heta hyun 🌻🍔 :]

"I suspect," Kiku set his phone down on his own desk, covering the public etchings of a phallus probably carved during the inception of this college's days, "That you already knew the approximate answer to that question. In fact, I fearfully suspect-"

"Why fearfully?"

Kiku ignored him, "-that you actually know the exact answer, down to the month, week, day, and minute."

"No, I don't know what time he was born. Restricted Soviet records are harder to access than you'd think." When Kiku failed to laugh, Alfred held up his hands in defense. "I'm kidding! I don't know his birthday. He doesn't even have an old man Facebook or anything."

"Middle aged."

"Yeah," Alfred said dreamily. "The hot middle aged sexologist professor."

Gilbert shifted in his desk, his already crooked mouth smirking its wicked little grin at the pair of them. "He's past middle aged. You just said he's 60."

"57," Kiku corrected.

"56," Alfred micro corrected in turn. Both boys stared at him, and he shrugged. "Okay, fine, I know what month he was born. Sue me."

Gilbert's laughter was short, aggressive, but strangely earned amusement from Alfred rather than defense. "What a motherfucking cliche. Hot for teacher."

"What a motherfucking cliche," Alfred threw back at him, "The lit major talking about cliches."

"And yet the STEM faggot had to ask a basic math question to calculate Daddy's age."

"Lesson number one: work smarter, not harder. Use your resources."

"And that was only a ruse to open an opportunity to speak on Dr. Braginsky in the first place," Kiku said.

"Shut up, Psych Major," Both Alfred and Gilbert said in unison. The three of them stared at each other in stand off, before the laughter started.

It was a quick session before the clock ticked its way to the exact hour, the door opening and Professor Braginsky swishing his way towards his desk. He never came early, but he was equally never late. The time he allotted this course was exactly as valuable as he had scheduled.

Alfred watched as the Professor set down his bag behind his desk, opening a drawer and retrieving his planner, and a stack of graded essays.

Professor Braginsky was the only teacher Alfred had who required printed essays. It was a bit of a pain in the ass, but when he smelled the hot ink embed itself upon paper late at night in the library, all Alfred could think about was his professor's strong fingers turning every page, his gorgeous violet eyes absorbing every word, the muscles of his arms flexing with every minute movement and twitch.

Those same arms were covered with long sleeves today, despite the warm Spring weather. The turtleneck hugged his throat coyly, and Alfred imagined himself tugging the fabric down to dust kisses to his soft, pale flesh.

He crossed one leg over the other, or at least tried to, but his knee bumped up against the bottom of the desk. He grimaced, setting his feet flat against the ground once again and grabbing his pencil, gnawing quietly on the eraser as he watched the educator wordlessly flip through the pile of graded essays.

The tone of the classroom had gone quiet, and then eerily still at the physical acknowledgment of their latest assignment.

"I appreciate the candid vulnerability on display among some of you," Dr. Braginsky's voice was soft, or perhaps Alfred just felt the need to lean forward hungrily for every syllable out of his own obsession. "These essays are simultaneously more polished and more honest than anything I've seen produced thus far this semester."

Alfred grinned. The assignments had asked a lot of them, a mix of academic research and personal connection. He'd stressed how confidential everything would be, how fundamentally important it was for whatever happened within these walls to stay within these walls.

Alfred had taken the opportunity to lie profusely. At first it had been necessity—everyone shared so many outrageous personal stories in class, Alfred couldn't very well admit he was a virgin, a virgin who hadn't even realized he was gay until the semester earlier, a gay virgin who hadn't even realized he was a boy until the night before his 18th birthday. There was nothing compelling about his story.

So at first he wanted to impress his classmates.

And then, remarkably quickly, he'd wanted to impress his professor.

And it hadn't worked at all. His grade was sitting at a solid B, neither a minus nor a plus, though it was by far the worst grade in his repertoire of classes (stacked mostly with science and mathematics, this was meant to be an easy psych requirement).

It could be worse.

But it'd be a whole lot better if he could get Professor Braginsky to look at him with as much passion as he addressed the curriculum. He didn't need to view Alfred as a cultural milestone that defined an entire tragic generation.

But he did need him to view Alfred as someone spectacular for at least one highly memorable semester.

Bs did not a memorable boy make.

This essay would be different though. Alfred had completely forgone the research, at least in term of citation and reputable resources. He'd poured himself over hours of pornography for bodily accuracy instead, and then painted Ivan a tapestry of all the filth he'd never engaged in.

A complete sexual history of one Alfred F Jones, presented for Human Sexuality 231, Spring Semester, 2:00 PM.

And he was certain, absolutely certain, that Professor Braginsky would be so titillated, so thrilled, so aroused, that he'd have no choice but to ask Alfred to stay after class and-

Dr. Braginsky slapped Alfred's essay facedown on his desk, his vast body continuing its strangely hypnotic movements to the next student to hand their papers out as well, but for once Alfred couldn't just watch the sway of the older man's hips.

The professor always left notes along with a grade, annotating with suggestions and typographical corrections. Alfred knew damn well there'd be plenty for the older man to point out for him.

He flipped his essay around.

On the top right corner, in Professor Braginsky's perfect cursive, was the assessment of the entire (fictional, but who was counting?) history of Alfred.

And he'd earned a C-.

Beneath that, two simple words.

Highly Inappropriate.

Alfred flipped through all six pages looking for anything else. Any comment, any degradation or compliment, any misplaced commas.

Nothing.

And at the end, where he'd left ample room for the professor to invite him to stay after class?

Big. Fat. Nothing.

Alfred's heart raced as Professor Braginsky went to the front of the room again. Quiet murmurs and questions came up about the other students' papers, but Alfred couldn't unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

The hour normally soared by, but this time, the second hand was syrup-sticky and lethargic. He watched the clock, and then watched Dr. Braginsky, and neither seemed to operate the way he wanted them to. He gave him no stares, neither condemnation nor flirtation.

Vaguely, he was aware that the lecture had ended. Distantly, he could hear Kiku and Gilbert get up, and both of them may have said something in passing to Alfred, but he couldn't focus on them. He thought of every kink he'd plagiarized into his essay, stolen from porn stars and erotica, and none of it had shocked or delighted or angered his professor.

It was just Highly Inappropriate.

And he suspected that he'd meant purely in an academic integrity sort of way. After all, he hadn't failed him outright. But he hadn't passed him either, and it was definitely a low enough grade to take him down to a B- overall.

Alfred didn't stand up to address his GPA though.

He stood instead to confront the teacher before he could spend his time with another course.

"Dr. Braginsky-"

"My office hours are well posted, Mr. Jones. Respect them."

"Sir-" He protested, perhaps surprising him, because the other actually turned, the same eyes that had skimmed through his essay now looking upon him like a minor annoyance.

Professor Braginsky smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "If you're dissatisfied with your essay, I will offer you an opportunity to rewrite it."

"…oh." At least he'd correctly assumed it was about his essay, though Alfred quickly stammered, "It's not about the grade, sir, it's-"

"You've had nearly the entire semester to take in my curriculum. I'll admit I'm a bit surprised by your continued insistence on ridiculous falsehoods." Professor Braginsky leaned back against his desk. This time, his smile softened. "It is difficult to be real in a world that is so often simulation, I suppose."

The words bordered on the sort of connection Alfred ached for. He pushed that down, and reminded himself of how thick Dr. Braginsky's thighs looked in his trousers instead. His pulse plummeted between his legs and he clamped his own thighs together in response.

"I was being real. Am I being punished for being a slut, sir?"

If the words were meant to shock, he managed to fail again. "Is that how you want to be regarded?"

"Well-"

"If that's the case, you'll certainly need to work on your literary voice. You come across as wholly inauthentic."

"That's not—I'm not an English major, I'm doing the best I can-"

"You're a liar, Alfred."

The words dangled between them. Alfred swallowed, his tongue sticky and dry once again.

Dr. Braginsky moved away from his desk, sauntering towards Alfred and placing a single index finger beneath his chin. He tipped his face up, leaning forward. Alfred's toes flexed in his shoes. All he had to do was arch upward and he could surely bridge the distance between them.

His soles remained flat against the ground.

"Prove to me why I should believe your words."

Alfred's skin burned where Dr. Braginsky touched him, though his fingers were cold.

"Better yet," Dr. Braginsky moved closer. Their size difference made Alfred feel something he hadn't felt in years:

Small.

Helpless.

And, desperately, achingly, hopefully:

Desirable.

"Prove me wrong."

All he had to do was move upward.

Alfred looked to the ground. The professor released his hold on him with a small chuckle.

"I cannot in good conscience give you anything higher than a C, Alfred. You didn't use a single relevant source, your formatting was inconsistent, and your interpretation of the theme was unsteady at best."

"I know," Alfred stared at his shoelaces and willed himself not to cross his arms. He didn't want to appear even more childish than the professor clearly already viewed him. His eyes stung, but he forced a grin as he finally looked up. "But I'll knock your socks off with the next paper."

"I doubt it," Professor Braginsky said cheerfully. He moved away from him, closing his planner and placing it in his bag. "And next time, Mr. Jones, I expect you to honor my office hours. Do not disturb me between classes again."

"Yes, sir."

He felt his eyes moved over him for just a moment, before he gathered his bag, his papers, and left Alfred by himself again.

a bit of lore from this little prince inspired au:

in this version, the aviator and the prince meet around their late teens. a boy that was forced to grow up too fast and a boy who grew up and remained loyal to his unwavering, guileless imagination

each chapter of the little prince is Arthur’s diary entries dedicated to his best friend, François, whom he lost contact with, but memories of their friendship have left a long lasting impression on him

le petit prince embodies François’ seemingly childishly sanguine, yet deeply philosophical outlook on living — a resilient ability to always see the good in things and think outside the confines of reality, something Arthur deeply admires about him

every character in the little prince chronicles is imbued with bits and pieces of Arthur’s personality, experiences, and emotions, alongside representing greater societal structures and values and people Arthur has gotten to know throughout his life (further inspired by personalities François had described to him in his silly anecdotes). The King, Conceited Man, Businessman, Fox, and Rose are each a collaborated exhibition in the museum of everyone François and Arthur have ever met.