#Code of ethics

[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

[princesscolumbia]

Code of Ethics - Chapter 45 - Willful Miscommunication

That's right, Code of Ethics is back!

Diane has settled into a comfortable, pleasant existence on her station, her worries about being an agent for America tucked firmly in the "I don't have to think of it right now" part of her mind. She's enjoying spending time with her new girlfriend and her newfound notoriety on the galactic stage, and is enjoying the perks of being the commander of a space station on the way to being a successful waypoint for interstellar traffic.

As much as she doesn't want that comfortable existence to end, with her one IRL week in deep-dive about half over, her greatest challenges ever are on the horizon.

Preview below the cut:

“Do you really have to go?” asked Diane as she turned her chair to face her still-standing girlfriend, “You could just send the Arachne’s Web out. You said yourself that Joslyne is doing pretty well as a captain...”

“She’s doing well for milk runs, not for contract negotiations and logistical challenges,” explained Caitlynn as she straddled Diane’s lap in the chair, “The job is to help kick-start a colony, and that’s never a fast or easy thing.”

Diane returned a deliberate pout, “But what if Morvucks go into heat or something?” She found herself struggling to not giggle along with Caitlynn at this blatantly made-up reason to ignore Caitlynn’s in-game responsibilities, “I have needs, you don’t want to unleash a dangerous, biologically unhinged dragon-woman on an unsuspecting station, do you?”

Caitlynn kissed Diane on the forehead, “Didn’t we have the conversation about being exclusive? As in, we’re not?” The words were said with a smile, but the meaning was serious. “I know Norma is in a similar arrangement with Russe and she’s told us both she’s interested in you like that.”

Diane grimaced, “I mean, sure, they’re computer programs, I might as well be using a sex toy, but I still don’t get how you’re not...you know, jealous or something.”

In the wake of dealing with Hardy Coxand, the conversation about their relationship status had opened up an unexpected line of inquiry for Diane. After an extremely aerobic marathon session of lovemaking in Diane’s cabin on the way back to her station, Diane had finally broached the question, “Are we girlfriends?” Caitlynn had giggled and explained she did, indeed, want Diane to be one of her girlfriends.

Plural.

This completely failed to compute for Diane, nearly causing her to have a panic attack when she tried to figure out how such a nice, sweet woman like Caitlynn could be so awful as to cheat on anyone, and then nearly had a meltdown at the thought of being “the other woman.” She sure hoped that, on logging out in...however many IRL days was left, she would be able to look back on the incident and laugh at the notion that a guy was worried about being “the other woman.” As it was, recalling that moment was absolutely embarrassing.

[archivyrep]

Clashing with "prevailing notions": Pop culture depictions and archival realities

Archivists on the Issues is a forum for archivists to discuss the issues we are facing today. Today’s post comes from Burkely Hermann (me), Metadata Librarian for the National Security Archive and then, the I&A Blog Coordinator. There are spoilers here for all the series I cover in this post. This post does not represent the views or positions of the Issues & Advocacy committee or National…

[recordswithgooglyeyes]

Amanda Woodward – “La Décadence De La Décadence”

[zaryathelaika]

Code of Ethics for Hunting with a Bird-barking Dog

“Haukkuvalla lintukoiralla metsästyksen eettiset säännöt” [Finnish: “Code of Ethics While Hunting With a Bird-barking Dog”, archived] (August 30, 2013) from Rovaseudun Pystykorvakerho ry [Finnish: Spitz Club of Rovaniemi Region, archived] was reprinted with permission of Eero Niku-Paavo and Jarmo Ahtinen. Rovaseudun Pystykorvakerho ry is a Finnish hunting club in Lapland founded in 1996 to promote breeding, testing and hunting with pedigreed bird-barking spitzes by conducting trials, holding exhibitions, offering judge-training courses, providing seminars, lectures and workshops and carrying out awareness campaigns to preserve the tradition.

Honour the traditional Finnish hunting heritage and learn how to hunt grouse with a bird-barking dog. It is a traditional skilled-based hunting method which respects nature.

Hunt with a bird-barking dog whenever possible. It is ecologically sustainable, selective and clean with very little possibility for wounding. Do not use assistance of technology or indiscriminate methods. While visiting Lapland, honour the tradition by not taking part of the emerging trend of thrill-seeking hunters.

The most interesting aspect of hunting with a treeing dog is the teamwork between man and dog. Every outing is successful even if the dog only gets to bark without bagging the game.

Do not try to maximize your quota with technological assistance, but rather develop your skills and the dog’s. Always put development of dog and hunting with it first.   Be aware of areas which can be hunted sustainably, nurture the game-bird population by managing small predators and participate in wildlife surveys. Stay within the quotas and follow the recommendations and guidelines.

Do not search for grouses on the back-roads, instead use your dog’s natural ability to find them in the forest.

Use a rifle or preferably a combination gun. Shoot only when certain the animal will drop to the ground below.

Shoot a rifle only at the bird the dog is barking at. Shoot a shotgun up close, and avoid shooting the bird from behind. Never shoot at a bird taking off or in flight, even if the dog is barking at it. Also, do not allow your guests to do so.

Respect the game, make ethical shots, handle it with appreciation and reward the dog at all times. Honour the solemn moment and traditions by enjoying the grouse as a meal.

Do not boast about the dog or bagged game.  Be enthusiastic and supportive of others’ successes in hunting, hunt-tests and trials.

Remember, as a dog-owner, you are representing an entire community of like-minded enthusiasts while carrying on outdoors traditions. Be courteous to other users of wilderness areas. Instruct younger people how to hunt.

Disclaimer: I do not want compensation for this. This translation was done by a member of the Swedish Vallhund Club of Finland [Finnish: Länsigöötanmaanpystykorvat ry, archived] for an (now defunct) organization held by Neda Joss [archived] in British Columbia as part of an international collaboration, and we were only given permission by the regional club in Rovaniemi because the dog-fanciers in the States and Canada kept talking about some hypothetical mythological Bible [English, archived] inaccessible to English-speakers as an excuse not to prove their dogs' working merits. (Hint: there's no hidden secret to dog training nor hunting method if you run the pirated books, magazine articles, webpages and YouTube videos through Google Translate. Anyone telling you otherwise has a bridge to sell.)

[sbrown82]

[personal-blog243]

It’s a long shot but let’s hope some of this gets passed!

[ivygorgon]

AN OPEN LETTER to THE U.S. HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

Co-sponsor The Judicial Ethics Enforcement Act of 2024!

59 so far! Help us get to 100 signers!

A group of House Democrats, led by Reps. Melanie Stansbury, Ilhan Omar and Jamie Raskin, have introduced legislation that would strengthen oversight of the Supreme Court. I’m writing in support of it.

The Judicial Ethics Enforcement Act of 2024 would authorize the creation of an office of the inspector general to investigate allegations of misconduct in the judicial branch. The inspector general would also investigate alleged violations of the Supreme Court code of ethics, issued in November; conduct and supervise audits; and recommend changes in laws or regulations governing the judiciary. The inspector general would be required to inform the attorney general when they believe there has been a violation of federal criminal law.

Congress must pass this bill. Confidence in the Supreme Court is at an all-time low, and there’s good reason for that. Several of its justices are deeply compromised and everyone can see it.

Please co-sponsor The Judicial Ethics Enforcement Act of 2024 right away, so the provisions in it can begin to restore Americans’ faith in our highest court. Thanks.

▶ Created on April 19 by Jess Craven

📱 Text SIGN PWCSGV to 50409

🤯 Liked it? Text FOLLOW JESSCRAVEN101 to 50409

[aunti-christ-ine]

[mahoutsukai-30]

If you have it, blog it!

Reading the "Code of Ethics for Professional Teachers" led to realizing subjectively the three most important sections in the code:

1. Article IV Section 1 (Most Important)

Teachers should be teachers because they choose to be one and not forced to be one. Teaching must be a passion that they do to mold and produce students who will become competent and functional members of society. Hence, teachers should educate students out of their desire to help students better their lives despite the low compensation.

2. Article VIII Section 2 (More Important)

An inclusive learning environment is what every student needs. Teachers should create a learning plan involving all the students as they have different learning needs. Inclusivity inside the classroom will make students feel similar to each other, that no one is different, and everyone belongs in the class. Thus, teachers need to ensure that no one is left behind.

3. Article XI Section 3 (Important)

Teachers will always be in the limelight inside and outside the classroom. Teachers are role models to students; interaction with their former and current students and peers can inevitably happen anywhere. Therefore, teachers should maintain their dignified personalities as their behaviors embody their knowledge, discipline, and credibility, which are significant to ensure that students and peers will see you with respect.

[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. 

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

[princesscolumbia]

Code of Ethics - Ch. 57 - Toccata & Fugue in D-minor

I should be in my bed.

Diane helps the newly freed colony become self-sufficient in hopes of staving off a war.

Preview below the cut:

“…and if you can get D’hani the ETA on those ships, I think that will do it for what we need.”

The face on the screen was framed by the inside of one of the habs on her station, though it’d clearly been customized by the occupant. This was allowed, of course, so long as the mods didn’t pull too much power or cut into anything structural. Katrina was always part of the upgrades, though Diane hadn’t heard of this particular hab getting any mods. Not like she needed to know, she had over three thousand residents on her station and being informed of every small change would have driven her up the wall. The man himself was charcoal skinned, and not in the Earth definition. As in, his skin was the actual color of charcoal, which made his very white hair stand out all the more. He was clothed in what Diane could recognize as a rather nicely tailored shirt and, given what she knew of the man, was probably some pretty high-quality silk of some variety. Mister Acropolis was from a species that was similar to Humans in a lot of ways, but where Humanity had evolved on the surface of Earth, Acropolis’ people evolved underground. Their nearly night-black skin and white hair was a signature of the species that were in most other ways almost indistinguishable from Humans, at least on a purely visual level. Their digestive system was quite a bit different and could actually process metals that a Human system would just pass through. Their language was also hideously complex, which meant that names didn’t translate. They usually wound up picking simple names for other species to use, meaning that while Diane could try to pronounce his legal name, it was simply faster and easier to just go with the one he picked.

“Listen, Diane, babe,” he said with his playfully flirty tone, “I know you at least a little by now, what you need is about a week of uninterrupted sex with your girlfriend and a small army of massage therapists. You’re always so tense, so formal! Relax, have a drink!”

Diane rolled her eyes, “I will have a drink when we’ve secured this colony for these people.”

Acropolis snickered, “Maybe see if one of the locals will help you with the other two items. Heaven knows, you need to get laid.”

She did like Mister Acropolis. He was merciless at cards, had a creative wit, and once you got past his slightly smarmy exterior was a surprisingly nice person. But it was dealing with him while he had his ‘game face’ on that was often frustrating, if endearingly so, “You just want to watch.”

“A man has his hobbies,” he acknowledged, “But as for the protection, the Chroma Syndicate is more than happy to help. Do you have a local contact for us?”

She glanced around the table at the men and women watching the exchange. None seemed ready to step forward and self-identify as an official liaison with what was, technically, a criminal organization. She turned back to the display, “I’ll let your people know when they get here. I know this goes without saying by now, but just so it’s on the record for your new clients, Trephor’s cleaned house for all the ships that’ll be deployed here, right?”

Acropolis but a hand to his chest in a mock pearl-clutching gesture, “Of course! It’s like you don’t trust me!”

She snickered, “Caitlynn doesn’t trust you, and I trust Caitlynn. She said to treat you like a Ferengi, so that’s how it’ll be.”

He gave her a smokey look coupled with an attempt at a seductive grin. It was purely performative; he’d made a pass at her when he first arrived and when Diane had given him a firm ‘no’ he respected her boundaries. “I’ll have you know that from her that’s a compliment.”

Diane chuckled, “Get off the line, you womanizer.”

He gave her a mock salute and disconnected.

[filosofablogger]

Integrity and Trust -- Gone!

Integrity and Trust.  Over the past year or so, the Supreme Court, once the most trusted of the three branches of government, has lost both its integrity and the trust of the public.  I turn to the wisdom of Robert Reich for his ideas on how to restore integrity and trust to the Court … Three reforms to restore trust in the Supreme Court On the anniversary of Dobbs, and the revelations about…

[princesscolumbia]

Code of Ethics, Ch. 37:

Diane snorted in dark amusement. Considering ‘the strike’ (as the people outside the wall were calling it) in which the S.A.I. held the U.N. and all the world’s automated systems hostage was the entire reason she had a job with the agency, that was entirely correct, “Yeah, not much time to myself these days.” She touched the back of her hand to the carafe of the press, noting that the temperature was about right for the amount of time the grounds had needed to steep for the drink to taste right, she pulled a couple of mugs from the cabinet and poured, inhaling deeply of the steam that arose. Caitlynn chuckled, “And you said this isn’t coffee?” Diane rolled her eyes, “Back on Mortan this stuff is prepared by boiling the pods un-baked and un-ground for three days. The grounds are a fairly recent invention as far as cultural drinks go. Around the invention of air travel on Mortan they came up with a way to boil the pods to a paste, dry the paste to bricks, then the bricks could be shipped easily and then ground to make...” she set a mug in front of her guest, “...instant Jyantin Tonic.” Caitlynn cocked an eyebrow, “What, no cream or sugar?” “Doesn’t need it,” smiled Diane, “The syrup that gets dried into bricks has enough natural sugar in it adding more would be overkill.” She demonstrated by taking a sip and moaning expressively, only partially done for effect. For the first time since answering the video call that morning Diane was blessed with the sight of Caitlynn blushing. “Well,” she said as she picked up her mug, “If it makes that pretty voice make a noise like that,” ...aaaaaaand now Diane was blushing again, “Then I’ll just have to try it as the chef recommends.” Diane watched as Caitlynn brought the mug to her lips, and suddenly she couldn’t look away from said lips as they curled to match the shape of the mug and the owner of said lips took a sip. Diane’s throat went dry again as Caitlynn made a satisfied, “Mmmm!” noise. “My goodness!” Caitlynn said with a smile as she lowered the mug from her lips, “That is rather delightful! And this isn’t alcoholic?” Diane smirked, “Nope. The alcoholic version is called Jyantin Bitters and will knock you on your backside. I’ve had straight vodka that isn’t as strong as a Jyantin Bitters.” The other player cast a skeptical eye at the contents of her mug, “Incredible...I could swear,” she took another sip and nodded her head, “Whiskey. I could swear I taste whiskey!” Diane circled the end of the bar, “Nope, but apparently the human tastebuds think so. It just tastes like a particularly odd but pleasant chocolate to me.”

If you can't do this on the fly for your fic as you're writing it, you need to work on your worldbuilding skills.

Fuck that post going around saying "you can have coffee in your story without justifying it :) you don't need to explain everything :)" I want, no, I DEMAND a fully researched ethnobotanical paper on every single food item in your work, if you don't explain to me where did potatoes come from in your fantasy setting or don't explain how the industry of coffee works over interstellar distances with full detail you are doing things wrong and I personally hate you and I hate your stupid story, fuck you

[visionaryvogues03]

How Startups Can Build Ethical Leadership Into Their DNA from Day One

In today’s fast-paced and highly transparent business environment, startups are under greater pressure than ever to prioritize ethical leadership from the very beginning. For C-suite executives, startup founders, and managers, embedding moral leadership into a company's DNA is not just a moral imperative but a strategic advantage. A 2023 Deloitte survey revealed that 87% of American consumers expect companies to act with integrity, even when it affects profits. For startups, building a foundation based on trustworthy leadership can drive long-term success, investor trust, and employee loyalty.

Why Ethical Leadership is a Startup’s Competitive Advantage

Startups often thrive on innovation, disruption, and rapid scaling. However, without strong principled leadership, the very traits that fuel growth can also lead to missteps. Scandals involving startups like Theranos and Uber serve as cautionary tales of how a lack of ethical leadership can lead to reputational damage and business collapse.

In the U.S., where consumers and regulators alike are demanding greater corporate accountability, ethical governance can be a defining factor for success. According to the 2024 Edelman Trust Barometer, 76% of U.S. consumers now say they trust businesses that actively promote ethical practices.

How to Build Ethical Leadership from Day One

1. Leadership by Example

The behavior of founders and the leadership team sets the tone for the entire organization. Demonstrating honesty, transparency, and responsibility in every decision ensures that transparent leadership becomes an intrinsic part of the startup’s identity.

Action Step: Founders should consistently communicate the importance of ethical practices, making them a visible priority from the outset.

2. Develop a Code of Ethics Early

Waiting until a company scales to define values is a mistake. Establish a clear, actionable Code of Ethics from the outset, making ethical leadership part of everyday operations — from hiring to product development.

Startups that have strong ethical frameworks early are better prepared to face inevitable dilemmas as they grow.

3. Hire for Values and Integrity

Beyond technical skills, startups must prioritize candidates who demonstrate a commitment to ethical leadership. Hiring individuals who align with the company’s ethical vision can create a culture of trust and accountability from the ground up.

Interview Tip: Ask candidates about past situations where they had to make tough ethical decisions.

4. Embed Ethics into Performance Metrics

Employees should be evaluated not just on results but on how they achieve them. Rewarding ethical behavior reinforces the importance of moral leadership in achieving the company’s goals.

When ethics are tied to performance reviews and promotions, it sends a powerful message that doing the right thing matters just as much as meeting KPIs.

5. Establish Safe Reporting Channels

Creating safe, anonymous channels for reporting unethical behavior is a vital part of fostering ethical leadership. Early-stage companies that encourage speaking up can catch small issues before they escalate into larger crises.

A Harvard Business Review report found that organizations with strong internal reporting structures resolve issues 41% faster than those without them.

U.S. Startups Leading by Example

[Source - Ben & Jerry's]

Some U.S. startups have shown how embedding trustworthy leadership from day one can lead to sustainable success.

Patagonia stands out as an example of a company where social responsibility and ethical practices are as important as product innovation. Even as the company scaled, it stayed true to its commitment to the environment and ethical business practices.

Similarly, Ben & Jerry's integrated social activism into their brand early on, proving that ethical commitments can coexist with strong financial performance.

Both cases underline that startups founded on ethical leadership are better positioned to withstand market fluctuations, regulatory changes, and shifts in public opinion.

Common Pitfalls Startups Face

Despite the best intentions, startups may encounter challenges in maintaining moral leadership:

Pressure to Scale Fast: The temptation to sacrifice ethics for growth is real. Constant reinforcement of ethical values prevents this compromise.

Investor Demands: Sometimes, investors prioritize short-term returns over long-term ethics. Founders must seek investors who align with their commitment to ethical leadership.

Cultural Drift During Expansion: Rapid hiring can dilute company values. Consistent training and onboarding processes focused on trustworthy leadership can help.

The Business Case for Ethical Leadership

Prioritizing ethical governance is not just good for reputation — it drives better business outcomes. According to a Boston Consulting Group study, companies with strong ethical foundations outperform their competitors by up to 15% in stock growth and revenue over five years.

Moreover, millennials and Gen Z workers, who now comprise more than half of the U.S. workforce, prefer employers that demonstrate authentic ethical commitments. Startups that build their reputation around moral leadership can attract and retain top talent, reducing turnover costs and boosting innovation.

Conclusion: 

Building ethical leadership into a startup’s DNA from day one is one of the smartest decisions founders can make. It’s not about avoiding scandal; it’s about building a resilient, sustainable business that employees, investors, and customers can trust.

As the U.S. business landscape grows more competitive and more transparent, trustworthy leadership will be the difference between startups that last and those that falter. Founders who invest early in building a culture of integrity are setting themselves up for long-term success and creating businesses that will make a meaningful impact on the world.

Uncover the latest trends and insights with our articles on Visionary Vogues

[barewiththemoon]

They call it darkness

This cave

I wonder if it is

Or is it just perspectives

Is it just judgment

For I,

I —

Have called this darkness

Home.

It brings me warmth

A fireplace of love.

Heating up every cold hearted etch

That tries to carve out my love.

It brings my light.

A beacon unbearable as any.

Could you see the lighthouse before you called it darkness

Could you see a safe haven before you called it

Well it doesn't matter anymore

Because you've come to me

Not I you.

As you always do.

A bare does not ask to be s wolf

A lion does not ask to be a tiger

S bird does not ask to eat the prey

No! It's more instinctual than you can think of '' fooled

We have all been.

Don't believe me.

Then check the Bear necessities within.