Is Aslan The Professor Novels & Stories

Ezrene gave her answer which made the professor gave her an impressed smile. “Very good explanation, Ms. Soler but anyone else here who would like to share their views regarding Ms. Soler’s answer?” The professor asked and then found a hand getting raised in the crowd of students. “Mr Elayzer?” Professor Aylin said, a bit startled, seeing Asael's raised hand because everyone here knew who Asael Elayzer was and what kind of student he was, so seeing his willingness to answer, it stunned the professor a bit. Asael stood up on his feet which made everyone look towards him, including Ezrene.

What’s the point? Before I can spiral further, the door swings open and the room falls silent. Dean Whitmore strides in, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. Beside her stands a man I’ve never seen before. "Everyone, listen up," the dean says, her voice sharp. "Professor Langley was in a car accident last night. He’s stable, but he’ll need time to recover." A murmur ripples through the class. Jessica gasps, clutching her chest like this is a tragedy meant just for her. Jack pats her shoulder, his face twisted in fake concern.

I wonder how Professor Fortez will look like if he pouted his lips too…’ Sheesh… Tiara! Still thinking about him? I rolled my eyes. “Who is Scarlet, Professor?” I randomly asked instead, to divert my attention. “Well she is a cute little pup and she’s like you.” he answered while smiling from ear to ear. Hell what?! A pup?! He’s comparing me to a pup?! I glared at him but he just paid me his innocent gaze. The heck! “What?” he obliviously asked. “Hahaha… pft… you really look like my Scarlet. Hahaha.” he said laughing his ass out.

“Mr. Cole, Miss Lessie. The Vice Chancellor is expecting you.” She gestured toward the double doors. I took a deep breath. “This is it,” I muttered under my breath. Taide pushed the door open, and we stepped inside. Three professors were already seated: Professor Clive from Political Science, Dr. Alara from Media Studies, and of course Professor Dante. My heart nearly stopped at the sight of him. He was sitting calmly beside the others, dressed in his usual black, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in his lap.

’ I questioned myself that I didn't know when the professor stood in front of me. He slammed the book on my table, calling me back to reality. “Miss Drasa,” he added with a grin that screamed mockery, “hope your newfound fame isn’t interfering with your academics.” Laughter echoed in the room, Cassian didn’t even flinch. My fists clenched beneath the desk as I looked up to him. “Tell me,” the professor said, tapping the board immediately he walked away, “What’s the core principle behind the postcolonial narrative structure we discussed last week?”

He’s close now, he looks at me as if he’s studying me. “Higher, stretch.” His hand moving near my ribcage but not touching. “I need to see how the muscles look.” I stretch higher. His eyes track the movement of my body like he’s memorizing equations. “Turn slowly.” He takes a deep breath. “Something wrong, Professor?” “Your posture.” His voice sounds strained. “Your back curves here.” His finger runs down my back, the first time he’s touched me since I stripped. “Do you feel that?”

I can see each muscle as she flexes, her calves high and tight as she balances on her four-inch heels. Just as I am sure one more step will make me fall over dead, the professor makes one last turn before stopping before a solid wood door. On a brass placard placed at about eye level, the word with the name 'Dr. Delilah M Davis is engraved. The number 225 is listed just above it with smaller, matching bras. Pulling a key from an inner jacket pocket, she jams it into the lock, twists, and with a quiet little click it swings open. Without saying a word, Professor Davis disappears inside.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. He simply bowed his head down. The professor clapped once. “Splendid!” The quirky professor spun with a flourish, his violet coat flaring like a stage curtain. He now faced the boy standing calmly in the back—Elarion. “Now, now, now... Tower boy,” he said, tilting his head, a teasing lilt curling every word. “Would you mind disabling those delightful little explosion spells you planted on the three? Unless, of course, murdering someone is part of your morning ritual.”