#Might be certain A I profs

[pxmegranates]

My fic wont appear on tags anymore ahuhu...

Either way, next fic might involve someone from Sc4Vio, who knows!

[lowellsgraveyard]

the latin verb "ardere", "to burn, to be on fire" also meaning "to desire" is so . i love people, i love classics, and i love seeing the ways in which people of the past perceived and experienced certain emotions

[mishkakagehishka]

hi corks! how're ya feeling?

i was gonna include smth else here but i forgot so uh. the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell

Doing very well, surprisingly!!! I didn't do much uni work, but i did PAID WORK!!! Which is so much better. Hoping for a good week.

How have you been? I don't remember anything about biology, except for "if you see a lot of urchins, it means the sea is clean :)"

[pallases]

i made it through over a hundred pages today!! a lot further along than i expected to get :)

[ifeelfreewithoutmyshoes]

Ughh my brain isn’t braining and I hate it

[thevalleyisjolly]

Welp, guess who didn’t read the updated assignment requirements and only has 10/15 sources!  At least the 10 sources I do have are all peer reviewed, which at least meets the stipulation that at least 10 sources should be peer reviewed academic sources...

[fursasaida]

Hi! Just wanted to ask. How can I give my students assignments that are chat-gpt proof? Or that they won't just copy the answer without at least doing some editing?

Hi! So, I don't think anything is ChatGPT-proof. You fundamentally cannot stop people from using it to take a shortcut. You can't even stop them from copying the answer without editing it. However, I think you can work with this reality. So, you can do three things:

Don't be a cop about it.

If you make your objective "stop the children from using the thing to cheat," you are focusing on the wrong thing. You will be constantly scrutinizing every submission with suspicion, you will be accusing people of cheating--and some of them will not have cheated, and they will remember this forever--and you will be aiming at enforcement (which is trying to hold back the sea) instead of on inviting and supporting learning whenever and wherever possible. (I'll come back to this under item 2.)

Regarding why enforcement is holding back the sea: It is fundamentally rational for them to do this. We, who "love learning" (i.e. are good at what our academic system sees as learning, for various reasons have built our lives around that, happen to enjoy these activities), see everything they might cheat themselves of by doing it, because we know what we got out of doing this type of work. Many students, however--especially at the kind of school I teach at--are there to get the piece of paper that might, if they're lucky, allow them access to a relatively livable and stable income. The things that are wrong with this fact are structural and nothing to do with students' failings as people, or (tfuh) laziness, or whatever. We cannot make this not true (we can certainly try to push against it in certain ways, but that only goes so far). More pragmatically, chatgpt and similar are going to keep getting better, and detecting them is going to get harder, and your relationships with your students will be further and further damaged as you are forced to hound them more, suspect them more, falsely accuse more people, while also looking like an idiot because plenty of them will get away with it. A productive classroom requires trust. The trust goes both ways. Being a cop about this will destroy it in both directions.

So the first thing you have to do is really, truly accept that some of them are going to use it and you are not always going to know when they do. And when I say accept this, I mean you actually need to be ok with it. I find it helps to remember that the fact that a bot can produce writing to a standard that makes teachers worry means we have been teaching people to be shitty writers. I don't know that so much is lost if we devalue the 5-paragraph SAT essay and its brethren.

So the reason my policy is to say it's ok to use chatgpt or similar as long as you tell me so and give me some thinking about what you got from using it is that a) I am dropping the charade that we don't all know what's going on and thereby making it (pedagogical term) chill; b) I am modeling/suggesting that if you use it, it's a good idea to be critical about what it tells you (which I desperately want everyone to know in general, not just my students in a classroom); c) I am providing an invitation to learn from using chatgpt, rather than avoid learning by using it. Plenty of them won't take me up on that. That's fine (see item 3 below).

So ok, we have at least established the goal of coming at it from acceptance. Then what do you do at that point?

Think about what is unique to your class and your students and build assignments around that.

Assignments, of course, don't have to be simply "what did Author mean by Term" or "list the significant thingies." A prof I used to TA under gave students the option of interviewing a family member or friend about their experiences with public housing in the week we taught public housing. Someone I know who teaches a college biology class has an illustration-based assignment to draw in the artsier students who are in her class against their will. I used to have an extra-credit question that asked them to pick anything in the city that they thought might be some kind of clue about the past in that place, do some research about it, and tell me what they found out and how. (And that's how I learned how Canal St. got its name! Learning something you didn't know from a student's work is one of the greatest feelings there is.) One prompt I intend to use in this class will be something to the effect of, "Do you own anything--a t-shirt, a mug, a phone case--that has the outline of your city, state, or country on it? Why? How did you get it, and what does having this item with this symbol on it mean to you? Whether you personally have one or not, why do you think so many people own items like this?" (This is for political geography week, if anyone's wondering.)

These are all things that target students' personal interests and capabilities, the environments they live in, and their relationships within their communities. Chatgpt can fake that stuff, but not very well. My advisor intends to use prompts that refer directly to things he said in class or conversations that were had in class, rather than to a given reading, in hopes that that will also make it harder for chatgpt to fake well because it won't have the context. The more your class is designed around the specific institution you teach at and student body you serve, the easier that is to do. (Obviously, how possible that is is going to vary based on what you're teaching. When I taught Urban Studies using the city we all lived in as the example all through the semester, it was so easy to make everything very tailored to the students I had in that class that semester. That's not the same--or it doesn't work the same way--if you're teaching Shakespeare. But I know someone who performs monologues from the plays in class and has his students direct him and give him notes as a way of drawing them into the speech and its niceties of meaning. Chatgpt is never going to know what stage directions were given in that room. There are possibilities.) This is all, I guess, a long way of saying that you'll have a better time constructing assignments chatgpt will be bad at if you view your class as a particular situation, occurring only once (these people, this year), which is a situation that has the purpose of encouraging thought--rather than as an information-transfer mechanism. Of course information transfer happens, but that is not what I and my students are doing together here.

Now, they absolutely can plug this type of prompt into chatgpt. I've tried it myself. I asked it to give me a personal essay about the political geography prompt and a critical personal essay about the same thing. (I recommend doing this with your own prospective assignments! See what they'd get and whether it's something you'd grade highly. If it is, then change either the goal of the assignment or at least the prompt.) Both of them were decent if you are grading the miserable 5-paragraph essay. Both of them were garbage if you are looking for evidence of a person turning their attention for the first time to something they have taken for granted all their lives. Chatgpt has neither personality nor experiences, so it makes incredibly vague, general statements in the first person that are dull as dishwater and simply do not engage with what the prompt is really asking for. I already graded on "tell me what you think of this/how this relates to your life" in addition to "did you understand the reading," because what I care about is whether they're thinking. So students absolutely can and will plug that prompt into chatgpt and simply c/p the output. They just won't get high marks for it.

If they're fine with not getting high marks, then okay. For a lot of them this is an elective they're taking essentially at random to get that piece of paper; I'm not gonna knock the hustle, and (see item 1) I couldn't stop them if I wanted to. What I can do is try to make class time engaging, build relationships with them that make them feel good about telling me their thoughts, and present them with a variety of assignments that create opportunities for different strengths, points of interest, and ways into the material, in hopes of hooking as many different people in as many different ways as I can.

This brings me back to what I said about inviting learning. Because I have never yet in my life taught a course that was for people majoring in the subject, I long ago accepted that I cannot get everyone to engage with every concept, subject, or idea (or even most of them). All I can do is invite them to get interested in the thing at hand in every class, in every assignment, in every choice of reading, in every question I ask them. How frequently each person accepts these invitations (and which ones) is going to vary hugely. But I also accept that people often need to be invited more than once, and even if they don't want to go through the door I'm holding open for them right now, the fact that they were invited this time might make it more likely for them to go through it the next time it comes up, or the time after that. I'll never know what will come of all of these invitations, and that's great, actually. I don't want to make them care about everything I care about, or know everything I know. All I want is to offer them new ways to be curious.

Therefore: if they use chatgpt to refuse an invitation this week, fine. That would probably have happened anyway in a lot of cases even without chatgpt. But, just as before, I can snag some of those people's attention on one part of this module in class tomorrow. Some of them I'll get next time with a different type of assignment. Some of them I'll hook for a moment with a joke. I don't take the times that doesn't happen as failures. But the times that it does are all wins that are not diminished by the times it doesn't.

Actually try to think of ways to use chatgpt to promote learning.

I DREAM of the day I'm teaching something where it makes sense to have students edit an AI-written text. Editing is an incredible way to get better at writing. I could generate one in class and we could do it all together. I could give them a prompt, ask them to feed it into chatgpt, and ask them to turn in both what they got and some notes on how they think it could be better. I could give them a pretty traditional "In Text, Author says Thing. What did Author mean by that?" prompt, have them get an answer from chatgpt, and then ask them to fact-check it. Etc. All of these get them thinking about written communication and, incidentally, demonstrate the tool's limitations.

I'm sure there are and will be tons of much more creative ideas for how to incorporate chatgpt rather than fight it. (Once upon a time, the idea of letting students use calculators in math class was also scandalous to many teachers.) I have some geography-specific ideas for how to use image generation as well. When it comes specifically to teaching, I think it's a waste of time for us to be handwringing instead of applying ourselves to this question. I am well aware of the political and ethical problems with chatgpt, and that's something to discuss with, probably, more advanced students in a seminar setting. But we won't (per item 1) get very far simply insisting that Thing Bad and Thing Stupid. So how do we use it to invite learning? That's the question I'm interested in.

Finally, because tangential to your question: I think there's nothing wrong with bringing back more in-class writing and even oral exams (along with take-home assignments that appeal to strengths and interests other than expository writing as mentioned above). These assessments play to different strengths than written take-homes. For some students, that means they'll be harder or scarier; by the same token, for other students they'll be easier and more confidence-building. (Plus, "being able to think on your feet" is also a very good ~real-world skill~ to teach.) In the spirit of trying to offer as many ways in as possible, I think that kind of diversification in assignments is a perfectly good idea.

[mywritingonlyfans]

Teacher's pet. // Prof!Alex Turner X Stud!Reader (Smut) Part 1 of 3.

prompt: (Age Gap/Smut) Alex, an undergraduate professor, wasn't known for his friendliness until he found himself gradually warming up to you. Your remarkable writing skills, particularly directed at his class, heightened his interest even further. He's determined to show you firsthand just how talented you are, even if the journey is challenging. Eventually, both of you realize that resisting this connection is futile, and you must let go of your inhibitions to explore what lies ahead.

words: 9.3K

a/n: Be aware that it's a smut but it has a whole context, so it's long. There are changes of the next parts being more smuts, this part was assembled around how they feel in front of each other and what they make the other feel. It is important to point out that I'm not native of the language, it is likely that there are some errors, but hopefully few because I try to be careful. In addition, I hope you enjoy!

You were nervous; it was difficult to digest what he was explaining when all you seemed to notice in class was the timbre of his voice. As hours passed, his accent seemed to grow stronger and huskier, not to mention how he had taken off his blazer within the first few minutes and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. You couldn't quite tell whether you were enjoying the subject matter due to its inherent interest or whether it was him who had become your focus of interest.

You found the buttons on his white shirt alluring, the warmth adhering to his skin, and the occasionally tousled hair being lazily brushed away from his eyes exuded a charm. Watching him was intriguing; at some point, you had tried to avoid such distractions, but realizing your failure, you allowed yourself to be swept away completely.

"Did you hear me?" He asked a bit louder, trying to get your attention. He hadn't shouted; he never did. You were immersed in him, yet couldn't grasp the meaning of the disjointed words he had gestured. However, the movements of his restless hands and the prominent veins when he placed them on his waist had etched themselves into your memory. If someone requested, you could depict his fingers in oil on canvas.

"I'm sorry," you shook your head, waiting for him to repeat, as he often did with everyone else. He studied you more closely, even from a distance, his hands tucked in his pockets and your breath catching slightly. He didn't often make direct eye contact with students, maybe with no one. He was somewhat reserved, and it was evident that lecturing for hours wasn't quite his natural disposition. You found the stumbling over words and how he would look out the window or shift his gaze when someone met his eyes rather appealing. You feared that you had been thinking about him for so long that you had built up an image of him beyond what he could actually be.

However, he held his dark eyes on you, offering a gentle smile, a touch relaxed as if he had expected that from you, and playfully continued, "Well, I didn't expect that from you. I must have been mistaken in thinking you're a great one." He carried on with the lecture as your cheeks began to burn. Perhaps his not-liking for you was part of his nature too.

…

You couldn't bear for him not to like you. Not until the end of the semester; you considered his subject crucial for your repertoire. He just couldn't dislike you. Some nights were spent awake, but you were certain your paper was well-written, and your readings for his class were up to date; any question he might ask, you'd know the answer to. Your seat in the classroom was always the same, out of habit. Honestly, if you had known the distraction and nervousness that Mr. Turner would cause you, you would have opted for seats further back for your own good. But now it was too late, and besides, you needed a good grade in his class.

He was wearing a light blue blazer, a shirt with a few buttons open, and high-waisted slacks, the usual attire, but it never failed to soften your senses. He looked well-rested, his expression serene, no signs of dark circles, and his hair was even silkier than usual as his fingers brushed it back. You found yourself fidgeting, imagining what it would be like to run your fingers through his hair, touch his skin, and feel the texture of the beard that was just beginning to grow.

Realizing your mental drift, you closed your eyes tightly and buried your head in a notebook, trying to avoid looking at him. The rest of the class proceeded as usual, his voice pleasant and utterly hypnotic, and occasionally, he cracked a light joke to lighten the mood. Almost no one laughed, but you found it funny. There were only a few students, so he had no choice but to notice you.

You weren't foolish enough not to notice his eyes briefly passing over you, but you chalked it up to his duty to see if anyone needed help. So you avoided letting your brain jump to impossible conclusions.

And then there was the age difference; he was older, you couldn't say for sure how much, but the more pronounced lines on his face and his authoritative demeanor made that evident. Still, he was charming and, dare you say, a bit sexy. He had a well-sculpted physique, leaving enough room for you to describe him for hours.

"Could you continue for us?" he said, his voice distinct, making you look at him reluctantly. You didn't know it, but avoiding his gaze throughout the class had bothered him, but who was he to say anything about it unless you couldn't answer him?

You nodded, your hands sweaty; you knew what to say, just not where to find the courage. Your cheeks were already burning with anxiety. "I'm sorry," your voice was soft, and you stumbled over the first syllable. He seemed to understand. "It's okay," Mr. Turner leaned down to your level at your desk, his hands on his knees, and a somewhat encouraging smile. "I know you wrote an excellent paper on this; I know you know what to say," he said softly, turning toward you, his calm eyes and a nod of the head giving you confidence. His words made you look away for a moment, and your shy smile spread awkwardly.

Once you finished, he thanked you and added that you had done very well. He seemed genuinely pleased to see you speak, but perhaps it was just a product of your imagination. You even received a light applause from him, which didn't seem ironic. This made you feel more at ease and attentive during his classes; he was a great teacher.

At the end of class, he passed by the desks, handing out the respective papers we had discussed. Your face fell into a worried expression as you touched yours. Alex knew you deserved more, but he wouldn't make it easy for you. It wasn't his style as an educator to give out high grades easily.

Your smile disappeared in confusion; he felt a pang in his chest when he saw your reaction. He didn't say anything, just returned to his desk and said he was open to discussions. He hoped you would come to him and fight for the grade you deserved, but it was clear how upset you were about it.

Others left, content with their grades, and you still had the paper in your hands, looking between the notes. He avoided looking at you directly, yet couldn't help but glance at you from time to time.

"Mr. Turner," you sounded angelic as you approached him, your steps light as you handed him the paper. Your shirt was short, and when you handed him the paper, he couldn't help but notice the exposed skin of your stomach, which was briefly visible. "I thought I had done well; that's what you just said," your voice trembled, and as you got closer, he noticed your sweet scent. On the other hand, you couldn't focus on anything; minutes ago, you were sure you had done well, and things with him had been sorted out; he didn't hate you.

"It's not a bad grade," he said firmly, then immediately regretted it. It was brief, but for a moment, your eyes filled, and he could see how much it had frustrated you. He didn't blame you; in fact, he knew you were talented, and by the way you had written, he knew you had put in the effort. The problem wasn't you; any other teacher would have given you the highest grade. However, your grade wasn't bad; it just wasn't what you deserved and wanted.

"Do you think I can redo it? I can do better," he looked at your trembling hands and continued, "This grade is final; I can't allow you to do that." His words didn't match his tone, but you didn't notice; you wanted to rip up the paper in front of him and say you didn't need it.

You stood in front of him, disoriented, while he couldn't help but let his attention wander over you. He felt wrong, both because you were his student and because he was aware that you were over a decade younger. Still, without being able to explain it well, he found himself lost in thoughts of you from time to time, especially after having read what you wrote.

"Please," you pleaded softly as a last attempt, your eyebrow arched and your nose wrinkled in emphasis of your plea, and you looked so beautiful. "I can allow you to submit another," he confirmed, his face serious, the little furrow between his brows. Up close, you felt your breath catch as you noticed the exposed hairs on his chest. The scent of cigarettes and his cologne became more pronounced, and you liked it. Creating a new one would take so much time, but if it was your only option, there was nothing to be done.

Alex had only asked that in the hope of being able to explore more of your writing; by the end of the semester, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from letting you know that you were his number one fan if you allowed it. You had a beautiful way with writing; feelings seemed worth experiencing in your words. You nodded in agreement. "Okay, I need you to submit it by the end of the week." You didn't object; you seemed grateful, and Alex took mental note of how caring so much about that grade was something youthful; in the future, it wouldn't matter, but you didn't know that yet. Your smile, now smaller but still present, returned to your kind face, and he felt more comfortable, even dressed in his serious university professor attire. With that, he guided you to the door, his palm resting lightly on your back, not inappropriately, but gently, which caused him to blush a bit. You felt shivers run down your spine, but he didn't seem to notice, and both of you made your way to the exit. You thanked him once more, telling him that you wouldn't make him regret his decision, to which he assured you it wouldn't happen.

Your path to the next class was accompanied by a light and relaxed smile after his final words were simply, "I know you won't disappoint me; you didn't the first time," in his pleasant accent, followed by a pat on your shoulders. You felt like a fool, but you couldn't even think of trying to avoid it anymore.

…

"He's good, knows what he's doing. He follows my lead during, when I'm tired and breathless; he tilts his face and lets his nose graze my clit," your friend said casually, as if it were an everyday part of her life. Well, you couldn't relate. She was lounging on your bed, while you were on the floor with your laptop open to one of Professor Turner's published stories. As well as a valuable audiobook that was read by him between the navigation tabs, waiting for her to leave so you can have your moment of peace. You wanted to learn more about him, and your friend kept failing to get you to go out and meet new people. You were unfamiliar with the sensation of being touched, and she wanted to change that.

"I don't want to have to force someone to like me," you said, reconsidering what you had just breathed out, not wanting to sound offensive. You two were just different. She didn't mind; she just laughed. "I'll keep trying for you," and you appreciated that about her. You wanted someone in your life like that, but you didn't want it to be as insignificant as she described. She had already set you up with someone to talk to before, and the kiss was good, at least until you refused to have sex right away, which resulted in his friends laughing at you and whispering as you passed them in the hallway. You learned that sometimes it's better to wait and avoid certain situations.

"I'm okay like this, it's alright," you said, even though you weren't, but you wouldn't go through that again. She respected your decision. Your smile brightened as you saw a notification that you had received an email from Alex on the screen. You bit your lip, trying to contain your eagerness to click on it, making it something important that needed to be read slowly and appreciated. His notes on what he thought of your paper would be there, and he always made a point to highlight the positives and areas for improvement. It warmed your heart.

For a brief moment, his smile for you flashed in your mind, the wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, and his pointed nose following in harmony. You had to grip the fabric of your skirt between your fingers, soon having your friend's words echoing in your head. Professor Turner seemed like a good man in every sense of the word. You did believe he would treat his partners well in every way. Your friend pointed out that the boy she went out with listened to her, and you felt that he would too; both in listening and in other ways. You were sure, with what little you had learned about him, that he was observant.  There would be no need to tell him what to do, Mr Turner would understand your body and then he would not disappoint.  He could tell when a woman was tired or overwhelmed. An important one was that you also thought he was provocative, too impatient at times not to be.  You wanted to be able to know what it was like with him, even if it was through other people's experiences with him, just to get a little of that taste.  You didn't exactly feel good about the inconsistency of such thoughts. Still, you let yourself be carried away by them.

He made you wet with just his voice. If he were to touch you in that way, you were certain you would give yourself over completely. You sat up straighter, envisioning how good it would be to have his tongue on you, gentle and with relaxed moans because he wouldn't think going down on you was a bad thing or something to second-guess. You remembered how easily you could make your small vibrator slide when you were really excited, and you felt it would be the same with his fingers. They were longer and thicker than yours, but wet with his saliva and your body melting from his voice, they would be skillful.

The tip of his nose would surely brush deliciously against your clit as he savored your taste, following your cues. The beard that was beginning to grow would graze your sensitive skin, causing a slight burn that would remind you of his presence. Professor Turner would also shake his face into you, wanting to make sure he enjoyed pleasuring you as much as he did receiving. Oh, and you would love to be able to provide that to him. Unconsciously, you found yourself breathing heavily. Your friend laughed, "Are you this worked up over a notification?" She had gotten up to leave but returned when she noticed you were flustered. "Spill it, who's the lucky one?" You recoiled, shaking your head in denial, not wanting to admit that there was someone (or not exactly), but your smile was hard to hide.

"It's not really anyone," you still felt uncomfortable in your own skin, fearing you had done something wrong. She waited for you to continue. "Just an email about a paper I submitted, I got feedback on it now." She rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "What a nerd." Then you felt like exploring the situation further, considering that she also had a class with him but in a different subject. "Was it positive feedback at least? What subject is this for?" You mentally thanked her for asking, giving you an opening to continue.

"It's for Professor Turner's class. He let me redo one of the papers to try for a higher grade," you answered, and she raised an eyebrow. "He gave you a low grade?" The girl seemed surprised but not entirely. "This guy is impossible, what a..." She used a strong word. You didn't quite understand. While you still thought there was a chance he might dislike you, he didn't seem so harsh. He wasn't the friendliest at first, but as you thought back, you realized you had never seen him smile at any student in your class except you.

"Do people think he's bad?" You asked, furrowing your brow. Deep down, you wanted her to reassure you by saying positive things about him and making you feel normal about having this confusing crush on him. She then talked about his strict grading style, how he acted like a difficult person to talk to, and always had a stern expression. She wasn't wrong; you couldn't deny that. But he wasn't like that with you; it was different, and you couldn't explain it.

"I talked to him about my grade, and even though he was reluctant, he allowed me to redo it and submit it by email. He talks to me during class as well, asking me to explain something or asking for my opinion on what he's explaining. I think he's talented, but I can understand your point," you defended, without taking a breath, as if it were already a formulated and concrete idea in your head. You did spend a lot of time thinking about him since the first day of his class. She quickly caught on to where this was headed. "You like him, he's your type. Charming, grumpy, and writes well." Your cheeks burned. "He likes you; in my class, he doesn't chitchat with anyone, just does what's necessary. He enjoys teaching, I can see that in him, he's just not so sociable and too strict for a subject that should be straightforward. I've never even seen the guy smile." You pondered for a moment, deciding to pay closer attention to see if he treated you differently from the others or if it was just your head playing tricks on you.

You shrugged and concluded before she left, "I like him, and he frustrates me sometimes for being so strict, but I don't think he does it out of malice. He seems like a good man." She got up, laughing at how you talked about him. "Then go for it, suck his dick, choose him as your thesis advisor; I'm sure he'd love to have you under his wing." Her tone indicated it was a joke, but it sparked your imagination. He would be a good advisor, and you liked the idea of him praising your work with that pleased, bright look on his face. Alone, you opened the email. Your joy went from extreme to controlled; he could be quite harsh when pointing out the negatives, and sometimes you wondered if he did it just to be difficult. But this time, he found more positives in your writing. He had marked the parts he liked the most and written next to them why he liked them. Your heart warmed, and your stomach filled with happy butterflies. The last comment read, "You give me pleasure in reading something," and you heard it in his voice, deep and drawn-out. You felt yourself grow warm and realized how messed up you were for feeling like this. Your mouth was dry, and in the end, you saw that your grade was the highest, even with the not-so-great notes he had made.

Maybe he didn't dislike you after all. You lingered on the blurry, not much clear photo in his email signature for a while, with a stupid smile of accomplishment on your face. Then you decided to write him a thank-you, and you weren't as brief as you would have liked. The sensation of comfort taking over your body, along with your pleasant but not entirely appropriate thoughts about him causing things in your breathing, made you contemplate what could be done.

You rested your head comfortably, your laptop placed beside you. In a new tab, after opening the audiobook website, you found yourself browsing through the selection that appeared when you searched his name. If his voice was enticing in an inappropriate context, it would be even better alone, wouldn't it? Your chest tightened, knowing that it was wrong, but you weren't going to stop.

You put on your headphones, clicked on the longest one you could find, and relaxed your tense shoulders as the first whispered words filled your head. It was even better; here, you had him all to yourself, complete silence, and his voice echoing, well-recorded and clear as it guided you. He sounded precise, with deep and marked pauses, his typical breathing between phrases, and, with your eyes closed, you could imagine him gesturing and occasionally touching his nose or mouth as he spoke. Just like the gentle adjustment of the necklace and shirt that made his chest more visible and room for more of your thoughts to be explored.  In fact, that necklace coming off his soft skin on top of you in sweat would be something so pleasant.

You felt weak but in a relaxed way; it was good, pushing the voice that haunted your thoughts about him into the background. Delicately, as if any abrupt movement might break the spell, you reached for your box under the bed. The small, pink object came to life in your hand, your throat already dry and his narration causing your head to tilt slightly to the side, as if he were caressing your face. You let yourself be completely carried away as you pressed it against yourself.

You swallowed hard, leaving it there for a while, immersed in how Mr. Turner seemed to be speaking to you. Everything was slow, every syllable that came from his rosy lips was cherished. You wanted so much for it to be him there, touching you and whispering while guiding you. You were sure he would say things like, "That's it, you're taking me so well, doll," or "Look at how good you are, you're such a good girl for me." And as cliché as it might sound, you had no doubt that he would make it sound like something the gods themselves would envy.

You pulled the thin fabric aside, pushing the vibrator inside you. Your legs trembled a bit, but as expected, the small object slid in just right. Your lips parted in a satisfied sigh, whispering his last name as you closed your legs slowly and felt the tingling sensation intensify. His name never felt so delicious and engaging as your tongue rolled out to the sound and went through your lips so vividly. Your head throbbed, and you could already see him sitting at his desk in front of yours, guiding you, telling you what to do and say, teaching you tricks to make it even better (you knew you weren't very skilled).

You got louder, whimpering because you wanted your thoughts to become real so badly, and then you saw nothing but white spots in your vision. Your chest heaved, your breathing completely out of sync, and the area beneath you grew wet as you felt too sensitive to continue with the vibrator.

This time, you didn't feel bad; you felt really good, actually. Your body relaxed, his voice still being absorbed by you in a therapeutic way. Then, you imagined lying on his chest, pulling your pillow to your arms, and how he would kiss you solemnly and have his hands in your hair, giving you comforting words until you fell asleep after he had made you feel so wonderful. 

Although you were feeling good now, the following morning would be a bitter testament to how you were digging yourself into a hole with no bottom, and the light wouldn't be there to save you.

…

 Alex received your email, and a pleasant blush crept onto his face along with a warm smile. He could picture you reading what he had written, your hands between your thighs, a happy expression on your face, and all giddy, unable to contain yourself in your chair. He appreciated how much you valued his feedback, but he knew how hardworking and intelligent you were. He wanted to help you realize that you were good on your own, not just because he believed it.

He ran his hand through his hair, feeling hot from the heat. Your notification had arrived on his phone, and being a seasoned university professor, he preferred to wait to access his laptop to read and respond to you properly if needed. He tried to get into the thing that he was used to teaching, but that wasn't entirely the case. While he found it tiresome to teach subjects he liked and found interesting when no one seemed interested, he enjoyed it when you were there for him, you were the exception (the teacher’s pet). The thought made him chuckle and bite his lip. It was tiring, but he liked it, except for all the social interaction that weighed on him.

He had just returned from the market after giving two lectures, and he had exceeded his limit for social interaction. Yet, seeing your email notification on the screen gave him the extra energy he needed for the rest of the day. Just the thought of your quick exchange earlier when he passed by you on the first floor during lunch, even if brief, brought a warmth to his chest. You smiled at him, waved, and whispered a "good day" or "have a good rest of your day, Professor." He always smiled back with a hand in the air, trying to keep his face relaxed, and he actually showed his teeth. He wasn't used to all this sweetness from his students and had never found himself making an effort for it, but with you, it was worth it.

Indeed, no one but you spoke directly to him out of pure, spontaneous will. If others did, he would remain serious, with a furrowed brow, and nod in agreement. He honestly preferred it that way, with no one besides you trying to have a small talk with him. He didn't dislike his students, but he didn't like flattery and dumb questions that could be avoided if they paid attention in class.

His head began to ache, and he noticed the sweat on his body, prickling and making him feel irritated. Stress was about to come back, but he remembered that he needed to read your email. He removed his belt, sliding it off his waist slowly and soon feeling relieved. He felt even better after unbuttoning all the buttons on his shirt and peeling it off. He quickly decided between taking a shower or reading your sweet words first, considering which order would leave him relaxed for longer so he could sleep. He knew that whatever he did, thoughts related to you would still linger in his mind until he fell asleep.

He sat on the bed, pulling the laptop toward him, and although he wasn't in a hurry, he found himself restless until the screen lit up, and he could access his account. Once he did, your simple message didn't fail to soften him. The excessive exclamation points reminded him of how young you were. It was like a letter, with your polite and correct punctuation. He could almost hear your voice as he read your words.

The way you called him "Mr. Turner" never failed to affect him. Others had addressed him this way, but it was different with you. Your eyes sparkled, your smile widened, your pupils got alive, and your pleasant face eagerly awaited for him to look at you and speak to you. He thought he was too old for this, and he certainly was, but he couldn't avoid how you had invaded his soul.

You had no knowledge of what was going on in his head, but he felt like he was corrupting you. He felt dirty for getting so energized by giving you compliments he knew you liked to hear and then patting your back while seeing you happy about it. What the hell was he doing? And he couldn't deny that he found comfort in how beautiful you looked when you were frustrated, your eyes seemed more tired, and your breathing uneven when you were upset about one of his negative comments (sometimes he did it on purpose).

Feeling his own chest grow heavier and his mind getting increasingly lost, he opted for a shower, even though he was aware that idealizing you wouldn't end there. Now without clothes, under the shower, with you like a curse surrounding him, he realized just how messed up he was. He couldn't avoid it anymore, even though he didn't want to. He knew there was no turning back.

The words from your email clung to him as water flowed over his hair and down his shoulders. You had shown how much you appreciated him and knew his work, the care in choosing your words to praise him, and saying that you wanted to get to him in person soon to reinforce how much you had liked his feedback, the way would like to work through them and see you unravel in front of him because he noticed that your courage in emails wasn't the same as in person. He found that so adorable.

His overactive imagination was leading him to cute places related to you, but it was sparking other curiosities in him too, even though it was about how delicate and somewhat innocent he found you (although he would never admit it that way). Soon, he felt heavy, needing relief as the water splashed over him, and he sighed in exasperation at himself. He was being as pathetic as a teenager. Why couldn't he stop?

His breathing grew rigid, catching in his dry throat, and he allowed himself to be carried away by the flow of his fantasies. His hand ran over his abdomen, eyes tightly closed, hoping that this would make him feel less guilty about it. His thumb glided over the sensitive skin, and a soft sigh escaped his lips; he felt sore and swollen despite doing so little. He continued slowly but with precision. He believed that giving you pleasure wasn't such a difficult task; you would appreciate the touch no matter what. Not that it made him want to go easy on you. He felt like he could have his hands around your waist, squeezing your soft flesh with delight while admiring your breasts, giving them gentle bites and generous suckling that would make you gasp for air for extended periods. Your hands would be cradling the nape of his neck, fingers entwined in his tousled hair. He found comfort in this, feeling that he could make you feel the same way.

He also thought that your body would respond well to his. He was convinced that you were addicted to being a good girl, and that was not up for discussion. The way you melted under his compliments, listened to his harsh criticisms, and sought to improve upon them, you would deny any chance of being labeled a bad girl. As more moans escaped his lips, with the strength of his fingers unaltered, he thought about going a little harder on you, not to hurt, but to make you think about begging him to stop. The tears that would stream down the corners of your eyes as you tried to be good for him and take him in you just right. "You're doing so well, babygirl. You’re so good to me." You would open your bright eyes to him, feeling encouraged to continue being what he needed. He would clearly notice and slow down, accommodating his fingers on your clit and making you adjust to him with soft whimpers that made you endure and enjoy it until the end.

He also liked how you would react when he stimulated you to the extreme, your sensitivity and his desire to taste your essence on his tongue. He could say that you were as sweet as his last name sounded when you talked to him in class. He would tease you with his tongue, kissing you as if it were the only time and chance he had to touch you. And you would fight not to close your thighs around him, but as you were a good girl, you would succeed in keeping yourself spread open while he exhausted you a few more times. The thought of you reaching your peak, your eyes closed, and the tears he knew would be there because you did that when you got frustrated with his opinions on your writing, and your mouth slightly open with his name escaping, made him reach his climax. A deep, raspy groan echoed through the bathroom, his head heavy, and his shoulders feeling lighter and more satisfied. He worked his hand until the last drops came out and marked his stomach just before the water could wash it away down the drain.

He felt good, guilty, but his body wasn't saying that. "Fuck," he sighed, not knowing if it was relief or the headache that would come later due to this; it was getting worse to a dimension he hadn't imagined. He would surely ruin you if he continued; it wasn't as enjoyable as he wished.

Still, he got out of the shower and found himself picturing how you would snuggle up to him, your tired body and calm eyes enveloped by his, and how he would love to tell you stories until he saw you fall asleep safe in his arms or listen to you talk about your day. He liked your voice; it made him feel good. At this point, he desired you in all these ways, from the most profane to the most adorable, for your physical and emotional well-being.

You still haunted his dreams, so vividly that he reached out for you in bed. In his imagination, he had lifted you by the waist and placed you sitting on his desk. The remaining students had left, and he could revel in how your hands were trembling and your face was so delicate as you gazed at him. You used to wear knee-high socks with longer boots, and he found it sexy yet cute. He felt like you made things your own, that you gave life to them. And then he found himself pulling at that piece of clothing, your legs spreading apart, and he had to instruct you to stay quiet before someone noticed as his fingers touched between your thighs. He caressed over the damp fabric, nodding his head and waiting for you to do the same, indicating that you understood to stay calm and quiet. The door would be closed, but the glass window could still give you away. You were facing away from it, and if you behaved, everything would go smoothly.

Alex could feel you soaking through his fingers, making them slippery. You sucked on his finger skillfully, being such a great girl, and stayed still without him having to coax you into relaxing as he went deeper. Your sighs were adorable, and he felt himself getting hard. He woke up before he could make you reach your peak and realized that the dream had an effect on him. There, he knew that if given the opportunity, maybe he wouldn't be able to fight against what he wanted to do, purely out of morality.

…

The following week, there was no class with Turner due to some unforeseen circumstances of his. However, he was still around for the week. Being as observant as you were, you passed by the same spot at 12:45 on Friday, gave him a slight wave, and although you had planned to approach him and ask how he was, you didn't. That is, until he called out to you, causing your body to freeze and your heart to race, forcing you to get closer.

He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, his cheeks flushed and intense. You noticed his restlessness as you got to him; it was cute, not awkward. He held a coffee and had a cigarette between his fingers. He exhaled the smoke in the opposite direction to yours and got rid of it as soon as you arrived by his side.

"Are you good, Professor?" It didn't fail to make him nervous, but he still looked at you without understanding. "I'm sorry, I guess it's not my business; I just thought to ask out of politeness since I haven't seen you this week."

He laughed at how you stumbled over your words, and he didn't blame you; he felt the same way. The fact that he made you feel like your question was inappropriate even made his chest tighten a bit.

"It's okay, I had a routine check-up, but I'm fine," he replied briefly but nodded with a comfortable smile. He could see you swallowing nervously and how your fingers wouldn't stop moving while he had his eyes on you.

"I thought of a book for you, if you don't mind." Your eyes met his, and you seemed excited. "I really like it, and I thought you might like it too."

The idea that he had thought of you made your body tingle, and the rush of blood to your face drowned out the noise around you. You took the coffee from his hands, noticing how he fumbled with opening his bag, and the light touch of your skins made you wish for more—it was warm and soft.

He took out the book, handing it to you, and you nodded with a faint smile. You hugged the cover to yourself, avoiding his gaze for a moment. It felt insane being around him after all the things you did with him in mind. You weren't exactly proud of that. The collar of his striped T-shirt was carelessly folded, and the buttons you loved so much were unbuttoned, revealing his chest briefly. You wished you could fix it for him.

This time, he wore a dark blazer and flare jeans, and he was pleasant to look at. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed, "I left notes in some parts so that I can know what you think later, if you'll allow me." Then you realized that he was doing this because he knew you needed to do well in his course to get into the master's program; still, you found it cute.

"Oh, yes, I can write to you when I finish, right?" He agreed, knowing that he would be waiting for your email in the coming weeks.

"I'm glad to know you're okay, Mr. Turner," you said awkwardly, your face fervently hot, and thanked him for the book. As you turned around, you felt his hand on your wrist; it wasn't as soft as before, but it was comforting, with the fingertips firmer as he squeezed your skin. Then, your eyes met his with a raised eyebrow.

"I need you to give me back my coffee, pet," he said playfully, and your knees weakened a bit. He felt pleased to be able to contemplate you in his mind.

…

The heat had taken its toll on Alex. He had left his blazer in the car and decided to visit one of the open bars near the campus. His hands rested inside his pockets as he patiently waited for his juice and water, yearning for the moment when he could finally get home and enjoy a cold beer. It was his final class of the afternoon, which meant it was getting quite late, and the students were scattered around. While the bar wasn't overly crowded, he could still recognize a few faces.

As soon as the chilled cup was placed in his hands, he caught sight of you with your back turned. You were wearing your signature knee-high socks and boots, but this time, you had opted for a skirt and a tank top, giving you a more relaxed and comfortable appearance. You looked stunning. With you engaged in conversation with a friend he had glimpsed from a distance, you were all smiles and animated hand gestures, bringing life to the scene.

Realizing he was staring, Alex chided himself and tried to divert his attention back to his juice. Yet, within a few minutes, his gaze involuntarily returned to you. Now, you were alone, engrossed in his book that sat next to you, its pages marked to indicate that you had already begun reading. A smile of satisfaction graced his lips; he had strategically placed notes between the pages for you to discover, hoping you would notice.

You sipped from an orange beverage, and Alex decided not to speculate whether it contained alcohol. However, he knew you weren't intoxicated when you suddenly turned towards him and greeted him with a friendly wave. He felt momentarily caught off guard but managed to offer a warm wave in return, nodding to acknowledge you. Your smile was radiant, and he couldn't help but notice how different you appeared outside the confines of the classroom. He longed for the opportunity to engage with you in a context that wasn't purely academic, but he was well aware that pursuing such a connection might be detrimental to both of you.

You turned back to your previous position, sipping your drink through a straw, while still sneakily stealing glances at him. Alex deliberated whether to linger a bit longer for your sake. The table you occupied was well-lit, offering a refreshing ambiance that was perfect for a summer day. The atmosphere was delightful, and he could easily imagine you enjoying such a setting regularly.

He held his bottle of water, pondering the ethical implications of sitting with you while you were alone. His initial plan was to finish his drink and then leave. But he couldn't bring himself to do that—not for his sake, but for yours. It wouldn't be fair to you. He feared the potential consequences would fall squarely on your shoulders rather than his own.

He shook his head and eventually decided to leave. As you lowered your head into his hands, he waited for a few more minutes, half-expecting you to look his way. But it didn't happen.

Then everything seemed to happen very quickly. He returned to his car, leaving behind the water and even starting the engine before realizing he had left his wallet inside. He hesitated but ultimately turned back, despite his frustration over forgetting his documents.

His wallet was still where he had left it. He retrieved it and then shifted his attention to you, curious and attentive. Your hands were fidgeting with your socks, as if attempting to wipe away sweat. A boy was seated in front of you, but your attention was elsewhere. The guy sported a smile that made Alex uncomfortable on your behalf.

Your discomfort was palpable, yet you seemed powerless to do anything about it. You turned to the side, your head moving away from the boy, and as you gasped for air, the guy's grin widened. Your elbows dropped onto your knees, and your hands moved to pull your hair away from your face. You appeared more sweaty than usual, and you felt increasingly weak.

As you realized your strength was waning, the boy signaled for someone else to assist you. You resisted, but they gently pushed you back into your chair to prevent you from collapsing. They weren't being nice about it.

For Alex, that was the tipping point. He strode over to them and forcefully removed the boy's hand from your arm. "Get away from her," his stern voice reverberated, and you didn't understand what was happening, but you knew you didn't feel well.

The guys attempted to speak over Alex, trying to explain themselves, even though there was no justification for their actions. Their chatter only served to irritate him further. He held onto you, his hand caressing your face, and your eyes were half-closed; you were clearly not in a good state.

After another remark from the boys, Alex glared at the boy with an even more intense hatred. His brow furrowed, and his tone grew sharper. "Just stay away from her; I won't let her be alone with you," he warned, making it clear that they should not attempt such behavior with anyone else either.

The boys exchanged nervous glances and silently agreed to leave, though Alex couldn't have cared less about them at that moment.

"What’re you feeling, pet?" He placed his hands on his knees, lowering himself to your level. You were dazed, your skin tingling, and you weren't sure what to say, or if you could say anything at all. Alex considered asking where you lived and offering to take you home, but he suspected you lived in the vicinity of the campus, and it wouldn't be appropriate for him to be seen with you in this state. Taking you to his own home didn't seem like a good idea either, but he did live nearby, and it appeared to be the most reasonable option.

He cupped your face in his hands, close enough to smell your scent once again. You smiled faintly, your eyes still distant but focusing on him. You were conscious, just not in the best condition. "I don't want to stay here; my head is spinning," you mumbled, not entirely sure what was wrong. It could have been due to poor nutrition or dehydration, you thought.

"Look, I'll stay with you ‘til you feel better, alright?" he spoke gently, as if soothing a baby. You nodded, his touch on your cheek making you lean into his warmth. As he thought about reaching out to your forehead with his lips, he realized where he was and quickly pulled back, rising to his feet with you leaning on him for support.

…

Alex gently sat you in the passenger seat, and you huddled in front of him, noticeably self-conscious about your attire. He chuckled warmly, pulling his blazer from the back seat. You felt cradled by his presence as he slipped the fabric over your arms and fastened the buttons around your midsection. It resembled a short dress, making you feel more comfortable, and it carried a pleasant scent. Your stomach still tingled, and you were aware that it was because of him and not whatever had happened earlier.

He rested your head against the headrest, his serene eyes guiding you, and he didn't seem regretful about helping you, despite the crease between his brows. Then he fastened your seatbelt and handed you his water bottle. Your vision was blurry, and sudden movements hurt, but he wasn't a saint, and he had a rough view of how you must be feeling. He'd been your age before, although thankfully, in his case, it had been a result of a spontaneous choice.

"I'll wait a bit before starting the car, alright?" he suggested, and you nodded. He gently led the bottle to your lips, encouraging you to drink a substantial portion of it. He wiped your chin and face with the hem of his T-shirt, and you followed his every move, your attention fixated on him. Without the blazer, he looked even better, and you lightly held his wrist. He seemed concerned, but you did it because you wanted to and felt that you could, even though you'd never been this close before. "Thank you, Mr. Turner," you said casually, as if it didn't affect him profoundly.

As he sat down on the driver's side of the car, he closed the tinted windows, feeling safer with that precaution. He still worried about putting you in danger. He waited, knowing that feeling dizzy along with drinking water wouldn't be a good combination, even though he had insisted on it to help your body recover more quickly. He could hear your calm breathing, which put him at ease. You had closed your eyes, your mouth slightly ajar, and he looked at you, allowing himself to be captivated by every detail. He carefully adjusted your hair to prevent it from catching on the seat and strands from being pulled, whispering, "You can sleep; everything’ll be alright, I promise, little one." You found yourself charmed by the pet name, involuntarily smiling, and he made a mental note that you like it. Your arms lightly touched, and with the comforting scent of him surrounding you, you drifted into a light sleep. It was strange to be in such a bad situation with an outcome that neither of you regretted. He kept the radio off until reaching your destination. He’d never drive without music. 

… 

Your eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light as you realized you were leaning on him for support. Your forehead was resting on his shoulder, his soft T-shirt against your skin. He was more comforting to touch than your mind had led you to trust. He was kneeling in front of you while you sat on the bed. You no longer felt dizzy, but you were weak, with not all your senses fully present. Alex's hands delicately removed your earrings and necklaces, and it was nice to have him so close, a bit surreal. You almost believed you could be a doll with how he was treating you. He moved back, laying you down on his bed, and he smiled at you as a way to reassure you that everything was okay. You grabbed his arm, afraid he would leave. Alex quickly shook his head. "Hey, little one, I'm not going anywhere. I just need to get some water for you and something to dry your face." He sounded caring, making you want to cry because you knew this was wrong. But why did it feel so right?

"Promise?" You asked, not into the idea of falling into a deep sleep and when you wake up he wouldn't be there to call you little one anymore. He nodded, extending his pinky finger to seal the promise. The silence without him wasn't comforting; you felt like there were monsters under the bed. Still out of mind about time and space, you realized you were in his room, which made you feel even more fragile. The room had a light blue color, seemed well-lit during the day, had books scattered in an organized manner, and two guitars hanging on the wall. That made you put your hand over your mouth as you imagined how his fingers would behave playing those strings. You wanted to hug him, to let the scent and the soft chest lull you to sleep again. Your head was noisy, and you didn't like it.

When he returned, he moved in slow motion to you. He wiped your face and neck with a damp cloth, and you wondered why he was alone. He was a good man; you had thought about that before. Alex wouldn't sleep next to you, but he would stay with you as long as you needed him. He sat with his back against the headboard, looking at you for a moment. It was too late; this was no longer just a casual situation. You'd have to talk about it; you had formed a bond. Although you were scared, Alex liked it.

You asked him to lie down, and he complied. You were side by side, facing each other. Your eyelids struggled to close, but first they followed your fingers as they roamed his face. You traced the gentle lines at the corner of his eye, then the bridge of his nose. He was handsome. Sometimes you wanted to forget that he was older than you, even though you liked him that way. Your hand then touched his rough stubble, and he smiled when he saw you smiling at him. It was like a dream, like you had imagined and even better.

In an abrupt and unquestionably unplanned proceed, your hand hooked onto the collar of his T-shirt, pulling yourself closer. It was a light pull, and in the blink of an eye, your lips were on his, tender and airless. They lingered there, just touching, feeling each other's warmth and the mixing of breaths. Your hand pressed against his chest and held him to yourself, like he could heal you. You moved your lips with his slowly, warmly, and precisely, enjoying in a comfortable sigh every second of it, until he broke into a sigh of reality. He couldn't be doing this, not with you like this. Not wanting to startle you, he sealed your cheeks and nose a few countless times before planting small forehead kisses when he needed to refuse your touch. He felt guilty, but he wouldn't deny that it had been good, way better than he had fantasized. There were no words, and none were needed; both of you were aware of it. Although he thought you might not be as much, he feared you might not even remember this when you woke up.

Alex held your palm against his chest until you fell asleep. Then he got up, covered your body with a warm sheet, and left you there. Unable to restrain himself from touching your face before and stroking your hair. The next day, you would wake up, wondering if it had been a vivid dream or not. But his room would leave no doubts, with the guitars, the well-lit atmosphere, and his blazer still carrying his scent on you. You didn't know how you were going to talk to him after that, you thought about how he must think of you as a kid who doesn't know how to be in the real world. This time, however, you noticed a photo on the bedside table. He was hugging a woman while kissing her forehead. She had a neatly cut fringe and an angelic face; she was very pretty, and it made you feel insecure. She was around his age. You were wrong to be there, and then you got that the bed you were on was a double bed. You wanted to run away even though your head was pounding. Professor Turner might act like a good man, but he was still a man. Above all, you tried to think well of him; perhaps it was a divorce, right? You would have noticed the ring on his finger if he were married. He wouldn't take off the ring, would he? But why was that photo still there? You quickly got up, failing to remain composed when you saw that he had left a note and some money in case you needed to call an Uber. You couldn't just read it right away. You wanted to believe he was good, but it hurt. You felt used even though you hadn't done anything. Yet, you still felt like you wanted him around more often because you felt good with him. In the middle of class, Alex struggled with impatience, hoping you wouldn't leave without taking the note and the snack he had left for you, so you would have his number and be safe. But it didn't happen, at least not when he expected it to. 

...

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[transmutationisms]

I'm confused about your argument, if you don't think degrees should exist as a barrier for participating a particular profession then how you do believe a standard should be maintained? I'm getting an impression you've got all this experience and credentials in academia and are now basically coming out and saying it's all bullshit. And when we're talking about "cheating", do we mean like using accommodations that bend the rules or just not bothering to do the work at all?

ok you might want to read my last few reblogs, which go into some more depth on this. like ave said earlier, the university as it exists now doesn't exist to spread knowledge but to restrict it. so the idea that a degree granted in this system is primarily a means of ensuring 'qualification' is an idealist fiction. again and like i said earlier, a degree doesn't necessarily even line up with what job a person ends up getting---which should tell us a lot about what a degree actually communicates and the way 'being educated' is evaluated independently of the extent to which a person's degree actually taught them anything of value to a given profession. what a degree mostly signifies in actuality is that a person succeeded at being in school; there are many different ways this can happen (even at the advanced level---any academic can tell you, MAs and PhDs do get awarded to people all the time who are incompetent or produce shitty work). there are people with degrees whom i respect immensely, but i don't assume that an academic credential means a person is 'smart' or that their work is high-quality. like, ted cruz went to harvard and herman cain had an md; credentialled experts have fucked up the covid pandemic, produced the industry-funded work that justifies medical fatphobia, etc etc. none of this critique is a new position on my part.

fundamentally idgaf about cheating because i don't think it's unjust to cheat a system that is itself unjust. i don't think it's wrong morally to view a degree as a hoop you need to jump through in order to access certain jobs, and to do what you need to do in order to get through that hoop. in practice cheating is very often the result of students who desperately need eg to pass a class in order to keep a scholarship, who do not have the financial wiggle room to fail and are not being given options or support by profs or the institution. but tbc there is no way to crack down on cheating that only targets 'less sympathetic' cases!

[demonslayedher]

Nerdy cultural details about the word "Hashira"

Some details can be hard to pick up without context or in translation. I recently went over a few details about the Hashira's names, Breaths, or symbols, but today I want to focus on the word "Hashira."

To get this out of the way, I use "Pillar" all over this blog because I thought that's what they were called. I was astounded that phrase was not translated, as it is a (somewhat rare) case of a one-to-one translation equivalent. They are the pillars that support the Demon Slayer Corp, after all. The kanji for it (柱) very literally means "pillar" in any modern day Japanese to English dictionary. But since you all know the word "Hashira," let's climb up and see where it takes us! First, the kanji itself (brought over from China and given the Japanese pronunciation "hashira," based on the existing spoken Japanese language), is composed of 木 for "tree" and 主 for "master" or "main/principal," among other semi-literal or more widely applicable possible meanings in modern kanji dictionaries. However, Prof. Owada Tetsuo, a retired university professor who published an unofficial book of his own Kimetsu no Yaiba interpretations based on Japanese demon slaying folklore, points out that 主 can also be interpreted as a still flame atop a candlestick, and that 柱 (hashira) is a tree that cannot be moved. (I'll continue to use a lot of Prof. Owada's details in this explanation, as well as details I have picked up in other research.) That makes 柱 closely associated with holy trees found in, or treated as, Shinto shrines throughout Japan. As Shinto is a nature-based belief system, trees are often something that a kami (deity) will inhabit. Keep Shinto in mind, because we're going to focus on that a lot.

Before that, let's finish up with the kanji 柱. According to the first official fanbook, there is an upper limit of nine Hashira because there are nine strokes in the 柱 kanji. (See this dictionary entry for a breakdown of those nine strokes.)

Now that the easy official tidbit is out of the way, back to the Shinto fun stuff and conjecture! We need to dive a bit more into the spoken Japanese language, from which a lot of Shinto terms derive. For starters, the Japanese language uses counter words for when you say a certain number of beings or objects. You could think of this as "a sheet of paper" or "three rolls of tape." It is an annoying part of starting out your study of the language because there are a lot to memorize based on sizes, shapes, types of animals, etc. Deities also have their own counter word: 柱 (hashira). This goes to show how the Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corp are something more than human, what with how much power they possess.

Now if we think about the pronunciation of the spoken Japanese word from long before a Chinese written character was assigned to it, the "hashi" of "hashira" is a "bridge." Clever ones among you might know that "hashi" also means "chopsticks." But even chopsticks have the same effect as a bridge! They serve as a connection, bridging the gap between you and what was another living thing, that which will become a part of you as your sustenance. "Hashira," as pillars, are likewise something that serve as a connection, in this case, a vertical one. They are that which connect us with the heavens, or in the case of the Demon Slayer Corp, they bridge the gap between the limits of human strength and the inhuman strength of demons.

As another Shinto tie, one of the connections that Prof. Owada and I both made was that there are nine pillars that support the main sanctuary in shrine architecture like that of Izumo Taisha Grand Shrine. Or rather, in the case of at least one of the historical iterations of Izumo Taisha, there were nine groups of three massive tree trunks each, resulting in a shrine over 48 meters in height (see here for photos of how big the remains of those pillars are and how exciting the archaeology is). These pillars give you a sense of awe for just how powerful pillars can be, especially when you have a spread of nine to distribute the weight. Now, there's more that Prof. Owada and I would both say about how Izumo Taisha also ties in with the "Ubuyashiki" surname or the "yakata" title by which the Hashira address him, but that's a dose of nerdery for some other time.

[darthstitch]

Professor Mysterious and Professor Wet Cat

This is my take on that Dreamling post making the rounds about Hob and Dream being uni professors and that Hob is surprisingly NOT the prof who overshares and Dream is the one who inadvertently does.

Buckle up, kids, let's have some fun with this. Also, gentle reminder: NOBODY TELL NEIL. SHHHH!

This time around, Hob's using his proper name, Robert Gadling, because it's been a while since he's trotted that one out and he kinda likes the seeming rightness that the once upon a time near-illiterate medieval peasant that he'd been was now teaching at a rather prestigious university. However, he's not prone to sharing much about his personal life to his students. He's still warm and friendly, but he's cautious about letting Certain Things slip.

Hilariously, the things that do slip end up making him everyone's favorite university cryptid. Sometimes Hob slips into Middle English when he's stressed or emotional. Sometimes he might use odd old-fashioned sounding oaths like "God's wounds," "Holy Jesu," and "Mother Mary's teats" (this last one sends everyone into spasms of laughter).

The literature department ADORES him because they can always drag Professor Gadling off to read Chaucer in its original form or even medieval French, his pronunciation perfect and dead on. Shakespeare is the only thing he'll flat out refuse to read because in any universe this Fuzzy Blue Alien's gonna write, his hatred of the Bard is the stuff of legend.

The students universally agree that Professor G is basically British Indiana Jones, because he's also known to have lethal expertise in medieval weapons. There's been more than a few fantasies inspired during the booked-solid outdoor demonstrations where he works in tandem with the other medieval history professors to show everyone how medieval weapons worked. Apparently, his favorite weapons are the longbow, the bastard sword and daggers.

Obviously, this all leads to Professor Gadling being the campus crush and his relationship status is a matter of hot speculation even if he's made it perfectly clear he was not about to violate his ethical standards or position as a teacher. It still doesn't stop the fevered fantasies of more than a few grad students, though. But that's all they're gonna get.

And then, there's the new literature teacher, Professor T. Murphy.

To everyone's disappointment, Professor Murphy is only going to be at the university for a limited series of lectures. Word of mouth spread fast, and his classes were now booked solid and he was going to be asked to return, once his apparently very busy schedule is cleared.

7. Of course, he's an instant campus crush, with the "Goth angel" looks, the Edward Cullen jokes are definitely flying and there's more than a few students melting after they heard him speak. "That Voice" is always referred to in capital letters and it's well deserved.

8. "Campus crush" turns to "Official Precious Blorbo" once the students all discover that behind the whole regal and imperious Goth Prince vibe that he gave off, was an adorkable darling wet cat who was just completely gone on "my beloved." If he's discussing a love sonnet or poem, there's definitely going to be a reference to "my beloved" or "my dearest" or "my love." It's never sickeningly cloying and the sweet tiny little smile that takes over his normally serious face is like sunshine. The kilig feels are real.

9. He's also forever worrying that he's not enough for "my dearest" as he's rather painfully aware "of my lack in human graces" - which everyone translates to "OMG HELP I HAVE THE SOCIAL SKILLS OF A SCRUNKLY WET CAT." He frets that he's somehow failing his beloved, who is infinitely sweet and thoughtful and caring and that Professor Murphy is the selfish one, really, who doesn't deserve the man.

10. The students, of course, immediately ADOPT him. Tesco ice cream runs are done, YouTube videos on cooking and invites to kitchens are extended so Professor Murphy could practice making something that is "not a catastrophic culinary disaster unfit for human consumption." There was a session on the language of flowers, which everyone had enjoyed. For a while, flowers with significant meanings were presented to sweethearts and lovers all over the uni. There's an unforgettable after-class meeting in which the craft-inclined students teach Professor Murphy how to knit and crochet and he was really rather proud of the scarf he had created.

11. Professor Murphy's raven had been rather entertained playing with the yarn scraps. The students learn that the raven's name is Matthew.

12. And then, dashing, mysterious Professor Gadling finally peeks into Professor Murphy's class.

"The things I do for you, myne owne hertis rote. Bloody Shaxberd."

"But you do read him so very well, my love." And there it was, that tiny, soft, sweet smile, now aimed in Professor Gadling's direction.

Professor Gadling sighs and puts a hand over his chest. There's a very familiar scarf draped over his neck. "God's wounds, dove, warn your poor, long-suffering husband before you do these things."

"What 'things,' dearest?"

Professor Gadling waves his arms helplessly. The scarf slips a little, offering a tantalizing view of a purplish mark on his throat. "That thing!" He looks appealingly at the students, who are now all stifling their delighted giggles. "Look at him! My heart can only take so much!"

And that was how everyone found out that Professors Gadling and Murphy were actually happily married.

Incidentally, the Shakespeare reading, in which both professors took part, was a true kilig apocalypse. Instant campus legend.

[merakiui]

Hi hi ~

What are your thoughts on professor/TA twst characters x college student reader ??? I literally cannot stop thinking about Prof ashengrotto who just adores the sweet and diligent student who sits in the front of the class, always participating, always turns in assignments on time... Prof ashengrotto who grades your papers mercilessly knowing you'll barge into his office biting back tears because who's grade is this?? Certainly not yours?? What if you lose your scholarship?? Whoever is going to help you???

p p pp p p pppp professor.........ashengrotto..........

(cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, one-sided student-professor relationship, age gap (azul is 38 & reader is 23), coercion, abuse of power/authority, implied dub-con)

He's ruthless with every paper he grades, but he's especially ruthless with you. Professor Ashengrotto has a reputation in his department: socially, he's handsome and young (a mere thirty-eight, and he's just as bright, if not brighter, than some of the older professors). Academically, he's brilliant and very knowledgeable when it comes to business and the economy (and interestingly enough he has a penchant for marine biology as well), but he pushes students to do their very best. And to some that may seem like he's too hard or difficult, but he's actually very understanding and if you meet him outside of the classroom he's not as intimidating as he appears at the lectern.

But even so he expects his students to strive for the best possible grades. He wants everyone to pass his classes, but he also won't cut corners or raise grades even if they're a point or so away. He claims he's fair when it comes to grading, but sometimes it feels like he deliberately grades for every possible mistake rather than the content itself. At least, that's how it feels with your work. He took off points for a few grammar errors (of all things) and even took off points regarding very minor discrepancies in your information. When you brought it up to him after class, he'd simply told you, "You should know your subject if you're going to write a report on them and obviously, from the looks of your most recent paper, you do not."

It was a report on the intelligence of the octopus. You'd spent hours poring over textbooks and academic journals. You'd penned every reliable source, every fact, every study and its data. How any of that was "incorrect" is beyond you. You even cited every source properly! What is he even thinking, marking you for "incorrect information"?

In your defense, you are not a marine biology major. You're just taking a class because you need course credits and this was one of the few that provided you with the extra hours needed. You know Professor Ashengrotto from the business classes you're taking. He's just as cutthroat there. Apparently, the academic world is just as ruthless as the business world (at least in Professor Ashengrotto's eyes).

As if your professor can't get any harsher, he does. He failed your most recent report for one of the business courses, and it hurt your grade a considerable amount. So, like clockwork, you find yourself in his office, your paper nearly crumpled in your fist with how tightly you're gripping it. You can't fail out of his class. You need to keep a certain grade average each semester if you intend to keep your scholarship, your status as an honors student, your roles in certain clubs and extracurriculars. You verbalize these worries to him and he smiles and proposes an offer: You can redo the entire report so long as you take care to do a better job. It sounds great until you hear the deadline. Three days. He's giving you three days. Three days to write an entire report from the ground up because he won't accept changes made to the already existing paper. Three days.

Three days.

You think you might go insane.

Oh, but the fair and polite Professor Ashengrotto has a suggestion! He's willing to extend that time if you meet with him for coffee to discuss further. Stupidly, you agree right away, thanking him for his understanding, and he continues to smile, to say he really does get it. University is taxing; he knows. He's been there before. He just wants to help you; this is your future, after all.

On your way out of his office, you fail to notice the pale eyes that stick themselves to your rear as you retreat. The door shuts behind you, and only then do you realize the nature of the agreement. Meeting up for coffee. Outside of class. Outside of office hours. Meeting up...for coffee. Why does that feel...wrong, somehow? Why does it unsettle you?

But you need to amend your grades. You need to pass. You need to secure your future. So you push your discomfort aside and prepare yourself for the weekend.

- - -

It's strange to see Professor Ashengrotto without his usual pressed suits, luxury wristwatch, expensive ties, and shined shoes. He's almost...casual in his black turtleneck sweater, grey trench coat, and black slacks. He looks almost like a fellow student, so much so that his appearance startles you when you spot him sitting in a corner of the comfortable coffee shop.

To your speechless stare, he chuckles and asks, "Am I not allowed to dress comfortably on my days off?"

And then it hits you. This is his day off. This is your day off. This is not an academic setting. This is...

You shake your head and slide into the seat across from him. "Sorry. It just surprised me." You're digging through your bag to distract yourself, now acutely aware of his stare pinned on you. "I brought my laptop and was hoping you could look over my sources. I spent all of last night compiling them, so maybe if you had a chance to review them I might know what to do to avoid making the same mistakes. And I also started a new thesis. I don't think the other one was working. Maybe that's where I went wrong and so if I just change—"

"Is everything all right?"

You blink, your gaze lifting to meet his. "Sorry?"

"Are you okay? You seem frazzled."

"Well, I mean, yeah. That should be obvious." You cough, realizing your reply was harsh, and fix it with, "I'm trying to manage the workload from your classes and my other classes, Professor."

"Please. Call me Azul."

Your face scrunches in distaste. It doesn't sound right to refer to any professor by their first name, even if some of them have noted they don't particularly mind it. With Professor Ashengrotto, it feels far too casual. You don't like it.

And as if things can't get anymore casual, they do when a waitress arrives to deliver two cups of coffee and pastries. You stare at it. It's brewed just the way you like it. Even the pastry is your favorite. You fix Professor Ashengrotto with a questioning stare.

"You mentioned it in one of our introductions."

"My favorite coffee and pastry?" You frown, combing through your brain for when you might have said so. It's highly possible when you introduced yourself to your peers at the start of the semester. "Oh. Well, allow me to pay you back for—"

"There's no need." He smiles at you. It's gentler this time. You don't like it.

"No, I insist. How much was it? I'll give you the exact change right now."

You're fumbling for your wallet when his arm reaches across the table. A warm hand closes around yours.

"Professor Ashengrotto?"

"Azul," he corrects evenly. "And please don't worry about it. Everyone needs a little pick-me-up every now and then, yes?"

His fingers curl into yours, nearly entwining, and you yank your hand away, icy horror creeping up your spine. He blinks at you, as if stunned, before composing himself and drawing back. You stare between your wallet and laptop before pocketing the former and turning the latter on.

"Well, if you really don't want me to pay you back... Then let's get back to the matter at hand."

For the rest of your afternoon, you resign yourself to academic discussions. It's easy to fall into that rhythm, and Professor Ashengrotto offers helpful insight as he reviews everything you show him. By the end of it, you're relieved to have finished such a draining discussion. More importantly, you're glad you can leave this coffee shop and never return again (at least not with Professor Ashengrotto).

He reminds you to have it submitted before midnight at the end of the week. You thank him for his help and, just to ease your anxious heart, leave him with a few Madol for the drink and the pastry. On your way out, you feel his eyes on you, watching you make the walk to your car. Those eyes never leave, even after you've driven away.

It can't get any worse, you tell yourself.

You submit your revised paper a minute after midnight. And, apparently, by your professor's standards it's late. He gives you half credit. It hardly raises your grade. If anything, it lowers it a few points.

Like a bad song on repeat, you find yourself in his office yet again. And like before he proposes the same fix: coffee and revision. Stupidly, you agree to another weekend spent in discomfort. It's for the sake of your grades. It's for the sake of your scholarships. It's for the sake of your future, so you can sacrifice slivers of your sanity.

You have to if you want to pass.

- - -

Though it feels like you're improving in his class, your grade does not reflect this. You're not sure how many more coffee dates you can take. You're not sure how many more Please. Call me Azuls you can take. You're not sure how many fleeting touches you can take, each one seeming more invasive than the last. You hold your tongue and swallow disgust because your grades are in his capable hands. You need good grades. You need to pass. You need to, you need to, you need to.

You're in his office again, but this time your resolve has shattered and you're crying. You hate every moment of this. You hate feeling so cornered. Most of all, you hate how empty the building gets at this time of day.

"I don't know what you want anymore," you admit in a broken whisper. "I'm trying so hard. I've revised paper after paper, I've discussed everything over coffee, and I've done my best to improve. I listen and take notes. I ask questions. I'm never distracted. I always study the material. So what am I doing wrong? What am I supposed to do to pass? I can't lose my chances at being considered for certain scholarships..."

Professor Ashengrotto wears sympathy like it's a counterfeit of a luxury scarf. It almost fools you, but then he's rising from his seat, crossing the distance to the door, and you know his care stems from something else. Something wicked and foul.

"I'm sorry to hear you're struggling. I'm here to help, but I can't help if you aren't willing to put in enough time to submit good work—and submit it on time, might I add. This is a team effort, after all."

But I am putting in enough time! you want to say, but the words won't come. Your throat is closing up, raw and ragged from sobbing.

"If you're so concerned, I can offer you an alternative." His voice has dropped dangerously low. You don't dare turn around to face him. You can't when you hear the door shut and lock with an ominous click. "This deal is a double-edged sword. It will hurt both of us should the wrong people catch wind of it."

His shoes click out steady steps against the linoleum. He bends down to view you, hunched and horrified, in your chair. "But you're smart, so I know I can count on my little honor student to keep their pretty mouth shut." He smiles a sharp, nasty smile and draws back, leaning against his desk with his arms folded primly over his chest. "So let's help each other. Team effort, after all."

"P-Professor Ashengrotto, I don't think this is...appropriate."

He quirks a brow at you, and his normally soft, powdery hues are dark and stormy. "You want to pass, don't you? I could fail you right here, right now. Take one step out of this office and you'll never know success in any of my classes ever again." The light must have drained from your eyes because he chuckles again, tutting softly. "Don't make that expression. I'm not cruel. I'm giving you an opportunity to improve your grades. If I were you, I'd take it."

You weigh your grades and your integrity. Is the former really that important? You can survive one failure, right? Anything would be better than this horror. Anything would be better, right? So why are you hesitating?

You stare at your lap and, very quietly, ask, "What is it you want?"

"Get on your knees and put that smart mouth of yours to work. If you're good, I might consider giving you extra credit."

It's for the sake of your grades, so you have no choice.

[milky-oatmeal18]

so i know a lot of people make an au where they actually have powers and stuff for tfbw, i wanted to do my own take on it bc while i love the other designs people make, i wanted to make my own and my own story (?) for people finding this more recently I redesigned some of them here!! it’s only 3 but the 3 here were rlly bothering me

its basically the same, but they have powers and such, this means their backstories that they made for themselves are actually true, the ones that arent human arent human (human kite, kinda ironic name)

theyre still kids, so theyre all still like the same, its not a serious hero gig, they literally just want a franchise, but they dont know that other people arent like them, they dont know superhero movies are cgi, so they reek havoc instead of helping their town, even while trying to fight crime or prof chaos, no one knows most of their identities either, so its hard to stop them if they dont even know who they are n stuff, prof chaos is actually a good villan here too, hes ofc still nice, he still cares about the others when fighting, but he has good plans, he has almost won fights before, but most of the time his plans are ruined by getting grounded or having to be home at a certain time

their costumes are meant to be just slightly better, some of them havent even changed much and i honestly might change that a bit later, but for now this is what i have :] i might design others i havent drawn either, like general disarray, mintberry crunch, ect ect

[melodygatesauthor]

Chapter 14: The Truth About Steven

prof!Steven Grant-Jake Lockley-Marc Spector X f!Reader

Edited by: @whatthefishh

Mood Boards - Book Cover - Masterlist

Chapter Summary

The boys finally come clean about their past, and their disorder. You take it as well as could be expected.

Tags/Summary (these are for the ENTIRE fic):

college AU, no powers/not in MCU/no Khonshu (as a deity), talk of mental illness, Marc has DID, forbidden relationship, age gap, reader is 21y/o, Boys are 38y/o, reader attends college in America but isn't necessarily American, smut, sex, masturbation, p in v, creampies galore, reader is on birth control, dubious consent due to identity issues, ANGST, romance, fluff and smut, oral sex, falling in love, reader is not race coded, minor mentions of alcohol addiction and depression.

Word Count: 2.4k

----

You knocked on Steven’s apartment door, and you could’ve sworn you heard him in there talking to someone before he answered it. Once again he looked different than the man who’d left you sitting in the library just a couple of hours ago. You narrowed your eyes. He didn’t look like the man you’d been meeting late at night outside of your dorm building either. Now his hair was slicked back, face more serious than you’d ever seen it look before.

You’d contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to give him the time of day. After your mental pep-talk, just before Steven had interrupted while you sat at the library, you were ready to let him go. You still thought that might be the outcome, but after everything you’d been through with him, you felt like you had to see it through. You pushed past him in a huff, walking into his apartment like you owned the place.

“For someone who doesn’t care about this girl, you’re wearing an awful lot of cologne compadre,” Jake commented as Marc watched you step inside.

“Have a seat,” he pointed to a chair at the kitchen table, ignoring Jake completely.

Immediately you noticed the distinct difference in accent. You felt a lump in your throat, and you fight or flight kicked in. This was the time to run if you were going to do it, but you decided to stay firmly in place. You held onto the strap of your bag like it would save your life if things went south. Steven had mentioned having brothers, but he’d also mentioned having a bad relationship with them. If this was one of them, you couldn’t be certain you were in a safe situation.

You shook your head, “no, I’m good to stand right here,” you said firmly.

Marc pressed his lips together tightly, “alright…can I get you a coffee or–”

“Can you just tell me what the fuck is going on already, Steven? I’m sick and tired of getting treated like this,” you damned your bottom lip for quivering. You wanted to look strong. “You took my virginity, then you broke up with me, and then you kept sleeping with me at night, now you don’t even sound the same?! Who are you?!”

“I’m not Steven,” Marc said bluntly, keeping his expression stoic.

You stepped back, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your breathing became shallow.

“Then y-you’re his…his brother?”

“No,” Marc looked away from you.

This was the time that he’d normally retreat, letting Jake handle the tough situation, but he knew that this had to come from him. Marc ran his hands over his face and then looked back at you again. You were terrified, despite your attempt to keep a strong expression. He could see the way your bottom lip trembled, and the way your chest was heaving.

“You’re really blowing this bruv, are you sure you don’t want me–”

“My name is Marc Spector,” he started, eyes scanning your face to watch for any change in your expression. “I’m not sure how to tell this story so…I guess I’ll start from the beginning.”

Now you sat down, realizing that this ‘Marc’ person wasn’t a direct threat. You put your bag on the floor next to you before crossing your arms, waiting for him to continue. Though you weren’t sure you wanted him to continue. Part of you wanted to tell him to fuck off right then and there and leave the apartment, but you stayed. Love really was a funny thing, forcing people to make the dumbest choices. You felt like you couldn’t go anywhere until you knew what had happened to Steven; your Steven.

“When we were young, we had a little brother. His name was Randall,” Marc started, walking over and sitting in the chair across the table from you. He looked down at his hands. “Ro was…he was the best kind of person; kind, loving,” Marc sniffed out a laugh as he remembered his younger brother, “everything I’m not.”

He looked at you again, you noticed the sorrow etched in his eyes, now glossy with tears. Despite your frustration with Steven and this entire situation, you felt some level of empathy for the man, his expression tugging heavily at your heartstrings. He looked back down at his hands while he continued his story.

“I got him killed–”

“We talked about this hermano,” Jake muttered.

“Jake’s right, you know that’s not true Marc, try again.”

Marc sighed, “we were kids, playing in the rain and we got stuck in a cave. I made it out, Ro didn’t. I was only ten, he was eight.”

“That’s better,” Jake said.

“Our mother, Wendy…” Marc heard Jake grunt at the mention of her name, “she was heartbroken, as any mother would be at the loss of a child,” he let out a deep exhale, “but she blamed me for all of it, ‘you should’ve been watching him, this is all your fault’, she’d say while she…” his voice wavered.

“While she what?” You asked, finding yourself invested in the tale, despite how disturbing it might have been.

“While she beat me with a leather belt,” Marc’s face got even more serious somehow, and you felt a silence lingering in the air with the weight of his words.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, regretting pushing him to finish his sentence.

“It was a long time ago,” he grumbled, looking back down at his hands again, “but I developed what’s called dissociative identity disorder. I guess it was how my mind dealt with the loss of my brother, finding a way to let him ‘live on’ even after he was gone. Taking all the guilt and creating someone within myself that resembled him in so many ways, while still being so unique and not really the same as Ro at all.”

The apartment was quiet again. Marc could tell you were being compassionate by listening, but he could also tell that you were ready for him to get to the punchline. How did this affect you? What did this have to do with Steven? Why the hell had you come there in the first place to listen to some thirty-eight year old man ramble on about his mental health issues?

“Steven Grant is that someone. He’s what you’d call an ‘alter’,” he watched you shift uncomfortably, “when DID was called ‘multiple personality syndrome’, he would’ve been called one of my personalities.”

“Are you serious?”

You dropped your arms down from where they were crossed and rested your hands on your thighs. If you were hearing him correctly, this man, Marc, was trying to tell you that he and Steven were the same. That all this time, you’d thought you were with one man, but really you were with someone else. He was a conman, and you’d never felt like such a damn fool.

“S-so what you go around roleplaying as a British college professor and preying on students just for a fucking laugh?” You felt yourself getting upset at the prospect.

Marc sighed in frustration, “no, it’s not like that, weren’t you listening to me at all?” You could hear the distinct Chicago accent coming out in his frustrated tone now, “I have a mental disorder, Steven is a real person, he is British, he is a college professor…your college professor and the way he feels about you is real.”

“Then what is all this? Hm? Why did he break up with me instead of just telling me the truth?” You stood up, feeling tears threatening to fall. “Why didn’t you just say ‘hey, I’m a fuckin’ nut job who likes taking advantage of stupid girls in my class’?”

“What in the hell is your problem? Huh? I’m trying to open up to you here, which let me tell you little girl, isn’t something I do often.” Marc stood up now, brow furrowed while he stepped closer to you. “After Steven broke up with you, I thought everything was going to just go away quietly, but you just had to keep it going didn’t you?!”

“I missed him!” You said in your defense.

The tears started coming down then, trickling over your cheeks. You felt embarrassed.

“No, you fucked your professor like an idiot, and didn’t think about the fuckin’ consequences because you’re young and naive,” Marc got closer to you, and with every step he took, you took a one back.

“Stop talking to me like I’m a kid, I know I made a mistake, alright? But that doesn’t change the fact that you could’ve, or Steven or…” you grumbled, “whoever the hell could’ve just stopped! If you didn’t want it that bad then you could’ve just stopped!”

Marc formed a hard line with his mouth in his aggravation.

“I tried to stop them, but Jake and Steven just had to have you. They couldn’t just leave you well enough alone. I didn’t even want to have this conversation with you but they insisted!”

Your heart stopped, and your voice got quiet again, “Jake? Who the fuck is Jake?”

To hear you talk about him like you had no idea who he was hurt Jake’s feelings, if he was being honest. It wasn’t surprising, of course, there was no way you could’ve known who he was, but it stung nonetheless. Marc had wanted to tell you about Jake in a calmer way, when you weren’t both throwing jabs at each other in your mutual anger, but it was out now, and he had to work with it.

“Jake is the other one,” Marc said in a slightly more collected tone than before, “he came about during my time in the marines.”

“You said you ‘tried to stop them,’…” you gulped, “what the hell do you mean by that?”

“I tried to stop Steven from seeing you which was…obviously unsuccessful, and Jake…I didn’t even know he was…” Marc couldn’t bring himself to say it. He looked at the empty water glass on the table next to the lounge chair, “Steven, please…”

“On it…”

You watched in disbelief as Marc’s entire body shifted, posture slouching a bit and his expression changing before your eyes. His brow went from furrowed in frustration to being turned up in concern. Either he was an incredible actor, or you were a fool.

“Love, I’m so sorry, I know this is a lot but, it really wasn’t my story to tell. I wasn’t there f’most of our life, neither was Jake so you see–”

“What did you do to me?” You looked at him, trying to decipher how much of what he was saying was real, and how much of it was a lie.

What a convenient excuse it would be to say that he had a mental illness, and that’s why he had to break things off with you. He could blame it on some disorder and make you feel bad for him, maybe even make you fall back into his arms like a pathetic and desperate little girl. If he was a good enough actor, surely he could put on a fake accent and slouch his shoulders a bit.

The other part of you, the part that still loved Steven so much that you wanted to kiss him until your lips went numb, that part believed him. That part believed that there was this man with a mental disorder who was struggling to navigate through his life and somehow you managed to get caught up in it, and he was just as confused as you were in that moment. You weren’t going to let yourself be fooled though…not again.

“Well remember love, it wasn’t me.” He cleared his throat, “right so Jake said that he saved you twice, once at the art gallery when you nearly fell on the steps, and again when you were in the bar alleyway and someone tried to take advantage of you.” Steven scanned your eyes to find the truth in his statement, “did that really happen, love? You must’ve been so scared I…I’m sorry–”

“Keep going,” you cut him off, not wanting any of his sympathy, not after he was the reason you were in that situation in the first place, and not when you were still unsure if he was being honest with you about this disorder.

“Y-yeah, right, well…” he cleared his throat, “J-Jake says he was really only going to give you a ride home but then, you kissed him and…and he tried to say no, but then you just kept pushing and he couldn’t help himself.”

You huffed out a laugh in frustration, “so if what you’re saying is true, Marc is a filthy old man with two ‘alters’ who just can’t manage to keep their fucking hands off a college student who is young enough to be their daughter, is that it?”

“W-well I mean, technically yes, but I wouldn’t put it like tha–”

The tears were freeflowing now, “and I’m just supposed to believe that you, Steven, aren’t just some creepy man who likes to play pretend and fuck his students and that this isn’t some sick and twisted game you’re playing? Hm?”

“Well, darling that’s not really nice to–”

“No, you know what Steven? You can have fun with whatever this is,” you gestured to his body, “I’m done for good. I was going to text ‘Jake’ that anyway, you know, when I thought he was you? I was gonna tell him that I was calling it off because the sneaking around was getting to be too much for me, but this is a whole other mess that I don’t want to be a part of.”

You grabbed your bag off the floor and went for the door while Steven was still stammering over his words.

“Goodbye Steven, or Marc, or whoever the fuck you are.”

Steven stood there as you slammed the door to the flat and left, taking a piece of his heart with you. He let out a heavy breath, clutching his chest tightly.

“Well there you go guys,” Marc’s tone was laced in sarcasm, “still glad we decided to have a chat with her? Hm?”

“Shut up puto…she’ll be back…”

----

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[deus-lapidis]

Professor Zhongli hcs but you're his spouse and not his student

Characters: Zhongli x gn!reader

Genre: fluff

Also I'm not booing the works that have prof zhongli x student reader, i just thought this concept here is cute

This is a repost! Here’s a short explanation why

The professor and his spouse series

Well starting off, he's an exceptional teacher, very gentle and patient. Many students have definitely lit up at his youthful and handsome looks, before noticing the ring adorning his finger.

He's very loved by his students, but they all have the habit of making him swerve from the actual topic sometimes. Beforehand, he usually went on about historical events and all the details he has somehow memorised, sometimes even bringing his own pictures of certain locations as source material.

He's always dressed nicely, either a vest and a crisp shirt with dress pants and leather shoes, a nice dress shirt or a simple sweatshirt. But the one thing that makes it really special, something that his students don't know, is that you actually dress him in the morning sometimes.

Every morning, when he wakes up and has basked in your presence (for at least ten minutes), you two wash up in the bathroom and get ready.

Small kisses exchanged and giggly smiles adorning your faces. He thinks it's adorable when you stand before him, tongue sticking out in concentration when you tie his necktie, adjusting it before kissing his cheek lightly to seal the deal. Your lover really can't help but tug you back into his arms to nudge his nose with yours.

Now the thing is that everyone knew that their very simpable teacher is married, but no one had ever seen you and some can't stop but wonder about you.

But oh boy.

One time you showed up because you noticed that your love had forgotten his phone and lunch at home because of a rushed morning.

Dumbass didn't forget to give you a quick kiss on the cheek though, freaking priorities duh

So you came into his lecture room right before you'd thought his students would shuffle in, but many early attenders happened to witness the whole loving exchange of their teacher with the mystery person.

INSTANT SHIPPING

SHIPPING INTENSIFIES WHEN THEY SEE

HOW ADORINGLY HE LOOKS AT YOU

maybe some even kinda start simping for you(?)

He's just too distracted by your presence to care much, so he'd gingerly cup you cheek and thank you with his charming glint.

Secretly, he likes showing his spouse off a little, so it might just happen that he "forgets" things at home for you to bring him one or two more times a week.

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

This is Yonatan Shimriz. He's the brother of Alon, one of the 3 Israeli hostages kidnapped by Hamas, and accidentally killed by the IDF due to mistakenly thinking they're terrorists. Yonatan also survived with his family the massacre of Oct 7. And he just had a baby boy. Life WILL win, despite those who think they have the right to take it away.

It's been announced today that Israel has hired Prof. Malcolm Shaw, a Jewish British law professor, who specializes in the field of human rights and territorial disputes, to represent it at the International Court of Justice in the Hague. He's one of 4 lawyers that will represent Israel.

If I hadn't verified this is true through several news sources, I would not have believed this scenario. Terrorists fired an RPG at an IDF helicopter in Gaza, missed it, and ended up hitting a medical clinic in kibbutz Nirim, inside Israel, though as you might imagine, it's very close to the border. This is what the clinic looks like after the hit:

Lebanon has filed a complaint with the UN Security Council, blaming Israel for killing Saleh al-Arouri on its territory. Because harboring a senior Hamas terrorist, responsible for the murders of countless Israeli civilians, is not an issue, apparently. Lebanon charges that this is the biggest escalation between it and Israel since 2006 (the Second Lebanon War). They have no issue with Lebanon violating UN resolution 1701, which put an end to that war, conditioned on Hezbollah not being present anywhere between the Litani river and Lebanon's border with Israel (of course Hezbollah has been, and has been firing rockets at Israel from this area). Then again, the UN has done nothing to enforce that part of resolution 1701, so I guess if they don't care, why should the terrorists?

After I posted yesterday that the most likely scenario for who caused the blasts in Iran that killed 84 people is ISIS, the terrorist organization did take responsibility for the terrorist attack. Guess who Iran is still blaming for the attack, and swearing revenge against? The Jewish state. This is what antisemitism looks like. Well. It's one of its many looks.

On a different note, I wanted to see what the American media said about Claudine Gay's resignation, and I was horrified to hear that it's all painted in terms of liberals vs conservatives. Here's the thing, that may be completely true, but I just don't care. Antisemitism is a real issue, and the way the resignation is talked about, it's like the safety of Jewish students is nothing. Antisemitism is just a tool, and sometimes one political camp uses it against its rival, while at other times, that happens in the opposite direction. But it's like Jews are not even a part of the conversation. IDK, maybe it's because I'm an outsider, but the way Jews don't seem to matter even when antisemitism is supposedly finally being discussed, is truly startling. I'm in the middle of an active war zone, and I'm honestly sat here, worried for Jews abroad.

After a lot of work to gather information about their fate, the last 3 Israeli men missing since Oct 7 are now defined as hostages, which brings the total number of those kidnapped to 136, including bodies, and Israelis kidnapped before the massacre (2 living men and 2 bodies). There's one more missing Israeli woman, whose fate is still to be determined. We're 3 months into this nightmare, and there are still so many question marks. Even with those defined as murdered or kidnapped at a certain point, we've seen that sometimes there's new info, which changes what we believe happened to them.

And here's an example for the latter. This is 38 years old Tamir Adar.

Until yesterday, he was believed to be held hostage in Gaza. As new information was gathered, it was determined that he had been murdered on Oct 7. Tamir is the grandson of Holocaust survivor Yafa Adar, who was herself kidnapped, and released in the hostage deal. His body is still being held by the terrorists. Yafa herself was filmed as she was being taken to Gaza, holding her head up, and not crying. In an interview she gave after her release, she said that she refused to cry, because she wanted her family to be proud of her if they saw the footage. She also said that she's still not free, because her grandson is still in Gaza. I can't imagine what Yafa and her family feel after the news about Tamir's fate. May his memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)