, they're almost identical. They're both sorceresses who use their powers cruelly, they're both conquerors, and they both think the world has wronged them and owes them power in return. So what's different about Ravenna and Freya that makes it okay in my mind to write Freya but not Ravenna?

I think maybe it's that Ravenna is out for herself 100% of the time, but Freya isn't? Ravenna, at the end of every day, at the conclusion of every battle or conflict, and in every life or death situation, will always choose herself. Self-preservation and survival is paramount to her in any situation. In the first movie, she sacrificed her own brother to save herself, even though he was her greatest ally. In the second movie, she killed Freya to protect herself, or at least dealt the fatal wound that eventually killed her. No one and nothing will ever mean as much to Ravenna... as herself. That sort of selfishness, at least in my mind, is permanent and never changing. It's also uninteresting to me, because there's no room for development.

Freya isn't... always selfish. And I'm not even sure that I would call it selfishness. I'm really not sure, heh. Usually I don't write a muse unless I really understand them, or I've created them myself, because need to come from a place of deep knowing to write someone, that's just my deal and the limitations of my abilities as a writer. But Freya is that rare exception of me feeling like I really don't fully understand her. There's emotion there, there's love, there's need, there's loneliness, there's heartache and grief... but then she takes all of those things and does such terrible things with them. So is she redeemable or not? My first instinct is to say yes, but then I shy away from ever writing her reaching that point, even though it's probably what I want most for her. Why is that?

Maybe it's that I don't really understand why she does what she does? My best explanation for the many inconsistencies and contradictions in her philosophy on love is that she's lying to herself, processing trauma in an entirely toxic way, and refusing to believe comfortable lies instead of painful truths about her own life. She couldn't deal with losing her child or with the idea that someone she'd loved and trusted had betrayed her (I know it was really Ravenna, but Freya doesn't know that until the very end), so she searched for some greater meaning in it, some answer outside herself. Rather than believe either that 1) sometimes bad things happen to good people and there's no reason for it and it doesn't make any sense, or that 2) she'd been naive and taken advantage of because of that, she chose to believe that there was some grander evil afoot that resulted in her life being destroyed.

Freya's philosophy is entirely meant to make her personal traumas easier to bear. All love is evil and wrong. That's why it hurt her. All men are selfish pigs who just use women and throw them away. That's why her lover betrayed her. Love will always end in tragedy and pain. That's why it happened to her. By believing this, she removes any blame from herself, and places it instead on the universe. This is more comfortable to believe than the reality of... I was wronged randomly and without greater meaning, it just happened, and that's that. Instead, she can now believe that she was but one victim in the multitudes that love has claimed throughout time. Well now how was she to resist or to avoid it, when love is just that insidious and cruel?

Where her evil then comes in is two-fold. First, she knows better. Freya isn't insane, as much as people like to label her as such. She's of sound mind, knows what she's doing, and knows right from wrong. But even knowing that, she chooses to feed her own lies. She chooses to ignore what she knows is the truth in favor of feeding into her own narrative to make herself feel better. Second, she decides to commit atrocities way worse than what was done to her in order to accomplish this.

Freya is hurt by what her lover did and feels vulnerable and taken advantage of, so she conquers to prove she's strong and not a victim, to overwrite in her mind how powerless and fragile she felt all those years ago. She lost her child and now has nowhere to go with her need to be a mother, and she has a need to replace the child she lost. So she takes the children of others and deludes herself into thinking she's saving them, that they're actually better off with her, and that she's saving them from ever having to feel the pain that she felt. In reality, she's causing them all that pain and so much more. She needs to believe this narrative, though, otherwise her whole philosophy on life, herself, and what happened to her comes crashing down, and she'll be forced to face and process the trauma she's never been willing to confront before.

But... Freya does love her "children," she truly does. I think she started out kindof deluding herself with this philosophy of... well I'm taking you from your parents and saving you from love to make you stronger... but then later on, she had to keep up that narrative or she'd have to face that she'd actually wronged them... and the potential fact that none of them actually love her the way she loves them. It's so sad to me to think that she was alone with that love, that she cared so much for them but then at the same time tried to ignore it and pretend like each time one of them died it didn't hurt her, when I think it did. I think a lot of her coldness was an act, and I would challenge her writers to show me more scenes when she was alone in her sanctum, for example after she'd ordered Eric to be killed, either the first time or the second. I think she would have felt real emotion for him, and for all others that had fallen as a result of her orders. But it was clear to me in the way she looked at her Huntsman, the way she spoke to them, the way she feared for them in having to tell them of Ravenna's new orders or when Ravenna attacked them, that she did genuinely love them.

What's even sadder to me, is that I think she believed they loved her too, or at least wanted to believe that. When Eric tries to kill Freya towards the end of the movie, she looks totally shocked that he would attempt such a thing. She even asks, "Why?" so incredulously. What do you mean, why, heh? He tried to kill you before too! He has so many reasons to! But she actually was surprised. Like why would you want to kill me? I find that fascinating. She was either so deluded in thinking she really hadn't done anything wrong to him, or she refused to believe that Eric really didn't think of her as his queen or mother or whatever else as she wanted him to. That's... so sad.

Freya also, aside from the fact that she took them from their parents gave them no choice whatsoever except to become soldiers, treated her "children" pretty well. "I gave you everything," she even says. They weren't starving. They had good clothes and equipment. A lot of the girls' hair was intricately braided, which suggests some amount of downtime and self care of each other, that they would do that for each other. They had personal items, weapons, clothing... Sara even was permitted to keep her mother's talisman. So they weren't like... tortured or starved or even prevented from having their own personality quirks, like Sara's haughtiness, Eric's comical humor, Tull's insecurity, or Leifr's overblown, alpha male arrogance. Eric's moments with Pippa, too, were heartwarming. However, they were psychologically conditioned and physically pushed to their limits, so some might argue that in itself was torture. But I argue that there's a difference in mentality of a ruler, parent, leader, etc. who would expect much from their children/people/soldiers but treat them well in return, rather than someone who just runs them into the ground without care, treating them as expendable objects.

Tiny side note, that scene where Freya is dissociating a bit by her baby's ice-encrusted cradle, or an ice replica of it I'm not sure which tbh, and one of her "children" comes to bring her her owl mask and he's carrying a torch... She has an emotional outburst due to her traumatic relationship with fire and blows out the torch, freeze-burning his hand. He's clearly afraid of her, even as he hands her the mask. A truly heartless, evil queen who had no caring for her children/subjects would not care about his feelings. But Freya does. She bothers to soften her expression and whisper, "It's alright," to reassure him that she's not really mad at him, and that she forgives his transgression. I think that's very telling for her character.

Larger side note here... all three times she orders Eric to be killed, Freya turns away. The first time, she says, "Take him out of my sight," and turns away. She pauses to look back, but decides against it. The second time, she tells Sara, "Kill him," but then turns her back and goes to the mirror. The third time, Eric even asks her, "Why do you turn away, Freya?" as she's being forced by Ravenna to condemn him and Sara to execution. I think this is an important window to see through the coldness of her orders, which many take as her absolute personality. Well she toys with them, she orders them killed, so she's a cold bitch and there's no feeling there. No, I think she does it because she feels she has to in order to maintain power, but it bothers her, and she would have preferred not to do it. She doesn't want to see Eric die, and that's why she looks away all three times. And her words to him when she comes upon him and the dwarves in Sanctuary, "Eric. My Eric. Your queen has missed you," I believe she was being truthful. She did miss him. That's her Eric. Her "son." Her Huntsman. Her subject. Someone she loves.

Another telling line from the first time he tried to kill her, was, "You knew, didn't you? You knew she would betray you and you spared her still." The emotion in Freya's eyes was genuine at that point. There's a coldness, an emotionless mask that she wears that's almost as performative as Ravenna's, but for Freya, it's very consciously constructed. She has to focus to maintain it, whereas with Ravenna, it's natural and even enjoyable to her. When she says that line, a piece of that same incredulity that she has at the end when Eric tries again to kill her is there in her eyes. She really doesn't understand Eric's behavior and his willingness to be hurt for love. Oh, Freya knows love exists, and that it can be real, she's just too hurt and too afraid to admit it. But what she doesn't understand is why someone would allow themselves to be hurt by it, as in her mind, Eric was. In her mind, there's nothing worse than being screwed over by love, so Eric's willingness to sacrifice himself for it is something that is so outside of Freya's ability to understand at that point. She can't be shown it, she has to feel it herself and learn how to do it through experience.

Also, I'd like to point out, going back to her turning away each of three times she order's Eric's death, that... bitch can literally freeze anyone she wants almost instantly. She can throw ice spikes. She can make a big wall and crush someone with it, I mean... Let's face it, if she wanted Eric dead... really wanted him dead, he'd be dead. When she says that line I mentioned up there and he tries to stab her with his dagger, she grabs his arm. At that point, she could have killed him. Easily. She didn't. Some might argue it didn't serve her purposes at that point, but I disagree. He was a thorn in her side and getting rid of him would have been easier for her and it would have "protected" Sara from his "toxic" love. Some could argue that it was beneath her, that a queen doesn't do her own dirty work. Nah, she'd frozen the two dwarves not seconds ago. Granted, she didn't kill them, but they might have easily been killed, since all those people she freezes end up on a life-sized chess board, and when a piece is taken off the board during a play, the person is shattered, essentially killing them. This was seen in a deleted scene where she plays such a game against Ravenna, but I digress. My point is, it would've been so easy for her to kill Eric, and Freya doesn't shy away from using her magic on people. The only reason she didn't, in my mind, was that she didn't want him dead.

And of course, Freya's final line, as she lays dying and is looking at Sara and Eric yet again in love and working together so well, "How lucky you are." That line breaks my freaking heart. It reveals so much, not the least of which is that she, after everything she'd said and done, still admires and envies those in love. It means she views love in a positive light in some regard. She views love like theirs in a positive light, love that's real and stands the test of time. I think she longed for that herself, and in that moment she realizes that it does exist, just... not for everyone. Not for her. But it does for them. And so... how lucky they are to have it. To have each other. My girl breaks my heart in that moment and I think this one line may have been the linchpin in why I ultimately wanted to write her myself.

But after saying all of this, I feel like nothing more than a Freya apologist, and that doesn't sit well with me. I can't figure out whether that's just my own personal alignment butting heads with Freya's alignment, or whether I'm really seeing things that aren't there and making excuses for a character who doesn't deserve the understanding or second chances. If anyone has any thoughts on all of this, I'd love to hear them! Well, read them, heh.

Alright now let's now take a second to think about why Ravenna did what she did to Freya. Because we can, heh. Freya in her youth was no threat to Ravenna, because as I've established, Ravenna is always out for herself and wants to be on top. By making her a sorceress and awakening her magic through trauma, she actually made Freya capable of rivaling her. Why would she do that? Well, I don't think that was her intention, heh. She had other ones...

In their first scene together, Ravenna says to Freya, "I suppose you are my weakness." That right there, might have been enough reason for her to want to hurt Freya. Eliminating any and all weaknesses is important to Ravenna, because weakness could mean death if it's used against her. But I don't think that's the whole reason. The way Ravenna looks at her when she's looking longing and lovingly at her lover at court is... a look of resentment. Jealousy. Is it possible that Ravenna envied Freya's innocence, or was jealous that someone loved her? Could it be that she was jealous that Freya found real love when she's just seducing and killing kings who only want one thing from her? I would believe that if I also believed Ravenna really wanted to be loved herself, but I really don't think that matters to her.

Could it just be that Ravenna resented her sister being happier than she was? Jealous, maybe, that Freya was happy and didn't need magic in her life while Ravenna was a slave to hers? Or maybe it wasn't even that meaningful... maybe Ravenna just saw her happy and wanted to spoil it. But maybe she knew the magic only comes to protect the sorceress, and Freya needed something to be protected from. She might resent the fact that her life is ruled by her magic, having to always feed it with beauty and blood, such as she does. It wasn't really her choice to have it, it was given to her by her mother. Maybe she wants Freya to feel that same kind of magic-made prison? Maybe she resents her carefree freedom to live her life without the burden that magic brings? I really don't know, my understanding of Ravenna is even worse than that of Freya, haha.

Also I wonder... if maybe Ravenna can't have children for some reason? Because at the end of the second movie, that comment she makes of, "Do you not think I wanted a child?" Um, no, ma'am, I actually would never have thought for a second that you did? Given your personality? XD But is she saying there... that she did? Her eyes tear up, which is interesting. Maybe... that is the root of it. Because she didn't turn on Freya until she realized that she was carrying her lover's child. It would also explain why she didn't just go after the lover, but also killed the child as well. Revenge? Retaliation? A temper tantrum? Because she was jealous that Freya could have children and she could not? Meh... maybe not, heh, since the mirror told her the baby would grow to be even fairer than her, blah blah, so I suppose it's possible Ravenna only went after the baby for that reason. But there was no reason to drag the lover into it. She could have just killed the baby, or compelled a random guard to do it for her, she didn't have to make Freya's lover do it. That bit right there... suggests Ravenna's motivation was not only the baby's eventual fairness alone.

So... there's not much of a point to all of this besides me unloading my brain on the subject of... why do I feel so sympathetic towards Freya but not Ravenna, when they've both dealt with trauma... and also, how redeemable is Freya, really? Am I only seeing what I want to see in her, or is there really something to work with there? I don't know, and maybe that's what I like about her as a muse, that I don't have her all figured out yet. That's honestly never been my m.o. before, heh, I usually like to understand a character inside and out before I write them. *shrugs* I guess we'll see the more I write them, how things turn out for her!

No, Ravenna, you will never be a full muse here. Stop asking me! XD

Meanwhile Eric wants me to get rid of both of them, heh. Muses, amirite?

Phew. Okay. Well. That was a thing I just wrote, haha. I have no idea where this came from tonight, but I hope at least somebody enjoys reading it, heh. Now that I've gotten this out of my system, I'm going to get to some other things! =)

#{ i am the caretaker of souls } ᵒᵒᶜ #muse: freya #guest muse: ravenna

6 notes · View notes