Professor!Ghost who is well respected in his field, a little harsh in terms of grading, and not great with keeping office hours, but beloved by his students. I desperately want to stick him I philosophy where he BELONGS, I know he's got all sorts of complicated feelings and thoughts on humanity and it's nature, but he could also be a history professor, specifically teaching the history of combat/war. He doesn't socialize much, doesn't know anyone in his department, doesn't want to. He has his regular drinking group, the 141, and he's happy with that. He just wants to teach his class, write his papers for his special interest, and go home to watch the footie game.
Love walks into his class in the middle of lecture and he gruffly asks her to take her seat. She looks around and plops her butt down in the front row, dutifully listening and making the correct facial expressions the whole rest of class. Ghost tries not to pay too much attention to her, but she's all sweet smiles and a short skirt, biting her finger and crossing/uncrossing her legs one too many times to not be purposeful. She doesn't even have a notebook. It's only once Ghost checks his watch and asks if there's anything else before class is over that she raises her hand, flashing those pretty pink nails for the rest of the class. Ghost begrudgingly calls on her and has to stop himself from flinching when she says,
"I'm teaching history of human sexuality and its been cross listed with philosophy, I was told you were who I should talk to about recommended readings for that?" With the sweetest voice he's ever heard, soft and sultry and terribly distracting the way she leans forward against the lecture hall desk, like she's hoping he'll peak down her shirt.
"I don't have any," he does.
"Sounds like you do," she smiles.
"You're in the department, find them yourself." Ghost grouches, moving on to the next raised hand.
"Anthropology actually," Love corrects him, "or else I would have."
Ghost lets out a frustrated growl, grumbling to himself as he walks to his podium and scribbles down his office hours, stalking back and snapping the paper into her hand. "Ask me when I'm not in class."
"How about over dinner?" He glares and she laughs, "fine, just office hours, I'll see you then."
Ghost does his best to ignore her as she stands to go, eyes darting over his schedule as she walks. God dammit. He would've gone to faculty meetings if he knew something that pretty and dangerous was walking around.
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special operatives
(silly interaction beneath read more)
[ID: Digital Art in color of Trigun Maximum, characters included are Wolfwood, Elendira, and Legato in a casual meeting situation. The piece consists of orangey yellow lighting and purple shadows. Wolfwood sits on the left side, facing Elendira who’s on the right. He’s seated on a plain wooden chair with one knee up and he’s holding the strap to his Punisher in his left hand while his right sits against his thigh, He has an irritated expression as he speaks to Elendira. Elendira is sitting in a fancier seat, her right arm rests against Wolfwood’s propped up knee, her left hand holds her suitcase. She’s sitting cross legged with an amused expression. Legato can be seen in the back at the center of the image in his mobile body case, one of his eyes shown to be glaring at Wolfwood. End ID]
[ID: Sketch, uncolored comic. Elendira says to Wolfwood, “I’m not telling you to dedicate yourself to him, but just accept the situation at hand. We could get along better if we were on the same page.” Wolfwood responds, “Don’t peg me me for an optimist. I’m not dumb. But, I’m also not going to just live in resignation. Plus, I don’t have any interest in getting along with ya.” Elendira coos, “Aw, you sure? I have a wonderful shoulder to cry on when the weak people you’re trying to protect eventually dies in the coming months. Though, I guess it’s fine. Someone like you might just die before then anyway...” She snickers in her hand while Wolfwood is speechless and just glares. Legato is faintly drawn in the back, glaring at Wolfwood, muttering “worthless” repetitively. End ID]
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honestly you can say anything about the ravens (and you'd be right to) but you can't say the concept of them isn't delicious. a group of collegiate athletes in their intimidating raven motifs and their black uniforms who are basically bred to become the best of the best in a bloodsport. the adrenaline rush of every game being a competition between yourself and your teammates. knowing you're not just gearing up towards court but following in the footsteps of the alumni before you. the parties and the victories and the mindless sex and the way everyone around you somehow seems to always be thinking the same thing as you are. you are never alone and you will never be again if you just do as we say. who knows the kind of relationships that can happen in a place like that?
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