#Professor!Oscar Isaac

[loljustignoreth4t]

when you get a new character fixation but find out that there's a lot less fics of them then you were hoping for

[mcudc616]

X-Men: Apocolypse || - Empire Magazine.

[vktrsnclr]

TEACHER'S PET (R18+)

MINORS GTFO

pairing: miguel o'hara x f reader

summary: you're a college freshman in biochemistry and miguel is your professor in biochemical engineering, a major subject that you're about to fail.

warning: I'm a feminist and I'm concerned.

word count: 1.9k+

contents: humiliation, degradation, age gap, height difference, fingering, oral sex, p in v, hair pulling, public groping.

MASTERLIST

It's your first year in college studying biochemistry, the exam results for the first semester's finals are supposed to be distributed today.

Your professor in biochemical engineering, Mr. O'hara discusses the grading system for the second semester but you're losing out of focus. You're staring at his thick voluptuous thighs, thick veiny hands and imagined how he would choke you with it.

You took a gulp at the thought of it. He then started the distribution of the report cards. Your stare followed him as he sat on the table, individually calling out your names and distributing the cards.

"Parker, good job. Reyes, do better next time. Stacy, impressive. Stark..... dios mio." His voice was hoarse. The way he says your last name followed by a spanish term you don't understand sounded like a moan but truly, a term of disappointment.

"Ms. Stark... Are you seriously daydreaming right now?" He asks with a stern voice.

"Oh um, no sir. W-What is it?" Your classmates tried to hold their laugh, you can hear them giggling.

"Get your ass over here." He orders. You stood and walked up to him, hands behind your back, signing 'fuck you' to all of your classmates.

"What are we gonna do with this?" He points at your grade in bio-engineering which is his subject and a major too. You looked at it by bending your torso down, slightly bowing cause you have an eyesight of a dying man. Your cleavage flashes in front of him unintentionally. He tries to look away and focus your report card.

"2.0 (C/73-76%). This is bad." Everyone in your school knows that you're a daughter of a billionaire genius and this is what you got.

Deep inside, you know that the reason you failed is because you've been partying too hard. Just like your father, you're a party animal.

"What can I do?" You asked worriedly.

"Meet me at my office at 6. Class dismissed." He stood up, towering over you at 6'9 ft. He walked out of the room with your classmates.

Your friend, Gwen Stacy clinged on your arm on the way to the cafeteria. You sat with her and his boyfriend, Peter Parker. You can't really understand what they're saying cause your mind is split between your daddy getting disappointed and your disappointed professor being such a daddy.

Four hours later, it's time to go home but you still have to go to Mr. O'Hara regarding your first semester results. You walked into an empty faculty, the other teachers already went home. You walked by Miguel's office window and saw him looking at his watch with what seems to be an irritated brow. You proceeded to walk inside his office, it's smells good and is neatly organized.

"Good evening Mr. Ohara."

"Miss Stark. You're 10 minutes late. Seems like you're not being very committed to your studies." He clenched his jaw and his pair of brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry I was j-"

"Was just expecting 'daddy' to fix it with his money?" He stood up and mocks, pertaining to your father offering a grant to your school.

"No... sir, I just ran into my friends." You opposed, looking down at the floor.

"Are they gone?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Sit down." He sighs.

In a heartbeat, you sat down in a reclining chair right next to the table. He walks up to you, taking his crotch inches away from your face.

"Good girl." He takes your chin to look up at him. The view made your heart race and your cunt twitch.

"You think I'm not aware of your lustful eyes, hermosa?" He looks directly into your eyes with his hands still on your chin. Your eyes gawks and your face slowly turns red, not knowing what to say.

"Mr- Sir, I uh, I'm here for extra credits." You stuttered.

"Uh huh, what else?" He leans down, not breaking an eye contact.

"Uhhh... um m-my dad can pay you!" You blurted out of nowhere. You didn't know what to say since your mind is occupated by dirty thoughts but now you just seemed like a brat.

"Daddy's money hmm?"

"I'm your daddy here." He whispered roughly onto your ear, his hands shifted from your chin into your neck, gently gripping under your jaws.

"Daddy?" You spoke weakly.

"That's right, bitch." He replied with smirk.

You kind of expected this as a cliché porn category but you had no idea that you're gonna experience this in real life.

"You want credits? You little slut?" He cups the side of your cheeks and leans back to watch your face near his pants again.

"Yes! Yes, I want it." You nodded in agreement.

"Then earn it." He grabs a fistful of your hair and rubs it softly in his black pants with a huge bulge on it. You can smell his essence leaking from the fabric. This is all you ever dreamed of since the first day of school, you didn't think it would happen but it DID. All of your fantasies, clothed in black, sliding across your face.

You unbuttoned his pants in a hurry, dropping his undergarments down then finally busting his dick in front of you.

"Good girl." He slapped your face and you loved it. You proceeded to wet your lips to seduce him. He gripped on your hair tighter as you lick the tip of his 8-inch fat cock.

"Fuck." He groans, his voice deep and hoarse. You licked his length, wetting it together with his pre-cum leaking from the tip then swirled your tongue in its head while jerking him off.

"Holy shit you're good." The corner of his lip curling upwards.

He started throat fucking you, his head thrown back, moaning in pleasure. His cock reached your throat but you continued to take it until your eyes water. Miguel likes the way you look, internally choked by his massive cock.

He drags you up and makes you open your mouth as you spread your tongue that still has his pre-cum.

"Swallow." He ordered and you followed. You showed him an empty tongue to prove it.

"I'm gonna fucking destroy you." He places his hand on your chin to squeeze your face and starts kissing you roughly, like you've taken something from him. This is exactly how you want it. It's wet, sloppy and aggressive.

His kisses trailed down on your neck, you let him take off your clothes, even tear it up. He threw your designer clothes in the air like it was nothing. You would let this man do anything to you.

He began to roam his hands all over your body, from pumping your breasts down to your vagina, already dripping. He circles his middle finger on your clit sensually.

"You want this?" Miguel asks between the kisses.

"Uh huh." Your mouth can't form a proper word but a moan. He slaps you again, wanting you to say it clearly.

"You want this, you whore?!" He dips his hand on your hole, teasing you.

"Yes daddy, do it!" A high pitch pornographic whine came out of your mouth.

He then crooks his head onto your neck, leaving marks as he rams his finger up in your hole, sounds of wet squelching, moans and ass slaps filled the corners of his office. He reaches for the back of your clit inside your tight cunt and it drove you crazy. Your eyes roll at the back of your head. Unlike your other sexual partners, Miguel knows all about human anatomy.

"I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you." He takes your hands from his cock to your back, pulls his belt out of his pants and then ties your wrists.

"Yes please, I've been dreaming of this." You replied while he bends you over on the desk.

"Oh I bet you do you fucking slut." Miguel teases the tip of his cock on your clit, both wet from foreplay.

"Please fuck... fuck me."

Without any reply, Miguel rams his long and fat dick inside you, filling your walls with euphoria.

You groaned in pain after he put his full length in.

"Daddy it hurts."

"Nah, you can take it cariño." He reassures then pins your head on the desk while thrusting deep on your leaking hole.

"You... You've been spending a lot of time with that Parker boy huh? You like him?" He asks curiously, grabbing your hair.

"No, please he's with Gwen." You explained.

"You guys fuckin? Huh?" He ignores your answer while pounding at your pussy, making you scream in pain and pleasure.

"No daddy, Pleaaase.... I only want you. I want youuu." He grabs your tits from the back, holding it for support as his pace goes slower, making it comfortable for you.

"That's my girl. Now I'm gonna make you mine." His last words before sucking the skin off of your neck, leaving love marks that is visible to everyone.

"Ironman's daughter, pumping on my dick with her drenched punani. What's he gonna do? Save you?" He laughs devilishly. At this point you didn't care about your reputation. Your body wants him, even your cunt pulses everytime you peak behind your back to see him using you.

"You're my daddy, please fuckin destroy me." You surrendered. Miguel removes his belt on your wrists and puts it back as he pins it over your head in missionary position. Now, he can see your face while he fucks you, your lips smeared in red lipstick, smiling psychotically. Becoming undone by the stroke of his dick, his hands playing with your nipples and the other holding your wrists.

Your smile made him excited. His thrusts go faster and faster as you scream his name. "Mr. O'hara I'm cumming." You whined. It made him chuckle, you using honorifics despite your pussy currently being destroyed. He bit his lips, carried you by the hips, using you as his fucktoy. He pumps his dick in your tight little hole in a doggy position. Your feet doesn't even touch the floor because of your height difference. You simply just hang in the air with your pussy continously getting pounded.

"Shit shit shit I'm cumming." He whimpers.

"Cum inside daddy." It's the first time you had sex without protection and now you want him to cum inside you.

"That's right, princesa."

He continued plunging his sword into your uterus ramming even harder, seconds later, he busts his load. Your pussy's leaking with his thick cum all the way to your thighs. He lets go of your hips and places you on the table, back arched, pussy flowing.

He puts your panties back without cleaning your pussy, only the sides and the extra cum dripped on your legs and thighs.

"You did great, mija" He kisses your forehead.

"I did?"

"Yes you did." He smiles softly, saying it like he's a proud mentor.

After that encounter, he kept you as his pet, your friends noticed the hickeys on your neck every now and then and your alibi is always getting burnt by the hair curler. Flash Thompson even joked that the hair curler you're talking about is Mr. O'Hara.

Even if you denied it and threatened him with a lawsuit, It's obvious. Your lustful stares in the classroom, the special treatment you get in class above all the other students.

At times when the corridor is empty, he would grope your ass, spank it and squeeze it until you reach the classroom, walking in together at the same time. Your friends would always ignore the same smell coming out of you and Mr. O'hara. Fucking in every empty room, any chance that you get. You've certainly become the teacher's pet.

[wardenparker]

Summer Rose

Professor!Santiago Garcia x female OC Co-written with @julesonrecord

Rating: E for Explicit 18+ Word Count: 6k Warnings: OC is named (Daphne Antonelli) but has minimal physical description. Age gap 10+ years. Both parties are consenting adults. Alcohol consumption, mutual pining, professor/student, oral sex (f and m receiving), 69, sexy mythology references, vaginal sex, protected sex, fingernails/scratching, a bit of biting. Summary: Daphne is having an absolutely terrible day and has missed office hours to turn in her final paper to Professor Garcia. When she turns up on his doorstep to turn in her assignment, the professor she's been crushing on for ages offers her a supportive ear -- and help relaxing. Notes: A little collaboration between myself and my beloved Jules featuring a character we've working on (Daphne) and today's wet daydream of college professor!Santiago. Honestly this is just a bit of porn with the barest thread of a plot, and we're not sorry. Also, just a disclaimer that I have no clue how one finishes a masters degree, but it doesn't matter. We're here for the porn, not the threadbare plot.

Twilight is beautiful on campus. Santiago has always thought so, even before he had the letters after his last name that demarcate him as faculty. He enjoys the blush of the sun fading, the purple of the dusky sky fading to blue-black, indigo, then glitter with starlight.

He likes walking home after class this way; a quiet moment to ease his mind after lectures and before grading. This late in the semester, it will be one of the last walks before the summer term. As he passes through the quiet neighborhood and climbs his front doors, he glances up, spies Orion's Belt in the heavens. He thinks about introducing the story next time he holds his Mythology and Myth-Making class. Did he include it this year? He can't remember. He'd been... distracted.

His phone pings with a text as he sets his messenger bag on the dining room table and undoes his cuff buttons, rolling them up. Too damn hot for this, damn dress code rules... He peers down at the message, and notes it's from an unknown number. His students know to text him if they have an emergency, so he opens it straight away.

Hi, Professor Garcia. I know that it's after office hours, but the fact is...I missed office hours altogether. Would it be an inconvenience to call you and explain? Otherwise I'm not sure how to get my final paper to you. Thanks, Daphne Antonelli (Mythology and Myth-Making)

Santiago lifts an eyebrow. He recognizes the name. Oh yes, he recognizes it. In fact, he's called it to mind more often than is probably appropriate, along with the image of a very beautiful graduate student with a focused stare and drop-dead gorgeous eyes. She was an attentive student, responsive, ready to answer questions but never one to hog the spotlight, making insightful, empathetic, and razor-sharp questions. It was unlike her to miss anything, never mind not visit office hours. They'd spent many such visits over the semester. Short. Professional. Of course.

So why does his heart rate increase, his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he thoughtfully taps the phone screen, spelling out a careful, professional text?

Hi Daphne. As this is your final paper, I would really like to have it ASAP as I am required to submit grades on Monday. Why don't you swing by my home to drop it off?

Feel free to call, he types, then deletes before sending. He wanted to hear her voice. He did need that paper. No reason why he couldn't do both in person. No reason at all.

He had had his graduate students over for a spring dinner after midterms so they know how and where to find him. The bonfire that night had lasted for ages, as tipsy grad students who were feeling feisty with a full meal in their bellies debated the cultural implications of different myth origins and the similarities of some creation myths that they had just been discussing in class. Daphne had been amongst the students that night, animatedly defending her points with unmatched ferocity that was impossible to ignore.

The text that comes through a few moments later takes a while for her to decide on, judging from the continuously undulating bubbles indicating how long she was typing compared to the brevity of the eventual message.

Thank you for understanding. I'll be over shortly so the rest of your night isn't interrupted.

Satisfaction. He tosses the phone down and leans over the table with a slow sigh, taking a look around the room. The same old familiar wall-to-wall bookshelves line the tidy bungalow. The same pendant lamps up, tacky, that he'd meant to change when he bought this place... four years ago. His degrees might be hung in his office upstairs, his clothes are here, he shaves here, but who does he have here, really? Nobody. Warm sheets for a night and then no one. Nothing. There was no reason to bother, really—

And then Daphne. Daphne with her slowly blossoming smile that melted from shy to beaming when he said hello to her on campus. Daphne with her neat notes in the margins, Daphne with the legs that had so often been tucked primly next to his as they leaned over a book or paper together, never touching but so close, close enough so that he could smell her perfume: cinnamon, orchid, incense.

"Fuck," he mutters to the table. There's no way of hiding from himself, not really. He pushes off the wood and stalks to the kitchen for a beer. He cracks it open efficiently and takes a long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing. He wants her. That much is clear. How could he not? She was intelligent, fierce, gorgeous. He could fool himself all he wanted, her coming here was a bad idea. It's been a long semester, keeping her close but not too close.

But, he realizes with a jolt, she's about to graduate. This is her final, his course is over. He is... well, technically by Monday, no longer her professor.

"Fuck," he mutters again, this time to a magnet of a catfish, his only catch from a weekend out fishing with the guys.

It's twenty minutes later precisely when his doorbell rings. There was no sound of a car outside on the street or dramatic slam of a door, but when he opens the door there is a bicycle leaning against his front gate and a frazzled looking student on his front step.

"Hi, Professor." Daphne stands on his step with a mix of anxiety and embarrassment on her face and she digs into her bag right away to pull out a manila folder with his class name and number written on it alongside her name. "I'm so sorry about this. I know it's technically late and that you'll have to dock points for that. It's completely my fault."

"Hey, hey, easy." He lifts a palm and lowers it soothingly, taking the manila folder gently. "There's no need to be sorry, accidents happen." Then, as he knew he would, he asked, "Would you like to come in? It's the end of semester, though. Maybe you have a party you'd rather get to?" He smiles fondly, bumping his shoulder against the doorframe and folding his arms to show off his tanned forearms, shirt sleeves straining slightly.

Yeah, he's still got moves. And he wants to show them off. To Daphne. Who is no longer his student. Who's staring up at him with the anguish slowly sliding from her face. He wants to remove it, stroke her stress away with his thumb, ease it out of her slowly—

Fuck, he's screwed.

"I'm not really – I mean, I haven't –" She doesn't get invited to parties, is what she's trying to say. Not that she doesn't enjoy parties, because she does. She absolutely does. The night they spent here at his house just sitting around the fire talking and sharing a meal was one of her favorite graduate school memories. But she isn't great at socializing with the other students in her program, she's found. There is something a little odd about Daphne, and it has reverberated through her life to keep her just a little on the outside of normal.

Maybe that's why she nods, accepting the invitation with swallowed thanks, and steps inside her professor's house. Her professor who has more than a decade on her in terms of age but has never held his years of experience or knowledge over her head. If they were colleagues, she might have even considered him a friend. As it is, being his student, she's stuck in a sort of limbo with a useless crush and fond memories. "I've had kind of a crazy day," she admits sheepishly. "Even if I had been invited to any of the parties on campus, I don't think I would be going."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Daph," he says, with real sympathy. "Is everything all right? I just opened a beer, would you like anything?"

"A pipe burst at my place and my landlord is claiming I'm liable, then my computer crashed in the middle of doing one last edit on your term paper and the tech office gave me grief, it's just...it's been a long day." She barely even nodded in agreement that a drink would be a huge relief, but he is immediately retreating to his refrigerator to grab her a beer. "Oh, and my summer plans fell through today." Her shoulders sag, the stress of the day dragging her down and determined to keep her there. "I'm just lucky I got up to take a shower first thing this morning or else the day would've been even worse."

"Oh, Daph, that's a rotten one," he says, placing the opened beer on the coffee table and settling his hands on her shoulders. "What happened to your summer? Surely you're going off to some incredible internship, you're more than qualified." And she is. He'd have recommended her to any program she wanted, and had, in fact, written her a letter of recommendation earlier in the year. "You know I'm not going to dock points, right?" he asks more quietly. "None of today was your fault, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. That shouldn't burrow into her chest and bloom into warmth like it does, and Daphne's eyes drop to the floor immediately to carefully focus on the toes of her boots instead of looking him in the face. That's your professor. Don't be creepy. "I had that internship lined up in London with the publishing company but they pulled the rug out from under me." She shrugs, feeling more vulnerable in the moment than she wants to admit. "Apparently the CFO's kid decided all of a sudden that he wants to be an author, so they rescinded my offer. He's going to get it instead."

His chest pangs. He hates that there is nothing he can do to fix this for her -- because she's right. That's the cherry on top of an extremely long day, and all he can do then is what feels most natural, which is to lift her chin up with the crook of his finger, his voice soft, gentle. "Hey."

When she meets his gaze, he watches them flicker slightly, scanning his face as he drinks in hers. Her eyes are so pretty. Like fresh honey dripped from a spoon.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he says again, and means it. "You deserve that spot, but you'll find something better, okay? Hey, look at me." She had turned away slightly, embarrassed or perhaps made shy by his praise, but her eyes fix on him again, golden and fringed with thick lashes. "I promise, you will. There's lots of ways into this world, and you're too talented not to break in. Okay? You want to sit down, tell me about it?" His fingers clasp around her delicate elbow, ready to guide her to the couch.

"There's not a lot more to tell, to be honest." Two people with two beers steer almost mechanically toward the couch, and Daphne finds herself being seated on his plush leather sectional just before he sits down beside her. This spring has been chilly and he still has a throw blanket out, which he pulls close to them as if to have it at the ready. "No summer in London means I'm going to have to either go back home and figure out my next step there, or find a new place here and do the same. Because I'm sure as hell not staying in the place I'm in now. As if the landlord weren't bad enough, now the plumbing is going."

"Huh." He trails his arm over the back of the sofa, sipping his beer thoughtfully. "What kinda guy is this-" Asshole, he wants to say, but quells it, "Fellow? Any chance he'll back off? Perhaps once he... calms down, he can be reasoned with." He's approaching the boundary of reason himself. He can see it, taste it, the drip of something sweet down his throat. "Beautiful woman like you? You could convince a man of anything."

The pffft sound that comes out of her mouth goes with a wave of her hand, but she does accept a sip of the beer that he's brought her with a grateful sigh. "The apartment is a piece of shit anyway, if I'm honest. I hate it there. It's just that it's affordable." There's a moment's pause where Daphne's eyes widen in panic and she deflates again with a groan. "I already put in my notice at my job, oh my god."

"Hey, hey, Daphne." He puts his beer down and reaches for her, wrapping one arm around her waist, cupping her flushed cheek with the other hand. "C'mon, it's going to be okay, I promise, but for right now, I need you to relax, okay? Can you do that for me, bebita?" They're so close now, almost nose to nose. He's lost in her eyes again, but he can feel the burning heat of her little cheek in his palm.

She had been so sure she was going to start crying instantly with that realization, but two searing hot hands on her skin steady her. His touch is grounding, pulling her away from the edge of panic and drawing her into his aura so effortlessly that she didn't even realize how close he was until she felt his breath on her skin. "O—okay—" He can't know that the thing keeping her from having a complete panic attack on his couch right now is the fact that all the blood in her body has rushed to her aching clit, but damned if it isn't working. Daphne nods vaguely, trying to keep her head from swimming, but all she feels is his hands on her and the way his coffee brown eyes have turned to oceans in front of her. "Okay," she repeats softly.

"Okay?" Santiago nods, his breath coming a little fast. "I'll help you. I'll help you relax, sweetheart. You tell me to stop any time, okay?" He leans closer so slowly, their breaths mingling. He can almost count her eyelashes. Her nose is sweet and soft as it brushes his, but it's nothing compared to her plush lips. They seal against his and he feels the world fall out from under him. Something deep and ravenous unlocks and spills out all over his inside. He barely chokes down a groan.

There is no doubt that this is the most surreal moment of Daphne's life, and it isn't as though she hasn't been in some weird situations before. It's a miracle that she managed to get her beer bottle onto the nearby coffee table without spilling or knocking anything over, but she needs her hands for this. For a year and a half she's been working on a master's degree and avoiding too much contact with the one professor who makes her mind fog up and her daydreams wander, until finally she had landed in his classroom.

And now on his couch.

Kissing him.

If it were anything besides the most surreal moment of her life, she might have jumped backward or at the very least, pulled away. But Daphne has imagined kissing Santiago Garcia far too many times to do anything but sigh in response and open up for him like a summer rose.

"It's okay," he repeats soothingly between kisses: to himself, to her, to the waiting tension in the room. "I've got you, cariño. I've got you now, there you go, so sweet for me. So pretty. Beautiful, smart girl." He deepens the kiss, tasting her lips slowly, reverently, one hand sliding slowly down her soft sweater to rest on her waist and squeeze gently. He brushes his thumb over the soft material and then flicks it open, wanting closeness, to drag his palm up her thin blouse, wide and slow across her back.

The sound that bubbles out of her is a plaintive moan, unsure but wanting, and one of her hands grasps for steadiness on his arm even as the other instinctively sinks into his curls to keep him close. The battle is want versus wisdom, and it takes longer than she's proud of for Daphne to drag her lips from his and pant for a breath that still has no prayer of clearing her head.

"But." The fog in her mind has settled thick and heavy like the arousal in her core, and even as she's trying to straighten herself out she's still clinging to him with digging fingers and sharp nails. "You'll get fired," she manages to breathe out a few seconds later. Her only real protest being that she doesn't want him to get in trouble over a whim – which is surely all this is to him.

"Baby, no, no," he shakes his head, almost laughing with relief that that is her only concern. "No, you're graduating. I'm not your teacher any more. You handed in your paper. We can finally do what I – what I've been—" Shit. This is going to sound so bad. "What I've been thinking about since I met you," he admits.

Santi leans his forehead against hers, sighing. "I'm sorry. It's so inappropriate, but it's true. I've been waiting so long to kiss you, baby girl. Let me kiss you." He brushes his fingers over her knee, lifting her skirt just a little. "Let me make you feel so good, my little nymph. Do you even know how long you've been haunting me?" His mouth brushes her again, gently, over the corner of her mouth, the edge of her jaw, the flutter of her pulse, which smells delicious, deep and floral, her scent.

His cock aches against his zipper.

"Fuck." This time Daphne groans, sinking further into the couch, and feels herself giggle softly in disbelief more than she's actually aware of making the sound herself. "You've been haunted?" She challenges, eyes burning with courage now that she's heard his confession. Heard him beg. Did he really just beg for her? "Do you know how long I put off taking your class because I didn't know if I could even concentrate around you?"

Using the opportunity of her gently reclining body, Santiago leans in for the catch. "I never could," he murmurs into the hollow of her throat, his hands sweeping her skirt up, revealing her pretty legs, and god her thighs, so plush and luscious in his hands. He takes a moment to stroke there, brush the hem of her panties with his thumbs. "Never. You came in with Eros and made me Apollo." One thumb slips gently under the gusset of her panties. "Are you running, little nymph, hm?"

"Fuck—I—no, I—I don't even think my legs work now," she huffs, all at once tense as a bowstring with desire and measurably more relaxed as the reality of the man she's wanted forever finally touching her exactly where she wants him.

Well, not exactly. But it's not going to take long to get there at the rate they're going.

"What should I..." Daphne's head falls back on the sofa cushion as his thumb strokes her slit and she moans. "Santiago is a lot of syllables to moan."

"Santi. You can call me Santi from now on," he murmurs, removing his thumb from her panties only to twist the thin white cotton things, Jesus, so fucking wet, around his fingers and slide them down, down. He tosses them to the side and shucks off her high heeled boots while he's there, his eyes locked on where she glistens for him, needs him. "But you can call out any god you want to, bonita." He flicks his gaze to hers and smirks. "Show me how much you were paying attention, yeah?"

If she can even remember a single name from his class at this point she'll be shocked, and the cool air of his house on her overheated cunt is enough to have her squirming instinctively underneath him. Her brain has pretty much given up the ghost already, overstimulated in the very best way possible far before the rest of her body feels the same. Although she has a feeling that it will get there. "Santi..." Trying it out, there is a sweetness on her tongue and heaviness in her core that really is just a whine waiting to break free. Daphne's hands have found their way to his shirt front, fumbling to free the buttons even while she's nearly shaking with desire. "If you get to touch me, I want to touch you, too."

His lips find hers again, almost impatient to taste her again. "You can touch me, I want you to," he mutters against her lips, lifting her blouse hem from her skirt as she takes care of his buttons. Santiago doesn't pause, doesn't make it easy for her or for himself, drowning himself in the touch of her, the sweet little noises emanating from her throat, the ones taking a running leap on the way to begging for everything he's ready to give. He lifts her shirt over her head and begins tugging down her skirt an inch at a time, his fingers dragging slowly over her hips, her now bare legs.

Nothing is exactly torn away, not specifically, but the pile of clothing that collects beside his living room sofa accumulates quickly and haphazardly — shirts and sweaters and everything else discarded blindly as they drown in kissing each other and swallowing those moans that make their way to the surface over and over again. With that building freedom Daphne finds a buried courage — not that she is a timid lover by any means, but there is an eagerness below the surface here that she hasn’t felt in so long. When the only thing left between them is the flimsy pair of boxers that do nothing to disguise how achingly hard he is, Daph bites down on his bottom lip to pull a groan out of him and soothes it away by sucking on the same spot as her fingers slip under the waistband of his last remaining piece of clothing.

"Fuck," he hisses, hips jumping forward so that the weeping tip of his cock brushes against her hand and he groans. He sits up straighter, caught in a web, aching to touch her – at least take his boxers off, fuck – but loathe to move away from her curious little hand. He settles for sitting up on his knees, staring at the place she's touching him, watching her explore him as though in a trance.

Taking advantage of the momentary shift, Daphne sits up along with him and nudges Santi backward so that he is on his back now instead of her. His curls are mussed and his eyes are so black with lust that he looks positively debauched before she’s even had a chance to touch him very much. Once he’s on his back, though, Daphne hooks her thumbs in his boxers and peels them away, groaning at the sight of him. Harder than diamonds and leaking precum like an eager teenager, a sly smirk rides across her face knowing she did that to him. “I want to suck your cock,” she admits, gaze flickering between his length and his blackened eyes. “You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent imagining sucking your cock under that desk in your office.”

Santiago closes his eyes a moment. Is he fucking dreaming? Or is his most fucked fantasy coming true before his eyes?

"Probably almost as many as what I've spent imagining what that wet little pussy tastes like." His voice is a low rasp, but he pulls himself together enough to halt her hand on his throbbing dick. His fingers squeeze around hers, gliding over the rigid shaft slowly, with control. His breath fans over her forehead. "You want this, baby? Hm? Gonna have to give me something in return. Come here," he urges, a low purr, her very own siren. "Come here and give me a little taste, cariño."

“Even Kama had to worship a lover in order to find his release,” Daph breathes, having spent an entire semester doodling images of the Hindu love god’s sugarcane bow and bird companions in her notes while thinking of all the various ways her professor could be worshipped.

"Kama was burnt alive by Shiva, sweetheart, and I don't plan on doing any different to you. Come here, that's it." Santi helps Daphne turn in his lap, both of them facing the wall. He guides her hips over his face as he lies back on the couch. Thank fuck it was big enough, for this and more, and then her perfect pussy is hovering over his face, tantalizing him. At heart? Santiago likes torturing himself, loves the thrill of giving into pleasure. Perhaps that too, is why he waited so long to take this girl into his bed. Perhaps that's why he's slow and sure as he spreads her lips, flattens his tongue, and tastes her indulgently, from clit to hole.

Daphne's momentary flash of composure is gone again as soon as he tastes her. Her legs shake on either side of his head, thighs pressed to his ears so her moans are muffled but it isn't on purpose. It's just been so long since she had a man between her legs who knew what the fuck he was doing that just having her clit noticed is a vast improvement. Daphne's body sags momentarily before she is shifting all her weight to one hand and wrapping the other around the base of his cock to stroke his base with the pressure that he showed her – the pressure he likes – while she takes as much of him as she can into her mouth.

When he moans it's with a growl into her pussy she can feel vibrate all the way up through her lungs.

She's not fucking sitting, and he knows it's because she's still, however minutely now that her moans are ringing sweet and clear across his living room, in her head instead of fully in her perfect body the way he wants. Licking up her slick almost lazily, he drags his nails lightly up the outsides of her thighs before firmly catching her hips in hand and pressing her into his waiting mouth, his evening stubble scraping across her folds. Only then does he give her a real reason to moan, encouraging her to grind while his laps at her clit with his tongue, filling his hands with all the gorgeous skin he can reach.

"Sit," he grunts, "Fuck, baby, I wanna to go to the field of fucking reeds with this pussy on my face, come on, you can do it, give it to me."

Come on, carińo, I know you can come for me, such a good fucking girl, he thinks, his brain a hazy lightning storm at the sensation of her hot throat squeezing around him as she swallows. Fuck, he could let her do this all night, but he's hungry for her pleasure and he's so close, he can taste it. Santiago lifts her hips with a final loud suck and trails a finger around her slit, teasing, almost pressing, but only just, his thumb running circles around her clit. With a deep breath he lifts his mouth, slips his tongue and a single finger inside, fucking into her with slow, measured movements.

The overwhelming pleasure of having more than just the tip of his tongue inside her pussy has Daphne moaning so earnestly that she pulls off of him cock with a lurid pop. "Dammit—I—fuck, I'm going to cum—Santi, baby, oh my f—" The shaking of her legs and the coil in her core twist down on each other so her thighs tighten and he breathes into her like he's going to devour her whole as she falls apart at the seams.

Oh yes. He really likes hearing her moaning that, but not more than the way she gives in as her orgasm rocks through her, grinding her hips down, into his waiting, eager mouth, helping her ride him through it until the aftershocks ease. His voice is barely a scrape when he lifts her up, his aching cock swinging between his legs as he presses forward, eager for her mouth. "Did so good, baby, such a good girl for me. I need to fuck you. Need to fuck you, baby. How do you want it?"

"Any way." Daphne gasps, trying to wrap her head around any kind of how that's more artful than just sinking down on him right here and now. When she does wrap her head around it, though, she groans in a less ethereal tone. "Let me grab a condom." Like any sensible, sexually active college girl, she carries one in her regular purse. Emergency cock wrap, if you will. She just never thought she'd actually need it.

"Wait, I got it." He scoots up a moment, digging into the small table beside the couch. From the drawer Santi draws out the foil pouch and rips it open, quickly rolling it on before turning his attention back on Daphne, who's watching him with drowned eyes, eyes deep and longing and still so lovely.

"Lie back, sweetheart. You ready for me?" He slowly glides the head over her silky wet folds, smearing her slick across his tip.

Deciding she absolutely does not need to know how many other girls have been fucked on this couch -- possibly at the end of their own courses -- Daph pushed herself up on her elbows to kiss him fiercely. Tonight is not to be wasted. Tonight is to be a fantastic memory. "I'm ready." Her nails drag down the base of his scalp, having caught a near purr from him earlier when she did the same. "I want you to fuck me, Santi."

Almost before his name is out of her mouth, he's pushing inside her with a low rumble, his head falling back slightly into her hands. Her nails scrape sensation over his scalp and down his spine, and her cunt is licking flames over him, so warm and perfect he almost comes right fucking there, but halts, breathing damp against her lips, his teeth nipping her lip possessively.

They hold like that, frozen together in the heat of the moment as he regains his composure and she adjusts to the stretch and fill and thickness of his cock inside her. The only movement, in this long moment of coming together, is the languid slide and tangle of their tongues together as they drown in the intimacy of feverish kisses.

Gradually, Santi comes down enough to get restless, eager again. He nips and bites down over her jaw and descends on her throat, sucking a mark low on her collarbone as his hands pay some long overdue attention to her pretty, heaving tits. Mine.

When the mark on her neck is soothed with his tongue, he sits up slowly, his eyes a glittering black, his lips parted. He looks like he's about to devour her. He takes one of her calves in his hand, eyes never leaving hers, tipping her knee up towards her head and then out, spread wide for him. He grips her ankle in a warm hand. Then, with a grunt, he's pulling back and pitching forward hard enough for their skin to clap obscenely, fast enough to make them both soon begin to tremble.

The position that he's in has him almost entirely out of her reach, just close even to graze her nails over his chest as he thrusts into her at a pace frantic enough to make them both pant and heave. Her back arches off the couch with a keen and her hands grapple with the couch cushions for purchase to hold on tight as Santi fucks her so deeply and insistently that she can practically feel him all the way up in her throat.

"Gripping me so fuckin' tight, baby, Jesus," he says through his teeth, his jaw tight, streaks of pleasure raking down his chest with her sharp, clinging nails. Keeping his relentless pace, he bends forward, pushing her thigh up, testing her limit. When he's low enough he seizes her mouth with his, grinding deep.

"One more for me, pretty girl, one more," he whispers huskily, his other hand skimming down her body to rub at her clit.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, so good baby, oh my fucking god—" Something in Daphne's mind short circuits, and the rambling begins in earnest the higher and higher she climbs toward a second orgasm. Tripping over her own tongue and throwing her hands up over her head as he slams into her so hard that either they are moving up the length of the sofa or the entire sofa is moving, Daph is completely lost in her pleasure. That volcano of pleasure building in her core is damn near ready to explode and the only thing she wants more than to erupt is to take him with her.

The second her expression breaks and she cries out for him, he's gone. He thinks he's done even before she clamps down on his cock like a goddamned vice, ripping his orgasm from him in a half dozen hard but increasingly languid strokes.

His upper body grows heavy, and with a groan he grinds in deeply just once more – never mind why – and leans his forehead on her soft breast, pulling out of her with a sigh. His entire body is basking, floating. If she puts her hands in his hair again he might even fall asleep.

There's a moment of quiet as he ties off and disposes of the condom, and for a split-second Santi disappears around a corner but he comes back with a warm, damp kitchen cloth to clean them both up with before curling back around her on the couch. "Goddamn," she huffs, giggling softly to herself as his arms come around her.

"Tell me about it," he says sleepily, flipping the throw blanket over the two of them as they settle, kiss, explore lazily what before had been greedily consumed. "Still not sure I'm not dreaming," he says, only half-joking, tracing her lips with a smile. "Did I really get so lucky?"

"I'm not sure how you're the starstruck one out of the two of us," Daphne teases, even though it's through a thin veil of honesty.

"Bonita, I've been increasingly starstruck all semester," he chuckles. "You have so much to look forward to. Shit, you're definitely going farther places than I am. I'm just happy to be here," he presses a kiss to her left tit, "To enjoy-" to her right nipple- "The satisfaction of being right." He kisses her forehead and studies her, his lids heavy. "Do you need anything before you fall asleep, baby girl? You wanna sleep here or in bed? I can't let you bike home this late, querida, so don't even try. Besides, you can shower here, my plumbing is fine." He smirks here, as if anticipating the swat he's earned himself.

"It's not that late." Daphne wrinkles her nose at herself. The protest was just good manners. She doesn't actually want to leave. She wants to wrap up in him and breathe in this comfort for as long as humanly possible. When he levels her with a disapproving look, Daph just ends up grinning. "Let's go to bed," she suggests, catching his lips as he drags them along her jaw. "And when I wake you up in the morning with my lips wrapped around your cock again, you'll be glad your back isn't sore."

The laugh bursts out of his chest with delight, easy and real. "All right, baby, all right, and what makes you think I won't beat you to it?" Santi pulls her to her feet, wrapping the soft blanket securely around her shoulders before guiding her upstairs with a hand at the small of her back.

No matter which one of them beats the other two it, they both know they aren't done. Whether it's a weekend, a week, a month, or even more. This night is just the beginning.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

My Masterlist!

[iolaussharpe-24]

I see two ways to look at this scene...

Battle of the Leto Atreides

2. (My favorite) Battle of the short kings

[hier--soir]

zig im gonna be honest i hoarded this ask for over a week purely because i liked scrolling down my inbox to see this picture every day so thank you for that

[roninreverie]

Hey RWBY fandom! 📣

I'm doing a thing in part 2 of my STRQ fic and I want to know... Has anybody done this with Ozma's incarnations before and do we want to debate these/ play "match the names with the faces"?

EDIT: upon memory of how the Great War worked, I guess the timeline looks more like this... but I am stretching things having Emmanuel and Phadrig come between the King and Ozpin.

[hoedamn-eron]

confrontation

Steven confronts Marc and Jake after you leave.

Warnings: Age gap, but it is appropriate/legal. Steven may be a little OOC, and incredibly judgemental of Jake. Some swearing. Inaccurate depictions of DID (only knowledge from the show and some light research). Angsty. I did not proofread this at all. Word count: 1,502 GN!Reader, no use of Y/N.

Set in my Doctor Steven Grant universe, after part 6.

Series Masterlist

Steven flinched as you slammed the door closed behind you. He stared in confusion long after your departure, before he took a glance at the small mirror where it hung on the wall next to his front door, where Jake was looking back at him with an unreadable look on his face.

He had the entire evening planned out. He was going to wine and dine you, with your favourite meal, the one that you mentioned your mum used to make you all the time. He was going to give you your favourite dessert, and the bouquet of peonies that he had stashed in his bathroom and ask you if you wanted to be official. Now…this has happened.

Steven didn’t know how to feel. No, that was a lie, he did. He was pissed; pissed at Jake for saying those things to you, pissed at Marc for not stopping him. Steven knew that meeting you had rubbed Marc and Jake the wrong way, that it would be too complicated for just one of them to be in a relationship, but he didn’t think that they would have gone out of their way to destroy what felt like the only good thing to happen to him for a while.

“What did you say to them?” Steven asked, looking hard at the reflection in the mirror. “What did you say, Jake?”

“Nothing, hermano, you don’t need to worry about it,” came Jake’s gruff reply.

Even after all this time, Jake’s rough voice still took Steven by surprise sometimes.

“Yes, actually, I do need to worry about it,” Steven snapped, still glaring at Jake’s reflection, irritated that his head mate didn’t seem all that concerned about the situation Steven was put in. Steven grit his teeth as he ran his hands through his hair, starting to pace around his kitchen, barely hearing Jake trying to justify his actions, Marc annoyingly silent. “Just shut up for a minute!”

“Easy, Steven,” Marc muttered, finally deciding that he needed to say something before Steven had a heart attack.

“Don’t tell me to be ‘easy’, Marc, when you and Jake have pushed away the only person that matters to me.”

“Whoa,” said Marc, and Steven could see him at the corner of his eye, holding his hands up in defence in the mirror. “I haven’t done anything!”

“Exactly, that’s the problem,” groaned Steven, throwing his head back as he collapsed onto his couch, a huge sigh leaving him. His body ached. His head ached, his heart ached. Everything ached. He raked his hands through his hair as he leaned forward, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

He wasn’t getting any younger. He was pushing forty and only had a goldfish as a companion, until he met Marc, then Layla and Jake. Although happy to finally feel like he had a group of friends that weren’t strangers painted as gold statues, at the end of the day, Steven was jealous, of course, that Marc got to live a life he’d always wanted for himself; to have a wife, and the start of a family. Then Jake came along and told his two head mates of the life he led, where he’d had countless flings and got to live dangerously (although Steven admitted that he’d prefer Marc’s way of living). They gave up Khonshu (after a stern talking to with Jake how he hid away that they were still connected) and Steven finally thought that he could live a regular life, maybe meet someone, make a proper career for himself. But Steven came to accept that he just wasn’t going to have the same experiences as Marc and Jake, and he was okay with that.

Until he met you. And you had lit up his entire world from the darkness that he had hidden himself away in. He thought that Marc and Jake would have been happy for him, that he was putting himself out there, something Marc had always told him to do, but evidently that was a problem now. He didn’t understand. You were amazing, caring, and so lovely, and now his future with you was fading away before his very eyes, all because his head mates, his supposed brothers, had driven you away.

“Why can’t I just have something for myself?” Steven asked, and Marc and Jake weren’t sure if the question was aimed at them. “Why can’t I have someone and be happy?”

“It doesn’t work like that, not with us.”

“You managed to have Layla!” Steven cried, looking up angrily at Marc’s reflection, where he was still stood in the mirror. “And Jake…Jake seems to have had everyone!”

“Hey!” Jake snapped, but he went ignored.

“I just wanted…I wanted to be loved. I wanted someone to come home to, someone who was pleased to see me, that wasn’t stuck in my head 24/7,” groaned Steven, burying his head in his hands. “And you took that from me. Why would you do that? Do you want me to be miserable?”

He was met with silence again. Steven sighed in frustration and threw his hands up, slumping back against the couch.

“You know it’s complicated,” Jake finally replied.

“I know it is,” replied Steven. “But you just couldn’t let things…happen, could you? You didn’t have to get involved! You didn’t even need to meet them! We could have just lived happily. I would have fronted and had a real, loving relationship where you didn’t have to be included.”

“And what if they wanted to get married?” Marc asked, a sharpness to his tone. “What if they wanted to move in? What then? How would you explain where you would need to go every night when Jake’s driving?”

Steven didn’t reply because he’d already had those questions himself. And honestly, he didn’t have any answers. He agreed that he had a naïve way of thinking that it would have worked out, but he had just wanted to give it a go. He’d found you breath-taking, and he just couldn’t let you disappear from his life without him getting to know you, even just a little bit. His heart made that little jump is always did when he thought of you, remembering how you just suddenly appeared that one day when he was sat with your friend in the coffee shop. And he just loved you, so much, and he never even got to tell you before Jake had stuck his nose in -

“Buddy,” Marc said, sensing Steven’s anxiety start to skyrocket. “It’ll get easier, yeah?”

Steven didn’t acknowledge Marc before he went about cleaning up the kitchen, now not even remotely hungry. Marc and Jake continued to talk among themselves, talking as if Steven wasn’t there (and he truly wished he wasn’t). Steven ignored them as he put the untouched meals in his fridge then walking towards the bedroom. Might as well put his pyjamas on, he wasn’t doing anything anymore.

He tried to watch his usual TV but it just wasn’t sinking in. It was nearly midnight when he decided to end the day, hoping tomorrow, after a night’s sleep, would give him a different perspective, that he’ll have an idea on how to make this mess up to you. He still ignored Marc and Jake’s quips as he turned the lights off and climbed into his still messy bed from that morning, double checking his phone alarm as he plugged it in to charge.

And just for a moment, he stared at his phone, the urge to text you overtaking him.

Was that even a good idea? Probably not. Did he give you space? Well, obviously, you had told him so when you stormed out. He couldn’t blame you, his situation wasn’t ideal and he wasn’t quite ready to tell you about Marc and Jake (and they weren’t exactly jumping at the chance to get to know you). You’re probably talking to your friends about his weird brother, and how Steven had no backbone when it came to being honest with you.

He probably deserved it.

Steven sighed as he picked up his phone, opening his texts to your thread before hesitating. What would he say? Nothing would make this situation any better. You had said you wanted your space and here he was, about to contact you. His chest hurt at the thought that you might actually want to end things with him after all this, and he’d go back to just being a professor at the university, second fiddle to Marc and Jake. Just another thing that he would have to come to terms with; that Steven Grant would never get to really be fully happy.

Steven bit his lip as he sent out an apology text you, sending it before he could do anymore stupid things. He threw his phone down on his bedside table, suddenly unable to look at it.

“You did the right thing,” Marc said quietly.

Steven rolled his eyes before turning to switch his bedside lamp off. “Shut up.”

Tagged - @kingtwhiddleston, @ahookedheroespureheart, @harrys-tittie, @avasif, @romanarose, @othersideoftheparadise, @mt2sssss, @milkymoon2483, @n0ripeaches, @theconsultingdoctor10, @brandyscorner, @moonliqhtszn, @classypeachlightsalad, @toracainz, @preciousbabypeter, @teacupcollector, @hot-mess-express1, @starkdanverss, @mintgreen24, @eonnyx

[whatthefishh]

Unwell

This is the Steven in our Steven is a slutty professor AU @kittyofalltrades

[creatureesque]

thinking about dilf arthur. deserves a seperate post

[foxilayde]

i need you to see these photos of oscar immediately

😩 professorial zaddy hotness omfg the Costco dad sneakers drive me up the damn wall.

[anjaelle]

The Next Great American Epic

Pairings: Professor!Oscar Isaac x Black Female!Reader

Warnings: Oral (f!receiving), Age Gap (Reader is in mid-late 20s), Student x Teacher Relationship, Unprotected Sex (strap up, people), implied infidelity

Summary: Professor Hernandez Estrada is a proven smartass and literary genius. As much as you can't stand the way he tears your work to shreds, you can't help but respect him and hold his opinion of you in high regard.

Word Count: 4.2K

a/n: Based on this post and the intense love I have for gray, studious looking Oscar. I started this in July 2022, and I'm just now finishing it. I'm semi ashamed but also not. Don't judge me.

(gif source)

Oscar treated every lecture like a performance, to some degree. You could feel the passion behind his words and knew he spent countless sleepless nights dissecting the language of the great intellectuals before him.

He was a nerd, thus, incredibly attractive in that "dad's best friend who's a museum curator and laughs at his own history jokes" kind of way. His written work was brilliant. You wanted to impress him. Not just because he was cute--though that was a bonus--but because he pissed you off with how incredibly critical he was of you. You were convinced he did it just to fuck with you, specifically, for shits and giggles. Every so often, you'd zone out imagining him cackling madly at your work, using his Red Pen of Death to hurt your pride. Sometimes you'd imagine a deeply passionate argument between you two, ending with you throwing things. Sometimes it ended with you splayed out on his desk. Again.

When that happened, you'd mentally return to the lecture and find him looking at you, curiously. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that he could read your thoughts.

He paced the front of the room in a heavy black sweater with the sleeves rolled up, occasionally pushing his thick rimmed glasses up his nose as he spoke. The brief pauses he took to sip water or ask a question were punctuated by the click-clack of keyboards throughout the room. Or, in your case, the shuffling of papers. Writing with pen to paper helped your scattered brain remember things better, though you couldn't help but feel largely out of touch for the archaic method of note-taking.

"Who decides what literary work is inherently American?" He asked to the class, "Where's the line? When the artist of color is placed into a box as an 'other' or designated as American with an asterisk, are publications and critics implying that the author is not truly American?

"After all," he said, removing his glasses to wipe them, "the cultural zeitgeist is shaped by an amalgamation of many experiences. Is the story of an immigrant from Colombia 100 years ago any less American than the tale of a farmer from Oklahoma during the Great Depression? When we ask for tried and true stories of American Grit, whose stories are we reading?"

Sure, he said that experiences mattered. But, god, was he anal about the details. The newest revision of your work peeked from behind your notebook, scarred in red ink. When you received it back earlier that afternoon, you resisted the burning desire to throw it back at him and tell him to eat a dick. The first couple of times he shot your writing down, you could understand perfectly what he was looking for. This time, you were sure that you were following his advice down to the letter, and it still wasn't good enough for him.

He absentmindedly pushed his salt and pepper curls from his forehead and you wanted to flip a table.

Oscar paused his pacing in front of your desk as you scribbled your thoughts down. You chanced a glance at him to find him already looking over your notes.

"Huh," he had the audacity to smile at you and mutter softly, "Nice handwriting."

Your cheeks warmed at the praise of your neatly looping cursive. The eyes of your peers burned into your back.

He gently tapped your desk with his calloused knuckle and continued on with his lecture, as if his little comment was just a natural part of his daily performance. It was the first time in a while that you'd interacted with him in a way that didn't involve him explaining why your marked up thesis was shit. You could appreciate the compliment, even if it had nothing to do with the quality of the work you put blood, sweat, and tears into.

And now you were annoyed again.

You knew that Oscar wasn't surprised to find you standing outside of his office. A polite smile graced his lips, though something else flickered across his features that you vaguely recognized. You plastered your own polite smile on your face and waved your thick stack of paper at him.

"Explain, Oscar."

Without another word, he tiredly unlocked his office door and motioned for you to enter the roomy space. Numerous large bookcases lined the wall parallel to his desk, and stacks of newspapers and literary journals decorated the ottoman rug that spanned the width of his office. A small fridge and espresso machine sat on a desk in the corner. Above it was a fading portrait of a young looking South Asian man with neatly combed hair and a trimmed mustache, wearing a smart looking suit. The first time you saw it, you surmised by the aged clothing and studious expression that it was a portrait of the university’s very first professor of color, Benjamin Kapoor.

The office was nearly the size of your studio apartment. Perfect for the department head, you thought. The minute he shut the door behind him, he sighed and ran his hand down his face.

"Well, first of all, 'Hey Oscar, how are you?' I'm great. Thanks for asking," He sarcastically quipped. “Would you like some coffee? Maybe some tea, if you’re cutting back on your habit, again?”

"Small talk is redundant," you handed him your papers, "you know why I'm here."

He plopped down in the plush chair behind his desk, and you followed suit on the couch beside it. His chair creaked as he leaned back and thumbed through the pages, reading his own notes. You couldn't quite get a read on his perception, but he hummed in thought. After a couple of minutes he handed your work back to you and shrugged.

"In simple terms: it's mechanical. You’re holding back on putting emotion into your characters. Your protagonist's factory worker father and merchant marine brother don’t feel real. It's too matter-of-fact. Too cold."

You shook your head in frustration, "I don't understand. First, you tell me that my language is too flowery. Now you're saying it's too mechanical. Which is it? Pick a criticism, because now it just feels like you're pulling it out of your ass."

The words slipped out before you could catch them, and your eyes widened in surprise at the venom laced in your tone. But, to your surprise, Oscar just laughed.

"Look, find a middle ground. I don't know how else to state it any plainer than I already have."

You wondered if you'd get expelled for throwing his briefcase out the window.

"I'm glad you think your bias is funny."

His expression changed at the implication, and he stared at you in confusion.

"Bias? Jesus, is that what you think?"

The words you'd been holding in for the majority of the semester came spilling out of you.

"I feel like you don't really respect me as a writer," you crossed your arms, "You think I'm stupid. Or incompetent. But this right here," you motioned to the paper in your lap, "This is just ridiculous. It's nitpicking and tearing my work to shreds. Do you get something out of this? This story means a lot to me. It's the story of my family. Do you understand the level of research and reading it took to bring this work into fruition? With all due respect, it's fucking hard, Oscar. I'm doing the best I can."

He merely stared at you with furrowed brows, "With as long as my tenure has been—for as long as you’ve known me, you think I don't know this?" He stood up from his chair and sat on the edge of his desk in front of you, "You think this problem is unique to you? I aim to challenge all of my students."

You laughed humorlessly, "I've seen the notes you write on other people's stories. It's nowhere near the same level of harsh."

"To you, it may not be."

"I still don't understand what you want from me. More details. Less details. More emotion. Less emotion. Descriptors, but not too descriptive. Make your characters realistic, but oh no, not too mundane. It's all bullshit--"

"It's missing the essence of you." He confessed, scratching his bearded chin, "Your story reads like something anyone could write. The only personal touches in your story--and if you notice, the only things I haven't edited much--are your letters and journal entries. They give a clear idea of how your characters interact with one another. And I think you add a little bit of yourself to them, outside of the narrative.

"Your voice is prevalent in everything you write. Unique and intuitive. Your work isn’t you, Bee. I miss...that."

There was a pregnant pause. Your stomach swooped at the slip of your old nickname, and you crossed your legs to stop the nervous fidgeting. He swallowed hard, and toyed with the watch on his wrist.

"I think..." you began, meeting his eyes for the first time, "I think I'm subconsciously trying to sound like you. Even though you piss me off."

He barked out a laugh, "I don't know if that's a compliment or a testament to how I can improve."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. He soldiered on.

"You're a brilliant writer. I just know you can do better," he drummed his fingers on his desk. Suddenly he grinned at you, "You've read my writing? You like my writing? And you're admitting it freely? And here I was thinking you hated me." Now it was your turn to furrow your brows in confusion. Catching your expression, he explained, "Every time I look at you, you either look bored, lost in your own thoughts, or like you want to murder me. And then there's the arguing--"

"I don't hate you, Oscar. You just exhaust me." You said, standing up to meet him at eye level. "You'd argue with you, too. You can't always be the only sarcastic asshole in the room."

He looked at you with a mix of amusement and what you could only describe as relief. He leaned forward, letting out a deep breath he seemed to be holding the entire time. You were close enough to smell his favorite dark roast coffee and his signature cologne--something bold, but warm and comfy. Kind of like him.

"Did you have any other questions? About the thesis or...something? You know you can ask me anything." he crossed his arms over his chest. Was he flexing? The thought tickled you.

"Just one. But not about the thesis." You asked, gently, taking a step towards him, "You said every time you look at me, I look pensive. How often do you look at me?"

He eyed you slowly. Fire danced behind his gaze, despite his calm demeanor. It reminded you of the look on his face when he read a moving sonnet or recited romantic prose. The sight of him looking at you like his favorite work of art made your belly warm. After a beat of silence that dragged on for ages, he licked his lips and shook his head, finally tearing his eyes away from you. He murmured, "More often than I should." Then he sighed, "We shouldn't be having this conversation. I'm not--it's..."

"No you're right," you began, feeling the rush of bravery trickling from your quickly beating heart, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You could never do that. It's just not professional--"

"It's SUPER unprofessional actually--"

"--you could lose your grant and--"

"--you JUST finalized the divorce--"

"--implicit bias and difficulty being objective--"

"--it's just a passing thought."

He pushed away from the desk, taking a step closer to you, and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"Maybe..." he cleared his throat, "you might want to...go."

You nodded, "I should leave."

"I could walk you out."

Neither of you made another move and his fingers tapped on his thigh. You watched his eyes travel from your face and down your body, as if he could see right through your clothes.

"Are you?"

He was so close that you could count every single strand of hair in his thick, coarse beard.

"Am I...?" He questioned, eyes dropping to your lips.

"Going to walk me out?" You finished. You could see him weighing his options. He glanced at the door, then back at you.

“I…it’s—” He sighed again, “I miss you, Bee.”

You wanted to get mad and tell him that he wasn’t allowed to do this. You felt stupid for being so easily baited by a smile and sharp wit. Instead of being smart and telling him to fuck off, you shook your head.

“You miss feeling wanted,” you corrected, “You don’t miss me.”

“You don’t know how wrong that is. Do you know how many times I’ve gone out with other women and found myself thinking ‘I wonder what Bee’s doing right now. Is she with someone else? Am I making a mistake?’” He removed a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and tossed it on the desk, “I thought I was making a good choice. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.”

“A good choice for who, exactly?” You asked, eyeing him with skepticism.

“For both of us. For you.”

You could admit that hooking up with him while he was in the process of a divorce was messy. For the brief 3 months you were together over the summer, you couldn’t stop being doubtful. It blurred the lines of whether he was fucking his sadness away or if he truly had feelings for you. You felt your fingers twitch as if they wanted to reach out and grab him. Instead, you shoved your traitorous hand into your back pocket. You were petty enough to not be the first one to make a move.

“The thing is, Oscar, I’m a grown woman and I don’t need you to make decisions for me.” You countered, “I might be younger, sure, but I’m not a kid.”

“I know.” He agreed, quietly.

“You said you wanted time to process things—”

“33 Weeks,” he said, suddenly, “An arduous, sunless, painful 33 weeks without you. I never fully understood the pain of missing you until I was forced to see you and not touch you. Every time you speak or look at me or challenge me, I feel even more stupid for letting you go.”

You couldn’t help yourself, “You are stupid.”

You cracked a smile at him and he smiled back, eyes crinkling at the corners behind his frames. He reached out and caressed your face, tracing a calloused thumb along your cheek and resting his forehead against yours.

“Goddamn you’re beautiful,” he groaned, slowly closing his eyes. You could trace every wrinkle, freckle, and scar with a finger from memory, if you wanted to. The spearmint gum he favored between smoke breaks tickled your nose, and his hand slipped down to the point where your throat met your clavicle.

You were keenly aware that your pulse was thrumming rapidly under his pen-calloused fingers, and that your chest rose and fell in quick succession. You closed the space between you, pulling him in for a deep kiss. The traitorous hand that freed itself from the confines of your pocket curled into his sweater. Oscar's arm snaked around your waist and the hand near your throat tightened, pulling a low, strained moan out of you. He mockingly mimicked your moan and pulled away to kiss along your jaw.

"You need to be a little quiet, Bee," he nipped at your skin and you smiled, "you don't want the others to hear, do you?"

You opened your eyes to meet his gaze, and you knew he could see the devilish glint dancing in them.

"I mean, I can try."

When you stretched out over his tidy mahogany desk and he pushed your legs apart, hiking your skirt over your ass, you couldn't help the self-satisfied grin that pulled at your lips. You wanted this for so long. You craved it. None of the toys in your nightstand could compare to the feeling of his strong hands on your thighs and the feel of his tongue teasing you open.

"Oh my god...look at you," he sighed, burying his face deep between your legs. You giggled, running your fingers through his curls to grab a handful and pulling a soft groan from his lips. Your hips twitched when he pressed a firm thumb against the front of your panties. The way his breath hitched left a deeper feeling of longing that seemed alien to you. And as he peeled the fabric to the side and spread you open to him, his free hand gripped your thigh greedily and hiked your leg up with your knee to your chest.

You felt your heart thrumming in your ears with anticipation and the major thrill of someone potentially walking in on you with his head between your legs. He wrapped his lips around you, swirling his tongue in small quick circles in that same way you loved and could never quite get used to. Your mouth fell open as the haze of ecstacy started to cloud any thoughts that weren't about him.

"I needed you." You whispered, gently scratching his scalp, "I needed you so bad."

He hummed, moaning against you and tickling your inner thighs with the soft hair of his beard. You peered down at him to watch him devour you like a starving man's first meal. He'd taken his glasses off, and you could see the way his lashes fluttered in complete bliss as he dipped his tongue into you. He looked up at you and locked eyes just as a shrill moan threatened to burst from your lips. You quickly covered your mouth and you felt him smile at you. He pulled away, replacing his mouth with his thick fingers. With each flick of the hand he watched you arch your back off his desk and scramble to grab onto something...anything to ground you.

He sharply pulled you closer to the edge of the desk and hoisted your other knee up to your chest, leaving you completely exposed to him and anyone that could walk in the room. He teased you with the tip of his tongue, watching you squirm impatiently before he curled his tongue against your clit.

He'd been dreaming of seeing you like this. But even his dreams couldn't live up to the reality of how sweet you tasted and the look of nirvana on your face. He He could hear the sharp intake of breath and the small whimpers you earnestly tried to swallow down. He wanted to tell you to be as loud as you wanted. Fuck the rules and anyone who heard. But that'd be stupid.

And you didn't deserve stupid.

He found that perfect sensitive spot that made you smack the desk with your hand and try to wriggle away from his mouth, but he pulled you closer.

"Mm-mm, no running." He mumbled nipping your thigh. He returned his lips to you, sucking you slowly between his lips. Your chest heaved, and you scrambled to figure out what to do with your hands. When you reached down to press his face harder between your thighs, he let himself release a low, muffled groan. He needed you so fucking badly. He wanted to stretch this out for as long as he could, but he knew that was impossible.

He wanted to make the most out of the limited time he had with you.

He pulled his mouth away and dipped his fingers into you, coaxing you closer to the edge. And when he leaned forward to kiss you, you pulled him in hungrily, wrapping your thighs around his hips and undoing his belt with quick fingers. He pulled away to look you over once again: your hair was a mess, your lips were swollen, your eyes were glazed, and you looked fucking beautiful. You reached up to stroke his cheek.

"What?" You asked, scrunching your nose at him.

"Are you sure?"

"About?"

His hand remained splayed on your lower stomach and your fingers were hooked in the waistband of his boxers. You sat up and he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours.

Oscar murmured, "Bee, if we do this, I'm not going back to keeping my distance. I'm going to fuck you in every corner of this office. I'm going to want you again," He kissed you, "and again," another kiss, "and again."

You absentmindedly brushed your fingers against his lower stomach and traced the outline of his dick through his boxers. "And on the weekends?"

You dipped your hand behind his waistband, and pulled it down to wrap your hand around him. He hissed sharply, shutting his eyes.

"Shit, honey..." he groaned. "I'm all yours."

You slowly stroked him, watching him melt under your touch. For a moment you could see the younger version of him, just as handsome but not nearly as refined as he liked to present himself in public. His salt and pepper curls were no longer neatly styled and you saw the hint of flush peeking out from under his olive skin. His perfect mouth fell open as you traced the swollen head of him with your thumb.

When you finally took a breath and felt him guide himself into you, that familiar flutter in your lower stomach made you bite your lower lip. A deep shudder wracked both of your bodies like your first hit of a long abandoned drug. He kept the pace slow and steady, focusing on the way you felt around him and trying to keep it to memory like he'd never experience it again.

You pulled him down for another deep kiss, wanting a connection with him in every way possible. You noticed the brief way his strokes faltered, and the way he grabbed your thighs to pull them around his hips to push deeper into you and at just the right angle to make you cry out.

"Right there," you pleaded, arching your hips up to angle him deeper, "God, rightthere rightthere rightthere."

He grunted, dropping his head onto your shoulder as he picked up the rhythm of his hips. "You're perfect for me. You're fucking perfect, angel. I'm never letting you go again."

You tried to form coherent thoughts and words, but everything turned to a sludge of gibberish on your tongue.

You hated the way that he seemed to know you like a familiar map. It was so easy to drown in him. When you reached down to touch yourself, he grabbed your hand and pinned it to the desk, interlacing your fingers. He dipped his free hand between you, choosing to tease your clit with his thumb while he picked up the pace of his strokes.

"Did you miss this, Bee?" He murmured under his breath.

You nodded, allowing your eyes to drift closed.

"No, baby, look at me." He commanded.

You did as you were told, looking deep into his gorgeous dark eyes that seemed to read you from the inside out.

"Did you miss me?"

"I missed this so much." you moaned, feeling the warmth building in your lower tummy.

He thrust into you sharply and a shrill cry rang out that you were sure echoed into the hallway. You nearly slammed your head into the desk with the force that your body jolted. The sensitivity was almost overwhelming and when you tried to scoot away again, he gave you another smack on the thigh.

"What did I say about running?" He let go of your hand to pull your thighs tighter around him as he drove into you with renewed vigor. His jaw clenched as he focused on your building pleasure. Thumb returned to your clit. Your mouth dropped open, but nothing came out but a strangled gasp. His thumb sped up between your thighs and you let out a string of slurred words as your hips shook.

"Fuck, I love you so much, oh God, oh God. I fucking love you."

"This is yours, now. It's all yours. Nobody else's." He breathlessly whispered against your cheek.

You reached down to grab his hand almost begging him for reprieve that you knew he wouldn't give you. You tightened around him and he sucked air sharply between his teeth, which only gave him more determination to push you over the edge. You pulled him down into a kiss just as the wave of pleasure crashed over you and you drowned your cry into his mouth. His strokes grew sloppy and erratic as you rolled your hips against him with equal force.

"Come on baby," you cooed to him, curling your fingers into his hair and giving it a sharp tug. He buried his head into your shoulder and let out a low, deep grunt as he came. You felt him press small kisses along your neck, trailing them up your chin and to your lips. After taking a minute to get his bearings, he reluctantly pulled out with a low shuddering breath. He kissed you again, and you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders enjoying the feeling of his hands on you.

After some brief, very gentle aftercare, you helped each other get redressed, sharing kisses and touches along the way.

"So..." he leaned up against his desk, cleaning off his glasses to put them back on, "am I seeing you tomorrow?"

You gave him a slow, deep kiss and his hands traveled to your ass, "If I'm up all night revising with your stupid edits, we'll see how I feel. No guarantees, though."

[thiswaytwoinfinity]

Emma's Epic Multi-Fandom Rec List: Oscar Isaac Edition

Work and life and everything took over for a little bit, but I am back with *part 2* of my massive fanfic recommendation list, because good lord I read so much fanfic I have a problem.

I do my best to reblog as much as possible but sometimes I miss it so this is my attempt to make up for that and give all of the amazing creators on here the credit they deserve. Thank you all so much for sharing all of your work with us. This year has been a long and difficult one for me, especially mental health wise, and being able to escape into these stories has been so valuable and important to me. 

If you read anything on here that you like, please reblog and/or comment on these pics to show the creators some love! 

AN IMPORTANT NOTE: While not everything listed here will include smut, many of these authors have 18+ blogs. Please, please, please respect their boundaries and DO NOT INTERACT WITH THEM/THEIR CONTENT IF YOU ARE A MINOR.

Stories marked with ❤️‍🔥 contain NSFW content

Moon Knight: 

The Best Kept Secrets ❤️‍🔥by @melodygatesauthor — First of all, Mel is the *queen* of Oscar Isaac-fandom fic, especially anything about our beloved Moon Boys. She’s got stuff for every genre, every mood, every random plot bunny — she’s also created some of the most fun and original character.ai bots — but I have such a soft spot for this fic, a dad’s best friend fic where each chapter is a different member of the system. 

A Bit Dodgy ❤️‍🔥by @melodygatesauthor — another brilliant one from Melody, featuring professor! Steven falling in love with a student, Jake being protective (and hot) and Marc learning to let down his walls around people. I will genuinely be a little sad when it’s all wrapped up because I’ve loved this journey. 

Cherry Pie ❤️‍🔥by @whatthefishh and @melodygatesauthor — I’m trying not to just rec people’s entire masterlists but these two make it SO DIFFICULT. Anyway, as someone with a soft spot for Steven (is it obvious yet?) this is a particularly steamy and surprisingly sweet fic about his first time. It’s written in such a brilliant way that you can just picture all of the desperate, delicious faces that Steven is making throughout and it’s just … it’s a 10/10 y’all. 

Spoiled Rotten by @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction — MARC. MARC MY BEAUTIFUL, EMOTIONALLY GUARDED BELOVED I love when Marc gets to be soft and this was such a beautifully written, real-feeling story about his relationship insecurities and his desire to be treated like the precious gift he is. If the universe could just give me one chance to spoil this beautiful man … 

Personal Time ❤️‍🔥by @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction — Look, we have already established my love for Steven Grant. I want to hug him and kiss him and let him tell me about Egyptian gods and eat vegan burritos with him and cuddle him all night. But this story? This story makes me also want to ruin him. 

The Moon Boys + Where They Like to Put It ❤️‍🔥by @ivystoryweaver — These little blurbs are pure filth and I would like them tattooed on my eyelids so that I can forever be haunted by them. There is a surprising amount of characterization packed into such a short package and that takes an incredible amount of talent. 

On My Knees ❤️‍🔥by @ivystoryweaver — Look. If Steven Grant came to me, begging on his knees (literally!) for his job back, I too would fold immediately. This two-parter is also great because the first story is pure fluff (and pining for Steven, which, i can relate) and the second brings all of the tension and anticipation to a head with some genuinely smoking hot smut. I’d also like to give a shoutout to Ivy’s Oblivious Roommate Headcanons Series, which is honestly making my obsession with everyone’s favorite gift shoppist a little worse in the best way. 

driver!jake and rich girl!reader ❤️‍🔥by @campingwiththecharmings — THIS FIC. I love the slow building tension, the gorgeous image of Jake smoking outside his limo during a night out, the SMUT. It made my brain melt in the best way, possible. 

Lessons in Touch by @marc-spectorr— Ugh, the PINING. There’s only one part to this so far and I am already so obsessed with it that I’m recommending it. I cannot wait to see where this one goes because I just am already so in love with this Steven and their relationship. 

With The Lights Out ❤️‍🔥by @moonknightly — Jake is, understandably, often characterized as the sexy, seductive one in the system so it’s such a treat to read a virgin!Jake fic. This one is so lovely, a perfect mix of vulnerable and steamy while still feeling so true to him. Basically, I love when Jake gets flustered and I need more of it. 

Friendly favors ❤️‍🔥by @runa-falls — (Not so) unrequited pining between Steven and his best friend and the ways they begin to reveal their feelings for one another by … “helping each other out” with their “needs.” Steamy and sweet in equal measure and it just makes me want to scream in the best possible way. 

Making Trouble ❤️‍🔥by @juneknight — Possessive!Marc owns me, completely. This and its sequel (where Jake gets his revenge) are two of the hottest, most wonderful smut fics that I have read in this fandom and good lord, it breaks my brain every single time I read it. juneknight is also the creator of the mind-meltingly sexy Dorm Room Marc series which is also *chef’s kiss* 

Miguel O’Hara (Spider-Verse) 

Halo ❤️‍🔥by @missdictatorme — One of the most interesting Miguel concepts I’ve ever read: Reader is Miguel’s new AI assistant (complete with hologram body) and you ask for the chance to design your own appearance. The slow build of the relationship between the pair is so fun to read and the tension between them as Miguel realizes that their relationship with one another is … unorthodox is amazing. I think about this story all the time. 

Something New ❤️‍🔥by @runa-falls — Hoooooo boy. I recommend you read this one in front of a fan or the AC because good lord this is hot. 

Decadent ❤️‍🔥by @ivystoryweaver — This one has it all: gorgeously steamy smut, the tension of a slow-burn relationship build, a hint of angst and a mystery at the center of it all: is Miguel a vampire? Or something else? Can he be cured? It’s so good and I honestly give a little squeal every time I see there’s a new chapter out. 

Punch-Out Love by @astroboots— Miguel O’Hara boxing AU? Hell yeah. This one is exciting and tense and thrilling and I was invested from the first sentence. Cici also co-wrote the iconic Every You, Every Me, which I am ashamed to say that I only just started reading but it is just as incredible as everyone said. Her stuff more than lives up to all of the hype. 

Monster ❤️‍🔥by @writefightandflightclub — Oh, you thought you’d make it through a Miguel O’Hara rec list without some size kink? This is insanely hot and a little dark and so, so good. Heed the warnings, but if this is your thing, trust me, it will sit in your brain forever. 

Assorted Oscar Characters 

Bloom For Me (Santiago Garcia) ❤️‍🔥by @whatthefishh — The Triple Frontier Regency AU that you didn’t know you needed. Trust me on this. 

Oxford Comma (Rydal Keener) ❤️‍🔥by @whatthefishh — *The* definitive Rydal fic, in my opinion. There is something about the way that Mona writes Rydal that makes him so irresistible, so charming and easy to fall for despite how much you want to resist (or maybe punch) him that I think captures the essence of the character so well. 

How (Nathan Bateman) ❤️‍🔥by @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction — Set post-Ex Machina, this lovely (and steamy) fic delves into how Nathan deals with the aftermath of the situation with Ava as well as him learning to let another person (not an android!) into his life. It’s my favorite take on a softer version of Nathan and I just adore it. (Also for more amazing Oscar-character content, Fen’s Kinktober masterlist is *chef’s kiss)

Three Years (Nathan Bateman) ❤️‍🔥by @youvebeenlivingfictional — My favorite Nathan fic, ever. The tension between him and the reader, the underlying questions about whether their whole relationship and dynamic is the result of genuine feelings on his end or just him manipulating people, the added angst of Reader’s dynamic with their friend and *her* crush on Nathan — it’s just so good. 

Somebody to Love (Richard Alonzo Munoz) ❤️‍🔥by @writefightandflightclub — Not just one of my all-time favorite Oscar Isaac fics, but one of my all-time favorite fics period. As I have previously gushed, this is a gorgeous, romantic, slow-build of a story written with such stunning imagery and poetry and with little nods to an already-familiar relationship that just makes their ultimate relationship even more swoon-worthy and perfect. And the smut is 10/10, five stars, completely mind-melting in all of the best ways. I love it, I love it, I love it. 

[imninahchan]

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⌜ ⠀⠀ h e a d c a n o n s 𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 🐇 ／ ⋆ ۪

⠀⠀

───── 「 ✦ BILL SKARGARD ✦ 」

+ m e a n d o m ♥︎ seu namoradinho

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

───── 「 ✦ MADS MIKKELSEN ✦ 」

+ cenário ♥︎ seu professor

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

───── 「 ✦ WAGNER MOURA ✦ 」

+ cenário

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

───── 「 ✦ PEDRO PASCAL ✦ 」

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀[ꗃ₊˚⊹ ᰔ]

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

───── 「 ✦ OSCAR ISAAC ✦ 」

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀[ꗃ₊˚⊹ ᰔ]

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

───── 「 ✦ CILLIAN MURPHY ✦ 」

+ cenário

[lapsus-memoriae-gael]

[El Dorado] [Lore / Headcanons] [Pinterest] [Aesthetic / Quotes]

​🇬​​🇦​​🇪​​🇱​ ​🇨​ó​🇷​​🇩​​🇴​​🇻​​🇦​

​🇲​​🇦​​🇱​​🇪​ - ​🇭​​🇪​ / ​🇭​​🇮​​🇲​

​🇬​​🇮​​🇫​​🇹​ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇪​​🇳​​🇭​​🇦​​🇳​​🇨​​🇪​​🇩​ ​🇱​​🇪​​🇦​​🇷​​🇳​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​

​🇵​​🇱​​🇦​​🇾​​🇪​​🇩​ ​🇧​​🇾​ ​🇴​​🇸​​🇨​​🇦​​🇷​ ​🇮​​🇸​​🇦​​🇦​​🇨​

Basic Information

Name: Gael [Guy-El] Abelardo Córdova

Age: 42

D.O.B.: August 14th

Sex: Male

Orientation: Biromantic Demisexual

Faceclaim: Oscar Isaac

Height: 5'9"

Eye Color: Brown

Hair Color: Salt 'n Pepper, dyes it black when he can

Detailed Information

Power: Enhanced Learning - Gael has the ability to read any book/text/writing regardless of the language, understand it and immediately learn and retain the information he's read. Knowledge retention duration is based on a myriad of factors. Side effects include dizziness, intense clouding of consciousness (brain fog) and irritability when desired knowledge is lost. Exacerbated by lack of sleep.

Positive Traits: Intuitive, Friendly, Enthusiastic, Gentle

Neutral Traits: Perceptive, Curious, Persistent, Confident

Negative Traits: Absent-minded, Stubborn, Condescending, Competitive

Astrological Sign: Leo

Tattoos / Piercings: None

Attire / Style: Tends to wear baggy/comfortable clothing and sweaters. Sometimes looks like a professor, owns a pair of glasses he doesn't need that he wears on occasion for the aesthetic. Otherwise, t-shirts and jeans/pants. He has facial hair half the time and it grows fast, it's a coin toss on whether or not he has facial hair that day. More often than not seen with a bag/satchel big enough to carry a couple of "essentials"

Historical Information

His parents are immigrants from Guatemala and they moved after having their first two kids

He's the only son and the middle child with two older sisters and two younger sisters

Was always a go-getter and excelled in whatever he set his mind to, but had a special affinity for chemistry, physics and nuclear engineering. Yes, he IS a nerd thanks for asking

He held a myriad of jobs throughout high school and went to college for a bachelors in chemistry when he spontaneously decided to become a patent attorney - it made the most money and he wasn't one to turn down the challenge

He wanted to be a defense attorney though :/ Whatever, we don't all get what we want

Still studied in his fields of interest. The guy really just loves science, though he more or less enjoys learning in general

At the expense of his own health, experiencing fatigue, sleeplessness and exhaustion. It wasn't anything that some caffeine couldn't fix - his parents were receiving income, and he felt good that he was helping after all they'd done for him

The Public Eye / First Impressions / Extra

Gael can and will engage in active conversations with himself aloud. It's not because of any mental problems (he says), it just helps him compartmentalize his thoughts and sort through information. This is oftentimes accompanied with physical gestures like sorting through files, swiping screens in front of him, etc. This is normal behavior for him but it might seem strange to your character

He is never seen without a journal of some sort in his hands or in a bag on his person. Sometimes it's the same journal, sometimes it's a different journal, sometimes it's a few sheets of paper stapled together but the gist is that he always has something available to write down information. He writes down almost everything as it tends to help him learn and retain information better

Though he's a general animal lover, Gael has a special affinity for cats and easily gets distracted when there's a cat around he can fawn over or pet. He appreciates almost all animals, though large aquatic animals (with the exception of whales) kind of freak him out. The only animals he doesn't like as a whole are birds, but particularly parrots, cockatoos/tiels and seagulls. So far he hasn't said why

Ya boy does not like the water, which is super fun for him trapped on what he perceives to be an island. He doesn't go swimming though he knows how, he doesn't like getting wet (aside from showering ofc), doesn't even like pools. When confronted with it, expect him to deliberate and create excuses for why he doesn't want to swim

He's a polyglot! Gael can proficiently and fluently speak in English, Spanish, Portuguese, French, German and Italian and is a beginner in Mandarin, which he was learning before arriving at the Island. He also understands Latin, a measure of Greek for language, law and medical purposes. If you speak Latin to him in an attempt to sound smart, it's probably just going to annoy him.

As his mind always tends to run a mile a minute, Gael's a chronic insomniac and he's spent so long dealing with it that his relationship with sleep isn't healthy anymore - he doesn't even like it. It's a waste of time. Who even likes sleeping? Like... he GETS it, but he doesn't like it. It's not for him. This can be evident sometimes in how he dresses, looks and carries himself - dark circles under his eyes are often present, as is a thermos full of coffee

[mast3rofnonee]

Info abt me!!

Black, fem, 17,sfl

Fav color(s): black, plum purple, sage green, crimson red, pink, and blue !!

Fav lana song: Freak (i had a mental breakdown trying to choose)

clothing style: everything/ basically anything depending on my mood

Fav clothing item: my black converse!!

Celebrity crush: Pedro pascal, Mads Mikkelsen, Oscar Isaac, Anya Taylor-joy, Florence Pugh, Zendaya, Gillian Anderson, Josh O'Connor. (sm more trust me)

Icons: LANA, Kurt Cobain, Fiona apple,Sylvia Plath, Audrey Hepburn (mind is blank)

Dream job: Psychiatrist, forensic scientist. (college professor)