Yes, Target Acquired

You lean back, the chair creaking under your weight, and feel a spark of resolve ignite. She’s your sister—sure, you bicker, tease, and sometimes drive each other up the wall, but this is different. This professor, with her unfair grading and rigid agenda, is messing with Caitlin’s future. That’s not okay. You don’t want to sleep with the woman, but you want her to feel the weight of your voice, to bend her smug authority until she sees reason. She’ll be your first real test.

“Take me to meet her,” you say, your tone firm but calm, carrying that strange, resonant edge you’re starting to wield like a blade. The words land with quiet ****, and you watch Caitlin’s face shift—her brows knitting, her lips parting in surprise.

A nervous laugh escapes her as she sets her mug down, the coffee inside sloshing slightly. “You’re kidding, right? She’s a total bitch, Will. Showing up at her office unannounced? That’s like walking into a lion’s den with a steak strapped to your chest.”

Her hands gesture for emphasis, the loose sleeve of her white shirt slipping further down her shoulder. But there’s a flicker in her eyes, a softening, as if your words are already tugging at her will.

You hold her gaze, unyielding, and take a slow sip of juice, letting the cool sweetness steady you. “I’m serious. I want to see what she’s about. You’re driving me there.” Your voice dips lower, deliberate, each syllable laced with intent. It’s not a request—it’s a command, though you keep it wrapped in the casual cadence of a brother asking a favour.

Her mouth opens, then closes, a faint flush creeping up her neck. “It’s a bad idea,” she mutters, but her protest lacks bite. She pushes her plate away, the pancakes untouched, and stands, her long legs shifting under the turquoise boxer shorts.

“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when she chews you out.” There’s a grudging edge to her voice, but her movements are already compliant, her body responding to the pull of your words as she grabs her keys from the counter.

The morning light spills through the window, catching the messy strands of her ponytail as she glances back at you. “I need to change first. I’m not showing up to campus in my pajamas.” Her tone is half-annoyed, half-resigned, but the way she lingers, waiting for your nod, tells you she’s already falling into line.

You give a small smile, setting your fork down. “Go for it. I’ll be ready.” The words are simple, but they carry that same weight, and she nods, almost absently, before heading upstairs.

The sound of her footsteps fades, and you lean back, the hum of your resolve growing stronger. This professor, with her chip on her shoulder, has no idea what’s coming. Caitlin’s got your back, but you’ve got hers too—and you’re about to make sure this woman knows it.

Twenty minutes later, the car hums along the road, Caitlins hands tight on the wheel. She’s swapped her sleepwear for jeans and a fitted blouse, her hair still in a messy ponytail but now with a touch of makeup to sharpen her features. The campus isn’t far, and the streets are quiet, lined with trees just starting to turn autumn-red.

She steals a glance at you, her expression caught between worry and something softer, something that feels like trust. “You sure about this?” she asks, her voice quieter now, almost seeking your approval.

“Absolutely,” you say, your tone steady, resonating with that strange, commanding warmth. The car turns onto the university’s main drive, and you feel the weight of the moment settle in.

As you exit Caitlin’s car, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves, carrying the faint hum of distant lectures as you step out, your sneakers scuffing the pavement. Caitlin leads the way, her keys jingling in her hand, her jeans swishing softly with each determined stride toward the main building. The campus sprawls ahead, a maze of grey concrete and glass, students weaving between lecture halls with backpacks slung over shoulders.

You follow Caitlin past a courtyard buzzing with chatter, where a group of students huddles around a notice board, their laughter cutting through the air. She turns down a narrow corridor, her footsteps echoing off the tiled floor, past rows of bulletin boards plastered with flyers—study groups, club meetings, a lost cat poster with a crooked photo.

Up a flight of stairs, the air grows cooler, the scent of old books and coffee mingling as you reach the humanities wing. Her pace slows, hesitation flickering in the tense set of her shoulders, but she pushes forward, guiding you to a door marked “Dr. E. Hargrove, Senior Lecturer.” The wood is scratched, a brass nameplate glinting faintly under the fluorescent lights. With a deep breath, she knocks, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway.

The door swings open, revealing a woman standing behind a cluttered desk, her presence commanding despite the cramped space. Dark, wavy hair frames her face, caught in a loose, slightly dishevelled style, while large hoop earrings sway as she adjusts her glasses.

A light grey blazer drapes over her shoulders, paired with a crisp white shirt, the outfit crisp yet showing signs of wear at the cuffs. In her hands, an open book rests, its pages yellowed and dog-eared. Her expression sours, lips pursing into a thin line, eyes narrowing behind thick frames as she takes you both in.

She’s not bad looking, you think, noting the sharp cheekbones and the way her figure still holds a hint of past elegance. But her prime’s behind her—time and that miserable scowl have carved deep lines into her forehead, aging her beyond the years the photo on her desk might suggest.

“What is this?” she snaps, her voice cutting like a whip as she slams the book shut, the thud reverberating off the walls. Papers rustle on her desk, a half-empty coffee mug wobbling precariously.

“Why are you barging into my office unannounced? Explain yourselves, now.” Her gaze shifts between you and Caitlin, a storm brewing in those dark eyes, her posture rigid as if daring you to challenge her.

Your mind races, the initial surge of confidence wavering under her glare. She’s taller than you by a good few inches, her presence filling the room, and that realization sparks a flicker of your power’s potential.