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Dick is at a disadvantage amongst all his peers the instant he sets foot on the campus of Hudson University, starting his college career at sixteen instead of the usual eighteen.
It's only a two-year difference, and thus doesn't really matter at all in Dick's mind, but for some reason all the other students seem to forget they were all sixteen like a year and a half ago and there really is no big difference between them. So what if Dick tested into a higher grade when he started living with Bruce? He graduated high school just like the rest of them. Went to prom, went to parties on weekends, fooled around with his friends, just like every other person. Does nineteen months really make any level of difference in the grand scheme of things?
Dick doesn't think so, even if Bruce still fucking hovers like Dick's a child, even if his future classmates during Welcome Week stare at him like he's from another planet when he lets slip about his age. One girl even calls out "A baby!" with a gasp and an immediate hug around Dick's shoulders, which just, god. He doesn't get why this is such a big deal. He's just as much of an adult as all the rest of them.
Maybe that's why he throws himself so whole-heartedly into getting the patented college experience. He has to prove it to them, to himself, show everybody that he's not a fucking child. He can party with the best of them—hell, you don't grow up around rich, entitled teens unused to hearing the word 'no' and not get familiar with ragers—and so Dick does, starting his time as Hudson with a bang.
He acts confident and sure of himself in classes, too, to try to communicate the same thing to his classmates and professors. He channels the older-than-his-years vibe that grownups used to say he had when he was younger (even though Bruce used to say that was code for less-than-moral adults wanting him to think of himself that way so they could take advantage or simply excuse their own bad behavior). He smiles the cocksure smile he learned from Bruce, projects his voice the way the board members always do when they want Bruce's attention, and finds everyone responding to him, treating him like an equal instead of some kid.
He flirts with juniors and dances with freshmen and makes dirty jokes to the people becoming his friends and, slowly but surely, the stink of being sixteen seems to wash off of him, leaving behind a college student just like any other.
And he finds that he...really likes the way they treat him, when he acts like he's even older than all of them with enough confidence that they can't help but see him as an old soul, see him as far more mature, like a few measly years don't matter at all. So he keeps it up; he drinks a lot during parties, and he makes out with boys and girls in any number of grades, and he winks at teachers that aren't his own, and he talks to his professors with the casual air of someone used to conversing like this.
Second semester comes quickly enough, bringing with it a new round of classmates and professors. And he keeps going as he has been, settling quite nicely into his role at Hudson, but sprint semester brings with it one very notable change: Dick now has Slade Wilson as his professor.
Dick's heard about Professor Wilson before, because you can't spend your time around upperclassmen—especially upperclassmen girls—and not have been given a fucking play by play of Wilson's time at Hudson.
Wilson started working at HU four years ago and teaches various classes in the humanities department as well as coaching the school's basketball team. He has a reputation for being a shrewd grader, but not unfair, and tends to lecture during his class but his lectures aren't dull like so many professors' can be. He also, according to the girls, is the hottest fucking teacher they've ever seen.
There are also a few rumors that the man had an affair (or two) with some student or another, but Dick's also heard that about, like, every mildly attractive professor, so he's pretty sure that's just a bunch of people wishing they could fulfill a porno stereotype.
Dick enters Professor Wilson's class for the first time and instantly understands exactly why those rumors would get started, and why so many people gushed about the guy to Dick—Wilson really is the hottest teacher Dick's ever seen.
The man doesn't look like he should be a teacher, shouldn't be walking through the halls of a college and giving lectures and grading homework. He is big, tall as fuck and extremely muscled to boot, with a severe countenance and practical clothes that would be better suited at a military academy than a professorship in New York. And, oh yeah, he only has one fucking eye, the other covered by a black eyepatch.
Dick can feel himself staring as he takes his seat, eyes a little wide, and he shakes himself roughly. It's not like Dick's never seen a hot person before—hell, not even the first hot teacher he's come into contact with. For fuck's sake, he's even tried his hand at flirting with some professors before, as part of his whole I'm An Adult mission in fall semester. He can pull his shit together.
Those assurances make Dick smile, an idea unfolding in his head. He's never flirted with one of his own professors before, just those from other departments, but given none of his professors have looked like they could lift Dick single-handed and pin him to the wall with the other.
It's all harmless, anyhow. None of the professors ever took him seriously about his flirtatious comments, only rolled their eyes or chuckled or looked amused or gently brushed him off, but they sure as hell didn't look at him like a kid, right? Professor Wilson won't either, if Dick's coming onto him like a grown ass man. Because Dick's not a fucking child.
And besides, it'll be really fun.
Professor Wilson introduces himself as soon as all of the students have filed in, then gives a brief overview of the course and his expectations. His voice is a low baritone, his words coming out in a lazy drawl like he has all the time in the world, and Dick's toes curl as he imagines hearing that voice in bed. Jesus fuck, yeah, Dick definitely understands why so many students have formed crushes on Wilson, the guy is fucking made for every terrible fantasy you could have.
He gives them all a brief assignment, just to test their base knowledge on the topics, and then comes around to collect the papers one by one after everyone's done, giving each student a chance to introduce themselves to him in turn and tell him anything he might need to know about them for class.
When Wilson gets to Dick, Dick smiles the bright, charming smile he learned from Bruce that makes all the high-society girls swoon, and says, "Hi, I'm Dick Grayson. But you can call me absolutely anything you like."
It's not supposed to be a good line, it's ridiculous on purpose because the entire concept of flirting with a professor is ridiculous, and Wilson seems to agree with Dick's rating of it because he raises an unimpressed eyebrow. In a dry tone, he says, "You'll need better material than that, Grayson."
Dick's smile widens to a grin, delighted that Wilson engaged a little, didn't just frown at him stoically or whatever. "High standards, huh? I'm sure you'll find I can rise to the occasion."
Wilson snorts. Dick can't tell if it's amusement or derision but he's unbothered by it either way, simply winking at the fucking silver fox looming over him like this is nothing, like Dick's simply an adult breezing through life, having a good time where it suits him.
Wilson moves on without acknowledging the wink, but Dick doesn't mind. It's all harmless, just a bit of fun. If Wilson doesn't like it he'll tell Dick to knock it off, and if it doesn't bother him then Dick can enjoy his time in Wilson's class a little more wholly than he would otherwise. Who said required electives couldn't be a good time?
Dick has Professor Wilson's class three times a week, and those hour and a half blocks of time quickly become the highlight of his days.
He learns to read the professor better the more time he spends with him, starts being able to draw out the dry humor and sharp wit the guy hides under an exterior of being perpetually serious and unimpressed with the masses. He starts making a game of finding the best flirtatious comments he can make to get a reaction, whether positive or negative. Every eye roll, every snort, every vague glimmer in Wilson's eye, Dick eats it all up and keeps coming back for more.
Wilson keeps humoring Dick, certainly far longer than any of the other professors ever did. He hasn't reported Dick for improper conduct, hasn't called him to his office to discuss Dick's behavior, hasn't even snapped at him in class to knock it off like he's done when other students were messing around.
It makes Dick bolder, the longer Wilson doesn't stop him or reprimand him. He's having a good time, and clearly Wilson is, like, amused by him or whatever, so Wilson's having a good enough time too, and it's really just a fun way to pass the hours. So he keeps pushing it, keeps getting bolder. He lets his tone dip to something suggestive even on innocuous statements, lets his flirtations veer more and more into the intimate than surface level shit, lets himself bat his eyelashes and grin roguishly any time Wilson is close.
His friends, when he tells him about all this shit, live vicariously through him. He's not the only student who's beaten one out to the idea of Professor Wilson, so they eat up how far Dick can push it, hanging on his every word as he describes Wilson's reactions to him.
"I think we found the next student who's going to have an affair with the hot teacher," one of his friends giggles, drawing a chorus of laughter with her, and Dick rolls his eyes because yeah, no, never going to happen. Wilson's a professor, and despite the fantasies people have and spin into rumor, he's still a fucking professor. Professors don't do shit like that in real life, least of all the oh-so-serious Slade Wilson.
"I wish," Dick says with a grin, all too happy to egg them all on. Hell, if they're seeing him as a viable hookup for Wilson, then they've definitely started seeing him as a fully-blown adult, right? He's fucking winning. "You seen those arms? The things he could do to me with them."
Everyone laughs, adding in their own comments, their own desires, and it all stays with Dick the next time he heads into Professor Wilson's class.
"You ever tire of moving your mouth?" Wilson asks one day, after Dick's made a very particular comment about the size of Wilson's feet and what good things that says about other parts of his anatomy.
"Nope," Dick says, smirking. "I have it on good authority that my mouth is very skilled, and is absolutely at its best when it is moving. How can I tire of that?"
Wilson shakes his head. "You keep talking this way to people, and eventually someone's going to make you put up or shut up."
Dick's jaw drops open, shock running through him, but he's quickly grinning again, absolutely delighted. Wilson bantering back with him? Oh man, this just got so much more fun! Games are always better when two people are playing, and if Wilson's going to snark back at him then Dick's time just got a lot more interesting.
Wilson's lips twitch, clearly pleased with how dumbfounded Dick looked for a second, and then rolls his eyes when Dick says, "Ooooh, promises, promises. You gonna put me in my place, Professor?"
Wilson moves on without acknowledging that line, but as he's heading over to check on another student's work Dick thinks he hears the man say, "Someone should."
He has to be hearing things, though. There's no way his professor actually just said that about him. So, Dick pushes it from his mind.
Dick was absolutely right—the game gets much more fun from that point on.
Professor Wilson, clearly having come to the determination that Dick's comments are harmless fun and not to be worried over, starts engaging with him more. His responses are a lot less obvious than Dick's own, a lot less bold, but that's to be expected—after all, Wilson's a professor, he can't flat out say Dick's ass looks good like Dick has commented on how lickable Wilson's arms seem.
No, his comments are more reactionary, more subtle, and Dick enjoys them all the more, like it's a secret just for him. Dick jokes about his talented tongue and all the things it can do and Wilson dryly responds, "I'll have to see the reviews first."
Dick talks about what a talented gymnast he is, and all the applications of those skills, and Wilson's tone is completely offhand when he says, "I'm sure you had a packed house to watch you do your little routines."
Dick says what he wouldn't give to have those large, strong hands near his throat and Wilson doesn't even look up from his laptop when he says, "You'd have to ask nicely first."
It's thrilling, making Dick's heart race every time Wilson responds with anything bigger than a grunt or eye roll. It feels—illicit, and that makes it even more enticing, a weird sort of anxiety-excitement surging through his chest whenever Wilson talks to him like that. He knows Wilson isn't technically supposed to, that speaking to a student like this is a no-go, but it's not like Wilson's harassing him—hell, Dick's the one whose behavior probably could've been considered harassment. Wilson's just...bantering. Just joking with him.
It's not something Dick's ever experienced before. He's dated, of course he has, but that was always other kids at school, in his grade or within a year of it. He's definitely had a lot of people flirt with him, too, from a wide spectrum of life stages. But this is the first time a man in his late-forties or early-fifties looked at Dick with something intense and drawled out some comments that would've had Bruce sputtering.
Everything about this is harmless. Just a bit of fun. But when Wilson's sole blue eye is laser-focused on him and borderline filthy shit is falling from his mouth, well, Dick can't help the way his heart races, his breath quickens. It's excitement and anxiety all rolled into one, like standing on the edge of a cliff with no guardrail to keep you safe. Just you and the danger one step away.
It's just—new, is all. A new experience for Dick. But he's got this shit handled, and there's no danger. Just a little flirting while he has someone hot paying him attention. Nothing to be worried about. He started all this, anyway. He started this head-first and both feet jumping, and now they've wound up here. He's not a child who gets all wishy-washy about his own decisions. He's a fucking adult. And he and another adult are just joking with each other. They're having a great fucking time.
March rolls around, and with it some new material for Dick to try out on his professor. He makes suggestive comments about his upcoming birthday, starts listing all the dirty presents he certainly wouldn't turn down if they were being given to him by Professor Wilson. He says he really should celebrate his birthday with a bang. Or a few.
"Keep talking, kid," is Wilson's only response, and the twist of his lips is both challenge and warning all rolled into one, and it makes Dick's heart pound hard enough that he can feel it in his fucking ears.
He doesn't know what Wilson means. He doesn't know why this comment feels different, why it in particular is lingering in his brain long after class ends, following him home, running through his mind again and again as he lies down to sleep. Keep talking, kid, Wilson said, and it's such an innocuous statement, so fucking tame, not even close to some of Wilson's occasionally "out there" responses to Dick's flirting. It's nothing. It should be nothing.
He has class with Professor Wilson the day before his birthday. There's a strange tension in the air, a sort of...anticipation in Dick's gut, making him feel off-balance enough that he's not as bold as he usually would be. Wilson doesn't seem to mind, doesn't comment on Dick's different attitude, doesn't act like anything's different at all. It makes Dick feel a little crazy; is this tension all in his head? Is he making way too much out of nothing?
Keep talking, kid. Those words don't mean anything, they're such fucking average words that Dick should've already forgotten about them. Wilson's said far more obvious shit before, shit that would've gotten him a side-eye if anyone overheard him. There's nothing special about those words. Dick needs to chill the fuck out.
"I'm having office hours tomorrow," Professor Wilson tells him at the end of class, freezing Dick where he's packing up his bag. Wilson arches an eyebrow at his response, but doesn't acknowledge it otherwise, instead saying, "Four to six. You should stop by."
Dick blinks at him for a moment, the words you should stop by echoing in his brain, and then he summons enough of himself to grin back at Wilson, cocking a hip out. "Oh, Professor Wilson, I'm so flattered—you want to talk with me?"
He says it in the same way he's said many similar comments before, suggestive and inappropriate, and all he gets from Wilson in response is a smirk before the man moves away back to his desk.
Dick stares at his retreating back, pulse racing, feeling so wrong-footed but absolutely no idea why. Office hours are a completely normal thing, Professor Wilson has them at least once a week, usually more. Just because Dick's never gone before doesn't make the invitation unusual. Just because it's falling on Dick's birthday doesn't make it anything weird. Why is he reacting like something monumental just happened?
He leaves, tries his best to put it out of his mind, goes about the rest of the day pretending like he doesn't have a weird, nervous energy under his skin.
The next day unfortunately only makes it all worse. He wakes up thinking about it, goes to class thinking about it, eats lunch thinking about it. He can't sit still, his knee bouncing constantly, his fingers drumming on the table. He barely even takes note of all the people who wish him a happy birthday or the way his professors testily ask him to settle down. He keeps thinking about keep talking, kid, and you should stop by, and the way Professor was looking at him.
Dick doesn't know how to define the look Professor Wilson gave him. No one's ever given him a look like that, he couldn't even begin to describe it. All he knows is it makes his chest feel tight and his heart pound and his focus narrow in to nothing but the professor.
It's deeply unsettling. Or, no, he doesn't know if 'unsettling' is the right word, but he can't think of one better.
He also can't stop thinking about the offer. The hours continue to tick by no matter how hard Dick stares at the clock trying to make it slow down. It hits noon, then one, then two, then three, then—
Then Dick finds himself standing outside the door to Professor Wilson's office, staring at the dark wood like it holds all the answers, just as the clock ticks four.
This...this is fine, this is normal. College students go to their teachers' office hours. That's why office hours exist, so that students have a chance to talk to their professors outside of class, maybe get some help, sometimes even just shoot the shit. Hell, last semester, Dick went to his Spanish teacher's office hours every week simply because he was a cool guy to hang out with while he did homework, and he wasn't the only student to do it. This is a completely normal, common thing to do.
So why doesn't it feel like that? Why does it feel so...secretive?
Alright, so Dick's been flirting with his professor. It's been fun, he's had a good time, a lot of people have seen him as more mature because of it. Because he's not a little kid, he's fucking seventeen today and that's practically eighteen and that's an adult, just like all the rest of them. And that flirting doesn't have to make this weird. He doesn't have to make this weird. He's making this so fucking weird for no reason. There's no reason, right? There's no reason.
His heart won't stop pounding.
Swallowing heavily, Dick lifts his hand and knocks on the door, the sound seeming to echo in the hall. He glances around himself nervously, looking for any prying eyes, and then chastises himself inside his head; it doesn't matter if anyone sees him, because there's nothing wrong with what he's doing. He's going to office hours. So what if another student or a teacher sees him? This is normal.
"Come in," Professor Wilson calls from inside the office, making Dick jump. He glances around again, nerves turning in his stomach, and then pushes open the door before he can second-guess himself any more.
"Grayson," Wilson greets from where he sits behind his desk, typing on his computer. He looks up and offers Dick a slight upturn of a smile. "Very punctual."
Dick flushes without knowing why. Wilson's lips twitch again, and he says, "Shut the door, would you? Go ahead and take a seat, I'll be with you in a moment."
There's no chair in front of Professor Wilson's desk, only a hard-looking couch against one wall in front of a small table. There's an armchair in the corner behind Wilson's desk as well, Dick sees, but it currently has a jacket draped over it and it would be weird of Dick to go sit on the same side of the desk as the professor, anyway.
He sits on the couch.
Professor Wilson pays him no mind, typing away while Dick sits ramrod straight, hands folded tightly together on his knees to try to keep them from fidgeting. He thinks he should say something, anything. Maybe compliment the office, or another flirty joke like he makes in class, or...or anything, really, anything to break the silence. But he can't come up with anything good and Professor Wilson asked him to wait anyhow so he just—sits, trying to keep himself from twitching out of his skin.
He can't stop the way he jumps when he hears Wilson push back his chair, eyes darting over to the man, but Wilson only spares him a brief glance before heading over to a cabinet off to the side.
"You want something to drink?" Wilson asks, revealing a small dry bar in the cabinet. "I'm having one." Then he pauses, tilts his head, frowning faintly. "Or, no, you can't drink, can you?"
Dick's nose scrunches up with offense. "I'm not a baby," he scoffs, "I drink just fine. What do you have?"
Wilson smiles faintly, listing out the contents of the bar. It's all hard liquor, and Dick pretends that doesn't sound absolutely disgusting and requests a scotch, neat. Ha, take that—no fucking kid is ordering a goddamn neat scotch, are they?
Once the two drinks are poured, Wilson brings them over to the couch and hands one to Dick, then sits down beside him. The glass is rather full, more than a bartender puts in it when Dick's seen Bruce order something like this before, but Dick doesn't comment.
He also doesn't comment on how—close, Professor Wilson is sitting, his leg just brushing against Dick's own when the man shifts. And it's...well, the couch isn't that big, and Wilson's a big guy, so it makes sense that they'd be close. It still makes his heart pound, and he takes a large sip of his drink to settle his nerves.
It fucking burns, and doesn't taste nearly good enough to offset that horrible effect, and Dick absolutely hates it. Why do men have to drink shit like this? Why can't Dick have some fruity little drink and vibe without being looked at weird? But like hell is he going to admit any of that to a man like Professor Wilson, so he hides his reaction to the drink with a performer's skill.
He takes another sip, hoping that maybe exposure will make it better, but it doesn't. Damn, it really doesn't.
"Happy birthday, Grayson," Professor Wilson says, extending his glass, and after a moment Dick gets with the program and clinks their glasses together. He looks up to meet Wilson's eye, to say thank you, but the words die in his throat when he realizes how close their faces are to each other.
Fuck, Wilson really is huge, isn't he? It's even more obvious this close up. He has at least six inches on Dick, and that's not even getting into the sheer mass of him. Broad shoulders, muscles for fucking days—Dick could work out every day for a year and never come close to cutting a figure like that. He feels so tiny sitting here next to Wilson. God he feels warm. Is it hot in here? He feels lightheaded. He has no idea what to say.
"You good, kid?" Wilson asks, sipping from his own drink. There's less in Wilson's glass than there was in his own, Dick notes. Or, maybe Wilson's just a faster drinker. That's probably it—after all, the guy's got a little bar cart hidden in a cabinet, he probably drinks this shit far more regularly than Dick does.
"Not a kid," Dick says, catching onto the term with a grimace.
"Of course not," Professor Wilson agrees. "Seventeen—that's practically grown. And you've always been older than your years, haven't you?"
Dick grins, a little lop-sided. It feels really awesome for an imposing man like Professor Wilson to so easily say something like that about him. And Wilson's never been one to beat around the bush or lie to spare people's feelings—he always gives the full honest truth in class when talking about some student's work or another. So if he's saying this now, he actually means it.
Then there's a hand on Dick's thigh.
Dick blinks down at it stupidly. Professor Wilson's hand is large and warm, spanning the breadth of Dick's thigh with ease. His fingers are long enough to brush the couch between Dick's legs. His thumb is rubbing slow, casual circles where it rests. Even through the material of Dick's jeans, the touch feels red hot.
Dick remembers, distantly, the various comments he has made to Professor Wilson about his hands.
"How are your classes going?" Wilson asks. There's nothing off in his voice, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that says anything weird is happening like his hand being on Dick's thigh. He's talking the same way he always talks, if a little more inquisitive than he usually is about his students' lives. He's just...talking to him.
It's that complete normalcy in such a bizarre situation that has Dick responding in kind. "They—um, good, they're good. I think I've found a good balance between work for classes and having fun with friends."
"That's good," Wilson says. His hand is still there. His thumb is still rubbing. Dick can feel his pulse in his ears. His face is so warm. "The first year's always a big adjustment for students, but you seem to be handling it very well. A good head on your shoulders."
Is Dick fucking crazy? Has he lost it? Wilson's hand is on his thigh. Is this not weird as fuck?
"I, um," Dick says. "Thank you."
He takes another sip of his drink for lack of anything better to do. The contents of it are almost completely gone; shit, he drank this too fast, didn't he? Maybe that's why it feels so warm in here.
"You want to take off your jacket?" Wilson asks.
Dick blinks. "Oh," he says. And, yeah, duh, he's an idiot, of course he should've taken off his jacket. Of course doing so now will help with the warmth. "Right, yeah, 'course."
Professor Wilson's hand lifts from his thigh, and Dick lets out a shaky breath, thinking the man's going to back up a little to give Dick room to take off his jacket. But Wilson doesn't move away—he presses closer, plucking the glass from between Dick's fingers and then reaching for Dick's collar.
Dick can do nothing but sit and stare, all other reactions failing him, as Professor Wilson slowly guides Dick's jacket off his shoulders and down his arms. Dick has a t-shirt on underneath, and his breath hitches as Wilson's fingers brush down his bare arms. They're callused, showing a lifetime of physical work before he became a teacher. They tingle against Dick's skin.
It feels exceptionally intimate.
"There," Professor Wilson murmurs, setting the jacket to the side. "That's better, hm?"
Dick swallows heavily. Wilson's hand is around his wrist, thumb rubbing against the sensitive inner skin of it. He can probably feel Dick's pulse racing. His face is so close, sole eye burning into Dick.
"Yeah, yes, yeah it is. Um, Professor?" Wilson makes an acknowledging, inquiring noise. Dick takes a shaky breath and says, "What's—um, what's happening right now?"
Wilson smiles at him. There's something sharp to it, wolfish. It makes Dick tremble. "What you asked for."
Then Professor Wilson is leaning in, pulling Dick closer by the grip around his wrist, and kissing him.
Dick's kissed a good amount of people in his life, definitely a lot since starting at Hudson University. Boys, girls, and everything in between, he likes it all no matter the packaging and he's had a fun time exploring. But he's never kissed someone old enough to be his father. He's never kissed someone with scratchy, white facial hair, someone so big, someone who so effortlessly surrounds him without even trying. Professor Wilson kisses him like he wants to consume him, and Dick's mind is nothing but static as it tries its best to figure out what the fuck is happening.
"Relax," Wilson murmurs against his mouth, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? What you asked for."
And, well, yes, he...he has a point there. For months Dick has spent every class period sparing absolutely no detail about what he wanted Professor Wilson to do to him, all the things he'd do for Professor Wilson, every filthy fantasy and desire he had for this man. But it—it was all a joke, right? At least, not something he was serious about. Not something Wilson should've taken seriously. And even if he did believe Dick meant it, he shouldn't act on any of it, he's a professor!
"I—" Dick starts, but he has no clue what to say. He did say he wanted this, over and over again. He did ask Wilson for exactly this repeatedly.
And he, okay, taking stock of himself it's not like he doesn't want this, right? He finds Professor Wilson hot as hell, has masturbated more than once to the fantasy of Wilson doing something or another to him. He's been thinking about exactly this kind of shit—and desiring it—for fucking months.
So why does he feel so anxious? Why does he want to pull away? It's so...childish, to beg for something and then toss it aside as soon as you get it. The kind of shit a five-year-old would do, or any number of those immature rich assholes Dick went to school with in Gotham.
Professor Wilson starts kissing him again, and Dick tries to get with the program. He wanted this, has literally beat himself off to the concept of this. Wilson is kissing him passionately and—and pulling him onto his lap, and Dick should be ecstatic. Dick is straddling the (absolutely massive) lap of Professor Wilson, is living his fucking dream, the dream of so many students, and he should be ecstatic.
He has no fucking clue why he isn't ecstatic.
Professor Wilson starts kissing down the line of his jaw, tilting Dick's head up so he can continue his path on Dick's neck. It has Dick gasping, thin, fluttery breaths all he can manage.
"Um," Dick says, as the scratch of Wilson's goatee sends shivers through his limbs. "Sir, maybe we could—I'm not sure if—"
Professor Wilson chuckles. "Oh, I know you're not a tease, Grayson."
Dick blinks owlishly at the ceiling. "A—huh?"
One of Wilson's large hands is in the small of Dick's back, pressing him close, but the way his mouth is attacking Dick's neck forces him back, too, leaving Dick arching up against his professor like something out of a porno. Wilson's other hand is tight on Dick's hip, and Dick's own are on Wilson's shoulders because he has literally no fucking clue what he's supposed to do with them. He has no idea what he's supposed to do with any piece of himself.
"A tease," Professor Wilson says, the words rolling off his tongue like something filthy, making Dick feel even hotter than he already did. Fuck it's hot in here. His head is swimming. Could they crack a window or something? Slow this all down. "Do you know what a tease is, or are you too young?"
Dick frowns, indignation rising. "I'm not young," he snaps. Professor Wilson said it before, didn't he? Said he's practically grown. Said he's far older than his stupid years.
Wilson hums, doubtful. "You're certainly acting young, getting like this after you spent months practically begging me to bend you over." Dick chokes on air, but he's saved from having to come up with anything in reply because Wilson continues with— "A tease is a slut who gets people all fired up and then backs out at the last second. It's a childish, immature, rude thing to do. And after having you in my class for so long, I really thought I knew you better than to learn you're actually just a kid, despite your pretending otherwise."
Dick swallows heavily. He's spent so long trying to get people to respect him, to see him as an adult, an equal, to forget his younger age because he is so much more mature than all of them— "I...no, I'm not a kid."
"So you're not going to be a tease?" Wilson asks. His fingers around Dick's hip slip under his shirt, burning hot against his skin and making Dick's breathing hitch. "You're not going to whine and complain at the finish line after all the shit you've pulled this semester? After all, you're an adult, right? You can put your money where your mouth is."
Dick can't do anything but nod, anxiety surging in his chest and making his stomach roll.
Professor Wilson smiles at him, sharp and pleased, and says, "Good boy. Now, take this shirt off."
Heart pounding, Dick silently obeys. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, but he doesn't hesitate, tugging it over his head and then tossing it to the side somewhere. He has to fight the urge to cover his chest, feeling silly for wanting to. He's not a fucking kid. And it's not like this is the first time he's ever been shirtless with another person, not even close. He looks good and he knows it. Why the hell should this be different?
"Gorgeous," Professor Wilson says, blue eye heated as it drags over Dick's newly revealed skin. Dick tries to smile, tries to draw up that cocksure smile he always found so easily in class when he was flirting with Professor Wilson, and he isn't sure how well he succeeds. It's not like it matters, anyway; right now, Wilson isn't looking at his face. "You're fucking gorgeous, Grayson."
"Thank you," Dick says automatically. Professor Wilson's hands feel even larger against his bare skin, and they roam over Dick's body like they have all the time in the world. It's almost...proprietary, and Dick holds still under the attention and pretends his heart isn't pounding out of his chest. He's not a tease. He's not a kid. He asked for this.
Wilson drags him into another kiss with bruising force, one hand clamped down over the nape of Dick's neck to move him how he pleases. Dick does his best to keep up, using his kissing skills to the best of his ability, but honestly the most Dick can do is just let Wilson overwhelm him.
Professor Wilson's other hand slides under Dick's ass, and then the world is shifting around them, everything going blurry, making Dick's head spin and his stomach threaten to rebel. When everything settles, when Dick feels like he can breathe without the office twirling around him, he finds that Professor Wilson has moved their positioning. Now, Dick's on his back on the couch with Wilson hovering over him, kneeling between Dick's spread thighs.
Dick swallows down his instinctive panic. He doesn't need to be panicked. He—this is what he wanted. He wanted this.
"So good for me," Professor Wilson says. "You going to keep being good for me, Grayson? We done with the hysterics?"
Hysterics? Dick wouldn't call his hesitation from before hysterics. Fuck, was it hysterics? Did he overreact more than he thought he did? He doesn't think so, but Wilson said that so factually, like Dick's response earlier was dramatic. He—he isn't sure. He feels so dizzy. None of this feels quite real; maybe Wilson's right. Maybe Dick's memory is too fuzzy. Everything's starting to feel a little fuzzy, honestly.
"I'm okay," Dick says, because he's not sure what else there is to say to that. He wanted this. He asked for it.
"Good boy," Wilson says, kissing his neck, and that's...that's rather nice, actually. The gentle kisses, the compliments, Dick likes that. But it's hard to just enjoy it when there's a behemoth of a man over him, caging him in, forcing him to—
No, no, Professor Wilson isn't forcing him into anything. Dick hasn't told him to stop, hasn't said anything like that. Dick's fine. He wanted this. He wanted this. He dreamed about it, fantasized it, described it in intense detail to Professor Wilson and a lot of his friends. He told Wilson he wanted him to fuck Dick for his birthday, said he wanted a bang. Wilson's just giving Dick what he asked for.
Professor Wilson grinds down against him, making Dick let out a strangled noise as he feels the large, hard bulge in his pants roll against him. Wilson does it again and again, letting out low, pleased noises, and heat stirs in Dick's gut. It makes everything worse—he is so warm, so overwhelmingly warm, and everything feels like it's spinning or blurring around him. He feels like he can't breathe.
Dick feels fingers on his stomach, trailing down, and then the button and zipper of his jeans are being undone. His breath quickens as, seconds later, Professor Wilson is drawing backwards and taking Dick's jeans and underwear with him.
Suddenly naked, with his professor kneeling over him looking at him with intense hunger, Dick has to fight the urge to curl in on himself.
Professor Wilson doesn't give him a chance to do anything at all, instead moving back down and capturing Dick's mouth in a passionate kiss, rolling his hips against Dick's own. The material of Professor Wilson's pants and shirt against his completely bare skin isn't bad but it doesn't make Dick feel good, either. He feels terribly exposed, vulnerable. He feels—young, in comparison to the man on top of him. He doesn't like the feeling.
Professor Wilson reaches outward, and there's a click of a cap popping off something, and Dick's breathing starts to pick up because he can understand what it is, where this is going.
He wanted this. He asked for this. He practically begged for it. He's not a tease. Professor Wilson is giving him exactly what he asked him to.
"Spread your legs a little more for me—yeah, just like that, good boy," Professor Wilson says, sitting back on his heels as he coats one of his fingers in lube. Dick's legs are flared out wide, wide enough that they'll be sore by the time this is all done, with one knee crooked up over the back off the couch and the other hanging over the edge, baring him completely for whatever Professor Wilson wants to do to him.
It is—scary. Dick doesn't know why, this should be amazing. But it's...it's scary. He has to concentrate on breathing so he doesn't hyperventilate. No more hysterics.
Professor Wilson strokes his thigh soothingly as his other hand reaches lower, and then a large, slick finger is pressing at Dick's entrance.
It's cold, making Dick jump, and he does his best to stay still after that. This isn't the first time he's had fingers in his ass, won't even be the first time he's been fucked, but a single one of Professor Wilson's fingers is already so—big. If that's just one fucking finger, what is it going to feel like when it goes inside of him?
(Dick remembers, distantly, making jokes about how huge Wilson is, and what that would mean for what he's hiding in his pants. He remembers wistfully saying he hopes it's bigger than his arm. The thought of that now is—it's—he just—)
He breathes with the motions of Professor Wilson's finger the best he can, inhaling on every thrust, exhaling on every draw back. It helps center him a little, helps everything feel a little less out of his control than this entire whirlwind has. Even though that's stupid, because—because Dick asked for this. He's not out of control. He's—he's just—he's not.
When he's relaxed a little, the finger having done its job, Professor Wilson adds another. That is...more uncomfortable, making Dick grimace, but he stares at the ceiling and tries to stay calm and breathe and relax because this is all fine, it's good, they—they both want this so everything's fine.
Two fingers become three. Dick squeezes his eyes shut, breathing shakily, screaming at himself inside his head to not fucking cry. He's not a child, not a whiny baby. He's not even a virgin. He's not going to be an immature rude tease. He asked Professor Wilson to fuck him, and now that's what he's doing. That's it. He is not going to cry he is not going to cry he is not.
Three fingers become four. Dick feels so full, stretched to the brim. How is this only his fingers? How the fuck is Dick as full as he is right now, and it's only Wilson's fingers? He can't do this. How is he doing this?
"Look at how well you take me," Professor Wilson says, voice rough with lust. "Sucking my fingers right in like you're desperate for it." He chuckles. "You are, aren't you? The way you've been acting. Talking about your fucking ass, your gymnastics background, showing off your lack of gag reflex with a fucking banana..."
Dick's cheeks burn. He—yeah, he did do that. He...it was funny. It was exciting. It made him laugh, when Wilson rolled his eyes. It was just—it—it was just a joke.
It wasn't a joke to Professor Wilson, clearly. And it doesn't feel like a joke now.
"We'll have to test that another time," Wilson promises. "But for now..."
He pulls his fingers out, reaching for his belt. Dick sucks in a sharp breath, eyes flaring wide—which only get wider when Professor Wilson pulls his cock out and proves just how proportional he really is. The thing's the size of a flagpole. There's no way that's going to fit inside of Dick, not even with the stretching. That's—that's going to hurt, fuck it really is he can just tell. There's no goddamn way he can take it.
"No, no, no, no, no," Dick gasps, wiggling away the best he can as Professor Wilson begins guiding his cock towards Dick's entrance. "No, wait, wait—"
Wilson huffs an annoyed breath, one hand clamping down hard on Dick's thigh to keep his in place while the other one holds his cock. "You're going to be fine, Grayson, just breathe. You're not seriously going to stop us now, are you? After this whole song and dance? After you were just writhing on my fingers?"
Was he? Dick doesn't remember doing— It doesn't matter right now.
"Please, just, hold on," Dick says, gaze darting around desperately. "That's—you're really big and I'm not and I—I don't want—it's gonna—please—"
Professor Wilson's eye narrows, but it doesn't look angry; it looks...calculating.
"Alright," Wilson says, easing back slightly. Dick stares at him, disbelieving. "I thought you were strong enough to handle it, but if you're not, then you're not."
That stabs at Dick's chest, and he twists his mouth against the urge to cry at how fucking pathetic he feels. He feels so fucking terrible right now. He hates this.
Professor Wilson reaches for Dick's thighs and begins moving him. Dick, utterly confused, doesn't fight as his legs are pressed together, his ankles thrown over one of Wilson's shoulders. Dick's arms curl up against his chest, confused as Wilson reaches for the lube bottle again.
"What are you doing?" Dick asks nervously. With his legs lined up together like this, it's not exactly prime positioning if Wilson were to try to fuck him again. He's definitely nowhere close to Dick's mouth, if he was deciding to test his gag reflex after all. And then he's...slicking Dick's thighs with lube?
Professor Wilson grins at him, sharp and pleased. "Just lie there like a good little boy, hm? If you're bitching out of asking me to fuck your ass, then I'm gonna show you something else—won't hurt at all. Unless you're selfish enough put a stop to this now?"
Dick swallows. He shakes his head mutely. Professor Wilson nods, satisfied, and says, "Keep your legs together tight, you hear me? Tight."
Dick clenches as requested, pressing his legs together in a firm line, no matter how weird this seems. Professor Wilson gives a pleased hum and then shifts into a higher kneel. One of his hands goes up to wrap around Dick's ankles, tight enough to bruise, holding him in place.
When Professor Wilson begins guiding his cock forward, Dick panics instinctively, but it only lasts a moment before Wilson's cock is pushing between Dick's slick, tight thighs.
"Oh," Dick gasps, in tandem with Professor Wilson's grunt of pleasure. His hand tightens even further around Dick's ankles, and he rolls his hips, drawing his cock back then forward again. He picks up speed, thrusting hard. Dick watches, dazed, as Wilson's large cock fucks between his thighs, appearing and disappearing in an almost comical way.
Dick has to swallow the urge to laugh. He doesn't know where it comes from, but he just barely stops himself from bursting into giggles.
"That feel good?" Professor Wilson asks, and Dick realizes he's grinning a little loopily.
But now that Wilson mentioned it—Yeah, this does feel good. It's the strangest sensation, and not something he's experienced before. He's never had someone fuck his thighs. It's weird as shit but, yes, it's...nice. Doesn't hurt, only the smooth, wet glide of a hard cock against his skin. And with every thrust, Professor Wilson's cock rubs against Dick's own, which brings with it its own sparks of pleasure.
This is—okay, yeah, this is great. This entire thing has really turned around. His head feels really fucking floaty and there's a strange sort of humor bubbling in his gut and Professor Wilson's cock fucking his thighs is hot as hell. His body feels relaxed and easy, his arms falling away from his chest to instead sprawl loosely to either side of him. This is...yeah, this is good. Weird as fuck, but good. Much better than the way this all seemed to be going.
Professor Wilson smirks down at him, pupil blown wide with lust. "About fucking time that triple chilled you out. Feeling good, Grayson? You like feeling my cock fucking your thighs?"
"Yeah," Dick says breathlessly. "Whoever came up with this is a genius."
Professor Wilson laughs, smile widening. He doesn't say anything in response, just keeps thrusting, groaning with pleasure. After a minute, he reaches around and starts stroking Dick's cock with his slick palm, and Dick moans, hips jerking uncoordinatedly as Wilson begins jerking him off.
"You like this, like me fucking you?" Professor Wilson pants. Dick nods vaguely, moaning. "Tell me, boy. Tell me you want me to fuck you."
"Fuck me," Dick says easily, groaning in appreciation when Wilson's hand tightens around his cock, almost like a reward. "I like—I want you to fuck me."
Professor Wilson's hand tightens even further around his ankles, tight enough to hurt, but Dick barely takes note of that, his brain fuzzed over, focused on the wonderful way Wilson's hand is moving around his cock. He barely notices Wilson lifting his lower half, dragging him closer. Doesn't even take note of Wilson's cock vanishing from between his thighs as his ass is pulled up onto Wilson's lap.
The sensation of something pressing against his ass is confusing at first, an oddity that Dick can't unravel. But it keeps pressing, insistent, forcing itself against Dick's hole and then popping through the ring of muscles.
The head of Professor Wilson's cock, Dick realizes. Professor Wilson is forcing his cock inside of him.
Dick mewls a protesting sound, thrashing uncoordinatedly. He doesn't budge an itch, Wilson's grip on him rock solid, easily keeping Dick in place as he begins shoving in inch by inch.
"Why?" Dick groans. "No, I said—I said no, why—no, take it out—"
"You just begged me to fuck you, Grayson," Professor Wilson says, not stopping, not pausing. "You can't say something like that and then change your mind ten seconds later."
What is he—no, Dick said—he thought—no, Dick was saying he wanted Wilson to fuck his thighs, that's what Wilson implied. Wasn't it? Did Dick misunderstand? He can't remember exactly what Wilson said. It's—it's hard to think—
The press of Professor Wilson's cock is unbearable. He's so large, carving Dick open around him, forcing Dick's body to bend to his wishes. Dick has never felt anything like this before, never been full like this before, like his insides are completely taken up by somebody else. Dick keeps thinking it's going to end, that it has to end, but it keeps coming. How does it keep coming?
"There," Professor Wilson breathes, when his hips are pressed flush with Dick's ass. He's—he's completely inside Dick. That gigantic fucking flagpole is inside Dick. "Told you that you could take it. Goddamn, just look at you. Stunning."
Dick stares up at him, uncomprehending. He can feel tears leaking down the sides of his face. His entire lower body is throbbing, radiating with a burning ache that is getting stronger the longer Professor Wilson's cock is inside of him. It feels like it should've been impossible. It feels like it shouldn't be happening. Dick doesn't want it to be happening.
Dick can't find any words; he can only do his best to breathe and not pass out.
Professor Wilson slowly draws back, and Dick's breathing stutters, gasping for air. It doesn't feel any better going out than it did going in, just as large, just as forceful. Wilson pulls out until it's just the head of his cock inside the puckered ring of Dick's hole, and then, faster than Dick thought possible, he slams back inside.
Dick howls, and finds a hand instantly slapping down over his mouth. Professor Wilson grins at him, starting to fuck him fast and hard, snapping his hips with brutal speed, forcing his cock in again and again and again with no mercy, no consideration, no gentleness.
"Careful," Professor Wilson says. "You wouldn't want anyone to come looking, would you? Quite the unfortunate position for a student to be found in."
Dick groans against the hand, helpless to do anything else. He doesn't understand what's happening, doesn't understand how he got to this point. He's naked on his back in a school building while his professor holds him still and fucks his ass with the abandon of a wild animal taking his fill.
Is this what being an adult is? Dick doesn't know if he wants to be one anymore.
"You look so fucking good," Professor Wilson snarls, eye hooded. "I should've had you like this ages ago, fuck. Bent you over your stupid little desk and shown you what happens to mouthy little brats who think they can play with the big dogs. Not such a tease now, are you? My good little slut."
Professor Wilson's new positioning bent over him to keep his hand on Dick's mouth gives him a new angle to fuck, letting him deeper inside of Dick, deeper than he thought a person could go. Wilson maintains eye contact with him as he thrusts again and again, his hunger obvious, his smile a shade too sharp. Dick can do nothing but lie there and take it.
There's no way this is real.
Professor Wilson's free hand wraps around Dick's cock again, moving in tandem with his thrusts. It's too fast, too hard, not right, but it gets Dick fully hard nonetheless, even while frustrated tears well in his eyes. The pleasure builds and builds and with a helpless moan Dick comes all over Professor Wilson's fist.
He gasps for air, not getting enough of it, the room spinning. And Professor Wilson keeps fucking him, doesn't slow down, doesn't even hesitate. It isn't long before it begins to hurt, more than before, Dick's body feeling too raw in the wake of his orgasm, Professor Wilson's thrusts now too much too much too much.
"You can take it," Wilson grunts. "Fuck, you're gonna take it. Look at you, kid. Fucking gorgeous."
Dick whines against the palm keeping him mute, and there's a flash of a smile across Professor Wilson's face before his hand's moving, three fingers instead being thrust into his mouth.
"I've been neglecting this piece of you," Wilson purrs, thrusting his fingers over Dick's tongue, chuckling when he hits the back of Dick's throat and makes him gag. "That's a crime. With a mouth as reportedly skilled as yours, it's better put to use, hm?"
Dick can only whine again, and Professor Wilson groans, snapping his hips hard. "Suck, boy. Go on, suck on my fingers like you will my cock."
Dick closes his eyes, tears leaking from the corners, and does as he's told, hollowing his cheeks to suck on his teacher's fingers, swirling his tongue around them, trying not to gag when they thrust too far.
"Oh good boy," Professor Wilson growls. His thrusts pick up in speed, sending terrible sparks of pain-pleasure-pain up Dick's spine that he's helpless to do anything about but lie there and feel it, feel whatever Professor Wilson decides to give him.
Dick doesn't know how long it's been when Wilson's groans get deeper in pitch, his hips picking up in speed, until he's grinding hard and deep inside of Dick's ass, fingers shoved deep in Dick's mouth. And, just like that, surrounding Dick completely, Professor Wilson comes inside of him, filling Dick up with his release.
Professor Wilson fucks through his orgasm, giving slow, strong rolls of his hips like he's trying to pack his cum in deeper. He presses his face to Dick's neck and hums with pleasure while he rides it out, his fingers falling still in Dick's mouth but not leaving, either, keeping his mouth and ass filled while Professor Wilson basks in the afterglow.
Eventually, Wilson lifts himself up with a grunt, pulling back. And just like that, after all of that, Dick is suddenly completely empty and alone, sprawled out on the couch while Professor Wilson gets to his feet and admires the sight before him.
"Damn," Wilson says on a breath, "you are just as good as I thought you'd be, kid. You definitely lived up to every bullshit line you fed me." He cocks an eyebrow, smirking. "How about the reverse, Grayson? My cock wreck you like you desperately wanted it to?"
He wanted this. He asked for this. That's...He did. Over and over again. Professor Wilson was giving him exactly what he asked for. He just—he—
Dick doesn't know what to say, what to think, what to feel. He's so messed up inside and he shouldn't be because what the fuck is there to be twisted up over? What is there to complain about? He spent months begging his teacher to do all manner of filthy things to him, and he came to his office and drank his alcohol, and then he made out with him and things went from one thing to another. That's—why can't he handle this? Why is he acting like such a baby over something that he wanted?
Words completely failing him, Dick can only lie there bonelessly and stare up at Professor Wilson, panting for breaths, the world fading in and out of focus.
Wilson's smile grows. He crouches by Dick's head, planting an elbow on the couch. Dick's head lolls towards him, breathless and dizzy, and Wilson strokes a hand over his hair, almost like calming a pet. Dick soaks up the kindness readily after everything that just happened, eyelids fluttering as a sigh escapes him.
"Yeah, it did," Professor Wilson murmurs, voice close and low and nearly soothing. "Well, you're welcome, kid. It wasn't exactly a strife; always a good time to have some pretty young thing squirming on my cock."
Dick's nose wrinkles at the vulgarity, but he doesn't have the energy to actually feel embarrassed or offended. Besides, he started it, didn't he? He was vulgar with Professor Wilson from the very start. Wilson now responding in kind, especially after what just happened, is...fair's fair, is all.
Kid, Dick suddenly realizes Professor Wilson said. Has said it a few times, actually. Has called him kid while fucking him. That's...Dick doesn't understand. Wilson said...way back at the start, he said Dick's not—and if he thinks Dick's so young, such a kid, then why—
"I'm not," Dick mutters.
"Not...?"
"Not a kid." It comes out so whiny, so childish, undercutting his entire point. But—but after everything they just did—after everything Wilson did—he can't call him a—he can't think he's—
There's a pause, and then a chuckle. The hand keeps stroking over his hair. "You're right, I misspoke. There's not a childish bone in your body."
It sounds...mocking. Is it mocking? Dick's so fucking tired, he can't tell.
"You're so fucked out," Professor Wilson says, marveling. Dick can hear the smile in his voice, but he can't find the energy to open his eyes. "I could get used to this sight, Grayson. You spread out like this for me—hot as hell, baby. Can't wait 'til next time."
Dick's brows furrow. Next time?
"Don't worry," comes the voice of his teacher, "this won't be the last time, I promise. There's quite a few fantasies of yours that we've yet to fulfill, right? If I'm anything, I'm a very giving professor. I still have a few things to teach you."