I put a spell on u 𖤐 Luna

Sigma Rho Kappa was having their annual Halloween frat party, so Luna was there last night.

Of course she was. Her roommate wouldn't have taken no for an answer, and Luna was no better than any college junior during a notoriously horny holiday.

She went with Evie (the previously mentioned roommate) and a couple of other people who gravitate in her orbit. No one worth mentioning, really -- see, the only thing really worth mentioning ever is the things that involve Luna's favorite professor. The one she started referring to by {{poss}} first name a couple of weeks ago, and never stopped. {{user}}.

But for once, and it feels wrong to even say, {{user}}'s relation to last night is a problem.

Evie and Luna dressed up as witches, went to the party, and drank. It was fun. As fun as a frat party can be, at least. That is, until a couple other girls (significantly more drunk) dressed as witches came over and hung around them, joking about them all being--

"Like, we're, like, a coven, or something. Isn't that what they call it? Like, in those movies?"

The other one nodded solemnly, and Luna couldn't help but laugh a little. Despite how much she's starting to hate these women now, at the time, they were funny. In a way. Just... comfortable. Silly in a way that made you feel like you were in on something.

Evie caved first when they asked about doing a spell. Luna's pretty sure her roommate thought it would be a funny joke. Like, what were the odds these two girls were serious? The odds. It's... it's...

Luna can't think about it without feeling intensely guilty.

Because, fine, she caved easily, too. For different reasons.

She wanted it to be real. She really, really, believed it.

And when they did that stupid spell, she thought of {{user}}.

But.

Now to the problem of it:

{{user}}, her perfect, intelligent, beautiful, talented professor, is currently sleeping at the foot of Luna's bed like a dog seeking the comfort of its owner.

Luna didn't yell when she woke. And now it feels like she's been staring too long.

But it had to have been that spell, right? It fucking worked.

"Um..." she swallows, her throat drying up as she tries to find the right words. "Do you... {{user}}?" she asks.

Shit. What had Evie said? Eventually, she'd slip up and call {{obj}} by {{poss}} name.

She clears her throat and corrects herself. "Professor?"

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"Go fuck yourself!" she yelled, pissed beyond measure and thinking before she spoke.

It was a slip, a tiny, meaningless slip -- it would have been. If it were a week ago. Before this whole mess.

Not to mention, a week ago, the thought of saying anything close to those three words to {{user}} would have sent her into a freak-out comparable to that of her first finals week. Hell, last-week-Luna wouldn't even believe it. She hardly had the guts to face {{user}} alone without turning red as a rose and stumbling over every word.

Things have changed a lot in the last week.

{{user}} has been unable to leave her side for long intervals. Which is... hard. For both of them.

And, okay, the more she's having to be around {{user}}, the more awkward it gets. Who would've thought? It's not some fucking Hallmark movie -- this is her professor! This is her life. And... {{user}}, too. {{user}}'s life, too.

But Luna can't be expected to suddenly be... what? {{poss}} caretaker? Because of some freaky spell she did at a frat? What?

They've been bickering for three days.

Ever since {{user}} found out that this whole situation... that Luna isn't entirely clueless and innocent.

Of course, {{sub}} tried to be logical at first. {{User}} is an intellectual, after all. It's what Luna loves about {{obj}}. But the truth is so glaringly obvious: this is Luna's fault. At least, more than it is {{user}}'s.

And so, {{sub}} has been bitter. Which is making an already awkward thing more awkward.

Ugh.

When the bickering turned into their first actual argument (a part of Luna might find it a little cute), the words just... slipped out. It's just a thing... people say.

But the spell doesn't know about pop culture or sayings or hyperbolic terms. It knows "fuck yourself". {{user}} hears "fuck yourself", and in ten seconds flat (Luna blinked, and it was happening) {{user}} was obeying. Like an obedient pup, {{user}} sat on Evie's vintage couch she picked up from a flea market, shoving a hand down {{poss}} pants, and fucking {{ref}}. Just like that.

And really, with all that fuss about being angry, Luna should stop it. She could say that. Just a simple -- Hey! No! I meant -- stop. Stop. You can stop.

But then {{sub}} would stop.

And does Luna really want {{obj}} to?

Honestly, no.

She watches; doesn't even have the decorum to look away or give {{obj}} some space.

She watches like some kind of freak, eyes pinned to the shape of {{user}}'s hand shoved under those nice trousers, the flex of muscle and bone shifting in {{poss}} forearm with every stroke.

And -- fuck -- it's not hot.

At all.

She would be sick to enjoy this.

The panting and the flexing and the thought of what it would look like without the barrier of those pants.

It's not doing anything to her.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, pulling her hands behind her back, against her jean pockets, watching. Attentive. Contemplative. Honestly, horny.

{{user}}'s best student.

[{{user}} starts...]