#code ethics

[zomb13s]

Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

Issued by the Scholing Institute of Multicultural Engineering and Symbolic Ethics To all readers, collaborators, scholars, engineers, friends, allies…Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

[blanc-ci]

Shirtless and bloodied Vulcan… any man would cave (I know I would)

Thinks and thinks about him

[svtskneecaps]

FUCK IT!!!! I MISS WHEN MY MINECRAFT SERVERS HAD CULTURAL EXCHANGE IN THEM!!!! I MISS WHEN MY MINECRAFT SERVERS HAD LANGUAGE BARRIERS IN THEM!!!!! I MISS WHEN WE WERE ALL CRAMMED IN A PIT TOGETHER SCREAMING AND SHAKING AND SOBBING AND CONFUSED AS ALL HELL SITTING IN THE TUMBLR LIVEBLOGS HOLDING HANDS AS WE ALL EXPLAINED WHAT THINGS MEANT, WHAT THE REAL WORLD CULTURAL CONTEXT WAS, WHAT WAS GOING ON IN BITS THE TRANSLATOR COULDN'T GET!!!!! FUCK IT!!!!!!! I'LL TAKE ANOTHER GODDAMN PURGATORY!!!!! GIVE ME A BUNCH OF PEOPLE FORMING SIX PERSON FAMILIES OVER THE SPAN OF THREE TO FIVE DAYS!!!!!!!! GIVE ME THE EVIL SHADOW GOVERNMENT THAT NEVER MADE ANY GODDAMN SENSE, GIVE ME THE STUPID FUCKING EYE WORKERS THAT WERE AGGRAVATINGLY UNBEATABLE, GIVE ME THE CONFUSING ASS BLACK CONCRETE STRUCTURES THAT WENT BASICALLY FUCKING NOWHERE!!!!!! I'LL TAKE IT ALL IF IT MEANS I GET A FRENCH MAN AND A GUY FROM LUXEMBOURG AND A WOMAN FROM SOUTH KOREA SHOOTING THE SHIT IN A MINECRAFT PIT STARTER HOUSE AGAIN!!!!!!!!!! I'LL TAKE IT IF I GET BRAZILIAN PORTUGUESE AND FRENCH AND ENGLISH AND SPANISH SITTING AT A FUCKING TABLE IN A SECRET UNDERGROUND MEETING ROOM THEORIZING ABOUT A MINECRAFT CHARACTER WITH AN APPEARANCE BASED ON A JOKE ABOUT A GUY'S DOG BEING AN AMERICAN CONSERVATIVE!!!!!!! GIVE IT BACK!!!!!!!!! GIVE IT BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!

[ellesthots]

code of ethics

v. “coffee”

read on AO3 🤎

parts: previous / next

plot: you finally get answers from your professor.

pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader

cw: 18+, smut !

words: 6.1k

a/n: this chapter was a (lovely) beast to write !! the next one will be the last in this miniseries !! it'll have Bruce's POV ✨ i wanted to include some other elements, but i'm saving those for fateful 🤭 enjoy <3 feel freeeee to let me know what you think!

Shaking hands held either side of the sink in the closest bathroom. A sopping clump of paper towel sat at the edge of it from trying to take some of the puffiness out of your eyes; its lukewarm form mocked you as it dripped down the porcelain’s edge. 

If you didn’t come back to class, it would be strange. The loser in the back would assume you didn’t know what you were doing, that Professor Wayne had drilled into you, and that would be that. Being reduced to the memory of ‘TA Who Got Told Off By Professor Wayne and Never Showed Again’ sounded like a miserable existence. 

You checked in the mirror once more to see your tear troughs bloated from crying, but you didn’t have time to care. Every passing second was another moment lost to the abyss, a sacred spilling of opportunity knowing the talking-to that would inevitably result in your removal from the course after this first day. 

Walking down the empty hallway to class had your steps echo, filling you to the brim with dread. If he had to get the administration involved, did you have to worry about more than being kicked from class? Would you be able to walk these halls again? You weren’t particularly attached to the Humanities building, but you didn’t want to be ripped from it, either.

Professor Wayne’s voice boomed from outside the classroom door. “Ensure your papers are submitted in PDF format before midnight EST, and follow current APA guidelines.” Just in time. “If any of these requirements are not met, your grade will reflect it.” Oh, brother. You gritted your teeth and walked in.

“The references must—”

Your eyes flicked to his, and he immediately looked back to the board. “They, uh, the references must be published within the past five years.” 

You’d never heard him stutter during a lecture. Was he that pissed at you? Dear god. 

The seat creaked when you sat, and you cringed as eyes wandered to you and the whiteboard. Your skirt rode up in the back, and you tried as delicately as possible to tuck it back under you, but it wouldn’t go. You glanced nervously at Professor Wayne, grateful he was paying full attention to the students. 

Though you’d only taken two courses from him, syllabus day was never just syllabus day. He sped through the document, then lectured like the class had already read the bajillion required books. You remembered the panic that tormented you in September when he’d done that, slinging about terms you’d only barely heard, or not at all, then hardly elaborating. ‘The answer’s in the reading,’ he’d say when a brave student raised their hand to clarify. No one ever had the heart to tell him his expectations were so high they were practically crushing. 

He grabbed a dry erase marker and began writing something you couldn’t parse while you fought off a panic attack. What was he about to tell you? Your thoughts spiraled unproductively, and you began to regret ever leaving the bathroom and its proximity to toilets with the nausea ravaging your system. 

Professor Wayne continued his lecture, skirting past the syllabus as if it hardly existed. His white button-up was smartly tucked into tailored black slacks, and you could make out the slightest hue of his skin beneath the fabric. The turn of his hips and the flex of his back as he drew timelines across the whiteboard made you jam your teeth into your tongue. Power play. That’s all this is. 

He turned to address the entire class, and his sweeping eye contact landed on you in what felt like an accident. His gaze stuttered alongside his words for the second time this evening, and you cocked your head. Huh. 

While he guided the class in an exercise, your focus trained on a new tic; one of your first observations of him last year was how smooth and steady he was, expression unwavering to a disturbing degree—but now saw the bobbing of an Adam’s apple and the rolling of his bottom lip under his teeth. Huh!

Your hands began to tingle as you sat back, zooming out from the classroom for a moment. The lines he drew were shakier. His lines had been too straight before, so these newbies wouldn’t notice. But you did. What terrible, awful, no good thing had you done that warranted this? 

“Adriana.” 

His icy blues speared right through you, weighing more than the entire classroom’s attention and bringing you to alertness faster than your borrowed name. “Yes?”

“Can you hand out the activity I asked you to bring?”

You squinted. Nowhere in any email had there been an activity listed. 

The students were rigidly silent, a norm for his classes; Professor Wayne commanded perfect attention, and people picked up on it from the second he entered the room. It felt electric, alive, intimidating.

Sweat gathered on the back of your neck. You must’ve forgotten it in the anticipation of your scheme. It would be listed in a line somewhere your eyes skipped over in the bustle, and class would be fucked for your mistake. Absolutely fucked, all because you had it out for the man. “I, um,”

Inhaling the first words of your apology, you stalled. Power play. You’d been singularly set on your goal for today, yes, but you weren’t completely distracted. Definitely not incompetent enough to forget one of two printables. 

“Professor.” You forced your trembling hands to fold gently in your lap. His stare could’ve pinned you to the wall. “You didn’t send me an activity.” 

Professor Wayne’s jaw ticked. “Are you cer—”

“I’m sure, yes,” you interrupted. Your smile was sickly sweet, and his gaze tore from yours. That same thoughtful double-blink surfaced as when you’d called him out about the reference page. You hadn’t thought it meant anything then, but now you wondered.

“Alright everyone, let’s pivot.” 

Thankful he wasn’t making an example out of you, you finally relaxed into your chair and let the grin slip. While he faced the board, you took advantage of your position behind his desk and checked your phone, swirling with nerves.

SYLLABUS - PDF was the only email attachment. 

Thank fucking god.

Time passed surprisingly easily with this win draped over you. How embarrassing for him to forget and call attention to it. And how fucking great did it feel not accepting the fall for his mistake. His handwriting got a bit wobblier. Victory on day one.

The high of throwing off Professor Wayne made the remaining time pass tolerably. An inch of traction had been won, and even if it was naive, you felt more secure going into the conversation. So when students began filing out and others began the quintessential line of post-lecture questions, you felt smug—not afraid. 

Who was to say you couldn’t just throw whatever accusations he was about to make back in his face again?

A few students who weren’t Bruce Wayne superfans found themselves disgruntled with the lengthy line, and moved to you to answer questions. Some regarded APA formatting, to which you gave the obligatory Purdue OWL site link, and a smattering of other questions were easily answered by gently pointing to the section in the syllabus. The student who walked with you to class was the last in your line, and looked nervously at Professor Wayne before walking up. 

“Hey, you took this class, right? You said in the fall?” He hiked his book bag up on his shoulder where it just slipped down again. His elbow had a red spot from where its weight tugged. 

You nodded, fighting a smirk. He looked precisely as you’d felt sidling up to the professor’s desk at the midterm. 

“Can you give any pointers on how to get a good grade? I didn’t expect him to be so…”

“Intense?”

He looked to the ground and mumbled, fiddling with the leather strap. “I thought the ratings might’ve been spammers or something.” 

A quick glance at Professor Wayne showed he only had two students left to talk to. You leaned forward and lowered your voice, elaborating on what you’d mentioned earlier. “Make sure your formatting is solid. And that you actually do the readings and look over the slides before coming to class, and that your questions aren’t answered in the text. He asks for a lot of reading, and the people who didn’t prioritize it regretted it.” 

He nodded like some sort of soldier, bidding a frantic “Thanks!” and promptly speeding off, his bag slapping his leg with each step. You hoped he wouldn’t get eaten alive the rest of the term. 

“Y/n?”

Something about how he said your name made your stomach curdle. The professor’s voice wasn’t its usual penetrating timbre; it was hollowed-out and tentative. A scan of the room revealed the last two students must’ve busted their asses to leave, because the room was barren. No one had even left a paper shred. 

“I understand you want to know definitively why I can’t let you be my assistant?”

You swallowed a gasp when you saw how intently he was staring. All you managed was a nod, all the air ripped from the room. You walked around to where you could better see him, situating at the edge of his desk. He rolled back in his chair, creating an additional foot of distance between you. 

“This conversation could be uncomfortable. Are you confident you don’t want a mediator?”

Professor Wayne looked strung-out—no, tightly wound, about to break. Your stomach launched into your throat. “I’m confident.” Get it over with. Rip the bandaid off.

He held your tense gaze like a promise. “Feel free to leave at any point.” 

What the fuck? You shifted your weight to your back leg, grinding your teeth together, body trying to metabolize the suspense in any way it could. What were you supposed to say to that?

“If you’re already uncomfortable,”

“Tell me.” You snapped louder than you meant to, and your ears got hot. You could barely handle a week without knowing, and another minute when he was so close was unthinkable. 

He didn’t break eye contact. Like it was an obligation he didn’t so much as blink. Shallow breaths were interrupted by longer, slower ones, like he was intentionally trying to calm himself. Your hands began to tingle. “In the effort of transparency…”

The pressure in the room changed. No idea what he was about to say, but knowing undeniably that whatever it was, the hammer was about to drop, and hard. Tears stung your lashes. For a split second you considered backing out. Telling him it was okay, that you’d accept not knowing, because your heart began to hammer painfully against your ribs. 

“As I was prepping our last meeting for 505, and through no fault of your own,” he emphasized those words like his life depended on it. “I realized I had developed an attraction to you.” 

It didn’t compute immediately, but your body caught on before anything else. Your shoulders relaxed, vision blurred, but your mind spun like he’d spoken gibberish. 

“With only a single session remaining, I considered early termination too disruptive to your education. After our final meeting, I blocked you from registering for any of my courses and sought to limit all future interactions were they to occur despite the registration block.” Professor Wayne stood then, tucking both hands into his pockets. His stare faltered, briefly, then trailed back. 

Attracted? To you? Bruce Wayne? Your professor? 

“I completely understand if this taints your experience of my courses, and I want to assure you that until the very end of Winter term, I was entirely unaware of my feelings.” 

That was why he didn’t walk you out. Holy shit. 

“I am taking extra steps to ensure this is never recreated with another student. Booking the classroom rather than the isolated setting of an office, and working with the English department to approve a second student per mentorship hour.” 

You placed your hand on the desk to steady yourself, rapidly becoming dizzy. Everything flooded you: the way he looked at you when he sat back in his office, the crinkle in his eyes, and the way he’d looked exasperated when you’d wanted him to sign the override. 

“I am very sorry. I did not want to leave you in the dark, and I apologize for any grief my distancing has caused. If you would like to file a report, you are welcome to.” 

This snapped you out of your reverie. “Why would I report you?”

He looked confused. “If you ever felt or feel uncomfortable, or if you’d like to talk to someone about it. I know this is unexpected and unsettling.”

“You said you didn’t know.” 

“I was not cognizant of the disparities in how I treated you versus other students. I rationalized casual conversation in an intimate environment. It is unacceptable, wildly inappropriate, and I am sorry.” 

If he thought this was ‘wildly inappropriate’, he’d go to an early grave looking at your daydreams. 

You peered at him just as he released a massive breath. A defiant part of you crept in: you’d tried so hard to hide your crush, done everything in your power, held back sighs as his hand gripped his pens, the edge of his desk, not fixing your stare too long at the ripple in his shirt when he moved, ensured you didn’t linger on his lips when this whole time… 

You were angry. At him for not just telling you that last day, and at yourself for thinking he was so impossibly out of reach. 

“You’re right,” you crooned. “Can you pull up the report form, please?” 

“Absolutely.” He stepped to his monitor and typed something onto the screen. “For consent purposes,”

“Consent?” You placed your hand on the edge of his desk, leaning just a tad closer. 

“Yes,” he continued, pausing only a split second. “The dean receives all reports of misconduct; if they deem the transgression severe enough, they will contact the local branch of the department of education to discuss further action.” He clicked the mouse around, eyes poring over the screen. “Those are the individuals who will have access to your report, but they are bound to confidentiality outside of the chain of command. I will not be able to read what you write.”  

“You seem familiar with this process.” 

“It’s important to know all resources to ensure student success.” He tilted the screen to you.

“Could’ve sworn I read that line in the student handbook.” So clinical, and why? Moving and speaking like a robot. Efficient, streamlined, tight. What might get him to unravel? 

“Do you want me to email you a copy?” 

“It’s quite virtuous of you to confess those feelings, Professor. Could cause trouble.”

“With how it’s affected you, you have a right to know.” Matter-of-fact. Plain. Heavily restrained. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, a thin veil concealing your frustrations. A small tear in the membrane that would forever close if you didn’t pry it open right now.

“Before I go,” like hell you were leaving. “I’m still a little confused about the report. It’s not like we acted on our feelings.”

“Filing a report is available if you’re experiencing discomfort, irrelevant to action.” 

When you thought he’d fully skipped over the casual confession, his brow furrowed, then settled. He kept strictly to himself, and you could’ve stomped your feet like a toddler at how professional he was behaving. Clinical! Sterile! Bland! Blah! Push it. Push it! 

“It’s not like you fantasize about it, right?” God, even saying the word felt salacious in his presence. And the way you lit up when an edge finally crept into his voice… whew. Who knew frustration could make someone so brave? 

“Is there anything else you need?”

You could tell the instant it left his mouth he regretted it. He squeezed his eyes shut and his lips pressed into a thin line. Visibly showing distress? He was cracking. A perfect slot. An opening.

“It just feels unethical.”

He looked at you. 

“For a student to be punished for her professor’s feelings.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Your stomach flipped. “I can’t have you in my class.”

“Because I’m too distracting? Can’t control yourself?” 

“Control and distraction aren’t concerns.”

“Then what’s the issue?” Back to square one. Bickering. The only way you could stop from vibrating at the realization that Professor Wayne probably wanted to fuck you. The only way to keep your heart at a halfway decent pace. 

“It’s inappropriate and unfair to you.”

“Why do you get to decide what’s fair?”

“You’re my student.”

Could he feel the heat emanating off your cheeks? “I’m your assistant.”

“I’m in a position of power.”

“Wouldn’t you be anyway, Bruce Wayne?”

You made a point to emphasize his full name, drive home the things you weren’t saying. He was smart as a whip, and would undoubtedly pick up on the subtext.

“This is different. You know that.” 

Firm. A bit… annoyed? Were you losing him? Pulling him in? You pivoted. “Can I see the form again?”

You set your phone on the desk and walked closer, leaning toward the screen to read. Falsification of Credentials, Plagiarism, Unauthorized Recording, Discrimination, Sexual Misconduct, Other. 

His mouse was weighty as it glided across the smooth grain. Click. A drop down menu appeared.

“Inappropriate remarks? Sexual advances? Unwanted touching?” You mused aloud. “None of these fit.”

Buying time or trying to drive home the point, you couldn’t tease out why you were pretending to stare soo intensely at the document. His presence behind you was warm and inviting, and you clenched your ab muscles to keep from spinning on your heel and falling into his chest. 

“Inappropriate remarks.” 

You pouted, feigning serious thought. “No, doesn’t track.”

“If you don’t want to make a report, you don’t have to. But it’s available if you do.”

“Do you want to be reported, Professor?”

Each time you said it, you swore he looked like he wanted to tell you to stop. Especially now, as you peeked at him over your shoulder. 

“I want whatever keeps my students safe and comfortable.”

“You’re really hung up on that.” Fuck the pleasantries. You pushed his setup forward, the mouse accidentally clicking Other in the process, and turned to face him. You gripped the desk behind you, lifting your ass just onto the edge. “The teacher-student thing.”

“As I should be.”

“I am, too.” 

“Please get off my desk.”

“So polite.” You pulled yourself further onto his desk until you were fully off the ground. “I imagined you’d be demanding.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, weakly.

“Want me to confess, Professor?” It felt so freeing to act without a care in the goddamn world. Your pulse rocketed, feeling the heavy wood beneath you supporting your newfound bravery. “All the fantasies I’ve had about you?”

“Don’t say that.”

“You don’t want to know?” You tapped his thigh with your shoe, and nearly screamed at how dense he was. This was the perfect height to take all of him in; the shoulders, the arms, the hair that just wouldn’t stay tucked behind his ears, and the—oh. 

“Stop calling me that.” His voice was hoarse and whisper-quiet.

“What else should I call you?”

His breath came out in a tight, audible sigh. “This isn’t appropriate.”

“Neither is crushing on a student, but here we are.”

While he’d said it first, you said it blatantly. He looked at the floor, ashamed. A jolt of care cinched your chest, seeing so plainly how affected he was. 

“I’m trying to make it right.”

Atonement for his sins, when he hadn’t made any yet. When you wanted this. Wanted him. Needed him. You called him out. “You’re trying to relieve guilt.” 

Double-blink, again. You caught another tell like a precious stone and tucked it into your pocket for safekeeping. He had nothing to feel guilty for. Fucking nothing. 

“Guilt about wanting to fuck me.”

It might be cruel, but teasing such a considerate and harrowed man was titillating. Maybe it would drive home your point. “Because how despicable is it…” you reached out to grip a fold in his shirt, pulling him closer. He didn’t resist. “For the ethics professor to stare at the short little skirt of his mentee...”

He swallowed thickly, and you noticed how dilated his pupils were. It sent a shot of lightning up your spine. Your fingers caught on a button halfway down his chest. “Y/n…”

You moved his hand under your skirt. “Thinking of laying her across his desk, hiking it up,”

“I can’t…”

Pulled his warm hand between your thighs. “How I might say your name when—”

“Please,”

“Stop?” You paused, removing your hand to hover above his. He didn’t move away, but his face twisted like he was in pain.

A critical point. You suspended the act and let your lust speak for itself. Transparency. “I’ve wanted this for months. So, so badly.” Your hand fell flat to the desk as you shifted your hips. “So if you want me, here I am.”

It took a second to compute it, but he leaned in. Inching closer, slowly, far too slowly, and it hit you like a freight train when his hand began to trail up your thigh. You bit back a sigh, desperate not to scare him off, but yearning to show how much you needed him. He’d never been this close.

The room held a weighted silence. You couldn’t feel yourself breathe as your fingers curled around the waistband of his slacks. The heat of his breath against your lips invoked a warm summer breeze. Your mouth parted, legs spreading incrementally wider as his finger gently pulled back your underwear. 

Closer.

Both hands traveled to his button, unfastening it with a held breath. A quarter past the loop. Half. The tension released between your fingers as his brows knit together with need.

Professor Wayne slammed back, spinning the chair out behind him. “I can’t. You’re my student.”

It was dizzying how fast he’d yanked away from you. Through slow, regulating blinks, you caught glimpses of his hands in his hair, his shoulders rolling back, and rebuttoning his pants. 

Was Adriana still logged in on your phone?

You reached to the other end of the desk and grabbed it, mistyping your passcode in your fluster. The page loaded swiftly and before you could overthink it, you hit DROP COURSE — SUBMIT.

You flipped it for him to read the confirmation. “Not anymore.” 

The phone’s light highlighted a war breaking out in his thoughts. His teeth pressed indents into his lower lip as he hesitated, glancing from the phone back to you. You pulled it back. Pushed it behind you. And let out a small, needy sigh. 

Throbbing desire pooled between your legs as he took a step forward. Yes. His eyes lowered to your jaw, your chest, then your legs. His breathing sped up. Yes. You rested back on your elbows, looking up with doe eyes. 

Professor Wayne turned away, and you nearly tried to grab him, but he was already out of reach. You didn’t have to watch to see that he was leaving.

Fuck.

You slid off the desk and your shoulders caved in, fighting rejection’s bitter current from pulling you under. Crying could come when you were home in bed; when you could have the real Adriana make you some food, throw some random movie on her phone, and help you forget about this embarrassing attempt at throwing yourself at him.

The whiteboard was cool on your arm as you leaned against it. Your wrist smudged the line he’d drawn. Waves of disappointment were getting increasingly difficult to manage. 

Click.

Through bleary eyes you saw him switch the lock on the door. Panels of LEDs drew dimmer. 

He looked behind and made direct eye contact, his stormy and deep. He walked long, quick strides. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,”

Before another thought could form, Professor Wayne had your arms pinned above your head. You’d only realized he’d started kissing you when the taste of coffee hit your tongue. Holy fucking shit. 

He was so unbelievably dense and all you wanted to do was feel it. You wanted to grab him, wrap yourself around his waist, but you were pinned to the whiteboard with his hands, hips, and kisses. He groaned into your mouth, and you broke a hand free to grasp at his jaw. 

You had to make sure this was real; you pressed firmer against him, almost gnashing teeth. He released his grip on your wrist to follow your lead, cupping your face with both hands. The warmth of his fingers made you gasp. 

“Please,” you whined, terrified he’d end this before you got what you desperately wanted. 

“Please what?” Gone was his hesitance, his questions and rumination. The slight huskiness made your knees weak.

Words failed you as wet kisses found the nape of your neck. You slammed his hand from your cheek and put it up your skirt. His fingers made quick work of shifting your panties out of the way, straightening your spine like a rod as his fingers dragged up, then down.

His fingers teased your entrance, and your eyes snapped open when he didn’t push in. You grabbed fistfuls of his hair while he kissed his way to your ear, the slight skip of stubble across your hot skin giving you goosebumps. 

Up, down… he slipped the tip of his finger inside. You bit your cheek at the tease. “Is this what you want?”

You nodded, gripping his shoulder to pull him in. 

“Use your words.”

Your heart raced to a fever pitch. It took you a minute to find them, still thrown this was even happening. “I need you.”

“I know, Y/n.” Your breathing hitched like you’d never heard your own name. His breath was hot against your ear. “Where do you need me?”

“Inside,” you gasped, and your nails dug into his shoulder as he stretched you out. “Fuck!”

He swallowed your moans with another kiss. His cologne wrapped you in a tourniquet, making your breathing ragged and vision shake with every plunge of his fingers. As if you weren’t already melting, his teeth snagged your bottom lip, the sting making you tense, amplifying the sensations. 

“This skirt…”

“Mmm,” 

His fingers curled inside you and you lurched forward, letting out a noise so pathetic you would’ve been embarrassed if you had a single brain cell that wasn’t being fucked silly. 

“Your moans,” he made a pleading sound. “You’re so ready for me.”

“I am,” you managed, tension slowly building in your core. Puffy, and slick, and needy, so fucking needy, his fingers felt divine, oh, my god… fuck, god…

“I need to feel you.” 

He hooked your legs around his waist and held you mid-air like it was nothing; like he didn’t spend his days lecturing and grading papers behind a desk, like he did this all the time.

Desk. He set you down carefully, but that was the last of his restraint. Sweeping arms knocked the carefully-set papers and pens across the floor with a crash. He caught the back of your head in his hand before it hit the monitor, and pulled you in for a rough kiss. 

“Oh my god, please, please.” Desire pulsed throughout your body, lit up like a live wire, watching him undo his zipper. You surged forward and practically tore off his dress shirt, ripping at the buttons with a singular focus. Each inch of skin exposed ratcheted it up a notch until you swore you weren’t breathing. 

He pulled his slacks down to his calves, then his boxers, and you paused before the last button to gawk. Better than you imagined…

A sharp inhale accompanied him pulling the shirt over his head, and you saw stars at his mussed hair. “Professor…”

“Lay back for me, baby.” 

You followed the orders of his hand splayed out atop your stomach, guiding you back with a gentle press. The nickname rang in your ears. 

Professor Wayne’s hand slid from your stomach past your skirt, dipping between your thighs once more. His wrist nudged your legs apart, and you watched his eyes drop to your pussy.

“Perfect.” His thumb skimmed your clit, making you jump. His brow furrowed, and he stalled, the weight of his fingers pressing against you, hesitant to let himself give in. 

“It’s okay. I want this, I want you, please, please, please,” you didn’t care about begging; not when he looked like this. Not when he was hard as a rock, his toned skin glistening, his hair hanging just barely over his eyes. “I’m on the pill. Just fuck me.”

His sigh was deep and resigned, like he’d finally accepted this. His breathing sped up. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes!”

He slapped his dick against your clit, and your hands clenched to reign yourself in. His head teased your pussy, pushing in just enough to make your head fall back, but never further. 

“Right here?”

A little deeper.

“On my desk?”

Not enough. All of it. All of him.

You wrapped your legs around him and pulled him in hard, making him groan and his hands fall to either side of you. His lashes fluttered as you moved your hips up and down, covering your mouth to muffle the high-pitched moans at feeling him fill you so fully. 

“Fuck, so fucking wet,” he gasped, effortlessly matching your tempo. His strokes were rhythmic, and he stared in awe at you sliding up and down his shaft with total ease. 

“All for you,” it was getting harder and harder to speak. His biceps, triceps, deltoids, shit, he was thick, tight, strong.

“All for your professor?”

“All for my fucking professor, fuck, faster,” 

“Christ,”

“Harder, harder, mhm—” 

Your back arched as his hips started snapping into you. You’d worship this desk when you finished—the height, the angle, the dull, quivering pleasure of him hitting that soft, perfect spot… You lost yourself in his thrusts. 

He moved his hand to your clit and sped up, cursing under his breath. Indents of the side of the desk dug into your palms as you strangled it. Holy shit, shit, shit…! You writhed, clawing at his chest, brain going offline.

“Good job. There you go…” 

Your body throbbed, abdomen clenching, head spinning. He grinned, and you descended from the clouds. 

He slowed down, and you must’ve shown the disappointment on your face because he picked up the pace. “You want more?”

“I want you to cum in me.”

His eyes flashed with surprise, and fuck, you could’ve orgasmed again. His cheeks bloomed red from blushing, and he slowed to a stop. “Are you sure?”

You were still coming down from the high, but you never thought he’d even kiss you, let alone this. When you said it, you expected him to turn it down immediately; so now it was on the table, you were certain you’d never wanted anything more. After half a year spent under the covers dreaming of him alone, your reward would be this.

Breathy streams of yes, of I mean it, of tugging at his shoulders, of his hands roaming under your shirt. He unclipped your bra, and your nipples pebbled between his deft fingers. The wet noises of his cock driving in and out of you mingled with the echoes of his moans filling the lecture hall. Cries of how good you felt, how close he was, and you memorized every syllable like you’d die otherwise.

Professor Wayne had snags and scars across his torso, but you couldn’t get a good look as he shook your body with the force of his delicious strokes, fuck. Your body never wanted to release him, but you could tell he was closer than he let on; the want etched between his brows, the slight stutter in his hips, how ragged his breathing had become. 

His blue eyes zeroed in on yours, intensely focused. You knew the words before they fell out of his beautiful, slacked mouth. “I’m gonna cum,” 

The monitor’s glow illuminated his face as he started to peak; his eyes fluttered shut, his staggered thrusts making you whimper. Before you could tell him to fill you up, coax him through it, a pitchy groan fell from his lips. He slammed his hand on the desk for balance as he folded forward, nearly collapsing his heaving body on top of you. 

Warm, quick breaths painted your cheeks as you felt his cock twitch inside of you, strong and steady, the polar opposite of the picture in front of you. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and where you touched his body left temporary prints of lightness. 

You locked eyes then. Seconds slowed to minutes as you soaked up the moment, blissfully sated, patiently scanning his face for any sign of regret. 

Sharp jingles of keys startled you from the other side of the door, catching Professor Wayne’s attention. No. Oh no. You tried to scramble up, preparing for him to be mad at the close call. Hopefully it’d be a close call, and not—

“It’s alright.” He looked away from the door and pressed a tender, reverent kiss to your lips. “Janitor unlocks all the doors in this hallway at the same time. Opens mine last for cleaning.”

“Oh,” was all you could muster. He slowly pulled out, your pussy aching at the loss. You already wanted him again. 

Still catching his breath, he opened a drawer and got some tissues. “Let me clean you up.”

His aftercare was so sweet it felt like foreplay. Gentle swipes on your inner thigh, attentive eyes roaming for misses. Now that he was more or less static, you got a better look at his torso; it kept you from looking at the arc of his hands moving along your legs and his ‘just fucked’ face. The marks looked menacing and violent. A bruise was in the final stages of healing just above his navel. 

“Where are those from?”

He disposed of a tissue wrapped inside another, then pulled up his slacks. He answered as he pulled up their zipper. “Motorcycle accident.” 

You sat up, straightening your shirt to look put together, and smoothed the skirt down your thighs. He shrugged on his shirt, making quick work of the buttons. You knew what his fingers felt like. What he felt like. What he sounded like. Your face heated. Adriana might give you an earful when you got back, but you’d have this memory no matter what. No matter if this was the last time. No matter if it happened over and over again. 

Keys jingled closer. You didn’t trust it.

Without anything left on the desk besides, you pointed at a random part of his computer screen, pretending to have a question like it wasn’t the report form. He stood beside you with his hands on his hips, feigning interest.

“Sorry Bruce. Lock stuck.”

A short man with sandy blonde hair accidentally pushed the door open, the end of his mop poking into the classroom. Could he tell you’d just fucked? Could he hear any of it?

“No worries, Henry.” 

Henry went to leave, and you released the breath you were holding. 

“Actually, I’ll start here if you don’t mind. Marshall didn’t have class today.”

Professor Wayne glanced at you. It felt like checking in, asking permission, and you nodded. His voice was more than back to its usual refinement. “Sure.”

You gathered your folio, its innocence intoxicating. In no universe had you thought the plan would work. Now the evidence of him was sticky on your skin and panties.

Henry began by emptying the trash at the front door, forcing you coy. 

“Thanks for the help, Professor Wayne.”

“My pleasure.”

His eyes sparkled, and you commended yourself for stringing together words in their wake. “Are you available to meet later in the term?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, and took a full breath. “Just let me know when you need my help.”

You smiled at the ground and walked out the far door, bidding him goodnight. Henry said something to him about a vacuum, and you pressed out into the hallway, cutting to a back exit. 

Fresh evening air cooled your lungs and the rain soothed your scorching skin. Professor Wayne. You traced your sore lips with the tip of your finger, and laughed as you waited at the crosswalk. 

The taste of coffee held you all the way home.

taglist: @noisylime @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog

[yukiranine]

phaidei but its hi2/ggz kiamei bc i never played hi3

[th3-c0ll3ct3r]

WAKE UP BITCHES ISKALL DROPPED AND IMMA EVALUATE IT-

Especially considering I was never a fan of him in the first place I will have no bias in this horse race

Video:

The entire video genuinely sounds like a more constructive Dream allegations video minus the detective outfit and 2hrs of rambling and a serious lack of evidence due to privacy reasons which kind of, so lightly sound like an excuse

He claims that when he was alerted to these allegations, he was given a 1hr and 30 minutes deadline to produce proof to the Hermits he didn't do anything

He then contact the police and a lawyer

Girl we are going to pause right here because stunning that you contacted the police and a lawyer but if you didn't do the things that you're alleged or doing then you would have proof that you didn't do those things like the whole situation could it take in 20 minutes

If he didn't do even one of the things he was accused of it would have taken less than the hour and a half he was given to screen share his screen with multiple Hermits and just start scrolling through Discord

Then he goes on to say that he wasn't given enough time etc... And that they'd rushed him.

There have been MULTIPLE sources stating they tried for MONTHS to get into contact with the Hermits.

But IT IS odd that when he was "notified" of his wrongdoings, he first went to the police and a lawyer, DESPITE a hermit telling you first. If everyone knows then it's not a matter of privacy anymore.

Like personally if that was me, I'd have jumped into Discord no questions asked, shown the proof THEN contacted a lawyer for defamation or other relating charges

It's very unusual for someone to go the legal route in the situation not because it's never been done before it's because it's a waste of money and time. They will not gaf. Most cases in the similar situations come out with inconclusive responses and the person does not come out with a response themselves as their is seemingly enough evidence to smear their name and they would not like to proceed if there's that much evidence.

And it's VERY clear he's going the "innocent till proven guilty" route. Which is fair enough.

But, and I cannot stress this enough, HE'S NOT BEING ACCUSED OF TEXTING MINORS

He's being accused of having inappropriate relationship with multiple members of his audience/community and moderators, and using his Discord server as the catalyst for it all.

Which is especially alarming as some have said he's a moderator for them, which IN SOME PLACES is illegal to have a boss/employee relationship.

But it genuinely sounds like he's missing the point, as a content creator you have to hold yourself to higher responsibilities, accountability and credibility then the rest of your community. And even if it's not illegal, it's EXTREMELY INAPPROPRIATE for a content creator to have any form of relations with a fan, WITHOUT it being for certain types of videos (like challenges or servers) or for commissions/work

So unless they were gaining genuine service or having particular videos, having that sort of PM relationships with your fans is inappropriate, especially if your working with them or not. It's not appropriate at all.

He then blames it on cancel culture. WHICH GIRL-

I've seen alot of things pumped out of Hermitcraft fans but "cancel culture" IS NOT ONE OF THEM

Blaming it on cancel culture is the biggest excuse, genuinely.

He acts like it was public execution, even through its been CONFIRMED from MULTIPLE SOURCE that people tried for months to get into contact with the Hermits, so the END OF THE INAPPROPRIATE RELATIONS WITH MEMBERS OF YOUR COMMUNITY SHOULD HAVE BEEN WARNING NUMBER 1-

Like imagine all the people you allegedly had relations with suddenly all wanted to cut contact, did you think they would just disappear?

Cancel Culture, is when you're cut from your career for doing something OBJECTIVELY stupid, as it becomes a growing trend. It's unserious and often a social media trend.

Iskall's situation was not apart of cancel culture because it's genuine. And he knows it's genuinely enough to take legal action, meaning that in some capacity he did do at least 20% of what he's been accused of, to have grounds for a cases

So he's done SOMETHING it's just not what he thinks it is/isn't like what's allegedly

Then he goes on to talk about a developer he defended after they scammed him and we're generally not nice.

I have yet to see this developer anywhere and to my knowledge they have not pushed any allegations onto him.

He instead brings up this developer, because he defended them when they did something that was seemingly objectively wrong and it's meant to be a display of his good character

Personally I would have not used that as an example. Using an example of you defending someone when you in the same breath claimed that they had wronged you is putting the notion in your fans and audiences heads that even "if I do something wrong you should defend me because it was only a silly little mistake and it's the right thing to do"

And it was unnecessary. Completely unnecessary. He wants to be a display of a good character yet also once privacy so that's why he shares a personal story of him defending someone who wronged him so show that he's a good person who gives second chances? But then implies in the video that he had to give that person more than one chance?

And I think Goodtimeswithscar said it better then me. GASLIGHTING he's hardcore gaslighting.

It is similar to what Mr Beast, did with his allegations. Actually it's almost a copy.

Instead of completely addressing it he only addresses what he wants to in the face of privacy. He then brings up all the good things he's done to make him seem more trustworthy and like a better person even. And then he pays someone to investigate himself to find himself not guilty.

Iskall it's literally doing the same thing. He only addresses what he wants to because of privacy even though he knew about the situation before he got a lawyer, he uses the worst example possible to show that he's a trustworthy person, and then he pays for a lawyer himself to prove that he is not guilty.

Having the police and lawyers is meant to make it seem more 'fair'. But as we all know the police will only do so much before a lawyer has to step in. And if you're paying for the lawyer yourself obviously the lawyer is going to have bias because they want to do a good job because you are paying them to do a good job.

It's the most hardcore gaslighting I've ever seen.

And worst of all he might actually get away with it, because like Mr Beast he has a younger audience who will not understand how much he's trying to Gaslight them.

So to conclude, he's doing a Dream / Mr Beast remix on a smaller scale because money. And he's getting lawyer involved and unless they're suing for defamation, then there's nothing to sue for because no one is accusing him of pedophilia they are accusing him of having inappropriate relationships with his audience which is a big no-no for content creators..

Now for Stressmonster

Girl dug herself either a hole or a grave and now has to lie in it.

They tried to protect her dignity and integrity by not stating the reason why she left but it's now clear to many why she also left.

And yet again I would like to make it very clear like no one is accusing him of actually committing a crime (UNLESS HE LIVES IN AN AREA THAT MAKES IT ILLEGAL FOR BOSS AND EMPLOYEES/COWORKERS TO HAVE A RELATIONSHIP) he's being accused of having inappropriate relationships with members of his community and moderators, which is not a very good thing if you're a content creator

Its not a jailable offence unless *see point above*, and to be like "I'm standing with you 100% of the way!", is more telling about your priorities than 'what is right'

They act as if hermitcraft is a cult, that kicks members out for not conforming.

But I am entirely on the side of HermitCraft in the fact that I would indeed, kick Iskall out/get him to resign, if he'd had inappropriate relations with mods and fans REGARDLESS OF IF THEY WERE ADULTS

Because the main audience for Hermitcraft ARE CHILDREN. KIDS. NON-ADULTS

AND HE'S ENDANGERING THEM AS WELL AS THERE COMMUNITY EVEN IF IT'S NOT MINORS HE'S MESSAGING

LIKE GROWING UP IN A COMMUNITY WHERE IF YOU EVENTUALLY REACH AN ACCEPTABLE AGE YOU GET TO HAVE A PRIVATE RELATIONSHIP WITH THE CONTENT CREATOR YOU'VE BEEN IDOLISING FOR YOUR CHILDHOOD ARE YOU INSANE?

Overall he's digging himself a grave and handing out shovel.

And also. To be sosososososo clear.

NEVER. SEND. DEATH. THREATS. TO. ANYONE.

[dw-gaster]

favorite genre of dadster origin story: accidental malpractive

the last word is F*CK (gasters head is the asterisk)

[rotzaprachim]

im shaking every single student organizer and screaming that they need to separate a demand to divest from arms funding from the demand for a university to cut off all contact with Israeli and Israeli-American scholars and students, a demand which no university will agree to because implementing it would in many cases be very illegal

[yourleftpinkytoe-blog]

God I wish more fics would include Andrew’s weird ass eating habits.

[despazito]

i'm afraid folks will have to come to terms with the fact that doodles are here to stay and that there should be a focus on getting breeders to produce the soundest doodles possible instead of trying to shut the whole thing down which is just an exercise in futility

[purplesaline]

Piracy is preservation, and authors would rather have their books in front of people who can't access many books for free instead of looking those people in the eye and saying "fork over your month's earnings"

Shut up

To be clear, I'm not against Piracy in general. In fact I'm not only an advocate, I'm a prolific pirate myself.

I'm sure you can find a handful of authors who feel that way, but those I know personally (one indie author and one traditionally published) as well as those I've seen comment on the issue are adamant that piracy has caused them significant personal harm.

They'd far rather people who can't afford their books use libraries to access them or, if the libraries they have access too don't carry the book(d), they'd rather people reach out to them personally to arrange for a copy within their budget (sometimes including for free).

Pirating books is not the same as pirating movies. It's the difference between attacking a Spanish galleon and a fishing sloop.

Bigger names like Brandon Sanderson, Steven King, Diana Gabaldon, etc have a entire fleet of sloops and are unlikely to miss a couple going missing, but the less famous (and thus less highly paid) authors can have their entire career ruined by their book being pirated. It can even prevent them from getting offered another book deal, meaning there won't be any more books by that author for you to read.

We aren't entitled to the intellectual property of others. Full stop.

If the author wanted their book to be free, they'd have made it freely available (as some do!). Maybe if everyone had a universal basic income that covered the cost of living we'd see more art available at no cost, but as it stands artists need to make a living too and that means they need to earn a profit to survive. If they can't do that with their art they have to find another way to do it which means less time and energy to make art.

Not to mention the advance an author gets is usual peanuts, and unlike actors who get paid by the time the movie is out, an advance isn't a wage and if the author doesn't sell enough books they have to give back whatever amount of the advance the sale of their books didn't cover. If they get a $5000 advance and only sell $3000 worth of books they owe the publisher $2000.

Again, I'm not against piracy. I am against harming individual artists to the point where it significantly impacts their career. I want more art in this world.

I'm also not telling people they can't, or shouldn't pirate books. I'm against it but I'm not trying to for e others to believe the same as me. I'm providing information so people can make a more informed decision and better understand the consequences of their choices.

So do what you will with the info I've provided. Just be willing to acknowledge the harm you cause with those choices. Even the piracy I take part in causes harm on a smaller scale.

I have no argument against "I don't care, I'm doing it anyway" and I won't bother trying to argue it.

[zomb13s]

Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

Issued by the Scholing Institute of Multicultural Engineering and Symbolic Ethics To all readers, collaborators, scholars, engineers, friends, allies…Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

[p1nkshield]

Based off the idea another poster said that another reason why Dick HATES the Joker is bc he gives a bad name to clowns.

Joker: HeeeheehahaAHAHAHA WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY NIGHTWING? Daddy isn’t here to stop you! What are you going to do?

Nightwing: You are a disgrace to the art of clownery.

Joker: wha?

Nightwing: You have broken EVERY rule in the clown code of ethics.

Joker: There’s a-

Nightwing: RULE NUMBER ONE! I will keep my acts, performance and behavior in good taste while I am in costume and makeup. I will remember at all times that I have been accepted as a member of the clown club only to provide others, principally children, with clean clown comedy entertainment. I will remember that a good clown entertains others by making fun of themselves and not at the expense or embarrassment of others.

Joker: uh-

Nightwing: You break the first clown commandment EVERY DAY!

Joker: I-

Nightwing now angry crying: You do not deserve to call your self a clown.

Joker: …

[ellesthots]

code of ethics

iv. “rumination”

read on AO3 🤎

parts: previous / next

plot: you devise a plan to get your professor to fess up.

pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader

cw: 18+

words: 4k

a/n: sooo happy to be back with another chapter!! we're sooo close to the end 🤭 per usual, loveee to hear all of your thoughts if you'd like to share!

“No fucking way.” You and your roommate stared at her laptop, the word REGISTERED screaming at you in two hundred decibels. 

“Exactly what I said: he’s an asshole. Gets off on manipulating students so he can feel high and mighty, and feed whatever bullshit…” 

Unable to hear her over the blood pulsing against your eardrums with such force you thought it might rupture, you grabbed your phone and shoved it to her with shaking hands. She signed in, and you scrolled to her courses: ETHICS 511, TA, REGISTERED. 

Fuck. 

“It’s real, dude.” She held out her phone to an email from the registrar: ATTN: Required Materials for ETHICS 511 (TA): 

Dear ADRIANA,

Prior to your first day of class, your professor has requested you review these materials: COURSE SYLLABUS and TEACHING ASSISTANT EXPECTATIONS.

Please direct any questions to the professor of the course. This is an automated email that is not monitored. Be sure to mind Add/Drop deadlines for SPRING TERM to ensure proper disbursement of aid. 

Attached were the two documents, and you snatched the phone from her without question. She scoffed, mumbling something degrading about Professor Wayne as you zoomed through the documents, heart pounding. 

Arrive ten minutes prior to start time… communicate office hours on first day… be prepared to introduce yourself to the class… includes answering student questions and passing out materials… must have working knowledge of all elements of the Google Suite… attend all class sessions… 

When you looked up, the room was empty and your eyes bleary; you let the phone slip through your fingers and fall atop the comforter as shame and embarrassment flooded the space. So he had been avoiding you. In fact, he’d gone to considerable lengths to ensure you two would never interact again. It was like a bullet to the chest.

You plopped back on your bed, the ceiling swirling. Had you been so awfully unpleasant? You shut your eyes and thought back to the session prior to the final, before the switch, the last time things felt fine. Had you said something terrible you’d entirely overlooked? 

You and him had just finished going over your last-needed edits. You’d tucked the paper into your folder, then the folder into your backpack. Normal. 

You’d been wearing jeans and a sweater, your hair as it normally was, and he’d been wearing his usual button-up with slacks. His pen sat in his hand, not yet shelved. Normal. 

He’d taken off his glasses, as he usually did after revising. He’d cracked a joke about needing to get a lanyard thing to keep them around his neck, but you couldn’t place which word he’d used. Everything was… as it was. 

By this time of the meeting all of your anticipatory nerves had settled, and you’d gotten braver. “How old are you?” you’d asked, and you wanted to shove your head under a pillow at the memory. That must’ve been where you fucked up. 

But it wasn’t. You recalled his smile at that comment like the back of your hand. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and made the blue of them hazy, more tolerable to soak up without catching a chill. “How old do you think I am?” 

The question had been said as he sat back in his chair, eyeing you playfully. Even now while simply analyzing, you felt your cheeks heat. Angles, angles, and more angles; the slope of his chest to his hips when he relaxed, the hard cut of his jaw, and his hands that looked oh so capable. 

His hair had gone a bit limp and strayed over his brow, making you grip the edge of the seat. You remembered taking the opportunity to let your gaze fall upon all of him from the waist up. Selfishly roaming from the top of his abdomen up to his shoulders, down his biceps and the forearms that were delightfully exposed after another erotic sleeve roll-up when you came in, then all the way back to his eyes. Not normal to soak him up so transparently, but given the question, this couldn’t have ruined things. Right? 

“Could be twenty-eight, could be forty.” You’d mirrored his body language, easing back until your head hit the seat. His brow twitched, and you bit your cheek to hold his eye contact. 

“Forty?” He could’ve been offended, but the light dancing off his eyes said something else entirely.  

“You’ve got a PhD, Professor.” The instant it rolled off your tongue it had taken on a different meaning, at least to you; the word slipped out with texture, novelty. 

“Thirty-one.” 

“When’d you get your degree?” Your interest had piqued at him only being a few years your senior, concocting dirty fantasies you feared might escape in a Freudian slip; but besides that, it was pleasant, normal conversation. Normal, normal, normal, for two humans that had been privately talking to each other for an hour or two each week for three months. You couldn’t decipher a single thing that could have set him off, anything that would justify him disliking you so much. 

“Twenty-four.” He stood, likely—and thankfully—missing the way your jaw slacked. 

“How is that possible?”

“Had a lively social life in high school. No time for college credit.” He’d stood then, keeping to his predictable schedule. Push chair in, grab jacket, left arm, then the right, then a glance to see if you were getting ready to leave. 

“So you’re a genius.” 

His face had flushed at that—you wondered if that was the moment; you’d surely embarrassed him, and for a man of his status, that was a surefire way to get on bad terms. But, again, again, his response gave away none of that. “Kind way to describe a nerd.”

Nerd had sounded so foreign out of his beautiful, cut-from-marble form. On the walks there, you’d compared him to poison, taking a little bit each week to build a tolerance to his charms. Enough to act like a human with him, and pretend like you weren’t on the verge of sinking to your knees. “Trying to make sure I stay on that ‘pass’ side of things so close to the end of the term.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.” His voice was strong and reassuring, booming off your bedroom walls like it was the cramped office. He’d shaken his head while grabbing his bag from the desk. “You’re spectacular.” 

“Kind way to describe a paper about the politics of psychiatric facilities.” 

THERE!

You sat up in bed as you pinpointed the moment his demeanor shifted. His attention had moved from your face to his shoes, his blinking got faster, and he didn’t look up again. He’d hung behind and locked the door after you pranced out, and you’d managed to walk half the hallway before realizing he hadn’t followed. 

The evening ended with a wave for him to hurry, followed by a shred of hesitance you hadn’t caught in the whirlwind of being around him; you’d held the door open this time, and he slipped through with a quiet thanks. So over the moon with how his jacket brushed your arm as he hurried through it, you hadn’t caught that he didn’t wave back as you walked to the stairs and parted. 

“I don’t get it. We were getting along so well.” The kitchen was bright after the depressive abyss of your room, and you lamented on how fun it had been to be around him. Getting a peek behind the curtain at the man who was actually funny, a bit shy, even hearing the occasional stutter from the well-spoken Greek god. 

Your roommate pushed a plate of food toward you. “Probably how he gets ya.” 

A taco balanced between your thumb and pointer finger, fragrant and warm. “How so?”

“Act nice while he’s on the hook, then dip after the course evals roll in.” She rolled her eyes like he’d told her his ploy herself. You frowned, letting the taco rest against the plate. He had followed up with an email emphasizing completing the evaluations in a timely manner; no other professor sent reminders about them, and he hadn’t done that at the end of Fall term. 

Huh. The taco was a bit burnt, but nothing you could complain about as someone who neither cooked nor bought the groceries; but as the resident utilities-payer, if she’d left the heating on while the apartment was empty, you could’ve offloaded some of this tension. Lord knows she wouldn’t deserve it, but this stress took on a mind of its own and begged for release.

Why would she plate you so much food when you were so upset? Why could she take the class, and not you? Why’d you have to get ready for another term when the rug had just been pulled from under you? With his glare steady and ready whenever your eyes closed, you wanted to rot in bed on your phone, sulk in this sting, this sinking in your stomach, this clenching of your chest, jaw, shoulders, ugh! Thinking of walking through the humanities building now was horrifying; rushing past his classroom, praying with equal fervor that you would and wouldn’t catch a glimpse of him. The thought made a chill run down your spine, and you got up from the barstool. 

“So can I drop the class?” She put the remainders of the meal into a pop-top in the fridge. “Now that we know the frog is in fact not a prince?”

Mid-step, you paused. The chill morphed into something spikier, more resentful. ‘Maybe he gets what he wants because he intimidates people’ came to you in a thought bubble, echoing around the hollow cave of your chest. A loose plan was forming. “No.”

“I can’t just keep it, you know. I am not going to be around that loser, let alone pay to. He gets his dick sucked enough from everyone else.”

You shied away from saying you’d spent the past six months dreaming about that precise thing. “The drop deadline isn’t for two weeks.” You told her to forward the email to you, signing off as you entered your room with a firm and slightly giddy, “Trust me.” 

Thin black fabric skirted the middle of your thighs against the Gotham wind, your backpack pulling hard on your shoulders, symbolic in its want for you to go home and quit this ridiculous plan; a plan that was more likely to get you prioritized on his shit list than erased from it. You kept your head on a swivel, paranoid that Professor Wayne would see you at any moment, weaponizing his x-ray vision to see down to your bitter core and snuff you out. 

You yanked down your skirt you'd obsessed over for days before you climbed the stairs, heaving a deep breath as you strode down the main hall. Fussing with your hair and making sure your mascara hadn’t smudged in the rain was difficult whilst juggling printouts of the syllabus, and didn’t help with regulating your breathing. Fabulous. Each step made you less sure this was a good decision, and you nearly turned back.

“Excuse me, where’s room 142?”

A man—no, boy; he looked fresh out of middle school—stopped you, shoving a schedule in your face. You didn’t think anyone had seemed this young when you took ethics before. You motioned for him to settle in beside you, and winced at the memory of the professor rejecting you. “You can follow me, I’m headed there.”

“Thank god.” The stranger sighed with disproportionate relief, like you were a crisis responder and he had an active house fire. “I was wandering around for the last half hour. Campus is so big. Have you taken classes with him before?”

“Professor Wayne?” You kept your tone light and curious; he looked like the type to tattle. Did they let high schoolers take a free grad class in the spring or something?

The guy stepped on the back of your heel, and he yelped. “Sorry—yeah, yes. I looked at his Rate My Professor and it’s…” 

You grinned, feeling transported back to August the year before, terrified to meet the infamous Bruce Wayne. “It’s quite controversial.” 

“He was the only professor whose class wasn’t full. Which was weird, because isn’t he supposed to be ultra-famous here? Or his family is?”

“Maybe people caught that he’s a harsh grader, and it’s not worth the eye candy.” It was, and you prayed the boy wouldn’t pry. You wanted to curl into a ball at how you’d do the mentorship all over again, with the same result, just to be in his orbit. 

“Class is probably gonna be full of girls drooling over him.” 

You laughed to yourself; it was never just the women who fell over themselves. Some of the biggest kissasses had been men, who stared too long at Professor Wayne’s sculpted biceps before looking nervously down at their laptops. 

A heavy metal door zoomed into view, and your breath hitched, the waterproof folio digging into your arm. This was a terrible idea at baseline, and you’d tried to make yourself look as teasing as possible on top of it. Anything to frustrate him, including tempting an unwritten dress code just so he might snap and admit that he hated you, that he hated all students, but you especially so. 

Kid Who Was Definitely Not Going to Swoon Over His Professor opened the door, and you noticed a handful of students chattering amongst themselves as you strolled in. Their attention snapped to the door when it shut, disappointment coloring their expressions at the man of the hour yet to arrive. 

His desk seemed larger when you were standing behind it, the monitors dwarfing the folio you slid by the keyboard. What the fuck am I doing? “I have printouts of the syllabus to hand you all.” Your voice shook a tad, fumbling with the zipper catching on an unruly piece of paper. “He’ll—Professor Wayne will be here in a few minutes.”

Someone from the front row told you to speak up, and another asked what your name was. You cleared your throat and finally got the zipper unstuck, pulling out the stack to begin passing things out. “I’m Y/n, the TA. I took this class in the fall.”

You tried not to get a papercut while counting heads and ensuing syllabi to give to each row, but students kept peppering questions; when had anyone paid this much attention to a TA? 

“Is he as bad as the reviews say?”

“He’s—”

“Professor Wayne is not bad, he has high expectations. Some of us are here to learn.”

A brunette with a perfectly-laid spread of paper, pen, and MacBook sat with her hands in her lap. Her deep brown eyes struck you. Isabel. Her wide grin deepened the knot in your stomach. He hadn’t blocked her from registering for another course of his, so it wasn’t a mentor/mentee thing. 

“Make sure papers are formatted correctly, and that none of your questions are in the syllabus or lecture material. He’s very detail-oriented.” Standing in front of a sea of students made you hyper-aware of how short the skirt was. You were such a joke. This was such a joke. What were you thinking? What the hell would this even do? 

“As any professor should be. We’re paying to be here, aren’t we?”

“What’s up your ass?”

Jesus… Was this a goddamn high school class, truly? 

Isabel turned sharply to see who spoke. “Sorry I don’t care to gossip about someone here to teach us.”

You struggled with the last row of handouts, cursing yourself for this miserable plan. 

“Trying to be his sugar baby?”

Isabel slammed out of her seat. “Excuse me?”

“Hey, hey!” As much as you wanted her to go beat the guy smirking in the back corner, you didn’t want to know what Professor Wayne might say if a bloodbath broke out under your care on day one. “Everyone’s here to learn, alright? Let’s not make it hostile.”

You shot a glare at the guy snickering, and held in a scream when he stared at your exposed thighs. You got ahead of what was sure to be another sexist remark, and clenched your free hand into a fist. “If I hear another comment like that, I’ll have you booted from the course.” As for if you had that power, you didn’t think so, but it quieted the creep enough.

“Good evening, everyone.” 

The door creaked open, revealing Professor Wayne striding in donning his usual attire, satchel slung on his hip, coffee in-hand. “Staff meeting ran a bit long, but the syllabus is fairly straightforward. I assume everyone has already read it.” 

As if on cue, papers rustled around the room as everyone flipped it, scouring the detailed instructions like their lives depended on it; the temperature dropped considerably. In just a few month’s time, you’d forgotten how commanding he was in front of a crowd. 

“Adriana, thank you for getting the syllabus passed out. I—” He stopped mid-sentence, then recovered with a thunk of his books onto the desk. 

Oh, god. You could hear her voice in your head taunting you before you left: horrific idea, what if it comes back on me, he’ll kick you out, are you sure?

“Yes, Professor?” Fuck. 

He stared at you blankly. Should you walk to him? Stay put? His eye contact was scalding, like he threw boiling water over your head. 

“Excuse me, class. I need to consult with our TA for a few minutes.” He dropped your gaze, shoulders lowering with what seemed like an exasperated sigh; you couldn’t tell from across the lecture hall. “Want to make sure we’re on the same page.” 

You might pass out; you’d hit your head on the edge of a desk and never recover. Now that you knew he hated you specifically, that it wasn’t just a mix-up, all courage melted from your veins. You didn’t even have enough to deny him like you wanted, hightailing it to the front of the class as he walked toward the side door. 

We are on the same page, you thought between glances at his fucking shoulder blades. You won’t tell me why you despise me, so of course I pretended to be my friend and signed up using her information and stole the materials from her email to spite you. The door clicked shut behind you, and you blinked back to the moment.

Professor Wayne brought his hands to his hips. You couldn’t bear to look him in the face, but the movement of the air anointed you with his cologne and you could hardly breathe. Familiar, bright… “What are you doing here?”

“Assisting.” God, I’m such a smartass. But he makes me one! It’s his fucking fault! 

A disgruntled sound fell from him, and it speared right through you. You probably looked like a guilty dog, head down, all too still. 

“Tell Adriana to attend next week’s lecture, or I’m filing a report.” 

“A report?” His dark brows were scrunched tight, mouth turned down. A few fingers on his hips tapped against his belt, signaling his impatience. The hallway was barren and wide, but you couldn’t feel more claustrophobic if you tried. Looking at him now struck all oxygen from the building.

“Enrolling in classes with another student’s information is illegal.” 

“It’s not that serious,”

“Oh, it isn’t?” He shifted his weight to his back leg, his mouth falling open with a scoff. You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss it. “Then they shouldn’t care when I send it in.” 

“You said you didn’t need a TA.” 

“Plans changed.” 

“So I can sign up with my information, then?”

His lips formed a tight line, and you knew you’d found grip. “No.” 

Maybe it was because he looked tense, but you were brought right to October, standing awkwardly by his desk waiting for him to grill you; he didn’t need a red pen to prove his disdain, his distaste was evident in how he looked. Like you were a fly buzzing in his ear, or a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. Your voice softened, defeat and defiance lapping at you in equal measure. “Why not?”

Professor Wayne’s lashes fluttered, and his hands dropped from his hips. You wished they’d lift up your skirt already. “We should set up a meeting with the administration.”

“The administration?!” What happened to being a spectacular student? Having a perfect essay? Being the prime candidate for a TA? All the warmth you’d felt in his office vaporized. Gone like it never existed. 

“This conversation requires a mediator.”

You leveled with his glare for a second, sizing him up. Would pleading, demanding, or being a squeaky wheel get you to the truth faster? “Just tell me.”

“If you must know, we will go through the proper channels.” He pushed past to reach for the door, but you stepped in front of it on instinct. Pathetic, and desperate, to know why the first person who made you believe you were worth your acceptance letter was effectively throwing you in the trash. 

“Not happening.”

His jaw ticked, spiking your adrenaline. “Then unfortunately I can’t help you.”

“Why does anyone else need to be involved?”

“If you’d like me to set up a meeting,”

“Screw the meeting.” Whiny. I sound too whiny.

“Y/n.”

Impossible, but you did everything in your power to hurtle through the sound of him saying your name. Time was ticking, he was slipping, and you knew he’d beat you to the other door if it was a matter of racing. His eyes were so mean now, frigid; little resemblance to the refreshing, foamy waves of before. 

“I fucked up in ethics to the point you said it was impossible to pass, then said I wrote a perfect essay for 505, but suddenly you won’t talk to me? Won’t tell me why I can’t TA, when my friend can sign up without even taking the course herself?”

“Your work holds no concern.” Running on autopilot, responding like you weren’t even speaking, but you went with it.

“Then what is it?”

It was almost physical how tangibly you felt a wall go up. Something was right fucking there. You wanted to take a step closer. You couldn’t. 

“Is my work good, or do you want to get rid of me?”

His eyes flicked to yours and struck the air from your lungs. “Your work is good.” 

You could sense by the way he said it that he wouldn’t budge; that he held all the power here, and you could pound your fists against the brick all you wanted, but it would only break your own skin. Defeat won out, slamming your spirit into the dirt. You wished he hadn’t been so nice, so affirming. That his voice didn’t make you tremble, that his focused attention didn’t feel like ecstasy. Tears sprung, but you wished they wouldn’t. “You used to actually talk to me.”

“And it was inappropriate.” 

“What?”

“I’ll set up a meeting with the department.” 

“No,” he turned to head to the other door, and in a rush of panic, you grabbed him by the wrist. Your palm burned at the contact, but you didn’t let go.

He didn’t move, singing his same refrain. “You do good work. Leave it at that.”

“I can’t.” Tears carved wet stripes into your cheeks as easily as balsa wood. “I know it’s something. It’s nagging at me. I can’t—it runs circles in my mind all fucking day. Every day.” You needed to sob, release the boa constrictor around your throat, but you couldn’t. Not until you knew.

Professor Wayne looked back, and his shoulders dropped. Something unplaceable flickered across his features. “Then see me after class.” 

You dropped his wrist and watched him walk away, thrumming from the sliver of sympathy in his voice and the heat that lingered on your palm. 

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[penofwildfire]

I love Crusher but BOY does she like doing unauthorized autopsies

[zombiecakes]

I thought because of the chem thing, Zirk and Hancock would get along. I forgot about little details like Hancock is actually a really good person…

Like yes, Zirk collects stray dogs and set up Mama Murphy's TV for her, but like, he also literally shoots people because they have smelly farts (true story... psa: don't eat sus meat, people...).

I should've anticipated this outcome 😩