#i got possessed by an academic as i wrote this

[erinlindsayy]

professor || carol danvers

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ . ┊ You're Carol's designated note taker, and usually the one teaching her a few things. What happens when you give her the wrong set of notes?

➺  warnings: dirty talk, spanking, edging, violent use of straps, carol danvers tops (but I fully believe she's a switch now), umm... general unholiness, bratting, etc.

✧   a/n: surprise... I'm back... more content coming soon... I promise I've got a val/carol/r fic coming soon, but this popped into my head and I couldn't resist... JOCK COLLEGE CAROL, OK? JOCK RUGBY COLLEGE CAROL.

↬ like this work? let me know! comments help encourage writers to write more and let them know that you liked what they wrote :)

★ requests are open–I write for a number of fandoms! just ask :)

☆ comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated ☆

“Can any of you attempt to discern meaning from this week’s assigned reading? Why might I have selected this particular work for you all?” asks Professor Valkyrie, starting class for the day. Your hand immediately raises, and she nods in your direction. 

“Well, was not Beckett’s entire point to find meaning in the absence of conventional meaning?” 

Professor Valkyrie, nods. 

‘Interesting thought,” she says. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well,” you begin. “Beckett created a landscape for us that is so alien and foreign, and unlike what we know. The play does not include any symbolic elements, and it does not really go anywhere. You might try to make meaning out of the carrot that Didi and Gogo share, or the leaves appearing on the tree, but they literally mean nothing. At the end of the play--we, as well as Vladimir and Estragon, are all still waiting for Godot. So, in a sense, there is no meaning, but perhaps there is meaning in the fact that there is no intended meaning.” 

“Good,” replies Professor Valkyrie. “As always, a carefully articulated and thoroughly crafted response. Excellent work as usual.” 

You smile politely, and fall back into your seat as Professor Valkyrie continues to lecture about Samuel Beckett and the wonderful nature and reality of Waiting for Godot. 

Meanwhile, you’ve jotted at the top of your notes, in big bold letters ‘I hate this play!’ 

After all, the ability to just to understand and converse about a work of literature does not mean that one has to enjoy it. 

After class, you’re stopped, as usual, by the one and only  Carol Danvers. Resident jock, captain of the division one team, aspiring pilot, rumored sex god extrodinare, Carol Danvers. She’s quite the legend around campus, but not exactly for her work ethic as it pertains to academic pursuits, which are... lacking, to put it politely. 

“Do you have my notes for me,” she asks, holding her hand out. “I need to at least act like I’m going to study tonight, right?” 

You roll your eyes. “Carol, why do you ask for my notes if you never use them? You do realize that mere possession of the notes will not translate into you understanding the material, yes? You have to actually read them in order for the information to enter your head.” 

Your reply is snarky, short and snappy, but you’re fed up with Carol at this point. She asks you for notes in all the classes you share together (which, granted, is not many,) but never seems to read them or take any of her classes very seriously. Carol narrows her eyes at the response. 

“I’ll just sleep on them? Os--” 

You cut her off, finishing her sentence. 

“--mosis does not apply, Carol. You know that. You cannot absorb the material through the pores of your skin. Read the notes, and actually try for once, or stop bothering me. I could be taking notes for myself, rather than focusing on summarizing all of the lectures so that you can stuff them into your bag, never to see the light of day again. Don’t ask me for notes again unless you’re ready to be serious.” 

With that, you hastily pull out a few papers from your bag, not bothering to double check if they were the correct ones or not. You shove the papers into Carol’s and turn away sharply, not bothering to look back. Granted, you were headed in the completely wrong direction, but you weren’t about to give Carol the satisfaction of seeing your face again. 

Of course, Carol knows that you hardly need notes for your own purposes. Summarizing the lectures for her provides you with the information you need to keep your own mind sharp, with years of literary study and reading filling in the blanks to broader context for you. But still, you love to hassle her. Carol does feel guilty occasionally, knowing how much work you put into the notes you take for her. They’re always organized, and you write important little tidbits down in the margins. She always glances at them, but can never bring herself to actually study the notes. 

Tonight is different. Carol is inspired, reenergized by your scathing talk. She sits down at her desk, and finally pulls out the notes you gave her. She reads the first line, and laughs to herself. 

These definitely weren’t the notes she meant to give me, she thinks to herself. 

_______________________________________________________________________

You’re startled out of your evening study session by a loud ding from your phone. Normally, you wouldn’t check your phone in the middle of studying, but you’re intrigued. 

Your jaw drops slightly when you notice that the text is from Carol. 

8:57 hey. I’ve got a question about the notes

You’re shocked. Carol actually... read the notes? 

9:00 Shoot for it. How can I help? 

9:01 Well. The notes weren’t really on Waiting for Godot

9:04 Oh. Did I give you a repeat copy of last weeks’?

9:05 Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that they’re standard academic notes

You roll your eyes at her comment, typing out a harsh response before deleting it and sending a far more cordial reply. 

9:06 Oh? 

9:07 Well, for starters, I don’t think that Waiting for Godot has anything to do with sex. 

Attached to her text is a picture of your recent exploration of the things that turned you on, or as you aptly named it “An empirical study of the things that make me wet.” 

You’d never meant for anyone to see it, ever. It was purely a list of the things that you desperately wanted to try, things you enjoyed watching and reading, various things that interested you. 

You’d written the list mostly as a joke, as a way to get the ideas out of your head. You wondered how it even found your way into your backpack, and you’re ready to curl up into a ball and cry when Carol texts you again. 

9:13 I could help you, you know

9:14 I have a few things that I could teach you

9:15 What do you say we make a deal? 

You swallow thickly, intrigued. 

9:17 What sort of deal? 

9:19 You teach me literature. 

9:21 I’ll fulfill your deepest fantasies. (And take you out on a date ;) )

You blink slowly, unable to process the words appearing on your screen. A date? Lessons in sex? It all seems to be far too much to handle, and you’re not sure if Carol is serious. The prospect is alluring, however, and you can’t help but admit that you’ve had the tiniest (largest) of crushes on Carol ever since you saw her in that signature leather jacket of hers, kicking her legs up against the desk in front of her, even if your feelings were against your better judgment. You knew she was aware of this fact, and the way you were always angry around him for some odd reason. 

9:24 If this is a joke, it isn’t funny, Carol. 

9:30 I’ll pick you up at 7 tomorrow. Be ready. We’re getting pasta.  

__________________________________________________________________________

“So. You want to be a pilot, but now you’re here playing rugby and studying literature?”

Carol shrugs. 

“My best friend Maria and I were supposed to enlist together, but some shit happened and he needed me to stick around. I’ve always been good at rugby even though my dad hated that I played sports, and so I stuck around here. Got a full scholarship for rugby, and put the dream of flying aside. The academy will always be there. It’s not what I wanted, but it’s what Maria needed. I couldn’t just leave her when she needed me most.” 

You smile softly at Carol, shocked by her sudden display of emotion. She’s clearly conflicted, and her eyes drift up to the sky, staring wistfully at the dimming horizon. 

“I think that’s very brave of you, Carol. You’re a really good friend,” you say, reaching out to place a hand atop hers in a sudden burst of confidence. The evening had been oddly pleasant, and conversation flowed between the two of you. Granted, Carol was still somewhat of an egotistical jerk, but she was obviously emotionally conflicted, and she had sacrificed her biggest dream to help her closest friend when she needed it most.  

Carol looks down at your hand, tensing up for a second before flipping her palm to meet yours and giving your hand a quick squeeze. 

“I’m alright, ok? I don’t want you worrying about me.” 

You nod. Carol smiles, and moves to stand up. 

“What do you say we get out of here, and head back to my place? Maybe watch a movie?” 

You smile, nodding at Carol. “I’d like that a lot,” you whisper. “I’d like that.” 

Carol holds her hand out to you, helping you up out of your chair. You move to pull your hand out of hers, assuming she meant to just assist you up, but she holds on firmly as the two of you walk back to her vintage red Mustang. 

The drive back to her apartment is filled with throwbacks from the 90s, widows open and hair wild. You’re both singing the words of the songs obnoxiously, relishing in the sweet freedom of the open night. 

When you finally reach her apartment, your eyes are bright and your hair is messy. You look over at Carol, messy hair strewn about. You begin to laugh uncontrollably, with Carol joining shortly after upon seeing your own windblown look. 

When the laughter finally succeeds, you look over at Carol to find her gazing at you intently. You laugh apprehensively, but Carol’s gaze does not falter.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful,” she asks. 

You nod your head slowly. “Not really, no.” 

“But you had a boyfriend?” 

You nod. “It wasn’t really the best of situations. I’ve since come to many realizations about myself since then.” 

Carol smiles. “Well, then I guess I’ll just have to tell you as many times as I possibly can to make up for the lack of times you’ve been told that.” 

“Carol, I don’t even know how to respond to that,” you sputter out. 

“So don’t.” 

Carol leans in over the middle of the car, hesitantly pressing her lips against yours in a tender kiss. You’re surprised at first, but you lean into the kiss, melting against her mouth. Your hands tangle in her already messy hair, and you smile against her lips. The kiss intensifies as your hands begin to roam down Carol’s back, fingers itching to explore. She pulls her hands off of you, smiling softly. 

“Let’s head inside, Princess. We can have a lot more fun in my bedroom than we ever will out here.” 

You nod your head, eagerly anticipating the next steps. 

When you reach her apartment, he leads you past the kitchen, flipping on various light switches as she heads through the living room, finally reaching her bedroom. It’s surprisingly neat, with framed photos of her and a woman that you guessed was her friend Maria. There’s a small pin shaped like a sort of star resting atop her desk, with a framed photo of an adorable orange kitten. Her bed is neatly made, and the room is incredibly put together. 

“You like it, huh?” 

You jump, startled by Carol’s voice. 

“Yeah. Um, it’s very nice,” you reply. “Super neat.” 

Carol laughs. 

“Yeah, for all my disorganization at school, I do like to keep my apartment pretty tidy.” 

Carol walks over to her desk and picks up your list. 

“I think this belongs to you, my darling. We don’t have to do anything with it, or even speak of it again should you so wish that to be the case.” 

You bite your lip, considering your options. 

“Were you really serious, Carol?” 

Your heart is beating fast, and your palms are beginning to grow clammy. 

She laughs. 

“Of course I was serious, Princess. Why would I offer if I wasn’t?” 

You look down, mumbling your answer out. 

“I didn’t really think someone like you would ever be interested in someone like me, honestly.” 

Carol laughs, walking over to you. She gently tilts your chin up, meeting your eyes. 

“Hey. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you drive me up a wall when you’re yelling at me to fucking finally read your notes, as you so kindly put it in your own words. Of course I would be interested in a girl like you. You’re incredible.” 

She kisses you softly, slipping hers hands underneath your sweater. Breaking away for a second, she whispers to stop her if anything is too much. Green for go, she says. Red for stop. 

Her hands roam up your body, making their way up to your neck. She gently squeezes at the column of your throat, whispering in your ear. 

“I noticed you had this on your list, Princess. I did read your notes this time, and I did study up. I know all the things that could make you tick. And yet, I still want to hear you tell me what you want. You want me to choke you? Squeeze your throat till you’re begging me to stop?” 

“Yes, please,” you moan out. 

“Then use your words, Princess. Mmm... and what else should we do today? What other things from your little list do you want to try? I know you don’t want to start off simple... You even said so yourself. Tell me with your words, Princess. Tell me what you want.” 

You gasp, head tipping back as Carol’s hands resume their exploration of your body. 

“Cat got your tongue, Princess? Normally you’re so vocal during class... Why change now?” 

You moan again, unable to speak properly as Carol’s fingers find your nipples, gently pinching. He pinches harder when you are unable to answer her question. 

Moving hers hand to cup your jaw, he harshly tilts your face to look at him. 

“Answer me, Princess. I’m growing impatient and I don’t have all day. Normally you’re so quick to answer. What a shame.” 

“Put me in my place, please,” you gasp out, voice breaking. “I want you to edge me and spank me and punish me and tell me what a naughty little girl I’ve been, touching myself to the thought of you. I want to eat you out while I’m forced to touch myself, unable to cum without your permission. I want you to choke me as you pound me into the mattress with your cock, reminding me of my place. I want to be your good little girl, moaning only your name as you show me who I belong to.” 

Carol smirks. 

“I’ll be honest—I always knew you had a thing for me. You weren’t exactly discreet. The secret is, I had a thing for you too. I wasn’t expecting you to write about me in your notes, though. And I definitely wasn’t expecting you to write something like that ever. Our little teacher’s pet, our good little girl, the smartest girl in class—and such filthy thoughts! Didn’t take me long to figure out who the mysterious blonde figure was. You wrote some pretty explicit stuff in there, Princess. You’re such a filthy little whore... So many dirty thoughts! Imagine if those notes had fallen into the wrong hands...” 

Carol’s hands dip to the edge of your sweater, swiftly pulling it off of your body. She cocks an eyebrow at you upon seeing the lacy navy blue bodysuit underneath that you’d specifically selected for tonight. 

“Did you wear this just for me?” 

You nod. 

“Good girl. I like the way you think. Now, take off those pants for me. While you’re at it, get rid of that lacey little thing. It’s pretty, but you’re prettier.” 

You obey her quickly, shedding every stitch of clothing from your body. You’re trembling with excitement and anticipation, and you’re nervous as Carol’s eyes rake up and down your body. 

“Stunning,” she says, never taking her eyes off of your body. “You’re absolutely perfect. I can’t wait to teach you how to be a good little slut for me... you’re such a good learner. Wonder if that translates in the bedroom?” 

You groan, rolling your eyes. “Why don’t you shut up and find out already?” 

Carol laughs condescendingly. 

“You sure you want to mouth off like that, Princess?” 

You nod. “You seem to be all talk right now, and no action.” 

Carol growls. “We can change that. I don’t tolerate brats around here. Brats get punished. If you’re a good girl, you get rewarded. Which is it going to be tonight, Princess. I need an answer.” 

You roll your eyes without even thinking. “Just fuck me already, Carol.” 

Carol tangles her hand in your hair, pulling your head back. “I told you that brats get punished. It looks like you've selected the brat role tonight. Get on your fucking hands and knees. I’m not going to ask you a second time.” 

You quickly obey, scrambling onto your hands and knees. You wiggle your ass slightly, but Carol firmly holds it in place. 

“Stop. Now, since this is your first time, I’m going to take it easy on you. We are only going to do ten, but mark my words, if you pull this sort of bratting on me again, I can and will increase that number. Now, I want you to count.”

The first strike comes faster than you were expecting, but it does not hurt as much as you thought it would. 

“One,” you gasp out.

Carol strikes again, harder this time. 

“Two,” you gasp out again.

He continues, hitting a bit harder each time, and your ass is red by the finish. 

“Good girl,” she whispers in the shell of your ear. “You took your first punishment so well for me—it is almost like you were made to do this...” 

She ghosts her fingers lightly over your neck, drifting down to your collarbone before moving her hands to gently massage the soft tissue of your breasts. 

With a gentle slap to your aching ass, she gives you a new set of instructions. 

“Now. For our next lesson, you’re going to suck me off. The better you do, the less edges I’ll give you tonight. I hope you’ve been studying, Princess. Either that, or you just better wish that this comes naturally for you.” 

Carol swiftly pulls her pants and boxers down and throws her shirt to the side, revealing her toned abs and muscled back. You can see her muscles ripple as she stretches her arms above her head to take her shirt off. Your jaw goes slightly slack at the sight of her perfect nude figure.

“Close your mouth, Princess. You’ll catch flies.” 

You blush. “Sorry, Carol. You’re just so beautiful.” 

Carol winks. “I can tell, Princess. Your eyes haven’t left my torso.” 

You giggle, but quickly stop when Carol moves directly in front of you. 

“Test time, Princess. Hope you’ve studied. But, if you haven’t, I’ll allow for retakes. Think of this one as a pretext, if you will. How much do I need to teach you when it comes to this particular subject?” 

You moan at her words, mouth salivating. You’re desperate to touch her, to run your tongue over her strap. Carol leans down to press a quick kiss upon your lips, immediately guiding your face to her strap after. You’re unsure of what to do at first, the feeling foreign upon your tongue. Eventually, you begin to find your rhythm, head bobbing as you introduce a hand to match your rhythm. You continue your tiny kitten licks, timing them with the thrust of your fingers. Carol is silent for the most part, but every so often she breaks her stoic silence with a loud moan or gasp when you hit a particularly sensitive spot against her body. You grind against the pillow that Carol has placed between your legs, annoyed with the lack of friction you got, but thankful to have anything at all. Your tongue continues its way along Carol’s strap, body quivering with pleasure. 

It isn’t long before she’s moaning continuously.

After all, you have always been a very quick learner. 

Carol pulls away, and you whimper at the loss of contact. She messily kisses you, groaning at the taste of herself on your tongue. 

“For your first time, that was surprisingly good.”

You beam in satisfaction.

“However, I’m still going to edge you at least five times.”

You whimper. 

“But Carol—“

“No buts, pretty girl. It’s for your own pleasure, alright? It’s good to practice delayed gratification. Now, get over there on the back of the bed for me. Spread those legs as wide as you can. I want that dripping cunt of yours on display.”

You move off of your pillow, following her instructions. Carol walks over to you, hovering over you on the bed as she cages your body with her arms. 

“I want to hear every moan you make,” she growls. “Don’t hold back on me, Princess.” 

You nod. 

“Yes, Carol.” 

Carol smiles and strokes a single finger through your dripping folds. You shudder. The feeling of her soft fingertips against your throbbing core is heavenly, and you’re unable to hide from the breathless moan that escapes your mouth. 

Carol continues to slide her fingers through the folds of your cunt, relishing in the puffy texture as she explores. Her fingers trace small circles here and there, dipping into your soaking hole when she feels like doing so, pinching your clit, edging you into oblivion. 

You ask her to cum numerous times, but she always pulls away. Finally, she pulls away for the last time. 

“You can cum this time, Princess. But I want to cum on my cock for me like a good little slut, alright? I want you to scream my name for me. Let the whole world know you’re mine now.” 

You nod, moaning at her filthy words. She carefully lines up with you and thrusts in quickly, giving you a chance to adjust to the size and foreign feeling of the cock inside of you. 

When you nod at her, she begins to thrust her hips at an ungodly pace, hitting that perfect spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. She moves one hand to your clit, rubbing tight little circles over the throbbing organ, and her other hand moves to your throat, lightly pressing down. She’s pushing you into the mattress, firmly grinning the column of your neck as her hips thrust faster and faster. 

“You like it when I choke you? When your brain starts to go a little bit foggy and you can’t tell if it’s from the sex or lack of air? You like it when I tell you what a good little slut you are, taking my cock like such a good little Princess, showing how well you learn and how well you take instruction?”

“Yes,” you manage to gasp out in between moans. “Please, fuck me harder.” 

Although it seemed humanly impossible, Carol managed to fuck you harder. The relentless snap of her hips grew faster, thrusts hitting further and further inside of you each time. The hand rubbing your clit runs faster, harder, and just before you’re about to rip over the edge, Carol whispers in your ear. 

“Cum  for me, Princess. Cum like the good little girl you are.” 

You scream out in ecstasy as you tip over the edge, collapsing against the mattress. Carol pulls out, falling into bed next to you, wrapping her arms around you as she presses kisses to your neck and collarbone, drifting up to your forehead. 

“You did so well, Princess. You’re such a good learner. Looks like you’re just as good in here as you are in a classroom.” 

You smile. 

“I try my best. Honestly, that’s all I can ever do.”

Carol smiles. 

“A good attitude to have. Now, let’s go get you cleaned up.”

A few snacks, some water, and one blissful shower later, you’re dressed in Carol’s old sweatpants and sweatshirt as you climb into bed beside him. She’d invited you to stay the night, and you hadn’t been able to resist. Carol flips the lights off, pressing a delicate, featherlight kiss to your forehead. 

As you lay in bed however, you remember an important fact. 

“I still have to teach you all of literature,” you mumble. 

Carol laughs softly. 

“And I have many things to teach you still, darling. But for now, sleep.”

You smile, closing your eyes as you feel Carol’s grip on you grow stronger. 

Literature could wait until tomorrow.

#carol danvers smut #carol danvers #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel x reader #captain marvel smut #god i cannot believe i am back here #holy hell #help lmaooooo

[finalgirllx]

Mattheo Riddle Headcanons

From someone who only recently got into him. I could be wrong, since I can't trace back his roots much. Some of these are inspired by other writings, Marcus Lopez in Deadly Class, and my own bot usage.

I wrote this in about 5 minutes. Just a warning.

Mattheo is, of course, reserved around those he isn't close to. He tends to act cold, and will go as far to make himself seem threatening if he feels like it (whether that's actually true or not is your interpretation).

If he does something kind for someone without being asked, he prefers to let it go unmentioned. "Thanks for getting that for me." "Yeah, yeah, If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."

Scorpio, Scorpio, Scorpio! This is the one time I'll assign my star sign to a character because it fits him so well, along with his face claim being a Scorpio as well.

Mattheo loves The Smiths. There is no arguing there. This is definitely Marcus inspired, but it is just so nice.

He wears black almost exclusively. It is just his go-to and fits his general vibe. If he must, he'll go for a neutral-toned checkered flannel or jean jacket when it gets cold.

Mattheo has immaculate handwriting. Like, people look at his work and can't help but stare because they're surprised at the quality of it.

He drinks black coffee in the mornings, and that's it.

Does get into a lot of fights. And he wins all of them. However, unlike what others may think, he tries to give someone a chance to out themselves from a potential fight before he goes in.

Loves the horror genre. He talks up paranormal horror as the superior subgenre but will sit down and enjoy just about any kind.

He is a Resident Evil fan (Resident Evil 1 came out in 1996, so this is for slightly more modern au's).

His closest friends are Theo and Blaise, but he gets along well with Enzo and has an okay relationship with Draco.

He is knowledgeable and a strong critical thinker but doesn't care much about academics. Besides Defense Against The Dark Arts, he is really talented at Potions.

'Claims' people. His icy demeanor is rather tough to break; once he lets you in, it's like a switch is flipped, and he's more possessive and protective than anyone could've anticipated.

Has a mean jealous streak. This has been known, lol.

I think he prefers cats - but honestly, I see him being hesitant towards pets. He is still sweet toward them and would be a love bug with a pet of his own, but I can see a pet approaching him, and he wouldn't know what to do at first, haha. 

Mattheo is sarcastic to his core. Shows his affection through teasing. But he can be quite serious and good at knowing the right words to support someone when needed.

Slight NSFW implications - incredibly dominant, and there's nothing you can do to change my mind that's not his preferred mode 99% of the time.

To see Mattheo's sweet side is a real treat, but he keeps that part for whom he adores the most.

His love language is physical touch and its not even close. If he falls for you, he'll always make sure to be touching you in any way that is possible at that instance.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle headcanon #slytherin boys #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #benjamin wadsworth

[h00nerz]

bodybag!

masterlist | 1k celebration

pairing: kang taehyun x gn!reader (slight park sunghoon x gn!reader)

genre: angst, fluff, college au, sort of academic rivals to lovers, tsundere!taehyun, jealous!taehyun

word count: 2.2k

warnings: none afaik, just taehyun being possessive

prompt(s): #33 — “i can’t pretend anymore.”, #34 — “you’re all i can think about”, #35 — “i am so very in love with you”, #36 — “it’s you. it’s always been you.” & #37 — “i cannot stand you, and yet, i cannot fathom being away from you.”

requested: “okok i wanna send in a request bcs this kind of drabble has been living in my brain and idk if anyone wrote smth like it before but anyway!! lines 33 through 37 would lowk be so good for a jealoustsundre!taehyun where he acts like he fr despises you, but he like overhears u talking abt going on a lil date he gets so upset and mad 🤭🤭 i lowk got this idea from that one video i dont remember where but taehyun held a drink and was talking to the camera and said like " got this for you but that doesnt mean i like you or anything" HES SO 🙏🙏” — anon

authors note: omg heyyy my first time writing for tyun i am so excited!! enemies 2 lovers again bc… yeah. anyways enjoy~~

SO FAR, YOUR JUNIOR YEAR OF UNIVERSITY was proving to be the worst year of your life. You were finally starting to take classes more specific to your major, which meant things were starting to become a lot more serious. You didn’t have time to work anymore, and even though you had spent the whole summer leading up to the start of the semester working two jobs to have enough money for tuition, you were still barely managing to scrape by. 

Worst of all, though, was Kang Taehyun. 

Kang Taehyun was the bane of your existence. You had first met as freshmen at your university, in the same philosophy course, and you had immediately despised him--or rather, he despised you, and your hatred was just reactionary. It didn’t really matter, though, all that mattered was that he was a menace that made your life ten times harder than it needed to be. 

After that semester, you thought you’d never have to see him again. But, of course, fate had different plans for you. It turned out, Taehyun was pursuing the same major as you, which put you in multiple of the same classes by the time your junior year rolled around. By that point, it had been nearly two years since your last encounter, so you’d hoped he’d grown just a little bit since then. But, of course, he hadn’t.

Kang Taehyun had a vendetta against you that he wasn’t quite ready to let go of. 

Your last class of the day had finally let out, which meant it was time for you to head to the library. The night before, you had stayed up late pulling an all-nighter, and you really were not looking forward to another afternoon filled with studying, but if you wanted to make this deadline, you had no choice. 

With a sigh, you stood up from your seat, and were overcome with dread when you recognized a head of pink hair approaching you. “Not today, Taehyun. I am not in the mood.” You grumbled as you stuffed your laptop into your backpack, purposefully making sure not to even glance in his direction. 

“Yeah, obviously. You have a late night or something? It looked like you could barely stay awake the whole lecture.” He laughed at you, and now you finally looked over at him with narrowed eyes. “Jesus! You look like you just stepped off the set of The Walking Dead!” He exclaimed. 

Horror overcame you, as you realized just how bad your dark circles probably looked. “Shut up! I don’t look that bad!” You snapped at him, zipping your backpack shut so aggressively the zipper nearly broke off. “Even if I did, though, this is the face of someone who’s about to get an A on our midterm paper. So, ha.” 

Taehyun rolled his eyes, trailing after you as you exited the lecture hall. “Please. When I got Kai to review my paper, he said it, and I quote, ‘brought tears to his eyes’. It was that good. And I don’t look half as shitty as you do.” 

He was right. He didn’t look shitty at all. In fact, that was the most infuriating thing about Kang Taehyun. Even though he had shown time and time again that he had an ugly personality, his physical appearance was the opposite. Everything about Taehyun was perfect. His recently dyed hair, that was so fluffy atop his head it was reminiscent of cotton candy. His dark brown eyes that were simultaneously adorable as well as mysterious and inviting. You knew he worked out, he talked about it all the time, and it really showed. You hated him for being such a repulsive human inside of such an attractive body that must have been crafted by the gods themselves. 

“Probably because staring at his laptop screen and trying to decipher whatever bullshit you were spewing dried out his eyes.” You suggested. As you walked, you felt a yawn bubbling in the back of your throat, and as hard as you tried to suppress it, you were unsuccessful. 

“How late did you stay up last night? Really?” Taehyun asked, raising an eyebrow at you. For a brief second, you thought you saw a flash of something different, a flash of something human in his pretty brown eyes… But, you shook your head, positive that you had been imagining it, and sure enough, it disappeared.

“That’s none of your business.” You were quick to snap, quickening your pace in hopes of getting away from him. Instead, though, you ran straight into someone else, and knocked a couple of textbooks they were carrying onto the ground. 

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” You immediately started apologizing, bending your knees so you could start to pick up the books. When you glanced forward, you felt your cheeks redden as you realized you had bumped into the Park Sunghoon, and the Park Sunghoon was looking at you with wide eyes. 

Park Sunghoon was, like, the star of your campus. He was the captain of the school’s extremely famous ice hockey team, which made him basically a celebrity on your campus. That combined with the fact that he had a face only someone blessed by Aphrodite herself could wield. So, for that perfect face to be just inches from your own right now has your stomach doing somersaults. 

“Oh. Hi, Y/N.” Sunghoon greeted you, and as the two of you finally stood, you blinked at him. 

“You—how—my name?” You stuttered out, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. 

He furrowed his eyebrows together. “We had a class together last year, remember? You always sat in the row in front of me.” 

You slowly nodded. “Oh. Yeah. I’m surprised you remember that.” 

“How could I forget? You know, I always thought you were really pretty, Y/N.” He smiled at you, revealing his fang-like teeth, and you swore your heart stopped. 

There was loud coughing behind you, and when you glanced over your shoulder you were surprised to see Taehyun was still standing there. He was watching your interaction with Sunghoon with narrowed eyes, like he was contemplating murdering the ice hockey captain. You wondered if they had some kind of rivalry with one another, or maybe he was just irritated by him for the same reason he was irritated by you: just because.

You jerked your head to the side, trying to gesture for him to get out of there, but he stood in his place and looked as though he had no intentions of leaving. 

Deciding to ignore him, you looked back to Sunghoon, and flashed him a shy smile. “Really? You do?” You asked, batting your eyelashes at him. 

He nodded. “Yeah, really. Um, I’ve gotta go, but if you wanna get coffee sometime…” His voice trailed off, as he pulled a marker out of his backpack. You thought your heart was going to literally beat out of your chest when he uncapped the marker and started writing on your wrist. “There’s my number.” He grinned at you, and you watched in awe as he backed up and walked away. 

Once he was out of earshot, you turned around to face Taehyun, a big smirk befalling your lips. “I guess Park Sunghoon is into The Walking Dead!” You announced triumphantly, like you had just beat him in a game of sorts. 

He didn’t react, though, still wearing the same, ticked off expression from earlier. 

“What? What’s your problem?” You furrowed your eyebrows, and suddenly he snatched up the same wrist Sunghoon had just written on. “Hey! What the hell?”

“I need to talk to you.” He said in a low voice. 

“Then let go of me and let’s talk!” You hissed, trying to break free of his grip, but he wouldn’t let go.

He shook his head. “Not here. Follow me.” Unfortunately, he didn’t give you much of a choice, as he started dragging you through the great big hallway of bustling students. Eventually, he found an empty classroom and pulled you inside, shutting the door behind the both of you.

Finally, he let go of you, and you immediately stepped away from him, reaching up to rub your sore wrist. “What the hell was that, Taehyun?!” You demanded, practically spitting in his face. 

“I told you. I need to talk to you.” He repeated himself.

You rolled your eyes. “So then talk! I have places to be, I don’t have time for this!”

“Oh, like coffee with Park Sunghoon?” He spat, his voice laced with venom. 

“Maybe! Doesn’t matter, because who I hang out with is none of your business!” You jabbed a finger, and he once again caught hold of your wrist, holding you in place. 

“Listen to me, Y/N. I’m only going to say this once.” He warned you, and although you wanted so badly to fight him and get out of that stupid classroom, you were also desperate to hear what he had to say. He let out what sounded like a sigh of defeat, and he hung his head loose in front of you. He mumbled something unintelligible, and you raised an eyebrow. 

“What did you say?”

“I said I can’t pretend anymore!” He exclaimed, and the sudden outburst caught you off guard as you took a step back. 

“What do you mean…?” You asked quietly, but there was a small part of you who knew the answer to your own question already. 

He let go of your wrist, reaching up to run a hand through his strawberry colored hair. “You know, Y/N… I can’t stand you. And yet…”

“Yet…?”

“I can’t… I can’t fathom being away from you.” His pretty brown eyes finally gazed up to meet your own, and you realized his face had become almost as pink as his hair. Your own cheeks started to heat up at the sudden confession. “Ever since our first class together, you’re all I can think about. Y/N…”

He took a step closer, and you didn’t know why you didn’t back away. Instead you stood still, allowing him to gently take your hands into his own. “As much as it pains me to admit it… I am so very in love with you.” 

You blinked at him. “Y-You are?” You whispered, and he nodded. Kang Taehyun, the pretty boy who had been tormenting you in your classes, who you swore you hated, was in love with you?! It sounded made up. And yet… It made a lot of things start to make sense. 

“Which is why you can’t go out with some idiot like Park Sunghoon.” He pressed.

You frowned. “He’s not an idiot!” You snapped at him, finally gaining the sense to pull your hands from his. “And--And you can’t just spring this confession onto me! You’re probably just trying to distract me because midterms are happening, and--and you want to be the top of the class!”

He rolled his eyes. “No, Y/N, I don’t--”

“Yeah! And you’re just going to--to pretend you love me, and then get me to realize my own feelings, and then right when I start to fall for you, you’ll rip my heart out of my chest, and--” 

Before you could finish your ramblings, Taehyun was cupping your face and connecting his lips to your own. You let out a soft gasp in surprise, frozen for a moment, because Kang freaking Taehyun was kissing you. This was absolutely not what was supposed to happen! But… Something about it felt so right. It was like your body had a mind of its own as you relaxed under his touch, kissing him back with as much passion as he had offered you. 

He pushed you forward until you stumbled back onto one of the desks set up in the classroom, and you gasped again when his hands slid under your thighs to lift you up onto it. Your fingers laced themselves in his pink hair, which was surprisingly soft for having been recently dyed. He was kissing you hungrily, like you were his first meal in days, and he couldn’t get enough of you. 

He was kissing you like he was in love with you. 

After what felt like an eternity, he was forced to pull away from the kiss to catch his breath, and you found yourself chasing after his lips. He smiled down at you, and you felt his fingers brush against your cheek as he gently tucked a loose strand of your hair away. 

“I’m not lying to you, Y/N. This isn’t some cruel trick to make you fail. It’s you. It’s always been  you.” 

You smiled. “You really mean it?” He nodded. “Hmm… I’m not sure I believe you… I think I’m going to give Sunghoon a call…” You lifted your wrist to look at the numbers, unsurprised to see the ink had smeared after Taehyun dragged you into the room.

The color drained from his face. “What? Are you serious? I confess my love, and--and you’re going to call Sunghoon?!” He stared at you in disbelief. 

You tried your best to keep a poker face, but were unable to fight back the laughter for very long. “I’m joking, idiot! Holy shit, you should have seen your face!” You began to cackle loudly, but Taehyun was quick to shut you up with another kiss. 

Maybe the rest of the year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

permanent tag list: @jakeshands @therealhyunjingf @exohclipse @ttyunz @naveries @mazeinthemoon @luvsoobs @n0-thisispatrick @arizzu @dewyboi @yeonboy

#⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ 1k celebration #kang taehyun x reader #taehyun x reader #taehyun imagine #kang taehyun imagine #taehyun oneshot #taehyun drabble #kang taehyun oneshot #kang taehyun drabble #kang taehyun #taehyun #txt #tomorrow x together #txt imagine #txt oneshot #txt x reader #txt drabble

[foxy-eva]

A Remedy for Rivalry

Summary: Spencer decides to put his rival in her place after she got cocky about her academic achievements

Request: I was wondering if you could do a one shot of jealous Spencer with an enemies to lovers-ish trope? Added black lingerie would be appreciated because I just love pieces like that too much

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) mild dom/sub undertones (Dom!Spencer, Sub!Reader), a little bit of sexism (related to being a woman in a male dominated field), arguing, jealousy, possessiveness, teasing, praising, thigh grinding, fingering, protected penetrative sex

Author’s Note: I wrote this for the lovely @reidsbookclub and her one year celebration! The prompt I used is: "Meet me outside." "NOW" 

Word count: 4.8k

Masterlist

Being invited to speak at a conference alongside renowned researchers was all I had dreamed of for years. When I noticed that a certain someone was getting significantly less time to speak at the stage than I did, I couldn’t have been happier. Ever since he took on a full-time teaching job at the university I had worked at for years, he seemed to always be a step ahead of me when it came to publications. But today the tables had turned.

Dr. Spencer Reid was outshone by my academic achievements and I knew it made him furious. 

A part of me knew that seeing him more as a colleague than a rival would have made my life easier. But I couldn’t get over the fact that he had gotten everyone’s attention once he became a professor. So much so that I had to drop one of my classes because all the female students decided to attend his lectures instead. 

Of course I knew that this had nothing to do with his teaching skills. 

It was as if suddenly I had to work twice as hard to get half the praise he got. So it was only natural for me to enjoy the spotlight for once. The little get-together after the main event was a perfect opportunity to get to know other researchers to build a little network. I was deep in a conversation with a neuroscientist whose publications I had recently read when I noticed Dr. Reid approaching us to listen to our conversation. 

I didn’t mind his presence at all. In fact, I really wanted to see his face when he heard a well-respected scientist like Dr. Smith praise me for my achievements. 

“I must say, I was really impressed by you talking on stage earlier. And that had nothing to do with how stunning you look,” Dr. Smith said with a little wink. 

My smile instantly dropped while I saw a smug grin forming on Dr. Reid’s face. Why men had such a hard time giving compliments without mentioning appearances I would never understand. 

“Well, her looks might have been the reason nobody noticed the blatant mistake she made in her presentation,” Dr. Reid chuckled. 

“Excuse me?!” I hissed at him. 

“The paper you cited for your work was revised two days ago, making your whole argument invalid.”

I felt the color draining from my face as I tried to wrap my head around what he was saying. 

“As far as I see it, that is just a reason to do more research and publish another one of your brilliant articles,” Dr. Smith tried to appease me. 

It didn’t work. I downed my drink and left the party, stepping outside to breathe in some fresh air. I felt defeated and humiliated and decided that this time I wouldn’t let Dr. Reid get away with it. I pulled out my phone from my purse to send him a text. 

“Meet me outside,” was what I typed, followed by a second text right after. “NOW”

It took him exactly two minutes and thirty-four seconds to stand beside me outside of the building. 

As soon as I saw him I started yelling, “What the hell was that? You can’t undermine me like that!”

“I wouldn’t call it that. It was just me correcting you,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“Do you really think you’re better at doing this because… You’re a man?” 

“What? No! That has nothing to do with gender. Except that you’d have more time to do your research if you didn’t flirt with every man in there,” he mocked me. 

“You mean every man but you.”

He only huffed at that, averting his eyes from me to look at the ground instead. A reaction I hadn’t expected but found very interesting. I couldn’t let that go just yet. 

“If I recall correctly, you did agree with Dr. Smith that I looked stunning,” I teased. 

“His words, not mine,” he muttered. 

After taking a deep breath, I calmed down slightly and asked, “Tell me, Dr. Reid, what exactly is your problem with me?” 

“You mean other than you being nothing but spiteful ever since we started working together?” He spat. 

I shook my head, “I’m not that bad.” 

“You kind of are.”

I thought back to the times he tried to engage in a conversation and I didn’t even grant him a look because I was so angry at him for having had to drop one of my classes. Maybe there was a little bit of truth in what he said. 

“But I’m still good at what I do,” I countered. 

He seemed a little more leaned back now as well but he still couldn’t stop insulting me. “Most of the time, yes. But your latest research methods were a little… flawed.”

“Well, you’re flawed!” 

“Wow,” he chuckled. “Clever.”

“Look, Dr. Reid. There is a place for both of us in this field. I know you have a lot of experience but I have worked really hard to get where I am and I won’t let you take this away from me,” I tried to explain without it getting out too harshly. 

“I’m not trying to take anything away from you. In fact, I would have liked to do some research together with you when I started working at the university. But every time I tried to talk to you, you just showed me how much you despised me.”

He couldn’t hide the slight trembling in his voice and I wasn’t sure if it was from being angry or hurt. 

I brushed a strand of hair out of my face as I said, “It’s just… as a woman in my field, it feels like I have to work extra hard to get credit.”

His eyes found mine and for the first time ever I noticed how kind they were. 

“That’s understandable. I know the dean made you drop one of your classes because of the… influx of female students in my lectures. That wasn’t fair. If it helps, I’m pretty sure most of them aren’t actually there to learn anything.”

The last part made me laugh, “Yeah, I saw how they look at you.”

I noticed a rosy shade spreading over his cheeks, his eyes finding the ground once more. 

When our eyes locked again, he had a sincere look on his face. “I’m sorry about exposing you in front of Dr. Smith like that. I should not have done that.”

“Maybe you could actually tell me what about my method seems flawed to you when we get back to work?” I suggested. 

Suddenly there was a glimmer in his eyes I couldn’t ignore. He stepped closer to me but still kept a fair amount of distance between us. I had never allowed myself to look at him like I did then. I had never seen him as the man he was and not just a rival I had to beat. It was then that I felt the warmth radiating from his smile and I secretly hoped it wasn’t the last time I’d notice that. 

“That would mean you’d have to spend time with me,” he chuckled. 

I joined him in his laughter, “If it’s for science, I think I could endure that.”

Dr. Reid glanced at his watch. “It’s getting pretty late, I think I’m heading back to my room.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll do that too.” 

A smug grin formed on his face at the innuendo. 

“To my room, I mean,” I snickered. 

Together we entered the hotel and stepped into the elevator, realizing that our rooms were on the same floor. When I reached my door I whispered, “Good night, Dr. Reid.” 

“Please, call me Spencer.”

“Good night, Spencer,” I breathed as I stepped into my room, closing the door behind me. 

As I rinsed my body under the shower, I thought about the conversation I had with Spencer. He had shown me a side of him I hadn’t noticed before and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this had to do with how I treated him. A knot built in my stomach at the thought of how things could have gone differently if I had given him a chance months ago. 

I only then realized that underneath the intellect and cockiness he wore as armor, there seemed to be a kind and warm man with a more exciting side as well. Maybe it was the researcher in me who wanted to explore every part of him, to see which hidden sides I could make him show me when we were alone.  

When I stood in front of my suitcase to look for something to sleep in, I suddenly held a set of black lace lingerie in my hands. I didn’t pack it for anyone to see but myself because it always gave me an extra boost of confidence when I wore it underneath my usual attire. However, in that moment I couldn’t stop my mind from wandering to the image of Spencer’s face with his mouth agape and his cheeks tinted red at the sight of my underwear. 

The knot I felt in my stomach before quickly turned into a pleasant tingling that spread through my whole body. When I put on the flimsy pieces of lace I got a boost of confidence and decided that there was still something I had to tell Spencer tonight. 

After putting on a pair of jeans and a shirt, I smiled to myself. Spencer didn’t know about the secret underneath the first layer of my clothes and maybe he never would. But if he’d give me a chance to let him in on it, I definitely wouldn’t let it pass. 

With three firm knocks against his hotel room door I announced my presence. Spencer opened a few seconds later, staring at me like a deer caught in headlights. I let my eyes roam over his body and couldn’t stop the smile from forming on my face when I saw him wearing a washed-out shirt and flannel pajama pants. 

“Y/N! What are you doing here?” 

“I can’t stop thinking about our conversation and there is something I need to tell you,” I announced. 

He stepped aside to let me enter, closing the door behind us. The room was only lit by the lamp on the nightstand, an open book laying abandoned on the sheets. I turned to face him, standing a little more than an arm’s length away from him. 

“The reason I came here is… I thought about what you said, about how I treated you. I’m sorry I acted this way. I would really like a fresh start,” I admitted. 

He didn’t say anything, instead he stared at me with his lips slightly parted. 

“Please, Spencer.”

That seemed to get his attention. I noticed how his eyes darkened slightly as he took a deep breath. 

I continued, “I’m sure we can find common ground if we both try. Maybe we could meet somewhere in the middle.”

He started to smirk and stepped closer until I could almost feel the heat radiating from his skin. 

“What are you doing?” I muttered. 

“Meeting you in the middle. Now it’s your turn to take a step,” he chuckled. 

“I… didn’t mean that in a physical way.”

He came even closer. “Are you sure about that? You don’t seem to mind the proximity.” 

He was right about that. But there was something about his confident demeanor that made me incredibly nervous. I thought that I could walk over here and take the lead in our encounter, but by the way he stared at me I knew that I wouldn’t have the upper hand tonight. The thought of that excited me more than I could put into words. 

I took a step in his direction, halting right before our bodies could touch. I stared up at him, wondering if he had expected me to make the next move. His eyes fell to my lips for a split second and I noticed his tongue darting out of his mouth to lick over his lips. He looked at me like a man starved, his appetite growing the longer he kept his eyes on me. 

The tension between us was almost unbearable and I felt like my head was spinning, unable to grasp how the energy between us could have shifted so drastically in such a short time. Maybe I had been in denial about how attracted I was to him this whole time. 

Without a warning he started to speak, “I also thought about our conversation.”

I raised my eyebrows at him, interested in what he had to say. 

“You said you had noticed how those girls were looking at me.”

It took me a moment to remember what he was hinting at until I realized he was talking about all those female students who didn’t exactly make a secret of their attraction towards their professor. 

“Yes, it’s very obvious,” I whispered. 

“You do know, I would never do anything about that, right?”

I had never thought about Spencer in that context. He didn’t really strike me as the person to cross a line like that, so I shook my head. 

“Good. The truth is, I don’t care about them at all. It’s ironic really. I walk around the campus every day, noticing how those girls start chatting when they see me. And all I ever think about is the one woman whose attention I can’t seem to get.” 

My eyes widened at the realization that he was talking about me. He said it with an almost harsh tone in his voice but he couldn’t conceal the vulnerability bleeding through his words. 

I placed my fingertips on his cheeks and noticed how he closed his eyes for a moment and leaned into my touch. I leaned against him, his hands instantly flying to my waist to hinder me from moving away from him again. That was the last thing I wanted to do right then anyway. 

With our lips mere inches away from one another, I whispered, “I’m sorry it took me so long but I see you now. I see you, Spencer.” 

He didn’t hesitate to close the distance then, his lips pressing against mine with a fervor that shocked my whole system. He pushed against my body until my back met the nearest wall, having me gasp against his lips. He saw that as an invitation to deepen our union, his tongue meeting mine as he melted into me. 

My hand flew to his hair, grabbing a fistful to keep him in place. We kissed each other hungrily, months of rivalry finally unloading at the contact. When I thought that we couldn’t possibly get any closer to each other, he leaned further against my body until I could feel the extent of his desire pressing hard against my hip. 

It sent heat directly into my core and there was no way I could have stopped the whimper from escaping my throat. I needed to feel more of him, getting greedy to explore every inch of his body. My palms glided down his body until I found the hem of his shirt, dipping underneath it to feel the skin of his back. 

I felt him breaking out in goosebumps as my fingertips danced over his skin without a barrier. He seemed to appreciate the contact or else he wouldn’t have dared to break our kiss to practically rip his own shirt off his body. He was back at me in no time, kissing along my jaw and down my throat while my hands kept exploring his upper body. 

His hands fell to the hem of my shirt, toying with it before pushing it up slightly to graze his fingertips along my sides. He pulled back to look at me for a moment, stopping me when I attempted to continue our kiss. 

“Do you want this?” He asked. 

He was offering me an out but nothing in this world could have made me take that. “Yes, I want this. More than anything,” I sincerely told him. 

“If you want to stop or do anything else, just tell me.”

“I will.” 

That was the last bit of reassurance he needed to continue. He walked me over to the bed and I expected him to push me onto it but he didn’t. Instead, he sat down on the edge of it and looked at me. 

“Take off your clothes,” he demanded. 

I hesitated for a moment until his eyes found mine, looking at me with the utmost adoration. I shed my shirt and my pants, leaving me standing in front of him in only the set of black lace underwear I had wanted him to see. His eyes roamed over my body as if he was absorbing my image and storing it into his mind. 

When our eyes locked again, a smug grin was prominent on his face. 

“Did you wear that for me?” He chuckled. 

“Yes.” 

My honesty seemed to surprise him as his eyes widened at my answer. 

“So, talking to me wasn’t the only thing you had in mind when you came over.” 

I slowly turned around to let him see every side of my body. “Do you like it?” 

“Very much so,” he groaned. “Come here.” 

He pulled me into his lap and I found his lips to capture them in a soft kiss. It was gentler than the one before but it still left me yearning for more. Spencer placed his hands on my thighs, his fingertips pressing into the supple flesh. He broke the kiss to look at me. 

“Do you want to know why I interrupted your conversation with Dr. Smith?” 

I didn’t quite understand why he would bring up another man at that exact moment until he continued without waiting for my answer. 

“I saw the way he looked at you. And I couldn’t stand the thought of him taking you to his room tonight,” he confessed. 

My fingertips traced the scruff on his jaw. The thought of him getting jealous let my panties quickly dampen. Instead of teasing him for his feelings, I decided to reassure him instead. 

“I’m here with you now.”

His eyes got a shade darker as I witnessed his pupils dilating. 

“It’s where you belong,” he groaned before kissing me once more. 

He pulled back with my lower lip caught between his teeth, only letting go of it when he heard me whimpering. 

“Say it!” He ordered. 

He seemed almost desperate in his need to be reassured that it was really him I wanted to be with. 

“I belong with you, Spencer.”

With one swift motion he repositioned us to lie on the bed. His mouth was all over me, exploring every inch of my skin within reach. He nipped at the sensitive skin of my neck before tracing my collarbones with his lips. Wandering further down, he kissed along the seam of my bra before finding my hardened peaks through the thin lace. I arched my back into the contact, getting desperate to feel more of him. 

Reaching behind me, he undid my bra to remove the fabric from my body. He took a moment to take in the sight of my exposed chest before continuing his mission to explore my body. He sucked harshly on my skin whenever he wanted to elicit a whine from my throat, smiling against my skin when those sounds morphed into moans. 

His lips found mine once more while his hand descended further down my body. His fingertips ghosted over the lace of my panties before hooking underneath the waistband to pull them down my thighs. My own hands started to get more curious as well, gliding down his back until they found the soft fabric of his pajama pants. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I breathed between kisses. 

Spencer didn’t hesitate to get rid of the remaining pieces of clothing, leaving him just as bare as I was. We pressed our skin into one another, our kisses growing more heated while our bodies started rocking against each other. His length was pressing hard against my thigh until my hand wrapped around it to slowly stroke it. 

The groan he let out when I swiped my thumb over his leaking tip echoed through the room and imprinted directly into my brain.  

His hand grazed over my inner thighs several times, always skipping over where I wanted to feel him the most. The longer he denied me the much needed contact, the more desperate I grew. I was burning for his touch, for some friction, for anything really. In an attempt to soothe my aching core, I pressed my thighs together. 

Spencer was not happy when he noticed that. 

With more force than necessary, he pushed my legs apart and looked at me with furrowed brows. He hovered over me with one of his legs between mine. Pushing his thigh against my heat, I gasped at the sudden contact. 

“Here, show me how desperate you are.”

It took me a second to understand but once I knew what he wanted from me, I started grinding against his leg, seeking the friction I so desperately longed for. Spencer hovered over me, unable to decide whether to look at my face or my wet folds moving against his skin, leaving a shimmer of arousal on his leg. 

“That’s my good girl,” he praised me. 

I was getting desperate as I chased some relief, aware that it would be hard for me to find it this way. 

When I dared to close my eyes Spencer groaned, “Look at me!” 

I obeyed but struggled to keep my lids open as the pleasure overcame me. Just when I thought that I could actually fall over the edge like this, he denied me the contact. I whined in protest, the tension in my loins becoming almost too much. 

“Not yet,” he cooed, “not until I tell you to.” 

He was still hovering over me, propped up with one of his elbows beside my head. He kept kissing me while his other hand snuck down between our bodies to make contact with my heat. Moving his fingertips through slick folds, I couldn’t contain the moans and sighs rolling from my lips and directly into his mouth. 

When he slowly entered me with two of his fingers, I couldn’t help but clench my walls at the intrusion. He halted his motion, waiting patiently for my body to let him in. 

“Relax,” he whispered against my lips. “I want to make you feel good.” 

After taking a deep breath, I welcomed him inside me and he started to work his fingers against the tight flesh. My hips began to rock against his hand as I quickly longed for more. When he seemed to be pleased with the way my body reacted to his touch, he removed his hand to get up from the bed. 

He was back on the mattress with a little foil wrapper in his hand after just a few seconds. Kneeling between my legs, he took his sweet time to let his eyes wander over my body. 

“You look so hot lying all splayed out for me,” he purred. 

How he was still able to form proper sentences I couldn’t understand. I started to feel lightheaded, as if my body might crumble if he didn’t grant me what I longed for. 

“Please, Spencer…” I mumbled. 

“Please what?”

“Fuck me,” I pleaded. “Please.” 

“God,” he groaned as he ripped open the foil, “I will never get enough of hearing you beg.”

After putting on the condom, he leaned over me with his cock aligned at my entrance. He slowly pushed into me while his mouth captured mine, not letting any of my sighs escape. When he reached my deepest point, he halted inside me and I felt him twitching against my walls. 

“You feel amazing,” he mumbled against my lips right before he started moving. “Even better than I had imagined.” 

My eyes got wide at his confession. I wanted to know more about me being the center of lewd fantasies, but I was already too far gone to ask him about it. He decided to tell me anyway. 

“You have no idea how often I thought about bending you over your desk in your office,” he hissed. 

I answered him with my moans at the thought of that, my walls clenching hard around his length. 

He continued, “Everytime you disrespected me, I thought about putting you in your place.”

If him reprimanding me would feel even remotely close to what I was experiencing then, I’d be happy to keep treating him the way I did before. 

His thrusts were deep and hard, keeping a steady rhythm that soon was matched with my hips moving with him. I clung onto his body with my arms and legs around him, only allowing enough room for our hips to move. When the need for air overcame us, our mouths separated to pant against each other’s faces instead. 

With all the built-up tension inside of me, I felt my climax quickly approaching and that didn’t stay unnoticed. Spencer accelerated his pace, his eyes fixated on my face to not miss any of my reactions. 

When I scrunched up my face, he kissed my cheek before whispering into my ear, “Come for me.” 

If life would be perfect, I would have come undone at his command. But I didn’t, instead I kept dancing along the edge, desperate for the final push to enter a state of pure bliss. Spencer seemed to notice my struggle and let one of his hands sneak between our bodies until his thumb found my most sensitive spot. 

He kept a steady pace pushing into me while drawing tight circles around the bud of my crevice until I finally managed to let go. 

“There you go,” he moaned as he watched me fall apart. 

When he felt me pulsating around his length, he retracted his hand and buried his face into the crook of my neck. His thrusts became erratic as he chased his own relief, his breath feeling hot against my skin as he sang my praise in the forms of the sound of his undoing. 

I noticed him holding his breath right before I felt him throbbing inside me. My hips slowly rocked against him until the stimulation got too much for him, making him whimper against my neck. With one hand in his hair and one on his back, I let my fingertips dance over his body as he came down from his high.

It was inevitable for him to move but I still whined when he disappeared in the bathroom. He was back after a few moments with a damp towel in his hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, placing one of his hands on my thigh. 

“Open up for me please.”

I tried to reach for the fabric, muttering, “I can do that myself.”

He softly smiled at me and tapped the skin of my leg, telling me with a soothing tone, “I know that you can, but you shouldn’t have to.”

Without thinking about it further, I let my legs fall open to grant him access to my most delicate parts. He carefully cleaned me up, letting the fabric run through my folds to rid me of the remains of my excitement. 

When he was done he put the towel away to lie down beside me, pulling the blanket over our bodies. I curled into his side, letting my head rest on his chest. His palm brushed over my back, helping me relax inside his embrace. He placed a featherlight kiss on the top of my head before he wanted to know, “Are you okay?” 

I propped myself up on my elbow to be able to look at him. 

“Yes, I am. Are you?”

He smiled at my question. “I’m more than okay.” 

I thought about the conversations that led us to this exact moment and realized something. 

“You never actually told me what you think about a fresh start,” I remarked. 

Spencer broke out in laughter and shook his head. 

“After all that just went down between us, you still need me to confirm that?” He chuckled. 

“To be fair, one could misinterpret this as a hate-fuck.” 

Despite the playfulness in my voice, his eyes softened at my words. His hand found my cheek, having me lean into his touch. 

“That’s not what that was. Not for me, at least,” he cooed. 

I kissed his lips and mumbled against them, “It wasn’t for me either.” 

With his hand on the nape of my neck, he kept me in place to deepen the kiss while shifting our position so he was on top of me once more. He kissed along my cheek until he found my ear. 

“Yes, I would really like a fresh start with you. Especially when it means I can keep doing this” he whispered before kissing down my neck and descending further down my body. 

Feedback is always appreciated. Let me know what you think here!

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#spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #rbc1yearcelebration

[forevamark]

preview! time lapse (l.mk)

remember when i said ‘would be posted tomorrow.’..? 

... and that was months ago? well i lied. LOL life has been rough lately. but here’s the preview of what i’ve been working on very very slowly.

genuinely, trying to post by next week i swear this time yall hehe

Pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

Tags: pre idol debut to idol au, christmas and new years time line, slice of life moments, college student reader, substantial plot leading to smut, very dialogue heavy, angsty moments, slow burn, relationship struggle, lovers to exes to lovers

Intended for 18+ readers, minors do not interact.

Preview Word Count : 2k+

Projected Word Count: 10k+

Summary: Mark has always had the dream of becoming a big music star, meanwhile your aspirations lied with academics and coexisting with Mark. Mark struggles with telling reader that he will be leaving for Korea to pursue his music career very soon, in fear of losing what they have.

warnings are under the tab.

Warnings: cursing/swearing, teasing, oral male receiving, unprotected sex (wrap it up ya’ll!), breeding kink, possessive domination, spanking, slight choking, praise

not really edited- so sorry.

--

“What do you think about this?” Mark asked as he sat above you strumming on his guitar. You were sat on the floor between his legs focused on your eight page paper.

“In a sec,” you reply while wrapping up the sentence you were on.

“Take a break…” Mark whined trying to pry the laptop from your speedy fingers.

“Mark, it’s due in two days. I will listen in a sec.”

“Mhmm.” He sulked, leaning back into the sofa continuing his chord progression.

Days like this were stressful- due to the plethora of assignments that piled on- but soothing in a way. Your schedules never aligned this often, but Mark was so entirely enamored with you he’d do anything to spend his free time just being with you. 

“I can’t believe it’s been three hours and I only have my thesis done,” you sighed while resting your head on his knee.

“You got this,” he replies while running a hand soothingly through your hair while the other wrote something down on the notepad next to him, “I believe in you.”

“Do you need anything to help you focus? Am I being too loud?” he asks while going to the kitchen and lighting your favorite candle, “I can make you a snack?”

“Do you mind getting me some fruit? I feel like I need some brain food.” You asked while cracking your knuckles and continuing to type away.

Mark nods and walks back over, handing you a cut persimmon with the skin peeled off. He always knew what you needed before even saying it out loud.

Humming in appreciation you immediately start chewing on the sliced fruit.

Eyeing him from the corner you see him looking out of your apartment window. It was raining hard outside, Mark’s favorite. 

“Anything else you need to work on?” you ask. He shrugs his shoulders. 

“Not much else, I want your opinion on what I have then I’ll see what I can add from there. Don’t worry though,” he turns to look at you with a small smile, “I can wait.”

Mark has always been supportive of your dreams and aspirations. It was a shock when he told you he wouldn’t be joining you at university, but rather pursuing music instead. Although an adjustment, you supported him and he rooted for you. It seemed to be working out, he passed the first two rounds of auditions for a big music company and it looked like things were finally looking up for him. 

Some days you wouldn’t see him at all, and some days he picked you up from class and would stay glued to your side. He claims that he ‘soaked up inspiration from you’ hence the constant quality time and skinship. He knew you were working hard, pursuing a higher education was so important to you and your family, and he wanted to be present every step of the way. 

Unbeknownst to you, Mark also had a dark cloud overlooking him just like the city in front of him. He hasn’t yet told you that he passed the third and final round of auditions for his company and would be slated to move to Korea before the end of the year to begin his training. He couldn’t bear to break the news to you, not yet. Not when you were so close to finishing one of your hardest semesters yet.

“I think I can pull you away from that screen now y/n,” he says while tugging you away from the black and white screen.

“Hey! I’m not finished yet! I thought you said you could wait” you pouted trying to get loose.

“You’ve been working non stop, you aren’t being as productive anymore.” He chuckles while slotting you to the seat across from him.

“Hi.” he smiles at you.

“Hi.” you respond back.

There’s a moment of silence shared between you two. The only sound being the soft pitter patter from outside hitting the patio. Mark stares at you lovingly, you can tell something is wrong but you can’t find the words to ask him just yet, too entranced by the current hold he has on you.

“So, the song, yeah?” you finally whisper aloud. 

“Hold on,” he replies, licking his lips and searching every inch of your face, memorizing this very moment to inspire him for what he’s about to play.

“What’s the hold up? Don’t get stage fright in front of me now Lee,” you lightly say while giggling.

“I, I just want to make you proud, okay?” he finally says with sad eyes.

“You always will, Mark.”

Guilt washed over Mark. Things were great, perfect even. But he just had to aspire for more. He should be satisfied with what he has now, he’s close to home, a stable music career here in Canada, and most importantly, you. But just like you, he had the moon but he wanted every damn star in the galaxy. He didn’t want change, but nothing could satiate the hunger for something more. He was leaving, because he knew that this life, now, isn’t enough.

“Okay.” he takes a moment to gather himself, taking in some deep breaks and shaking his nerves out through his hands.

“Let’s hear it!” you shuffle sitting up straight in your chair.

Mark lets out one final breath before starting a low strum on his guitar. Flashes of memories over the course of your relationship flashes before his eyes. Your first snow day in Canada when you couldn’t get the ice off of your windshield, to the countless nights of watching reruns of Glee in your small shared apartment. 

He hits the chorus for the first time, opening his eyes to look around the room, unable to look at you just yet. Pictures of you two littered the walls, filled with your smiling and laughing faces. 

Mark mumbles small noises of nonsense to fill in the parts he doesn’t know what to put in between, sometimes trying out some lyrics at the top of his head. He shakes his head and chuckles when words don’t rhyme or quite fit, in return you share a smile enjoying him delving into his craft.

It’s something about the way that Mark is able to lose himself completely, in his own little world and for brief moments you’re able to enter his mind, envisioning every note in a flow of synesthesia. He’s able to create color and landscape through sound, and what’s crazier is that he doesn’t even realize the extent of his art.

“And… I guess that’s it. What’d you think?” He asks as he lets out a final strum. The warmness of his music is still palpable in the room, despite the cold and dark weather that demands to be let inside. 

You take another moment staring at the man in front of you. Mark bit his fingers in anticipation. His large white tee hung loosely on his shoulders, his ripped jeans bounced waiting for your feedback.

Everything is perfect.

Nothing can take this moment away from you two. 

No words could exactly encapsulate how you felt so you decide to throw your arm around him. 

Mark lets out a sigh of relief as he sets his guitar to the side, “so I guess you liked it?” then reciprocated by pulling you into his lap.

“I loved it, Mark. I can’t wait to hear it all together, I really liked that chord progression, I can definitely hear it on the radio one day,” you mutter into his shirt.

The pitter patter of rain outside was accompanied by the soft whimpers from the man whose chin sat upon your head.

“I’m always going to be here for you y/n,” he jaggedly says.

You two sat in each other's embrace for what seemed like eternity. 

“Let me show you something,” he says, breaking the silence and adjusting your position to where your back was flush against him.

Mark sat the guitar in your hands, “Let’s start from the top, yeah?”

That night Mark taught you the song on his guitar, sometimes you filled in lyrics that felt right.

“They know we got the chemistry…” Mark sings.

“Love how your body feels on me, when you get back let me get that…” you finish with a small laugh.

“Yo!” he jumps up, lifting your laughing frame into the air, “That’s a bar!”

“Are you jealous that I may be a better rapper than you?” you giggle back.

“You’re coming for my career, babygirl!”

—

Six more hours.

Six more hours until this paper is due, and you’re almost done with this last page. 

Six more hours until the hell that was this semester is finally done.

Six more hours until you can crawl into bed with Mark and take a long deserved nap.

“Almost there baby,” Mark says while massaging your shoulders.

“I got this,” you say while typing furiously.

“Hell yeah you do.”

Your train of thought was interrupted by Mark’s ringtone going off from behind you.

“I’ll be right back, when I come back you better have this paragraph done!”

Sending him a stiff salute you continued to trudge on as he stepped into your bedroom and closed the door.

“Mark! What’s going on my man! Happy holidays!” his new manager cheered into the phone.

“It’s going well, just spending some time with family and friends while I can,” he replies while laying down on your bed and grabbing a stuffed My Melody to hold against him.

“Well, I’m glad you have been enjoying your last moments of freedom while you can. Speaking of which, I do have an early Christmas present for you!”

“Awesome! What is it?” 

“Well, the company wants you to start as soon as possible. I played them your audition and they think you can finish your training in less than a year!”

“That’s amazing!” Mark shoots up and runs his hands through his hair, “when do I fly out? Next year I hope?”

“Mark, I did say Christmas present didn’t I? You’ll leave the day after the 25th. I bought you some more time to spend with your family, but you’ll be spending the new year here, in Korea!”

Mark felt his heart drop. That was in two weeks. 

Two weeks to eat all the food he can.

Two weeks to brush up on dancing.

Two weeks to say goodbye to his family.

Two weeks to erase all traces from his friend groups’ antics.

Two weeks till he has to leave you.

“Uh… two weeks… wow that’s really soon.” 

“Absolutely! Now rest up Mark, this year is going to be the craziest experience of your life!”

His manager kept going on about the potential future he had coming for him. But Mark couldn’t seem to focus on all the new found information. Slowly feeling the aroma of you envelope him fully, being surrounded by you everywhere, it was suffocating. 

How is he going to tell you?

“I finished it!” he heard your jumps of triumph in the distance, echoing all the way to the pits of his empty stomach, “I’m finally done with this God awful semester! One more year till graduation!”

You burst through the door interrupting Mark’s pensive state, wrapping yourself into him.

“You okay babe?” you realize pulling away slowly, eyeing his sweating frame, “you look a bit sick, want me to make you some ramen?”

“Oh no I’m fine, just fine really,” he shallowly laughs pulling himself away from you and moving to turn on the fan, “just got a little warm is all.”

“Who called?” you asked before flopping on the bed and sighing, “was it your manager? Did you get the job?”

“Uh yeah…” he shuffled, not meeting your eyes, “It was my manager, he had some good news…”

“Oh my God, did you pass?” you pounced on him awaiting the news.

“Uh… yeah, I did.” he lied.

“Markie!” you showered him in kisses and tight squeezes, your love for him unfaltering, “When do you leave?”

“Not for another year,” he smiled, not looking at you.

“Hopefully you’ll still be here for my graduation…” you sighed, “but nonetheless I’m glad I get to keep you to myself for a bit longer.

---

anddd that’s it for now! see yall in a week! any and all comments appreciated, and as always, tag list is open! 

xoxo, eva <3

#forevaeva updates #forevamarkupdates #forevamark full fic #marksmut #mark lee smut #nct mark lee #nct mark smut #mark lee fanfic #nct mark lee fanfiction #mark lee fanfiction #nct fanfic #nct fic #nct fluff #nct angst #nct smut #nct au #nct aus

[dutchvanwinkle]

Mr Van der Linde Pt. 5 - Dutch x Reader

Hello again darlings! I hope those of you celebrating Easter / Ramadam / Passover are having a wonderful weekend, did you know this overlap only happens three times every century? How cool is that!! Whether you're observing a holiday or not, it's now time for us to all come together and fantasize about daddy Dutch :)

I would apologise for the wait between this chapter and the last, but I did say this fic would be relatively slow in updates. I wrote a good chuck of this chapter then decided I hated it, took some time away from it, came back, then realised it wasn't as bad as I'd made out in my head lol. It's a pretty fluffy one tbh, and even if it's not as long as the previous one I hope you still enjoy!

It's on ao3, too!

Summary: Your relationship with Dutch deepens when you spend more time with him after a stressful week.

Word count: 6,471

Content warnings: smut, mildly creepy dutch

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 | PART 9 | PART 10

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

Despite everyone’s knowledge of the end of the academic year, not one of your group of friends took the responsibility of arranging the flat for you to all live in together for second year. So, once again, you and Karen were in the same one - with John, Abigail, Sean, and Javier across the hall in theirs. You didn’t mind much; you were all too deep in the habit of leaving your flats unlocked anyway so the others could wander in should they please. It was dumb, but you hadn’t been robbed yet and imagined that’s what it would take for you to change your ways. 

Abigail had made extra dinner and you were the first to claim the portion, skipping across the hall and ambling in with a grin on your face. The two of you ate and chatted with the TV filling the background noise. Karen had joined not long after, and the three of you found yourselves sprawled on the sofa, tired from a full day.  

Second year was noticeably harder, no more easing you into university life – the theory and assignments were tough. However, thanks to your hard work in the previous semester it wasn’t an impossible leap. It had been for some, Javier regularly coming around in an attempt to inconspicuously copy your coursework.  

Just as you were mentally preparing yourself for the next day, the last before the weekend, your phone buzzed. 

Naughty girl. 

Dutch. You cleared your throat, pausing a moment before opening his message. He hadn’t taken any liberties with his possession of your phone number, and your inbox had been decidedly empty since the last time you saw him. 

?? 

Was this the old-person way of flirting? Was it sexting? Hopefully, your response would allow room for clarification. 

I was just in my photo gallery. 

Oh. You smiled to yourself. Another message. 

I almost dropped my phone. 

Sorry, won’t happen again. 

It better happen again, miss. I’ve already made good use of it, and now I’m in need of more. 

Good god, the thought of him pleasuring himself to a photo of you brought heat all over your neck. “I’m just gonna use your bathroom,” you stood up to excuse yourself, getting no response from your friends. 

Once inside, you looked around, knowing full well it was empty and quickly flicked the lock on the door, before pulling your top over your head. Glancing over your reflection in the mirror, you tried to figure out the best angle that’d reveal enough but not too much. 

Eventually, you got an angle you were happy with, only your jaw in view and your tits on full display. You cropped the photo (including your bottom half was a bit too much, right now at least) when his name appeared in your notification bar again. 

Too far? 

Bless him, he could see you’d read his message but left him without a response for ten minutes. Without giving yourself time to chicken out, you sent the picture to him. 

Sorry, I was distracted. 

He read it instantly, and it took a full minute before you could see he was typing. Then the dots disappeared. Then reappeared. Then disappeared again. You smiled to yourself, pulling your top over your head and flushing the toilet for good measure, before venturing back out and returning to the sofa. Dutch finally decided on what to say once you’d made yourself comfy. 

Come see me this weekend. 

If only. A weekend being fucked repeatedly was just what you needed, exhaustion already settling into your mind thanks to your busy schedule being back in action. Unfortunately, said schedule was exactly why you couldn’t. 

Can’t, sorry. I’m working tomorrow and Saturday. 

Fuck work. I’ll pay you. 

“What are you smiling at?” 

You glanced up, Karen looking at you inquisitively, Abigail taking her attention off the TV in turn to see what the fuss was. 

“Nothing?” you said casually. 

“You’ve been grinning at that phone of yours for five minutes.” 

“I have not been grinning.”  

She raised a brow, the look on her face turning to intrigue. 

“Please tell me it’s a guy. Or a girl. Or anything with a pulse,” Abigail pleaded, and you tutted while Karen cackled. 

“I’ve told you I don’t have time for that crap! Besides, I’m perfectly fine as I am,” you said defensively, folding your arms and ignoring the buzz of a message on your phone. 

“We all need a good screw now and again,” Karen said plainly, Abigail nodding in agreement. 

Don’t we just. “Oh, and Maquire is providing that service well enough for you, is he?” 

She shot you a glare, and as she was about to retort the main door opened, the man himself trailed by Javier and John. 

“Yeah, alright,” John said, his phone held up against his ear while he set the bag of shopping on the counter. 

“Hello ladies,” Javier greeted you all, beginning to put away their communal shop which was pathetically void of nutrients and taken up mostly by cans of beer. 

Sean pulled off his boots, hopping a little before it gave and sighing proudly when it did. “Any of you want a drink?” 

You shook your head, as did Abigail, but Karen held her hand out. 

“Ah, that’s why I love ya,” he grinned, handing a can out to Karen who scoffed in disgust before snatching it from him. 

“Okay, fine, yeah. I can do that. See you later,” John said, hanging up his call and letting his phone drop into his pocket. 

“Everything okay?” Abigail asked while John played tetris stacking the beers in the fridge. 

“Yeah, just my dad. He’s coming down this weekend.” 

That got your attention. Surely not - 

“Says Tilly’s been angling to see the city. He was just checking I was free to spend time with them.” 

“Aw,” Abigail sat up, “will we get to see them?” 

John shrugged, and your phone buzzed again. 

I’m serious. read Dutch’s previous message to you, followed by his most recent one: Looking forward to seeing you. 

You neglected to respond just yet, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself. That man worked fast.  

“Where are you gonna take them?” 

“God knows. Knowing Dad,” John sat down beside Abigail, “he’ll have already drafted up a full itinerary.” 

You smirked at the thought, a warmth growing in your chest. 

- 

Dutch was fond of John’s friends. They were a decent bunch, and he’d been glad to see their familiar faces when he and Tilly arrived in the city the next morning, dropping their bags at the hotel before coming to visit John’s flat. He reminded himself repeatedly not to comment on the lack of cleanliness students seemed to thrive in. 

It was nice to see John, along with Javier who he’d watched grow up with his son. Abigail was extra friendly, and thanks to a little birdie he understood why. She was a nice girl. They were all nice. But the one he wanted to see the most was unfortunately yet to descend on the flat despite John’s assurance that everyone swings round all the time.  

“I’m going out for a cigarette,” Dutch announced, departing the flat and being met with the doorway to yours opposite him. He tried his luck, finding it unlocked, and mentally chastised you for being careless. He wasn’t sure which room was yours, though he thought it a good enough excuse to have wandered into the wrong flat should anyone ask. Two of the doors were ajar, and after a peek, he found them empty. The flat was quiet, and he decided there was no harm in trying the closed ones. He knocked on the next door, getting no response and so pushing it open. 

Dutch smiled to himself as the air entered his nose; it smelled just like you.  

Thanks to the strange layout, he could see the end of your bed and a slight bump under the duvet where your feet lay. “Tut tut,” he hummed as he took a couple of steps in, “you really should keep it locked – oh.” 

His brows pulled together as his voice died in his mouth at the sight of you fast asleep and bundled up in your bed, completely flat out. He debated waking you but was distracted by seeing the inside of your room for the first time. A little nosy never hurt anybody.  

Hands in his pockets, he observed the pictures up on your wall and smiled fondly at the ones including his drunken son. Then, he glanced over the perfume bottles lined up near your small desk mirror, then to the books and paper laid out beside your laptop accompanied by an empty mug from the previous day. It was then that he turned his attention back to you, hair ruffled with one arm out of the covers. 

Dutch sat on the edge of your bed and brushed a strand of hair from your peaceful face. It was enough to make you stir, and you cranked your eyes open. He smirked as he observed your expression, going from alarmed to relaxed when you realised it was him, then back to alarmed when you realised it was him.  

“You really should lock your flat, and your door,” he greeted. 

You rubbed your eyes, wondering if the man had come to visit you in a dream though it felt undeniably real as you remembered your conversation with John the previous day.  “Or perhaps,” you said around a yawn, “strange men shouldn’t let themselves in and sit on my bed.” 

“Strange men?” Dutch looked mildly offended. “I’d hate to know what you do with familiar men.” 

“Very funny,” you grumbled, pulling the covers up to your neck. “What time is it?” 

“Ten thirty. I didn’t think you were one to sleep in late.” His hand rested on your lower leg, and the added pressure was soothing and lessened your motivation further for starting your day. 

“I’m not. But I’ve got a long day today, so I’m treating myself,” you shut your eyes and felt Dutch shift his weight on the bed. You felt his warmth over you before you felt the kiss he pressed to your cheek, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sweetness of it. It awoke other unsavoury sensations that you usually repressed in the morning. 

It was as though he sensed it, brushing his hand up your leg and moving to kiss your jaw, an added tenderness compared to its predecessor. You sighed contently, the comfort of Dutch’s soft chuckle reaching your ears. There was no option but to give in, your eyes fluttering open as you shifted onto your back, allowing Dutch to manoeuvre himself on top of you. His face filled with pride, but when he moved in to kiss you, you put your hand up as a barricade.  

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you explained, and he huffed a laugh. 

“I could care less. But, if you insist,” his hand travelled further up the path of your body, cupping your breast as his lips tended to your neck instead, which you bared for him gladly. 

“Was it really worth coming all this way?” you asked, lazily watching him trail his lips around your skin. 

“Of course,” he said, hardly breaking his path, “need I remind you of my lack of interest in desiring a thing. I prefer -” 

“- to have it, right.” Dutch smiled up at you, and the tardy realisation hit you that you were now finishing his sentences. “How was the drive up?” you asked quickly, hoping to alleviate any teasing forming in his mind. 

“Just swell,” he answered, trailing his hand underneath your pyjama top to knead your breasts. His fingers moved gently in circles, testing your tenderness as they neared your nipple and lightly tweaking the now erect buds. Then his mouth came down over the fabric, and he sucked one into his mouth, leaving a wet patch behind that he eyed fondly once he was done. 

“You know,” you set up on your elbows, craning your neck to look at the door, “I really should lock my door. Just in case.” 

Dutch placed his palm on your chest, applying pressure until you lay back down. “No no, you want to leave it unlocked, then you leave it unlocked.” 

“I’m serious,” you attempted to sit up again but damn he was strong, “John lets himself in all the time.” 

“Does he,” Dutch hummed, moving his head down to suck your nipple in again and released, “I ought to teach the boy some manners.” 

“Dutch, it’s not funny. Let me lock the -” 

As you tried to sit up Dutch applied his full weight onto you and mouthed at your neck while all the air was knocked from your lungs. Strong and heavy. It would be a comfort if you could only breathe, and grumbled incoherently at your body’s response to being trapped by him despite the danger of the situation.  

“Now,” Dutch cooed, lifting his head and running his thumb along your chin, “don’t you worry. I’ve been fit to burst since you sent me those pictures.” 

“I thought you -” 

“I did, but it’s not the same.” With that, he eased off slightly as you gradually accepted this was a risk you’d just have to take, and wrapped his hand around your inner thigh to shift your legs apart. “Huh, looks like I’m not the only one.” 

You frowned down to observe what he was looking at and were met with the moist material of your pyjama shorts. “Goddamnit.” 

Dutch chuckled while he trailed his fingers up and down your mound, and it wasn’t long before you were grinding up in time with his movements. He always seemed to know the exact pressure and pace you wanted, and often reigned it back some so as to keep you frustrated. You were about to ask him to get on with it, considering the risk and limited time you had before your day started, when he removed his hand to undo his jeans and pull out his frustrated-looking cock. The man didn’t even look at you, nor give you any warning, before moving your shorts to the side and sliding right in. And curse your body once again, allowing him the smoothest of passages. 

A sigh of relief left him, the sort one would make when sinking into a hot bath. He stayed there a moment, nosing at your neck and brushing his palm down your flank to your shorts, the fabric of which he bunched up in his hand. At least you weren’t wearing any underwear he would inevitably steal. 

“How could this not be worth the journey,” he mused, and you realised he was in fact talking to himself. Still, you sighed out a laugh. 

Dutch moved his torso off yours, straightening up to grab your outer thighs in each hand. His grip was tight, bruising almost, and he held you right where he wanted you as he pulled out and began thrusting in a slow, deep rhythm. His head tipped back, and you stayed watching him, the euphoric pleasure seeping over his face enough to keep you lubricated down below. It truly was nice to know you were the cause of such a response. Well, your body, at least. 

“Now,” his heavy gaze met yours, and he leaned forward to plant one hand on your headboard and left the other gripping your hip, “let’s get to it, shall we?” 

There was no room to answer before he deepened his thrusts, his thick cock thoroughly filling you. He was perfectly anchored to the bed and you, and being leant forward slightly enabled him to brush over the plush, pulsating spot inside you repeatedly. Swiftly building up your impending orgasm, you thanked your accommodation for not giving you squeaky beds despite their questionable quality.   

Dutch’s grunts sounded at the same time as his thrusts, his lips pressed together to limit any other noise and you did the same, quiet gasps leaving you on occasion. “You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he asked through a laboured breath. 

“Mhm,” you answered and wrapped your legs around him, pulling him further in and it was the last bit of motivation he needed to fuck you into your mattress until silently you came, back arching and hands gripping the duvet beneath. Dutch continued to fuck into you while your orgasm ebbed away, and you bore through the over-stimulation until he pressed his hips as far forward as he could, filling you up as you felt his cock twitch inside you.  

Your breath evened out while he dropped his head forward to run a hand through his hair. “My memory did not do you justice.” 

“That right?” you tilted your head in amusement and he hummed his agreement while slowly pulling out and doing a poor job of catching his spend. Guess you’d be changing your sheets today.  

“Mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked and you gestured to the door to your ensuite in agreement. While he was there, you pulled some wipes out from your side table and cleaned yourself up. 

“What have you got planned for today?” you asked as he ventured back in, doing up the fasten of his belt. 

“Probably get some food, walk around and see what we can find,” he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, gesturing to your fire alarm that was tactically covered by a sock. “You really are a naughty girl.” 

You snorted a laugh and sat up, while he leaned on your desk and cracked your window open to blow the smoke out. “Are they not going to wonder where you are now?” 

“I told them I was going for a cigarette.” 

“Huh, smart.” 

He raised his brows in agreement as he took another drag. “What time are you working until today?” 

“Late,” you shrugged. “I’m on until close.” 

Dutch tutted. “Well, my hotel isn’t far from your work, so you may as well stay with me. I’ll wait up.” 

“I don’t recall telling you where I worked.” 

He smirked, tapping the ash out the window. “You didn’t.” 

“Then how -” 

“I have my ways. I can be rather resourceful when I want to be.” 

“No shit,” you scoffed, ignoring the slight creepiness of him having that knowledge. “But no, thank you, I’ll be too tired.” 

“The hotel bed is very comfortable.” 

“I said no. Besides, you have Tilly with you,” you said, Dutch shifting his position to be half-seated on your desk. 

“She has her own room.” After a final drag, he stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it out your window. He walked over and sat on your bed again, taking your hand in his. “Just consider it?” 

“Fine,” you acquiesced, “I will see how I feel after my shift.” 

“That’s my girl,” he said, a pleased smile forming on his face and moved in to kiss your cheek before standing. “Be sure to say bye before you head off.” 

“Whatever you say,” you rolled your eyes, and with that, he departed, and the urge to shower became urgent. 

You had ten minutes to spare after getting washed and dressed, and couldn’t find anything to busy yourself with so you ended up visiting John’s flat after all. Your friends were all there when you entered, Tilly offered you a hug, and Mr Van der Linde greeted you casually when you entered the flat, like he hadn’t been pounding into you less than an hour ago. 

“Here she is,” John smiled, “you feeling better?” 

Dutch’s expression hardened so fast you could feel it, and you grumbled internally at John once again unintentionally putting his foot in it. “Yeah, fine,” you said quickly, “just needed some sleep.” 

“Perhaps you should skip some lectures and catch up some more,” John teased. 

“You’re actually going?” Javier scoffed from the sofa, taking his attention away from Tilly’s phone where she appeared to be showing him a video. 

“You know I have to,” you deflected, walking over to sit on the arm of the sofa beside him. 

“Eighty percent, you can stand to miss a few.” 

With a playful tilt of your head, you raised your brows accusingly. “Not worth getting into the habit.” 

“Get me a copy of the notes?” he asked sweetly, smiling up at you and taking your hand in his to place a kiss on the back of it. As always, you could never resist, nodding your understanding with a smirk. “Ah, Mr Van der Linde -” Javier’s expression dropped as he look at the man in question, “don’t tell my pa, okay?” 

Before he could respond, Sean decided to get a word in. “My da doesn’t mind me not going, says it’s better I don’t get my head filled by those pompous academic types. N-no offence, Mr Van der Linde,” he held his arms up placatingly. 

“Now, why would I be offended by that?” he asked, genuinely, though Sean visibly began to sweat. 

“No reason! No reason at all -” 

“And on that note,” you cleared your throat, deciding to save Sean before he inevitably fell further into his self-made hole. “I should get going. Nice to see you both again,” you said, mainly to Tilly, and hoped Dutch’s devious expression in response wasn’t as noticeable to anyone else. 

- 

If another person asked you to make a cocktail, you’d scream. It’s a Friday, do these people not know how filled to the brim with students this place was? You weren’t even sure why you offered cocktails at this stupid hour; everyone was too inebriated to even appreciate it, and who needs to spend extra on a drink when they’re out to get as plastered as they can, anyway? Just order a shot and be done with it - 

“Whiskey old-fashioned, please.” 

You turned, half-ready to lose your job for punching a patron and were met with a smiling Dutch on the other side of the bar. 

“Seriously?” you gestured around yourself, both as to why he’d ordered that and why he was there in the first place. 

“Why not?” 

“It’s busy,” you grumbled, making an exasperated show of preparing the glass. 

“Fine,” he chuckled, “just a double on ice will do.” 

You offered him a grateful smile, scooping a few ice cubes out of the tray.  

“Do you always speak to customers that way?” 

“Only the annoying ones,” you shrugged. 

“I’m in half a mind to tell your manager,” he raised his brows, leaning on the bar in a way that enhanced his arms as his burgundy shirt stretched around them. 

“Do that and I’ll ask you for ID. You forget I also have the power to withhold... other things,” you slid the drink over to him, and as you were about to announce the total, he handed you a twenty. “It doesn’t cost that much.” 

“It’s a tip.” 

“No,” you lamented, refusing to be his charity case, “it all goes in a pot anyway.” 

“Consider it an apology for my being a difficult customer,” he answered immediately. “And as a sweetener, so you don’t withhold your oh so generous offerings.” 

You tutted and placed the change to sit stubbornly in front of him on the bar. “I -” your attention was pulled to someone new coming up to the bar, “hold on a second.” 

After pouring out two vodka cokes for them, you returned to Dutch. “Where’s John and Tilly?” 

“John’s back at his flat, I think, and Tilly’s sleeping at the hotel,” he sipped at his drink, and you smirked as he tried to hide that this whiskey was not as fancy as his palate was used to.  

“Will Tilly be alright on her own?” you asked. 

“Of course. I plan to return soon anyway; I just need to pick something up first.” 

“What do you need to – oh,” you realised what – or rather who – he was referring to. “I haven’t agreed to come back with you. Besides, I’m still working.” 

“When do you usually finish?” 

“When everyone leaves,” you narrowed your gaze at him accusingly. 

“Ah,” he hummed in amusement. “It appears to be quietening down.” 

He was right. The crowd was certainly beginning to thin out, and you hoped that in true student fashion, they would all leave to go somewhere busier once they noticed. “I still haven’t agreed.” 

Dutch’s response was the inching of his fingers closing to yours, brushing them over your own secretively. “I would really like you to.” 

“I’m really, really tired, Dutch.” 

“That’s fine, you can go straight to sleep,” at the raise of your brows, he continued with a smile that inched on his face, “I mean it.” 

“I could be a while,” you excused yourself further. 

He finished the last of his drink, pausing a beat before finishing it. “Just text me when you’re done. Otherwise, I’ll stay here until everyone else has left.” 

“Okay, alright,” you rubbed your brow, supposing it couldn’t be too bad if you did just go there to sleep. By now, your trust in him had grown to the point where you believed he would’ve put all the measures in place to ensure the two of you weren’t caught. “I’ll text you.” 

“Good,” he said, pleased, and stood. “I’ll be going now, then.” 

“You mean you don’t want another one of those?” you pointed to his empty glass. 

He gave you an almost weary look, and a laugh slipped from you. 

“I’m only kidding.” 

He shook his head, and for the briefest of moments your heart skipped as you saw his rare, genuine smile. 

“See you later,” you concluded the conversation. 

Dutch folded his jacket over the arm and offered you a secretive wink. “I look forward to it.” 

- 

It was another hour before the bar closed, and you swiftly grabbed your bag from the back room, pulling your phone out to message Dutch at the earliest opportunity. 

You opted for waiting outside, a small way down the street in case any of your colleagues caught you swanning off with an older man who’d visited the bar. He didn’t leave you waiting for long. 

“That was sooner than I expected,” he greeted you, and on the short walk to the hotel, you answered his questions about how your shift went. 

“This is an expensive hotel,” you slowed on the approach, and Dutch rested his hand comfortably on your lower back. Somehow, you always seemed to forget just how rich he was. 

“You think they won’t let you in?” he teased, and you nodded genuinely. “Relax, darling.” 

That worked. Your body softened involuntarily, and walking in with him felt natural, easy. What you’d expected otherwise you weren’t sure, still hyper-aware of how you must look to a passer-by at this moment. Or perhaps they didn’t care. Dutch certainly didn’t. 

The two of you took the lift, walking down the well-decorated hallway until Dutch stopped and swiped his card on a door. You let out a breath once inside, kicking off your shoes and sitting on the edge of the bed without a second thought.  

“You and Javier seem to have an interesting relationship,” he commented, untying his shiny black shoes and placing them neatly by the door. 

“What do you mean by that?” you asked defensively. 

Dutch shrugged casually, clearly a façade. “You seem close. I wondered if there was anything there.” 

You scowled at him, too tired for this line of questioning. “Obviously not -” you paused, remembering yourself despite your newfound anger. “Well, we might’ve had a drunken kiss on our first week, but it didn’t progress beyond that.” 

“Hm. I thought as much.” 

“What is wrong with you?” you said sharply, “why would you ask that?” 

“I was only curious,” he held his hands up before unbuttoning his shirt. “I didn’t realise it was a crime to ask.” 

“It’s not. You’ve no right to be jealous.” 

“Who said I was?” he asked, leaning into a chuckle and it only aggravated you even more. 

You huffed out some of your anger. “It’s pretty obvious. I’m not stupid. And you’re not as good at hiding things as you think.” 

His face altered from unbothered to mildly entertained. “I don’t see why you’re getting so defensive. It was only a question.” 

Your mouth opened to let a retort pass through, but none came. The fucker wasn’t wrong, he had only asked. In your exhausted state, you questioned whether you’d read too much into it, and frowned at the ground while rubbing the stress from your brow. Keeping so much contained was a problem in times like this, when emotions escaped out into the world. “I don’t - I just -” you began, feeling yourself getting worked up. 

“Okay, alright, darling. Come here,” Dutch sat beside you, opening his arms and you tucked yourself into the warm embrace. 

“Sorry,” you sighed quietly, “this is why I didn’t want to come. I get grouchy when I’m tired.” 

“I can tell,” he teased, but the kiss placed on the crown of your head balanced it out. “You’ve been sick, John said?” 

“Not sick. Just tired this week, that’s all.” 

Dutch paused, tightening his arms around you. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to have any time to rest in the near future.” 

“I’ll take a weekend off work at something,” you mumbled, almost on autopilot as it wasn’t the first time you’d been berated for being too much of a try-hard. 

“Why do I get the impression you’re lying?” he asked gently, and your responding laugh was mirthless. “I like most things about you, except this.” 

“Except what?” you asked, resting your head on his shoulder to catch his eyes. 

“This incessant need you have to work yourself to fatigue. It’s unhealthy.” 

“It’s temporary,” you insisted. 

“If you would only let me -” 

“Don’t you dare offer me money again.” That was a place you’d never go to, a sense of pride far too strong to accept his help. You could do it. You just... need to complain occasionally. And maybe have someone that could help alleviate the stress using tried and true methods. “Wait, you said most. What else don’t you like about me?” 

He paused, as though he hadn’t expected that question. “I suppose how little time I get to spend with you.” 

“That’s a cop-out.” 

Dutch laughed, releasing you from his embrace and standing to continue getting undressed. A feeling resembling awe settled in your body at how proudly he stood, in only his underwear, while finding a pair of joggers to wear for bed. He hooked his thumbs into the band of his pants but paused, slyly looking over his shoulder at you. You swiftly averted your gaze. 

“You’re allowed to look, I don’t mind,” he said with amusement, and you only looked back once you’d heard his underwear come off and joggers come on. You were far too tired to go another round, but you feared your body would decide otherwise if you caught a glance of him fully nude. “Here,” he passed a plain t-shirt to you, “I suspect you don’t have anything to wear.” After you took it, his face fell slightly. “Not that I mind you sleeping with nothing on.” 

You rolled your eyes at his teasing, for whatever reason wanting to get dressed where he couldn’t see. “Does the hotel have spare toothbrushes?” 

“Sure, in the bathroom,” he pulled back the cover of the bed and got in, clasping his hands over his stomach. “Help yourself to whatever.” 

You did, brushing your teeth, washing your face, and changing into Dutch’s t-shirt. It was clean, but it still held his underlying scent. He was in the same position when you re-entered the bedroom and lifted the covers for you to get in. “Thanks,” you said, laying down and marvelling at how soft the bed was, a yawn escaping thanks to your newfound comfort. 

Dutch reached over and flicked the switches above the side table, turning off all the lights except the lamp next to him. Then, he brushed the back of his knuckle tenderly over your temple, and it took all you had to fight an immediate descent into sleep. You took the opportunity to shuffle closer to him, and he extended his arm so you could lay on his chest while he was propped up a little against the headboard. “Get some sleep, now,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble in the low light of the room. 

As you melted into him some more, the bare skin of his chest warm and soothing, he put on his glasses from the bedside table and picked up his book. “Aren’t you sleeping?” 

“I’ll sleep better if I read a little first. Don’t mind me, though.” 

“Okay.” You pecked his lips, and once you were re-settled on his chest sleep came easier than ever. 

- 

The gentle motion of fingertips slowly grazing the middle of your back was the first sensation to greet you upon awakening, and you blinked your eyes open to the hazy filter of morning sun through the window. You were nestled comfortably into Dutch, still using his chest as a pillow and glanced up, finding the man himself in somewhat of a daydream as he looked out the window. He noticed the small movement, though, and offered you a warm smile. “Morning.” 

“Morning,” you half-yawned, stubbornly closing your eyes to nestle further into his chest. How he was more comfortable than the bed itself you weren’t sure. 

“Sleep well?” he asked. 

“Like a log. You?” 

“Just fine. You’re nice to wake up to.” He placed his palm flat on your back, holding you to him. 

“You aren’t so bad yourself. What time are you seeing John today?” 

“I think we’re going for a late breakfast; I suppose whenever he’s ready. We have a bit of time, if you want anything brought up to the room?” 

“No, no, I’m okay. Thanks though. Actually,” you shifted up onto your elbow, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and internally deciding you preferred Dutch’s hair in the morning, a little messy from the night. “I wouldn’t mind using that shower.” 

“Be my guest,” he said politely. It was nice to lay like this with him, you’d expected him to have his hands all over you as soon as you’d awoken, though perhaps he was tired. If anything, he was more reserved than usual, and you hoped he wasn’t beginning to have second thoughts. You knew better than to question him first thing in the morning and moved to a seated position before swinging your legs off the bed.  

“Appreciate it.” You picked your clothes up from their crumpled heap on the floor and carried them into the bathroom with you before having the most glorious shower you’d had in some time.  

Checking your phone once you were finished, you realised you’d been in the bathroom for a full thirty minutes. Whoops. 

“Sorry,” you said as soon as you opened the door, Dutch seated on the bed, now dressed and rolling up his sleeves. “That shower was a little too nice.” 

The smile Dutch offered you was warmer, more awake, and more like himself than he had been previously. “Good,” he offered out his hand which you promptly took and pulled you towards him to stand between his legs, and he wrapped his arms around your lower back. “I’d say you’ve earned it.” 

You chuckled easily, glad to find out nothing was wrong, and he simply hadn’t woken up yet.  

“What time are you working?” he asked, while you ran a hand through his hair and settled it on his shoulder. 

“Early afternoon. I’m off tomorrow, but I’ve got work to do – what time are you leaving?” 

“About midday. Don’t worry about it,” he placed a kiss on your sternum, “I’d prefer it if you rested instead.” 

“I’ll try,” you nodded with a snort. 

“I would like,” he stood up, holding your hands in his, “to see you more frequently, if possible.” 

“I’d like that,” you looked up at him, and the deal was sealed with a kiss. “I’m not sure exactly when, but -” 

“We’ll work something out. I have your number,” he said conspiratorially, an alluring half-smile making him even more irresistible than he already was. “But I fear Tilly will be up soon, I don’t want her catching you on the way out.” 

“Good call,” you agreed, breaking out of the embrace to pick up your bag and double-check you hadn’t forgotten anything. “Have a good weekend.” 

“We will,” he pulled you in for a kiss, one that was tender and slow and left you a little breathless once you’d parted your lips from his. “Thanks for coming to stay with me.” 

“I’ve got to do my part for the community,” you shrugged, and his face dropped into playful annoyance. 

“Oh, that’s how it is?” 

You laughed, edging towards the door though he managed to pat your ass in reprimand before you were out of reach. “I might add this to my volunteering work on my CV, come to think of it.” 

Dutch laughed heartily, pressing his tongue into his cheek and shaking his head. “You truly can be a wicked woman.” 

With a proud, final smile, you stepped forward for a kiss goodbye then opened the door, checking the coast was clear before stepping out. At the risk of Tilly hearing you, you offered Dutch a simple nod before departing, which he returned. 

It wasn’t a short walk back to your accommodation, but it wasn’t long, either. The weather was good, and you were thankful it’d been nice for Dutch and Tilly’s visit up. It wasn’t lost on you that there was a slight spring in your step, every meeting with Dutch making your heart feel that extra bit lighter, and life feel an extra bit more accommodating. After last time, you’d attributed it to the sex, to the rush and release that was a rarity in your everyday. But perhaps it was him, and while this newfound feeling was a nice one to experience, the low hum of guilt and the prospect of where this avenue of exploration would lead you left a slightly bitter taste in your mouth.  

There was a possibility that Dutch’s philosophical suggestions were imprinting on you, but you actively decided not to dwell on the many possibilities and instead focus on that, for now, you had something that made your chest grow warm and your breath seep from your lungs. Perhaps this was what you were missing, a way to dispel your worries and fears even for a short while. And perhaps, on some level, this was something you deserved. 

#dutch van der linde x reader #dutch van der linde x f!reader #dutch van der linde #dutch x reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfiction #my stuff

[laiqualaurelote]

star emoji (i'm on pc) for all the men and women merely players?

thank you for this ask for fanfiction director's cut! any director's commentary for all the men and women merely players is going to be insufferably long, especially as it involves literal directors, but I'm going to focus on one of my favourite parts to write, the Hamlet chapter.

stop! Hamlet time

The first thing to know about me is that I am a massive Hamlet nerd. I've studied it academically and watched it multiple times onscreen and onstage, in multiple languages, including Chinese and Lithuanian (I do not speak Lithuanian). Hamlet is a pivotal play in the structure of this fic - it is the "turn" in the magic trick of the "pledge, turn and prestige".

There are seven past/potential Hamlets in this fic: Nate, Isaac, Colin, Dani, Sam, Jamie and Roy. Even though Nate is the one who ends up actually playing Hamlet, what I wanted to set out here is that every single one of them could have been Hamlet, a very different kind of Hamlet, and it's rather a question of when in their lives they could have played this role. Hamlet is one of those paradoxical roles where you need a ton of experience to do it well, yet by the time you gain that experience you might be considered too old (textual clues indicate Hamlet is in his 30s). There are exceptions, of course: Ben Whishaw played Hamlet at 23, Ian McKellen at 84. I imagine Roy played Hamlet before he was ready, when he did not fully understand the role; Sam, similarly, is too young here and Jamie too immature. This is why the role eventually goes to Nate, who intrinsically understands Hamlet best of anyone in the company because of his own existential self-hatred. The one thing he lacks - and that Roy and Jamie have in abundance - is the main character syndrome that Hamlet possesses. He gains this in later chapters, but his insecurity around it leads to disaster. Anyway, my point is that there is no such thing as a single perfect Hamlet because all the Hamlets are valid.

The title of this chapter is "a little more than kin, and less than kind", which is the first line Hamlet speaks in the play. He's using it as a veiled insult of his mother's abrupt marriage to his uncle so soon after his father's death. This chapter deals very heavily with kin - in the sense of family ties, especially parental ones - and kind, in the sense of kindness but also in the sense of being like one another, of the same kind. I think a lot about how Shakespeare is performed, and what kinds of people get to perform Shakespeare, and this chapter explores that.

We open with Nate's dream of playing Anita in West Side Story (a nod to show canon), mixed with his memory of what he perceives as his father's rejection of him. (This is one of the earliest scenes I wrote for this fic, before we got more of an insight into Nate's actual relationship with his father, which was a lot less antagonistic than many of us anticipated). The epigraph to this chapter is from Gertrude to Hamlet: "Do not for ever with thy vailed lids/ Seek for thy noble father in the dust". This is what Nate is doing in this fic, and Ted, and Trent, and Jamie - whether they intend to or not, they've all got their heads down, seeking their fathers in the dust.

Used to be I didn’t know fuck-all about Shakespeare. Where I come from, if you talked about shit like that, they’d rip the piss out of you. I’d have done it myself. I got into a lot of fights back then. Someone’s trying to vex me, I beat the shit out of them. Sometimes I just get so mad and I don’t know where to make it go. You know? Nah, you don’t. Not by the looks of you. I’d probably have beat the shit out of you back then, if I’m honest. 

This is Monologue No. 5, Isaac's (the monologues are numbered after the number each player wears in the show). The difference between a monologue and a soliloquy is that a monologue is a speech by a single character, but there may be others onstage; in a soliloquy that character is alone. ('To be or not to be' is strictly speaking not a soliloquy but a monologue, as there are other characters eavesdropping on Hamlet). The four monologues in this chapter all allude to Trent as the invisible, silent listener. In contrast, Jamie delivers Soliloquy No. 9 because he is truly alone.

Cry ‘Havoc’, and let slip the dogs of war. Well that’s fucking epic, Miss Jameela, I said. Well why don’t you take a look at the rest of it, she said. And when I spoke the words out loud it was like something I could pour my rage into. Nothing fancy about it. It were right on. Turned all that anger into something to lend your ears to.

Isaac's entry point to Shakespeare is Antony's speech in Julius Caesar. This was a parallel I had initially intended to give to Roy, who has a clear affinity for Shakespeare's soldier characters, but after Isaac's captain speech in Sunflowers, I realised it should go to him. Isaac, like Roy, has rage issues, which he learns to channel into his acting; like Roy, he comes from a working-class background (I imagine them both being from council estates in South London) and came to acting through community theatre, which is under threat in the UK today because of funding cuts (Christopher Eccleston wrote movingly about this after the closure of the Oldham Coliseum, which was where actors like Bernard Cribbins got their start).

I’m no orator, yeah? Just a plain blunt man that loves his friends.

This is nearly word-for-word what Antony says in his speech at Caesar's funeral, which ironically demonstrates that he is a skilled orator - he deliberately casts himself as "plain" and "blunt" against Brutus' sophistry and succeeds in alienating his opponent in the audience's eyes. This leadership quality of Antony's is reflective of Isaac's own captaincy style - he's a "plain blunt man that loves his friends", even if he can't bring himself to tell them in so many words, and that is how he keeps his team together.

Nate contemplates this. It’s not exactly that they’re short on skulls in the apocalypse. Probably be easier than making one out of papier-mâché, which he’s had to do for a lot of their less scavengeable props, and which is a bit trickier when you have to make your own glue. The problem, of course, is getting the flesh off. How long would you have to boil human bone to get it clean? Beard probably knows. Nate should check with him.

This is morbid - but also, I assure you, a completely accurate depiction of how single-minded props people can be.

Colin strikes a pose with his imaginary skull. “Alas poor Yorick! I knew his fellatio.”

This was an actual piece of graffiti I once saw etched above a fly floor.

I only figured it out when we did Twelfth Night in sixth form. It was an all boys’ school, so some of us had to do the girl roles. I got Viola, the lead. Thought that was tidy. Only at the end I had to kiss the boy playing Orsino. 

Colin's monologue is based on a real anecdote, but in reverse; I knew someone who played Orsino in a mixed school, so he had to make out repeatedly with the girl playing Viola and it did absolutely nothing for him and that was how he discovered he was gay.

It’s funny that we’re doing this now. You a journalist, and me telling you all this. I fantasised about it sometimes, you know, telling everyone. I had nightmares about it. Could’ve gone on not saying anything after the world ended, but then I figured, if I might die any moment, I want to die having lived as a whole person.

I did not think I could top Colin's coming-out scene in the show, so I chose to let it have already happened in this AU. (I then retroactively decided it took place during the one and only time the Richmond Players performed Chekhov.) In contrast, it's implied that Trent still hadn't come out prior to the apocalypse, and that he is inspired to do so to Colin here.

“If he’d just made up his mind earlier it could all have been over by Act Two,” Roy is saying. “Macbeth would’ve done it. Othello would’ve done it. Fuck, even Romeo would’ve knocked Claudius off before making a puppet show about it.” “But that’s why they’re tragedies, you see,” Trent argues. “They’re all in the wrong story. Hamlet wouldn’t have killed Desdemona, or assumed Juliet was dead based on hearsay.”

I am quite fond of "the tropes are hungry and the hero is in the wrong goddamn story" discourse. There's no point complaining that Hamlet the play is too long and the hero needs to make up his mind. He can't, because he's Hamlet! that's the tragedy.

When I was a boy, there was this travelling theatre company that went around the vecindades, and they performed Shakespeare in the courtyards. We sat on our doorsteps and watched them. In the last scene they threw a big party, and they knocked on all the neighbours’ doors and brought them out to dance. I thought, if this is what theatre is like, then theatre is life!

The play in Dani's monologue is based on the vecindades staging of Othello by Arturo Ramírez and Martín López Cruz (an anachronistic reference, since it took place in Mexico City in 1988, meaning that Dani would not actually have been alive to see it). I'm fascinated by this particular site-specific staging because it was so calibrated for the vecindades, literally bringing the action to their doorstep - it was a staging that drew on the sense of community in these multi-family dwellings but also implicated said community in the tragedy, because they all ended up witnesses to Desdemona's murder. (A headcanon for this AU is that Dani played Desdemona opposite Sharon in the Richmond Players's gender-bent version of Othello).

On the one hand, Dani is the least likely candidate among the seven, because he is fundamentally too cheerful to play Hamlet. On the other hand, I think he would have turned the entire thing into a telenovela, which I for one would have loved to see.

“If your director, your lead actor and your stage manager are in a burning house right before your show is about to start, who do you save first?” Trent hazards: “The lead actor?” “Exactamundo, Aureliano Segundo! By the time the show’s about to go on, you don’t need the director any more, and your stage manager can take care of themself, or they wouldn’t be your stage manager.”

Again, a joke I've heard among production managers (who are always joking about disasters because a big part of their job is crisis prevention) but one that also reveals how what Ted views as a show of confidence might be interpreted by Nate as hurtful neglect. Also, a One Hundred Years of Solitude reference! No reason, I just always have Aureliano Segundo on the mind.

Did you know that the first recorded performance of Hamlet took place in Africa? English sailors performed it off the coast of Sierra Leone. Some people don’t believe this.

The earliest recorded performance of Hamlet was allegedly in 1607 on board an East India Company ship, The Dragon, lying off the coast of Sierra Leone, though the authenticity of the record has been called into question by some scholars. It would, however, have been performed at the Globe earlier in the 1600s. It's just interesting to think of the already-global nature of the play, even in its infancy, and of Shakespeare as a cultural accessory to colonialism.

I thought you have to sound British when you do Shakespeare, so I tried to do this RP accent, like I heard on BBC. And it was so bad. My father was helping me film the tape and he had this look on his face. I said “Daddy, I got to do it like this. They got to know I can play their roles the way they want.” And he said, “No, Samuel. You got to let them know that the way they want is your way.” So I did the monologue in my own accent, and we sent in that tape. And I got in.

Accent work in theatre is a sensitive subject that is quite close to my heart (though I live in the UK, I'm not British and don't have an English accent, which is something I'm always conscious of). Also: what does a decolonial approach to Shakespeare look like? Is it even possible? Is that what Sam's doing here? Questions, questions.

The fandom discourse around accents was also at the forefront of my mind when I was working on this chapter, because of an ask I had received about writing Jamie's POV - the asker was (rightly) concerned about how I would be depicting the Mancunian accent, as many in fandom were phoneticising it, which is considered offensive. This chapter contains five distinct character voices and for each one I listened to/read multiple sources to find subtle ways to depict the unique elements of that voice accurately and respectfully.

People always assume I want to play Othello. And I mean it is a great role, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want to do Othello. I don’t want to do Aaron. I want the roles that everyone is up for. I want to do Hamlet. I want to do Romeo. I want to do Lear.

This is, IRL, what Toheeb Jimoh is doing! He's played Romeo, he's playing Hal in Henry IV, I can't wait to see what he takes on next.

This is also a complete coincidence (I conceptualised this chapter before S3E7 aired) but Nonso Anozie, who plays Sam's father Ola, holds the Guinness World Record for the youngest actor to play King Lear professionally, aged 23 in a 2002 RSC production. That's why I made Lear the favourite play of Ola in this AU, and had Sam make the (otherwise quite off-beat) choice of Cordelia's monologue for his RADA audition tape.

You know, when Orlando first comes onstage, he is talking about his father, who is dead. I don’t know if you could tell, the first night when you saw me in the role, but I almost could not do it. I almost could not speak those lines, because I do not know if they are true.

While it is left open-ended in the fic if Sam's parents are still alive, I like to think that they are. I like to think that he makes it back to Nigeria eventually - perhaps even soon after his successful run as Hamlet in the fic's epilogue, when international ship travel is revealed to be back on the cards - and that he sees them again.

“Am I a coward?” says Nate softly. [...] “Who calls me villain?” It is as if Nate is outside himself, his mouth speaking words unbidden, his nerveless fingers letting the book fall. “Breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? Gives me the lie i' the throat, as deep as to the lungs – who does me this?”

When I was watching Nate's villain arc in S2, these lines from Hamlet blazed across my mind, and from that moment on I always subconsciously associated Nate with Hamlet, but a Hamlet who loathes himself to a nigh paralysing degree. Nate may fancy himself a villain of Richard III's ilk, but he simply does not have the evil chops. He's just insecure, indecisive, prone to seeing insult when there is none.

He’s watching himself now. He’s standing across from himself as he delivers the lines seared into his brain, fascinated and horrified. He watches his own throat work, sees the spit fly, feels it strike beneath his eye and roll down his cheek like a tear.

Mirrors are significant in Hamlet - it is, after all, the play that gave rise to the idea of art holding a mirror up to nature - and I wanted to find a parallel for Nate's ritual of spitting at his reflection, which was hard, because mirrors are not abundant in a post-apocalyptic AU. I found the answer in a stage direction from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, in which Hamlet spits at the audience, then wipes his face as if his spit has been blown back at him by the wind.

Nate's flashback to what really happened with his parents fills in the blanks for the reader - his father pushing him away wasn't rejection, but his last act of love for Nate. And Nate knows rationally that there was nothing he could have done to save them, but he will always be haunted by having been the one to walk away.

A terrible emotion swamps Nate's chest. A little more than hope, and less than fear. “The play’s the thing,” he says.

"A little more than hope, and less than fear" is a callback to the chapter title "a little more than kin, and less than kind".

The full line that Hamlet says is "The play's the thing/ Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king." He's conceived a play-within-a-play to prove Claudius' guilt and provide him with the impetus to actualise this revenge business.

Throughout this chapter, the question of whether a play is "real" or "not real" comes up repeatedly - Colin: "I was scared of what it meant if it wasn’t acting. If it was real"; Dani: "And they say, but that is not true. Theatre is only pretend"; Sam: "Maybe one day I will see him again. And all this will only have been lines in a play". And of course a play isn't real, a play is only pretend. Ted Lasso isn't real. This fic isn't real. But that's not to say they're not holding up a mirror to our reality, the reflections in which have the power to affect us and shape us and change us in very real ways. That's the thing about plays. The play's the thing.

#fic ask game #procrasktination #ted lasso #ted lasso fic #shakespeare #hamlet #long post

[oliviabutsmart]

[Bonus Physics Friday?] Plagiarism and Originality

So you (the reader) may have watched the recent HBomberGuy video. I have too! And it's honestly a great (yet long watch). I highly recommend you read it.

After reading the video, it inspired me to add my own comments onto what I think is important to keep in mind about plagiarism and it's relevancy to this blog.

Unintentional Plagiarism

You yourself may eventually have to write something in the future. Whether it be code, a school/university project, text/literature, or even an academic paper.

I'm certain you've had some anxiety in the past (usually in school) of "what if I wrote something that was plagiarised?" when submitting documents to your teachers.

This anxiety often arises because when you are doing an academic assignment, the subject matter has already been covered many times over, so many times you may end up stumbling your way into writing something that already exists.

It is, in fact, possible to unintentionally plagiarise. But it often comes in a different form.

As seen in his video, often times, creators end up sharing video techniques and ideas when creating new work. More broadly, a lot of our art or 'content' in-general is in some-form derivative.

Here's an example from my own posts, expressing a very common cycle in how we develop our opinions or knowledge on things:

You hear from someone, or in a video, or by reading in a book a particular opinion/fact/idea/expression

You keep the idea in your head but forget the source you found it from

Eventually, months to years later, you recall the idea you had and write it down in a public place

You don't credit the source of the idea because it's lost to your mind, you think you yourself came up with the idea

This gives the idea that your ideas are completely original, but are instead pulled from another source. This is what I mean by "unintentional plagiarism" - often you yourself don't even know it's happening.

After writing 16 Physics Friday posts, I can now at least recall a few times where this has happened to me. Usually by way of me re-watching a video or seeing a video on youtube after the fact, where I'm like:

"Hey, I remember watching this video ... Hey, this is where I got that idea from!"

There are two examples that I can list right now, in fact:

In post #8, the definition of "Energy is the capacity to do work" came from a video by 'Professor Dave Explains'' on youtube. I cannot recall which video I got it from, but I do know it was a debunk

The idea for post #9 came from a video by 'Answer in Progress' titled "how fahrenheit fails you"

In both examples, either small sentence-level statements or whole topic ideas effectively get "copied" by my mind. However there is a core distinction between what I have labelled as unintentional plagiarism, and real "you did a word crime" plagarism.

Our Textual Fingerprint

It is a fact that almost all of our ideas are copied from somewhere else. Teachers in high school, internet pundits, other posts on social media. These, combined with our cycle of forgetting the source, create an effect of "plagarism"

What's important is that all of these ideas amalgamate, and get filtered through our own brain. I might have gotten the "energy is the capacity to do work" definition from one guy, but it combines itself in my head with every other association and factoid about energy I know.

Not just that, but it filters through my own head and my own words into different explanations, different expressions, different language.

The way you yourself construct ideas in your head is why we can consider it okay to express an idea that is still somewhat derivative. Because our own words, our own expressions garble that idea into something that is distinctly our own.

And that's the core point about avoiding plagiarism, both unintentional and intentional.

The best way to avoid plagiarism is to write it in your own words Source: every teacher in high school

Every person possesses a sort-of fingerprint. It exists in the way we write, the way we talk, even the way we communicate in other mediums like auditory (music, speech) or visual (performance, artistic, video) formats.

This fingerprint is detectable to most people. It's how you can tell when someone uses AI to write an article. Because ChatGPT has it's own literary footprint.

If my next Physics Friday post was written by someone else, you would be able to tell. Because the way I write is distinct. The errors, the mannerisms, the explanations are all constructed in a way that make the way I write unique to others.

Why does plagiarism happen?

I've seen plenty of examples of plagiarism in the past. In fact, I remember in Year 9, someone copied my entire essay on Australia's role in WWI, and I got off with a slap on the wrist for being so naive to share it with another student.

And with this experience, I've found that there are two main reasons why someone plagiarises, at least in the academic realm:

They have a lack of respect for the subject matter or their victim

Laziness or apathy

This is something the above video makes a point of as well, adding on a drive for success. Something which I wouldn't say is as common in academic media.

Really, the best way to stop yourself from stooping to the level of intentionally plagiarising is one of two things:

Force yourself to write something original, to write in your own words

Don't write it. Take a break or reconsider why you feel the need to do it

This is often why I end up writing opinion posts. I'd rather do that than be a piece of shit and copy a Veritasium video. Seriously, it's so tempting to just do a topic that Veritasium has already covered - he's a great creator and always picks all the good topics.

How it's relevant to Physics Friday (And how Wikipedia is actually a decent source)

All of my Physics Friday posts are written in my own words, usually all at once or in two seperate sessions on Friday. There is occasionally the odd quote from Wikipedia or other online sources. But the text is usually my own.

I mostly use other internet sources, like Wikipedia, or others, to effectively re-jog my memory. It helps remind me of what a particular mechanism is.

I don't cite them because usually I only read small sentences and then go "ah, now I recall the textbook's worth of information stored in my head". My external research never ends up becoming a real source in a proper sense.

The only exception is Wikipedia and my own lecture notes.

While my posts are not copy-paste descriptions from Wikipedia, the website does help guide me on particularly difficult-to-understand subjects. It helps me decide what exactly to talk about. Or check which ideas are often more common.

One example is the dark matter post (#4). I used it as my primary source for deciding on what was the most notable dark matter candidates to talk about. And the section headers are derived in some way from their article.

You can generally assume that for all of my physics posts, I have used Wikipedia in some way as a knowledge-check, to ensure I'm not spitting nonsense.

In fact, I recommend Wikipedia as further reading after looking at my post if interested. And to donate to their organisation, which I have done on several seperate occasions.

Definitions and Single-Sentence Quotes

Outside of images, the most common place where I directly quote from other sources are in the definitions I've used. I cannot actually remember if I've ever done it before on tumblr, but I've done it in the past for several academic writings.

Definitions are tricky. Because, especially with precise scientific definitions, there are only so many ways to construct a definition that:

Removes all ambiguity from the phenomenon

Perfectly describes all or most instances of the thing, and excludes any non-instance of the thing

If I'm not coming up with the definition myself, I generally aim to find the source of the definition. Something that already fails in some ways, as explained above.

The Easy Part: Citing a Source

When writing academic papers, sources are probably the most annoying part of it. Bibliography management is a pain.

When writing these Physics Friday posts, citing is the easiest thing I can do. There's no requirement to follow a strict standard like the APA.

Often giving the author's name or a link to the original content is enough information to credit the author.

This is why you see an image credit or video credit under each of my Physics Friday posts. Sometimes also on meme posts too!

Should we cite our memes?

This is an interesting question. No seriously. Take a second to think about this question properly.

A lot of our memes (and porn) come from artists on youtube, twitter, tumblr, etc. And I have found countless times where I'm like "huh, I like this guys' work ... where can I find more of it?" and just turn up nothing.

We appear to think that memes are not just public domain, but un-creditable public domain. Someone on youtube can copy a guy's voice-over of a meme, turn on ads for that video, and rake in cash. The original artist ends up getting none of the credit, or money.

For a lot of memes, it makes sense to copy it without credit. But the above paragraph applies to a certain subsection of memes, particularly the higher-effort ones.

Personally for me, when I have the capacity to share a meme I try to credit the original artist. Because I believe that person deserves the credit for making the funny.

At least for us, credit means we ourselves gain from it, we can look up the original and find more of the same.

My posts aren't trademarked

It's obvious to say, but "Physics Friday" is not limited to me. My goal with these posts are to get other people into following on and making their own style of posts in physics. To generally bolster the community.

If you want to do the Physics Friday thing, you do not need to ask for permission. That's all I need to say.

Conclusion: Why did I write this?

I've just spent the last hour writing a tumblr post after watching a HBomberGuy video. And now I am just wondering why I did that.

I guess I had a lot of things to say about plagiarism and writing your own work.

Oh well.

Look out for next Friday where I'll probably do an opinion piece on tau vs pi!

#physics friday #plagarism #hbomberguy #Youtube

[pathetic-gamer]

Beloveds, I realize that finals are approaching soonish and I wish to give you all a word of caution that you should keep in mind while writing term papers or doing research or what have you.

Beware Lit Reviews.

Specifically, beware of treating literature reviews as a source to cite and not a collection of sources the author lovingly, tenderly hand picked for you and you alone to read for yourself. A little laziness goes a long way in fucking up an entire field of research!

To illustrate my point, I bring to you a tale of woe.

6~ years ago I published a research paper. It wasn't exactly *groundbreaking* in my field but it was the first original research to bundle a few different phenomena into one big causal mess. The original research and data analysis I did was by no means a precision instrument, but it was enough to support my argument, so I concluded with the academic equivalent of "needs more research but not by me lol you guys have fun tho" and then threw it to the wolves.

A relatively well-known (within the field) tenured professor found it and did the academic equivalent of saying in an old-timey talent scout voice, "Hey kid, you've got something good here! A little fixin' it up and you could sell it to any studio in Hollywood!" (Wrote a thing saying the theory was solid and giving suggestions for where to take it from there, basically.)

The original author had unfortately already taken their diploma and fled the country (academia) because their radical ideas were too much for the old guard (had a mental breakdown), and therefore could not be reached for comment. Instead, someone else who no doubt meant well decided to shoulder the cause and said, "This is a clearly something of growing interest. I don't have an eye for new original quantitative analysis, so I will instead compile a lit review to help whoever comes along next!"

Carefully, lovingly, with great respect for every brick in the ivory tower, they collected my paper and the two referenced by the Professor as suggested reading for anyone considering continuing my research, along with a small number of vaguely related papers, and presented what I shall affectionately call the Catalyst.

The Catalyst was a work of art, in all honesty. The creativity and inspiration in selecting what papers to include and tie together was unmatched, the raw enthusiasm (and incomprehensibility) of the various summaries was stunning, and the presentation of their conclusion (Needs More Research) was such chaos, such beauty, that in the blinding light of its glory one could be forgiven for succumbing to the follies of wisdom incarnate - and yet, there was a pure truth to it that could not be denied.

Or so I thought!

Along came a researcher I shall derogatorily refer to as the Fool.

The Fool had seen the professor's call for more research, and I can only assume they intended to do just that. Unfortunately, their review of what little existing research there was began and ended with the Catalyst, and they lacked the divine touch of forbidden knowledge that the First Paper's author, the Professor, and the Catalyst's author possessed (which is to say a propensity for insanity - all of us had fled the country at least once, to my knowledge - and the basic ability to read a statistical analysis), and so their understanding of the Catalyst was limited at best.

By limited, I do, of course, mean nonexistent. They managed to take away incorrect conclusions of nearly every single paper listed, not to mention the Catalyst's assessment of the state of the theory overall. They were thus left with a theory that seemed self evident but was directly contradicted by what little quantitative research existed. Had they taken just one step past the Catalyst to look at the First Study, or even the other references, this entire tragedy could have been prevented; alas, they must have been so overcome by the Catalyst that they felt unworthy of the others.

For researchers in a somewhat broad field seeking something new and interesting, what better fuel is there than a theory that should by all rights be correct but, according to all known laws of physics (one guy who misunderstood a lit review), is not?

The Fool thus managed to spawn MULTIPLE YEARS and DOZENS OF PAPERS and HUNDREDS OF HOURS OF WORK from academics ACROSS THE FIELD trying to solve such a mystery, ultimately leaving the First Paper a minimum of five links deep in citation chain, far beyond the reach of the average sociologist.

It was at this point that I, Author of the First Paper and Thinker-Upper of the Theory of Great Consternation, saw my usual email update from the archive and noticed a higher volume of new downloads and citations than was typical, opened semantic scholar dot org out of curiosity, and discovered the absolute mess that had been created.

For a few days, I considered my next course of action. Should I emerge from my hermitage? My exile? Should I once more walk the golden wheat fields of my homeland and write a general response, despite no longer belonging to any institution in particular? Surely Elsevier, with its complete lack of publishing standards or academic integrity, would publish it.

All ends well, though, if only just this once. The Professor wrote a new paper, in which he said the academic equivalent of "You guys are fucking idiots. Did any of you actually read the First Paper? How are any of you academics? How do you sleep at night? A scourge upon ye!" The chatter then calmed as people realized the Theory of Great Consternation was actually normal and there was nothing to be excited about.

Just a few months ago, another paper appeared, now from the creator of the Catalyst. "Yeah," said they, "you guys are really lazy and it's kind of funny."

Thus ends my cautionary tale. In order to avoid the kind of misunderstanding as between the Fool and the Catalyst, I will give it to you plain:

A lit review should be used to get a general idea of what already exists and as a tool to find actual sources, NOT to get a summary of those sources without reading them or to, god forbid, use it as a source itself beyond mentioning it was useful and thanking the author for their effort.

In conclusion, further research is needed.

#not sorry for how long this is #academia #research tips #☕️🥧

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: It was primarily through your blog that I was introduced to the conservative philosophical thought of Sir Roger Scruton. You are the only blog to my knowledge that knows Scruton’s works inside out and communicate his ideas so clearly and with wit and intelligence. I’m currently going through the books on music he wrote. I admit I’m out of my depth reading The Aesthetics of Music. Please help! What does Scruton or indeed philosophers mean by aesthetics when it comes to music? I know this is a huge ask on such a big topic but if anyone can, I think you could.

I’m sure I’m not the only blog out there who post about the late Sir Roger Scruton’s works. I just post what I know and share what I can, and I make no claim to be an authoritative voice of his works. I did know Roger Scruton though. First as an admirer from afar, and then much later, having the privilege of meeting him on occasion such as a high table dinner in Cambridge or through other like-minded friends.

I think diving into Roger Scruton’s ‘The Aesthetics of Music’ (1999) is quite daunting even if you are familiar with his other works across aesthetics and politics and his conservative thought. It demands from the reader an above average understanding of two disciplines, music and philosophy, and is principally directed to his peers in academia. To some of his academic peers he represents the phenomenological-idealist perspective on music. I’m not quite how Scruton would see it but let’s not address that here. Indeed you don’t need to get bogged down in academic tiffs.

On the whole, Scruton, to his credit, never dumbs down in any of his other works and requires us to think harder than we’re used to. So don’t feel deflated but you have to learn what entry point into his works are best for you. His philosophical works on aesthetics are challenging to read because often we don’t possess the critical tools to unlock and understand concepts that are often misunderstood such as ‘beauty’ or ‘aesthetics’.

I would recommend anyone to start with his other works which may be a good introduction and an easier entry point to his thought on music. If you are a complete novice I would always start with ‘Beauty: a very short introduction’ (2010) which is an excellent primer to his thought on a range of topics. With regards to music itself I would then go onto ‘Music as art’ (2018) before moving onto ‘Understanding Music: Philosophy and Interpretation’ (2009) - a more challenging book. Of course you can also read his books on Wagner which also talks of aesthetics through Wagner’s operas in a more wider sense such as ‘The Ring of Truth’ (2016) and ‘Wagner’s Parsifal: The Music of Redemption’ (2020) - which also happens to be my favourite opera.

I honestly didn’t know where to start in answering your question because it’s such a huge and complicated subject. So I let it stew a bit at the back of my brain until I felt I could pen a few vaguely intelligible thoughts down for you. It’s not an ideal answer but it is an attempt. At the outset I’m not going to talk about Immanuel Kant because in a sense he got the ball rolling on the whole field of aesthetics. Not because I don’t like Kant, because I do, but because he takes up too much space here and I would never do him justice.

Let’s step back a bit and start with the idea of aesthetics first. Aesthetics is classically defined as the study of the beautiful in art. Thomas Henry Huxley, a Victorian biologist best remembered as ‘Darwin’s bulldog,’ set the definition as a list: a beauty in appearance, visual appeal, an experience, an attitude, a property of something, a judgment, and a process. This expanded meaning touches on the original Greek aisthesis, which deals with feelings and sensations. Aesthetics, in this sense, is not limited to the thing itself, but rather is a holistic term encompassing the focal point - the object, performance, atmosphere, etc. - and the experience of and response to that focal point.

However, Huxley’s elucidation, like many others, say some critics, suffers from an over-emphasis on beauty. While aesthetic engagement often involves perceptions of beauty, this is not the only (or even foremost) criterion of artistic merit. Art can be aesthetically satisfying without necessarily being “beautiful” in the conventional sense of eliciting pleasure.

Applied to music, aesthetics might be conceived as the relationship of music to the human senses. Rather than judging whether or not a composition is beautiful, or why one piece is more beautiful than another, attention shifts to the interplay between musical stimuli and the interior realm of sensations. The onus of appraisal moves from the cold tools of theoretical analysis to the auditor.

For some thinkers, this is the only appropriate location for aesthetic assessment. Nineteenth-century philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer argued that music taps into channels of pure emotions: “Music does not express this or that particular and definite joy, this or that sorrow or pain, or horror, or delight, or merriment, or peace of mind; but joy, sorrow, pain, horror, delight, merriment, peace of mind themselves, to a certain extent in the abstract, their essential nature, without accessories, and therefore without their motives.” T. H. Yorke Trotter, founder and principal of the London Academy of Music, echoed Schopenhauer in a 1907 lecture, stating that, while other art forms awaken ideas and images that act on the feelings, music directly stirs “dispositions which we translate by the vague terms, joy, sadness, serenity, etc.”

In this revised view, aesthetic value does not depend on the micro or macro features of a piece, per se, but on how one responds to those features. Emotional arousals are instant aesthetic judgments. It is no accident that the perceived qualities of a piece or passage mirror the responses induced: joyful, mournful, serene, and so forth. The intensity of the emotion might separate one piece from another, but the immediacy of the music - as Schopenhauer and Yorke described it - seems to defy such classifications. Among other things, integrating (or equating) aesthetics with emotions underscores the subjectivity of the topic, and highlights the interconnectedness and simultaneity of stimulus, experience, and evaluation.

When one talks about feelings and music we inevitably come to the issue of sound. Music is sound - or the gaps between it too if you want to be precise like famed Argentine pianist and conductor Daren Barenboim.

The raw materials of music include pitch, rhythm, durations, dynamics, texture and timbre. The deliberate ordering of these building blocks of sound and silence produces what we instantly recognise as a musical creation. To be sure, definitions of music vary from rigid to loose, and postmodern requirements are not always as stable or confined as conventional views. But, however far the envelope is stretched and however ambiguous music is made out to be, most of us can agree with seventeenth-century English churchman Thomas Fuller: “Music is nothing else but wild sounds civilised into time and tune.”

Understandably then, comments on the nature of music usually address its audibility: it is an art form directed at the ears. Our sense of hearing distinguishes between music and the other sounds that constantly bombard us. The very concept of music derives from and depends upon our faculty of perceiving sound. Yet it can be argued that the ears are merely the necessary entry point. As soon as we are made aware of music, it is translated into mood, memory and movement. As poet Wallace Stevens eloquently wrote: “Music is feeling, then, not sound.”

The listener’s response to specific music will vary in type and intensity. She might feel very hopeful, a little bit sad, extremely calm, slightly anxious, and so on. These reactions may or may not be the intention of the composer or performer, and may change according to when and where the piece is heard. But in almost every instance, human perception converts music into feeling. Perhaps the clearest evidence of this is how we typically portray music. We most often fixate on music’s experiential properties, or its “personality.” Anthropomorphic qualities are freely projected upon a piece: charming, aggressive, warm, tender, brutish, exuberant, consoling, frustrating, etc. This is partly because of the difficulty of identifying and discussing music’s formal properties. But it is mainly because the formal properties are but a means to an end. When we call a composition happy, we are basically saying that it makes us feel happy. The resulting emotion is so dominant that it becomes the character of the music. Priority is given to effect over sound.

In some sense, music can be thought of as a delivery system for emotional content. We do not experience music so much as we experience ourselves experiencing music. Our ears funnel the sound to a deeper layer of our being, a layer where sound is made significant. Of course, not all music is equally effective and not every listener is equally moved by musical stimuli. But even the most literate musicians and harshest critics will admit, readily or reluctantly, that music is predominantly about emotions. It only begins as sound.

And now we come to Roger Scruton. Scruton ask the basic question if music is sound can it also be a language?

Scruton’s gives illuminating illustrations to address this question. For example, he writes about one episode that under the Stalinist regime, the last movements of Tchaikovsky’s 6th Symphony were often reversed in order to bring the work to a triumphal, rather than despairing, conclusion. The reason that listeners find this reversal unsatisfactory, says Roger Scruton, is that the third movement cannot be heard as an answer to the fourth. But why does its failure to respond seem wrong? Why should we even expect to hear it as an answer? And should we describe the Sixth Symphony as an expression of Tchaikovsky’s despair, an evocation of its listeners’ despair, or the depiction of despair in general?

Such questions, never satisfactorily answered, trouble musical aestheticians, and are tackled by Scruton’s impressive range across music, philosophy, and cultural aesthetics. His quest begins with the rudimentary but difficult question ‘what is a sound?’ and, using musical illustrations, builds up through music’s aspects to its place in morality and culture. Sounds, Scruton argues, are ‘pure events’, which do not happen to any thing. Unlike colours, tastes and textures with which they are often classed, sounds are emitted by, but not inherent in, what produces them. But whereas with a nonmusical sound we may often hear it as what produced it (for instance, ‘hear a car’ or ‘hear a bell’), a musical tone is quite cut free from its causal moorings. We hear it not as ‘someone playing the oboe over there’ and ‘someone playing the violin a few feet away’ but as part of a musical gestalt. Each note seems to be engendered by its precursor and rightly to respond to it “as though indifferent to the world of physical causes.”

Similarly we hear notes as higher and lower, rising and falling, and the melody moves from its beginning to its end. Yet where could the movement of pitch and melody occur? We refer to material sounds, yet under a description that no material sounds could satisfy, and to abandon these metaphors is to abandon discussion of music, which cannot dispense with them.

Music does not fit into a scientific account of the world, any more than a smile does, but is part of the world as we live it, and even of a world beyond contingency. For, says Scruton, in the inexorable necessity by which “each note requires its successor” we glimpse true freedom – the ‘causality of reason’ which belongs to rational action, the ‘transcendental unity’ of our scattered selves. And in gaining “a first-person perspective on a life that is no one’s”, we enter a ‘dance of sympathy’ with others.

This abstract, mystical argument is a gradually accumulating motif through Scruton’s concrete technical examples. As usual his wistful mysticism is accompanied by slashing ‘take no prisoners’ attacks - on the Marxist reductionism that would degrade the last five centuries of European music to an accident of power relations, on how ‘early music’ authenticity only fossilises and obscures the music it purports to reconstruct, on sentimentality and cliché.

All of which he is right and I’ve never come across a Marxist or far left leaning cultured aesthete to argue otherwise - if anyone knows of any I would be grateful to them for pointing them out to me as I want to be open to contrarian views. But to be honest, I’ve not seen anything to refute what Scruton’s says how Marxism cultural thought reduces art and culture to mere power relations. It’s like they have a one lens to see the world and it blinds them to nuance and complexity as only true conservatives are apt to see and then lament.

Which brings me nicely to where all this is going in terms of real world stakes and consequences . Like Plato, Scruton sees music as an important moulder of, and index to, a culture’s moral character. He has written movingly how much he laments the way tonality is no longer available to composers in our current spiritual condition, and the loss of exclusive standards of taste which, paradoxically, enabled a universality of allusiveness. He mourns the decay of aristocratic culture, the rampancy of anomie and consumerism. Instead we’re left with cheap disposable music as quickly consumed as a McDonald’s meal. He has described Mary J Blige’s “Get to Know You Better” that its limited melody is “emphasised by the yukky 13th chords and droopy vamping which open the piece, with a sound that suggests someone trying carefully to puke into a wine glass.” Ouch.

I personally think he has a point but I still think he doesn’t appreciate what other musical art forms such as jazz (which I love) can also reach the heights of aesthetic beauty. I would say the same for 70s rock music (Led Zeppelin for example) and other forms of music. I would consider myself less militant than Scruton in that regard but at the same time I understand where he is coming from.

All this may sound (pardon the pun) like the grumblings of Scruton as a curmudgeonly old man charting the passing of a decaying Western civilisation, but if music is a language then how much more we are blasé about losing local languages and dialects - even within one country - that were once thriving and spoken but now are either dead or dying.

Elsewhere in his writings he laments the triumph of American-English that is almost complete. Of course the merit of English as a global language is that it enables people of different countries to converse and do business with each other. But languages are not only a medium of communication, which enable nation to speak unto nation. They are also repositories of culture and identity.

In many countries the all-engulfing advance of English threatens to damage or destroy much local culture. This is sometimes lamented even in England itself, for though the language that now sweeps the world is called English, the culture carried with it is increasingly American. Native English-speakers, however, are becoming less competent at other languages: only nine students graduated in Arabic from universities in the United States last year, and the British are the most monoglot of all the peoples of the EU. Thus the triumph of English not only destroys the tongues of others; it also isolates native English-speakers from the literature, history and ideas of other peoples. It is, in short, a thoroughly dubious triumph.

How much is more true with classical music as a language that also preserves and embodies cultural history and national identity when we compare it to the disposability of modern commodified pop music.  

Scruton’s works are not for the faint hearted. He can be priggish and abrasive, but often with wit and style. But Scruton is always thought provoking and intellectually provocative. But even Scruton with his undoubted experience in both music and philosophy isn’t any closer to providing solutions to age old aesthetic questions of what is music. I suspect Roger Scruton wouldn’t want to be the final voice but invite us to add our own voice to these interesting questions of beauty and aesthetics in music.

Thanks for your question

#ask #question #roger scruton #scruton #aesthetics #music #sound #culture #classical music #music theory #pop music #society #composer #schopenhauer #language #history #western society #civilisation #personal

[akikocho]

Finally! The last contribution of the HPHM Cardverse AU made by @ariparri

This contribution is however rushed and a bit confusing but I did my best xD

Anyways, meet the Runaway Candidate...

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐛 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐀𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲

Jacob Bennett Avery is the first son of Bruce and Mabel Avery. He was born as the candidate for being the next King of Diamonds. As Jacob Bennett grew up, he spent all his time being under Bruce's care. Bruce would often force him to study both etiquette, self defense and academics, any things that's needed for a King. Jacob Bennett would sometimes sneak out of his study room to hangout with his younger siblings. He is very fascinated in treasure hunting as he always reads books related to it as a form of coping mechanism.

When the day of his coming of age almost arrived, Jacob Bennett planned his escape and prepared the things he needed for his freedom. He also wrote a letter to his family, a letter filled with his true feelings, his realization of him not being suitable as the King of Diamonds and an apology for his mother and siblings for running away from home and swore he would never get back to the Avery Manor as it is his fate. His escape made his family devastated, Bruce and Mabel had an argument and eventually got into a divorce. The people in Diamond Empire knew about his escape and earned the title; "The Runaway Candidate". This embarrassed Bruce and decided to use his second son Malachi as Jacob Bennett's replacement.

Jacob Bennett didn't go too far during his escape. He stayed in the Diamond Empire as he lived in the streets. He became an anonymous bandit, stealing everything he finds interesting (mainly food and treasures) and would sometimes be seen leaping through the rooftops of everyone's houses and was feared by people. He met Olivia Green during one of his "hunting season" in which he stole the gal's prized possession but he immediately got confronted by her (mainly just her smacking him with her satchel or something). He returned the object he stole from her and she left with an angry look on her face. The interaction made Jacob fall in love with her. This made Jacob watch her secretly but still made Olivia notice his presence. The activity continued till Olivia decided to confront him, again. They became friends after a lot of confrontations and hangouts.

A year later, Jacob heard a rumor from the vendors that his mother and sisters went to the Country of Spades after divorcing his father. This made Jacob plan to travel towards the Country of Spades to see them. When he arrived, he got into trouble right away after he stole something that was meant for Patricia Rakepick, the former Ace of Spades and the current ruler during that time. He was brought to Rakepick and she decided that Jacob would be put to prison for both stealing and offending the queen. He stayed in prison for months and met his sister Maya who got dragged by the knights towards her cell. The two escaped together with the help of the Escape Artist (Jacob Cromwell by @carewyncromwell sorry for tagging you :'D). Jacob, Maya and their sister Marigold escaped from the Country of Spades and went back to Diamond Empire. Upon his return, he was confronted by his brother and the current King of Diamonds, Malachi and the siblings reunited.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐛 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭:

• Just like his siblings, Jacob is kind, friendly, charming and intelligent. He can also be foolish and impatient.

• Jacob became a traveling treasure hunter for the Diamond Empire and also became a knight of the Empire, not a high ranking knight. He was offered by Malachi to be the Duke of Avery Manor but he refused.

• He's shy around women. When confronted by Olivia he would just be quiet. But after he and the gal became friends, he felt comfortable interacting with her.

• He is still called as the "Runaway Candidate" not by the people in the Diamond Empire, but also from the people in other regions.

• He is also a strategic person like his brother Malachi.

• He likes giving gifts especially to Olivia. He would give her red and yellow roses as a sign of love and friendship. He also accept (and assumes) that the gal didn't like him back but all his focus is their closeness as she was his very first friend aside his siblings.

• He's currently staying at the Joker's domain for a treasure hunt.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

I just realized that his description is very long that the other contributions haha.

Finally done with my contributions! I could finally rest and maybe start some ideas for this au related to my children :))

#hphm cardverse #hphm cardverse au #hphm #hogwarts mystery #harry potter hogwarts mystery #hphm au #jacob bennett avery #maya bell avery #malachi brett avery #jacob cromwell #patricia rakepick #let's just say Jacob is a lovesick dumbass for Olivia xD #also imagine he got smacked by Malachi during the confrontation #aside from runaway candidate he is also called as benny as a teasing weapon #still suck at making mood boards #in my lore he likes Olivia... gotta do the same in this au as well haha

[starandsims]

It took a few weeks for life to return to normalcy at the Carter house, but eventually, George did come to understand the scholarship Edwin had been offering and apologized (sort of) to Harry for barging in. Rosalie and George both assured Harry that eventually he would get more offers like Pleasantview’s, and it was better to wait and see than make a rash decision with all the pieces before him. They were right, Harry discovered, as more acceptance letters and scholarship offers rolled into the mail.

It wasn’t until the day he got the acceptance letter from Brichester though, that he really believed it. Not only had he been accepted to the University, but he had been accepted into the distinguished program as well! They also were offering him a couple of different scholarships based on his credits, it wasn’t a full ride, but it was close. He spent the next few days agonizing over the decision. Go to Pleasantview with a full ride, or go to his first choice school, Brichester, and have to work harder to pay for it?

His answer was handed to him in another letter, a personal, handwritten one that read:

Dear Mr. Carter, I trust this letter finds you well. I recently received a letter from our mutual friend, Mr. Thompson, your headmaster, and it fills me with joy to hear about your academic aspirations. Your dedication to your studies is commendable, and I believe you possess great potential. In support of your journey, I am pleased to offer you accommodation in my small home near the Brichester University campus. The cost will be a modest 2 simoleons per week, covering the essentials. I have always believed in extending a helping hand to those who show promise, and I am confident that this arrangement will create a conducive environment for your studies. I want to take this opportunity to share something that you may not be aware of. I was the anonymous benefactor who provided the scholarship that enabled you to attend secondary school, again after being informed by Mr. Thompson of your promise and potential. I believe in offering assistance to help talented individuals such as yourself get a foothold on the path to success. However, it is up to you to do the bulk of the work yourself, I will not hold your hand through the University nor offer you full financial assistance. I will, however, offer you a place to stay and an internship as my research assistant while you attend Brichester, should you choose to do so of course. This arrangement would not be without rules, including prompt payment of rent and adherence to a reasonable curfew. I see this as a mutual opportunity for growth and learning. I look forward to your response and hope you consider this offer seriously. Best Regards, Professor Harold Sanders Brichester University, History Department

Harry cautiously approached his parents about the offer, but their attitudes were much more positive to this offer than Uncle Edwin’s. Partly because this wasn’t a relative, and partly because it clearly wasn’t a handout, and George approved of the arrangement suggested, it would be enough to help Harry get started without help from his parents (as they really couldn’t offer him much), but would also still require him to work hard for himself. They told Harry that if he wanted to accept, they would support his decision, but also encouraged him to think hard about all of his offers.

Harry pretended to take a few days to consider it, but in his heart, he had already accepted. Brichester was his dream school, and the more he thought about the opportunities the history program offered, the more excited he grew about the proposition. He would have a place to stay, a job to help him cover expenses, and a foot in the door to a prestigious program. He wrote back to Professor Sanders within the week to accept his generous offer. In the fall of 1910, he would attend Brichester University in the distinguished history program!

#carter decades challenge #carter legacy #cldc #cldc g2 #cldc: harry carter #simblr #sims 4 #sims 4 story #ts4 gameplay #the sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #ts4 #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #sims decades challenge #decades challenge #sims 4 historical #sims 4 legacy #ts4 simblr

[seanssimsblog]

"An Addition to the Family" - 1842

Approaching the third year of the century, Reginald and Nora continue to grow their love for one another, making up for the lost time.

Nora's literacy and academic knowledge have greatly improved around this time with Michelle's help, and her faith continues to grow with the help of Darren. She's been helping Reginald with reading and writing, although catching onto things takes him a while. Darren and Reginald's bond grows as they share extensive common knowledge in agriculture and cultivation. Nora is in her. 16th chapter of her book. She plans to stop at 19 chapters to signify the turn of the 19th century in which she gained freedom.

While on her way to the market, Michelle came across a sheet of a gossip newsletter that read that Aspen, the daughter of Parker and Amalia Howell, had run from home at midnight dressed in layers of clothing, with the possession of three horse carriages. The carriages appeared to have had some negro passengers who were seated in the back of each. She was also seen with two shotguns in hand. Incredibly in shock, Michelle rushes back home to relay the message to the rest of the household. "She did what now??" Nora asked, "What a courageous young woman she is!" Darren exclaimed. "Oh and she's got some heat in her hands too, I'd hate to be the sucker that gets in her way!" Michelle says, making the others laugh.

"I wonder who the negro passengers were??... wait a minute, could it have been... slaves? Their slaves??" Zachariah, questions. "I think so, Zach. The Howells owned eight other slaves, including us; one passed away. God rest his soul. Aspen has always made it clear that she was different. I always saw that there was something special about the girl ever since she was a lil' baby. Something pure," Nora says. "Well, may God bless and keep them on their journey... the church will certainly be praying for them," Darren adds. "Do you think she went up North?" Michelle questions, "Wherever they are, I just hope she takes good care of 'em," Reginald says." I wish my ol' buddy William could've held out a little longer. He could've been right along with them in that carriage ride, ya know? He's probably somewhere watching over em'. Makin' sure they have safe travels..." Reginald says as Nora goes to embrace him.

As nine months spilled into the first couple of months of 1802, Nora gave birth to a baby boy named Reginald McNeil Howell Jr., named after his father and the family who helped Nora and Reginald find their freedom. Nora had a successful home birth, assisted by Joclyn, who is training to become a midwife. Over the course of nine months, Nora wrote every experience down into her book, including the new birth.

The two new parents immediately began to welcome the new bundle of joy into their love. Reginald especially becomes infatuated with his new son, determined to never have him experience the shackles of slavery but to grow and become his own man.

Nora and Reginald embrace each other, uniting in love with their new family.

#sims 4 story #sensitive content #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #ts4 legacy #american history

[the-foolish-scholar]

The High Priestess

The High Priestess sits in front of a thin veil decorated with pomegranates, though for some reason the imagery has always reminded me of peaches split open with the pit showing... The veil represents the separation between the conscious and subconscious realms, that which can be seen and that which cannot be seen. The veil’s overall purpose is served, keeping casual onlookers out. Only the initiated may enter. The pomegranates symbolize abundance, fertility and the divine feminine. They evoke the memory of Persephone, who ate a pomegranate seed in the underworld and was forced to return to the underworld for months at a time for the rest of her life. On both sides of The High Priestess stand two pillars, marking the entrance to this sacred, mystical temple. One pillar is black with the letter B (Boaz, meaning ‘in his strength’) and the other is white with the letter J (Jachin, meaning ‘he will establish’). The black and white colors of the pillars symbolize duality, between the masculine and feminine or darkness and light, proposing that knowledge and acceptance of duality are required to exist within this sacred space. The High Priestess wears a blue robe with a cross on her chest, as well as a horned diadem (a pretentious way of saying a crown), all serve as symbols of her divine knowledge and status as a divine ruler. In her lap, she holds a scroll with the letter TORA, signifying the Greater Law. It is partly covered, signifying that this knowledge she possesses is sacred knowledge. This depiction in the card demonstrates to viewers that the knowledge that The High Priestess has will only be revealed when one is ready to look beyond the material realm. In addition, the crescent moon at her feet symbolizes her connection with her feminine side, which provide her with her intuition.

-

Hi all. Long time no talk. Life really swept me away for a while and I had only been able to write bits in pieces of my life down in my diary.

A lot has happened. I’ve discovered a lot; and not just academically.

The apartment that I told you all about last time I wrote is now fully furnished. I’ve got a lovely patio set that I sit out and read on quite often. When I’m lucky enough, I watch the sunrise and the sunset there too. I found this really cool desk off of Facebook Marketplace which is a repurposed vintage window frame. It’s this beautiful sharp shade of blue. I have a comfy yellow desk chair to sit and work in as well. I hate the color combination of blue and yellow for obvious reasons (go green) but it compliments my yellow night stand well. I’ve also got a hammock with shades of purple, pink, green, and white. I like to eat fruit and sway in it. I also installed some colored lights which has made the place feel a lot more vibe-y. Oh, and I’ve got some cool posters from Tabitha Arnold too. Y’all should check her out and support her! She’s a fantastic artist.

Speaking of artists, here are two more collages that I made for the class I'm taking:

My plants are doing well. I’ve resurrected my mint plant back from the dead multiple times. My rosemary, sage, rose, and swiss cheese plants have held up well. I’ve also added a jade plant, a bamboo plant, some orange flowering plant, and an inch plant to the mix. I want to get more but I’m trying to practice self-control…  

I chose the high priestess card though because it’s the card I feel most connected to right now. I feel much better in trusting my own intuition these days. The summer had so many twists and turns to it and boy, did I learn quite a bit. My research-oriented brain forms these hypothesizes and after time passes and data is gathered, I find that I knew things before I ever even had the proof. It’s funny how it works like that.  

Actually, we’re just coming out of the winter and entering summer here, but in my mind, it’s fall. It feels like fall. In the nine months that I’ve been here, I’ve lived through my winter, my spring, my summer, and now I’m beginning my fall.

The winter period of my life here was nice, I got to live high up on the volcano and lived in a still matter until my spring came and I began to thaw. In spring, I dug up my roots and planted seeds elsewhere. My growth was slow and then before I knew it, summer came. It was intense. When it got to be too much to handle, I fled home.

The week I spent back in the states was just as transformative as these past nine months; I really saw things from a different perspective being back after being away for as long as I’d been gone. It felt good to feel the familiar though. It felt good to see people and to be around those that I could trust, not just through a screen like I’d grown accustomed to, but in person. It was such a relief to feel the familiarity of family. I was so happy to eat a Greek salad, made the right way, and to hike around Cranbrook. It had just rained, and it was so misty, quiet, and peaceful. I was so happy to drink palomas at Amici’s and then Diet Coke (none of that Coke Zero bullshit) at 24 with Sam and Clayton. It felt like old times. My train ride to Chicago was rough, but my seatmate was kind. I felt so much joy when I finally got to see everyone in Chicago. Nolan and I got lunch at Nookies and we almost melted in the outdoor seating section. Casey and I had a lovely walk and we went to see a psychic. We celebrated my tether’s 24th which was a blast. Nolan and I also got Indian food and sat out by the fire in the middle of the night before I had to leave to catch my flight. It was so good to be with them and it was so hard to leave. The psychic told me that I’d meet someone very important to my journey named Micheal, and my Uber to the airport ended up being named Micheal, so can we really say psychics are scammers?

When I got back to El Salvador after being in the states, I hit the ground running. I kept busy and did as much as I could in the name of research.

And before I knew it, Sarah came! Our time together was interrupted by a machista who’s actions were as reckless as his words… Again, the psychic I saw in Chicago ended up being right about another thing… But nonetheless we found joy in the little moments and created memories that will last a lifetime. It was hard to say goodbye to her when she left.

The next day I started substitute teaching AP Comparative Government at a bilingual school. It was quite the experience! I did that for two weeks.

Funnily enough, those two weeks were also extremely transformative. I forced myself to grow up, in a lot of ways. My last day subbing, Evelyn, some girls affiliated with the CIS, and I went to the beach. We had a lot of fun. I made us quite the pasta dish with ingredients that we managed to gather on the trek out.

Since then, I’ve just been doing touristy stuff, doing more research stuff, working on my final paper for my class, and looking for jobs. I went to a networking event held by the embassy, and it was actually a lot of fun. I got to catch up with some other Fulbrighters and laugh about life.

Going back to my metaphor, and how I’m in my Fall Era ™, some of the seeds I planted in the spring have finally begun to bear fruit. I got into the graduate studies program that I applied to at the UCA! For the next three or so years, I’ll be working towards my master’s degree in Theology… Which is… So ironic and crazy given everything… But it’s the path I’ve found myself down and I feel really excited about all that there is to come. I’m also letting go of a lot of things like the trees let go of their leaves this time of the year. It feels so good to just let some things fall away from my life and to cultivate space for new growth in the coming seasons. In the past I’d be more melancholy about it all, but it feels like this weight is being lifted off my shoulders and I’m so thankful to be in this phase of my life.

I think that’s pretty much it? Other than that I’m just getting ready to head back home for the holidays. But I have a flight back down here scheduled for January 7th so I won’t be gone from here long.  I’m excited to see all of you guys back home. And I cannot wait to be cold for once instead of always being hot!

Z

#Youtube

[purpleknight9k]

💫🪐🛰 Astronomer!Donnie Mini-AU ✨☄️🔭

I’ve been building this idea out via Discord RP for a little while, but hadn’t written anything outside of there yet, so…

Set five years or so after the Kraang are defeated.

It took a lot of string-pulling and late nights, but Donnie completed university online, double-majoring in astronomy/engineering and graduating with honors.

He’s devising a plan to keep going for a master’s/PhD. The boy just loves being in school okay.

He’s published in multiple scientific journals now.

Under a pseudonym he’s written one article on horticulture (focused on abiotic stressors on crops).

He wrote another couple of papers, astronomical, about potential new technologies for asteroid deflection missions.

From there he really hit his stride and got brave enough to publish under his own name. He’s proposed a design for a future deep-space telescope, and explored/discussed mapping molecular clouds with AI.

With the methods he wrote about, he’s discovered a new molecular cloud formation in deep space. He submitted the name “Azophi” to the IAU along with his findings.

Donnie loves stargazing, even with the light pollution he has to battle in NYC. He’s figuring up some workarounds. Watch this space. (Ha)

He doubts he’ll ever get to go on a space mission himself, but this is just as fulfilling and exciting for him.

Badass telescope under construction, TBD

Specific to the RP I made him for, Donnie receives a cloaking brooch as a gift from Leo, to make it easier for him to get to grad school, move in academic circles, and eventually travel. His human disguise looks a lot like Lou Jitsu. He’s gonna get that a lot.

Mikey also painted an artistic interpretation of the Azophi cloud complex for him; it’s now one of his most prized possessions.

#rottmnt #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt au #save rottmnt #astronomer!donnie

[gothprentiss]

actually, again, since i'm never gonna finish it but it *is* october etc.-- a while back i started playing around with a fic that was like-- post demonology, emily gets possessed, and it's exorcism time in the bau. heavily based on blatty's book obv because the episode is as well. i think i wrote like 10k words of it and never finished it because it would have legitimately been novel length and i have still to this day no idea how to end it without being like "and then things weren't the same and she had to quit because OF COURSE you would" but i might like... idk post part of it later. it was fun! i started it in like june and then gave it up by some point in july. here's the prologue, which is 1.2k words. i was trying to play around with like, the whole time in rome backstory as a point in the narrative which was pivotal but wasn't, like, directly causal-- i.e., the way the abortion isn't at all treated like some sort of cataclysmic event in itself but rather as something which is recognizably and problematically freighted, especially for kids who are trying to reconcile their own nascent senses of rightness with what they're being told is right. anyway

prologue: lauren

The obelisk stood tall in the wastes, unusually unmarked by passage of time and exposure. It towered over the ruins of the church it had once stood before. The builders of the church would have been horrified by it, the ancient object outliving its new setting, as though a monument to the fall of Christendom itself. It had also, over the centuries, shed the crucifix they had affixed atop it. That gesture of defiance would not have been so horrifying, as the thing always been prone to swaying in the breeze. In fact, its builders would probably have been surprised by just how long it had stayed there. They’d have been impressed, too, that its shards still populated the half-unearthed courtyard. Miraculous, they might have said. Un mostro.

If anyone had been looking carefully, they would have seen that the obelisk was not entirely unravaged by wind and sand; its face, once inscribed, was so worn that it could no longer be made out. It had not been seen by eyes that could have read it for millennia. It had escaped, somehow, cataloguing, by enterprising academics or cynical compilers of guidebooks. They just … forgot they’d seen it, by the time they got around to writing. Illustrations and photographs had simply not existed, and seemed that they never had. Tucked away on a patch of private property most frequently held by rich, uninterested businessmen, it had simply passed out of sight and memory.

But now, it stood out against the sky like a jagged tooth rising up from the maw of an ancient beast, or a single stitch lashing earth to sky. It seemed, like Shelley’s ruined statue of Ozymandias, like the last gasping laugh of a defeated tyrant. From where it stood, you could just see the towers of San Gimignano rising over the hills. Like a mouth that might close.

It sent a shudder down Lauren’s spine. Rather, it intensified the shudder which seemed to be permanently there.

The ruined church and weathered obelisk stood near the westernmost limit of the sprawling estate Doyle had somehow procured for them in Siena. The first time she saw it, she thought it was funny— again, like Shelley’s ruined statue of Ozymandias, it illustrated the triumph of time and forgetting over the gall of empires: first the extraction of the obelisk from its Egyptian setting like a rotten tooth, then its survival past the proud zeal that brought it here. The old monuments of dead empires always had an air of embarrassment, like they knew their boasts were empty, and were just going through the motions of pride and valor. That felt comforting, somehow, and so it became the place she went when she didn’t want Doyle to find her.

Lauren didn’t know about its layover in Rome, though she might have guessed: among the spoils of ancient war that made up its topography, the city bristled with obelisks, often rising high above the surrounding landscape. Like prisoners of war, the spolia were meant to declare victory at its apex, victory so complete that enemies’ monuments were now monuments to the power of the conquering state. Conquering Romans added on Latin inscriptions without effacing the previous ones. Spoliation also built churches. This particular church, which had been dedicated in the 8th century to the Virgin Mary, had borne, sparsely, marble ornaments from ancient, wealthier temples, whose crumbling capitals and columns had partially furnished the new regime. She’d seen the same in England, where crumbling Roman stonework was retained either as spolia or as part of the land’s topography, as though the most basic early medieval conception of creation held human and nature as equal participants in the earth’s form. Homo ab humo. Dust to dust.

But the ruin bothered her. The obelisk stood above it like a defiant apostate, rejecting all forms of belief and signification. Now it was just set dressing for a Sienese country house full of career criminals on vacation. It seemed like it should have hosted an angry ghost; it felt wrong that it probably didn’t.

It also, frankly, worried her, that so much of the history and nature of a thing could be forgotten just by changing its setting and set-dressing.

She also didn’t know, and probably wouldn’t have guessed, that the ruined church had as its foundation a destroyed and stripped pagan temple. These things happened; they, too, suggested angry ghosts, the restless spirits of defeated minor gods. Condemned as demons, and now left unsupervised by the Virgin Mary.

There was nothing inherently special about the obelisk. No mystical force had seized upon it as a totem of evil; it wasn’t arranged with others in any particularly supernatural configuration of points, when viewed from above. But in the late 70s, a trio of vacationing, bored teenagers of the sort Emily would have wanted to be friends with had quit their walking tour of medieval Italian cities and camped out at the base of the hulking obelisk, for the atmosphere. And one of them had said something along the lines of, hey, this is the perfect place to hold a black mass, huh? And another had said something to the effect of, you know black masses are bullshit, right? It’s like Christian propaganda to scare parents into paying for their daycare services. Also, that’s gross, and I’m not touching anyone’s blood or shit or cum just because you don’t have reverence for nature or magic. And the third said, roughly, do you think any spirits are in that thing? Ancient ones? The first said, after what would no doubt have been an uncomfortable pause, it would be a waste not to find out, right? And so it went. Like all people so nonchalantly excited by the concept of a black mass, the first speaker didn’t have much of an idea of what magic, or its flashy little sister Magick, entailed, how to perform it, and what sorts of responsibilities came with it. He did, however, have a few candles, a baseline knowledge of the Catholic mass, and the full capacity to draw both a pentangle and an inverted cross. He used one of the candles to light a cigarette, then placed it at the foot of the obelisk.

Things like this happened all the time. Usually their most malevolent consequence was singed fingertips or detention. In the decades to come, the world would eventually learn that satanic cults and ritual abuse were pure fabrications, the death rattles of the long history of Christian persecution and persecution mythos. Its storytellers, prompted by Blatty’s The Exorcist and the rabid readers of Michelle Remembers, would also massively oversell the extent to which a makeshift and largely impromptu ritual conducted by kids could bring Biblical evil down with a vengeance on an unsuspecting world.

But not totally.

Decades later, Lauren brushed dust and desiccated plant matter off the melted and clodded stump of an old candle and wondered idly how old it might be. A sharp breeze blew in from the north, rustling the half-browned grass and the old cypresses that marked the perimeter of the property. A scattered flock of Apennine sheep, grazing past the tree-lined border, raised their heads and scanned the field around them with dull apprehension.

But it wasn’t there for them.

#fic #extremely For Me but it's like-- why on earth am i trying to not be annoying and self-indulgent on tumblr dot com #something about turning the highly wrought and extremely causal tone of the exorcism into something that's very like #about the arbitrariness and weirdness of evil or something idk it was MONTHS AGO #extremely academic tone too very weird #q*fic