#takes me back to my philosophy classes way back when

[starspanner]

Here is the original source.

Existential Comics is one of my favorites.

[subsequentibis]

ive been saying the 'im a humanities major i cant do math' joke for a long time but i was just reminded today of how much i liked math when i was in high school. math was a bunch of fun puzzles that you got to solve and as long as you understood the process it was so satisfying and rewarding to complete

[thedevotionaltour]

i havent even read enough gl to justify the feelings and emotions i have about kyle i just have the lovers heart and also something wrong with me. and my projection. in my mind he's just like me. and he would have loved college vending machine frozen cheeseburger and heating it up in the microwave at 1 in the morning because he was bored and didn't want to work on a drawing assignment on 20" x 30" paper that was due tomorrow in his freshman year. he would have loved going to the club to push off finals work that's creating the worst stress known to man in his brain. and he would love to annoy the fuck out of his roommate when high and avoiding homework on a saturday.

[youaremysunshine-court]

give me 5 reasons not to jump out of my window

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐒 ❞

❝ BEING PROF. GETO'S T.A. IS SO HARD BECAUSE HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

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

✧ summary: you're now professor geto's t.a. for the semester, forced to spend time with the man that you so desperately want, either of you barely able to hold back when you're around the other, so what happens when you're forced to go to a conference with him...and there's only one bed.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, so much mutual pining, bed sharing, cuddling, masturbation (f + m), oral (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), semi public sex (sorta), office sex (kinda), amateur's take on moral philosophy and ethics, art by @/nino84391425

✧ wc: 16,821 (apparently i am writing a novel lol) | part one | part three | part four

“On time for once?” Professor Suguru Geto remarks without looking up from his notes on the podium, even as your footsteps echo in the empty lecture hall, “color me surprised,” 

“Couldn’t be late on my first day as a teacher’s assistant, now could I?” and his lips curl in that damnable smile, as he finally glances up from his notes to see you looking far too gorgeous in his button up — one you had oh so generously relieved him of last night, pilfered away in your bag seemingly. 

“But you could be late on your first day as a student?” and you lick your lips, as you draw closer to him, “seems like you’re quite the hypocrite, not very ethical,” 

“Don’t think what we did last night was very ethical either,” you murmur, enjoying the way his dark eyes glaze over for a moment with the thoughts what you both did — the places touched, the moans heard, and the pleasure had — “plus, I definitely have an incentive to be on time now,” your fingers graze his, and why does his touch always feel like coming home. 

“And what’s that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, running the back of his hand against your cheek. 

“Your gorgeous face,” you smile, leaning close as your lips brush, “and some stolen kisses before class,” 

“And what makes you think you’ve earned them, my favorite student?” He teases, as his fingers slide to the back of your neck, and his other hand snakes around your waist, tugging you close. 

“Oh, I have a few ways to earn them, Professor,” your fingers drag down his chest, “but I don’t know if we have the time before class to—“ 

And his lips find yours — needy and bruising, as your fingers clutch at his shirt, the pressed fabric now definitely creased under your touch, “we’ll make time,” he murmurs, as he leans back to drag his thumb down your plush lips, “I still have many things to teach you, and what time is there like the present?” 

He’s leaning down to press a kiss to your lips— 

RING. RING. RING. 

Your eyes snap open, a groan crawls its way out of your throat, as you fumble for your phone to silence the dreaded ringing. You lie back on your bed, a distinct ache between your legs that makes you squirm, and only want to bury yourself back into your bed and possibly the reality that existed within only your dreams. 

But this was sadly reality, and you had about two hours before your first class as a teacher’s assistant for Professor Suguru Geto’s ethics and moral philosophy class. And two hours before you would see Professor Geto for the first time since you had made out. 

You turn over, pressing your face into your pillow. You wondered if you tried hard enough, if you could suffocate yourself before then. 

Probably not. That would be far too lucky. 

~~~

Professor Suguru Geto couldn’t sleep — instead he spent his time staring at his ceiling, the blades of his fans spinning above him, just like his mind was — in circles. It was as if he almost didn’t want to risk his dreams taunting him, it was the same reason he had buried himself in research over the semester break, the same reason he had put off emailing you the materials for the semester, and the same reason he hadn’t seen you since that day you had kissed. 

It was too much of a risk. 

You were risk personified, even for a risk averse theologian he liked to think himself as. But you were the thing of myths, the dangled food for Tantalus, the far too warm sun for Icarus, and the promise of gold for King Midas. But you were not a myth — you were real, his student made of flesh and bone, the same flesh he had pressed into his desk just a few short weeks ago, his legs parting your thighs, his fingers itching to rip your pantyhose off your legs— 

He sighed, this wasn’t helping — his bedside clock blinked back at him mockingly — he only had a few hours before his first class. He should try to sleep even a little. So he did, shutting his eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t dream of you. 

But he couldn’t possibly be that lucky. 

How many times have you stood in front of this office door? Your Professor, to which this office belongs, would joke that it was far too many to count — and you’d be better speculating how many times that Sisyphus rolled the boulder up the same hill. But the last time you had been in it was the thing that made you hesitate now. 

But that was your entire relationship wasn’t it? A game of chicken, wondering who would hesitate first — and neither of you were the type to hold back. Except when it came to this — except when it came to your feelings for the other. 

You shake your head, trying to shake your anxious thoughts free of their eternal bounce around your skull, and grit your teeth before finally knocking. 

“I’m actually right here,” a voice behind you says, making you jump, as you whip around, nearly pressed against his office door. And now you stood face to face with the man who owned it.

And how was it that every time you saw him, he was achingly more perfect than the time before? His ebony hair was half down, black locks brushing against his shoulders, the rest tied up in a neat bun. A crisp white button up underneath a neutral toned knit sweater vest, the shirt very much like the one you had stolen in your dream. 

Perfect. 

“Professor Geto,” you offer a small smile, trying your best to keep your eyes on his, instead of drifting over his form, “it’s good to see you,” 

“It’s good to see you as well, and so prompt,” he says, brushing past you to unlock his office, “made a habit of being on time these days?” 

“Well, when your professor reprimands you in front of the entire class, you try to make a habit of being on time,” why did it feel like your dream was repeating yet again? It’s not as if your relationship with him wasn’t cyclical enough — life imitating dreams was almost far too much. He opens the door for you, letting you enter first, before he follows you in, “and aren’t you the late one this time?” 

His lips quirk, as he rounds his desk, and takes a seat, “You really can’t make it a conversation with me without giving me shit, huh?” 

“Language,” you chide, as you sit across from him, “not very appropriate for an academic setting,” and you have to bite back the want to say that you’ve done plenty of inappropriate things in this office the last time you both were here. 

“Well, our track record isn’t known for being very appropriate, now is it?” Or maybe you didn’t need to say it, because the way he was looking at you told you everything you needed to know. But that didn’t mean either of you would act on it. He licked his lips, mouth parted to say something, his gaze heavy. 

And the moment is broken when his email goes off — you squeeze your bag a little tighter, as you busy yourself with digging through your bag for the materials to go over. That sound was nearly traumatizing in this office, not only did it usually signal the start of some assignment you had to trudge your way through — it also was the sound that had ended your relationship before it even really began. 

“Class starts in an hour, so I thought we could have this meeting just to review the syllabus and see if you have any questions — as well as just overall any questions you had about being a T.A.,” he explains, pressing his pen to his lips, “I understand this is your first time being a T.A.?” 

“It is, I hadn’t really considered it until the department head approached me about that,” and he nods, a flash of emotion that surfaces for only a moment before dissipating, “what will my responsibilities be?” 

“Good question,” a smile pulls the corners of his lips, “obviously, as a T.A., you will have office hours that you can decide with your own discretion—” 

“So it’s okay if I have them once a month at 3:00 AM?” and he rolls his eyes as you bite your lip at the sight — why was everything he did so effortlessly attractive? 

Fucking unfair. 

“Witching hour, how apt,” he murmurs, as he tilts his head, “but they should be weekly, as I’m sure you know, and held not in the middle of the night, when nights should be used for other things,” and you have to bite back your reply, like what? 

And then he continues to explain, “You can also help with some grading — mostly entering grades online for me since you know I love to handgrade,” 

“Oh yes, truly enjoyed having my self-esteem cut to shreds after receiving a paper back,” you scribbled notes down in your notebook, “glad I won’t be on the receiving end this time,” 

“If you’re good, that is,” and you knew it slipped from his lips — from the way his lips parted, the way his body froze for half a second as if he had shocked himself — and he had, because the spark between you two remained, a weed stubbornly cracking through concrete, “sorry—’ 

“You don’t have apologize,” you shake your head, waving him off, “it’s really fine,” 

“It’s not,” he said softly, placing the syllabus down on the desk, “I know we agreed to keep our relationship professional,” 

“We did,” Yes, you both did — sort of. 

“And I want us to do that—” 

And you ask the question you weren’t brave enough to ask the last time you two had seen each other, “Why is that again?” 

When the email had come, it was as if a spell had broken — the rosy colored lenses had come off, only to leave the hard glare of reality behind. Your limbs still entangled while you both reread the email off of his screen — as if it would say something different the millionth time over. 

It didn’t. 

And then the awkward clamor of disengaging, slow limbs pulling apart, as the warmth of his embrace left as quickly as it had come. Silence as the two of you let the news settle in, like a noose tightening around your necks, and you slowly slid off his desk. 

“If I’m your T.A.,” you had said slowly, adjusting the skirt of your dress, “we can’t do this, can we?” and he had only nodded, his gaze unable meet yours, fixed to the rug on the floor of his office, and he could only muster two words as you brushed past him and gathered your things—

“I’m sorry.” 

But even so, you couldn’t remember why it was a bad idea? Why was it so wrong for the two of you to do this? What difference did it make that you were his T.A.? It was still against the rules either way — it was still unethical either way — so why, why did it matter? 

But he knew why, from the way his brow creased with lines and his lips pursed and the way his eyes yet again couldn’t quite reach yours — as if you’d spot something in them that he didn’t want to see. 

“Because we’re going to working together all semester long, with students in class who will see us each week,” he licked his lips, leaning back in his chair, “because it was already problematic if we saw each other without any classes or connection, but now — if you’re my T.A. and my girlfriend, how would I even properly supervise you?” and he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he blows air through his teeth, before his voice grows softer, “how would I focus on guiding you and our students if I’m too busy gazing into your eyes or staring at your lips or wanting to—” he cuts himself off, “you know it’s not a good idea,  most of our students probably wouldn’t notice, but rumors spread and it takes one good rumor to ruin your career,” and he adds, “with how things work, you don’t need me to tell you why it would be worse for you than me, even if I tried to take responsibility,” 

And you did know, knew very well that rumors got out that the two of you were together that nothing would happen to his reputation — perhaps he would be scrutinized a bit more, some judgment and side-eye from other professors and higher ups, but he wouldn’t get vilified like you would. Called a slut or a whore — and those would be some of the kinder names you’d be called, and you can’t imagine what it would do for your career, especially if you stay in academia. And then the rumors would fester and grow, more wondering where your grades came from — whether you had obtained them through honeyed words whispered over pillows and rumpled sheets instead through late nights spent at your desk and weekends practically living at the library. 

“I do know,” you said quietly. But it didn’t mean you wanted to do it anymore than you had that day. A part of you wished he had stopped you when you had turned to leave his office, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into his arms—but this was hardly a romance novel, “and you’re right,” 

He still has his gaze fixed anywhere but your face, settling his syllabus on his desk now, the silence familiarly filling the room yet again, muscles tense if your body didn’t know whether to flee or to draw closer. 

So you did neither, and instead broke the silence. 

“So would T.A.-ing provide an opportunity for me to teach the class?” and he blinks, eyes snapping up now, as a glimpse of sadness slips away behind his now thoughtful expression. 

“Would you want to do that? I don’t know if I could allow you to lead an entire class, only because some students may take some issue with another grad student teaching them—” 

“I don’t blame them with the tuition costs,” you mutter, and he nods, “don’t nod, it’s your salary I’m paying for,” 

He laughs, a noise you wished you could bottle because you knew it’d be the same as bottling happiness, “Well worth your money after how much your writing and understanding of moral philosophy and ethics has improved,” and you roll your eyes. 

“I see your ego is the same as ever,” and his lips curl, as he crosses his legs, and you fight the cruel temptation of your gaze flickering a little downward. 

“Well, Kant did say an ego is necessary to understand the world meaningfully and therefore act in a moral way,”  you tilt your head, being defensive with philosophy? That was a new one. 

But you weren’t one to let things go — as he very well knew. 

“And he also said that an ego can lead you astray from living a moral life if we become too self absorbed,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Are you calling me self absorbed?” 

You bite back a laugh, “Well, you are certainly self interested,” and you gesture around his office, “look at this office,” 

“What about my office?” he gapes at you, and you snort, you’ve seemingly struck a nerve by how wide his jaw dropped. 

“It’s a little…pretentious,” and dare you say it, your professor had a touch of pink painted across his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, 

God he’s even pretty when he blushes. 

“I’m just teasing Professor,” and then you add, “it’s one of my more tedious qualities,” 

And he blinks, before his lips curl in the smile you never tired of seeing, “not tedious, more irritating,” 

You chuckle, before trying to get back on topic, “So you think you could work out me teaching a part of the class?” 

And he nods, “Let me discuss it with the department head — it should be fine,”

“Do I have any other responsibilities?” 

“If it doesn’t conflict with your schedule, you can also attend some classes, students can stay after and ask you questions as well,” and you nod, looking over his class times in the syllabus. 

“I can make the Tuesday one,” and he makes a note, as you rise, “we should go. Don’t want to be late for the first class now do we?” 

And he smiles the same damnable smile, “That would be a terrible first impression,” and his shoulder brushes yours as he opens his office door for you, “after you,” 

God, you thought as you stepped past him, the warmth from the brush of his body still there, this was going to be a long semester. 

If there was one thing you had learned from being a teacher’s assistant for Professor Geto’s class, it was that the students were even more desperate for your professor’s attention than you had thought. You thought your introduction had went relatively well — besides the pointed glares of several….enthusiastic students. 

After his detailed overview of the class, he reaches the resources section of the course syllabus, “Now, I am available at my listed office hours, in which you can make an appointment online. There’s also tutoring services through the university listed as well. And lastly, we have a T.A. for this class, for the very first time,” and he smiles, “Class, please meet your T.A. for this semester,” Professor Geto says your name and gestures to you, sat up in the corner of the lecture hall, and you stand, waving, “your T.A. took this very class last semester and showed great grit and dedication in the class assignments,” you have to stop yourself from shooting him a look, but you can see a hint of a smile on his lips, “She is also a philosophy student, so please, feel free to reach out to her,” 

“Thank you Professor Geto for that…generous introduction,” your pause was slight enough that he caught it, a smile tucked behind an all too fake cough, “I really look forward to working with you all — this class truly had a great impact on my perspective about the world,” and you catch a flicker of an emotion ripple across his face out of the corner of your eye, “my office hours will be posted soon, and I hope we can get to know each other well over the course of this semester.” 

You sit as the students cast their gaze forward again, and the class continues on as usual. You make use of your time by reading for some of your other classes, until class was over. 

And that’s when you really learned something. As requested, you joined Professor Geto at the bottom of the lecture hall to help field questions from the students. 

Except, the students were far more interested in Professor Geto than they were in the course material. 

But maybe it was simply because it was the beginning of the semester right? It couldn’t happen again right? 

It was a good thing you weren’t getting graded because you would earned yourself a zero. As again, the next week, students were only interested in Professor Geto — whether it was because it was for his intellect or — you glanced at the students mooning over him — something else. 

Something you knew very well. 

You were forced to watch a female student flutter her eyelashes, then another brush against him, as she showed him what passage was confusing her, and then another student couldn’t stop staring at his lips. And then you wonder, if it had been another student who kept pestering him week after week, would it have been them instead of you? Would they have shared those moments together? Maybe even they would actually gotten to be in a relationship, instead of watching other people flirt with him—

“Excuse me,” your eyes snap up from your reverie and you see two students, seemingly waiting to speak to you. 

Those students had seemingly taken pity on you and spoke to you about the class, tips, and asked about your office hours. But soon enough, the students filed out one by one until it was just you and Professor Geto. And he’s collecting his things, as he glances at you, lingering still as you check your email on your phone, “Don’t you have class after this?” 

You blink, “how’d you know that?” 

And he’s straightening his notes to place back in his bag, before he turns to look at you over his shoulder, “well you’d always rush off after class so it was either you had class or you didn’t want to be alone with me,” he looks back to his bag and you hear the click of the zipper, “I was hoping it would be the former,” he adds. 

“Well, I never lingered after class when I was taking it either,” you adjust your bag, toying with the strap — why was it anytime you were with him it felt like stepping into quicksand, the more you struggled, the more you sunk — and even if you didn’t move at all, you were still stuck all the same, “didn’t want to get in the way your students stroking your ego,” 

And he raises an eyebrow, “Are we back to my ego again?” 

“I don’t see you shying away from smiles and praise from your students,” and his brow knits together, as he places his bag down on the podium, “no wonder your ego is so large,” 

“What students?” 

“Oh please, the ones swarming your desk after clsss. Didn’t you ever wonder why so many students from different disciplines take your class?” he opens his mouth and then you add, “and don’t say philosophy and ethics apply to every aspect of life,” 

And then he seems to consider the thought, as before his lips curl, as he leans against the podium. 

“Am I detecting some jealousy?” he smirks, and you pause before you scoff — far too quickly. 

“No,” and he only smiles wider. 

He chuckles, “That was convincing. I’m glad your ability to teach is much better than your ability to lie,” 

“I’m not—“ 

“Jealous or not,” and you have to bite back your retort, his gaze freezing you in place, a softness you hated to see — because you didnt know whether it made you want to push him away or pull him close, “there’s only ever been one student who caught my eyes,” 

Ah, there is was — you were sinking again. 

“Really?” you mumble, crossing your arms, “not even one other? You have a habit of unethical behavior for an ethics professor,” 

He’s grabbing his bag, before he’s taking a step forward to whisper, “Only when it comes to you,” and you have to force yourself not shiver at his words warming your skin, “I’ll see you next week,” 

And he’s gone — as you stand in the empty lecture hall next to the podium, the very one from your first dream— and you’re right back where you started. 

Professor Suguru Geto wasn’t the type to make mistakes. He was always meticulous and methodical — he used the very principles to help guide his life — because it gave him a moral framework, a way to interpret the world and his own actions. That’s what had drawn him to ethics in the first place. But then he met you. 

And it seems like he’s made nothing but mistakes since. 

He sat in his office after he practically fled the classroom, forcing his pace to be normal, hoping you didn’t see the flush on his face. Fuck, he tossed the pen he had picked up to start grading away, what was he doing? 

He had told himself it was for the best — again and again when he watches you leave at the end of the last semester. He held his muscles taut as he watched you gather your things, stepping over the crushed pieces of both of your hearts. The two words he had barely choked were the only ones he could manage before he watched his office door shut behind you. 

It was for the best. It was for the best. It was for the best. 

That sentence was on repeat in his mind as he tried to work on his paper over the break — “try” being the operative word. It felt as if even his work hadn't been untouched by you — your impact widespread and all consuming — just as your actual touch was. 

Fuck, he rakes his fingers through his hair, how was he going to survive this week much less this semester? 

He couldn’t afford to be selfish — for your sake and his own. But it didn’t mean he didn’t want to be. He runs a hand over his face — he all but blatantly admitted that he had feelings for you after class. After promising to keep things professional — he was the worst. 

He only wished he was worse enough to do what you both wanted when you asked him in his office why you both couldn’t be together. He wanted to tell you the reasons why you should be — because he couldn’t stop thinking about you despite never seeing you over the break, his heart nearly stopped when he saw you standing in front of his office, and because he couldn’t help but smile when he could see you hesitating in front of the door — but he couldn’t help but smile when it came to you. But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

But he also couldn’t help but toe that damn line in the sand, the one that he had drawn, but the one so desperately wanted to cross. 

And then there was a knock at his door, he sighs, “Come in,” 

The department head enters his office, as Suguru blinks before he gets to his feet to offer his hand, as they exchange greetings, before gesturing for him to sit, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I saw your email about having your T.A. teach part of your class, and I wanted to get a little more detail about it,” Suguru nods, his face composed, but his body tense — paranoia scratching at the back of his mind, no one happened to see them kiss had they? No one was on campus really at that point. And the door was closed — he probably just wanted more information.  

“What questions did you have?” and the department head runs down his list — what topic would you cover? How much class time would it take? Would he be asking the class first? Would he review your materials beforehand? 

“Well, you both seemed to have thought a lot about this,” he leans back, crossing his leg over the other, “I think having her teach a part of a class is fine, but I would like you both to do it sooner rather than later,” and Suguru opens his mouth, but then he adds, “and I’d like to attend that class,” 

Suguru tilts his head, “You would like to attend my class?” He considers his words carefully, “I was under the impression, based on the rules, the only thing needed to allow a T.A. to teach was the approval of the department head,” his anxiety begins to pick away at his nerves, “it’s not unusual for a T.A. to teach here correct?” 

It was his first time having a teacher’s assistant at this university so perhaps this was a quality check? To ensure both you and him were meeting the standards of the university — and his anxiety added, and to make sure no rules were being broken by either of you. 

“Yes, it’s not unusual, and I have my reasons which I’ll discuss with you after the class,” he checks the time and rises from his seat now, “I have another meeting soon — do you think she can present in two weeks?” 

Suguru hesitates, “I’ll have to ask her but most likely that should be fine,” 

“Okay please send an email cc’ing her and confirm the details,” he says his goodbyes, and he’s gone, as Suguru sits and considers this — what could he be planning? 

Or, his nerves add, what could he be looking for? 

Either way, he pulled up your email — it was going to be an interesting two weeks. 

“Deontology determines whether an action is right or wrong based on a set of rules and principles instead of the consequences of the actions,” you speak to an empty lecture hall, your voice echoing in the silence, “therefore an act that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” 

You had come into the lecture hall to practice yet again this week. You were cursing your past self for inflicting this optional task on yourself — it had taken far more time than you had expected (what’s new?), taken far more preparation than you thought (again, of course), and now had the fun added pressure of the department head attending. And why was he attending? A wonderful and complete mystery. 

The last two weeks have been amazing for your mental health, truly. 

You were lucky the lecture hall and the building at large was deserted at 8:00 PM — all of the staff and students had all but fled, and you were left with the perfect place to practice. It had been many nights of honing your presentation to the allotted time, leaving time to pose a thought exercise, time to discuss, and for questions. 

You don’t see the door behind you open, nor do you hear it close, as you use the clicker to go through your PowerPoint, switching to the next slide. 

“For example, killing an intruder, based on the consequence would be wrong, as I hope we all know killing is wrong — otherwise, I worry about what will happen when you get your grades back,” you give a brief chuckle — and hope some of the students would pity you with some laughs, and that’s when you hear a small laugh behind you. 

Your head snaps around, flushing when you see Professor Geto standing by the door. He’s wearing a deep royal purple button up and gray slacks, the sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms. 

God, this wasn’t a dream was it? 

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, his footsteps against the floor grew closer, and your body tenses, until they stop, “go on,” and he leans against the wall behind you. 

“But when you do kill an intruder to protect your family, that’s viewed as right under deontology,” and you can’t focus with his gaze running over you, an all familiar feeling settled over you. Would life imitate dreams again? Would he come over and ask you to continue your presentation as his lips pressed gentle kisses to your neck and shoulder? Would he— 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you can’t meet his gaze, but you hear his footsteps, “should I go?” 

“No, no, it’s just,” you shake your head, “a little deja vu,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “deja vu?” 

Your blood runs cold. Fuck. 

“I don’t recall you ever presenting like this in my clsss before,” you can't decide if his voice is more thick with confusion or curiosity. 

“Yeah, no, sorry it’s nothing,” you brush him off, your eyes fixed on your notes on the podium, and you know he’s still staring, “what?” 

“I see you’re still not a very good liar,” and you scoff, “what is it that’s gotten you so bothered?” 

“Nothing,” you insist. 

“The more you say that, the less I’m convinced,” and now he’s walking closer, closer still — but you’re fixed in place, “what is it?”

“You never let anything go, do you?” And you turn, your breath catching when you saw how close he was — inches from you, his pretty eyes wide at the sudden movement, his breath warming your lips. Black strands fall in his face, and you have to stop yourself from tucking them behind his ear. Stop yourself from wanting to touch him, stop yourself from wanting him to lean forward, stop yourself from wanting him. 

Nothing good ever came from your want. 

“Only when it’s you,” but this man makes it impossible not to want him. Not when his voice is soft, not when the back of his finger, a knuckle brushes against your cheek. And no words are needed — you can hear it in the silence between you both, you feel it in the gentleness of his touch, and in the softness of his gaze. 

And you know you’re in love with him. You are.

But you can’t be. 

“I’m not telling you,” you murmur, looking away — and it seems to break the spell, as he steps back, nodding, a flicker of sadness that slips away under his facade,  “but maybe I will sometime, over a drink,” you add. 

A smile tugs at his lips, “Well we know how well that went, or didn’t go rather, and you know, we can’t anytime soon,” 

“Well sometimes an action that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Using deontology to convince me?” He tilts his head, “not a bad strategy — maybe I’ll have you write a paper,” 

“And willingly subject myself to your red pen? No thanks,” and he snorts, before the smile fades into a frown, brow wrinkled in thought, “what is it?” 

“Nothing, I’m just…” he crossss his arms, “I’m wondering why the department head wants to observe your presentation,” 

“He didn’t give any indication why?” and he shakes his head, “maybe he just wants to evaluate how good a job you’re doing,” you add, “you are relatively green,” 

“Not that green,” and you see his lips pressed together — and is he? — he was — he was pouting. You bite your lip how fucking adorable — but you know you’d be met with a scowl if you said that out loud, “don’t you worry that the dean may suspect something between us?” 

The thought had crossed your mind, but class had been nothing but professional so far, and you’d be too busy sweating bullets (and perhaps dodging them from the students if the presentation went poorly) to even consider your feelings for him. 

You sigh, “Look, nothing to do but get through it, right? It should be fine, we’ll deal with whatever comes after. As long as I don’t choke, and you don’t stare at me too adoringly, we should be fine,” 

And you expect a retort, a cheeky reply, or even a quite sarcastic one, but he only gives a small smile, “Right,”

You feel your cheeks burn and you can’t meet his gaze again without feeling your heart flutter. 

Fuck — maybe there was something to worry about. 

Despite the concerns, the presentation goes off without a hitch. You spot the dean sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, pen and notepad in hand, which did nothing to soothe your poor heart (nor did the far too many cups of coffee and the total lack of sleep). 

It happened quick — a blur of speaking, forcing yourself to slow your words down, a necessity when presenting — as you knew you always spoke faster than you believed you did when presenting. You think you even made the students laugh a few times, led an interesting thought experiment with a rousing debate that ended with no clear answer (as always), and then you answered questions. 

All the while, Professor Geto stood in the back, and you’d catch a glimpse of him by the corner of your eye, his lips curled in that smile that haunted all your nights and days. 

By the time it was done, you had barely realized time had gone so quickly, as you passed the metaphorical baton back to Geto. And you took a seat off to the side, opting to watch him lecture, rather than busy yourself with other work. 

It felt like old times, you thought, as you watched him speak. You couldn’t blame the people that took his class just to watch him speak — he was unfairly beautiful when he spoke, gesticulating as he read a Kant quote. And you kept your face as neutral as possible, but he catches your eye for a moment, corner of his lip twitching upwards. And a flush settles over your cheeks, as you discreetly press your thighs together, trying to look suddenly engrossed with your notebook. 

Your heart ached as much as your body did. You wanted to walk over and just kiss him, swallow his smart words along with his gasp, and feel those hands run along your body. You wanted to know every thought in his head, every part of his day, and fall asleep beside him. 

You glance up to see him still speaking — a black strand falling in his face. You bite your lip, before looking back down. 

This man would be the death of you — and it was even worse being alone with him. You’re thankful that your T.A. check-ins with him were every other week, because you couldn’t imagine having to spend more than an hour with him every other week. 

“You want us to do what?” You blink at the Dean, his lips curled in a smile, his hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Apologies for all the secrecy, I did not receive confirmation about this until earlier today,” he explains, “but I want you two to attend this conference on ethics and philosophy  — it’s over the weekend, two weekends from now. It would be a wonderful opportunity for the both of you to make connections and attend presentations, as well as mingle with prospective students. It would also afford us an opportunity for both of you to help put our university on the map,” 

You glance at Professor Geto, his lips parted in surprise, “Sir, is it appropriate for a male professor and a—“ 

“Don’t worry, the accommodations will be separate and it’s a public event, as long as everything remains professional, there’s no problem, right? As long as you two are okay with it and there’s no problem,” he glances between the two of you, “is there a problem?” 

And Professor Geto’s eyebrows knit together. It was a lose-lose situation — saying no meant raising some suspicions that there was an issue between the two of you, but saying yes meant going on a trip with the same professor you had kissed at the end of the last semester. And if anything happened on this trip...it could be very bad — ethically and otherwise. 

So you make the decision for both of you. 

“That’s fine. I’m happy to attend if Professor Geto is,” and you know you have no choice — you had to spend the weekend with him, alone. At a conference. In a hotel.

“Do you have everything?” Professor Geto asks, as you hand him your suitcase, your fingers brushing as you do.  He lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car, his black t-shirt riding up as he does, a quick flash of the expanse of his muscles—

Fuck, you bite your lip, stop, stop. Professor. He’s a professor. 

It didn’t matter that you had felt him part your thighs, as his lips slid against yours, nor that every time you saw each other, you felt this undeniable ache to touch him, comfort him, hug him, nor that you knew he felt the same and wanted to give in as badly as you did—

No, it didn’t matter. 

You consider his question, scrunching up your face in thought, “I think so, wait,” you snap your fingers as he glances at you, “forgot the rest of my apartment upstairs — you think that’ll fit in there too?” 

He smirks, rolling his eyes as shuts the trunk, “Ha, ha, ever consider becoming a comedian instead of a philosophy major?”

“Every day, but then I think what would my favorite professor do without me?” 

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m your favorite?” 

“Who said it was you?” you grin at him, as he shakes his head and you open the passenger door seat and slide in, as he slips into the driver’s seat. He adjusts his mirrors, buckling his seatbelt, as a sudden wave of guilt bombards you. You had dragged him down this rabbit hole with you — and now the two of you had to spend the entire weekend together, alone. 

You lick your far too dry lips, “Sorry if I roped you into this,” you fidget with your phone, tapping on the screen absentmindedly. 

He starts the car, engine roaring underneath your feet, before he glances at you, brow furrowed in seeming confusion, “What? It’s not you that roped us into this,” 

You purse your lips, “But if I didn’t agree to it—“ 

He sighs, “We were in a position where we didn’t have much of a choice,” his fingers drum against the steering wheel, as his eyes flicker to make sure your seatbelt was on, “it’s not your fault — and it’s not a bad thing — we’ll spend time at the conference, we’ll mingle, and then return to our hotel rooms,” he adds, “don’t worry. Nothing will happen.” 

And his reassurance is almost a punch to the gut instead — and your brain chides you for being so childish — you knew it was for the best, you knew it was the right thing to do, and you knew he was trying what was best for you, and for him. 

But why did it hurt so goddamn much? 

You steal a glance at him as he pulls into the street and begins to drive, dark gaze forward, his hair tied into its usual neat bun, and a chain poked out from underneath the rounded opening around his neck. And then your eyes flicker back out the window.  

Was it really not a big deal to him? 

Because the last two weeks were consumed with nothing, but thoughts of being alone with him. Days spent in conferences, sitting beside each other, whispering thoughts and inside jokes; evenings spent socializing together, waiting for the other to give the signal to leave; and nights walking back to your rooms, fingers brushing as you walked beside each other. You were sure it would take a slight bend of the rules, a gaze that lingers a little too long, to break the paper thin resistance either of you had to the other. The two of you could barely be alone for more than a few minutes without temptation rearing its ugly head — even now your eyes can’t help but trace the curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches his eyes, the way your fingers want nothing more than intertwine with his hand that rests on the console between you two. 

But you don’t. You give a weak smile, glancing out the window as the streets of Tokyo pass you by — “Yeah it should be fine.” 

Just fine. 

“There was a problem with your reservation,” 

And after half an hour of waiting off to the side, with your luggage stacked up and irritation creeping its way to a new high as you watched others easily being checked in to the hotel, you assumed there was a problem. If there wasn’t a problem, you would wonder if this was a new take on Waiting for Godot that would end with the both of youu sleeping in the lobby. You rubbed at your temples, as Geto dealt with the hotel staff, his arms crossed, lips a tight line, “the hotel double booked one of your rooms, so we only have one room available for you.”  

You barely heard the rest of the argument your professor had with the hotel staff, the same phrase ringing in your ears — one room, one room, one room. With nothing more to argue about, they finally escorted you both to your room in awkward silence. And as they opened the door, you spotted it — there was only one single queen sized bed. 

One. Bed. 

You felt your cheeks flush, as you couldn’t even meet Geto’s eyes, as he began to speak heatedly with the manager again. And the excuses began, as the manager wrung his hands, about how no other rooms being available due to the conference and another event happening in town. 

“There is a couch though,” he offers,  pointing to a far too small couch, and the sharp glare that Geto gave him would put even his red pen to shame, “we will see about comping half—“ Geto crosses his arms, “all of your stay here,” and with that, he’s gone. 

“So,” you sigh, glancing at Geto, with a strained smile, “I have dibs on the bed?” 

Was this a cosmic joke? You wondered as you turned off the water of the shower, squeezing your eyes shut. Was this a version of ethical karma for what you had done last semester? An ultimate ethical test that you would surely fail? A fucking prank show? 

You didn’t know. You dried off and got dressed, pulling on a t-shirt and shorts, your hair still damp, as you took a breath and stepped out, towel slung over your shoulders. 

Geto was still on the phone, pacing back and forth — he was trying to call other hotels to see if there was anywhere else with two rooms or at least a room with two beds.

“Yes I understand it’s very last minute—“ he sighs for what must have been the billionth time today, “yes, there was a mistake at the hotel I’m staying at—yes, ok, well, thank you,” he hangs up, setting his phone down. 

“No luck?” You sit on the edge of the bed, wiping your hair, and he shakes his head. 

“The one thing they were right about is that every hotel room is booked solid — not only is our conference in town, but there’s a physical science consortium happening as well,” he rakes his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “I’ll have to give the Dean a call to update him on the situation,” 

You nod, “So what should we do about sleeping?” And he can’t quite meet your gaze, “are there no trundle or rollaway beds?” 

“No, apparently those have all been spoken for,” he grumbles, and he prepares to call the dean, “I’ll take the couch, you can have the bed—“ 

“Professor, we can—“ and his gaze snaps to you, “we can share—“ 

“No, we can’t,” he says softly, “you know we can’t do that,” 

“We’re both adults—“ 

“And we’re still a professor and a student,” he draws the line between you two again, the gash even deeper than before, the gap that’s meant to keep you safe — the chase meant to protect you — so why did it feel more like a punishment? “I’ll take the couch,” and he calls the Dean to update him on the situation. 

You busy yourself with drying your hair in the bathroom, before coming back out to see him hanging up the phone. 

“Well, are we in an ethical bind or should I go sleep in the lobby just to show there’s no funny business?” And he shoots you a look, “there have been stranger bedfellows,” and he opens his mouth, “and a single word comes out of your mouth, and I’ll join you on that couch,” 

And a very pretty flush adorns the tips of his ears and cheeks, “He said it was fine, it was out of our control, but to just document everything, including the hotel’s incompetence for legality reasons,” 

“You’re also a lawyer as well as a professor?” 

“You have to hedge your bets,” he shrugs with a smile pulling at his lips, before he checks the time, “I’m going to take a shower,” he sighs, pulling his hair from the messy bun, letting his black locks down. And you watch him run his fingers through his hair again, sighing, as he heads into the shower. 

You lay on the bed, biting your lip — as you turn over to use your phone, as the shower turns on. And you glance at the closed door — the thought of him in there, pulling his shirt over his head, shedding his pants and boxers. Your cheeks burn, burying your face in your pillow as if that would help (it did not). 

You curl up on the bed, turning away from the bathroom door, using your phone. And a few minutes pass, as you kind of drift off into sleep, and you hear a creak of the bathroom door open that rouses you from sleep. You don’t move at first but you hear shuffling, the sounds of a zipper. You finally turn on your other side, eyes fluttering open, and you’re met with the sight of bare skin. 

You blink, eyes flickering up to see your Professor’s flushed face, before your eyes slowly following a bead of water slip down his bare chest, black hair dotting along the middle of his chest and abs, down to a happy trail that was hidden by a towel wrapped around his waist. His clothes in his hand, and your eyes find his own, your lips parted and mouth impossibly dry. 

Oh. My. God. 

“Uh—“ and his cheeks flare red, as you try your best not to let your eyes flicker downward, “I forgot my clothes—“ and you turn away, as he darts back into the bathroom, “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled through the door. 

“It’s okay!” You reply, your heart thumping against your ribcage, squeezing your eyes shut to only be met the memory of his bare torso, “fuck,” you mumble under your breath, as you turn onto your back, and stare at the spinning ceiling fan above you. A distinct ache below at the thought of him. 

Your eyes flickered to the shut bathroom door. You hear the sound of water running again — maybe he needed to wash up again. Either way, you slid under the comforter, hand slipping into your shorts, you had some time. You wish you could have grabbed his hand before he fled into the bathroom, sat up on your knees, fingers sliding to his cheek. 

“Kiss me,” you’d murmur, and he would, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips sweetly, as your fingers glide up his bare chest. You’d swallow his gasp with delight, as your other hand finds his wet locks, fingers tangling in his black locks, “please,” you would guide his fingers to the hem of your shirt and he would oblige, lifting up and over your head. And your fingers would tug his towel away, letting it fall to the ground. 

Your fingers press against the wet patch on your underwear, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you gasp, imagining it was instead his eager fingers that tugged your shorts down. You sunk one finger in and then another, pumping slowly, and you knew he would get you ready for him. He would fuck you with his thick fingers, as his mouth latched to your clit, sucking gently as he fucked you open. You moaned his name softly, as you imagine his fingers stretching you open. 

“Do you want me, my pretty girl?” He would murmur between your thighs, lips glossy with your release, “s’good for me, taste as good as you look,” and he would press your back gently into the mattress as he would meet your lips again before, rubbing the tip of his cock against your puffy lips, “tell me what you want, Princess,” 

“Please,” you whispered, as you moved your fingers faster, adding a third finger, but you know his cock would feel so much thicker, and reach so much deeper, “fuck me,” 

And he would, sinking into you, his pretty cock parting your folds, his quiet grunts and moans whispering in your ear, as he works himself inside to the hilt. His lips would find yours as he would rock his hips into you — your cunt would flutter around his length. He would press your thighs apart further, long fingers digging into your soft flesh, the wet squelch of your cunt and the sounds of his skin slapping against yours would ring in your ears.

“S’close, Sugu—fuck,” you would keen against him, instead of your fingers, “please,” and his thumb would find your clit, just as yours did, and you would cum all over his cock, squeezing around his length, as he sinks even deeper, until his tip is brushing against your cunt. The moan of his name slips out, as you press your forearm against your mouth to barely stifle it. 

Fuck, you come down from your high, panting. And you glance at the bathroom door, thinking you’ll clean up once he gets out. You roll over in bed, as you pulled the pillow over your face. 

This was going to be a long weekend. 

Suguru lingers in the bathroom for far too long after that, the embarrassment of the moment still far too fresh in his mind, his cheeks still a dusty pink at the thought. Not only was it bad enough that he was trapped in this hotel room with you for an entire weekend, but now he had paraded out practically half naked for you to see. 

Fuck his life. 

He had hurried into the shower if only to get a break from being in the same room as you. It had been hard enough to endure the last few weeks as a T.A., but now he had to spend an entire weekend sharing a hotel room — and deal with situations like that one all weekend. Seeing you emerge from the bathroom, only in a t-shirt and shorts, still damp from your shower — wet hair in messy tangles that he wanted to run his fingers through— and that’s why he excused himself to the bathroom. A reprieve if only for a moment. If he had only remembered to bring his clothes into the shower — he wouldn’t have had to finish his shower, with only his discarded clothes to wear that had slipped off the clothes rack and onto the damp floor. 

He had stepped out, towel around his waist, as he peeled out, only to see your back to him, the sounds of soft breathing told him you were asleep. And he crept out, silently cursing as the door creaked and rifled through his suitcase for clothes. He had found them, and gone to retreat back when you roused and turned all at once. 

God, he sighed, it was such a mess. 

But the way you looked at him…lips parted, gaze flicking across his body, the way your eyes lingered a little too long on his torso — and now he had an entirely different problem. 

His cock tented against the towel, as his eyes slid to the bathroom door. What if he just hopped into the shower for a second again? The towel dropped to the floor, as he steps back into the shower, turning on the water. 

He groans, his fingers slide over his mortifyingly hard erection, teasing his slit as he would imagine you would, as you would open the bathroom door, murmuring his name, “Professor? Are you okay?” And you wouldn’t wait for his answer as you stepped into the shower with him, eyes raking down his body, a teasing grin on your lips, “not very ethical is that?” And your fingers would curl their way around the base of his cock, making him shudder with pleasure, “I can take care of that,” and you would kiss down his chest and stomach, even despite his protests, until you reached where he wanted your touch most. 

And god, you would look so pretty on your knees for him, as your fingers pumped him far too slowly, teasing him with a chaste kiss to his tip, tongue dragging against his slit, better than how his thumb did, “s’good for me, Professor,” you’d say, when you heard the hiss he just let out, “I wonder what other sounds you could make for me,” and your lips would close around his tip, sucking lightly, as he gasped, his other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his sounds. 

He would look down with half lidded eyes, and see your head bobbing as you took him so well, your fingers toying with his balls, spotting your eyes flicking up to meet his — glazed over and desperate, just he imagined his were. Your mouth would feel so much better than his hand, the wet squelch of his pumping would not compare to you swallowing around him, sucking and licking around his length, his pre-cum and your drool slipping down the corner of your mouth. 

You’d swallow around him, as his fingers would slide into your hair. And maybe you would let him fuck your mouth, hips rolling slowly as you adjust, before he slowly would thrust faster. He would repay the favor tenfold once you were done, burying himself in your sweet cunt, until you were begging him to stop. His fingers moved faster around his cock, his low groans and wet squelch bouncing off the bathroom walls, hopefully drowned out by the running water.  Fuck, he wished he would feel how it would to have his tip brush against the back of your throat. 

He was close, the twitch of his dick in his hand told him so, and he imagined what it would be like to cum in your mouth, watching you swallow his release, if you’d want to, or cumming all over your face or chest, letting his cock drag over your tongue as he pulled out. 

Fuck, he shudders, moaning your name against his fingers, he cums all over his hand and the wall of the shower, his release running down mixing with the water. He rinsed his hand off, leaning his head under the water again, hoping it would wash away any traces of you. 

It didn’t. 

And as he emerged from the shower, making sure any trace of his act had slipped down the drain, but the towel around his neck, wondering if you’d see what he did on his face. But you wouldn’t — because you were fast asleep. 

His lips curled as he watched you sleep for a moment, your lips parted, curled up facing away from the bathroom — your feet sticking out of your blanket. He adjusts the blanket for you, and you shift a little in your sleep, mumbling something under your breath, before settling back in. 

And he bites his lip before turning away — he would never be clean, would he? 

Not when it was you. 

“How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you murmur, the smile plastered on your lips nearly starting to chip and crack. 

Professor Geto sipped at his drink hiding his frown, long fingers cradling the wine glass far too perfectly, “at least another hour,” he sighs, “when in academia, one must get used to mindless conversing if only it will lead to another needless connection,”

And this day had been nothing but an exercise of that — lectures, panels, presentations — any other word that meant someone or several someones sitting in front of you, talking at you — with only maybe 30% of the people actually listening (if you were lucky or interesting). And now you were one hour deep into a mixer that had you engaging in dry chit-chat that had your mind going numb by the first ten minutes. Your only reprieve being by Geto’s side. 

You hated how he could make the dullest of things enjoyable for you, or rather—

You hated how much you loved it 

“How pithy — Plato?” And he snorts, as you finish off your own drink, “I’m going to get a refill, do you want anything?” He shakes his head, and you head off to the bar. 

You were so restless after sitting for so long. Not to mention the slight rash you got from not washing up soon enough. You woke an hour and half later and cleaned yourself up — luckily Geto had passed out by then. You saw him sleeping half scrunched up, half sprawled out on the couch — one of his legs were hanging off the couch — and even his blanket had slipped off. You stifled a small laugh, taking a quick picture of him — so stubborn that he wouldn’t sleep on the bed with you. Your gaze had softened, as you picked up the discarded blanket and placed it over him softly, your fingers gently tucking some of his hair from his face. You fell asleep again after heading back to bed, and woke up refreshed — while Geto had woken up with a very sore back and neck. 

“Can I get…” you look at the menu, ordering your favorite drink, standing by the bar as you adjust your dress, you had opted for a black dress with sheer tights — one you had worn a suit jacket over it. You tap against the bar top, checking your phone as you do. 

“Can I get what she’s getting?” A dark haired man sidles up beside you, his mouth curled in a smirk drawing attention to a scar in the corner of his mouth, and his voice drops to a whisper, “though I think I’d enjoy you more than the drink,” 

You raise your eyebrows, “and I think you’ve certainly had enough tonight,” you say under your breath, giving an awkward chuckle, but he doesn’t seem to notice as the bartender comes back with your drink. Your eyes flicker over the crowd as you search for Geto but you can’t find him. 

“What’s your name, pretty?” And your skin crawls as his dark gaze slides over your body, “mine’s Toji,” and you bite back a sigh, introducing yourself, “it’s very nice to meet you — I’ve met a lot of people tonight but you definitely have been the most interesting,” and the bartender comes back with his drink. 

“Then you must have not met a lot of interesting people so far,” you say, eager to look for any out to escape this conversation, “my friend is waiting—“ 

“No, I’d say that you’re just that interesting,” he sips his drink, “can I get you another drink?” 

And right when you’re about to respond, “No, I don’t think she’s interested,” And you tense a moment before you register the familiar voice, Geto smiles at Toji, if you could call that a smile — it reminded you of one a predator gave its new prey, “especially because she’s a student, and you’re most assuredly not,” 

Toji raises an eyebrow, “But she is an adult, she can speak for herself, so why don’t you let her, Professor?” 

“Because—“ his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach for you but he can’t. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. And you know why he can’t. 

Geto’s smile wavers, and you intercede, “I can, and I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” you pay your tab, “let’s go back to the hotel, Professor,” 

And Toji pulls his card out, handing it to you, “If you change your mind,” he raises his glass, leaning against the bar, before he leans closer to you, whispering, “if you ever get sick of him, call me,” 

You give a polite smile, tugging Geto away until you reached the outside of the building, silence filled the space between you two, until you found your way outside. 

“What did he say?” He asks as he calls a car back to take you both to the hotel, and you don’t know how to answer that — not without making it worse, “actually, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked,” 

“Professor—“ 

“You’re an adult, he’s right — you should be allowed to make your own choices,” he licks his lips, his eyes still fixed on his phone screen, “I’m sorry if I—“ 

“Can you let me speak?” you sigh, as you wave your hand in front of his phone so he would look at you, and his eyes meet yours, “you’re fine — I was trying to get out of there — I just felt very trapped.” 

He huffs out a chuckle. “When you took that long, I wondered if the group of solipsists had taken you hostage,” 

You grimace, “I guess when you believe everyone else is an illusion, you also think manners are an illusion too,” he laughs in earnest now, “now there’s a real smile,” He tilts his head, “the smile you had inside, real scary kind of smile,” you tease, as his eyes can’t quite meet yours.

“Oh yeah?” he suddenly seems very interested in his phone, “our rideshare is almost here,” 

“Almost like you were jealous,” and he scoffs. 

“Of him?” 

“Uh huh, he is pretty attractive, maybe I will give him a call—“ and you notice him grip his phone tighter, and your lips curl, “but I probably won’t, not really my type,” 

“Not your type?” he asks. 

“More into the intellectuals, that man was far from it — I like an academic, sweater vests, glasses, a pretentious little office—“ and the glare is back, as you laugh, the rideshare sparing him from you continuing this conversation, but you also didn’t get to see the slight smile on his lips as you slipped into the back of the car. 

“Just sleep on the bed,” you say for probably the thousandth time, but he only shakes his head, as he sits on the couch, combing out his black locks. Even freshly showered, he looks unfairly hot — a loose gray t-shirt with sweatpants, contacts switched to glasses, and now his hair brushed against his shoulders. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch — it was fine last night—“ 

“Your spinal cord would beg to differ,” and he looks unamused, as he struggles with his comb, “what are you doing?” 

“I can’t get this knot out of my hair, and I can’t get you out of my hair either,” he adds, as you roll your eyes, slipping off the bed and walking over. You ease the comb from his fingers, biting your lip at the brush of his fingers, “what are you—“ 

“It’s easier if someone else does it,” and he sighs, giving in, as your fingers undo the knot in his hair gently, “your hair is really smooth and fine, probably why it tangled so fast,” and he only hums in response, his body relaxing under your touch, as you comb through the rest of his hair. You bite back a smile, he’s almost like a cat, keening under your touch, “feels good?” You murmur. 

“Yeah, it does,” and you don’t want the moment to end, you want this excuse to touch him to remain, the first time you’ve been able to breach this wall between you two — and it’d be over in an instant, “I think that’s good,” he mutters. 

He lays his head back on the top of the couch to look up at you — pretty obsidian orbs stared back at you — and your heart squeezes. He was so close, within reach, and all you had to do was lean down, press your lips against his, and maybe you wouldn’t have to tiptoe anymore, maybe you wouldn’t have to hide from him, maybe you could be— 

“We should go to bed,” he sighs, the moment breaks, as he sits upright, adjusting his pillow on the couch beside him, “we have an early start,” 

“Don’t remind me,” you turn back to him, “but you’re right - we should go to bed—“ you grab his pillow, “on the bed,” 

“No—“ 

“Like you said, we’re both adults,” you tilt your head, as he purses his lips, “I think I can handle sleeping in bed beside you, just sleeping, we can even put a pillow between us,” and you add, “if I try anything in my sleep, you challenge me to a pillow fight, and push me off the bed,” 

He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I really can sleep on—“ and then you raise your eyebrows, eyes flicking to the hand on his neck. He sighs, “fine, but I really will push you off the bed, I’m a restless sleeper,” 

“Then it’s equal opportunity,” you grin, as you slip into your side of the bed, stretching. Suguru is slower to get in, taking his time and adjusting his pillow and blanket before he finally gets into bed, “good night,” 

“Good night,” he turns to face away from you as he sleeps and you do the same. 

But it wasn’t a good night. Not when you couldn’t fucking sleep. 

For someone so smart, you really were very stupid. The bed that seemed expansive and open yesterday now felt Tom Thumb tiny, every shift of your body felt like a ripple effect, as you’d feel the slight shift of Geto right beside you. He was so close — you swore you could nearly feel the heat radiate off of him, the weight of his body beside you felt far too close and way too far — a chasm you could never cross.

And it was close to driving you insane enough to follow your wants all the way down it. 

But you couldn’t — but you could look, stare into the void, without becoming part of it. 

You shift again to face him this time — how could the back of someone’s head be so beautiful? Jet black locks that you had combed yourself fanned out on his pillow. But you could spot the nape of his neck through the tresses, a lovely spot that you only wished you could lean over and bury your face in. Your eyes began to droop. 

Hypnos finally took pity. You could only sleep this way. Your eyes finally flutter shut — you should have known — you were always the most comfortable with him in your sight. 

Suguru knew that you had fallen asleep — because your soft breaths fell into a rhythm, the crinkle of your sheets had grown silent, and the loud thoughts that filled up your head had gone quiet. He was glad one of you could sleep. 

He surely wouldn’t get a wink tonight. 

This was certainly more comfortable than the couch, but at least he had slept on the couch. He would be lucky to get thirty minutes at this rate. This weekend had already been too much — and he felt his will to stay away from you slowly snapping, a few strands away from breaking away completely. 

When he had seen you with Toji — he didn’t think, he just acted. He could see you were uncomfortable, the way your body leaned away from him, the way your eyes flickered around the room, and the way you toyed with your glass. It was a simple choice, but what happens when the next person that flirts with you is someone you’re interested in? Would he have to stand by and simply let it happen? Watch as you’re able to date this person but not him simply because of his title? 

He was jealous. Not of Toji — but of the idea of you being with someone else — of your attention drifting from him, of you drifting from him. He turned to lay on his back, he really was fucked wasn’t he? 

He turns his head to look at you. It never helped that you were effortlessly adorable, even now as you slept. Lips parted, body curled up, your hair falling in your face yet again. His fingers tuck a strand behind your ear gently, and you shift, a quiet hum leaving your lips as you settle back into the arms of the sandman. 

How were you so close but so far? You were mere inches away but you might as well be across the country. Because he couldn’t touch you, he couldn’t hold you, he couldn’t kiss you. The kiss he shared with you haunted his dreams — a daydream wrapped up in the nightmare of reality. He couldn’t ask you to wait — wait for your degree to be completed so the two of you could date. It wouldn’t be fair to you, but what about this was fair? 

And he turns on his side to face you, his fingers brushing your cheek gently — maybe if he couldn’t be with you in reality, he could allow himself to dream, his eyes flutter shut. 

Just for a moment. 

And his unconscious allows it — allows him to dream of you. 

Dream of your face buried in the crook of his neck, your soft breaths warming his skin, his nose buried in your hair. Your fingers grasped at his shirt, your other hand thrown over his middle. Why was your scent so intoxicating? He sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, and you shift, your leg sliding around his waist, as you pressed closer, pulling a groan from his lips as your core grazes right against his morning…visitor. 

And you move again, nose brushing against his collarbone, his name on your lips, quietly whispered like a secret against his skin. It was perfect — you were perfect. 

But what if this wasn’t a dream? The back of his mind prods — but that’s not possible, he was home in bed, right? This wasn’t real. It was the same dream he always had, of waking up in your arms, a lazy morning spent together in bed, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the sheets becoming dappled in sunshine. 

No, there was no way this was real, he sighs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, but even if it was, he thought as he drifted, he didn’t want to wake — not yet. 

A distinct buzz stirs you from your sleep. But you don't want to wake — you were far too comfortable. But the buzzing persists, so you reach blindly for your phone and to turn off the alarm. And settle back into bed, eyes still shut, as you find your way back onto your pillow — or what you thought was your pillow. 

Except pillows didn’t move, or have an arm they could wrap around you. 

Your eyes open, to find yourself entangled with someone else — your brow furrowing in confusion that melts away to silent horror. Professor Geto. 

So much for sticking to your sides. 

Fuck.  

You tried to extricate yourself to no avail, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush to his body, your legs entangled, aside from your leg thrown over his waist, you realize, a small squeak escaping your lips, as you try and fail to move away. Instead you brush up against something very…hard. 

You flush, cheeks burning so hot that it’s truly a miracle he didn’t wake from the heat of your skin against his alone. His morning wood was pressed right against you, nearly between your thighs — just like the last time it was  against you — why the fuck would you think about that now? You resisted the urge to press your legs together — lest you have another new problem, and a mess to deal with. 

You manage to only pull your head away, urging yourself up so that your faces are an inch or two apart now. His soft breaths warmed your lips, his brow relaxed, locks of black hair fell in front of his eyes. Your fingers reach and tuck the locks behind his ear, tips skimming his skin. And the arm around you almost seems to tighten, and you bite your lip, the comforting presence of his arms far too tempting to drag you into wanting — as if you ever left. Wanting was dangerous, because wanting can only ever lead to need, needing him was as foolish as it was to share a bed with the man you were in love with. 

But how foolish was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away? It was okay right? Okay as long your lips didn’t touch, as long you didn’t follow this slope all the way down — it was treacherous to press forward, but why did you want to anyway?

Your eyes flutter shut again for a moment — and your eyes glanced at the morning sky — the sun had just breached the horizon. You could allow yourself a few minutes — even if you had to give up a lifetime with him. 

The blaring of your phone only seems to grow increasingly loud, as you give a small groan, rolling over to your phone again, slapping the screen to snooze it again. And your eyes flutter open a moment, lazily flickering over the screen — 8:45 AM. 

Your eyes close — before your mind fully wakes — 8:45 AM? 

“Fuck,” you shoot up to get up, a tangle of limbs,  jolting Geto awake, his eyes popping open, his arm instinctively grabbing you by the waist, and you land with an oomfph back onto the bed—wait, not the bed. 

Your hand pressed against his chest, your body against his, noses brushing, your eyes unable to tear away from the other — his eyes were even prettier this close — a dark brown, nearly black, with flecks of another color — purple? You can’t tell if that’s your heartbeat or his that’s racing with how close you are, chest to chest. And even as you try to shift, you make it worse by slipping, your hips rubbing against each other’s. 

Fuck. 

You both freeze for a moment, his eyes flickering to your lips and back, as yours does the same, before you both scramble apart. 

“We’re late. We’re really late,” you spring out of bed, grabbing random clothes from your suitcase, “I’m going to get ready, really fast,” you don’t even bother to look at his expression, and you almost wished your heart had shattered your ribcage, with how fucking hard it’s beating, if only that you wouldn’t have to spend another day in the conference with him. 

You sighed, as you brushed your teeth hurriedly while doing your hair — well maybe a lecture or presentation would take your mind off this morning. 

So that wasn’t a dream, Suguru was only glad you didn’t even glance at his face when you ran off, or you would have seen the lovely tomato red that graced his cheeks. He could still feel the warmth from your body, slowly receding, and he swore he could still feel you against him, your soft skin, your pretty lips against his neck, and your leg around his waist. 

Fuck. 

God, he had another fucking problem to deal with — as he shifted awkwardly, his morning wood up and erect with a tent that could put most large circus tents to shame. Fuck, he didn’t have time to take care of this — especially with you in the bathroom right now. 

But still, he pressed his inner palm to his lips, how was he going to make it through the rest of the conference with the feeling of your body still lingering in his mind. If the situation was different, the two of you would have woken up with smiles on your lips, spent the morning cuddling without a care, and probably a little more than that—

But the situation was the same, and his eyes slid to the bathroom door, so why was it that he still thinking about you? He wasn’t the type to dwell, he accepted things for what they were — he had his principles and his beliefs, and he stuck to them, unless proven otherwise. He was a man of guidelines, of rules—

So why were you the only person that ever made him want to throw every rule away? 

“We are going to be discussing ethical dilemmas faced in universities and how to approach them,” the lecturer begins, “can anyone tell us an example of one such dilemma?” 

You both had barely made it into a lecture — barely even speaking as you ran-walked into the conference — choosing a lecture at random, as the two of you ran a good fifteen minutes late. You both arrived, hiding your pants, as you both grabbed water bottles from the back, and sat down. 

And of course to make matters worse, your phone goes off, making the entire room turn to look at the two of you. You silence your phone, murmuring a quick sorry as the two of you take your seats. 

Could this possibly get worse? 

Your eyes glanced at him — it was already bad enough to begin with. Geto had barely spoken a word this morning, even as the two of arrived at the conference, the only words he spoke were to the attendant that parked his car. 

You tugged at the collar of your shirt, adjusting your clothes. And if that wasn’t enough, you were going to spend the day sweaty and disheveled. Meanwhile, you stole another glance at your professor — his skin flushed from running, button up not buttoned up all the way, glasses instead of contacts, and his hair in its usual bun, but a few strands were nearly coming loose — he still looked fucking delectable. But he wouldn’t meet your gaze, his body positioned to lean away from yours, his eyes fixed ahead. 

You held back your sigh as you focused on the presentation — you just needed to get through today — as the lecturer picked someone who raised their hand. 

“A student-teacher relationship is one such ethical problem faced in universities today,” and Geto nearly chokes on his water, coughing slightly, as you feel your cheeks burn at the thought of this morning, “it presents several ethical problems — including the role the professor plays in the student’s education and future, their ability to provide praise or reprimand, and even grant recommendations gives them great power over their student. It leaves the student without much freedom in the relationship.”

Oh, what the fuck. 

The rest of the conference is spent in relative silence with a thick film of awkwardness perfectly overlayed. When you both finally return to the hotel room, your only consolation is that you’ll be leaving tomorrow. You toss your things onto the couch, “I’m going to wash up,” you tell him, and he only nods in reply, as you enter the bathroom and shut the door, back pressed against it and sliding down. 

Oh this is such a mess. You sigh, maybe a shower will help. 

It didn’t. You were still just as much of a mess as you were before. You sighed, as you stood in front of the sink, wiping your hair with a towel. This could be so simple if you both could be together — so easy. There would be no tension, no hurt feelings, no awkwardness — you could just be. But that’s not an option. So the only other option is to let him go. 

But you didn’t know how to begin to. 

Either way, hiding in the bathroom wouldn’t solve a thing — and you finally opened the door, “I’m done if you want to wash up,” he nods, sitting on the couch, reading a book. His glasses rested on the tip of his nose, lips pursed, and legs crossed. 

You walk over, grabbing your things from the couch and put some of your things away in your suitcase. But after all of that is done, you realize one thing is missing — your cellphone. 

“Shit,” you murmur under your breath, searching through your suit coat pockets, your pants pocket, anywhere that your phone might be. 

“What’s wrong?” Geto says, book in his lap, as he tilts his head. 

“Can’t find my phone,” you mumble, cheeks burning — god, it was already awkward enough, and now this? 

“Is it on ring?” You nod — your phone was usually on ring, sometimes to your detriment — you cringe at the memory in the lecture this morning, “I’ll call it,” 

He calls you — and you glance at his phone screen, your contact is just your name, no picture, nothing. You bite your lip, what were you expecting? A heart next to your name? And the sound of your phone ringing catches both of your attention. 

“It’s over here, somewhere,” he says, lifting up some of cushions of the couch, and reaching underneath into the creases, as you walk over — “I found—“ 

And you were so concerned about your contact information in his phone that you forgot about his contact information in your phone. 

The screen flashed with the image of him sleeping all lopsided on the couch from that first night, as you covered your mouth in both horror, but also to stifle your laugh. 

His eyes flicker to you, “When did you—“ and you reach for your phone, but he moves it away, “not until you answer my questions,” 

“This isn’t class, Professor, I want my phone—“ you reach for it again, and he’s holding it above your head, “oh real mature—“ 

“Like the picture you have of me as my contact picture?” He raises an eyebrow, a real smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “thought I should resort to my student’s level,”  

“Your T.A.,” you correct, as you reach for your phone again, but he’s using his height to his advantage, and he’s beginning to walk backwards, “come on, give it back—“ 

“Not until I change and delete that photo,” and he’s trying to hold your phone up to your face to unlock it, and you gasp. 

“Oh my god, give it back!” And you grab his hand, and he’s grabbing at the other, giggles leaving your lips, as he laughs too, as the two of you struggle for the phone, your fingers closing over it, and over his own fingers as well. 

And you realize how close you are to him. 

The two of you freeze a moment, laughter on your lips fading away to soft smiles, and his fingers squeeze yours lightly, as he passes you your phone back. But he doesn’t move away — and you don’t either. 

“Why did you let go?” and it seems like it’s a force out of your control that draws you together, no matter how much either of you try to let go. 

“Because I can’t help giving you what you want,” he murmurs, and the heat of his gaze melts your heart, as you drop your phone onto the couch, and reach for his hand again. 

And you lean closer, your other hand gently brushing against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, “So if I ask for a kiss, will you give it to me?” You won’t close the gap anymore than you have — he needs to reach for you too, let himself give into gravity. 

He does, as his hand brushes against your cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth across your cheekbone, “will we stop at just a kiss?” He murmurs, leaning so close that your eyes want to flutter shut. 

“Only one way to find out,” and his lips brush yours. And it’s not chaste like your first kiss was, no, his lips slide against yours, as his other hand slides to the back of your neck. He swallows your gasp eagerly, if the smirk you feel against your lips is anything to go off of. Your teeth graze against this bottom lip teasingly, drawing a small groan from the back of his throat. 

Neither of you couldn’t stop at one kiss, and you both knew that, even as your lips parted for a small breath of air, they found each other again — just as you both always did. Because you could never let him go — no matter how hard you tried. 

RING. RING. RING. 

And this time it isn’t an alarm. But rather his phone, flashing with a name that brings you crashing back to reality. 

The department head. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, as he parts from you, his warmth leaving all at once, as he grabs his phone, and turns away, “Hello? Yes, the conference is over. Everything went well. No, no, nothing out of the ordinary.” 

You stared at his back, this would always be the case wouldn’t it? Even as you crashed together, something would pull you apart, and neither of you could break the cycle. You take your phone from the couch, and crawl into bed, but you could start. 

You close your eyes, your fingers brushing against your lips for a moment. You needed to start — otherwise, you would just end up broken. 

And you don’t hear him hang up — or see him stare at your figure under the covers — and he would break along with you. 

Suguru didn’t know what to say the next morning — especially when it seemed couldn’t even bear to look at him, much less speak to him. You had busied yourself with packing, even before he had awoken. His back ached from the night he spent on the couch, he couldn’t fall asleep for far too long, and by the time he did, he kept sleeping — through his many alarms it seemed. 

And it wasn’t the couch that kept him awake. 

You both had the most lovely timing, didn’t you? He thought, as he combed his hair in the bathroom, the memory of your fingers running through his hair as you gently undid the knots in his locks still ever present — it seemed like any time you two wanted to act on your feelings, the universe was doing what it could to keep you apart. 

Was this fate versus free will? 

You both kept choosing each other — but fate kept pulling you apart. Did he have any control over his actions or did he have no control over his actions at all? Was it all predetermined by some force he couldn’t perceive? Some force intent on pulling you apart. 

He sighed, as his phone lights up with an email from the department head — department head position opened up in Jujutsu University: Kyoto — 

And so maybe he should let it. 

The next few weeks pass by far too quick. As your semester picks up, you stop attending Professor Geto’s classes, opting to send an email to let him know, and he replies back with a simple response — Ok. Please let me know when and if you are available to input the grades for the midterm paper. 

The rest of your T.A. work is done online and over email — and you do your best to keep busy, keep yourself occupied, and keep your thoughts from straying to him.

And you maybe succeed 10% of the time. It doesn’t help that your unconscious does not wish to cooperate since it seems that once you stopped seeing your professor during waking hours, he’s infiltrated your sleep — sneaking in and out by the time your eyes open. 

And then you’re left with the fragments of his touch, his voice, his kisses, and soft, loving words. 

Just as you always were it seemed. 

And before you know it, the end of the semester comes, and you find yourself in front of that same office door yet again. It felt like an eternal reoccurrence — stuck to repeat the same events again and again in an infinite loop. Was there any exit from this loop? 

You didn’t know — you knocked on his office door — but you could try. 

“Come in,” you do, entering his office to find him sitting at his desk, hair half up for once. And his eyes flicker up to meet yours, his head tilting at your stare, “see something interesting?” 

“Your hair—“ and your cheeks burn — so much for trying — “it’s different,” 

“Thought I’d try something different — my hair is growing out,” and you have to repress the want to curl a lock or his hair around your finger, “do you not like it?” 

You shake your head, “It looks nice, just different,”

And he hands you the papers he’s graded, “you can input those, I’m just finishing up a couple more, so if you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit?” 

“Not at all,” a silence falls over between the two of you, the quiet scratch of his pen as he grades, the occasional ding of his e-mail breaking up the silence. You sneak a glance at him — ebony tresses brushing against his broad shoulders, his brow furrowed that you wished to run your fingers along to smooth his worries from his mind, pretty lips parted as he reads a sentence silently to himself. 

Fuck — no, no, you can’t do this. 

You busy yourself thumbing your way through the papers, spotting the familiar red scrawls littering these pages, as they once did yours. You were so pissed when you got your first paper back — indignant even — a whole Karen ready to speak to his supervisor. But when his honest criticism and blunt words rang true, you found yourself not only wanting to prove him wrong, but a want to be better. To earn his respect. And of course, later, you wanted to earn a little more than that. 

You bite back a chuckle, and here you still were — by his side. Except next semester you wouldn’t be his T.A. 

But you would still be a student. And he would still be a professor. 

But one other thing that hasn’t changed is how brutal the feedback is — you couldn’t help but feel bad for “Itadori Yuuji” — whoever that was. 

“What are you smiling about?” Your eyes snap up to meet his, his head leaning against his palm, elbow resting on the desk. 

“Nothing,” you shake your head, but he looks unconvinced, “just thinking about our first time in this office,” and then your cheeks burn at the double meaning, “I mean our first office hours appointment—“ 

He waves you off, “I know what you meant,” a small chuckle in his cadence, as he continues to grade, “you certainly weren’t happy with me,” 

“No I wasn’t,” a small smile on your lips, “but it worked out in the end,” you add, “you got an amazing T.A. after all,” 

His eyes meet yours, “More than just that,” 

Why can’t you help but get pulled in time and time again? And why can’t you help but ask questions that will only hurt you in the end? 

He continues to grade when you finally speak, “What do you think would have happened if I didn’t end up being your T.A.?” 

And his pen stops, lips pursed, “We shouldn’t—“ 

“Why shouldn’t we?” you felt like a child demanding an answer from their parent. 

“We agreed—”

“I don’t remember an agreement-” 

“It was unspoken—” 

You scoff, crossing your arms, “You really are only a professor because an attorney would know that binding agreements can’t be unspoken,” he falls silent, his voice soft. 

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” his words are wrought with conflict, pain seeping into every syllable, “I don’t want to keep going down this road only to for you to get hurt in the end — I don’t want to jeopardize your future for something that might not last—” 

“But what if it does?” and he swallows thickly, “what if we can make it work? We’re both adults, we can be discreet—” 

“So discreet that we end up making out in my office?” he takes off his glasses only to run a hand down his face, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, and you huff out a chuckle. 

“A little more discreet than that, we’ll lock the door next time,” it’s his turn to scoff, and you rise from your seat, lips curled, “close the lights, or maybe even kiss in a place that’s not on campus,” but he does the same, meeting you on the side of his desk, his fingers brushing your cheek so gently as if you’d shatter under his touch. 

“I don’t want to stand in the way of your career,” he says, his fingers finding your hand regardless, fingers interlacing, “I don’t want you to—” 

“It’s my choice, Suguru,” you murmur, as you lean against his warm palm, your fingers sliding against his palm and into his inky tresses, “don’t you owe me a choice, and a drink?” you add, and his lips curl in a knowing smile. 

“I do, if you’ll still have me,” and he’s leaning close, sucking the air from the room, and the logic from your minds, as his lips barely graze yours, “shouldn’t we lock the door?” 

“Fuck it,” and you pull him into a deep kiss that pulls a groan from his lips that makes your cunt ache, as he’s already pushing you into the lip of his desk, his hand sliding down to your waist. 

“Now who’s being unethical?” he murmurs, pressing eager kisses along your jaw, that makes you melt against him, your legs nearly jelly at this point, “what kind of example are you setting as a T.A.?” 

You bite back your moan as his lips find the soft spot of your neck, teeth grazing it far too fucking teasingly, “Well students learn by example,” and his hands are slipping under thighs to lift you so you’re sitting on his desk — you spread your legs for him in the dress that you’re in, pantyhose underneath, his heavy lidded gaze raking over your body, “and look at my professor staring at his T.A. so lustfully, even with a clear power dynamic—” 

And his fingers find your thighs again, squeezing, before his fingers dig into the sheer hose, tearing holes in it, drawing a gasp from your lips, “How’s that for a power dynamic, princess?” far too pleased, “don’t worry, I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs, “now just be a good girl and spread your legs for me,” he says, as he pulls away the ruined pantyhose, and he’s undoing the buttons on his shirt with one hand — one, two, three — before your fingers take over, leaning to press kisses at each inch of exposed skin, until the shirt falls open. 

Then his lips find yours again, his silver tongue asking for you to part your lips and you do — as he extracts every want you have with his burning touch — his lips against yours, his large hands parting your thighs, his knee pressed against your twitching cunt — and only leaves your want for him behind, until it becomes a need. 

“Wonder what our students would think of you,” his fingers tease your inner thighs, drawing a whine from your lips, “wanting your professor to fuck you in his office instead of inputting their grades,” he whispers in your ear, as his fingers finally skim the wet patch of your underwear, “so wet f’me, already? Look I think you even soaked my slacks,” he tsks, as his thumb and forefinger find your chin and tilt it up, “what are you going to do about that?” 

“Suguru—please,” and he smiles as his finger starts to tease your puffy clit through your drenched panties, “don’t tease—” 

“How can I not when you’ve nothing but tease me with your existence?” he pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, “I’ll oblige my favorite student this time—but I won’t be so nice next time,” he adds, biting your bottom lip. 

RING. RING. RING. 

It was his fucking office phone. You groan, but his finger continues to sink into you, “Suguru—” 

“Let it ring,” his lips find yours in a bruising kiss as his finger deliciously sinks into you, “I have all I need right here,” he whispers, and you pull him back into a kiss by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, your hand sliding up and down his chest, while he worked a finger into your cunt, “so fucking wet f’me, so perfect,” 

And your hand flies back to support yourself as a second finger begins to sink into you — but your hand grazes his office phone, and the messages begin to play back.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mumble, as you reach blindly for the phone, only to knock it back, as he chuckles and reaches behind you, trying but failing to help — your noses brushing, and he smiles before kissing you again. 

Mr. Geto, sorry we missed each other, I was calling, hoping that you would still be in office for the day, but I must have just missed you. I wanted to call to offer you the job as department head at Jujutsu Tech University: Kyoto—

You freeze, your lips parting from his as you look up at him, his eyes wide as he stops the message from playing back any further — and the words settle over the mood like a sheet pulled over a dead body. 

And you’re the first to speak, always asking the questions that will hurt you in the end, “You’re moving to Kyoto?” 

✧ a/n: so i'm sorry for that ending hahah, i promise there will be a happy ending later on for these two. thank you to @gaylatteart and @laneysmusings for betaing and just being the best. also if i tagged you please comment / reblog because tagging on tumblr sucks, it takes very long.

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @bash1018, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala, @ashhlsstuff, @blue041803, @mwtsxri, @bblgumfairy, @sukunasleftkneecap, @xo-evangeline, @fiannee, @teatreeoilll, @chalametet, @ryukaver, @d1gitalbathh, @saga3ious, @seventhcinema, @satosugucide, @your-l0nely-star, @sokkasmoon, @deegausserr, @hyookka, @oggsyy, @littlebitb, @higuchislut, @ti-mame, @itoshisins, @cerene-dipity, @onionsoop, @sinlillith, @izzythenaive, @akvrae, @lalacute03, @rxndou, @c-themoon, @xxrag-d0llxx, @hqtoge, @sugarxlumps, @hopeluna, @actualdeemon,

[violet-embers]

The first time I saw a trans woman was in porn. I was pretty young then, in early middle school I think. My first thoughts about trans women only existed in a sexual context, since that was the only place I saw us mentioned

The next time I saw trans people mentioned was a TV show presumably about trans people and transitioning. I didn't watch it, only saw the description because even as a kid I had already internalized the idea that it was taboo and I would get in trouble if my parents walked in and I was watching it

Eventually I saw enough TV and cop shows to see an episode with the dead trans hooker trope. It further reinforced the building idea that trans women were something else, separate from "normal" people and always on the outskirts of society

And then Caitlyn Jenner came out. At my Catholic middle school there were few kind things said about her and plenty of nasty comments, but this was the first time I saw trans people being publicly talked about

In high school my views on trans people started to fracture. On one hand, I was being pushed the idea that gender was about what's in your pants, that if you've got a dick your a man and there's nothing that can be done about it. On the other hand, early high school me had stumbled across some gender change erotica and quickly became obsessed with it. While it wasn't great representation, it was still pretty positive about transitioning. The people in those stories were always happier afterwards

I struggled to reconcile what parts of society were saying about trans people with my daydreaming about what I'd do if I woke up the next morning as a girl. Eventually I decided that it was just a fetish. I just thought it was hot, there was no way I could be trans because I was just a normal person. I wasn't weird or a spectacle for others to gawk at, I was just a person

Around that time I also met a trans person in passing for the first time. One of the trans guys at my high school was in one of the musicals that I went to because some of my friends were also in them. When I was talking to my friends about it after someone mentioned the trans guy and that he was trans. I wasn't really sure what to think so I kinda just didn't think about it. Thinking back, there were a few trans guys at my high school but I don't think there was a single out trans woman

Eventually in college I actually met some trans and nonbinary people. In some classes we introduced ourselves on the first day with names and pronouns which was my first exposure to people using pronouns other than just he/him and she/her. I had a few classes with trans and nonbinary people, including a survey of transgender studies class I took in my last semester. I had plenty of excuses for why I was taking it (I needed a few more credits to graduate. It still had room open. It fit with my other classes. It seemed interesting. I'm trying to be a good ally.)

Around this time as well I found some trans creators online like ContraPoints and Philosophy Tube (whom I had watched before she came out as trans). I was weirdly excited and interested when Odyssey Eurobeat came out as trans and I went to go listen to some of her music right after I heard. I was starting to have examples of trans people just being people. Not just porn stars or public spectacles, but people

Later I met and befriended a few trans women, one of whom was extremely open about her transness and happened to share a video which started the initial steps of my egg cracking and figuring out who I am now

If I had actually known any trans women, if the world had been kinder to trans people, if representation of trans women as people existed and was well known, I might have been able to realize who I was sooner. I would have been able to exist as myself for more than a tiny fragment of my life so far

Representation matters, both in media and in daily life. Trans people being out and open about who they are made it possible for me to realize that about myself. Please never stop being who you are

[robertreich]

Who’s to Blame for Out-Of-Control Corporate Power?    

One man is especially to blame for why corporate power is out of control. And I knew him! He was my professor, then my boss. His name… Robert Bork.

Robert Bork was a notorious conservative who believed the only legitimate purpose of antitrust — that is, anti-monopoly — law is to lower prices for consumers, no matter how big corporations get. His philosophy came to dominate the federal courts and conservative economics.

I met him in 1971, when I took his antitrust class at Yale Law School. He was a large, imposing man, with a red beard and a perpetual scowl. He seemed impatient and bored with me and my classmates, who included Bill Clinton and Hillary Rodham, as we challenged him repeatedly on his antitrust views.

We argued with Bork that ever-expanding corporations had too much power. Not only could they undercut rivals with lower prices and suppress wages, but they were using their spoils to influence our politics with campaign contributions. Wasn’t this cause for greater antitrust enforcement?

He had a retort for everything. Undercutting rival businesses with lower prices was a good thing because consumers like lower prices. Suppressing wages didn’t matter because employees are always free to find better jobs. He argued that courts could not possibly measure political power, so why should that matter?

Even in my mid-20s, I knew this was hogwash.

But Bork’s ideology began to spread. A few years after I took his class, he wrote a book called The Antitrust Paradox summarizing his ideas. The book heavily influenced Ronald Reagan and later helped form a basic tenet of Reaganomics — the bogus theory that says government should get out of the way and allow corporations to do as they please, including growing as big and powerful as they want.

Despite our law school sparring, Bork later gave me a job in the Department of Justice when he was solicitor general for Gerald Ford. Even though we didn’t agree on much, I enjoyed his wry sense of humor. I respected his intellect. Hell, I even came to like him.

Once President Reagan appointed Bork as an appeals court judge, his rulings further dismantled antitrust. And while his later Supreme Court nomination failed, his influence over the courts continued to grow.  

Bork’s legacy is the enormous corporate power we see today, whether it’s Ticketmaster and Live Nation consolidating control over live performances, Kroger and Albertsons dominating the grocery market, or Amazon, Google, and Meta taking over the tech world.

It’s not just these high-profile companies either: in most industries, a handful of companies now control more of their markets than they did twenty years ago.

This corporate concentration costs the typical American household an estimated extra $5,000 per year. Companies have been able to jack up prices without losing customers to competitors because there is often no meaningful competition.

And huge corporations also have the power to suppress wages because workers have fewer employers from whom to get better jobs.

And how can we forget the massive flow of money these corporate giants are funneling into politics, rigging our democracy in their favor?

But the tide is beginning to turn under the Biden Administration. The Justice Department and Federal Trade Commission are fighting the monopolization of America in court, and proposing new merger guidelines to protect consumers, workers, and society.

It’s the implementation of the view that I and my law school classmates argued for back in the 1970s — one that sees corporate concentration as a problem that outweighs any theoretical benefits Bork claimed might exist.

Robert Bork would likely regard the Biden administration’s antitrust efforts with the same disdain he had for my arguments in his class all those years ago. But instead of a few outspoken law students, Bork’s philosophy is now being challenged by the full force of the federal government.

The public is waking up to the outsized power corporations wield over our economy and democracy. It’s about time.

[pathologicalreid]

you can wait if you dont want to do another smut right now but id love a fic where spencer has been helping reader study for her finals and after last exam is over she thanks spencer for all his help if you know what i mean 😉 (this has been stuck in my head all day)

ofc he is like no!!! you dont have to thank me but obviously reader just wants to finally celebrate being done with finals with her mans

i liveeee for your fics! im so happy youre doing requests again!

earned it | S.R.

when you finish your college course work, you only have one person to thank - your tutor

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: smut (18+ mdni) content warnings: oral sex (m receiving), borderline ass play, fingering, established relationship, mild manhandling, i think that's it. word count: 1.46k a/n: so this request is definitely from when i reopened my requests last but i wanted to let y'all know that I'm probably gonna close them again soon so like get ur requests in ahahaha thank you for requesting please don't worry if this is incoherent

“How do you feel?” Spencer asked over the phone.

Smiling into the receiver, you made your way up the steps to the second floor of his apartment building as you answered, “I feel liberated,” You answered, balancing your phone between your ear and shoulder so you could knock on his front door.

He cleared his throat over the phone, “Hold on, someone’s at the door,” he told you, moving to open the door. “Hey,” he said, obviously surprised to find you at the door, “I thought you needed to pick your parents up at the airport?”

You shrugged, ending your phone call and stepping inside his apartment, “Their flight was delayed, so I’m now free as a bird for the rest of the day.”

“Most people want to relax after finishing their final exams,” Spencer suggested, setting his phone down before reaching out to you, pulling you closer to him by your waist, “How do you think it went?”

Beaming up at him, you slung your arms around his neck before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, “I think I aced it, and it’s all thanks to my tutor.” Slowly, you ushered him in the direction of the couch, hoping to coax him to the supple leather.

Following your lead, your boyfriend hummed thoughtfully, “Well, as your tutor, I’m glad to hear that.”

With a careful touch, you settled your hands on his shoulders and pushed him down, “And now that I’m done, I figured it was time to return the favor.” You offered, settling yourself down on the couch next to him and smoothing out the skirt of your sundress.

“I’m not in classes anymore,” he reminded you confusedly, tilting his head to the side so that he was closer to you. That much you remembered, he finished his philosophy degree rather unceremoniously last year, not even willing to humor you by putting on a cap and gown.

You nodded, adjusting yourself so that you could lean over until he pulled you into his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. “Yes, but I needed to figure out some way to express my gratitude,” you said, cocking your head to the side as you gave him a knowing look.

Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “I helped you study because I love you, not because I expected anything in return.” This, of course, you knew, Spencer was too much of a gentleman to outright accept your offer of sexual favors in exchange for your study sessions.

“No, I know, but I don’t believe in unpaid labor,” you informed him, intertwining your fingers at the back of his neck, catching some of the hair at the nape of his neck, forcing him to lean his head back. Taking the opportunity that had presented itself, you attached your lips to the side of his neck, placing gentle kisses as you felt his grip on your hips tighten. “I just finished school and maybe I want to celebrate a little,” you murmured against his skin, reaching your hand up and fiddling with the knot of his tie.

Another thing that you knew was that Spencer was too much of a man to turn down head, so you weren’t surprised when the next thing he said was, “Then let’s celebrate.”

Moving away from him slightly, you giggled, “You’re so easy to convince.”

He rolled his eyes in response, “And you’re so pretty,” he mumbled, dragging your lips down to his as you grinned, letting him touch you everywhere he wanted as you moved to palm his half-hard cock through his slacks.

Getting him hard was easy, you had been so stressed during finals that the two of you hadn’t done much more than make out, but now that all you had to do was cross the stage, you each had a lot of pent-up hormones that needed to be released. You tried to undo his belt without pulling away from him, but you eventually needed to see what you were doing, leading you to pull away before undoing the belt buckle.

Desperate for more contact, Spencer ducked his head and kissed your shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses around the thin strap of your dress as you continued undoing the button and zipper of his slacks with ease. You let out a soft moan in response to him moving to your neck, watching the way his cock twitched beneath his boxers.

You gently slipped your fingers under the elastic band, taking his entire length in your hand, just holding him caused his head to fall back and lift his hips from the couch to move his pants and underwear down, giving you more access. You crouched down on the couch, ducking your head so that you could press a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock, continuing your motions by pressing similar little kisses down the shaft until you hit the base.

Skimming your fingertips down his member, you smiled at the way his hips bucked off of the couch before wrapping your lips around him, taking him as far as you could without gagging and staying like that while Spencer gathered your hair at the nape of your neck and secured it with his fingers. You bobbed your head slightly, resting one hand on his hip and moving the other to hold his free hand before you lifted your head to swirl your tongue around his bulbous tip.

“You’re so good at this,” he murmured, his hand holding your hair gripping tighter as you bobbed your head again, “fuck, baby.”

Even as he let go of your hand, you continued bobbing your head even as you felt Spencer’s hand fiddling with the skirt of your dress, letting out a gentle moan when you realized what he was doing.

Spencer pulled your panties down your thighs by the gusset, giving him perfect access to your pussy as you kept your lips around his cock, “My pretty girl,” he praised while gently pressing his index finger at your entrance, circling the wet hole before pushing it in. Because of the angle you were at, he couldn’t get his fingers very deep, but it did enable him to press his thumb against your clit.

You moaned around his cock, the vibrations causing him to hiss and leading you to reach your newly freed hand to gently cup his balls, squeezing them as you bent your finger and pressed the knuckle to his taint, massaging the sensitive area that always made him finish.

He slipped another finger into your cunt easily as he released a shuddering breath, “I’m close,” he let you know, grip on your hair tightening as he did.

Humming, you just continued your ministrations until he let you know that he was going to come, the white, hot liquid spurting directly into your mouth while you continued to work him through his orgasm, your movements slowly coming to a halt so you didn’t overstimulate him.

Swallowing his cum, you released him from your mouth as he pulled his hand from your wet hole. Careful not to get anything on your dress, he maneuvered you so that you were facing him, his hooded eyes had a hint of determination as he pushed two digits into your pussy, you whimpered at the depth he got at this new angle.

You rocked your hips so that you were riding his hand, placing your hands on his shoulders for support while he used his thumb to stimulate your clit. “Spence,” you whined, breath hitching as he curled his fingers inside of you.

“What is it, baby?” He asked without pausing his movements.

Opening your mouth to respond, only a high-pitched noise came out in place of words, causing your head to fall forward onto his shoulder. “Come,” you mumbled.

Continuing to curl his fingers inside of you, he gently kissed your temple, “Come on my fingers, baby. You earned it. You can let go,” he encouraged.

You gasped as you did just that, feeling your walls clench around his fingers as he continued moving them, “Fuck, yes, thank you,” you babbled into the crook of his neck, lifting your head and looking him in the eyes.

His cheeks were flushed pink as he leaned in to press a kiss to your lips, instinctively, you pulled back.

“I have cum dribbling down my chin,” you explained to him when he frowned at the rejection.

Shaking his head, he leaned back in, “I really don’t care,” he said, kissing you chastely – as if to prove a point – and placing his hands on either side of your waist before settling you on his lap. “When does your parents’ rescheduled flight get in?”

You hummed contentedly, “Not until tonight.”

“Perfect,” he responded.

[eunimaybe]

contemplating : love, friendships and theories of time

୨୧ ; fate is a strange concept, isn’t it? because park sunghoon was the last person you had expected to see in your philosophy lecture in uni

pairing! philosophymajor!sunghoon x philosophymajor!reader | wc. 0.8k | warnings: wrong philosophy info, prob cringe EN-

🖇️ : philosophy major sunghoon SKDKDKSK. also, to the girly who asked for a uni fic for the science and maths girls, i hope you’re looking forward to my sunoo uni fic ~

you and sunghoon go WAYYYY back

he was your neighbour in that little picturesque town you both lived in, your mum's friend's annoying son who always seemed to be loitering around at your house

you thought your mum adopted him or smth bc why was he at your house more than his own?? — more under cut!!

you used to tease him about being homeless back in the days

but yk you two were best friends

but you and sunghoon kind of just drifted apart in high school after he moved during his freshman year at high school

you see his instagram posts sometimes, pictures of him out with his friends, jawline still jawlining

you sometimes even scroll down to his older posts where you are present in his photos, smiling next to him with a wide braces smile

but you never thought you would cross paths with park sunghoon again

that is, until university.

you walk into your first philosophy lecture and oh look there he is

park sunghoon sitting in one of the corners with his notebook looking like the exact definition of brooding intellectual

what is that guy doing here WHY IS HE HERE?

you two recognise each other instantly but there's this moment of awkwardness

like "oh, do you remember when we used to steal each other's snacks in 5th grade?"

except now he's all grown up, wearing wireframe glasses and quoting descartes during class discussions

you just try to focus on your lecture but you can't really forget about sunghoon being in your philosophy lecture

oh yeah, and he looks x100 hotter than you remember WHAT'S GOING ON

puberty hit him hard

after the lecture, you're about to pack your stuff and leave as soon as you can but he just strides up to you with his obnoxiously long legs

you always hated his stupid long legs you always had to run to catch up

you're certain he walked faster on purpose to leave you behind

ANYWAYS sunghoon just says long time no see in that smooth voice of his.

he's polite, maybe a bit shy, but there's a hint of a smile on his face and it's almost like the years of not seeing each other disappears

you two start hanging out more- grabbing coffee together before 8AM morning lectures designed to kill university students, studying together in the library

your mum is also really happy to hear that you've met sunghoon

you always knew she liked him better than you.

but you guys only get closer on a fateful thursday morning as you’re making your way to your morning lecture

because sunghoon is standing in the courtyard with a baby kitten in his arms whilst panicking

“y/n this cat keeps following me and she doesn’t have a mum.”

ofc you need to take it in SHE’S SO CUTE

you end up skipping lectures and spending the entire day with sunghoon to bring the cat to the vet and buy food

sunghoon wants to name the cat descartes but you veto that immediately

by the day is over, you have a kitten named mochi with sunghoon as a co-parent

now you’re seeing him all the time bc guess who has joint custody over mochi??

ok but spending time with sunghoon isn't as hard as you thought it would be

like yes he moved without a word and practically ghosted you in highschool

but it all feels really natural WHO CHEERED??

but between kitten playdates and philosophy study sessions stuff start feeling kinda different HMMM

which you didn’t think was possible btw sunghoon’s hobby is literally talking about existentialism and calligraphy

yeah and you knew him since he was five

ok but he looks really hot whilst talking about sartre NDJDKDKSKS

who knew you would start feeling all warm inside from sunghoon

not the 14 years old you in the past

but now everytime you touch in any way, you feel yourself flush pink

and you can’t ignore how sunghoon tries to act all nonchalant about it but his ears are turning red

how cute.

“you ever heard about hegel’s theory of love?”

“if you’re about to lecture me, i’m leaving.”

“no- listen, it’s about how love is this push and pull that makes you grow and stuff, and i don’t think i’m just studying it anymore. i think i’m feeling it, with you.”

ok that sounded a lot better in my head please don’t come for me

but yeah

aristotle believed everyone has a purpose they’re meant to fulfill. perhaps you didn’t know it back than, but losing touch with sunghoon and finding him again… it feels like you two were meant to meet in the future. perhaps it’s fate

heeseung jay jake sunoo jungwon ni-ki

✉️ : @icyy-hoon

[pennylanewrites]

teacher’s aide (levi ackerman)

warnings: m!masturbation, voyerism, alcohol, smoking, age gap (15 years), me pushing my smitten!levi agenda

levi ackerman was an esteemed and recognised sociology professor. stern, strict and to the point in all of his lectures. most of his classes kept quiet, trying to take notes while he talked fast and went through powerpoint slides like it was the morning paper.

you had been working hard for that teacher’s aide position for two years, when you finally got the acceptance email. it was no secret on campus that professor ackerman’s assistants worked closely to him and got accepted in prestigious firms right after college, with his recommendation of course.

it was also no secret that professor ackerman was incredibly good-looking. his veiny arms and broad shoulders made up for his short height and the way his raven hair fell over his rectangular seeing glasses was so…

“y/n.” his stern voice shook you out of your thoughts. crap. the whole auditorium was staring at you. “the papers.” was all he said before going back to his laptop. you looked down at your hands, realising you were holding the class’s tests for more than you should. you cleared your throat and went through the auditorium, leaving a stack of papers in front of each student. as you walked down, your eye caught his.

levi noticed everything. he noticed how today you were wearing lipgloss instead of your usual lipstick, he noticed the rip in your tights that went down the back of your leg, your new platform loafers and the beads of sweat on your forehead. levi ackerman was not the kind of man that would catch feelings for a student, but you were so…good.

yes, at first he thought you were very attractive, and maybe that’s why he always rejected your aide application. but he also got to know you better every time you replied to one of his questions. you were the only student brave enough to raise their hand, and he appreciated that. sooner than later, you stayed back every day after class to clean up the mess of loose papers and pens, and before he knew it he was smitten.

maybe it was the way you brushed against him to clean the board and shut the projector, a timid apology escaping your lips, or the way you weren’t afraid to challenge him in a theoretical conversation about archaic philosophy during class.

or maybe…shit, how long have i been staring? levi looked away and cleared his throat when he noticed you trying to contain your smile.

class was over and you were going through your usual routine, marking left over questionnaires from the last lecture as he went through tomorrow’s one.

“sir, i’m wondering about…” you rolled your chair across the auditorium’s stage, holding onto his desk to stop the chair, “this one.” you pointed at a question on the paper.

levi was not one to lose his temper, but he was finding it very hard to contain himself when your knee was touching his and your perfume could reach his brain through his nose.

“well, this-this one…” he trailed off, watched you push your hair off your neck, leaving the bare skin on sight for him. god, he could eat you right then and there.

levi had never been more thankful for his phone to ring in his life. the vice dean’s name flashed on the screen, and you leaned back to allow him to get the device.

“i have to go…meeting…come by my office tonight, okay?” he scrambled to get his things and ran off, leaving you in the empty auditorium.

you let your head fall on your pillow, groaning with despair. he hates me. he can’t even talk to me.

you had seen him earlier with petra, his old t.a who graduated last year. he was laughing, for fuck’s sake. he was laughing and buying her coffee in the campus coffee house, and they were sitting over a book and…

“ugh! what is she even doing here?” you threw your pillow on the floor, but it hit you back in the face.

“oh my god, shut up!” your roommate kept hitting you with the pillow, until you grabbed it. “enough, y/n, please.”

“mikasa, do you think they’re dating?” you sat up on the bed, looking at the girl across you. “be honest, i can take it.”

“i think you’re sick. there’s something seriously wrong with you.” she scrunched her nose up in disgust.

“he’s so…”

“old.”

“mature.”

“he’s mature because he’s old.” your roommate kindly reminded you of your age difference. “get over him, please. even if he liked you, he’s your teacher. i doubt he would put his job in danger.”

your eyes lit up, an excited smile covering your earlier gloom.

“you think he likes me?”

“that’s not what i said. where are you going?”

you only grinned before grabbing your bag and barging out of the dorm room. your shoes squeezed against the polished floors as you made your way to the teachers’ wing, and to the third door to your left, your favourite wooden door in the world.

with a sigh, you lifted your fist to knock, but something made you freeze. you looked around to make sure no one was in the corridor, before pushing your ear against the door.

shit, shit, shit, shit

he was moaning. fucking moaning, in his office, when he had specifically told you to visit him. you thought of the possibility of him having a girl in there, even petra, but no one else could be heard. everything right in your head was telling you to turn around and leave, but your hand was on the doorknob, and you were slowly twisting it.

just one look. one look and i’ll-

your eyes grew wide at the sight. a half empty bottle of bourbon sat next to an empty glass, a cigarette was slowly burning on the ashtray, the first two buttons of his white shirt were undone. god, you could clearly see his nipples through the fabric. the desk obscured your vision, but you could see his hand moving up and down, up and down, up-

“fu-fuuuck.” his voice strained, his head fell back and you were wet a creep.

you turned around and leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. looking at your reflection on your phone, you made sure pervert wasn’t written across your forehead, and turned back around.

two soft knocks on the door. levi fixed his hair quickly, buttoned his shirt and put the cigarette out.

“come in.” you entered the room and he looked at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“long day?” you pointed at the bottle, smiling softly. he chuckled and motioned for you to sit down. “i can come back some other…” you trailed off when he took another glass out, filling it halfway and pushing it towards you.

you fidgeted with a ring on your finger, unsure of what to do.

“i shouldn’t…”

“i won’t tell if you won’t.” he filled his own glass and raised it to you, before taking a sip. you smiled softly, taking a sip of the drink. it burned coming down, just like his gray stare on you did.

“i have the tests marked. that question i was wondering about earlier,” you took the stack of papers out of your bag, leaving them in front of the man.

“yeah, i looked it up. it’s actually-”

“i figured it out.” you cut him off. he raised an eyebrow and put his glasses on, looking down at the marked paper, and the right answer which you had wrote down in red ink.

“you did.” he agreed and looked at you through strands of his raven hair. “good girl.”

you froze. you could feel your whole face turning an ugly shade of red. a million disgusting thoughts ran through your head as he walked around the desk to sit on the chair across from yours. his muscles flexed as he reached over the desk to get the ashtray and his drink. you took a big sip of the drink, trying to convince yourself the sexual tension was just in your head.

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck.

“what?” he shook you out of your thoughts. he knew you were staring at him.

“nothing. i’ve never seen you like this.” you admitted, still sipping your drink.

“like what?”

like you don’t have a stick up your ass.

“relaxed.” you opted for the nice comment.

“i’m far from relaxed, trust me.” you watched as he placed a cigarette between his wet lips, lighting it with a white lighter.

“those are bad luck.” you took the lighter in your hand, fidgeting with it.

“huh. maybe that’s why my life’s shit.” he chuckled, taking a drag of the cigarette.

“come on…” your eyes fell on a book on his desk.

masculine domination, pierre bourdieu. you grinned, taking it in your hands to inspect the front page.

“take it. it’s for my doctorate students, but i think you-”

“i’ve read it.” you closed it and put it back on the pile.

“of course you have. you’re a smart girl, you know?”

he was praising you. and he was filling your glass again. when did you even finish the first?

“are you trying to get me drunk, sir?”

“i think you’re capable of controlling yourself.”

“don’t be so sure.” you mumbled, staring at your feet.

“what was that?”

“nothing!” you shook it off with a smile, but he had heard you just fine.

god, you wanted him so bad. as the hours went by, and the bottle came to its’ end, you became more and more impatient. you were scared of what you would do honestly, if one more drop of alcohol entered your system. but, were you crazy to think he wanted this too? why would he pour you a drink, and ask you all these questions, and make you laugh with stupid jokes if he-

“what are you thinking about?” he shook you out of your thoughts. you showed him the clock on the wall.

“that i should get going. some teacher thought it would be a good idea to have an 8 am class.” you grinned. you reached your hand out to return him his lighter, but you dropped it instead.

“that’s one lousy teacher.” he chuckled, kneeling on the floor to get the lighter. you waited for him to get up, so you could too, but he wouldn’t move. still kneeling, he came closer to you, his hands hesitantly moving to rest on the sides of your thighs.

internally, you were screaming. but not a single breath came out of your mouth as you watched him. he sighed and finally locked eyes with you.

“i’m not crazy, am i?”

“wh-what?” your voice came out as a whisper. pathetic.

“to think there’s something, right? here. there’s something here and i-”

“sir-”

“don’t.” he squeezed your thighs and you swore your heart would jump out your chest sooner or later. he straightened his back and got up, pulling you with him. “don’t call me sir.”

you let him seat you on top of his desk, you let him spread your legs and stand between them. he pushed your hair behind your ear and inched closer. his breath against your neck made you shiver, and a soft kiss forced a small gasp out of your mouth.

your hands trembled as you placed them around his neck, and his breath staggered when you played with the strands of hair that fell on his undercut.

“please kiss me.” he swore his knees would give when he heard your voice, so soft, so sweet. you were as needy for him as he was for you.

his strong hands met your face, his silver ring cooled your burning cheek. you closed your eyes, and his lips finally met yours. it was careful at first, both of you scared the other would change their mind. but all it took was you pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt, and he lost his mind. his hands slipped down to your waist and you arched your back to get closer to him, if that was even possible. your mouth trailed to his jaw, leaving sloppy kisses all the way down his neck. a playful bite made him gasp. you chuckled.

“stop. you’ll drive me crazy.” he squeezed your hip.

“good.” you grinned and leaned in to kiss him again, but his hand in your hair held you back.

“you have to go…” he managed between soft kisses down your chest, at least as far as your shirt allowed, “or i won’t be able to stop.” he held your hands, and kissed them both, maintaining eye contact with you.

“then don’t stop.” you whined, but your grin turned into a frown when he pulled you off the desk and fixed your skirt. “levi-”

“save something for later, right?”

his promise of a later was enough. you left him to clean up and walked out the door with a sheepish smile and a whispered goodnight.

your phone buzzed on your way back to the dorms, and you stopped in your tracks when you saw the name on the screen.

professor ackerman: wear that green dress tomorrow.

you raised an eyebrow.

just the dress.

[reareaotaku]

I Can't Have You

Summary: You always admired the acclaimed Stanford Pines, so when you were able to take his class in college, you were quick to take up the offer. If only you knew how this would affect both of your lives. Tw/Cw: Taboo, Dead Dove Content, Professor Ford, Student Reader, Power Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Age-Gap [Reader is in her early 20's], Older Man w/ Younger Woman, NSFW thoughts/Themes, Jealousy, Daddy Issues Inspired by: Only an Experiment

Linktree 4 the People of Palestine

You were thrilled when seeing the name Professor Stanford Pines on your schedule/degree plan. He was wildly acclaimed around the world for his contributions to science. To even be in the same room as someone so brilliant is something you could only dream of.

You were one of the first students in the class, which was good for you, because you were able to get some one on one time with him, before class started.

You walked behind him, going to tap his shoulder, when he turned around and was startled by your presence. He fiddles with his glasses and clears his throat.

"Um.. Hello."

You smile brightly at him, nearly jumping with joy. "Hello, Mr. Pines." You grab his hand, going to shake it, before pointing out that he had six fingers. "Wow- You have six fingers? Really? I didn't think it was real, but wow-"

Ford is alittle taken aback by your bluntness. "Uh, may I ask for your name?"

"I'm so sorry." You straighten up and put your hands together. "I'm Y/n L/n. I've admired you since I was a kid. You're like... the greatest man to exist."

He smiles, chuckling, "Well, I imagine I'll see great things from you, yes?"

"I sure hope so."

---

You tapped your pin against your desk, your knee bouncing as you tried to focus. Your mind kept racing to your professor, Ford... You hadn't expected him to be so... charming and handsome.

You sighed in bliss as you watched the man lecture. He had such a way with words and you were mesmerized by him.

The past few months you've been in his class have been incredible. He was just brilliant, and it showed with his work and words. You had never felt such a connection with someone.

He dismisses the class, but ends up calling you back. You were a little surprised, because he had never called you back before- In fact, no teacher has ever called you back.

"Y/n, you know I must say I'm very impressed with your writing." He tells you as he pulls out some of your papers. "You remind me of myself. So... brilliant. I'm very impressed with your work and wanted to tell you if you ever need help, my door is always open- For you anyway."

You smiled, a little flustered, "Um... Thank you, Mr. Pines-"

"You can call me Ford. When we're alone. No need for formality."

"Of course. Thank you, Ford. I'll definitely take you up on your offer."

"I sure hope you do." He smiles and you have to control the way your body seems to melt. You only hoped he didn't know the power he had over you.

---

You sipped on your drink, sitting in a small cafe while you were surrounded by books. You took a sip of your drink before sighing and leaning on your hand. You were distracted by a voice that called you.

"Uh, Y/n right?"

You were surprised that this guy approached you and knew your name. "Uh, yeah?"

"I'm Rob. We're in the same Philosophy class."

"Oh, yeah. I think I've seen you before."

He takes the seat in front of you, much to your dismay. You were just trying to study, not keep up a social conversation. You sighed, still focusing on your books as he kept talking, trying to keep your attention. Thankfully, a voice breaks out and pulls both of your attention away from each other.

You were surprised to see Ford, but you shouldn't have been, because the cafe was close to the school. You could tell something was off with Ford. You weren't sure what, but something was wrong.

"Um, Mr. Pines! I didn't know you liked Cafe's."

Your professor turns to you, smiling a sickly smile. "Uh, was just... around."

The tension was thick and you wondered if you should break the silence, but Rob finally does.

"Uh, you know, Y/n, I've got to go. I have class in like 30 minutes, but I'll see you around." He waves goodbye and you recuperate to be nice, but you were glad you didn't have to talk to him.

"Boyfriend?" Ford gestures to the leaving man and you quickly shake your head.

"God, no. No, no, no, no, no. Never. I don't even know that guy. He approached me."

"You don't know how good that is to hear."

"Yeah. Besides," You look Ford up and down. "He's not really my type."

---

You stared at your ceiling, frustrated. All your room-mates were asleep, making it impossible for you to talk to any of them about the problems you faced. You looked over at your desk where your final and sighed to yourself. You weren't sure why it was bothering you so much, but maybe it was because you really wanted to impress Ford and have him compliment you.

You frowned, wondering why you needed Ford's approval so bad. Maybe it had to go back to your daddy issues? He did give you the attention and approval you lacked during your adolescent years. But, Ford had always been someone you looked up too, so you would love to have his attention.

In fact, you would love more than his attention- or at least a different kind of attention... Like something more... You sighed, pushing a hand through your hair. You wanted to rid yourself the thoughts that plagued your mind.

The thoughts of being bent over backwards by a man that is over triple your age were driving you crazy. The fact that even for his older age, he seemed to be more active than you, so you were sure you could be bent so many different ways-

You groaned, shaking your head and covering your eyes. God, how could you look at the man knowing your thoughts about him in the dead of the night?

You looked back to your final project, before doing something stupid. You grabbed it and headed out of your apartment, heading towards the school.

---

You sighed as you stood infront of your professor's door. It was almost 2 in the morning and you doubted he was in his office, but the final was weighing heavily on your mind and you couldn't sleep. You raise your hand to knock but stop yourself.

You couldn't do this... You sighed, yet again, leaning your head on the door, only to fall forward when the door opened. Ford thankfully caught you before you could fall flat on your ass.

"Y/n, what are you doing?"

You felt your words get caught in your throat- He was still there, in his office... So late in the night. "Uh... Well-" You looked over at his desk to see a globe like thing with something moving in it. "What's that?"

He turns towards the globe, "Ahh, that." He lets you in and brings you over to the globe. He picks it up and shows it to you. "It's the interdimensional rift."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a controlled portal to other worlds- Or at least, it's in a controlled environment."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Very." He gestures to your project, a Perpetual Motion Machine, "What's that?"

"Uh... It's supposed to demonstrate Perpetual Motion-"

"I see that." He puts down your invention and pushes one of the balls and watches as it falls and bounces back up repeating the cycle. "You know..." He takes a seat and gestures for you to take a seat next to him. "When I was in high school, I made my own Perpetual Motion Machine... It was supposed to get me in my dream school..." He stops and you watch expectingly.

"But?"

He sighs, looking over at you, "My brother broke it and I didn't get in."

"A school rejected you? I don't believe it."

He laughs, a heavy hearty laugh. It was a nice laugh. You liked his laugh. "Oh, Y/n, you are something, you know that?"

"So, I've been told."

"I'm sure you have..." He smiles, scooting closer to you. "You're very special, Y/n." He tells you, his hands now on your knees.

You felt your face go a dark red at the closeness. You could see each of his eyelashes...

"You truly.... appreciate the brilliance of my mind. I know you would never take advantage of the knowledge I offer."

You wanted to respond, but before you could, there was a knock on the door and you pushed yourself away from him. Ford sighs, but gets up and opens the door. It was a student, because of course it was. Who else would it be?

They talk for a few minutes and you sigh to yourself. He closes the door and turns back to you, surprised to see you standing up with your work in your hands.

"What's wrong?"

"You know, it's late. I should get back to bed. You should, too. The sun's almost up, so I should try and get some sleep."

"I- Uh, yes. You should get some sleep. I'll see you later."

"Yeah... You will." You hold your head down as you exit his office, because you knew if you looked at him, you'd be drawn back in and stay.

[kitty-won07]

Rivals at Heart

Pairing : Class president! Jungwon x student! reader.

Genre : Academics Rivals to Lovers(?) , Bickerings,Fluff.

Words count : 1.13k.

Summary : Fierce academic rivals, you and Jungwon are forced to team up for a prestigious scholarship competition. What begins as tense collaboration slowly unravels years of rivalry, revealing unexpected connection and mutual respect. As competition turns to camaraderie—and something more—you both learn that the greatest victories aren't won alone, but together.

Author's note : Hey guys ! , this is my first fanfiction, I wanted my first story to be about jungwon as he is my bias. I hope you guys enjoy it , sorry about mistakes and let me know if you liked it by rebloging or just comenthing :) .

---

The quiet hum of the school library was broken by the sound of your notebook slamming shut. You glared across the table at Jungwon, who sat with his usual calm demeanor, typing furiously on his laptop.

"You're not seriously trying to beat me on this project too, are you?" you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Jungwon didn’t even glance up. "Beat you? That implies there’s competition. I’ve already won."

Your fists clenched around your pen. For years, this had been the routine: Jungwon’s smug quips, your biting comebacks, and a constant battle for academic supremacy. Teachers loved to pair you two up, calling it a "dream team." To you, it felt more like a nightmare.

The scholarship announcement came during morning assembly. A hush fell over the students as the principal introduced the competition: a chance to work with the city’s top universities and secure early admissions. The catch? Teams would be assigned by the administration.

When your name was called, you froze.

“And their partner… Jungwon Yang.”

Your stomach dropped. From the corner of your eye, you saw him smirk.

“Looks like the school finally realized we’re the best,” Jungwon said as he passed you in the hall later.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you shot back. “I’m not losing because of you.”

The first study session was predictably disastrous.

“I don’t need your help with the research,” you snapped, yanking a textbook away.

“And I don’t need your color-coded charts cluttering the desk,” Jungwon replied, his voice clipped.

Hours passed in tense silence, the only sound the scratching of pens and furious typing. It wasn’t until you both reached for the same article—your hands brushing—that you realized how close you were sitting. You pulled away quickly, heat rushing to your face.

The group project presentation was supposed to be easy. But when one of your teammates fumbled their part, you felt panic rising. Before you could intervene, Jungwon stepped in seamlessly.

“Actually,” he began, his voice steady and confident, “what they meant to say was…”

He delivered a flawless explanation, saving the presentation. Afterward, you cornered him in the hallway.

“Why’d you do that?” you demanded. “You could’ve let them fail.”

Jungwon shrugged, his gaze softening. “It would’ve affected your grade too. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

For once, you didn’t have a snarky reply.

As the competition progressed, the walls between you started to crumble. Late-night study sessions turned into debates about everything from philosophy to your favorite snacks. You began noticing the small things about Jungwon—how he tapped his pen when he was thinking, how his eyes lit up when he explained something he was passionate about.

And he noticed you too. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused. The way you bit your lip when you were trying not to laugh at his jokes.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the school to notice the shift in your dynamic. The whispers started during class when you and Jungwon exchanged smiles instead of sharp remarks.

“Wait,” one of your friends whispered during lunch. “Are you two…?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “No! I mean… not really. I don’t know.”

Across the cafeteria, Jungwon caught your eye and gave you a small, knowing smile. Your heart fluttered.

Later, when you confronted him about it, he shrugged. “Let them talk. It’s not like I’m ashamed of you.”

The simplicity of his words left you speechless again.

One afternoon, the two of you sat on the rooftop, overlooking the bustling schoolyard below. The scholarship was officially yours, and with the competition behind you, things felt lighter than they had in years.

“So,” you said, leaning back against the railing. “Now that we’re not competing anymore, what do we do?”

Jungwon turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Who says we’re done competing? There’s still university applications, internships, exams…”

You groaned, swatting his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “But you wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The school auditorium was packed, buzzing with excitement for the annual debate competition. It was a tradition for graduating seniors, and naturally, you and Jungwon were the star participants. This time, however, you weren’t partners—you were opponents.

“Ready to lose?” Jungwon teased, straightening his blazer as you both stood backstage.

“Lose? You’re underestimating me already. That’s your first mistake,” you shot back, smirking.

He chuckled, leaning in just enough for his voice to lower. “Try not to get distracted by how good I look winning.”

The familiar banter only fueled your determination.

The debate was intense. Each point Jungwon made was sharp, confident, and impeccably supported, but you fired back with equal wit and conviction. The audience was on the edge of their seats as the two of you traded arguments like a perfectly choreographed dance.

It wasn’t until the final round that the tension shifted. Jungwon’s rebuttal started strong, but then he faltered—just for a second. His eyes flickered to yours, and for the briefest moment, his usual competitive edge softened.

You recognized it immediately. He was holding back.

After his turn, you stood to deliver your closing statement. The words came easily, but your mind was racing. Was Jungwon pulling his punches to let you win?

After the debate, the judges announced the winner: you. The applause was thunderous, but all you could think about was Jungwon’s expression—calm and unreadable, as always.

Later, you found him in the empty hallway outside the auditorium. “You held back,” you said, crossing your arms.

Jungwon leaned against the wall, his smirk returning. “You noticed, huh?”

“Why?”

He shrugged, his tone light but sincere. “I’ve been winning against you for years. I figured it was time to give you something back.”

You stepped closer, your heart pounding. “I don’t want you to hold back. Not for me.”

For the first time, Jungwon hesitated. “You don’t need me to. You’re already better than me in ways I can’t compete with.”

The words left you stunned. Before you could respond, he added with a grin, “But don’t get used to it. Next time, I’m winning.”

You laughed, the sound breaking the tension. “We’ll see about that.”

As you walked out of the school together, the rivalry that had once defined your relationship now felt like the foundation for something stronger. Jungwon reached for your hand, and for the first time, you let him win.

---

[michelle-is-writing]

Wedding Mornings, Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.2k~

As a child, I always wondered if I would ever find the right person for me. Having no luck to find such a person as a teenager, I ended up wondering if I would even find a husband, better yet, my soul mate. In years to come, I would start to believe that I would be alone forever.

However, once I moved to Washington DC and found a job at the Melvin Gelvin library, I soon befriended a man that visited there a lot. I had seen him in the research section before, but he never came up to my desk for help. I thought he was cute, in all honesty, but I didn't want to come off as too confident and go up to him to see if he needed help when I never did that with anyone else in the library.

So, the one day he did come up to me and ask me where to find a book I had seen him take out many times, I smiled and nodded before helping him find the book. He was nervous asking me his question, and I couldn't help but be a little nervous as well. Although, once we found the encyclopedia for Philosophy, he introduced himself as Spencer Reid, and I couldn't help but rejoice as my name fell from my lips in return. Finally, I got to learn the name of the man who I had shared glances with so many times, yet, we never interacted - up until then.

After that, it felt like a free-game. Anytime Spencer came into the library, he was asking me for books that I knew very well he was aware of where they would be. In spite of this, I always helped him, and after he checked out the third book I had seen him read many times before, Spencer finally asked me out for coffee.

Unfortunately, our date kept getting postponed because of Spencer's job. At first, I thought he was backing out in regret since it had already taken him so long to ask me out in first place. However, once we did go on that date, I discovered that that wasn't even a tiny fraction as to why he kept rescheduling. As soon as I found out that Spencer held such a huge responsibility with a job that relied on him to capture mass murderers and kidnappers, I found myself in complete admiration for him. Not to mention the fact that all of the science books he had been checking out weren't for class or education - he already earned his degrees in those fields beforehand.

Now that I have a dazzling ring on my finger, I'm even happier that I was patient in waiting for Spencer to finally make it to our date. I knew how long I waited for that coffee shop date he promised - six-whole-weeks. However, I never knew how long I was waiting for a man like Spencer to make his way into my life until I found out how much I truly loved him. Through saying those three words that are often said too much, I discovered that I had waited my entire life to find Spencer, and when he proposed to me in Rossi's garden one late night, I found out that Spencer truly felt the same way.

Soon enough, the months before our wedding slowly passed until the brightest week of our lives came up, and once that started, it was like everything was going at twice the speed it should have been going. All of my bridesmaids (JJ, Emily, (f/n), and Penelope) ran around like chickens with their heads cut off while Spencer's groomsmen (Derek, Aaron, and Rossi) did the same. Even during the morning of my wedding, everyone was running around to get things done while I just stayed in my bride's quarter's kitchen and did the same thing I did every other morning.

"I'm just saying," Penelope starts, watching as I pour freshly made coffee into a mug for Spencer. "It's bad luck for a groom to see the bride before the wedding!" She reminds me, causing me to smile.

"I thought that was only if the bride was wearing her dress," I point out, adding more sugar than actual coffee into the mug. "And, besides," I add, giving the coffee one last stir before placing the spoon down on the counter. I have no idea how Spencer can drink this stuff with nearly half of the mug filled with sugar.

Turning toward Penelope with the steaming mug in hand, my eyes quickly catch onto the expertly made bouquet in her hands, every flower I wanted beautifully bundled together with a gorgeous (f/c) bow wrapped around the stems. How is she so good at any creative thing she does?

"I've made Spencer his coffee every morning since our first day living together, Pen," I tell her, smiling as I think about the fond memory. Sometimes he'll make me a cup too if I haven't done so myself. "I don't want to miss a day because of some old, wise tale that's probably been taken out of its original context," I add, slightly smirking as I know that's the truth. Once the words leave my mouth, Penelope can't resist the smile the makes it's way onto her lips as she shakes her head.

"Well, I don't think anything I say is going to stop you," She notes, earning a head nod back from me. She's right. Nothing is going to make me halt in my actions of bringing Spencer his coffee - not even a silly little fairytale.

Heading out of the hotel room in only my silk pajamas that match the rest of the girls' clothes, I find myself walking across the hall with my heart pounding in my chest. It's strange to just now realize that today is the official start of my forever. It's a fantastic feeling, but at the same time, it's giving me a high that I feel like I can't come down from. It's a dangerous, yet blissful thing.

Just as I round the corner to walk to the other end of the hall, my eyes quickly catch onto a familiar figure leaving his hotel room. There's no way I could ever forget those brunet curls or the slender body of the man I love. Although, what is a bit odd is that he's currently carrying a coffee mug of his own. I guess he didn't think that I'd stick to what we've always done.

"Good morning, handsome," I greet Spencer, causing him to lightly jump before turning around and seeing me. Once his eyes land on my pajama covered figure, he visibly calms down with a small sigh and smile.

"I wanted to go and see you, but the guys wouldn't let me. So, I had to sneak out," Spencer explains with a shake of his head, making me laugh. Just as I do that, Spencer's whole demeanor changes as if he's softening up. His tense shoulders loosen while his posture relaxes a bit, another sigh leaving his slightly smiling lips as he does so. He looks calmer than any other time I can remember.

"You... you look amazing," he compliments me, causing me to blush with a wide smile. My hair is an absolute mess right now, a majority of it up in a clip as I haven't brushed it yet. Not to mention my face doesn't even have a touch of makeup on it and I'm still in pajamas - there's nothing about me that says "amazing" right now. I don't know how Spencer can say such things.

"Thank you, baby," I tell him, taking a few steps forward before planting a kiss to his cheek. Despite today being the day of our wedding, Spencer's cheeks turn to light pink in response to my lips touching them as they always do, and I can't help but smile as I see the rose color take over his skin. Despite what some people say, I truly believe there's a good chance it will always be this way.

"I made you coffee for this morning," I tell him, gesturing to the steaming mug in my hand. "But I didn't know you made your own already," I further add, watching as the corner of Spencer's lip quirks up. Is he surprised that I would do this?

"Actually," he starts, holding the cup out to me. "I made this for you - that's why I was heading out of the room so I could go and give it to you," Spencer explains, trading mugs with me as a bright smile takes over his face. "I'm glad that we both had the same idea."

Smiling back, I nod before taking a sip from the cup of coffee Spencer made me, Spencer following in suit with the cup that I made him. We both let out a small, satisfied groan as the taste of coffee reaches our lips.

"You always manage to make my coffee perfect," Spencer points out, making my heart clench. He's so adorable, and he doesn't even realize it.

"And I'll never forget it, love, not for a long time," I tell him, leaning closer to kiss his cheek. However, before I can do so, Spencer takes the chance to wrap his free arm around me and pull me against him. Now satisfied, Spencer gives off a small hum before leaning down and pressing his lips to mine. In his arms, I feel the happiest I've felt this morning, and with the events of today being added in, I am more than ecstatic right now. Making coffee for Spencer every morning for the rest of my life is only a small fraction of what our marriage is going to be, and I can't help but look forward to doing it.

"I'm so glad we're doing this," Spencer confesses, pulling away from my lips to rest his nose against mine. Smiling, I gently sigh as I feel his hand on my waist sliding underneath my pajama top and onto my skin. His touch is so gentle that I could almost mistake it for a cloud touching me. "I've waited so long for this."

"I wish we would've done it sooner," I admit, nuzzling the side of my face into Spencer's soft sleep shirt. "Then I could've been Mrs. Reid for a long time now," I point out, turning my eyes up to the smiling man holding me.

"I do like the sound of that," Spencer murmurs, smirking as he leans farther down to press his lips to my neck. "Misses Reid," He slowly says my new title, each syllable rolling off his tongue smoothly. Even before we were engaged, he would jokingly call me that, but now that I'm actually Mrs. Reid, my love for the name has only grown.

With that, Spencer and I connect our lips in another sweet kiss while holding each other close. In his arms, I feel the warmest and happiest I have ever been. Nothing could ruin this moment between us. It's simply too perfect.

"Stop making out in the hallway! You'll be doing enough of that later!" A stern voice interrupts us, causing Spencer and me to look over to the hotel room door he stepped out of a few seconds ago. Hanging out of the empty doorway is Derek who's smirking with an accusing eyebrow. "Isn't it bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony?"

"Actually, Derek, it's only bad luck if-" Spencer argues Derek just as another voice cuts in.

"What are you two doing?!" A shout sounds throughout the hall, the tone full of Penelope Garcia's typical sassiness. Immediately, both of our heads shoot toward the end of the hall where the spunky blonde stomps toward us. "What have you two been doing?!"

"Derek, help us," I beg, turning my head back to Spencer's best man. Instead of doing what I actually asked, Derek laughs and shakes his head while holding his hands up.

"Oh no," he starts, "I'm not suffering at the hands of the woman behind you."

"Yeah," Penelope states, matter-of-factly. "I would be scared too if I were you, missy," just as soon as the words leave her lips, Penelope puts her hand on my arm and practically drags me out of Spencer's arms while Derek does the same to Spencer, both mindful of the mugs in our hands.

"You can see your beautiful bride in a couple of hours," Derek assures my soon-to-be-husband while he gives me one last kiss. As soon as his lips touch mine, I realize this is the last kiss before the one kiss we get to share that marks our forever with each other. Plus, I have no doubt that our friends will be cheering and teasing us as we do so - just like Derek and Penelope do right now. Just at the single thought, I can hardly wait.

[studyingwithjay]

How does one study

I never understood

Im the type of person that needs a step by step guide

this is so real !!

when i started college i thought that studying was kind of just reading over the material a bunch of times, and while that may work for some people, it wasn’t super effective for me.

personally, i use a lot of different studying techniques:

1) i will rewrite my notes in a more concise fashion, or rewrite the lecture slides from my professors. i perder to hand write my notes, and especially when i am studying for a test or exam. i will take my lecture notes (or my professor’s slides) and rewrite them, taking note of the main themes. i will do this two or three times, and each time, looking at the original notes less and less until i can recall what the purpose of the lecture was. i will say, i would recommend this technique to be done over a few days because that is what works best for me.

2) write everything i can down about a topic, and then go back and see what my notes say. i will then go over the material and again write everything i can remember, and then repeat this until i can recall everything.

3) *this is my favorite method* find a friend or an empty classroom, and give a lecture on the topic that you are currently studying, without notes to the best of your ability. having to explain (even if it is to an empty classroom) the concepts you are working with can then help you understand what you are talking about on a deeper level.

4) write things down on whiteboards ! if you are in college or university, some classrooms will likely have massive whiteboards, and sometimes just mapping out the concepts that you are working with, or even doing practice problems on a larger surface is both fun and can allow you to work with the material in a different way.

5) if you are in a class in which you need to remember terms and definitions, flash cards can be so super helpful ! there are some free websites you can use, but also making your own flash cards lets you have a portable way to study.

6) sort of similar to #3, explain something to someone you know, preferably someone who isn’t familiar with the subjects you are working with, and ask them to ask you every question they can come up with. this lets you know what the gaps in your understanding are, and also gives you some practice answering questions about the topic.

7) when it comes to topics with questions that you can practice, like symbolic logic, chemistry, or physics, almost like problem solving with equations and a set method, find extra practice problems online! when i took symbolic logic, i spent probably around 10 hours a week in the latter half of the semester going over the practice proofs we did in class, and then looking up more practice questions because i was having a hard time understanding the process.

there is not a wrong way to study, it is truly whatever works for you ! it can also depend on your area of study. i study philosophy and international studies, so we have a lot of papers and presentations, especially about understanding and applying theory. so my study methods revolve around me understanding theory and being able to explain it and apply it to a different topic, so flash cards and practice problems aren’t as useful for where i’m at currently in my studies. but i have friends in STEM who use flash cards a lot, and will supplement their practice problems by explaining to me the theories that they are learning about (which is awesome because i get to learn about psychology and physics, and they get to share what cool things they are learning in their classes !).

i hope some of these are helpful !!

[covenha]

Synopsis: Seonghwa watches Hongjoong crash and burn and decides to revisit a good ole tactic to help his buddy out. This is a two-part spin off of the simp!verse. Pairings: nerd!hongjoong x fem!reader Genre: crack, technically angst?? but it gets better in the next part I swear, fluff honestly god bless hongjoong's heart Warnings: none that I can think of tbh but if i missed anything please lmk! WC: 808 a/n: I am finally back and this is my proof of life. had a bajillion exams and things to study for so I took an unintended hiatus but I finally have time since it's christmas break and I am so excited to be extending the ateez simpverse! as always, none of the characters' behaviors in this fic represent their personalities in real life. and reblogs and feedbacks are always deeply appreciated and keep me motivated to write these things so they are highly encouraged :))

Nerd!joong takes a long look at himself in the mirror, he’s sporting a brand new letterman jacket over his simple blue jeans and white t-shirt. He looked put together. So why was he so nervous today? 

Well, it’s a bit of a long story. You see, today was not just any ordinary weekday for Hongjoong. Today, he will finally muster up the courage to talk to a girl he’s had the fattest crush on since he first laid his eyes on you in his introductory Philosophy class. 

With a jittery kick in his step. He gets ready for his commute to school, calling out to any deity out there for some good luck. 

“God, what’s got you so worked up today? If you shake any harder, you’ll be putting Mrs. Hong’s rose toy to shame.” Seonghwa points out his nervous body language. Hongjoong is staring at the entrance to the amphitheater with laser focus. He’s fidgeting with his fingers and his legs are bouncing up and down. 

“I’m just waiting for her to get here…” Hongjoong trails off, not daring to look away from the door for more than a few seconds. 

“So, you’re really going to go for it? I mean, from what I hear she can be a little cutthroat, Joong.” Seonghwa warns him, but his words shoot through his ear and out the opposite. 

There were rumors going around that you were not exactly all sunshine and rainbows. You seemingly had a neutral face plastered on your face, only showing a smile every now and then with your small circle of friends. Seonghwa would describe you as “such a scorpio” with your sharp gaze, almost resembling a black cat in a way. Jongho and Wooyoung had heard that you were quite blunt and straight to the point. And although there is nothing necessarily wrong with that, they feared it may be too much for Hongjoong’s heart. But alas, he was smitten with you. 

From the way you look so cute when you’re concentrating while taking notes, or how you tugged at your sleeves when the weather grew colder. So when you finally walk through those doors, his heart picks up its pace and his eyes widen. 

You looked beautiful today. Of course, you always looked beautiful to him. You settle down in your usual spot on the left side of the seats and he slowly makes his way towards you. He takes a deep breath as he nears your seat and then stops right where you are seated. 

“Can I help you?”, you ask him. 

He realizes he had been standing beside your seat for an uncomfortable while, merely just staring at you. Oh God, you probably thought he was a creep! Quick, do something. Compliment her! Girls like compliments right? 

“I like your scarf!” Hongjoong manages to blurt out, in spite of the massive brain fart going on inside of his head. Unfortunately, he says it a little bit too loud, causing people in the area to shift their focus to the both of you, making you want to shrink into your seat. In the distance, Seonghwa can be seen face-palming as he watches his friend crash and burn in real time. 

“.... thanks?” you mutter. 

“Uhm, I was wondering what your ideal type of guy is?” Hongjoong finally musters up the courage to say something with actual substance. This was the moment he had been waiting for. All those weeks of yearning, the longing glances at you in class, the sudden get-up with his outfit today. It all led to this moment where he finally has the courage to- 

“I like guys who don’t talk to me.” Your words put an abrupt stop to his train of thought. 

“Oh.” 

“Joong, it’s gonna be fine. There’s plenty of other people in the world! Maybe she just isn’t the one for you.” Seonghwa tries to reason out with a tipsy Hongjoong in their shared dorm room. 

“But she was gonna be my wiiiiiiiife!” he whines at his friend. 

“We were gonna raise some kitties with a cute little catio in the back of the house and, and, and I was going to cook her breakfast in the mornings and we were going to live happily ever after with our scorpio babies!” he rambles on, distraught at his planned future with you not going exactly to plan. 

“Hongjoong you guys are not married.” Seonghwa corrects his drunk friend. 

“We are in the sims!” He pouts. 

Seonghwa sighs. Hongjoong was deep into his feelings for you and confirmed Seonghwa’s deepest fears. Hongjoong was a simp. (On this blog we love simp!joong!!)

And as he stared at his forlorn simp of a best friend, he knew what he had to do. He had to consult the Reddit gods. He was going to use the power of manifestation. 

[purpledemonlilyposting]

Wakey, wakey. The latest hot, steaming garbage Dragon Age hot-takes have dropped.

Wow, Lily. That's a LOT of words to say "I've never played any of Dragon Age. I've only hate-skimmed the series because I decided it was all problematic garbage before going in because there's no sister character I can project my messed-up fantasies on to, so I'm just going to pretend to be oh-so "deep". and "woke" so I can earn progressive brownie points without any effort."

Oh yeah my fans were showing me this last night after I finished Veilguard. I finished Veilguard on stream by the way!

"Dragon Age itself is boring, a generic high fantasy series seasoned with racism it never really bothers to address and a massive host of worldbuilding that is always the least interesting version of a kind of fantasy that was already not interesting to begin with."

The thing I've always loved about Dragon Age, the thing that got me through the slog that is the gameplay of Origins in 2009, has always been the worldbuilding. It's fairly unique as far as fantasy worlds go. All of it takes place on a single continent called Thedas. No one knows what else lies beyond it.

Elves used to be powerful immortal beings until a cataclysm in pre-history that has been pretty unclear until this current game (though you could already figure it out before Veilguard with all the clues throughout the first three games), now they are small second-class citizens who were once enslaved. Their entire culture has been decimated and they have no land of their own. They can only live in ghettos in human cities or as wandering tribes people reinventing the few scraps of history they do have into their own unique cultures.

Dwarves have a stringent caste system and anyone who leaves for above ground is forbidden to come back. They lose all of their social status. Their kingdoms were also decimated when the Blights began, leaving Orzammar the sole Dwarven kingdom. Besides, of course, the elusive Kal-Sharok that is mostly closed off to the world. Dwarves rely on trading lyrium (a substance essential to mages and Templars alike) with the surface for their survival and so they are often traders and economists. The Merchant's Guild is a powerful surface institution that despite being full of Dwarves who left Orzammar or were born on the surface still ties itself up in stringent Dwarven tradition. Dwarves also invented the common tongue/trade language everyone uses.

Humans don't have a whole lot of known history on their origins. We know they're not native to Thedas but Veilguard tells us they were there before the Veil (what separates the real world from the Fade, the world of spirits and dreams). Which is very interesting cause the world was so different back then. After the Veil humans formed the Tevinter Imperium which was a Roman Empire-like civilization that spanned the entire continent. When Andraste lead armies against them the empire was broken up, Tevinter became a smaller country in the North and other countries formed all around the continent. Humans ended up bringing the Blight to the world when the Evanuris, the ancient elven gods sealed away behind the veil, used their dragon thralls to speak to high ranking Tevinter magisters and lure them into breaching the Veil to enter the Fade physically.

Qunari are a completely unique concept to Dragon Age. They're a nameless horned race the majority of which follow a religion/social structure/philosophy called the Qun. It was passed down to them by an ancestor in a long forgotten land they left centuries ago. They conquered Par Vollen, pretty much the furthest north of Thedas, and have been there ever since. Their goal is to submit all to the Qun because the Qun is certainty. Living is a choice and the Qun gives that choice purpose, giving you a role you need not ever question because it is a demand of the Qun and the Qun is certainty. There is some evidence they are people who mixed themselves with dragon blood to become what they are now.

And that is just an overview of what makes the worldbuilding unique. There is so much more to everything I just said.

"Half the characters you meet are related in some way to the Chantry"

Yeah almost like the Chantry has the political power and reach of the Catholic Church in medieval Europe. Almost like Andraste as a prophet is a mix of Jesus Christ and Joan of Arc. Almost like fictional stories take influence from real life history to easily communicate to an audience what they're doing with this concept.

"BioWare is averse to the idea of Elven companions who aren't either chronic backstabbers or insufferable."

Lily what did Fenris and Merrill ever do to you? Did you not actually do Zevran's companion quests and raise his approval? He won't go back to the Crows if you do that you know. Sure Velanna is annoying but I wouldn't call even her insufferable.

The only real backstabber is Solas and he is literally Fen'Harel the elven trickster god.

"Outside of that all encompassing issue, a lot of Dragon Age companions require you to go through a long quest chain before you get to learn anything interesting about them"

Yeah Lily. If you want to get to know your companions better you actually have to do things to get to know them better. That's part of the fun of the game. If you don't like that then these games are maybe not for you.

"The worst version of this is Leliana. If you do her quests and follow her story to completion, she's a somewhat interesting character. BUT... for 11 hours before that point she's just Imoen as a born again christian. How the fuck does a Triple A game fall into "Original Character Do Not Steal"?"

... okay legendary super ultra rare W from Lily.

I'm only half joking because Leliana is the character I coined the term "writer's pet" for.

""Okay I think the group mage will be Vivienne" and then I met Vivienne and spoke to her for ten minutes, and proceeded to leave her in the camp because she's the mage equivalent of Stella Kubler, sucking up to the Chantry and actively supporting Mage Auschwitz."

And it was immediately negated with a common major L.

Maybe if you'd actually hear Vivienne out on why she supports the Circles you could learn something from her Lily. She's very similar to Wynne in that regard. Vivienne feels mages need a place to commiserate with other mages and learn to control their power. And she is absolutely right about that.

Also she is a queen and if you actually had to talk to her for 10 minutes she'd probably leave you weeping on the floor with her verbal stinging barbs alone.

She also becomes the mom friend companion if you befriend her. She's the only one who really checks in on the Inquisitor and frets about how you're doing. In her own way.

"BioWare for a while kept operating under the assumption that there was a real ethical question behind Mage Auschwitz. There wasn't. There was edgy gamer bros roleplaying as fantasy nazis and EVERYONE ELSE siding with the Mages, and rather than give up BioWare kept forcing the issue."

Lily if you didn't spacebar hammer your way through cutscenes and dialog and actually paid attention to the fucking story you would know the Circles and Templars are way more complex than you're stating here. You don't even seem to realize that Templars are an arm of the Chantry. Despite the fact they're called Templars.

I doubt you even know that Templars are usually recruited as children or teens in a monastic-like tradition and orphans are often just handed to them.

"Dragon Age 2 gives you an escaped slave party member who is also a bigot.

By the end of Dragon Age 2 I was a Warrior and my part was "My Mage Sister, my Mage Girlfriend, and my Mage BFF."

Oh god she likes Anders. Of course she likes Anders. The same Anders that turns to said escaped slave and says "Hey mages in the South are PRETTY MUCH slaves, you should be supporting them!"

The escaped slave who has lyrium markings carved into his skin by his former mage master. His former master who may have also had a sexual relationship with him. The escaped slave from Tevinter, where mages are the upper class and rule over all of society. Where blood magic is nominally forbidden but constantly happening behind closed doors. Where slavery is legal.

That escaped slave. Fenris. My favorite character in the entire series and my favorite romance in the entire series.

You ain't winning this one Lily lol.

"Going into Veilguard, I just don't bother with companion quests, because I know I'm just going to hate them at the end of it because that's how this game works.

Compare this to Mass Effect"

Compare it specifically to Mass Effect 2 because you are going to get everyone killed by not completing their companion quests.

"You get Miranda and Jacob who are big simps for Cerberus, but their companion quests have nothing to do with that so you don't have to listen to any of it past the first time."

Ah the human supremacy group is fine though.

"Mass Effect does have its dud characters. Zaeed, Kasumi, Thane, Ashley, Miranda"

Lily you get Thane and Kasumi out of there right now.

Really? You didn't list JACOB? The most lame nothing companion in any Bioware game ever?

That's the end I can't take any more.