#interdisciplinary teaching

[richardtheteacher]

🌍 War. Conflict. Tough questions. As teachers, we don't always get to choose the conversations that arise in our classrooms. From Ukraine to Iran, Taiwan to Thailand—students are watching the world and looking to us for guidance. In my latest blog post, I share practical, classroom-tested strategies for discussing global conflict with care, clarity, and confidence. ✏️💬 Whether you teach maths, science, PE, or history, this is a must-read for navigating those unexpected—but important—moments. 👨‍🏫 Written from the front lines by an award-winning author and high school teacher.

[benevolent-blackhole]

I really wish my advisor wasn’t useless and also that the person who acts as my sort of shadow advisor would like. Answer emails. Be a consistent person

I know people who get so excited about the prospect of having an “advisor on paper” but then really being mentored by someone else (who can’t be officially an advisor because they’re at a small liberal arts college or they’re retired or in a different department) and I’ve never understood why. I would not do this on purpose. I’ve actively talked people out of it. People who aren’t your advisor on paper a) frankly are not advisors for a reason, and b) don’t owe you anything officially, so nothing stops them from just ghosting.

[futile-denial]

I mean, if I were to use hopeful interdisciplinary language:

Society is a trauma-induced shared psychosis to cope with the struggles we find while in the pursuit of loving connections that may enrich our short time here.

Live life not like you're in just your 'simulation,' but in a way that acknowledges we are living in everyone else's as well.

Understanding that social ecosystems exist in every place where connection is possible between more than one person also can lead to the acknowledgement:

that we are not truly solitary creatures

But what must be understood is what we were up to that point of acknowledgement, and going forward, how you persist to be in that environment that is defined by the existence of others and their experiences, is as a culmination of shared experiences that recursively feedbacks from your agency.

Try to understand that we learn from shared and present experience and narrative more than bookish theory and idle observation. Transparent modeling and consistent perseverance in that framing (shared and present experience and narrative) are more effective and affective teachers than anything else I've found.

I've also found I've made many mistakes along the way to learning that. That if I were a better person, I would have been able to make fewer of those mistakes doesn't change the place where I am now, nor does it in reality change the kind of person I was in order to be in a position to make those mistakes at all.

What it does change is how I utilize my intent and actions when, where, and who/what I am present with, no longer present for, or only temporarily absent from.

[jstor]

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[thoodleoo]

what both the bible and the iliad can teach us is that sometimes the best way to settle your differences with someone is to hit them with a big rock. and i think that's beautiful #interdisciplinary #myrock

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Something There ~ Logan's Version

MAIN MASTERLIST / MARVEL MASTERLIST / MUSICAL INSPIRED FIC MASTERLIST

Logan Howlett x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1,500ish

Request: Something There was made for Logannn. Logan and reader both teach at the Mansion, he's quite rough around the edges and seems like a bit of an asshole. He's always had a bit of a crush on her, he finds her pretty and smart, but he doesn't know how to tell her that and he doesn't think she'd ever reciprocate his feelings anyways. Until they're forced to work together (classes or a mission), and the close proximity allows a different side of Logan to finally come out. As they warm up to each other, Logan turns out to be sweet and gentle to her, very caring as well - and that kinda surprises her, she didn't know the wild Wolverine could be so sweet! She also keeps up with him, being sweet and playful and gentle in return. ✨ feelings blossommmmm ✨ he's extremely awkward but also extremely sweet and loving. And one day he asks if she'd allow him to kiss her. She says yes and he cradles her face in the most gentle way possible and presses the softest of kisses to her lips. And fucking thanks her afterwards because he's nervous. She teases him about the big bad Wolverine being a softie under all that, he says that it's just for her, asks (more like begs) to be her boyfriend, queue sweet soft kissessss.

At first, you weren’t even sure Logan liked you. He barely spoke during the staff meetings at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. He sat in the corner or leaned against the wall with his arms crossed like brooding was a full-time job. You taught Literature and History while Logan taught some History, Self-Defense, and How-Not-to-Get-Killed-on-a-Mission-101. You thought he was kind of an asshole, honestly, and suspected that he believed your job was just ‘fluff’.

He confirmed it one afternoon when he muttered, “Hope the kids remember you class when someone’s throwing punches at their head.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’ll make sure to add ‘duck’ to next week’s poetry until.”

He grunted, but gave no follow-up remark. You nicknamed him ‘Grumblepaws’ in your head. It was either that or ‘Professor Tall, Dark, and Growly’. 

You said good morning when you passed him in the hallways every day. He responded once, just once. “It’s 7:45 and I haven’t had coffee. You really wanna try small talk right now?”

Logan was clearly a delight. He smelled like leather and cigars and cheap coffee that could double as motor oil. The kids respected him— most because they were scared. And the ones who weren’t scared, tried to impress him with their tricks. You rolled your eyes behind Logan’s back at least twice a week.

One day, the Professor paired the two of you for a joint project— a collaborative lesson series— between your respective fields. Charles claimed it would ‘foster interdisciplinary respect’. You and Logan were confusing on literature and field readiness.

Logan grunted when he heard the idea. “I’m not doing this ‘cause I want to,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly. “I just don’t want the Professor in my head about it.”

You smiled politely. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

He stared at you for a long second before muttering, “I do.”

You blinked, taken back. “That’s… somehow the least comforting thing you could have said.”

He simply smirked.

“Okay,” you said, flipping through a few lesson plans. “I was thinking we could co-teach a unit on The Odyssey and survival tactics. Blend myth with skill. Make it engaging.

“You want me to talk about fightin’ a cyclops?”

“No, I want you to talk about how Odysseus survives. Resourcefulness and adaptability.”

He scratched his chin. “What’s that poem where the guy gets eaten by a sea monster?”

“That’s Beowulf. Not exactly the takeaway I was going for.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I still think this is stupid.”

“And I think your hair looked like it lost a fight with a lawnmower,” you snapped back, then froze. “Sorry. That was—“

But Logan laughed. Like an actual laugh. “Alright, Teach. Maybe this won’t be complete hell.”

“There’s something sweet, and almost kind

But he was mean and he was coarse and unrefined…”

That was the closest you got to friendly for a while. He was still gruff and impossible and sarcastic.

“I don’t need a name tag,” he murmured as you peeped for a student open house. “If they down’t know who I am, they haven’t been payin’ attention.”

“Right,” you scoffed, “because you’re such a warm, inviting presence.”

“I’m plenty inviting.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “As long as you like the smell of cigar smoke and blood.”

“Charming.”

“And I don’t do bulletin boards.”

“I figured. The glitter might mess up your ‘grizzled mountain man’ aesthetic.”

He grunted, but his lips twitched. Barely. But there all the same. Then, something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic, just subtle.

Logan started waiting for you outside your classroom after classes. He carried your books without being asked. He started asking questions during planning times— real and thoughtful questions. His snark mellowed into something more playful and his scowls softened when he looked at you.

One day, after a particularly chaotic lesson involving foam swords and a Homeric battle reenactment, you caught him staring.

“What?” You asked, breathless and laughing.

He looked away, going gruff again. “You’re good with them. The kids. You got a way with ‘em.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Logan. That means a lot.”

He looked like he wanted to say more but walked off instead, rubbing the back of his neck and grumbling under his breath.

“But now he’s dear, and so unsure

I wonder why I didn’t see it there before…”

Small changed continued. Logan brought you coffee one morning, just how you liked it.

You blinked at the cup. “Wait. How did you—?”

“Kid in your homeroom mentioned it once,” he told you, gruff and grumbly like he regretted admitting it. “Figured you’d need it.”

You sipped it. “You know… you can be nice.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“She glanced this way, I thought I saw

And when we touched she didn’t shudder at my paw…”

On a scouting mission to upstate New York— just the two of you— things deepened. The car ride was six hours of teasing, sarcasm, and surprisingly comfortable silence.

“Do you always hum when you drive?” You asked at one point after a bit of silence.

“What? No.”

“You were humming.”

He scowled. “You’re imagining things.”

You smirked. “Was it Johnny Cash? I think—“

“Drop it,” he demanded, his tips of his ears turning red.

That night, the motel was a dump with one creaky bed and a questionable heater.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said before you could argue. “You need the sleep more than I do.”

“Chivalry, from you? What happened to the guy who growled at me over a bulletin board?”

“He’s still here. Just… shut up and take the bed.”

A few hours later, the room had grown cold and the questionable heater definitely didn’t work. You were curled up in a ball on the bed covered in the thin blanket.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Logan grumbled in the darkness.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

He sighed and sat up, taking in the sight of you on the bed. “You cold?”

“What do you think?” Logan stood up and crawled onto the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Shhh. Just… don’t make this weird.” He timidly wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his body.

You melted into him. “You’re a furnace.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do you—“

“No questions. Just shut up and sleep, okay?”

You kept quiet and slowly drifted to sleep due to Logan’s warmth and the humming he thought you were too gone to notice.

~~~

Back at the mansion, everything was different and yet, still the same. Logan teased less and helped more. His scowls were still there, but softer. He still didn’t talk much, but when he did, it matter.

And one afternoon, while you both supervised a Danger Room session, he turned to you and said, “You’re real smart, y’know that?”

Your breath caught in your throat for a moment. “Logan… was that a… compliment?”

He blushed. It was barely noticeable due to his facial hair, but it was there. “Yeah…”

“New and a bit alarming

Who’d have ever thought that this could be?”

You teased him once, after he helped you pick up a pile of essays you dropped. “You keep this up, and I might start thinking the big bad Wolverine is a softie.”

He looked right at you, serious. “Just with you,” he mumbled.

Your heart skipped.

“There may be something there that wasn’t there before…”

It happened on a quiet evening. You’d stayed late in the library again, papers to grade. A copy of The Iliad was open on the table. You were mid-ship of lukewarm coffee when you sensed him in the doorway.

“You really don’t rest, do you?” He ask, leaning against the frame.

You looked up, smiling. “Only when I’ve tortured enough students with essay prompts.”

He stepped in, hands shoved in his pockets. “This place gets real quiet at night.”

“I like it. It’s peaceful.”

He leaned against a shelf near you, watching you carefully. “I, uh…” he nervously cleared his throat. “Can I… ask you something?”

You lowered your pen and gave him more of your attention. “Of course.”

He looked nervous. It didn’t suit him. “Can I… kiss you?”

Your breath caught. “…yes.”

He stepped closer, slow and careful, like he was scared to break the moment. His hands came to cradle your face as he crouched down to your level. You could feel the heat of him, the hesitation in his movements. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, rough hands softening just for you. The kiss was featherlight. A whisper, more than a demand. When he pulled back, he didn’t move far.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You laughed quietly. “Thank you? Logan, you’re adorable.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna make fun of me now, aren’t you?”

“Only a little.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “So… does this mean the Wolverine is mine now?”

He grunted with a nod. “If you’ll have me… please.”

You grinned, tugging him down into another kiss. “I’m not letting you go.”

“It’s so peculiar… wait and see

There’s something there that wasn’t there before…”

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

-

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run. 

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

-

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you. 

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst. 

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

-

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

-

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth: 

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?" 

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven. 

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks. 

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music. 

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart. 

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

-

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

-

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

-

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

-

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

[mindfulstudyquest]

❥﹒♡﹒☕﹒ 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 ( 𝗮𝗰𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 !! )

𝟭. improve your writing skills ( ✒️ )

i feel that not everyone has the perception of how important it is to know how to write. you don't have to be a poet, nor the new emily brontë, but fluid, conscious, rich writing makes the difference. really. you could write a page without saying anything at all, but if that damn page is written good and smoothly, then you can be sure that you will get extra points. take the time to improve your writing skills, the best advice i have for doing so is reading. read as much as you can. read novels (non-fiction in this case doesn't help because the content is preferred rather than the form), read contemporary authors – you don't necessarily have to read sophocles' tragedies, but read quality stuff. expand your vocabulary, your knowledge of syntax, learn to use punctuation! and then write, tell stories, write love letters, write reviews of films, books, cultural festivals, open a blog on tumblr and write to practice, reread what you write ad nauseam, until it is perfect, until the form of your essay is pulitzer prize worthy.

bonus some of my favourite authors (tell me in the comments about yours!): ian mcewan, banana yoshimoto, haruki murakami, george orwell, josé saramago, albert camus, khaled hosseini, hanya yanagihara

𝟮. develop critical thinking ( 💭 )

if you have always studied passively by absorbing information and vomiting it onto a test sheet then you have wasted your time. taking on information is not enough, you need to know how to rework it and develop your own idea about it. especially in the arts and literature one may disagree with certain information provided by a textbook. developing critical thinking is not easy, especially due to the school system that teaches us to standardize thinking. always consult all available sources on a given topic, compare them, analyze contradictions. it might be difficult and tiring – our brain spends more energy processing two conflicting pieces of information than processing two pieces of information that agree – but it will be worth it. by practicing critical thinking and improving your argumentation skills, you will not only be able to improve in your studies, becoming able to present complex topics and make interdisciplinary connections, but also in daily life, you will become much less influenced and manipulated by external information.

𝟯. find yourself an interest ( 🌷 )

it could be anything, but find an interest that excites you and you enjoy and do research about it. watch videos, documentaries, read articles. it doesn't have to be school-related, it must be an external topic that you are passionate about and that allows you to rediscover the joy of studying and learning every time school seems to suffocate it. sometimes i'm not in the mood to study for exams, so i dedicate myself to my personal research and finally find my spark, my seek for knowledge. for example, my interest is true crime, it has always fascinated me since i was little, but yours could be wild animals, makeup, comics, ships, planes, ocean flora, literally anything. there is no constraint.

𝟰. analyze your mistakes and recognize your wrongs ( 🫒 )

there is no shame in making mistakes. everyone makes mistakes, we are human, but the real sin is getting bogged down in mistakes, refusing to acknowledge them, and continuing to make them again and again. we should be continually growing, continually discovering ourselves, both intellectually and emotionally. how many of you were the "gifted kid" when you were little and then grew up into burned out high school / uni students desperately seeking academic validation? there comes a time when talent isn't enough, you have to put in the effort, and this doesn't make you less intelligent or gifted, in fact, quite the opposite. dedicating time and attention to your personal and intellectual growth also means having to ruminate on your mistakes. it's scary, but it's the most effective way if you really want to improve. take a notebook and at the end of the day reflect on the highlights and the wrongs, what you could have done better, where you would like to push forward tomorrow, what you achieved today. did you make a mistake? first ask yourself why and then look for a way to solve the problem, make every bad moment a lesson, a brick on which to build the version of you you wanto to become tomorrow.

𝟱. don't be afraid of doing researches ( 🧃 )

the amount of fake news and misinformation online is appalling. opening any app like tiktok or instagram we are inundated with information that is often (not always, but not so rarely) inaccurate. don't be afraid to conduct your own research, if you have time to mindlessly scroll through tiktok you will also have five minutes to read an article regarding that information provided. don't know the meaning of a word? look it up before using it. not sure about a piece of information? check it before using it in your argumentation. in the age of immediate access to data we have no excuse to be superficial.

𝟲. master communication ( ♟️ )

mastering communication is essential in both personal and professional realms. it's the cornerstone of building meaningful relationships, whether it's conveying ideas effectively in academia or fostering connections in the workplace. developing strong communication skills not only enhances your ability to articulate thoughts but also empowers you to listen actively, empathize with others, and resolve conflicts constructively. ultimately, honing these skills cultivates confidence, credibility, and success in all aspects of life.

𝟳. push yourself out of your comfort zone ( 🧸 )

build your confidence. confidence is uncomfortable. don't be afraid of it. you are young, this is the right time to experiment, take risks, discover who you really are. this is the best time for you to do those things that you would otherwise never do, you don't want to regret later in life that you didn't accept that scholarship, that trip abroad, that job opportunity, because you didn't feel comfortable enough. do things that take you out of your comfort zone until everything becomes your comfort zone. go on solo dates, be a social butterfly, tell the girl at the bookstore you love her t-shirt, go to the theater alone, eat at a restaurant alone, take that trip. if it goes badly, you'll only have one funny story to tell.

𝟴. stay informed about the news (but not too much!) ( 🌍 )

this might be controversial, but: stay informed about the news, just don't overdo it. personally, i am an easily influenced person and i realized that being constantly exposed to the bad things happening in the world had drained me and made me terribly depressed. don't get me wrong, you need to be informed about what's happening in the world and in your country, just being constantly surrounded by horrible news repeated ad nauseam on TV programs is of no use. be aware.

[max1461]

I think my friend who has an econ background and reads this blog (hi matthew!) would agree with me on this: econ is like an extremely fucked up field in terms of its pedagogical norms and institutional structures. Like everything I read about econ as a field just makes me go "oh god what are these people doing". I saw this post by an econ professor on reddit, and he says something like "to be a good economist you also need to know about history, psychology, computational complexity theory, [...] and they probably won't teach you any of this in undergrad, or in grad school. You have to seek it out on your own". And on the one hand, ok, every field is interdisciplinary to some extent and requires self-directed learning on the part of practitioners. But also, if undergrad + grad school in your field cannot reliably produce academics who you find capable of producing quality work... that's kind of an indictment of the those institutional structures, isn't it? And also I've heard from my friend that econ undergrad in some sense gives an extremely poor picture of what modern economists actually do and think, to a much greater degree than e.g. physics undergrad, or whatever.

Just seems like econ is pretty fucked as field.

[slavdollz4mangione]

I saw the answer to this ask and remembered when I wanted to be a history teacher, so I thought of the reader being a history teacher and Luigi being a math teacher, in the same context as this ask

omg this brought me back to middle school days, my history teacher was literally married to my math teacher 😭 but here’s the hc <3 i hope you enjoy !!

- okay so you’d both be teaching high school kids and your classrooms would literally be next door to each other

- sometimes you guys would pop in each others class room to borrow supplies

“hey ba- i mean [name] can i borrow a chalk/whiteboard marker? forgot to bring mine”

- and it would make the students SNICKER because you both are trying to remain so professional and keep your relationship under wraps but everyone can tell you two are dating

- everyone is so obsessed with you two and love watching you interact; shared small smiles, bringing each other coffee/tea during breaks, looking at each other like the other person hung the moon and the stars in the sky; some of lu’s ballsy students would keep pestering about when he’s gonna ask you to marry him and he’d act SO oblivious and sassy AAKSKSKSJ

- your teaching styles would compliment each other so well, you’re so passionate about history and would bring it to life with stories and references while he would be so methodical and so calm, breaking down complex problems into simple steps for his students

- you guys would inspire each other so much and give each other tips on how to approach new topics you’d have to be teaching, going as far as to incorporate the others subject into your respective classes so subtly that very few students would pick up on it

- lu would be so in awe while listening to you talk about historical facts because you’d talk about them with so much passion, clarity and wisdom, he’s not surprised at all the entire school is obsessed with you

- and you’d be just as in awe of him, seeing him explain math in such a simple and understandable manner would make you wish you had teachers like him when you were a student, it would’ve saved you from so much stress and resentment for the subject 😭

- one time you guys decided to team up for an interdisciplinary project, combining math and history to analyze historical data or timelines and you’ve never seen your students be so excited to participate in a project

(what you two don’t realize is that yes they enjoy both of your classes but really what got them so excited for this was seeing mr mangione and mrs [name] act like an old married couple for 40 to 90 minutes in the same room)

[mangionebabymama]

all these prof! luigi asks got me feeling that he’d be a great teacher🥺he’s patient and empathetic and he has the passion that all good teachers have, i think he’d probably be a favorite among his students…and imagine the first day he brings in that cute humanities prof upstairs to explain how computer engineering can be applied to everyday life and they notice how smiley and polite he is towards you—always encouraging the class to ask you questions, asking you to elaborate further on something just so he can stand there and watch you yap?? oh at this point his students are only coming to class for the HOT GOSS about you😭

can we keep talking about prof! lu i can’t stop thinking about it now and i am NOT in the mood to write unfortunately

For you, icon, of course we can!!!

He’d love doing what he does in education with all of his heart. He’d want to be the best teacher and mentor for all of his students possible, as he was thankful and gracious enough to look up to so many influential people throughout his years of schooling, all the way back from his days at Gilman up until him attending UPenn, as they inspired him to become an educator.

When you’re elaborating further on the open class discussion, answering his students’ questions, he’s just standing there by the board, just engrossed in watching you interact with the class and talk so passionately about the interdisciplinary connection between computer engineering and humanities. If he could, he would, without a doubt, let you take over his classroom for the rest of the day and he’ll sit in the desk and listen to you teach him a thing or two.

And when you’re done answering questions and he’s thanking you for your time with him and his class, you say how it was your pleasure to be there and tell him, “No, thank you, Dr. Mangione” and he’d almost want to fall to the damn floor because of that

[jstor]

What can early museums teach us about modern literacy? 💭

Whitney Barlow Robles' latest piece for JSTOR Daily, "The Age of Wonder Meets the Age of Information," takes us back to the cabinets of curiosities from the 16th-18th centuries–perhaps original examples of information overload.

These "cabinets" were rooms outfitted with items like narwhal tusks, ivory carvings, and even (alleged) unicorn horns. Like today's average social media experience, collections like these overwhelmed the senses and raised questions about power, knowledge, and representation.

In this piece, Robles explores how these early museums can help students develop digital and visual literacy today, offering lessons in interdisciplinary thinking and grappling with colonial legacies.

(P.S.: JSTOR's Artstor collection features stunning images of these cabinets!)

[kaiserin-erzsebet]

I have an academic pathway question. How did you end up in your PhD program? Did you get your master's and work before applying or go straight in from undergrad? Are American or European schools easier, or does it depend on your research topic? I'm only in undergrad now but I really want to get a PhD in history someday and I'm interested in the Atlantic World and how America and Western Europe connect/are dependent on each other.

I'm sorry that it took so long for me to get to this. I have been remarkably burnt out lately.

But anyway, I can tell you what my path looked like, but I think I should caveat it with the fact that I had to work around the COVID pandemic, which caused admissions pauses and/or smaller than usual cohorts. So, the experience for me probably wasn't typical and won't reflect what applying now will be like.

I did apply to PhD programs out of undergrad, but upon reflection I really did not have a clear idea of what I wanted to work on. It is not a surprise to me, knowing what I know now about graduate school admissions, that I didn't get in.

When I decided to apply to a masters program in the Netherlands, I was doing it because I wanted to work with a specific professor who had been a visiting professor at an undergraduate university. I felt like he really understood the kind of questions I wanted to ask.

Now, here's one difference you should consider: at least in continental Europe (the Netherlands, Germany, and Austria is where I can speak for), you cannot apply to a Doctoral program without a Masters. If you are an undergraduate right now, you'll have to do a Masters and then a Doctorate as separate degrees in Europe.

Basically, both the US and European system call what they offer a Doctoral Degree. However, the US version is really much more of a package deal because it includes something called a "non-terminal Masters" which you get after completing coursework and your qualifying examinations (and sometimes other things depending on your program.) European programs are just the part after qualifying examinations where you research and write, so they expect you to have already done the work of an MA.

So, that's why I applied to an MA (technically a RMA, since that is a different distinction in the Netherlands that I won't get into) program in Europe and not a PhD.

This is where the story gets a little complicated, because I finished that degree in the summer of 2020. Which, as everyone remembers, was not a great time to be in a transitional part of your life. I actually got mailed my diploma because I could not get back to Europe with the travel restrictions.

I ended up applying to programs in the US, because trying to get back to Europe in the middle of the pandemic chaos seemed like a bad idea. I was offered a place in a interdisciplinary Masters program, which I took because: 1. I had a scholarship (I would not have paid for another degree) 2. It was interdisciplinary so it would be good for broadening my methodology. 3. It would let me work with Habsburg scholars, which I hadn't had yet. And I was also in the middle of my Germanist -> Habsburgist pivot. 4. It was one year and it was productive to do while we waited for the world to open up again.

After that I worked for a year teaching at the same university I did my Masters degree at, which gave me time to work on my application and make sure it was very clear and focused, since I was not going to do it again if I didn't get it that time. Since this was when applications opened up again "after" COVID, so there were double the usual number of applications.

My main reason for being at a US university was that there were more resources at my particular university for transatlantic travel and that there were more opportunities to teach during the program.

There isn't really an "easy" version as much as there are two different versions, especially in the humanities: in Germany at least, you're often applying to be part of a broad thematic project that has its own particular funding allocated to it and has its own supervisor. You can get funding for just your own project, but it is a process. Whereas in the US, you're applying mostly based on your advisor and committee and you need to pitch how your research fits that person and maybe the broader department.

There is also a substantial culture difference that I've found. Universities in Europe tend to treat you more like a researcher than a student. They really cut you loose to do your work, but also expect you to do all your own administrative work and planning. Whereas the US tends to build in more milestones and scaffolding to structure the process and check in on you. If you're not self motivated and good at asking for help when you need it, the approach in German/Dutch/Austrian academia can feel a bit like being thrown in the deep end with no swim lessons - I can't tell you if that's the same in "Western Europe" depending on where you are thinking. On the flipside, if you would rather do your own thing, the required parts of the US system can feel like nagging or micromanaging.

There really is no easier version; doctoral programs are hard work and quite a lot of commitment. It comes down to what academic culture you prefer and which advisors, supervisors, or departments are going to be the best for what you want to work on and how you work. The best advice I can give you is that you need to know how you do your best work; self-knowledge is one of the best things you can have in graduate school.

[danketsuround]

An Informal Guide to Writing about School in Japan

Sorry for posting this so late! Thank you for your patience.

This post should be used as a general reference for when you're writing something that takes place in a Japanese school. I made this because there have been a few stories (and even real articles!) written by people who seem pretty... uninformed about how Japanese schools actually work, but please use this as a framework for your story rather than a complete Bible.

Note: This post is informed by two things - my experience working at Japanese public schools, and being an American. The things I include in this post will be things that stand out to me as someone from the states. That being said, Japanese and American schools operate very differently, so there will be a lot!

A Year Overview

1st semester begins in April, and ends right before summer break in June. 2nd semester begins in late July or August, and ends before winter break in December. 3rd semester begins in January and ends in late March.

There is a very short spring break between 3rd semester and the entrance ceremony in which teachers/staff are told if they will be moving to a new school or not. This is specific to public schools. Academies/private schools likely don't adhere to this exact rule since they're contracted for a certain amount of time.

Grades and Classes

In large schools, each grade is divided by class. Each class has about 25+ students in it depending on the size of the school. In elementary school, junior high school, and high school, classes are either divided by letter or number.

For example, if you are a JHS 2nd year in the 1st class, you will be in 2-1. If you are an ES 5th grader in the B class, you will be in 5-B.

Kindergartens and daycares divide classes differently, and are called things like "Rabbits" or "Lions" - I'm pretty sure the names are ways to separate the ages. For example, the "Lion" class is the oldest (5-6 years old) and the "Chick" class is the youngest (1-2 years or less).

The word for "class" in Japanese is 組 ("kumi"). When referring to a certain class, we usually just say - using the same examples as above - ichi-kumi (Class 1), B-kumi (Class B), usagi-kumi (Rabbits)

Ages and Years

Elementary school - 1st grade through 6th grade (Ages 7 to 12)

Junior high school - 1st year through 3rd year (in the states, we would call it 7th through 9th grade. Here, they say JHS 1st year, 2nd year, 3rd year) (Ages 12 to 15)

High school - 1st year through 3rd year (same note as above, 10th through 12th grade) (Ages 15 to 18)

Homerooms

As stated above, each grade is split up into sections, called homeroom classes. In JHS and HS, a teacher will be in charge of one homeroom class as well as one main subject. Not all teachers have their own classrooms (depending on the size of the school, sometimes you have more subjects to teach than students!) but most of them do. However, that doesn't mean there is a dedicated "math room" or "English room" - instead, teachers will move to different classes, and students stay in their homeroom. In elementary school, your homeroom teacher will typically teach every subject. Of course, there is a teacher per subject per year. For example, if you're in a mid-sized junior high school, there would be 3 English teachers.

Between classes, students have a 10 minute break or so. This is so students can use the restroom and drink water (they can't do it during class) as well as prepare their materials for the incoming teacher. Class leaders will also go to the teacher's office and will sometimes be tasked with carrying materials to class or preparing something separately (like turning on the projector, the TV, getting white boards, etc.)

School Subjects

Besides the core subjects (English, social studies, math, science, Japanese, P.E.), Japanese schools also have calligraphy and home economics.

Homeroom teachers will also be asked to teach sougo (interdisciplinary studies) and moral education. I believe sougo is a fairly new subject that was added to Japanese curriculum a little over 20 years ago - from my understanding it's kind of like a psychology, economics, and sociology class all wrapped up into one. Moral education, on the other hand, has been described as "very Japanese" by all of my coworkers - it's like a "here's how we follow the rules", "here's how to be polite", "here's why having good behavior is beneficial for everyone" type of class.

Japanese schools also do not offer advanced classes. All students are expected to take the same class unless they have been put in the special needs classes for learning disabilities, mental health problems, or behavioral issues. Special needs classes tend to be taught at a lower level and sometimes a mix of grades as well. Special needs students "belong" to a specific class (like, 1-1 or 2-B...) but they study in separate, smaller classrooms (sometimes just called Special Needs 1, Special Needs 2...) Some students who need special care but are willing/able to join regular classes will have a support teacher with them. One of my students is partially deaf and needs careful instruction but can otherwise sit and participate in class like everyone else.

The Teachers Office

All teachers' desks are in the teachers' office. There, we prepare for class, have meetings, take a short break, drink coffee... etc. - and teachers who do not have a homeroom class also eat lunch there. Typically, all teachers who are in charge of the same grade will sit together.

Students are allowed in the teachers' office, but they have to state their name, their grade, class, and their purpose for coming. An example would be: "Excuse me. I'm Momo Taro from Class 3-2. I've come to see Kaguya-sensei. Excuse me."

Then, when they leave, they have to say: "Pardon me" (失礼いたしました). Some of my students get in trouble if they don't announce themselves properly or make a mistake in front of the wrong teacher!

And, a small bit about teachers' names

There are some Japanese last names that are extremely common. Did anyone see that article that claimed everyone in Japan will have the same last name by 2531? Funny stuff.

That's why a few teachers go by their first name. It's not rude at all when half of your staff is Suzuki and the other half is Sato.

Teachers, of course, follow the same formalities that students do by using [Name]-sensei with each other. It would actually be considered highly HIGHLY inappropriate to refer to another teacher with -san or -chan in school - unless you're extremely close and just joking around...AND you're both female...a male teacher would not survive doing that.

A Typical School Day

It varies, but schools often start around 8:10 or 8:30 in the morning, and students go home around 4. There are typically 6 periods in a day, with an hour break in the middle of the day to account for lunch and recess - yes, junior high school and high school students get recess, too! Though, older students often use it to study or have a meeting with their club. At my school, my students are required to read in the morning.

Students are really busy and have jobs around the school. There are class leaders - who come to the teacher's office to ask what needs to be prepared for class - and there are students who run the morning, lunch, cleaning ("souji"), and end of the day broadcast, and students who are in charge of grabbing and setting up school lunch in the classroom. Of course, there are club leaders and student council as well.

Uniforms (students)

Uniforms are required for both public and private schools in Japan. Some elementary schools do not require uniforms, and others do. It's extremely rare to find a JHS or HS that doesn't require uniforms, but they exist.

Some schools are more strict than others. The main points are: no piercings, no makeup, no unnaturally colored hair (yes, this includes blonde, but not brown, as some Japanese people do have naturally brown/light brown hair!) - skirt length, shoe color (white only), wearing a hat, jewelry, manicures/nail polish color all have rules mandated by the school. Some schools even have certain haircuts they require students to follow! If a student has long hair, they will usually be asked to wear it in a low ponytail. Of course, not every student follows the rules anyways.

They also have outside clothes called "jerseys" that they wear under their uniform. This way, students are able to change freely in the classroom before/after gym or recess.

Uniforms (teachers)

Teachers are not exactly held to the same standard, but it depends on the school. While private schools are apparently waaaaay more strict about what their students and faculty wear, public schools don't really enforce it at all. The typical uniform is a collard shirt and slacks, but teachers who are in charge of a sports club can get away with the occasional jersey/sport shirt and shorts.

Everyone who comes into the school must take their shoes off and change into slippers or indoor shoes (shoes you bought that you have decided are only for wearing inside and have never ever touched the outside ground before...)

We take our shoes on and off.. a lot. That's why most teacher's inside shoes are comfortable slip-on sneakers or loafers. I've never in my life seen a teacher lace up their shoes before. Hell, my inside shoes have zippers. It just takes too much freaking time!

The Thing About Shoes is...

I said some stuff about shoes above, but I wanted to note that the student and teacher entrance is different. Students have rows and rows of lockers to switch out their own shoes, which is (often) conveniently placed near the school grounds where they play sports.

The teachers' entrance is the regular front entrance, and we have our own lockers as well. There are shelves of slippers that belong to the school for any guests who come in, or students who forgot their inside shoes that day, lol.

Yes, yes, yes - we are required to wear inside shoes with no exception. One of my students was injured and in a wheelchair and he still had to change out his shoes, so..

Discipline

It's basically impossible to get expelled, and things like ISS simply don't exist in Japanese schools. Don't be mistaken - that certainly doesn't mean students do not have behavior issues - MY STUDENTS ARE BAD!! But they don't really get punished for it in ways you would see at an American school.

Most discipline is delegated to the homeroom teacher (or whoever else's class you're failing, lol). Some problems are severe enough to be escalated to a meeting with your parents or the vice principal ("kyoutou-sensei"), but I've honestly never seen the principal do any student discipline, and I've never seen a student be suspended or expelled.

Japan is really keen on making sure everyone gets an equal opportunity for education, even for students who have behavioral issues or would do better if they were homeschooled.

Now, corporal punishment is illegal in Japanese schools. Making students stand outside of class holding buckets of water because they forgot their homework (or whatever you might have seen from slice of life comedies..) is a thing of the semi-distant past. That being said, there is still no shortage of verbal harassment from strict teachers onto their students. I think the most common form of strict discipline that is *still* accepted is a teacher laying it on a student in the office, then sending them back to their homeroom in tears.

Yes, while humiliation sometimes hurts even worse than a ruler to the hand, no one says anything about it. That's the older teacher style. To be honest, younger teachers aren't strict enough with their students sometimes. Including me, cause I'm a pushover, lol.

Club Activities

Club activities are my students' entire LIVES. My students really like handball and track, and are sometimes staying after school 5-6 days of the week. It's not uncommon for students to go to school on the weekends or during summer/winter break. It's also not terribly uncommon for students to be part of multiple clubs, so long as they don't intersect with each other too much.

Clubs are typically anything to do with music or sports. It's not unheard of to have debate clubs, English clubs, literature clubs, calligraphy clubs, theater clubs, etc. either - but I would say that's more common in cities where schools have more opportunity to compete or perform with many other local schools.

A note about mandatory Education

Once you graduate junior high school, your period of compulsory education ends. In other words, you can stop going to school and you don't have to go to high school. You also do not have to have a high school diploma or GED to attend college, but you still have to find a college that will accept you.

Other random stuff (and debunking anime-ish myths)

In summer, students go swimming! They are required to learn how to swim from elementary school.

Teachers don't have smoke breaks during class. No one has time for that, and if you're caught by a student or another teacher, you're fucked. We do it by the 7/11 after school like normal people.

Cram school ("juku") is a thing and a LOT of students are in it. One of my students is in a swimming cram school.

Being openly LGBT in Japan is hard, but it's not impossible. There are some openly LGBT students, especially in large cities. For teachers, they don't really talk about their personal life very often (I think it's a bit taboo..) so I wouldn't imagine anyone would feel pressured to out themselves at all.

Bullying is a big problem, but it's also one of the most widely studied and discussed problem regarding Japanese schools. Some people like to say that it's much worse in Japan, but I would argue it's fairly similar to the states. Severe bullying (in which a student is physically tormented or abused) is less common than things like spreading rumors, singling out someone, or cyberbullying.

Extra credit is not a thing, but some teachers are more lenient than others about deadlines.

Yes, students are able to express themselves freely. They often do, very loudly and opinionated...ly. Or, uh, mine do.

On a test or worksheet, circles are good and checkmarks are bad.

Schools have a lot of various events, assembles, festivals, and school trips - all of which are organized by students and homeroom teachers who don't get paid enough to stay as late as they do ;D

We don't use substitute teachers. Usually the schedule will change or another teacher will fill in during their free period.

Annnnnnd that should be it. If you have any specific questions or need clarification, you are welcome to reply to this post or send me a message! I can try and answer them to the best of my ability. Every school is a little bit different, but this is truly a "general" "overview" of school life in Japan.

Thanks for reading!

[leonardcohenofficial]

Hi Maddie! Are you willing to talk a little about your PhD journey? All I know is you write a really big paper but I imagine it involves more than that

absolutely! the requirements of a phd will definitely range depending on both your field and subject of your research, but typically involve taking courses that allow you to gain general but high level knowledge of the area on the whole, passing some type of qualifying exam that shows you’re prepared to complete your dissertation, and then writing the dissertation itself, all in a process that can take between typically three years (this seems very short but is fairly common outside of the USA) to a decade. in my program people typically graduated in five or six years; i myself took six years to finish everything up

for my program i took classes in a wide variety of areas, most of which were not directly related to what i wrote about for my dissertation, but all of which were extremely beneficial in 1) learning in areas outside of what i do, 2) helping me feel more prepared when teaching those subjects as part of my TA duties, and 3) allowing me to develop deeper critical and theoretical knowledge that helped me with writing the dissertation itself. i was also really happy that i was able to take classes outside of the theatre department (in the music and literature departments; though the lit class i took was a film class lol), which made total sense given my research is so interdisciplinary. the biggest thing i learned about my research throughout my time is that i very much live in the performance studies world (vs. theatre or drama) which is helpful framing given i write and teach about such a wide range of performance and media forms. my dissertation was much more a performance studies/musicology/american studies project than a Theatre™️ project, but i had a committee that really encouraged me to think across multiple disciplines with my work (and i also got to teach both theatre and film classes, which is pretty cool)

i also really appreciate that my program also gave us so much experience teaching! i taught every single quarter and many summers during grad school, which (while exhausting) not only gave me a ton of practice to build up my own pedagogical approach but made my CV pretty competitive as an early career scholar when applying to jobs. i don’t think i would have gotten multiple tenure-track interviews while still finishing my dissertation had i not had so much teaching experience (as instructor of record!) on there. i also am really grateful that my department also really cares about encouraging phds’ practice within and beyond the department, so i was able to dramaturg and/or direct ten shows within my department on top of a ton of outside gigs at the major LORT houses in town (which was also a really big deal)

the actual dissertation writing process sucks. it’s exhausting and thankless and even if you have a really amazing committee (like i did <3) it is extremely stressful and i do not know ANYONE who has reported a smooth and easy dissertation writing process LOL; however i had really good people on my side (friends, family, colleagues in the department and in arts and humanities in general at school, my faculty, my coworkers at the record shop, etc.) who were so supportive and my biggest champions as i was taking on this massive project. it was a lot but in all honestly even though it took so long, it was not the most difficult academic work i’ve ever had to do (that badge of dishonor goes to the horrendous process of getting my international baccalaureate diploma, which was so awful it led me to go to hippie college with no grades no tests and no majors LMFAO). i am super proud of my dissertation—if anyone wants to read it i’d be happy to send the link!—and even though there are plenty of sections i’ll rework for when i submit it to academic presses for publication, i am really pleased with the work i did and i think that it provides new and (imho) exciting scholarship about topics that i find really meaningful (many of which i’ve loved since i was a kid)

all of this to say, if people have phd, grad school, research, or otherwise related questions or want to chat, please hit me up! always happy to talk about this stuff / offer my very humble advice about any stage of the process <3

[mooncoreblr]

LANGBLR INTRO!!!

A little about me:

Call me Azara c:

Middle Eastern - Persian origins (not ir*nian please ;-;)

26 - isfp - sagittarius

lesbian - she/her

Got my BA in English Language and Literature with a minor in French

Preparing for an MA in Teaching English as a Foreign Language and self-studying and researching theoretical+applied+interdisciplinary linguistics

Languages I speak:

Arabic (native - standard and a dialect of the gulf)

Farsi (native but I don't speak the standard)

English C1

French (standard) B1/B2

Korean B1/B2

Languages Goals - short and long term:

IELTS BAND 9 

Arabic (build my vocabulary for translation)

Advancing in Korean C1

Advancing in French C1

Learning Standard Farsi

Consistently learn Japanese for 60 days

Consistently learn Chinese for 60 days

Could post about other languages that interest me at one point!

How I learn languages

tv shows mostly as I rely a lot on pronunciation and sentence structures in speech

music - I mostly listen to English, Persian, Korean, Japanese and French songs but I am open to anything as long as it's good

used to take classes before covid and then I enrolled in online classes and hated them - they were bland.

textbooks that I spent a fortune on ;-;

Let's be friends !! ♡