#aquila

[cuties-in-codices]

constellations (equuleus, pegasus, aquila, and gallina/cygnus)

miniatures from the astronomical-astrological codex for king wenceslaus iv. of bohemia, prague, shortly after 1400

source: Munich, BSB, Clm 826, fol. 41v, 41r, and 38r

[herpsandbirds]

Eastern Imperial Eagle (Aquila heliaca), family Accipitridae, order Accipitriformes, Rajasthan, India

photograph by Sanjeev Ski

[monkiinart]

Aquila DQ9 please give me a chance

[vanillabruise]

— aquila ♥︎

relationship: Zeke Yeager x Reader

word count: 21.8k

tags: modern au - university, teacher/student relationship, professor zeke, philosophy, so much philosophy, age gap, older man/younger woman, reader can be undergrad or postgrad, unhealthy relationship dynamics, power imbalance, fingering, emotional reader.

summary: Aquila (n.): In classical Greek mythology, identified as Aetos Dios—the eagle sent to snatch the shepherd boy Ganymede from the earth to be Zeus’ cupbearer. “You’re so lovely,” he murmurs, his voice a low, melodic hum that seems to vibrate through the very marrow of your bones. “You’re the loveliest girl I’ve ever met.”

read on ao3

notes: i'm so so so sorry for the terrible wait :( i've missed you guys so much, but i've been so busy!! i am so excited to share this universe with u guys <33 i hope u enjoy our evil hot sexy professor zeke. please be aware that a relationship like this irl is not healthy, and should not be encouraged by any reputable professor. be safe, and enjoy ... ♥︎

chapter i: antechamber

                (Six years old, bare feet sinking slightly into the damp August grass at the edge of the fair. Spun sugar hangs in the air, thick and sweet, mixed with the earthy smell of the just-cooled ground.

Mother’s hand, a warm anchor, rests lightly on your shoulder, but your eyes are caught, held by the carousel.

A tired beast, gold paint chipped and flaking, bulbs buzzing, a hazy yellow halo.

Horses, frozen mid-leap, eyes of glass, teeth painted white, a silent, endless snarl. They whirl, they race, chasing a tune that twists and turns and never, ever stops.

“Which one do you want?” your mother whispers, her voice a soft ribbon in the wind.

The carousel’s ring, a dizzy hum, and you point. 

Not at the bright, the gilded, the bold, but the pale one at the centre. Dust motes dance in the dim light. Dead roses, stone roses, circle its neck, a burden carved in. Its eyes, wide and dark, hold a sadness that settles deep. 

A trapped thing, you say, without speaking.

You choose it, this horse of quiet sorrow.

You want to climb, grip the cold brass pole, feel the surge, the spin, the world dissolving into streaks of blurred colour.

Faster and faster, until the line blurs, until the girl, the horse, the ride, the roses, all spin into one.

And you forget, for a moment, which one is trapped, and which one is free.)

                    The sun is a heavy, golden coin pressing against the back of your neck, the kind of warmth that feels like a summer that refuses to die. Outside, the September heat is a slick, honeyed weight against your skin, but the moment you step through the stone archway to the Philosophy department, it vanishes.

The air changes instantly; it's thicker, fluid. It feels like stepping into a vat of oil, the temperature dropping until the heat on your skin is nothing more than a memory. The light pours through the tall, leaded windows in heavy, chartreuse beams, thick with dancing dust motes. 

It’s an underwater cathedral, green and grey and smelling of wet stone and the sweet, rot-scented musk of decaying books.

The hallways are long and silent, paved with carpet that has been worn smooth by a century of searching feet. 

You move through the hallway like a fish lost in a coral reef of logic. Your skirt flutters against your thighs, and your hair, caught in the draft of the high ceilings, whistles around your face. 

Every door you pass is a heavy, dark secret. The silence is a physical weight, pressing against your eardrums until the only sound is the pulse in your own throat. 

Then, the corridor ends.

The double doors loom ahead: solid, impenetrable oak. The gold plaque on the right catches a stray, dying beam of light, the name engraved there a command rather than an invitation:

Professor Zeke Yeager, MPhil, PhD

The letters are sharp, exacting. 

You’ve heard the rumours in the library and the hushed warnings from upperclassmen. He doesn’t just teach philosophy; he lives in the spaces between the words. He is the man who finds the flaw in every argument and the crack in every soul. 

You stand there for a beat, your hand hovering over the handle, feeling the strange thrill of a bird about to fly straight into a storm.

The iron handle of the double doors is cold, biting into your palm, and–

(The brass pole felt like a lightning rod in your small hands. You remember the feeling of the wooden saddle, cold and unyielding, between your legs. As the machine groaned to life, you felt the first sickening lurch of vertigo. 

You looked down at your mother’s face as you spun past her, again and again, until she was just a ghost, a smear in a world of spinning gold. 

Round and round, the world a wheel, a dizzy dance that knows no end.)

The door creaks, that same low, dragging groan, as you push it open.

The office is a sprawling mess of intellectual chaos. Books obscure every wall, their spines cracked and leaning. In the centre of the room, seated in a low circle of velvet chairs, are three other students. They look up as you enter.

A blonde, kind-eyed boy with his wide, nervous eyes; an East Asian girl with silky black hair and black eyeliner, lounging back with a sleepy, feline grace; and a brunette, with a hastily tied manbun and sharp green eyes, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

But it’s the man standing by the window who stops your breath.

He’s tall, impossibly so, framed by the streaming light so that he’s little more than a golden silhouette. His styled, grey-streaked blonde hair catches the light with every subtle movement. A meticulously groomed, dense beard adorns his jawline, accentuating the sharpness of his face, while his piercing blue eyes, magnified by the lenses of his spectacles, observe you with keen intensity. He’s terribly handsome. 

He’s leaning against the sill, a cup of tea in one hand, watching you with the stillness of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. He isn't wearing a suit yet; just a rumpled cream-coloured shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing thick, hairy forearms and corded, rough hands. 

"Ah,” he says your name like he's flipping a coin, turning it over in his mouth. “I see you’ve finally made it.” His voice is a rich, low-frequency hum that seems to ripple through the room air.

"I... I'm sorry, Professor. I got lost," you breathe, the excuse feeling flimsy and childish in the face of his scrutiny.

Zeke Yeager doesn't move. He doesn't check his large, expensive watch. He simply adjusts his glasses, the lens catching the light so you can't see his eyes, only the flash of brilliant, cold white.

"In this room, we do not get lost. We find ourselves." He gestures toward the empty chair directly across from him. "Sit. We were just waiting for you to arrive."

You slide into the seat next to the blonde boy, tucked between him and the other girl. He’s straight-backed, a rabbit frozen in the headlights, his eyes wide and tracking Zeke’s every micro-movement. To your left, the girl is a study in cool indifference; she’s lying back, legs crossed at the knee, twisting the silver rings on her fingers as she observes you with a keen, unnerving stillness.

And then there’s the other boy. He’s slouched at the end of the line, green eyes shimmering with a disdain so sharp it’s almost physical. He’s scrolling through his phone, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his pupils, ignoring the sanctity of the room.

There’s a seat at the other side of the table, too, with a large brown blazer slumped across its back like a shed skin. Zeke crosses the room to reach it. He sits with a quiet, dangerous power, his presence expanding to fill every corner of the office. He looks at all of you, his gaze a slow, deliberate crawl, before it pauses on your face. He watches the way you bite your lip, the worry of it, and tilts his head just a fraction.

He clears his throat, the sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "Right. I believe introductions are in order."

Zeke murmurs, his eyes scanning the group before settling on you like a spotlight. 

It’s warm. 

It’s terrifying. 

“I’ll begin. Professor Yeager. I do have a PhD, but please, call me Professor, or Sir, if you must. I did my master’s on metaphysics; my PhD focused on Kantian ethics and its wider application to moral psychology. Armin, please, you're next.”

​The blond boy shoots up as if pulled by a wire. “Right! Hello, everyone! I’m Armin Arlert, and I– I want to do my thesis on the philosophy of logic and maths!”

​Zeke hums, a deep, resonant sound. “Interesting path to take. You’ll be seeing Professor Miche a lot, then. He handles philosophy of math.” He nods to you, a silent command to speak.

​You start with your name, the syllables dissolving in your mouth like candyfloss, sweet and then suddenly gone. “I think I want to write my dissertation on philosophy and law.”

This pleases him. You see it in the way the corners of his mouth quirk, a shadow of a smirk disappearing into his beard. “Lovely. A structure for the chaos. Next?”

​“I’m Mikasa,” the girl to your left says, her voice steady and low. “I’m going to write mine on feminist philosophy.”

​“Wonderful choice. Are you familiar with Hampson? Weil? Anscombe?”

Mikasa nods, once.

​“Good. Professor Ral teaches a module on them. It’s very enlightening, if I do say so myself. And, finally, we have…?”

​He turns to the dissatisfied boy at the end. He finally looks up, rubbing his eyes sleepily, like a cat. As he moves, his collar shifts, revealing the dark, purple edge of a hickey.

“Eren. Gonna do it on politics, probably.”

​Zeke doesn’t blink at the hickey, nor the attitude. He simply leans back, interlacing his fingers. "I’ve read your diagnostic essays. They were brilliant, as expected from all of you. I look forward to having such intelligent minds in my care.”

​He begins to detail the year. Meetings twice a week. Essays. The weight of the pre-reading. The mention of a department trip floats in the air. He talks about office hours and access to his private works, his voice a steady rhythm.

Armin hangs off his every word, but you can only feel the way Zeke’s eyes keep drifting back to yours, measuring the depth of the water you’re drowning in.

​“That’s all for today,” he says, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a whip. “I wanted to ensure we were well acquainted before we begin our tutorials together.”

​Eren is out of his chair before the final syllable even leaves Zeke’s lips, a flash of restless energy and creaking leather. He doesn’t look back. 

​Armin, however, lingers, a moth to Zeke’s cold, brilliant light. He’s chatting animatedly, his hands moving in frantic patterns as he tries to prolong the moment. Mikasa simply rises, a ghost of a girl, and slips out with a grace so quiet it’s scary.

​You stand up, your legs feeling heavy, like you're still adjusting to the gravity of the room. You cast one last glance back at him: the enigma, the architect of this strange, golden cage.

Zeke is leaning back now, ignoring Armin, watching you, his glasses reflecting the dimming September light. 

​As you step back into the dusty corridor, the oak door clicking shut behind you, the underwater pressure vanishes, leaving your ears ringing. The hallway is long, silent, and smells of old stone.

​The wind whistles through the high windows, catching your clothes, but you don't feel like a person anymore. You feel like that pale horse. 

You walk toward the exit, but the floor feels like it’s tilting. You’re back in the corridor, back in the sun, but the world hasn't stopped moving. 

You're still spinning on that carousel, round and round, and you realise with a quiet dread that you never actually got off.

                 A few days drift by, lost in the slow, rhythmic current of the semester, until you find yourself back in the heart of the department. The office feels different today; the light is sharper, cutting through the dust in longer geometric slats.

Armin, Eren, and Mikasa are already sitting at the table, but your eyes are snagged on the man at the centre. Zeke is in a blue shirt today, the colour of a deep, vast ocean. The top few buttons are popped open, a looseness that reveals the heavy, carved lines of his collarbone and a weathered tan line.

He looks less like a professor and more like a captain who has seen a shipwreck.

“So,” he begins, his voice dropping into that familiar, hypnotic register. “I’m assuming you’ve all read The Republic, as detailed on our syllabus? You’ve met Thrasymachus in the dark?”

You all nod, a synchronised ripple of movement.

“Good, good.” He nods, leaning forward until the steepled tips of his fingers rest on the dark wood of the desk. “Now, listen well. Because what I’m going to tell you may be an interpretation you’ve never heard before.”

He pauses, his blue eyes scanning you all with a predatory patience.

“Let us consider three models of excellence. Thrasymachus follows what we might call the Vince Lombardi model. The zero-sum game.” Zeke’s voice hardens, just a fraction. "Winning isn't everything; it’s the only thing. In this world, the 'good stuff' is finite. There is only so much gold, so much power, so much love to go around. Your excellence is measured solely by the failure of the person sitting next to you.”

He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. The fabric of his shirt tautens over his shoulders. “What are your first impressions of this framework? Tell me, how does it taste?”

“It’s selfish,” Armin blurts out, his face flushing with a sudden, indignant heat. “It’s a hollow way to live. If you only win when others lose, you’re never actually... good. You’re just the last one standing.”

Eren doesn’t look away from the window. He shrugs, a slow, cynical movement of his shoulders. “It’s realistic. People pretend it’s about 'standards,' but at the end of the day, someone gets the gold medal, and someone else gets the bronze. That’s just the way the world works.”

Mikasa shifts, the scent of her mint gum cutting through the smell of Zeke’s cloves. “It’s the blueprint of the patriarchy,” she says, her voice flat and cool. “A system built on the necessity of an underclass just to feel superior.”

Zeke turns his gaze to you. It’s heavy. It’s expecting.

You feel that familiar vertigo, the carousel spinning in the back of your mind. “It’s primitive,” you say softly, the words feeling like small stones in your mouth. “It’s like the philosophy of Hobbes. It assumes we haven't evolved past the need to eat each other just to feel full.”

Zeke’s mouth quirks. Not quite a smile, but a recognition. “Primitive,” he repeats, tasting the word.

He chuckles, a warm sound that feels far too intimate for a classroom. He seems to roll your answers around in his mind like smooth glass marbles.

“Ah, a room full of pessimists,” he murmurs. He turns his gaze to the blond boy beside you. “Let me ask you something, Armin. Be honest with me. Does being at this university, one of the most elite institutions in the world, make you feel better than a dropout? Does it feel good to know someone else was rejected so that you could take this seat?”

Armin flinches as if he’s been struck. The tips of his ears turn a violent, stinging red. “I– I–”

“It’s not a trick question, Armin. I’m not your priest,” Zeke says, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. He leans closer, the scent of amber and sun-warmed cotton trailing after him. “There are no right or wrong answers here.”

Armin swallows hard, his eyes darting to the floor. “Well... I guess... I guess it does make me feel good,” he mumbles, the admission sounding like a confession of a crime.

Zeke nods, a slow, satisfied movement. “Good work, Armin. You must be able to peel back your own skin, to remove all bias and address the fallacies in your own reasoning, if you want to succeed in my care.”

He pulls back, his presence expanding once more to take in the rest of you. The blue of his shirt seems to darken in the shifting afternoon light.

“You see, in the Thrasymachean view, success is a hollow, relative victory. It’s about the exquisite pleasure of knowing you are a superior sort of person.” He pauses, his eyes lingering on yours for a beat too long. “Success is not enough. For the win to be real, the friend must fail.”

He picks up a fountain pen, tapping it rhythmically against the desk. 

Click. Click. 

“Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote that a man comes to measure his greatness by the regrets, envies, and hatreds of his competitors.” He smiles then, a small, dangerous curl of the lip. “Remember that ideology. I promise you, it shall come in handy before the year is out.”

Zeke lets the silence settle, a heavy velvet weight. He turns toward a stack of leather-bound volumes, his fingers trailing over their spines with a reverence that feels almost holy.

“The second model,” he says, his voice smoothing out like glass, “comes from Plato himself, and his successor, Aristotle. We’ll call it the Sam Snead model. Forget your opponents; always play against par.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “The logic is simple: a mere reaction against others is a reactive life. It isn’t proactive. If your only goal is to be better than the person next to you, you’ve limited your potential to their mediocrity. Can’t you do better than just exceeding the standard set by your adversaries?”

He looks at Mikasa, the blue of his shirt catching the light. “Consider the importance of adhering to reasonable standards applicable to every endeavour, including the pursuit of justice. Mikasa, what are your thoughts on this approach?”

Mikasa tilts her head, a slow, graceful contemplation. She looks like a statue in the dim light, untouchable and still. “The standards for... whatever you’re doing,” she says, her voice low, “they may not be easy to figure out. Who decides what 'par' is?”

“Precisely.” Zeke’s eyes flare with a brief, intellectual spark. “This is the great struggle. It is especially true in the case of living justly. The standards are elusive, yes, but they are decidedly objective. To Plato, measuring up to them completely is what excellence means. If a task is performed perfectly, it is excellent, regardless of whether a hundred people or zero people did it better than you.”

He stands up, pacing in a small, tight circle behind his chair.

“This model offers a kind of peace. Peace of mind through competence. In this world, excellence isn’t a limited resource. It isn’t a loaf of bread we have to fight over. Theoretically, if everyone lived according to the highest objective standards, everyone could be excellent.”

He stops, looking at you all as if you were a puzzle he has already solved. “It’s a beautiful thought, no? A world where we aren't predators, just perfectly competent machines. Not so bad, is it?”

Zeke stops his pacing. He moves behind you, his presence a heavy shadow that seems to still the very air in your lungs. When he speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of its academic polish, raw and slightly rasping.

“Then, there is the third path. The Nietzschean alternative.”

He leans down, his hands resting on the back of your chair. You can feel the heat radiating from his forearms, the blue fabric of his sleeves inches from your face.

“In this model, you don't try to do better than the competition, because the competition is usually unworthy. Beneath you. And you don't try to meet 'reasonable standards,' because 'reasonable' is just another word for mediocre. Instead, you look for a worthy opponent.”

He lets that sink in, his gaze flickering toward Eren, then back to you.

“You seek the person who will call out in you energies you didn't know you possessed. You engage in a struggle, not to win, and not to be good, but to be transformed. The aim isn't to meet a standard; it is to exceed yourself. To burn your old self away or become worthless in the attempt.”

He pushes away from your chair, crossing the room to pick up a stack of corporate journals. The atmosphere shifts from ancient Greece to the cold, glass-walled towers of modern industry.

“Consider Jack Welch,” Zeke says, his tone turning clinical. “Former CEO of General Electric. He made it a practice, even in years of record profit, to have his executives fire the bottom ten per cent of their staff every three years. He said it’s all about performance. Some think it's cruel or brutal to remove the bottom ten per cent. It isn’t. What he thought was brutal is false kindness– keeping people around who aren’t going to grow and prosper.'”

Zeke drops the journal onto the table with a heavy thud.

“So, let’s test our models. What would Thrasymachus make of Jack Welch? He’d likely laugh. He’d see a Great Man exercising his interest over the weak, the strong eating the slow to keep the herd lean. To him, Welch is a god.”

He turns to Armin, who looks physically pained by the thought.

“And Plato? Plato would be horrified. He would argue that if those ten per cent were meeting the objective standard of their job, if they were playing at 'par', then firing them simply because they were at the bottom of a specific group is the height of injustice.”

Zeke leans back against the window, the blue of his shirt almost glowing against the grey stone.

“But Nietzsche. Nietzsche would ask if that bottom ten per cent deserved to be saved, or if the 'brutality' of the cull was the only thing capable of forcing the survivors to exceed themselves.”

The room falls into a heavy, thoughtful silence. 

Zeke breaks the quiet, his voice dropping into a smoother, more philosophical lilt. "Underlying almost everything Plato wrote is a single, shimmering idea: Arete. Excellence. He believed that virtues aren't just rules we follow to be good little citizens. He believed they were actually good for the possessor. Like a healthy heart or a sharp mind, being virtuous is supposed to make your life better."

He begins to pace, his shadow stretching across the table. "Socrates obsessed over three in particular: piety, courage, and justice. Now, piety is easy; it’s a transaction with the gods. But courage and justice? They’re problematic."

"How are they problematic?" you ask, your voice sounding small against the backdrop of the quiet office. You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. "If excellence is good for us, shouldn't being brave and just be the ultimate reward?"

Zeke stops, turning to look at you. A half-smile plays on his lips, the kind that suggests he’s been waiting for you to find the flaw.

"Is it?" Eren interjects, his voice sharp and jagged. He’s leaning back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but his jaw is tight. "Being courageous usually gets you killed. In the woods, in a war, the brave guy is the first one in the ground. How is that 'good for the possessor'?"

Zeke nods toward Eren. "Exactly. And justice is even worse. Justice is the only virtue that seems to be for other people. If you’re just, you return the lost wallet, you tell the truth even when it hurts you, you play by the rules while everyone else is cheating. It’s exercised to your own detriment."

Zeke moves back to the desk, leaning his hip against it. "This is the heartbeat of our course. Does being a good person, being just, actually lead to personal fulfilment? Or is justice a cage the weak built to keep the strong from being happy?"

You look down at your notes, the word Arete circled in ink. "So, Plato is trying to prove that even if justice makes us lose, makes us poorer, or less powerful, it still makes our souls 'excellent' enough to be worth the sacrifice?"

"That is the Platonic gamble," Zeke murmurs, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. "He wants to bridge the gap between ethical values and personal happiness."

Eren scoffs, finally looking at Zeke. "And do you believe him, Professor? Or do you think Thrasymachus had it right, that we’re all just making excuses for being too afraid to take what we want?"

Zeke doesn't answer immediately. He just adjusts his glasses, the light obscuring his expression once again. "I think," he says softly, "that the answer depends on whether you view yourself as a machine built for par or a creature built for the struggle."

He stands up straight, signalling the end of the session. "Reflect on that. Are you just because it’s good for you, or are you just because you aren't strong enough to be anything else? I would like you all to write a brief commentary on these three ideas, and to finish reading The Grand Inquisitor before Thursday. It is imperative for our next tutorial, keeping with the idea of power and authority. And purchase your tickets for the Department Formal, it is always a lovely opportunity to network.”

Eren is the first to leave, throwing a careless, see ya, over his shoulder that dissipates in the dusty air. Armin and Mikasa follow, their voices a low, rhythmic murmur as they head back toward their colleges.

You're still dazed, caught in the heat of the discussion. 

You step out into the hallway, the click of the door behind you sounding like the start of a long, beautiful fall. You walk out of the room, and the corridor feels three miles long. 

           The transition from late summer to autumn is palpable in the air; the golden, honeyed light of September is beginning to stretch thin, casting long, melancholic shadows across the university quad. You stand in the quiet hallway of the Philosophy department, the smell of old paper and floor wax settling in your lungs.

Your heart is a frantic bird in your chest as you stare at the brass plaque on the door: Professor Zeke Yeager. The name seems to hum with the weight of everything that’s happened, the lingering glances, the tension in the tutorials, the feeling that you are standing on the edge of a cliff.

You raise your hand, your knuckles hovering over the wood for a heartbeat, before you finally knock.

"Come in," his voice booms, muffled but unmistakable.

You push the door open and step inside. The office is a sanctuary of intellectual clutter and quiet wealth. Deprived of the frantic energy of other students, the room feels unnervingly intimate. A thick, intricate Persian rug in shades of crimson and navy muffles your footsteps. In the corner, a tall grandfather clock ticks with a heavy, rhythmic pulse that seems to sync with your own heartbeat. There’s a chalkboard tucked away, covered in his sharp, slanted handwriting, and the air smells of roasted coffee and expensive tobacco.

Zeke is leaning over his desk, silhouetted against the window where the sun is beginning to set. He’s traded his formal blazer for a thick, moss-green jumper, the wool making him look broader, softer, and yet somehow more imposing.

He’s typing, but the moment he registers your presence, his hands freeze. For a fleeting second, his eyes light up, a flash of predatory hunger masked as delight.

Then, the mask of the academic professional slides back into place.

"Ah," he says, leaning back in his leather chair. "You’re here."

"Sorry," you murmur, clutching your notebook to your chest. "I hope I’m not disturbing you, Professor."

"No, no. Absolutely not." He closes his laptop with a definitive click, his gaze never leaving your face. He watches the way you breathe, the way you won't quite meet his eyes. "I cleared my schedule to ensure I could see you without interruption. Please, sit."

He gestures to the chair directly in front of his desk, the one that feels far too close to his own.

You sink into the chair, the leather creaking under your weight. The office feels unnervingly quiet, the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock marking the seconds you spend trying to find your voice. You find yourself fidgeting with the strap of your bag.

“So, what brings you here?” Zeke asks, leaning forward. He rests his elbows on the mahogany surface, his large hands interlaced. “From your email, I gathered there was an issue with an essay?”

“Yeah, I just… I wanted some help.” You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his gaze. “It’s actually not for your module. It’s for Professor Ackerman’s. Ethics and Morality. I wasn't sure if I should ask, but I thought maybe you could help me?”

Zeke’s eyebrows arch behind his glasses, a faint, knowing glint in his eyes. “Ah, of course. Levi is an old friend. He’s notorious for being austere. What is the question?”

“It’s based on Dante’s Inferno,” you explain, pulling a crumpled prompt from your bag. “We have to evaluate whether the structural hierarchy of Hell suggests that sins of the Incontinent are ethically distinct from sins of Malice, and if Dante’s placement of the Virtuous Pagans contradicts the objective morality of the era.”

Zeke lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “That’s mean, even for Levi. Especially so early in his course.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies you. “So, where are you struggling?”

“I have most of it written, actually,” you admit. “But I don’t know if I’m actually making any sense. I feel like I’m circling the point without touching it. Would you be okay to read it for me?”

A stillness settles over him. He doesn't reach for a physical paper. Instead, he clicks a button on his keyboard, the blue light of the monitor reflecting in his lenses.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he says softly. He doesn't move the monitor toward you. Instead, he pushes his chair back just a few inches, creating a gap. “But I don't want to crane my neck looking across the desk. Why don’t you come around? We can pull it up on my laptop and edit it together.”

He pats the small space of the desk right next to his arm, a space that would require your shoulder to brush against his green jumper.

Let’s see what’s going on in that head of yours.

Okay, great.

You move around the heavy mahogany desk. As you lean in to look at the screen, the scent of him hits you fully. 

“Okay, let’s see what we have here,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave now that you're within his personal space.

As he scrolls through your digital draft, the silence is filled only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and the soft click of his mouse. You find yourself watching his profile, the sharp line of his jaw and the way his glasses catch the fading September sun, rather than the text.

“Your thesis is brilliant,” he says, and the way he pronounces your name sends a jolt through you. “Concise, sharp, and you’ve managed to find scholarly analysis that actually challenges Levi’s interpretations. Most of your peers are too afraid to disagree with the text, but you... you have teeth.”

A thick, liquid warmth spreads in your stomach at the praise. Coming from him, a man whose intellectual standards are legendary, it feels like being knighted.

He spends the next ten minutes dissecting the first half of the essay. He’s a surgeon with words, pointing out a weak transition here or a missed opportunity for a citation there, but his critiques are couched in relentless praise.

“You’ve captured the nuance of the Incontinent perfectly,” he says, his voice smoothing out into a velvet purr.

As he speaks, his hand leaves the mouse. It drifts naturally, almost as if it belongs there, to the small of your back. He doesn't just tap you; he rests his palm there, the heat of his hand soaking through your clothes. He uses the contact to gently guide you closer to the screen, his shoulder now pressing firmly against your side.

“If you tighten up this specific paragraph,” Zeke says, his finger tracing a line of text on the monitor while his palm remains a steady, burning weight against your spine, “and keep your evaluation this strong through the final act… it will be perfect. Truly. You’ve done a brilliant job so far.”

The way he says perfect feels like it’s aimed at more than just the prose.

“Thank you, Professor,” you murmur, your voice a little breathier than you intended.

As if sensing the exact moment your composure is about to snap, he finally drops his hand. The sudden loss of his heat leaves your skin feeling cold, a physical withdrawal that makes your head light. You take a half-step back, putting the desk’s corner between you again, trying to find your footing on the Persian rug.

He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under him, and looks up at you. The green of his jumper seems to make his eyes look even more piercing in the dimming afternoon light. He looks satisfied, like a man who has successfully laid a foundation and is happy to watch the structure rise.

“Of course,” he says, his voice returning to that smooth, professorial calm, though the ghost of that private tone still lingers in the air. “Any time. My door is always open for students of your calibre.”

He pauses, his hand hovering over the mouse, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again.

“Feel free to come and see me whenever you find yourself stuck. Whether it’s Dante, or something else entirely.”

You pack your bag quickly. When your hand is on the doorframe, your body already halfway into the corridor, his voice cuts through the stillness, calling your name. Not loud, but focused, like a spotlight.

You turn, the movement slow and instinctive. Your eyes are slightly wide, your heart a trapped bird against your ribs. You can feel your lips parted in a small, involuntary gasp, the breath you forgot to finish taking.

“Yes, Professor?”

Zeke is standing by his desk, his silhouette framed by the dying amber of the afternoon. He’s adopted that professional veneer again, spine straight, chin tilted, but his eyes remain dark and unreadable behind his glasses. He looks at you, and for a second, the philosophy, the books, and the centuries of logic simply vanish.

“I was noticing,” he says, his voice dropping into a low register that vibrates in the floorboards. “The colour you’re wearing today.”

“It’s very flattering,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on the line of your throat, the curve of your breasts, before meeting your eyes again. “It brings out the light in your eyes. It makes you look like you belong in a painting, rather than a dusty tutorial room.”

The compliment is sharp, precise, and entirely inappropriate for a man of his station. It feels like a brand.

“Thank you, Sir,” you reply, the words tasting like a secret on your tongue.

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, a dismissal that feels more like an appraisal. Until Thursday. Try to keep that light. It’s a rare thing in this department.

               That weekend, you find yourself in the town centre, burrowed in a bookshop. It's a cavern of decaying paper and cedarwood, where the dust feels like it’s been settling since the nineteenth century. You're tucked away in the back, tracing the gilded spines of the heavyweights, humming a soft, cheerful tune.

Speak of the devil.

The voice doesn't just startle you; it vibrates through the soles of your shoes. It’s a deep, textured rumble that you’d know even if you were deaf.

You spin around, your heart performing a frantic little dance in your chest. “Professor! I… I didn't expect to see you here.”

Zeke is leaning against a shelf of ancient poetry, looking entirely too comfortable. He’s shed the stiff academic tweed for a crisp white shirt and a heavy, charcoal cable-knit sweater. There’s a discreet, expensive emblem embroidered on the chest. He looks softer like this, but the authority still clings to him.

“No,” he says, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses in a way that feels dangerously genuine. “I didn't expect to see you either. What are you hunting for in the dark?”

“I’m not sure,” you say, breathless. “Just… something to keep me busy.”

Zeke takes a slow step closer, invading your personal space with the practised ease of a man who knows he’s invited. “My tutorial work isn't enough for you? I’m hurt.” He tilts his head, a wicked glint in his blue eyes. “Perhaps I should be setting you more. I’d hate for those brilliant ideas of yours to go to waste.”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, a soft giggle that betrays just how much you’ve begun to crave the heavy, singular weight of his attention. 

“I’ll try to keep some ideas in reserve,” you tease, before the memory of your grade surfaces. “Oh! I almost forgot. Thank you so much for helping me with that essay last week. The edits were exactly what it needed! Professor Ackerman actually said it was—”

“The best he’s seen in years.” Zeke cuts you off, his voice a low purr. A faint, smug smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I know. He told me.”

You blink, stunned. “He... he told you? You talk about my work?”

“We talk, yes. We are colleagues, after all,” Zeke says, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat before snapping back to your eyes. “Though, admittedly, Levi sounded more annoyed than impressed, as he hates being forced to give out top marks so early in the term. You’ve become quite the celebrity in our department already.”

You hum, a small sound of feline satisfaction, and lean over a bin of bargain paperbacks. You pretend to be engrossed in the hunt for a hidden gem, but your pulse is racing. From this angle, you know he has a clear, unobstructed view down the plunging neckline of your top.

You know exactly what you’re doing, the way the fabric drapes, the way your skin catches the warm, amber glow of the bookstore’s lamps. You don't look up, but you feel the atmosphere shift. The air between you suddenly feels heavy and overcharged. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the quiet aisle is the faint, sharp intake of Zeke’s breath as it hitches in his throat.

He looks at you softly when you finally stand straight, his expression a complex map of hunger and restraint. 

There are two glaring problems here: he is old enough to be your father, and you find that absolutely intoxicating. He is the authority you want to defy; he is the intellect you want to consume; he is terribly, unfairly rich.

He reaches out, the light splicing sharply off the heavy, silver face of his Patek Philippe watch. His hand, large, steady, and irrevocably masculine, reaches past your head to pull a leather-bound volume from the top shelf.

“If you want to be busy,” he whispers, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder as he hands you the book. “Read this.”

He hands it to you. The leather is warm from his touch. You look down at the title: Plato’s Symposium.

“It’s the classic text on desire,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing the edge of the cover before he lets it go. “The Greeks believed that humans were originally two-headed, four-armed beings, split in half by the gods because we were too powerful. We spend our lives searching for that other half, the one who fits our jagged edges perfectly.”

You look up at him, your breath hitching. “And do you believe that, Professor?”

Zeke’s gaze drops to your mouth for a lingering, heavy second. “Read the speech of Alcibiades,” he says, his tone regaining a flicker of that professional veneer. “He talks about falling in love with his tutor, Socrates. It’s a lesson in the danger of seeking wisdom from a man who knows too much.”

He pauses for a heartbeat, his scent, cedar and cold winter air, filling your senses until you feel lightheaded. He looks at you, really looks at you, over the rim of his glasses.

I’ll see you at the Department Formal. Try to keep your mind on the Greeks, if you can.

He turns and walks out, the bell above the door tinkling with a sharp, mocking clarity that shatters the silence.

You’re left standing in the dust, the book clutched against your ribs like a stolen heart. Your stomach flutters, a frantic, sickeningly sweet motion, like that carousel spinning too fast, the organ music swelling in your ears.

Was he flirting?

The thought is a fever. 

Was that allowed? 

The professor in the blue shirt, the God of the tutorial room. 

You can still feel the ghost of his chest brushing your shoulder, the heat of his arm through the cable-knit, the silver flash of his watch, a reminder of the time you’re already losing to him.

You walk to the counter, your movements jerky, trance-like. You buy the book immediately, the crisp sound of the paper bag like a seal on a contract you haven't even read yet.

                   (The night, a fever dream, heavy silk and bruised violets. Sleeping, but tossing, falling through a sky of two deep blue eyes.

You crash, a bright star, into the dream. A golden hall, endless, hazy with sweet myrrh smoke. A table long, so long, shadow-drinkers laugh, faceless gods revel, but only Zeke.

Drunk, not on wine, but on his weight, his presence. Alcibiades, you stumble, wild ruin, towards the feast's heart. Zeke waits, at the head of the table, Socrates in form, but older, from deep woods, a Satyr.

His cable-knit sweater is gone, replaced by the raw, muscular chest of a forest god. He is terrifyingly male, a creature of appetites. 

Free from any confines, his erect, meaty cock lies beneath the table; a heavy, violent cudgel of flesh accompanied by his large, pulsing scrotum. With a wet thump, the thick, angry head of his cock smacks onto his thigh. 

He is your teacher, your father, your master, and you are a nymph, a shimmering, ethereal creature, a dog whining at his heel.

You begin to speak, your voice a tremor in the tavern air, a flute struggling to find its note.

I will tell the truth, you tell the rowdy drinkers, your eyes never leaving his. And if I lie, let him strike me down.

Confess your clumsy, yearning pleas, the bookstore lean, the dress too bold, a silent scream to be desired. But he is a statue of stone; he treats you as a student while your soul is screaming to be his lover.

The dream shifts, turning airy and light, like a solstice night. You are crawling toward him on the marble floor. You see him then, not as the professor with the weathered tan line, but as the Silenus statue Plato described. The outer shell of the cold academic cracks open, and for a heartbeat, you see what he keeps hidden inside.

They are golden gods. They are bright and beautiful and utterly amazing, figures of pure, unadulterated power. They look at you with their blue eyes, and the choice is stripped from your body. You are no longer a girl with an essay to write; you are a creature of his design.

You had no choice. You just had to do whatever he told you.

You whisper into the crook of his knee, the scent of oil and ancient musk drowning you. 

He reaches down, his large hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back until you are looking up into the sun of his face. He doesn't kiss you. He simply looks, a predatory, divine patience.

The head of his cock was a swollen, angry-purple globe, a single, clear bead of arousal welling at its tip. A thick, ropey vein snaked along the underside, pulsing with a life of its own. It was a beautiful, perfect, monstrous thing.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, the sound of a landslide. “Now, suck my cock.”)

              You wake up with the taste of saltwater and honey in your mouth, your sheets tangled around your legs like a trap. Sweat is beading on your body, the gusset of your panties plastered to your mound. The sun is hitting the half-finished Symposium on your nightstand, and the room feels too quiet, too empty.

               That same evening, the air in Sasha’s dorm room is a chaotic cloud of hairspray, expensive perfume, and the sharp, medicinal sting of cheap vodka. It’s the night of the Department Ball.

Sasha looks like a model in her long red dress, her face flushed with excitement and a bit of the pre-game buzz. You’re her contrast in the navy blue dress you borrowed from her. It demands attention, clinging to every curve and dipping low enough to make your pulse visible at the base of your throat.

“I’m so excited!” Sasha squeals, the curling iron clicking as she works on a stubborn strand. “Niccolo has never really come to one of our events before. He’s always buried in his labs.”

“I’m surprised he has the time to come,” you say, squinting into the mirror as you carefully apply another coat of mascara. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, the cold vodka in your plastic cup feeling like an anchor. “I know the Orgo module is hell.”

"I'm just so happy he's coming!" Sasha squeals again, practically bouncing in her heels. She checks her phone for the tenth time in five minutes, her face glowing with genuine giddiness. "He’s coming to get us at seven. He said he’s just finishing up."

"Alright, that’s fine," you murmur, taking a final sip of your drink. The deadline of seven o'clock feels like a countdown. 

Sasha turns her back to you, holding a stray lock of hair. "Can you curl the back of my head? I can’t see it, and I don't want to look like a bird's nest from behind."

"Of course, Sash. Don’t worry. I’ve got you."

You take the hot iron from her, the heat radiating against your palm. As you carefully wrap the strands around the barrel, you find yourself staring at the back of her head, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re thinking about tonight. Niccolo will be there, students will be there—

Zeke will be there. 

"You're being very quiet," Sasha says, her voice muffled as she tilts her head to give you better access. "Are you nervous? Drink some more vodka, you'll be fine."

"I'm not nervous," you lie, releasing a perfect spiral curl. "Just making sure I don't burn you."

But your heart is doing that strange, rhythmic thudding again. You imagine him watching you walk in. You imagine him seeing you not as a student, but as a woman in a borrowed dress that leaves very little to the imagination.

"Done," you say, tapping her shoulder.

Sasha spins around, checking her reflection in the mirror with a triumphant grin. "Perfect! God, we look good."

She grabs her clutch and hands you yours. "Ready to go meet our fate?"

“Yeah, of course. Let me get my phone.”

               The transition from the cramped, cluttered dorm to the sheer scale of the Grand Hall is enough to make your head swim. The ceiling arches high above, gold leaf catching the light of a dozen chandeliers, and the air is a hum of clinking crystal and low-thrumming cello music.

Sasha is in her element, dragging a slightly bewildered-looking Niccolo toward her favourite History tutors, her laughter ringing out over the crowd. She’s anchored; she has someone's arm to hold.

You, however, feel untethered. The dress feels even more daring under the unforgiving brightness of the chandeliers. You find yourself retreating toward the long, white-clothed food tables, picking idly at a plate of hors d'oeuvres just to give your hands something to do. You take a champagne flute from a passing waiter, the bubbles stinging your throat.

From your vantage point by the catering, you scan the room. It’s a sea of black tuxedos and shimmering gowns, but your internal compass is spinning, searching for a specific frequency.

And then you see him.

He’s standing near the mahogany bar at the far end of the hall, flanked by the Dean and a senior lecturer you recognise from the Classics department. Zeke is in a black tuxedo that looks like it was moulded to his frame. The crisp white of his shirt makes his tan skin look darker, his silver-grey hair more distinguished.

He’s holding a glass of scotch, no champagne for him, and he’s listening to the Dean with an expression of polite, bored patience.

Until he shifts.

His head turns slowly, his eyes cutting through the crowd with surgical accuracy. He doesn't look surprised to see you. He looks like he’s been waiting for you to arrive. His gaze travels from your face, down the length of your dress, lingering on the exposed skin of your chest for a heartbeat too long to be accidental, before returning to your eyes.

He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. He just raises his glass a fraction of an inch, a private, silent toast, before turning back to the Dean as if nothing had happened.

How are you supposed to talk to him and look him in the eye? After the Satyr, after the banquet, after the golden gods in the dream? 

Your throat hitches, the champagne bubbles suddenly feeling like lead, but the spell is broken by a sudden, energetic presence at your elbow.

“Ah, excuse me! I believe you’re hovering over the last of the smoked salmon, and I have a scientific need for protein.”

You jump slightly, turning to see Professor Zoë. They are exactly as they appear in the lecture halls: a whirlwind of eccentric energy, brown hair escaping a messy ponytail, and thick glasses that seem to magnify their intense, curious gaze. Their formal wear looks like it was put on in a hurry, a tie slightly askew.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” you stammer, stepping back from the table.

“No worries! None at all!” Professor Zoë beams, popping a canapé into their mouth and looking you up and down with scarily sharp intuition. “You look terribly bored. Are you a humanities student? You have that existential dread look about you.”

“Yes,” you say, managed a small, shaky laugh. “I take Philosophy.”

“Philosophy!” They hum, their eyes sparkling behind their lenses. “The search for truth. How are you finding it so far?”

“It’s… a lot,” you admit, clutching your champagne flute. “But it’s good. I love it, actually. My tutorials have really helped clarify things.”

“Tutorials, eh?” Professor Zoë tilts their head, their gaze suddenly drifting past your shoulder toward the bar where Zeke is still standing. A knowing, slightly mischievous look crosses their face. “And who is your tutor? Not that old grump Shadis, I hope? He’d turn anyone off the love of wisdom.”

“No,” you say, your voice dropping an octave as you feel a sweat crawl up your neck. “I have Professor Yeager.”

“Zeke?” Professor Zoë's eyebrows shoot up to their hairline. They let out a bark of laughter that draws a few stares from nearby alumni. “Oh, how fascinating! He’s a brilliant mind, certainly. Very precise. Very... thorough. But I imagine he’s quite a handful. He doesn't settle for half-measures, does he?”

Before you can answer, they lean in a little closer, their voice dropping. “Just a word of advice from an old friend, don't let him get too deep into your head. He has a habit of rearranging the furniture in there and forgetting to leave the keys.”

You force a smile that feels brittle. “Thank you. Have a good evening.” 

As Professor Zoë bounces away, darting between a group of alumni and a tray of lobster crostini, you feel a wave of nausea roll through you. 

It’s the vodka, the champagne, and the sheer gravity of the man now walking toward you.

Your skin feels too thin, as if the secret of what you’ve been reading, what you've been dreaming, is written in the flush of your cheeks.

This is so dumb, you chide yourself, your fingers trembling as you tuck a stray curl of hair behind your ear. He’s your professor. He’s twice your age. He’s the person who grades your papers.

But as he strides away from the Dean, the sea of people seems to part for him. He doesn't just walk; he commands the floor, the light from the chandeliers glinting off the silver at his temples.

“Hello,” he says. The word is simple, but the way he says it, directed only at you, makes the room’s noise fade into a dull hum. 

“Hi, Professor,” you breathe.

He smiles, and it’s that slow, devastatingly handsome curve of his lips. “I see you’ve met Hange. How are you finding the event? Is the champagne to your liking?”

“It’s good,” you say, clutching your glass. “Really nice. The hall is beautiful.”

“Hm, I suppose it is.” He takes a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s a heavy, weighted pause where the air between you seems to catch fire. “You look beautiful tonight.”

Your heart skips a beat, then another, a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The directness of the compliment, delivered in that steady, academic baritone, is almost more than you can handle.

“Thank you,” you stammer, your face heating up. “You– you look very nice too, Professor.”

He lets out a low, dry chuckle, the sound vibrating in the small space between you. “You mustn't flatter me. It won't do anything for your grades.” He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest before snapping back to your eyes. “Though, I suppose you don't need my help getting better grades, do you? You’re quite exceptional on your own.”

The praise makes you feel like you’re melting from the inside out. You’d trade every A you’ve ever received for him to keep looking at you like that. “I mean, you’re such a good teacher,” you murmur, your voice a little breathy. “I couldn’t do it without your help.”

“You’re too kind, really. You have a natural inclination towards Philosophy, I can only have the honour of guiding you,” he says.

Just then, a group of loud, laughing seniors stumbles past, threatening to jostle you. Without a word, Zeke reaches out. His hand settles against the small of your back, not a fleeting touch, but a firm, warm pressure that guides you closer to him, out of the way of the crowd.

His palm is hot through the thin fabric of your dress, and he doesn't pull it away once the bystanders have passed. He leaves it there, his thumb grazing the very top of your hip, asserting a quiet, invisible claim on you in the middle of the crowded hall.

“Would you humour me by stepping outside?” Zeke’s voice drops, vibrating against the shell of your ear. “I would like to talk to you without distraction.”

“Yeah– of course, yeah,” you breathe out, the words catching in your throat.

He guides you through the throngs of dancing bodies, his body acting as a shield, his arm a solid, unyielding barrier between you and the sweaty crowd. You feel the eyes of the room on you, but Zeke doesn't look back once. He leads you straight toward the heavy steel doors, the music fading until the only thing you can hear is the click of his shoes and the drumming of your own heart.

The heavy steel doors of the hall swing shut behind you, cutting the music to a muffled throb. The silence of the cloisters is sudden and jarring, filled only by the distant hiss of traffic and the sharp, biting chill of the winter night. 

Zeke releases you, but only to step toward a brick pillar. He moves with a slow, deliberate grace, pulling a silver case from his inner pocket. With a flick of a lighter, the orange glow of a cigar illuminates the sharp angles of his face, the deep-set eyes, the silver-grey of his beard, the way his brow furrows as he takes the first pull. He exhales a long, leisurely plume of smoke that curls into the frozen air like a ghost.

You’re swaying slightly, a cocktail of vodka, champagne, and his presence making the stone floor feel like the deck of a ship.

“So? Did you read it? Alcibiades’ speech?” he asks, the smoke from his cigar drifting between you like a veil.

“I did,” you nod, clutching your arms across your chest.

“Did you?” He murmurs, his gaze sweeping over you with a terrifying, clinical focus. “And what did you think of our wayward Athenian?”

“I don't—” You swallow, your pulse thrumming so hard in your throat you’re sure he can see it. “I don't understand what you’re doing, Professor. Why the books? Why the… everything?”

You’re a smart girl, he says, his voice dropping into that dark, granular register. I suppose you’ve figured out my proclivity toward you by now.

You flinch, glancing back at the heavy steel doors. Through the thick metal, you can hear the faint thud of the bass, imagining Sasha and the others just a few yards away. “You can’t say that!” you hiss, your voice trembling. “It could get you fired.”

He chuckles, a low, dry sound that has no humour in it, only a weary sort of arrogance. “Do you think I’m the first professor to find himself so enamoured by a student? Hardly. The history of academia is written in the margins of relationships like this.”

He steps closer, closing the gap until the heat from his body pushes back the winter chill. He reaches out and stubs his cigar against the stone pillar, the embers dying instantly.

“You’re smart, you’re kind, and you are terribly gorgeous,” he says, his voice now a mere inch from your face. “I don’t think I ever stood a chance against a girl like you.”

He reaches out, his hand sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers curling with a firm, possessive pressure.

The heavy steel door groans on its hinges, swinging open with a violent clang that echoes like a gunshot through the silent cloisters.

The spell is shattered instantly.

A student, one of the seniors from the Politics department, stumbles out into the night air, swaying dangerously. He’s clutching a half-empty beer bottle, his tie undone and hanging like a noose around his neck. He lets out a loud, wet cough, clearly oblivious to the world around him as he lurches toward the stone railing to heave.

You jump apart as if the air between you had suddenly turned to electricity. You scramble back a few paces, your heels clicking sharply on the stone, your hand flying to your throat. Your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it’s nauseating, the adrenaline of the near-miss crashing through your system.

Zeke, however, is a master of the pivot.

By the time the drunk student looks up, bleary-eyed and disoriented, Zeke has already straightened his tuxedo jacket. He stands tall, his silhouette regaining its cold, academic rigidity in a heartbeat.

"Check yourself, Mr Galliard," Zeke says, his voice cutting through the chill like a blade. It’s loud, authoritative, and completely devoid of the warmth it held seconds ago. "The bushes are for landscaping, not for your lack of self-control. Get some water and find your coat."

The student mumbles an apology, stumbling back toward the doors without a second glance at you, far too intoxicated to realise he just interrupted the scandal of the year.

As the doors thud shut again, the silence that follows is even heavier than before. You’re shivering violently now, not just from the cold, but from the realisation of how close you just came to ruin.

Zeke doesn't move toward you again. He stays by the pillar, his eyes tracking the closed door, his jaw tight.

He turns back to you, his eyes softening just a fraction. "It is also why I am proposing a different arrangement. I want to see you. Properly. Away from the prying eyes of the faculty and the idiocy of your peers. A courtship, if you will, conducted with the discretion it deserves."

The word courtship hangs in the air, archaic and heavy. But the sight of him snapping back into his Professor cadence to hide you has triggered a sudden, sharp panic in your chest. The reality of the secrecy, the lying, the hiding, the sheer weight of his power over you, suddenly feels like it's suffocating you.

"I can’t..." you whisper, stepping back, your heels catching on the uneven stone. Your head is spinning from the vodka and the sudden shift in atmosphere. "I’m sorry. You’re– I– I can’t do this."

Zeke’s expression doesn't shatter; it simply freezes. It’s like watching a lake turn to ice in a matter of seconds.

"Fine." He cuts you off before you can stumble through another apology, the word sharp as a guillotine. He doesn't look hurt; he looks insulted. He adjusts his cufflinks with a calm precision. "It’s late, anyway. The cold is clearly affecting your judgment."

The rejection hits you like a bucket of ice water. The transition from him claiming you against a pillar to this icy dismissal is too fast. After the way he looked at you in the bookstore, the way he whispered about your potential, to be dismissed now, treated like a child who has stayed up past her bedtime, is too much to bear.

The alcohol in your system turns your embarrassment into a sharp, stinging wound, and for the first time, you want to hurt him back.

“Fine,” you snap, your voice wobbling as you wrap your arms around yourself. “I’ll go. I don’t care. I shouldn't have come out here anyway.”

You turn on your heel, your navy dress fluttering in the wind, but as you reach for the door handle, you hear his voice one last time, not the lover, not the suitor, but the man who holds your entire academic future in his hands.

"I'll see you in my office on Tuesday morning," he says, his tone perfectly flat. "Don't be late. We have a lot of ground to cover."

                 You stand outside the heavy oak door, your heart a frantic metronome. The brass plaque on his door seems to wink at you in the sharp morning light, mocking you. 

Your hands are shaking as they hover above the handle. You hold your breath as you swing open the heavy door. Zeke is already there, sitting behind his desk, his glasses reflecting the morning light so you can’t see his eyes.

He looks up as you enter, his gaze drifting, slowly, to you.

“Good morning,” Zeke says, his voice a flat, velvet floor. “I hope you’ve all come prepared.”

The office feels smaller today, the air vibrating. You take your seat, your knees brushing the edge of the dark wood. You see the way his jaw tightens when Eren sits a little too close to you.

“Antigone,” he begins, his voice a low, resonant hum that seems to vibrate through the table. “A play by Sophocles. The heart of this text is built upon a single Greek word: philia. Most of your translations will render this simply as ‘love,’ and so ‘love’ figures prominently in your reading.”

Armin’s hand shoots up, his academic reflex cutting through the tension.

“Yes, Armin?” Zeke nods, his expression smoothing into the mask of the patient mentor.

“Is ‘philosophy’ supposed to mean ‘love of wisdom’ then?” Armin asks, leaning forward. “Since ‘sophia’ means wisdom? And Philadelphia means the city of brotherly love?”

“Precisely, Armin. Well done.” Zeke looks pleased, but his eyes remain cool, analytical. “However, philia is more complex than our modern, sentimental ‘love’. It has no direct English equivalent. It signifies the deepest, most vital bonds that tie you to another person or a group of persons. It is a tether.”

He stands then, pacing a small, tight semi-circle behind his chair, the white of his shirt catching the light.

“The English word ‘loyal’ derives from the Latin ‘ligare’. To bond, to tie down. When Creon speaks of philien, he is talking about allegiance. He is talking about the ties that bind a man to his state.”

He stops, his hands resting on the back of his chair, regarding you all with a predatory stillness.

“So, what is Creon’s position at the outset of the play? In answering, bear in mind the reality of his world. It is the morning after a bloody, unsuccessful attempt to conquer his city. Conquests in the ancient world always relied on ‘fifth columnists’. That is, traitors within the walls. Creon’s paranoia isn't just madness; it is rooted in survival. And the man he refuses to bury, Polynices, is his own nephew. His own blood.”

Zeke’s gaze shifts, sharp and sudden, landing on Eren.

“Eren. Considering that Polynices turned against his own family to burn his city to the ground, is Creon being a tyrant, or is he simply severing a bond that was already broken?”

Eren doesn’t flinch. He leans back, his chair creaking, his green eyes defiant. “He’s being a hypocrite,” Eren says, his voice jagged. “He’s trying to use the law to kill a feeling. You can’t tell someone their brother isn't their brother just because he’s on the wrong side of a war.”

Zeke’s mouth quirks. A small, dangerous ghost of a smile. He turns his head slowly to you.

“Wonderful analysis, Eren,” he says, though he doesn't look at him. 

His focus is on you now. “Now, what of the girl herself? What is Antigone's position? We grant that the ritual burial of kin is a sacred obligation, but it is, at its core, only a ritual, a token sprinkling of dust. Why is that dust so important to her that she would trade her life for it?”

You twirl your pen between your fingers nervously, the silver clip catching the light. You feel the gaze of the three students on you, but you only feel the harsh burn of Zeke’s stare.

“Antigone represents family values,” you begin, your voice sounding more certain than you feel. “But it’s deeper than that. Higher, even. She’s following the unwritten, dateless laws of her time.”

“Brilliant,” Zeke murmurs, and for a second, the professional veneer cracks to reveal the golden god beneath. “But why unwritten? Why dateless? I want you to explore that, all of you. The connection between the blood of a family and these greater, other-than-general values.”

He stands, his hand brushing the edge of the table near mine as he moves to the chalkboard. He writes the word LOYALTY in harsh, white strokes.

“Consider Albert Carr,” he says, the chalk snapping in his hand. “He draws a direct line between ethical objections and religious ones. Think of a modern doctor, devoted to preserving life, clashing with Christian parents who refuse a bone-marrow transplant for their child. To the doctor, they are killers. To the parents, the doctor is a soul-destroyer.”

He turns back to you, the white chalk dust staining his fingers like bone meal. “In their view, faith alone heals, and permitting the treatment issues from a lack of faith that would endanger the child’s eternal life.”

Zeke turns his back to the room, the chalk screeching against the board as he draws three sharp, divergent arrows radiating from that central, bleeding word.

“A case like that was in the papers about three years ago, wasn't it?” Armin pipes up, his voice small in the vast, academic silence of the room. “The child died. The parents were tried for criminal neglect.”

“Correct, Armin,” Zeke says without turning around. He sounds distant, as if he’s already inhabiting a different century. “So, we must ask: Is the doctor being stubborn? Is he betraying a fundamental weakness by clinging to his oath, or is he simply being a doctor? And what of the other side? But a compromise here, a half-measure, half a transplant, would defeat both parties and accomplish nothing.”

He turns back, his hip leaning against the mahogany desk. His eyes find yours, and for a moment, the rest of the class, Eren’s restless tapping, Armin’s scribbling, simply fades into a dull hum. 

“Consider three kinds of loyalty,” he says, his voice dropping into that low, vibratory register that makes the skin on your arms prickle.

He scribbles the names ABRAHAM / ISAAC / GOD in jagged, white letters.

“The first: Loyalty to an absolute or transcendent obligation. God instructed Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac, as a test of faith. And Abraham, without a word of protest, proceeded to do it. He raised the knife.”

Zeke steps toward you, the smell of cedar preceding him like a warning. He towers over your chair, his shadow engulfing your notebook.

“Did he do well? Compare his response to Antigone’s. She defied a king for a handful of dust and a dead brother. Abraham was willing to spill the blood of his own future for a voice in the dark.”

Zeke moves to the next arrow on the board, his chalk scratching out a rhythmic, skeletal beat against the slate. The white of his sleeves is rolled back now, exposing the thick, corded strength of his forearms.

“Next,” he says, the word landing with the finality of a gavel. “Loyalty to a group, and to the values that it claims to represent. The big abstractions. Would you die for your country? For democracy? For the sacred tenets of free trade?”

He turns to look at you, his eyes narrowing as if he can see the very geography of your convictions.

“The Victorian critic John Ruskin offered a peculiar notion: the ‘due occasion of death.’ He argued that every true vocation has a moment where life must be surrendered for the cause. The soldier dies for safety; the doctor for health; the minister for the soul.”

Zeke pauses, a cynical, razor-thin smile touching his lips. “And then, he asked: What is the due occasion of death for the business person? For the man of commerce? Poor Ruskin... he couldn't find one. He found a world of people living for gain, but with nothing worth dying for.”

He turns back to the board, his hand moving with a sudden, restless energy. He scribbles the third point, the chalk snapping between his fingers, leaving a white smear across the wood.

“And finally,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a register so intimate it feels like a secret whispered in the dark. “To one’s history. To the blood. How important is it to defend the values of our ethnic origins? Our ancestors? The ghosts who built our bones?”

Zeke wipes the chalk from his palms, the white dust fluttering to the floor like snow. The room is heavy, the air thick enough to choke on.

The spell breaks. Eren stands, his heavy hand squeezing your shoulder in a casual, brotherly gesture that feels a thousand miles away from the touch you’re actually thinking about. He saunters toward the door, joking with someone in the hallway. Armin is already lost in a fresh thicket of annotations, his pen scratching furiously, and Mikasa is preoccupied with her phone, her shadow receding into the bright, fluorescent hallway.

You don’t wait. You’re out of your chair before he can even finish his sentence, your bag slung over your shoulder with a frantic clumsiness.

You need air. You need to be away from the scent of his expensive tobacco and the clinical, disappointed stares he’s been levelling at you from behind his glasses. You feel nauseous, a cold sweat breaking out at your hairline. 

It’s like you’re still on that carousel, spinning faster and faster, only now the music has stopped, and you’re desperately trying to find a way to get off before you get sick.

             The heavy, thrumming bass of the club vibrates in your teeth, a physical pulse that matches the frantic rush in your blood. It’s a Saturday, Sasha’s birthday, and the air is thick with the scent of alcohol, expensive vape smoke, and the sweat of a hundred bodies pressed together under the strobes.

You’re wearing a black dress that is dangerously short, a slip of silk that feels like a second skin. You’ve smeared iridescent glitter over your cheekbones, down the column of your throat, and across the swell of your cleavage, where it catches the erratic neon flashes of blue and purple. In this light, you don't look like a student. You look like a girl out of a fever dream; hazy, euphoric, and beautifully undone.

You’re already tipsy, the warmth of the pre-game vodka humming in your limbs. You lean against the sticky wood of the bar, your head light.

What would Zeke think if he saw you now?

The thought is a shot of adrenaline. You shake it out of your head, trying to focus, but you let a man pull you over to his table where all his friends are sitting, spilling out around empty bottles and the thick stench of cheap cologne, anyway. 

“This is my new friend,” he says with a grin. “Everyone, say hello.” 

It's echoed in a slurred chorus of warm beer and scattered shots of rum. They all seem friendly enough, as welcoming as cheap alcohol will allow, but you hesitate, hovering, a touch unsure, at the edge of the table until the man, whose name you don't even know, won't even remember, drops heavily into his seat with a huffing little command to sit.

He sends a careless kick against the leg of the chair beside him, and it reels backwards with a loud, sharp squeal into your thighs. 

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding a tall, sloshing drink your way. “Have a drink.”

The liquid in the glass tastes like sugar and cheap vodka, a cloying sweetness that coats your tongue and does nothing to dull the sharp edges of your nerves. You take a long sip, letting the artificial burn settle in your throat as the man beside you tightens his grip on your shoulder.

His hand on your thigh is a heavy, unwelcome weight, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with a casual sense of ownership that makes your skin crawl. You fix your gaze on a discarded lime wedge on the table, focusing on anything other than the heat of his palm moving higher.

This is fine, you tell yourself, the mantra repeating in time with the thudding bass. This is normal. 

Every time his thumb brushes against your skin, you don't feel a frenzy of need: you feel a cold, hollow ache. You find yourself comparing the clumsy, sweaty pressure of this stranger to the way Zeke’s hand had felt: steady, precise, and vibrating with an intellectual intensity that made this bar feel like a kindergarten playroom.

"You're quiet," the man grunts into your ear, his breath smelling of cigarettes and desperation. He squeezes your leg, his fingers inching dangerously close to the hem of your dress. "Drink up. You're too pretty to be this boring."

Boring. 

The word flashes like a neon sign. Zeke had called you brilliant. He had called you exceptional. This man doesn't even know your major, and he’s already bored because you won’t perform the role of the easy, mindless girl he wants you to be.

The disgust rises in your throat, thick and bitter. 

The stranger’s fingers tighten on your thigh, a possessive, heavy pressure that makes you feel more like an object than a person. He leans in, his smile too wide and his teeth too white in the strobe light, his breath hot against your ear. “Want another drink? I can get you something stronger if you’re feeling–”

“Oh, hey!”

A voice cuts through the grime of the moment like a sharp blade. A pale, firm hand drops onto the table between you and the face that keeps inching closer, effectively shattering that dizzying spell of bad choices and cheap charm.

You look up. It’s Niccolo.

He looks down at you with a gaze that is both protective and slightly knowing. “We were just looking for you,” he says, his tone level but firm.

“Yeah,” you say, the word coming out as a breathless relief. “I… I’m here.”

Before the stranger can protest, Sasha appears at Niccolo’s elbow. She is a flushed, giggling mess, her eyes bright with the kind of unrefined joy that only she can radiate. Seeing her feels like a bucket of cold water to the face; it’s grounding, immediate, and painfully real.

The sight of her gives you the leverage you need. You slide to the very edge of the chair, moving with a sudden, jerky purpose until the stranger’s hand finally slips off your thigh. The loss of his contact feels like shedding a layer of filth.

Sasha catches your eye, her brows shooting up toward her fringe as she takes in the scene: the strange drink, the rowdy boys, and your own stressed face.

The stranger isn’t ready to let his conquest go. He feels you slipping away, moving toward the grounding light of Sasha and Niccolo, and he reacts with a clumsy, panicked possessiveness. He slides his arm back around your shoulders, trying to reel you back into that easy atmosphere he thought he’d bought with a few shots.

“Hey, man,” the stranger barks at Niccolo, his voice cracking with unearned bravado. “We’re kinda busy here, so, uh– back off?”

Niccolo doesn't even flinch. He just rolls his eyes, a look of pity crossing his face.  “I don't know who the hell you're–”

But the stranger’s voice dissolves into static. Sasha reaches out, and the moment her hand touches your arm, the world stops spinning. Her fingers slide up to your cheek, her touch soft and tethering. There is no judgment in her gaze, only that fierce, protective adoration that has always been your safety net. She sees the silly girl making the silly mistake, and she’s already forgiven you for it.

“You look thirsty,” Sasha murmurs, her voice cutting through the thumping bass. “Why don't you go to the bar and get a water, huh? Clear your head.”

“I’m not really–” you start to protest, but she stops you with a firm, affectionate pinch to your cheek.

“Go,” she commands softly.

The meaning is sharp and unmistakable. Sasha’s distaste manifests in a sour twist of her lips, her eyebrows arching in an unspoken admonishment that makes your cheeks sting as if she’d actually slapped you. She clearly doesn’t approve of the boy beside you, the one whose fingers keep grazing the strap of your dress, his voice a distant, persistent echo calling out to you like a dog he’s trying to bring to heel.

Sasha doesn’t know about the cloisters. She doesn't know about the confession or the icy rejection that followed. To her, sending you toward the bar is a harmless escape.

You could ignore it. You could easily turn back to the boy, waving Sasha off. You can feel him already, beer-warmed breath ghosting over your cheek, fingers digging into your thigh. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” you say, swallowing. You watch Sasha’s eyes light up, thinking she’s doing you a favour. 

“I could definitely use a drink,” you finish, your voice steadier than your heartbeat.

You stumble towards the bar, but stop in your tracks when you spot him.

Zeke doesn't take his eyes off you as you approach. He makes no move to meet you halfway, seemingly content to let the gravity of his presence pull you in.

He stands there, leaning one elbow against the bar with a casual, predatory grace. He’s traded the academic tweed for a dark, midnight-blue button-down, the collar open to reveal the base of his throat. His jeans are dark, his jacket looks like it cost more than your tuition, and, most jarringly, his glasses are gone.

Without the frames, his blue eyes are piercing, stripped of their scholarly shield. They look colder, sharper, and far more dangerous.

“Professor—” the word trips off your tongue, a reflex.

“Please,” he interrupts, his voice dropping into that private, smooth register that belongs only to you. “Just call me Zeke. Do you mind if I join you?”

Your eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for Sasha’s head or Niccolo’s jacket, but they are submerged somewhere in the sea of blue and purple bodies. You are completely alone with him.

“No,” you breathe, your voice trembling. “I don’t mind.”

He slides onto the stool next to yours, his thigh brushing against the silk of your dress, a brief, electric contact that makes the glitter on your skin feel like it’s sparking. He doesn't look at the bartender; he looks only at you, his gaze roaming over your face, down your throat, and lingering on the iridescent glitter smeared across your cleavage.

“Well, look at you.” A silent, sardonic smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s the look of a man who has caught a bird he’s been tracking for miles. “Aren’t you darling?”

You shuffle on the barstool, suddenly acutely aware of how much skin you’re showing. You reach up, fingers fumbling to pull at the neckline of the silk slip, but the chunky glitter is everywhere. The push-up bra Sasha had insisted on was doing its job with horrible efficiency, making you feel exposed under his unshielded, blue gaze.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice barely a notch above the thrumming bass.

“I’m here with some colleagues,” he says, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. He gestures vaguely toward a shadowed booth in the far corner.

You squint through the haze. You spot a table full of older men, all smoking or drinking expensive vices. They look like a different world, yet here is Zeke, sitting in the neon dark with you.

“What about you, hm?” he asks, leaning in. The proximity is dangerous. You can smell the faint, expensive botanical scent of gin on his breath.

“It’s my friend’s birthday,” you manage to say, gesturing toward the corner where Sasha and Niccolo last were.

“Ah, I see. Celebrations are in order, then.”

As the bartender slides your drink towards you, he whips out a large leather wallet.

"Oh, don't–" you start, your hand fluttering toward your purse, but the protest dies in your throat as he swipes a sleek black card with a practised, aimless flick of the wrist. It’s an effortless display of power that makes you feel small and precious all at once.

"Please. It's my treat," he says, his voice cutting through the thrum of the bass like a hot knife through butter. He turns back to the bartender, his gaze never really leaving yours. "A whiskey. Neat. And whatever she wants next."

He turns his stool fully toward you now, his long legs bracketing yours in the narrow space between the bar. The dark fabric of his jeans brushes against your bare knees, a rough contrast to the thin silk of your dress.

The neon pulse of the club seems to sync with the thrumming in your head. Every time he looks at you, it feels like he’s peeling back another layer of that persona you wear like armour in the daylight.

“Thank you,” you whisper, gesturing to the drink he just paid for.

“Don’t thank me,” Zeke says, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates through the wood of the bar. “It’s payment for such lovely company.” He picks up his glass, the ice clinking against the crystal as he takes a slow sip of his whiskey. His eyes never leave yours over the rim of the glass.

You’re fidgety. Your knee is bouncing under the bar, and you keep adjusting the strap of your dress, feeling the phantom itch of the stranger's touch being slowly scorched away by Zeke's proximity.

The silence between you is heavy, filled with the thrumming bass of a song you don't know and the scent of his expensive cologne. It’s a suffocating, intoxicating kind of nice.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you finally blurt out, the question escaping before you can polish it into something more sophisticated. 

Zeke sets his glass down with a quiet thud. He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours, forcing you to feel the solid, expensive weight of him. The absence of his glasses makes his intensity feel unfiltered, like looking directly at the sun.

"You think I'm being nice?" He lets out a short, dry breath that might have been a laugh. "I'm being selfish. There is a profound difference. I spent the last three hours imagining how I would react if I walked in here and saw you with someone who actually deserved your time. And then I walked in... and saw that."

He gestures vaguely toward the table you fled, his lip curling in a brief flash of disdain before his focus snaps back to you.

"I'm not being nice because I've forgiven your rejection," he whispers. "I'm being nice because I've decided to give you a second chance to realise how much of a mistake that rejection was. Now, drink your Long Island. It’s much better for your nerves than that brown swill."

You take a large gulp of your Long Island, the burn of the alcohol giving you a sudden, reckless surge of courage. “Do you come here often?”

“Often?” He lets out a short, dry huff of a laugh, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. “No, not really. This is a bit loud for my tastes. I prefer the quiet of my office. Or my study at home.” He leans in, his scent wrapping around you. “You?”

“Sometimes,” you stammer, the heat in your cheeks having nothing to do with the strobe lights.

“Is that so?” He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray piece of chunky glitter on your collarbone, rubbing it into your skin with a slow, determined pressure. “And do you always look so seductive when you’re out? Or did you save this for a special occasion?”

“Maybe,” you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Zeke’s smile widens, something dark and predatory dancing in his gaze. He likes the way you stutter. He likes the way you’re swaying toward him, intoxicated by the drink and the sheer, crushing weight of his presence.

“Maybe,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes the hair on your arms stand up. “Have you read A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

You nod, your head feeling a little heavy from the Long Island. “Once... a few years ago. Why?”

He reaches out, his fingers ghosting over the air near your temple, tracing the line of your hair. He looks at you, really looks at you, taking in the soft, girlish roundness of your cheeks, the shimmering mess of makeup, and that raw, youthful beauty that looks like ripening fruit ready to be plucked.

“I think,” he murmurs, his gaze darkening, “you would make a brilliant Titania. The Queen of the Fairies.”

“Really? The one who falls in love with a donkey?” You giggle, the sound airy and bright against the heavy bass of the club.

Zeke tilts his head, a slow, predatory smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, it’s either the fate of Titania or Alcibiades, isn't it? Your teacher, or an ass.”

He lets out a low, melodic laugh at his own wit, but his eyes stay fixed on your mouth. “I’d like to think I’m slightly more sophisticated than a farm animal, though I suppose the capacity for stubbornness is there.”

“You’re far too arrogant to be a donkey.”

“Is that what you think of me?” He murmurs, his hand sliding from the air to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at your nape. He doesn't pull, but the weight of his palm is a claim. “Arrogant?”

“Methodical,” you correct, your voice dropping as you look up at him through your mascara-thick lashes. You feel a surge of playful, drunken mischief. “But you’re forgetting the most important rule.”

He raises a silver-threaded eyebrow, looking thoroughly amused. “And what rule is that?”

“You should never tell a fairy your name,” you whisper, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “If you do, they own you. They can lead you into the woods, and you’ll never find your way back out.”

Zeke’s gaze darkens, his thumb tracing the sensitive line behind your ear. He leans down until his lips are a mere breath away from yours, the scent of his whiskey-soaked breath intoxicating.

“A bit late for that, isn't it?” he rasps. “I’ve already given you my name.”

“Then you’re in trouble,” you tease, your hand reaching out to toy with the top button of his dark shirt. “Because once a fairy has your name, she can make you do anything.”

“Is that so?” He shifts closer, his thigh pinning yours against the bar. “Well, I suppose you have bewitched me from the first day we met, that fateful day in my office.”

He lets out a low, huffing laugh, his eyes roaming over the glitter on your chest before snapping back to yours.

The music seems to retreat into the background, leaving a pocket of heavy, static-charged silence between the two of you. You lean in, your vision a little hazy, and for the first time, you really look at him without the shield of a desk between you. You notice the grey threading through his beard, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that speak of long nights spent under lamplight. 

He looks like a man who has lived a thousand lives, while yours is only just beginning to ripen.

“Have you ever been with a student before?” you whisper, the question hanging in the neon air.

Zeke doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He sets his whiskey glass down with a slow, deliberate click. “No,” he says, his voice dropping. “I’ve always prided myself on my distance. I’ve never been so… interested… in a student in my care before.”

He leans in until his forehead almost brushes yours, his blue eyes searching yours for any sign of retreat. “But alas, these things find you when you’re not looking for them. It seems my resolve was no match for a girl with stars on her chest and a mind like yours.”

“Is that a bad thing?” you breathe.

“It’s a very inconvenient thing,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind your ear. “But I’ve never been one to shy away from a difficult text. And you… You are the most captivating thing I’ve read in years.”

The air between you is a thick, shimmering haze of neon violet and amber, the kind of atmosphere that only exists in the blurry periphery of a late night. To anyone else, you’re just a girl at a bar, but under Zeke’s unwavering stare, you feel like a masterpiece being slowly unravelled.

“You’re so young,” he says quietly. It isn't an accusation; it’s a confession, a heavy truth that seems to weigh on him more than the years ever could.

You tilt your chin up, the movement defiant even as your heart stutters. “Does that bother you?”

His mouth almost curves, a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s dangerous. You don’t even know what you do to people yet.”

He reaches out, his hand large and warm, his thumb grazing the line of your cheekbone. He catches a few stray flecks of the glitter Sasha had pressed onto your skin earlier; the tiny, iridescent specks catch the strobe light, sparkling against his tan, weathered skin like fallen stars. The contrast is visceral, the shimmer of your girlhood trapped against the rugged, lived-in lines of his palm.

He traces the line of your jaw like he’s following a map he’s been lost without for a lifetime. “You’re the prettiest girl in every room,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, private vibration. “Do you know that? In the lecture hall, in that bookstore, here... you're all I see.”

You shake your head, your breath catching in your throat. The intensity of it is too much; it feels like being stared at by the sun.

He huffs, a sharp, unamused sound. “That’s what makes it worse. That you have no idea how much power you're holding over me.”

He lets out a soft, jagged breath, his fingers settling at the nape of your neck. The heat from his body is a physical wall, shielding you from the neon chaos of the bar.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

“So are you,” you whisper back, noticing the microscopic tension in his frame, the way his knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the bar.

He smiles faintly, a dark, knowing expression. “No,” he says, his voice a grunt against your lips. “I’m trying very hard not to.”

His thumb strokes your cheek again, slower this time. “You’re so lovely,” he murmurs, his voice a low, melodic hum that seems to vibrate through the very marrow of your bones. “You’re the loveliest girl I’ve ever met.”

His thumb wanders lower, dragging slowly across the plush curve of your bottom lip. He presses down just enough to reveal the damp, pink velvet of the inside, his eyes darkening at the sight.

You feel so small beneath him, so impossibly new, while he stands there like a monument of salt and stone, ancient and unyielding.

“You’re going to hate me,” he says softly, the words barely carrying over the pulse of the music.

You frown, your breath hitching. “I don’t think I could.”

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, his fingers digging into the thin fabric of your dress as if to ground himself. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He tilts your head back, his gaze searching yours with a raw, agonising hunger. 

I’m going to ruin you, sweetheart, he breathes against your lips, the promise hot and heavy. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. By the time I’m done with you, you won’t even remember what it felt like to be a girl. You’ll only know what it feels like to be mine.

The weight of his words settles deep in your chest, a delicious, hot ache. You find yourself leaning into him.

“Please,” you whisper, the word a broken plea against his mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers back, his lips brushing yours, “you have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Then, he stops talking.

The first contact is a shock of friction. It isn’t the clumsy, wet fumbling of the boys on the dance floor; it is the kiss of a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly how to take it. It’s authoritative and deep, his tongue slicking against yours with a slow, rhythmic pressure that mirrors the graphic promise he just whispered.

Zeke moved fluidly, purposefully, one hand uncrossing your legs and the other in your hair, tilting your mouth up to meet his. He stepped closer, spreading your legs with the soft suggestion of his hand on your thigh. 

A soft, broken moan escapes your throat, lost in the cavern of his mouth. Your hands, acting on a desperate impulse of their own, fly up to grasp the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer until there is no air left between you.

Zeke groans, a low, primal sound that vibrates from his chest into yours, and his grip on your hair tightens, grounding you as the world tilts on its axis. He kisses you like he’s trying to consume the very intellect he praised, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that makes your knees go weak.

You melted into him, and Zeke’s hand moved from your hair to your neck, thumb grazing the hollow of your throat. The way he touched you drew out unfamiliar feelings; you ached for him, to feel him, yes, but there was an airiness about you like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away. His finger drew soft lines under your jaw, his lips moving deliberately with your feverish kisses. 

His lips travelled down your neck, and you let out a new sound of pleasure for each way he touched you, a kiss, a lick, a bite. Everywhere he touched burned, low, rolling heat that hit you in waves, each one as disorienting as the last. 

You loved it. Soon, he was kissing you again, slow and purposeful, giving you the feeling he knew exactly what he wanted to do with you. He slid his tongue against yours, and you moaned into his mouth, clutching at him, the hard press of his desire. You ached for his touch; you needed something, anything inside you.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, the air between you tasting of whiskey and sudden, shared secrets.

“That,” he pants, his eyes dark with a victory he doesn't bother to hide, “is the last time we do that in a place like this.”

“Okay,” you whisper, chest heaving. There's glitter smeared on his cheeks and stuck in his beard.

He presses another firm kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“It’s late,” he says, but he doesn’t sound tired. His thumb is still tracing slow circles into your wrist, like he forgot he started.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “Are you sending me home?”

His mouth curves faintly. “Is that what you think this is?”

“Isn’t it?”

He leans closer, voice low. “No, sweetheart. It’s me deciding I don’t want anyone else looking at you tonight.”

He pulls you up from your seat at the bar. He guides you out of the bar and leads you to a charcoal SUV. He opens the passenger door, his hand steadying your waist as you climb in, then walks around to the driver's side. The moment he shuts his door, the world goes silent. The only sound is the soft hum of the engine and the click of his seatbelt.

Zeke shifts in the driver’s seat, but he doesn't put the car in gear. He leaves the engine idling, the soft vibration of the engine the only thing breaking the silence. He drapes one arm over the steering wheel and turns his body toward you, his silhouette dark and imposing against the window.

For a long moment, he just watches you, his eyes tracking the way your chest rises and falls, the way the glitter on your skin catches the faint red glow of the dashboard lights.

"Look at me," he says, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative tone. "Stop fussing with your dress and look at me, sweetheart."

You look at him, worrying your bottom lip. Zeke’s eyes drop to your mouth, watching the way you fret at your lower lip. He reaches out, his hand bridging the gap between the seats. His thumb is warm and slightly rough as he presses it against your chin, gently but firmly tugging your lip free from your teeth.

"Don't do that," he murmurs, his thumb lingering to trace the curve of your mouth. "I’d prefer it if you didn't leave any marks I didn't put there myself."

His thumb presses, slow and reassuring. 

“Are you still alright?” he asks.

You nod.

He leans closer, voice a whisper against your ear.

“Good,” he says, “because I'm taking you home with me.”

Zeke watches the shift in your expression, his thumb still hooked under your chin. The raw, heavy tension in his shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but it softens at the edges when that smile spreads across your face. It’s a dizzy, lopsided look, the kind that only comes from a mixture of too much vodka and the intoxicating realisation that you have his absolute, undivided attention.

In the dim light of the dashboard, his exasperation is clear. He looks at you with a mixture of fond disbelief and weary protection, looking very much like a father trying to manage a beautiful, chaotic daughter he can’t quite control. Being his sweetheart feels like a warm weight settling over you, better than any drink.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your voice airy and content. “Okay.”

He huffs out a short, dry laugh, the sound vibrating in the small space. He shakes his head, and for a moment, the predatory edge in his eyes is replaced by a look of pure, paternalistic indulgence. He reaches out and pats the top of your head, a soft, repetitive gesture, as if he’s calming a particularly flighty kitten.

“God,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble of defeat. “I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. I really don't.”

He lets his hand linger on your hair for a second longer than necessary, his fingers brushing against your temple.

“Are all young women so–?” He stops himself, searching for the word as his gaze roams over your messy mascara and the glitter that has now transferred to his own thumb. “So persistent? So utterly convinced they can take on the world?”

He leans back just an inch, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in your happy, glassy-eyed expression. He shakes his head, and begins to drive.

The car is a warm cocoon, the heater blowing a dry, cosy heat that makes your head feel even lighter. You hum along to a low, crooning jazz track on the radio, the melody blurring into the thump-thump of the tyres on the asphalt. Zeke’s profile is sharp against the passing streetlights, his hand steady on the gear shift.

You think of Sasha and Niccolo back in the neon haze of the club, then your mind drifts to those three men in the dark corner, the scholars who probably didn't expect their most esteemed colleague to vanish into the night with a student.

“What will you tell your friends?” you hiccup, the sound making you giggle. “You left them all alone.”

He chuckles, a low, smooth sound that’s more intimate than the music. “My colleagues, you mean? They’ll understand.”

His hand leaves the steering wheel, sliding across the centre console to rest firmly on your thigh. The heat of his palm seeps through the thin material of your dress, grounding you instantly. “I’ll tell them a fairy stole me away. A very persistent, very glittery fairy.”

He glances at you, his blue eyes softening but still carrying that heavy, proprietary weight. “What about you, hm? What will you tell your friend? It is her birthday, if I remember correctly. Won't she be looking for her Titania?”

“Sasha?” You lean your head back against the leather headrest, closing your eyes for a second as his thumb strokes the side of your knee. “She’s with her boyfriend, she’ll understand. She’ll just be happy I didn't go home alone.”

Zeke’s hand tightens just a fraction on your leg. “Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous, velvet register. “Well, I’m going to take care of you tonight.”

            The drive was a blur of streetlights and the heavy, silent tension of his presence. Now, standing in the foyer of his home, the reality of your choice settles in. The manor is a cathedral to his intellect, dark wood, the scent of old paper and expensive malt.

The ambient yellow light catches the dust motes in the air, making the entire room feel like it’s been dipped in the same amber glow as the bookstore where this all began.

“Come now, sweetheart. Don’t dawdle. Take off your shoes.”

You kick off your heels, the cool hardwood floor a shock against your soles. You feel giddy, a frantic sort of excitement humming in your veins that makes your movements clumsy. 

When you look up, he’s standing in the doorway of the living room, his coat discarded, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He’s just watching you, his gaze heavy and unreadable.

“Come here,” he says. The command is so quiet it almost disappears into the vastness of the house, but it carries more weight than any lecture he’s ever given.

You hesitate. It’s an instinctive flicker of nerves, the sudden realisation that you are no longer in a public bar or a crowded hall. You are in his domain. He notices the slight hitch in your step immediately.

His mouth tilts, that half-smile reappearing, though it looks more dangerous in the privacy of his home. “Are you shy all of a sudden?”

“I’m not shy,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

He leans closer, his shadow falling over you, the heat of him cutting through the air. “No,” he agrees, his voice dropping into that velvet growl. “You’re brave.”

His thumb ghosts over your cheekbone, the pressure light as a feather as he smears another fleck of glitter, dragging it across your skin. “That’s worse. Bravery gets people into trouble they aren't prepared for.”

He doesn't move his hand. He lets his fingers slide into your hair, his palm cupping the back of your head, grounding you.

When he scoops you up, the world tilts; you feel the sudden, jarring strength in his arms, the raw physical reality of him that his tailored clothes usually hide.

He carries you with a terrifying ease, his stride long and purposeful, until he reaches a large bedroom. He arrives at the edge of a bed that feels like a vast, silken continent. He places you down carefully, but the moment your back hits the mattress, the sheer scale of the room and the man presses in on you.

Zeke doesn't follow you down immediately. He stands over you, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway, a titan of shadow and intent.

"You have a choice, yes?" he asks, his voice like grinding stones. "You either go to the guest bedroom, and we can resume this tomorrow, or you stay here, with me, in mine."

You look up at him, your pulse a frantic thrum in your ears. 

“I want to be here. With you.”

He reaches out, his hand sliding under your neck to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat to the amber light.

"I told you I was going to ruin you," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the frantic leap of your pulse. "But I’m a man of patience. I’m going to take my time with it."

He reels back, beginning to strip, peeling off his clothes meticulously. As he undresses, your eyes wander to the walls, momentarily distracted by the glimpses of a life you’ve only ever imagined through the lens of a syllabus. The frames are filled with frozen moments: Zeke standing stiffly with stern-faced colleagues, a younger version of him grinning beside a baseball team, some faded shots of family.

But the spaces are conspicuous in their absence. There are no soft edges here. No portraits of a woman, no drawings pinned to a fridge, no echoes of children.

“Are you married?” you ask, the question feeling small and fragile in the vast, quiet room.

Zeke pauses, his fingers stilled on the last button of his shirt. He doesn't look at the walls. He looks only at you, his expression hardening into something unreadable. “No, sweetheart. I’m not. Not anymore.” He tosses the shirt onto a nearby chair, his broad shoulders catching the dim yellow light. “I was divorced over ten years ago.”

“Why’d you get divorced?”

The air in the room suddenly feels five degrees colder. 

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, darling,” he warns, his voice dropping into a dangerous, silken register. “There are some things better left unsaid, yes?”

When you nod quietly, he stands back up, revealing his large, muscled chest. His whole torso is thick with muscle and fat, with a light layer of blonde hair all over his arms. There's also a happy trail, dropping below his expensive belt and pressed slacks.

There's a dark spot on the front of his slacks, and your stomach burns. He’s thick beneath it, his cock a weighty promise outlined in the moon's glow. A flick of his hand and the side-table lamp spills a wash of light across the room. You blink in the sudden brightness, but then he’s in front of you, lifting you, gripping your thighs. The room’s a blur, you let out a quiet gasp as you’re pushed back and onto the bed in a cool puff of soft duvet.

He looms above you, your knees sliding over his ribs, toes curling into the taut line of his hips as his mouth crashes against yours. It’s a hard kiss, one that leaves you dizzy, breathless. He greedily devours the small hitch of your breath, silencing the whimper that follows.  Your stomach rolls with nerves because you don’t know how you really got here, but Zeke doesn’t seem to care or notice how unsure you feel when he licks into your mouth.

Or, if he does, he doesn’t say anything, just bites over your cheek and jaw, hot scrapes of his mouth down your neck, leaving you gasping, little rolling arcs of your spine as his hand slides down your arm, your side, the curve of your hip. The fabric of your dress is now a disordered mess around your waist, his hand venturing lower, moulding to the swell of your thigh.

He sinks his teeth into the frantic pulse at the base of your throat, then your shoulder, making your thighs twitch into him, your spine roll—

And then he leans back, breathing deep but steady.

There’s glitter on his jaw and neck, rubbed off from your face, tucked and sliding against his. His eyes map the landscape of your face, and you find yourself wondering what he sees, what you look like in this moment, dusted with glitter, hair loosened from its careful arrangement, flushed cheeks, and lips that feel bruised and swollen.

He trails a rough knuckle down the curve of your cheek. "There are going to be rules in this room," he declares.

His eyes flash. “You’re going to do as I say, insofar as you can. Your safeword is Paradis. Do you understand?”

You reach for him, fingers frantic and yearning to grasp the heat of his skin, tugging, begging him to collapse the distance, to fill the aching void. But he remains a statue, unyielding. Your desperate pleas seem only to sharpen the edge of his self-control.

“Say it,” he growls, his mouth scraping over the sensitive skin of your jaw. “What are the rules?”

You shake your head, a soft, keening whine escaping your throat as you redouble your efforts to pull him close. Words are irrelevant; you want him to fuck you.

“Sweetheart, what are the rules?” His voice is soft, but it carries the weight of command.

His fingers, calloused and sure, find the delicate hem of your dress. One sharp, decisive tug, and the fabric is gone, whisked over your head and discarded like a forgotten trifle. The sudden chill of the room kisses your exposed skin.

“I’ll do what you say,” you gasp out, the words tumbling over each other. “ And my safeword is Paradis.”

The sound he makes is animalistic, a rough, satisfied grunt that vibrates against your neck. His hand dives lower, his fingers hooking into the lace of your underwear and tugging them down with a brutal, efficient force. Your legs go to jello, wobbly and weak, parting instinctively for him as the fabric is stripped away.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise sounding like a benediction. “You listen so well.”

His fingers traced the delicate lace of your underwear, the lace stark against your skin. "I like this. Makes me feel like I'm fucking a real woman."

Your underwear smears against your foot before he wrestles it off, a perverse echo of parental care.

"I am a woman."

Zeke looks up with a strangely gentle smile, ghosting that hand up your body, over your collarbone, over the delicate skin of your neck,  "You're just a girl to me."

He pressed you back against the yielding mattress, his weight folding you in two. Your core rubbed against his stomach, a friction that sent shivers through you. A whimper escaped your lips as you writhed against him. His tongue traced a burning path down your neck, while his hands roamed your arms, pulling them above your head.

“You don't get to hide, sweetheart. If I’m touching you, I want to see you, alright? I want to see your face when you cum.”

You nodded, your stomach clenched so tight it ached, your body trembling with a feverish blend of fear, desire, and raw hunger.

He grunted, scraping his teeth against your neck. "Good girl."

The words ripped through you like a spark, but there was no time to process the sensation before he shifted down your body, dragging your arms with him until they were bent awkwardly.

His mouth seared against your nipple, a flat-tongued caress, and then he sealed his mouth over it. Your back arched, a sharp, involuntary movement as a guttural rumble vibrated in his chest. You were whining, the sound a fragile thread lost in the room as he worried your nipple with his teeth. He nipped and teased until it throbbed with a dull ache. 

He kissed it, licked it until it was swollen and red, and then he created a mark, sucking hard into the soft curve of your breast, marking you as his own as you twitched in his grip. Another, on the underside, a reddish blossom blooming against your skin.

He sank down your body, biting the skin over your ribs, the fluttering plane of your belly. He kisses your stomach, his hand sliding to your waist, shoving you up the bed more. Your head hits the pillows, and you grip one, gasping into it, as his teeth scrape over the slope between your hips, onto your mound. He pushes one of your thighs wide open, pinning it to the bed under a big, heavy hand. Your other thigh twitches up on instinct, feeling exposed, but it's hooked over his arm, and your toes curl, sliding on the corded, heavy muscle of his shoulder.

His head turns into your thigh, teeth sharp and hard, biting into it. Your hand comes down on his head, pushing at his hair because it hurts, and seals his mouth over your skin again and pulls it into his mouth. Scraping a mark, bruising skin in the pressure and the sharpness of his teeth.

He breaks away with a final bite, a closed-lipped kiss to soothe you. He looks up at you, his mouth hovering, spit-slick, your slick, and then—

You don't cum until I permit you. I want you to ask before I let you have it. Understood?

Yes, you breathe, the word a mere whisper.

Yes, who?

Yes, sir.

Your mind blanks out, body arching and trembling as your head falls back. His tongue is stroking, big and hot and flat right over your cunt. Licking it. His mouth opens wider with a rough inhale as he drags his tongue over your clit. 

Your voice breaks, hips rolling, grinding against his mouth. It’s so wet sounding, it sticks in your ears beneath the ringing of your own breathing in your ears, the pounding of your pulse, and the sobbing of your sticky little whines. His hand pins your thigh to the bed, fingertips bruising, keeping you open while your other thigh trembles. He lets it, face buried in your cunt, sucking your clit in an endless rhythm that pushes you into a mind-numbing peak. 

There’s no squirming away from it, no easing the intensity; he keeps you there, spread open, a dripping, sticky fairy for him to eat.

His other hand spreads over your tensing, quivering belly, spreading out between your hips and pinning you in place. It’s impossible to breathe around it, the way it burns through you like the burst of a firework, out the tips of your fingers and toes. It makes your chest tremble, your whole body sparking, bright colours, popping under your skin and in your stomach.

Please, please–

He grunts into you. What’s that, sweetheart?

Your mind is spinning, still drunk, your mouth half open. I’m gonna cum, please, please can I?

Cum.

It’s instant, the feeling burns through your like the sun behind your eyelids, and something, something bursts: it’s a hot, slick rush out of your cunt and he groans like he’s in pain, his tongue wide and flat, drinking it up while you tense and then liquefy with a sob, a gasping, needy sound splitting through the room.

He licks you up, and it’s too much, the stroke of his tongue over your swollen clit, the slowing pressure of his mouth, the drag of his teeth just to make you twitch. Again and again as your body turns to syrup, boneless and melting, just a little tremor of a girl beneath him.

He’s moving, his body heavy, all hard muscles; his hands rough, a large palm on your belly. Zeke put two fingers to your entrance, rubbing just your opening in slow, firm circles. Your hips twitched; the sensitivity drove you mad. You started to writhe, to buck your hips.

“Too- too much–”

“You’ll take it,” he pinches your thigh, before he slips a finger against your hole. Just nudging, thumbing at the fluttering pink hole.

Zeke paused, putting his thumb on your clit very much in the way his mouth had been moving over you, making you twitch every few moments. Your squirt had dripped down your thighs to the sheets. He’d made a mess of you without a single finger inside your cunt. 

The whole of the bottom half of Zeke’s face was shining wet. You’d made a mess of him, and Zeke seemed well satisfied to make it worse, the way he moved his thumb to make you whimper. 

He pushes two fingers in, just an inch. Zeke groaned and pumped gently, barely entering you. 

You made a light, keening sound and whispered, “More, more, please.” 

Is this how you want it? Writhing like a whore in my bed?

His fingers pressed further in. Your affirmation was closer to a mewl than words. 

“Yes, sir,” you whispered thoughtlessly, focusing on the sweet stretch of your cunt around his fingers. 

“Hold your leg up for me, sweetheart.” You hooked your arm under your knee, keeping it pressed to your chest. “Good girl.”

The praise made you sigh and clench around Zeke’s fingers; he grunted, whispered a curse into your thigh. 

What a sweet little thing you are, getting off to being called a good girl. 

Zeke kept going, his breath hot on your thigh as he told you how wet and tight you felt around his fingers, how good you’d tasted, smelled, how pretty you looked cumming. He rocked his fingers inside you, curling at new angles until he found a way to move that made your back arch off the bed. Helplessly, your fingers tangled in the thicket of his hair as you surrendered, an offering of yourself as Zeke claimed you wholly.

He pulled back, looking at you like something to play with. You couldn’t look away. 

His voice, barely a whisper, grabbed your attention. “Since you’re being so good, I’m going to let you cum in my mouth again.” 

He thrust two fingers back inside you, and it was like something broke in your body. 

It was a liquid heat rising in you this time, fast and uncontrollable. You were sensitive, malleable, and you felt something building in the pit of your belly.  The way he desired you so openly, with a fervour that bordered on reverence, was intoxicating, but the intensity overwhelmed you.

You tugged at the roots of his hair and tried to push his face harder against you, but he didn’t allow you to move him. You whined, you wanted to come, now, and you hated yourself for it, but you wanted to come when Zeke wanted.

Your breath grew faster. Your lips were drying, but you felt saliva pooling in the bottom of your mouth. Arousal ebbed and flowed in your body, building high. A third finger pushed inside you with ease, and the way you spasmed around him was a pleasure in itself. 

Zeke’s tongue lapped over your fluttering clit. Your free hand flew to your mouth, and you came. You pulsed around his still-moving fingers, little aftershocks of ecstasy with each tightening. 

You didn’t understand how, you were so full of him, in your cunt and your whole body, your mind, he was everywhere, and you would always like it this way.

You slumped into the mattress, your leg dropping as the adrenaline finally began to ebb, replaced by a heavy, syrupy lethargy. The room felt like it was tilting, but the weight of him kept you grounded.

He crawled up the bed, his large hand pressing firmly against your stomach, feeling the way your breath hitched beneath his palm.

“You did such a good job, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your temple, his lips lingering in your hair. The praise made your heart flutter, a frantic little bird trapped in your chest. “I’m going to keep these.”

You watched through heavy lids as he walked toward the dark mahogany desk. He didn't toss your underwear aside; he folded the scrap of lace with a calm deliberation before tucking it into the top drawer.

“Don’t you wanna…” You trailed off, the words tangling in your mind. It was hard to think, harder to breathe, especially with the ghost of him still humming through your nerves. You squirmed, feeling the dull, throbbing ache between your thighs, a bruise-like sensitivity from where he’d worked you so thoroughly.

“Want to what?” he asked, returning to the bedside. He leaned over, pressing a soft, almost paternal kiss to the crown of your head.

“Fuck me,” you whispered, your hand tightening on the silk sheets. “Please.”

He let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated in the quiet of the manor. “Not while you’re too drunk to remember it. I didn't spend all that time on you just for the memory to be a blur. Another day.”

He didn't leave you to deal with the mess of the night alone. He disappeared into the ensuite, returning with a warm, damp facecloth. The care was almost more overwhelming than the dominance. He wiped the glitter off your cheekbones, his touch gentle, his eyes focused as he cleaned the remnants of the club from your skin.

“Zeke?” Your voice was small, slurring slightly as the room continued its slow spin.

“Yes, lovely?”

“What’s going to happen tomorrow? Or when we get back to tutorials?”

He didn't hesitate. He tossed the cloth aside and sat on the edge of the bed, looking every bit the composed scholar again, even shirtless in the dim light. “Nothing has to happen. Nothing has to change. I am still your professor, after all. But not right now. Right now, I’m just the man who’s going to make sure you sleep.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? Don’t want to get you in trouble,” you slurred, your eyes finally fluttering shut.

“No, sweetheart. Of course not.” He pulled the heavy duvet up to your chin, tucking the edges around your shoulders with a firm, possessive hand. “This can be our little secret. Just between us.”

He hovered there for a moment, his shadow stretching across the bed, watching you sink into the mattress.

“Sleep now,” he whispered, his voice the last thing you heard before the darkness took you. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

             The next day, you wake with the gravity of him still pinning you to the earth. Large arms, heavy, scarred, and certain, are looped around your waist, pulling your back flush against the furnace of his chest. Light filters through the curtains in dusty, golden bars, illuminating the stray flecks of glitter still embedded in the rug, like a map of the night before.

Your head is a slow, rhythmic spin.

You feel the rough, morning scruff of his beard against the sensitive dip of your nape. It’s scratchy, grounding, and entirely too intimate for a Sunday.

You spend the morning in his arms. You are a tangle of contradictions: embarrassed by the sticky, sweet memory of your own pleas; aching in the soft, hidden parts of you; miserably hungover.

But he is the same. Always the same.

Make sure your essay is done by Thursday, sweetheart. 

Don’t be embarrassed. 

You were perfect.

He says it again and again, a mantra that settles under your skin like a brand. 

Good girl. 

Such a sweet girl.

Do you know how much I enjoyed that?

You’re a bit of paint stuck under his skin, a student who wandered out of the syllabus and into his bed. You aren't a child. You’re fully grown, fully formed. You know the weight of a grade and the weight of a man. 

But when he looks at you, the voice at the back of your head, the one that’s too small and too young, finally goes quiet.

You’re my favourite student, you know.

He drops you off at your Monday lecture. The leather smells of him, and the goodbye is a brief, searing kiss pressed to your temple. You walk into the hall, dizzy and heart-scraped. You feel open, exposed, like a pomegranate split down the middle.

Everyone looks the same, but the world is tilted.

Tuesday comes, and the tutorial is a blurred exercise in self-control. You watch his hands, the way he holds the chalk, the way he taps a fountain pen against his chin, and you remember the way those same fingers felt hooked into your cunt.

He lets you stay after.

He curls you into his lap while he marks essays. It’s domestic and degrading all at once. The scratching of his pen is the only sound in the office as he works, his left hand tracing patterns on your thigh, inching upward until you’re a mess of quiet whimpers.

He coaxes out a hiccuping, wet orgasm from you, his thumb steady and ruthless, before he calmly turns the page of a textbook. He helps you with the assigned reading while your breath is still coming in gasps.

Such a good girl, he grunts into the crook of your neck, his eyes already back on the text.

You aren't a child. You’re too old to be nervous. 

But you are his. 

And as you lean your head back against his shoulder, watching him bleed red ink across a peer’s paper, you realise you wouldn't walk away even if the door was wide open.

          The last day of school before Christmas. The air in the cloisters is sharp, smelling of wet stone and the heavy, metallic promise of snow. You are a small, frantic thing in a new sweater. The wool is thick, expensive, and a shade of dark forest green that makes your skin glow.

Only the best for my sweet girl. Now, show me how grateful you are.

The memory of his voice vibrates in the pit of your stomach. You fidget with the sleeves, the cuffs long enough to hide the tremble in your fingers. You carry a small box of chocolates, a modest offering for a man who owns everything, held against your chest like a shield.

You knock on the heavy oak door. The sound is dull, final.

Come in.

The office is a sanctuary of shadows and the scent of bergamot. He’s sitting in an armchair, the light from a single lamp catching the silver at his temples and the crisp edge of the newspaper in his hand. He looks up, and for a second, the Professor is there, distant, brilliant, untouchable.

“Hello, darling. I wasn't expecting you.”

He stands, the newspaper discarded. The distance between you vanishes in two long strides, and then his hands are on your waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt, pulling you into the familiar, heated orbit of his body.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” you whisper, the words catching on the wool of his sweater. “Before the holidays.”

He strokes your back, his palm a slow, burning trail from your shoulder blades to the base of your spine. He doesn’t offer a festive greeting or a polite farewell.

“Hm. I expected so. You’re so sentimental.”

His voice is a velvet murmur, thick with the knowledge of every secret you’ve given him since that night in his house. He leans in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the tea you know is cooling on his desk.

“Not here, Zeke,” you breathe, your eyes darting toward the frosted glass of the windows, where the silhouettes of students and faculty occasionally drift by like ghosts. “Someone will see.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t let go. He simply reaches out with one hand, never taking his eyes off yours, and clicks the light switch.

The orange glow of the streetlights outside drifts through the thick windows, casting skeletal shadows across the mahogany shelves. The university is a ghost town tonight, but in this room, the air is thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of his cologne and the quiet, crushing weight of a three-week goodbye.

Your lips meet then.

It is soft, sweet, and agonisingly slow. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a period at the end of a long, complicated sentence. There is no frantic tugging, no bruising pressure, just the gentle way he cups your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw as if he’s trying to memorise the bone structure before the winter frost sets in.

He pulls back, his thumb catching a stray tear and smearing it into your skin, his eyes catching that orange street-glow one last time.

You cry, quiet sobs you can’t stop, his words soothing in your ear, your cheek and temple and mouth. 

They aren't meant for the light of day, or the Dean's ears, or the records of the registrar.

I love you, he says.

I love you, but it’s just, just good girl, baby, sweetheart.

It’s not new. He’s been saying it since the start.

[ferrykitty]

I was talking with a friend yesterday and he made the mistake to open a conversation about assassin's creed. After a long talk he said

-Connor was like a wall, no feelings.

Never understood why people feel that way about him. He is such a sweetheart after all that he is been through. I always wonder how he is so gentle and understanding with his enemies after causing him so much pain. 🤎🪶

Thanks to Assassin's creed series for the great video. The screen recording are from his/her original video and the copyright belong to the creator. All recognition and relevant credits belong to him/ her.

[need-him-pregnant-poll]

NEED👏THAT👏MAN👏PREGNANT *SEASON TWO* ROUND 2 POLL 42

TUMBLR! Who's getting pregnant?

Aquila (Summer in Mara)

Israel “Izzy” Hands (Our Flag Means Death)

Voting ended onApr 11

PROPAGANDA:

[Aquila]

"Look. I think a pregnancy would absolutely ruin Aquila's day, but in a Halmark-movie 'completely upend you life and come out better for it' kind of way.

Aquila's whole character arc (small as it is, considering he's a side character in a fetch-quest game) is "I'm the curmudgeon whose only social interaction is Business Deals and I like it that way!" until this semi-feral child invites herself into his house and makes him start Participating In The Community.

This man lives in a big mansion all by himself, with no friends except his badass pirate niece and the semi-feral errand-running kid. He definitely has the space for a child or two. And as much as he doesn't think he has one, there is a community ready to accept him. He just needs the push out the door! I also think it would be the perfect cap on his character development for him to have a kid and realize that he's not as alone as he thinks. It would absolutely disrupt his comfortable and quiet life, but it would be So Good for him actually.

His race is literally called the Elit and despite being "not like other Elit" he is a lot like other Elit. And he definitely needs to get out of his mansion and mingle with his neighbors and a Dad's Group is the perfect place to start. And considering he's entirely estranged from his homeworld, almost all of my family, and race, I think having a mini-me would be really sweet. Just his own teeny little copy that he can discuss art and literature with and they can be So judgy about their neighbors. Imagine the joy he'll know years down the road when his kid is just like him and he's no longer so lonely.

Look at his smug face! He DESERVES to get pregnant. (Both derogatory and affectionate)."

[Izzy]

"Fandom has held multiple "get Izzy pregnant" events. On ao3- 38 fics tagged with pregnant Israel Hands, 212 tagged with omega Israel Hands, 1994 fics tagged with trans Izzy (the vast majority of which are trans-masc interpretations). "You can't get me pregnant (romance interest name), I'm 56+" is a running joke where the number gets updated each time the actor has a birthday (59 now.) He just needs to be angry and queer and round!"

Izzy propaganda from last season

[illustratus]

Pontius Pilate's Banquet by Dean Cornwell

"Demetrius slowly bowed his head and handed Marcellus the Robe; then stood with slumped shoulders while his master tugged it on over the sleeves of his toga. A gale of appreciative laughter went up, and there was tumultuous applause."

[the-wolf-and-moon]

LDN 673, Wings of Aquila