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On the second floor of the Hayden Memorial Library, tucked away in a corner study carrel, you scribbled your mechanical pencil against ruled scrap paper. Numbers, equations, and hand-sketched scatterplots filled the page; you were checking and rechecking your calculations for the experimental dosages you outlined in your paper, with the milligram-interval measurements charted in the Excel tables on your laptop screen.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the form of a man approaching the neighboring carrel, taking a seat and heaving an obnoxiously loud sigh as he did so.

It was 12:47am. This was like someone parking next to you in a barren lot, or setting up their blanket by your side on an otherwise empty beach. You were running under the influence of a two-hour nap, six cups of coffee, and a graduate research proposal due date looming around the corner. You weren’t sure if it was the stress or the lack of sleep, but his presence affronted you, personally, and you took a sip from your lukewarm mug as you turned towards him, glancing over the rim with every intent of giving this asshole the best passive-aggressive stinkeye you could manage.

You caught sight of him and choked on your coffee.

Tony Stark had spoken at your university earlier that day. As MIT was his alma mater, he’d make an appearance at least once a year to deliver a speech about current tech research and future endeavors at Stark Industries. You and half the school had the opportunity to shake his hand after his presentation; in the ten seconds you had with him, he gave you his autograph, made small talk, and ended on a witty quip before moving on to the next person in line. It was a tight, efficient process any celebrity would use on people waiting to meet and greet them. Nothing special.

So when he’d asked about your plans and you joked about pulling an all-nighter at Hayden, you didn’t expect him to actually show up.

But here he was, Tony motherfucking Stark in the flesh, swiveling around in the roller chair next to you as he balanced a pencil on his upper lip like some bored high school kid.

To say you were a little starstruck would be the understatement of the century.

“You know, I was like you, once,“ he started, casually, “with the research papers, the gallons of coffee, the late-night library sessions...”

“You?” You scoffed a laugh. “Please, I bet you could polish off a research proposal within the hour.”

He made a tilting motion with his hand. “Mmm, closer to two or three. Don’t give me too much credit, there’s plenty of other places I deserve it.”

“Right.” Still slack-jawed by his presence, you were silently trying to will yourself awake, convinced you were dreaming. “Can you with something, Mr. Stark?”

“Just wanted to swing by and chat. Nice outfit, by the way.”

Immediately forgetting what you were wearing, you looked down at yourself. A pair of flats, a knee-length skirt, leggings...

...a black t-shirt with a faux-glowing arc reactor printed on the chest...

“Oh, Jesus.“ You smiled as you buried your face into your hands. “I forgot I was wearing this.”

“Yeah, see, I was never a big fan of the merch? The shirt has to go. You.” He pointed at you with the pencil tangled in his fingers. “You can stay, though.”

You could feel yourself go pale. Was he propositioning you? “You’re joking.”

Not breaking eye contact, Stark caught the end of his pencil between his teeth, gently rocking side to side in his chair. “You think I’m joking?”

“You’re richer than God,“ you blurted out, “you’re smarter than everyone at this goddamn school combined, the Maxim calendar is your personal yearly bucket list of models to do before you die--”

“Please, go on. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I’m not even the leader of this research project--and this?” You gestured to your spreadsheets in frustration. “A night’s reading for you and you’d probably know more about this crap than I do. And you’re talking to me why?”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Stark scooched his chair closer to your desk. “Hey, what I can do and what I actually do? Two completely different things. I’ve got enough on my plate as is. You, everyone here--the work you’re doing is important. You’re building the future, remember? If the world’s going to survive, it needs people like you in it.”

“But you could rule the world if you wanted to.”

“Sure, I could.” He leaned back and smirked. “I’ll start with you.”

Red flooded your cheeks. Did his speech writers come up with that line, too?

Smiling with disbelief, you clicked your tongue, tapping your pencil against your desk. “Almost sounds like you want to get caught.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Stark looked thoughtful for a moment. “But we won’t be interrupted. I mean, unless you’re into that sort of thing. Arrangements can be made.”

Raising an eyebrow, you stood up to take a sweeping glance around the library. There were always some stragglers scattered about this time of night--undergrads and graduates alike--studying for exams or finishing up papers or napping between projects. You’d always been comforted by the silent camaraderie you shared with those late-night strangers--the unspoken agreement that, sure, you were all students suffering through hell, but you were suffering through hell together.

Tonight, however, the library was barren.

Uncharacterisically so.

Your eyes widened as you sat back down. “You’ve cleared the entire floor.”

“People can use other floors.”

“And the security cameras...?”

“Yeah--contrary to popular belief, I’m not a sex tape kinda guy? They were shut off as soon as I got here. My request, of course. Told Security I needed it for a private function.”

This wasn’t happening.

God, there was no way this was happening.

You rubbed the back of your neck, brushing a hand through your unkempt hair. Aside from some day-old lip gloss, you didn’t have any makeup on. Your nail polish was chipping at the edges. You’d worn your skirt three days in a row--fresh leggings, though, so at least you had that going for you.

“Just--look, help me understand, here.” Your smile was uneasy, this time. “Compared to the women you usually...I mean, like, I’ this your version of slumming it, or something? Coming back to the old watering hole for a day to trade caviar and world-famous models for instant ramen and college-girl-chic?”

“Okay, first of all, tobiko trumps caviar any day of the week. Secondly, I don’t have to be ’slumming it’ to think you’re cute.”

You barked a laugh, near-breathless. “Holy shit, Tony Stark thinks I’m cute.”

“Here’s the real question, though.” Even closer than he was before, Stark placed his elbow onto your desk and propped his chin up with his palm. “Do you think I’m cute?”

“People’s Sexiest Man Alive 2014 is asking for my validation?”

“Nobody’s talking about him--I have yet to actually win that title, by the way, isn’t that a crime? Anyway, back to my question.”

You made a thoughtful face, tilting your head with appreciation. “Yeah, you’re pretty cute, I guess.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A solid eight.”

“What’s your idea of a nine, out of curiosity?”

“My Medical Imaging prof.”


“Yeah. Dr. Bertrand?” You let out a low whistle. “Smoking. Like, damn. He can make a tomographic map of my brain any day, you feel me?”

“Oh, good to know.” Chin still resting on his palm, he curled his fingers over his mouth. “Is it weird I wanna punch this guy, now?”

You burst out laughing.

“Because I feel like it might be weird.”

Still feeling the need to keep quiet in the library, you covered your mouth as your shoulders shook with muffled laughter. You glanced over at him, and the reflection of the overhead light in his eyes made his gaze on you as bright and as dazzling as his smile.

Were you really doing this, right now?

“So, Medical Imaging.” Stark curled an arm around you to grab at your mouse, leaning in to read off your screen. “What’s your field?”

He was inches away from you, now. You could see the flecks of grey in his goatee.

“Biomemetic engineering,“ you said, feeling dizzy.

“And your thesis?”

“Utilization of bio-polymers to emulate nerve regeneration in the spinal column.”

“Trying to help people walk again,“ he hummed thoughtfully, pouring over your research. “Wouldn’t happen to have any of those bio-polymers lying around, would you? You might need it after we’re done.”

“ offering to fuck me into paralysis supposed to turn me on?”

“Depends, is it working?”

You refused to answer that. “You’re old enough to be my father.”

Really?” he gasped, having the audacity to sound surprised. “You can call me ’daddy,’ if that’ll make you feel better.”

You made a face.

“Noted. What are you into, anyway?”

“What are you into, Mr. Stark? Bondage? Voyeurism?” You tilted your head and looked at him with facetious empathy. “Feet?”

“Add some AC/DC and you’ve described an ideal Friday night.”

“Oh my god.”

Keeping his vision glued to your computer, he hadn’t stopped browsing through your research documents. “I bet it’s humiliation.”


“Not from anyone, from someone you respect. Like a teacher.” Without warning, he leaned in to speak into your ear from behind--slowly, gently, still keeping his eyes on your monitor. “Your methodology here is clearly flawed.”

You snorted laughter into your hands again, but you were sure not to move too much, as you liked his mouth right where it was.

“Your sample sizes are as small as your standard deviations are high.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Stark, I love it when you talk dirty.”

He touched his lips to your skin, his voice a low rumble against the shell of your ear. “One look at this atrocity of a conclusion of yours, and the review board’ll force you to repeat your undergraduate degree until you actually learn something.”

Please don’t send me back, Mr. Stark,“ you begged, sexily, half-laughing, “I’m in so much fucking debt as it is.”

Falling silent, he continued to scroll through the pages as you sat put. You tried not to focus on the scent of his cologne, or the sound of his slow breathing, or just how badly you wanted to lean back and bury yourself against his neck.

You glanced up at his face, hovering by your own as he looked intently at your monitor, and, as you watched his dark eyes flicker across the screen and his lips mouth words under his breath, you realized with great clarity he was actually reading through your research.

“Huh,“ he mumbled, sounding impressed. “You might actually be onto something here, kid.”

The subtle praise made your heart leap, and that’s when you kissed him, gentle and chaste, a fleeting press of your lips to the corner of his mouth to test the waters, fueled by nerves and sleep deprivation and six cups of coffee.

That was all he needed.

He spun your chair towards him and caught your gasp against his lips. You could feel him smirking as he tilted his head to slide his tongue against yours. His aggression made your head spin, and you found yourself reaching for his wrists just to find something to grab onto.

You tasted like coffee and faded lip gloss; he tasted like vodka and day-old despair.

Stark got you on your feet, but not for long. His mouth back on yours, he pushed you backwards into the study carrel, forcing your arms to wrap around his neck for stability. You knocked over your mug in the excitement; what little remained of your coffee spilled across the desktop and soaked your butt where you sat.

You didn’t care.

His hands were skating under your thighs now, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your hands tangled in his hair, grasping as he grabbed your ass and slid you nearer to the edge of the desk. You crossed your ankles to draw him in closer and you felt him buck against you, rutting up between your legs at an angle that drew the daylight out of you.

He laughed into your kiss. “Someone’s hot for teacher.”

“Ha,“ you sneered, trying to sound confident. “You’re doing pretty good for an eight.”

“Hm. Never liked being second-best.”

You wanted to say something witty, but he shoved a rough hand down the front of your skirt and the words died in your throat.

He dragged his tongue along your own, drinking in every sound you made as his fingers slipped inside you, easily, effortlessly, aided by the heavy slick of your own arousal; his fingers wasted no time curling forwards to brush hard against that very specific spot inside you, as his thumb circled your clit and made you see stars.

Your voice broke as you gasped against his mouth.

He knew what he was doing, and his experience was a refreshing change of pace.

It was your turn to shift up against him, bucking against his eager hand, your nails digging crescents into his neck as you hung onto him for dear life. You were both looking down; somehow, watching the bulge of his hand move fervently beneath your skirt as he finger-fucked you made your head spin even worse than before.

“That’s it,“ he whispered, and you felt the heat of his breath on your skin, “that’s my girl.”

His voice was deeper than you remembered; his praise sent shivers down your spine.

Your breathing grew short as your movements grew desperate, but his hand kept the same pace, forceful and steady, ready to drag your orgasm right out of you. Your climax was coiling in the pit of your stomach, you felt about ready to burst--

--and he stopped.

You let out a curse.

“Up,“ he said, ever-so-softly, smirking as he motioned for you to follow him, “c’mon.”

He kissed you again, pulling away bit by bit, staying just out your reach until you followed his lead and rose your feet. Light-headed and confused, you tried to catch your breath as your mind reorganized itself from its arousal-induced scramble. Stark nudged your chair out of the way with his foot. You heard it roll across the floor and bump into the wall behind you.

You felt a swell of pride at the way he looked at you, with his breath still shallow from your kiss and his soft hair made a mess by your hand. He was flushed, through-and-through, his cheeks now as warm as his smile.

As he continued moving backwards, you slid off his jeans (designer), then his boxer-briefs (also designer). He didn’t watch your hand when you finally took hold of him--he watched the glint in your eyes, the shift of your shoulders, the way you wet your lips with your tongue before you kissed him again. For the briefest of moments, you two were the same, a mischievous pair of nobodies needing a break from their daily routine. He could’ve had anyone in the world, but here you were.

Maybe he wasn’t slumming it with you, after all.

Maybe he just wanted to try something new.

He took a seat in the remaining chair as you continued standing. He pushed up your shirt and trailed hungry kisses down your chest, your stomach, while his fingers hooked into the waistband of your skirt.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You complied. He rid of you of your clothing from the waist-down in an instant.

He leaned back, making it rather obvious he wanted to fuck in the chair, so you pushed thoughts of the uncomfortable logistics aside and moved forward, preparing an attempt to straddle him properly.

“Ah-ah-ah,“ he interrupted, twirling his index finger in a circle. “Turn around. You’ve got homework to do.”

“’re kidding.”

“Those numbers of yours aren’t going to run themselves, you know.” He motioned to your paperwork, smirk still plastered on his face. “Hop to it.”

“You’re ridiculous,“ you laughed.

Still coming down from the cusp of your rudely-denied climax, you turned around and faced the desk. You picked up a pencil and shuffled your paperwork away from the puddle of coffee spilt from your overturned mug. You barely glanced over the equations. You’d never been less interested in anything in your entire life.

You heard the familiar crinkle of a condom being unwrapped behind you. Shortly after, Stark rolled his chair up behind you, his knees touching the back of yours.

He grabbed your bare waist from behind.

With your coffee-soaked leggings bunched around your ankles, you allowed him to guide you over his lap. You could feel him--god, you could feel him--pressing hard against your inner thigh, and it took all of your willpower not to just take him then and there.

“Go on,“ he said, one hand on your waist, the other teasing his cock against your entrance, “don’t let me distract you.”

You pressed your pencil against paper, and did the math.

Somewhere between unit conversions and forgetting to carry the 3, you felt him sink inside of you without warning, hard and thick and deliciously deep as he buried himself to the hilt.

Shit...” you keened.

“Atta girl.”

His strong hands wrapped around either side of your waist to keep you steady, fingers digging into your skin, determined to return the marks you’d left against his neck earlier. It was only fair.

He stopped moving his hips when you stopped moving your hand.

So, much to your despair, you continued working.

The way you were positioned, bending over in his lap, meant your feet couldn’t quite touch the ground. With your forearms pressed against the desk, you had to use the carrel for leverage as you rolled your hips with his cock inside you, filling you up in a way that made embarrassing words you wouldn’t remember escape your throat; he moaned strings of similar obscenities in that smooth, rich voice of his as you bounced in his lap.

His laughter sounded strained. “Christ, kid, look at you go.”

One of his hands snaked around your chest, his fingers reaching beneath your shirt and bra to feather over a perked nipple.

Your handwriting was becoming atrocious.

But in spite of your arousal, and in spite of all the opportunity this day had offered you, you decided, against what little was left of your better judgement, to poke the lion’s cage.

It was probably the only lion’s cage your lifetime would afford you, after all.

Why not have fun with it?

You tilted your head in his direction, ensuring the smile on your face could be heard in your voice. “This really the best you can do, old man?”

Still nestled deep inside of you, Stark shot to his feet, abandoning all pretense to bend you right over the goddamn desk.

Your papers crumpled beneath your shifting forearms as you dropped your pencil, the damn thing rolling off the desk and onto the floor.

The last word you remember coming to mind was ’mistake.’

Unhindered by his position, he was somehow pushing in even deeper than before. He fucked you at the same pace his hand had, forceful and hard and steady, like the rest of him. Your feet finally on solid ground, you got on your toes to give him better access. He noticed your shift, and adjusted himself in return, leaning in close until his chest was near-flush against your back. The newfound angle had him shoving himself hard against that deliciously neglected spot inside of you; with one hand still fondling your breast, he pried his other hand from your waist, returning it to its prior position between your legs.

Not only was he fucking you hard enough to make the carrel shake, but he was also rubbing your g-spot and your clit at the same goddamn time.

This was some seriously advanced shit.

Stark continued pumping in and out of you, withdrawing his cock near-fully before delving straight back inside, stretching and tightening you fantastically with each thrust and withdrawal, over and over and over again. Noises spilled from both of your throats, uncontrollable and unrestrained, and through your haze, you tried your best to pay attention to how he sounded right next to your ear, his grunts each time his thighs slapped hard against yours, his moans when one of his movements made you whine, his breath tripping over curses he couldn’t fully muster.

He sounded so fucking wonderful.

You failed to stifle your whimpers, not even with your face half-pressed into the desk. You could feel the slickness of your arousal dripping along your inner thighs.

You shifted your hips, trying to force him to up the pace, but he had his rhythm set, hard and steady. Hard and steady.

“Easy, kid,“ he whispered, “easy.”

Your breathing came quick and panicked. “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark...”

“That’s right, keep it up.” A low growl by your ear. “Almost there. Almost there.”

His greedy hands were still working on your nipple, on your soaking cunt, absolutely relentless, making the slow force of climax rebuild in your gut, many times stronger than before. Your heart was pounding in your ears. Your thoughts were glitching in and out of coherency.

The orgasms hit you like a fucking freight train.

He’d timed them carefully, perfectly.

They both came at once, and the electricity they sent pulsing through you shorted out your thoughts and set your nerves on fire. You cried out, loudly, awash with undiscovered sensation wracking your frame as your entire body trembled in the crest. Stark reached his own climax sometime during the false eternity of your swell; you felt his body tighten against you as he slammed into you one last time, sending sparks of overstimulation flaring behind eyelids you hadn’t realized were shut.

And just like that, the two of you were spent, drowsy and breathless.

Stark withdrew himself from you and sank into the nearby chair, his chest rising and falling as he swallowed hard and tried to regain his breath. You collapsed to your knees, legs still shaking in the afterglow.

You laughed as soon as you were able.

He followed suit, running a hand through his hair. “Not bad for an eight, yeah?”

“You’re a twelve,“ you said, giving him a face-down thumbs-up from the desk, “on a scale of one to ten. A solid twelve. Dr. Bertrand can go fuck himself.”

“So everyone wins, then?”

“I think I got the better end of this deal, to be honest. For me, this has been, hands-down, the greatest lay of my entire life. For you, it’s a Tuesday.”

“Did you just quote Street Fighter after sex?”

“Sure did.”

“Marry me.”

“Pay off my student loans.”


“Mr. Stark, I can’t feel my legs,“ you mumbled, “is this normal?”

”Yep,” he said, sounding a little too proud of himself.

Thankfully, the feeling returned to your legs without the need for bio-polymers.

Stark readjusted his sport jacket, straightening out the well-pressed collar before folding the cuffs of his undershirt back over the sleeves of his jacket. You watched him from the corner of your eye as you mopped up spilt coffee with some old Subway napkins you tucked away in your backpack. The entire study carrel smelled like sex. The solutions you’d written for your equations were illegible.

This was much better than a typical one night stand, you thought to yourself, being able to skip the awkward morning formalities and jump straight to parting ways and never speaking to each other again.

“I’ll be in touch,“ he said.

“Don’t insult me,“ you replied.

You held no illusions about what this was.

“No no no, I mean it. Work hard. Make your deadline. If you get your graduate project approved and funded, I’ll swing by and congratulate you. In person.”

“It’s a date, then.” You looked over your shoulder and smirked at him, still looking particularly unconvinced. “Have a good night, Mr. Stark.”

With a wink and a click of his tongue, he was gone.


Two months after the submission of your graduate research proposal, you receive a letter from the MIT Office of Sponsored Programs, notifying you that your proposal had not only been accepted, but also that it was being funded and supervised by a private donor: an alumni by the name of Tony Stark.

You laugh yourself right off your roller chair.