#adult education hall

[britneyshakespeare]

you know i'm also glad i was able to be a long-term sub for a para at the middle school for the last few weeks of the last school year bc once people's typical college semester ended, getting jobs in the sub management software fucking sucked. all these fuckin college kids popped outta nowhere and crept into every corner and everything was like you had to grab it as soon as possible, which is also just the worst bc like, summer is around the corner and that's 2 months where i don't get to earn that regular income.

and i have an odd resentment for the college kids who sub for that short gap between may and june and i dont know why. is it jealousy? is that a proper word for it? morally i know they are doing NOTHING wrong, and if anything they are doing good bc they're ACTUALLY WORKING!!!! like the sub shortages for the rest of the school year is fucking crazy. the few ppl who actually do show up to sub on a regular basis (AKA old retired teachers and me) get pulled in every which way and frequently don't even get a full half-hour break. i guess i just feel like, it must be nice for that job to be a convenient short-term thing for them. bc it's not, for me.

perhaps i feel some sort of pride in being useful and reliable at my shitty little unglamorous poorly-paid job in a public school district. perhaps i do. where were you college students in the dead of february right before the winter break week and peak flu season? huh? where were you? in your DORMITORIES? i bet. well i was here. in the hall

[invincible-selfxmade-punk]

This song came out my senior year of high school and it was such a banger.

[hazelfoureyes]

The Big Part

Alastor x Virgin FemReader smut

(part 2)

You were dead, it was time to divest yourself of your virginity. When you ask Alastor, he takes to the task immediately. Unfortunately, he seems to enjoy surprising you.

warnings/promises: Alastor x Reader smut, Alastor dislikes getting naked, virginity does not rock, possessive Alastor, head pats, reader is an adult she’s just a nervous idiot bad at words

Horny little deer cult: @frompeach , @chirimeimei , @poppingaround , @polytheatrix , @itsmskeisha , @stygianoir , @celestial-vomit , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @amurtan

minors dni, this isn’t educational in the slightest and is just straight smut

It made sense, at the time. You didn’t want a relationship and you didn’t want to meet a stranger you couldn’t trust, that left very few people to ask. Husk would say no, and probably stop serving you drinks. Angel would most likely agree, but you were a little intimidated by his experience. That left Alastor. While you hadn’t spent much time together, your interactions were always cordial. And plus, this was hell. Isn’t this kind of situation a sinners dream come true?

For most, maybe. But you didn’t know Alastor. Not yet, not really. Everything he did had some ulterior motive. Perhaps nothing he had ever done was simply selfless. If Alastor wasn’t gaining something, Alastor wasn’t interested.

You caught him in the hallway one evening after redemption-oriented activities, deciding to get the moment over with as quickly as possible.

“It’s a favor, little… odd. But you’re the only person I have to ask.” Your eyes darted around his face, down the hall, up the walls, anywhere really but his eyes.

“I’m all ears!” Alastor tapped the microphone to the ground with a satisfying ‘thud’.

Oh— you had rehearsed this but you hadn’t prepared to be staring at that large, toothy grin. It wasn’t unsettling, it was just distracting. Would he be smiling the entire time he… ya know.

“I am,” you steepled your hands, pointing them at him, “a virgin.” You paused, hoping maybe he’d just infer the rest and you could stop talking.

His face was motionless save his eyelids rising up.

“And I don’t want to be. Anymore.” Your lips pursed together. C’mon, Alastor. Figure it out.

Alastor nodded.

You dragged your fingers down your face, “Would you help me with that?”

His head cocked to the side like a golden retriever being handed a book on ancient Egypt. Very nice offer but what exactly do I do with it?

“Help how, precisely?” He finally spoke, tone unchanged from any normal topic of discussion. Alastor watched your face scrunch up, mouth moving around words you abandoned half way through. You weren’t saying anything, just making panicked sounds. “I find annunciation most helpful when wanting to be understood, dear.”

You wanted to somersault out the nearest window. “Alastor will you take my virginity?”

“Take it where?”

You groaned, he laughed, “Just kidding, my dear! All in good fun. So, to be clear, you would like your first sexual experience to be with me?” He pointed the microphone from you to him.

You nodded, “Yes, please.”

His smile seemed to strain. Staring down at you, he tried to understand what your motivation was for this. But as he looked into your big, concerningly innocent eyes, he realized there was none. You really, simply, want him to be the first.

Ooh, as he thought it, he felt his pulse quicken in his lap. The first. A spot no one else could take. For the rest of your afterlife, he would always be the one who was first in you. A delicious thought. He could work with that.

“Are you free now?” He leaned down to your level.

“Oh. I wasn’t-,”

“Expecting immediacy? Perfect, the element of surprise has never failed me before.” His hand wrapped around your waist and drew you in to his chest, there was a rush of cold air over your skin before you felt yourself falling back.

It was soft, the room was dark, save for a small floor lamp in the corner. Your room, you realized.

“I didn’t know you knew my room number.”

“It’s my job to know everything about the hotel.” He said, tossing your shoes behind him. Was this happening now? Right now?

“I can do it, it’s, it’s fine.” You sat up and began undoing your pants. Alastor just standing there, watching. Smiling. Fuck, was it going to be this awkward the entire time? Should you say something? Touch him? You were lifting the hem of your shirt when you realized he was still fully dressed. “Are you going to take off your clothes?”

“Why would I do that?” Head lolled to the side.

You stopped mid-way through unhooking your bra, “Alastor you do know I was asking you to fuck me, right?”

He nodded. Maybe this was a mistake.

After taking off your bra, and finally your panties, you crawled to the top of your bed and drew your knees to your chest. Your feet hid your sex from view. Heart racing, but it wasn’t excitement, as you had anticipated. It was nerves. Would it hurt? Would you make a stupid face? What if he didn’t like the sounds you made? What if you regretted it after?

Alastor got on the bed on his knees, undoing his belt buckle but not his pants. The way he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat. You suddenly remembered he was called the ‘cannibal deer’ as you saw something akin to hunger in his eyes.

“What experience do you have?” His voice was suddenly low, deeper than before. This wasn’t the pun loving radio man you saw prodding the staff.

“I dated. Before. Kissing, um, I don’t know the bases. Groping?” You grimaced, it sounded so formal.

“Have you ever,” he began to slink toward you on his hands and knees, red eyes glowing in the dim light of your room, “been entered?”

Your cheeks burned, your head suddenly swayed as if it was half full of water and someone tipped you over. “Just myself, my,” you lifted your hand.

“Show me.”

All the air left the room, sucked out of your lungs and into his grin.

Uncrossing your feet, you tried to open your thighs without seperating your knees. It didn’t work, but you still managed to get a hand between your legs and to your entrance. You could have cried, you were soaking wet to an embarrassing degree. Your eyes return to Alastor, his gaze never leaving you. Even as you slipped a finger, then two, into yourself. You thought for sure he would want to watch your hands playing with your wet pussy but no, his eyes stayed on your face. Somehow, that was worse.

A shaky sigh escaped, your eyes closing as you tried to focus on relaxing around your digits.

Your head smacked against the headboard when you felt a third finger enter. Not yours. Your eyes flew back open to see him now directly in front of you.

“Two won’t do, dear.” He spun his finger around, pulling slightly at the thin skin of your entrance. “Unless you’d prefer this to hurt?”

You shook your head no, still stinging from the impact you had made. “May I?” His hand took your wrist and removing your fingers. Swiping your wetness from your ass to your clit, he coated his claw-like digits and pushed three back in. They were longer than yours, sharper. You could feel he moved gently, in and out. Your head was heavy, breath short and fast.

He laughed, bringing your consciousness fully back into the room, “Already wanting to change your mind?”

You shook your head side to side, still too embarrassed to speak, and took a grounding breath to help your body accept his fingers. He took his time, sliding in and out of you. His fingers picking up the slick and letting it lubricate your lips. It was so slow, the only pleasure for you was knowing it wasn’t your hand doing it.

But then his stretching of your hole stopped, and he grabbed both of your knees from underneath and pulled you down toward him. Now on your back, legs up and in his hands, you heard his belt slide through the loopholes, his zipper drop. You wanted to look, but you also absolutely did not want to look.

Your knees came together when you felt something hot and round at your entrance. “Ah-ah,” He opened them immediately. He reached for one of your hands, and brought it down to his cock. It was so hard under your fingers, but gave a little when you squeezed. It made him hiss.

“You tell me when to stop, little doe.” He pressed into your opening, pulled back. Pressed in, just barely making it past your lips, pulled back. He kept this pressing and pulling, head making slightly more leeway every time. Your fingers were holding right behind the tip.

“How about this, dear. I’ll just get the head in for now. Manageable!”

“Just— just get the big part in first?” You asked, the pressure at your entrance building with every shallow thrust.

He laughed, nodding as he held both of your knees further apart. When he attempted to get past the curve of his cock’s head, your hands flew down to press against his thigh, pushing back with the intrusion. Alastor stilled, sighed, and pressed his head fully in with a determined thrust. Instinctively, your feet came to his chest and tried to push away from him. It felt like you were being torn down the middle, your body forced apart at your most sensitive junction. He held you still now by the ankles, legs splayed in the air.

It burned where your walls were pushed aside. Stinging where the skin tore slightly just beneath your hole, unable to stretch.

“Breath, sweetheart.” He set your ankles down. “Does it hurt?”

You nodded.

“I’ll stay here for a bit,” he settled on his legs, looking down at where he was connected to you. Your pink little pussy looking positively overwhelmed by his cock. No one has ever been here before, and he could feel it. Your walls were pressing so hard against him his shaft was slightly curved from the force pushing his head out. You still had so much to take, there was so much more of you for him to explore. You tried to calm your breathing but your heart was racking against your sternum.

Hand reaching down again, you let your fingers count little paces from his core to yours. You knew the hardest part was over, but that didn’t bring much comfort as you felt how far you still had to go.

Alastor let his eyes wander away from your not-so-virgin cunt to your face. Your expression was twisted, not pained but clearly uncomfortable.

“How does it feel?” He asked, gesturing to your lap with a nod of his head.

“Full, so full.”

His cackle disheartened you, “Darling I am no where done filling you up.”

You clenched when he said it, earning a small groan from him. You were already too tight, when you spasmed on him it was nearly painful. There was more to do yet, more of you to claim as his. Just the tip of his cock was simply not enough.

His hips started moving again, the folds of his head pulling at the skin of your entrance but not actually crossing the barrier. He was gently rocking, barely making friction between you two. Your hand clawed at his knee, breath hitching. You let an airy moan slip, his head no longer an intrusion but something hot and melty barely rubbing your walls. It started to feel almost good.

Alastor’s cock was throbbing, his shaft touch-starved and desperate for the heat of your cunt. Your face was relaxing now, eyes blinking around new sensations. He wanted to see you experience more, more firsts and frighteningly foreign pleasures. He wanted to see you scared of how good he could make you feel. Alastor wanted you to never feel whole again without him buried balls deep in you.

“Can you take more?” His voice was like gravel, a radio static crackling in.

You met his eyes, glowing still in the dim light, wide and nearly frenzied in their dilation. His smile was practically beaming down at you.

“I don’t know.” You were scared to move forward, even though you wanted more.

“I don’t like liars.” A pop of electricity arcing at the end of his words. You pulled a pillow over your face, trying to hide from the reaction you knew he’d have as his voice made you tighten around him. “Your body says otherwise,” he hissed.

You wanted to say ‘yes’, if this could feel good then how great would all of him feel? But you were scared to vocalize it. Scared to make it start. Alastor lifted the pillow, “I need to see you, dear.” He set it beside his leg, “Do you remember what I said earlier?”

Brow furrowed, you shook your head. His grin widened to his ears as his hands slid down your thighs to your hips and he sank his cock to the hilt.

The element of surprise definitely made the nerves of saying ‘yes’ dissipate, but you were now choking on your breath, hands gripping at the blankets beneath you. Was this normal? Was he too far inside you? You felt nauseous, your guts prodded by Alastor’s member.

“How does it feel now?” He watched your eyes scanning the ceiling for an answer. You felt sure there was no way his head could leave you ever again. It was so snuggly fit in you, you feared you’d be pulled inside out. “Words, dear.”

You sat up on your elbows, sweating from the nerves of it all. “Like there’s a big stick stuck in me.”

“Accurate!” He laughed, and began pulling out. You whined, head dropping back. Almost taking himself out completely, he paused before thrusting back in. The head of his cock dragged against your walls, you could feel him with such detail. Every inch of him leaving impressions behind. Alastor could feel it too, how your soft warmth moved out of his way with every push. How pliable your womb was to his intrusions.

More. You could take more, he was positive of it.

Slowly, your moans began to get louder as the pressure faded into pleasure. Every time he bottomed out, you jumped. Every time he pulled out, you wanted to chase after him with your hips.

Watching your face soften, eyes now watery, Alastor was sure you were relaxed enough. He grabbed the pillow beside him, lifting your ass and sliding it under the small of your back. You didn’t ask, just waited to see what the point was. Dissatisfied, he grabbed another and added it under you.

Your hips were up, ass hanging over the ledge the pillows made, back bent upward. When he began to thrust again, you whinced feeling a new part of you widen for him. “Can you see me?” You looked at him when he said it, but he grabbed your hand and placed it beneath your belly button. When he pushed back in, you could feel his cock beneath your hand. Moving it, you watched your stomach bulge slightly when he was completely sheathed in you.

“Oh fuck-,” your head fell back into the bed, it was too much to feel let alone to watch, “Too deep.”

He hummed an acknowledgement, picking up his pace. “Let me see how you cum.”

Your face was hot, reluctantly bringing your hand to your clit and rubbing.

No, this wasn’t a mistake at all. If anything you regretted not asking sooner.

His thrusts now brought lightning to your core, your finger quickening in speed with the realization of just how good he could feel.

Studying your face still, he adjusted his angle until he saw the muscles in your neck tighten. He knew he found your g-spot, your moans dipping into cries.

“I can’t—,” You couldn’t get over the hump, knowing he was watching you, waiting for you.

“You can”, the lights flickered, his eyes now black with small red pupils illuminating your naked body, “and you will, my dear.” One of his hands stopped pressing finger sized bruises into your hips to instead push your own finger aside. The wide pad of his thumb took over and began thrumming you fast and hard.

That familiar build up of pleasure was stronger than you’d ever felt it, and when it finally snapped your muscles from your thighs to your toes cramped. How long had you been tensing?

You practically sobbed into the crook of your arm, Alastor’s hips slowing but still carrying you through your orgasm. They moved slower and slower, until stopping entirely. His head popped out of you, leaving you feeling hollow. Cold.

Eyes wet and blurry, you looked up at him, “Aren’t you going to finish?”

“If we do everything now, what ‘first’ will we have for tomorrow night? And the night after that?” He smiled, member already hidden away and pants buttoned. Your thighs twitched. “Same time tomorrow, little doe?”

You covered your face with both hands, and nodded.

His big hand came to your head and patted you gently, “Good girl.”

I hope you liked it 🥺 I don’t feel as confident about this one. Fun fact, my first time involved bondage. Very on brand, huh? 💖

༻Masterlist༺

Gonna start calling his dick ‘the element of surprise’. You look tired today! What happened? Oh the element of surprise kept me up all night.

[johnbrace]

Cabinet (Liverpool City Council) 6th June 2023 Part 1 of 2

[magneticelectric]

Daryll Hall & John Oates - Adult Education (UK 7" Single)

[rexandbalances]

DARYL HALL & JOHN OATES - Adult Education (HQ)

Went looking for this song on tumblr by searching “adult education” and got a bunch of posts of men with diaper fetishes. Didn’t ask for that.

Anyway, the music video for it doesn’t have a damned thing to do with the lyrics of the song. I think Sara Allen wrote them.  I’ve always loved the word play of pronouncing “adult” both “ah-dult” and “uh-dult”.

[stormsthatrage]

I love the idea that, at some point in the course of his public education, Danny just straight up stops trying to hide his ghostly-ness from his peers.

Like, he never goes ghost in front of his classmates, and he's not wandering around talking about his secret, but also he's not trying to hide the fact that he's drinking glowing, radioactive-green goop during lunch which they all can recognize by now as ectoplasm, Danny, that stuff is incredibly toxic to humans!

He never explicitly uses his powers, but also, you know, he doesn't wait for Dash to leave before phasing out of the locker he's been shoved in. Dash turns away from the latest round of hide-the-nerd-in-a-small-dark-space, takes one step down the hall, and hears a noise behind him. When Dash turns back around there Danny is, free of the still locked locker, in the process of unlocking it to get his books for next class.

One time Danny gets sick and explodes a desk with his voice.

Everyone in the school knows he's part ghost, and most people have deduced that he's Phantom, but no one's going to be telling adults that. (Except Lancer, to whom they say shit like, "Danny, Sam, and Tucker are going to be tardy. Danny sneezed in the hallway and now they're trying to melt all the ice off the floor." Lancer is suffering, but by all the powers that may be, he is doing his best to pretend he's oblivious.)

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

HOUSE CALLS.

Professor!Terrence x Aaliyah

Summary: Aaliyh has an elusive charm that can be alluring to some and frustrating to others. Professor Terry is compelled to have her. On one fateful evening at his college buddies bachelor party, he runs into Aaliyah. An interaction he hadn’t imagined would ever happen.

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ CONTENT, based off of Players Club, Nasty Talk, Professor!Student.

Part One.

The combined elements of dark wood and a silver-painted metallic finish gave his desk an exquisite appearance within the lecture hall. The theater–like room was cloaked in silence and a gloomy ambiance from the constant downpour of rain. The occasional clearing of throats or shuffling of papers could be heard, but everyone clung on to his words as he leaned casually against his desk.

He was situated in front of the class, one hand reclined back to brace himself, while the other held a book within his grasp by its withering spine. He crossed his feet at the ankles, rounded, gold–rimmed specs hanging onto the bridge of his nose. His full lips moved in tandem with his educated words, blue–grey eyes flicking from the passage he was reading to the class of over thirty students before him.

“…Brain size in mammals is generally proportional to body size. Relative to body mass, humans have the largest brain. The chimpanzee brain has an approximate volume of 300 cm3; a gorilla’s is slightly larger. The human adult brain is more than three times larger, typically between 1,300 cm3 and 1,400 cm3. The brain is not only larger in humans than in apes but also much more complex. The cerebral cortex, where the higher cognitive functions are processed, is in humans proportionally much greater than the rest of the brain when compared with apes…”

He articulated his words fluently, deep baritone drawing you in like a breath of fresh air.

Aaliyah scribbled across her notepad with her iPad propped up in front of her, occasionally highlighting passages from the same book she’d downloaded. She had one too many books creating an almost mountainous pile within her bedroom. Thank goodness this was her last semester. She’d put off taking this combined Ethics and Psychology course, realizing she needed it to graduate.

The magnetic allure of her gaze blinked away from the Professor, the end of her red, ink pen situated between her heart–shaped lips. Her upturned eyes followed the movement of the Professor licking his thumb to turn a page. She crossed one shapely thigh over the other, the thick material of the navy blue sweats she wore cozy. Her small foot covered in old Vans bounced slightly, a habit she couldn’t control.

“…Humans live in groups that are socially organized, and so do other primates. But primate societies do not approach the complexity of human social organization. A distinctive human social trait is culture, which may be understood here as the set of non-strictly biological human activities and creations. Culture in this sense includes social and political institutions, ways of doing things, religious and ethical traditions, language, common sense and scientific knowledge, art and literature, technology, and in general all of the creations of the human mind. Culture “is a pool of technological and social innovations that people accumulate to help them live their lives…”

His patience, communication, and passion helped her pay attention, even though she couldn’t help but to fantasize and escape to a place where she could dream. It was the intuitive feeling within her. Beyond her squared, black frames, she found herself memorizing the shape of his elongated fingers cupping the book. The way he talked with his hands. So expressive. Voice so even toned and soft at times. She couldn’t be the only one captivated by her handsome Professor.

“I know it’s nearing time for us to leave,” He strolled lazily towards one of the large windows, “It’s really coming down out there. Well…why don’t we pick back up on Friday? Make sure you all submit your midterm papers. I’ve extended the due date…”

The class began to gather their things. Aaliyah didn’t make a fuss to leave just yet. From the Professor’s view, he peeked up at her from behind his desk, still sitting in her seat, chewing on her pouty, bottom lip with so much focus on her IPad. He didn’t bother her, taking that time to check his curriculum. Aaliyah’s silent presence didn’t bother him. So why bother her?

After thirty minutes, she stood, stretching her arms that were drowning in an oversized, graphic hoodie. Her silk pressed hair was styled in a low bun and medium–sized silver hoops decorated her ears. She threw her school bag over her shoulder and slipped from behind her desk, leaving the room. Before she reached the door, she turned back and caught the hypnotic eyes of her Professor. She gave him a silent wave and he returned the gesture with a small smile, watching her disappear from his eyes.

He couldn’t shake the twinge of sadness in her leaving.

——

As Friday rolled around, Aaliyah found herself running late for class. It was her own fault. She’d started a side hustle that earned her more money than what she’d gotten paid working remote for Verizon. It required a lot of her time, and she’d become so obsessed with it that her sleep schedule changed. Dressed in a pair of heather–gray leggings with a matching oversized, slouchy sweatshirt, Aaliyah opened the door to the lecture hall, quickly finding herself scurrying to her usual seat in the middle of the Professor’s speech.

“Excuse me…sorry…”

Aaliyah squeezed into her seat and hastily worked to fall in line, cursing herself internally. Her sleek hair framed her face as she buried herself into her work.

“Aaliyah?”

Her eyes held slight bags beneath them. They connected through her lenses at the Professor. She could feel eyes on her in other parts of the room as well.

“Is everything okay?” He questioned with concern.

“Yes, Professor Richmond. I had a late start today…”

“Okay…do you know where we are or do you need me to fill you in?”

A faint smile graced her shimmering lips.

“I know where we are. Thank you.”

Professor Richmond nodded his head slightly before turning his attention back to the whiteboard. Aaliyah swooped some of her long hair back from her face and behind her ear, reaching for her Stanley cup to quench her thirst.

In the middle of lecture, Aaliyah’s phone vibrated within the front pocket of her school bag. She groaned slightly, distracted by the noise while jotting down notes. After a while she couldn’t ignore it. Professor Terry caught sight of her reaching for her phone, and he took note of the stress lining her pretty face.

Meanwhile, Aaliyah’s eyes scanned two texts from a friend and former coworker of hers, asking if she was free to meet up after class. Aaliyah had an inclination of what it was about, but ultimately she agreed to meet up for lunch. After settling that distraction, she pulled herself back into her work, not aware of Professor Richmond’s eyes on her.

“Class dismissed. See you all on Wednesday…”

And as expected, Aaliyah held her spot. Professor Richmond had his back facing her while using an Expo eraser to clear the board. He wore a black sweater that molded into his sinewy upper body in all the right places. The black slacks he wore to match accentuated his ass and strapping thighs.

After recapping the marker, he gave Aaliyah a once–over. He studied her for another minute before placing his hands within the pockets of his slacks, making his way towards her. Aaliyah looked up at him, her posture straightening. He settled next to her, a soft smile on his face. Aaliyah waited for him to say something, an arched brow raised in question.

It just dawned on her that she’d never been this close to him.

Professor Richmond was thinking the same thing.

“How are your studies coming along?”

The deep vibrato of his voice was so smooth she found herself smirking. Aaliyah blinked away from his overwhelmingly handsome face, trying her best to focus on the text before her instead of the man that occupied her space with a fragrance so utterly charismatic with a blend of basil notes, bewitching lavender, and sandalwood accords.

“As well as it can to pass this class, Professor.” She responded.

The sound of her melodic voice, the way it lulled him into a trance. He couldn’t shake it. His long fingers drummed against the desk, the ability to control the urge to catch a more…invading whiff of her sweet perfume paining him. And was that…a tongue ring?

He had the biggest crush on Aaliyah.

“You sound put out. I hope that paper is coming along.”

Aaliyah cut her tantalizing eyes at him and those sinful lips parted to speak, “I’m finished. Mostly. Just need to do a bit of editing.”

“Good…good. Hey,” Professor Richmond leaned in closer, removing his glasses, “Can I ask you a question?”

Aaliyah focused on him with a steady gaze. Never wavering. She turned her curvy body in her chair to face him fully. Professor Richmond’s blue–gray eyes did a quick sweep of her frame.

“Depends on the question…then I’ll determine if it warrants a response…”

Sassy.

“Ha, okay,” Professor Richmond exhaled, “I would like to take you to lunch sometime. Away from campus…my treat.”

He pressed his large hand against his solid chest and tilted his head at her. Aaliyah blinked at him slowly.

“Today if you’re free…how does that sound?”

Aaliyah twisted her lips to fight a smile. It didn’t work however. That smile of hers broke through and it was beautiful. It was one of those smiles that captivated you. So sexy. Oh so sexy.

She was just…sexy.

“I can’t,” Aaliyah turned away, her hair sweeping her back, “I’m meeting a friend for lunch already…”

Professor Richmond’s thick brows flicked up and he groaned softly. He was hoping for a yes.

“Then…we can plan a lunch next week?” He persisted.

Aaliyah tucked her chin and giggled softly. It was a sight to behold. He wasn’t going to back down.

“Next week…hmm…maybe. I have a lot going on.”

Her dismissive tone didn’t stop him. Maybe it was because he was her Professor. She probably didn’t want to get caught up in that. Probably didn’t have time for that mess. A beautiful woman such as herself probably gets approached every damn day by men. What makes him any different?

“Whenever you’re free then,” Professor Richmond widened his thighs to appear more relaxed, “I hope I’m not being too forward…”

Aaliyah trailed her eyes from his thighs to his face. He caught that. He knew she found him attractive. He knew his potential. Felt her eyes on him plenty of times.

“I’m not looking for anything right now. I appreciate the gesture though,” Aaliyah turned those beautiful eyes away, “I’m sorry.”

Professor Richmond looked away from her, trying his best to hide his disappointment. He clenched his sculpted jaw, accepting defeat. A slight smile graced his lips as he stood, fixing the hem of his sweater.

Better luck next time. And there will be a next time.

“I’ll leave you to it then, Aaliyah…enjoy the rest of your day, beautiful.”

The way he called her beautiful…the bounce of her foot stilled.

“You do the same, Professor,” She replied, eyes never leaving her iPad, although a smirk graced her succulent lips.

He paused in his descend, turning to look at her over his shoulder. Her eyes connected with his again, dark brown meeting bluish–grey. The way her hip sat, jutted out from her thigh crossed over the other. She was doing things to his psyche. Her feet in flat, black sandals. Those pretty toes. That beautiful hair. It was all too consuming.

“I’m Terry by the way.”

He felt he needed her to know him on a first named basis. Aaliyah blinked at him with those curled lashes. She smiled again, smaller this time, but it still held a seductive quality.

“I know.” She responded impertinently.

He shook his head and released a soft chuckle. Sassy indeed.

Terry returned to his desk, gathering his things. He shut his laptop and the sound of Aaliyah walking down the steps towards the exit brought his attention back. Although she always wore loosely fitting tops and occasionally bottoms, the sway of her hips didn’t go unnoticed. No matter how hard she tried to cover it all up. He knew she was shielding a body beneath those layers.

Her dainty hand grasped the handle to the door. Aaliyah glanced over her shoulder at him one final time. Terry waited, hands finding its way into his pockets.

“I’ll see you Wednesday, Professor.”

A slow, half smirk crept up his face.

“Same as well, Miss Aaliyah. Enjoy your weekend.”

She waved goodbye with a flutter of her fingers in a flirty manner before leaving him alone to his thoughts.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was taunting him.

——

Aaliyah climbed the short, concrete steps leading her inside Elsie’s Plate and Pie. Home to legendary pies and authentic taste in Baton Rouge. It wasn’t far from her Shotgun House. She removed her shades, spotting her friend, Keisha, sitting near a window. Keisha is a tall, thick woman. Her hazel eyes ignited when she spotted Aaliyah, one hand with long, red acrylic nails waving her over. Aaliyah scooted past a crowded table, holding her arms out to accept a hug from her longtime friend.

They did the squeeze and sway motion, big smiles on their faces.

“Y’at?! Girl it’s been forever. Baby, you look fucking good. How’s school and shit?” Keisha questioned boisterously.

“It’s going, girl. Almost done. You?”

“Still doing my thing at Crazy Horse. We miss you there,” Keisha gave Aaliyah sad eyes and a pout.

“You know I miss ya’ll too,” Aaliyah grabbed her glass of water, opening a straw, “What you finna get?”

“I don’t know…”

They scanned the menu, both settling on crawfish queso as a starter when their waiter sauntered over.

“Brittany still sleeping with Mack?” Aaliyah asked while sipping from her straw.

“Girl…” Keisha rolled her eyes, “He still breaking that down. She ain’t hopping off that dick…”

“Ugh,” Aaliyah scrunched her face up in disgust, “Mack though? That’s why I had to go. How do you do it? That nigga irks me.”

Keisha laughed, “I have my ways. I do what I gotta do to survive.”

Their appetizer arrived. Aaliyah didn’t hesitate to dig in. She was starving. The turkey bacon, fried eggs, and croissant breakfast she had earlier didn’t stick to her stomach.

“Li–Li, I wanna know if you’d be down for this new thang I got goin’ on.”

And here it comes…

“Keisha…” Aaliyah rolled her eyes.

“You’ll love it. Trust me.”

“I want to, but then I’m like…Keisha a wild girl. Whatever it is, I know it ain’t simple.”

They both laughed.

“Let me fill you in, bitch!”

“Go ‘head,” Aaliyah cackled, “I’m waiting.”

“Awrite, so…We both know working at Crazy Horse ain’t shit. Half the money we earned went to Mack ass…”

“True…”

“So, I do this side gig. House calls.”

Aaliyah have a half shrug before crossing one leg over the other beneath the table, “Okay?”

“Andddd…I want you to join me.”

Before Aaliyah could respond, they placed their orders. Seafood pot pies.

“Keisha, I got this online content thing lined up and it’s hittin’ off. I made 350 dollars in one night,” Aaliyah scooped up the last bit of dip.

“What’s 350 to two grand?”

Aaliyah snorted, “Two grand? Serious?”

She sat up straighter in her seat. Aaliyah inclined her head towards Keisha for her to continue. That two grand sounded promising…

“Tell me what you do for these house calls.”

“It depends. It could be an all woman thang…a little toy party situation…most of the time it’s bachelor parties and believe it or not, men in uniform…”

“Men in uniform?” Aaliyah gawked at Keisha, “Like, military men?”

“Military men, policemen…tomorrow it’s firefighters. They pay good money for you to show up and perform. You don’t gotta go further than that unless you want to. That’s where the real bandz come from.”

Aaliyah let Keisha’s words sink in while she swirled the ice in her glass around with her straw. Aaliyah couldn’t deny that she missed dancing on the pole. It was exciting. Made her feel sexy. The best full body workout. She often craved the neon colors against her skin beneath the black lights. Her gravity-defying moves around the dance pole, sky-high heels and perfect hair, it was nothing short of magical.

Part acrobat, part athlete, part artist.

“I can see the wheels in your head turning…sounds good, huh?” Keisha asked with a knowing grin.

Aaliyah hummed, her eyes scanning Keisha’s face, “Almost too good…”

“Like I said, tomorrow night I have a gig at the fire house. I was bringing this other girl, she go by Diamond. She was cool…but I feel like me and you are a dynamic duo. Miss Dark Angel…”

Excitement tickled her nerves.

“So? You wanna go?”

“…I don’t know, Keisha…”

Aaliyah hung her head, deep in thought. She crossed her arms over her chest, breasts sitting up invitingly.

“Just…think it over tonight. Hit me up and let me know.”

Aaliyah dragged her tongue over her upper teeth. Keisha giggled at her, causing Aaliyah to snap out of her deep thoughts. She only had tonight to decide. Stripping was such a hard hustle for her. She had just found her niche. But, if what Keisha was saying is true, she could make the most money she’d ever made as an exotic dancer. Tempting…

Their food arrived and they fell into gossip, laughing about wild shit, falling into their usual routine. Aaliyah finished her entire pot pie while Keisha packed hers to go.

“We gotta do this more often, Li–Li,” Keisha slapped some money down, paying the tab, “You got your nose in ‘dem books! You’ve always been so smart…I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Keisha. We definitely have to link more. This last semester is kicking my ass. It’ll all pay off.”

“Seeing anybody?”

“Fuck no,” Aaliyah’s shoulders bounced with her laughter, “My professor did ask me on a lunch date today…”

“Oh?” Keisha’s eyes widened with interest, “Do tell.”

“Nothing to tell,” Aaliyah replied, “He’s very handsome. Sweet…I’m not tryna get tangled in that. I know how that can go…”

“I hear ya. Best to keep focused. Men come and go, girl. I ain’t got time either.”

They both stood, walking out together. Aaliyah had parked her Jeep behind Keisha’s all black Hellcat. They hugged again, giving each other a kiss on the cheek.

“Let me know!” Keisha shouted at Aaliyah’s retreating frame.

“I will!”

She waved goodbye, climbing into her Jeep and revving it up.

——

Aaliyah moved across her cramped kitchen with a swiftness, standing in her naked glory, body mimicking a glazed delight with how shiny and glistening her honey skin looked beneath the lights. She’d just finished filming some content, nothing too wild, just twerking and nasty talk.

“Don’t forget to tip, baby…”

“You gonna pay my tuition just to kiss me on this wet ass pussy, daddy?”

“I need some company, can’t stand looking edible alone…”

She used her same stage name. Liyah Allure. The Dark Angel. She used a video shot from a long angle, the white wall as her back drop. Lil Wayne–She Will instrumental playing in the background. Her sleek hair fell down her back and she would turn her head ever so slightly, giving teasing glances up and down while making that ass bounce and clap. She could move it with little no effort. Her hands glided over her sultry body, showing her viewers just how edible she is. And they wanted to take a bite.

Aaliyah racked up five hundred dollars. Friday’s were Freaky Friday. She showed more skin. You had to pay extra for a pussy shot. Aaliyah took pictures and videos for that as well. She spent a pretty penny on equipment. An elongated tripod held her camera in many angles. Her favorite shot was always from behind with her juicy thighs spread and shaking that big ass. Her wet, hairless pussy popped in the camera white those siren eyes looked back at it.

It was time for a bath. She wanted to spend the rest of her evening finishing up editing for her paper before submitting to Professor Richmond. Her Ethics and Psychology Professor. Aaliyah blew steam that wafted from her ceramic coffee mug as her slipper–clad feet shuffled towards her room. Placing the mug on her side table, she made her way towards her dresser and began wrapping her hair. She hated doing it, but she wanted a straighter look this time around so pin curling it wouldn’t work.

After securing her hair with three silk scarves to ensure she didn’t sweat it out, Aaliyah grabbed her mug and headed to her bathroom. She’d already prepared the bath with her bubble bath and essential oils. She loved using lavender and vanilla. There is a rack across her tub that she could place a book or even a drink on while enjoying her bath. The glow of the candles created a beautiful and relaxing environment.

Aaliyah listened to her Neo Soul playlist while reclining her head back and resting her eyes. She had her timer set for thirty minutes, making sure she didn’t fall asleep in her tub for longer than that like she’d done many times before. Her head went limp on its side, the tiredness of her body finally succumbing to sleep. As she slept, the eyes of her Professor appeared.

Intense. His gaze is intense.

It’s also attentive. By now, she was sure he’d memorized every subtle detail of her face. Images from earlier appeared. She took note of the way he leaned in towards her, like he wanted to smell her perfume. Juicy Rose, Black Cherry Liquor, Moss Accord. He wanted to be swept up in it. The tops of her breasts peeking through the soapy surface moved up and down with her sleeping breath.

For a while, Aaliyah caught on to the Professor checking her out. It wasn’t obvious to her at first, but she caught on to how he would position himself directly in front of his desk, exactly within her line of vision. If he focused forward, she would meet his gaze straight away. He made it a point to allow those striking eyes to linger on her for a beat longer. She’d walk out of that classroom on Wednesdays and Fridays knowing he was watching her. She’d caught him staring at her ass through the reflective glass of the lecture hall door.

She honestly hadn’t expected him to approach her. For a while, he’d just admired from afar. Most men do. The boldest a man ever got with Aaliyah was when she’d worked at Crazy Horse. Plenty of men there would ask her out. She’d even received flowers and gifts. At one point she had a stalker. Professor Richmond; Terry was different. She’d read many smutty stories about forbidden flings with a Professor. She’d save her fantasies for that.

Ding Ding Ding

Aaliyah’s eyes snapped open and with a long yawn she stopped the timer on her phone. She reached out for her mug and gulped down the warm tea. It should help put her to sleep. After bathing, she did all her necessary nightly routines before slipping on an oversized T-shirt that dangled from one shoulder. Aaliyah put on YouTube for background noise while opening her laptop to finish editing. Her eyes took note of the time.

11:30 pm.

She pushed her laptop forward and positioned herself onto her stomach, moving her hips from side to side and absentmindedly swinging her legs. Why couldn’t she shake the Professor from her mind?

Sent!

One assignment down, more to go.

Curiosity got the best of her. She started doing some digging. Aaliyah took to social media to find him. It wasn’t hard. She studied his LinkedIn.

PhD in Psychology. Fluent in French. Ex Marine.

From her place in class, he appeared shorter. Today however, when he walked up to her, he was massive. The same smirk he held in the picture she was currently staring at is the same he gave her before taking a seat.

Her body hummed with desire. This man is FIONE.

It wasn’t just the eyes. His entire face was just…

Aaliyah went down a rabbit hole of stalking. She found his Facebook and his Instagram both accounts were private, and she wasn’t about to follow him. That was a big no–no. This man could be hiding a wife. He could have kids. He could be crazy. All three of which she experienced with previous men. Aaliyah stopped herself before she could even go further.

But those lips…his voice…that body…

She wanted to see it…

Buzz Buzz

“Keisha…shit.”

Keisha: 👀👀

Fuck it. She already had her mind made up earlier. If she could leave that gig tomorrow night with two grand or more…she wasn’t going to pass up on that.

Aaliyah: I’m in 😈

Now, it was just a matter of figuring out what she was going to wear.

——

“Why is it so cold out here…”

Aaliyah followed closely behind Keisha inside of the Fire Station. She could hear the distant voices of the riled up men below. They entered a locker room, the lingering smell of smoke wafting from uniforms that hung from compartments burning her nose. Aaliyah cast wary eyes around her, making sure it was safe to take off her black, body con dress.

Keisha didn’t waste time stripping down to her very revealing monokini. The thin straps failed to hide her wide, brown areolas. That ass was rotund and sitting up like a shelf. You could sit a cup on that ass. Keisha wore her hair in two space buns with bangs. Her deep brown skin shimmered with gold–tinted body glow. The eight–inch heels on her feet made her six feet tall.

“They’re already in rare form and we ain’t even get started yet.” Keisha spoke with excitement.

“How many we expecting?” Aaliyah asked.

“About twenty. Why? You nervous?”

“No. I just want to know what I’m walking into.”

Aaliyah slipped out of her dress, the Wonder Woman two–piece she wore making her look edible. She wore gold six–inch pleasure heels to match. The low ambience of the locker room made the glitter on her skin stand out. She did a slow turn, Keisha nodding her head in approval.

“Looking real good. They’re gonna love you. Tip you off real good, bitch.”

“They better,” Aaliyah flashed Keisha a lustrous smile, “When do we go?”

Petey Pablo Freek–A–Leek started playing. The deep base of the southern banger from the early 00s vibrated the floors. Aaliyah locked eyes with Keisha.

“That’s our queue. You ready?”

Aaliyah flipped her hair over her shoulders and exhaled a shaky breath.

“Let’s do this shit.”

“Well already then…”

Keisha slipped past Aaliyah to lead the way, popping her on the ass for good measure. Something they did often back at Crazy Horse before working the floor and the pole. It was a way of saying, ‘break a leg’.

Aaliyah strutted towards a set of red spiral stairs. She allowed the music to flood her mind, putting her in the proper head space. She could do this. She’d done this many times before. A wolf whistle from a firefighter below gave her stomach a little flutter.

“Wooooweeeee!”

“Dayum! This what we got tonight, boys?!”

“Keisha!”

Keisha worked her way down the spiral staircase. She held a big smile on her face, teasing the men with a wink and a bounce of her big titties. They cheered and didn’t waste time throwing cash.

“Take your time wit’ it motherfucka’s we got all night!”

She looked up at Aaliyah and elevated a brow, her way of saying, Bitch! Let’s get to it!

Aaliyah shook off her nerves and descended the staircase, another massive uproar filling the room.

“Holy shit…”

“Fuck! She’s a baddie!”

“Look at that ass…”

“Hey, baby!”

Aaliyah scanned the room full of rowdy men pumped with testosterone and arousal. They each wore Baton Rouge Fire Emblems across their navy blue t-shirts. Black and white men. She could smell beer and liquor in the air with a hint of cigarette smoke. She noticed parked fire trucks and two gold poles. The poles they used to swing down during an emergency.

She worked her charm, flicking her jeweled tongue and biting her lip.

“Hi, boys…”

The seductive power she possessed put them all in a trance. The sound of heels against the concrete floor added to the desire. She moved around the men with confidence, eyeing them up and down while touching her body, focusing on her assets that earned her cash.

“Big fine woman…”

She looked up into the eyes of a carob–skinned man with a burly body. He looked like those men from the Jabari Tribe in Black Panther.

Aaliyah took advantage of that, arching her back and bouncing her ass on his crotch. Shouts and grunts filled the room.

“Damn…look at that pussy from the back…look at the way it’s sitting…”

“You like the way this pussy look, huh, baby?”

Aaliyah folded herself forward, trailing a finger over her covered pussy through her bikini bottom. A hefty chunk of cash smacked against her cheeks before raining down on her from above. She took it up a notch, grabbing her ankles and making that ass move from left to right.

Keisha was already on the pole, the straps to her monokini down and her titties bared for them all to see. Aaliyah felt a few bills being slipped into her blinki, and she looked back at the man that did it with low, wanton eyes.

“Gorgeous baby…what they call you?”

“Liyah Allure…”

“I want you.”

“You know to pay for what you want, right?”

Aaliyah flashed her titties before covering herself back up. That had them losing their damn minds. She slithered her way towards the second pole. It wasn’t exactly the pole she remembered, but it would do for this occasion. She did a back hook spin into a fireman spin. Some Three Six Mafia song started playing and Aaliyah went harder.

Green cascaded over her body while she popped ass and showed out. She locked eyes with Keisha, the exhilaration flowing between them like electricity.

Aerial Invert

Fan Kick

Drop Into A Split.

Aaliyah pulled out all her tricks and worked up a sweat. After doing her thing on the pole, she gave personal lap dances and even entertained face sitting on a timid firefighter while he was on his back. She crouched down over his face and started bouncing over him like she was riding a dick. She laughed and her eyes noticed a large wet spot in the front of his pants.

This man came on himself.

“I can smell her pussy! So good!” He shouted weakly.

Aaliyah missed the thrill.

They wouldn’t stop giving her money.

“Can I smell your perfume?”

*Tip*

“Show me those perfect, brown titties.”

*Tip*

“Put my face in it!”

*Tip*

They worked that room for two hours and then called it a night. After getting dressed, Aaliyah pinned up her sweated–out tresses and secured her bag. She’d just finished rubber banning the last of her money she’d split with Keisha. Keisha dropped her off, both of them cracking up and doubling over with laughter in her Hellcat.

“Bitch! That was so much damn fun!” Aaliyah said.

“I told you! This is where it’s at, girl. They loved you. I knew they would love you.”

“It felt so good being on the pole again.” Aaliyah smiled.

“Make sure you count that cash and let me know how much you made tonight. Until next time?”

Keisha wagged her brows at Aaliyah playfully. She giggled at her friend, opening her door to leave.

“When is next time?”

Keisha grinned.

“Next week. I got a bachelor party lined up. A fine ass groom. I got Diamond and Precious coming too. That’s gonna be wild…all black men…so you know…”

Keisha twirled a bottle of water in her lap to mimick a well–hung dick. Aaliyah threw her head back and laughed hard.

“Bitch! I’m not playing with you.” Aaliyah spoke between giggles.

“You down? We both know you want to…might as well say yes.”

“FUCK. YES. I’m in there. You picking me up?”

“Yeah I gotchu, Li–Li. Listen, we can’t be late for this, okay? You gotta be ready by eight. No later.”

“Okay. I’ll be in my best and ready to shake ass. I promise.”

Keisha pulled Aaliyah into a tight embrace and watched her enter her home before pulling off.

@theereina @bombshellbre95 @planetblaque @trippyscotch @megamindsecretlair @uzumaki-rebellion @thesweetestdrug @theblulife @hotgrlcece @blackerthings @deja-r @helloncrocs @hearteyes-for-killmonger @kaylabuggggg06 @skyesthebomb @blyffe @gwenda-fav @beenathembo @blackpinup22 @novaniskye @melaninhawtie @urfavblackbimbo @avoidthings @rose-bliss @xo-goldengirl @kinginwithbreezy-blog @mysecertdiaryofableedingheart @sirenmouths @creartivefairy @soulfulbeauty19 @therealmrsrhodes @hrlzy @nayaesworld @gg-trini @brattyfics @flydotty @writingsbytee @shiania @browngirldominion @notapradagurl7 @madamzola @kismet83 @aristasworld @sl33p-deprived-princess @erynnnn @itssbrie @melaninangel @withoutmusiclifewouldbflat @sweettea-and-honeybutter

[ckret2]

@marsupials-of-mars submitted:

I was planning to do maybe a fic and more doodles of this but now I'm busy with school so I might as well show what I did do!

Based on how the goldilocks fic seems to posit that Bill at his best is a silly professor who loves to teach his own way

Introducing Professor Locke!

Things about this idea:

-post redemption, however that will go. I'm calling it an AU because I imagine it is not your plan for what happens after lol, but currently canon-compliant.

-Bill is at first not very on board with the idea of working in the higher education system. It's a scam and it's dumb that they tell adult people how to think.

-He's eventually convinced to bless Backupsmore with his tutelage, on the grounds that they're less stuck up there, they seem to care about giving their students opportunities despite their backgrounds, and the kids there care about learning rather than going to college just because their parents said they should.

-Ford uses his academic connections to vouch for Bill even though he is very mysterious and has no academic records. This is another reason why they picked Backupsmore: i's a little more lax when presented with a shockingly smart mystery professor. Bill gets an interview and charms the pants off the university president.

-He teaches "astrophysics" in theory (that's the job description) but he ends up teaching a little bit of everything.

-He's one of those professors you either adore or despise. He's very loud, often outright mean, and if you're too shy to speak up in class he does not give a SHIT about you. You gotta want it!

-However, his class is notoriously easy. He thinks homework and tests are facist, but he's required to have a curriculum, so his "quizzes" are like a few true or false questions and then a short answer where he asks something he thinks would be funny or wants to hear about, like "what's the dumbest thing another student has said in class since the last test and why was it dumb" or "fashion advice: what's the coolest thing I wore this last week? Extra credit: draw something cooler I SHOULD wear."

-as a result, students who have completely unrelated majors will take his class. If they end up being interested, he deems them worthy. If they're just there to be lazy, he will bully them into dropping out.

-Mabel buys him stickers to put on people's tests when they pass, or to just hand out when they something he likes. He gets along most with the college kids who know how to appreciate a classic gold star.

-He really wanted a big pretty lecture hall, where his voice would echo and he could point at a big chalkboard. But all Backupsmore could provide was a cinderblock and linoleum basement classroom. The lights buzz very loudly and it smells musty. They have stools and folding tables. Bill finds he enjoys the more intimate environment where he can walk between the tables and also sneak up on people.

-He's broken multiple folding tables by trying to do the cool professor thing where you hop up onto your desk and cross your legs and talk all casual. He is able to do this on his own desk thankfully. It's aluminum.

-Ford gets a bit nervous if he did the right thing when bill tells his school stories at the dinner table, so he finds an excuse to accompany Bill to a campus event where he can meet some of his students.

-His fears are quickly assuaged when he sees how beloved Bill is and how well he gets along with the kids. When he eventually joins in on one of these conversations, one of the students asks if he's Sixer. The students are excited by this. Bill tries to shut them up, to partial success.

OK I guess I just ended up writing the fic more or less so enjoy I guess lol.

Aww, this is adorable! Thank you! (And the fact that you're imagining a future for Bill makes me so happy.) He's absolutely be the weirdest professor in the school and he'd ADORE having a crowd full of trusting impressional minds whose parents are paying him to change the way they think. Talk about playing to his strengths.

Your idea is so wholesome, meanwhile the moment I saw "Professor Bill" I went,

[startanewdream]

A small Harry and Minerva moment, set after the final battle, in honour of Minerva's birthday.

*****

"I am not coming back," Harry blurts out. Next to him, Minerva's only reaction is a flicker on her spell: for a moment, the broken chairs of the Transfiguration classroom get extra pairs of legs that make them look like spiders.

When the chairs go back to normal, she turns to Harry with an impassive look.

"I imagined so."

Harry blinks. "You did? You never mentioned anything."

Minerva shares his surprise. "It was not my place to say anything. You are of age now."

"So all this time I've been helping here at Hogwarts, you just knew and went along with it?"

"Would it please you if I say I do not agree with your decision?"

"Yes, actually."

There's a hint of a smile on Minerva's lips. "I think you should come back to school."

"Oh." Harry looks down at his feet before moving to fix the bricks on the wall. Despite what he just told her, it's undeniable that this was not what Harry wanted to hear. "You think I am not ready?"

He sounds young. It's difficult to match this adult Harry — nearly eighteen-year-old, tall like his father, and spotting too many scars for his age — with the eleven-year-old who was sorted into her House, but that's the memory that resurfaces: Harry is eleven and he was caught out of his bed at night, losing 50 points to Gryffindor. He'd looked upset at the idea of being a disappointment.

That's how he looks now.

"You are of age," she repeats, her voice more tender than she allows herself around him, lest she betrays her soft spot for him. Harry's eyes are hungry as he turns to face her. "You faced more than any exam could measure — you faced things that cannot be measured." She thinks about the unconfirmed tales of a sacrifice and master of death, and it's not easy to match this with a boy worried about homework and deadlines. "From an educational point of view, I believe your time at Hogwarts has concluded."

Harry watches her. "But?" He guesses.

She allows herself a little smile. "But education is not all Hogwarts has to offer." She remembers seeing that scrawny kid laughing as he first took flight on a school broomstick; three friends sitting outside on a winter afternoon, bundling up next to a warm blue fire and sharing tales; a boy and his girlfriend, walking hand-in-hand through the halls, oblivious to any gossip. "I would be glad if you returned only to enjoy your Seventh Year as a common student. No threat. No drama. Just school."

"Just school," he repeats, his gaze far away now as if he could see it. Then Harry blinks. "Hermione and Ginny are coming back. Ron is not, though."

Minerva nods. She won't say it, but sometimes she wonders if the fact that Ron Weasley isn't returning isn't what's weighing most on Harry. Inseparable like brothers. Like father, like son.

"Do you think my parents would be okay with it?"

This time, the question baffles her; she's glad she wasn't transforming anything because it might have been disastrous.

"I do not believe I am qualified to answer this, Harry," she says.

"Ah, it's just —" He holds the back of his head, ruffling his hair, unaware that this was what James did when he was embarrassed. "You are one of the last people that knew them."

And this, as far as Minerva is concerned, is a terrible thing. James and Lily would be only thirty-eight if they were alive. She has lived now nearly four times what they did; how is it that there are now so few people that knew them?

Harry looks young once again. She knows he's made up his mind — and like Lily, he's adamant once he's decided something —, so this need for validation isn't what she associates with the young man she saw standing up to Voldemort one month ago.

But for all his deeds, Harry is just a boy who grew up longing for his parents — parents who had loved him fiercely, she knows. She doubts Harry might ever do anything that James and Lily wouldn't support — God knows Minerva supports him, and she isn't even his relative — but she also thinks they would insist that Harry return to his final year.

Seventh Year. That had been the year when James and Lily were Head Boy and Head Girl, and the future had looked promising to both. That had been the year when they had started dating; when the darkness of the war hadn't yet tinted their lives. When they had been the happiest. How could they not want the same for Harry?

But that's not what she tells him. "Yes," she lies calmly. "James and Lily would approve it."

Harry breathes easily. "Thanks." He moves to fix another desk, not noticing how, a long time ago, someone carved JP+LE in the wood.

Harry's spellwork is good. He might enjoy some refinement, but she doubts he will be fixing desks in his future job, so instead of commenting on it, she just lets it slide.

"Of course," she notes with a hint of humour, "if you came back, it would not have been all fun. I would have high expectations for you."

"Quidditch?" Harry guesses. "I'd say that Gryffindor is safe in Ginny's hands."

"I enjoy the Quidditch trophy in my office," she agrees. "But alas I was thinking about another responsibility. A Head Boy badge would suit you." Harry's eyes widen; she is once more sorry for not insisting harder with Albus that Harry should have been made prefect. "As it did your parents."

Harry smiles. "I would enjoy that."

"There are tons of paperwork, I might warn you — though not unlike being an Auror." Harry chuckles. "But either way, Harry, your parents would have been proud."

As I am proud of you, she thinks.

[roosterforme]

Adult Education Part 1 | Hangman x OC

Summary: Jake ends up sitting in on a college physics lecture purely by accident. He's rewarded with a cute smile and a cheap beer when he defends the professor. But since when is he like Bradshaw, getting turned on by math and college classrooms?

Warnings: Fluff, angst, swearing

Length: 3600 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female OC

This story is part of the Beer Boy and Sugar universe but can be read on its own! It was also written for a request and Rocktober! Adult Education masterlist

Seriously, who let Jake on my masterlist!? Banner by @mak-32

"Hey, Bradshaw."

Bradley spun to face Jake in the parking lot, throwing a questioning glance his way. "Hangman?"

"I need a favor." 

Jake wanted to laugh at the annoyed look on the other aviator's face, but he really did need Rooster to help him out. 

"What favor?" Bradley asked, making a production of checking his watch for the time. It was 5:32. Jake could have told him that without checking his own watch. But once again, being at Bradshaw's mercy had him biting his tongue.

"I need a ride home," Jake informed him, nodding to where that vintage Bronco was parked. "My truck is in the shop."

"Why are you just telling me about this now?"

Jake sighed. "Because I live to annoy you. Can you drop me off at my place or not? It's like a mile from your house."

"I'm not heading straight home," Bradley informed him. "My wife is giving a back to school mini lecture at the college."

"Doesn't she teach calculus?" Jake asked, starting to sweat through his khaki uniform while the two men stood in the hot blacktop. "Why are you going to a college calculus lecture?"

Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, clearly annoyed that he was being held up. "Because my wife is hot, and I want to get laid tonight."

"That's fair," he replied. Bradshaw somehow ended up marrying a dime. And Jake supposed he'd willingly attend some stuffy math lecture as well, if the woman giving it was hot enough.

"Listen, I'm leaving," Bradley said, already backing away. "If you want a ride from me, you'll have to swing by San Diego State for an hour or two first. I can drop you off after the lecture."

Jake looked around, deciding this was going to be his best option. "Yeah, alright. Thanks, Bradshaw."

"Just don't embarrass me," Bradley replied, climbing in the driver's side door. Jake climbed in the Bronco as well and rolled his eyes. Really, in what world would he be the embarrassing one here? 

"I'm cool," Jake insisted as they pulled out of the parking spot. 

"And please, don't call my wife Dr. Tits."

"Okay, that was one time," Jake said, trying to defend himself. "At the holiday party. And I was very drunk."

"Yeah, well she thinks you're annoying."

"Hmm," Jake hummed, looking out the window. "I'll behave."

They rode the rest of the way in a silence that thankfully wasn't as awkward as it could have been. And when they went walking through the campus side by side, Jake chuckled at all of the college aged girls turning to get a look at them.

"Yeah," Bradley grunted. "It happens every time."

"Hey, some of these girls are cute."

"You're thirty."

"I don't see a problem." 

Jake held open the door to the mathematics and science building for Bradley to walk inside, and they were met with clusters of students and professors talking in the long corridor. He followed Bradley into one of the lecture halls on the first floor, and a pang of jealousy shot through him when Bradshaw's wife made a beeline their way with a smile on her face.

"Hey, Sugar," Bradley crooned, and she kissed him so sweetly, Jake had to look away. 

"Beer Boy! I can't believe you came."

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Oh, hi Jake," she said, waving to him from where she was tucked under her husband's chin.

"Hi," he replied, feeling kind of bad about calling her Dr. Tits a few weeks ago. "Rooster kindly offered to drive me home after your lecture, since my truck is currently in for repairs."

"You're sweet," she told Bradley before leaning up to kiss him again. But now he had one hand sliding down along her ass, and Jake waved as he walked away.

"Text me when you're done," he muttered, despising the feeling of being the third wheel. It happened more and more as his friends and coworkers started to pair off in serious relationships. He didn't mind being single; it gave him more opportunity to save money for a Cessna, and he didn't have to stop picking up girls from the bar. But he didn't like it when he was expected to stand there and watch everyone else sucking face and saying I love you. "Disgusting."

When he wandered back out into the main hallway, he noticed that it was 6:00 and everyone seemed to be heading into the different lecture halls. So he chose a door at random and ducked inside behind a kid holding a skateboard. If he'd had more time to consider his options, he might have looked for something different to listen to for an hour, but it just so happened he walked in as a physics lecture was starting up. 

There was a woman with her back to the room writing her name on the white board. Dr. Jessica Reed. When she turned around, adjusted her glasses and smiled, Jake tripped over a chair leg and sat down a little hard in one of the empty seats. She was beautiful. And now she was looking right at him since he'd made the chair screech a few inches across the floor. 

"Sorry," he whispered, wincing in apology. But she just shrugged a little bit and got started. 

"Welcome back for the spring semester. I'm Dr. Reed, and this is my second year teaching at San Diego State after earning my PhD in physics from Texas A&M." She paused and gestured to five men sitting in the front row. "Tonight some of my colleagues and I will be talking about propulsion and thrust in relation to aviation and aeronautics."

Now Jake was sitting on the edge of his seat. She went to college in Texas? She knew about aviation? She looked hot in her glasses, skirt and high heels? He was fascinated. She gave a short lecture, pausing to write some formulas on the board in her tidy handwriting, and he was pleased to note that he remembered some of this from his classes at the Naval Academy. He actually remembered a lot of this.

Now she was writing a problem on the board while she said, "Thrust provides the forward motion needed to sustain lift and counteract drag. It is also used to accelerate, gain altitude, and sometimes to maneuver. Propulsion is the act of moving or pushing an object forward. So if an aviator needs to prevent altitude loss because of drag, they would need to know how this formula works."

Jake sat with a smug smile on his face. He did this every day at work. And he already solved her handwritten problem in his head, because he took and aced four semesters of physics himself.

"Can anyone solve for the required thrust?" she asked, adjusting her glasses a little nervously when nobody immediately raised their hand. 

Jake glanced from side to side. The college kids either looked lost or too shy to answer, so he slipped his hand into the air. 

"Yes?" she asked, calling on him. "Go ahead."

"2900 meters per second," he answered smoothly, and her face lit up. 

"Perfect," she replied, turning back to the board to finish solving for everyone to see. She gave a few closing notes and some information about her class schedule, and when she was finished, she grabbed her notebook from the podium. Jake and a few others in attendance clapped for her as she made her way to the empty seat right in front of him. She smiled at him softly before she sat down. 

And then Jake had to endure a very loud, very cranky old man named Dr. Benson Leeland give a similar lecture. But his voice was not conducive to learning, and his handwriting was atrocious. He complained in a passive aggressive tone that Dr. Reed hadn't erased the board for him, and Jake watched her squirm a little awkwardly in the seat in front of him. That was pretty rude of Dr. Leeland. 

But now Jake was noticing the way the other physics professors were hanging on every word that this guy was saying. A few even asked for more information. But as Jake studied the sloppy equation he was scribbling on the board, he realized the answer was wrong. 

"He doesn't even have the right information," Jake mumbled, squinting at the board. 

"No," Jessica Reed whispered, "he really doesn't."

"Is he new here or something?" Jake muttered.

She laughed softly and looked at him over her shoulder. She looked so cute, and her eyes were sparkling with wit and intelligence. "He's had tenure since 1995."

"Jesus," Jake groaned, looking back to the board just in time to see Dr. Leeland cap the dry erase marker. 

"Any questions about the problem?" he barked, and once again everyone else in the room looked half asleep. Well, other than the panel of professors in the front who were hanging on his every word.

But Jake raised his hand and said, "Yes. Several."

"Fine," Dr. Leeland growled. "What would you like to know?"

Jake scoffed and stood up as he gestured to the white board. "I'd like to know why your answer is wrong."

The room went silent as Dr. Leeland turned and looked at the board. A few seconds later, he said, "It looks correct to me," but he sounded far less confident now.

"Well it's not. It's off by a thousand. And you need thrust not propulsion to rapidly gain altitude during takeoff," Jake said, and he noticed that Jessica appeared to be holding in her laughter in front of him. "So not only is your math wrong, your equation just doesn't even make any sense."

"I'm sorry, but are you a student here? Did you graduate from this program?" Leeland asked Jake.

"No," he replied with his hands on his hips. "I'm an aviator. And I attended the Naval Academy where the professors taught physics correctly like Dr. Reed."

He could have heard a pin drop, and Jessica was looking back at him from her seat with her lips parted and her eyes wide. Then a smile crept onto her face, and Jake decided that it was so stunning, he'd like to keep it there. 

Just as Dr. Leeland started to shuffle around the front of the lecture hall, and another equally geriatric professor took his place at the podium, Jessica stood, clutching her red notebook to her chest. She still looked kind of surprised by him, but pleased nonetheless. And when she was standing this close to him, Jake was having a hard time remembering why he was annoyed a few seconds ago. 

When she nodded to the doors at the back of the room and headed toward them, Jake tripped along after her. She slipped silently out into the hallway and he followed her lead. It was cool and quiet out here, and she laughed softly as soon as the door closed softly behind him. 

"Sorry, but there's no way I could listen to another lecture after Leeland put his foot in his mouth like that," she told him softly with a smile. "And it seemed like you were probably done, too?"

"That's right. I'm pretty sure I already got to hear the best physics professor give her lecture," Jake said as smoothly as he could. "No sense in staying for whatever the hell that was." He jerked his chin toward the door, and she looked delighted. "He didn't even know what he was talking about."

"Yeah," she agreed, adjusting her glasses and nodding vigorously. "He's been tenured. Since 1995. Welcome to my world."

Jake chuckled, and when he held out his hand, she juggled her notebook and shook it. "I'm Jake Seresin." Her hand was small and sure, and he had to fight the urge to pull her closer.

"Jessica Reed," she replied, pulling her hand from his all too soon. 

"I really liked your mini lecture, Dr. Reed," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

She laughed and looked at the floor for a beat. "You can call me Jessica." She glanced toward the elevators like maybe she was going to leave, but then she turned back to him and asked, "You feel like grabbing a drink? There's a hellaciously shitty dive bar across the street."

He grinned. "Do they have cheap beer?"

"Oh, yeah. And they give you peanuts and let you throw the shells wherever you want to with reckless abandon," she said before biting her lip. Was she nervous to ask him? She shouldn't be. Jake would have followed her out into oncoming traffic if she said that's what she wanted to do.

"Let's go," he replied, earning himself another smile. 

"It's my treat," she said, pushing open the doors and heading out onto the sidewalk with him. "Honestly, a three dollar beer and some stale peanuts is the least you deserve for standing up for me in there."

As they walked side by side toward the corner and the crosswalk, he asked, "So you're the only competent one in your department, Jessica?" Oh, he really liked saying her name. He wondered if she would respond with one of those pretty smiles if he whispered her name in her ear.

"Yes," she replied with conviction as she crossed the street toward the bar called Chippy's. "And I'm also the youngest one, the only female, and the only one without tenure." She pushed open the door, and Jake immediately noticed the crowd of college students and the floor that was simultaneously sticky and slippery from peanut shells.

"Hey, Reedy!" called the bartender, and she waved to him before grabbing the last empty high top with two stools. 

Jake smirked. "Are you a regular at Chippy's?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes with a grin as she took a seat. 

"If you were in my shoes, you'd need a shitty beer at the end of the day more often than not, too."

And then to Jake's surprise, the older bartender stopped by the table with two beers and a bowl of peanuts. He set them down next to Jessica's red notebook. "Reedy," he said with a wink before looking at Jake like he was already on thin ice. 

When he headed back to the bar, Jake sat on the stool opposite hers and watched as she took a sip of her beer. Then she licked her lips, and Jake leaned a little closer.

"Okay, so earlier you said you're an aviator?" she asked, looking at his uniform shirt. "You're a naval Lieutenant? Top Gun?"

"That's right," he confirmed, and that smile was back. "Your lecture took me right back to my Physics of Propulsion and Combustion class from about ten years ago."

She cracked open a peanut, and Jake watched her toss the shell to the floor without a care in the world, and he laughed. 

"What were you doing in my lecture anyway?" she asked before popping the peanut into her mouth.

Jake suddenly remembered Bradshaw and his wife and his ride home. He'd gotten completely lost in Jessica and managed to forget all about everything else. "I actually came with a friend of mine, but he went to a different lecture. I just picked a door at random, and let me tell you, I'm happy I ended up in your lecture hall."

She pressed her lips together, and he crushed a peanut of his own. "Well, I hope you learned something useful today, Jake."

"I did," he replied, throwing the shell over his shoulder, and Jessica laughed. "I learned that if I'm not nice to the best physics professor at San Diego State, the bartender at Chippy's will kick my ass."

The sound of her laughter as she tipped her head back had Jake entranced. Her neck and collarbones looked soft, like they were made for his lips and fingers to explore. And her clothes were kind of sexy in an academic way. Since when was he like Bradshaw, getting turned on by math and college classrooms? 

"Yeah, you better watch your back," she said, cracking into another peanut. "What kind of jet do you fly?"

He had to clear his throat. "F/A-18. Super Hornet."

She moaned softly, and Jake almost dropped his pint glass. "One of my favorites for aerodynamics and combustion studies. I actually just read the most interesting article in the Journal of Propulsion Science about the Super Hornet. It was fascinating, because they touched on-" She froze with a peanut shell in her hand and looked embarrassed. "Sorry."

He wanted her to finish her sentence. He needed her to. She knew about the fucking physics of his aircraft! She was hot as hell! "Keep going," he urged. "Why was it fascinating?"

Jessica licked her lips again and said, "It was fascinating because they touched on the way temperature affects draft and drag."

After that, Jake was completely hooked. He listened to her with rapt attention as she told him a bit more about the article before saying, "I kept the journal. If you ever wanted to borrow it."

"Yes," he replied immediately, leaning even closer to her. "I'd love to borrow it."

"Great," she whispered, adjusting her glasses and finishing her beer. But when she set her glass down, she gasped. "I left my wallet in my office. I was going to treat you to the beer for being so sweet and essentially telling Leeland to go fuck himself earlier."

Jake was the one with his head tipped back in laughter this time. When he met her eyes again, he said, "Oh, you're cute, Jessica. But I was never going to let you pay for the three dollar beers." She giggled and covered her lips with her fingertips, and Jake asked, "You want another pint?"

But then his phone rang, and he muttered, "Sorry," as he dug it out of his pocket. 

Bradshaw

He ignored the call. All of the lectures must be over by now. He was probably ready to leave. But Jake wanted to spend the rest of the night sitting in Chippy's with Dr. Jessica Reed, throwing peanut shells on the floor with reckless abandon.

"You have to go?" she asked softly, and Jake thought she looked a little sad at the prospect. 

"Yeah," he started before his brain helpfully informed him that he could easily stay longer and just get a cab or an Uber to take him home later. 

But when he was about to tell Jessica that he actually wanted to hang out with her longer, she said, "Okay. No worries. I... should get back to my office anyway. Thanks for the beer, Jake." 

And then she stood, and he felt instant regret as he left twenty bucks on the table and followed her outside. But his phone was ringing in his hand as she turned toward the math and science building and pushed the button for the crosswalk. 

Jake answered Bradley's call with a clipped, "Yeah?"

"Meet us at the Bronco." And then the call went silent. 

He watched as Jessica pushed the button for the crosswalk two more times. "Jessica," he started, but she cut him off.

"Thanks again, Jake. Have a great night," she said, running across the street in her high heels. So he ran after her. 

"What happened?" he called after her. "Jessica!" But she was already near the doors that would take her inside to her office. She glanced back at him one last time before she walked inside, and he didn't look away until she was completely out of his sight. 

"Fuck," he shouted, turning back toward the street where the Bronco was parked. Everything had been going well. Fucking great. Jessica was smart and attractive. Funny, too. And the chemistry was definitely there. He was almost certain he was about to seal the deal with her phone number. 

As he rounded the corner, he saw Bradshaw leaning against the Bronco. "There you are," he said, opening the driver's door and sliding the seat forward for Jake to climb in the back. 

"Which lecture did you end up attending?" his wife asked as Bradley started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

"Physics," he muttered, still trying to figure out how he managed to fuck up the night. Then he looked at her again. "Hey, do you know anything about Jessica Reed?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. She's nice. Physics professor. Kind of keeps to herself, probably because the rest of her department is comprised of a bunch of old douchebags. She's only been at the school one year longer than me. Why do you ask? Ohhhh," she said knowingly and turned to look at him. "She's a genius, and she's gorgeous."

"Sounds like she's a little bit out of your league, man," Rooster said with a laugh. 

Jake raked his fingers through his hair. "More like a lot," he said, fully agreeing with Bradshaw for once.

"Don't act like I'm not out of your league, Beer Boy," his wife said. And then Jake had to endure their little cuddle fest for the rest of the drive while he mentally kicked himself for having no clue how to treat a woman who he wanted to get to know, not just get in his bed. 

-----------------------------

Give it up, Jake. You're just as bad as Beer Boy. Oh, Jessica, where did you go? I'm kind of torn between leaving this as a one-shot and writing a second part. Big thanks for @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 2

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[invincible-selfxmade-punk]

Watch "Daryl Hall & John Oates - Adult Education (Official Video)" on YouTube

[ashdreams2023]

Hello again! I was wondering if you still do requests and if so, can I request a Severus x reader but platonic? Like we've all read Sev being like a guardian of sorts to students but what if reader is like the prof that cares for Sev when he was a student? Like Severus' favorite teacher is reader cause not only is she smart and teaches well but she has a soft spot for Sevy and is one of the profs that punishes the marauders every time she catches them bothering Snape. Snape can see her as a mother figure that even up to the point that Sev actually became a teacher he still goes to her for his problems and she just babies him lol. (Reader was once the youngest teacher to teach in Hogwarts before Snape took that role)

Alright alright gonna do this now!

Platonic Severus snape x fem reader

All my respect

Severus had a rocky relationship with adults from a very young age that’s for sure, his home life and neighborhood left little in his faith for grown ups.

It was a rocky two first years when he couldn’t even trust his head of house let alone another professor, he felt uncomfortable if he had to seek his head of house for help, he preferred to suffer in silence, even if it meant having to sit in aching bruises from his bullies until he learned how to brew a cooling balm.

No one did a thing to genuinely help him, no one, he hated how everyone overlooked him, how They saw him just as a weird kid who others avoid for no reason but that they didn’t understand him.

That continued until his third year, after a brutal beating from Sirius and his wand almost snapping in half, he remembers it very clearly he was sitting in the hall feeling the entire world was against him.

Then you came, young looking and worried, at the time you were only 28 years of age, he knew you were the new hired substitute professor for charms.

He expected to be scolded and sent to his dorm but instead you kneeled down and without even asking a question tended to his injuries self, he flinched when you first touched his face but that didn’t stop you from applying some healing balm and checking his medical chart with your wand.

He was speechless to say the least, no one ever cared this much about him…even his mother…

"Tell me who did this to you and I don’t want any lies little boy" you tried to sound firm but he could tell you were still panicked about his state and what you saw on his medical charm, he was a scrawny malnourished boy "you can tell me, you’re not gonna be in trouble I promise"

Next thing he knows points have been deducted from the lions and he’s all healed up. Although that still didn’t make him trust you that easily.

But it kept happening, you stopped whoever was bothering him, looked out for him when he seemed a little off and much more, you didn’t rest until you got the marauders suspended from hogwarts for a whole semester because of that idiot and deadly prank.

You scolded him still but always with a gentle hand checking if he’s hurt or hiding an injury like he sometimes did.

"One of these days you will kill me with a heart attack!"

"They started it!"

Heck you even helped him get some rare plants for his potion making and recommended him to higher education, even after he messed up and used that awful name, you believed him, you saw the good in him and stood by his side.

He can thank you a million times but he still feels like it isn’t enough, even now at 35 of age, you’re 50 and still working in the same school.

He comes to you for guidance, he has tea with you every other day and you sit there smiling fondly as he complains and rants about his day, just like the little boy you once knew.

"With all my respect to you mother but these kids are insufferable" it takes him a minute to realize what he just said and he blushes crazily but you chuckle.

"Oh please, you’re the son I never birthed"

Severus sighs still blushing slightly from embarrassment "Isn’t it too late for me to call my professor mum?" He used sarcasm to hide his embarrassment.

You sipped your tea and leaned back on your chair "I remember when you were just a little lad, sneaking around to brew your outrageous potions and getting burned then coming back to me with a pout and tear stained eyes demanding I give you my cooling balm"

He smirked crossing his arms "I can make it myself now, I don’t need to be babied anymore"

"Oh? So you don’t your favorite tea cup?" She laughed softly.

Severus frowned dropping his arms, his tea cup, the one you bought specially for him because the design reminded you of a cauldron, it was childish and looked out of place in your neatly organized cabin with all the good China sets.

But he still went for it, he wouldn’t pick that one round tea cup and take it for himself, you would tease him about needing a grown up one but he would defend himself saying he would do just fine with this one.

"Well, good to know some things just don’t change sevy"

"Don’t call me that I’m a grown adult! I’m taller than you!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night sevy" fighting you was useless, he should’ve known better but he always felt light, he breathed out and let a small smile creep on his lips.

[felixtrash469-blog]

Professor Hatake x reader

Parings: Hatake Kakashi x reader

Reader Gender: They/them pronouns - AFAB

Genre: Smut - Minors do not interact

Other: University AU (Separated into years), Alpha Kakashi, Omega reader. Professor Kakashi, Student reader, Slight breeding kink, Marking, F/N (First name) over Y/N (Your name) used

Kakashi organized his papers that were strewn across the desk. He sighed, lining them up and preparing for the staff meeting. He made his way down the hall to meet with the other professors. Wandering in, only slightly late, he watched all eyes flick to him. Iruka gave him a disappointing look as he took his seat beside him.

“Now that all professors are present, let’s discuss the students. Is there any trends, concerns or issues arising?” Konoha was a small university, consisting of only 50 students in each year. This cohort of professors taught the 3rd years in their respective subjects, Iruka focusing on history, Gai in Physical education, Orochimaru in chemistry, there were more teachers, but he didn’t interact much with them. Kakashi himself taught biology, with a focus on how each of the different special gendered possibilities interacted with each other. A special interest of his was guessing which category each person fit into, Alpha, Beta or an Omega. Kakashi himself, being an Alpha could normally sense when other alphas or omegas were on heat, but there were no other known signs on how to tell in current research. His eyes swept the table, Iruka was a beta without a doubt. He’d known the man long enough to know he’s never gone into heat; he had barely taken a sick day. Gai was also an alpha, taking off 2 weeks every six months. Tsunade was… looking at him angrily.

“If we may steal just a moment of your attention, it would be greatly appreciated Kakashi.”

“Of course, the question?”

“The student F/N L/N has been missing for a week and hasn’t informed anyone. Do you have any idea of their whereabouts?”

“I can’t say I do, sorry.”

F/N L/N was an average student in his class. Not the best but far from the worst. Mostly came in and did their work before leaving for the next class. It wasn’t unusual for a student to take a day off here and there and not inform anyone, but a week without telling any professor was cause for some alarm. The students were adults, in their 20’s; by this point, they could handle their work fine. The greatest concern was that the majority lived alone and if they got hurt, they had no one to help them.

“Who has the least amount of classes for the day?”

Every professor around the table mumbled out their remaining classes. Kakashi was the only one without classes. Tsunade didn’t hesitate.

“Kakashi, come to my office after this meeting. I will provide you with F/N’s address and you are to go check on them and ensure their safety. “

There goes his afternoon. The one day he has a free slot to mark papers, taken by Tsunade’s wishes.

The meeting continued without further discussion on Kakashi’s behalf. There were no trends or concerns in his class, he wasn’t even sure why he had to attend these meetings. A better use of his time was to work on the next topic for the class.

Once the meeting had concluded, he followed Tsunade to her office. She shuffled around through the student paper, attempting to locate F/N’s file. She finally placed a file on the desk, a small picture of F/N on the front. He had to admit, if they weren’t his student, he would have found them at the very least, slightly attractive. Tsunade copied down the address on a sticky note, handing it to Kakashi.

“Just go make sure they’re okay. You can have the rest of the day off. Consider it a thank you for checking on them. Pack up and head over now.”

“I’ll tell you how they are on Monday.”

“Sure, have a good weekend Kakashi.”

Kakashi reviewed the note on the way to his office, it wasn’t far, a 20-minute walk, if that. At least he got an early Friday out of it.

Kakashi packed up his things, looking over at his half-written work. The work for the next lesson sat, glaring at him. ‘The effects of marking on Omegas’. An important topic for anyone looking to go into the research of alphas and omegas. Kakashi would have to finish it Monday, possibly read up on sources over the weekend to reference.

It wasn’t as if he had marked anyone himself. Most of the sources he read explained it as euphoric, a once in a lifetime feeling that could never be replicated. It was apparently something that came on instinct to mark when either the omega or alpha was in heat. Kakashi had specifically avoided that. He would never sleep with someone when they were on heat, after all, it could bring on his own. On his own heat, he would lock himself away. Marking was a bonded for life sort of deal, not something he was interested in.

As Kakashi walked towards his student’s house, he reviewed the topics he had covered so far. Most were surrounding the mating ritual research or lack-there-of. It was still so under researched. Lost in his thoughts, he had finally reached his destination. Walking up to the door, he raised his hand to knock.

There was a sweet smell drifting in the air. The smell was hard to explain. When F/N opened the door, the smell hit him like a ton of bricks. The pheromones of an omega, something he had smelt before but never this close. Kakashi could feel his instincts igniting at the scent.

“Professor Hatake?”

You stood in front of him. Your face was flushed and your lips looked unbelievably glossy. You stood in front of him in a long t-shirt and what he would hope was panties underneath.

“H-hello F/N. I just came by to check on you and make sure you’re okay.”

Your eyes looked glazed, and you seemed completely out of touch with reality. There was no denying that you were in heat. Kakashi tried to advert his eyes.

“’s okay, professor, you smell really good.”

You were definitely out of it and too far gone to think straight. Kakashi could feel his pheromones start to build as he stood in your presence. He had to leave, his heat would come on quickly standing in your presence and he could already feel the rush of lust heading straight down.

“Yes, well, now that I can see you’re safe, I should take my leave.”

You stepped out a little from behind the door catching his wrist. The jolt of excitement it sent through Kakashi was dangerous.

“Professor, why don’t you stay a little while?”

Kakashi looked at you, your eyes were half lidded now, a desire filled gaze looked down at the connected hands. You tugged Kakashi back a little, the smell from your apartment hit him again. He was losing all sense and allowed himself to be tugged into the apartment. He knew he fucked up when the door clicked behind him, but he had lost all will to fight against it.

You sat Kakashi on the couch, sparing only a single moment before seating yourself on his lap. Kakashi couldn’t stop looking at your face, your perfect lips, just begging to be kissed. Your eyes and the way they trailed down his body, almost filled with excitement when you saw the tightness of his pants.

“Forgive me professor, but I can’t help myself.”

You reached down, pulling down his mask and connecting your lips. The session between you two became a heated mess of tongues as you eased themselves to sit on top of Kakashi’s dick. He could feel your wetness soak into his pants. Kakashi grinded up into them, making you moan into the kiss. Finally pulling away for air, a trail of saliva connected your lips. Kakashi went straight for the neck, kissing and sucking on your sweet spots. Hands started to wonder and Kakashi gripped your right breast, feeling the smooth skin under his hand. The nipple was unbelievably hard for him, he knew you were horny, but he didn’t realise you were this desperate.

Kakashi broke away from your neck, seeing the red and purple forming where he had been a tad rough. He flipped their positions so that you were laying on the couch. Kakashi removed both of their shirts, finally getting the perfect view of your breasts. Kakashi didn’t waste a second, dipping his head to suck on your nipple. He reached his hand up to play with the other while you mewled underneath him. He could feel his dick twitch in anticipation at what was to come. He could only imagine the pre-cum that was leaking out of his throbbing erection. Kakashi released the nipple from his hand, chuckling a little at the annoyed noise you made. His hand trailed slowly down, slipping past the elastic of your panties. He could feel how wet you were for him. His hands hadn't yet found their way inside of you and they were already slippery with your arousal.

When Kakashi finally slipped a finger in, he heard a groan of pleasure. He moved his mouth to the other nipple, leaving a trail of saliva before slipping another finger in. He pumped slowly in and out at first, his fingers curling while inside, trying to find the perfect spot. That didn’t last long as you started grinding on his fingers, trying to gain more friction, more movement, more of him.

“Patience baby, I promise to stuff you full of my cock soon.”

Truthfully, it was taking everything in Kakashi to not just do it now. His heat response had kicked in enough that he needed to fuck you into oblivion but not enough to forgo ensuring you were prepped enough to handle him.

Removing his fingers, he scissored them, watching as your arousal connected between the two digits. Kakashi brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean.

“You taste so good F/N. If you feel even half as good, I won’t be able to stop myself from fucking you all night.”

Kakashi reached down to remove your panties, sniffing the pheromones off them before flinging them away. He didn’t hesitate, moving to free his erection next. He watched a little as you sat up, eyeing his dick as it sprung free. Kakashi removed the rest of his clothing before spreading the pre-cum over his length. He knew he was decently sized, a bit on the girthy side and he could see in your eyes the excitement build.

Kakashi moved his length between your folds, gathering your arousal before lining himself up. When he finally thrusted in, he lost all control. He pounded his way in, all the way to the hilt. He could just hear you moan mix with his own. Kakashi wasn’t escaping this, he was going to keep fucking you until he knew you were pregnant with his child. Until you were so filled with his cum that you became swollen.

Kakashi started moving and he was sure he was seeing stars. The way your velvety walls suck him in and clenched around him, the sound of your arousal coating his dick, creating a squelch every time he moved back in. He was sure this was heaven. Kakashi reached down to your clit, thumb rubbing in circles as you squirmed underneath him. The pleasure was almost unbearable, the mix of all the sensations drove him wild. When you reached up and dragged your nails across his back, his body reacted pleasingly.

Kakashi couldn’t stop himself from thrusting, pulling out to the tip and going back into the hilt. The thrusts were hard and fast. He used his free hand to pin your hip to the bed to stop you from moving. Your walls were clenching more, and he could smell how close you were to climaxing. Kakashi moved his thumb faster on your clit and when he felt your walls fluttered and clamp on his dick, the urge to mark you came. Kakashi had never felt like this before, he wanted it forever. He was so close to cumming, you were under him, begging for more, a steady flow of ‘don’t stop’ and ‘fuck me harder professor’ spilling from your lips.

“’m going to cum. I’m going to fill you up with my seed. You’re going to get pregnant for me. Is that what you want baby? You want to carry around your professor’s baby?”

Kakashi heard you choke out a ‘please Kakashi, fill me up’ between sobs of pleasure. At the sound of his name, he was cumming. He pushed himself in as far as he could go, making sure that his cum reached your womb. Kakashi slowed down slightly to milk himself inside you. In a moment of weakness, he reached up to your shoulder, biting hard and pushing out pheromones. He was still riding his high, too engrossed to care that he marked you.

Even after cumming, Kakashi still wasn’t satisfied. He was still rock hard. Seeing his mark on your shoulder only pushed to further his need to breed you like his perfect cum slut. You also continued to rock your hips against his, begging for a round two.

Kakashi happily obliged, fucking you again and again. Time wasn’t a factor of consideration, the only need Kakashi had was to continue filling you to the brim with his seed.

When Kakashi finally gained some control back over his body, it was morning. His mind was foggy and his mouth was dry. The nausea raised in his throat not long after, he struggled to get out of bed and make it to the attached ensuite. His legs felt like jelly, the only way he could hold himself up was by leaning on the sink. Kakashi dry heaved but nothing came up. Looking in the mirror, he had purple blooming across his skin. He had fucked up. He had royally fucked up. You were his student. He fucked his student.

The dizziness set in and he made his way back to the bed he woke up in. No more then two minutes later, there was a small knock at the door before it opened. Your head popped through. When you saw him, you brought a tray of food and water into his view.

As much as Kakashi was thankful for the water and food, he could see the purple marks moving up your neck from under your clothes.

“Are you feeling better Professor?”

Kakashi nodded, unsure of his voice.

“Can I ask a couple of questions? Like when you got here? Or why you came?”

“I came Friday to check up on you as you hadn’t been attending classes. What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

Two days. Two fucking days. He had lost control of himself for the whole weekend. He knew that being in heat with an omega could be bad, but he didn’t expect this bad.

“Um, professor? I have one more question.”

Kakashi raised his eyes to you, prompting you to speak. He watched as you rolled down the neck of your shirt to expose your shoulder.

“Is this a- um- a mark?”

Kakashi had severely fucked up this time. There was no going back. A mark. For life. The pheromones in that would make them bonded for life. All the research papers told him he would never be able to fall out of love with them once the mark was placed and the feelings grew. He’s fucked. He fucking came in them. How would he explain this to the school? How would he explain it to their parents.

“Professor, your breathing has gotten pretty bad. Did you need some water? What’s wrong? Is it a mark?”

Kakashi nodded. He watched as their face faltered before dropping. He watched as they went through the motions of acknowledgement, feeling everything in a mere 30 seconds.

“Well, I suppose there’s worse people to be bonded to, right Professor?”

At least he knew they could see the bright side.

“I hope you keep that same positivity for when the baby comes F/N.”

“The w-what?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AN: I was bored and decided to write this, I am getting back into writing after a 5 year break, so I apologise if it isn't the best. I appreciate all support. Requests are open if you did want to request something.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Oh I saw you answer a question about lecturing so I'd like to ask another! I am a postgrad student but miraculously landed a job as an instructor in my uni for an elective module on Language and Culture for Beginners for undergrads. I was all like "wohoooo that's great I know this shit" until I discovered there were going to be 20 people in my class so now I'm like 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 because it's my first time teaching and what if they eat me alive. What if no one collaborates on the module I've designed to be interactive. What if no one caressssssssssssss I'd wilt like a flower 😭

Well, the great thing about uni is, these are adult learners who want to be here and are paying a lot to do so, so the chances of total non-engagement are low and outright refusal even lower. And if they do, you're under no obligation to keep anyone in the class, so you can boot them out if they're disruptive.

(In five years, this has yet to happen to me. The closest I've come was two guys who just wanted to chat, but saying to them "Lads, I don't know if you've noticed, but someone has built a lecture hall around you" worked a charm, and then they apologised and paid attention.)

So, the odds are staggeringly in your favour that you will not be cannibalised! You'll be absolutely fine on that count.

The engagement levels - that's a more reasonable concern, though again, remember that they've chosen to be here. This isn't high school - they're interested in the subject, and in what you have to say. So, you need to just make sure you're doing all the things that boost engagement. Examples:

NOTHING ON THIS EARTH switches students off faster than when the lecturer is bored by the subject. Regardless of your personal views on any given part of the material, to them you must be visibly and obviously Super Interested In The Subject at all times.

Human attention spans experience a lapse every 10-18 minutes - this is why TED Talks are that long. Change your learning activity in time with this. If you're doing straight lecturing for 10 minutes, then throw out a question to the class - "So what is everyone's experience of this? How might this be applied to X situation? What would do do if this happened to you?" etc. Or a research task - give them 10 minutes to look up a set of terms in groups, and then report back to the class. Your next slide could be the one that then explains the definitions of those terms yourself, but it gives them a bit of variety, and a bit of self-learning

Do they look like they're flagging? Get them up and moving. Ask a question like "So which of you agree with X, which agree with Y?" Instead of hands up, make them get up and go to different sides of the room. Then ask them to explain their reasoning. (Be aware of disabilities when doing this)

Give them activities to work on in groups. It's great for applied learning anyway, but also for helping them bond with each other, and it keeps them more awake and engaged. But also:

Students are much more likely to pay attention when they can see why the material they're learning is relevant. If it feels like a filler lesson, they won't pay attention. This is one reason of many that a class of 20 will work for you, actually - that's small enough that you can get to know these students, and what fields they've come from, and what they want to move into. If one or two seem disengaged, find out how to emphasise the relevance of their fields to this course, and vice versa.

And on that note, call on their experience! That's the glory of adult education - these are people who have lived lives, even if only for 18 years. Call on that. Example: my field is the environment, but this year, we have a farmer on the course. That's an absolute gift to class discussions, because if we're talking about land management practices, she can describe the socio-economic pressures farmers are under to do poor practices in the name of Line Goes Up far better than I can.

You will learn to spot the quiet ones. These ones are listening and learning, but shit scared of standing out. You might be tempted to call on them directly to answer questions, but this will make them shrivel in an attempt to seem smaller so you won't attack. Instead, draw them in by going around the class to ask the same question, and come to the quiet ones towards the end. This gives them time to realise that the question is coming, and lets them formulate an answer; they'll also be less scared of Getting It Wrong if they see the variety of answers everyone else is giving

On that note: There Are No Stupid Questions. Not in your class. You need to actively encourage the students to think that it's a safe learning space, and that includes asking things that might be the dumbest fucking question you've ever heard in your life; doesn't matter, you still answer it with the same gravity as any other. In This House We Love And Support Each Other.

If you truly think they won't collaborate properly, the trick is to have a fall back. It's very unlikely that they won't, but just have a plan B in case.

Either way... honestly, there's a reason I always tell people that, while I'm a lecturer, I could never be a teacher. Adult education is easy mode. You'll be fine - you know your shit, you're already planning fun collaborative activities, you've got this.

And if it doesn't work out, and I mean this very genuinely and honestly - a huge part of teaching is figuring out what works and what doesn't work for the students. Your job is work out how to fit the knowledge you hold into the uniquely-shaped holes in their heads, and that will be slightly different every time. You've got them for the whole module - you can afford to take a breath and try again if they bounce off of your first attempt. That's not a sign that you can't do it - that is the job. Getting it right first time requires a big component of luck, even using the tricks above.

So. Good luck! And enjoy it - the students can also tell if you're having a blast

[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.