#stark-phd

[sineala]

Are there ANY stony/Star Trek AUs?

Okay. Um. I'm just going to assume this is a legitimate question and not actually a way to express frustration about my progress on the sequel I am writing (I stared at this ask for a while), so I will just conclude that you must have missed the Steve/Tony Star Trek AU I wrote, um, back in 2016:

Straight on till Morning (109848 words) by Sineala Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Avengers (Comics) Rating: Explicit  Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark  Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Carol Danvers, Janet Van Dyne, Hank Pym, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Clint Barton, Donald Blake (Marvel), Jocasta (Marvel)  Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Action/Adventure, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pining, Angst, Secret Identity, Identity Porn, Sex Pollen, Fuck Or Die, Caves, Sex In A Cave, Technobabble, Happy Ending, Cap_Ironman Big Bang 2016, Community: cap_ironman, Podfic Available  Summary: 

Tony Stark resigned his commission in Starfleet five years ago, after a disastrous away mission, and he swore he'd never go back. He just wants to be left alone to build warp engines in peace. But the universe has more in store for him than that, as he discovers when Admiral Fury comes to him with an offer he could never have expected and cannot possibly refuse: first officer and chief engineer aboard the all-new USS Avenger, a starship of Tony's own design. What's more, the Avenger's captain is Steve Rogers, hero of the Earth-Romulan War. Believed dead for over a century, Steve is miraculously alive... and very, very attractive. 

But nothing is ever easy for Tony. As he wrestles with his secret desire for his new captain and his not-so-dormant fears, another mission starts to go wrong, and Tony becomes aware that Steve has secrets of his own -- and the truth could change everything.

So, yeah, if you actually haven't read that one, that'll keep you busy for a while. It's a Trek fusion with comics Steve/Tony, set in the era of the later TOS movies. (This is important so that you can picture the correct uniforms, and also because it actually matters that the events of Star Trek II, III, and IV have happened.) It was a Big Bang fic, so it's got some great art by Ran and Phoenix -- embedded in the story -- and also M_Samro made a really amazing podfic of it, if you like podfics.

For a charity auction in 2017, I promised I would write a sequel, and I plotted the whole thing out and started writing this extremely epic sequel, which was unfortunately, about a plague threatening the galaxy, and I got about 120,000 words in and then 2020 happened and I decided I needed to not be writing it right now. So it went on an extended hiatus.

But the good news is that I've actually gotten back to it! I picked it up again last month and I've put 40,000 more words in it since then and at this exact moment I am currently working on the last scene of Chapter 4 (out of six total)! I swear it is happening! I've been putting in about a thousand words a day for the past month! It is really happening this time! The sequel is coming! I promise! I know it has been years but it's happening!

See? It's happening! (I would include a screencap of the part that is happening, but all of Chapter 4 is pretty spoilery.)

So that will exist! Someday! I mean that!

And if you're asking about Steve/Tony Star Trek AUs by people other than me, there are some! If you filter the AU - Star Trek Fusion tag by Steve/Tony, there are 25 matches. Several of them are related to my fic (remixes, art) but there is some stuff that isn't my fault! I haven't read a lot of them because I was trying not to read things that seemed like they might be similar to mine while I was plotting my series here, and also I have never finished watching DS9, so I skipped the DS9 ones.

Under Stars by vulcanscully: A fun fusion that I thought was interesting because Steve is an ensign and that's not how this usually goes.

Discovery of the Century by DepressingGreenie: More 616 in flavor than a lot of the Trek AUs, this is basically Finding Steve In The Ice but Make It Star Trek. As far as I am concerned, Finding Steve In The Ice is great every time.

and so we rebuild by raeldaza: I'm probably biased because this one was inspired by my fic, but I also really enjoyed this one for not being how these things usually go. A lot of Trek AUs in many fandoms are written through a TOS/AOS kind of lens and will often do a Kirk/Spock thing and make one of them a Vulcan or half-Vulcan. In this one that's Tony, but also he's a terrible Vulcan! He's found a new way to disappoint his father!

Stellar Love Affairs by AvengersNewB: I honestly had never imagined a Star Trek fusion that was also A/B/O but I think it really works here! It's like bringing pon farr full circle.

Xenophilia by Captain_Panda: Captain_Panda has several Trek AUs but I am reccing this one because it's the longest. And also the whumpiest. Everyone loves some good away-mission whump!

So there you go! Live long and prosper! I promise I am still writing this Star Trek AU sequel!

[gghostwriter]

could you do spencer x fem!reader where he proposes in the middle of chasing an unsub?

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader Trope: Established relationship; Fluff! Just fluff! w.c: 1.2k A/N: slowly finishing up on the remaining requests on my inbox. It’s taking me quite some time as I’m a mood writer so there’s days where I’m purely focused on my ideas then theres days where i’m motivated to finish the requests and theres days where i have no will to write a single word at all. Found myself rambling and immensly enjoying where the idea was going so hopefully this lives up to your expectation, no matter how late or unedited this is. Enjoy! Main masterlist

Curveball. // Spencer Reid

This wasn’t how Spencer planned it. Not at all.

By nature, he was a stickler to rules and organization. Having created a mind map on the trajectory of his life from the very first time he realized how different he was from the rest. Graduate early in high school, check. Get multiple BA and PhD degrees, multiple checks. Join the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, big check. Everything was planned out. No matter how big or small.

Or at least it was, up until you strolled into the bullpen with your sensible heeled boots, crisp button downs, and tailor fitted slacks. A new recruit directly slotted by David Rossi, just like how Jason Gideon pulled rank to get him in the BAU. The stark difference was you weren’t as green as he was back then, fresh from the academy. With your credentials considered one of the best and with beaming approval from the BAU’s co-founder, David Rossi, and former member, Katie Cole of CACU, you were an immediate shoe in for the position—joining the team’s dynamic quite effortlessly and with ease.

Meeting you and falling helplessly in love with you by the end of your 6-month stay in the team was never written in Spencer’s books. He never thought once that he would find, as cliche as it sounded, a forever companion beyond the platonic relationships built within the team. He, in all of his intellect, also never thought you’d end up viewing him the same way but you did. He was so glad you did. Any disruption it caused to his mind map was a change he wholeheartedly welcomed as long as he got to come home with you wrapped in his arms.

But at the following moments, Spencer was re-considering his standpoint on the thrown curveballs that come his way all from being devotedly enamored with you.

“Spencer Reid!” you stomped your foot on the carpeted floor of the shared hotel room to gain his attention. “Did you suggest to Hotch that I be on geographical profile duty with you rather than being out with my usual partner Morgan?”

“What? No—no! Why would you think that, princess?”

With your arms crossed on your chest, hip cocked to one side, and analytical eyes cataloguing his every fidget, he knew his lie was done for.

You scoffed. “Oh I don’t know, besides from the fact you can’t look me in the eye, what else is there?” You took a minute to pause for dramatization. “Oh I know, is it because I bear a striking resemblance to all the victims? Or is it because of what happened during the last case?”

He scrunched his nose, giving himself away. “You got shot without me there, of course I got worried! What if—what if you weren’t wearing your kevlar vest or what if the unsub aimed higher, making sure to land a critical hit?” His form slumped down on the bed. “I can’t bear the thought of you in danger while I’m not around to protect you.”

“Spence, our job comes with a risk and I’m good at my job—”

“I know you are. I’ve seen you in target practice and tackle unsubs bigger than you but it also comes with the boyfriend territory that I worry whenever you’re away.”

You sighed, sitting beside him and taking his hand into yours. The difference in size was a sharp reminder on how petite and delicate you are in Spencer’s eyes. “And I get that too when we’re on duty and apart but you know what gets me by?” He shook his head, doe eyes peering into yours with such adoration. “Trust. I trust you to always come back to me, safe. In turn, I need you to trust me to do my job and take extra pre-caution with every decision I do in the field. Can you do that for me, sweet boy?”

He slowly nodded his head. “I—I can do that.”

“Next time, let’s also communicate any small or big concerns, okay Spence? I’d rather not feel lost and confused the next time a problem arises.”

“As long as you promise the same to me.”

You smiled before nodding your head in return. “Of course.”

He leaned in. Kissing those pouty lips that had been calling for him like a siren ever since the disagreement ensued.

———

“Alright,” Hotch’s no-nonsense voice called everyone’s attention. “The group of unsubs are currently holding two civilian hostages inside this very building. Morgan, Y/N, and Prentiss, you take the left entrance. Reid and Rossi, you’re with me at the right entrance.” Numerous affirmatives were echoed. “They’re armed and have proven themselves capable of killing. Vests tight and keep vigilant.”

Footsteps dispersed for preparation but before you could escape from Spencer’s line of sight, he pulled you close, adjusting your vest and making sure it was strapped tight around your chest.

“Be careful out there.”

A small smile graced your face before quickly disappearing from the thick tension all around the vicinity. “Always am. You too.”

“I mean it, princess. I need you back in one piece so I can marry you.”

You sucked in a breath. “W-what?”

“This wasn’t how I planned it but—” Hotch’s voice interrupted his ramblings. Reid. He turned and nodded once before returning his gaze back to your gobsmacked face. “—you did say to communicate right away so I love you and I want to marry you—” he squeezed your clammy hand into his. “—will you say yes?”

Reid. Another commanding voice coming from the unit chief.

Spencer smiled then before beginning his steps back to his position. It felt exhilarating to finally be the one throwing the curveball at you, no wonder you found joy in it—no matter how unconscious you were doing it. “I’ll hear your answer after, okay?”

“Oh, we’re so talking about this later.” you narrowed your eyes in return, taking steps to your opposite position. “Yes, Reid. See you later.”

Spencer looked down at his muddied sneakers, eyes gleaming from mirth and soul flying high unbound before taking a deep breath, schooling everything away and focusing all of him to catching these group of unsubs.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad not having everything go according to plan. After all, didn’t they usually say that the best things usually come when he’d least expect it? And you were the perfect definition of that phrase. His own beautiful disruptor and he wouldn’t have you in any other way.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[celestialprincesse]

💕🌸

More Simon and his nerdy gf (self indulgent, ofc)

nsfw below the cut 🎀 mdni

She's working on her PHD in some obscenely complicated and barely studied historical field, and is doing absolutely groundbreaking work in her chosen area of study.

She's utterly spiteful and pushes on with her research in the knowledge that she will be one of the first women to develop brand new research and write on her chosen subject.

Simon was the one who encouraged her to pursue her doctorate, wanting her to have some way to occupy herself when he went away on deployment.

What he foolishly failed to realise is how determined she is, running on spite and caffeine, spending most nights curled on their couch typing away at her dissertation or practising defending it in the bathroom mirror.

He'll come back from deployment painfully hard and desperate to fuck into her, she's an absolute nightmare to pull away from her laptop, let alone actually get into bed.

They'll be fucking, and she thinks she switches their positions so that she can ride his cock, a smug grin on his face until she's hopping from their bed, stark naked, leaving him with an admittedly spectacular view of her ass as she runs for her laptop to look something up that's been bugging her.

Whilst he fills in paperwork and mission reports at his desk in his home office, she'll sit warming his cock and nattering away to him about her research. He'll occasionally prompt her with a little contrarian question to help her practise for when she has to defend her work.

Simon occasionally finds himself having to physically remove her from her laptop, and she'll be so wired that he'll fuck a good few orgasms from her in order to get all the energy out of her system.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Bridges to Belonging

Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Summary: Y/n needed a new gig to bring in a little extra cash while she finished her PhD research at the hospital. The Hotchners are looking for a nanny for their infant son, Jack.

Spencer is not in this part, just introducing Y/n to the team!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: Backstory

Warnings/Includes: none!

Word count: 1.3k

a/n: hi!! i am so back in my spencer reid shit it is insane. here goes me writing a self indulgent fanfic because i can't get this idea out of my head. let me know what you think!!

main masterlist

Washington, D.C. - Spring 2005

The small conference room at the hospital was dimly lit, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Y/n L/n sat at the long table, reviewing her notes for her dissertation on child psychology. The hospital had been her second home for the past few years, a place where she could immerse herself in her research while pursuing her passion for helping children. 

As she packed up her things, her phone buzzed with a text message from a friend, forwarding a job listing. 

*Nanny needed for newborn. Reliable, experienced, and patient. Contact Haley Hotchner at [xxx-xxx-xxxx].*

Y/n considered the opportunity, her mind calculating the benefits of having some extra income while she completed her PhD. Besides, she loved working with children. After a moment’s thought, she dialed the number.

“Hello, this is Haley Hotchner,” a warm voice answered.

“Hi, Haley, my name is Y/n L/n. I’m calling about the nanny position. I’m currently finishing my PhD in psychology and have experience working with children,” Y/n explained, her voice steady but hopeful.

“Wonderful! We’re looking for someone who can become part of our family, especially with Aaron’s demanding job. Can we meet for an interview?” Haley asked, her tone inviting and sincere.

“Of course, I’d love to,” Y/n replied, feeling a flutter of excitement at the prospect.

---

Y/n arrived at the Hotchner residence a week later, it was a quaint home in a quiet neighborhood. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door, smoothing her hair as she waited. The door opened to reveal a smiling Haley Hotchner, holding a sleeping baby in her arms.

“You must be Y/n! Come in, please,” Haley greeted her warmly.

As Y/n stepped inside, she felt an immediate sense of comfort and belonging. The home was cozy, filled with family photos and the soft scent of baby powder. 

Haley led Y/n to the living room, where Aaron Hotchner sat, looking relaxed in casual clothes, a stark contrast to his usual suits. He stood to shake her hand, his demeanor polite and welcoming.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/n,” Aaron said, his handshake firm but friendly. “Haley has told me good things about you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hotchner. It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Y/n replied, smiling as she sat down.

“Please, call me Aaron,” he insisted, exchanging a glance with Haley.

The interview was less formal than Y/n had anticipated. Aaron and Haley asked her about her studies, her experience with children, and her aspirations. She, in turn, learned about their lives, Aaron’s work with the FBI, and their hopes for raising Jack in a loving environment.

“We’re really looking for someone who can be a part of Jack’s life as he grows,” Haley explained, gently rocking Jack in her arms. “Someone we can trust.”

Y/n nodded, feeling a connection with the couple. “I’d love to be that person. Working with children is my passion, and I think I could learn a lot from Jack, too.”

Aaron smiled, looking at Haley before turning back to Y/n. “We’d like to offer you the position, Y/n. If you will take it, we want to welcome you to the family.”

Y/n beamed, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Thank you, Aaron, Haley. I promise to do my best for Jack and your family.”

---

Over the next two years, Y/n became an integral part of the Hotchner household. She cared for Jack with a dedication that went beyond her job description, forming a bond with the infant that was almost maternal. She found herself spending evenings with Haley, talking about life, love, and dreams. Aaron, despite his demanding job, always made time to catch up with Y/n, appreciating her insight into Jack’s development and her ability to connect with people. As Jack neared his second birthday, Y/n knew her time as his nanny was coming to an end. He was ready to start preschool, and she had secured a position at the hospital as a child psychologist. Yet, leaving the Hotchners felt like leaving a part of her own family. 

On her last day as Jack’s nanny, Y/n sat in the backyard with Haley, watching Jack play in the autumn leaves.

“We’re going to miss you, Y/n,” Haley said, her voice tinged with sadness. “You’re like a sister to us.”

Y/n smiled, touched by Haley’s words. “I’m going to miss you all too. You’ve been my family here.”

Haley nodded, tears in her eyes. “Promise you’ll visit? Jack will need his Aunt Y/n around.”

“Always,” Y/n promised, her heart full. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

---

Life moved on, but Y/n never lost touch with the Hotchners. She visited often, spending time with Jack as he grew into a lively toddler. Her work at the hospital kept her busy, but she cherished the moments she could steal away to see them.

One evening, as she was leaving the hospital, her phone buzzed with a text from Aaron.

We’re going out for drinks to celebrate a closed case. Care to join us?

Y/n smiled at the invitation, feeling a warmth at the thought of seeing Aaron and meeting his team. She quickly replied.

I’d love to! Where should I meet you?

---

Y/n walked into the bar, scanning the room for a familiar face. She spotted Aaron standing with a group of people, all engaged in animated conversation. 

As she approached, Aaron waved her over, a rare smile on his usually serious face.

“Y/n! Glad you could make it,” Aaron greeted, introducing her to the team. “Everyone, this is Y/n L/n. She used to be Jack’s nanny and is basically family.”

Y/n smiled and waved, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “Hi, everyone! It’s great to meet you all.”

Penelope Garcia, the team’s tech-savvy and flamboyant analyst, immediately stepped forward, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Oh my gosh, I love your outfit! Finally, someone who appreciates the art of pink as much as I do!”

Y/n laughed, relieved by Penelope’s enthusiasm and excited to have her brand new top appreciated. “Thank you! I knew I’d find a kindred spirit.”

Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, the team’s communications liaison, offered a warm handshake. “Aaron’s told us a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet the woman who kept him sane during those early days.”

“Glad to be here,” Y/n replied, feeling welcomed.

Emily Prentiss, with her confident and approachable demeanor, chimed in. “So, you survived being a Hotchner family member? You deserve a medal.”

Y/n grinned, appreciating the camaraderie. “It wasn’t so bad. I’m just glad I didn’t have to deal with any of Aaron’s work stress.”

Derek Morgan, the charming and confident agent, leaned back with a smirk. “If you ever want to switch from psychology to profiling, we could use someone with your skills.”

Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll leave the profiling to you guys. I’m happy helping kids find their way.”

David Rossi, the seasoned agent with a love for fine wine and stories, raised his glass in a toast. “To new friends and old family.”

Y/n joined in the toast, feeling a sense of belonging with this eclectic group. As the night wore on, she found herself bonding with each team member, sharing stories and laughter. They talked about everything from childhood dreams to favorite music, forming connections that would last beyond this night.

As the evening wound down, Derek leaned over with a grin. “You’ll have to meet our boy wonder next time. Spencer’s a little shy, but I have a feeling you two would get along.”

Y/n nodded, intrigued by the prospect of another lively team member to add to her seemingly growing list of friends. “I’d like that. I’ve heard a lot about him.”

Emily chimed in, a playful glint in her eyes. “Spencer’s one of a kind. You’ll see what we mean.”

[plumadesatada]

Bruce too????

Randomly reminded that Bruce banner has 7 PhDs. Is one of them a PhD in the most inefficient academic career to pursue? I'm sooo curious why would one want 7 PhDs? Why would you do that to yourself? Maybe the pent up rage from having to go through being a PhD student 7 times is what's turning you into a big green smashing creature? Pretty sure 7 PhDs is as detrimental to one's health as the gamma rays he got exposed to

[jakeotters]

Would you be able to take a request for Scott from Twisters and a reader who is new to Storm Par? The plot and everything else can be up to you

omg yes ofc!! the “scott x reader who’s new to storm par” has been one of my favorite self inserts tbh

An Ego Problem (scott miller x reader)

this ended up being longer than i anticipated

warnings: swearing, scott being an ass (per usual)

a/n: this is my first time writing in a while so i apologize if it’s not the best! also writing for scott means i can use all of my fancy weather knowledge (i’m a meteorology major) and that’s very special to me <3

You aren’t new to storm chasing. You’d grown up in tornado alley— you were more than used to the hell that the sky unleashes.

Tornadoes don’t scare you, you’ve always been fascinated by their power; the way that the atmosphere is capable of creating something that can produce catastrophic damage in a matter of seconds. You were so drawn by it.

But, here you are, driving through the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, and you’re nervous. You don’t know the last time the thought of chasing made you nervous.

“Y/n?”

The sound of your name snaps you out of your thoughts and you blink, your head perking up.

“You nervous?”

Your friend Javi turned his head to look at you, eyes leaving the road momentarily. You’d known Javi since college, and you’d chased with him before, but you were chasing with his crew for the first time this season.

“Nervous? No.”

You turned your head to meet his gaze and managed a smile. You tried to keep from fidgeting, feeling more and more uneasy as you neared the gas station his crew was waiting at.

“You sure? You seem awfully quiet.”

Javi knew you better than anyone, it wasn’t hard to tell that you weren’t yourself. He knew that chasing excited you more than anything, it was weird for you to be so reclusive.

“I’m fine. Promise.”

You didn’t mean to be short with him but you couldn’t help it. Javi shrugged, not believing you but not pushing any further. You swallowed thickly as he pulled into the gas station.

Javi parked before shutting off the truck and hopping out. He opened your door, helping you out of the passenger seat. You stepped out and looked around. Storm chasers were crowded in the parking lot, preparing their instruments and looking at laptops. You watched the groups of chasers as Javi walked you towards where his crew was standing.

You turned to look at his crew as you were introduced. They were dressed in white button downs, Storm Par sewn onto the front pocket of their shirts, shirts tucked into their black pants. You’d never seen storm chasers dressed so neatly. They looked so professional— it was a stark contrast to the chasers around them. Even you could admit that it was a little… odd.

Javi told you where everyone had gone to school, who was with the National Weather Service, who had PhDs, this and that. You scanned the group until your eyes landed on the guy standing in front of you. He was tall, iPad in his hand, hat on his head, and sunglasses hiding his eyes. He was looking at you, the expression on his face serious. Javi said something about him going to MIT. You instantly felt intimidated by him.

“This is Scott,”

Javi put his arm around the tall man, but his expression never changed.

“He makes up for it with his beautiful, amazing personality.”

Scott gave an insincere smile before his face went back to his stern, blank expression. You wondered what his eyes looked like behind the veil of his sunglasses.

“So, y/n, where are we headed?”

Javi took the iPad from Scott and handed it to you. You looked at Javi before looking at the tablet in your hand. A radar image was pulled up, the colorful blobs of developing thunderstorms dotted along the screen.

“I, uh- um-”

You stuttered. Your mind couldn’t seem to focus, it was like you’d forgotten everything you knew about weather and storm chasing. You immediately felt embarrassed as you felt the eyes of Javi and his crew on you, but the feeling of Scott’s eyes focused on you made your cheeks flush bright red. He was standing close to you, too close—

“What’s wrong? Can’t read a radar screen?”

Scott’s voice rang out above you. He raised an eyebrow when you looked at him. He’d taken his sunglasses off and tucked them into his shirt pocket, his blue eyes bearing into yours. The condescending tone in his voice pushed out any embarrassment you felt.

“Excuse me?”

Scott looked at the iPad and looked back at your face, a sly smirk forming on his lips.

“Need help knowing what you’re looking at? Do I need to teach you how to read radar?”

You stood there. You knew he was trying to push your buttons, obviously testing you. You knew you were good, you’d been chasing longer than most of the people in this parking lot, but his comments stung. You pushed the iPad into his hands and walked away, not wanting to show your emotions in front of the crew.

It wasn’t long before Javi found you, standing on the grass at the edge of the parking lot, watching the sky. You felt his hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, don’t let Scott get to you. He’s like that with everyone, must be an ego problem.”

You chuckle at Javi’s comment.

“Am I riding with you?”

You didn’t take your eyes off the tall clouds that formed the building storms in front of you.

“Actually, no. You’re gonna have to ride with Scott.”

Your head immediately snapped towards Javi. You felt like the air had been taken out of you.

“What?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just for today.”

“Oh.”

Your voice became small and you swear you could feel your insides coil up.

“Javi! Time to go!”

You heard Scott yell from the distance. You didn’t want to move from where you were standing, in fact, you wanted to run in the opposite direction. You wanted to get as far away from this place, and Scott, as possible.

“Sorry, y/n. It’ll be fine, just listen to what Scott tells you to do.”

Javi sounded sincere with his apology. He squeezed your shoulder as the two of you walked towards the vehicles.

———

You sat in the passenger seat of Scott’s SUV, Javi’s truck not far ahead. He hadn’t said anything to you, minus the grunt of disapproval when you got in the vehicle with him before the two of you pulled out of the parking lot.

Scott kept his gaze on the road, eyes occasionally traveling to look at the towering supercell that took over the sky in front of you. You watched his jaw move as he chewed his gum.

“So, how’d you start chasing?”

You attempted to make conversation, even though he intimidated you, you hated to sit in a silent car. Scott made a noise in his throat.

“I’m surprised you picked the right storm.”

He finally spoke. His tone was flat, just like the expression on his face when you’d first seen him. You weren’t sure how to answer.

“What’s wrong? Don’t like what I said?”

That stupid, sly smirk played at Scott’s lips again.

“You have a lot of words for someone who isn’t calling the shots here.”

Scott scoffed at you.

“Not calling the shots? Honey, I’m the reason Javi has Storm Par. I’m the reason he’s able to do any of this.”

You stared straight ahead, watching a wall cloud lower just a few miles away. The rotation was evident and you tried to focus on the counterclockwise motion in the sky.

“Can you tell me what we’re looking at or do you need me to teach you that too?”

You could see Scott’s eyes move to look at you from under his sunglasses. The smirk was still on his lips, he looked so cocky.

“Wall cloud with rapid rotation. Supercell has a defined meso. Tornado is imminent.”

Your tone was serious, almost as stern as Scott’s. You wanted to tell him to fuck off, to pick on someone else, but you didn’t. You could tell you shut him up by the way his jaw clenched. His stare was fixed straight ahead again.

It wasn’t long before a funnel emerged from the wall cloud, condensation meeting the ground in a beautiful, perfectly lit cone. That was the perfect tornado, the tornado that made chasing worth it. For a few seconds, you forgot that Scott was in the car with you. You felt as mesmerized as you always had. It was peaceful.

———

Scott pulled into the parking lot of the motel you were staying at. He shut off the ignition and got out without saying anything, you were weary to get out but you did. You hadn’t realized just how tired you were until the drive back, you almost fell asleep in the car.

You got out of the SUV, ready to get to your room. You began walking past Scott, not in the mood to talk to him— or deal with him.

“Hold on.”

You felt Scott grab your arm as you walked past. He was strong and his grip was tight, almost too tight. You sighed and rolled your eyes, not wanting to hear what he had to say.

“The fuck do you want?”

You didn’t care that you swore at him, you figured he deserved it. You stayed in his grasp, afraid he’d only make it tighter if you did.

“You don’t like me.”

His blue eyes were focused on yours.

“How’d you know?”

You scoffed, wanting to laugh at how stupidly obvious his observation was.

“Javi made you out to be the best there is. He painted a picture of you that made you seem like you’re a saint. I can’t say I agree with that.”

Scott’s stern expression didn’t change. He was sharp and direct with his words and you felt yourself squirm.

“Well, I’m sorry that I think you’re a dick-”

“Uh-uh, honey. You’re gonna be on this crew, then you’re gonna have to learn to like me. After all, I’m the one who calls the shots here.”

Scott’s eyes looked over you before he let go of your arm. You watched him walk away, joining the other Storm Par members next to their vehicles. It was clear he wanted some kind of authority over you. You sighed, too exhausted to let him upset you. You walked off to your room, glad to be away from him.

An ego problem, you thought to yourself.

my inbox is open for requests! rules for requests

[veethesnake]

@ MCU 🙏🏻

Look, 616 Tony having three PhDs is okay, he’s died multiple times and is a non-aging, many decades old being. (That’s just the nature of how the Marvel comics are.) If he wants to spend his time on doctorates he doesn’t even need since he has his own company, well, whatever I guess.

MCU Bruce Banner, a normal aging human, having seven PhDs? Calm down

(Aside from the fact that while I can imagine Bruce working at a uni, I definitely cannot imagine Tony having much fun doing this, and then THREE times? Idk man.)

Your Character (Probably) Doesn't Need That PhD

There's a tendency (especially in certain kinds of fanfiction) to write characters as having a PhD--or five. This is often done to show how smart the character is, especially in comparison to some other characters that the author either doesn't like.

The thing is that mostly it just feels silly and like the author doesn't get what a PhD is. So here are some things to keep in mind:

A PhD is a fairly narrow degree with a fairly narrow purpose. PhDs are research degrees, where the goal is ultimately to carry out original research. In some countries (e.g., the United States), the degrees start with a couple years of classes, but in basically all cases, the ultimate output of a PhD is a dissertation.

Overall, they establish two things: that someone is a master in their field, and that they can do high-level independent research.

The vast majority of jobs/fields don't require a PhD because, again, it's a research degree. Some technical fields might encourage or require them, as well as some jobs at places like think tanks, but otherwise much of the use for them is to be a university professor.

How are they completing it? At least for most fields in the United States, PhD programs are full-time positions that you can't do while working. If your character is passively getting one from an American university while working full time, that's not really how it works.

What did they actually study? Again, they're research degrees--the goal is to do original research. At the end of the day the degree is in a field (e.g., mechanical engineering), but there is a narrow and specific thing that they would study.

There needs to be a good reason to get a PhD. PhDs are a huge time suck and a lot of work. Think about why your character is doing/did this.

They don't need multiple in similar fields. There's no reason for someone to get a PhD in mechanical engineering and electrical engineering. They can just...do other research in that second field.

PhDs aren't a sign of being smart or good at your job. A character is much more believably good at their job/smart/valuable/important by showing those characteristics than by having a PhD, unless, again, they're in a field that requires one. If you want to write your character as being smart or good at their job, start by actually writing them as being smart and good at their job.

[sineala]

What are your thoughts on the run that completely rewrote Tony’s origin so that he wasn’t Howard and Maria’s biological son? Is that still the current origin story they’re going with?

Thanks for asking! This is still Tony's current origin story and I hate it. I think it was poorly thought-out and that every subsequent thing Marvel has done to attempt to address it has somehow made it worse. I think they've managed to tell an incredibly upsetting and unpleasant story, portraying adoption in an extremely negative light, that has pretty much only made life worse for Tony and not even in a way that's narratively interesting.

I have some salt about this, yes.

I'm not against adoption retcons in general, and I'm not against retconning character backgrounds. I get the impression it was unpopular but I really liked the retcon of Carol's background a couple years ago in the Life of Captain Marvel miniseries by Margaret Stohl -- instead of her being a human given powers by the Psyche-Magnitron, she was revealed to have been secretly half-Kree, and the device merely catalyzed her latent powers. Her mother was secretly Kree and Carol never knew. The miniseries actually had a really nice scene of her and Tony talking about families, because understandably Carol (also now Car-Ell because, yes, she has a Kree name) now had a lot of complicated feelings. Kelly Thompson's Captain Marvel run continued to explore the implications of this, as Carol found out that she actually had Kree relatives. So Carol's got a new half-sister, Lauri-Ell, and they were immediately thrown into a situation where Carol had to defend her and believe in her and it was great and also now they're friends. Well, family. Friendly family. I think Lauri-Ell was probably the best thing about Thompson's Captain Marvel run and I'm honestly really glad Marvel went there.

Tony didn't get anything like that.

As far as I know, the way Kieron Gillen approached his Iron Man run was by not doing the reading and then completely winging it. And while winging it isn't inherently bad, it did mean that not only did he not know where he was going, he didn't know what had come before. That, combined with the fact that a lot of comics writers want to "make their mark" on a famous character meant that he was probably wanting to go for something big. Hence, adoption. Which, again, isn't inherently a bad idea; it can definitely give characters a lot to explore. It's a little odd as a choice for Tony who as far as we know is Howard and Maria's biological son in every other universe in the multiverse; there's no motivation given for why 616 should be different, and off the top of my head I can't name any other characters who only differ cross-universe in adoption status, although now that I think about it I bet there are probably some universes where other people raised Peter Parker.

Also "Arno" is a really odd name choice for Tony's brother. I get that Gillen was pulling the name of a future relative from the original Iron Man 2020 issues, which if you're gonna read one thing is a deeply weird thing to pick. I remember people asking him why he didn't name Tony's brother Greg. Ultimates is a universe where Tony in fact has a brother named Greg. That would have at least made some sort of multiversal sense. Apparently Gillen just… hadn't known Greg existed. Great.

Okay. So you're gonna tell a story about adoption. You're going to reveal that a beloved character has been secretly adopted all along and no one knew. What are you going to get out of it? What are you going to accomplish? Here are some possible choices. You could tell a story that's inspirational and representational to fans who are themselves adopted or have adopted children, because now their hero is just like them. You could tell a story about how Howard and Maria adopting Tony meant he was very much loved and wanted, because they consciously chose him and made him a part of their family. You could tell a story about how Tony, who has been an orphan for a very long time, has suddenly discovered that he has living family -- a brother, as well as his biological parents. You'd be giving him more people in his story, more people who could care about him, and I think you could tell a lot of interesting stories about Tony's new family dynamics. He could have had family who loved him, or at least hung around to interact with him -- Tony's only other relative we've ever seen, his cousin Morgan, hasn't been in an Iron Man comic in years, and also usually tries to kill him. But they could have taken this opportunity to make some changes. Imagine! Tony with a bigger family! Who cares about him.

That's not what Marvel did.

The reason Howard and Maria adopted Tony was that they needed a decoy son who was not their biological son (Arno) so that the alien who had genetically modified Arno wouldn't realize that Howard had undone his work. So that's why they adopted Tony. It wasn't because they wanted him specifically, loved him, wanted to give him a family, any of that -- they just needed a decoy. And in that light, the fact that Howard didn't love Tony looks even worse. Now it's not just "I never loved you," it's "I never loved you and I only ever wanted you to fulfill this weird plan I had going with an alien." Now you're telling the story "of course I never loved you, Tony; you're adopted." (And then he tries to sell Tony to Dracula.)

And that's… not a great look. Sure, not all stories have to be positive, but superheroes usually have some kind of relatable backstory, and it's easy for people to want to relate to them, and I feel like maybe you want to think a little harder before writing Tony as adopted when his childhood was already terrible and his family hated him. It could have been a really nice story about families of choice and how much Tony's adoptive family loved and wanted Tony. And it wasn't. Because Howard had been established for years as having been abusive. A story about a toxic adoptive family is not really great representation. "I never loved you" was pretty bad but "you're adopted and I never loved you," I think, sounds a lot worse.

You do also lose some plot elements by retconning Tony as adopted, namely anything having to do with him having a genetic relationship to Howard and Maria. And for the most part this isn't going to be relevant, but now you can't really easily tell a story about Tony inheriting alcoholism or general addiction or depression or whatever from his father. (I mean, you still can if you really want to; you'd just have to establish this as being true of his biological parents. But Marvel has not done that and does not really seem all that likely to start, because that would require putting them in comics and they're not doing that anymore.)

After Kieron Gillen left the book, Bendis came on. And I know Bendis' kids are adopted so I can understand why he'd want to tackle the adoption plot and really flesh out Tony's family. So a large portion of Bendis' IM run was about Tony's quest for, and eventual discovery of, his biological family. At the time, I figured this might actually be a good plot -- if they're not going to retcon out the adoption, they might as well lean in. I was looking forward to having Tony meet his family. The guy could definitely use more family, and I thought it would be great to see him interacting with them and developing new relationships.

That also didn't happen.

So what about all his new family members? His adoptive brother Arno? His biological mother and father?

Well, actually, they hate him too. All of them!

Arno went evil, is currently evil, tried to take down Tony, and is now trapped in VR or something. (To be fair, this wasn't Bendis' fault; Dan Slott did this in the subsequent run.)

Jude, Tony's biological father, is a Hydra agent who tried to kill Tony's mother. He met Tony once. He also tried to kill him. (This one was Bendis' fault.)

Amanda, Tony's biological mother, is a rock star and SHIELD agent who decided that now that Tony was living in a constructed, non-original body… he was no longer her son. And she wanted nothing else to do with him. She hasn't been back; yes, this was also Dan Slott's work. This is both cruel and bizarre because this is definitely not Tony's first brand-new body. If he's going to be dead to her because this isn't his original body, then he's been dead since at least Onslaught. If this was going to be a problem for her, it should already have been a problem as soon as she met him.

(That was one of the big issues for me with Slott's entire run in that a lot of it was about Tony having a crisis that he maybe wasn't really Tony because he had a new body. I was just like, dude, where have you been? Why is this only a problem now?)

So now Tony, who was already abused by his adoptive father, has discovered three new members of his family, all of whom also hate him!

Anyway, basically the only family Tony had who loved him was Maria. At least he had her, I guess.

So what's the point, really? He has more people to hate him. If you're going to give him new family, couldn't you give him one person who at least likes him? Carol has a retconned half-sister now, who loves her. Why couldn't Tony have something like that?

It's not even interesting pain, for Tony. This isn't anything different than what he already had. It just involves more characters now. They had the chance to use the adoption arc to really transform Tony's life and give him a whole new family to interact with and tell a story about choice and family and being loved and wanted. Instead, he has three new family members who hate him and who probably won't be appearing again anytime soon anyway. What did this even accomplish? What do we get? A story about how, once again, none of Tony's family loves him, that even more of them exist and they hate him too, that his adoptive family abused him, that's probably going to make adopted kids reading these comics feel pretty bad. I don't think this is really an accomplishment.

In conclusion… uh… this is me complaining about the adoption retcon to @blossomsinthemist while I was trying to figure out how to write this post:

Sineala: they never loved him but now they REALLY never loved him and also here's his biological family who never loved him either Sineala: i mean, i'm not opposed to giving tony more family but maybe they could… not hate him Sineala: i feel like tony should marry into a large and affectionate family Sineala: …actually, this is basically the avengers Sineala: never mind, he already did Sineala: if you don't have your own loving family, store-bought is fine

So, yeah. That's where I stand.

[latenightreadingpdf]

Between the Pages - Spencer Reid

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: In the university library, shy PhD student Spencer Reid has an unexpected encounter with Y/N, a popular classmate. Despite their differences, a shared interest in neuroscience sparks a captivating conversation, leading them from strangers to friends (and possibly more…).

The university library was always a sanctuary for Spencer Reid, a place where the overwhelming noise of the world faded to a hushed whisper, allowing him to lose himself among the stacks of books and journals. As a child prodigy , he was no stranger to the pressures of academia, often engrossed in his research and studies. With his signature mop of messy hair and glasses perched precariously on his nose, Spencer was the epitome of the dedicated scholar.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when the serenity of his beloved library was disrupted. The usual ambient noise was replaced by a slightly louder, distinctly feminine laughter that seemed out of place amidst the studious atmosphere.

Curiosity piqued, Spencer looked up from his book and noticed a group of students huddled together a few tables away. Among them was Y/N, a classmate whose name Spencer had often heard whispered in hushed, admiring tones around the campus corridors. She was effortlessly charming, her charisma drawing people in like moths to a flame. Spencer had never spoken to her before; he doubted she even knew he existed.

Returning his attention to his work, Spencer tried to drown out the unfamiliar noise. Yet, despite his best efforts, his mind kept wandering, intrigued by the unfamiliarity of Y/N’s presence in the usually quiet library. Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him, and he found himself discreetly observing her from behind the pages of his book.

He was mesmerized by the way she interacted with her friends, her laughter infectious and her smile radiant. Despite being surrounded by people, she seemed completely at ease, effortlessly commanding the attention of everyone around her. It was a stark contrast to Spencer's own introverted nature, his shyness often making social interactions a daunting prospect.

Lost in his thoughts, Spencer failed to notice when Y/N's gaze wandered in his direction. When he finally looked up, he found himself locked in a pair of curious eyes. Flushing slightly, he quickly averted his gaze, his heart pounding in his chest.

A few minutes passed in awkward silence before a soft voice broke the stillness. "Hey, you're Spencer, right? We're in Dr. Harrison's seminar together."

Startled, Spencer looked up to find Y/N standing in front of him, her smile warm and inviting. "Um, yes, that's me," he stammered, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... uh, I mean, hi."

Y/N chuckled softly, her laughter putting Spencer at ease. "No need to apologize. I couldn't help but notice you sitting here all by yourself. Mind if I join you?"

Swallowing nervously, Spencer nodded, gesturing to the empty seat opposite him. "Of course, please, have a seat."

As Y/N settled herself across from him, Spencer couldn't help but feel a mixture of excitement and anxiety. He had never been this close to her before, and the proximity only heightened his awareness of her presence. He could smell the faint scent of her perfume, a delicate floral fragrance that was both intoxicating and comforting.

"Working on your thesis?" Y/N asked, nodding towards the screen of his laptop.

"Yes, I'm researching the neurobiological basis of memory retrieval," Spencer replied, his passion for his work shining through despite his nervousness.

"That sounds fascinating," Y/N said sincerely, her interest genuine. "I'm majoring in psychology, but I have to admit, neuroscience has always been a bit daunting for me."

Spencer's eyes lit up at her words, his confidence growing. "Well, if you ever need any help or want to learn more, I'd be happy to explain it to you."

Y/N smiled appreciatively, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "I might just take you up on that offer."

As the afternoon went on, the initial awkwardness between them melted away, replaced by a comfortable closeness. They discussed everything from their shared academic interests to their favorite books and movies, discovering unexpected common ground along the way.

By the time the library began to empty, the two of them were so engrossed in conversation that they hardly noticed the passing time. As they gathered their belongings, Y/N turned to Spencer with a smile.

"Thanks for today, Spencer. I had a great time getting to know you."

Spencer's heart soared at her words, a warm glow spreading through him. "The pleasure was all mine," he replied, his shyness momentarily forgotten.

As they walked out of the library together, Spencer couldn't help but feel a newfound sense of connection with Y/N. Though they had started the day as strangers, their chance meeting in the library had blossomed into the beginnings of a friendship - and perhaps, just maybe, something more.

[recareels]

cut me rails of that fresh cherry pie

character: alhaitham

genre: modern university!AU, smut with a dusting of fluff 

notes: whew! finally my TA!alhaitham piece is finished!! i worked for just over a month on this and i’m really happy with how it turned out, and i can’t wait to hear your thoughts on it! fun fact: this entire piece was inspired by that singular line about alhaitham taking you to the archives in his story quest ehehe. as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe. | title credit: take a slice by glass animals

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dubcon, rough sex, extremely bratty reader, minimal prep, semi-public sex, use of the word Sir, painful sex, one (1) instance of spanking, one (1) slap to the face, hints of implied trauma, biting, marking, blood, alhaitham is strong enough to lift reader up and fuck her against the shelves, praise, toxic relationship, student professor (TA) relationship (power imbalance), dom/sub power dynamics, undefined age gap between consenting adults, big size difference between alhaitham and reader, size kink, sex as punishment, sex as an emotional release, choking, reader is quite flexible, belly bulge, snowballing

words: 10.9k

synopsis: 

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

“So?” you frown, insolence already beginning to bleed back into your tone. Your eyes narrow in assessment, head tilting slightly. This has never been a problem in the past, so why is it suddenly an issue now? “What? You can’t handle a bit of brattiness?”

The back of his hand collides with your cheek, stark and sudden, the sharp sound of skin slapping skin echoing down the vacant aisles.

It’s hard enough that it whips your head to the side, pins of pain lingering on your flesh. Salt stings your eyes, a reflexive albeit frustrating notion, and you blink with conviction, fury incinerating your tears.

The bite of betrayal hurts, and you keep your face pressed flush to the wood, chin jutting defiantly, refusing to look at him.

He grips it easily with a pinching thumb and forefinger and hauls it harshly back toward him. The rest of his fingers wreathe around your jaw, clinched so hard that your mouth puckers.

“Oh no,” he spits, words quietly seething. “I’m about to handle it, right now.”

Sunlight filters through the windows, casting slim strokes of gold across the lecture hall. Your pen taps lazily against your notebook as you watch the last few stragglers shoot their questions at your TA—and, subsequently, get shut down with a mere handful of words as a response—lingering, waiting.

It’s only after that heavy mahogany door closes behind the last student that you finally approach him.

One of the most infamous PhD Candidate students on campus, Alhaitham’s area of study specializes in semantics and pragmatics. He’s renowned for consistently achieving top-of-his-class status, working diligently and dedicatedly on his mammoth four-hundred-page dissertation, and being the hottest man and the hardest marker within the University of Sumeru’s small but robust linguistics department.

Spots in his intimate lectures are highly coveted and extremely limited, rendering them tough to get into, yet you’ve managed to snag a space in every single one.

He is, on all accounts, an exceptionally difficult man to get close to.

But you have been nothing if not persistent in your quest to get him to take notice of you.

And take notice of you, he has.

You had surprised him when proposing that the topic for your year-long research paper consist of studying the ways in which translations of the same piece of Middle Egyptian literature—throughout different time periods, and in conjunction with several different languages from each era—add and/or change the meanings of an individual text.

With it, you had raised several fascinating questions: how does the language chosen within each translation procure a different meaning within the text? How does the translator’s personal background and education play a role in their word choice and placement, and how does this affect meaning within the text? Are their certain syntactic patterns and sentence structures that contribute to this second layer or meaning that is imbued on the text by the translator, and if so, how?

But you always raise interesting questions, and with you he has learned to expect the unexpected.

“So,” you begin as you reach him, hopping onto the corner of his desk and linking your ankles together, limbs swaying slightly as he begins to tidy up. “I need to get into the Haravatat Rare Book Archives. For my final paper,” you clarify.

“Too bad it’s restricted to Undergrad students,” he quips, smugness pulling at the corners of his lips, teal eyes flashing up for a second before refocusing on his task of shuffling papers, the thrill of a potential challenge, of this game the two of you seem to play, glinting in his gaze.

Go ahead, give it your best shot, try and push him further, you might just get what you want.

“It is restricted to Undergrads,” you agree. “Unless they have a supervisor, like a professor, or, I don’t know, a PhD candidate student.”

His hands stop, eyes raising to meet yours again, slow, careful, searching. You hold his stare, bold, steady, egging, and finally, he bites, just as he always does, body straightening to his full height with a soft sigh, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Please, indulge me,” he says as he leans a hip against his desk chair, false exasperation not strong enough to hide the gentle tremor of genuine interest in his tone. “What could you possibly need in the Haravatat archives that’s absolutely, irrevocably necessary for you to complete your paper?”

“The original papyrus copy of the Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor.”

An eyebrow raises, intrigued.

“I have already provided you with a copy of that piece in both its original Hieratic and with Hieroglyph transliteration, which, if I remember correctly, you begged and pleaded and cried for.”

“But it isn’t the same!” The protest leaves your lips in a stringy whine before you can stop it, expression quickly smoothing out your pout half a second later. “You know that isn’t the same as looking upon the original text with your own eyes, translating directly from the actual piece of literature. And—And besides,” you continue, voice speeding up in an effort to avoid being cut off. “The original papyrus copy is missing sections, is it not? I’m having trouble confirming which sections are truly missing; I keep running into conflicting information, so I can’t tell which parts of the copies you’ve given me are fabricated and which are not. That’s crucial information for me to possess!”

It’s flimsy and weak, this little excuse of yours, he knows it is—you both know it is—but that doesn’t stop him from sincerely contemplating it, a hum vibrating in his throat; nor does it stop you from pushing forward, an attempt to move your token piece in this game one space further.

“Please?” you press, notes of hope in your voice. Your fingers, resting on edge of his desk, curl around the wood in anticipation, body leaning forward. “This would really mean a lot to me, Sir. I’d love the opportunity to see the real thing, translate from the real thing.”

“Alright,” he finally agrees. “Tomorrow. Ten PM. Don’t be late.”  

✰          ✰         ✰

Shivering outside of the Haravatat Rare Book Archives, you wrap your arms around yourself, idly hopping from foot to foot, gaze wandering across the building.

It’s a mammoth of a thing, made almost entirely of slate marble and ringed with an impressive number of stained glass masterpieces, each depicting a renowned scholar that has studied within the walls of the University of Sumeru.

Beams of silver shimmer among the mosaics, illuminating the teals and greens and glinting off the intricate gold piping, decorative windows almost glowing in the rays of the full moon. Warm yellow light leaks from the slivers of windows above the first floor, evidence of late-night research and study.

Eyes climbing, you dully note the way the light fades, less and less, dimmer and dimmer, which each floor until you hit the final level, entirely dark, your TA’s words drifting through your mind.

“Ten PM?” you had said when he finally agreed to meet you here, surprise evident in your breathy tone. “Isn’t that quite late?”

“I like visiting the archives during the times where I’m least likely to run into anyone else; early in the morning or late at night.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes. Typical of the antisocial scholar with a notorious reputation to actively avoid others as often as he possibly can.

“You’re early,” his voice pulls you from your thoughts and you turn to face him.

“You said not to be late.”

Smirking, he snorts with a nod, eyes regarding you with feeble amusement.

“Well, come on, then.”

✰          ✰         ✰

“Wow,” you breathe as he leads you towards the check-in desk, wondrous eyes sweeping across the interior, all smooth jade and shimmering gold, thick glass cases proudly displaying the artifacts they house, gleaming under the warm light.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” your TA tells you, smugness playing on his lips. “The upper floors aren’t nearly as awe-inspiring. They’re quite drab, actually.”

“Yeah, but still,” you brush him off, gaze gliding across the room again.

The University of Sumeru has the largest, most impressive collection of libraries among all of the universities in the world. Renowned for its remarkable breadth of literature on every topic imaginable, it invites scholars from all across the globe to visit and scuttle through its mazes of shelves, with the Haravatat Rare Book Archives being the most coveted of all.

You think you’re beginning to truly understand why.

It is a convoluted mess of systems, but lucky for you, you have one of the best guides there is to lead you through the tangled, snarled shelves.

Because Alhaitham knows these libraries inside out, upside down, spending way too much of his damn time here—and he knows how to get you into the most exclusive floors, too.

It is, technically speaking, unfair to grant you such special privileges.

Then again, none of his other students have pursued him as aggressively and avidly as you have, so he supposes they don’t really deserve it anyway.

He’d do the same for any other student who demonstrated such a vigorous interest in their studies, he tells himself, attempts to reason with himself. He’d do the same for any student who contained the same sheer determination and dedication to their research that you do, anyone who was as rabid and tireless in their eternal pursuit of knowledge as you are.

He’s sure he would—if any of them actually possessed these covetable qualities.

But the simple fact of the matter is, they don’t. And that’s what truly sets you apart from the rest, isn’t it?

Because you’re at the very top of his class.

Because you linger after each and every lecture, waiting around at your seat until all the other students have gone, to ask him thoughtful questions and spark intriguing debates with him, to show him new ways of thinking, new ways of seeing, and he finds himself pondering over you often, curious about what’s going on in that pretty head of yours today, curious about what your notions and opinions on a particular subject would be. He has yet to find a single student at this godforsaken university that can do what you do.

Because your papers are fucking exceptional—full of thought-provoking points and expertly backed by evidence—and it’s abundantly obvious that you’re a hardworking student, that you take your studies very seriously, despite your inherent playfulness—giggles you can’t quite seem to quell, quipping remarks that are so astonishingly out of place for the classroom that it takes him a moment to respond (no one student has ever succeeded in making him pause like that, either).

Because although Alhaitham can be bold and blunt, scary and supercilious in nature, none of it deters you in the slightest, unafraid to challenge him on his views, unafraid to sound ‘stupid’ in his presence. It’s admirable, how unapologetically yourself you are, how you can hold your own against him, how his brusque personality doesn’t perturb you the way it seems to perturb others; in fact, you seem almost fascinated by it.

And that’s what makes you his best student, his most engaging student, his favourite student.

But it’s still kind of surreal to him, in a ridiculous sort of way, that he’s leading you into the Haravatat Rare Book Archives, your toes on his heels, shuffling your ID and student card between your fingers, plastic scraping together.

The screening process is rigorous, ruthless, the clerk demanding two pieces of government-issued identification in addition to your student card—to verify you are who you say you are, of course, you understand—and requiring you to sign your name in the guest logbook before finally giving Alhaitham that ugly gold VISITOR sticker, which he promptly slaps on your chest, nimble fingers tracing the edges to ensure that it’s secure.

“There,” he says, stepping back a little, as if to admire his handiwork. “Now you’re ready.”

The Ancient and Middle Egyptian literature archives are kept on the top floor of the Haravatat, the dull aisles flickering to life the moment the two of you step from the elevator, fluorescent lights clicking on in slow succession, triggered by your motion, and humming softly to themselves.

“Come,” Alhaitham says, hand encircling your wrist and tugging. “The original pieces of literature are kept over this way, in specialized glass casings.”

“Of course,” you’re nodding to yourself, allowing him to lead you towards the preserved papyrus. “Can’t have humans putting their grubby hands on a piece that’s four thousand years old, even if they are scholars.”

“Exactly,” he smirks down at you.

Smart-ass.

“Alright,” he’s saying as you reach the desired case. “There’s a small writing desk here on the edge for you to make notes and do translations. While you work, I’ll be—What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture,” you say as if he’s stupid, not even bothering to glance away from your phone, hovering above the glass screen.

“Why?”

You frown, finally looking over at him. “So I can translate the text?”

His face falls, shock flattened by disappointment, and he fixes you with a look.

“Hold on a second,” he begins, sarcasm already heavy in his tone. “I brought you here so you could translate directly from the original material, and you’re just…taking a photo?”

At your responding nod, his molars grind, strong jaw flexing with the motion, a dense sigh exhaled shakily out his nose.

“Of the first section, yes, so I can zoom in and translate with better accuracy,” you say easily, and he can’t tell if you’re lying or not. “And then, when I’m done with this section, I’ll go take a picture of the next section, then the next, and the next, and so on, until I’ve finished the entire text.”

“The entire text?” he laughs, but it’s humourless, tainted with incredulity. “Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take you? The semester’s already half over; I thought you only wanted to translate the few key passages you’re analyzing in your paper?”

“I changed my mind,” you shrug, though now he can see it; the mischief tweaking at the corners of your lips and glittering in the irises of your eyes, barely contained.

And, for a moment, you’ve stunned him into silence, yet another first for you to add to your cherished collection.

But then the blood in his veins begins to boil, the heat wiring his body back to his brain, and then he’s snapping at you, tumultuous teal surging in his eyes, churning with fury, but his voice is cold with disappointment.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, y’know that? I should take you home right now—”

“No!” you gasp, phone forgotten in an instant. “No, Haitham, please, I didn’t mean to—”

Little hands paw at his sweater, desperate for his understanding, for his forgiveness, and just like that, all traces of mischief are eradicated from your features, devoured by pure honesty, and his blood calms, authority restored to its rightful place.

You’re too cute when you beg.

“Alright. Whatever. Sit down, do your work, and be quiet.” He casts a pointed glance at the independent study desks. “I’ll be working on my dissertation, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.”

Turning away with more vigour than strictly necessary, he stalks towards one of the desks, wholly expecting you to mimic his actions, to obey.

But you don’t.

Because, really, when do you ever?

His head lifts as you pull up a chair from a nearby desk and tuck it into his own, eyes narrowing slightly.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Your actions halt, a frown materializing on your face. “I wanna sit with you,”

“I should sit you at an entirely different table, alone, for such behaviour. Christ,” he shakes his head, muttering to himself as he bends back to his unfinished dissertation. “A picture. She has the whole piece in front of her, literally at her fingertips, and she’s taking pictures.”

A giggle bubbles up your throat, your lips automatically pressing together in an attempt to stifle it as you take a seat across from him, his jaw clenching once at the sound.

It’s cramped and uncomfortable, the two of you trying to work at a desk designed for a single person, pages overlapping and pens strewn across notes, your study materials leaking into his meticulously organized documents, the toes of your shoes consistently knocking against his as you fidget and fiddle around.

Yet somehow, you both manage, and for a moment it’s almost nice, a synergy of sorts forming between the continuous bumps of your sneakers and his routine shoving of your materials back onto your side of the desk.

But then you shatter the delicate, premature peace with a single question, all wriggling stilled as your voice grows serious.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Mad? No, I’m just—Annoyed, that’s all. I didn’t get you into this place so you could just take a photo of the original text. I could’ve done that for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. Now concentrate on your work.”  

It can’t be more than five minutes into your joint study session when he feels it again—a gentle yet distinct tap-tap-tap against the toe of his boot. It’s deliberate this time, methodical in the rhythm—one, two, three, breath, one, two, three, repeat.

Expelling a soft sigh, he looks up, searching your form. You’re still bent over your work, murmuring softly to yourself, seemingly oblivious.

“Stop that.”

You look up, a shock of genuine surprise across your face. “Stop what?”

“Stop squirming. You’re hitting my foot.”

“Oh? Am I? Sorry, I’ll stop.”

You don’t sound sorry, though, delinquency seeping through the cracks of the sugared sincerity coating your face.

It starts up again a mere few minutes later, just like he knew it would, except this time, he refrains from reprimanding.

You get this way sometimes, he’s come to learn—desperate for his attention and willing to do anything, including bothering him, to achieve it. He supposes he doesn’t necessarily mind it, doesn’t necessarily dislike it, sometimes even enjoys playing this game with you—this push and pull, this challenge and challenger, this predator and prey—however this is neither the time nor place for such trivialities.  

And yet, despite his best efforts to entirely ignore you, to refuse you the attention you’re yearning for in an effort to encourage your productivity, he finds himself subconsciously hooking and unhooking his ankle with yours, engaging with your actions entirely without his own accord.

For the breath of a moment this seems to satiate you, the small repetitive action enough to fulfill your ever-growing needs, enabling the two of you to work in peaceful silence once again.

But something with sharp little teeth gnaws a hole in the pit of his stomach, bile oozing out slow and steady to embrace the surrounding organs in a tight, sticky film, and you’ve since kicked a shoe off, sock-clad foot curling around his calf, sliding up and down the muscle, giggling a little at the way it makes his thighs tense and twitch, the way it makes his hips spasm and shiver, and he can’t stay silent anymore.

“Stop playing around and do your work.”

“But I wanna know more about yours, Haitham.”

“You can know more about mine once you finish yours.”

“No fun,” you grumble, kicking at his shin, eyebrows pushing together as a pout scrunches your face. “No fun at all, you big stoic meanie.”

Nimble fingers rub at both of his eyes, a hefty sigh thick on the back of his tongue.

This is odd. You’ve always been chatty, always been bratty, but this—this is something different. This is something worse.

Something must’ve happened. Something must’ve set you off, triggered a response, awoken a deep-seated need for his attention, confusing it with affection. Something furls up in his throat, and he forces a strong swallow past it, voice grit and gravel when he speaks again.

“Hey,” he says, leg hooking forcefully around you own, halting its movement and garnering your attention with a cute little oh!. “What’s going on with you today? Did something happen?”

His eyes are startlingly sincere as they search your face for an answer, and you blink, floundering for a moment before your features harden again, expertly schooled into a carefully curated expression of carelessness.

“No,” you blow the word out your mouth, as if the idea is preposterous, but your smile is tight, small, stretched painfully across your lips.

There is a time where this might’ve fooled him, but not anymore.

He knows you too well now.

He knows you too well, because you’ve told him, secrets and sentiments spilled in the late-night hours at his office, terrors and traumas whispered in confidence under the dim gold of his desk light, veiled with tears.

Your leg tries to kick its way free, and his own tightens in response, shin pressed painfully to the edge of his seat.

“Are you sure?”

And, for a moment, he’s positive he’s got you, positive he’s broken through to you, crushed those heavy walls of protection to dust and is stumbling through the rubble towards your heart, towards the truth.

Your demeanour wavers, teetering on the edge of honesty, and he leans forward a little further, muscles loosening.

But then you haul it back from the ledge, countenance set firmly in place, leg slipping gracefully from his grasp, and you’re gone again.

“Of course I’m sure,” you say breezily, brushing off his concern as your roll your shoulders once, sitting up straighter.

“Just restless, then.”

“Just want to know more about you, actually.”

“You already know so much about me,” he says, a small jolt buzzing through his veins at the sheer validity of the statement.

“There’s always more to know when it comes to you,” you respond, words melting slightly, sagging under fondness.

Chuckling a little, he shakes his head. “We can talk more about me and my work once you finish yours, okay?” his voice has softened a little compared to the first time he offered this solution, tinged with the hope of compromise. “I promise.”

Your eyes search his own, hunting for shards of dishonesty and coming up empty.

“Now be a good girl, and finish up your translations.”

You grumble a little under your breath, too low for him to make out the content, but obey anyway, picking up your pen again, so he let’s it slide.

As it turns out, though, not even the enticement of future attention is enough to pacify your brattiness—and he was stupid to think it ever would be.

Because then you’re restless again, hungry again, craving again; because you want it now, like some sort of sick compulsion that compels you to act out; because no matter how much he promises you, it’ll never be enough.

Because too much is never enough for a greedy little girl like you, who takes those shards of notice he’s paid to you and chews them up, spits them out, demands more.

It was always only a matter of time.

And his few remaining vines of patience, weak and worn and withering in your presence, are about to decay.

He flinches when he feels it, the tip of your shoeless toe tracing up his calf, circling his kneecap and pushing up his strong thigh, then trailing back down his shin to repeat the process all over again.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you hum, eyes never straying from your work.

A hand snatches your foot just as it reaches his knee again, palm wrapped around the arch, squeezing hard enough to force a yelp from your throat. You look up suddenly, eyes wide and surprised, foot squirming in his grasp.

“Yeah? Is it nothing?”

“I was just…” you trail off, head shaking in short, quick motions. “I didn’t even realize, Sir, I swear—”

“I don’t believe you.”

The heel on his thigh squirms a little, the cap of your pen caught between your teeth oh-so-innocently as you shrug and lean forward, perky breasts swelling almost daintily as you draw in breath to respond, straining against your sweetheart neckline.

“I don’t know what to tell you, other than that I’m telling you the truth.”

Your actions contradict your words, toes pointed tightly and poking at his hipbone, foot trying to wiggle its way along the curve of his thigh, straight to his half-hard cock.

“Enough with the lies. I’ve tried to be strict, I’ve tried to be nice, but I’m at the end of my rope here.”

“Oh?” you giggle. “Can I give it a little tug?”

“Don’t play with me,” he warns, short nails digging into the arch of your foot.

“Or else, what?” you goad, curious to see how far you can take this, how far you can push and prod and pinch before he snaps; a fly teetering on the teeth of a venus flytrap, waiting.

“Or else I am going to move to another table if you don’t cut it out.”

“Why? Am I making it hard to concentrate?”

“No,” he says, defensive, too quickly, cock jumping at his lie. “You’re pissing me off. I have allowed this to go on for far too long.”

“Oh, you’ve allowed it, have you?” you snort, rolling your eyes. “What do you think? Just because you’re one of my teachers you’re suddenly the boss of me, or something?”

“I am—”

“You know what I think?” you reach across the table, two tiny hands clasping his large one, pen skittering from his fingers, leaving an ugly mark across his paper. “I think—”

And it’s the touch that does it, the shock of skin-against-skin, warm and soft and buzzing, that has him ripping himself from his chair in an instant, moving so quick that the metal legs teeter against the linoleum floor, a caustic growl in his words.

“I don’t really give a fuck what you think,”

A large hand clamps around your bicep and yanks, hard, pulling you unsteadily to your feet with such strength that it sends your seat clattering to the ground, legs kicking wildly as you struggle to find your footing.

A gasp catches in your throat, mangled and choked, your gaze snapping to his with a ring of shock tinging your irises, and the corners of his lips twitch.

Good. It’s about fucking time.

He says nothing as he shoves you towards the endless rows of shelves, all shrouded in darkness, keeping a firm grasp on your arm while he does so, his broad chest pushing against your shoulder and forcing you to move forward.

The harsh, pale lights overhead flicker to life one by one as he barges deeper into the stacks, fluorescent tubes creaking from disuse.

Your combined footsteps echo throughout the aisles—his steady, clear and cruel, yours stumbling, toe of your singular shoe catching on the tiles, sock slipping against the waxed floor.

“I—Are you taking me to see those books you promised to show me?” your voice trembles slightly, threads of terror sewn into your question.

He stays silent, his cool, even breaths forcing chills to erupt across your flesh, each exhale against your dampening neck sending another bout skittering up your spine.

“Well, Christ,” you snort, but it comes out as more of a snivel. “The least you could do is tell me where—”

The breath is kicked from your lungs suddenly, a sharp gasp lacerating your complaint as he slams you against a bookshelf, your head whacking against the wooden ledge, book spines vibrating against wood and pages rustling together.

“Ow,” you whine, features twisted in a wince, hand attempting to rub at the sore spot and colliding with his body, your own caged tightly between a wall of muscle and a wall of books.

His breath is coming quicker now, short little puffs that flare his nostrils and heave his chest, rising and falling against your own. His hands, planted on either side of your shoulders, curl around the edge of the shelf, blunt nails audibly digging into the wood.

A steel-toed boot kicks at your ankles, forcing them further apart, a strong thigh slotting between yours and keeping them spread wide.

Your mouth falls open, in shock or surprise or scare, he can’t tell, he doesn’t care, a pitiful little squeak—a poor imitation of what was once words, he’s sure—strangling itself in your throat.

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

“So?” you frown, insolence already beginning to bleed back into your tone. Your eyes narrow in assessment, head tilting slightly. This has never been a problem in the past, so why is it suddenly an issue now? “What? You can’t handle a bit of brattiness?”

The back of his hand collides with your cheek, stark and sudden, the sharp sound of skin slapping skin echoing down the vacant aisles.

It’s hard enough that it whips your head to the side, pins of pain lingering on your flesh. Salt stings your eyes, a reflexive albeit frustrating notion, and you blink with conviction, fury incinerating your tears.

The bite of betrayal hurts, and you keep your face pressed flush to the wood, chin jutting defiantly, refusing to look at him.

He grips it easily with a pinching thumb and forefinger and hauls it harshly back toward him. The rest of his fingers wreathe around your jaw, clinched so hard that your mouth puckers.

“Oh no,” he spits, words quietly seething. “I’m about to handle it, right now.”

“Fuck you,” you try to say, but it comes out jumbled, spit collecting in the divots of your lips.

Ignoring you, he continues, smooth and cold despite the sapphire flames licking at his pupils.

“You’re going to learn to respect your superiors tonight,”

“Oh yeah? And how are you gonna do that, Haitham?”

Yanking again, he tilts your head up further, forcing your face to his, wood digging into your scalp. He’s so close you can feel his words waft across your face, can smell the musky cedar wood twining through them, lips nearly brushing yours as he speaks.

“I am going to fuck the brat out of you.”  

His breathing is calm and controlled now, his voice low and even the way it gets when he’s made a definitive decision.

Yet despite the sheer severity of his words, sincere and serious, you can’t help the incredulity that bubbles up your throat, spilling past your lips in infuriating little giggles, and the rage in his eyes blazes.

“Something funny about that?” he’s growling as large hands slide up your thighs and under your dress, hem and excess material bunching around his wrists as he pushes up, up, up, until he hits delicate lace, pretty and pink and clinging to supple flesh.

Of course there is. You both know that’s impossible, both know that the brattiness is inherent, rooted so deeply within you that it’s woven into the fabric of your very soul itself, irremovable, irrevocable.

“Yeah,” you say, residual amusement still tickling your words. “I’d like to see you try.”

Rough fingertips sprout through delicate lace, invasive and uncontrollable like weeds as they ravage the fragile fabric and tear it from your body, elastics popping as they snap against your skin.

“You know what’s funny?” he’s murmuring into your neck, nose nuzzling the curve as nimble fingers massage the ruined garment in his palm. “How fucking wet you are.”

Using the thigh crammed between your legs, he keeps you steady, keeps you trapped as strong hands swoop beneath your ass and heft, your limbs automatically wrapping around his body; fingers lacing at the base of his skull, tufts of silver tickling your knuckles; ankles linking at the base of his spine, heels digging into the dimples engraved into smooth muscle.

There’s no romance to it, no kisses or caresses or tenderness at all. He doesn’t bother himself with such trivial matters, head ducking in an almost violent manner, nudging your jaw upward and forcing you to bare your neck to him. Sharp teeth sink into thin flesh, giggles dying to gurgles in your throat.

The hinges of his jaw flex, tightening the grip of his bite, teeth latched deep in muscles and arteries. A yelp cracks loudly in your throat, nails burrowing into his scalp and scraping, contriving a low moan from deep in his chest.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” A theatrical gasp falls from his lips, head pulling back enough to blink at you with feigned surprise. “Trying to get my attention so I’ll fuck you? Is this why you’ve been acting out so much today?”

“Maybe,” you breathe, little tongue darting out to lick at his lips, then the tip of his nose. “Maybe I just wanted to know how much I’m your favourite.”

He laughs at that, a dark, smooth sound vibrating against your neck, and you can feel his lips mold into a genuine smile.

Your desperation is precious, he’s mumbling into your skin, slick tongue sealing his words into the flesh in slow, fat, sticky strokes.

He sucks another claim of ownership into the flesh of your neck, signs his name in broken blood vessels and splats of violet ink, rapidly developing beneath your skin.

Your hips grind into his own, gyrating in quick little circles as he works at etching an impermanent masterpiece into your body, his teeth and tongue as his tools.

The denim of his jeans is caustic against your sensitive cunt, but that doesn’t deter you from grinding keenly on his bulging cock, a hoarse whine spilling from his throat as he looks down, webs of translucent slick stretched shimmering and sticky across the coarse material, shining almost iridescent in the harsh light of the library.

You’re struggling a little, restless in his arms as your hips rut and rock, almost as if you’re trying to fuck yourself on his cock through his clothing.

“Christ, I haven’t even done anything yet and you’re already soaking me right through,” he snorts, as if it’s pathetic, but his voice tapers off into an airy little wisp. “Eager, aren’t you?”

“Jus’wanna—ugh—” you wail a bit, pitchy and petulant, hands squeezing their way between your pressed bodies to scratch at his waistband, fingers hooking in his belt loops and yanking. “S’not enough, Haitham. Need more, Haitham.”

So fucking greedy, so fucking needy, he’s huffing out to himself as he demands you get his cock out, hips drawing back just enough to allow you to shove his pants down, dainty fingers wrapping around the base and guiding it toward your glistening pussy, blunt head bumping against you.

You can’t help but play with it a little, gliding the head along your slippery slit and glazing it in your arousal. Because, oh, it’s so pretty, so perfect, straight and symmetrical and softer than velvet as you roll the shaft a little in your palm, feeling it thrum with simmering blood in response.

That feels good, has you mewling out melty versions of his name, spine arching reflexively as pleasure climbs the notches. But it doesn’t last long, he doesn’t allow it to, hips surging forward with impeccable precision and pushing the head into you.

It stings, thick cock splitting your ill-prepared hole wide open with each slow inch, fragile flesh aching as it stretches around him, stretches for him, a hiss spit from between your teeth as your features crunch in pain.

“Shut up,” Alhaitham snaps coldly. “Impatient little teases don’t deserve to be prepped, do they?”

No, you suppose they don’t, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

“I can take it,” you huff out stubbornly, brows knitted together, though your words wobble a little.

“Oh?” he asks, and he nearly sounds genuine, eyebrows raising in derisive astonishment. “Is that so?”

It only takes one sharp, swift thrust before he’s buried inside you, cunt stuffed full to the hilt, poor little hole spasming as it attempts to adjust to his girth.

It knocks a cry from your throat, eyes squeezed shut as your fingers tangle in the knit collar of his sweater and pull, tugging yourself closer.

Your head falls forward, face pressed tightly against the junction of his neck, trembling breath fractured by whimpers as your cunt pulses, tiny spears of agony slicing through your gut, flesh tearing into tiny fissures.

“Aw, what’s the matter, baby?” he murmurs mockingly into your hair, cheek grazing the crown of your head. “I thought you could take it. What happened?”

“I—I can,” you whine through gritted teeth.

“Yeah?” Alhaitham pulls back a little, shoulder gently nudging your face from it’s hiding place. “Prove it to me.”

A fire of determination sparks in your chest, catches on your heart and embraces it in its flames, the blaze doused in desperation to show how good you are, how good you can be for him.

“Start fucking me, and I will.”

And, for only a second, his true nature breaks through the hard annoyance coating his features—the smile he gives you is nothing short of fucking breathtaking, teal eyes glinting with something akin to pride, appreciation, approval, delighted that you’ve risen to meet his challenge, just like you always do—before that mask is back in place, expression expertly repositioned, and then his hips are drawing back, large hands flexing, fingers digging into your plush skin.

A few of the books fall from the shelves, knocked from their homes by the force of his immediate thrusts, hips snapping hard and fast and ruthless as he grips your body to his.

It hurts, the consistent slam of his cockhead against your cervix leaving it bruised and swollen, spikes of pain rippling through your gut. It only feels as though he’s ripping you open more, each drive of his massive cock into your cunt splitting your core further and further until reaches your soul, carving out a little space just for him, a mold where only he can snap into place, planting shards of himself within you, never to be removed.

“Ha—ah—Haitham!” you manage to breath out, stuttered from his rough movements, the name quivering on your tongue.

“What? Huh? What? I thought you could take it, sweetheart.”

And irrespective of the slamming of his hips and the shuddering of the shelves, he sounds almost entirely unaffected, his slight breathlessness the only indication this is having any impact on him at all.

“What’s the matter, my cock too big for you?”

And, oh, it’s so condescending, the question cooed out through an exaggerated pout, exhilaration shining in his eyes.

You don’t answer, won’t answer, can’t answer, the ramming of his cock smashing any semblance of a response to pieces, nothing more than shards of letters that dissolve into airy little mewls on your tongue.

“That’s cute,” he spits, though his voice fades into something softer, something sweeter, an insult rolled in icing sugar.

That fire, kindled from pride and a fierce need to prove yourself, flares in your chest, and you grit your teeth, resolve hardening.

The words are splintered and breathy as you force them from your mouth, the whole sentence cracked by the piston of his hips, letters flowing into one another, messy and slippery and soaked with saliva as you spit them out.

“C’mon, Sir, you said you were g—g—gonna really fuck me—fuck the brat right outta m—me, yeah? But you’re not doing—you, ah—you’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

A snarl rips from his chest, rattling his ribs against your own, and he surges forward, smashing his lips to yours—an easy way to shut you up—teeth gnawing on your lips.

It’s hardly a kiss, the edges of sharp ivory slicing into delicate flesh, procuring pretty ribbons of crimson that ooze slow and steady, mixing with your interspersed drool and turning it a sticky pale pink. The small gashes stain his mouth, scarlet gathering in the creases of his lips and the curves of his gums, painting him in strokes of you.

“You won’t be able to fucking walk when I’m through with you, you little bitch,” he hurls the words into your mouth, coated in venom so bitter it stings your tongue.

“You better—” you begin, cut off sharp and sudden as he sucks your tongue into his mouth and clamps his teeth around it, biting down hard enough to push a high little cry from your throat.

It’s already swelling, tiny bumps beginning to bulge and bloat beneath the rims of his teeth, still burrowed in wet muscle. You manage to yank it free, wincing as his teeth drag across it, harvesting rows of bloodied saliva.

There’s barely a moment to reflect on it, though, the consistent pounding of his hips keeping you from forming a coherent thought at all, ideas snapped like weak threads with each quick drag of his cock, senses dulled to everything but him.

Dull pain sprouts across your body, the sharp edges of the shelves tilling the beginnings of long, thin bruises into your skin. The wood grinds against the knobs of your spine as he fucks you, hard and brutal, your skull loose and heavy on your neck as it thwacks off the spines of the hardcovers behind you.

“How’s this for really fucking you, huh? You little brat,” he rasps out, eyes hard and eyebrows pinched, dewdrops of sweat decorating his temples, catching in the florescence and glittering like diamonds.

You’re rendered speechless yet again, the harsh, fast rub of his cock against your favourite spot causing your eyes to roll, lids drooping under the heavy weight of pleasure, mewls of his name flowing choppily from your mouth, half-finished and fading into pitchy moans.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” he taunts, though the question is panted out in hot huffs, strings of silver hanging in his eyes, trembling with each brush of his eyelashes. “Can’t speak?”

A sharp whine of frustration breaks to pieces in your throat, face scrunched and eyes clamped shut in concentration as your sloppy tongue attempts to mold wisps of fleeting thoughts into letters.

But it’s no use. Everything feels floaty, dreamy, almost, the edges of your vision gone hazy, softening all of the honed lines and harsh corners of the library.

He’s all you can see, his features the only thing in focus; aquamarine gems glimmering with a type of intoxicating rapture, a brilliant smile sprawled across his cheeks, salt-saturated tuffets of platinum and flint embellishing his forehead and cheeks.

He’s all you can feel; his large hands beneath your ass, grip tightening with the acceleration of his pace, fingertips sowing deep blotches of navy and amethyst into your cheeks; his smooth pubic bone, clit gliding over it with each of his thrusts, slick and sticky and so, so good.

He’s all you can smell, hear, taste—cedar wood and breathless grunts and blood-tinged mint.

“Are you going to fucking behave now?” he asks, pace never faltering. “Guess brats can’t be brats if they can’t talk, now, can they?”

Your head is nodding without your permission, automatic and instinctual, sharp mind and sharper tongue dulled down to one singular aim—to please him. His cock is the only thing you can focus on, now. His cock is the only thing you want to focus on, now, all of the tension and trepidation from the past few days—from the past few weeks—ebbing away, corroded by bliss.

The stress that’s been straining your face releases, expression fully relaxing for the first time tonight—pure, authentic—smoothed out by hedonistic ecstasy.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the softness of his tone contradicted by his merciless actions, the short legs of the bookshelf beginning to creak and wobble, oak scraping against linoleum. “Turns out all you need is a good, hard fuck to turn you into a respectful little girl, isn’t that right?”

“S’right, Sir, s’right,” you slur, words sloppy and stuffed with spit, letters loose and languid on your tongue. “I—It’s—ah!”

It’s so much, too much, emotion welling up in your chest and your eyes, pushed to the surface by his warm pleasure, his warm presence, submerging you in its enticing embrace.

 Because it is only here, with your bodies knotted and your breaths twined, where you feel safest, where you find solace, where you are supported, in a way you never before have been, in a way no one else ever has.

It is only here, drowning in him, where you can let go, give in, give up, allowing yourself to be guided.

“I know, baby, I know,” he soothes. “Don’t worry, I’m here to handle it, I’m here to make it all better,”

The words are so fucking genuine, ringing with such sincerity, instinctual tears pricking and nibbling at your lashes as emotion roils in on itself in your throat, forming a hard lump, lodged in the column.

It renders any sort of response incapable, impossible, consciousness overwhelmed and overridden by the pleasure sprouting across your body, every new crop reaping another wave of undeniable relief, undefiable release.

It’s okay, though. It’s okay, because you don’t need to say anything at all, because he already fucking knows—can decipher it through the water glazing your eyes and the feathery little moans routinely fragmenting in your throat; can decipher it through the clutching fingers scouring and scuffing his skin, pressing him closer, holding him tighter.

Those initial spikes of pain have morphed into sparks of pleasure now, tiny little cinders wrapped in barbed wire, scraping against the walls of the capillaries as they rush through your veins, leaving your limbs tingling. Desire flares in your chest, stuffed full and scorching, as they collect at the core of your body, blossoming into a blaze of heat.

“Oh, oh, Sir,” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut before springing open again.

“That’s better,” he teases, though you can see it, the genuine pride shimmering in his eyes. “Look at that, look at how much of a good little girl my cock turns you into.”

“Uh-Uh-huh,” your head lolls dumbly before a stinging slap echoes throughout the vacant aisles, his hand colliding with your skin. A raised outline of his palm and all five fingers sears itself into your flesh, shocking some semblance of wakefulness back into your stunned stupid brain.

“I want you to cum on my cock, sweetheart,” he demands as his forehead falls forward, pressed to your own. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Yes!” you nearly weep out in a high, stringy whine. “Yes, Sir, please, Sir, please!”

He placates you with a quiet hush, blunt nails digging deep crescents into your plush ass while he shuffles your weight, his knees bending slightly as he re-angles his hips, cock drilling fast and strong into your cunt, shaft jabbing against your favourite spot.

That fire he ignited furls in on itself, coiling into a firm, concentrated ball of ardor, twisted tighter and tighter and tighter with each grind of his cock until finally, it bursts, hot droves of ecstasy flooding your body.

It’s so potent that it whites your vision and wipes your brain, breath stalling in your throat as pleasure wrings your body, and you cum so hard, so much, more than you ever have before, warmth gushing out of you in heavy torrents.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it—just like that, make a mess for me,”

And he sounds almost as if he’s in awe, eyes drifting down to where you’re connected, watching as your cunt throbs and spasms around him, watching as streams of shimmering slick glisten on his cock, flowing down his balls and soaking the waistband of his jeans, stretched taut around his thighs. A thick but neatly trimmed sprout of dark curls mops up the remaining wetness, matted and glimmering with your essence.

Muttering, low and sharp, lures you back to reality, misty daze beginning to dissipate, still gauzing up the edges of your vision and encasing your brain in a soft cloud. It isn’t clear how long you’ve been drifting for, sweetheart neckline of your dress clinging to your body and sopping with sweat, apex of your thighs aching as Alhaitham jackhammers into you, jutting hipbones carving out the perfect place for themselves in supple flesh.

“Goddamn it,” he’s groaning, brow furrowed and hands slick with frustration as they attempt to readjust you again, hoisting you up further and tightening his grasp. “I can’t fuck you properly in this position.”

You’re not quite sure what he means, your cum still dribbling down his cock, cunt giving weak little pulses as he pounds into it, every drag of his cockhead against that plush spot procuring another pitiful gush of juices, filmy and sticky, shocks of overstimulation quivering your blood.

There isn’t a moment to ask, though, because then he’s hauling you away from the bookshelves and slamming you down onto the nearest independent study desk, flailing limbs knocking a small table lamp to the floor, skewed light casting crude shadows of your forms on the wall.

A loud cry lacerates your throat as you thwack against the surface, eyes shut tight and nose crinkling as spears of pain shoot up your spine, nestling into the base of your skull.

But he doesn’t seem to care, your discomfort hardly a nick in the fabric of his plan.

Large hands skim along your thighs, molding flesh as they go, hooking beneath your knees and tugging your languid legs from around his waist. A simple jab to each has them reflexively straightening, Alhaitham smirking at the soft whimper of surprise that slips from your lips as he places one ankle on his shoulder, then the other, sharp eyes holding your bleary gaze the entire time.

That’s the only reprieve you’re afforded from his brutal fucking, merciless hips picking up right where they left off the moment your ankles are hooked securely over his shoulders, feet curling around his neck, the tips of your toes routinely bumping together.

“Fuck,” he nearly whines, head rolling back, defined jaw and prominent Adam’s apple on full display.  

The fingers burrowing into your hips twitch, grip relaxing then tightening, a feeble attempt to keep your body from sliding away from him, the pumping of his hips shoving you further up the desk, slick skin squealing as it rubs against lacquered wood.

A hand comes to collar your throat, long fingers curling carefully, one by one, as they cuff your neck, while the other stays clamped around your waist, stern and unyielding, fingertips submerged in plush tissue.

Impossibly, this position is so much deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach, a palm slapped flat between your hipbones to feel the bulging head pressing through your flesh with each rut of his hips.

Because he’s so fucking big, cute little hole still straining to swallow down his girth, raw cunt stretching in an attempt to take him, to be good for him.

His fucking has turned vicious, every ram of his cock jostling your entire frame, the hand latched firmly around your neck clutching in retaliation as his grip tightens, using this point as leverage to hold you down, to keep you still.

Your vision begins to blur at the edges as your air supply diminishes, precious little sounds strangled to pitiful little squeaks, wrung out by the palm flattening your windpipe.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice simultaneously close and far, wisps of words wavering in the atmosphere around you, caressing your flesh before they vanish. “Good girl, take my cock, such a good girl for her teacher,”

“Yours,” you babble out, the word tangled in threads of spit, muddled and sticky. “Yours, yours, yours, Sir, yours.”

“Mine,” he whimpers, the vice grip on your throat letting up for a moment, the tips of his fingers stroking the line of your jaw, possessive. “My good girl.”

Your entire backside is going to be scraped and slapped raw by the time he’s through with you, dainty hands wrapping around his wrist, holding onto him for stability. And, God, you’re so fucking gorgeous as you stare up at him with such unadulterated devotion, glimmers of admiration in your eyes as you beg him for more, more, more!

“Greedy,” he chastises, the scold nothing more than a huff, voice hoarse as it bows under pleasure. “You want more, huh?”

Christ, yes, please, yes, give me more, Sir, I need more!

And although you’re sure you’re saying them, boiling up your throat and brimming past your lips, the string of pleads is nothing more than indistinct noise to your ears, reverberations shaking your ribs.

His thighs are slamming into the edge of the desk, sharp wood leaving a crease in his skin, muscles flexing and shifting in a desperate attempt to stabilize himself. Rusting metal rakes against the linoleum, its creaky wail twining through the empty aisles, chased and promptly devoured by your cries and his groans.

But you’re barely paying it any attention at all, slushy brain turned amorphous, nebulous, evaporated into a tiny ecstatic galaxy of half-finished rhapsodies, full of him; clusters of his gorgeous noises burst into stars, supernovas of his name blooming across your flesh.

You must be begging for something, babbling on senselessly, nothing more than a cluster of indistinct shudders in your chest, because then he’s speaking to you, the contracting of his fingers nothing more than a blunt pressure.

“You want my cum, baby?” his voice breaks through the universe he’s birthed in your skull, clear and curt. “That what you want?”

Yes, your head is nodding in quick little movements, chin bumping against his forearm. Yes, yes, yes!

“Yeah? Yeah? Show me.”

“Oh, God, Sir,” you nearly sob, feet curling around his neck, gripping him closer, muscles in your legs pulled taut. “Please, please, gimme your cum, Sir, need you to stuff my tummy full of it, Sir, stuff my whole body full of it, Sir, I want it s-so bad!”

A sardonic little laugh huffs past spit-slicked lips, as if you attempt was downright pathetic, as if he knows you can do so much better than that.

“Aw, c’mon,” he scoffs. “That’s the best you got? Show me, baby, show me how badly you need it.”

Nothing more than a mass of pulsating pulp now, your mind can hardly comprehend what he’s saying, unable to stitch together any semblance of meaning from his words, but that’s alright, because it doesn’t have to.

Because your body knows. Your body knows exactly what he’s asking for.

And it gives it to him, almost instantly.

It’s so immediate, so intense that it strikes a scream from your throat, shatters the cosmos he had instilled within you and sends scorching glints of starstuff shooting through your veins, ripples of flesh quavering inward, towards your core, only to be dispelled yet again, forced back the way they came by the incessant snapping of his hips.

The hands curled around his wrist clamp, grip so strong it makes the bones in your fingers ache, stiffly frozen in tiny claws as your orgasm wracks your body, a sticky stream of unintelligible sobs flowing from your lips, hitching in time with his hips.

They’re so dense, so thick, so fucking heavy that they clog your throat, obstructing what little, narrow gaps for air you had left, and you feel like you’re drowning in them, in your desperate pleas for his cum, residual flares of starstuff melting your flesh from the inside out.

Clouds of bliss have formed at the corners of your vision again, and everything feels abraded, overexposed, hypersensitive, nerves gnawed raw to their frayed roots by the pleasure, sweet little cunt sore from such strenuous clenching.

And finally, finally he gives you what you want, the vicious throbbing of his cock the only thing your hazy mind can concentrate on, can grasp ahold of, shreds of focus melding together in an effort to pay attention to it.

Faintly, you can hear a moan fracture on his tongue, lips molding into an involuntary pout at the pleasure muffling your ears and misting your eyes that eclipse his gorgeous sights and sounds from you.

The pressure on your windpipe lets up, wheezy air rushing into your lungs in razored little breaths, Alhaitham’s big body suddenly blanketing your own, his elbows resting on either side of your head. Slim fingers caress your skin, brushing back sweat soaked strands of hair, teal eyes tender as they study your face, careful and courteous. His chest vibrates against yours—warm little tingles that zip through your flesh—and you struggle to listen, muted static fading in and out as your ears begin to tune into his frequency.

“...About, baby?”

“Hmm?”

He laughs, and it’s a fond little sound, mirth-infused breath wafting across your lips, nimble fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek.

“I said, what are you pouting about, baby?”

“Couldn’t see you,” your mumble out, forehead crumpling cutely with the distasted scrunch of your nose, lashes fluttering rapidly as if to accentuate your point. Drops of crystal escape the corners of your eyes, pushed forcefully from their home by your hard blinking and rolling into the hair at your temples. “W-Wanted’a see how pretty you look when you cum.”

“Well,” he begins softly, though there’s a self-satisfied smirk on his face, corners of his mouth twitching slightly, threatening to spread into a full-grown smile. “I’m sure you’ll get another chance soon.”

As your fucked out mind chews on his words, features still chiseled in a deep pout, he stands slowly, taking your rigid hands between his palms and smoothing out your crimped fingers one by one, massaging each joint as he goes.

He’s saying something else to you, something about how lucky you were to be on such a high, vacant floor, something about how you should both right yourselves before one of the monitors wanders on up and catches you, but none of that matters to you; not when his softening cock is slipping from your abused little hole, and thick dollops of his cream are drooling out with it, and if he doesn’t do something soon, it’s gonna be wasted!

“Haitham! Haitham!” you whimper loudly, body thrashing weakly beneath him.

“What?” he asks, sounding just as alarmed as you feel, fingers halting their ministrations as wide eyes scan your face.  

“Your cum!” you practically weep out the word, features screwed up in in distress, as if the thought of wasting even a single drop physically pains you.

Head tilting, he frowns slightly. “What—”

“It’s leaking outta me!” you whine, lidded eyes springing open with some effort, beseeching him. “Don’wanna waste any of it! Do something, please, do something, make it stop!”

Another one of those fond chuckles pries past his lips, head shaking a little and muttering to himself about how you’re still his little fucking brat, aren’t you? as he kneels between your thighs, your knees still slung over his shoulder.

You’re still murmuring to yourself, wrecked little complaints that keep slurring together, and Alhaitham hushes you, a thumb stroking the silky skin of your inner thigh. A sharp gasp slices through your words as his tongue pushes into your cunt, tip curling in an attempt to scoop out his cum, the cutest little squeal mangling itself in your throat as your hips wiggle.

“Hey,” he says sternly, fingertips denting plush flesh as the grip on your thighs tightens, your squirming halted immediately. “Stop moving or I won’t give you any at all.”

“M’sorry, Sir,” you say as seriously as you can manage, ghosts of giggles still bubbling in your throat, haunting your words. “I promise I’ll behave, please gimme some.”

“That’s a first,” you hear him grumbling to himself, words slightly garbled by the cum he’s storing in his cheeks. “Maybe I should feed you my cum more often.”

You aren’t afforded a moment to respond to his musings, though, because then his tongue is plunging back into you, hollowing out your cum-stuffed cunt in an almost meticulous method, twisting and twirling and lapping up every last bit of the viscous substance.

You’re pushing yourself up eagerly as he rises, desperate to meet him, arms wobbling a little as you strain, legs falling off his shoulders to pillow his hips.

Large hands wrap around your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the dips of your collarbones as he stabilizes you, tugging you closer to his body and slotting his lips against your own, opened wide and waiting.

He practically shoves his cum into your mouth, tongue grinding in repetitive little rhythms against your own, each stroke depositing another coating of his cream, now diluted by your interspersed saliva, on the slick muscle.

It’s the closest thing to a real kiss that he’s given you all night.

And you can’t help but moan into him, sucking his tongue further into the heat of your mouth, lips puckering tightly around it in a feeble attempt to slurp and swallow down every last drop, bitter and tart and strong, just like his favourite blend of dark roast coffee. Your own tongue twines around his, starved and scrupulous and licking it clean, before the tip dips into the crevices near his molars, sopping up any remaining notes.

“Fucking greedy little girl I’ve got myself here,” he’s mumbling as he finally frees his tongue from your kiss, saliva shimmering on his chin.

“Can’t help it,” you shrug, suddenly feeling shy, cheek tucked into your shoulder and resting against his knuckles. “You just taste so good.”

His gaze softens, melting under your scalding sincerity, and his index finger crooks, tilting your chin up.

“You’re precious,” he admits after a beat of silence, eyes skimming your features in a way that feels light, faint, dainty, as if staring too hard, or observing too assiduously, might break you.

Blinking curiously, your head tilts in his grasp, a question written in the movement.

But he doesn’t answer.

“Here,” his arms hook beneath your own, hauling you off the desk and onto unsteady feet. “Let me fix you up a little. You look all...”

“Fucked out?”

“I was going to say dishevelled, but yes.”

“Your fault,” you say simply.

“It is my fault, which is why I’m fixing you up, brat,” teal eyes flick up from his motions, hands still fussing as he holds your stare, the satisfied little giggle spilling from your throat procuring a small grin from him.

He’s nearly finished righting you when the elevator dings, sending a startle through the both of you, combined gazes flicking towards the chrome doors just as they slide open to reveal a man.

“Uh,” the man begins dumbly, the patch sewn onto his shirt delegating him as library security. “The library’s closing in about ten minutes, so start wrapping up whatever it is you’re working on.”

Despite Alhaitham’s fussing, you still look absolutely fucking wrecked—lips swollen and stained with blood, cheeks and neck streaked with salt and sweat, sweetheart dress still damp and clinging to all your curves and contours—and he’s sure the guard can tell exactly what you were just doing, the man’s beady eyes busy glueing themselves to your body, pupils sucking up every fine detail, singeing them into the tissues of his brain for later use.

A thread of protectiveness surges through Alhaitham’s veins, and his arm curls around your front, shuffling you behind his shoulder; a shield of sorts, a nonverbal warning to the guard and his grubby gaze.

“We’ll be out before closing,” he promises, voice strong, stern, curt, snapping the guard from his perverted reverie.

The guard mutters some nondescript jumble of an approval and nods to himself, Alhaitham waiting until he’s shuffled back into the elevator before he turns towards you, tiny fingers burrowed in the hard muscle of his bicep, clinging to him as you totter on your rickety legs.

And he can’t help the adoring little snort that tickles the back of his tongue as he stares down at you, lashes clumped together in thick spikes and that shimmer as they flitter.

“What does he mean, the library closes in ten minutes?” you ask as Alhaitham finishes tidying up your combined study materials, hands still twisted in the fabric of his sweater, hindering his movements slightly.

“He means that the library closes in ten minutes,” your TA responds dryly, sardonic amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What? Wait!” you cry, voice streaked with high panic, fingers flexing against him and yanking him closer. “But I barely started my research! I—I’m not even close to finished!”

A strong arm twines itself around your hips, heavy palm curled in an almost possessive manner around the bone as he supports the majority of your faltering weight, exhausted body fusing into his touch and allowing him to guide you toward the exit.

“Well, then I guess we’ll have to come back, won’t we?” he responds coolly, smoothly, leaning down to murmur in your ear as the pair of you reach the elevator. “And you better not be such a fucking brat next time.”

“I mean,” you’re saying nonchalantly as you step through the chrome doors, mischief dancing on your lips and glittering in your eyes, both arms wrapped around his waist squeezing him closer, tighter. “If that will be my punishment again, then I can’t make any promises.”  

It’s impossible to impede his head as it droops to plant a doting kiss to the crown of your head, pausing for a breath before sowing a few more along your hairline for good measure, doused in affection.

Because it’s then that he realizes that the brat that resides within you—inherent, instinctual, in a way—hasn’t actually been sated or tamed at all, but merely lulled into a sort of complacency; a sweet slumber that it’ll be snapped from the moment something doesn’t go your way, or you don’t get what you want.

It is untameable, insatiable, nearly uncontrollable, always ready to resurface at the best of times, the worst of times, the most unpredictable of times, to dare and challenge and defy, and that’s exactly why he loves you.

[leclerc-s]

paint the town red - part one

THE BEGINNING OF A NEW ERA

series masterlist

liked by peterbparker, harleykeener, queenshuri and others

biancastark_potts 'all the rumors are true'

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username bestie which driver will you be the race engineer for?

username is sebastian coming back? tell me that rumor is true

tonystark you're supposed to be working!

↳ biancastark_potts i am working. ask anyone. except harley, he'll lie to you.

↳ harleykeener she's being no help! spanish was not one of my public school requirements. i don't think i am qualified for this job.

↳ peterbparker I CAN SPEAK SPANISH! LET ME BE SAINZ'S RACE ENGINEER!

↳ harleykeener YOU FOCUS ON YOUR PHYSICS! LET ME HAVE THIS PARKER!

↳ biancastark_potts dad literally made you social media admin for the offical ferrari account. a mistake on his part truly.

↳ tonystark i regret everything now.

username so, stark will be race engineer for leclerc and keener for sainz?

↳ username an iconic group truly and i know nothing about this keener kid

↳ harleykeener i got a stark internship because i made a potato gun for tony one time when i was a child.

liked by biancastark_potts, harleykeener, and peterbparker and other

scuderiaferrari meet ferrari's newest race engineers. bianca stark-potts (24) (left) will become charles leclerc's new race engineer, replacing xavier marcos. while harley keener (20) (right) will become carlos sainz' new race engineer, replacing riccardo adami. these two will also be taking on the roles of lead engineers for our cars and they know they can deliver a championship winning car. these two are excited to be taking on the world of formula one.

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📍peterbparker this was all proofread by mrs. pepper stark-potts. i would've gone with something like 'out with the old in with the new.' but apparently that's not professional or something.

username ferrari is about to become the most attractive team on the grid. i take no complaints.

↳ username no you're absolutely right.

username what exactly are their qualifications to becoming an f1 driver's race engineer?

↳ username bianca is an MIT and columbia graduate, she has a phd in mechanical engineering and a masters in electrical engineering. harley is a columbia graduate with a masters in mechanical engineering and studying at MIT for a masters in computer science and engineering. if anything they're overqualified for the job. they've also developed few of the suits tony stark's uses. definitely more qualified than ricciardo and xavier.

↳ username that doesn't matter, we'll finally have a decent car and might even win the drivers/constructors championships.

charles_leclerc welcome to the team!

↳ biancastark_potts thanks, happy to be here!

↳ harleykeener thank you, even if i'm not your race engineer.

carlossainz55 bienvenidos!

↳ harleykeener gracias, mi amigo. (i don't speak spanish that well. we'll both be struggling through this, as you saw last week.)

↳ biancastark_potts good luck with him. thanks for the welcome!

liked by biancastark_potts, charles_leclerc, and peterbparker and other

scuderiaferrari you knew him as 4x world champion of red bull, you knew him as a ferrari driver, now you'll know him as ferrari's new team principal. ladies, gentleman, and non-binary folks, the formidable sebastian vettel is back!

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📍peterbparker not added was 'sorry not sorry we took your golden boy red bull' again, mrs. pepper potts-stark said that was unprofessional so i was forbidden from adding that. the urge to add a multi-21 joke in there was strong but i resisted.

↳ maxverstappen1 no need to rub it in. christian is crying. (i’m joking, he’s upset)

↳ peterbparker TU-TU-DU-DU MAX VERSTAPPEN!! (get me oscar piastri's number)

↳ maxverstappen1 no.

↳ peterbparker i'll settle for lando norris if you want. don't worry i'm not after either of your men (charles and danny)

↳ maxverstappen can i get you fired?

↳ biancastark_potts i've been trying since 2018 when he walked into my life. all i achieved was my parents emotionally adopting him.

username i fucking love this new ferrari admin. they're unhinged.

↳ peterbparker thanks, pepper does not find it as amusing. i've been told to keep it 'professional' until the season begins then i'm allowed to be unhinged.

username HE'S BACK! I KNEW RETIREMENT WOULDN'T LAST LONG.

username please tell me he is still caring for his bees. seb and his bees is iconic

↳ peterbparker proud to announce that seb and his bees will continue. we will be bringing awareness to the bees with every race. seb's buzzin' corner for every race? MR. STARK MAKE IT HAPPEN!

liked by pierregasly, charles_leclerc, and tonystark and other

scuderiaferrari mood cause we're back! preseason testing begins in two days!

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📍peterbparker i'm allowed to shit post now people! the ban has been lifted! WAR IS OVER!

↳ peterbparker I'VE BEEN FOUND BY PIERRE GASLY. NOOO! HOW COULD I HAVE BECOME A VICTIM SO SOON?

username admin is acting like a teenager

↳ peterbparker i'm 20.

↳ maxverstappen1 that explains it.

↳ peterbparker so about piastri's number...

↳ maxverstappen1 no.

↳ harleykeener you have a girlfriend parker.

↳ peterbparker she doesn't need to know

↳ michellejones this is a public instagram post

username let's hope stark industries can deliver with all the hype surrounding them taking over ferrari's f1 team.

↳ username i just hope they aren't being overhyped, because if they fail to deliver they'll be such a dissapointment.

¡leclerc-s speaks! you can blame charles' shitty race for this story. other than that we won't speak further on the events of the us grand prix (i'm living in delusion) (congrats to logan for scoring his first points and congrats to williams for their double points!) i had been wanting to do a mcu x formula one crossover but i didn't have the motivation to do so until now (you can guess why).

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!

[yellowbunnydreams]

Bunny Ears (Part 20) ~William Afton X F! Reader~

~Fluffy husband is always welcome! He's so dorky in this chapter it's almost cringy but we all need some golden-retriever Henry Emily in our life too. Sorry it took so long to write, I was really struggling with some writers block for a while so I apologise for any issues with the flow~

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Want more or something different? *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tag List: @ruh--roh-raggy @h4nluv @sleepy---head @do-double-g @confiscated-peaches-main @dij-ology @viviennemuerte @robin-the-enby @shari-berri @randymeeksisafinalgirl @hallow1090 @aponia-yue @likoplays @dilflover-3 @oak-leafs @phd-in-fuckery @weirdoartist21 @nicolezghostz @fauine @emmbny

Sorry if I missed you on the tag-list!

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), Female Reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 30's), divorce/processing divorce, Afton being a sarcastic hot ass, grumpy x sunshine . Faz-Fuck TM

The sweet smell of something syrupy and sugar, fruit hidden beneath it, filled your nose in the morning. Turning over in the large bed, your hand reached out for William only to find the mattress cool beneath your fingertips and making your eyes snap open as sit up. Wincing slightly as your body twinged unhappily and you blinked away the last of the sleep clinging to your eyes before your legs slipped out of the bed and padded barefoot across the cool wooden floor.

The space looked so different in the daylight, a window built into the slanted roof opposite the bed let in a lot of natural light, chiffon curtains fluttering in the slight breeze as you realised it was open. His bedding was black sheets with a blue comforter and black pillows, a stark contrast to the pale walls and matching the dark wood of the furniture around the place. It weirdly felt appropriate that William straddled the line between open and airy space with darker elements.

Your footsteps were silent as you pressed on through the house, coming to the old stairs and pulling down William's t-shirt around your body before you reached the bottom. Hearing humming coming from the kitchen, you managed to peek your head around the corner and smiled as you saw his broad back to you. Still wearing those sweatpants that he'd pulled on last night, but clearly focused on cooking as he partly turned to grab something from the counter, his sharp features looking handsome in the soft lighting as his greying stubble made his cheeks look a little more hollow. His salt and pepper hair messy like he'd just woken up, squinting as you realised that this was the first time you were properly seeing him without his glasses.

"Welll good morning handsome." You called sleepily, watching as he practically jumped out of his skin and hissed as the distinct sound of somebody slamming their foot directly into the nearest solid surface was only just covered by the sharp intake of breath. Your hands flying to cover your mouth as you gasped too even though you were completely safe. "Oh my gosh, I'm so so sorry!"

"You're alright bunny, I didn't see you there." He laughed, crouching down to inspect any damage, more to his kitchen than himself before standing up tall once again and gently padding his way around the counter, his thick arms wrapped around you and holding you closely in a warm hug.

"How's my cute little superstar doing this morning?" He asked, kissing the top of your head as your arms wrapped around him in kind.

"Superstar? And I'm good...sore but good." Feeling him squeeze you tighter as he pulled back and inspected you with a frown, squinting in what looked like a slightly accusatory fashion.

"Bunny, baby-girl, you should have lead with that!" He began to ramble slightly as he focused on you, holding onto your shoulders and stroking his thumb over the curve of the joint appreciately as he seemed to tune you out almost in his slight panic.

"Will-"

" I'm sorry you're sore if I went too hard last night say and we don't have to do that again! Gosh I'm so stupid, I should have given you aftercare and made sure..no maybe I should have prepped you more-" Your own brows raised in slight amusement as you looked up at him, head cocked to one side as his voice slipped into that deep gravel.

"William."

"I am such a fool, an old fool! Bunny please can y-"

"WILLIAM AFTON." You finally broke through to him as he seemed to jolt at the use of his full name. Tensing before your hands reached up and cupped his cheeks lightly, thumbs stroking them over his stubbled cheeks and feeling him relaxing, torn from his little concerned spiral.

"William Afton, I love you. And last night was beautiful, and I wouldn't change it for the world, you hear me?" Watching his expression soften as you spoke,

"I do bunny...sorry I just..I wanted it to be special and I wanted to make you breakfast in bed and bring it up to you because you're special to me..I love you too."

"Good, now you've stopped panicking...is it bad timing to mention whatever you're cooking is burning?" Looking over his shoulder and towards the pan that was producing a little black smoke and smelt acrid, making William snap his head around and release you as he sprinted to the stovetop, swearing profusely as you dissolved into laughter over the whole situation.

If it was any indication as to what mornings were like in the Afton household, you were certain that you could live with that for the rest of your life.

It took William about another hour to clean up breakfast, or rather the cremated remains of the original breakfast plan and then to make some pancake batter, making sure that you had heaps of syrup, butter and cream on your pancakes that he even cheesily poured into a little heart shape.

It was entirely silly, but it was so cute that it made you smile even as you tucked in. Moaning at the taste on your tongue and William occasionally stealing bites from your fork and you from his as in the morning light, you both felt that playful spark passing between you. The cuteness of the morning suddenly broken by the telephone on his kitchen wall which had escaped your notice the night before ringing, William rolled his eyes and stood up, cracking his back before he picked up the reciever and crossed his broad arms across his chest, pressing a button on the wall unit so you could hear the full conversation.

"Morning to you Henry."

"Good morning Wil- Hey, how did you know it was me?" You stifled a giggle around a mouthful of pancake as William rolled his eyes again and rubbed his hand over his face.

"It's always you, the telemarketers don't even call this early anymore." William sighed before leaning against the wall, giving you a playful wink as he spoke to your mutual friend. "Anyway, you're not just calling for fun are you?"

"No, right! Yes... The reason I called!" You nearly choked as you could hear the mild confusion in Henry's voice before returning to it's naturally chipper state, probably forgetting why he was confused in the first place. "The reason I called is that I really need you to come in Will."

"It's my day off."

"Yes, I know I know, but one of the arcades isn't acting right and it's spitting out tickets when it's hitting low scores and nothing on the jackpot."

"Is it a One-Dee-Aye-Zero-Tee error?" He asked, taking a moment before you realised what he spelt and trying not to laugh even more as William gave you that confident smirk again that made your chest tighten up.

"No? You know I'm not familiar with all the error codes like you are! Please, please just come in for half an hour?"

"I uh...I would love to Henry but I genuinely can't." He replied, looking suddenly slightly sheepish as he moved his weight from one leg to the other, making you raise an eyebrow and point to yourself. William simply made a non-commital motion in return.

"Why? Wills if this is about your little guest that I presume is still there, just bring her along and I'll pay both of you for the day!"

"I can't drive, Henry."

There was a pregnant pause as you looked at the taller, older man with a furrowed brow and confusion written over your expression. Watching as even through the stubble you could see his cheeks flushing red and practically hear the gears of Henry's mind turning.

"Damn Will, I mean..did you like...break... it? Cause uh...wow that's mildly impressive almost if she-"

"No. No! God, no! Nothing like that!" William rubbed his hand over his face as he turned even more sheepish looking and could barely look in your direction as he tried to mumble something into the phone, only making you raise your eyebrows again. You could just hear Henry through the phone asking him to speak up however, clearly struggling to understand his friend as he tried to be discreet before William got frustrated and spoke loudly again.

"Look, I broke my damn glasses last night okay? I'm blind as fuck right now." You blinked in surprise as you vaugely recalled William throwing his glasses as they fogged up and bursting into uncontrolled giggled. Trying to clamp your hands over your mouth as you recieved a squinting death glare from your boyfriend as Henry spoke up again.

"You....How? Wait no, I don't want to know! But I do...but...how? How do you even???..." confusion evident in his voice as you tried and failed to stop your laughter.

"Look so I can try to get in but-"

"OH MY GOD IF YOU BROKE YOUR GLASSES WHAT DID SHE BREAK?!" you were unable to hide it as you burst out laughing, hearing Henry calling your name panickedly through the crackle of the telephone. "SPEAK TO ME, IF YOU NEED MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SAY 'PINEAP-"

William slammed the phone down on his friend as you looked at each other and burst out laughing again after a moment. Jokingly holding up some fingers and asking how many there were before William flipped you off and came over to kiss you, humming against your lips as he smiled into your laughter.

~~

"Bunny, we're going to be late." William laughed as he poked his head around the door to his room, looking at you sat on his bed and turning up the cuffs of the jeans he had leant you so that they wouldn't drag on the floor. He had had to lend you clothes for the day since you certainly weren't being let into Freddy's wearing that cute little dress from the night before, but his jeans drowned you even with one of his belts as tight it would go and a flannel shirt over a t-shirt.

You looked like you were a kid playing dress-up, but William simply smiled and padded over to you, wrapping his arms around you as he carefully tucked and adjusted the flannel to sit a little better on your much smaller frame.

"You look very cute though." Grinning as compared to his own lazy black t-shirt, opened pale yellow plaid shirt and jeans, you looked like a mini-him. Sticking your tongue out slightly as you shook your head.

"I look like a kid."

"No, you look like my beautiful bunny," He chastised playfully, giving you a slightly squinty smile as you noticed the bulge of his glasses tucked into his top pocket. It had admittedly been quite amusing when he revealed that they were really broken, one lens popped out and cracked so even if he could force it back into the frame, the vision would still be way off. You didn't remember him throwing it that hard the night before, but you supposed that you were focused on a lot more intense things instead.

"You're always going to say that, you love me." Rolling your eyes and watching as William raised an eyebrow before giving you a stern look and tutting through his teeth.

"I do love you, and here I thought you were a good girl."

"I am!"

"Good girls don't act like brats, they accept when their boyfriend says they're cute." Chuckling as he held your hand and kissed your forehead, humming against your skin before squeezing your hand and looking at you sheepishly again. "Although...I do need to ask a really big favour."

Crossing your arms after a moment, even in his squinty state, you looked all too cute and not in the least bit intimidating. Afton blinked and gave you that lopsided smile that made you melt, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close as he put his chin on your head. Breathing in and realising with a pang of both sadness and comfort that you smelled a little like his cologne as well as your own sweet perfume.

"I need you to drive us to work," He asked quietly, nuzzling into your shoulder as he dropped his head down, feeling you gently shake yours. "Please, I know you have a drivers licence."

"William..." You whined, feeling him turn his head and begin to place scratching kisses against your sensitive skin on your neck, murmuring 'please' against you between each one that made you think back to each delicious kiss the night before, groaning softly as you cradled the back of his head. "You're not playing fairly kissing me like that."

"You'll learn I don't always play fairly, bunny. Pretty please? I promise I'll take you to breakfast afterwards." Hearing the almost childish whine to his voice, you shook your head and laughed, carefully bringing his head up and kissing him as you looked at your handsome, older boyfriend and boss pouting like he hadn't gotten the candy he wanted.

"We've had breakfast, Will, both cremated and edible.

"Then I'll treat my pretty little bunny to ice-cream and cake and all the attention I can humanly lavish upon you?"

"Fine, twist my arm then. You're showing me how the hell to drive your car, and I'm not responsible for any scratches or paint work damage!" Kissing him again before taking his hand and walking down the stairs together, William holding your hand tightly and glad for the excuse that he could keep holding it for just a little bit longer.

~~

Driving through the small town and towards Freddy's whilst trying not to crash in William Afton's car that you definitely could not afford to replace, and you really hoped no cops pulled you over to ask for your registration details, was more stressful than you could have ever wanted to experience. Sure, you had a driving licence, but you didn't own a car and you were sure that the last time you had actually driven a vehicle was during your driving exam. But Afton had made it as comfortable for you as possible, and even allowed you to get out a block down from Freddy's and walk, since you both agreed that you weren't sure it was quite time to tell people about your relationship.

It felt strange, being inside the pizzeria without your uniform on now, and you called back to your first time arriving there, how nervous you had felt and how overwhelming the bright lights, colours and noise was. Now it felt strangely like home, like it really was a place where fantasy and fun could come to life.

Stacey wrapped you up in a bear hug once you got in, taking you slightly by surprise as you watched William slip in and through to the back hall to get his tool kit to fix the arcade, moving slower than normal to avoid earning an additional moniker to 'Wiffle Bat Willy' by punting a child in his blind state.

"Oh, em, gee! You're here on you're day off! Mr. Emily said you were sick on Friday and went home early and I was so worried!" The young woman gushed as she held you close and then at arms length, raising her eyebrow as you realised she had finally noticed what you were wearing. "And this...honestly isn't what I thought you would have as a personal style."

"Gee, thanks for your total vote of confidence!" You laughed, making your work friend laugh too as you shook your head. "It was what was clean and available." Not a total lie.

"Girl, stick a...darn...wash on, wear a skirt or something, god knows I would if I could right now!" Rolling your eyes at her statement, you looked over her shoulder at the groups of children running around carrying paper cups filled with half-strength sodas and hyper from pizza grease and carpet candy, raising your eyebrow as she followed your line of sight.

"Are you sure you want to keep to that statement?"

"On second thoughts, I have enough stains to get out of my clothes without having to scrub my legs raw to get off fizzy-Faz."

"Come on, find me a seat and I'll get a drink or something, I have to hang out for a bit anyway." It was Stacey's turn to raise an eyebrow now as you blushed, wondering if you had given too much away before she looked at the already blazing sunshine outside and sighed.

"Yeah, you don't want to be out there at the moment unless you're in some air conditioned car or bus. Come on, let's get you a table and I'll even get you a colouring sheet if you play nicely with the other kids!"

"Ha-ha, very funny." Ribbing her playfully in the ribs as you managed to snag a seat by the stage, prime real estate at Freddy's, and had a good view of the arcade, where you could see Will knelt on the floor and opening the back of a machine that had the 'out of order' panel placed over the screen.

"Oh look, you get a great view of Afton too!" Stacey laughed, making you blush more and smacking her arm as she retreated to just out of your reach. Cackling as she clearly enjoyed teasing you about what she presumed was a crush on your boss. "He's rubbing off on you too, that looks like one of his shirts."

You weren't sure how much hotter your cheeks could get as she disappeared to continue working, leaving you to sit and wait with your day dreams about what you would rather be doing as William Afton glanced over and gave you a soft smile that made you melt all over again.

[sytoran]

𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐎𝐈𝐑 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘 || w.maximoff

boudoir photography: (.n) a photographic style featuring intimate, sensual, romantic, and sometimes erotic images of its subjects.

☰ PAIRING: sub!collegestudent!wanda x dom!amab!professor!reader

☰ REQUEST: I do have a prompt idea, subcollegestudent!wanda x domteacher!reader... where readers assigns an assignment that requires taking pictures that students have to sumbit for there final or something. Wanda submits a photo of her naked... reader gets flustered and holds her back after class and maybe reader tells wanda to meet them somewhere (an apartment or hotel) and then yeah reader fucks the shit out of wanda (sorry), also maybe G!P reader and some kinks like breeding, being tied up etc, whatever youre comfortable with and feel free to add your own touch.

☰ TAGS: smut (18+), college!au, lesbian sex, you're like the hot professor, and wanda is horny af, you can guess how that ends, bondage, breeding kink, professor kink, elements of brat-taming, mentions of reader smoking but i don’t condone smoking irl, shit eats your lungs up but its hot in fiction (to a certain extent), wanda is obsessed with your hands, sadism, degradation kink, humiliation kink

masterlist | AO3

albeit it might seem arrogant, you were quite aware of the fact that you were attractive.

in your defense, it was incredibly hard not to notice.

enrolling into the prestigious avengers college as a psychology professor with no less than two PhDs, you were quickly classified into the category of ‘the cool and funny one who’s too hot to be a professor’. those words weren’t yours, just for clarification.

the first time you walked into your class, donning a casual suit, laptop tucked under a thick arm of muscle that fabric didn’t conceal, your peripheral vision exposed the dropped jaws of female students and the impressed eyes of the male ones. 

stunned silence at your strangely stark presence quickly turned into sheer admiration when you did your little introduction. whenever you tried to make eye contact with the students to be engaging, you were almost always guaranteed a flirty wink from the ladies. you nearly choked several times.

it didn’t help that your face was a little too good-looking, or that your smirk was a little too sexy. so when you started the lecture, it was plainly obvious that none of them were actually paying attention to the lesson, but more so you. 

word spread fast, and soon it seemed like every student in avengers’ college wanted to sign up for professor l/n’s psychology class.

however, as much as the attention filled your pride, none of your students ever did quite catch your eye like a certain redheaded one.

photo-psychology. 

human relationships, personal identity, interpersonal communication, perception, creativity. they helped to explain how we, as humans, create visual images, how we share them, and how people react to what they see.

though an expert in this field, you don’t think you would ever really be able to put into words the emotions you felt, when you saw wanda maximoff’s submission for her finals.

dear god.

when you said there was a photography assignment that would cost about 40% of the final grade, you presumed it meant well-thought-out imageries of subjects that represented the current state of one’s psychological wellbeing.

not this. certainly not this. nothing could have ever prepared you for this.

wanda maximoff, the redheaded student you held an inexplicable attraction towards, in a set of some of the most erotically compromising positions you had ever seen. 

the first image she had submitted was of herself in a skirt that was far too tiny to leave anything to the imagination, black fishnet stockings tightly hugging sinful thighs, sitting on her knees. 

the second image had wanda in a dark room, the only illumination being the moonlight from outside her window. the minimal lighting fell on her side, bringing light to a generous cleavage. wanda was cleverly and outragingly positioned so that the darkness prevented you from seeing more.

and the third image, god, the third image. it was a sight you would never forget. the redhead was dressed in nothing, sprawled out on her bed, one hand shoved up her pussy, the other probably holding the camera. 

wanda’s face was contorted into an expression of euphoria, on the brink of an orgasm. pretty eyes glassy and her mouth slightly open, of which you swore you could hear her needy moans of release. 

to add insult to injury, the camera was angled just so you could see a hint of wet, pink, folds, but not quite nearly enough to fully capture the entirety of her beauty, leaving you on the edge of precipice to crave more.

you stiffened in your seat, still in the middle of grading of the submissions during class. you swallowed, trying not to let it show. without looking up, you could feel those mischievous viridescent eyes on you.

while it was undeniably wrong, these were the most captivating, alluring, and entrapping images you had ever laid your experienced eyes upon.

“see me after class, ms. maximoff.” you said, as calmly as you could, voice only a touch rougher than usual.

“yes, professor,” wanda said back, ‘professor’ rolling off her tongue in a manner far too seductive to be respectful. you gripped the paper a little harder. 

nearly an hour rolled past with strained silence, unbeknownst to the rest of the class. you waited patiently as the students filed out, watching wanda shove her friends playfully at their playful teasing, before waving goodbye as she walked up to you.

but you decided to leave her hanging, not making any move to speak. wanda was waiting for you to say anything, to do anything. 

by the expression on your face, it looked like you were going to bend her over the table and take her right then and there, but while it was a desire rooted deeply in her heart, wanda knew you would never do that. you were an enigma of your own accord, too gentlemanly to be brash with your actions, but too dangerous to be undermined.

you were smart, obviously, calculated in everything that you did. but beyond that was an effortlessly alluring aura that drew everyone towards you like a moth a flame, wanda being no exception from the rule.

so when those calculated began scanning over her body, not in greedy lust but in the knowing acknowledgment that it was yours, wanda felt the inevitable wetness pool in her panties. the flush blossomed on her cheeks, spreading to her ears and her neck.

your eyes rested on her thighs, the ones that had been clad in stockings in the photo, your imagination running wild but your exterior ever-collected. wanda felt her thighs clench, and you licked your lips for a fraction of a second.

it seemed like an eternity of thick tension spreading across the expanse of the room, just her and you in a little bubble of forbidden desires better left unsaid.

then you absent-mindedly began typing on your laptop, not even half of your attention paid on wanda anymore. the redhead stiffened, wondering how you could’ve been so careless in that very moment.

but she caught sight of the paper that had been slipped to her previously. a slip with a neatly-written address, a time below it.

“it’s for you,” you pointed out offhandedly, finally, not even giving her a second glance.

nevertheless, wanda saw the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips, and she felt the excitement bubble. or maybe it was something less innocent than excitement.

you stayed seated under your desk as she left, eyes burning into the back of wanda’s head, noting her flushed dizziness and the entrancing sway of pretty hips.

it was till she was gone that you let out a deep groan, spreading your legs and leaning back, having hidden a throbbing erection in your pants for nearly an hour.

it was 4 p.m. when wanda arrived at the hotel, her legs bouncing with excitement.

high heels clicked against marble tiling, hands shifting to tug down the incredibly short dress she had chosen. the air-conditioning was cold against bare skin, raising goosebumps.

the hotel you had chosen was expensive, the particular unit tucked away in some ungodly frivolous suite. wanda wasn’t sure how many zeroes you had spent on her.

but beyond all that, she was nervous. even though you were the object of her wet dreams encased in dapper black suits, you were still a professor, after all.

she took a deep breath, checking the unit number for the hundredth time before rapping on the door sharply. 

wanda held her breath, wondering if you would even open the door. maybe it was wrong to trust you so foolishly. to crave and want someone she was forbidden to love.

“come in,” called a voice from inside, raspy with something wanda couldn’t quite pinpoint, but definitely turned on by.

your breath caught in your throat when you laid your eyes on wanda. 

she was dressed in a juniper-green silk dress, one that clung to all the right curves. brilliantly crimson lipstick only magnetized all your attention to soft lips, ripe for the taking.

"hi," wanda murmured softly, stopping right before you. her eyes raked over your less formal figure, manspreading as you sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. 

what captured her attention was a cigarette resting between your lips, being toyed with by two fingers. wanda didn't exactly mind, only further turned on at the sight of a partially unbuttoned blouse.

you hummed in response, extending your arms in a gesture to grasp her hips. wanda flushed at your straightforwardness, swallowing at the sight of long, ring-adorned fingers.

stepping closer to let you pull her into your personal space, wanda sighed in relief, relaxing into your touch.

using a free hand to press chaste kisses on the back of her knuckles, you grunted when wanda gently scraped painted nails on the sharpness of your jawline. 

unspoken words between gentle caresses quickly became rougher gropes of bare skin, your impatience getting the better of you at wanda's eagerness.

"i- i want you, please." wanda whispered, palming at the erection in your pants. 

"are you sure?" you voiced again, almost as if foreshadowing what could ensue. "i can- i can be a bit, well, rough."

wanda shook her head, swallowing when your hands roamed further southward. "i like it rough, professor."

then your hands were cupping her ass, pulling the redhead down onto your lap. gauging her reaction with watchful eyes, you wrapped a hand around her neck to pull her in.

wanda whined at the touch of your hand on her neck, squirming in your lap when you let out a puff of smoke into her mouth. her eyes got hazy as you rested a thumb on her bottom lip, tracing mindlessly.

the taste of the smoke made her dizzy, her breathing clogged for a moment when you began kissing her. gasping needily for oxygen, she tried to pull away.

but you were adamant in getting what you wanted, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, as wanda clawed at your exposed skin with shaky moans.

soon enough, the kiss was all tongue and teeth, clashing with fervency. you tilted your head to let your tongue slide between her soft lips, and wanda let out a moan that reverberated in your ears.

"please," she whined, tugging at the back of your shirt, taut with the expanse of expensively crafted muscles.

"i don't think so, miss maximoff," you responded with a breath of escapism, low decibels making her ears blush. "misbehaving today, hm?"

“i don’t know, maybe you should punish me first.” wanda replied almost instantaneously, haughty but with an air of brattiness that you wanted to fuck out of her.

your eyes narrowed, hands trailing over her pretty thighs, then slapping it roughly, making her jolt with a gasp. “maybe i should.” you murmured hotly, the kisses on her collarbone turning downright possessive.

wanda moaned, hips jerking against your crotch area. you groaned, hastily flipping her over onto your bed. effectively trapping her in, with knees on either side of her lithe figure, you didn’t think you had ever seen a more breathtaking sight.

"you alright with bondage?" you breathily asked, pupils dilating at wanda's hazy eyes of arousal. the fight she had in her earlier seemed to dissipate with each passing second you denied her of pleasure.

wanda nodded eagerly at the suggestion, tilting her head to suck at your fingers, tongue trailing around the cold metal of your rings. 

you bit back a guttaral growl. "let go," you muttered, gaze tearing into her pliant mouth still sucking. wanda seemed to ignore you, only taking two fingers further down her throat, letting out a pretty gag.

"let go," you repeated again, slower, in disbelief at how disobedient wanda could be. but you shouldn't have been surprised, for she had quite literally sent her professor nudes for her finals. 

“...you’re a fuckin’ brat, you know?”

“mhm, you should fuck it outta me.”

sooner than wanda thought physically feasible, you had her wrists bound by handcuffs, pinned to the headboard. the restraints allowed for minimal movement, but not nearly enough to satiate the redhead’s unrelenting need for alleviation.

you let your hands roam over her exposed body, now barren of clothing. she was divine, in every state of matter, with or without.

“you remember the first image?” you quizzed, hovering above wanda’s restrained form. she tried to reach for you, to touch and feel, but the only thing she was greeted with was cold metal of handcuffs.

"what image?" wanda gasps, her whine breaking off into a shrill shriek of pleasure when your lips wrap around her cute, stiff nipple.

"don't play innocent," you reprimanded with a dangerous seriousness. pulling down your pants, wanda ogled at the sight of your huge cock straining against the pants of your boxers. then you pulled that off, too, letting it spring free, and wanda wondered how the hell it was going to ever fit inside her.

but her train of thought was halted by a harsh slap to her thighs. you seemed to like that, watching porcelain turn crimson, watching the shake of the ass in its aftermath.

"you know the first image," you begin, sliding your cock against her wet folds. wanda cries, groping for you, fighting against the cuffs. "the one with the tight stockings, and the little skirt."

your practiced self-restraint left wanda a bumbling mess, cock brushing against her clit in the slightest. it was so frustrating yet satisfying to be bound by the cuffs, denying her of pleasure yet giving her that in abundance.

"you got all dressed up for me?" you hummed with a satisfied grin at her state of duress. "such a whore, mhm?"

"i- i'm not - ah! - m'not a whore- f-fuck," wanda fell apart at your commanding jurisdiction, like she had been subjected to imprisonment within your unrelenting hold.

"but you are," you insisted, letting your cock enter her dripping cunt in the slightest, then pulling out. "so wet, fuck."

wanda let out a disparaged cry, as you smirked. "and the second image." you continued. "you remember that?"

wanda nodded frantically, the cuffs on her wrist leaving red marks in its wake. she knew better than to disobey you now, to let her brattiness be the cause of that loss of euphoric pleasure.

"i remember, professor. i'm s-sorry. please-"

before wanda could even finish her sentence of wailed apologies, you slid your cock into her properly, as wanda let out a moan so pornographic she looked divine.

the redhead undulated her hips frantically against that little bit of friction, chasing her high as you pulled out yet again. "you sure you're sorry?" you questioned. "'cos i don't remember telling you to fuck yourself on me like a little slut."

"fill me up, professor, please," wanda begged.

"oh, i don't think so, miss maximoff," you said dryly, plucking at her nipple so harshly she screamed. "not until you tell me about that third picture. so fuckin' needy, huh? what if i just reported it to school's authorities? then you'd be expelled 'cos you were all too whorish for your professor." 

wanda thrashed under you, fighting against the handcuffs in a futile attempt, as you began sucking on a hardened nipple. "just wanted to take your pups, please. please, i need it." she rambled, gasps and moans escaping her divine lips.

your unrelenting tempo of cruel erotica left wanda a mindless mess of babbles and she was so, so wet. 

you stole away orgasm after orgasm, and wanda cried at each lost, knowing she had brought it upon herself. 

"please, please, please, i need you inside now." she whimpered.

but your patience had soon run thin, and you could never feasibly deny such a breathtaking woman before you, so you finally gave in to her desires.

your grip on her hips so harsh wanda was sure it would bruise the next day. the thought of going back to school and seeing you at your desk with the knowledge that her body was yours made her shiver, but then that thought was thrown out the window when you entered her.

"oh, fuck," you cursed, eyes wide, a breathy rasp in your voice that was ear candy for wanda.

the redhead had taken the entirety of your cock in her hungry pussy on the first thrust, velvet walls hugged around you so wet and hot you never wanted free reign again.

"professor," wanda's pathetic little mewl had your grip on her hips tightening. 

"you're soaked." you groaned out, shifting inside her to make yourself comfortable. the redhead thrashed again at your actions, and you had to shove two fingers in her mouth to shut her up.

the familiar feeling of cold metal against her tongue had wanda relaxing for the slightest, but you took that opportunity to begin fucking her like it was the last thing on earth you would do.

again and again, using her like a little doll, releasing your healthy amounts of seed into her gaping pussy as she begged to be bred.

orgasm after orgasm, as wanda cried your name, as you marked her with sharp teeth and even sharper thrusts.

over and over, until the hotel room reeked of sex, and the both of you were covered in slick and sweat, and until the management security came knocking on your door.

it was 2 a.m. when wanda left the hotel, her legs barely able to move.

this took way too long lmao also i loved the contrast between “it was 4pm when wanda arrived at the hotel, her legs bouncing with excitement.” and “it was 2am when wanda left the hotel, her legs barely able to move.” it’s a parallel i thought was pretty cool so hopefully yall noticed that detail too :o

masterlist

[draculasfavoritewife]

Idle Hands

Summary: Whenever Tony forgets to go to bed, it's always been up to you to bring him back to your side.

Pairing: Tony Stark x fem!Reader

Warnings: Heavy on the softness compared to most of my other stuff; I was in a very sentimental (read: sad and touch-starved) mood back when I wrote this lol. Tony Stark is a TEASE both in word and deed -- I have said it is canon therefore it is now. The feral way he makes me feel should be illegal. Also you can read the...implications of my vague wordings towards the end as tame or as smutty as you wish ;)

I feel the need to mention here that Tony Stark has been my most favorite comic book character since I was but a mere 11 years old. He holds the distinction of being my longest-running fictional crush/object of my obsessions and I love him so deeply and for so many little reasons that I could write a PhD dissertation on him. So please enjoy my little love letter to the man that has held my heart for nearly a decade and a half <3

It's that point of the night where you really can't decide if it should be counted as ungodly late or ungodly early. 4:00 am does tend to scramble the thoughts.

You've been drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep for what feels like forever, and as you roll away from the digital clock display on the wall with an annoyed sigh, you suddenly see why.

The other side of the bed is utterly untouched.

He hasn't been here with you at all.

You sit up, trying to remember if he had plans tonight. The calendar app on your phone has no record of a gala, awards ceremony, board meeting, or anything else that might have taken up his time.

Which means he's probably down in the lab again.

Briefly, you contemplate trying to call him, but you know from experience that he probably isn't taking calls right now, even if FRIDAY tried to put one through for you. He's in that zone that only designing and building can put him in, the one mindset where his too-busy brain is crystal clear and the world at last makes sense to him.

So you pull yourself out of bed, throw one of his old sweatshirts on over your cami and pajama shorts (he keeps the AC cranked all the way whenever it's warm outside) and pad out of the bedroom and on your way downstairs.

His lab is awe-inspiring as always, no matter how many times you see it. The purring thrum of the generators and the comforting pulse of dimmed lights, the heavy, electric feeling of the air itself -- he's described his workspace to you as having a life of its own before, and you can understand so well why time escapes him down here.

You just hope he's not using it to escape from other things as well.

He's deeply absorbed in his work on something at a station opposite the door, and your heart skips a beat even as you smile fondly at the familiar sight. Clad in sweatpants and a black tank through which you can just barely see the blue glow of his arc reactor, he looks all at once more human than usual and like some being from another world entirely.

It's the Stark curse, he told you once, and you recall the wry slant of his lips as he said so. To know you're a god trapped in a mortal body, an infinite mind with a finite number of years to use it. It's the reason behind all his greatest triumphs -- and all his harshest falls from grace.

And somehow, you were lucky enough to be the one he fell in love with.

It still feels like a dream sometimes.

Realizing he isn't going to look up on his own anytime soon, you stifle a yawn and knock sharply on the doorframe.

"Tony?"

He stiffens as if he's been shocked (always a possibility, when he's rewiring) and shoves the safety glasses high up on his forehead. "That would be yours truly. Everything alright?"

With a laugh, you cross the room, warmth rising in your chest as he immediately sets down his tools and steps out from behind the table to meet you. And damn, he always looks good -- he is Tony Stark, after all -- but there's always something about him when his hair gets all unruly and he has THAT look of intense concentration on his face that really drives home to you all over again just how gorgeous he is.

You cuddle up to him, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Asked you a question, Honey."

"Do you know what time it is, Tony?"

There's a prolonged moment of answering silence as he glances up at one of his nearby monitors. "Crap. Well, why are you up?"

Pulling back slightly so you can tease the protective eyewear off his head, you give him a look. "Can't sleep."

An eyebrow tilts; he's playing dumb.

"And that's my problem why?"

"Jerk." You take your time playing with his glossy dark hair, neatening it back up before raking your fingers through it to mess it up again. "Maybe because you love me...?"

"Oh, so you're down here looking for sympathy, got it." He smirks at you, a well-practiced and infuriatingly handsome look. "In that case, sorry about your insomnia, Beautiful. There's melatonin in the drug cabinet upstairs." He snares the safety glasses from your fingers once more and makes as if to return to his work. "Sympathetic enough for you?"

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, stopping him from going any further, though the smug son of a bitch starts tinkering with his new designs again even through your persistent clinging. It mesmerizes you for a couple seconds, always has, the way his hands work with such delicate precision and dexterity, and you can't help selfishly wishing he would turn them towards other, less...mechanical endeavors at this moment.

He probably would, in all honesty, but Tony Stark is the king of making you work for it. Philanthropic he may be, but some things even you have to earn from him when he's feeling particularly devilish.

"I don't want your pity," you hum, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder. "I was lonely without you."

"Perfectly understandable. I've been told by many that I'm scintillating company. You can, by all means, stay and watch me work, you know. Feeds my humble ego."

You roll your eyes and impatiently reach up under his shirt, feeling his muscles tense at the unexpected coldness of your hands.

That finally gets his attention and makes him turn around. Before you can even fully comprehend it, he's swept his work out of the way and lifted you up onto the worktable instead, restless fingers drawing intricate patterns on your inner thighs, though his eyes never leave yours, crystalline blue pinning your attention to his amused face instead of his very distracting hands.

"That," he grins, "was adorable. Sleepy version of you is so much more demanding. Maybe I should stay down here too long more often."

You try to frown at him, though his sparkling gaze and mischievous touch make that impossible. "How dare you."

"I do a lot of dumb things to see where they get me. You know that." He nods at the thick gray sweatshirt still keeping you warm. "Why don't you take that off for me, Sweetness. You make me cold, I get to return the favor."

Unable to come up with something snarky to say in return with the way his hands are making you shiver now, you do as he suggests with little resistance, the exposed skin of your arms and chest prickling at the much cooler air.

He leans in to tenderly kiss your neck, and your breath leaves in a sigh at the way his facial hair scratches at your throat. He's always been a helluva kisser and the meticulously maintained goatee is just the icing on the cake. Making out on his worktable was not the original plan when you first came down here, but even by his own admission Tony's best plans are usually improvised.

And you're certainly not complaining.

"What did you want from me again?" he murmurs, close to your ear.

The absolute audacity of him.

"Mmmmmmm," seems to be about all you can manage at the moment, and you know very well what's coming next.

He pulls you closer to him, the movements of his fingers turning agonizingly slow and prompting a slight gasp from you.

The smile that gradually spreads its way across his mouth is absolutely wicked.

"What was that, Sweetheart? I didn't quite catch it."

You try to reclaim some semblance of coherence, but his firm hold on you prevents you from escaping his delightfully systematic torture, so instead you grab on to his well-defined shoulders, your forehead resting against his chest. The mechanically-stabilized beat of his heart echoing beneath his skin a brief reminder that he's alive, despite everything he's been through, and he is yours. There's no one else on his mind, no one else he's let this far into his messy and often painful world.

The world may know him as Iron Man, the one who has saved them more times than they could ever count, but how many people really know the Tony that you know?

That same Tony who now raises one hand to tip your head back, whose sharp eyes soften with affection for the slightest of seconds before the anticipated words fall from his tongue, the words he knows will always unravel you.

"You just have to tell me what you want. Come on, Princess. Use your words."

You shudder and lean in to beg for another kiss.

"You, Tony. Always you. Please."

He kisses you back with renewed intensity, leaving you completely breathless.

"There we go...was that so hard?"

[lotstradamus]

i'm loving all your vampire posting lottie! if you're ever so compelled i'd love to hear what you make of the books vs the show and if there are any book things you'd especially like to see done on the show! (also, bookwise, are you a lestat girl or an armand girl or a louis/marius/david/akasha/claudia girl or or or)

as someone who tried to read Interview with the Vampire thrice (THRICE!!!) pre-AMC show revival and simply could not get through it (it is melancholy), I cannot BELIEVE how down bad I am for these books right now. I keep seeing bad reviews on goodreads and girding my loins for each new book expecting the quality to nosedive, but 1 star bitch WHERE? WHERE??? I AM HAVING THE TIME OF MY GODDAMN LIFE

in terms of books vs show, honestly after a point the books are kind of Unadaptable unless they radically change the main cast, vibe and format of the show every single season, and the changes they made to IWTV were good to the point of sending me fucking insane so they can just keep on doing whatever their little hearts desire with the source material imo!!! howmever I DO have some suggestions for the upcoming seasons:

Lestat crying twice an ep (non-negotiable)

I would kind of love it if Lestat is the only character who tells the truth. the most reliablest narrator and normal girl to ever live. and yet every time he says something like "I killed a pack of wolves single-handedly" or "I woke Those Who Must Be Kept by playing violin" or "I snog my mother with tongue" Daniel is just sitting there like "............riiiight."

Gabrielle. Gabrielle Gabrielle Gabrielle. mainly I would like to smash cut to Gabrielle in the middle of really intense Lestat/everyone else scenes and she's just like peacefully sleeping in the ground... strolling through a distant jungle... sitting on a mountain looking at the stars in silence...

EXCEPT that one scene where she pulls up to Lestat's concert like she's in 2 Fast 2 Furious

it'll be interesting to see how they adapt Queen of the Damned because so little of it is actually from Lestat's pov, and all of it is amazing and cannot be cut out: [Stefon voice] the Twins, Jesse, specifically Jesse being haunted in Louis and Lestat's old New Orleans house, everyone hanging out/playing out terrible interpersonal dramas at the Sonoma compound, NIGHT ISLAND...!

I cannot stress this enough: GHOST CLAUDIA.

I want them to do Body Thief. fuck it, why not. must haves are Mojo, a random hunk with a PhD in Sam Reid's mannerisms playing Lestat for 6/8 episodes, Lestat nearly dying 25 times cos he pilots his human body like a drunk muppet, and, most importantly, Lestat BEGGING David Talbot for some old man pussy

oh and an entire episode set on a cruise ship

my favourite scene from the whole of Body Thief was Lestat turning David at the end against his will cos it was genuinely quite awful and frightening but also. um. you know. awooga

if they include Gretchen, then I would like the opposite of my Gabrielle request for everything post-Body Thief: whenever there's a peaceful, quiet scene it smash cuts to the wilds of South America where Gretchen is absolutely stark raving mad on the floor of a chapel with stigmata

I can't even begin to think about how they'd adapt Memnoch, but regardless I want them to keep the scene where Lestat drinks someone's period blood. thanks

also his cunty little lilac-tinted sunglasses that he will not fucking stop talking about

and finally, human Armand getting drunk and falling into the Grand Canal

bookwise, I am a Lestat girl the house down boots... I love his over-dramatic idiot crybaby ass!!!!! although the final page of Memnoch the Devil made me burst into tears and cry my whole face off until I confirmed that Lestat comes back as the narrator in future books soooo maybe like calls to like. self recognition through the other, etc. I do also get a shot of pure joy every time Armand shows up, especially in Lestat's pov. 'ah, there he was, the Botticelli angel, so beautiful. I fucking hated him. we kissed.' sis THEE dopamine.

currently suffering because I want to a) stop reading the series immediately so I can go back and reread The Vampire Lestat, and yet also b) never ever stop reading the series for love nor money. please help me budget this my family is dying

[gunsandspaceships]

Many degrees of Doctor Stark

It is widely known that 616 Tony has several doctorates. The number varies from 3 to 7, but it doesn't really matter whether he is 300 or 700% Doctor. He is one. And he doesn’t use his title 99.999% of the time.

Ok, but what about the MCU?

It is never mentioned whether Tony has a PhD or even a master's degree. Kinda weird. Both the absence of mentions and lack of degrees, since Tony is so smart and productive.

Let’s check, maybe he actually has some.

Here we have a file from a deleted scene from The Avengers (2012):

As we can see, the work is sloppy – there are inaccuracies in his hair color (it’s not black, it’s brown), and the fact that he speaks French was not included. Can we rely on this paper? Let’s not 100%, but we can still use things that don't contradict the movies.

The fact that he received his BS in Engineering from MIT does not contradict this, so we can mark it as valid. He started in 1984 when he was 14 years old and graduated in 1987 when he was 17.

We see no further education in the file. But we know something that this file doesn’t. We watched the movies.

Remember, in Civil War at 0:13:25, in the scene where Tony sees his parents for the last time, Maria tells Howard, “Be nice, dear, he’s been studying abroad”. Tony is 21 here, this is December 16, 1991. Looks like he is on winter break.

But wait… Didn’t he graduate in 1987 and stop then? Well, Maria tells us he continued.

Between 17 and 21 there are 4 years. What could he have done in these 4 years? A lot, right? He is smart and productive, we know that. A master’s degree usually takes 2 years. Tony could earn it in 1. 1 or 2, we still have 2-3 years that we need to fill with some kind of studying. I doubt he just went back and got another bachelor's or master's. That said, he was working on his PhD.

We don't know where. “Abroad” is a very broad concept. Maybe he went to Europe to study at Oxford? We do not know. Perhaps he stayed at MIT and just went somewhere else for the fall semester. We do not know. But he did go somewhere for (most probably) a PhD.

The question is: did he finish it?

Well, his parents died in Dec 1991, and we know from the first Iron Man (0:04:50) that Stane was the interim president of Stark Industries from that date until 1992. Most likely, Tony became CEO before his birthday, that is, May 29, which corresponds to the stated age of 21. He had a few months between.

We don’t know where he was in his degree at that time. But we know he is smart and productive. He doesn’t need 4 years to write a dissertation.

So, there are 2 options:

1) He did not complete his doctorate and devoted himself entirely to the company;

2) He completed it in the few months he had and then took over the company.

Here’s the evidence for the second option:

“Confusing matters more, a recently deleted LinkedIn profile for Tony Stark indicated he received doctorates in engineering physics and artificial intelligence.”

Source: https://alum.mit.edu/slice/who-iron-man

Given all the information and analysis we have, as well as a little logic, we can conclude that Tony has a Ph.D. Even two. He had time to do them. Why doesn't he use his title? Well, maybe for the same reason 616 Tony doesn’t? He doesn’t usually brag. Check out this post if you have any doubts about my statement.

Here are some additional hints:

He gave lectures at scientific conferences (IM1 and IM3 - Bern 1999).

His scientific expertise was not limited to engineering and his company's affairs (all the movies, but specifically I can point you to IM3– the scene with Maya Hansen and her Extremis-enhanced plants in Bern).

“He must have graduated after 1990, because the '90 Brass rat was the first one with the skyline on the edge.” MIT alumni commentary https://alum.mit.edu/slice/who-iron-man

Conclusion (actual): call him Doctor Stark, guys, he deserves it. Despite his modesty about his scientific achievements, Dr Stark has a couple of master's degrees and at least two PhD degrees in the MCU - in engineering physics and artificial intelligence.