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Hi hope you’re having a good day/night, but I was wondering, if you are comfortable with it, doing Pierrot X Reader with harm ocd (specifically thoughts of harming oneself and others.) I’d be happy to answer any questions about harm ocd you might have
a/n: Hi!! I tried to portray this as accurately as I could, but my OCD is different from harm OCD and if there are any inaccuracies, I’m truly sorry. Also, this was written on my phone and it’s not properly proofread, please don’t kill me
pairing: Pierrot x reader with harm OCD
Synopsis: You’re having a terrible bout of intrusive thoughts. Luckily, Pierrot is there to help you through it.
WC: 1.5k
Silence Lets Monsters Creep In
Your apartment is quiet in the way only familiar spaces can be.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—more like the kind that gives your thoughts room to stretch out. To pace. To knock against the walls of your skull and ask questions you didn’t invite.
The lamp by the couch casts a low, honey-colored glow across the room. Shadows gather in the corners, soft-edged but persistent. You’ve left the TV on with the volume low, not because you’re watching it, but because silence feels too loud tonight.
You sit curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled up, fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. You’ve been like this for a while. Long enough that your tea has gone untouched on the coffee table, a thin skin forming on the surface.
The thought comes the way it always does.
Unprompted. Unwanted.
A thought of stabbing someone, holding them down until they stopped moving.
Your stomach drops so hard it feels like you’re falling.
Your heart stutters, then kicks into a faster rhythm, as if your body has already decided something is wrong. Your mind scrambles for context, for evidence, for anything that explains why that thought would show up now.
You weren’t angry.
You weren’t thinking about violence.
You were just sitting here.
That’s what makes it so terrifying.
Your fingers tighten, nails pressing into your skin through the fabric. You don’t want the thought. You never want it. The revulsion hits almost immediately, a wave of panic tangled with guilt.
Why would your brain even think that?
You shake your head, as if you can dislodge it physically.
“No,” you whisper to the empty room. “No, no, no.”
The thought shifts, morphs, like it always does when you react to it.
What if the fact that it scares you doesn’t matter? What if one day it won’t?
Your chest tightens. Your breath feels too shallow, too fast. You scan yourself instinctively, checking for signs you’ve learned to fear—tension in your hands, a spike in adrenaline, the hyper-awareness of your own body.
You don’t want to hurt anyone. The idea makes you feel sick. That should mean something. You know it should, but your disorder doesn’t care what you know.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
You flinch.
The thought latches onto the sound immediately, your anxiety spiking as your brain desperately tries to connect dots that don’t exist.
Another knock, gentler this time.
It takes you a second to remember—Pierrot said he’d stop by tonight. You force yourself to stand, legs a little shaky as you cross the room. When you open the door, the hallway light spills in, and with it, Pierrot. He stands there quietly, gloved hands folded in front of him.
His expression shifts the moment he sees your face—eyes softening, posture easing, like he’s careful not to bring too much energy into the room with him. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He never does right away.
Instead, he lifts one hand in a small, almost shy wave. You step aside to let him in. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the apartment back into its familiar cocoon. Pierrot glances around, taking in the room, not searching, just noticing. Then his gaze settles on you.
You realize your hands are clenched again.
Pierrot tilts his head slightly. He raises his hands and makes a small, questioning gesture—palms up, shoulders lifting just a fraction. You hesitate, then sigh.
“It’s bad tonight,” you say quietly. “My brain won’t shut up.”
Pierrot nods once. No surprise. No judgment. “It’s alright, my dear. Sit. Take time. It’s not going to be fixed immediately, but I’m here. You’re not broken. You’re not a monster.”
He sits on the couch, patting the spot next to him to invite you to sit. You do.
He scoots closer, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, but not quite. He always leaves that space unless you close it first. The respect of it makes your chest ache in a way that’s almost painful.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Your thoughts are still loud. Still sharp.
What if you snap? What if you don’t notice it happening?
Your breathing starts to hitch.
Pierrot notices immediately.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small—a smooth stone, pale and cool. He places it gently on the cushion between you and nudges it toward you with one finger
You pick it up automatically. It’s heavier than it looks. Solid. Real. You roll it between your fingers, focusing on the sensation. The coolness against your skin. The faint imperfections in the surface.
Pierrot watches you, eyes attentive but calm. When your breathing evens out just a little, he lifts one hand and taps his temple, then shakes his head firmly.
Thoughts.
Then he presses his palm flat against the couch.
Here.
Now.
“I hate it,” you say suddenly, the words spilling out now that they’ve started. “I hate that my brain does this. I hate that it picks the worst possible thing and just—throws it at me. Like it wants to see how scared I can get.”
Pierrot’s brows knit together, not in confusion, but empathy.
You keep going, voice shaking.
“It doesn’t feel like anxiety. It feels like… an accusation. Like my brain is telling me something about myself that I don’t want to be true.”
Pierrot turns toward you fully.
Quietly, deliberately, he raises one hand and points at you. Then he draws an invisible line in the air between your head and your chest. “Your brain and your heart are separate entities, my dear
He taps your chest gently with one knuckle, careful and light.
“You.”
Then he taps his temple again and makes a dramatic face—over-exaggerated, almost comical—before flicking his fingers away like he’s tossing something disgusting aside.
“Not you.”
Your throat tightens.
“You’re really sure about that?” you ask. “Because it feels so convincing sometimes. Like… what if this is the part of me I’m ignoring?”
Pierrot doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want. When you don’t, he rests his hand over yours, warm through the glove. His grip is gentle. Anchoring. Not restraining. He meets your eyes, then he shakes his head, slow and firm.
He lifts your joined hands slightly and presses them to his chest so you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Then he moves them back to your chest, mirroring the motion.Steady. Real.
You let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“My friends say thoughts are just thoughts,” you murmur. “But my brain keeps saying what if this one matters? What if this one is different?”
Pierrot listens without interrupting, eyes never leaving your face.
When you finish, he raises one finger, as if asking permission to respond.
You nod.
He taps his temple once more, then draws a small cloud shape in the air. After that, he moves his hand downward, flattening it against the couch again.Passing. Grounded. Then he spreads his hands wide and shrugs, expression soft.
“Thoughts don’t come with meanings attached” he says finally, after what felt like one of his performances, the way he acted it out.
Something about the way he put it—not in fancy words, not clinical—makes it sink in differently. You lean back into the couch, exhaustion washing over you now that the adrenaline has started to fade.
“I’m scared of being alone with my brain,” you admit quietly.
Pierrot’s expression changes instantly.
He scoots closer, closing the gap this time, his shoulder brushing yours. The contact is light but intentional. He lifts his arm slowly, pausing halfway, eyes flicking to you in silent question. You lean into him. His arm wraps around you carefully, like he’s afraid of squeezing too hard. You tuck your face against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of fabric softener and something else, something uniquely him.
The thoughts don’t vanish but they dim.
Pierrot rests his cheek lightly against the top of your head. One gloved hand moves in slow, rhythmic motions against your arm—small, repetitive circles that give your mind something gentle to follow.
After a while, he reaches for the cold tea on the table, grimaces slightly, and stands to make you a fresh cup. You watch him move around your kitchen, comfortable and quiet, like he belongs there. When he returns, he hands you the mug and waits until you take a sip.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
He smiles, “Anything for you, my dear.”
Later, when you’re both sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, Pierrot pulls a notebook from his bag and slides it toward you. The pages are blank.
He taps the notebook, then your head, then shakes his head gently.
“You don’t have to hold everything alone.”
Your eyes burn.
“You don’t ever get tired of this?” you ask. “Of me freaking out over thoughts I don’t even want?”
Pierrot looks genuinely startled by the question. He presses a hand to his chest, then to yours. “Care isn’t work.” He pauses, then adds a small, deliberate shrug. “You’re worth sitting with.”
Something inside you finally loosens.
You lean into him again, and this time, when the thought tries to surface—
what if—
It doesn’t stick.
Pierrot’s arm tightens just a fraction, steady and warm, like he knows.
plot: Bruce struggles to come to terms with his actions.
pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader
cw: 18+, smut, ocd spiral (obsessions and compulsions, incl. sexual, moral, responsibility, and perfectionism obsessions; mental, washing, checking/reassurance compulsions)
words: 6.5k
a/n: hiiii lovelies !! i know it’s been a minute, but coe is now completeee!! this chapter is all Bruce’s perspective! very excited to hear what you think, might not be what's expected!
disclaimer: i tagged ‘Bruce Wayne has OCD’ and I mean it; it’s not just him being tidy or clean, it’s pretty damn hellish emotionally. so!! if you have OCD, this chapter might trigger you (but hopefully you feel seen as a fellow OCD girly <3); if you don’t have it, you might think some themes are uncomfortable, but that’s how OCD is: intrusive, uncomfortable, upsetting, and a lot of people don’t understand how it can operate and manifest. tried to handle this delicately as his existing OCD is also interacting with something that can be harmful and have significant consequences (which is why I wanted to explore it in the first place, it makes OCD so much more confusing and sticky!). hope you enjoy !!!!
Bruce slammed the door to his penthouse closed. Threw his bag on the floor. Ran to the kitchen. Flooded his hands with ice cold water. Pressed frigid hands to the back of his scorching neck and drew the first heaving breath he’d allowed himself since.
What the fuck?
He could still feel your hands all over him, running down his back like the drops of water warming against his skin. The hardness of the countertop mimicked the rigidity of the desk, and visions of you decorated his kitchen. Your legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper; the sound of your moans—pitchy, full, insistent, wanting. He hung his head over the sink and tried to breathe through it.
No longer was this ‘just a thought’ he could visualize floating away, this was an undeniable action; one he was evidently desperate for, since he hadn’t even checked if you were actually on birth control before finishing inside… fuck! Hadn’t fucking checked if someone was in the hall. Hadn’t asked about sexually transmitted infections, hadn’t even mentioned his (negative) status—which he checked strictly every three months whether or not he was sexually active.
He didn’t want to believe something like this happened; he didn’t want to believe he’d done something like this. Working at the public university as a Wayne raised enough eyebrows, but there was always the guise of wanting to help and his family’s philanthropic history covering his ass.
Was his career all a ruse? To cover up his nefarious tendencies? Had this always been the drive behind it all; every night spent studying, every word of his dissertation only completed to get closer to his victims, getting to ogle at students from his safety of tenure? Had he actually desired to help people? Just a kind man helping the community? Or was he lulling them into a false sense of security so he could more aptly strike?
Of course he was. He could silence anyone if word got out, too. Was that the real reason he kept so much of his family’s money?
This nagging feeling of badness, it was there all along, right under his nose, and this was why. He knew he would show himself why one day.
Bruce remembered things. He remembered the type of clothes everyone wore, if someone stepped outside of their comfort zone wearing something, how they did their hair, their makeup, oh, it was right fucking there the whole time.
Vigilant. Monstrous. This feeling of being too imposing that he’d felt his entire life; the way he backed off from second dates, kept his boundaries firm and unyielding. If he let the leash off, his true self would emerge, like now.
Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Bad. Wrong. Disgusting. Abhorrent. Despicable. He couldn’t breathe. Disgusting. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Predator. Predator. Predator. Pervert. He dragged air in through tense wheezes. Creep. Creep. Creep. Creep. Pervert. Creep. Creep. Creep!
Intrusive images of doing that to any student who asked an innocent question after class—
No.
Whether they wanted it or not—
NO! What the fuck?! Who thinks something like that?!
He was about to vomit. It was ratcheting up to something unbearable. He needed to turn himself in somehow; yeah, that would stop this feeling. Make it smaller. Telling someone. Telling anyone. This couldn’t sit on his chest. It squirmed, ached, screamed to escape; holding a secret like this was just as bad as doing the thing itself.
He was a danger and a menace. People needed to know who he really was, have all the information; only then could he release himself—only after they knew their peer had been a piece of shit predator all along. The ethics professor, no less. What an obvious, pathetic front.
His breathing slowed just enough to catch it as the dial tone rang. Marshall was by the book, no nonsense. Perfect person to confess to. He’d helped before. He’d been there.
“‘Yellow?”
“Marshall, thank god, I need—I need to tell you something.”
“Bruce,”
“It just happened,” He gasped as he caught his breath, grateful this was about to be alleviated. His hand shook against the marble countertop, barely keeping him upright. “I need you to really hear me, alright? I’m not overreacting, I mean it,”
“You told me not to do this anymore.” There was a gentle warning in his tone; Bruce heard the tinge of exasperation, and he felt badly for it, but he needed help. He was the only one who could give him proper perspective on this. Same building, same hallway, similar teaching tracks and tenure. No one could truly understand—no one’s position was as unique as Bruce’s—but Marshall came as close as he could get.
His pulse raced, gripping the phone so tightly he thought it might break. “This one’s different, this is, this is huge.”
The man sighed on the other end, and Bruce’s heart shot into his throat. “You say that every time.”
It wasn’t a lie; Bruce did this kind of thing often, usually only to Marshall, usually about bumping into/accidentally inconveniencing someone and if it had actually been on purpose (“you turned the corner on the sidewalk and they ran into you”), talking too much in meetings (“you rarely talk in them, Bruce”), whether or not his lectures were ‘unbiased’ enough (“you’ve synthesized more research than Google Scholar can host”), or a gross thought lingering (Bruce didn’t want to be reminded of the time he’d called the man in tears after smiling at a child on his walk to work and convinced himself he was a secret pedophile, despite all evidence to the contrary).
These confessions had occurred enough times without any lasting relief that they’d had to have a conversation about it. ‘Not feeding into the cycle’ as his coworker would say. But this time was an exception, genuinely. This wasn’t weaving something out of nothing, it was an emergency. “I know but—Marshall, this one is different, this is, this is objectively bad, this—”
“Can you tell me tomorrow, then?”
He could hear him moving further from the phone. His stomach flipped over itself, words pressing behind his teeth like a set bow. “I have to tell you right now or I won’t have the guts.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Bruce.”
Shit. Shit! “No, Marshall, Marshall—”
The line beeped off.
In a flurry, Bruce raced to his bathroom and turned the showerhead as hot as it could go. Images and sounds circled that wouldn’t let him breathe. He rushed to the cupboard and yanked out a trash bag, all but ripping off his clothes enroute to the bath. Only after stuffing all of them inside and tying a triple knot did he jump into the shower. The heat stung his tired muscles, temporarily deading the noise.
He scrubbed each inch of skin methodically, so thoroughly his skin burned. He couldn’t care. He didn’t give a shit. He felt sick.
It could’ve been hours until he staggered out and threw a towel over his head; as if to punish him for feeling a second of normalcy, the single moment of darkness flashed the inside of your thigh behind his eyes, his mouth remembering the parting of your lips. Good god.
This had to happen the single night he had a lecture the next morning?
The rest of the evening Bruce filed the report to his supervisor, deliberating how detailed he should be. The night ahead brought no sleep, tossing and turning in bed, taking three different showers at three different temperatures to try to blast himself out of it. What would the administration say? Would he be fired? Maybe he could resign. He didn’t deserve to be teaching if he took advantage of students like this.
The memories of childhood therapy were buried in the recesses of his psyche but when things reached these peaks, fragments of them returned. He’d been told he had OCD, but that couldn’t be true. What good did it do thinking about it that way when the second he let his guard down he proved his guard right?
Labeling it as such was just an excuse to rationalize how he really was. A way to make himself comfortable in his twisted mind, pretending it was all thoughts that could float off and away, never having to get to the bottom of them, never having to root them out, never having to face accountability. ‘OCD attaches to your values,’ his therapist said. ‘That’s why it’s so distressing.’
But he was bad. He always knew he was bad. Running from that feeling—that reality—only led him here. Struggling to sleep after filling out a form for sexual misconduct.
By four in the morning he forced his eyes shut to get a semblance of rest, excruciatingly aware of needing to be up in two hour’s time. Two hours would be a dream; all he wanted was at least fifteen minutes.
His heart raced; he hadn’t intended to do anything with you but talk. He’d done everything he could to limit temptation. When you said you wanted him, that you’d fantasized about him; when you got up on his desk, brought up that fucking guilt like it was so ridiculous for him to carry, like the most holy thing in the world was slipping between your legs and abandoning all good sense.
And why was he talking like this, temptation? When he fully chose to participate? He agreed to meet without a third party. He walked to turn off the light. He pressed you up against his fucking whiteboard in his classroom… you hadn’t seduced him. His lids heavied, the mental exhaustion catching up as he worked himself further into a spiral.
‘Professor,’ you moaned, and it turned him on more than he wanted to admit. Taking care of a student, spreading her across his desk—he never realized it was so sturdy, and he’d never forget it.
So… fucking… puffy… each stroke was like velvet on his cock. Like you’d been waiting for this. Like he was made to fit you like a glove. That skirt fluttered against his thighs when he slid all the way in you, and he knew he wouldn’t last long.
Third time this week. He needed to get better at lasting, but you were just… good god. Walking in with that fucking skirt, pulling it higher and higher each time until he could see your bare ass when you walked by. Such a tease.
Sucking on a lollipop in the front of the class, never breaking eye contact, rolling your tongue in a move of total ecstasy. How ballsy you were, joking about jerking off the professor when people asked why you needed to stay after class. The wink you gave him that students could read into. How you barely waited until the last one left before kissing your way down his neck with your bubblegum breath.
You grabbed his jaw, pulling him closer, always deeper. You never got enough, rolling your hips into him with every slippery thrust. “So fucking good, fuck!”
The hardening of your nipples in his mouth, the way you moaned when he swirled his tongue around its peak. How your back arched when he squeezed them, pinched them, and the guttural sound when he’d slide his hand down your stomach to your clit.
His hips sped up, driving into you with reckless abandon when you looked at him with that furrowed brow, moaning ‘yes, yes, fuck, yes,’ with those fuck me eyes that drove him wild. Your pussy spoke to him, gushing over his thick cock diving into you again and again. Your texture was angelic, almost unreal; gripping him without apology, but plush, warm, and ridiculously giving. All the luxury in the world couldn’t compare to how you felt wrapped around him.
He could tell you felt the same; he’d never felt someone’s skin get so hot, the shake and tremble in your thighs that always preceded your head falling back, and the noise that sounded like a groan, loud as a scream, that ping-ponged between his eardrums when you climaxed. Your hands clung to the edges of the desk, occasionally grabbing at his forearm with desperate little scratches. ‘Deeper,’ you moaned, as he felt your nails dig in. ‘Harder!’
‘Needy,’ he gasped, knowing damn well he was projecting. Every second he wasn’t inside you was replaying how it felt. Reminiscing on the picture of you lost in waves of pleasure.
‘Fuuuck,’
‘Here after every class.’
‘I need it.’
‘Never satisfied.’
‘Never. Not ever.’
He loved that he could make you feel like this; make you forget about anything but how good it felt. Every time you called him by his title—and the expression of mischief and dilation of your pupils alongside it—made all the long nights studying worth it. Even if he hated teaching, he’d do it just to get to witness how you moved underneath him, how your body reacted just to being pressed against his desk.
And holy fucking hell, the look on your face when he was about to cum. How your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper, and deeper, until he had no choice but to stay; no choice with your attention so drilled into him, pinning him above you; no choice when you felt this intoxicating.
“Cum in me Professor, cum in your fucking student,”
Slim beams of sunlight filtered in through his blinds. The gentle whir of his heater made the curtains sway above the carpet. Breath fell in and out of him in buckets.
A cold sweat stuck to his skin, giving a physical sensation to the dream—it made him ill. Checking his phone at his bedside showed no response from his supervisor. He threw himself in the shower, scalding again, forcing the thoughts down. Fucking great.
Bruce popped a bagel in the toaster, ruminating thoughts of bad, wrong, horrible circling him like vultures as he buttoned his shirt; his fingers felt like yours. Goddammit. He longed to crawl out of his skin.
He slammed a glass of water, threw on his jacket, and grabbed his satchel, foregoing any breakfast. Fuck it. His stomach was a rock.
He kept everything strictly the same, sans bagel, in futile hopes that he might be able to will away the thoughts if he just tried hard enough; kept things strict; kept things pushing. The same coffee shop by Wayne Tower. Same order. Same heat that burnt the tip of his tongue. Same route. Same acknowledgement by campus security. Same ring of his badge as he entered the building. He would set his coffee cup in the same spot, his folder in the same place. His keys held the same weight and jingle when he unlocked his classroom, holding his breath as he entered for the first time since—
“Professor Wayne! Hi! I’m taking your course today, and I had some questions about it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” How had he forgotten the first day chorus of pre-lecture chatter and questioning? It reaffirmed his usual decision to arrive precisely on time for syllabus days. All of their questions were without exception answered by the class-wide discussion.
He used his hip to push the door open, half thankful and half terribly annoyed that a student would interrupt him at a time like this. He presumed he’d need a moment to acclimate to the classroom again, purge those images, but maybe having someone else there would distract?
They followed him to his desk, his body threatening to collapse the closer he came to sitting at it. Thank god Henry was thorough in his cleaning, or he wouldn’t let himself touch the desktop out of fear of you appearing out of thin air.
“What can I help you with?” He could barely look the student in the eyes, feeling abhorrent, disgusting, the desk sitting heavy on his chest and constricting his breathing like a malignant presence, though it was a good few inches from his seat and wasn’t even touching him.
They set the syllabus on his desk, and he fought not to wince. Did he need to move his classes online? The walls were closing in on him, everything a reminder of his disgraceful immorality. How could he focus in this environment with his nervous system a live wire?
“Professor Wayne? Are you listening?”
Don’t call me that! His heart pounded, and he instinctually reached for his phone to text Marshall; even holding it in his hand provided a crumb of release. He glanced at the phone to see the time, and an email from his supervisor popped into his notifications.
Time for the verdict.
“My apologies, I uh, I forgot I have to consult with a colleague this morning.”
“Alrighty. I’ll come by after class.”
“See you then.” The student promptly left the classroom, the click of the door welding itself to Bruce’s spine.
His hands trembled as his fate loaded. Fuck. Oh, fuck!
Good morning Bruce,
I received your misconduct report. I appreciate you reaching out in such a timely manner after the event. After reviewing the provided details and the student’s previous course evaluation, I found no violations of the university’s code of ethics. Due to the individual involved not being a current student of yours at the time of the incident, nor you being in an ongoing supervisory role, the case has been closed.
The department appreciates your continued commitment to the safety and wellbeing of students here at Gotham University.
Regards,
Chloe Aniceto
Surely it was a mistake. Did he not represent it properly? He was glad she had access to your eval, the first medium he’d presented you to report any misgivings or discomfort. Why didn’t she have a problem with this?
The three hour lecture was nearly impossible to trudge through. He dropped the Expo markers almost every time he picked one up, misspelled basic vocab, and couldn’t remember a single name off the attendance sheet after introductions. As soon as the student, Naz, assured him her question had been answered during the lecture, he scrambled back to his penthouse to phone Marshall.
Aniceto hadn’t had a problem? He’d agonized over how descriptive to be, and he’d been fairly detailed, he’d thought; it must’ve not been enough. Maybe hearing it straight from his mouth would help people understand the gravity of the situation.
Marshall, don’t let the line ring out…
“Bruce. Still wanting to talk about the thing from yesterday, or is that all cleared up?” He sounded far too casual for the circumstance, crunching on something that sounded like a bag of chips. Was he on vacation?
Big breath. “I slept with a student.”
The line went silent for a few seconds. The man cleared his throat on the other end.
“A student of yours?”
“Yes. Kind of. Previous student.” Already the conversation was grating him. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he paced the living room. “I was her mentor for 505.”
“This term?”
“Last term.” Everything came spilling out in one glob of words. “I realized I’d developed feelings around the time of the last class meeting, so I blocked her from registering for my courses, but she tried to be my assistant, and then showed up to lecture yesterday demanding answers for why she couldn’t TA, then I met with her after class, and told her why and… fuck.” His lip trembled as he put it all together, saying the sin out loud for the first time. “We uh, we had sex on my desk.”
“Why’d you tell her your feelings?”
Bruce catapulted to the moment he’d broken; how drained, sad, exhausted you looked begging to be clued in. “She said it was consuming to not know. That she couldn’t stop thinking about it, over and over, circling.”
“I see.”
Once he knew how it was affecting you, he’d naively thought telling you would clear the mist and be more humane. That by knowing, definitely, relief could set in and your rumination and suffering could stop. Gifting something as profound as relief; how could he have denied you that?
“So she wasn’t enrolled?”
He was still out of breath from having admitted it all, overthinking his explanation, confused as to why he wasn’t being screamed at and publicly shamed. Had the line cut out when he’d said it? “Marshall. I slept with my student.”
“Did she seem uncomfortable? Express any discomfort to you?”
“Not at all. I even offered her to report me for misconduct after I explained it, and she acted confused why that was even offered. But how could she tell me otherwise? With my name, my position,”
“Did you reach out to Aniceto?”
“Yes. She said it wasn’t reportable because I wasn’t in an assigned role above her when it happened, nor will I be.”
Another beat of silence. Finally understanding, perhaps? About to drill into him like he deserved?
“You did your due diligence.”
A fire bloomed in his chest, tendrils of flame slicing through the gaps of his ribcage. Marshall wasn’t getting it. What the hell was Bruce doing wrong? “It’s not right. It’s not right that it happened once, but what’s to stop it from happening with another student?”
“Has this happened before?”
“No.”
“Have other students expressed interest in you?”
That was a rhetorical question; the amount of times Bruce had mentioned in passing that another student had tried to flirt was astronomical. It was what started Bruce ruminating about his job in the first place; made him sterner, stricter, more curt.
Had he been doing something that gave the wrong impression? Was he too lackadaisical in his boundaries or interactions? He’d gone so far as to ask other professors in the department to sit in on his classes and give him a review. The only answer there ever was: ‘You’re very professional. You’re just Bruce Wayne.’
Bruce gritted his teeth. “You know they have.”
“Then you’ve had ample opportunity and it never happened before.” He resumed crunching on his chips, each bite stabbing Bruce in the eardrum.
“But the dam’s broken now.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know.” He set the phone down on the countertop and put it on speaker, putting his hands over his head to better acquire oxygen. “I’m afraid I lured her into some trap through our mentorship.”
“What about that would be trapping?”
Like it wasn’t perfectly obvious? “One on one. Alone in my office. It’s an intimate environment.”
“It’s also the only classroom you could get. I remember you calling around to ask about empty rooms for a week straight.”
It was beyond aggravating that his colleague didn’t seem to be properly engaged. Why did no one see what was so plainly there?
“But I should’ve caught things before. I never share much about my personal life with students, but I did with her. One-off stories about what I was like in earlier academia, jokes; I wanted to make her comfortable. She was quiet in my other class and said she had a thing about authority.”
Oh, god, he’d forgotten about that. How could he have forgotten about that? How you said you felt threatened in your first personal interaction. How your fists clenched around your bag, and the tears you’d shedded. He remembered so viscerally how greatly that had shaken him; was that why he’d been so overly accommodating in 505 from the start?
“It sounds like you treated her like a human being, Bruce. Which professors are allowed to do.”
“Not me.”
Marshall sighed. He loathed putting the man through this, but he didn’t have a choice. “You have a bad habit of thinking the worst. Trust yourself.”
Was he being pranked? “After something like this? That’s proof that I shouldn’t.”
He watched the cars shuffle the street below as he paced to his window, anxiously awaiting a reply. The sun which had peeked in hours earlier had risen to its hiding place behind heavy clouds and dense smog, casting a gray filter on the city. He loved it here. Why’d he have to get in his own way and stain it?
Bruce startled when he spoke on the other line. “What made you realize that something had shifted in how you viewed her?”
“When I praised her as shorthand for her work. I didn't even catch that I'd done it until she replied about her paper.” His face twitched toward a grimace at the memory.
“Professors do that all the time. ‘You did great’, ‘wonderful effort’.”
“I said ‘you’re spectacular’, her, and I was thrown off when she reminded me we were talking about her writing.”
“Hmm.” He mused on this a moment, and Bruce prayed he’d finally see sense; he needed next steps. “You’re very careful, Bruce. Are you sure you had sex with her? Not just a hug you’re worried was too long?”
Fuck, this was going nowhere. “Jesus Christ, Marshall. Yes. I know the difference.”
“Alright, alright. Look. I don’t think us talking about it will solve the issue. You went through the proper channels and nothing came of it. She’s yet to make a report and you seem very open to her making one, correct?”
“Yes. She should.”
“No; she should if she wants to. If she felt harmed.”
“It’s inherently harmful.”
“Sure, it’s inappropriate. But what’s happened happened. The only path now is forward.”
What’s happened happened? Really? What was the path forward, ignoring it? He needed something more, a consequence, punishment; something that matched the piercing dread and shame replacing the blood in his veins.
“I’m going to head out—”
Bruce interrupted, another worry percolating. “What if she needs a recommendation?”
Another sigh. If he were holding the phone he might have crushed it from guilt. “Did she ask for your information for that?”
“She could.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
His heartbeat sped up again, the dizzying swirl of thoughts crafting a tornado. “I won’t be able to recommend her. She did good work. She deserves that recommendation. I stole that opportunity from her.”
Bruce held his breath. If Marshall sighed again, he might just cry. This tension was too much for his body to handle.
“I don’t know what to tell you, because it already happened.”
“Should I reach out? Make sure she’s alright? Remind her she can write a report if she needs to, and I won’t hold it against her?”
“You said you already did that.”
“Before we had sex.”
“I don’t know, Bruce. What do you want me to say?”
He didn’t know. Just not that.
“Well,” he was upset at the sudden reminder that he’d said this, but grateful it left the ball in your court. “I did tell her to reach out if she ever needs… assistance.”
“If she does, then you know what to do.”
“Yeah.”
“Alright, man. I gotta head back out to the lake.”
“Thanks for listening. Bye.”
Marshall ended the phone call and left Bruce alone in his thoughts.
Forward. Acceptance, perhaps, that the deed was even done at all. Every memory of it was immediately shoved far away from his mind, petrified to even tolerate it.
And so he sat. Let himself feel it.
The attraction had been gentle, and developed slowly over the course of getting to know you. So unassuming that his ruminative tendencies hadn’t picked up on it until that very last day. It was unusual for a student to be so similar in age, passion, and wit; a natural feeling of being cut from the same cloth.
These types of thoughts hadn’t manifested until after the hookup. He’d been uncomfortable with the realization, absolutely; noticing he felt anything other than platonic towards a student for the first time was miserable. But he had no secret plan, no agenda, when he sifted through the anxieties.
A snaring thought that wouldn’t let him go was: I enjoyed it. It cut him up more than almost anything else.
But he didn’t enjoy it because you were a student; it was just the unfortunate medium he’d gotten to know you through.
But did that matter, at the end of the day?
The single greater snare was fear. Terror at the notion that he was truly, genuinely, actually a person who was irredeemable. Fear that he wanted to hurt people. Fear that everything he’d ever done, everything good he’d ever had, was wasted on him. Up until the night before, teaching had been a salve to that wound that opened twenty years ago.
But where did this leave him going forward? Was there anything tangible he could glean from this to alleviate this miserable thought spiral?
He wrought his brain throughout lunch, then dinner, and found himself staring absently at the shower wall before bed. Why had he let himself do that? It was the single most obvious breach of ethics to the point that it was almost laughable when professors warned against it: don’t sleep with your goddamn students.
A vague memory began to firm into something tangible as he rinsed off his body wash.
The professor for his Professional Standards course had heard the snickers at the warning, and watched how students, including Bruce, began to go onto their laptops like it was so elementary. She’d clapped her hands loud enough to startle, snapping the class to full attention.
‘Never say never’ was in bold print on the professor’s slides, bits and pieces of the moment from years ago trickling back. Something about if you didn’t think yourself capable of something, you’d never be on the lookout for it. That the single most dangerous thing you could do with power was convince yourself you couldn’t abuse it.
Bruce paused. More than anything, he recalled feeling ridiculous simply having to hear it. Remembered a sarcastic thought of ‘this is what I’m paying them to teach me?’. The concept of sleeping with a student was so out of the question as to be pointless to mention, and he’d glanced at the jokesters who always showed up late, never did the reading, thinking that if anyone was to do such a thing, it would be them.
Evidently he hadn’t taken the lecture to heart.
He never thought himself capable of sleeping with a student, or even developing an attraction; it was as if the act of signing up for his class sanitized all possibility of ever being something more. So, naturally, he hadn’t known the signs.
If he felt fondness or a soft spot for you, that was all it was. There was no other way for it to be. No slipperiness was possible because no slope could exist. A faux sense of impossibility.
Glimmers of complicated hope punctuated each step from the shower to his bed. He could have stopped it from happening; he could have stunted the development of feelings. What felt like a free fall suddenly had a rope for him to cling to.
Sleep that night was restful; moreso than the night before, at least. With a few more hours under his belt, he went through the same routine; coffee, walk, then going to his office. He passed the teacher’s lounge and table of assorted paperwork, but doubled back when his gut cinched.
Resignation Packet stared back at him among the sea of staplers and folders.
He glanced around to make sure no one was there (ten in the morning on a Friday, the lounge would be completely empty), and tucked the packet under his arm.
Ignoring another jolt of anxiety at being back, he tucked behind the desk and flipped through the paperwork. Unsurprisingly, the section for those under tenure was lengthy, and involved scheduling a meeting with the department chair. Was he in the office today? Have virtual meetings available?
Deep breaths. Slow breaths.
He cleared off his desk with careful, precise placement of folders in drawers before logging into his desktop to peruse, chin in hand. The screen started to fuzz and he began digging through his bag, concerned his glasses weren’t in the same area they’d always been. At the edge of his vision he noticed them wedged into the corner between his desk and the wall.
“Professor? Sorry.”
The bag slipped out of his hand as he jumped in his seat. “Y/n.”
“I remembered your office hours were this in fall term, I hope you’re not busy.”
That same skirt got his heart racing. When he met your gaze, it was worried; a furrowed brow, shifting from leg to leg like you were nervous. “Not currently. What do you need?”
He clasped his hands together and leaned forward on the desk, micromanaging every wrinkle and twitch of his face. You regretted it. You were going to report him. Good. Hopefully they’d listen to you. When you told him, he wouldn’t have a bad reaction. Neutrality. He’d thank you for letting him know, apologize for how he harmed you.
“So uh, one of my friends had your class yesterday. She doesn’t know about us, and I don’t plan on telling anyone, but she was surprised you were… off during lecture. Preoccupied, she said.” You gripped the arms of your backpack with a vengeance, and he briefly wondered if you had a class after this. “She took one of your classes last term so she noticed the difference, and I can’t help but think it’s because of what happened between us.”
So his conviction that he’d made a total joke of himself yesterday wasn’t all in his head. Damn. He fought not to sigh, keeping a tight rein on any body language that could be misinterpreted as frustration. “I’ve struggled to reconcile with what occurred, yes. But you don’t need to worry about me.”
You shifted more, but took a few steps closer until you were only an inch from the far side of his desk. He wrangled his breathing right.
“I feel like you’re too hard on yourself. Talking about guilt, making things right, and I,” you sighed, fixing your posture straight. “I just want you to know that—for me—it was fun. I liked it, a lot, truly, and. I want it to happen again.”
The small grin wearing your mouth was equal parts relieving and upsetting; a strange sensation of wanting to preserve that smile shook him up, but he couldn’t show it. “I’m happy to hear it was a positive experience.” Too clinical. “It remains something that should not have happened, however.”
Your shoulders dropped. He pressed on despite his body’s objection to disappointing you.
“And if your appreciation ever changes, please feel free to make a report. I don’t care how much time has passed, I will not be offended.”
Silence filled the space between you. Shockingly, his head was completely empty. No endless contemplation, no getting swept away. Just looking at you and the fading twinkle in your eye.
“Did I come on too strong? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Your voice was softer, more tentative. He alleviated that concern immediately.
“No, absolutely not. I’m the professor, I should have held the boundary.” He sat back just a little in his chair. “So I’m holding it now.”
“Okay.”
“Is there any additional support you need from me? We can’t talk again going forward, but I don’t want to brush past it.”
Your jaw slacked, the grip on your backpack loosening. “I didn’t think we’d never interact again.”
He felt bad. He felt so bad.
“Let me, um, lemme think.”
He swallowed the desire to comfort you. “Take your time.”
You thumbed through thoughts he could only imagine the contents of. Was it better to keep staring at you, or would that add undue pressure? Should he pretend to sift through papers, or would that be dismissive? Was there something he should be saying right now?
“My only thing is about my work, actually.”
“Go for it.”
You chewed on your lip, eyes skirting the room before landing back on him. “Was it actually good? Or, I don’t know. Were you biased?”
His heart squeezed. He stood, pressing his palms flat to the top of his desk. By the wary expression you held and the weighted space between question and answer, he knew he’d never do something like this again. Never let something like this occur again. Never think he was better than putting someone in this position. “I’m sorry this influenced how you perceive my evaluations. It makes sense.”
Bruce swore your eyes were wet when they flicked up to his.
“I hope you can trust me when I say you put in hard work, and your work reflected it. You are exceptionally talented and I stand by that.”
“Nice, okay. Cool.”
He really hoped you internalized it. “Anything else?”
You glanced down at the desk, eyes narrowing as you peered at the resignation paperwork. “I know people have a lot to say about your methods, and strictness, but you’re a good professor. And it would be a shame if you left.”
Up until this second he hadn’t considered how you might interpret a resignation and the impact it could have.
“You give a lot to the university, and I hope you know that you still deserve a place here.”
He could understand a smidge of what you felt; though the sentiment felt genuine, it couldn’t help but be tinged with an overly-saccharine taste. “Thank you, Y/n. I appreciate it.”
“And I guess I’m disappointed we won’t get to interact again. I enjoyed our time together.”
“I did as well.”
Your brow cocked, as if to ask ‘that, too?’. It was the least he could do to be honest and kind, and treat you like a human, especially with something so tender.
He drew a breath and gave a small nod. Your face brightened, and the tension in his chest lessened enough to give you a half-smile.
“Well, have a good one, Professor Wayne.”
“You too, Y/n. I wish you luck in all your future endeavors.”
He stared at the door when it shut, listening to your footsteps travel further down the hall until they disappeared. His stomach clenched, still all-too aware of the feelings he shouldn’t have, but it was nice getting to give you closure.
Maybe Marshall was right. Maybe you were. His old professor certainly was.
The resignation packet was drenched in your attention when he finally grabbed it. He flipped through it anew, relatively removed from his spiral for the moment.
Being hard on himself hadn’t stopped him from sleeping with you; it hadn’t helped anyone. Just a rabbit hole that begged him to jump deeper; a forever-promised end that was nothing greater than a black hole. Knowing this wouldn’t stop the tornado, but might make it easier to manage.
Bruce tossed the packet into the bottom drawer and picked his glasses off the ground.
He responded to student emails, ate his lunch, and sipped his coffee until it ran cold. A notification popped up on his monitor reminding him of his afternoon lecture. Forward.
Hey all!! Unfortunately I haven’t gotten to be very active recently because fair week is coming up where I live and I do 4H, which has been exciting but also a bit draining ^^’
To make up for it, have a Wilbur redesign because it’s the last day of disability pride month!
P.s. sorry to anyone who’s drawn him ^^’ If you’ve shared it with me or if we discussed it, I have your art saved to his gallery in Photos and still love it!
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🌟And The Trees Stare Back by Gigi Griffis - 5 / 5 stars🌟
This book has: YA horror & mystery with fantasy and sci-fi elements, Estonian folklore, OCD OwnVoices rep, trauma of living under an authoritarian government (USSR)
And the Trees Stare Back is a YA horror set in Soviet Estonia of the 1980s, that deals with themes of family, identity and trauma. With its setting, it talks quite a bit about the trauma of living under an authoritarian government, with specific attention on what it means to be 'not-normal' - particularly queer and/or disabled - in a state that demands uniformity.
The protagonist is confirmed to have OCD by the author, who also suffers from the disorder herself. While I do not have OCD myself, I nonetheless found the depiction very refreshing, as it shows the reality of the disorder and the thought-spirals behind it that will have you believing that your whole family will die if you do not press the light-switch next to the front door exactly ten times. It also discusses the frustration, that will be intimately familiar to anyone with an anxiety disorder, of knowing that your fears are not rational, while also not being able to do anything about it.
As a Finnish person who grew up loving Finnish folklore and its many creatures, it also made me realise how embarrassingly little I know about Estonian folklore, which I shall strive to remedy immediately.
I have pretty severe OCD, and I read an interesting post on OCD rep in Better Call Saul.
I’m not reblogging the post, because it’s an old post, I don’t think my input would necessarily make that person’s day / life better; but if I understood them correctly:
They felt that when Chuck uses his history of having OCD symptoms to manipulate Jimmy, this justifies the resentment other characters felt towards Chuck (for requiring them to accommodate him vis. his “electricity allergy”).
(For context, Chuck does this when he’s attempting to prove Jimmy’s fraud on the Mesa Verde case. )
I watched the same show, and didn’t feel this way at all.
I think it’s because I didn’t think that the resentment of the people around Chuck required justification.
I’ll preface the next part by saying that when I have been at my worst, my OCD has been as severe as Chuck’s is on the show.
My brain fixates on the possibility of germs, rather than on the dangers of electricity (though honestly, before I ever saw Better Call Saul, my rogue amygdala had actually briefly experimented with that exact OCD theme), but the outcomes are fairly similar.
I spent the first two years of the pandemic in a state of extremely high paranoia, refusing to leave my apartment, surrounded by $1000 worth of humming air purifiers.
It was very much Electric Blanket-era Chuck.
I think I see the resentment that the other characters (the HHM staff, and Jimmy) sometimes feel towards Chuck as reasonable, because:
I know that being around someone with severe OCD can be taxing. My own friends and loved ones are very accommodating towards and patient with me, but I know it’s not always easy, and they are probably quite frustrated, at times.
I feel that Chuck is coming from a place of extreme ego and privilege by refusing to entertain the idea that he is mentally ill; rather than asking for legitimately required accommodations in a situation of desperation, or demanding them because he has experienced a total loss of perspective, I feel that Chuck is content to impose his OCD on others. To do that protects his ego from the pain of admitting he is not in total control mentally, and is less difficult for him than the painful work of actually attempting to cope with OCD.
I see some of Chuck’s self-righteous privilege in myself, at times, but it’s very much tempered by the shame and horror I feel about asking someone to do something I know (deep down) is unreasonable. I still sometimes give into that temptation, but I try not to.
To be clear, I am not talking about instances where I have asked Unreasonable Things(tm) of people around me when I’m either:
a) so far into a spiral that I’ve honestly lost all perspective and don’t even realize I’m being unreasonable, or
b) when I can feel a bad panic-attack -type situation coming on and truly need a small-to-medium-level accommodation from a friend to arrest it
I’m not really ashamed of either of those situations. Embarrassed, yes; grateful to the kindness and patience of those who saw me through that time, yes.
But not ashamed.
What I see in Chuck, I guess, is something else; the worst possible iteration of me, perhaps.
And I guess the reason I don’t really feel that it’s unrealistic, or an unfair portrayal, is because I have known someone like that.
I have lived with a person who was like Chuck, in terms of their willingness to externalize their symptoms.
And it was fucking awful.
That person was my dad.
He almost definitely had OCD, but, like Chuck, he refused to acknowledge he was mentally ill.
He saw himself as uniquely brilliant and rational; completely in control of his own mind. Whenever his preferences clearly conflicted with what other people felt was reasonable, he blustered to the effect that he was The Only Sane Man.
Rather than admit he was anything less than entirely reasonable, he imposed his paranoia (about germs) and his preferences (for completely unblemished surfaces and surroundings) on everyone he could control (my mother and I).
It was miserable. It was unfair. It alienated everyone from our nuclear family (relatives, neighbours, and any potential friends), and it contributed a lot to my social isolation as a child.
It almost definitely also contributed a lot to reinforcing the same OCD fixations that I now struggle with, almost four decades later - symptoms that are more debilitating than any I ever saw him experience.
So yeah. That’s why I feel that Better Call Saul is not bad OCD rep.
Thank you for coming to my TedX Talk.
(Postscript: Chuck is honestly less awful than my dad. I feel a lot of sympathy for him, as a character, and was honestly shocked and upset by his death.)
(Postscript 2: I think I accepted his manipulation of Jimmy as just a manifestation of the kind of Machiavellianness that Jimmy himself often embodies. [As opposed to an indictment of people with OCD, or a vindication of everyone else’s resentment of the imposition that his symptoms represents to them.]
My dad is also highly Machiavellian, so that’s a characteristic that can definitely coexist with OCD.)
