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Aut Disce, Aut Discede (Manet Sors Tertia, Caedi)

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I will not speak out of turn.
I will not speak out of turn.
I will not speak out of turn.
I will not spe Fuck this.

Normally, Grantaire was far more eloquent when addressing himself to his Latin teacher—even if it was often in a disruptive fashion—but at the moment, he was deeply resenting the fact that he was being forced to stay after school to copy lines during the time he usually allotted to songwriting and rehearsing with his bandmates Bossuet and Joly. They had understood, of course, when he had explained to them that the reason he would have to miss Thursday practice this week was because he’d gotten himself in trouble with Mr. Enjolras yet again, and so would be spending the afternoon serving detention instead. Far from being upset over it, they had gone so far as to engage in some good-natured teasing about Grantaire’s poorly-kept-secret of a crush on his instructor (though, really, between the three of them it was nearly impossible to keep such a thing secret for very long). Even so, Grantaire knew well that he was far from the only student with a crush on Mr. Enjolras. The man was the epitome of tall, fair, and handsome, with piercing blue eyes, sleek waves of blond hair so long it bordered on unprofessional, and full, ruddy lips which Grantaire wished would border on unprofessional. Hell, he wouldn’t protest if those lips did all kinds of unprofessional things to him…

Such were Grantaire’s thoughts as he carefully darkened said lips on his ballpoint pen portrait, which had already been developed to the point that it took up all of the remaining space on the paper where Mr. Enjolras probably expected him to be writing the 300 lines he’d been assigned to copy before his detention was over. Hey, finishing 1% of the assignment ain’t bad, he thought to himself as he smiled carelessly down at his handiwork, unaware of his own pleased expression.

Mr. Enjolras, however, seemed to notice. “You look awfully satisfied with yourself. Have you finished already?” he asked in a tone which clearly expressed his awareness that Grantaire had not. Before Grantaire could gather his wits enough to hide the picture—and what purpose would that have served, even if he had? Surely Mr. Enjolras would have expected him to hand in the papers at the end of his detention—he had stood from behind his desk and begun to walk over to Grantaire, ostensibly to check on his progress.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve got quite a few lines down already, yeah,” Grantaire managed to respond, faltering, and he didn’t even try to fight it when Mr. Enjolras picked up the sheet of paper to examine his work. The man frowned and let out a brief noise of displeasure before replacing the paper on Grantaire’s desk.

“Those are not the kind of lines you were assigned, Grantaire.” Mr. Enjolras’ expression betrayed only a slight edge of irritation, but Grantaire picked up on it as clearly as if he had raised his voice. There was more weariness to it than anger, and this affected Grantaire in ways he hadn’t expected. Anger from Mr. Enjolras he could handle, and indeed often intended to provoke; disappointment was something entirely different.

Before Grantaire could subject this uncomfortable realization to further scrutiny, Mr. Enjolras had turned away and begun to head toward the door. Was he going to consult the principal? Grantaire was about to protest, to apologize, anything to keep his parents from being called, but Mr. Enjolras merely shut the classroom door and returned to his own desk, opening the drawer and seeming to search for something. Though he still felt a bit on edge, Grantaire concluded that whatever was hidden in the drawer was not the worst possible option, and so did not voice his concerns.

Any questions he may have had about what Mr. Enjolras was looking for were put to rest seconds later, when the man slid the drawer shut and straightened up, now with a thick wooden ruler in his right hand. He gestured with it towards the desk, looking pointedly at Grantaire. “Come here. Now."

That tone brooked no argument, even if Grantaire had been of the mind to do so. Slowly, he raised himself from his seat and stepped forward, not meeting Mr. Enjolras’ eyes until he’d finally reached his desk. Now, the deep blue of those eyes only made his gaze seem icy, and the lips Grantaire had so admired earlier were pressed tightly together. Grantaire was still staring at them as they parted and began to form words.

“As you don’t seem to have learned anything from copying lines…” And with that, Mr. Enjolras raised the ruler and snapped it down loudly against the desktop. “Take your pants down, and bend over the desk. We’ll see if this ruler can’t make more of an impression. The classroom must have its discipline.”

Grantaire startled at the harsh sound of the ruler striking the desk, but he quickly gathered himself and rejoined, “I thought the discipline of this classroom was Latin.”

The corner of Mr. Enjolras’ lip twitched at that, and when he responded, there was a note of amusement in his voice. “Very well.” For a moment Grantaire felt relieved. But the moment didn’t last; still sounding amused, Mr. Enjolras continued, “Demitte bracas et deflecte.

He must have known that Grantaire would understand the command to lower his trousers and bend over; Grantaire was easily the best Latin student in his class, largely due to his attraction to his instructor and the resulting desire to impress. He wasn’t completely sure if Mr. Enjolras was allowed to do this, but it was probably a less painful option than what would happen to him if his parents found out that not only had he gotten detention, but he had failed to comply with the rules even while serving it. Grantaire’s own breathing suddenly seemed intolerably loud in the near-empty classroom, and his fingers felt numb as he fumbled with the fly of his jeans. Once he’d unzipped them, he looked up at Mr. Enjolras, as if hoping that the man would change his mind.

He merely raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

Grantaire swallowed, then pushed his jeans halfway down his thighs, exposing himself completely—never before had he so regretted the decision to forego underwear—and then turning around to face his teacher’s desk.

Slowly, Grantaire bent over the desk, lowering himself down to rest on his forearms, his hands balled into nervous fists. He stared down at the wood of the desk, attempting to focus his attention on its grain to calm himself, but he was not so distracted that he failed to notice the sharp click of Mr. Enjolras’ steps as he moved around the desk to stand behind Grantaire. He felt the ruler tap once, twice against his exposed backside, before Mr. Enjolras spoke.

“You were assigned 300 lines, Grantaire.” His voice had lost all humor, and was back to a strictly businesslike tone. “One stroke for every ten lines sounds fair, I think.”

“I did finish three of them,” Grantaire interrupted.

“Clearly not enough to learn your lesson about not speaking out of turn,” Mr. Enjolras countered immediately, “but I suppose I can take them into account. Thirty strokes, less three, leaves us with twenty-seven, then.” A firmer tap of the ruler, though still not enough to cause any pain. “Count them. If you miscount, I start over.”

Grantaire nodded, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the wood of the desk and trying to prepare himself. Even so, the first blow was enough of a surprise that he sucked in a gasp, the pain immediate and sharp. “One,” he counted aloud.

“I thought,” came Enjolras’ voice, dryly, “that the discipline of this classroom was Latin. Start again from one, latine.”

Grantaire swallowed, but didn’t even have the time to respond before the ruler again struck his bare ass with a loud crack. “Unus.” Smack! “Duo.” Smack! “Tres.” The first few blows did sting, but they weren’t unbearable. Quattuor through decem were also tolerable, but when undecim and duodecim landed on his upper thighs, Grantaire squirmed at the pain. The next four came swiftly—“tredecim, quattordecim, quindecim, sedecim”—with barely enough pause between them for Grantaire to force out the numbers, and with the fresh sting of the new blows coming before the pain of the previous ones had faded, it was finally starting to get to Grantaire.

Next came two harsh snaps of the ruler against his left ass cheek—“septendecim, duodeviginti”—followed by two more on the right, just as hard—“undeviginti, viginti!” Grantaire gasped and buried his face in his arms, his only consolation the knowledge that there were but seven strokes left. The old sting had begun to turn into a dull throb, and his ass felt hot and red.

The ruler came down again and again—“viginti unus, viginti duo, viginti tres”—and Grantaire finally began to notice that the tingling heat in his backside seemed to be having unexpected effects elsewhere in his body. He groaned for reasons entirely unrelated pain. Could his dick have picked a more unfortunate time to react than while his teacher was thrashing him? The teacher he’d had an obvious crush on for nearly three years now, at that? Grantaire didn’t think so, and his aching ass seemed to be doing nothing to assuage his arousal. He supposed resignedly that he should’ve known he would turn out to be a masochist… By the time they’d finally reached “viginti septem,” Grantaire was panicking.

“We’re finished,” said Mr. Enjolras, apparently not having noticed anything out of the ordinary about his pupil’s response. Then again, how was he supposed to have noticed, with Grantaire’s face hidden in his arms and his arousal still covered by his shirt? His fast, heavy breaths and shifting hips could pass easily for simple discomfort. “Stand up and turn around.”

Grantaire didn’t raise his head to respond, his words coming out muffled. “Can I—can I have a few minutes? To compose myself?” The tightness in Grantaire’s throat certainly made his voice sound pained; he could only hope that his teacher would believe his excuse.

While he did seem to believe, Mr. Enjolras did not seem to care. His voice grew suddenly harsher than before, perhaps even a bit tense. “Stand up, Grantaire. If you’re embarrassed for me to see you cry, you should have thought twice before flouting the original consequences I set.”

Left with no choice but to obey, Grantaire slowly, gingerly straightened up and turned to face Mr. Enjolras, his pants still around his thighs. In a standing position, his shirt was not long enough to hide his erection, and Grantaire was barely able to meet his teacher’s eyes.

Mr. Enjolras’ face looked a bit flushed, but that seemed more likely to Grantaire to have been from the exertion of beating him than from any sort of interest in his body. “Well,” he began, with a coolness that was clearly forced, “I don’t suppose we can have you leaving the classroom like that.”

A heavy sigh of relief escaped Grantaire’s lips, and his hands reached down to the waistband of his jeans, but Mr. Enjolras’ voice rang out harshly.

“Did I tell you to pull your pants back up, Grantaire?”

Grantaire froze for a moment, then shook his head, unsure how to respond. He didn’t have much time to think before Mr. Enjolras was speaking again.

“Sit up on the desk and take care of your… issue.” His voice became lower, rougher. “Te tange.

Touch yourself.

Grantaire swallowed. Surely this was some kind of joke, a creation of his disturbed mind somewhere between a wet dream and a nightmare. He waited for a punch line, but Mr. Enjolras only crossed his arms and continued to gaze expectantly at Grantaire.

Slowly, haltingly, Grantaire stepped back and seated himself atop Mr. Enjolras’ desk. His eyes never once left the man, as if searching desperately for a sign, anything, he knew not what, that would give him a reason to stop, or at least an explanation for what was happening. When none was forthcoming, he moved his hand to his prick, wrapping it around the base and beginning to move stiffly. Mr. Enjolras continued to observe him coolly, his eyes fixed on the student’s erection.

As he worked his hand up and down, Grantaire soon succumbed to the sensation, letting out a sigh and allowing his eyes to fall shut. He felt himself loosening up, the tension leaving his muscles, and he started to stroke himself faster. He was no less aware of Mr. Enjolras’ keen gaze, but like this he was able to relax and allow it simply to intensify his fantasy. While Grantaire hadn’t known before today that he was a masochist, he was certainly aware of being a bit of an exhibitionist, and the knowledge that Mr. Enjolras was watching him was only helping him to get off.

Once, he opened his eyes, and was surprised to find Mr. Enjolras staring intently at his face rather than his body. As soon as Mr. Enjolras noticed him looking back, however, he quickly averted his gaze downward, returning his attention to Grantaire’s cock. Grantaire moaned and tugged hard at himself, his palm now slick with precome, quickly pumping his fist over the head of his prick. His eyes closed, and he let out a cry as orgasm overtook him, his body jerking forward at the intensity of it. Several feet away, he could hear Mr. Enjolras letting out a long, shuddering breath.

Grantaire was slouched over, panting as he held himself, aware enough to realize that he did not want to stain the only pair of jeans he had with him. He could hear brisk footfalls moving away from him, then back toward him again, but he did not bother to open his eyes until he felt something nudging his arm. When he looked down, Grantaire saw it was a tissue box.

“You can use these to clean yourself up,” Mr. Enjolras prompted, with an urgency to his voice that hadn’t been there before, “then get your clothing in order and leave. You’re dismissed early.”

“Thanks,” muttered Grantaire as he accepted the box. He carefully removed a few tissues and proceeded to clean himself up, while Mr. Enjolras walked around behind him and seated himself back in his desk chair. Once he had finished, Grantaire disposed of the dirty tissues and returned to his own desk to gather his things. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and collected the sheets of paper on which he was meant to have copied lines, depositing them on Mr. Enjolras’ desk and then heading for the classroom door. Just as he reached it, he heard a crisp voice behind him.

“Oh, and Grantaire?”

Grantaire turned to look back at Mr. Enjolras, his face questioning.

Mr. Enjolras, however, was focused on his grading and did not even glance in Grantaire’s direction. “I expect the rest of those 300 lines to be prepared and turned in before class tomorrow.”

He responded with a wry laugh. “Shall I copy them in Latin?”

“Can you?”

Grantaire nodded. “Non interpellabo.” He gave Mr. Enjolras one last look, lingering and meaningful, before opening the door and walking out.

When the sound of his student’s footsteps had disappeared down the hallway, Mr. Enjolras picked up the top sheet of paper and stared at Grantaire’s drawing. After several long seconds, his eyes widened in horror, and his head sunk down into his hands, the image crumpling beneath him.