#this was an image from a work seminar | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ameliablakesblog · 4 months

Text

Let the Consequences Be Damned- Lando Norris

Happy Day 1 of Smutmas!!!!

Lando Norris x Fem! Reader Words: 2.3k Warnings: Swearing, SMUT 18+ (Minors DNI), Masturbation (Male & Female), Semi-Public sex (if you squint) Summary: He shouldn't want her, she was his PR Manager, if anything happened there would be consequences. But what happens when she finds him in a compromising position? A.N: Here's day One! Hope you like it :) Make sure to follow along for the rest of the 12 Days of Smutmas!!

Lando couldn’t stop thinking about her.

His PR manager. The woman sent from the devil himself to make his life a misery.

Y/N was stunning. From the way she smiled to the way the room would literally light up the moment she stepped in. Lando was hooked.

And he couldn’t do anything about it.

Here he was, sat in the meeting room supposedly listening to the media planning for the upcoming month. Yet his eyes would naturally draw to her opposite him. She’d gone for her own clothing today rather than the papaya uniform, but to be honest even if she wore nothing but a cotton rag, she’d still be the most stunning woman on the planet in his eyes.

Today she had obviously decided to ruin Lando’s mind. Wearing a grey mini dress with some black heels, she looked like sex on legs.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He cursed McLaren for having glass tables as he was able to notice everything. He noticed the way she’d run her palms down her thighs when she was speaking, or the times her thighs would clench together as she repositioned herself into a more comfortable position.

Every time she moved, her dress would ride up a little higher on her thigh and Lando had to restrain himself from leaning forward to get a peek. He wondered what underwear she was wearing. Was it a thong? Was she even wearing one?

God, he shouldn’t be thinking about this.

He was at work for Christ sake. And now he was hard as a rock.

He shuffled in the chair to try and conceal his hard-on before dragging his eyes away from her to the meeting board. On the screen was statistics or something, numbers were never Lando’s strong suit. He let his mind wander, trying to think of subjects not related to his PR manager who was now biting a pen.

Fuck.

It wasn’t supposed to be seductive, but how come everything she did turned him on?

He decided to think about Twitch. Maybe he could stream tonight? But what game?

Suddenly, a thought of Y/N on her knees underneath his desk came to mind. He let his mind wander to the thought of her sucking him off while he played his games. He could practically see it. Her messing with her tits while she took him in her mouth all the way. The noises she’d make when she’d tug on her nipples and the way she’d let him cum on her tongue.

The noise he let out sounded agonising.

The room went quiet.

Fuck. Did he really moan out loud?

He looked up to all eyes on him, including Y/N’s. She stared at him; eyes wide- almost knowing?

He looked away and to the others in the meeting. He needed to leave. If he stayed in this room much longer, with the thoughts he’s having, he’d probably end up making a twat out of himself.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to-to leave, I’m not feeling good” He stood up abruptly and started to make his leave, it was an obvious lie, but he didn’t care. He needed to go jerk himself off- it was the only solution so he can get on with the rest of his evening.

He started wandering the corridors, searching for a quiet place. It was fairly late at the MTC, so it was mostly quiet, which Lando appreciated. He couldn’t think of anything worse right now than talking to people, when whenever he closed his eyes, he could just keep seeing the image of Y/N sucking him off.

He stopped his walking and groaned. He’d thought about it again. His hard-on was throbbing underneath his jeans, and he had to give it a discreet squeeze to ease the pain.

He couldn’t wait much longer, to his right was a seminar room which after knocking- he found empty. He shut the door and quickly made work of his trousers and boxers. His erection slapped his abdomen and he hissed at the feeling. He let his mind wander carelessly this time as his hand stroked his cock. He gave himself a harsh tug and whimpered at the thought of Y/N bent over the desk. Him fucking her over the desk and the noises she’d make. Would she moan loud?

He continued to fuck his hand faster, imagining it was her hand instead of him. His breathing erratic and head thrown back against the chair. He was in his own world, groaning at the filthy thoughts of his PR manager.

Unbeknown to him, Y/N had shortly left after Lando. She was concerned about him. She knew he hated meetings, yet he always endured them for her. But today with the way he left so quickly had her worried. Plus, the moan? What was that about? Did statistics really turn him on?

So she followed him down the hallways, he seemed fine- although very rushed. When he stopped suddenly you halted, maybe he didn’t want to speak to her? Even though she was his PR manager; it didn’t mean he needed to tell her how he was feeling. When he quickly darted into the room next to him and slammed the door, she let the worries slide. Something was wrong, maybe she could help?

She moved to the door and went to knock when she heard another moan. That was definitely a moan, right? She started questioning the noises she had heard from the driver this evening. The noise she had just heard sounded pleasurable; but the one earlier sounded almost in pain?

When she heard Lando moan her name she jumped back from the door.

Was that her name? she could feel the area between her legs start to pulse at the thought of what Lando could be doing in there.

It should be wrong, having a crush on Lando. She made the decision when she got the job that she’d never risk her job.

But then she just heard him moan her name again.

Consequences be damned, she needed to know what he was doing. Maybe she had read the situation wrong, maybe something bad had happened, maybe Lando was calling her name because he was in pain.

She opened the door a crack to allow herself to see in. She gasped at the sight of Lando; sweaty and flushed as he jerked his cock while moaning. She could feel herself becoming wet and for a moment contemplated walking away- this was a private moment; she shouldn’t be spying on this.

But then he whimpered and rolled his thumb over the tip of his cock, collecting his precum before using as lubrication to fuck up into his hand. All those previous thoughts left her mind as she entered the room, closing the door and locking it. Lando hadn’t seen her enter and she bit her lip at how submissible he was.

Time to have some fun.

Lando was in a world of his own. All he could think about was Y/N. His mind racing through images of him fucking her. He whimpered at the idea of her moaning his name. His eyes opened lazily to watch himself fuck his hand. But when he saw Y/N stood opposite him he jumped back in surprise. His hand paused his movements as he stared at her. She wasn’t directly looking at him per say, she was focused on the grip he had on his cock. He whimpered from her gaze. From the way she was looking at him all he could see was lust and he jerked slightly into his hand at the possibilities of what could happen now.

Y/N lifted her gaze to match his and she bit her lip. Her glossed lip rolled between her teeth and Lando was so caught up in watching them he almost missed Y/N bending down slightly. He watched the way her hands crept under her dress and up towards her centre, fascinated on the way she pulled down her pink thong to the floor. She stepped out of it before picking it up. Her lip stayed between her teeth as she looked at her thong before looking over towards him. Lando couldn’t breathe. He had started to stroke his cock again without realising but now he couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to. He watched Y/N walk over to him before situating herself between his legs. She placed her hands on his things before bringing them up towards his shaft, scratching her nails up his legs on the way. He jerked at the feeling, eager to feel her hands on the place he craved. When she stopped to look at him, silently asking for his permission- he could’ve finished right then.

She smiled innocently before licking a strip up his shaft. He moaned at the feeling. Anyone could’ve heard him with how loud he was being, but he didn’t care. Y/N had just wrapped her glossy lips around his tip and started to push down, hollowing her mouth to take him further in her mouth. He threw his head back, trying to control himself. All he wanted to do was take control and fuck her mouth senseless, but she had the upper hand- he was completely in her mercy. She continued to bob her head, letting her hand stroke the area she couldn’t fit. He heard her moan and looked down, jaw going slack at the sight in front of him. She was looking up at him while sucking on his tip, but her free hand was between her legs. She was fucking herself while giving him head. He bucked his hips up at the thought, causing her to gag slightly. He should’ve felt bad, but the noise sent him closer to the edge.

He could hear the noise of her wetness between her legs, the muffled moans she was making around his cock and the noise of her finger fucking herself was pushing him closer to his orgasm. He lifted his head, looking down at Y/N. She was always stunning, but like this, with her eyes closed from the pleasure and the way she took his cock almost greedily. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

“I’m close” He grabbed her hair, making a make-shift ponytail and pulling slightly. She opened her eyes but didn’t pull away. In fact, pulling her hair seemed to challenge her more, as she sucked harder before pushing him further into her throat. He groaned loudly, bucking his hips up. He felt himself hit the back of his throat and he felt himself cum.

God it was amazing, his head slammed back against the chair, and he could feel himself panting. Mouth open while she continued to lick him threw his orgasm. He felt her stand on wobbly legs, so he acted fast; pulling her down to sit on top of him. He looked up and she was smiling at him cheekily. He could feel her wetness on his thighs as he came down from his high, his hands moving to rub circles on her ass underneath the dress.

“Was that- Lando!” She had started to ask something, but he wasn’t going to answer. She hadn’t finished, he realised. He was quick to stand them both and push her against the table, ass bare and legs split so her could see all of her. She didn’t even try to stop him, pushing herself back so she could lie comfortably. He got down on his knees, but she didn’t allow him the time to marvel at her. She grabbed his hair and pulled him closer to where she wanted him. He laughed slightly before going in for the kill. He had dreamt of this for so long, he wasn’t going to waste the chance he’d got.

He licked a strip up her cunt before focusing on her swollen clit. God she was soaked. All for him too. He sucked hard, loving the way she moved to put both her legs over his shoulder, trapping her against him. He pushed a finger inside her, groaning at how tight she was. She felt perfect, and the noises she was making- his cock was already growing hard again. She squirmed against his fingers while he continued to dominate her clit, clenching in need for more stimulation. He pushed another finger in, eliciting a cry from her stunning lips. He pulled away to gauge her reaction and groaned at the sight. She was playing with her tits, like he’d dreamt of. She was arching her back while playing with her nipples.

Not wanting to keep her waiting he dove in again, he curled his fingers inside her, feeling her grind against his face. She was close, he could feel it in the way she was clenching around him, her wetness dripping down her thighs onto the carpeted floor. He’d never be able to have a meeting in this room again without getting turned on.

“Please Lando, please” She was begging. God he loved the sound, he moaned in reply and bit her clit. It sent her over the edge and she cummed hard. His name falling from her lips in chants as she writhed on the table. He cleaned her up the best he could before standing, dropping her legs from his shoulder. She hadn’t moved, eyes lazily watching him. She went to pull her dress up back over her boobs but stopped when Lando stood between her legs. His once again, hard cock stood proud as he pushed it over her sensitive pussy. She jumped at the feeling but didn’t complain so he looked up. He moved to bend over her so they were face to face, his cock nestled comfortably against her folds, like a silent dare.

He could feel her fast breathing against his lips, her nipples grazing against his clothed chest. They stared at each other, no one making a move.

They both knew the consequences of their actions, but they didn’t want to deal with them right now. For now, they had each other, and Lando certainly wasn’t going to allow them to think about the consequences.

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x re #lando norris x reader #landonorris #landonorrissmut #romance #reading #lando norris #lando norris angst #formula one smut #f1 2023

574 notes · View notes

softdoctorreid · 1 year

Text

warm hugs | spencer reid

summary: another agent makes a comment about spencer’s ‘dad-bod’, but how can he want to change that when being a dad is his favorite thing? anon requested platonic dad-bod spence whose kid says he’s comfy like a teddy bear 🥺🧸

• mentions of body image, food

+++ +++ +++

When your name lit up on his phone, it was a welcome sight in the midst of a day that had Spencer feeling down. “Spence, I’m so sorry,” you said. “I’m gonna be stuck at work a little later today. Could you pick Lily up from school?”

“Of course. Is everything okay?” he asked, leaning back against the wall of the empty office he’d taken refuge in.

“Yeah, just a last-minute meeting, it’s all good. How about I pick up some dinner and dessert on the way home as a treat?” He hesitated, and while he was the profiler in the relationship, you’d gotten good at reading him over the years. “Babe, is everything okay with you? You’ve never thought about turning down something sweet before.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, trying to backpedal. “I don’t know, it was just a stupid comment another agent made.”

“What did they say?”

“Just pointing out that I don’t look the way I did a few years ago. Something about domesticity and putting on weight.”

Agent Hill had once been an assistant agent around the BAU bullpen until his transfer up to the New York Office. A training seminar had him back in the area for the first time in years, and he’d popped by Quantico to make a round of reunions. While he was chatting with everyone and making quips, he’d locked eyes on Spencer. “SSA Reid,” he’d said. “Haven’t seen you in a while! Looks like there’s a little more of you to see, huh? Domestic life must be treating you well.”

Spencer knew it was meant to be some sort of joke, but it didn’t lessen the way he felt suddenly too much, too conscious of the little extra weight he’d been carrying around his midsection since their daughter Lily had been a baby. It wasn’t something that normally bothered him, but then again it wasn’t something other people normally commented on, outside of you resting your head on his tummy and waxing poetic about how comfortable he was.

Spencer pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he drove to the school. Lily was always a welcome distraction from whatever he was ruminating on, but the way the four-year old was frowning in the backseat demanded particular attention. Her answers about her day were short and vague, unlike her usual cheerful self. It wasn’t until they got home that he finally got her to admit what was on her mind.

“I just wanted to finish my book during nap time, but Teacher got mad at me and she said I wasn’t allowed. The she took it for the rest of the day. It wasn’t fair,” she grumbled. “I just wanted to read my book!”

Spencer would talk to her later about rules, and maybe try to get permission from her teacher to let her read instead, but that could wait. Right now he just needed to get his little girl out of this funk.

“So you had a bad day, huh? And you’ve got some bad feelings now?”

Lily nodded, sticking out her lip in a perfect pout.

“Then I guess it’s up to me to turn that frown…” - he snatched her up in his arms, maneuvering her over his shoulder - “upside down!” Holding tight to her he spun them around until she was giggling, her little feet flailing, hands clutching at his sweater.

The moment he dropped her back onto the couch he began to tickle her, ensuring her laughter had no chance to subside. When she seemed to have tired herself out from laughing he finally let up. “That’s much better, isn’t it?” he asked. “I like seeing your smile. So tell me, what would help make these bad feelings go away?”

Lily thought for a moment, pressing her lips together in a thin line the exact way her father did when he was deep in concentration. “Can we make brownies? And maybe watch the Elsa movie?”

“Of course we can.” Both tasks had once been a challenge for him, but he’d learned to make a box mix without burning the house down over the years, and had long since surrendered to the fact that he could not escape the endless loop of children’s movies. While Frozen was ingrained in his memory after the first watch, he learned to tolerate the repeat watches and soundtrack plays for the joy it brought to his daughter. She in fact treated him to her own rendition of the songs while they stirred the brownie mix, her energetic demeanor returning as he probed her with questions about the movie’s characters and what was happening in her favorite books. Just before he placed them in the oven, she insisted on adding handfuls of brightly colored sprinkles into the mix, saying it was a magic ingredient.

Lily insisted on changing into a pair of pajamas with Anna and Elsa on them while Spencer set up a cozy nest of blankets and pillows on the living room couch. He started the movie while the brownies baked, slipping away to take them out of the oven while Anna sang about the impending coronation. With one brownie on a plate and two cups of hot cocoa, he returned to her side on the couch. “Here you are, princess,” he said with a small bow, placing the plate in front of her.

“Where’s yours?” Lily asked.

“Oh, I’ll have one later,” he lied. “After all, princesses have first dibs.” The truth was he hadn’t stopped thinking about Agent Hill’s comment. Maybe it was time to get back in shape, shed the new-dad weight he’d never quite lost. That would mean cutting back on sugar - his favorite of the food groups - and the time he spent lying on the couch instead of hitting the gym.

Lily inched close to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, her head resting on the top of his tummy. Spencer pulled the blanket up over her and draped an arm around her. It was his job to make her feel better, but cuddling with her on the couch was helping to dispel his own sour mood as well.

“I think Olaf would like your hugs, Papa,” she told him. “You give the best hugs.”

“Is that right?” he asked.

She nodded, the movement tugging his shirt. “Yeah. I like hugging you. You’re soft.” That kernel of shame swelled up again at the comment only a child could make with such innocent bluntness. “And warm. Good for snuggling. You’re like a teddy bear! I love teddies, but I love you better, Papa.” As if for emphasis, she squeezed him in a tighter hug.

That bit of shame immediately began to melt at her words. Lily continued, her eyes never leaving the screen. “Cuz you can do all the things a teddy can’t, and you make brownies with me and you carry me when I’m tired and you’re the most comfy ever. That’s why your hugs are magic.”

They sat on the couch, Lily enraptured by the movie on the screen, and Spencer ruminating over her words. Warm, soft, good for snuggling. Wasn’t that what you were always saying too?

“Papa, are you going to eat a brownie?” Lily asked. “I put the sprinkles in so they’d be extra good!” The puppy dog-eyed pout was another expression she’d picked up from him, and he just couldn’t resist this time. Maybe he didn’t need to. He ventured back into the kitchen, returning with three brownies on the plate. She watched as he took the first bite.

“You’re right!” he told her. “These are the best brownies I’ve ever had!” And they certainly were when saying so produced such a huge smile on Lily’s face. She returned to her position snuggling up with him and he was content to indulge in the sweet treats before them. So maybe it wouldn’t help with the problem of his tummy, but maybe it wasn’t such a problem after all. How could it be when that softness was something his daughter and partner found endearing? If his hugs could make Lily happier and eating desserts was a moment he could share with her, why would he want to change that?

His body was proof of the thing he was proudest of in his life - being a dad. A dad who was always there, who loved lazy weekends snuggled up with his family and treating Lily to sweets she always offered to share with him. He loved that he was someone his daughter felt safe with, that his arms could offer comfort on the bad days and the good days and all the days in-between.

When you returned home, you found them like that on the couch watching the end of the movie, Spencer caught red-handed with a brownie in his hand. Lily rushed over to greet you with a hug, happily babbling about her day as Spencer quickly finished the brownie before walking over to join you.

Distracted by the closing credits, Lily wandered back to the couch to sing along while Spencer welcomed you home with a kiss.

“Mm, you taste like chocolate. So you’re not still upset about that comment today?” you asked.

Spencer shrugged. “I don’t want to cut out the things that make life sweeter. Lily says my tummy makes me good to hug. Like a teddy bear. How could I give that up?”

You smiled. “She’s right, of course. I mean, I liked hugging you even when you were practically a bean pole. But you are much more comfortable with a little extra padding.” You gave his belly an encouraging pat. “And it’s nice to have more of you to hold onto.”

So his cardigans were a size larger these days, and he had to buckle his belts a couple notches looser than he had before. But those were signs his life had changed, his world had grown, filled by the presence of so much love and sweetness. Maybe there was a little more of him now, but he didn’t care so long as he had a little more to love in his life.

+++

tell me what you think here!

#spencer reid x reader #fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #imagine #reid x reader #softdoctorreid #z writes #tum tag

1K notes · View notes

familyabolisher · 10 months

Note

hi! i'm a follower, & i enjoy reading your posts and essays. in your recent post about the anti-intellectualism kerfuffle on tumblr, you said, "Part of my communism means believing in the abolition of the university; this is not an ‘anti-intellectual’ position but a straightforwardly materialist one."

i haven't heard of university abolition before, and if you are willing, i would like to hear what it's about. what is the university abolitionist image of a better alternative to universities? should learning still be centralized?

thanks for your consideration. :)

University abolition, as with any other form of abolition worth its salt, understands the role played by the institution of the university under capitalism in sustaining the conditions of capitalist-imperialist hegemony, analyses the institution accordingly, and recognises that the practices that the university purports to represent (that of intellectual production, the sharing and developing of knowledge) will undergo a fundamental overhaul and reconstitution under communism. This means looking at the university not merely as an organic institution wherein we study and develop ideas, but asking what ideas are developed and legitimised, and who is afforded the opportunity to do so, and why the university exists in the first place; we are taking a materialist rather than idealist approach.

Simply put, the role of the university is to restrict access to knowledge and knowledge production, and to ensure the continuance of class divides and hierarchised labour. These restrictions come about in a vast number of ways; the most immediately obvious is the fact that one must meet a certain set of criteria in order to qualify for entrance in the first place, and this criteria tends to require compliance with the schooling system (itself another such arm of capitalist governance), a certain amount of wealth (and/or a willingness to accrue debt), and an ability to demonstrate methods of intellectual engagement compliant with the standard of the academy. Obviously, there are massive overlaps in this set of criteria; those who come from wealthier backgrounds are more likely to have had a good education and thus can better demonstrate normative intellectual engagement, those who can demonstrate that engagement have probably complied with the schooling system, and so on. The logic behind the existence of private schools is the idea that sufficient wealth can near-enough secure your child's entry into the university and therefore entry into the wealthier classes as an adult, with the most prestigious institutions overrun by students from privately educated backgrounds. Already, you can see how this is a tactic that filters out people from marginalised backgrounds; if you’re too poor, too un[der]educated, too disabled, not white enough, &c. &c., your chances of admittance into higher education grow slimmer and slimmer.

Access to the university affords access to knowledge; most literally through institutional access to books, papers, libraries, but also through participation in lectures and seminars, reading lists, first-hand contact with active academics, the opportunity to produce work and receive feedback on it, the opportunity to develop your own ideas in a socially legitimised sphere. As I explained above, who is afforded access to such knowledge is stratified and limited; the institution is hostile to anyone deemed socially disposable under capitalism. Access to the university also affords access to a university degree, with which you can continue down the research path (and thus participate in the cycle of radical knowledge-production being absorbed and defanged by the academy, and water down your own ideas to make them palatable to institutions which tend to balk at anything with serious Marxist commitments), or gain entry to better-paid, more stable, more prestigious jobs than those which people without degrees are most often relegated to. In this sense, the people who are more likely to be able to meet the access criteria for the university and then successfully participate in it are able to retain their class position (or else promulgate the myth of social mobility as a solution to mass impoverishment) and thus gain a vested interest in maintaining the conditions of hegemony. Those who gain entry into the middle class have done so after undergoing a process of stratification according to means; which is to say, class, race, [dis]ability; and tend to lose interest in defending a politic which seeks to destabilise their relatively privileged position in the pecking order.

Success in a research career, too, depends upon liberties afforded by wealth; can you afford to go to all these conferences, do low-paid and insecure teaching work in the university, churn out research, and support yourself through a postgrad degree without going insane? Not if you don’t have independent means. In the UK, the gap between undergrad and masters funding is absolutely wild—obviously there are scholarships afforded to a limited number of people (another access barrier—the whole institution runs on the myth of artificial scarcity), but broadly speaking, it’s pretty much impossible to put yourself through an MA with just the money you get from SFE unless you work a lot on the side to pay your bills (this is what I tried to do; I went insane and dropped out, lmfao) or have independent wealth. Establishing oneself as an ‘academic’ is simply easier when you have financial security. In this way, the people who make it to the very top of academia (the MAs, the PhDs) tend to be people who come from privileged backgrounds; people who are less likely to challenge hegemony, who will maintain the essential conditions by which the university sustains itself, which is to say the conditions of social stratification. These people often tend to hold reactionary positions on class—the people who are outraged at how little a stipend postgrad students get tend not to think twice about the university’s cleaners being paid minimum wage, or think of working-class jobs as shameful failstates from which their academic qualifications have allowed them to escape (how many people have you heard get absolutely aghast at the thought of ‘[person with a BA/MA/PhD] working a typically working-class job’?). Academic success tends to engender buying into the mythology of academia as a class stratifier and class stratification as indicative of one’s value, even amongst people who probably call themselves academic Marxists.

Universities are also tangible forces of counterinsurgency. I live in the UK, where universities are huge drivers of gentrification; university towns and cities will welcome mass student populations, usually from predominantly middle-class backgrounds and often coming to cities with significant working-class and immigrant communities, neighbourhoods formerly home to those communities will be effectively cleaned out so that students can live there, and the whole character of the neighbourhood changes to accommodate people from well-off backgrounds who harbour classist, racist feelings towards the locals & who will assimilate into the salaried middle-class once they graduate. More liberally-oriented universities will tend to espouse putatively progressive positions whilst making no effort to forge a relationship with grassroots movements happening on the streets of the city they’re set up in; student politics absorbs anyone with even slightly radical inclinations whilst accomplishing approximately fuck-all save for setting a few people off on the NGO track; like, the institution defangs radical potential whilst contributing to the class stratification of the city it’s set up in.

This is without even touching on the role played by the university in maintaining conditions of imperialism and neocolonialism, both through academic output regarding colonised regions (from ‘Oriental studies’ to the proliferation of white academics who specialise in ‘Africa’ to the use of the Global South as something of a playground for white Global North academics to conduct their research to the history of epistemologies such as race science as transparently fortifying and legitimating the imperialist order) and through material means of restricting access to and production of knowledge based on country of origin (universities in the Global South are significantly limited in what academic output they can access compared to those in the Global North; engagement with Global North academia relies on the ability to move freely, something that is restricted by one’s passport; language barriers and the primacy of English in the Global North academy) keeping knowledge production in the Global South dependent on the hegemony of the North. Syed Farid Alatas has termed this ‘academic dependency,’ as a corollary to dependency theory; academia in the GS is shaped by the material dependence it has on the West, which in turn restricts the kind of academic work that can be undertaken in the first place. Ultimately, all institutions under capitalism must ultimately reroute back to the conditions that favour capitalism, and the university is not an exception.

This is just a very brief overview of an expansive topic; I would recommend going away and examining in greater detail the role played by the university under capitalism, and what the institution filters out, and why. What sort of research gets funding? What sort of knowledge gains social legitimacy? What can the university absorb and what must it reject? Who is producing knowledge and to whom are they accountable? etc.

#ask

514 notes · View notes

hardly-an-escape · 2 months

Text

Fluffbruary Days 14-17

gonna try to do a little daily drabble just to get the creative juices going while I work on longer WIPs. no guarantees that it'll be every day.

Hob sighs and leans back in the hotel bathroom tub. At least it’s deep. He’s got a glass of whiskey, which tomorrow Hob will probably regret – not due to the alcohol, just the fact that it’s from the room minibar and costs three times what it’s actually worth – and he’s dumped what might be legally considered a ‘metric shitload’ of bubbles into the hot water, and he can finally, finally relax.

He likes these conferences; he honestly does. It’s refreshing, to connect with people in his field and both commiserate and be reminded why they do what they do.

They’re just also exhausting – even for an extrovert like Hob.

His limbs are feeling pleasantly warm and heavy and he’s halfway through his whiskey when the phone rings.

For some ungodly reason the hotel has put a phone in the bloody bathroom, so at least he doesn’t have to get up, just haul himself far enough out of the water to reach the counter.

“Hello?” he says irritably.

“Hob?” says the voice on the other end of the line. “I have a question about one of your citations in the paper you presented this morning. I was…”

“Morpheus?”

“Obviously. I was wondering about –”

“Morpheus, it’s –” Hob tries to break in.

“– about the research on Jonson that you cite in –”

“Morpheus, it’s after nine o’clock in the evening.”

There’s a long pause.

“Is it?” the other man says uncertainly.

“Yes, you absolute walnut.”

“I… was working. I must have lost track of time.”

“Why on earth are you still working? Don’t you have a flight in the morning?”

“I suppose I have. Nothing better to do.”

Hob doesn��t know Morpheus all that well; they see one another a few times a year, at seminars and conferences. They argue cheerfully about the merits of various Elizabethan playwrights, they – yes, fine, they flirt over cocktails at receptions, occasionally – but they don’t really talk. And yet he can see Morpheus, curled up in an uncomfortable desk chair at the cramped little hotel room desk, papers spread in front of him. The man has a memorable presence and a genius mind. And thin, elegant, fidgety fingers, which Hob imagines wrapped up in the phone cord.

And a dark, velvety voice, which is currently pouring into Hob’s ear.

“I apologize for disturbing your evening, Hob.”

“That’s alright. But you ought to find some way to relax tonight, for goodness’ sake.”

“Oh, ought I?” Morpheus sounds – amused? “And how would you suggest I do that?”

“Well, I for one am drinking a whiskey and having a very nice bubble bath.” Hob splashes deliberately. “And I can only recommend that course of action.”

“From an academic standpoint, Dr. Gadling?” Morpheus asks dryly.

Hob sinks a little deeper into the hot water. “Naturally, Dr. Murphy. From what other standpoint might I recommend it?”

Desire swells and pools in his belly. He can’t help it, with Morpheus’s voice in his ear bringing the man’s image so vividly to his mind’s eye. The sharp grey-blue eyes and even sharper cheekbones, which contrast soft lips.

“I’m sure I couldn’t even begin to guess.” Lord, but that voice is smoother than the whiskey Hob has just polished off.

“Perhaps sometime I’ll have the opportunity to enlighten you,” he says boldly.

“Perhaps.” Hob thinks he can hear a smile. “Good night, Hob.”

“Night, Morpheus.”

A click, and the line goes dead. Hob leans up to hang up his own handset and recedes back into the bubbles.

Morpheus would be a tactile lover, he’s sure of it. His hands prove it; that nervous, artistic elegance. Hob’s own hands drift lower, slip between his legs.

Perhaps sometime he’ll have an opportunity, indeed.

prompt list!

#my writing #dreamling #fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2024 #the sandman #oh my god it's a human au where they're both academics HOW REVOLUTIONARY lol #be the fanfic you want to see in the world

104 notes · View notes

ladamedusoif · 8 months

Text

Tempered in the Fire (Blacksmith!Din Djarin AU) - Masterlist

With his hammer in his hand/He looked right clever… (‘The Blacksmith’, British or Irish folk song from the early nineteenth century)

Series Summary:

Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798 was brutally suppressed. In this seemingly quiet part of the country, the people work the land and stay quiet about the recent past. You are an unusual woman in this little world: married, but living alone; a widow, with no certainty that her husband is dead. You have made your own life since he vanished into thin air, managing the smallholding you live on and making some extra money through your skills as a seamstress.

This is a time when the local blacksmith is at the heart of any rural community. One such smith is a man of few words, whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals, but whose skills with hammer and anvil have rendered him indispensable. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel on to this man’s forge - and are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure…

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (series); Explicit (eventual chapters)

Content: Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to domestic abuse; period-appropriate terminology and misogyny; anti-Travelling people discrimination; alcohol; strong language; explicit smut (eventually); technical infidelity; almost certainly incorrect depictions of blacksmithing; some slightly dodgy history (I literally took advanced seminars in this topic but come on, it’s fic); most likely some not quite correct Irish language content (again, I studied it for years so forgive me and move on).

Cross-posted to AO3.

Author’s Note: I spotted a sign at Disneyland for ‘Rose’s Forge’ and @julesonrecord and @lunapascal were immediately on the “which P boy would be a blacksmith?” train. And there’s only one answer, isn’t there? It’s Din.

This is intended as a short series of around four chapters - essentially a chance for me to scratch the blacksmith!Din itch, while also indulging in some historical fiction set in my homeland. In part, it’s inspired by the image of the blacksmith in eighteenth and nineteenth century popular culture and their role in supplying rebel weaponry in the 1798 uprising against British rule.

And it’s also inspired by the image of Din sweaty and beautiful at an anvil, because why the hell not?

The image I’ve used for the header image, by the way, is a wonderful engraving from about 1833 by the French artist Eugène Delacroix, who’s one of my absolute favourites. It’s called ‘Un Forgeron’ (A Blacksmith) and you can see it in all its glory here. (Yes, it’s hot as fuck.)

Chapter List:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #din djarin fanfiction #new fic announcement #fic coming soon #historical AU #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian fanfiction #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

186 notes · View notes

nymphoheretic · 1 year

Text

Nymph: This is based off a fanart I was of Kyou jacking off while on the phone.

Warnings: Switch!Kyoujuro, phone sex, guided masturbation, mutual masturbation, "daddy" is used once

Word count: ~1k-ish

Pairing: Kyoujuro Rengoku x Fem!reader

Tagging the rengoku girlies(gn): @bakugosbratx @renhoeku @glz-100 @herohibiscus @potofstewie @comatosebunny09 @cherryblossomsenpai @linpunny @unknownspecies @yeahitzally @taisho-era-secrets @auraee @diorsbrando @kyojuro-my-wuv @wanderingfaee and the network @tokyometronetwork

You laughed at something Mitsuri said over the phone. Apparently Obanai had forgotten to put sugar in one of the tester treats and the kids who sampled them spit them back on his pristine apron.

“I’ve warned Obanai to double check his steps when baking.” you giggled. You heard your phone ding with an incoming call and you pull it away from your ear to see who was calling you.

~Incoming call: Kyou, My Love~

You smiled. Kyoujuro was away at a teaching seminar for the weekend. You missed him terribly so hearing his voice would be nice. “Hey, Mitsuri, can I call you back later. Kyou is on my other line.” You said your goodbyes to the other woman before pressing the accept call button on your phone. “Kyou! Hi!”

“Baby~”

His voice was like silk as it caressed your ears that you had to pull the phone away and place it against your racing heart. You took a few seconds to get yourself back together. “Yes, Kyou?” You managed to say.

“Where are you right now. The bedroom?”

You nodded your head, but then realized that he couldn’t see you. “Yes I am. Why does my love need me?” You teased. A gasp left you at the whiny breathy reply you got in return. Your stomach fluttered with heat at the realization. “Kyou, baby, are you touching yourself?”

His voice came out in a whiny pitch as he stroked the hard flesh of his heavy cock. He needed to hear your voice. He missed you so much. “Yes, baby. I want you so badly.”

A sudden burst of confidence filled me as I sat up against the headboard of our bed. I opened a few buttons to my top to free my breasts as I spoke to Kyoujuro. “Sweet boy, does my voice turn you on? Are you imagining its my hand gliding up and down your cock?”

Kyoujuro let out a shuddering moan as his squeezed just enough to mimic the pressure his beloved would use. “Fuck, yes.” he hissed out. He stroked his dick a bit faster, panting into the phone. “Baby…Will you touch yourself for me too, please?”

You let out a small laugh at his request as your fingers were already twisting at you hard nipples. “I already am. Now, Kyou, I want you to take your hand and squeeze at the base of your cock. I don’t want you cumming until I say so.” you giggled softly at his whine of disdain at your request. “Either you do as I say or I hang up right now and turn my phone off.”

Kyoujuro let out another whiny moan as he moved his hand down to the base of his length and squeezed. His balls immediately protested, throbbing almost painfully. “Baby~” he whispered, “it hurts.”

“I know, sweetie.” you cooed into the phone, your hand gliding down my abdomen to your wet cunt. You easily dipped two fingers inside and let out a mewl. “I’m soaking wet for you, Daddy. I want you to fill me up so good when you come home.” you moaned into the receiver. “Kyou, spit into your other hand and work it over the head of your dick. Can you do that for me, sweet boy?”

“Ptuh.” Kyoujuro quickly spat into the palm of his other hand and rubbed it over the swollen head. He tossed his head back as he closed his eyes and imagined it to be his wife’s warm wet pussy circling the tip. “Little one~” He purred, holding the phone with his shoulder. “I can’t wait to be home and pounding into the pussy of yours. Fuck…wanna cum so badly.”

You worked your fingers faster, thumb circling your clit as you tried to bring on your climax. “I know, baby boy. I’ll let you cum soon. Are you imaging your hand is my cunt wrapped so tightly around you, choking your cock with my walls?” you added a third finger, stretching you out so deliciously and curled them to hit that spot within you. “I’m pretending my fingers are your cock, although they can’t reach as deep as you or stretch me like you can.”

Kyoujuro could feel his balls angry protesting the denial of his orgasm. He need to cum. He needed to cum so badly. “Baby girl…please…need to cum. Wanna cum with you.”

Pulling the phone away from your ear, you pressed the video call button. You wanted to see his face when he came and I knew he wanted to see you. He picked up almost immediately, the phone positioned on the side so you had a full view of him stroking his fat cock, the tip an angry red. You felt myself cum a little from the sight. You placed the phone on a pillow next to you so that Kyoujuro would have a clean shot of me stuffing your pretty pussy with your fingers.

“Fuck, baby girl…”Kyoujuro let out another whiny sounding moan, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. “You’re always so beautiful when you’re so dripping wet only for me.” He stroked his hand faster over his cock even as the pressure built up in his balls. He groaned as he licked at his lips. “Please, little one, let me cum?”

You felt your thighs begin to tremble as your walls fluttered around your fingers. “Cum, baby. Cum with me.” you said as you started to cream on your fingers, riding out your climax. You watched as Kyoujuro let go of the base and almost immediately thick ropes of white spurted from the tip and landed on his stomach. “You did so good, Kyou.” You panted as you slowed your fingers down.

Kyoujuro looked at the amount of cum on his stomach and quickly grabbed a towel to clean himself up. He grabbed the phone, his eyes narrowed as he watched you slow down the thrusting of your fingers. He arched a brow, “Darling, did I say we were done.” His voice held authority. “Now you’re going to play with your sensitive body and I’m going to watch.”

You swallowed. This was going to be a long night. “Yes, Daddy.”

©️2022-23 nymphoheretic - I do not give permission to copy, edit, alter, or distribute my work. Do not adverse on tiktok. Do not repost on any other platform.

#nymphomanic♡#rengoku x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #rengoku x you #rengoku x y/n #kyojuro x reader #kyojuro x you #kyoujurou rengoku smut #rengoku smut #rengoku kyoujurou x reader #kyoujurou x reader #kyoujurou rengoku x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut #kny x reader #kny smut

177 notes · View notes

eishtmo · 1 year

Text

The Scholomance in Minecraft

So after finishing the second read through of the series, I decided I wanted to get a true feeling for the scale of the place and the first thing I had to do so was Minecraft. So I've been working on it for a while and I'd figure I'd share some of the results.

Three things to keep in mind:

This is Minecraft Java Edition, unmodded, no texture packs. There are somethings it just cannot do, or do so in a nice way, like angles and circles.

I based it on the illustrations in the book more than the text and those don't match as much as you might think. Thus this is not book accurate, and not super accurate to the illustrations either.

It's not done, not by a long shot. Most of what you'll see are mock ups and samples of the overall structure. It's way, WAY too big to do more than that.

With that, I present the Scholomance, done in Minecraft.

Dorm room, generic. No, I didn't model El or Chloe's rooms.

Dorm landing. Only those four doors have actual rooms.

One of the library reading "rooms."

Mezzanine reading room.

Cafeteria.

Maleficaria Studies, just the bare bones of the space right now.

Small classroom.

Language Lab.

Small Alchemy Lab

Workshop

Senior Seminar Labyrinth.

Gym.

Graduation Hall.

Graduation hall doors.

Scholomance from the outside.

This Reddit thread collates all the build journals over on Imgur (how many social spaces can be connected together?). There are a lot more images than these few I posted here. The most recent back up is linked in the last image of Build 11. Feel free to download and explore. If you get running on a server, let me know, I'd love the help to finish it.

#scholomance #the scholomance #a deadly education #the last graduate #the golden enclaves #naomi novik #minecraft

192 notes · View notes

loneberry · 3 months

Text

The ghostly reflections of tree branches mirrored in puddles.

(Or: when thawing snow turns the world into a looking glass.)

It took me extra long to walk to the Black Power Studies seminar today. Perambulating down Oxford Street, I was distracted by every image I saw reflected in the puddles—the sun behind the clouds, the buildings, the power lines, the birds, the gloomy sky. While I was staring at a puddle I was shaken by the sudden THUD of a pedestrian getting hit by a gold minivan. The pedestrian seemed okay, but that unsettling feeling that life can end at any moment stayed with me throughout the day.

Strangely, Virginia Woolf had a lot to say about puddles and mortality. Some quotes:

Some cleavage of the dark there must have been, some channel in the depths of obscurity through which light enough issued […]. The mystic, the visionary, walking the beach on a fine night, stirring a puddle, looking at a stone, asking themselves “What am I,” “What is this?” […].

—To the Lighthouse (1927)

“There is the puddle,” said Rhoda, “and I cannot cross it. I hear the rush of the great grindstone within an inch of my head. Its wind roars in my face. All palpable forms of life have failed me. Unless I can stretch and touch something hard, I shall be blown down the eternal corridors for ever.”

— The Waves (1931)

There was the moment of the puddle in the path; when for no reason I could discover, everything suddenly became unreal; I was suspended; I could not step across the puddle; I tried to touch something . . . the whole world became unreal.

— “A Sketch of the Past” (1939)

The sudden dissolution of the world, of the self. That’s the horror of the puddle that cannot be crossed, the puddle that augurs madness.

I swear I remember reading about the puddle-grindstone passage in Woolf’s diary, which was absorbed into her novel The Waves. In my vague memory it was connected to news from (Ethel Smyth?) about someone’s suicide. Someone named Carrie, or Caroline, I swear there was an incident that sent Woolf spiraling. An adult incident, a repetition of the dissociative puddle incident from her childhood. But now I cannot find it. Or maybe it was connected to news from Vita, I don’t know. Or maybe the news of the mutual friend’s suicide and the fear of crossing the puddle were falsely fused in my mind by the intensity of my fixations. I had filed the detail away in a dusty drawer of my brain because of the suicided Carrie I knew, the one mirrored everywhere in Woolf’s work. Water suicides. I keep thinking they reveal: there is no ontology. Only God has being, as the Sufi metaphysicians say (and strikingly, the Ocean is the proverbial metaphor for union with God in Sufi poetry, for the only way to stop a drop from drying up is to throw it in the ocean).

#literature #viriginia woolf #Woolf #the waves #to the lighthouse #puddles #water #trees #waters of oblivion #oceanic feeling #ontology #sufi metaphysics #sufism

27 notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 9 months

Note

i am emotionally destroyed over the dead disco baby au and all i can imagine is a what if scenario

bee has never known who her father is and she’s okay with it. she’s never bothered mum about it and because all she needs is her mum. she always assumed it was some deadbeat asshole from the way her mother flinches whenever other ppl used to ask about who the father was. darling made so many sacrifices to let bee have the best childhood a single mother could offer. now bee is finally in uni pursuing a major in something that can get her a high paying job so that it’s her turn to take care of her mum.

she usually didn’t go to the seminars because they never covered a topic she was interested in, until one about terrorism and the militarization efforts to counter act it. during this seminar two speakers who retired from special operations task force appear and from the middle row she stares at them a little too hard. she can’t focus on whatever they’re saying because she notices a little things on them that she sees daily whenever she looks at the mirror. she thinks it’s all in her head but she started noticing their little things that they do how they stand, fidget, sayings that she herself has done. inherited behavior that she now thinks is becoming all to obvious. she’s confused and dazed about the whole situation and when it’s time to pack up and leave she’s the last to go. on her way out she runs into the two men and apologizes while trying to avoid eye contact. the men don’t think nothing of it until they stare a little to hard at her as she passes by recognizing pieces of darling in her. to them bee was a splitting image of darling, and to her she found pieces of herself on the faces of strangers.

when she gets to her dorm room she immediately calls her mum on the phone to describe the weird experience she just went through.

i am so sorry for the long ask this had literally been sitting in my mind for a few days and i had to let it out 😭 i just love the idea of bee being on her mum’s side 110% of the time and being okay without having a dad so that when she realizes she met them her whole world is shaking. cause in her head she waists rationalized the missing feeling of lot having a dad as her darling was her only parent and there was no other outside contribution (as a kid she used to think her mum was the virgin mary until she learned better lmaooo)

anyways sorry for my lil ramble, just wanted to let u know that i love this series and excuse any spelling mistakes

- 🦭 (i have dubbed myself seal just in case i have any other au ramble moments)

🦭🦭🦭 I love seals, this is so cute.

I love this little AU/Drabble that you’ve done here. I love the idea of Darling and Bee against the world too, Bee being raised by just her mum and being a mum’s girl through and through. Darling sacrificing and working her ass off to be a good human and good mum to Bee, trying to keep herself together and solid for her baby. Ugh. 😭 I feel like them seeing their kid all grown up after so long would probably destroy the guys.

🩵

#peaches asks #baby trap au #🦭 anon

68 notes · View notes

slut4calum · 3 months

Text

Hasanabi: Teacher's Assistant

Halfway through junior year, and the finish line was starting to shimmer in the distance. Just push through this final year, the mountain of exams, the stress-fueled ramen nights, and then it would be freedom. Freedom from textbooks, freedom from professors' drone-like lectures, freedom from the constant pressure to prove yourself. But for now, there was only the present, the slightly stale air of lecture hall B-12, and the prospect of three more hours grappling with the intricacies of 17th-century French literature.

My first class, European Romanticism, was familiar territory. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, was practically an old friend after two semesters of dissecting Byron's angst and Wordsworth's musings on daffodils. The next two classes, however, were uncharted waters: Medieval Art History, where I desperately hoped the professor wouldn't quiz us on the difference between Romanesque and Gothic arches, and Advanced Genetics, where the potential for complex Punnett squares already had my head spinning.

By the time I stumbled into my fourth class, PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization, I was ready for a nap. But the exhaustion evaporated the moment I saw Dr. Kemp. He was tiny, a sprite of a man with twinkling eyes and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. As he outlined the syllabus, his voice was a warm rumble, like well-aged whiskey swirling in a glass. And then, the door creaked open, and my heart did a triple flip.

"Ah, Mr. Piker," Dr. Kemp welcomed, "Nice of you to join us. Class, this is your TA, Hasan. Hasan is working on his PhD in political science here, Hasan, what are your office hours this semester?"

The man who walked in was…well, breathtaking. Dark hair tousled by invisible hands, eyes that held the glint of mischief and intelligence, and a smile that could charm the sunrise. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, yeah, pretty packed schedule this semester, so just email me if you need to meet up, and we'll find a time."

That was it? No booming baritone introductions, no grand plans for interactive seminars? Just a mumbled email address and an evasion of office hours? Disappointment flickered across my face, quickly masked by a cough. Dr. Kemp chuckled.

"First day and already zoning out, Ms. Y/N? We have a lot to cover this semester, globalization is a tangled web, isn't it?"

He launched into a whirlwind explanation of the coursework, detailing everything from intricate trade agreements to the rise of populist movements. I tried to focus, tried to decipher the complexities of cultural homogenization and international power struggles, but Hasan kept drifting into my vision. His hand resting on the lectern, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the playful glint in his eyes as he met Dr. Kemp's gaze. My mind was a chaotic dance floor, Professor Kemp's words mere background music to the silent symphony of possibilities playing out in my head.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. Charts of global trade flows morphed into Hasan's sculpted jawline, intricate political maps became sketches of his smile. Finally, the class ended, the sweet release from academia and its alluring distractions. As everyone shuffled out, I lingered, hoping for a chance encounter, a stolen glance, anything to break the spell before it consumed me whole. But Hasan was already gone, swallowed by the labyrinthine corridors of the university, leaving behind only the faint echo of his name and the intoxicating image of him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes holding mine for a single, lingering moment.

My legs finally stumbled out of lecture hall B-12, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders like a damp backpack. My notebooks bulged with scribbled notes and half-formed insights, remnants of the academic marathon I'd just run. Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, urging them shut, but the phantom heat of Hasan's gaze still pulsed beneath my skin. Could his name become a mantra tonight, a whispered incantation against the inevitable sleep that beckoned? Would I dream of power dynamics and trade imbalances, or would his face, framed by that dark, tousled hair, be the only image etched in my subconscious mind?

Dinner in the cafeteria was a blur of lukewarm pasta and whispered gossip about the new TA. My roommates peppered me with questions, but my answers were mumbled monosyllables, my attention already caught in the web of possibilities Hasan had woven around me. Even the rhythmic thrum of the washing machine sounded like a heartbeat, my chest pounding a primal rhythm against my ribs.

Finally, curled up in my bed, surrounded by the familiar chaos of textbooks and half-eaten candy wrappers, I felt a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation. Junior year might be about finishing lines, but with Hasan lurking on the horizon, the only finish line I could see was the one blurring the edges of my consciousness, pulling me toward a dream where textbooks and exams dissolved into the intoxicating haze of his smile. One thing was certain – this semester, at least, was going to be anything but smooth sailing.

The Tuesday morning sun peeked through my blinds, but the usual jolt of caffeine-fueled urgency was missing. Today, with only CJ 290: Criminal Theories on my schedule, the pressure valve hissed a sigh of relief. Professor Evans, a woman with a penchant for dissecting motives and questioning morals, was never one for early morning torture sessions. I lingered in bed, savoring the luxury of stolen minutes, my mind a tangled mess of globalization, trade agreements, and, more persistently, Hasan's captivating eyes.

My day unfolded in a leisurely waltz, devoid of the usual academic frenzied pace. I drifted through a bookstore, getting lost in the labyrinth of dusty spines and the promise of new worlds, then indulged in a leisurely lunch in the park, watching squirrels chase each other across the sun-dappled grass. But even the chirping birds and rustling leaves couldn't drown out the persistent hum of his name in my head. He was a phantom presence, whispering possibilities around every corner, making the mundane seem vibrant with anticipation.

As dusk began to paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, I found myself drawn to the familiar warmth of the campus dining hall. My heart did a somersault when my gaze landed on a familiar figure seated at a corner table. It was Hasan, his head bent over a book, his brows furrowed in concentration. My breath hitched, and I instinctively ducked behind a towering stack of trays, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs. Should I approach him? Strike up a conversation about trade agreements or political philosophers? But the words caught in my throat, choked by the sudden shyness that bloomed in my chest. I watched him from the shadows, a voyeur to his book-filled world, content with simply stealing glances of his coffee-sipping lips and the way the light played on his dark hair.

He was gone by the time I gathered the courage to emerge from my self-imposed exile. The dining hall was bustling, the hum of conversation washing away the quiet intimacy of my stolen observation

. I left with a pang of disappointment, the taste of his unspoken presence lingering on my tongue, a sweet-sour mystery I couldn't quite decipher. As I lay in my bed, I couldn't help but think of him. His tall, muscular body, piercing brown eyes, and the way his voice commanded attention in the lecture hall. I had been his student for the past semester and every time I saw him, I couldn't help but feel a surge of desire.

I know it's wrong. He's my TA, someone in a position of authority. But the more I tried to suppress my thoughts, the more they consumed me. I finally gave in to my fantasies. I closed my eyes and imagined him in my bed, his hands roaming my body, his lips on mine. I could feel the heat between my thighs as I thought of him undressing me, his touch igniting every nerve in my body. I ran my hands over my breasts, imagining his lips on them, sucking and flicking my nipples. My breathing became more rapid as I thought of him trailing kisses down my stomach, until he reached the place I craved him the most. I could practically feel his tongue teasing me, his fingers exploring every inch of me. My own fingers moved faster as I imagined him entering me, making me moan his name.

As I reached my peak, I couldn't help but scream out his name. I collapsed back onto my bed, panting and flushed. But my mind couldn't stop there. I needed more, I needed him. I imagined him holding me close, whispering dirty words in my ear as he continued to pleasure me. I wanted him to be rough, to dominate me. And in my mind, he did just that. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, the shadows behind my eyelids danced with the image of his smile, a silent promise of encounters to come, of a semester forever teetering between textbooks and stolen glances, between academic pursuits and the intoxicating allure of a TA with a name that was becoming my own personal forbidden fruit.

The Wednesday morning sun rose, casting a golden hue over the campus as I made my way to my first class of the day, EN 370: European Romanticism. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, greeted us with his usual enthusiasm, diving into the depths of Shelley and Keats with fervor. But my mind wandered, drifting back to Hasan and the tantalizing possibilities he represented. HY 346: Medieval Art History followed, the lecture hall echoing with the professor's passionate discourse on the intricacies of cathedral architecture. Yet, as I scribbled notes on flying buttresses and pointed arches, my thoughts strayed once more to the enigmatic figure of Hasan, his presence a magnetic pull that defied the boundaries of the classroom. BIO 243: Advanced Genetics brought with it the complexities of Punnett squares and genetic inheritance, but even as I grappled with alleles and phenotypes, Hasan's image lingered in the recesses of my mind, a persistent whisper of distraction amidst the academic clamor.

Finally, the moment I had been waiting for arrived as I stepped into PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room, a soothing undertone that hinted at the depth of knowledge and experience lying just beneath the surface. "Good morning, everyone," he began, his voice carrying the weight of years spent navigating the intricate web of global politics. "Today marks the beginning of a journey into the heart of one of the most pressing issues of our time: globalization."

As he spoke, each word seemed to carry with it a sense of urgency, a call to action in the face of a rapidly changing world. "Globalization," he continued, "has reshaped the political landscape in ways we are only beginning to comprehend. From the rise of transnational corporations to the erosion of national sovereignty, its effects are far-reaching and profound." His words hung in the air, a silent invitation to delve deeper into the complexities of this modern-day phenomenon.

But even as Dr. Kemp expounded on the intricacies of trade agreements and cultural exchange, my attention was inexorably drawn to Hasan. His presence at the front of the room was like a magnet, pulling my gaze away from the professor's lecture and into a world of tantalizing possibilities. I found myself captivated by the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lips curved into a half-smile as he listened to Dr. Kemp's words. I couldn't stop staring at Mr. Piker, wondering if he knew what I had done the night before. I tried to focus on the lecture, but my mind kept drifting back to the thoughts from the previous night.

"Hasan," Dr. Kemp's voice broke through my reverie, bringing me back to the present moment. "Would you care to share your thoughts on the role of globalization in shaping political ideologies?" Hasan's eyes met mine for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection that crackled between us. "Uh, yes, of course," he replied, his voice steady despite the hint of surprise that flickered across his features. "Globalization has undoubtedly had a profound impact on political ideologies," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "It has facilitated the spread of ideas and information on an unprecedented scale, challenging traditional notions of sovereignty and identity." His words were measured, his tone confident as he delved into the complexities of the topic at hand. And yet, despite his obvious expertise, there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of the man behind the TA facade.

As Hasan spoke, I found myself hanging on his every word, caught in the magnetic pull of his presence. His voice was like a siren's song, drawing me deeper into the labyrinth of his thoughts and ideas. I couldn't tear my gaze away, couldn't shake the feeling that we were connected in some inexplicable way, bound together by the invisible threads of fate.

The rest of the class passed in a blur, the minutes slipping by unnoticed as Hasan and Dr. Kemp dissected the nuances of globalization and its political ramifications. I scribbled notes furiously, my mind racing to keep pace with the torrent of information flooding the room. But amidst the chaos of academia, one thing remained constant: Hasan's presence, a beacon of light in the murky depths of my subconscious.

As the class ended, I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment wash over me. Relief that I could finally escape the confines of the lecture hall, but disappointment that I would have to wait until next week to see Hasan again. I lingered for a moment, watching as he gathered his belongings and made his way to the front of the room. Our eyes met briefly, a silent exchange that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered. And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving me to navigate the swirling currents of my thoughts alone.

As I made my way back to my dorm, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that a door had been opened to a world of possibilities I had never dared to explore. Hasan had awakened something within me, a hunger for knowledge and connection that transcended the boundaries of the classroom. And as I lay in bed that night, the echo of his voice still ringing in my ears, I knew that this semester would be unlike any other, a journey into the unknown with Hasan as my guide.

Two weeks passed in a whirlwind of lectures, study sessions, and stolen glances. Despite my best efforts to focus on my studies, Hasan's enigmatic presence continued to linger in the back of my mind, a constant distraction amidst the academic chaos. But as the days flew by, the impending exam in PSC 419 loomed larger and larger on the horizon, a stark reminder of the need to buckle down and prepare.

The next time the class met, the atmosphere crackled with nervous energy. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room as he handed out the exam papers, his eyes flickering with a mixture of anticipation and gravity. "Alright, class, you’ll have 50 minutes to complete this exam," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "You may begin."

As the minutes ticked by, the rustle of papers and the scratch of pencils on paper filled the air, each stroke a testament to weeks of diligent preparation and late-night cramming sessions. I kept getting distracted by Hasan sitting at the front of the room, his gaze flicking across the rows of students, no doubt looking for any signs of cheating. Every time our eyes met, I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and excitement swirling in my chest.

Despite my nerves, I managed to focus on the exam, my mind racing to recall the intricacies of globalization and its political effects. But as I flipped through the pages, answering each question to the best of my ability, doubt crept in. Had I studied enough? Had I missed any crucial details? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a constant companion as the seconds ticked by.

As I gathered my belongings and made my way out of the lecture hall, a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. The weight of Hasan's gaze lingered on me, a silent reminder of the unspoken tension that simmered between us.

Friday came, and I anxiously awaited the exam results, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. When Dr. Kemp finally handed back the papers, my heart sank as I saw the red mark glaring back at me. Hasan had failed me. Confusion and frustration swirled in my mind as I scanned through my answers, unable to comprehend where I had gone wrong.

Desperate for answers, I sought out a classmate to compare notes. To my disbelief, our answers aligned perfectly. Each question meticulously answered, every concept grasped with precision. With newfound resolve, I confronted Hasan, armed with evidence of my innocence.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I made my way to Hasan's office hours, determined to confront him about the unjust grade. As I entered his office, the air seemed charged with tension, the weight of our unspoken conflict hanging heavy between us. Hasan's eyes met mine, but there was no warmth in his gaze, only a guarded wariness that sent a chill down my spine.

I launched into my argument, laying out the evidence of my innocence with a conviction born of righteous indignation. But instead of engaging in a rational discourse, Hasan's demeanor grew increasingly defensive, his rebuttals growing more vehement with each passing moment. It was as if he were grasping at straws, desperate to deflect blame and avoid accountability for his actions.

As the minutes ticked by, it became painfully clear that Hasan had no intention of acknowledging his mistake, let alone rectifying it. His refusal to even entertain the possibility of an error left me feeling helpless and betrayed, a pawn in his reckless game of academic manipulation.

But then, as I prepared to leave, Hasan's tone shifted, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "There might be another way to resolve this," he said, his eyes locking with mine in a knowing gaze. My heart raced as I realized the implication of his words, the sudden surge of desire mingling with the lingering anger and frustration.

In that moment, I saw an opportunity to turn the tables, to reclaim control over the situation and emerge victorious. The thought of using my newfound leverage to secure a better grade both thrilled and terrified me, the line between right and wrong blurring in the heat of the moment.

With a tentative nod, I accepted Hasan's proposition, a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I realized the power I held in my hands. As we drew closer, the air crackling with anticipation, I knew that this was a gamble I was willing to take, consequences be damned. For in that fleeting moment of forbidden desire, I saw not only a chance to right a wrong but also a glimpse of the intoxicating allure of surrendering to temptation.

With a sense of both trepidation and excitement, I agreed to Hasan's proposition, feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. As we drew closer, the air between us crackled with anticipation, the tension palpable as we stood on the precipice of a decision that would alter the course of our academic and personal lives.

Hasan's gaze bore into mine, dark and intense, as if searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt. But all I could feel was a fierce determination, a resolve to seize control of the situation and emerge victorious, no matter the cost. The lines between right and wrong blurred in the heat of the moment, overshadowed by the intoxicating allure of forbidden desire.

Without a word, Hasan closed the distance between us, his touch sending shivers down my spine as he brushed his fingers against my cheek. In that moment, the world fell away, leaving only the two of us locked in a silent dance of longing and anticipation.

His lips met mine in a searing kiss, igniting a firestorm of passion that threatened to consume us both. With each touch, each caress, the boundaries that had once separated us melted away, leaving only the raw intensity of our desire.

As our bodies entwined, the air around us crackled with electricity, charged with the urgency of our shared longing. Hasan's hands roamed my body with a hunger that matched my own, igniting a wildfire of sensation that blazed through every nerve ending.

In that moment, all thoughts of exams and grades faded into obscurity, replaced by the primal need to surrender to the irresistible pull of desire. As Hasan's lips trailed down my neck, his touch setting my skin ablaze, I knew that there was no turning back.

With each passing moment, the intensity grew, building like a tidal wave ready to crash over us both. And when it finally hit, the sheer force of our passion left us breathless, tangled together in a web of tangled limbs and whispered promises.

Hasan's fingers found their way between my legs, trailing along the wetness that had welled up there. A gasp escaped my lips as his thumb circled around my clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve ending.

"You like that?" he growled in a low murmur against my ear.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form any coherent words as desire consumed every fiber of my being. The intensity grew with each passing second, building like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

Hasan's fingers explored my depths with a skill and finesse that left me breathless. The way he teased and pushed against my gates of pleasure, driving me to the edge of madness, was exquisite. My body clenched around his fingers, begging for release, but he held back just enough to keep me teetering on the precipice.

"Just like that," he taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. "You want me to fuck you so badly, don't you?"

I moaned in response, unable to form coherent words as desire coursed through my veins. The urgency within me grew with each passing moment, demanding satisfaction. But Hasan knew exactly how to wield power over me, to keep me desperate for him.

"No," he replied with a mocking tone. "You're not going to come yet." A flicker of frustration crossed my face as I struggled against his firm grip. He chuckled at my futile attempts to break free from his hold.

"Don't worry," he continued, his voice dripping with seduction. "I'll make you scream my name when I give you what you crave." His touch intensified, fingers pressing deeper inside me as if testing the strength of my walls.

The anticipation was unbearable, my body trembling with a mixture of impatience and ecstasy. "Fuck," I moaned, frustration coursing through my veins like wildfire.

Hasan smirked, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "Not just yet," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he slowly pulled his fingers out of me. My breath hitched in disappointment as I felt the ache deepen between my legs. "You're going to have to beg for it properly."

My hesitation mingled with defiance as I locked eyes with Hasan. He knew exactly how to push all of my buttons - the power he held over me was intoxicatingly dangerous. But even amidst the haze of desire, there was a flicker of reluctance deep within me.

"Please," I whispered hoarsely, barely able to form the words amidst the overwhelming need coursing through every inch of my body. Hasan chuckled darkly at my plea before pressing his lips against mine in a searing kiss.

With a swift movement, he lifted me up effortlessly and threw me over his desk. Sharp and dirty furniture scraped against my skin as I landed with a thud. The air crackled with anticipation as Hasan positioned himself at the entrance of my wetness.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice dripping with seduction. My heart raced in response, a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through me like electricity.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form coherent words amidst the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume me. The uncertainty mingled with desire as Hasan pressed against the entrance of my core.

"Fuck," he growled lowly, gripping my hips tightly. "You want it rough, don't you? You want me to fuck you hard and fast?"

My breath hitched in response as I nodded frantically, unable to resist the magnetic pull that drew me towards him. He began to thrust into me with a force that made the desk move forward with each thrust.

"You like that, huh?" Hasan taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You like how I'm taking you so fucking hard?"

My mind was consumed by a mix of pleasure and frustration, but I couldn't deny the raw hunger between us. With each powerful thrust, my walls clenched around him tightly, desperately begging for more.

Hasan's eyes locked onto mine as he picked up the pace, his grip on my hips growing tighter with each passing second. The air in the room was thick with anticipation, filled with moans and curses that echoed off the walls.

I could feel myself teetering on the edge once again, desperate to surrender to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through my veins. But Hasan knew exactly what he was doing to me - he chased my sweet spot relentlessly, and I could feel myself edging closer and closer to the brink once again.

And then it happened. The intensity intensified until I exploded in ecstasy, crying out Hasan's name as waves of pleasure crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Hasan's thrusts grew more intense, his grip on my hips tightening as he fucked me harder and faster. The friction between us was unbearably intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure cascading through every inch of my body.

My mind spiraled with a mix of guilt and desire, torn between the forbidden desires that consumed me and the rational thoughts screaming for moderation.

"Fuck," I moaned, unable to contain myself. "You're so fucking good at this."

Hasan's eyes smoldered with dark amusement as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against mine in a hungry kiss. "That's right," he whispered huskily. "You love being fucked. You love how I use you for my pleasure. God youre such a whore, letting your TA do this to you, all for a good grade. You're my little slut, aren't you?"

He growled, his voice low and husky. I moaned and came again, my pussy clenching around his cock.

"Yes! Yes! I'm your little slut!" I cried out as he pounded into me hard and fast.

I moaned and writhed beneath him, my body responding to his dominance. "Yes! Yes! Fuck me harder!" I cried out as he pounded into me with a force that made the desk creak and squeak.

The door to the office was locked, but it didn't matter. The sound of our bodies slapping together was loud enough to be heard outside. Hasan's hands gripped my hips, pulling me back onto his cock with each thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my clit, sending waves of pleasure through me.

"Fuck, Hasan," I moaned. "You feel so good inside me." Hasan grunted in response, his eyes locked on mine as he continued to pound into me. His grip on my hips tightened, and I could feel him starting to lose control.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groaned. "Where do you want it?" I bit my lip, considering. "Inside me," I finally said. "I want to feel you fill me up." Hasan grunted again, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared his climax.

He thrust one last time, burying himself deep inside me as he came. I could feel his hot cum filling me up, and the sensation sent me over the edge as well.

I came hard, my pussy clenching around his cock as he continued to thrust into me. I was panting and shaking as he slowly pulled out of me. He sat back on his heels, looking down at me with a satisfied smile. "That was amazing," he said, stroking my hair gently.

I smiled back at him, feeling a sense of satisfaction and contentment. "Thank you," I said, my voice still shaky from the intensity of the orgasm. He leaned down and kissed me gently on the forehead. "You're welcome," he said, his voice low and husky with desire. “I think someone earned themselves a 105%,” he winked at me as we left the building.

#smut #hasanabi #rough smut #ta #collegesmut #sleepingwiththeteachersassistant #hasan piker x y/n #hasan piker #hasan x reader #hasanpikersmut #hasansmut #hasanabismut

21 notes · View notes

ynmnrmt · 2 months

Text

You & Me & Rhea Makes Three: Chapter 6

rhea ripley x m!reader x m!reader's girlfriend

word count: 3,831

warnings: explicit sexual content, themes of domination/submission, dubiously consensual nonmonogamy, nonconsensual sex

a/n: So, I could flannel and wring my hands here and claim there's a grey area, but I'm not going to - this chapter contains an explicit rape scene which I am presenting as erotic material. I'm not fucking around here, I'm stating this clearly for the benefit of you the reader, if you don't like the sound of that do not read on. If, on the other hand, you do like the sound of that, then SMASH THAT KEEP READING

(The story so far: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five)

Jennifer is away for work. Another dreary training seminar in the middle of nowhere. She always apologises as she recounts it all for how boring it all is, be it a word association game about customer retention, or sitting in a circle to pass a ball back and forth which somehow represents customer satisfaction, or even attempting to collectively manifest customer relations.

“It’s the ball one again,” she confesses, framed awkwardly in your phone, so that it looks like she is looking up at you from the upside-down world. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, I need to find something better than this.”

“You’ll be back by the end of the week,” you say, in a cheery hand-on-the-shoulder way.

“And I know we said we were going to have phone sex,” even having negotiated it at length you do have a little tingle of surprise to hear her say it, “but they booked us all double rooms. We’re all fucking paired up, I don’t have a minute to myself.”

“I wish,” you say, and mean it, “I could reach through the screen and hold you in my arms and make everything better.”

In the background as you say this, the door rattles and Rhea walks in, glowing from her run. “Is that Jen?” she mouths – then, without waiting for a reply jumps into view next to you. “Hey, sexy,” she waves hello, then sing-songs “missing you” and pulls your phone up to her face to give the screen a sloppy wet kiss.

“Hey, Rhea,” says Jennifer, still downcast and tired. “God, I wish you guys were here. We’d find a way to fit in a double room, obviously.” You and Rhea both chuckle at that. Her arm is pressed against yours, damp with sweat, it is all too apparent she has been for a run – and it makes your heart beat faster, remembering the long hot summer when the water and electricity were off. Then Jennifer is distracted. “Oh hell, I’m sorry, I have to go. The counting mung beans workshop just started. I’ll speak to you soon. Try not to have too much fun without me.”

“Love you,” you say.

“Love y-” adds Rhea, but then the call cuts off. “Oh, poor thing.” She plucks at her neckline, takes a whiff of herself, and jerks her head back. “God – excuse me!” And she repairs off to the shower, even though you don’t mind at all and tell her so, the dark stains on the back of her shirt define the muscles underneath so beautifully it doesn’t even occur to your lizard brain to look at her ass until she’s already out of the room.

Try not to have too much fun, the words rattle in your mind. Jennifer has gone off to this tedious seminar, leaving you alone with your other girlfriend, and worse still is being so impossibly nice about it all. You clench a fist and pound the couch – you don’t wish you were there with her, you wish she was back here, happy and safe. Yes, and you also wish you earned enough that constant horrible work outings didn’t have to be part of her life.

You resolve to have all the things she likes waiting for her on her return, a great elaborate gesture, anything to try and show the depths of your feelings. All the pillars and domed roofs of your grand design turn into fog when Rhea emerges from the shower, fresh and pink in just a towel, to skip through to her room. That image, her shy little smile as she clutches the towel to herself, remains burned into your consciousness long after she comes back through, dressed now, and flops on the couch next to you to cool off.

“I wish we were there with her too,” she muses, head back on the cushions. “We could cheer her up. Not like that,” she adds, and gives you a playful shove, even though you neither said anything nor changed your demeanour in any way.

“They don’t make you go on any awful training days, do they?” you ask.

“There’s enough health and safety shit. It’s not like it was.” Yes, there’s one you can nod sagely at, because nothing’s like it was. She’s spread out next to you, still warm from the shower, and you try not to let it distract you, but through the material of her quite conservative shorts, you can make out the shape of her vulva. “Ah, I can’t wait till Jen’s back – although I do like it when it’s just us. Sometimes, it’s sort of like we’re cheating on her.”

“Yeah,” you reflect.

“But we’re not, obviously.”

“See, sometimes I worry about where exactly the lines can be drawn, and-”

“Oh, I think I pulled something,” groans Rhea, and plops her leg in your lap. “Would you rub my calves?” It would be rude to say no, that’s what you tell yourself, but you barely need the prompt to put your hands on her. And when you do it’s not even a rub but more of a squeeze, a grope, hungry grabs at her body and her tattooed flesh – but this seems to do the job, because she swivels around in her seat to throw her other leg over you too.

“Look, Rhea,” you say, now doing something to the muscles of her calf that’s between a massage and a gentle pull, trying to get back to the point, “Jen’s really special to me, and-”

“And to me!” Rhea sits forward, in wholehearted agreement. “If she was here, you could take a leg each, instead of you having to do them both yourself.” You can’t even object to the simple purity of the idea. “You know I would never do anything to hurt her, right?” And you nod, there’s no polite way to question that. “So obviously I’d never cheat on her, just like you wouldn’t, but, um, sometimes it’s fun to pretend, you know? I hope she’s thinking about us right now, I hope we can at least cheer her up that way.” Her legs are like an unimaginably comforting blanket, right over your lap.

“I hope so too,” you say vaguely, as you try to shift so she doesn’t notice your hard-on, then you make the complete wrong move and bump it into her.

“See,” she says, as if she’s about to share a secret, “I know how much you love her, you’ve got a boner just talking about her.”

“She’s very special,” you reply, wanting to hang your head in shame.

“She’s perfect,” says Rhea, now she’s got her arms around you, she’s crept closer so it’s her thighs across you, but she’s not actually sitting in your lap and you really have your doubts that would work. As your erection tries to winkle its way between her legs, she muses on “I’ve honestly never been happier, than I have with you guys...and I was proud to wreck that guy who tried messing with you.”

Immediately you feel awkward, far more awkward than you did simply poking at her. Three of them, there had been, and Rhea went for them without a second’s hesitation. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything there,” you say, and squeeze her thigh like a child, hoping for forgiveness.

“Oh, sweetie, no, you don’t need to be – look,” she says, she sweeps her legs down and comes forward to look you in the eye, “I know when most people say this stuff, they’re just saying it, but I genuinely don’t believe you’re obliged to act in a certain way because of your gender. I really don’t.” And she gives you the sweetest smile, for a moment you cannot bear to meet her gaze. “Besides,” she adds, “I get a bit of a thrill showing I’m stronger than men.”

“Oh,” you react, unable to even try and conceal your own excitement.

“And the thing is,” she says, gently taking your hands in hers, “it’s for exactly all those reasons that I say I reject, all those gender conventions – which I guess makes me the biggest hypocrite in the world.”

“No, you’re not,” you insist, for reasons that have nothing to do with the actual question. “And – and I hope you never feel anything less than perfectly feminine.” Which is probably the wrong thing to say, but you squeeze her hands, and she squeezes yours back and beams – and then she grips them hand and brings them up over your head. You fall back and now she’s on top of you.

“One of the things I always felt was really unfair,” she husks, the cloud of her hot breath making your head spin, as she gets both your hands gripped firmly in one of hers, “is how, in a lot of places, legally speaking women can’t rape men – which is just nonsense.”

“Yeah, i-it’s just stupid,” you agree too quickly, and it’s true, you always thought that was profoundly unjust on the face of it, though any outrage you felt was eclipsed by the little twinge it gave you imagining yourself in that scenario. Your cock is still pressed excruciatingly against her legs, but now it’s from the front, and again you squirm to try and make it better and make it a hundred times worse. It was a crazy thought anyway, it was hardly even a thought, obviously there’s no escape from her goddess-thighs – and if there was, could you bring yourself to take it?

“And I imagine the worst part is when they do get an erection,” she says in an irresistible, candlelit voice, “and they worry that on some level they did want it – which is bound to get really confusing if, like a lot of people, they have secret fantasies about someone they like doing that to them. I know I do.”

“I would be happy to help you with that,” you say immediately, any filter between mind and tongue long gone. She giggles affectionately.

“How about you?” she asks, as she dances from side to side on her hands and knees over you, swaying gently from left to right and back again. “What if Jen just grabbed you and held you down sometime?” You daren’t answer, but then you don’t need to, not when you dig further into her thigh. “And obviously, she,” Rhea’s lips brush along the length of your face, it seems like it’s random, yes, and your erection is probably completely random too, “if you really wanted her to stop, she would, because she loves you.”

“But I couldn’t bear to ask her,” you casually confess, “not by that point,” and Rhea laughs in understanding fashion in a way that makes you laugh along with her, yes, neither of you could stand to deny her, not in that situation. Then, showing amazing skill with her one free hand, she’s unzipped your trousers and takes hold of your cock. “Wait,” you say, not saying no, just asking her to wait, “wait, Rhea, Jen’s not here-”

“Oh, I know,” she sympathises, as she eases down her shorts that barely concealed anything anyway, “but let’s pretend she is.”

“Rhea, seriously, wait-” and now she kisses you, properly, not an ounce of force behind it, just her mouth against yours. You squirm, you burn internally, in this moment you don’t love anyone quite as much as you love her. You even try to break out of the iron grasp of her hand around your wrists, you know she’s stronger than you, and maybe you didn’t really want to anyway. Then she moves and then you are inside her.

“You make me so wet when you wriggle,” she says, and she’s telling the truth, all you can see is the devilish delight on her face and the halo of light around it. Her next forceful kiss is a lick at first, up across your cheek while she fucks you, but your lips end up locked with hers all the same.

“Please,” you say, when your mouth is free of hers, “stop – help -” and all the while her hips bang against you, as if drawing poison from a wound, you do not want to call it rape even in your own head because it feels so good. The way she presses down on you, the way she squeezes you, of course you don’t resist.

“Oh fuck – oh fuck,” Rhea wails, her lip draws against your face with the worlds, she’s hardly even holding your wrists any more. In fact, she gives up on that and just takes hold of your arms with both hands, because “I love holding you this way – doesn’t it feel so sensual?” As she keeps going you hear something break in the couch and her vulnerability makes your heart run liquid, you feel bad at having resisted at all.

“Rhea,” you try not to choke, “I don’t want this-”

“Oh sweetie, I don’t want it to end either, I’m so close already – please, hold out a little longer for me, please do that for me,” it seems like every word is punctuated with the light headbutt of her kissing you again. Because you love her you do hold on, as best you can without use of your hands, you bite your lip and project mental energy in any other direction, you feel your spine warp, and when she cries out with joy you can no longer resist and go off, torrential inside her. But her magnificent form doesn’t stop moving, the way she goes up and down your cock isn’t even slowed, perhaps it’s sheer momentum but more likely every lap she’s run and weight she’s lifted paying off. And as she keeps riding you and keeps enjoying it, the pain of her using a part of you that doesn’t want to be used, that, that is the finest feeling in the world.

You lie together afterwards, Rhea’s still on top, she sewing-machines the side of your neck with tiny pecks that are gentler than seems possible from her. “You’re perfect,” she confesses, in her post-sex flush that makes her seem flawless herself. “And the best part is, we know this is all okay. I know you worry about this, but Jen isn’t going to mind, not really.”

“Mm-hm,” you say, still not really convinced and muffled by Rhea’s hair anyway.

“I still feel all tingly thinking about it.” Yes, to be sure, you do too. “Obviously if we didn’t want it, that would be monstrous – but we did, so it’s just a fun, sexy thrill. I mean, if I thought I’d hurt you or something, I couldn’t forgive myself. Not for that.”

Immediately you conceive of this as the cruellest sort of manipulation. But deep down, you know it isn’t, not really, because you had wanted it, maybe not with a completely clear conscience, but you had, you’d burned for it. You squeeze her big, fabulous body, and for a moment you see her smile, as if she is blocking out the sun. Then she rests her head on you, between your chest and your shoulder, a gesture at normality that must have her long legs hanging off the end of the couch.

There’s a noise, a twinkle. It’s your phone. With Rhea on top of you, it’s some struggle to get your fingers into your pocket, but eventually you manage it. When you see Jen’s name pop up on the screen, there’s the familiar dread, the feeling that finally the other boot is about to drop. “What does our girlfriend say?” Rhea asks sweetly.

When you open the message, Jennifer hasn’t actually said anything. The message is a picture, her naked in striking moody light, the tangled bedsheet nearly covering one of her breasts. She hasn’t shown any of her face above the mouth, a sensible precaution, but at least now she looks as if she’s enjoying herself. You look at her arms, her stomach, soft and rounded where Rhea’s is hard, and not for the first time you wish she was here.

“Hello, hello,” says Rhea, you can feel the smirk twist her face. There’s another twinkle, and a text from your girlfriend pops up reading maybe you can pretend I’m there as well. God, how you’d love to. “Aww...she might just break my heart one day,” and Rhea’s lips are so close to yours that when she says it, your mouth moves too.

“She’s so pretty,” you say longingly, perhaps this moves Rhea’s mouth as well, and you want to cry but know you cannot show that weakness.

“Maybe, um, maybe we should go again? For her?” Her fingers rest lightly on your chest, but there’s no way in hell you could move them.

You had thought, an entirely theoretical but perfectly plausible grand plan, that you would greet Jennifer with a smorgasbord of all the things she likes. There would be the white chocolate cookies, and beer on ice – not wine, she feels faintly obliged to drink that on special occasions but you know what she’d choose given the chance. You’d have queued up one of those documentaries on Bigfoot hunters, yes, of course you and she would show up in the viewing figures the same as a genuine nut, but the craziness is still fun. And you’d have wrapped her up in a blanket and ordered in whatever takeout her little heart desired.

When Jennifer opens the door, she sees you on the couch, slimy with sweat and gasping for breath, wearing a t-shirt but no trousers or underwear, that least dignified form of nudity. She barely has time to put her suitcase down before Rhea creeps up from the side and snarls “You have no idea how much we missed you”, and grabs the front of her shirt. There is one sharp tug, the buttons spray everywhere, and for a moment she looks scared, horrified even – but that only lasts until Rhea bows her head and rubs her face in amongst Jennifer’s breasts.

“Oh!” flutters Jennifer. “Oh, Rhea…” And she shoots you the same sort of guilty glance you know you’ve given her more than once.

“And I missed these, too – come on, come sit with us,” though there’s no real request about it, Rhea scoops Jennifer up in her arms, and it seems as if they share a long slushy bonding look – but scarcely a second in Rhea throws her down on the couch, and you manage to scrabble out of the way just in time. Then you clutch her, protectively, though there’s no kind of protection you know how to offer that could stop Rhea as she flops her whole weight down on Jennifer’s other side.

“I’m glad you’re back,” you tell Jennifer, and for a while she doesn’t stop saying how much she loves you – pressing her face into your neck, as if something’s wrong. “H-” you gather yourself a little, “how was the – thing?”

“I’m fucking sick of it all,” she says, still nestled within you. “The whole time I was just thinking about being back here. With you.”

You find her hand and hold it tight. “You’re safe now,” you say gently.

“Yeah,” adds Rhea, “we’ve got you.”

“Have – have you two just been fucking, the whole time I’ve been away?” asks Jennifer. There’s no judgement in it, just curiosity, but it still goes straight to the black pit of your stomach.

“Not the whole time,” teases Rhea.

“You sent that picture,” you say, “it set us off,” and while this is true as you say it you know that it is a lie. And now you have the painful realisation that you never even sent a reply – but Jennifer giggles in response.

“There was one thing,” she adds, immediately you are in that intense, bottomless state of not knowing where this is going. “I did think – well, we’re not, Rhea, you don’t want children, right?”

Rhea runs a hand over her rock-hard stomach, as if imagining it swollen by pregnancy, and shrugs “Could be a novelty act, I don’t think it’s been done before.” Then she thinks, and says “There’s a reason for that, of course.”

“See, I just think,” Jennifer falters, she’s looking at you now, touching your chest, eyes full of hope, “I really wanted to – would you not come in her, any more?” And a nervous glance to Rhea with it.

“Yes!” you blurt out, faster than you’d meant to. “I mean, sure, if that’s what you want.”

Rhea gently takes Jennifer’s hands in hers, the muscles bulge in her arms but you can tell she’s not using any force here. “I have to ask,” she says, “is this about you wanting it all to yourself?” For a second, Jennifer is frozen. Then she nods, violently, all of her hair shaking with the motion. And Rhea’s expression softens, and she says “I’m so glad you said that. In fact, never mind that, I’m proud of you, I’m glad you’re setting a boundary. This whole time I’ve been worried that you’re just going along with all of this but really you haven’t actually liked it.”

“O-of course not!” insists Jennifer. Rhea smiles gently down at her, and kisses her gently on the cheek, another thing you really wish you’d done.

“Are you sure?” you ask her, and she gives you the same shaky, exaggerated nod she did before, but it’s the expression on her face that really gives you the answer.

“That’s good,” says Rhea, and brings her hands up to Jennifer’s shoulders, and starts to rub them gently. “Because in that case, I’ve got a surprise for you.” And she pulls Jennifer down, face-first, into her vagina, because of course she is not fully dressed either. “A nice sticky treat for you.”

Jennifer gives a little blocked “Hmph!” of surprise, but that gives way to the sloppier sounds of her tucking in to Rhea – and, yes, what Rhea took from you about half an hour ago. You goggle at them, not knowing what to think or do. Rhea looks fondly back at you, and with one hand in Jennifer’s hair reaches out to you with the other.

“I think she’d really like it-” Rhea begins – and then a little start, a flush, that shows Jennifer’s tongue has found a particularly soft area. She gathers herself and tries again, “I think you should do her from behind. Since she wants you so much.” And down between her thighs, there’s that frantic nod again.

You climb around behind Jennifer, and ease down her underwear – but before you do anything more you lean over her and whisper in her ear how much you love her, and how you want this to be good for her. Even when she says something that is of course muffled by Rhea’s vulva but sounds a lot like “fucking stick it in before I burst” it feels as if you are taking advantage.

#rhea ripley x reader #rhea ripley x you #rpf #rhea ripley fanfiction #rhea ripley smut

14 notes · View notes

drsonnet · 21 days

Text

"Silence for Gaza" - Mahmoud Darwish

Gaza is far from its relatives and close to its enemies, because whenever Gaza explodes, it becomes an island and it never stops exploding. It scratched the enemy’s face, broke his dreams and stopped his satisfaction with time.

Because in Gaza time is something different.

Because in Gaza time is not a neutral element.

It does not compel people to cool contemplation, but rather to explosion and a collision with reality.

Time there does not take children from childhood to old age, but rather makes them men in their first confrontation with the enemy.

Time in Gaza is not relaxation, but storming the burning noon. Because in Gaza values are different, different, different.

The only value for the occupied is the extent of his resistance to occupation. That is the only competition there. Gaza has been addicted to knowing this cruel, noble value. It did not learn it from books, hasty school seminars, loud propaganda megaphones, or songs. It learned it through experience alone and through work that is not done for advertisement and image.

Gaza has no throat. Its pores are the ones that speak in sweat, blood, and fires. Hence the enemy hates it to death and fears it to criminality, and tries to sink it into the sea, the desert, or blood. And hence its relatives and friends love it with a coyness that amounts to jealousy and fear at times, because Gaza is the brutal lesson and the shining example for enemies and friends alike.

Gaza is not the most beautiful city.

Its shore is not bluer than the shores of Arab cities.

Its oranges are not the most beautiful in the Mediterranean basin.

Gaza is not the richest city.

It is not the most elegant or the biggest, but it equals the history of an entire homeland, because it is more ugly, impoverished, miserable, and vicious in the eyes of enemies. Because it is the most capable, among us, of disturbing the enemy’s mood and his comfort. Because it is his nightmare. Because it is mined oranges, children without a childhood, old men without old age and women without desires. Because of all this it is the most beautiful, the purest and richest among us and the one most worthy of love.

We do injustice to Gaza when we look for its poems, so let us not disfigure Gaza’s beauty. What is most beautiful in it is that it is devoid of poetry at a time when we tried to triumph over the enemy with poems, so we believed ourselves and were overjoyed to see the enemy letting us sing. We let him triumph, then when we dried our lips of poems we saw that the enemy had finished building cities, forts and streets. We do injustice to Gaza when we turn it into a myth, because we will hate it when we discover that it is no more than a small poor city that resists.

We do injustice when we wonder: What made it into a myth? If we had dignity, we would break all our mirrors and cry or curse it if we refuse to revolt against ourselves. We do injustice to Gaza if we glorify it, because being enchanted by it will take us to the edge of waiting and Gaza doesn’t come to us. Gaza does not liberate us. Gaza has no horses, airplanes, magic wands, or offices in capital cities. Gaza liberates itself from our attributes and liberates our language from its Gazas at the same time. When we meet it - in a dream - perhaps it won’t recognize us, because Gaza was born out of fire, while we were born out of waiting and crying over abandoned homes.

It is true that Gaza has its special circumstances and its own revolutionary traditions. But its secret is not a mystery: Its resistance is popular and firmly joined together and knows what it wants (it wants to expel the enemy out of its clothes). The relationship of resistance to the people is that of skin to bones and not a teacher to students. Resistance in Gaza did not turn into a profession or an institution.

It did not accept anyone’s tutelage and did not leave its fate hinging on anyone’s signature or stamp.

It does not care that much if we know its name, picture, or eloquence. It did not believe that it was material for media. It did not prepare for cameras and did not put smiling paste on its face.

Neither does it want that, nor we.

Hence, Gaza is bad business for merchants and hence it is an incomparable moral treasure for Arabs.

What is beautiful about Gaza is that our voices do not reach it. Nothing distracts it; nothing takes its fist away from the enemy’s face. Not the forms of the Palestinian state we will establish whether on the eastern side of the moon, or the western side of Mars when it is explored. Gaza is devoted to rejection… hunger and rejection, thirst and rejection, displacement and rejection, torture and rejection, siege and rejection, death and rejection.

Enemies might triumph over Gaza (the storming sea might triumph over an island… they might chop down all its trees).

They might break its bones.

They might implant tanks on the insides of its children and women. They might throw it into the sea, sand, or blood.

But it will not repeat lies and say “Yes” to invaders.

It will continue to explode.

It is neither death, nor suicide. It is Gaza’s way of declaring that it deserves to live.

It will continue to explode.

It is neither death, nor suicide. It is Gaza’s way of declaring that it deserves to live.

[Translated by Sinan Antoon From Hayrat al-`A’id (The Returnee’s Perplexity), Riyad al-Rayyis, 2007]

TwitLonger — When you talk too much for Twitter

11 notes · View notes

mindful-of-ideas · 9 months

Text

TW: Pregnancy, body image, mention of school shootings (you’ll see), obviously this is Dark!James so toxic relationship.

A/N: Requested by the lovely @flowercrowns-goodvibes right here. This was kinda fun to write tbh, I’m not used to portraying James like that. Thanks again for your request!

Maybe you should’ve listened to your mom. But who wouldn’t fall for Dr James Wilson? Certainly not her, the woman who married a neurosurgeon who pushed you to become a nurse. So maybe it was only natural that you fell for Dr Wilson.

“Y/N? You’re okay,” asked James, rolling over in the bed and wrapping an arm around you, “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m fine,” you said kissing the back of his hand, “Just thinking…”

“About what we talked about last night?” he asked, hope in his voice.

You squinted, trying to see the time on the clock next to the bed. 6 o’clock. Too early to use work as an excuse to get out of this conversation.

“No, about something else,” you finally said. “Do you remember the first time we met?” you added trying to change the subject.

“At the seminar in Washington? Of course, I remember, it was only 4 years ago… and, I mean, how could I forget.”

“What did you think of me back then?” you asked trying to roll over to face him.

He pressed his chest ever so slightly closer to your back, forcing you to stay where you were.

You asked even if you knew what he was going to say. ‘I thought you were a dashing young woman’.

“What did I first think of you… I thought you were a dashing young woman,” he said.

There you go, you thought.

“And I still think you are,” he added.

That was new.

He trailed kisses down your back before resting his hands on your hips. You bit your lower lip.

“But did you think about what we talked about last night?” James asked.

Last night, just a repeat of four years ago.

Back then, you were young, too young, and naive. Maybe that was why you fell head over heels for the charismatic oncologist from New Jersey. As soon as your eyes landed on him, you knew your heart would ache until you could be with him. But it wasn’t just his charisma that drew you in, you were young but not stupid, no, it was so much more. It was his smile, his laugh, the way he seemed to deeply care about the people he was with. And you wanted that. You wanted someone who cared. You tried your best not to melt when you got introduced to him but failed miserably. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything, not then at least. Later that day, you got a note asking to join him for dinner. Just like that, what could’ve been a very boring week turned into a dream.

But every good dream has its end, and yours turned into a nightmare. You kept in touch with James, even after the end of the seminar. You would go see him a New Jersey whenever you could, but money was tight and you couldn’t afford to go there too often. That’s when he offered you to move in with him. Scratch that, that’s when he offered that you both look for a house and move in together. A house! You were still living with roommates and he was asking you to buy a house with him? And settling down? Just as you were finally free from school and ready to explore the world?

That’s exactly what you told him, and he didn’t like your answer. He told you he understood, yet his messages got colder. Your visits were shorter and shorter up until one day, you simply stopped coming. Just like that, in a matter of weeks, it was over.

It took three years for you two to meet again. It took only a few days to fall in love again. This time was different. Maybe it was because you were older, or because you now worked at the same hospital, in the same city, but everything felt easier. Now, after almost a year, together, the dream once again felt like it was ending. For the last weeks, James had been asking, begging, pressuring you to consider having children… and to try to have them soon… now. Last night, in particular, almost turned into an argument, as he once again presented the question to you.

“Because I had a few ideas on… you know… how we could… do this…” he said, punctuating his sentence with kisses on your neck.

“I’ll think about what you said, I promised,” you finally said.

You felt small in his arms, yet you didn’t want him to leave you. Despite all your disagreements, you needed him. You needed him to love you.

“I’ll get going,” he said coldly, “there are some things I need to grab at my place before going to work.”

He got up, leaving you freezing in your bed.

“I’ll see you there,” he added, kissing your hair gently.

Once you heard the door close, you rolled out of bed and made your way to the shower. You made yourself a quick breakfast before going back to your room to grab your birth control. Weirdly, it wasn’t in the usual drawer. In a panic, you quickly looked all over your room, making a mess of everything. You couldn’t have lost your pills, not now that James was talking about having a child. You sat down on your bed, trying to calm yourself down.

“Fuck…” you said out loud, wiping a tear from your cheek, “Where could they be? Could… could he…”

But that would be insane. James wouldn’t go as far as take your birth control pills from you. There was only one way to find out.

You barged into his office, not even bothering to knock before opening the door.

“House, out!” you barked at the doctor who was sitting in front of James.

“Do I need to go get my ear plugs,” he said getting up, “Are you guys about to have rough sex?”

“Out!” you screamed, pointing at the door.

“Alright, alright…” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Y/N?” James asked getting up, “What’s going on with you?”

“Oh nothing, or maybe the fact that you took my birth control pills!”

“How could you even…”

“Know it was you? I had them yesterday, you’re the only one who came over to my place… one plus one is two James, come on!”

“What does it matter anyway, you said you wanted to have a baby with me!”

“I said I’d love to have kids at some point. Not necessarily right now! I told you I was going to think about it. You couldn’t even wait one day!”

“You want kids, so what’s the problem if it’s now or later?”

Somehow, through all this, all your screaming, he had managed to remain calm.

“Because! Because having kids is a big decision! You’re out there talking birth control and cycles and I don’t know what else, are you seeing the world we live in? It’s a fucked up one! Climate change, overpopulation, school shooting! How am I supposed to raise a child knowing their life will be even more difficult than mine! How will I be a good mother if I can’t assure them that they will have a better life than I did?”

“Y/N, sit down. You need to calm down.”

“Calm down?”

“Sit. Down.”

Reluctantly, you did. Doing so, you noticed how fast your heart was beating. Not that it mattered much to you, James needed to understand that you weren’t sure that you wanted a baby right now.

“And what about me? Did you think of that? I’m the one that will carry a baby for nine months. Nine fucking months, James! That’s a long time! And how about all the ways my body will change? We’re not just talking about my belly and putting on weight. It’s aches and pains in my joints, back pains, leg cramps, skin changes, morning sickness, mood swings and I could go on! I…”

You had tears rolling down your cheeks now, though you were sure when you had actually started crying. You had trouble controlling your breathing.

“I… it took so long to accept my body as it is… how will I survive pregnancy… what if…”

“What if I don’t care,” he said cutting you off, “What if I still think you’re beautiful, despite everything you mention. What if I told you that having a child requires two people… two people that will take care of and love them.”

“But…”

“No ‘but’, we’re doing this and we’re doing it together. Now, I need you to calm down. Can you breathe for me Y/N?”

As he said that, he made his way around his desk, reaching for something that was resting on it. You couldn’t quite see what it was and recoiled as he stopped in front of you. It felt like he was towering over you. Even if you had plenty of space to get up and leave, you felt unable to move.

“That’s it Y/N, keep breathing. That’s good.”

“James…”

“We are going to have this baby, together. Now take this,” he said handing you a small plastic cup with one single pill in it.

“Is that… is that my birth control?” you asked.

He made the pill roll down in his hand. He reached to grab your face with his other hand, gently parting your lips with his thumb and forcing the pill into your mouth.

You swallowed before questioning him again.

“How do I know you didn’t just give me the sugar pill?”

“You don’t. You have to trust me,” he said before kissing you, “I know you’ll be a great mother, even if I have to wait a little bit to see it.”

#mindful-of-ideas #house md imagine #james wilson imagine #dark!james wilson #dark!james #james wilson #house md #requested #wilson imagine #fem!reader x dark!james #fem!reader

39 notes · View notes