#Coding Teacher

[1004knightingale]

Agatha All Along Week @agathaallalongweek

Day 4 — Professors/Teachers

agathario as magical professors who created life for research and fell in love in the process.

AAAWeek25 masterlist

[dollettesarchive]

my pussy tastes like pepsi cola

my eyes are wide like cherry pies

i gots a taste for men who are older

it's always been so it's no surprise

౨ৎ‧₊˚ i'm going to direct a movie that is so delusional, nymphet, pretty little liars, jeremy irons, tumblr teacher crush

[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

[frenchgirloverdose]

you can be the boss ۫ ꣑ৎ

[shawtylex09]

⋆˙⟡ Nightmares. Teacher!Izuku Midoriya x Gn!Reader ⟡⋆˙

Warnings; spoilers, smoking mentions, swearing, death.

Masterlist.

Enjoy ✮˚.⋆

🌸🥀

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆

“Sensei!”

“Deku!!”

“Help!!”

“Help us! Please!!”

“Deku! Deku sensei! Help!”

“Deku!!”

!

Izuku bolted up right in bed, panting heavily, his stomach churning. His heart was pounding in his chest like a drum.

He was shaking, his hands trembling as he looked down at the scars wrapped around his fingers, palm, and wrist, a reminder of the hell he’d put his body through.

Izuku’s eyes then landed on the gold ring on his left ring finger. A band identical to yours. He looked over at your sleeping face, frowning as he reached over and ran his fingers through your hair.

How could he protect you if he couldn’t even protect himself?

His nightmare was reoccurring, occasionally he’d be thrust into a burning UA campus, looking around as villains raided the campus, just like back at the USJ.

Izuku would watch as his coworkers and students were mercilessly slaughtered, all callinf out for him to do something, to be a hero.

But he couldn’t.

He was powerless now.

He shook his head and sighed, peeling himself from the warm sheets next to you, to get up and walk over to his jacket that was hanging on his desk chair. He grabbed out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter before walking to the balcony of your shared apartment.

He walked out onto the balcony, trying to be as quietly as possible, leaving the door open for the breeze.

Izuku took a cigarette from the pack and grabbed his lighter, cupping his hand around the end, and lighting it.

He took a few little puffs from it, before taking a proper drag.

It was gross. He felt gross smoking. But he saw Aizawa do it, and the older man said it worked to relieve stress, Izuku tried it, and got hooked.

Izuku let out a slow breath, looking out over the city. What was he gonna do if his students were put in danger? He couldn’t stop a villain without a quirk..

Guilt and anxiety swirled in his chest, before he felt warm arms wrap around him from behind.

He leaned back against you, feeling you gently place your face in his hair.

You would have reprimanded him for smoking, worried about your sweet husband..but in that moment, Izuku didn’t need a lecture, he needed someone there for him.

Neither of you said anything, not like anything even needed to be said anyway.

You simply held him and allowed the scent of his cigarette to slowly drift around the two of you as the city below sparkled with life.

Izuku didn’t know if the nightmares were going to get better, but when he felt you gently kiss his cheek, he knew that you’d be there to support him, like you were now.

Mentions; @candiiee @cvnt4him @anzs-stuff

[seokminfilm]

mary janes | lee seokmin

pairing: lee seokmin x reader

warning: non-idol au, kindergarten teacher!seokmin, fluff & romance, kissing, mentions of marriage, slightly suggestive, seokmin uses love & sweetheart, reader uses love and seokmin's nicknames, reader is called mrs. lee by the children, christmas is literally so in, the usual "seokmin soft hours" turn into "(not-so) soft seokmin hours"

Kids ran around like crazy as people started to settle into their seats, and the kindergarten teachers patrolled backstage, browsing to make sure all of their kids were ready and in position. You smiled at two of them as they passed, and they waved at you, familiar with you since you were related to Seokmin, your boyfriend of a year and one of the aforementioned kindergarten teachers.

“Ji-ah?” Seokmin asked, and a tiny female voice answered with a chirpy “Here!”, causing him to smile and mark at his clipboard again. “Seojoon–we are not using the confetti baskets yet. Put them down.” Seokmin sighed tiredly, and the troublemaker reluctantly applied, dropping the basket as other kids snickered.

“Alright, everyone! We’re almost there—” Seokmin consoles the impatient children, glancing down at his watch as he smiles. “Just twenty more minutes.”

“Twenty more minutes?” A little girl asks, and half of the class groans and sighs. “I can’t wait any more! I want to go sing now!” “Why do we have to wait?” “Ugh, this is gonna take forever!” The bunch of kids started complaining, little voices coming together to make a stew of impatient sounds, to which Seokmin had to silence them all.

“If you all listen to me and just continue having quiet talking sessions, time will fly by quickly, I promise,” Seokmin’s brown eyes were wide as he gave them a sweet smile, and all of them were easily persuaded, falling to the ground as they sat with their friends and talked. 

Warm with the feeling of greeting parents, grandparents, and family members, and the lingering spirit of decorating the school’s lobby and handing out candy canes warming your heart even more, you came to approach your boyfriend, tapping him on the shoulder as he turned to you.

“And there’s my love.” His voice softened, reminding you of the intimate times you spent at home together, baking Christmas cookies or decorating your small apartment.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Seokmin kissed your cheek, and you smiled, holding his hand as you greeted him. “Hi, Seok. Is everything going well?”

He laughs dryly, rubbing his forehead tiredly as he mumbles, “Surprisingly. I think it’s a Christmas miracle.” You laugh animatedly at his apparent tiredness, and you squeeze his muscled arm hiding under his collared black suit, giving him a sweet smile.

“You’re doing great, love.” You promise, and Seokmin can’t help but break into his signature dazzling smile, leaning into you as a type of discreet hug.

“Mrs. Lee!” One of the students happily exclaims, and the whole class erupts in cheers to which you try to calm them all, pulling away to give each of them a hug.

All of Seokmin’s class were enamored with you—they treated you so much differently from Seokmin and listened to you faster than they did any teacher.

They referred to you with Seokmin’s last name, and no matter how much you corrected them, they never stopped. Even though it made you blush, Seokmin found it quite cute, and therefore the kids continued to call you Mrs. Lee.

“Hi, everyone! Are we all excited?” You ask, and the small crowd of kids erupt into cheers and chatting, to which both you and Seokmin get them to quiet down. “I’m excited to hear you all too. Just please keep quiet for me, okay? We’re starting in ten minutes now.” 

“Ten minutes?” “Ten minutes!” “That’s still so long!” “Oh, I can’t wait to sing and wave to my mommy and daddy!” The kids all run up to you and express their excitement, to which you laugh and cheer them all on as you interact with them quietly.

Seokmin’s eyes light up with love for you as he watches you interact with his students like it’s second nature to you. You weren’t a teacher or a person who worked with kids often, as you were a barista at a low-energy cafe where college students spend their mid-terms: you still interacted with children like you were made for it, and it made Seokmin’s heart pound as you hugged a rather shy girl, making sure to comfort her apparent nerves.

At that moment in time, Seokmin wondered what it would be like to give you a baby of your own. He dreamed about how it would have his nose and your soft lips, and how you’d love it and take care of it just like you did the children of his classroom. A tiny boy’s hands wrapped around your hands had Seokmin’s heart melt a little more, and he had to bite back the urge to kiss you out of your pretty red dress and Mary Jane heels you had worn for the occasion.

“Mr. Lee, I have to tinkle.” The shockingly vulgar comment slapped Seokmin back into the now—back into the craziness of there being less than five minutes before the classes assembled on the stage, and back to the fact that a little boy about the age of 5 had to pee.

“You have to use the bathroom? Now?” Seokmin’s face was quite red from the fact he was thinking about some not-so-kindergarten-friendly things about you while surrounded by five-year-olds and a child had tugged on his pants to let him know that he had to tinkle.

“Mhm, I can’t wait.” The boy frowned, and Seokmin put his hand on the boy’s back, leading him to you as he sighed. “Hey, love, can you take Seunghae to the bathroom?” Seokmin sighed, and you looked at him surprised, stunned by both his reddened face and the red face of the kid who had to use the bathroom—currently holding his crotch with an urgency in his eyes. Wanting to question Seokmin as to why his cheeks were a bright red, you nodded quickly, escorting Seungjae to the tiny, slightly rickety bathroom backstage.

Once you finally got Seungjae to stop sniffing the scented cubes decorating the dusty bathroom, you ushered him back to Seokmin’s now-standing class, inserting him into the line as all the kids were giving Seokmin tiny thumbs up as he prepared to go out and speak to the eager congregation.

“You’ve got this, Minnie. You’re gonna do great.” You give him a quick, modest peck to his warm cheekbone, and he smiles at you, eyes raking over your pretty features he had memorized a thousand times before as he fell in love with you a little more. “Thank you, sweetheart. Keep them organized for me.”

You smile before quieting the kids, giving him a pretty, dazzling smile as he feels all his worries and tenseness wither away in the blink of your sparkling eyes. He enters the stage as a new person, overjoyed and more than ready to lead the children through the Christmas program he had worked so hard to present.

“Goodbye, Mr. Lee! See you in three weeks!” One of the girls you had recognized as one of the ones who had a massive crush on Seokmin squealed, and he smiled, handing the sign-out clipboard to another parent whose child was holding onto his hand, tears in his eyes as if he didn’t want to leave.

The Christmas program was a success—even with its slipups and unexpected plot twists. All the children were on their best behavior, even if some had their unexpected spotlights (referring to that one part of 12 Days of Christmas where the kid burst out into tears instead of saying five golden rings), and the parents gave everyone a standing ovation at the end.

“I don’t wanna leave you!” The kid screamed as tears poured down his face, and Seokmin dropped to his knees, wiping the tears away from the boy as he gave a soft smile.

“You have three weeks of no school and no counting! Enjoy it for me, okay?” Seokmin holds up his hand for a high five, and the boy slowly calms down, giving him a high five nevertheless as his dad picks him up and thanks Seokmin before saying goodbye.

“Good work tonight, love. You were great with the kids. I think they love you more than me.” Seokmin frowns, and you can’t help but laugh, hand landing on his firm chest as he smiles down at you. “I love you more than me, so I can’t pretend like they’re wrong for that.” You reply, and Seokmin glares at you, a playful yet warning look on his face as he crosses his arms.

“You better not love yourself more than me. You’re just as special to you as I am to you.” Seokmin’s voice is serious, and you kiss the tip of his nose, watching as his hard countenance breaks and reveals his famous wide smile and sparkling, crescent-shaped eyes as you sigh.

“Okay, okay. Don’t lose it just yet, Mr. Lee.” You tap his lapel, and he just grins at you, smile fading just a bit as you check the clipboard, your eyes dancing over the now checked-off names.

“Well, that’s everyone,” You mark the last name off on the clipboard, double-checking as you look at Seokmin again. His eyes are already on yours, and the soft smile on his lips is enough to make your whole body heat up. “What?”

“You look so pretty, baby. I love your Mary Janes and those delicate sparkly tights you have on.” Seokmin’s hand ghosts over your waist and glides down your hip slowly before you giggle, pulling away. “Thank you, Minnie—you do know we’re still in the school’s foyer, right?”

“I do,” Seokmin’s voice is lowered, and he looks at you with those pretty brown eyes, hand going to cup your cheek as he smiles. “We are done with the Christmas program, and I’m allowed to go home, so why don’t we change that?”

“Yeah, okay,” you agree, clearly softened by Seokmin’s smooth, enticing voice. He giggles at your dazed expression and takes your hand, quickly saying goodbye to his chatting co-workers before leading you to the car.

Even though it was cold outside and snow was falling, you didn’t feel the chill at all. It felt overwhelmingly warm between you and now hot and bothered boyfriend Seokmin, and you both knew there was only one way to solve that problem.

One you couldn’t solve with your pretty Mary Janes on.

[lasagna-bagnata]

The piano teacher (2001)

[genebabe]

"shut the hell up! what's going on here, bill? who the hell is singing?" "i'll find out, i'll shut them up"

[respectthepetty]

I think it's adorable that Kit was worried that Shane's parents were upset about the kiss, yet Shane was basically like "no, my family is too messy to care about my queerness"

But I'm here for the colors, and compared to the kids in Boys in Love who are bright and colorful, the teachers are solids.

The show isn't color coded, but there is something going on with the teachers and green and orange.

Nat is more green, and his water bottle and umbrella are also green.

Tan is orange, but even when in blue, his glasses have the orange pop to them.

When Nat gave Tan the earbuds, they were in each other color.

Because they have been feeling each other for a little minute.

So even though the show isn't color coded, the wardrobe folks do understand the colors mean things.

Because in episode five, Nat wore his usual green.

But Tan showed up in pink (as @babyangelsky noticed).

And he had his little pink heart sticky notes too!

But when questioned by Nat, the pink sticky note he handed Nat was the brightest pink one yet.

Because Pink = 💕Love💕

But what makes it better is that the umbrellas are back together.

The green and yellow umbrella have been side-by-side for most of the show so far.

And were only separated when Tan thought Nat was dating someone else.

So now that the two umbrellas are together . . .

Hopefully, they'll never be separated again (and start matching colors!).

[jalo-parker]

Grian 👍

[holyrosemary]

⋮Sometimes I imagine spending time with my English teacher—getting ice cream or a sweet treat paired with a mug of coffee, chatting as he makes me laugh. In this little daydream, he even buys me a cute blouse, like a true gentleman, we bond over our shared love for jazz, and I find myself playfully bouncing to the rhythm, humming along as he chuckles at my childish behaviour. We exchange thoughts on our favorite books, though he does most of the talking while I simply listen, captivated. And later, when we cross paths at school, I smile at him, feeling slightly embarrassed. I wouldn’t call it romantic, but he’s so kind and charming that I can’t help but wish we could hang out °❀.ೃ࿔*

[rainbowintheskyf1]

so this is what ted meant with seb bossing everyone around

x

[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

[bogkeep]

i learnt a lot of important things in 2024 but i think the most important lesson of all is to never read books by Screenwriter Guys(tm) ever again. i don't think i've ever been that furiously disappointed by anything as i have been by the stupid robot book and the stupid ship of theseus book in a very long time

like, a lot of commercial YA by female authors get soooo much derision and like, sure, a lot of it is churned out to chase trends and could have greatly benefited from another round or two with edits, but like... they're fine, they can be fun, and i greatly suspect that if i were to pick one up it would be pretty much what i expect, or maybe even pleasantly surprising? the great sin of the aforementioned Screenwriter Books is that they keep marketing themself as CLEVER and DEEP and SO GENIUS... SO SMART... WAOW... and then they have the audacity to be STUPID. i cannot think of anything more condescending than that

[moontide-nymph]

Tubbo said Bad managed to re-light his fire for create within minutes. "Idk how he did it but he did" Meanwhile I could hear in Bads tone that teacher way of triggering determination.

[dragon-toad]

You see the "not-like-the-others girl x famous and cool boy" dynamic in highschool movies ?

It's Zane and Pixal.

He's not like the other girls.

She's the famous and cool boy.