⚠️:professor/student relationship, power imbalance, emotional manipulation,discussions of virginity, slut-shaming, rumors, alcohol use/abuse,unprotected sex (implied), (Tyler is 24, Y/N is 20)
🎞️: You weren’t supposed to be in that class, and he wasn’t supposed to notice you. But he did. Professor Okonma saw your silence as a challenge and your writing as a weapon. What started with a turned into office hours, ungraded essays, and the slow, burning collapse of boundaries.
“𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙩 𝙄 𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤”
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You weren’t even supposed to be in the class.
You signed up for it on accident during that glitchy-ass registration week, thinking it was a “Black Lit” elective. Turned out to be African American History 207, taught by the youngest professor in the department who walked in late with a chipped tooth and a tote bag that said “I MISS THE OLD KANYE” like he meant it.
He didn’t introduce himself like normal professors. Just walked in, looked around, and said, “Y’all look high and uninformed. That’s a bad mix.”
Everyone laughed. Except you.
You were quiet. The kind of quiet that made people forget you were there until you turned in something.
Tyler noticed it first in your discussion posts. You always submitted them early, tucked with hyperlinks, citations, long-winded opinions you never to spoke aloud. You wrote like you had something to prove but kept your mouth shut in person, pretending to draw blanks when called upon. The week your class read The Souls of Black Folk, this lesson spoke to you on a deep level. “This one,” he said, holding up a printed essay—your essay—like a prop, “wants to criticize about double consciousness but hasn’t said a single word in class. Weird flex.” Heads turned. Your throat burned. You hadn’t even made eye contact all semester.
He kept going. “Y/N argues DuBois isn’t arguing about duality—she says it’s about performance. About how survival’s a costume. A drag act.”
Tyler ignored it. “So… Y/N. Wanna explain what you meant?”
You blinked at him. The class was dead quiet. Your stomach flipped. You should’ve told him no. Should’ve said nothing.
Instead, you swallowed your pride and said, “I said what I said.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly loving this.
He was one of those corny teachers, the teachers that were so emotionally involved it was almost pushy.
“Cool. Then defend it. You just said Black identity is a performance. That it’s all pretend.”
“No,” you corrected, voice shaky but gaining ground, “I said that survival requires performance. Blackness isn’t pretend. But the way we code-switch, smile when we don’t mean it, shrink ourselves? That’s theatre. That’s drag. It’s not about pretending to be something we’re not—it’s about surviving what we are.”
The room shifted. Finger taps and ‘clock it’ being heard around the room.
Tyler leaned forward, all interested now. “So you’re saying DuBois was a drag queen?”
Laughter. But your eyes stayed steady on his.
“I’m saying DuBois was tired. Like we all are. And he was just the first one to say it out loud in a way white people couldn’t ignore.”
Tyler stared at you for a moment. You could see it then—that flash of recognition. Like he’d been testing you, and you passed in a way he didn’t expect.
Class ended ten minutes later, but you were still packing up when he said it:
The door closed and it was just the two of you. Him, leaning against the desk like it was his, like the whole room belonged to him. You, arms crossed, backpack still halfway zipped.
“You talk like someone who’s scared of her own voice,” he said.
You scoffed. “And you are beyond corny.”
He smirked. “I’ve been called worse.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t either.
“I don’t like when people hide behind good writing,” he said after a second. “It’s cowardly.”
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know your words. They’re brave. You’re not.”
You looked at him, eyes sharp. “I don’t fiend for approval. That doesn’t make me a coward.”
He smiled. “You just performed right now for me.”
“Because I read fifty papers a week and half of them are lazy. Yours aren’t. I care because you’re interesting, and you waste it being invisible.”
You swallowed hard, unsure what to say.
Then he added, casually “You taking the follow-up course in spring?”
You shook your head. “Doesn’t fit my track.”
You added the class. Changed your schedule. Changed your minor. Told yourself it was for the credit. That it made sense. That it wasn’t about him.
A semester later. His first class of the week, about 4 weeks into the academic year. You'd submitted your paper early, one he made you rework three times. He still hadn’t graded it.
“I liked your rewrite,” he said, leaning in the doorway of his office while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside his bookshelf, skimming through a copy of Assata. “Still too polished. You scared of mess.”
You didn’t look up. “Or maybe I’m just not okay with submitting imperfection.”
He grinned. “Perfection? Last time I checked that’s not in my syllabus”
You turned a page. “Even after a whole semester, you’re still corny Prof.Okonma”
“Call me Tyler, we should drop the formalities”
He walked in, closed the door behind him. Sat down in his chair like it was a throne.
“You’re not like most of my students ,” he said. “You don’t care about approval, however you do love the attention.”
Your stomach turned, but you didn’t flinch.
“Like you’re any different,” you said. “You’re a grown man chasing twenty-year-olds for validation.”
That hit. He didn’t laugh this time.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “But I didn’t chase you.”
You didn’t remember who kissed who or when the book slid to the floor. All you remember is the weight of his hand on your thigh and the way he looked at you like you were a problem he finally decided to solve.
It wasn’t romantic. It was too tense for that. Too much nuance laced into silence. Too many arguments turned into flirtation, then back again.
You two found yourselves kissing in his office often after class, him scheduling tutoring just to see you. Whether it was to intellectually debate or make out pressed against the books in his library. He was fascinated by you.
Of course it’d advanced. He wanted your mind, body and soul. He was a highly educated man losing debates to a girl with half the credentials, and that turned him on.
Although—Lately the energy had shifted. Mistakes made last semester came to light, and whispers were heard around campus. Luckily to your knowledge, your professor knew nothing about it. It was best that way, drama was best kept out of academia…and the bedroom.
You were currently curled against the edge of the bed in your campus apartment, eyes unfocused, your body sore and your mind racing. He was pulling his pants back on, hoodie slung over his shoulder. “You gotta promise not to tell anybody,” he said, zipping up without looking at you.You blinked. “Why would I kiss and tell?” He glanced down at you, then smirked, like he couldn’t help himself. “Because you talk too much. And... you kind of got that vibe.”
He picked up your panties from the floor and tossed them. “The ‘I know exactly what I’m doing’ vibe.”
You caught them without a word.
“That your way of calling me a whore?” you said quietly.
He shrugged. “Didn’t say that.”
He sat on the bed beside you, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I meant...you like attention. And you know how to get it.”
You stared at him. “Right, because I fucked you. That’s the giveaway.”
He leaned back, didn’t deny it.
You sat up, crossing your arms over your chest. “Behind every feminist man, is still a man. Judging the women they love to fuck”
That made him pause. Really pause.
He turned, eyes rolling now. “Don’t intellectualize this interaction and make it deeper than it is.”
You shook your head. “Nothing more deeper than reality”
He was quiet for a second, then said, “If that’s how you perceive yourself—”
You laughed, bitter. “What does that even mean?”
He didn’t answer. You grabbed your hoodie and pulled it over your head.
“Get out,” you said, voice low.
“You just pissed me off now go!”
He stood up, almost hesitant. “Sex was good though.”
You threw a pillow at him.
He ducked, laughing, already at the door. “9.5. Screamed too loud, though. This a dorm, remember?”
“Please get the fuck out.”
“See you tomorrow, professor.”
The classroom was dim, lit only by a crooked sunbeam pushing through the blinds. You walked in with yesterday’s eyeliner under your eyes, hoodie drowning your figure, painkillers rattling in your pocket. You hadn't checked your email—why would you? Your head was still buzzing from last night’s Casamigos and whatever the hell Steve passed you. You didn't expect him to be the only one there. Tyler. At the his desk. Headphones in, red pen tapping against a stack of finals he hadn't finished grading.
When he noticed you, he pulled one earbud out.
You slid into a seat without responding.
“You didn’t get the email?”
You leaned back, stared at the ceiling.
He looked at you a little too long. “You drunk still?”
He chuckled under his breath. “I thought they were joking when they said you were an alcoholic.”
That line hit like spit to the face. Everything clicked, he knew. You knew Tyler was young and had a close relationship with all his students but you didn’t think he’d gossip with them especially about you. You were his intellectual progeny, someone he looked up despite being older than. You assured yourself that even if he did hear the rumors he was far too intelligent to believe it.
All of which you’d been hearing the last nine months, all starting with one idiot.
“Wow,” you muttered. “That’s professional .”
“I wasn’t such an alkie when you fucked me less than 24 hours ago,” you said, sitting up.
Tyler’s jaw tightened. “unrelated .”
“Hell Yeah, It’s related ” you snapped. “When you wanna get in my pants i’m brilliant. After I finally give in i’m an alcoholic?”
He closed his notebook slowly. “You’re twisting my words.”
“No,” you laughed bitterly. “You just speak in implication. I know the language, Tyler. I’m fluent in bitchy high schooler shade.”
“You’re comparing me to a bitchy high schooler?” he said, a hint of comical disbelief in his voice
“If that’s how you perceive yourself,” you said, using his words against him.
“You know I was a virgin before I met you, in fact I was nearly innocent before I came to college”
“Did you ever think to ask me?”
“I didn’t think it was my business,” he said quietly.
“But clearly it was your enough of your business for you to throw it in my face!.”
“Wanna know the big story?” you said, voice flat. “I said no. Just once. To one of them hooping niggas And he couldn’t take it. So he lied. Told all his boys we fucked. That I was loud, easy, thirsty.”
“I had receipts,” you said. “Texts. Him crying, begging. I was on my period and he was still trying to fuck. And when I didn’t? He told everyone some bullshit.”
You looked away before your voice cracked.
“And then there’s you. Feeding into it. Smartest one in the room but not smart enough to stay out students business—and pussy”
“I didn’t know, and not you’re gonna make me feel bad for wanting you” he said softly
“You didn’t know and you don’t have to feel bad ,” you said, walking to the door. “All I wanted was compassion and empathy, I wanted the person you portrayed yourself not some man”
You didn’t wait for an apology. You knew it was coming. You just didn’t want to hear it.
|“You should’ve told me. You were a virgin”
Tyler’s name lit up your phone like a curse. 3:14 AM. Classic. You squinted at the message, high, half-drunk, head full of buzz and cotton. The bass from downstairs vibrated through the floors, but up here—Steve’s room—it was quiet. Steve was something like your boyfriend, after drama happened last semester he defended you on fizz and you two were inseparable since then. He was your low-commitment-friend-with-benefits-pseudo-partner. You yearned for more, but his lifestyle didn’t exactly allow for that. You knew he had a few hoes in rotation and due to the openness of you alls friendship you knew that lifestyle wasn’t changing soon.
|“I’m not even sure what you’re on abt rn, but I don’t I owe you an explanation.”
Steve stirred beside you on the bed, long fingers still wrapped around your waist. His shirt smelled like Dior Sauvage and backwoods.
“You texting your professor again?” he murmured, his voice cracked and lazy.
You passed him the blunt.
“Yes, he’s conversing with me about this new book, you know how nerdy he gets”
“I know, I know—tell him to stop texting you,” he said, half-laughing as he kissed your neck.
|”You should probably whatever party youre at. You have a midterm tomorrow.”
He was always in the mix, he knew too much. Definition of being too comfortable.
“Why are you worried about me,” you muttered aloud, thumbs tapping.
Steve looked down at you, trying to look down at your phone but you kept adjusting yourself.
“I’m with a friend ,” you typed. “Not even at the party. What do you want?”
|“I really am sorry for all I said Y/N.”
Steve leaned up, peering over your shoulder. “What did he just say?”
You locked your phone fast, tucking it face-down into the blanket folds. “Doesn’t matter.” You turned into Steve’s chest. He kissed the top of your head like a habit. “You really are my best friend, Y/N.” Your stomach dipped a little. “Oh,” you whispered. “Yeah. I guess you’re mine too.”His words stung, pulling you out of your cross fade induced delusion. You needed to feel wanted and you knew just who to text.
Your phone was already unlocked again. And before you could fully think—
|“You wanna come over later?”
You didn’t wait for a reply.
You stood in your dorm bathroom, hand braced on the sink, hair slightly frizzed, makeup ghosting under your eyes. You stared at your reflection like it wasn’t yours. God you had to stop using alcohol as a coping mechanism. “I don’t even need niggas,” you slurred, chuckling to yourself. “On my soul!.” You drank tap water from the sink in your palm, shivering a little from the cold. “It’d be so fucking funny if I just dropped out,” you said, shaking your head, laughing a little too hard. You wiped tears that hadn’t finished falling and stepped out into the dark dorm room.
The knock came before you could reach your bed.
“Who is it?” you snapped.
“Come in!” you called, not expecting anything but drama.
Wearing a hoodie that sagged too much at the elbows, a plain tee under it, socks half-off his heels like he rushed over. He didn’t even look smug. Just... tired.
You rolled your eyes. “Why are you here?”
He looked at you. Not your outfit. Not your legs. You.
You scoffed. “Because I fucking can be, Tyler.”
He stepped inside, uninvited, like he belonged there.
“You came all the way over here to scold me?” you said. “Do you have a kink for making me feel bad?”
He closed the door gently.
“I didn’t want our—companionship—.” You watched as Tyler found the right words “To affect you like this considering how—“
You crossed your arms, wobbled slightly. “You think this is about us ending?”
He sat on the edge of your bed.
“You were always quiet,” he started. “In class. But your posts... they went off. You had the range. And I’d be like—‘damn, where is this girl in my class?’ Then that one essay—”
“Oh my God,” you groaned.
“No, I’m serious,” he said. “That one about Bell Hooks and Nina Simone. You said something about beauty and weaponization. I read it twice. Printed it out.”
You blinked. “Congrats you printed it out ”
“And then I had to challenge you in class. Couldn’t help it. I needed you to talk back.”
“You embarrassed me,” you snapped. “That wasn’t powerful.”
“You asked me to stay after class like a goddamn guidance counselor.”
“And you stayed,” he said softly.
Tyler stood up now, inches from you. You could smell weed and patchouli and his fabric softener.
“You really got me fucked up,” you whispered.
“You didn’t ask me anything,” you said. “Not about what people were saying. Not about why. You just made me your little secret and called it a day. And then you shamed me…”
“Do you know how that makes girls feel? Do you know how that makes me feel. I was honored when you took an interest in me”
“I’m well aware I wanted you too, but it was because I thought we had a connection.” You nervously bit your lips “So used to dealing with dumb dumbs and here you come and you’re just like the rest”
“I am not your fantasy, Tyler.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said, voice cracking a little. “Y’all never do.”
He reached out like he might touch your wrist, but stopped.
“I’m not used to this,” he said again. “Any of this, failing to resist blurring the lines with my goddamn age mate”
“Listening to rumors, and silently holding them against you because I was infatuated with you…and I couldn’t believe it”
“Congratulations, a rumor ruined the perfect shy image of me you had in your head, and so you proceeded to deflower me like the whore you predicted me to be.”
Then—without thinking, maybe—he sat down again, and you followed, slumped next to him. Silence stretched out until it suffocated you both.
Tyler’s eyes dropped to the floor, he swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have listened.”
You nodded. “No you shouldn’t have— but what’s done is done.”
“You wanna stay here?” you asked, finally. Voice barely above a whisper.
He looked up, unsure if he was hearing right.
“Not like that,” you said. “Just... I don’t feel like being alone.”
You pulled your hoodie tighter around yourself. Laid back against the bed. He followed, slowly, like if he moved too fast it might break something.
And when he kissed your forehead this time, it didn’t feel like Steve’s.
Because it meant something. Tyler filled a hole in you that no one else could, he kept you intellectually stimulated. He provoked thought in positive ways, something you’d never experienced. You alls entire existence was problematic
“I wanna start over” He cooed, his hands rubbing all over your body. A sense of comfort washing over you, flashbacks of all the laughs and posts you all shared.
You nodded, “We already did”
