#Professional Lecture Series

[flannelepicurean]

...it's about bitcoins? d

don't

i

wh

they can just...

are they buying something with bitcoins other than what ppl on ao3 can easily and eagerly give them FOR FREE, or hook them up with or

oh, it's probably drugs or something. it's probably drugs.

also, i'm gonna...i dunno, get somebody to explain tiktok to me so i can start explaining nonprofits to people. dude, i read cryptonomicon, too, okay, and like...srsly, you need a seminar. seminar, homie.

I can't believe how goofy people are being about the AO3 DDoS situation. One side of the debate is like "ah, it's probably those Nefarious Russian Hackers carrying out another false flag operation!" and the other side is like "a real hacktivist group wouldn't use this sort of fandom-centric language, so clearly the attack never happened and AO3 themselves staged it in order to make themselves look like victims!", and these are both unhinged things to believe.

Like, it's fucking 4channers. It's always fucking 4channers. Pretending to be from a random African nation is literally a meme for those guys, and who else would be dumb enough to try and hold a registered nonprofit hostage for bitcoin?

[river-taxbird]

There is no such thing as AI.

How to help the non technical and less online people in your life navigate the latest techbro grift.

I've seen other people say stuff to this effect but it's worth reiterating. Today in class, my professor was talking about a news article where a celebrity's likeness was used in an ai image without their permission. Then she mentioned a guest lecture about how AI is going to help finance professionals. Then I pointed out, those two things aren't really related.

The term AI is being used to obfuscate details about multiple semi-related technologies.

Traditionally in sci-fi, AI means artificial general intelligence like Data from star trek, or the terminator. This, I shouldn't need to say, doesn't exist. Techbros use the term AI to trick investors into funding their projects. It's largely a grift.

What is the term AI being used to obfuscate?

If you want to help the less online and less tech literate people in your life navigate the hype around AI, the best way to do it is to encourage them to change their language around AI topics.

By calling these technologies what they really are, and encouraging the people around us to know the real names, we can help lift the veil, kill the hype, and keep people safe from scams. Here are some starting points, which I am just pulling from Wikipedia. I'd highly encourage you to do your own research.

Machine learning (ML): is an umbrella term for solving problems for which development of algorithms by human programmers would be cost-prohibitive, and instead the problems are solved by helping machines "discover" their "own" algorithms, without needing to be explicitly told what to do by any human-developed algorithms. (This is the basis of most technologically people call AI)

Language model: (LM or LLM) is a probabilistic model of a natural language that can generate probabilities of a series of words, based on text corpora in one or multiple languages it was trained on. (This would be your ChatGPT.)

Generative adversarial network (GAN): is a class of machine learning framework and a prominent framework for approaching generative AI. In a GAN, two neural networks contest with each other in the form of a zero-sum game, where one agent's gain is another agent's loss. (This is the source of some AI images and deepfakes.)

Diffusion Models: Models that generate the probability distribution of a given dataset. In image generation, a neural network is trained to denoise images with added gaussian noise by learning to remove the noise. After the training is complete, it can then be used for image generation by starting with a random noise image and denoise that. (This is the more common technology behind AI images, including Dall-E and Stable Diffusion. I added this one to the post after as it was brought to my attention it is now more common than GANs.)

I know these terms are more technical, but they are also more accurate, and they can easily be explained in a way non-technical people can understand. The grifters are using language to give this technology its power, so we can use language to take it's power away and let people see it for what it really is.

[skzdarlings]

Chan with ❛ that really does make you hard. i can feel you pulsing inside me. ❜

summary: your husband is a university professor. when you sit in on one of his lectures, it gives both of you an idea...

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: husband!chan, kinky professor/student roleplay, though reader is his wife and not actually a student. dom!chan, sub!reader, degrading language (stupid, dumb, slut). corruption kink, power dynamics kink. explicit sexual content. word count: 2380 words.

part of the valentine's day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy! <3

-

Chan is giving a lecture when you reach the university.   You kill some time and grab a coffee, ambling around campus and idling in corridors until your wandering leads you to his hall.  The main doors are propped open, likely for air circulation with the spring heat, and you smile at his voice spilling into the hallway. 

It is a big lecture hall.  He is teaching a beginner level so the class is substantially large, a couple hundred freshman packed inside.  No one will notice an extra presence.  There are a few empty seats scattered across the back row so you slip inside and quietly take one. 

You like seeing Chan in his element.  Your husband is something of a chameleon, spending his down time in hoodies and baseball caps, listening to music and giggling at his own goofy jokes.  You almost forget his professional side, his prestigious and academic character.  He loves his research and his work and his students and it shows in every remark and gesticulation.  

You adore him.  His passion and intelligence never cease to amaze you.

Though right now your loving attention strays to his appearance.  You must admit: your husband is a hottie.  You suspect the tittering co-eds in the first few rows are not as interested in statistical analysis as their rapt attention might suggest.

Professor Bang Chan stands at the front of the hall, dressed down to his shirtsleeves.  His suit jacket has been tossed over the desk.  His pants are pressed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but his neat black hair is just this side of dishevelled, like he has been running his fingers through it. 

You slouch in your seat and smile a cheesy smile as you watch him work. 

He looks around the hall as he lectures, attentive to every student.   In his perusal, his eyes skim the back row.  They stop on you.   

“And that’s why we, uh, ah…” He stumbles so noticeably that a few heads turn to see what caught his eye.   He laughs and waves, drawing their attention again.  “Sorry, sorry, as I was saying…”    

Your smile only widens.  There is a little flutter in your heart as your husband looks at you with a glimmer in his eye.  You rest your head on your fist and watch the rest of the lecture without any interruption.  

You stay seated when it ends and the students file out.  Chan lingers by his desk to sort his papers.  You just admire him for a moment, then you make your way down the aisle.  He lifts his head, smiling at you.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, shrugging on his jacket.  “You’re early.” 

“Yeah, I thought traffic would be worse.”  

“Hungry?”

“Definitely, Professor,” you say.  Your original plans were dinner, but you lift an eyebrow while smirking, suggesting a different kind of hunger entirely. 

It makes him laugh, a nervous sort of laugh.  You are charmed by the tips of his ears turning red, a testament to your ability to fluster your man well into your marriage. 

“What’s wrong, Professor?” you ask, reaching up to touch his face.   “Aren’t you hungry too?”

He stares back at you for a moment.  His gaze is resolute despite his faint blush.  You cannot help your delight. 

“Ooh,” you say.  “Do you like it when I call you Professor, Professor?”

He finally takes your hand and lowers it. 

“I’m a professional,” is what he says, which is definitely not an answer to the question you asked.  He kisses your cheek before you can protest his reply, then he winks and grabs his bag.  “Come on,” he says, “I just have to put some stuff in my office.  Then we’ll go grab dinner.” 

You suspend your teasing for the time being, talking about your day as you cross campus in the sunshine.  You take the stairs up to the office floor, winding around the labyrinthine assembly of empty offices.  It is quite late in the afternoon, plenty of people seemingly packed up and gone for the day. 

He unlocks his office and lets you both in.  While he goes to his desk to sort his stuff, you close and lock the door.  He does not notice your deliberate movements, still talking about mundane nothings.  You do love your endless conversations, whether casual or important, but right now you are less preoccupied with Channie than Professor Chan.  There is something about seeing your husband like this, smart, competent, confident, and so in charge of his space. 

“Baby girl?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow at your slow, slinky approach.  “What’s up?” 

You circle the desk and lay a hand on his chest, smoothing your palm down his lapel.  You swear his eyes somehow darken, narrowing in focus, his whole expression coloured differently than before. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

“I know you’re married, Professor,” you say, blinking oh-so innocently at him.  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable… it’s just that I… I need…”

He lets you nudge him back onto the desk chair behind him.  He gazes up as you lean over him. 

“Baby,” he says, warningly, but does not move or push your hands away. 

“We’re all alone, Professor,” you say.  “The door is locked.  No one will ever find out.” 

“Ah. Is that right?” he asks, looking like he is on the verge of giggles.  He sighs instead, dropping his chin and shaking his head, playfully disappointed.  With another breath, he lifts his head, and your sweet husband dons a more predatory air.   

He does not even have to say anything, does not even have to touch you.  He just has to look at you with all that desire in his eyes, turning your insides molten.  Every dirty thought is plain in how he checks you out.

“I saw you looking at me in class today,” you say, breathless already.  “Did you think I looked pretty, Professor?”                                         

“I think,” he says, “I was impressed you were sitting there, actually listening for once.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he touches a shushing finger to your lips.  He shakes his head. 

“Nuh-uh,” he says.  “Tell me what you want before I throw you out of my office.”  He cups your jaw, his gaze so clearly centred on your lips. 

“Oh, please, don’t do that,” you say.  “I need you, Professor.  I mean, I need your help.”

“I think you’re beyond help, baby girl,” he says.  He momentarily breaks character to glance at the wall, then he looks at you with a quirked brow.  “We are at my work, maybe we should—”

“I know you,” you reply.  

Because you do.  You and your husband are no strangers to roleplay or kinky fun, your desires and boundaries and safewords known.  Your backside is still tender from a good spanking the night before, just enough to leave you squirming today.  You were pent-up before you even saw Professor Chan administering his lecture.  But now that you have, now that you are here, you cannot let it go.  And given the way he is looking at you, he feels the same way.

“You’ve been hard since I called you Professor in the lecture hall,” you say. 

“Since I saw you sitting in my classroom, actually,” he corrects.  “I could fill in the rest with my own imagination.  Just… looking at you…”  He takes another breath and looks you over.  His gaze is heady.  “God, you just get me going every time, you know that?” 

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” you say with another smirk.  Then you pout, batting your eyelashes, as you sink to your knees in front of him.  “Please, Professor,” you say.  “I’m begging you.  I need a good grade or else.  I’ll do anything.” 

“Anything,” he says.  “That’s, ah… that’s a bold statement.  Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I am,” you say.  You clasp your hands.  “Anything at all.” 

“You know, a man who is not as nice me could do bad things to you, baby.   A pretty girl like you.  It’s like you want someone to take advantage of you, yeah?”  He cups your jaw and tilts your face up, looking at your mouth thoughtfully, smiling as he circles his thumb over your lips.  “They could be really mean to you,” he says.  “Make you do things you don’t like.  Maybe even hurt you, baby.”

“But you wouldn’t do those things,” you say with a watery sniffle.  “You’re a good professor. I can trust you.”

“Of course you can,” he says.  With his thumb, he tugs your bottom lip down.  It flips back up with a bounce.  “I’ll help you then, if you do what I say.”

“Oh yes, of course, Professor, anything,” you say. You start to stand when he puts a hand on your shoulder. 

“Naw, naw,” he says.  “You stay there for me.”

“On my knees?”  You blink up at him.  “What for?” 

“Tsk.  Baby.  You know what for.”  He pats your head like he would an especially dumb puppy.  “You’re just a pretty face,” he says, “but you’re not that stupid.  You know what you’re good for at least, don’t you?”   

He cups your chin.  Before you can reply, his thumb is forcing its way into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. You wrap your lips around it, staring up at him while sucking diligently. 

“That’s it,” he says, and slides free with a wet little pop.  “Good job.  See?”  He speaks with saccharine sweetness, completely condescending as he pats your cheek.  “You are good at something.”  He unbuttons your shirt with deft swiftness, your breasts already heaving in your low-cut bra when he pushes the material off your shoulders.  He laughs to himself as he says, “It’s just the only thing you’re good at is being a dumb slut, but that’s okay, yeah?” 

“I… I guess…”

“Shh, it’s okay.”  He covers you whole mouth with his hand, tugging you close while he undoes his belt with the other.  “You don’t need to talk,” he says.  “No one needs to hear what you think.  Open your mouth for me.   That’s a good girl.  Come on.  You can take it.” 

With a shuffle, he gets his pants open and partially down, enough to get himself out.  He is already rock hard as he guides you forward, sliding into your waiting mouth.  He grunts with deep, obvious pleasure. 

He lets you take over, sitting back while you suck his cock with expert knowledge of exactly what he likes, when to take him deep, when to lick and suck and swallow.  You stop for a breath and his cock smacks your cheek.  Then suddenly he is standing and taking you with him, wasting no time bending you over his desk. 

“Professor!” you say, pushing your ass out with your theatrically scandalized cry.  “Oh no, sir, I’ve never done this before, please, ahh—”   

He lifts your skirt and tugs your panties to the side, sliding his fingers through all the wet arousal there.  He slides two fingers into you easily, with no resistance at all.  He leans down and laughs against the nape of your neck.

“I find that hard to believe,” he says, fucking you steadily with his hand.  “I think I’m not the only professor you’ve done this for, am I, baby?” 

“Ohh,” is all you manage, out of character and genuinely moaning as he works you towards a quick orgasm.  “Channie, you’re gonna make me come,” you warn, wriggling. 

Your moans turn to pathetic little whimpers when he wraps a strong arm around you, locking you in place as he lines up behind you. 

“What’s that?” he asks, holding you tight.  It stops you from writhing while he pushes his wet dick inside you, inch by slow inch.  “I’m not Channie, am I?” he says.  “What do you call me?  Huh?  Dumb little girl.”  He swats your ass and you yelp, clenching around him.  “Try again,” he says. 

“Oh, Professor,” you say.  Then you cannot help but giggle, recalling his evasion when you teased him in the lecture hall.  The evidence of his desire says it all.  “That really does make you hard,” you laugh, breathlessly, “I can feel you pulsing inside me.”

You squeak when he pushes you down onto the desk, holding your hips as he thrusts into you with more vigour.  Then you are not saying anything, just moaning and riding out every quick snap of his hips.  You are not sure how he manages to find the softest, squishiest, more sensitive place inside you, every time, no matter the place or position, sending you hurtling towards to an orgasm at breakneck speed. 

“Oh, help, Professor, I’m gonna—”

“Me too, baby,” he says.  “All inside you.”

“Ohh, fuck—”  You come with a shuddering convulsion, twitching and clenching, your eyes closed as you pant into the wooden surface of his desk.  Your orgasm ends and he is still fucking you, drawing it out.  Your voice is guttural, low and breathy as you say, “Professor, be careful, we have no protection…”

He lifts you up, arches your back, and covers your mouth.

“I… told… you…”  He punctuates each sound with a hard thrust.  “To… be… quiet…” 

Then he drives into you and stays there, groaning into your neck as he comes and comes.   When his hand drops, you take in a gulp of air, shivering from the aftershocks of pleasure.  You are spilling out of your bra from all the jostling, your skirt in disarray.  You whimper when he pulls out of you, then again when he just covers you back up with your panties.  They are soaked in a second. 

“Maybe, uh,” he says with one of his funny, embarrassed, little giggles.  “Maybe we should stop by home and clean up before we go for dinner.” 

You giggle too, turning around to face him.  You fix your shirt while he tucks himself back into his pants.  He is already blushing and smiling that dimpled smile, looking all sweet and goofy as if he didn’t just fuck your brains out on his desk. 

“Good idea,” you say.  “That’s why you’re the professor.” 

He laughs.  Looking at you fondly, he cups your cheek and pulls you in for a long, tender kiss.    

[lecsainz]

hey!!!! so a Londo x gf!reader where Lando is a super loving but at the same time suuper annoying and sassy boyfriend 😂

DATING WITH LANDO NORRIS

summary: that's how it would be like dating lando.

authors note: While writing this, I almost died cause I went to grab coffee, and it was SO SO SO HOT 😭 I got inspired by the messages I found on Pinterest 💅

✩. . . masterlist !

You didn't know that dating Lando would be a test of patience. Not that you were a boring person, but Lando had a knack for teasing you just for fun, and it drove you crazy...

You're in college, juggling lectures and assignments, and Lando takes every opportunity to distract you with playful text messages and surprise visits to your campus.

Living in London together means endless opportunities for exploration, but also endless debates about whether to take the Tube or an Uber, and Lando always insists on walking, even in the rain.

Lando's idea of a romantic date involves taking you to a go-kart track and pretending to lose so that he can see you competitive and fired up.

He's super loving, and when you're stressed with exams, he'll make you tea and give you back massages, but not without adding a cheeky comment about how you should study less and cuddle more.

Whenever you're watching a Formula 1 race, he'll point at the screen and say, "That's gonna be me winning for you one day, babe."

Lando can't resist poking fun at your accent, even though he's the one with the strong British one. "Say 'water' again, love."

He insists on cooking together, but be prepared for a chaotic kitchen and lots of flour fights.

Lando loves surprising you with impromptu road trips, and while you appreciate the spontaneity, you secretly wish he'd let you pack a bag first.

He's a night owl, and you're not. He'll playfully nag you to stay up late and binge-watch Netflix series with him.

On your birthdays, Lando goes all out with surprises. One year, he arranged for you to take a ride in an actual Formula 1 car (with a professional driver, him, of course).

Lando can't help but show off his driving skills when you're in the car together, even if it means a few hair-raising moments.

He leaves sticky notes with cheesy love messages all over your apartment, which you find for days, even in the most unexpected places.

Sometimes, he intentionally loses bets just to owe you a favor he can cash in later for cuddles.

Lando's sense of humor is a mix of charming wit and cheeky sarcasm, which makes every conversation an entertaining challenge.

Lando's cooking skills are... questionable, but he'll proudly present you with his latest culinary creation, and you'll pretend it's the best thing you've ever tasted.

He loves to bug you, especially when he's jetlagged, sending all sorts of messages like:

[zarameraki]

♡₊˚✒️₊✧ 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗶'𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 ♡₊˚📓₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 unprotected sex 𖥔 professor x student 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 1.7k

: ̗̀➛ notes: contemplating if i should do a full series on professor nanami. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

Professor Nanami was captivated by you from the moment you walked into the classroom on the first day. Among the sea of students, you were the only one who chose to sit right at the front, directly in the middle, with a radiant smile that caught his attention instantly.

He always seemed to lose his train of thought during lectures whenever he directed even a brief glance in your direction. 

When he found out your name during one of the online quizzes, he shamelessly delved into researching your social media accounts. Every image he came across painted a picture of sunshine and rainbows, but it was that one image of you in a bikini that sent shockwaves to his cock.

His obsession grew to the point he intentionally gave you a lower grade on an exam you clearly excelled in, just so you would have a reason to schedule office hours and discuss it with him.

As you sat across from him, he found himself struggling to catch his breath. You passionately argued why you deserved a chance for a retake. Tears welled up in your eyes, tracing the delicate edge of your waterline. He didn’t realize it would go this far and he was a fucking idiot for it.  

Nanami rushed over to your side. He quickly crouched down, gently cupping your flushed face in his hands. His thumbs wiped over your wet lashes as he whispered, “I apologize, sweetheart. I purposely gave you a failing grade just to have this chance to speak with you. It was not my intention to cause you distress.”

He held his breath, eagerly awaiting your response, your face still cradled in his hands, only for you to ask, “So, did I pass?” And with a chuckle, he nodded affirmatively, replying, “From the very start.” Because you were a smart girl. The smartest out of everyone he’s ever met. 

His chuckle abruptly ended when you leaned in and kissed him, causing him to freeze with wide-open eyes as yours remained tightly shut in anxious anticipation.

Then like a pliable putty responding to heat, he melted into the kiss, responding with fervor and intensity, while you stood there, arms encircling his neck, both of you lost in the moment. He awkwardly fumbled with locking his office door in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of professionalism amidst the escalating moment.

You were perched comfortably on his lap, your lips moving in perfect harmony with his, your body undulating against his erection, fulfilling the dirty fantasies you've harbored for your professor since you first enrolled in his class.

He showered your face and neck with kisses, quickly removing your sweater to unveil your breasts. He teasingly latched onto your perky, sweet nipples, all while he struggled to contain his own orgasm, barely held back by the fabric of his boxers.

In a matter of minutes, he had you bent over his desk, pants and boxers dangling carelessly, his thick, veiny cock buried within you, thrusting vigorously, the force causing his stationary and name plaque to crash to the ground. You gripped the edges tightly, cheek pressed against the smooth mahogany surface, your ass arching to meet his every powerful thrust.

Finishing his heavy load inside of you, he marveled at the sight of his release dripping down your legs, mirroring the tears streaming down your flushed cheeks. Your asscheeks showed signs of discoloration from his relentless spanking; and your legs trembled with the aftermath. He helped you stand, but you sagged into his embrace, causing him to lift you in a bridal-style carry.

Settling into his chair, he gently stroked your face, showering you with praises for being such a good girl for him.

Relentless since the moment he first fucked you, Nanami couldn’t seem to get enough, whether it's after his lectures in his cluttered office, or shooting you a text asking you meet him in some deserted storage space, or inviting you to his place for a cozy evening of dinner and drinks.

And sometimes, it's not even about the sex but just cuddling on the couch, binging movies until you both fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms. It's like time stood still in those moments, suspended in a bubble of warmth that you both never want to burst.

Nanami had become your boyfriend months into your relationship. He surprised you on your graduation day by proposing to you in the lecture hall where you first met four years ago, and as an extra reward for being his good girl, he also asked you to move in with him.

He cried when you said yes.

[ssa-dado]

1 - Orchids & Knots

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: A young profiler, recently recruited by Jason Gideon, joins the BAU and works with experienced agents, including Hotch and Rossi, on a challenging case involving a methodical killer. Despite initial nervousness, you start to bond with Hotch through wit and shared work ethic, revealing unexpected personal sides along the intense investigation.

Warnings: Usual CM case described in detail, hideous use of one bedroom trope, Gissi implied as a joke

Word Count: 4.1k

Dado's Corner: first part of the upcoming series! Still have no clue of how many parts it could have, just expect a very slow burn. My other fic - Symposium (definitely not platonic love) - is part of the same universe, hence why reader is still a philosophy enthusiast. You can enjoy this pilot as its own or read it before or after Symposium. You do you. Again, I'm aware there might be some mistakes as English isn't my first language so bear with me.

part zero - reading optional, but strongly advised ; part two

Everyone who knew you had assumed you'd take an academic route in your professional life, perhaps becoming a professor or researcher, but something you couldn’t explain had always pulled you toward the darker corners of human behavior.

You weren't satisfied with just understanding the human mind, you wanted to see what happened when it broke.

Now, you were standing still on the elevator on your way to meet Jason Gideon, the legend who had recruited you after being impressed by your sharp mind during a lecture he held at the academy.

Maybe it was because of your passion to philosophy that made you a natural curious person, always asking – sometimes asking way too many – questions, never taking anything for granted.

After that lecture you understood that profiling was a subject that rewarded what many considered to be one of your most annoying flaws. Hence why another reason you probably decide to follow that specific path, out of all the others: you wanted to prove everyone wrong.

What many didn’t see though - and most of the times you didn’t even realise yourself - is that you questioned yourself and your decisions more than anything else. Although for once, trusting more your instincts rather than your reasoning to decide to work at the Bureau, somehow sweetly felt right.

“Y/N, right?” A deep voice cut through your thoughts. You turned to see Gideon standing beside a tall man, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. His expression appeared stoic, yet his eyes - sharp and calculated - were the most striking feature about him, even more than the smoke coming from his ears as he was focusing all of his energies on you to read through your façade.

As you entered the barely lit bullpen, the weight of the moment hit you. The room was filled with agents, all seasoned professionals busy with their work, pouring over case files, dissecting behavioral patterns, and speaking in hushed tones about suspects and profiles. Their years of experience were palpable, but instead of shrinking, you felt a quiet resolve. You were aware you had something unique to offer - not to be cocky about it - and Gideon clearly thought so too, otherwise you wouldn’t be there.

You were trying your best to be as neutral as possible but you couldn’t deny you immediately felt a wave of adrenaline coursing through you. Knowing you were standing before one most formidable profilers the FBI had ever known and next to him the one you hypothesised to be the Bureau’s next rising star. There wouldn’t be any other plausible reasons for him to stand so close to Gideon otherwise, you thought.

“Yes, sir,” you responded, willing yourself to keep calm. Gideon had introduced you to the mystery man next to him – SSA Aaron Hotchner – or you-can-call-me-Hotch; For a moment you felt so uncool for not having a nickname yourself.

Hotch studied you further for a moment, his face unreadable, but you could tell he was intrigued. His nod was brief, but it felt like a form of acknowledgment.

Gideon smiled warmly. “Good to see you again, Y/N. I’ve been just telling Hotch here about your academic work, very impressive stuff. I’m sure the mix of philosophy, linguistics and psychology will give you quite of a unique lens for profiling.”

“Welcome to the team,” Hotch said simply, though his tone carried weight. With just a sentence he made sure to remind you that you weren’t just another recruit, you were expected to contribute. You hoped his remark would just point out at the overall high expectations everyone had of you, instead of him questioning your presence here due to your young age, less than a week passed from your 21st birthday.

"Thank you," you said, trying to balance out with professionalism. "I’m eager to get started."

Gideon gestured for you to follow him. "Come on, there’s someone else I want you to meet. David Rossi."

Your heart raced. David Rossi, the legend who had co-founded the BAU with the man standing next to you. The picture of you working with him felt surreal. As you, Hotch, and Gideon made your way to Rossi’s office, you could feel Hotch’s eyes still occasionally flicking toward you, still assessing, still quiet. His silence felt deliberate, as though he wanted to see how you carried yourself before making any judgments.

When you entered Rossi’s office, he looked up from his desk, his dark eyes locking onto yours. His presence was formidable, the kind of aura that came from decades of experience. For a brief moment, you felt like he was already profiling you, dissecting every nuance of your appearance and demeanor. Then, his face broke into a bright grin, and he stood, extending his hand.

"So, you’re the philosophy kid," Rossi said, his voice gruff but warm. "Gideon’s been talking your ear off about you."

Philosophy kid, as if you didn’t feel odd enough.

You shook his hand. "That’s me. Nice to meet you, Agent Rossi."

You smiled at that, already feeling some of the tension ebbing away in his presence. There was something about Rossi’s bluntness that was oddly reassuring. He was a man who spoke his mind, no pretense, no games.

"Dave," he corrected, flashing a grin. "‘Agent Rossi’ makes me sound like I could be your nonno. You can call me Dave."

"So, Gideon tells me you speak sixteen languages?" Rossi asked, raising an eyebrow. "How come? Ever consider becoming a spy?"

"Bisnonno" He quickly grinned, you had just entered his office and already flexing your Italian, he teased you first though. "Got it, Dave.". If there would have been one thing you had learnt throughout the brief 2 minutes you’ve been working at the BAU, is that profilers were no joke about their nicknames.

You laughed softly. "I was raised in a bilingual household, I have a thing for languages"

Hotch, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. "It’ll definitely come in handy in the field. We deal with a lot of international cases."

His voice was calm, measured. Although you had read his file; Hotch wasn’t just any profiler - he was methodical, relentless, and someone who had climbed the ranks through sheer dedication. His seriousness wasn’t arrogance, but a reflection of his deep commitment to the job.

Rossi leaned back slightly, his eyes now flicking over your outfit, your well-fitted total black three-piece suit. “I’ll say, I didn’t expect someone at 21 to show up looking more polished than half of the bureau. You sure you’re not here to give a lecture?”

You chuckled, feeling some of the tension melt away. "This is just my definition of business casual”

Gideon smiled but quickly shifted back to business. “I brought the two of you here in Dave’s office because we just got a tough case” He says gesturing towards you and Hotch “And I want all of us to be working together in on it”.

Rossi laughed, clearly enjoying your response. "Gideon, I think you found someone who might out-dress me."

Normally at the BAU they would either work solo or in pairs, sometimes they would even assest the case from the comfort of their own desk there in Quantico, if travelling was not deemed crucial to build the profile. Only when crime would be particularly complex, they would quicky assemble a team, a small task-force of sorts, take their go-bag with them and travel all across the country struggling more with the train connections rather than with the criminals themselves.

You ironically told yourself that there wouldn’t be a much better start on your new job, your heart raced with anticipation. "What’s the case?" You asked trying to mask the slight feeling of anxiety rushing through your veins.

In a matter of seconds, Gideon quicky exited the office and had already came back firmy holding a bunch of manila folders. He handed you a thick case file, and as you flipped through it, your stomach slightly churned, reminding you this wasn’t these weren’t just pictures on your textbooks.

The unsub had left seven bodies in three states, all bound with intricate knots, posed in ritualistic displays. Each victim had an orchid placed delicately on their chest, and despite the grotesque nature of the crimes, you found there was an eerie beauty in how the unsub treated his victims.

"The knots," Gideon explained, pointing to a photograph. "They’re not random. Each one is different, and each one requires a high level of skill. The unsub is precise, organized, and deliberate. He’s treating these murders like a performance."

These killings to you were manifest of the deeply rooted paradox in human experience - beauty and pain - where both often coexist or follow each other closely. You always found amusing how beauty, whether in art, nature, or human life, often emergeed through struggle or suffering.

You looked closely at the images, analyzing the intricacies of the knots, you feel the need to add something else. "It’s not just performance - it’s communication. The knots are sending a message. He’s not killing out of anger. There’s patience here. He wants control, and the orchids, those suggest he sees the victims as fragile, beautiful objects to be perfected, but ultimately destroyed."

Even historically, humankind tended to these opposites because they reflect the full range of life’s complexities, as joy often emerges from pain, and suffering can heighten the appreciation of beauty. You kept the philosophical monologue to yourself, you definitely didn’t want to reinforce even more the prejudice your teammates could already have on you, the lack of field expertise overly compensated by the knowledge of human nature.

Hotch leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "He’s someone with discipline, military or maybe maritime experience. The variety of knots points to a deeper knowledge of how they work. He’s not just tying them for show. He’s someone who understands the function of every twist and turn."

Rossi smiled at your analysis, clearly impressed. "Not bad. Not bad at all, philosopher. " You now started to suspect Gideon had overly gushed about this particular part of your background as it seemed to be the only thing your new co-workers remembered about you.

You nodded, your mind racing. "And the orchids, they aren’t just decorative. He’s choosing them for a reason. Orchids are notoriously difficult to grow. They’re delicate but require meticulous care, which suggests he sees himself as a cultivator. He picks his victims carefully, like someone choosing a rare flower, and when they don’t live up to his standards, he... prunes them."

The team continued to build the profile, each member adding layers of complexity. The unsub’s background became clearer: someone with a need for control, a perfectionist likely with some connection to floristry or horticulture. You felt a growing sense of camaraderie as you offered ideas and bounced theories off Hotch, who slowly began engaging with you more directly.

“They do act like an old married couple” Hotch hums in a low voice while pointing at Rossi and Gideon vividly arguing far away from the two of you about something you couldn’t grasp yet. You immediately chuckle at the sight, appreciating Hotch’s efforts to bond with you yet still being very reserved and shielding himself through his rare jokes.

A few days into the investigation, you found yourself paired with Hotch all the times, a tactic you knew Gideon pulled just to make you feel the most at ease, despite the overly reserved nature of your partner.

He continued, “See, they might made you think the fraternization rules exist because of Dave, what they didn’t tell you is that he’s probably secretly married with Gideon and apparently the latter today forgot about their anniversary”. You tried your best not to burst into laughing as the Italian man furiously walked towards the two of you, Gideon quick on his feet following him with an apologetic look on his face. Damn, Hotch might have been right, the similarities in the physical language to the scenario he previously mentioned was uncanny.

“The Bureau changed our accommodation, again.” Gideon sighed “They’ll soon send us the address, we have two rooms, two twin beds each, private bathroom” He ironically emphasised the last part, as if he was offering all of you the deal of your life.

“Budget cut again kiddos” Dave announced, oblivious of the reason why both of yours and Hotch's eyes were almost tearing up trying to hold in the laughters.

“Hood rats.” Rossi flamboyantly replied “So here’s another reason to end this case as soon as possible. Figli di puttana, There's no way I'm sleeping more with Jason rather than with my own wife”. Both you and Hotch gave each other a quick mischievous side-eye that could speak more than a thousand words. As the two of them moved away from you and Hotch enough so they wouldn’t hear your next words, you turned towards him. “Dave didn’t even offer us to sleep with him in his room, you actually might have been right all along”.

“I’m always right” He replied showing the dimples on his face.

“Typical lawyer behaviour, gaslighting their way just to be right in their own distorted reality.” You poke fun at him as you reminded he told you he used to work as a persecutor before landing into the Bureau.

Hotch definitely didn’t expect such a quick-witted comeback from you. “I wasn’t aware philosophers knew humor” he teased you.

“We patented it” you smirk.

You and Hotch later surveyed a potential crime scene—a floral shop the unsub had likely visited. As you both examined the area, you could feel Hotch's eyes on you, observing how you worked, how you processed information.

"You’re picking up on a lot for your first case," Hotch said, breaking the silence. "Most people miss the smaller details."

You looked over at him, surprised by the sudden compliment. "Thanks. I guess looking at things in an unorthodox way helps, all the hours spent on Plato apparently paid off"

Hotch nodded. "It shows. Keep it up."

Together, you reviewed the evidence, each of you adding to the emerging profile. You and Hotch began to form a pattern: he’d focus on the precision of the unsub’s actions, while you offered a more abstract perspective, thinking about the emotional motivations behind the crimes.

Later that evening, after a long day of chasing leads and trying to make sense of the tangled web the unsub had woven, you all finally were set into the new accommodation.

Despite Rossi’s earlier complaints about the budget cuts, the place wasn’t that bad - it was modest but clean, with enough space to spread out the case files and work. You and Hotch were indeed been paired up to share a room, as he previously predicted, with two twin beds crammed into a space that would feel much smaller once your notes and case materials were scattered all across the floor.

As soon as you entered the room, Hotch moved with military precision, setting down his go-bag and immediately pulling out a file. He glanced around briefly, as if taking in every detail of the room in a split second, then sat down at the small desk, already deep in thought.

You, on the other hand, sat on the edge of your bed for a moment, looking around and trying to shake off the fatigue that was creeping in. It was only your first case, and yet you felt the pressure building already - both from the weight of the crimes and from wanting to prove yourself in front of someone as formidable as Hotch. Despite the intensity of the case, you couldn’t help but be amused at the situation.

“So, do you believe their honeymoon suite is just as romantic as ours?” You asked with a smirk, hoping to lighten the mood.

Hotch didn’t look up immediately, as if puzzled on how to choose his next words, though you caught the slight twitch of his lips. “Yeah, nothing says romance like crime scene photos and case files scattered everywhere.”

You chuckled and tossed your jacket onto the back of a chair. “I always knew the FBI had a weird way of doing things, but I have to admit this is next level.”

As you pulled out the case file, flipping through the pages and studying the photos, you found it hard to concentrate, mostly because of how quiet the room turned out to become. Hotch was the kind of person whose silence seemed louder than most people’s conversations, and though you could tell he was intensely focused on the case, you sensed that he was also observing you – amazed at how it was the first time he ever saw someone overworking themselves as much as he did.

Breaking the silence, you threw a glance at him. “You ever wonder what makes someone do this? I mean, it’s one thing to read about it in a textbook, but seeing it in person…”

Hotch set his pen down and leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze fixed on you. “Every time. You get used to it, but it never really stops affecting you.”

You nodded, taking that in. “It’s just so… deliberate. Every little detail, like the knots, the orchids, it’s like he’s creating something, not just destroying.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed in thought, clearly impressed by your analysis. “That’s an interesting perspective. Most people would only see the destruction.”

“You know,” you said, leaning back on the bed, wanting to return the subtle compliment “when I first joined the academy, I never thought I’d end up here, sitting in a hotel room with one of the newest best profilers in the country.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Flattery, huh? Didn’t think philosophers believed in that.”

You grinned. “We don’t, but I make exceptions.”

He gave you another small smile, his guard dropping just a little. “Well, I didn’t expect to be working with a 21-year-old who can hold their own on a case like this.”

“I’ve got to keep up with all of you somehow.”

Hotch shook his head slightly, still smiling. “You’re doing more than keeping up, but I’ve already told you this.”

The next morning, while poring over the case, both you and Hotch hit on the idea that the unsub might escalate soon. "He’s been meticulous so far, but there’s a growing desperation in the pattern," you observed. "He’s becoming bolder with each kill, taking greater risks. If he feels like he’s not getting the recognition he craves, he might go after a more high-profile victim."

Hotch considered this, his brow furrowing. "Someone in the public eye. He’d want an audience for his ‘art.’ We should look into upcoming events where he might strike."

Later, Gideon walked into the room with a look that told you something big had just clicked into place. "We’ve got a break," he said, laying down a new set of photographs. They were taken at a local orchid show, a high-profile event that had been held recently. "We missed it before because the show was a private event, members only. But one of the attendees matched the profile. His name is Matthew Carson, a former Navy sailor turned horticulturist."

You leaned over the photos, seeing the man for the first time. Carson was in his mid-thirties, tall, with an air of quiet control about him. "That explains the knots," you said. "He would’ve learned that skill in the Navy. And the flowers - he’s obsessed with perfection, cultivating these delicate orchids. It fits with how he views his victims."

Hotch nodded, already processing the next steps. "We need to move fast. He’s going to escalate, and the orchid show gives him an audience: a high-profile victim pool. He’ll want to make his statement soon."

The team sprang into action, coordinating with local authorities to track Carson down. You, Hotch, Rossi, and Gideon prepared to approach his house, a sprawling property on the outskirts of town, where Carson ran his own private orchid nursery.

As the team closed in, your heart pounded with anticipation. Carson’s house was an eerie reflection of his mind: immaculate, but with an unsettling coldness, orchids lined the windowsills and filled every room with their fragile beauty. It was a place of quiet obsession.

Rossi was the first to spot Carson. The man was in the greenhouse, meticulously pruning an orchid, completely unaware of the FBI’s presence. Hotch signaled for you to stay back as he and Rossi approached cautiously.

"Matthew Carson," Hotch called, his voice steady but firm.

Carson didn’t flinch. He continued trimming the orchid as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. "You don’t understand," he said quietly, his voice calm but laced with underlying madness. "It’s about perfection. I’m creating something beautiful."

Hotch took a step closer. "You’re hurting people, Matthew. This isn’t beauty, it’s destruction."

Carson finally looked up, his eyes hollow yet intense. "They weren’t good enough. The flowers... they have to be perfect."

You could feel the tension in the air while Hotch was doing what he did best, calmly, methodically drawing Carson out, understanding his twisted mind.

"They’re not flowers, Matthew. They’re people," You said as Hotch took another step closer. You continued "You’re not creating beauty. You’re trying to control what you can’t, but perfection doesn’t exist."

Carson’s grip tightened on the shears in his hand, his knuckles turning white. "I can make it exist," he whispered.

Before he could act, Rossi moved swiftly, disarming Carson and pinning him to the ground, he struggled briefly but then went limp, as if the fight had left him entirely. The unsub’s calm shattered, and in that moment, you saw the deep fragility that had driven his madness.

"You think you understand, but you don’t," Carson muttered as he was handcuffed. "I was so close."

As Gideon secured Carson, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The case was over, but the weight of it still lingered but before you could start overthinking, you felt a hand on top of your left shoulder. Your heart skips a beat and you quickly turn around to what revealed to be Hotch “Good job on the case, partner” You shyly smile “Not so bad as your first case at all”

“I could say the same about you, especially on the way you handled Carson, but I bet someone like you is used to the myriad of compliments at this point.”

He rolled his eyes, then quickly moved towards Rossi before you could notice the smile tugged on his face - too late – you could see his dimples still showing even when he was far away from you.

Later, on the train ride back to Quantico, you and Hotch found yourselves sitting across from each other. The case had drained everyone, you glanced at Hotch, who was staring out the window, lost in thought.

"So," you said, breaking the silence, curious to know something real about the man you shared a room with for the past two days "now that the case is over, are you going to admit that you do something other than work? Or is profiling literally your only hobby?"

Hotch turned to you, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," you said with a grin, "You must have to do something outside of this. You can't just spend all your downtime preparing for the next criminal mastermind, or developing conspiracy theories" His eyes went to his side, inviting you to glance at the older profilers. Rossi was conveniently standing up from his seat and leaning in front of Gideon, showing him something on a case file while simultaneously tracing small circles with the back of his pen on the papers the other was holding.

He gave you small smirk, his eyes twinkling with just a hint of mischief, then out of the blue he blurts out “I play the guitar."

You blinked, caught off guard. "You play the guitar?! Seriously?"

Hotch nodded, his expression casual, though you could tell he was enjoying your surprise. "Yeah. It’s something I picked up in college. Helps me unwind."

"Wait, wait, wait," you said, holding up a hand. "Aaron Hotchner, stoic, no-nonsense FBI agent extraordinaire, plays the guitar? I need proof. This sounds like a bluff."

He chuckled, the sound rare but genuine. "I don’t think I need to prove anything to you."

You leaned back in your seat, resting one hand on your forehead. "Unbelievable. I was so sure you didn’t have a hobby. I mean, by the way you work, I was starting to think someone else in the Bureau was keeping another big secret from us, C3-PO"

The unexpected Star Wars reference earned you a genuine laugh from him, then shook his head, a small smile still playing on his lips. "Just because I’m focused on the job doesn’t mean I don’t have other interests."

"Okay, fair enough," you admitted. "But now I’m really curious. What kind of music do you play? Classical? Rock? Please tell me it’s something totally unexpected, like heavy metal."

He laughed again, a sound you were quickly becoming fond of. "Mostly blues, actually."

You stared at him, wide-eyed. "Blues? Wow, that’s... I don’t know, I guess I expected you to say something like jazz or folk, but blues? That’s kind of badass."

Hotch gave a modest shrug. "It’s calming. Helps me think."

"I’m still wrapping my head around this," you said with a smirk. "I’m going to need to hear you play one day. Otherwise, I’m sticking with my theory that you’re secretly a robot who plays FBI agent."

He gave you a side-eye but couldn’t suppress his smile. "I’ll think about it, maybe after the next case if you’re still around"

You pretended to be offended by his words "Is this a threat?!”

“I was just trying to be encouraging”

Maybe working at the BAU wouldn’t be as intimidating as you first thought after all.

As the train rumbled on, you felt a sense of camaraderie with Hotch, a shared respect that had grown over the course of the case. You had proven yourself, and in return, he had let you see a side of him that few people probably ever did.

[avatar-anna]

Pale Green Stripes

The Professor Masterlist

this takes place during The Professor Series!

"Did you know you're the only person who never tries to interrupt me?"

"What do you mean?"

Harry and Y/n lay on the carpeted floor of her townhouse. Their shoulders touched, but that was about it. Even so, Harry could feel that tiny bit of contact throughout his entire body. The professor probably had a word for that, a scientific term to explain why just the slightest graze—not even skin against skin—sent him into a tailspin that made him have to focus extra hard on what she said.

Y/n's hands knotted together on her lap, a thing she did when she held herself back. It was as if she had to physically restrain herself some way to keep her from speaking out of turn. Harry personally never thought she did, from their first meeting at the bookstore, he'd been fascinated by her, by the things she said.

"I don't mean to...impart information on people the way that I do. It just happens sometimes," she said, her eyes gazing up at the ceiling.

Harry knew he probably should've too, but he couldn't help but look at the professor instead. Her hair fanned out around her shoulders, she wore a string of pearls around her neck and earrings made to look like Salvador Dalí's melting clocks in her ears. Her jewelry was always a mix of something professional and a little quirky, Harry came to realize, as if even at work as a professor at Cambridge University she couldn't help but have a little fun.

Her wardrobe consisted of patterned socks and cherry red Adidas shoes and fun knitted sweaters and vests. Today she merely wore a cozy navy blue sweater and a flowy white skirt, her red shoes were on a rack by the door, but she still wore her ruffled socks with embroidered roses on them.

"I don't mind it at all," he replied honestly.

Y/n blinked a couple times, then said, "I know. I was surprised at first because everyone usually cuts me off. Or walks away."

Harry frowned. He couldn't help but notice how clinically the professor spoke about the hurtful things that had been done to her. By her family, so-called colleagues, the few friends she had at work. He couldn't fathom anyone finding Y/n anything less than wonderful. She was brilliant, yes, but funny, and charismatic, and had a knack for storytelling. Harry never wanted her to stop talking. Ever.

"I like listening to you," he told her, shrugging as best he could given his current prone position.

"That's probably because you never finished school and are trying to make up for lost time."

From anyone else, that would've been a joke, a jab, but Y/n took education seriously, had mentioned it numerous times since they met.

Still, Harry chuckled. "Maybe I just like the sound of your voice. Maybe I just like hearing what you have to say. Maybe I find your lectures highly arousing."

"Edward!"

Even as he laughed with her, Harry couldn't help but feel guilty. He knew he should tell her, he should've told her months ago. His middle name fired out of his mouth before he could think the first time Y/n asked him for his name. A desire for anonymity, that was all it was. He didn't think he'd see her again outside the one time, so he thought it would be harmless. Then they did keep meeting, and he didn't have the guts to tell her, and now he was too deep in the lie to find a way out.

"What?"

Harry had never been shy about his attraction to the professor, even if he'd only seen half of her face due to the mask she wore. There was so much to appreciate about her, so much to admire, and he let his own imagination do the rest. He could've, of course, looked her up online. Y/n had mentioned something about posting educational videos online, but he thought it was only fair that if she didn't know what his entire face looked like that he didn't either.

"Why do you say stuff like that?" she asked, and even without the mask, Harry could tell she was blushing.

"Like what?"

"About me. About—about your attraction to me and how you find me—or think I'm a—"

"Yes?" Harry encouraged. He could tell there was a word or phrase she had in mind but was too embarrassed to use.

"In the 16th Century, the word bellibone was first used. It's derived from French etymology using the words belle and bonne to describe a woman who excels in both beauty and goodness. There's really only one known use in the late 1500s. A poet named Edmund Spenser, though he was from Ireland. It's fascinating how a word can be used once then ceases to exist, don't you think?"

Harry blinked, not totally prepared for the tangent, though perhaps he should've been. Grinning beneath his mask, he said, "I think it describes you perfectly."

"Edward," Y/n said, now her neck was flushed too.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asked. "The compliments? The—" He might as well call it what it was—"flirting?"

"N—No."

"Because I'll stop if it does," he promised. "I just think you should know how devastating you are."

One of the professor's eyebrows quirked up in confusion. "That was an interesting choice in adjective."

But it was the perfect one. Harry knew he couldn't be with Y/n the way he wanted when she didn't know the truth about who he was, and he couldn't risk losing her if he finally told her. Perhaps it was unfair to play at something he knew he couldn't have, but part of him wanted Y/n to know that she was desirable, that she was more than what her intellect offered. Sure, Harry found her intelligence sexy as all get out, but she was also beautiful, and funny, and kind, and he didn't think anyone had ever complimented more than just her brain.

He would spend an entire day complimenting her if he had the time, or if she let him.

But while Y/n was confident in many things, romantic feelings weren't one of them. Despite the obstacles he put in his own way, Harry didn't think the professor was quite ready to hear how much he really liked her.

"Tell me something."

"Like what?" Y/n asked.

"Anything," Harry said, facing her and propping his head in his hand. "A book you read, something that fascinates you, your least favorite student, anything."

She narrowed her eyes at him as she positioned her body to face his. "I don't have a least favorite student."

"I don't believe you," he replied, narrowing his eyes back playfully.

Y/n scanned his face, then up and down his body. It was casual, though Harry noticed that her gaze lingered in places—his arms, his shoulders, his face. He wore a mask, but he tried to suppress his grin anyway. Then, before he could tease her more, her eyes lit up.

"Did you know the stripe pattern originated in the Middle Ages?"

He never knew, but she always prefaced her information the same way. "Did it?"

Nodding to the green striped shirt Harry wore, she said, "Stripes were used to identify social outcasts. Prostitutes, criminals, hangmen, clowns and jugglers; they all had to wear stripes so they were easily recognizable in regular society."

"Clowns?"

"Outcasts and people who were...not society's favorites, like court jesters and such. European governments even legalized the requirement of certain citizens to wear stripes. Though now, of course, stripes are popular due to Coco Chanel wearing a striped shirt similar to French sailor uniforms, which, you know, sailors were also usually the lowest rank of the French navy. Then stripes began appearing in women's activewear in the 1920s, Al Capone began wearing pinstriped suits, and the rest is history. A long, brutal history, obviously, seeing as prisoners were later forced to wear striped uniforms, and prisoners in concentration camps during World War Two, but—there you have it. A brief, slightly detailed history of the stripe."

Harry looked down at his long sleeved shirt, the thin pale green and white striped that lined his arms and torso. "Not sure if I'll be able to wear stripes again, but... that's really fascinating."

"Thought you might like that," Y/n said with a shrug.

Harry tilted his head questioningly. "Why do you say that?"

"You like clothes."

He didn't question how she knew that. With her background, Y/n seemed to know things about him that she just happened to observe. It was a little disconcerting at first, but he came to appreciate that he didn't have to pretend around her. No airs, no personas, none of the things he'd become so accustomed to in recent years. The professor might not have known about Harry's career, but she knew him in ways no one else did.

"Well," he said, playfully sighing at his shirt. "Guess I'm never wearing stripes again."

Y/n's eyes squinted and her mask scrunched a little, the way they always did when she smiled. With an unmistakable glint in her eye, the adorable one she always got when Harry indulged in her. "Wait until you hear about polka dots!"

Harry sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement making him chuckle a little. "Tell me more, love."

[delicatebarness]

the manuscript | prologue

Summary: The first encounter.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: 18 in this part)

Word Count: 837

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A/N: Oh, hello Dr. Barnes. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

Tags: Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list!

The university loomed before you, the ivy-clad walls and gothic spires stood as testaments to the centuries of academic excellence. Renowned for its rigorous standards, the prestigious institution drew in the brightest minds from across the globe. You stepped through the grand archway, the air humming with the energy of countless scholarly pursuits, each echoing through the hallowed halls. 

You haven’t long turned 18, now a freshman, driven by a passion for creative writing. Your nights were spent hunched over notebooks, pouring your heart into stories and poems. Determined to make the most of this opportunity, you reflected on your talent that earned you a place here. With the best and brightest. It was a new chapter of your academic journey, and it started today.

Dr. James B. Barnes is a brilliant literature professor yet, reserved. His reputation preceded him– known for his profound insights and standards, he was feared and revered by his students. As you approached his office, your heart began to race. 

Tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, stood a heavy oak door with a brass nameplate glinting in the dim light. You took a deep breath and knocked firmly. Creaking open the door, you revealed Dr. Barnes. Sat behind a cluttered desk, his gaze lifted from a pile of papers, meeting yours. Piercing yet thoughtful, there was a moment of silent assessment. 

You felt the weight of his scrutiny as you stepped inside. The room smelled of leather with a faint trace of whiskey. 

“Good afternoon,” you begin, trying to steady your voice despite the nerves. “I’m going to be joining your advanced English literature class.” 

“Ah, yes,” he responded, his tone measured. “You must be the freshman. Please, have a seat.” 

You took a seat in the heavy leather chair opposite his desk. The two of you exchange a few professional courtesies, keeping the conversation brief but charged with mutual respect. You could sense that he had recognized your passion, and you were determined to prove yourself. 

~

A week later, you found yourself attending his class, surrounded by fellow students. His presence was commanding as he stood at the front of the room. A masterful blend of critical analysis and profound insight, his lectures were delivered with authority. 

Your hand raised after a particularly challenging lecture, Dr. Barnes acknowledged you with a nod.

“Yes?” 

“I have to disagree with your interpretation of his work,” you say, your voice clear and confident. A stark contrast from your first meeting with him. “I believe his use of fragmented narrative serves as a challenge to the notion of a singular, authoritative voice, rather than to obscure meaning.” 

The room fell silent, all eyes turned to you. Dr. Barnes regards you with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. 

“Interesting perspective,” he replied, keeping his tone cool. “However, I would argue that the fragmentation serves more to reflect the chaotic nature of postmodern existence.” 

You don’t back down. “Isn’t that chaos a direct challenge to traditional narrative structures? He seems to be inviting readers to find their own meaning within the disarray.” 

Your heated debate ensues, intellectual electricity cranking the air. Your classmates watched, their gazes swapping between you and Dr. Barnes like they were at Wimbledon as you exchanged arguments. 

Initially, he was annoyed by your boldness, yet you caught a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. You thrived on pushing boundaries and testing limits, in particular, with those you found intellectually stimulating and authoritative. Leaving everyone, including Dr. James B. Barnes, captivated.

“Your argument is well-crafted,” he concedes, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I look forward to more discussions like this.” 

As the weeks passed, Dr. Barnes’ class quickly became the highlight of your week. A battlefield of ideas in each session, a place where you could push your intellectual prowess. Dr. Barnes, though initially reserved, seemed to relish the debates as much as you did. 

One chilly autumn afternoon, you lingered after another stimulating class as the other students left. The room fell quiet, as though itself was in thought and reflection. Dr. Barnes noticed and approached you.

“Good work today,” he said, his tone less sharper than usual. “You’ve brought a new energy to these discussions.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, a rush of pride coursed through you. “Your classes challenge me in ways I never expected.” 

He nodded, “To challenge and to inspire, that’s the point of academia. Keep questioning, you could go far.” 

You smiled again, your cheeks becoming flushed. “I’m glad you’re not tired of my questions yet.” 

“On the contrary,” he said as he leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that caused your heart to race. “I find them… refreshing.” 

The flicker of something unspoken passed between you, a deeper connection yet to be explored. His words echoed as you left the lecture hall, the promise in his eyes lingered. 

What were the boundaries between student and teacher? And, could they transform into something more profound? 

- - -

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

[thelibrarian1895]

Gotham Rich People

So there are other millionaires and billionaires in Gotham besides Bruce Wayne.

I'll wait for you to get over the shock.

You good? Ok

There are other stupidly rich people in Gotham. A thought that if you've really made it in stupidly rich society in the dc verse then you have to have some property in Gotham where you stay for like a month or so every year like it's the regency society season. It's a sign that you're so ridiculously rich that it doesn't matter if someone steals your priceless painting or holds you for ransom because you can afford it and still be ridiculously rich. You are rich enough that your bodyguards are so skilled that they can keep you safe in Gotham. Because people are stupid and people who are rich and want to be snobs about it and show off tend to be a little more so than not.

Ridiculously rich seasonal Gothamites will also absolutely think that being kidnapped and held for ransom by one crime family or another or a rogue shows a different level of quality and status. Because they are just that bored and just that rich. And it lets them deal with the ✨trauma✨ ala gallows humor.

Lex Luthor has a bunch of snobby rich people look down their noses at him because he doesn't have Gotham property (Bruce keeps outbidding him when he tries and then Tim does the same when Bruce is busy because neither want Luthor in their city though sometimes people just won't sell if they find out it's Luthor trying to buy the property because they don't want him in the city either) and while he's rich enough to make mechs to go after Superman he can't afford quality Gotham caliber bodyguards.

Oliver Queen might have had a tiny by rich people standards apartment in Gotham, he inherited it. It may have been destroyed during the quake. He doesn't bother to rebuild or buy a new one and just stays in fancy hotel if he has to be in Gotham for any length of time and grumbles that Bruce won't let him crash at his place.

Tim gets Drake Manor back, if he didn't have it already, and puts it in his and Kon's name so Kon can be smug at Luthor because Kon has property in Gotham. Tim might come up with another secret identity as Connor Luthor's Gotham bodyguard just for fun. Superman may be Luthor's villain nemesis, Tim is determined to make himself Luthor's social and business nemesis because Tim apparently doesn't have enough people who want his head on a pike. Also fewer people give Tim well meaning lectures against villainy when Tim makes trouble for Luthor than when he's made trouble for Clark after Clark has said or done something dumb to Kon. Plus having a business nemesis makes being primary shareholder in Wayne Enterprises less mind numbing for Tim.

These other stupidly rich people also end up getting fleeced for millions by the Waynes for the Wayne charities because if they're going to have all these extra idiots to keep an eye on then these extra idiots are going to pay for things like the road work that the city isn't paying for because the city budget was embezzled by some jerk who ran off with the money to some other hole in the ground.

If Jason is bored enough he will be one of those rogues who kidnaps one of the Gotham elite visiting for their maintain the status month and the ransom money goes directly to literacy and educational programs. This way his preferred causes are funded and he doesn't have to be stuck in a suit at a horribly boring gala where he has to be polite. He is also considered the top tier platinum star in rogues to be kidnapped by since he is professional, has kidnapped Waynes before (Damian convinced him to do it so Damian could get out of a series of civilian parties and go hang out with Jon instead and a few times Cass has gotten Jason to "kidnap" her so she doesn't have to deal with a gala either) and is known for returning people when the ransom is paid. He has, on occasion, returned people after the ransom demands were made and denied and it is later discovered that he took the ransom anyway and the person who denied to pay the ransom finds themselves in serious physical and legal trouble. Seasonal Gotham rich people will absolutely brag about having been kidnapped by the Red Hood who clearly has good taste in hostages.

[scribbleseas]

in love & in war: the one where he meets you

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica— your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: The reader’s opinions are a bit old-fashioned, and they don’t reflect my own! Besides that, I’m sure there will be some explicit content down the line, but honestly, this story is much more romcom than our usually scheduled programming. It’s just a silly palette cleanser in season for Valentine’s Day.

Author’s Note: Hi! You guys expressed that you guys like more frequent posts, and I’ve reached a bit of a roadblock on my main Ciel fic right now. I thought I would write up a quick beginning to a potential drabble series! If you guys are interested in this premise, let me know! It’s fun to write such chill stakes content for once lol. Also, this isn’t based off a particular request! I’m still playing with my ideas from those, and at this point, I can confidently say you guys are getting either a one shot or a 1-3 part series based on one. Thank you all for submitting, and feel free to keep them coming.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

| NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

In Conference

Late May, 1895

Your life was nowhere near as easy as it seemed.

Perhaps, the average onlooker might see you and presume that the expensive jewels wrapped around your neck and your fingers were the most burdensome aspect of your privileged life. Or perhaps they might have thought it would be the pinch from your stately heels or the strain from a brilliant, yet strategic, permanent smile.

Your business smile. Your future-Countess-of-Richmond smile.

But they couldn’t have been more wrong.

This very moment was exact proof of that— you were in the midst of your world collapsing. The abject shock rattling through your mind was akin to a nightmare. Your eyebrows pulled together in a contentious pout, the horrified look you used to get away with your most childish crimes from your parents.

“Marriage? Simply not.” You begged, alreadying feeling your will to fight waver under your father’s tired stare, your mother’s pained grin. “I’m only—”

“Of perfect age to begin looking for a potential partner. 22 is well past ready, I would say,” your mother answered for you.

“I would be— but—” you sputtered like a fish out of water only to inhale deeply through your nose. You needed to collect yourself. Negotiate thoughtfully and logically. That was the only way to get yourself out of this.

“Speak with intent, Y/n,” your father interjected boredly, retraining his attention on the business reports he was reading. He fixed his glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose.

Speak with intent. You knew those words well. They were your solace, the lighthouse in the storm that came with childhood temperament. Your father, no matter the cause of your distress, would answer: Speak with intent.

“Right,” you cleared your throat apologetically, glancing down at your hands as they sat clasped in your lap. “Sincerest apologies, sir.”

Your father hummed, eyebrows jumping a fraction of a centimeter. He picked up his pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the report. Your mother’s hand fell on the nape of his neck to make him turn his gaze back up at you. He hesitated before doing so, waiting to click a stamp onto the signed report.

“I do not wish to marry,” you enunciated your words carefully, confidently. “At least, not yet,” you added, now catching your father’s attention for the blunder. “I’ve yet to meet someone I love,” you felt your face redden, a desire to run back to your room threatening to overtake your fortitude. You were only so strong under your father, the Earl of Richmond’s deliberation stare. It struck fear into the other side of conference tables, lecture halls, and courtrooms. And now, across his desk at his only daughter.

Before your father could remind you that love wasn’t the most important aspect of a successful marriage, your mother interjected gently.

“What about the Duke of Clarence’s son, Antonio? He seemed to like you,” she prompted. Wrongly. You’d danced with Antonio at the Summer Solstice gala that the Pembroke family threw annually. The man opted to use the waltz’s entirety to brag about his family’s Italian vineyards and his love for agriculture. And, of course, his admiration for your father’s entrepreneurial genius. His shipping empire, TransAtlantica, had just successfully fortified shipping systems in all of the states; a step forward from simply cycling through all major ports along the east coast.

“He doesn’t love me,” you complained, “he loves TransAtlantica. He’d much prefer to marry our family corporation!” Antonio was suitable. He was decent, but that’s all he truly was to you. It’s all he ever could be.

You met your mother’s eyes pleadingly, and she pursed her lips, fully knowing the next words out of your mouth. You had a deal. From a young age, you knew the Richmond family, the Y/l/n line, respected contracts more than all else. Since you turned 17, you had one signed by all three parties and dated.

Your mother sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I remember the deal,” she said, taking a moment to consider her own words. The corners of her lips twitched as if she was attempting to hide her amusement with you. She understood— her own father, your grandfather, was just as militant, stiff with professionalism. Promises were negotiations with terms, signatures, and stamps. There were no arguments this way. “Dearest,” she addressed your father, the hand that was on the back jumping to his shoulder, “you do as well.”

“Do you?” You challenged, indignantly crossing your arms. “I request you restate the terms, mother.”

“If we are to pressure you into marriage before you feel ready, you must consent to the courting party,” your father took the liberty of answering gruffly. He squared his shoulders, regarding you purposefully— equal parts exhaustion and respect for your endurance. He cultivated it, after all. It was a fire that burned in your family for generations, as sacred as a temple flame.

“Yes,” you affirmed, “and so, I must choose the man I wish to be with.”

“With respect to your titles— no one below your station. And he must be chosen by the end of this courtship season,” your father added, negotiating. He tilted his head, analyzing your next move.

You knew of the first term since you were a child. You even remembered the exact day you learned them. You were a young girl, a little younger than seven. A young commoner boy had attempted to hand you a rose. Your maid at the time had scolded him for standing in the way of a noble family, since he had stepped out in front of you. It was a discernible moment, truly.

As for your father’s second term… you were unconvinced such a thing could be done.

“The end of the courtship season is in four months,” you replied, frowning. You were sure you met most eligible men in your social class. How were you to form a genuine connection in such little time? Even if you couldn’t find love per se, you still wanted to find someone you were compatible with.

“If we reach that deadline and you find no one, we can talk about it,” your mother answered. “And, you must allow me and your aunt to fix you on outings with suitors we like.

“Fine. Only if Daphne joins me,” you replied, knowing fully well that you weren’t allowed anywhere without your handmaiden present.

. . .

Next week

Your mother was sure not to waste any time in beginning to schedule supervised outings with a different well-educated and ennobled man that was within the appropriate age constraints. You’ve never had such a boring week, brutally torn away from the studies you adored so much.

“—And we’ve got another vacation home down in Tuscany, I think,” the Viscount Lineford’s son concluded, taking a peremptory drink out of his tea. He was dressed crisply in beige trousers that rolled up past his ankle and low leather shoes. His sterling watch sparkled in the spring sun.

You fought a building yawn that tempted the back of your throat, determined to hide your exhaustion with the man. It was a good effort, but you certainly weren’t impressed.

“That must be incredible,” you answered absently. “It must be such a lovely foreign getaway for the Lineford family,” you grinned diplomatically, blind to the horror that twisted his — you didn’t care to remember his name, unfortunately — face.

“Foreign? Excuse me Lady Y/n, but my family traces far back into Italian culture that we are practically Roman…” he started, only for you to interject.

“Will you just excuse me, please?” You struggled to keep the desperation out of your face, calmly searching for your supervisor. She was meant to be sitting at a table nearby, merely ensuring that your outing remained within polite societal constraints. More importantly, Daphne served as your escape when your potential suitors proved most unbearable. All you needed to do was subtly tilt your fan to your left ear and the woman would always scramble over to you with an excuse to steer you out of any scenario you found distasteful.

Such as this one.

Daphne never normally left your side, a realization that allowed worry to creep into your tone. “I’m unsure where my maid went, and I would like to fetch her,” you replied, standing and shouldering your small day bag over your shoulder.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, chuckling with bitter disbelief at your rudeness. Ladies were supposed to be demure and polite. You were impatient and honest, a product of an Earl knowing that his daughter was the object of his legacy. Your father trained you as he would a son, and your tutors followed in suit. “Surely you’re joking; this is the middle of our tea.”

Her pocketbook and her sweater weren’t even sitting on the chair she had been occupying, causing you to blink at the empty table in disbelief.

“No, I’m not. I think something might be wrong,” you shouldered past the man, stepping between other individuals sitting at the common tables in the park.

“Fine, you aren’t worth it anyway!” He called at your back, but the words hardly registered with you.

The area was rather common for courting pairs to visit in the early spring. However, it could also be populated with…criminals. “Excuse me,” you mumbled, quickly walking down the paved pathway through the greenery to the main sidewalk, the London pavement heavy with pedestrians. The streets were perhaps more crowded with carriages and sweating horses.

You couldn’t be alone in the city! As a woman of your stature, it simply wasn’t done. Never. Ever. It was an affront to your teachings, and it was unsafe. You needed your friend, not some stranger.

“Where is she?” You mumbled, rapidly attempting to discern every face that passed you. Surely it wouldn’t be long until someone recognized you— you were one of the most photographed families in the country. In fact, you were fortunate no one had offered your location to the press while you were on this outing. You never would have heard the last of it.

Some took hold of your handbag and darted off, using your distractedness to his advantage. He ran to the end of the block and crossed the street, weaving through pedestrians once the crossing guard allowed your side to walk over. If your hand hadn’t been tightly clutching the strap as you walked, you never would have noticed.

You did your best to pick up your speed and chase him, yelling out.

You cried out, glancing down at your long springtime dress. Your short heels were nowhere near efficient enough for you to make a chase out of the robbery, nor should have needed to! Even still, you lunged into the street — without looking.

In fact, if you had committed to your step, you would’ve been flattened by an oncoming carriage, given that the crossing guard had ordered pedestrians to stop passing moments prior. The only reason why you didn’t make the life-ruining step seemed to be… a tall young man with a serious face and staggering presence. He only had one exposed blue eye, the other was concealed by a black eyepatch. His grip tightened around your arm, pulling you intimately into his chest.

You breathed heavily, tearing yourself out of his arms. A flair of irritation caused you to glare at him as you righted your stance and smooth your dress. However, he did save you from a potentially life ending situation. His immediate insurance of your safety was more meaningful than a misaligned gown that you fixed in seconds.

In fact, the moment truly was a bit theatrical. The man was handsome enough to make you smile with uncertainty, your irritation melting. “Thank you for that,” you said, relieved that the sidewalk seemed to clear, the crowd dispersing from the main street. “I could have been killed.”

“That would have been quite a shame,” he replied, locking eyes with you. The man made a thin attempt at returning your smile. He was enchanting, regal… your heart skipped a beat, considerably flustered.

…Until he spoke again, completely distorting the immediate magnetic lure you felt from his sharp features: “Rather careless of you, my Lady. You ought to be smarter than that.”

You frowned. “In case you failed to notice, that man stole my handbag and essentially disappeared,” you snapped impatiently. It had your identification, emergency notes in case you needed to purchase something, the current novel you were fixated on…how were you meant to return to the estate now?

“You weren’t catching him, I don’t think,” he noted astutely, watching you as you stepped past him to go in the direction you came from. Perhaps Daphne circled back to the park in search of you. You absolutely needed to find her.

“Thank you for your help. Good day,” you answered brusquely, continuing to walk. However, he remained in stride with you, still unabashedly smug. It quickly absolved you of any former gratefulness you had toward the man for pulling you away from oncoming traffic. Perhaps it might have hurt less to have collided with a horse and a carriage over the velocity and mass of this random man’s ego.

“What, don’t tell me you going to go chase him,” He said patronizingly, a sardonic pull infecting what you thought was initially a careful smile. No, the man was just another arrogant bastard, it seemed. “In those shoes, especially,” He perused, causing you to stop once more and regard him.

“I am a noble woman, you will not speak to me in such a manner no matter what line of—“ you caught the sapphire family and silver crest rings around two of his fingers — “mediocre destitution you come from!” You jabbed purposefully, undeserving of his rudeness and his condescension, no matter what title he occupied in your class. You were the partial inheritor of TransAtlantia; you trained to run the company to some degree since you could speak. Few could step to you.

“I believe I said good day, kind sir,” you added poisonously, daring him to continue to test you before speeding back towards the park. You needed Daphne, you needed an officer…anyone besides this pompous— you ended the thought before you could further infect yourself with such unladylike curses.

It really wasn’t so easy being the daughter of an Earl.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“I’ve planned things so Lady Y/n’s maid is off helping a little girl find her mother; I separated the two by distracting the girl with a kitten. Y/n will panic without her maid being within her immediate reach, drawing her out to the street. I will cause her to put herself in harm’s way by distracting her at the corner of 89th Street and Arthur. Be ready by the street post. I’ve made the new paralegal late to his case, he will have instructed his butler to drive quick. You will need to pull her away from the street. If you miss, things may end rather…unfortunately for the young woman,” Ciel Phantomhive’s butler, Sebastian Michealis, outlined.

Sebastian was Ciel’s head butler, his head chef, head landscaper, tailor, tutor… but most importantly, the Earl of Phantomhive’s contracted demon. The supernatural being was at his disposal and his bidding; his new role being the most interesting one of all: matchmaker. He fabricated a scene for Ciel to meet Y/n Y/l/n, and ideally, make her love him.

It was simple, really. Ciel needed a wife; Y/n’s family needed a competent businessman to run that prosperous giant of a shipping enterprise; and most importantly, the woman seemed to be rather competent. The only danger to his strategy was, of course, Y/n’s foul storybook idealism, apparently. Ciel knew Y/n was highly educated and well graced in ettiquiete, but she seemed intent on finding some happily ever after of sorts.

She wanted a husband— a bloody love match. No— she needed an actor to convince her that she was worth marrying beyond the incredible status she represented. There was no asset greater than a title and an economic monarchy to inherit, and securing such a prize meant that Ciel needed to woo her.

“My Lord, you must be considerate, but not too kind. Though you should also refrain from acting too smugly or the lady may take offense,” his butler had offered some horrifically embarrassing — and incredibly unhelpful — acting lessons for him to express the particular warmth Lady Y/n seemed to be looking for.

Love. A feeling Ciel hadn’t known in around nine years. Arguably, it could’ve been more. And yet, in order to stop being solicited by desperate mothers and unlikely candidates, he was securing his bride.

According to Ciel’s butler, that meant he needed to create a memorable foundation in the woman’s mind, an introduction that would leave her curious, impassioned. Wanting more. Something to make him stand out amongst the other faceless, classless mouth breathers who would be vying for TransAtlantica, now that word of her search for a suitor was widespread.

The company and Y/n’s hand were all one in the same courtship, and Ciel was sure the was going to win both.

The Earl of Phantomhive was never one to lose. He’d be remiss to start now.

[flowerandblood]

The Taste of Shame (2)

[ dom!modern • Aemond x friend sister • female ]

[ warnings: doubts related to sex work, panic attack, remorse and depression, fluff, sexual tension ]

[ description: Aemond works as a professional dom, fulfilling the various fantasies of his female clients - however, he guards his privacy and does not enter into any relationships with them, recognizing that he does not want or need it. It turns out that what he wants and what he doesn’t no longer matter when he meets his friend’s younger sister for the first time. Slow burn, sexual tension, doubts related to sex work. ]

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Walking to the lecture they talked about everything and nothing; for the most part, she was the one speaking, telling stories or asking questions, guiding her bike beside her by the handlebars, while he just added his thought or simply remained silent, listening to her.

They arrived at the Community Centre true to her word very quickly and indeed he immediately saw posters announcing that there would be free lectures by philosophers in the fields of contemporary ethics.

Robert's sister padlocked her bike in the designated area and they both went inside, following the signs. They entered a large, neo-classical hall with beautiful pillars and rich ornamentation on the ceiling, reminding him of a theatre or opera house.

They sat side by side on seats in one of the first rows − she explained to him that the presenter would be asking questions and, among others, her professor would be answering.

Indeed, the discussion was remarkably interesting and he caught himself drawn in; the men were talking among themselves about capital punishment, attitudes to the treatment of other humans and animals, warfare and human-wide conflicts.

However, he felt a cold sweat on his back and a tightness in his throat, his heart starting to pound like mad when the presenter asked the next question.

"As we know, a lot of young people start, as they say in modern times, sexworking − whether they show up on webcams or have sex for money. How do you, Professor, view this, do you think it's good for the psyche of such people? Is it morally right?"

The professor grunted and corrected his glasses with a slight hand gesture; he was a grey-haired, elderly man with a kindly, calm face.

"It depends on a number of factors. Firstly − what that young person's goal is. When we choose our job, we usually want more than just to earn money, most people's dream is to do things that fascinate them, that they are fulfilled in. Of course, people are also fulfilled in the sexual sphere with their partners, however, what happens when sexuality becomes a profession?

Well, in a way, two things are then combined that can be very destructive to the psyche − materliness and one's own body. At the same time, we make the decision ourselves, so it is not morally wrong if it involves two adults who agree to it, but there is an internal objectification, a selling of some part of our intimacy.

Of course, one can feel good about it. One may even like it. One should not tell such people that they are denying something, or say that they are selling themselves, that they are pricing their value. You see, it is not for us to judge. Everyone can do what they want with their body, it is their unquestionable right.

However, the danger arises when, underneath this materialistic approach, there is a desire for self-destruction, a desire to simultaneously dominate, to be in charge − I decide what happens to my body − and, at the same time, I desire to humiliate myself in my own eyes − I sell myself and I'm nothing, I don't want affection because I don't deserve it.

This issue is very complex and delicate, judging too quickly, especially by outsiders, will be even more hurtful to such people, a confirmation that they will never be loved and accepted, so they will be afraid to make sexuality emotional, which will lead to the opposite effect that we would all like."

The presenter nodded with understanding.

"If the professor were to state what it should look like in an ideal world, what would the professor say?"

The man laughed good-naturedly, stroking his white beard.

"I don't have an answer to that. I think that in an ideal world, the person who is made for us would be highlighted to us in green and those who hurt us in red. But we don't have that option. I think the fundamental mistake of every human being is to make judgements prematurely, instead of being willing to understand, to offer conversation, to support.

Calling someone a whore or a slut has never helped anyone, what's more, it only makes such people even more likely to have suicidal thoughts and be afraid to seek help when they feel they need it, because they are scared of revealing themselves to their parents or loved ones."

The presenter moved on to the next topic, but he heard nothing more, staring blankly at the floor, leaning forward so that his elbows were on his knees − he felt himself trembling all over, his eyes burning from the moisture that had gathered under his eyelids, his throat all clenched.

He felt her hand on his back and he shuddered, glancing over his shoulder at her with wide eyes − she was leaning over him worriedly, he could smell her pleasant scent again.

"Are you all right? Do you want to go out for some fresh air?" She asked frightened, clearly seeing how pale he was, and he nodded in embarrassment.

By the time they got outside it was completely dark; he reached with his shaking hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, taking out a cigarette and a lighter, firing it quickly and putting it into his mouth.

He felt her looking at him − they were standing in the square in front of the main entrance where there was no one but them, all around them was the loud hum of moving cars.

For some reason he felt desperate and miserable, weak, small; he clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head, trying to pull himself together. He sat down on the cold stone steps and she immediately sat down next to him, far too close.

He sighed when he felt her hand on his shoulder, stroking him gently, her warm breath on his cheek cool from the crisp evening air. He let out a loud puff of smoke with his lips, thinking only of how he had never let any woman touch him.

He placed his hand on hers, wanting to feel her for once, her skin soft as silk, exactly as he had imagined; he looked at her in pain, her eyebrows arched in worry, in incomprehension of what had actually happened.

"I'm selling myself." He said finally, desperate, and she blinked as if she didn't understand what she had just heard.

He took a drag again, not taking his eyes off her, and let the smoke out through his nose.

"I do all sorts of fucked up things to women for money and get satisfaction out of it, you know?" He asked in a low, trembling voice, feeling devastated how tears of shame one by one began to run down his face.

He felt himself shaking all over and thought he was an idiot, wondering how he could have said that to her. For some reason, he felt something inside him break.

He wanted her to know, to tell him she was disgusted with him, to look at him with that look full of reserve, to tell him it was nothing and just go away simply to let him finally stop thinking about her.

He saw her tighten her lips, her eyes turning red, her eyebrows arching in sorrow as if she was in pain as he was. He felt a pleasant shudder when her hand stroked gently through his hair as if he were a small child, and then she hugged her face to his cheek and simply remained silent.

She didn't say anything.

She stayed.

She wanted to comfort him.

Delighted at this revelation, he burst out into a quiet, mournful sob, leaned over and snuggled his face into her neck, wanting to hide from his own shame and remorse, from what she might think of him, from what he feared and could not forgive himself for.

Why did he have to be like this?

Why exactly did this give him fulfilment?

He sighed quietly as she put her arms around him and hugged him, her soft hand stroking his cheek with gentle, slow movements, her face nestled against his hair and placing a gentle kiss on it.

"You didn't do anything wrong." She whispered finally; he swallowed hard, rubbing the tip of his nose against her neck, brushing his lips gently against her bare skin, again, and then again.

He felt her tremble and tighten her hands on his leather jacket, his manhood in his trousers completely hard.

He had no idea what had just happened between them, but he didn't want to stop.

After a moment, as his emotions left him he realised what he had done.

That he had told a complete stranger about who he was, revealed to her his darkest secret.

This thought made him panic − he got up abruptly and mumbled through his tears that he would go home already, that he apologised to her for everything, not listening to her pleas to wait for her, running quickly down the stone stairs, walking ahead.

He looked over his shoulder as he turned into the corner of the next street and noticed with some kind of disappointment that she was not following him.

He burst out into uncontrollable sobs for the second time once he had locked himself in his car having complete chaos in his head, feeling that he was going through some kind of panic attack.

He thought that until he'd met her he hadn't felt this way, that the idea that he couldn't date her because of what he'd done made him start to regret it all.

What was he supposed to do now?

He reached for his phone hearing it vibrate and unlocked it quickly seeing as many as three new messages from her.

He clenched his eyelids, dropping his phone on the other seat, hiding his face in his hands.

He needed to calm down.

He sat like that for a few minutes in silence, not thinking about anything, just breathing, and then he drove home as if nothing had happened.

He entered his flat, took a shower, ate something and then turned on the TV, all mechanical, completely empty; he shuddered when he got a new message, reaching uncertainly for his phone and felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach when he saw it was one of his clients.

She wanted to meet the next day.

No, he thought.

I don't want to.

He wrote her back that he was taking a break from it all for a while.

He was infuriated when she started texting him to tell him not to do it, that she needed him, that meeting him made her want to go on living.

He slammed his phone furiously into the wall.

What about what he fucking needed?

When he picked it up after several minutes he found that it worked despite the cracked screen.

He accessed the last messages he'd received from Robert's sister and began typing quickly to her on his phone's keypad.

He pressed his lips together when he saw that she immediately displayed his message, a bubble popped up in his app window indicating that she had just written back to him.

He swallowed loudly, writing her back without thinking, without controlling himself, allowing himself to shamelessly write her exactly what was in his head.

He stared at the screen with a pounding heart, wondering whether to do it or not, walking restlessly around his living room with his phone in his hands − he typed out the answer slowly, feeling that he was hot.

She didn't reply for a long time even though he could see that she had displayed his message.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, laughing despairingly under his breath, not believing how desperate he was.

He'd known it from the moment he'd seen her, when she'd gotten off that fucking bike and looked at him with those big, innocent eyes of hers.

He stood looking at her message as if stupefied, reading it again and again, unable to believe it, feeling like he was about to die from the arousal and heat he felt in his chest, his fingers trembling as he tapped out his reply to her.

And so she did.

He didn't dare propose to meet her alone, knowing how that would have gone down on his part.

He didn't want to scare her off.

However, they wrote with each other for days, even during his classes; Criston and Robert laughed at him for having a girlfriend and not even wanting to introduce her to them.

He didn't care.

She was the first person he told about how it all started, what he felt when he did it, what aroused him and what repulsed him about it all.

She listened to him and answered him with sincere concern and worry, without judging him, without pretending it was a simple and obvious subject, giving him a sense of comfort and understanding.

He made it clear to her that he had refrained from any contact with strange women for the time being.

He licked his lower lip as he lay back in his bed, writing her off quickly.

He swallowed hard when she wrote him back after a moment.

He felt a squeeze in his heart at her words, some kind of pain that she thought of herself that way, that she saw herself as just another person he wanted to take out on.

He chuckled involuntarily, typing back a quick response to her question.

He blinked, looking at his screen with a pounding heart, not believing what he read.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Kinktober Day 16

Day Fifteen | 🌹Kinktober Masterlist🌹 | Day Seventeen

Pairing: Indiana Jones x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting with ANY of these Kinktober prompts will be blocked

Warnings: Role reversal; period-typical attitudes toward sex; vaginal sex; riding unsafe sex; creampie

He starts to turn up to your classes midway through October. You’ve seen his picture in the paper, heard the conspiratorial whispers of the enamored co-eds across campus, but you’ve never met the man. 

You notice him right off the bat—it’s impossible not to. If it hadn’t been for the way most of the female students were twisting in their seats to get a look at him, his countenance would’ve given him away. He was dressed far more professionally than your students, and watching you far more closely than any of them were as well. The afternoon sun glinted off of his glasses as he tracked your movement, from walking into the lecture hall, to setting down your briefcase as you greeted your students.

-- 

You’ve nearly forgotten him by the lecture’s end, as your students pack up their things and file out. You focus on getting your scattered notes and attendance sheets together, certain that Jones will trail out with the rest of them. You feel someone watching you as you tuck your notes and attendance into a folder. You glance up, expecting one of your students, but finding him standing there instead. 

“Dr. Jones,” You greet, turning your attention back to your bag. “Is there something that I can help you with?” 

“Brody told me that he’d hired someone else in the history department, but I haven’t had the time to come and get acquainted.” 

“Well, that probably had something to do with your recent excursion to Guatemala.” 

He chuckles softly. “I see my reputation precedes me.” 

“It certainly does.” 

“I just wanted to stop by, say hello…Get a look at the professor that’s been poaching my students.” 

“They probably wouldn’t be so easy to poach if you turned up to more than a third of your lectures during a given semester.” 

You close your satchel, lifting the strap onto your shoulder and straightening up. He searches your face, eyes narrowing slightly behind his frames. 

“Are you headed back to your office?” He asked. “I’d be happy to walk you.”

“Home, actually. I’m done for the day.” 

“Could I drive you?” 

“That’s quite alright, I drove myself here this morning.” 

Jones nods slowly, gaze sweeping curiously over you. 

“Perhaps I could drop by one of your lectures again.” 

“What for?” 

“Fun. I enjoyed it.” 

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Maybe I could teach you a thing or two about a thing or two.” 

Jones’ lips curled with a smile as he nodded. 

“We’ll see about that.” 

--  

“What was that crack about me missing classes?” 

You throw a surly glare over your shoulder at Indiana as he grins up at you. This was not the plan. 

After a week, Dr. Jones had made it a point to visit at least one of your classes. After a month, you were planning a lecture series together over dinners and drinks. After two months, Jones had managed to talk you into taking a little weekend trip with him—for the sake of the lecture series, of course.

“I'll go on one condition,” You’d warned, pointing firmly at him. 

“I’m listening.” 

“I need to be back by noon on Monday at the latest. I have a lecture at three and I despise missing classes.” 

“...I will do my best.”

“Jones.” 

“Cross my heart, honey.” 

He’d raised his hand and crossed his heart, then raised his right hand and gestured, “Scout’s honor.” 

You’d wanted to be grated by all of it—the smile, the crossing of his heart, his scout’s honor, the way he’d called you honey. But you’d gone into the weekend with a curious new feeling. You didn’t think that Indiana really wanted to get together for lecture notes, you thought that he wanted to, well…

Well, you’d gotten the impression that Indiana may be interested in you—romantically. It was rare that a man like that asked you to drinks just to talk about the legacy of Alexander the Great, or insisted on walking you to your door afterward. 

A weekend away had seemed perfectly in order to kick off the far-less-than-professional side of your relationship. You’d packed your cutest clothes—you'd been excited.

And now rather than snuggling up, you’re following an artifact fencer into a cave in the middle of the Grand Canyon at 3pm on a Monday, dirtying your second favorite outfit, and fighting the urge to sock the grinning fool squarely in the jaw.

“Stifle it, Jones.” 

-- 

You throw the door to your hotel room open, stomping irritatedly inside and reaching back to shove the door shut again. You don’t hear it close, but you do hear the thud of Indiana’s feet behind you. 

“What’s the matter with you?” He asks, shutting the door behind himself. 

“You promised, Jones. Crossed your damn heart, if you even have one.” 

“Wouldya quit pouting? We did a good thing,” Jones argues. “So you missed a class, so what?” 

“It’s the principle of the thing!” You argue, whirling around on him. He’s stunningly close, his brows raised as he watches you. You scowl as he grins amusedly. 

“Why did you invite me out here, anyway, Jones?” You add. Something flickers in his gaze just enough for you to seize on. 

“For the lecture series,” He insists. “Obviously.” 

“Obviously?” You narrow your eyes, stepping toe-to-toe with him. “That’s all?” 

“Why else would I have invited you?” 

“For something like this, perhaps?” You reach out, grasping his cheeks and draw him in. He flails a bit for balance as your lips crash together. He steadies himself as he rests his hands on your hips, sighing softly against them as he uses his grasp to pull you closer. You let him steer you back toward the bed, but before he can push you down, you turn and give Indiana a push. He bounces back onto the mattresses, eyes wide as he peers up at you, his kiss-plumped lips parted in surprise. You smile, straddling his lap as he propped himself up on his elbows. 

“What do you think you’re doing, huh?” He asks, sliding his hands over your thighs. 

“You’ve been giving me orders all afternoon, Jones. It’s time to let me steer.” 

-- 

You watched Indiana’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. He’d hardly taken his eyes off of you as you’d undressed, hardly been able to keep still as you’d climbed onto his lap. Now, his eyelids lowered as you slowly rolled your hips, sliding down onto his cock. 

“C’mon,” He groans. 

“Shut up.” 

“You wanted to steer, but don't know how to drive.”

“We don’t need to floor it. Besides,” You give your hips a little swivel. “I’ve already got the key in the ignition.” 

Indiana growls low in his chest, his head falling back against the pillows as you cast him a wicked grin. You brace your hands on either side of his head, bowing down over him. 

“You’re really not used to this, are you?” You murmurs.

“Don’t get a big head, honey. I’m so used to this it’d make a Parisian courtesan blush.” 

“Not this,” You chuckled, tightening up around him, and grinning as he grips your hips more tightly. “I meant not being in charge.” 

Indiana glares up at you with muted wrath, a deep breath drawing in through his nose. You giggle, leaning back and giving a showy bite to your lip as your hips meet Indiana’s. 

“You aren’t,” You insist as you set a punishingly slow pace. “It’s driving you crazy. Look at that little tick jumping in your jaw.” 

Indiana’s hands raise to grasp your breasts, but you catch hold of his hands, intertwining your fingers and using your full force to pin them up over his head. His arms flex as he presses up against your grip, and you know that Indiana could easily throw you over. You brush your lips against his, then dip closer for a deeper kiss as you begin to grind your hips unhurriedly. Indiana’s lips part beneath yours, his tongue swiping out to brush and tease against yours.

He loses himself in your kisses, letting his straining muscles go slack against the mattress as you screw your hips down against his.  You finally draw back from the kiss, shivering as Indiana leans up, swiping his tongue against your peaked nipple. You sigh, pressing your hips back against his and arching your back to push your breasts into his face. He turns his head, nuzzling the valley of breasts before sucking your other breast between his lips. You reach down, playing with your tingling clit and brushing against the slick base of Indiana’s shaft. 

Your pace begins to falter as your attention is torn between the press of Indiana’s cock and the practiced swipe of your fingers against your own flesh. You gasp softly as the familiar sensation of your orgasm begins sneaking up on you. You let go of Indiana’s other hand and push yourself up, resting your hand on his chest as you pick up your pace. You look down at Indiana and find him watching you closely as you use him for your own pleasure. You curl your fingers, nails digging into Indiana’s chest. He groans, grasping your hips and using the grip to take control of the pace. 

You don’t bother to stop him. You just tip your head back and thumb one of your nipples, cursing as you finally cum. Indiana pushes himself up against you, his chest pressed against yours. His arm hooks around your waist, pulling you closer. You can hear the grunts and groans beneath his breath, feel the harsh pants as he grows closer and closer beneath you. Indiana draws you down on top of him again, using his grip on your hips to fuck you through your orgasm. You watch his eyes roll back into his head, his groan choked out as he fills you. your cunt still twitching around him. You sigh softly, snuggling against Indiana’s chest as he calms. You smile as Indiana’s arms curl around your back, keeping you close. 

“...Tell you what,” He mumbles after a moment. “You’re not such a bad driver.” 

You chuckle, rolling off of Indiana and onto your back. 

“I’m flattered.” 

You gaze up at the ceiling as you feel Indiana roll onto your side, watching you closely. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

“How long can I convince you to stay here?” He murmurs.

“In bed?” 

“In Arizona.”

You scoff, turning to look at indiana. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“I’m not.” 

“I’ve got classes tomorrow, Jones.”

“Skip ‘em.” 

You roll your eyes, looking up at the ceiling again. 

“Ridiculous.” 

Indiana reaches out, stroking gently along your arm. 

“You really give a damn,” He comments. His voice is soft, almost stunned. 

“Making fun of me?” 

“No,” Indiana insists. “Hell, I like it.”

"Maybe I could teach you a thing or two about it."

"Giving a damn?"

"Mhm. Teach you how to keep your promises, next."

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @phoenixhalliwell ; @wild-rose-35 ; @daisyslibrary ; @informally-liz ; @andrastesflamingtitties ; @muchacha-encabronada ; @nerdygirl0414 ; @elen-aranel ; @ohbee-whatcanyoube ; @kmc1989 ; @quietpainter ; @thedreadandthefugitivemind ; @kaletastrophes ; @nyx2021 ; @thatesqcrush ; @shanimallina87 ; @adarasforest ; @s-u-t ; @silversprings-mp3 ; @senawashere ; @foxilayde

[chloesolace]

I Can See You - Stephen Strange x Reader [Christmas Special]

summary: You are a student of the mystic arts, studying at the Sanctum Sanctorum under Doctor Strange's and Wong's guidance. You are nearing the end of your apprenticeship, and ready to celebrate at the Kamar-Taj Christmas party, yet your growing attraction to Stephen makes it hard to focus on much else (not even those delicious roasted almonds you love so much). When you sprain your ankle, and Stephen is there to offer his aid, you realize that his cold demeanor towards you might not be because of negative feelings after all.

pairing: Stephen Strange x Apprentice!Reader

word count: 3k

warnings: age gap

a/n: Merry Christmas everyone! This is another contribution to my Swift series <3 and a Christmas special. My next one shots will be accepted requests.

Masterlist - Discord Server - Request Info - Taylor Swift Series

And we kept everything professional But something's changed, it's something I like They keep watchful eyes on us So it's best that we move fast and keep quiet

You were standing in the hallway of the Sanctum Sanctorum, a book in your hand. Quietly humming the tune you were listening to through your earbuds, you browsed the pages. The Sanctum was quiet, with Wong away on some business and Stephen having barricaded himself in his study. Most days were like this, so you had to find ways to entertain yourself when Stephen or Wong did not bother you with magical training. 

You were in the last year of your apprenticeship and could call yourself a master of the mystic arts as soon as next year was only one week away. You had been looking forward to spending this month with Christmas activities, but had been met with extra work given to you by your fellow sorcerers. Although you were their apprentice, you had become more of a friend who was magically similarly powerful to them already, just in a different way.

As a natural witch, you had a certain affinity towards magic, yet the mystic arts were not the type of magic that was inherited and so you had had to work your way up the ladder just like any other student of Kamar-Taj had. 

You hadn't been to Kamar-Taj in ages, so you were very excited about the Christmas party that would take place later today. You would see your friends from your first year at the temple again. It was extremely exciting to properly socialize since Stephen barely paid attention to you outside of his lectures and assignments, and you barely knew anyone from this city; you had grown up in a remote town far away from New York.

You put the book back where it belonged and left the living area to climb the large staircase that dominated the foyer. Its railing had been decorated with lights that glowed in even intervals. 

“(y/n)!” You heard someone shout your name behind you, so you stopped in your tracks and turned around, tapping on your left earbud once so the music would stop. 

Stephen stood in front of you with his arms crossed in front of his chest and an annoyed expression on his face.

“Have you finished your paper on interdimensional threat elimination yet? Wong said he’s still waiting for your email.”

“Of course,” you replied, taking the earbuds out and dropping them into your pocket. “I wanted to send it to him just now.” You wanted to say how unnecessary it was to give you one last assignment that was due on Christmas, and a theory one at that, but you bit your tongue and swallowed the thought.

He hummed a response, cold gaze lingering on you while he seemed to think about your answer. Without another word, Stephen then turned on his heel and left for the kitchen, leaving you standing on the staircase. 

You sighed and continued towards your room. The way he spoke with you lately was getting on your nerves, and you realized how he could sometimes not even look at you. It stung, wondering how his opinion of you could have dropped this much, especially in regards to the secret feelings you harbored for the sorcerer.

You closed the door behind you when you reached your room, trying to forget the encounter you had just had. Your room was moderately sized, with antique furniture and a large golden mirror next to your king-sized bed, neatly made with green velvet bedding. 

To get into the Christmas spirit, you had decorated your room a little with some lights and a wreath, whose four thick candles were each lit, enchanted so they wouldn't extinguish or transfer the flame to any flammable object. 

You approached your desk in front of your window, letting yourself sink into the office chair in front of it. You had a good view of the business of Bleecker Street, so you observed for just a moment longer. There were many cars today, and people dressed in thick jackets that kept them safe from the falling snow, carrying presents in large bags or underneath their arms.

You smiled softly as you opened your laptop and quickly sent Wong and Stephen the PDF document. Normally, you would have gone over it again but today you really did not have the nerve or the motivation to do so. Besides, you had been done with it for almost a week already. 

After placing your earbuds back inside their case and leaving them on your nightstand, you exited your room, heading down the hall to Stephen's study. It was the first room next to the stairs, and its door was typically closed. Today was no exception. You knocked carefully and pushed it open a bit.

“Yes?” Stephen said without looking up, keeping his eyes firmly on the book he held in his hands.

You opened the door further and leaned against the doorframe, studying your mentor with a raised eyebrow. Sometimes, you wondered if he used his excessive research as a coping mechanism, as there was no way a single person could be so intertwined with their work.

“I sent you the email,” you informed him, your eyes resting on the book in his hands. “And I was wondering when you would want to meet downstairs for the Christmas party at Kamar-Taj.”

Stephen sighed, placing the book back onto the shelf. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable.

"Right, the Christmas party," he said. "Wong mentioned it.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, trying to read him, realizing that he had forgotten all about it until now. You sighed, averting your gaze for a moment.

“You don't plan to attend?”

“I do not. It would be irresponsible of me to leave the Sanctum unattended on Christmas.” He walked around his desk and let himself fall into his chair, turning his PC on with a click of his mouse.

“The last time you went to a party was the full moon one two years ago,” you reminded him, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

He was about to reply when he stopped for a second, looking at you perplexed. “You remember that?”

“Either way,” you continued, ignoring his question as you placed one hand on his mahogany desk, “Wong said he'd make sure someone would be there to take care of the Sanctum. So if you want to come along, he and I will meet in the foyer at seven.”

Stephen looked up at you while his fingers ghosted over the keyboard of his PC, but you didn't give him time to answer as you turned and left his study, closing the door behind you.

It took you some time to get ready, and music could be heard coming from your room throughout it all. You had opted for a short red dress that sparkled in the light of your room. It was dark outside when you were done, and you were very thankful for the time spell put on Kamar-Taj today so that time zones did not matter. You couldn't imagine getting ready like this at eight in the morning.

You put on your heels, and grabbed your coat and a clutch before you left your room, locking it with your magic. The cold New York air caused goosebumps to appear on your legs; a window must have been opened somewhere. 

You descended the stairs, gripping the railing to steady yourself in the heels you wore, careful not to trip. A smile appeared on your face as you spotted Wong standing at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed elegantly, yet not overly so for a simple Christmas party.

“Will Stephen not be joining us?” he asked, blinking at you while scanning the stairs behind you in search of the other man. You merely shrugged your shoulders in response.

Before you could reply, Stephen emerged from the Sanctum library to your right and joined the two of you. He wore a white shirt and a tie, his hands hidden inside the pockets of his black trousers. A red scarf hung around his shoulders, and you immediately recognized the cloak of levitation’s pattern in the fabric.

“And here I thought you'd be spending most of the evening studying a tome,” you teased, looking up at him to meet his eye.

“Well, this party can also be seen as a celebration of you becoming a master of the mystic arts. What kind of mentor would I be if I didn't celebrate that?”

Wong shook his head, extending his arms to create a portal in the middle of the Sanctum’s foyer. It came alive in a frame of sparks, glistening yellow and bright, reflecting in the gemstone you were wearing around your neck. It had no magic, yet it complemented your eyes.

“(y/n) is more of a friend than an apprentice, Stephen. To both of us. You should not see this as an obligation.”

You pursed your lips as the awkward silence that followed, but Wong had only said the words out loud that you had been thinking the entire past weeks.

Stephen did not reply and you could not bring yourself to meet his eye, so you only offered Wong a faint smile before stepping through the portal. 

All three of you exited the portal in the heart of Kamar-Taj, where ancient buildings adorned with mystical symbols rose against the darkening sky. A warm, magical glow enveloped the surroundings as you entered the main building, greeted by practitioners of the mystic arts who were adorned in elaborate robes, mingled beneath enchanted decorations that turned the air into a cascade of glittering snowflakes. The aroma of exotic spices drifted through the air, and you immediately felt your mouth water. 

You navigated through the lively crowd, and your face lit up when you spotted old friends and mentors from your time at the temple. You immediately engaged in conversation with them, Stephen and Wong joining you. Each of you took a drink from a nearby floating tray, clinking your glasses. Wong seemed to be feeling particularly sociable, but Stephen did not say much, his gaze occasionally landing on you or his wine glass.

“Please excuse me,” Stephen said after a while, leaning towards your little group so he could be heard better against the loud music and vibrant chatter around you.

When he turned to leave, he accidentally brushed his hand against yours in the process, causing you to freeze for a second and meet his gaze. His bright blue eyes held you captive, and you swore you could hear the music fade in the background. Before you could react in any way, however, Stephen had already cleared his throat and maneuvered around you, downing his drink.

You looked after him, lips slightly parted, before Roslyn, a girl who had started her magical studies around the same time as you, snapped you back into reality. “You good, (y/n)?”

“Um, yeah,” you replied, smiling a little awkwardly when you looked at Wong, who had a faint grin on his lips. “What?” you asked, almost snapped, but Wong only raised his arms in defense.

“I didn’t say anything.”

You cleared your throat again, offering the gathered a smile before excusing yourself as well. You found your way to the buffet outside with flushed cheeks, set up in a place usually used for training. The air was cool but not cold enough to make you shiver. You smiled at the faces that were familiar to you and muttered a few greetings when people approached you.

The buffet was large, but your focus lay on a bowl with roasted almonds, which you had always loved since you were a little child. You took a smaller bowl and a spoon and put some almonds in yours before leaving the training area, popping one deliciously sweet almond into your mouth. As you were about to climb the flight of stairs leading back up to the main building, a drunk boy, who couldn't have been older than sixteen, bumped into you.

You tried to regain your balance, but you stepped onto the stone floor wrong, causing your ankle to twist at an awkward angle. Hissing, you held your ankle as a sharp pain shot through your leg. Your bowl of almonds had shattered on the ground next to you, and you stoically twirled your hand, using witchcraft to make the pieces disappear. The mystic arts required too much concentration and handwork at times, and your innate magic often came in handy.

“Watch where you’re going, dude!” you shouted, but the boy had already left. He probably did not even realize what happened.

You attempted to walk, but each step hurt more than the other, so you took your heels off and limped into the building. Shoes dangling from your right hand, you used the other to hold onto pillars and walls to stabilize yourself, trying to find a quiet spot. At this time, the library would be empty, and it was not far either.

With the aid of magic, you opened the heavy library door and let it fall shut behind you, exhaling deeply as the loud noises were muffled by the door. Cursing, you slowly walked over to an armchair nearby and sat down on it. Your heels landed on the floor, your hands both massaging the hurting ankle. You barely even registered the books that surrounded you, some of which were bound by chains. Back when you were studying in Kamar-Taj, you had always wondered about their contents, but now you could only focus on the pain.

“(y/n)?” You heard Stephen ask, lifting your head to see him appear from behind a bookshelf, brow raised. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Some drunkard ran into me, and I think I sprained my ankle.” You leaned back in your seat, sighing as you cursed yourself for never having shown much interest in healing magic.

Stephen put the book in his hands aside and approached you. “Let me see,” he said calmly as he crouched down in front of you and lifted your ankle with his hands. You hissed at the sudden contact, the pain intensifying for a second. You sometimes forgot that he had been a surgeon before a sorcerer, so you watched as his skillful hands felt for any severe injury, occasionally causing you to wince in pain.

“It’s sprained,” he agreed, not waiting for a response. His hands began to glow in a faint yellow light, the healing warmth instantly relieving your stressed joint. As Stephen slowly worked on your ankle, your eyes locked. His hand traced gentle circles on your skin, and you weren’t sure whether this was required for the spell, but you did not protest, even finding yourself closing your eyes in response to his touch.

“You have a knack for finding trouble. I don’t think that’s ever going to change, is it?” He asked, a smile playing on his lips as you opened your eyes to meet his.

“A sprained ankle is hardly trouble, compared to the other things you had to keep up with these past two years,” you said, chuckling softly. He did not reply.

The pain ceased, and Stephen let go of your ankle. He rested his arm on his knee as you studied the injury, realizing that he had healed it completely.

“Thanks,” you said a little shyly, which even surprised you.

Not wanting the situation to turn into an awkward silence, you stood from your seat, causing him to do the same.

You were about to turn and leave, lips parted to say goodbye, when you noticed him staring at something above you. You followed his eyes and blushed deeply as you saw mistletoe floating in the air between you, surrounded by a golden shimmer.

Swallowing, you looked back at him, blushing deeper as you asked, “Are you doing this?”

You felt stupid because of how hopeful your voice sounded; it was hard to deny you liked him, but he had always been rather cold towards you, which was why you were so glad that Wong had always been so nice to you. If he only knew the way you saw him, you were sure he’d never speak to you again.

Stephen looked from the mistletoe to you, shaking his head slowly. “No, I'm not.”

Realizing that this must be some joke one of the other sorcerers was playing on you, you quickly excused yourself and apologized, turning to leave when his hand on your wrist stopped you.

You turned to look at him, your eyes wide in surprise.

“I didn't say you have to leave,” he whispered, his eyes briefly dropping to your lips. It was hard to breathe when you watched him inch closer towards you, giving you enough time to back away if you wanted to.

He raised his hand to touch your cheek gently, brushing some strands of hair out of your face before burying his fingers in your waves. Something had changed in the way he looked at you, and now that you thought about it, it had changed a while ago already. Precisely around the time he had started acting colder towards you.

Stephen was so close now that you could see the small dark speckle in his blue eyes, something you had never really noticed before. You held your breath as you saw him pull away, conflict written all over his face.

It was your turn to hold onto his wrist, making him look at you. You didn’t know what encouraged you to press your lips against his, but as it happened, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders to pull him close. You felt him tense against you; he had not anticipated your boldness, but soon he melted into the kiss, holding you by the small of your back.

As you pulled away, you smiled up at him, only to realize that the mistletoe had disappeared, but Stephen placed a hand on your cheek and directed your gaze back to him.

“Merry Christmas, (y/n),” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. You saw how your red lipstick had stained his own lips. With a small smile, Stephen leaned in again, capturing your lips in another lingering kiss. The soft glow of your magic enveloped you both, creating an aura of enchantment in the quiet corner of the mystical library. It was in involuntary response to his touch; emotions guiding sorcery. As he pulled away, he met your gaze, and there was a newfound warmth in his eyes, a spark of something unspoken yet profound. 

I can see you in your suit and your necktie Passed me a note saying, "Meet me tonight" Then we kissed and you know I won't ever tell

[heliads]

Hiya Lisa my love!! I think this may be the first request I’m sending you (omg!?) But I am so excited to do so, and of course for our best boy Jack Wilder <3

Okay this one’s a little silly but I’m thinking Jack Wilder x reader where the reader is part of the Horsemen, but Jack and her don’t exactly get along all too well (enemies/reluctant allies to lovers). I’m thinking they’re sent off together to check out and map a location for the Horsemen’s next big act (maybe a fancy gala! That’d be so fun!), but the whole time they’re just bickering and shooting jabs at each other and the other guys are on comms and are just So Tired™ of their bullshit 😭

amber i love you for this

masterlist

You don’t think you’ve ever seen the magical enigma known professionally as J. Daniel Atlas and familiarly as a pain in all of your asses as stressed as he is right before the start of a new job. The Horsemen are world renowned for their intricate performances and flawless setups, which only serves to increase the pressure on all of you to keep one-upping yourselves every time you appear in the spotlight. Danny has taken it upon himself to make sure that all of you stay perfect, and that responsibility is manifesting itself in the form of a lecture right now.

He’s standing in front of you, eyes wild with the fire of what could be creative genius or perhaps too much coffee, and rattling off a series of questions to make sure you know what you’re doing.

“Where are you going?” He asks first.

You meet his gaze steadily. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Specifically the busiest areas during the Met Gala.”

“How are you entering?” Danny queries.

“Two ways. First, as a tourist, to spot the security cameras. Then, I’ll go again at night, to lay some cameras of our own and run some more thorough investigations.”

Danny takes a step closer. His hands are steepled together, making him the perfect picture of a plotting supervillain from one of those bad action movies Merritt keeps playing. “What, specifically, are you looking for?”

You want to roll your eyes, but you learned a long time ago that showing any sort of emotion except for intensity in front of Daniel Atlas during his mad planning sessions is only asking for trouble. So, you keep your cool, or you try to, at least. “The normal stuff. Alcoves and closets where we can hide. Areas with low security presence. Entrances and exits. Janitors. Extra uniforms. That sort of thing.”

Daniel nods once, the only sign that you’re not outright bombing his little pop quiz. “And who is going with you on this reconnaissance mission?”

This time, you can’t disguise your sigh of disgust. “I’m taking a stubborn child.”

Danny gives you a cool stare. “Try again.”

You give him a look, but Daniel is prone to winning staring contests, especially when he’s in this sort of mood, so you cut your losses and give in. “Fine. I’m taking Jack.”

To your side, someone starts clapping. “Perfect response!”

You and Daniel both turn in unison to see your recon partner applauding your sarcastic answer from his chair a few paces away. His feet are kicked up on the table in front of him, and although he had been aimlessly scrolling through his phone this entire time, he’s put the device down temporarily so he can remind you just how strong a bond the two of you share. Which is to say, in no uncertain terms, none at all.

Daniel glances back at you. “You’re not going to let the two of you working together be a problem, will you?”

You fold your arms across his chest, affronted. “I won’t. You might want to double-check with my so-called partner, though. Who, by the way, is free to answer any of these questions on his own. I don’t see why I’m the one who has to know everything while he gets off easy. Aren’t we sharing this responsibility? And by extension, this interrogation?”

Jack just flashes you a thousand-watt smile. “You seemed to have it covered, sweetheart. Besides, I just like hearing the sound of your lovely voice.”

You flip him off. He blows you a kiss, then does the same. Daniel looks ready to burst a blood vessel. “Focus, you two. I want no slip ups. We’re stealing the show of the Met Gala. If we make a mistake, I think Anna Wintour will personally kill us.”

“She’s going to do that anyway,” Jack muses, “We’re interrupting her little fashion show. God forbid someone focuses on us instead of all the celebrities who aren’t even dressing to theme. If I had that money, I could do way better, is all I’m saying.”

You shoot him a perplexed look. “Since when have you paid attention to the Met Gala outfits? Last time I tried talking about it, you told me that was all absurdist nonsense.”

“Maybe I was just talking about you,” Jack answers vaguely. “I’m allowed to, like, develop interests.”

You toss him a glare, then turn back to Daniel, who for some reason looks somewhat entertained. “Can we go back to the plan, please?”

Danny straightens up. “Yes, I’d like that. I’ve briefed both of you on the entrances and exits I need you to scout out–”

“Too many times,” Jack cuts in. He’s not wrong. Danny’s been over this every hour on the hour since you got the call to stage your own show at one of the most famous fashion opportunities of the year.

Daniel, however, seems to think that he hasn’t mentioned the details enough. Now Jack is on the receiving end of not just your glare but Daniel’s as well. “As I was saying,” Danny continues smoothly, “You’ll get in and get out. Try not to move too quickly, you don’t want to attract attention, but don’t linger too long, either.”

“We’ll be fine,” you assure him. “Not our first rodeo.”

Danny nods hesitantly. “I know. Just your first rodeo together in a while.”

That’s no big secret. You and Jack may both be Horsemen, but that certainly doesn’t mean you have to like each other. In fact, you couldn’t be farther from it. You’re not enemies, so to speak, an enemy is the FBI or the CIA, but referring to whatever exists between you as friendship is stretching the truth. You’re more like uncertain, unhappy allies. You’ll work together so long as you get paid and stay in the spotlight while you’re at it, but you’re not likely to grab drinks after a show together.

However, the Horsemen come first above any personal squabble. Always. That’s the one thing you and Jack can agree on. What you’re working on is bigger than the two of you, it’s bigger than all of you. To most of the world, you are magic. No rift between teammates is worth damaging that ideal.

That’s why Jack straightens up at last, and dons an expression verging on solemnity. “We’ll do our part, Danny. No need to worry.”

“There had better not be,” Daniel comments, but he backs off after that, and leaves to track down Merritt to deliver a similar speech.

Now alone, Jack’s familiar cavalier attitude comes back in a flash. “Can’t wait for our little date tomorrow, L/N,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “It’s going to be so much fun.”

The next morning, you and Jack wait your turn in the entrance queue at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You’re both disguised with baseball caps pulled low over your heads, then paired with sunglasses, and you each have fake IDs in your pockets just in case. It’s surprisingly easy to get around undetected; although the Horsemen are famous the world over, no one expects to see them outside of one of your performances. It makes no sense to spot one of you in a coffee shop or in line ahead of you, so their minds just glance over you as if you were never there at all.

It’s certainly convenient. You could always go to an outside source for intel, but if there’s one lesson you’ve learned throughout your time, it’s to never trust anyone outside of your immediate circle. There are always people who’ll sell off your secrets, or debunkers frothing at the mouth to show how you do what you do.

No, it’s best to keep everything under wraps, even if it makes disguises necessary. There’s a brief moment of panic in which the security guard checking Jack’s bag lingers on his face a little longer than usual, but he’s waved through soon enough and then you’re able to wander further into the museum.

A voice crackles over your earpiece. “What was that about?” Danny, paranoid as always.

Jack shrugs, directing his voice towards you so no one will suspect he’s talking to anyone else. “Probably just a newbie convinced they’ll catch a would-be robber by checking my hand sanitizer close enough. They didn’t plant any bugs, we’re good. Most likely, she was just captivated by my exceedingly good looks and got distracted.”

You scoff. “Or maybe she was just fascinated by your hideousness and wanted a better look.”

Jack clutches a hand to his heart, feigning agony. “My hideousness?” Y/N, I’m hurt.”

“Good,” you smile saccharinely at him.

Daniel sighs in a gust of static over your earpiece. “Focus, you two. Please.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Jack says. “We’ll get to work.”

You and Jack slip through the exhibits, pretending to examine paintings in sculptures when, in reality, you’re looking harder at the security features in each room. The Horsemen already have a rough plan in mind for how you’re going to enter and exit, but the security presence could change which specific entrance you use.

When you loiter a little too long near one oil painting of two nobles dancing at a lavish ball, Jack doubles back to your side. “Everything alright? We haven’t been noticed yet, have we?”

You shake your head, snapping yourself back to reality. “No, we’re fine. Just looking. I love this year’s theme for the gala. If I had an actual invitation, I would have worn something like the dress in this painting. I would want to, at least. Of course, that would only happen if we weren’t breaking in, but. Yeah. That’s what I would do.”

You realize you’re rambling and try to cut yourself off, but you’ve already been going on for a while. You wait for Jack to tease you, but instead, the corner of his lips tugs up in a soft half-smile. “It would look good,” he admits, “You would. Maybe we should petition Danny to let us dress up. We could recreate the painting.”

He swoops closer, placing one hand on your waist and taking yours with the other, spinning you into a waltz just like in the painting. Jack pulls you close in an exaggerated dip just like in the painting, one that takes you a little too near the painting. One of the security guards surges across the room to tell you two to move away again. Jack lets you up, then exaggeratedly apologizing, slapping the guy on the back as a gesture of camaraderie. As the guard walks away, you can see the tracer he’s planted, one that will give you two much-needed information on the paths each guard takes on their shift.

“Nice one,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” Jack says, but he’s still looking at you, as if mentally cataloging each and every place his hands had been just moments before. “I am nice.”

You swat him on the shoulder, and he winks. Rather than give that an answer, you head to the next exhibit. The two of you tag the next few guards you come across, noting janitor’s closets and fire exits while you’re at it. 

It’s easy to settle into a rhythm. You go from room to room, you snipe at each other, you get the job done. Jack passes a sculpture of a nude woman and suggests that be the costume you wear to the Gala, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively; you tell him that you’ll do it only when he’s got biceps the size of the Greek hero statue next to it.

Eventually, you only have one tag left. This one, though, will be the most difficult. The chief security guard has access to the central security station of the museum; by bugging him, you can get the passcode to the main room, which would be a significant help. The only problem is that you’ll have to get close enough to talk to the guy, and he looks far more suspicious of everyone around him than any of the other guards.

You volunteer to do it, and weave your way over to the guard in charge. It takes a heady dose of flirting, but you’re able to get the job done eventually. You do have to shell out a fake phone number, but he’ll only find out the number isn’t yours later that night. No harm, no foul.

Or, not according to you, at least. When you walk back over to Jack, though, your partner in crime has his arms folded tight across his chest, and he looks more annoyed than you’ve seen him all day. At last, something has managed to pierce his armor of sarcastic, joking indifference, but you’re not sure what.

“He seems nice,” Jack says, voice unnaturally calm, “Maybe you do want to take him out on a date after this, like you said.”

You laugh. “We both know that was an act, Wilder. No need to get jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he insists, “I have nothing to be jealous of.”

“Nothing?” You ask, one brow raised. “So you wouldn’t mind if I went back and gave him my real number?”

Jack slings an arm around your shoulder in a pretense of affection, but it feels more like he’s pinning you to him, making sure you can’t go back and do as threatened. “That would be ridiculous. It would ruin our whole act.”

You grin. “What act?”

“That we’re here on a date of our own, obviously,” Jack says.

“We haven’t done anything of the sort the whole time we were here,” you point out. “It makes more sense for him to think we’re just friends.”

“Then we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” Jack suggests, and although you do notice the glint in his eyes when he says it, you’re still not expecting him to lean forward and kiss you. The kiss is– startling, yes, but not bad, not at all, and when he finally breaks away and looks triumphantly over at the guard who’d been flirting with you, you get the feeling that Jack thought so too.

“I think we should do this all the time,” Jack whispers to you. “Maybe we should ask Danny to change our assignments around.”

“Actually,” a voice crackles over your earpieces, “I’d rather neither of you ever spoke to me again. If I have to think about you two making out one more time, I’ll pour bleach directly into my brain.”

You slap a hand over your mouth to stop from laughing. “Oh, no. Daniel, how long have our comms been on?”

“The whole time,” your showman says, “I hated all of it, thank you for asking.”

Jack snorts. “And you didn’t remind us to turn off our mics?”

“Merritt wanted to see if you’d actually commit enough to do it,” Danny says, sounding supremely unhappy. “Now we’re both traumatized. Just get your asses back here and never bring this up again.”

This time, you can’t hide your laugh. “Alright, we will. Try to stay away from the bleach in the meantime.”

“I make no promises,” Danny grumbles, sending you and Jack into a wave of laughter again.

Jack reaches up to switch off his own earpiece, then does the same for you, gently brushing the side of your face with his hand while he’s at it. “Well,” he says slowly, “We might as well make the most of our time right now, hadn’t we? I’d hate for our ticket money to go to waste.”

You grin. “Quit the theatrics and kiss me.”

Jack Wilder doesn’t usually do as told. This time, though, he makes an exception.

requested by @hiya-itsamber, i hope you enjoy!

now you see me tags: @mayfieldss

[scarlettsandmaroons]

full of cages | n. romanoff

about me | series masterlist | natasha romanoff masterlist

pairing: professor!natasha romanoff x collegestudent!reader

chapter seven | chapter eight: picture perfect, shiny family

chapter summary: you thought you got everything you wanted. turns out there was one more.

warnings: smut; very very slight somnophilia (if you squint) | minimal spanking, dirty talking, manhandling, own orgasm denial, masturbation, minimal choking | mommy kink, praising king, degradation kink | dom!natasha romanoff, slightly bratty but sub!reader. very visible cheating, fluff; around the first half. unedited, long.

a/n: the time has come for me to write smut!!!! dear lord, finally. just a heads up, i am not the biggest fan of writing smut, this chapter dragged on way too long than it should be because i don't like writing smut (i sincerely do not know how to write smut, but having finished 90% of wanda and natasha smut fics on tumblr made me feel like i'm good enough to go), so do take note to lower your expectations and that feedback is highly appreciated!!

you'd come to learn that mrs. romanoff was kinder than she looked overtime. she's secretly caring, she just had the worst way of showing it. of course after three months of calling her office your "third home" you ought to get to know mrs. romanoff at least a little bit.

three months you spent coming to her office every free period so she can closely watch you rewrite the papers she tore off before; three months you spent sitting alone in her lecture hall after her last class so she can teach you everything you were too distracted to listen to before; three months, and now, you're about to reap your hardwork.

"are you sure you're going to do this here?" mrs. romanoff asks with a sigh.

slowly, you noticed her forgo her intense professionalism towards you. she no longer ignores you, or humiliates you. perhaps, that's from your eagerness to learn, and slowly diminishing number of mistakes. but she greets you in the halls, and she lets you stay in her office more than she's supposed to; even when you're just doing nothing but scribbling on your notebook waiting for your next class.

"y/n! i got it," billy barged in.

billy stays in natasha's office a lot too. at least, before natasha calls it a night. anytime before then, especially when you two are busy, she only allows billy to stand outside.

you stand up, holding billy by his wrists and jumping in the nervousness you tricked your mind into thinking was excitement. you caught a glimpse of natasha sighing, her hand on her forehead in almost embarassment of the two children that's making noise in her office right now.

at some point, your dreams of natasha stopped. you were distracted sometimes, yes. but when you really need to focus, she makes sure to make you. and when you're alone in a lecture hall with mrs. romanoff, or in her office writing papers, she can get very scary when she wants to make sure you're paying attention.

but as billy got more involved with you and his mother; bringing you coffee when he can, or lunch when you both miss the time; waiting for the both of you to finish and going home together, you noticed the mrs. romanoff that only exists for billy. you notice the way mrs. romanoff would pack everything billy needs in her bag, or the way she subtly scolds her son when he does something stupid. you saw mrs. romanoff sweaters in her drawers specifically for when billy gets cold which he does so easily. some time last month, you even saw mrs. romanoff keep a bottle of billy's perfume on her desk for him to grab whenever he needs to. you started thinking of mrs. romanoff as more of your mother too. despite the occasional slips, you are always reminded that she is more of a mother to you.

especially when she cooks you eggs in the mornings, or drives you to school for when you decide to come a little earlier than billy. and when you saw how much mrs. maximoff loves her…

"goodmorning y/n!" you had just come done that morning somewhere over three months ago, and what welcomed you (and what has been welcoming you since then) was mrs. maximoff's voice all the way from the kitchen.

mrs. maximoff was washing the dishes, that's the sight you come down to every morning. but usually, there wasn't a plate of eggs, bacon and ham, on the island unless billy decides to cook for you which he hadn't since the first time since you'd wake up before him often. mrs. maximoff only whips you up some green juice to encourage a healthy lifestyle but you didn't see any of that that morning.

"come, sit, sit. natasha made you eggs," your brows furrowed. "she left you some vitamins to drink too. said you don't look like the type to drink vitamins."

you were in a haze from waking up so you only sat down and started eating. "you know, i always assumed mr. vision just goes to work early and comes home late before i found out mrs. romanoff was your wife," you said, your mouth stuffed.

mrs. maximoff chuckled, "well," she said with a pause, as if she was trying to reminisce. "we got divorced a long time ago, sweetheart. it's been seven years, i think," she said.

you weren't one to pry but you did anyway, "why?"

mrs. maximoff smiled before she looked down at her hands. that time you knew what she was going to say, "i met natasha," she said. it was a long time before she said anything again. "tony, vision's long time friend introduced natasha to our family. i knew natasha long before i had billy and tommy, but when vision and i got married, we went away, and i just sort of never had any contact with natasha."

you knew where it was going. you knew what happened. and somehow, for a little, you couldn't fathom the thought. "natasha and i got close. she frequents the house, she got closer to the boys while vision was getting more roped into work," she said. she said it so lovingly as if there was absolutely nothing wrong. "i left vision for natasha."

she was having an affair with natasha while being married to vision. it was obvious. or at least she was falling in love with natasha while being married to vision. eitherway, it's wrong. eitherway, it's love.

"was that why you were at the university last week?"

she smiled. "i was there to talk to nat," she said, then she looked down, carrying on the work she didn't realize she paused. "she and i were going through a rough patch, she moved out to cool her head, and i went to get her."

guilt pinched at your chest. you were going to go to mrs. romanoff's class later having known her personal problem, yet you couldn't resist. you wanted to know more. you wanted to know about her so she becomes less than the monster you always thought her to be. "you joke about getting a divorce…," you whispered though you knew it was enough for her to hear.

"i thought we'd have to," she chuckled bitterly. "but who was i kidding? she's the love of my life, how could i possibly survive without natasha?"

she couldn't. you'd come to learn that when you saw her longingly look at her wife every chance she got, as if her very existence were enough to make her feel alive. wanda would give natasha the biggest meat, or the parts of her food she knew natasha liked. she would pack her sandwiches for work, and oftentimes, even drop by the university to have lunch with her.

of course, they could never really have any alone time with you and billy. you all end up eating together, laughing, and making noise inside her office. natasha, who you thought would get mad over the noise, was just calmly sitting through it, occasionally smiling over her family which you'd come to be a part of.

"okay, mama. sit back for our shining grades," billy says, giving you the hardcopy of your report card that's inside a brown envelope.

you saw mrs. romanoff lean further into her chair, her eyes wandering over your faces. you couldn't disguise the nervousness anymore. you were nervous. especially with natasha in front of you. you all knew, in your minds, that natasha is the only one who would ever fail you. so to do this right in front of her, is only to see if she failed you again despite your hardwork. it's like opening a christmas present in front of your intimidating aunt.

you took a deep breath. you could never outlive the awkwardness if she did fail you again, and she's right in front of you to see your reaction. you might just explode.

"okay, babe. let's do it," billy says.

you started in internal count down.

1

2

3

1.6

your eyes widened. that was your lowest grade. and it wasn't from mrs. romanoff.

ENGLISH LITERATURE --- 1.0 BUSINESS ECONOMICS --- 1.0

while billy was busy eyeing your card, you were already looking at natasha who was only returning your gaze with a smug look on her face. it was only until billy gasped and attempted to hug you did you charge towards natasha who quickly stood up to welcome your body in her arms.

your heart exploded with joy. your efforts, the sleepless nights, the overtime, the swallowing the harsh words mrs. romanoff would throw at you when she notice you get distracted.

but most of all, it's finally living outside of mrs. romanoff's radar, it's finally seeing the nice side that billy kept insisting she had. it's having a family, and a boyfriend, and people who loves you. it's having a relationship with all of them, a relationship you'd never give up for the world that made your heart explode all the much more.

you hugged mrs. romanoff, and she stiffed. she didn't hug you back, or move. but you felt her warmth nonetheless, and you smelled the vanilla, and bergamot, and rosewater from her. you kissed her cheek, whispering a thank you for helping me, mrs. romanoff before running off to billy who lifted you and spun you around as you both basked in joy.

you both shared now an above 1.4 average and you can not be happier. you have a family who loves you, a boyfriend who's always been there for you, and good grades. there can be nothing else that you want.

"we're definitely getting good jobs with grades like these," billy says. looking at you, his eyes sparkling.

you giggled. "we're only freshmen, billy."

he leans down. "well, i'm very proud of you regardless," he says kissing you.

mrs. romanoff clears her throat, only then sitting down. "okay. get out now. i have work to do," she says.

you and billy went out with large smiles, occasionally squealing in between sentences as you walked down the hall. you… are now officially stress-free. you got what you want. your hardwork paid off.

you had a few remaining classes, and billy would pick you up from your lecture halls after each one. after your last period, billy took you out. "let's celebrate!" he said.

he took you to your favorite taco place. it wasn't really a date, yet he insisted it was. getting tacos, and going near the beach where food trucks were lined up are something you do on a usual day. but because of the boyfriend-girlfriend title, he insists that everytime you do something fun together, that it's a date.

of course, you were never really one for making the simplest date romantic, but you were never really a "romance" person either. billy was. billy always has been. and you appreciate his ability to find the love in even the simplest things.

you learned to do that because of him. everytime he wraps his jacket around you the moment it gets dark, you know he's doing it out of love. whenever he removes the vegetables from your food because he knows you hate them, you know he's doing it out of love. whenever he opens every door for you, and holds the umbrella a little more towards you, and ties your hair when it's windy, you know he's doing it out of love.

billy taught you to look at the little things.

and so everytime he pulls a chair for you, or puts food on your plate during dinner, or carries your things for you, it reminds you that you did make the right decision. that no one would ever love you as much as he did.

"let me take that," billy says, taking the plate you were holding but you didn't let go.

"listen to him, dear. he doesn't do any chores in this house. at least let him take the plates to the sink," you giggle at mrs. maximoff who was wiping the table.

you looked up, smiling at the way billy's damp hair hung over his forehead. you swept the hair out of his face, holding his cheek for a bit before looking down when you get too deep into his eyes. "you should shower, billy," you smile. "i can take this. you smell like the sea salt."

"listen to her, dear. she's actually smarter than you." billy rolls his eyes at her mother. "oh, i felt that billy!" mrs. maximoff says to which you laugh. she appeared next to you and billy, holding the other three plates you were supposed to come back to. "you should listen to your girlfriend, dear. she's might actually stop you from dying from your impulsive decisions," she says, putting the other plates on top of the ones you were holding. "now, go go. i'm sure y/n can manage," she tapped billy's arm twice, hurrying back to the table murmuring a, "swimming at the beach with your clothes on until night time. what were you thinking."

you smiled, bringing the plates to the kitchen while billy goes up to shower. mrs. romanoff was already there washing the first few dishes you brought earlies. "is that it?" she asks when you set the plates beside her.

"mrs. maximoff, are there any more dishes?" you shout over at the dining area.

"no dear! you brought the last of it," she shouts back.

you smile a bit. there's always that flutter that you feel when you feel the domesticity of it all. you never had this in your own home. and now you do.

"what are you thinking?"

you lifted your head with a "huh?" when you heard mrs. romanoff say something but the small interaction was interrupted when mrs. maximoff enters the kitchen, bringing the cloth she used to wipe the table with to the sink.

"you know, i could never understand why y/n dear won't call me mama," mrs. maximoff says with a huff when she began drying some of the dishes mrs. romanoff finished washing.

"well, i tried once. but with billy being my boyfriend, it just sounds too…," you passed behind the three older women to get to wanda's side and help out by putting away the plates she'd dried. "step-sister," you continue.

"well, maybe you should break up with him then," you hear mrs. romanoff say.

you didn't say anything, but you felt mrs. maximoff elbow her. "or she can just call me whatever she wants," she says to her wife then she looks at you with a smile, "oh, don't you listen to nat. she's just a little protective of her boy," you smiled. "oh let me take that from you dear, we're going to keep that away for the holidays," she took the cup from you before you even realizing, bringing the cups out of the kitchen for a bit.

you looked at mrs. romanoff who just turned of the sink after finishing the dishes, you smiled at her. "don't worry, mrs. romanoff. i won't take--" you stop when you feel her hand on your hips as she passed behind you and she swiftly moves you to the sink and takes your place beside it. you heart skips. she's making you slip again. but you can't, she's billy's mother.

"oh i know you won't take billy from me, dear," she says. "i was worried it might be the other way around."

you hadn't heard what she said because the moment mrs. maximoff came back, you ran off to your room. you were heaving. you clutched your hand against your chest, feeling your raising heart. "oh god," you sighed, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to fall on your bed.

it wasn't your first slip. there's been a couple when you thought of her other than billy's mother. when your hand would brush against her when you pass her a little too closely in the halls, when she'd place a hand on your knee when she's showing you what made your writing wrong in her office, when her hand would settle at a small part of your back as you walk towards billy's car in school. but you can't, she's your professor.

she's your professor.

she's your professor.

she's your professor.

she's your professor.

but you're masturbating to the thought of her.

she's your boyfriend's mother.

but your fucking yourself to the thought of her.

"you were moaning my name, y/n. you came to the thought of me."

no, but she's like a mother to you now.

"you were fucking yourself to the thought of me, not billy's."

your eyes popped open.

you were dreaming again.

except you weren't. you felt her breath against your skin, the ends of the hair that hung on one side of her head were brushing against your cheek, she was on top of you. mrs. romanoff was on top of you. you weren't dreaming.

"god, what are you doing to me…," she says, her eyes meeting yours. she was on her knees, your body in between her legs, and her arm holding her above you. "i can't stop thinking about you, you haunt me… you're making me feel all these things…," the way she whispered made you shiver. the raspiness of her voice was enough to revive the desire you so forcefully pushed down your very core. "i saw you touch yourself, i saw you cum, i heard you scream my name, please…," you feel her other hands softly tracing down your arm until she was able to take hold of your wrist. she used your very hand to tease you. she held your finger tips over the skin of your inner thighs, tracing patterns onto your skin with your hand. "let me see that again."

you heart was about to explode in your chest. but you didn't show her. for the first time in your life, you see mrs. romanoff at the lowest her pride could ever get. she was asking you for something, begging you. you saw the way she breathed against you, the way her eyes looked at yours. she needed you.

your inhibitions disappeared the moment you saw her on top of you. nothing else mattered at that point. you couldn't think of anything else that mattered aside from feeling her.

"say it," you whisper.

"i need you…," she said as a breath of air.

"where's your manners, mrs. romanoff?"

"please, i need you."

you would've done it without the please. but you wanted to push your luck.

the moment your hands met your aching core, your mouth opened. slowly, you started rubbing your clothed bud, teasing yourself with an initially slow pace that increased and decreased whenever you pleased.

you wanted the moment to last. you wanted the ache in her body to be so unbearable, she couldn't wait to fuck you. you didn't let yourself come, instead, you stopped everytime you were about to just to see her eyes darken in the pleasure you keep on taking away from her.

you kept eye contact. she saw every bit of movement your features made, the way your eyebrows stuck together, the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head, the way your mouth opened and silently moaned.

she'd had enough when your face became smug after disallowing yourself an orgasm again. her eyes were much much darker. it was lustful, and angry, and impatient. your eyes widened in shock when her hand harshly wrapped around your throat to a point where you can barely breath.

"you like teasing mommy, don't you?" she growled. "if you can't give me one, then i guess i'll have to pull it out of you myself."

with one swift movement, she had your ass up, and face down on a pillow near the foot of the bed. she harshly pulled down your pajamas, exposing your smooth cheeks and your hole that hid behind your folds. "you'll have to be quiet, yes?" she says. smoothing over your ass with her palm when a hard slap suddenly lands on it. "i was talking you, wasn't i, dear?"

you whimpered. had she gotten slightly closer she'd feel the heat radiating from your core. because you could feel it. you could feel it and the wetness that dripped from your pussy. "yes…," you whisper.

another slap. "yes what, sweetheart?"

you were panting. you needed to feel her. "yes, mommy."

"good girl," she acknowledges. that sent you over the edge and she hadn't even touched you. the sheer acknowledgement that you were doing good was enough for you to moan. "aww, is my baby horny?"

you hadn't realized you were pushing your ass into her to no prevail of actually feeling her body against you until she held you still.

"just touch me…," you whimper, trying to break free of her hold by pushing further against her but she didn't let you, instead, she only held your hips much much tighter.

"now, who doesn't have manners," she says. you feel her move behind you, "but i'll let it slide this one time," she was talking like mrs. romanoff now. like how she would to you in class, or when she's mad. it made your stomach flip. "you know what, i never thought you'd be the type of girl to fuck your boyfriend's mother, yet here we are."

you grinned, getting out a quip. "you'd be surprised, mrs. romanoff--" you gasped when you felt something cold and hard against your pussy. it was running through your folds; natasha's nails digging through your hips as she controlled just how close your body gets towards her.

"then surprise me, princess," she tells you. it wasn't until you felt something align at the entrance of your pussy that you realized what it was.

"no, no, wait!" you stop her, your hands pushing it way from your entrance. "i'm a virgin," you blurted out.

silence.

for a moment, you feared that you may have ruined the moment. but that disappeared when you felt a kiss on your lower back. "then let's rip the bandaid off now, shall we?"

and then she bottomed up inisde you.

it was like your cunt was tore in half. your face stiffed, mouth opened, and eyes wide; your back arching and your neck almost cracking at how much it stretched back in pain. you couldn't imagine what greater pain it would be if she started moving.

but she didn't. instead, she let you cry into your pillow while you adjust to her size while staying completely still inside you.

you prayed she'd stay like that forever. you didn't want her to move at all. you didn't want to move. it would hurt. you don't want to get hurt. you wanted to stop. but then you feel her press wet kisses along your lower back, her hands were soothing your sides, and then you heard her, "you're doing so great, sweetheart," she whispers. "you're doing so good for me, darling. i promise you it's going to feel so much better. tell me when you want me to move, yeah?"

you took a few deep breaths. for a moment, you thought the butterflies were a call of desire. but no, they weren't. nonetheless, you asked her to move. you want to make her happy. you want to feel good. you want her to make you feel good. you trust her. someone who might have hurt you before won't hurt you now.

"please, move now…," you whimpered, your voice muffled from planting your face deep into the pillow.

"are you sure?"

you take a moment to feel, realizing that you've grown accustomed to the size. that you crave to feel something more now.

"yes," you say surely. "please move in me now, mommy."

you swore you heard her smile.

you feel her move, slowly. you tried to hide your whimpers in pain by pushing your face further into the pillow. "are you okay, dear? do you want me to stop?"

soon, the pain turned into pleasure. the pain wasn't gone, but the pain was what made the pleasure much a lot better.

"well, would you look at that," you could practically hear natasha's smug smile while she watches you bounce on her cock to your own accord, leading with your own rhythm to which she only followed. but she gave you too much control, she ought to take it back. "there's no need for stopping now is there?" she asks before yanking your head back by a fistful of your hair, pulling you so far towards her that you were raised to your knees and your back was completely against her. she wrapped more of your hair around her hand pulling your head further that it was laying on her shoulder. "then how about we go faster?"

your eyes rolled to the back of your head when she started pumping faster, harder, deeper. a hand snaked under your shirt, her palm pressing against your skin, and it was like something had set you alight.

"oh god, i've always wanted to touch you," she whispers in your ear, her lips grazing over your love. "you make me so wet in class, and in my office, i just wanted to take you right where everyone could see you," she squeezed your breasts, fondled with it while pounding into you. and then you felt her hands travel back down. "you would like that, won't you dear? you want everyone to see how much of a slut you are for your mommy."

the moan you let out when her fingers reached your hardened bud was animalistic--so much so that her hand quickly flew over your mouth to cover it. "i told you to be quiet, didn't i?" she says sharply. you felt a something at the very pit of your stomach. you felt something tightening. you were about to see stars, and when she felt your walls tightening around her cock, she slapped your cunt harshly. "don't you dare cum when i'm talking to you," she growled, her pace not once faltering. "mommy asked you a question. don't you think it's rude that you're ignoring her?" you whimpered in her mouth, crying almost at the sever pleasure you're falling, but still graving more. she slapped your cunt again, this time, much much harder. the short moment when her hand landed on your clit was enough to make you moan into her hand. "answer me, slut. or i swear to god you will never get to cum ever again."

she allowed your mouth a little space between her hand so she can hear you. "mommy told me to be quiet. i'm sorry for being loud," you say, closing your eyes, swallowing down the moans that threatened your mouth, but one loud one slipped out.

"are you though?" she asks before her arm wrapped around you body while the other stayed on your mouth. a loud thud came from your room, when she angrily pushed you against your door, fucking her cock into you much deeper than what you thought was possible. "since you're such a whore, let them hear you come."

"oh god mommy, i'm cumming…," you cried.

she turned you around, her cock never leaving your insides. this time, your back was against the door, and your legs were wrapped around her hips. "fuck, keep doing that mommy, please. i'm so close, i'm so close…," you whispered, heaves of air leaving your body.

you closed your eyes, you back arching a little and your head tilting upwards to what the space between you and the door allowed. just right when you were about to plead for more, right at the very brink of finally reaching the stars, she grabbed your jaw. her nails were digging into your skin, and her hold, tight. you opened your eyes, meeting the green ones you never once thought you'd get to see this close, under this circumstance.

"you look at me," she says. "i want to see my little slut come."

and with one final blow, your body convulsed before her; your legs shaking as stars decorated your sight. she let you ride out your high, her hand making in on your mouth the moment it opened when you came.

she coos praises in your ear, soothing over your side until your body fell limp against her. you were panting while she carried you to bed.

and then she left.

she placed you on your bed, your body almost paralyzed, unable to move, and then she left.

she hadn't looked back. she just left closing the door behind her.

shame. there it was again. you hadn't gotten that feeling in a long time. you hadn't really dreamed of her in a long time, no feeling welcomed you in the mornings. but then here it was again. 100x more than it used to be. it ate you up.

the shame wasn't out of the two very special people who you just betrayed after doing what you did. the tears that fell from your eyes weren't from the shame of having acted on the lust you so long felt the mrs. romanoff. the shame was from embarassment. that she left you as if you were nothing. that you allowed her to use you, and violate you the way that she did, and leave you.

how could you allow that for yourself.

the horns natasha romanoff had grew back as you hugged your own body against your bed. and then you cried.

you cried until you hear your door open and by then you didn't really care to look.

"hey… are you okay?" your eyes shot open, hearing a voice you didn't expect to hear. she came back. she was standing beside you, bent over to see you more, and then she rests her hand on your arm. "sweetheart, is everything okay? why are you crying?"

i thought you left me. i thought you only came here to use me, and my body then leave. i thought you weren't going to come back. i thought you just went to get what you wanted. i… i… i…

"hurts."

"aww…," she coos, gently scooping you in her arms and carrying out the door. "well, i prepared a bath for you," she says gently.

you saw the bathroom light open from the gap beneath it's door. she prepared a bath for you. the moment the bathroom door closed behind her, she kissed your forehead. "you did wonderful for me, y/n," she tells you, letting you on your feet for a bit so you can remove your shirt. "i'm so proud of you."

then she carried you again, this time to place you in the warm bath she created for you. "let's wash you up."

you don't think you've ever felt more okay than you did with her now.

[ssa-dado]

Symposium Series - Expanded Timeline

Warnings: Spoilers Ahead!

I’ve decided to finally expand the timeline, and I’ll be updating it as I write more chapters. I did my best to make everything align, but if you notice anything missing or any inaccuracies, feel free to (kindly) let me know!

■ 1992

You meet Peter Rogers for the first time at your mother's lecture.

Peter chooses (*Tara's voice*) your mom as his thesis supervisor.

■ 1997

You join the academy.

You meet Peter again at a conference.

Peter leaves for his overseas undercover operation.

Your father dies, Peter can't come to the funeral.

■ 1998

B.C.D. (Before Coffee Deal)

You join the BAU one week after your 21st birthday; you meet Aaron Hotchner, your new desk-mate.

At the end of your first case, Aaron calls you 'partner' for the first time.

0 - 75 A.C.M. (lat. in anno ab capulus multum ; In the Year of The Coffee Deal)

Hotch proposes "the coffee deal": for every day he arrives at the office before you, he owes you a coffee, until the day you finally get there before him.

Rossi confesses to Gideon that he was the one who suggested sending Peter, Hotch's former desk partner, on the undercover operation. They then make the decision to officially partner you with Hotch at work.

After the Guggenheim case, you and Hotch start to refer each other as 'partner'

76 - 199 A.C.M.

76 coffees later, Peter comes back at the BAU from his undercover operation.

When Hotch overhears about the passing of your father, he shares of his own past. This leads to the two of you getting to know each other on a personal level.

Peter makes a bet with you: if he won, he would get a date with you. Hotch meets Haley again.

You go back to your hometown to visit your father’s grave for the first time since the funeral.

Hotch places a Guggenheim Museum replica on your father’s grave.

You realise you have a crush on Hotch

■ 1999

200+ A.C.M.

200 coffees later, Hotch surprises you with a pen to mark the “anniversary” of your long-standing competition. He then introduces “the coffee deal 2.0”: if he manages to beat you to the office for a thousand days straight, he’ll have to propose to you.

You and Hotch do the devil's tango

Rossi leaves the BAU, Hotch becomes a lead profiler. You and Hotch agree to keep things strictly professional to ensure that your working partnership remains unaffected.

■ 2000

Aaron marries Haley.

■ 2001

726 A.C.M.

You decide to leave the BAU to take on a new role, teaching Behavioral Sciences courses across Europe.

You and Aaron start exchanging letters.

■ 2005

Jack is born

You are engaged to Peter

■ 2007

The team discovers that you’re scheduled to give a guest lecture in Quantico, which leads to a reunion with Hotch after six years apart.

You accept the offer to permanently teach at the Quantico F.B.I. academy.

Aaron reaches out to you for assistance on a case, and you provide your consultation over the phone.

After admitting your past feelings for each other, you decide to distance yourself from Aaron, pushing him out of your life. The two of you go nearly a year without speaking.

■ 2008

When Aaron is suspended for two weeks, Strauss asks you to step in as Unit Chief temporarily during his absence. You and Aaron make up.