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Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Characters: Peter Parker, Steve Rogers (Professor AU)
Summary: you start your second year of university but as the workload grows more intense, you start to feel your age. (mid-30s reader)
Part of the Bad Professors AU
Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all.
You are as ever painfully early. It's a habit that often leaves you wandering or hovering awkwardly. You check your watch as you come up to the steps of the century-old building. You are in dread of your physics class but it turns out that all the easy electives fill up fast.
Before you can start the ascent, there's a scuff of steps from the other side. The breadth of the stairs nearly spans a third of the grand facade. You glance over as a young man with a messenger bag rushes up the first few steps only to trip and sprawl over the concrete stairs with an oomph. Without hesitation, you rush over as he groans and clatters back to the bottom.
"Oh my gosh, are you alright?" You scoop up the phone that flew from his hand, seemingly the cause of his accident.
He grunts and struggles to turn himself over, clutching his chest as he can't even get a word out. You know exactly what's happened. You rub his back through his burgundy jacket and give a gentle lat.
"Ah, you're fine, honey, you just got the wind knocked out of ya."
He nods and gulps, a spiral of his reddish brown hair falling down his forehead. His dark eyes meet yours, their panicked sheen softening as his lips tremble in an attempt at a smile.
"Thanks," he rasps at last.
You pull your arm back and offer him your phone.
"That was quite the tumble," you stand straight and extend your hand. He takes it and hauls himself up.
"Yeah, this dang thing," he wiggles his cell and tucks it away in his jacket, "always getting me in trouble."
You smile nervously and your eyes drift down as he favours one leg. There's a red splotch growing on his khakis. You pop your brows up in concern.
"Er, think you got yourself good." You point and he looks down.
"God! I knew I shouldn't have worn these ones. I told May, dark colours!"
"Baking soda, maybe a bit of club soda," you assure him. "I got bandaids in my bag."
"You-- do?" He's surprised.
"Can never be too prepared," you smile. "Um, I guess..
We're in the way."
You glance around as you sense bodies heading up the steps, a few glancing your way.
"Uh, yeah, why don't we head inside," he takes a ginger step. "Uh, typical. My first day."
"It'll get better," you say.
"Hm, yeah, I guess it already has," he grins at you before he turns back up the steps.
"You need help?" You ask.
"No, no, I'm not a total disaster," he chuckles. "So," he clears his throat as you catch up to him, "what do you teach?"
"Oh," you repress a strike of embarrassment. Of course he would assume you're a professor, or a TA at the very least. It's obvious you have a few years on him and most of your classmates. "I'm a student."
"Nice," he nods, "wait, oh, gee, I didn't mean to imply-- ah, I'm sorry."
"No, no, it's fine. It's my second year. First year all the freshmen called me mom," you shake your head. "But that might be the bandaids in my bag."
"Maybe," he stops and squints, "right..." he points his finger around as he thinks, "this way."
You let him guide you. You don't need to be in class for another half hour. You follow him up to the second floor. That's where your class will be. Convenient.
When he stops at a door and digs around in his pocket, your heart drops. You look up at the room number as he takes out a set of keys and unlocks the door. You chew on your dismay.
He lets you in ahead of him. You wait patiently and he heads up to the podium. He leans on the table next to it as he unhooks his bag from over his shoulder. He sighs and peers down at his knee.
The pulls up the fabric and hisses. You approach as you sift through your bag. He bends his leg as he looks at the scrape. It's not that bad.
You take out the little pack of alcohol wipe from the little emergency pouch. How many times have you played mother hen to drunk coeds? You're prepared for it all.
"Wow, you got everything in that magic bag," he teases.
You squat down and wipe the blood away. As you peel the bandaid wrapper away, you scoff, "I'm a pack horse. Utterly terrified of forgetting anything important."
You cover the cut and run your fingers across the bandage to make sure it sticks. He winces.
"Sorry," you apologise as you stand and crumple up the wipe and wrapper.
You search around for the garbage and toss the waste. You fish again in your bag and take out your sanitizer. You squirt it onto your palm and drop it back through the open zipper. Your rub your hands together as he pulls his pantleg back down.
"Well, since you got my blood on your hands, I guess you should get a name too," he chuckles, "I'm Peter. Er, Professor Parker. Still getting used to that."
He offers his hand and you shake it, "Olive."
"Olive. Pretty. Er, interesting. Oh no," he pulls back, "I went through sensitivity training. Can I say that?"
"It's fine, professor. I'm not overly fond of the name myself," you shrug.
"Right, well," he bends his arm and tugs up his sleeve to check his apple watch. "I hope I didn't make you late."
"Well, actually, funny story," you scratch the side of your neck, "I'm enrolled in Physics 2."
He tilts his head and his lips part on disbelief, "you're joking."
"Nah, it's not exactly my favourite subject but I'll do my best," you say, "but er, if you need to get set up, I can wait in the hall."
"What? No. You're early. Make sure you get the best seat," he insists. "I will say the front row is where you wanna be but I was a student not too long ago and I won't be insulted if you sit in the back."
You laugh, "well, you know, I'm a late bloomer and these ears aren't so good." You kid, "front row's fine with me."
His grin lingers, awkwardly as his forehead lines and he tries to come up with a response. You smile, "I'll go sit down."
You give a little wave and go to find a seat. You settle in with your bag in your lap and slid out your notebook and the box of fresh pens. You tried your laptop for notes but you just find your eyes hurt from the blue light.
You tuck your bag under your seat and unfold the small desk from the arm rest. As you peel back the cover of your notebook, your ears tingle. You glance over as Peter-- Professor Parker, peeks at you. You give a tense smile and pull out a pen, putting your focus back to your notebook.
At least if you do crappy, you might be able to charm yourself into at least a passing grade.
I’m having way too much fun with the Practice questions for one of my classes. We’re supposed to answer seriously and try. But our professor doesn’t even read them. His assistant does. And we’re graded on completion, not correctness. So I’m over here answering like:
Question: “when people join a cult do they conform to all the beliefs therein and lose the ability to think critically? How can you find out?”
Me: “they fucking better if they don’t wanna die. How could I find out? I dont know, join a cult?”
They get worse. They get so much worse. One of the answers have three parts. The first one makes sense:
“Claim - she had repressed sexual desires that caused numbness”
Second part was okay too:
“Kind of study - case study”
But then there’s the third part:
“Limitation - Freud is a dimwit”
I dont know who’s going to read these. But I hope you enjoy how much I fucking hate this class.
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Professors who joke about students saying "my grandma died" and assuming it's to get out of writing papers are vile. Many MANY college students lose grandparents and even parents and are expected to suck it up and go to class. Your Shitty White Men Lit 101 course will never be more important than my grandpa, Dr. Shitstain Academia.
One of the worst advice I hear other academics give to undergraduates is “just pick something, don’t worry about if you care about it”. FUCKING NO. Find something you care about. Find something you’re interested in. Don’t spend hours on something you hate working on. It’s just going to make you more stressed, more likely to procrastinate, and more likely to leave school with the feeling that school was terrible.
I cannot go on this enough. I would much rather receive a bad paper from a student who clearly cares about a subject then an amazing paper and have a student be turned off from learning and writing because they hated slugging through it.
I mean, my one tip is talk to your professors and TAs so they know you are working hard. I am much more likely, and most professors/TAs are, to give a better grade to a name that I can attach a face to (professors who blind grade, this will not work on, but otherwise, make them know your face and name).
My one wish for all students is that they find at least one assignment that they stay up late working on, not because they have a deadline the next morning, but they find that they are just too interested to put it down just yet.
