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exposing me 😭😭

before i release the other parts of teacher's pet, i'm sharing with you the reactions @iimplicitt had while reading

SEDATION IMMEDIATELY YOUR HONOR

AHHHHHHHHHHH

side eye

zAH

RAH

hehehehhehe

DRGFIUDUDFOJC

JVCJUDCIIBOOBBL

ANN i can't I CAN'T

IM LOSING MT MIND

CHHCKJVIHBOOBB

gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

OMG HIS POV SHUT UP

WOAHHHHH WHERE DID FHIS COME FROM

RAHHHHHH

i need an exorcism

i need a lobotomy

TEACHER'S PET PT.1 | CL16

an: what's this? a student x teacher fic LOLOLOLOLOLOL if my dad had loved me i wouldn't be writing shit this unhinged i promise x

wc: 4.3k

warnings: mentions of infidelity

The first time she'd caught him staring, she thought it was an accident. The second, merely a coincidence. The third, however, she knew it was on purpose.

It wasn’t something she wanted to think about. Not really. In a class of nearly a hundred students, it seemed absurd to imagine that his attention could be directed at her—out of everyone. But there was something different about the way his gaze lingered. The first time, she’d been bent over her notebook, pen poised between her fingers, when a prickling sensation crept up the back of her neck. Her body had responded before her mind could. She glanced up and caught his eyes on her—just for a second—before he turned away, resuming his lecture as if nothing had happened.

She told herself it was nothing. Professors scanned the room all the time; it wasn’t unusual. But the memory stuck with her, burrowing into the quiet moments of her day, resurfacing when she didn’t expect it to.

The second time, it was subtler, but undeniable. She was seated toward the middle, further from the front than usual. Maybe she'd subconsciously chosen that spot to test it. To see if it would happen again. As he paced through the lecture, hands animated in the air as he spoke about the History of French Art, his eyes swept over the students, pausing just long enough on her to make her heart lurch. This time, she held his gaze for a beat longer than she should have, curiosity flaring to life. But just as quickly, he looked away.

Coincidence, she’d thought. It had to be.

By the third time, it wasn't a coincidence anymore.

It was late October, the air turning crisp as the days shortened. Leaves fell in lazy spirals outside the tall windows of the lecture hall, a cold wind knocking against the glass in soft, hollow gusts. She had arrived early, settling into her usual seat—closer now, near the front, where she could no longer pretend she was avoiding it. He arrived minutes later, his leather satchel worn but polished, the faint scent of coffee trailing him as he passed. He was always well-dressed, the kind of polished professional that seemed to belong to a different era—dark, tailored suits, pressed shirts, cufflinks that gleamed subtly under the classroom lights.

She had begun to notice the details: the curls in his dark hair, the way he absently adjusted his watch while answering questions, the deliberate, measured way he spoke, each word chosen with care.

But today, she felt him notice her. Before the lecture even started, his gaze found her. It was a quick thing, just a flicker in her direction as he arranged his notes at the podium. Her heart tripped in her chest, but she kept her face impassive, pretending to reread the passage in front of her, though she couldn’t concentrate on the words. When he began to speak, the room seemed to shrink around them. The voices of other students faded into the background. She found herself hyper-aware of the space between them—the few feet that suddenly felt like miles.

His lecture today was slower, quieter. He paced less, choosing instead to remain near the podium, his voice steady but subdued. She could feel his presence even when she wasn’t looking at him. When she dared a glance up from her notes, his eyes found hers again, not lingering too long but long enough to send a pulse of heat through her skin.

She tried to focus on what he was saying—something about Paul Cezanne and the nature of his art—but the words slipped past her. Instead, her attention drifted to the curve of his jaw as he spoke, the way his lips barely parted between words. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he know how often she thought of him lately? How she’d started to dread the days without his lectures, without that strange, invisible thread of tension pulling tighter each time their eyes met?

As the class drew to a close, she felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Everyone else began packing their things, zipping bags and rustling papers, but she lingered. Just a little. Her fingers slowly gathered her notebook and pens, her movements unhurried, as if she had nowhere else to be. She watched from the corner of her eye as the last few students filtered out, leaving only the two of them in the now-silent room.

She stood, slipping her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave, when his voice stopped her.

“Miss?”

Her name sounded different on his lips. Softer. She hesitated, her heart picking up speed, and turned slowly to face him. He wasn’t looking at her, not yet. His hand was poised above the chalkboard, chalk still in his grip, but he seemed distracted. He wiped at something absentmindedly, as though the motion was only a pretext to gather his thoughts.

“Yes?” she asked, keeping her voice steady, though her heart was anything but.

He turned to her then, his expression unreadable, the lines of his face shadowed by the dimming afternoon light filtering through the windows. His eyes, though, were sharp, studying her with a quiet intensity that made her chest tighten.

“You did well today,” he said, his voice low but clear, as if they were the only two people in the world just then. “Your insights during the discussion—they were... thoughtful.”

“Thank you,” she managed, though the words felt distant, automatic. There was a strange heaviness to the air, as though it was thicker, pressing in around them. The space between them felt far too small, too charged with things unspoken.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Is there something else?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He held her gaze, and in that silence, something shifted. His lips parted, just slightly, as if he might say more—but he stopped. She thought she saw the faintest flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished almost immediately.

“No,” he said, his voice even again, controlled. “That’s all.”

She nodded, a quiet acknowledgment, though the air still buzzed with what had not been said. And as she turned to leave, she could feel the weight of his eyes on her once more, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

-

The library was unusually quiet for a weekday afternoon. The familiar scent of old books and polished wood mingled with the faint hum of the heating system as they walked through the aisles, the muffled sound of footsteps against carpet the only break in the silence. She and Logan had come here to study—a common enough ritual for them when end of semester exams loomed, the weight of expectations pressing down like a lead blanket.

He slid into the chair across from her, his laptop open before she even had the chance to settle her bag down. Logan was efficient like that, practical. His blond hair was tousled from the brisk wind outside, and he gave her an easy, absent smile as he booted up his computer, already lost in his task list for the day.

"Ready to drown yourself in more French Literature?" he asked, his voice warm but distracted.

She nodded, though her mind was elsewhere. The conversation with Professor Leclerc still echoed in her head, like the ticking of a clock she couldn't silence. Her fingers itched with the memory of his eyes on her, that unreadable expression, the way he'd spoken her name as if it carried weight, like he knew something she didn’t.

She forced herself to focus, pulling out her notebook and the folder with her most recent assignment—an analysis of La Liberté guidant le peuple painting by Eugène Delacroix. She'd thought she’d done well, putting in extra hours at the library and wrestling with the dense material until it finally clicked. But when she unfolded the paper and saw the red scrawl at the top, her stomach sank.

52%.

Her breath caught, heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest as she stared at the number. Not even a C, but a D. How? She skimmed through the feedback—detached but firm in Professor Leclerc’s familiar handwriting. Unclear analysis. Lacking depth. The words felt like they were meant to hurt, stinging more than they should have.

Logan looked up from his screen, noticing the shift in her expression.

"Everything okay?" he asked, leaning forward slightly, his brows furrowing in concern.

She hesitated for a moment, then turned the paper around to show him. He glanced at the grade, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Ouch," he said, though his tone was still light, casual. "That’s rough. I know you spent ages on that."

"Yeah..." she muttered, unable to stop the flicker of frustration and disappointment from colouring her voice. She clenched her fists, crumpling the edge of the paper slightly as the words replayed in her mind. Lacking depth. The phrase stung more than the grade itself. What had she missed? And why did the criticism feel so much more personal than it should?

"You should talk to him," Logan said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Go to his office hours. You might be able to make a case, ask for extra credit or something."

She stiffened at the suggestion, the knot in her chest tightening. "I don’t know. He’s... strict about grades. I doubt it’ll change anything."

Logan shrugged, looking back at his screen. "You never know. Worst case, you get some feedback on where you went wrong. Best case, you convince him to give you another shot."

Her pulse quickened. Convince him. The idea of sitting in that small office with Professor Leclerc, discussing her work, his gaze on her again—it was unsettling, but not in the worst of ways. The very thought made her stomach twist in a way she couldn’t quite define, a mixture of anxiety and something else. Something that felt wrong but pulled at her nonetheless.

Logan looked up again, catching her hesitation. "Seriously, it’s no big deal. You’re one of his best students—he’ll probably just tell you what you need to fix. Maybe offer extra sessions or something."

His words felt innocent enough, completely unaware of what the suggestion stirred in her. Extra sessions. The thought sent an unexpected jolt through her. Her mind flashed briefly to the quiet, almost charged moments in class, the way Professor Leclerc’s voice dropped when he spoke directly to her, the way he lingered a little too long when he passed her desk.

She forced herself to shake it off. This was ridiculous. There was nothing going on—nothing she could even explain. She had a boyfriend who cared about her, who wanted her to do well, and all she could think about was how it felt to stand in that empty classroom, her professor’s eyes on her like she was the only one who existed.

"Yeah... maybe," she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice came out tight. She stared at the grade again, her mind a swirl of confusion, frustration, and something she didn’t want to name. "I’ll think about it."

Logan smiled at her encouragingly, leaning forward to squeeze her hand briefly. "Don’t stress. You’ve got this."

She returned the smile, but it felt thin, forced. As he went back to typing away at his notes, she couldn’t help but glance again at the feedback on the page. The red ink stared back at her, cold and unforgiving. But even more than that, the thought of confronting Professor Leclerc, sitting in his office alone, weighed on her in a way that made her throat tighten.

Could she really face him after everything? Would he look at her the same way he did in class? Would he push her in the same subtle way he had before, or would it be worse, with the closed door and the quiet of his office wrapping around them?

She knew she should go, knew Logan was right—it was just about the grade. It was practical. But the thought of those “extra sessions,” of being alone with him again, felt anything but simple.

And yet, despite the unease, she couldn’t deny the small, traitorous part of her that wondered what it might be like.

"Actually," she said, her voice quieter than she intended, "I think I’ll go to his office now."

Logan looked up from his screen, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Right now?"

She nodded, folding the paper neatly and tucking it into her notebook. "Yeah... I don’t want to let it hang over me all day. It’s better if I just get it over with, right?"

He smiled, a warm, easy grin that was comforting in its familiarity. "Good call. I’m sure he’ll understand. Just be confident—you’ve got this."

She smiled back, a little tighter than before, but she hoped he didn’t notice. The knot in her chest was tightening again, a strange mix of nerves and anticipation that made her feel a little lightheaded.

Logan closed his laptop, stood, and walked around the table toward her. He leaned down to kiss her, his lips brushing hers in a soft, reassuring goodbye. "Text me when you’re done?"

"Yeah, I will," she murmured, her heart not quite in the kiss. She tried to focus on the comfort of his presence, the safety of their easy rhythm, but her mind had already drifted, tugged in another direction by thoughts she couldn’t fully control.

Logan gave her a last, encouraging smile before turning back to his seat. "Good luck."

As she walked away, her fingers clenched the strap of her bag a little tighter, the soft echo of their parting kiss lingering, but quickly fading. Each step toward Professor Leclerc’s office felt heavier, the atmosphere around her shifting as she crossed the campus toward the quiet wing of the humanities building.

It wasn’t far—just a few minutes’ walk through the maze of lecture halls and corridors she’d grown familiar with over the last few semesters. But today, it felt different. The air was cooler, the fading autumn sunlight casting long, golden shadows across the stone walls. Her breath felt shallow, quickening with each step. By the time she reached the languages faculty office wing, the silence was almost oppressive, the only sound the faint click of her shoes against the floor.

When she turned the final corner, his office door was in view—closed but with the light seeping out from beneath it. She hesitated just a few paces from the door, her heart thrumming in her chest. She knew she had to knock, but something made her pause.

And then, her eyes drifted to the window beside his office door.

The blinds were drawn half-closed, leaving just enough of an opening to glimpse inside. At first, it was only the dim light that caught her attention, the low glow of a desk lamp casting a golden hue over the room. But then she saw him.

Professor Leclerc was standing behind his desk, his blazer tossed over the back of his chair, the crisp white sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His glasses, which she’d rarely seen him wear in class, perched on the bridge of his nose as he focused intently on something in front of him—papers, perhaps, or a book. The soft, thoughtful frown on his lips was different from the commanding presence he carried during lectures. It was quieter. Intimate, almost.

Her breath hitched as she watched him, her body reacting instinctively, against her will. The way his shoulders tensed slightly when he concentrated, the curve of his jaw in the low light, the way his forearms flexed as he absently adjusted his glasses—it all felt impossibly distracting. The mundane act of him rolling up his sleeves, of removing the formal layers she was used to seeing him in, suddenly felt... intimate. Personal.

Her heart sped up, pounding hard against her ribcage, and heat flushed through her chest. She knew she shouldn’t be standing there, peering in like this, but she couldn’t tear herself away. The way he looked—casual yet somehow more powerful without the blazer, the sharp lines of his face softened by the glasses—was doing something to her she hadn’t anticipated.

Her mind flickered back to the kiss Logan had given her just minutes ago, but it felt distant now, like a faint memory that didn’t belong to this moment. All she could think about was the quiet allure of Professor Leclerc, the slow burn of attraction that had been building for weeks now, whether she wanted it or not.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t go into his office feeling like this, her thoughts racing in directions they shouldn’t. She had a boyfriend. She was here to talk about her grade, to be professional, to fix a problem. Nothing more.

But as she stared through the narrow gap in the blinds, watching him shift slightly, leaning back to stretch his arms above his head, she felt that sense of professionalism slipping away. The tension in her stomach coiled tighter, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out to knock on the door.

Before her knuckles even made contact, his voice called out from the other side.

"Come in."

Her breath caught in her throat. He hadn’t even looked up, hadn’t seen her standing there, but the sound of his voice—low, calm, commanding—felt like it wrapped around her, pulling her in. She hesitated for a second longer, her pulse thrumming in her ears, before finally pushing the door open.

The office was warmer than she expected, the scent of old books and polished wood heavy in the air. The soft glow from the desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite its professional setting.

Professor Leclerc glanced up from his desk, his glasses still resting on his nose, and for a moment, their eyes met. Something flickered in his gaze—recognition, perhaps, or something else she couldn’t quite name. His expression remained neutral, but the intensity behind his eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

"Miss," he said, his voice smooth, like velvet brushing against her skin. "I didn’t expect to see you so soon."

The door clicked shut behind her, the sound louder than she expected in the quiet room. She felt a sudden rush of heat rising in her cheeks, her throat tightening as she stepped further inside. Professor Leclerc had returned his attention to the papers on his desk, marking something with precise strokes of his pen, but the moment she entered, his eyes flicked back to her, and she felt pinned under the weight of his gaze.

She stood there, frozen for a moment, unsure of where to place herself in the room that suddenly felt far too small. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, making it hard to think clearly.

"Have a seat," he said, his voice low but authoritative. It wasn’t a request.

Without thinking, she moved quickly toward the chair in front of his desk and sat down, too eager to comply. As soon as she settled, she realised how obedient she must have seemed—too quick, too eager. She swallowed hard, trying to compose herself, gripping the strap of her bag tightly in her lap. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she hoped he couldn’t see.

He took off his glasses then, placing them carefully on the desk, and leaned back in his chair. The gesture felt deliberate, a small act of removing a barrier between them, and she couldn’t help but notice how different he looked without them. His eyes—sharp and intense—were fully on her now, no longer obscured by the glass. The lines of his face were clearer, more defined in the soft lamplight, and her chest tightened at how attractive he was, especially like this—more relaxed, more... human.

"You came about your essay," he said, stating it like a fact rather than a question.

"Y-yes," she stammered, cursing herself for the shakiness in her voice. Her throat felt dry, and she shifted in her seat, trying to regain some composure. "I—um—just wanted to understand where I went wrong. I didn’t expect to... do so poorly."

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he flipped open the folder containing his copy of her work. His fingers traced the edge of the paper, his touch light but purposeful, and for some reason, her heart skipped a beat at the simple motion.

"You missed the core of the analysis," he said, his tone calm but firm. "Your analysis was surface-level. You wrote only about what we could see, but you didn’t engage how you felt. You didn’t deconstruct the painting—you only described it."

Her cheeks burned at his criticism. She bit her lip, nodding, though the words stung. She should have expected this, should have been prepared for him to be direct, but hearing him say it—especially in this setting, in this tone—made her feel smaller somehow.

He turned the paper toward her, pointing at a paragraph near the middle. "Here, for example. You’re focusing too much on the colours of the painting, but not enough on why Delacroix used them. You’re missing the underlying tension he’s working with—between art as a system of signs and the meaning that constantly escapes it."

His explanation was calm, almost gentle, but it still felt intimate, as if every word he said was meant just for her. His eyes lingered on hers, watching her reactions carefully, and she nodded again, barely able to focus on what he was saying, her mind still buzzing with the proximity of him, the quiet authority in his voice.

"I see," she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she fully did. It was hard to think clearly when he was sitting across from her, the small space between them charged with something unspoken.

He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning forward just enough that she could smell the faint hint of his cologne—clean, subtle, but warm. It surrounded her, making it harder to breathe, harder to stay focused. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her bag, her knuckles white as she tried to ground herself.

"You have potential," he continued, his voice softer now, like he was letting her in on a secret. "Your writing is strong, but you’re holding back. You need to dig deeper. Don’t be afraid to get lost in the complexity of the ideas—that’s where the real analysis happens."

Her stomach flipped at the way he said it, at the way his eyes seemed to darken slightly as they met hers. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, but the air between them felt heavier now, like something was shifting. The quiet hum of the heater in the corner was the only sound breaking the silence, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiling tighter and tighter in the room.

"I’ll... work on that," she managed to say, though her voice felt weak, distant from her own ears. She could barely process his feedback, her thoughts too consumed by the way his gaze lingered on her, the way her body reacted to his closeness.

He sat back in his chair, his posture more relaxed now, though his eyes never left her. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Good. I’m here to help you with that. You can always come by during office hours if you need more guidance. I can set aside extra time for you if you’re struggling."

The words—extra time—sent a shiver down her spine, the implication innocent enough, but something about the way he said it, the way the room felt in that moment, made her pulse quicken. She could feel her cheeks growing hotter, her breath shallow, and for a moment, she was sure he could sense it, could see exactly how flustered she was.

This was wrong.

She shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not here. Not with him. She had a boyfriend—Logan, who loved her, who trusted her, who was waiting for her to text him when this was over. But as Professor Leclerc’s eyes held hers, steady and unwavering, it was impossible to deny the pull she felt, the quiet attraction that had been building in her chest for weeks now.

"I... I should go," she said abruptly, standing too quickly, her legs shaky as she gathered her things. She could feel her heart racing, the room suddenly feeling too small, too warm. "Thank you for your time, Professor."

He stood as well, watching her closely, but he made no move to stop her. His expression was calm, though there was something in his eyes—something she couldn’t quite name, but it made her chest tighten. He nodded once, his voice smooth as ever.

"Of course. You know where to find me if you need more help."

She nodded, barely able to meet his gaze as she turned toward the door, her fingers fumbling with the handle before she managed to push it open. The cool air from the hallway rushed over her as she stepped outside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Only when she was a few steps down the hall did she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her hands were shaking, her mind racing as she tried to process what had just happened—nothing inappropriate, nothing overtly wrong, but still, the way he had looked at her, the way he had spoken to her, made her feel like she was walking a fine line.

Her chest tightened with guilt. She had a boyfriend. Logan loved her, trusted her. And Professor Leclerc... he was her professor.

This was wrong.

part two...

this was so cute 😭

ON AIR; op81 [smau]

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(part two)

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