#ocd representation

part 1: introduction

Yellow is genuinely such great moral OCD rep, intentional or not. Unfortunately, that is not a high bar to clear due to both the lack of rep and mishandling of rep when it happens, but I digress.

Although often portrayed as “the disorder that makes you organized” OCD is far more vast. The stereotypical portrayals are based on the observed symptoms, and not the cause. OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder, is an anxiety disorder caused by the individuals fear of bad things happening, and both their desire to stop them, and belief they can.

part 2: explaining OCD

Let’s explain it with the generic contamination OCD. Obsessions are the thoughts themselves, such as “I don’t want to get sick”. Though everyone has thoughts like this, it becomes disordered when the individual begins obsessing over it, the thought consuming their mind. Compulsions are the actions the individual believes will protect them or others from the perceived danger. The compulsion for the previously mentioned obsession may be something like “I should wash my hands to avoid getting sick”. Again, in most contexts, this is a completly normal and healthy thought to have! The issue, the disorder, comes as a result of the obsession. The obsession will continue coming back over and over due to the nature of the disorder. As a result, the compulsion will repeat to the point it becomes unhealthy or dangerous. Washing your hands is a good thing, but if you’re like me, and feel compelled to do int constantly after every little thing you do or everything you touch, you can experience negative effects like dry and cracked skin, injury due to scrubbing, increased water bills, etc.

remember that this is just one example, and that many more cases can be far more dangerous to the individual, such as a family friend of my mom’s who has isolated himself from his family as a compulsion to sooth the obsession that he will cause their death’s if he sees them.

another important point is that OCD cannot be reasoned with easily. because affected individuals genuinely believe their obsessions are real, and that carrying out compulsions keeps them at bay, it's incredibly difficult to convince them they're wrong. imagine if someone told you drinking water was bad for you. even if you trusted them, you wouldn't be able to believe them due to your need for water. it's the same with compulsions. just like one drinks water to stay alive, someone with OCD genuinely believes that what they're doing will protect them or others from harm. as a result, it is not easy to overcome compulsion.

part 3: moral OCD

Because OCD can form around anything, as long as it causes the individual enough anxiety to want to stop it, OCD comes in many forms. the one we will be exploring particularly is called 'moral OCD', and is one of the types I have, alongside contagion OCD.

moral OCD is characterised by obsessions that revolve around the individual's morality. people with this type of OCD's obsessions typically involve fears like becoming a bad person, being a bad person presently without knowing it, they are currently hurting others, potentially hurting others in the future, etc.

let's do another example. a moral OCD obsession could be "if I'm too selfish, others will get hurt". yet again, I cannot stress enough, these thoughts when in a mind without OCD are completely normal and healthy! it is good to be aware of yourself, and know when it's time to step back for other's good. the problem comes when someone obsesses over these fears. the compulsion that comes out of this could be something like avoiding asking for anything ever, or avoiding doing things too look after themself at all due to the belief that doing anything that benefits them can be either a stepping stone towards taking too much, or is taking too much itself.

part 4: yellow has moral OCD

Now, let’s move onto the main topic you may have guessed from the title: yellow.

yellow is a character introduced in chapter 5 of deltarune, with most of the segment focused on him being related to his desire to atone for a crime he literally didn't commit through violent and harmful means. I and many others with OCD have come to see ourselves in his behaviour, so let's break it down.

first are his obsessions. yellow is shown to obsess over the thought of getting justice, no matter what. when he see's himself as being unjust, he is determined to bring himself to justice. despite there not being any proof, not even in his own memory, that he was the one that destroyed blue's flowers, he has no problem declaring himself evil and worthy of punishment.

another aspect of OCD is that we tend to respond to feelings more than facts. there doesn't have to be much evidence as long as the feeling, the anxiety, is there. this only highlights yellow as having OCD more, as despite not remembering destroying the flowers, he very easily accepts it as fact. I kid you not, I have had the exact thought of "I'm such a terrible person I even tricked myself into not realising it", just like yellow insists.

then there's his compulsions, the actions he takes to prevent his obsessions from coming true. while convinced he's a criminal, yellow goes to extreme lengths to atone for his perceived crime. while presented very over the top and more like a loony tunes sketch in game, it's still important to remember that all attempts on his own life were just that, suicide attempts. yellow was trying to kill himself. although it's difficult to think about, suicide can be the result when someone with OCD is convinced that they are a terrible person and that the world would be better without them. self harm practices are also comman among those with OCD, as it's seen as a way to 'atone' for their wrong doings. this is similar to how yellow is not only intent on taking his life, but doing it in the most painful way possible. this behaviour could be seen as a form of self harm. when all these compulsions fail to ease his obsessions, he resorts to self isolation. a safer alternative to being actively suicidal, but still dangerous due to the effects isolation can have on people.

yellow is also seen consumed by his obsessions to the point of being detached from reality. susie and ralsei both insist on multiple occasions that he doesn't have to do anything to himself, and that he's a good person. despite this, he continues to see himself as evil, doubling down on his attempts. "you're a nice guy, don't bury yourself alive" is twisted in his mind to be "you deserve something worse than being buried alive". this way of thinking is also common in OCD, reality warped to fit with the obsession, which is perceived to be completely true. so true reality is warped around it instead of acknowledging that what is real proves it wrong.

part 5: the importance of support

OCD, as a disorder in someone's head that warps their perception of truth, typically requires outside interference to treat. constant exposure to what is actually true, while not dismissing one's fears, can slowly help them engage with reality, assisting in working through their obsessions. because of this, a good support network is the most important part of OCD treatment. and because Toby 'best rep you've ever seen' Fox is himself, of course yellow has one of the best support structures I've ever seen portrayed in any piece of media in the form of his partner, blue.

one of the most stand out aspects of blue's treatment of yellow is that he doesn't dismiss him. so many pieces of advice given to those with OCD by the uninformed boil down to "it's not real, so stop worrying". the thing that makes OCD a disorder is that the everyday possible dangers are perceived by the individual as factual things that will happen unless prevented. blue does not give this type of 'advice'. instead, he uses logic, particularly logic that incorporates yellow's perception, to help him work through an obsessive episode without dismissing him. he walks him through the issue, gently informing him of inconsistencies when needed, until yellow reaches the conclusion he was tricked into believing he was a criminal. instead of talking at yellow about how he's wrong, blue gives him the tools, evidence, and assistance when needed to help him come to the conclusion himself. this is good for two reasons: 1. yellow is more likely to accept the answer if it comes from his own mind, and 2. doing this help yellow build the skills to challenge his obsessions on his own. the end goal of OCD treatment isn't to solve the compulsion in the moment, or fix someone forever. it's to give the patient the tools they need to challenge their obsessions and compulsions on their own, in hopes they can use those skills to live a better, more peaceful life, with the ability to work through obsessions when they arise.

another important aspect of supporting someone with OCD is protecting them when possible. avoiding actions that could trigger them, preventing them from coming into contact with something that could make a compulsion dangerous, ensuring they have what they need to self soothe safely, etc. blue does a particularly good job with this too. most notably, he prevents yellow from hurting himself by using his powers to replace dangerous objects with flowers. keeping dangerous objects away from someone with self harm or suicidal compulsions is an important part of supporting a loved one with OCD. in blue and yellow's case, this is accomplished by replacing guns with roses.

replacement is another important part of OCD treatment. going straight from washing your hands ten times an hour to only after using the washroom and before meals is an impossible task, so small steps are necessary. for me, I went from using hand sanitiser constantly to splashing a bit of water on my hands. still not great, but it's a step, and it protects me from drying my hands out with alcohol. blue helps yellow with this as well. instead of just taking away anything that could be used to hurt himself, he replaces yellow's weapons with magical flowers. this prevents yellow from seeking out different ways to fulfil the compulsion, as well as replacing it with the much safer alternative of fulfilling it. he still gets the hit of pulling the trigger his brain needs to feel secure, but it poses no danger to himself.

part 6: why representation matters

OCD representation is important for many reasons. for one, there's the obvious of making those suffering from OCD feel less alone. being so stuck in your head can be isolating, so seeing someone like you, even fictional, can be a huge help in making you feel more supported. it's also important to educate others on how to help, and how to be more tolerant and patient. be honest, if it wasn't for you scrolling the deltarune tag right now, would you have known that OCD is so much more than just being organised? for at least one person, the answer is no. representation is important for education. beyond that, it can also educate those with OCD on methods that may help them. they may see a method that could help them, and in general may feel so much better about themself to see characters with healthy coping methods and good support systems. it can give them hope.

but in terms of the importance of yellow specifically, I have so much to say. despite so much of this essay being on the more depressing aspects of yellow's character, we can't forget just how silly he can be! he's kind, goofy, takes things literally to comical effect, and is just a lovable goofball! for the love of the angel, his whole existence is a friend inside me joke! so many portrayals of OCD are overly serious, more focused on getting the tragedy of the disorder across, instead of actually being a character. those types of characters can be good for education, but as characters? it's disheartening to see individuals with OCD be portrayed as hopeless, tragic characters. it can make things feel like they won't get better, not when all portrayals of your disorder are people lost in their own self loathing. but characters like yellow, who have a good support network, who have a personality beyond their obsessive compulsive tendencies, who are cheerful? it's a breath of fresh air! to have a character who has a personality beyond their issues, who is a character, is a magical thing to experience. and it's so nice to see a character with OCD symptoms be just a part of the narrative, of the world, without it revolving around them. too many stories with OCD characters just become "my struggles with OCD, my life sucks, my character is a laundry list of stereotypes and angst tropes". to just have someone like me exist as a part of the world makes me feel like a part of it, rather than an anomaly.

and then there's someone with OCD being in a relationship! unless you have OCD, I don't think you can understand the joy I feel seeing someone like me in a relationship. so often, we're depicted as an issue, that we are hard to love, that being with someone like us was a chore. but as far as I'm aware, there's no secret dialogue where blue says "oh, by the way, don't tell yellow, but keeping him safe is exhausting, I wish he could just be normal". helping him manage his compulsions is just a part of their relationship, and neither party has an issue with this aspect of them being together. beyond just that, them being together shows a disabled person in a relationship at all! it's too rare that a disabled character has a love interest, due to conventional standards of attractiveness see disabled traits as unattractive. both physical disabilities being considered ugly, and mental disabilities giving way to personality traits that are seen as undesirable or 'red flags'. to see someone with OCD symptoms be loved with them, accepted so fully, and having one of the healthiest relationships in the game is beautiful.

and... yeah. I'm not really gonna do a conclusion, it would just be a recap of everything you just read, and my high school English teacher isn't here to scold me on improper formatting anymore >:3

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.