you're just my type | open + teacher au

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    / a little spin on the high school au cos why not


    William Harkness spun on his chair in the staff room, 'My Type' by Saint Motel blasting through his headphones. The history teacher had a free period... and was supposed to be marking tests for his students on Monday. Instead, he was listening to music, trying to avoid dancing around the room and making a complete fool of himself in front of his peers. It was one of his favourite songs - not what he would normally listen to, but it had a good beat, so he liked it. William's music taste wasn't exactly confined to a particular artist or genre.


    Spinning round rather "aggressively" the headphones were ripped from the small portable radio, causing the music to begin to blare out of the speakers. It was loud. Really loud. William cried out, hurriedly fumbling to try and turn of the music. He hunched over as he did so, rolling his non-eyepatch eye, and awkwardly turning around.


    "You're just my type... I guess."

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    ooc | highschool teacher aus are my fav, bless


    it was his first year here, and the frenchman liked to think things were going well so far. he'd only had two incidents with unruly pupils, who had been dealt with accordingly ( a certain level of respect gained as a result - apparently, children seemed to find it impressive when the friendlier teachers were pushed to to the edge and took on a more snarky persona ), and the rest had been quite peaceful. being a foreign languages teacher did have its fallbacks, however; students were often placed in his class against their will and refused to do their work, meaning it was des' job to weed out the slackers and give them some one-on-one time. he was nothing if not thorough, and it was his duty to make sure his class would provide some sort of rewarding experience. the man sighed, brushing a hand gently through his copper curls, the other holding a stack of traditional poems to his chest. the frames of his glasses were perched on the edge of his nose, beige coat draped loosely over an ironed white button-down and an excessively large black scarf looped multiple times around his neck. his jeans were dark and fitting, though to be honest, none of it was keeping him as warm as he'd like. no matter what he did, he always seemed to be freezing. hence the reason he was wandering to the teachers lounge, ready to fix himself a nice cup of microwavable cocoa.


    he had just opened the door when a sudden burst of music thundered through the room - and in his shock, the man stumbled, dropping his papers with a sharp outburst of,"merde!". hopefully not heard by any lingering outside or, heavens forbid, any of his students. oceanic hues blazed with alarm, concern and a fairly large amount of irritation. which was why he hoped - prayed - this man did not know his mother language,"c'est vraiment des conneries!" a sharp breath in, taken to force himself back into tranquility. it was difficult, however, given how badly his hands had began to tremble despite knowing he was not in danger. loud noises and des did not mix well, unfortunately. slowly, understanding began to dawn upon him; and with it, shame. a fleeting burn across his cheeks primarily from embarrassment as having been so startled over music, and another for releasing a rather violent string of curses because of,"christ, sorry, i -" whitefield shifted his gaze briefly, glancing over the history teacher, before adverting his vivid luminaries and instead focusing on the puddle of papers that now lie scattered over the tile,"forgive me, i wasnt.. i didnt expect.." breathed he, dipping his head and crouching to begin gathering his work, cutting himself off abruptly as not to seem even more of a fool than he already had made of himself, pristine teeth instead beginning to worry his lower lip.



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    [center][fancypost= width: 400px][font=helvetica][size=10][align=justify]// i live for teacher aus tbh
    they're right up next to college aus for my favorites


    Sometimes, Haiiro wondered why he had gone through so many years of college, just to be teaching at a school where impossibly obnoxious students found it absolutely hilarious to misplace the objects in his room, just to watch him fumble for where his can had been only before. Perhaps he indulged them a little bit, pretending that he couldn't hear when they sidled up to his desk to made away with his cane. Sneakers could only be so quiet, and none yet had attempted at removing their shoes before the prank. Thankfully, his assistant was always there to help him, keeping students in check when he couldn't see them, and alerting him to where things were in the room at any given time. It allowed the young man to teach what he loved to kids that he sometimes loved.


    Also thankfully, none of his students had resorted to calling him Mr. Jesus, as they had done to a previous teacher that he had seen come and go, one who wore his long hair down. Haiiro, at least, had the common sense to tie his own messy cinnamon curls into an even messier bun. While it might not be the most fashionable, it got him through the day, and gave him a distinctively 'just-barely professional' look. It probably didn't help that he taught Latin of all things, to a very small amount of high schoolers (just one class!). At least he got to know all of them fairly well, which stopped him from losing his temper in front of them, and from being in a foul mood for the rest of the day. They were just kids, after all, and if he had been able to see, Haiiro probably would have done the same thing to his teacher. As a boy, he had always been less sensitive than he was now.


    Distracted and quietly fuming from his students' latest hiding place for his cane (in the cabinet at the back of the room, laying across the top shelf), Mr. Break tapped his way through the halls and to the staff room, guided by his assistant. Even with his cane stopping him from running into obstructions, it didn't stop him from getting horribly lost in the hallways. It seemed, though, as he heard a blast of ungodly loud music, and then some shouting in French, that there was a bit of a backup. "Is everything alright?" he questioned, voice far softer now than it was around his students. At least for now, his rage was forgotten.

    tags | updated 1/21