#Syllabus reduce

[rightnewshindi]

हिमाचल शिक्षा बोर्ड ने घटाया 30 फीसदी सिलेबस, जानें किस-किस विषय में हुई कटौती

हिमाचल शिक्षा बोर्ड ने घटाया 30 फीसदी सिलेबस, जानें किस-किस विषय में हुई कटौती

HPBOSE News: हिमाचल प्रदेश स्कूल शिक्षा बोर्ड ने शैक्षणिक सत्र 2024-25 के सिलेबस में 30 फीसदी कटौती की है। बोर्ड ने जारी पुरानी पुस्तकों में सिलेबस हटाने को शिक्षा बोर्ड ने ��धिसूचना जारी कर दी है। इस दौरान बोर्ड ने छठी से 12वीं कक्षा तक के पाठयक्रम से जहां कई अध्यायों को पू��ी तरह से काट दिया है, वहीं कई ऐसे भी अध्याय हैं, जिनमें से पृष्ठ संख्या को न पढ़ाने के निर्देश स्कूल प्रबंधकों को दिए गए…

[ellesthots]

code of ethics

v. “coffee”

read on AO3 🤎

parts: previous / next

plot: you finally get answers from your professor.

pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader

cw: 18+, smut !

words: 6.1k

a/n: this chapter was a (lovely) beast to write !! the next one will be the last in this miniseries !! it'll have Bruce's POV ✨ i wanted to include some other elements, but i'm saving those for fateful 🤭 enjoy <3 feel freeeee to let me know what you think!

Shaking hands held either side of the sink in the closest bathroom. A sopping clump of paper towel sat at the edge of it from trying to take some of the puffiness out of your eyes; its lukewarm form mocked you as it dripped down the porcelain’s edge. 

If you didn’t come back to class, it would be strange. The loser in the back would assume you didn’t know what you were doing, that Professor Wayne had drilled into you, and that would be that. Being reduced to the memory of ‘TA Who Got Told Off By Professor Wayne and Never Showed Again’ sounded like a miserable existence. 

You checked in the mirror once more to see your tear troughs bloated from crying, but you didn’t have time to care. Every passing second was another moment lost to the abyss, a sacred spilling of opportunity knowing the talking-to that would inevitably result in your removal from the course after this first day. 

Walking down the empty hallway to class had your steps echo, filling you to the brim with dread. If he had to get the administration involved, did you have to worry about more than being kicked from class? Would you be able to walk these halls again? You weren’t particularly attached to the Humanities building, but you didn’t want to be ripped from it, either.

Professor Wayne’s voice boomed from outside the classroom door. “Ensure your papers are submitted in PDF format before midnight EST, and follow current APA guidelines.” Just in time. “If any of these requirements are not met, your grade will reflect it.” Oh, brother. You gritted your teeth and walked in.

“The references must—”

Your eyes flicked to his, and he immediately looked back to the board. “They, uh, the references must be published within the past five years.” 

You’d never heard him stutter during a lecture. Was he that pissed at you? Dear god. 

The seat creaked when you sat, and you cringed as eyes wandered to you and the whiteboard. Your skirt rode up in the back, and you tried as delicately as possible to tuck it back under you, but it wouldn’t go. You glanced nervously at Professor Wayne, grateful he was paying full attention to the students. 

Though you’d only taken two courses from him, syllabus day was never just syllabus day. He sped through the document, then lectured like the class had already read the bajillion required books. You remembered the panic that tormented you in September when he’d done that, slinging about terms you’d only barely heard, or not at all, then hardly elaborating. ‘The answer’s in the reading,’ he’d say when a brave student raised their hand to clarify. No one ever had the heart to tell him his expectations were so high they were practically crushing. 

He grabbed a dry erase marker and began writing something you couldn’t parse while you fought off a panic attack. What was he about to tell you? Your thoughts spiraled unproductively, and you began to regret ever leaving the bathroom and its proximity to toilets with the nausea ravaging your system. 

Professor Wayne continued his lecture, skirting past the syllabus as if it hardly existed. His white button-up was smartly tucked into tailored black slacks, and you could make out the slightest hue of his skin beneath the fabric. The turn of his hips and the flex of his back as he drew timelines across the whiteboard made you jam your teeth into your tongue. Power play. That’s all this is. 

He turned to address the entire class, and his sweeping eye contact landed on you in what felt like an accident. His gaze stuttered alongside his words for the second time this evening, and you cocked your head. Huh. 

While he guided the class in an exercise, your focus trained on a new tic; one of your first observations of him last year was how smooth and steady he was, expression unwavering to a disturbing degree—but now saw the bobbing of an Adam’s apple and the rolling of his bottom lip under his teeth. Huh!

Your hands began to tingle as you sat back, zooming out from the classroom for a moment. The lines he drew were shakier. His lines had been too straight before, so these newbies wouldn’t notice. But you did. What terrible, awful, no good thing had you done that warranted this? 

“Adriana.” 

His icy blues speared right through you, weighing more than the entire classroom’s attention and bringing you to alertness faster than your borrowed name. “Yes?”

“Can you hand out the activity I asked you to bring?”

You squinted. Nowhere in any email had there been an activity listed. 

The students were rigidly silent, a norm for his classes; Professor Wayne commanded perfect attention, and people picked up on it from the second he entered the room. It felt electric, alive, intimidating.

Sweat gathered on the back of your neck. You must’ve forgotten it in the anticipation of your scheme. It would be listed in a line somewhere your eyes skipped over in the bustle, and class would be fucked for your mistake. Absolutely fucked, all because you had it out for the man. “I, um,”

Inhaling the first words of your apology, you stalled. Power play. You’d been singularly set on your goal for today, yes, but you weren’t completely distracted. Definitely not incompetent enough to forget one of two printables. 

“Professor.” You forced your trembling hands to fold gently in your lap. His stare could’ve pinned you to the wall. “You didn’t send me an activity.” 

Professor Wayne’s jaw ticked. “Are you cer—”

“I’m sure, yes,” you interrupted. Your smile was sickly sweet, and his gaze tore from yours. That same thoughtful double-blink surfaced as when you’d called him out about the reference page. You hadn’t thought it meant anything then, but now you wondered.

“Alright everyone, let’s pivot.” 

Thankful he wasn’t making an example out of you, you finally relaxed into your chair and let the grin slip. While he faced the board, you took advantage of your position behind his desk and checked your phone, swirling with nerves.

SYLLABUS - PDF was the only email attachment. 

Thank fucking god.

Time passed surprisingly easily with this win draped over you. How embarrassing for him to forget and call attention to it. And how fucking great did it feel not accepting the fall for his mistake. His handwriting got a bit wobblier. Victory on day one.

The high of throwing off Professor Wayne made the remaining time pass tolerably. An inch of traction had been won, and even if it was naive, you felt more secure going into the conversation. So when students began filing out and others began the quintessential line of post-lecture questions, you felt smug—not afraid. 

Who was to say you couldn’t just throw whatever accusations he was about to make back in his face again?

A few students who weren’t Bruce Wayne superfans found themselves disgruntled with the lengthy line, and moved to you to answer questions. Some regarded APA formatting, to which you gave the obligatory Purdue OWL site link, and a smattering of other questions were easily answered by gently pointing to the section in the syllabus. The student who walked with you to class was the last in your line, and looked nervously at Professor Wayne before walking up. 

“Hey, you took this class, right? You said in the fall?” He hiked his book bag up on his shoulder where it just slipped down again. His elbow had a red spot from where its weight tugged. 

You nodded, fighting a smirk. He looked precisely as you’d felt sidling up to the professor’s desk at the midterm. 

“Can you give any pointers on how to get a good grade? I didn’t expect him to be so…”

“Intense?”

He looked to the ground and mumbled, fiddling with the leather strap. “I thought the ratings might’ve been spammers or something.” 

A quick glance at Professor Wayne showed he only had two students left to talk to. You leaned forward and lowered your voice, elaborating on what you’d mentioned earlier. “Make sure your formatting is solid. And that you actually do the readings and look over the slides before coming to class, and that your questions aren’t answered in the text. He asks for a lot of reading, and the people who didn’t prioritize it regretted it.” 

He nodded like some sort of soldier, bidding a frantic “Thanks!” and promptly speeding off, his bag slapping his leg with each step. You hoped he wouldn’t get eaten alive the rest of the term. 

“Y/n?”

Something about how he said your name made your stomach curdle. The professor’s voice wasn’t its usual penetrating timbre; it was hollowed-out and tentative. A scan of the room revealed the last two students must’ve busted their asses to leave, because the room was barren. No one had even left a paper shred. 

“I understand you want to know definitively why I can’t let you be my assistant?”

You swallowed a gasp when you saw how intently he was staring. All you managed was a nod, all the air ripped from the room. You walked around to where you could better see him, situating at the edge of his desk. He rolled back in his chair, creating an additional foot of distance between you. 

“This conversation could be uncomfortable. Are you confident you don’t want a mediator?”

Professor Wayne looked strung-out—no, tightly wound, about to break. Your stomach launched into your throat. “I’m confident.” Get it over with. Rip the bandaid off.

He held your tense gaze like a promise. “Feel free to leave at any point.” 

What the fuck? You shifted your weight to your back leg, grinding your teeth together, body trying to metabolize the suspense in any way it could. What were you supposed to say to that?

“If you’re already uncomfortable,”

“Tell me.” You snapped louder than you meant to, and your ears got hot. You could barely handle a week without knowing, and another minute when he was so close was unthinkable. 

He didn’t break eye contact. Like it was an obligation he didn’t so much as blink. Shallow breaths were interrupted by longer, slower ones, like he was intentionally trying to calm himself. Your hands began to tingle. “In the effort of transparency…”

The pressure in the room changed. No idea what he was about to say, but knowing undeniably that whatever it was, the hammer was about to drop, and hard. Tears stung your lashes. For a split second you considered backing out. Telling him it was okay, that you’d accept not knowing, because your heart began to hammer painfully against your ribs. 

“As I was prepping our last meeting for 505, and through no fault of your own,” he emphasized those words like his life depended on it. “I realized I had developed an attraction to you.” 

It didn’t compute immediately, but your body caught on before anything else. Your shoulders relaxed, vision blurred, but your mind spun like he’d spoken gibberish. 

“With only a single session remaining, I considered early termination too disruptive to your education. After our final meeting, I blocked you from registering for any of my courses and sought to limit all future interactions were they to occur despite the registration block.” Professor Wayne stood then, tucking both hands into his pockets. His stare faltered, briefly, then trailed back. 

Attracted? To you? Bruce Wayne? Your professor? 

“I completely understand if this taints your experience of my courses, and I want to assure you that until the very end of Winter term, I was entirely unaware of my feelings.” 

That was why he didn’t walk you out. Holy shit. 

“I am taking extra steps to ensure this is never recreated with another student. Booking the classroom rather than the isolated setting of an office, and working with the English department to approve a second student per mentorship hour.” 

You placed your hand on the desk to steady yourself, rapidly becoming dizzy. Everything flooded you: the way he looked at you when he sat back in his office, the crinkle in his eyes, and the way he’d looked exasperated when you’d wanted him to sign the override. 

“I am very sorry. I did not want to leave you in the dark, and I apologize for any grief my distancing has caused. If you would like to file a report, you are welcome to.” 

This snapped you out of your reverie. “Why would I report you?”

He looked confused. “If you ever felt or feel uncomfortable, or if you’d like to talk to someone about it. I know this is unexpected and unsettling.”

“You said you didn’t know.” 

“I was not cognizant of the disparities in how I treated you versus other students. I rationalized casual conversation in an intimate environment. It is unacceptable, wildly inappropriate, and I am sorry.” 

If he thought this was ‘wildly inappropriate’, he’d go to an early grave looking at your daydreams. 

You peered at him just as he released a massive breath. A defiant part of you crept in: you’d tried so hard to hide your crush, done everything in your power, held back sighs as his hand gripped his pens, the edge of his desk, not fixing your stare too long at the ripple in his shirt when he moved, ensured you didn’t linger on his lips when this whole time… 

You were angry. At him for not just telling you that last day, and at yourself for thinking he was so impossibly out of reach. 

“You’re right,” you crooned. “Can you pull up the report form, please?” 

“Absolutely.” He stepped to his monitor and typed something onto the screen. “For consent purposes,”

“Consent?” You placed your hand on the edge of his desk, leaning just a tad closer. 

“Yes,” he continued, pausing only a split second. “The dean receives all reports of misconduct; if they deem the transgression severe enough, they will contact the local branch of the department of education to discuss further action.” He clicked the mouse around, eyes poring over the screen. “Those are the individuals who will have access to your report, but they are bound to confidentiality outside of the chain of command. I will not be able to read what you write.”  

“You seem familiar with this process.” 

“It’s important to know all resources to ensure student success.” He tilted the screen to you.

“Could’ve sworn I read that line in the student handbook.” So clinical, and why? Moving and speaking like a robot. Efficient, streamlined, tight. What might get him to unravel? 

“Do you want me to email you a copy?” 

“It’s quite virtuous of you to confess those feelings, Professor. Could cause trouble.”

“With how it’s affected you, you have a right to know.” Matter-of-fact. Plain. Heavily restrained. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, a thin veil concealing your frustrations. A small tear in the membrane that would forever close if you didn’t pry it open right now.

“Before I go,” like hell you were leaving. “I’m still a little confused about the report. It’s not like we acted on our feelings.”

“Filing a report is available if you’re experiencing discomfort, irrelevant to action.” 

When you thought he’d fully skipped over the casual confession, his brow furrowed, then settled. He kept strictly to himself, and you could’ve stomped your feet like a toddler at how professional he was behaving. Clinical! Sterile! Bland! Blah! Push it. Push it! 

“It’s not like you fantasize about it, right?” God, even saying the word felt salacious in his presence. And the way you lit up when an edge finally crept into his voice… whew. Who knew frustration could make someone so brave? 

“Is there anything else you need?”

You could tell the instant it left his mouth he regretted it. He squeezed his eyes shut and his lips pressed into a thin line. Visibly showing distress? He was cracking. A perfect slot. An opening.

“It just feels unethical.”

He looked at you. 

“For a student to be punished for her professor’s feelings.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Your stomach flipped. “I can’t have you in my class.”

“Because I’m too distracting? Can’t control yourself?” 

“Control and distraction aren’t concerns.”

“Then what’s the issue?” Back to square one. Bickering. The only way you could stop from vibrating at the realization that Professor Wayne probably wanted to fuck you. The only way to keep your heart at a halfway decent pace. 

“It’s inappropriate and unfair to you.”

“Why do you get to decide what’s fair?”

“You’re my student.”

Could he feel the heat emanating off your cheeks? “I’m your assistant.”

“I’m in a position of power.”

“Wouldn’t you be anyway, Bruce Wayne?”

You made a point to emphasize his full name, drive home the things you weren’t saying. He was smart as a whip, and would undoubtedly pick up on the subtext.

“This is different. You know that.” 

Firm. A bit… annoyed? Were you losing him? Pulling him in? You pivoted. “Can I see the form again?”

You set your phone on the desk and walked closer, leaning toward the screen to read. Falsification of Credentials, Plagiarism, Unauthorized Recording, Discrimination, Sexual Misconduct, Other. 

His mouse was weighty as it glided across the smooth grain. Click. A drop down menu appeared.

“Inappropriate remarks? Sexual advances? Unwanted touching?” You mused aloud. “None of these fit.”

Buying time or trying to drive home the point, you couldn’t tease out why you were pretending to stare soo intensely at the document. His presence behind you was warm and inviting, and you clenched your ab muscles to keep from spinning on your heel and falling into his chest. 

“Inappropriate remarks.” 

You pouted, feigning serious thought. “No, doesn’t track.”

“If you don’t want to make a report, you don’t have to. But it’s available if you do.”

“Do you want to be reported, Professor?”

Each time you said it, you swore he looked like he wanted to tell you to stop. Especially now, as you peeked at him over your shoulder. 

“I want whatever keeps my students safe and comfortable.”

“You’re really hung up on that.” Fuck the pleasantries. You pushed his setup forward, the mouse accidentally clicking Other in the process, and turned to face him. You gripped the desk behind you, lifting your ass just onto the edge. “The teacher-student thing.”

“As I should be.”

“I am, too.” 

“Please get off my desk.”

“So polite.” You pulled yourself further onto his desk until you were fully off the ground. “I imagined you’d be demanding.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, weakly.

“Want me to confess, Professor?” It felt so freeing to act without a care in the goddamn world. Your pulse rocketed, feeling the heavy wood beneath you supporting your newfound bravery. “All the fantasies I’ve had about you?”

“Don’t say that.”

“You don’t want to know?” You tapped his thigh with your shoe, and nearly screamed at how dense he was. This was the perfect height to take all of him in; the shoulders, the arms, the hair that just wouldn’t stay tucked behind his ears, and the—oh. 

“Stop calling me that.” His voice was hoarse and whisper-quiet.

“What else should I call you?”

His breath came out in a tight, audible sigh. “This isn’t appropriate.”

“Neither is crushing on a student, but here we are.”

While he’d said it first, you said it blatantly. He looked at the floor, ashamed. A jolt of care cinched your chest, seeing so plainly how affected he was. 

“I’m trying to make it right.”

Atonement for his sins, when he hadn’t made any yet. When you wanted this. Wanted him. Needed him. You called him out. “You’re trying to relieve guilt.” 

Double-blink, again. You caught another tell like a precious stone and tucked it into your pocket for safekeeping. He had nothing to feel guilty for. Fucking nothing. 

“Guilt about wanting to fuck me.”

It might be cruel, but teasing such a considerate and harrowed man was titillating. Maybe it would drive home your point. “Because how despicable is it…” you reached out to grip a fold in his shirt, pulling him closer. He didn’t resist. “For the ethics professor to stare at the short little skirt of his mentee...”

He swallowed thickly, and you noticed how dilated his pupils were. It sent a shot of lightning up your spine. Your fingers caught on a button halfway down his chest. “Y/n…”

You moved his hand under your skirt. “Thinking of laying her across his desk, hiking it up,”

“I can’t…”

Pulled his warm hand between your thighs. “How I might say your name when—”

“Please,”

“Stop?” You paused, removing your hand to hover above his. He didn’t move away, but his face twisted like he was in pain.

A critical point. You suspended the act and let your lust speak for itself. Transparency. “I’ve wanted this for months. So, so badly.” Your hand fell flat to the desk as you shifted your hips. “So if you want me, here I am.”

It took a second to compute it, but he leaned in. Inching closer, slowly, far too slowly, and it hit you like a freight train when his hand began to trail up your thigh. You bit back a sigh, desperate not to scare him off, but yearning to show how much you needed him. He’d never been this close.

The room held a weighted silence. You couldn’t feel yourself breathe as your fingers curled around the waistband of his slacks. The heat of his breath against your lips invoked a warm summer breeze. Your mouth parted, legs spreading incrementally wider as his finger gently pulled back your underwear. 

Closer.

Both hands traveled to his button, unfastening it with a held breath. A quarter past the loop. Half. The tension released between your fingers as his brows knit together with need.

Professor Wayne slammed back, spinning the chair out behind him. “I can’t. You’re my student.”

It was dizzying how fast he’d yanked away from you. Through slow, regulating blinks, you caught glimpses of his hands in his hair, his shoulders rolling back, and rebuttoning his pants. 

Was Adriana still logged in on your phone?

You reached to the other end of the desk and grabbed it, mistyping your passcode in your fluster. The page loaded swiftly and before you could overthink it, you hit DROP COURSE — SUBMIT.

You flipped it for him to read the confirmation. “Not anymore.” 

The phone’s light highlighted a war breaking out in his thoughts. His teeth pressed indents into his lower lip as he hesitated, glancing from the phone back to you. You pulled it back. Pushed it behind you. And let out a small, needy sigh. 

Throbbing desire pooled between your legs as he took a step forward. Yes. His eyes lowered to your jaw, your chest, then your legs. His breathing sped up. Yes. You rested back on your elbows, looking up with doe eyes. 

Professor Wayne turned away, and you nearly tried to grab him, but he was already out of reach. You didn’t have to watch to see that he was leaving.

Fuck.

You slid off the desk and your shoulders caved in, fighting rejection’s bitter current from pulling you under. Crying could come when you were home in bed; when you could have the real Adriana make you some food, throw some random movie on her phone, and help you forget about this embarrassing attempt at throwing yourself at him.

The whiteboard was cool on your arm as you leaned against it. Your wrist smudged the line he’d drawn. Waves of disappointment were getting increasingly difficult to manage. 

Click.

Through bleary eyes you saw him switch the lock on the door. Panels of LEDs drew dimmer. 

He looked behind and made direct eye contact, his stormy and deep. He walked long, quick strides. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,”

Before another thought could form, Professor Wayne had your arms pinned above your head. You’d only realized he’d started kissing you when the taste of coffee hit your tongue. Holy fucking shit. 

He was so unbelievably dense and all you wanted to do was feel it. You wanted to grab him, wrap yourself around his waist, but you were pinned to the whiteboard with his hands, hips, and kisses. He groaned into your mouth, and you broke a hand free to grasp at his jaw. 

You had to make sure this was real; you pressed firmer against him, almost gnashing teeth. He released his grip on your wrist to follow your lead, cupping your face with both hands. The warmth of his fingers made you gasp. 

“Please,” you whined, terrified he’d end this before you got what you desperately wanted. 

“Please what?” Gone was his hesitance, his questions and rumination. The slight huskiness made your knees weak.

Words failed you as wet kisses found the nape of your neck. You slammed his hand from your cheek and put it up your skirt. His fingers made quick work of shifting your panties out of the way, straightening your spine like a rod as his fingers dragged up, then down.

His fingers teased your entrance, and your eyes snapped open when he didn’t push in. You grabbed fistfuls of his hair while he kissed his way to your ear, the slight skip of stubble across your hot skin giving you goosebumps. 

Up, down… he slipped the tip of his finger inside. You bit your cheek at the tease. “Is this what you want?”

You nodded, gripping his shoulder to pull him in. 

“Use your words.”

Your heart raced to a fever pitch. It took you a minute to find them, still thrown this was even happening. “I need you.”

“I know, Y/n.” Your breathing hitched like you’d never heard your own name. His breath was hot against your ear. “Where do you need me?”

“Inside,” you gasped, and your nails dug into his shoulder as he stretched you out. “Fuck!”

He swallowed your moans with another kiss. His cologne wrapped you in a tourniquet, making your breathing ragged and vision shake with every plunge of his fingers. As if you weren’t already melting, his teeth snagged your bottom lip, the sting making you tense, amplifying the sensations. 

“This skirt…”

“Mmm,” 

His fingers curled inside you and you lurched forward, letting out a noise so pathetic you would’ve been embarrassed if you had a single brain cell that wasn’t being fucked silly. 

“Your moans,” he made a pleading sound. “You’re so ready for me.”

“I am,” you managed, tension slowly building in your core. Puffy, and slick, and needy, so fucking needy, his fingers felt divine, oh, my god… fuck, god…

“I need to feel you.” 

He hooked your legs around his waist and held you mid-air like it was nothing; like he didn’t spend his days lecturing and grading papers behind a desk, like he did this all the time.

Desk. He set you down carefully, but that was the last of his restraint. Sweeping arms knocked the carefully-set papers and pens across the floor with a crash. He caught the back of your head in his hand before it hit the monitor, and pulled you in for a rough kiss. 

“Oh my god, please, please.” Desire pulsed throughout your body, lit up like a live wire, watching him undo his zipper. You surged forward and practically tore off his dress shirt, ripping at the buttons with a singular focus. Each inch of skin exposed ratcheted it up a notch until you swore you weren’t breathing. 

He pulled his slacks down to his calves, then his boxers, and you paused before the last button to gawk. Better than you imagined…

A sharp inhale accompanied him pulling the shirt over his head, and you saw stars at his mussed hair. “Professor…”

“Lay back for me, baby.” 

You followed the orders of his hand splayed out atop your stomach, guiding you back with a gentle press. The nickname rang in your ears. 

Professor Wayne’s hand slid from your stomach past your skirt, dipping between your thighs once more. His wrist nudged your legs apart, and you watched his eyes drop to your pussy.

“Perfect.” His thumb skimmed your clit, making you jump. His brow furrowed, and he stalled, the weight of his fingers pressing against you, hesitant to let himself give in. 

“It’s okay. I want this, I want you, please, please, please,” you didn’t care about begging; not when he looked like this. Not when he was hard as a rock, his toned skin glistening, his hair hanging just barely over his eyes. “I’m on the pill. Just fuck me.”

His sigh was deep and resigned, like he’d finally accepted this. His breathing sped up. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes!”

He slapped his dick against your clit, and your hands clenched to reign yourself in. His head teased your pussy, pushing in just enough to make your head fall back, but never further. 

“Right here?”

A little deeper.

“On my desk?”

Not enough. All of it. All of him.

You wrapped your legs around him and pulled him in hard, making him groan and his hands fall to either side of you. His lashes fluttered as you moved your hips up and down, covering your mouth to muffle the high-pitched moans at feeling him fill you so fully. 

“Fuck, so fucking wet,” he gasped, effortlessly matching your tempo. His strokes were rhythmic, and he stared in awe at you sliding up and down his shaft with total ease. 

“All for you,” it was getting harder and harder to speak. His biceps, triceps, deltoids, shit, he was thick, tight, strong.

“All for your professor?”

“All for my fucking professor, fuck, faster,” 

“Christ,”

“Harder, harder, mhm—” 

Your back arched as his hips started snapping into you. You’d worship this desk when you finished—the height, the angle, the dull, quivering pleasure of him hitting that soft, perfect spot… You lost yourself in his thrusts. 

He moved his hand to your clit and sped up, cursing under his breath. Indents of the side of the desk dug into your palms as you strangled it. Holy shit, shit, shit…! You writhed, clawing at his chest, brain going offline.

“Good job. There you go…” 

Your body throbbed, abdomen clenching, head spinning. He grinned, and you descended from the clouds. 

He slowed down, and you must’ve shown the disappointment on your face because he picked up the pace. “You want more?”

“I want you to cum in me.”

His eyes flashed with surprise, and fuck, you could’ve orgasmed again. His cheeks bloomed red from blushing, and he slowed to a stop. “Are you sure?”

You were still coming down from the high, but you never thought he’d even kiss you, let alone this. When you said it, you expected him to turn it down immediately; so now it was on the table, you were certain you’d never wanted anything more. After half a year spent under the covers dreaming of him alone, your reward would be this.

Breathy streams of yes, of I mean it, of tugging at his shoulders, of his hands roaming under your shirt. He unclipped your bra, and your nipples pebbled between his deft fingers. The wet noises of his cock driving in and out of you mingled with the echoes of his moans filling the lecture hall. Cries of how good you felt, how close he was, and you memorized every syllable like you’d die otherwise.

Professor Wayne had snags and scars across his torso, but you couldn’t get a good look as he shook your body with the force of his delicious strokes, fuck. Your body never wanted to release him, but you could tell he was closer than he let on; the want etched between his brows, the slight stutter in his hips, how ragged his breathing had become. 

His blue eyes zeroed in on yours, intensely focused. You knew the words before they fell out of his beautiful, slacked mouth. “I’m gonna cum,” 

The monitor’s glow illuminated his face as he started to peak; his eyes fluttered shut, his staggered thrusts making you whimper. Before you could tell him to fill you up, coax him through it, a pitchy groan fell from his lips. He slammed his hand on the desk for balance as he folded forward, nearly collapsing his heaving body on top of you. 

Warm, quick breaths painted your cheeks as you felt his cock twitch inside of you, strong and steady, the polar opposite of the picture in front of you. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and where you touched his body left temporary prints of lightness. 

You locked eyes then. Seconds slowed to minutes as you soaked up the moment, blissfully sated, patiently scanning his face for any sign of regret. 

Sharp jingles of keys startled you from the other side of the door, catching Professor Wayne’s attention. No. Oh no. You tried to scramble up, preparing for him to be mad at the close call. Hopefully it’d be a close call, and not—

“It’s alright.” He looked away from the door and pressed a tender, reverent kiss to your lips. “Janitor unlocks all the doors in this hallway at the same time. Opens mine last for cleaning.”

“Oh,” was all you could muster. He slowly pulled out, your pussy aching at the loss. You already wanted him again. 

Still catching his breath, he opened a drawer and got some tissues. “Let me clean you up.”

His aftercare was so sweet it felt like foreplay. Gentle swipes on your inner thigh, attentive eyes roaming for misses. Now that he was more or less static, you got a better look at his torso; it kept you from looking at the arc of his hands moving along your legs and his ‘just fucked’ face. The marks looked menacing and violent. A bruise was in the final stages of healing just above his navel. 

“Where are those from?”

He disposed of a tissue wrapped inside another, then pulled up his slacks. He answered as he pulled up their zipper. “Motorcycle accident.” 

You sat up, straightening your shirt to look put together, and smoothed the skirt down your thighs. He shrugged on his shirt, making quick work of the buttons. You knew what his fingers felt like. What he felt like. What he sounded like. Your face heated. Adriana might give you an earful when you got back, but you’d have this memory no matter what. No matter if this was the last time. No matter if it happened over and over again. 

Keys jingled closer. You didn’t trust it.

Without anything left on the desk besides, you pointed at a random part of his computer screen, pretending to have a question like it wasn’t the report form. He stood beside you with his hands on his hips, feigning interest.

“Sorry Bruce. Lock stuck.”

A short man with sandy blonde hair accidentally pushed the door open, the end of his mop poking into the classroom. Could he tell you’d just fucked? Could he hear any of it?

“No worries, Henry.” 

Henry went to leave, and you released the breath you were holding. 

“Actually, I’ll start here if you don’t mind. Marshall didn’t have class today.”

Professor Wayne glanced at you. It felt like checking in, asking permission, and you nodded. His voice was more than back to its usual refinement. “Sure.”

You gathered your folio, its innocence intoxicating. In no universe had you thought the plan would work. Now the evidence of him was sticky on your skin and panties.

Henry began by emptying the trash at the front door, forcing you coy. 

“Thanks for the help, Professor Wayne.”

“My pleasure.”

His eyes sparkled, and you commended yourself for stringing together words in their wake. “Are you available to meet later in the term?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, and took a full breath. “Just let me know when you need my help.”

You smiled at the ground and walked out the far door, bidding him goodnight. Henry said something to him about a vacuum, and you pressed out into the hallway, cutting to a back exit. 

Fresh evening air cooled your lungs and the rain soothed your scorching skin. Professor Wayne. You traced your sore lips with the tip of your finger, and laughed as you waited at the crosswalk. 

The taste of coffee held you all the way home.

taglist: @noisylime @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog

[breedable-heath]

Mr. Blane's oversized pregnancy exposed

David Blane teaches high school English. He’s been planning to start a family for ten years. Knowing that his students would relentlessly make fun of him for being pregnant, he planned his pregnancy so his due date would land in August, and he would start the school year on paternity leave. That way his pregnant belly balloons during summer vacation when he doesn’t have to work.

Being hyperfertile, getting pregnant wasn’t the problem. In fact, his husband was able to bury twins deep into his womb.

Mr. Blane enjoyed his summer off keeping cool indoors where the shame of his massive belly won’t haunt him. His husband pampered him with ice cream, belly rubs, and plenty of good fucking.

Mr. Blane’s problem is that it’s Labor Day. School starts tomorrow, and he is 42 weeks pregnant with twins.

The first day of school has record-high temperatures, and the district hasn’t turned the AC on in their buildings yet. Mr. Blane has the windows open and three fans blowing. The burden of passing out classroom expectations and tactfully weaving his massive belly between desks leaves him with V-shaped sweat stains soaking through his polo.

He learns that lecturing for ten minutes while this pregnant leaves him breathless. Between classes he has to relieve himself since two babies press down on his bladder. He waddles slowly between the stinky mass of adolescents into the nearest staff bathroom. Every time he is late back to class because getting off the toilet takes a whole minute.

By seventh hour, Mr. Blane is sore, hot, aching, sweaty, and just plain miserable. The students are excited to go home by this time of day and are more energetic and outspoken while Mr. Blane is about to send someone to the office for clicking their pen.

“Damn, Mr. B, you put on weight over the summer. That’s a whole new type of beer belly.”

“Firstly, watch your language.” The student mutters an apology. “Secondly, I don’t want to talk about it during class time. We have a lot to get through today, and we’re already behind.”

“But it’s the first day of school,” a second student remarks.

Mr. Blane gets ready to explain the rigorous course structure that comes with reduces class times and more standards to teach, but instead he feels a dropping in his torso. His belly tightens and pain shoots through him.

“Holy shit, did you see that? His beer belly moved,” a student whispered to a friend. Mr. Blane’s eyes are closed so he can’t tell who said it and he can’t punish them.

Hands spread across his desk, three droplets of sweat fall down as he breaths deep. His stomach hangs incredibly low. Stretching like this he can feel cool air touching his lower belly. His shirt must’ve separated from his pants. He straightens himself up and pushes his shirt down. He doesn’t know that it slowly rides up anyways.

His students can see the dark line down the center of his rock-hard belly. They can see his naval poking through his polo. By god, it’s obvious now.

“There’s more to do this year than in previous years. There will be lots of homework. If you have a problem with it, take it up with the school board,” he explains while trying to maintain a steady breath.

“Back to our syllabus.” Mr. Blane tries to stand next to the board and point at all the highlighted parts of classroom expectations, but his back aches so terribly. Several times he had to remove his hand from his back in an effort to look not pregnant. Finally, he decides to stop subjecting himself to suffering and Mr. Blane teaches the remainder of the class from his swivel chair because his back and feet hurt so badly. The students don’t mind and don’t ask why.

His belly hangs between his legs and he is forced to lean back in his chair. Mr. Blane is more baby than he is adult. He uses his feet to inch himself around the front of the classroom during their brief work time.

The bell rings for dismissal, and Mr. Blane shouts over their sudden chatter to turn in their writing samples on their way out. The class empties, and with fewer bodies in the room it feels more cool. Mr. Blane wheels his swivel chair in front of a fan and he slowly rubs his belly.

Another strike of pain hits him then, and he takes deep breaths. There’s a knock on the door. It is Mrs. Katy Sampson, his next door neighbor and the peer that is platonically dubbed his ‘work wife.’

“One of your kids dropped by and told me that you pissed yourself in the middle of class and kept teaching. He said he had ‘mad respect’ for you.”

“I didn’t piss myself,” David snaps. He just wants to be alone and deal in his quiet classroom.

“No, you didn’t,” she says as she calmly walks behind his desk to gather his bag. She opens her phone and sends a quick text. “Your water broke, David.”

“What?” He leans forward as if he’d be able to see his own crotch, but can’t. Instead he sends a hand down there and he feels the wetness in his pants.

Katy steps behind him and starts pushing the swivel chair. “I already texted your honey for you. He’s going to meet us at the hospital.” Her voice is calm and cool.

“Us?”

“You’re not driving.”

“Like hell I’m—” he’s cut off by another surge of pain. His hands grip his belly. His arms and legs are all coated in sweat. He groans in pain.

Katy pushes him down the hall while he works through the long contraction. “Eeeeexactly,” she says in a sing-song voice, “I’m driving.”

[glowup-princess]

ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴜᴅʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴇʀᴍɪᴏɴᴇ ɢʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ

Hermione Granger is known for her exceptional study habits and academic prowess in the Harry Potter series.

1. Plan and Organize

Keep a schedule: Use a planner, calendar, or digital tool to track assignments, deadlines, and study sessions.

Set priorities: Tackle the most challenging or urgent tasks first.

Break it down: Divide larger projects into smaller, manageable steps.

2. Be Consistent

Study daily: Dedicate a specific time each day to review and reinforce your knowledge.

Avoid procrastination: Stay ahead of your workload to reduce stress.

3. Use Resources Wisely

Books and notes: Hermione always turned to books for answers. Take comprehensive notes and reference reliable materials.

Library time: Visit a quiet space, like a library, to minimize distractions and focus.

4. Engage in Active Learning

Ask questions: Be curious and seek to understand concepts deeply.

Teach others: Explaining what you've learned helps solidify your knowledge.

Practice regularly: Use practice tests, flashcards, or summaries to reinforce what you’ve learned.

5. Stay Disciplined

Avoid distractions: Put away your phone or use apps to block distractions during study sessions.

Stick to routines: Set a study ritual to signal your brain it’s time to focus.

6. Collaborate Strategically

Study groups: Join or form study groups with peers who are equally motivated to learn.

Share knowledge: Like Hermione, help others while also learning from their insights.

7. Self-Care Matters

Get enough sleep: Prioritize rest to enhance memory and concentration.

Eat healthy snacks: Fuel your brain with nutritious food while studying.

Take breaks: Use techniques like the Pomodoro Method to maintain focus and prevent burnout.

8. Be Resourceful

Seek help: Don’t hesitate to approach teachers or mentors if you’re stuck.

Use technology: Take advantage of apps, videos, and online tutorials to supplement your learning.

9. Embrace Curiosity

Learn beyond the syllabus: Hermione often read extra material for deeper understanding.

Stay inquisitive: Cultivate a genuine love for learning.

10. Confidence and Perseverance

Believe in yourself: Even when faced with challenges, trust your preparation and abilities.

Don’t fear mistakes: Learn from them and use them as stepping stones.

Remember take care of your best weapon (spoiler: it's you <3)

pt.2?

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

[astrocafecoffee]

Message for 2025 ♥️

As we welcome 2025, a year governed by Mars, we can expect a unique set of energies and themes into play. May you harness the potent energy of 2025 and shine brighter than ever! Cause you deserve the best 😤💗.I offer you my heartfelt blessings , my lovelies.Here are some valuable tips to help you make the most of this year.

❤️‍🔥 What to DO ?

First of all take the initiative in your life and business. Stepping out of your comfort zone is the key theme of this year. This is the time to act boldly. If you have been hesitating or making big descisions ,whether in your career or love life then all I can say don't wait for the perfect moment. Make things happen right here, right now. Don't repeat the same pattern you did past years. Pat yourself in your back cause you are strong, you have dealt with so much bullshit till now. So, break the loop. Be the best version of yourself. Mars wants passion and dedication from you. You got this.

It's essential to have clear and specific objectives. Having a defined goal gives your actions direction and purpose. Without clarity you may find yourself burning out. Break your goals into achievable steps , like for example if you want to reduce your weight then start with small steps like "I will exercise three times a week and reduce my sugar intake". Another example is if you are a student then try to divide your syllabus into days, week and months, and achieve this. Be the topper, cause you have every quality to be a topper. If you are working then try to bring some creativity into your career which will differentiate you from your colleagues.

Mars is tied to physical energy, and exercise or sports can be one of the most productive ways to channel its fiery energy. Physical activity not only keeps you healthy but also clears the mind and provides a boost of energy. This is a year to start a new workout routine, get into a sport, or even take up a challenging physical activity like hiking or martial arts.

Mars can bring out a strong need for assertiveness, meaning this year is a great time to express your needs in relationships,whether romantic, or professional. Don’t shy away from difficult conversations, and ensure you stand up for yourself. This doesn't mean being aggressive but rather being direct, honest, and clear about what you need or want.If there are issues in a friendship or with a partner, be proactive about addressing them. Don't entertain any narcissist. Let go of that energy cause this will give you peace. It’s also a good time to ask for what you deserve at work, whether it's a raise, more responsibility, or a flexible schedule.

Mars often promotes gut based decision making, urging you to trust your instincts and act swiftly when you feel something is right. This year you may feel more attuned to your inner voice and sense of urgency, so embrace that feeling. Your intuition can guide you to make decisions that align with your personal desires and ambitions. Also meditate and clear your all chakras. Meditation will help you to heighten your inner instinct and heal your inner child.

Mars is also about fighting for justice, your beliefs, and what you care about. Whether it’s personal development, political causes, or defending someone who is being treated unfairly, use your strength and voice to stand up for what matters. Mars empowers you to be passionate about your convictions and fight for them with full energy. Don't let anyone dominate you in a bad way but on the opposite side also stay humble.

❤️‍🔥 What Not to Do?

Mars can often magnify your sense of self and give rise to a strong ego driven attitude. While confidence is important, overestimating your abilities or becoming too prideful can create conflicts, both internally and externally. When ego takes charge, you may act impulsively, dismiss others viewpoints, or dismiss valuable advice. Seek feedback from others. Stay grounded and recognize that collaboration often leads to better outcomes than going it alone.

Don't make hasty descisions. Impulsive decisions can result in regrets, particularly when it comes to financial choices, relationships, or career moves. Without careful consideration, you may end up in situations that could have been avoided.Take a moment to pause before acting. Slow down and assess risks versus rewards before making major decisions.For example,Avoid signing a contract or making a large financial investment without thoroughly researching the terms or understanding the full scope of the consequences.

Don't over isolate yourself.

Don't neglect self care. The constant push for progress without rest can eventually lead to stress, fatigue, and decreased productivity. Overworking yourself can also negatively impact relationships and your mental well-being.Make sure to prioritize rest and recovery. Set clear boundaries between work and personal time, and engage in activities that help you to recharge.

Mars represents progress and forward motion, so trying to resist change or cling to old methods might hold you back.Stay open to new possibilities and be willing to adapt to changing circumstances. Look at change as an opportunity to learn and grow rather than something to fear.

While Mars encourages assertiveness, it can also lead to aggressive behavior if not properly channeled.Aggressive tendencies, whether verbal or physical, can damage your relationships and cause unnecessary tension. It can also push people away, preventing the collaborations or support you need to succeed. Like, for Example, If you're upset about something at work, rather than acting out in frustration, communicate your concerns calmly and constructively with your team or supervisor.

Mars energy might make you feel like things need to happen quickly, but some decisions need more time and careful thought.Take your time with decisions that will impact your future. Weigh the pros and cons carefully and seek advice from trusted friends or advisors.

I wish you all the best ✨❤️‍🔥.

- PIKO♥️

[usafphantom2]

#TomcatTail

#TomcatTuesday

That Time at Top Gun I Got Jumped by an F-5

Disclaimer: This #TomcatTail occurred almost 30 years ago and while I’ve got the lion’s share of the details correct, there may be a few errors but not in anything substantive to the story. Sorry, I’m old.

Getting selected to attend Top Gun in March of 1995 was pretty cool. Back in those days, TG was still at NAS Miramar so a good bit of training occurred in the Top Gun hangar and out over the water off San Diego. Other elements of training involved training ranges near El Centro/Yuma, Fallon, Nevada and China Lake, CA (emitter hop). All in all it was a great experience but it did have a couple “others”.

First, both the selected pilot and RIO are supposed to be cruise qualified, having done a deployment as they would likely become Pilot and RIO training officers after they graduated. Unfortunately, the luck of the draw had it that a non-cruise-experienced RIO got the nod to attend with me which made it just a bit more challenging. No dig on my RIO, it’s a really hard thing for anyone to do, but it made for some extra work on me in a learning environment.

The second “other” – and I know you aviators out there will be shaking your head in recognition – was that when I went through there was a HUGE budget problem in the flying hour program: not enough money for gas (when is there, right??). My CO’s solution was to only partially fill all the jets for each flight (internal fuel only) and NOT fill the drop tanks. Your normal fuel load of 20,000 pounds was reduced to 16,000 pounds (yes, 20% reduction). Not my favorite CO, BTW. I asked “can I at least take the drop tanks off so I don’t have the drag penalty?”, his answer was, in a word, “no.” D*ck. Any other classmates have this problem? Nope. Double D*ck.

That was my challenge all the way through Top Gun; an inexperienced RIO (still love him like a brother) and a 20% fuel penalty for every flight. My RIO got better pretty quickly and generally rose to the occasion, and for my part (having always been a Friend of Maintenance or FOM) I managed to often times sweet talk the Sailors fueling the jet to “accidentally” fill up the drops. I always had a great relationship with Sailors (my Dad was Enlisted before he became a Naval Aviator), so it wasn’t that hard to get ‘em to help me out on occasion.

It was a pretty lengthy syllabus (I counted 28 hops in my logbook just now) with your standard “small to big” training focus. 1v1s, 2v2s, 4v4s, the infamous “Flanker Hop” against high alt/high speed Vipers, threat emitters at China Lake, and Strike missions around Fallon, Nevada. The instructors were absolutely top notch and literally everything you did (from brief, to flight, to fight, to debrief) was critiqued. It’s like applying Blue Angel precision to the fighter environment.

With that, we come to the story of getting jumped by an F-5. As I recall, the hop was a four plane Self Escort Strike (Fighter/Bomber configuration) at the training range around Fallon, Nevada carrying two each inert Mk 82s (cement 500lb bombs). We’d fight our way in from the east on the north side of the range, hang a left at the right time to attack the Bravo 19 target complex to the south, and egress/hook out to the west after that (picture counter-clockwise flow). We were in a four plane and the section of F-14Bs were in the lead, and I was Dash-2 in the section of F-14As.

Side note – one crew per squadron was selected per class so they generally ran 2 sections of Tomcats and two sections of Hornets (maybe a few more). At the time, I was in VF-24 in the F-14A so I got crewed up with another Pilot/RIO [admission – for the LIFE of me I can’t remember their squadron……VF-213?.....31?... ...dunno….it was 1995 and they were flying A’s out of Miramar] and we’d swap leads every other mission/syllabus hop. Today “Stinky” was in the lead (not his real callsign).

We started the run from the east headed west along the northern boundary of the working area. We were one mile combat spread (each jet 1 mile apart) in a line abreast and I was on the far right (northernmost fighter); lead fighter in the B was on the far left and Stinky was 1 mile to my left. Break those hands out again if it helps. Looks about like this:

◄ - Dash 4 (me)

◄ - Dash 3 (Stinky)

◄ - Dash 2 (F-14B)

◄ - Dash 1 (Lead F-14B)

The expectation is that we’d see some long-range contacts (we did) and fire some BVR weapons (we did) and then make our way to the target area and get jumped either in the middle during our turn south (we did) or immediately off the target after we released (we did).

So we’re “haulin’ the chili” as we used to say, ingressing at 480kts and nearing the swing south. Parenthetically, we liked to travel at speeds in multiples of 60 because that made the time/distance calculation easier…..480kts = 8 miles a minute means 16 miles away = 2 minutes. We hit the turn point and start this sweeping gentle “wheel” to the left and steady up on a southerly heading as I get back in position having been on the outside of the turn. Right when we settle back in and we’re all 1-mile line abreast, my RIO shouts out on the tactical frequency “BOGEY RIGHT THREE O’CLOCK ONE MILE!!!” I look over and sure enough there’s an F-5 at one mile away on my altitude pointing right at me. Dang it.

Here’s where it gets funny. Stinky calls out on the radio “We’re clear!”, meaning he thinks we don’t need to engage and can blow through. Well yes, Stinky, YOU are clear because the F-5 is TWO miles from YOU and has no chance of catching YOU, but I’VE got him in my knickers and I HAVE to honor his presence and engage. So I do.

INTERMISSION – I will say that Stinky was a resoundingly gifted Tomcat pilot and was as good at ACM as anyone, but this was NOT the first time he’d left me to engage as he blew through. It happened on a previous 2 plane ingress; I got jumped and he kept going. Not the coolest move, naturally, and the Instructors were savage in their critique but honestly I didn’t have to worry about it after Top Gun because he wasn’t in my squadron. We now return you to your previously schedule dogfight.

So bam, max performance turn to the right to take the F-5 down my right side close aboard to try and neutralize the threat and then figure out what’s next. I figure that if I want to have a snowballs chance in hell to get back to my division, I had to steer the fight properly. So he goes down my right side and I take the fight two circle (continue the right turn, but mostly in the vertical), come out of blower to get the speed down and turn rate to increase quickly and pull hard to get nose on. It works pretty well because the F-5 turns about like a Phantom (meaning: it doesn’t). I get the nose to rate around quickly and pull down to get nose on the F-5 and call a quick “Fox 2” on him. Fortunately for me, we’re kind of pointing the way we were going originally, so it’s blowers to Zone 5 and try and find our buddies. Honestly, I think that was a gift from the Instructor to configure it so I’d bag him and be able to continue. They were always good like that.

My RIO finds them on the pulse scope pretty quickly; they’re a number of miles ahead but we’re heading down hill toward them in full grunt, haulin’ and extra helping of chili. I get a visual and aim for the Dash-4 position to the right of Stinky where I was previously. By this time we’re getting close to the roll in point on the Bravo 19 target. The plan is to do a “John Wayne Left”, where – just like in the movies – we all roll in on the target leftward, one after another. We’ll likely even mentally make that noise from those movies…..”Brrrrr…..Brrrrrr…..Brrrrrr”. The timing works out absolutely perfectly (rather be lucky than good). I’m sliding up into position when Dash 1 rolls left….Dash 2 goes……my RIO gets Air-to-Ground read into the system, good symbology…..Stinky goes….then I go.

Master Arm on, roll left, pull nose to the target, 45° dive set, symbology tracking (a vertical line through the target with a que marker marching down to a release marker), que marker hits release marker, press the bomb button (“pickle”), thump-thump, and we’re off target. I pull out hard, roll wings left to look back briefly at the target (a hit, or at least close enough) and find and join on Stinky in spread again.

The B guys get jumped from the north now and me and Stinky have a couple bogies on our nose to the west. We’ve split into roughly separate sections so now it’s time to fight our way out. Fortunately for us, the bogies are right on our nose, so discretion being the better part of valor we blow through as we accelerate through the number at about 5,000 feet off the deck. Not a good idea to hang out over simulated bad guy country after you just bombed the shit out of ‘em. “Evaluate the bug” says Stinky…..”good bug” says the Instructor. Success.

We come back for the debrief and it goes fairly well. For those that haven’t been through, “fairly well” means you get talked to about each and every point of the flight for about 3 hours. Stinky got savaged for not honoring the threat to his wingman but again, no big deal to me. And then we go to the tapes to evaluate our strike run. It comes to my turn and we roll tape. The vertical line (Bomb Fall Line, I think) tracks over the target, que hits, bombs come off, and the instructor hits pause.

“So how fast were you going at release?” Uh oh. I had no idea. So you know, there are actually limits to how fast you can drop ordnance based on how much testing had been done on the airframe. At that point the Tomcat wasn’t cleared for supersonic release. Conjecture was that depending on speed and airflow that a released bomb may get “stuck” in the air around the jet and clatter around in the tunnel between the engines. On the “good/bad scale”, that’s clearly on “bad.”

“I’m not sure, Sir. I was trying to get into position on time to roll in with the division and I didn’t check.”

“Well, based on what we could see on radar, you joined your division nearly supersonic, right around 600 knots. Then you rolled in, so I figure you may have dropped past the number. Congratulations, you’re a test pilot.”

Oops. “Uhhh…..thank you Sir.” What a time to be alive!

@RSE_vb via X

[anjelicawrites]

Reader and Michael can’t come to Billy’s due to exam season and revision. However, doesn’t mean they can’t send him videos of there own personal ways to de-stress so he doesn’t feel left out. Better yet, cause readers exams are longer than Michaels, Michael is round Billy’s when she sends him her latest round. And Billy and Michael get a little too hot and bothered to not do anything about it

Warnings: kissing, scratching, biting, masturbation, anal (m receiving), handjob, spicy video making, orgasm denial and control, Michael is a bratty sub.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

You and Michael have different dates for your exams this semester; usually there's a couple of days of difference, this year, due to the sudden illness of one of your professors and none of the TAs being available, your class is forced to sit this last exam a week later than everyone else, leaving all of you with almost no days off before the start of the term.

You are frustrated and angry, the stress for the whole situation turns your horny knobs to the maximum, not having the chance to have a quickie, with either of your boyfriends, makes having to bunk down in your room and study all the worse.

And you miss them!

It's not just the sex, it's the intimacy of sharing Billy's old couch while reading and watching telly, chatting about everything and anything, hearing them bitch and moan because you're taking too long to get ready: all those little things that let you know how much they love you, and you them.

And there's the sex, of course: making Billy beg and cry, fight against Michael for dominance, feel your mind shut down with every orgasm they give you. You miss their hands on your body and falling asleep lulled by their warmth: your room feels so cold and empty that you just want to throw all the study materials on the floor and run to Billy's flat to finally have a good night's sleep.

You stand up before you do anything stupid and walk the length of your room like a caged lion: two days of this miserable life, you have to hold on for two more days.

Your phone pings with a message, a friend from your study group slowly losing his mind over the most difficult part of the exam; you send him an encouraging text, offering to do a last study of that bit of the syllabus tomorrow.

You close the chat and your eyes fall on the group chat with your boys, the last message being a photo. It's not the raciest pic you three have shared, this one is Billy laying on his tummy with a fucked out expression on his face, droplets of sweat adorning his naked back, already marked by Michael's bite marks. It turns you on immensely because you know it's a post fuck pic and that Michael has made him beg like a whore, only to fuck him like he doesn't love him, as if Billy's feeling don't matter, as if he's only a toy.

The idea makes your cunt tingle; you can still ignore your body and throw yourself into your notes, the problem is that you don't want to.

Billy stretches his back with a groan. Between the long hours at the pub, and the vigorous fucking, his body is a mess of overused muscles and carpet rashes. Michael has been ravenous from the moment he was finished with his batch of exams; it doesn't help Billy's case that he has been quite defiant in the spicy videos he's sent him during the last few weeks, egging him on, saying he wouldn't be able to fuck Billy for hours, that he'd be too tired for the task. Michael had enthusiastically showed him how wrong he was and is now eyeing him like he's dessert.

It still surprises Billy how voracious Michael is, sex wise, that the lanky nerd with a grandpa style would, and could, reduce him into a begging mess and could go at it for hours. If he didn't know you and him had been an item before he met you two, he'd chalk it up to the fresh discovery of sex and hormones, but you two were a couple for almost a year and Michael was as ravenous as he was the first time he slept with you.

The dual ding of his and Michael's phone distracts Billy from his train of thoughts: it must be you, still trapped in exam hell.

He's worried about you, as is Michael, you look tired and stretched thin, the delay in the exam adding to your usual burden of stress and the fact that you are not leaving your college premises, to maximize your dwindling energies, means that you have no way to recharge your batteries. Billy is afraid you're going to burn yourself out and Michael knows how close you're teetering to the edge, because you've been not that active in your shared chat, not even after the last photo he's sent: if not even fucked silly Billy elicits a response from you, then something is truly wrong.

Billy carefully pads to the sofa where his phone is laying, his arse sore from Michael's use and the muscles of his legs burn with each step. Michael waits until he's sat on the sofa, before opening the message.

The video starts playing immediately: you're almost naked, wearing only your black undergarments, looking ravishing, ravenous in the way you're playing with yourself, calling their names with a broken voice.

"Christ." It's the only thing Billy manages to say.

Both him and Michael can see the desperation in your eyes, it explodes in the hurried way you make yourself orgasm, only to slow down and start again.

Unconsciously Billy's hand finds home on Michael's long neck, his thumb caressing the velvety skin as his fingers grab his poorly cut hair; he hasn't even realized he's got an erection, too focused on your body and your pleasure to feel his own and desire explodes in his loins when the video stops.

Michael is in no better condition than him, his breath comes out in short pants and his hand has already sneaked under his horrendous trousers to grab the base of his erection; he moans when Billy gently curls his fingers tighter in his hair and pulls his head backwards, forcing his long neck to arch, a temptation Billy can't resist.

Billy's teeth nip Michael's exposed Adam's apple and then his lips soothe the small harm, only to repeat the slow torture on the available skin, leaving glaring proofs of his need for Michael.

"Don't" Billy whispers as his hand grabs Michael's wrist. "Not yet." "Don't tell me what to do." Michael pants back, without a bite, he's already too far gone. "Come now and you don't get to do that later." "Bastard!" Comes out whiner that Michael would like. "Payback is a bitch, innit?"

Without you functioning as a buffer, their lovemaking is always rougher, the power struggle more prominent than when you're around to keep the situation under control; but you're in your college room, neck deep in your study material, and not in Billy's living room, pressed between them on the couch, sharing kisses and small love bites.

Michael tries to gain the upper hand again, but his tongue fails to subjugate Billy's and the latter's hand right around his base strips Michael of any vestige of control: Billy is going to fuck him, raw and fast, until Michael loses any form of sanity.

Michael's body arches when Billy's hand starts jerking him fast and rough, your last video on repeat in the background because you look too fuckable.

"Asshole!"

Michael shouts when Billy releases his cock with a smirk. This pleasure in exerting control is a new rush Billy is still trying to understand, used as he was to be the more submissive one: the way his cock seems to swell when Michael stares at him with accusing eyes, full of tears and frustration, still surprises him.

"I told you, not yet." He's still not sure where this cold voice comes from, but he likes it. "On your knees, face on the sofa." "Make me".

Michael is nothing short of a pain in the side even when he wants to be taken and fucked stupid, Billy is happy to oblige with a hand in his hair to roughly push him on the worn carpet, the other busy with removing his ugly trousers. The blatant show of brute strength flies directly to Michael's cock, who almost comes untouched. The hand on his back that keeps him face first on the sofa drives him absolutely mad with the need to misbehave, just to see what Billy would do.

Billy stares at Michael's long back, the fine, almost white hairs illuminated by the dying light of the day a beautiful contrast with the marks his nails have left there. On a whim he licks a long stripe where the deepest ones lay, his lips suck on the inflamed skin until Michael moans and tries to kick back with his arse.

"Are you going to fuck me, or what?" Michael barks from under him. "For someone with his arse up in the air, you sure talk big a lot."

Billy tries to infuse his voice with control, in truth he doesn't know how long he's going to be able to not ravish Michael: the way he struggles against his hold, the shift of his muscles under his pink skin and your moans in the background are driving him absolutely mad.

Michael tries to push back again, his ridiculous lack of strength clear against Billy's, who is used to move around kegs of beer for a living. His umpteenth act of disobedience wins him a round of spanking, given with Billy's full strength, that reduces him into a puddle of pain and want.

"You done?" Billy is tethering on the edge and hopes Michael doesn't realize.

Michael doesn't respond but shoots him a dirty look.

"You're always going to be a pain, aren't you, genius boy? All that brain and still you play the brat."

Michael's erection is painful, hanging between his legs; it hurts to wait but he doesn't want to bend his stiff neck. He brushes his arse against Billy's hardness, enticing him to fuck him like he deserves; this time Billy doesn't punish him but presses his raging erection between his arse cheeks, grinding against the abused skin until Michael whines in pain.

"All that brain flies out of the window when you want some cock, innit?"

Michael moans when cold lube is poured over his hole and Billy prepares him fast and rough, forcing his hole to gape, just because he can.

Billy grabs his hips, pulling him backwards, forcing Michael to put his weight on his arms; Billy's phone is in front of his eyes, your video all Michael can see now, your pleasure makes him moan with the need to smother his face in your wet pussy until he can't breathe.

Both men groan when Billy's head breaches Michael's hole.

"Always so bloody tight." Billy spats and Michael's hole clenches reflexively.

With slow pushes and pulls, Billy sheaths himself in Michael's arse, grinding cruelly when he finally bottoms out, making Michael keen and buck under him.

"Shh, shh, be good." Billy caresses his sweaty hair. "Do you want to do something for our baby?"

Michael can't find the words to respond, he can just nod his head with an empty brain: he'll do anything for you.

Michael's phone is shown in front of his face, set on record; he can see his own expression, his slackened mouth and the spit almost falling from his lips.

"Let's put on a show, shall we?"

Michael's begging starts immediately, Billy's pushes are too hard and fast for him not to, his insides accepting the invasion without a fight, his arse clenching painfully when Billy fucks against his prostate brutally, sparks of pleasure exploding in his belly that turn into a fire when Billy grabs his shoulders and forces Michael's back against his front, sitting him on his erection and bucking under him wildly.

Michael's head lolls back, spit falling from his mouth, desperate moans and high pitched keens spilling from his lips without his control. Billy's hands keep him still, forcing him to take all he's giving, Michael's erection slaps painfully against his tummy and he feels like Billy is going to split him in a half.

"Oxford's math genius fucked like a whore. What would everyone think of you if they could see you now?" Billy pants.

The way Michael's arse curls around his erection after his words almost hurts and he has to redouble the strength of his pushes.

"Would you like that? For everyone see you like this?" "No...ah!" "Then why is your arse tightening this way?"

Michael's body arches, his hands scratch and grab all the skin he can reach as Billy grinds cruelly against his prostate.

"You're going to come now." Billy says grabbing his chin, forcing him to look at the phone. "Let our sweetheart see your face, how much you love this."

Michael's hands grab Billy's hair to try and keep himself in position, one of Billy's hands curls around his cock to jerk it fast and rough; Michael has to force himself to keep staring at the phone, showing you what you can't see now, but the pleasure is too much, his nerves scream with it, his brain complete mush and he can't scream anymore, he comes with his eyes rolling back in his head, his body a mere ragdoll for Billy to fuck.

Billy isn't too far behind, the feel of Michael's body letting go completely kicks his own orgasm and he comes with a tortured moan and slumps against Michael, the two of them falling on the sofa, breathless.

"Mmmh, don't" Michael whispers when Billy tries to pull his softened cock out. "You'll get cramps. Behave." "Or you can get hard again." He moans, trying to wiggle his arse. "He's insatiable." Billy says to you through the recording.

Michael mewls when Billy's fingers grab his hair to pull his torso up again, to show you his face, the reddened cheeks and the spit on his chin, his almost vacant eyes. He's so pretty after he's been thoroughly fucked.

"We're proud of you." Billy continues. " And we miss you."

Billy lets his cock slip out of Michael's hole and the other man slumps against him, pliant and ready to be fucked again.

"Do you have anything smart to add?" "Come soon." Michael manages to say, he's so tired, he wants to be touched and to eat your pussy so bad! "You're probably going to do that sooner." Billy answers. "Do you want to film it? Show our baby how much you need to be fucked again?" "Yeah." He keens, hiding his face against the curve of Billy's neck.

You're in for a treat when you finish your studies for the day. Billy will make sure of it.

Cringefail throuple taglist: @fan-goddess @solisarium @lexwolfhale

[selfhelpforstudents]

Acing Exams: The Ultimate Study Hacks Every Student Should Know

Girls in Finance project server // other posts

Studying for exams doesn't have to be a daunting task. Equip yourself with these proven study hacks to boost your preparation and increase your chances of acing those exams:

1. Prioritize Your Material:

Identify key concepts and focus on high-priority topics outlined in your syllabus.

Break down larger subjects into manageable sections to avoid feeling overwhelmed.

2. Create a Strategic Study Schedule:

Develop a realistic study schedule that considers your peak productivity hours.

Use techniques like the Pomodoro Technique to break study sessions into focused intervals with short breaks.

3. Active Learning Techniques:

Engage in active learning methods, such as teaching the material to someone else or creating flashcards.

Utilize mnemonic devices and acronyms to remember complex information.

4. Diversify Your Resources:

Explore various learning materials, including textbooks, online resources, videos, and supplementary materials.

Choose resources that resonate with your learning style for a more effective study experience.

5. Practice with Past Papers:

Familiarize yourself with the exam format by practicing with past papers or sample questions.

Analyze your mistakes and focus on improving in areas where you may be struggling.

6. Utilize Visualization Techniques:

Visualize complex concepts or create mind maps to establish connections between ideas.

Use color-coded diagrams and charts to enhance your understanding of relationships within the material.

7. Join Study Groups:

Collaborate with peers in study groups to gain different perspectives and share insights.

Teaching and discussing topics with others can reinforce your own understanding.

8. Healthy Lifestyle Habits:

Ensure you get adequate sleep to support memory consolidation.

Maintain a balanced diet and exercise regularly to keep your mind and body in optimal condition.

9. Mindfulness and Stress Management:

Practice mindfulness techniques, such as deep breathing or meditation, to manage stress.

Break down your study sessions into smaller, manageable tasks to reduce anxiety.

10. Reward Yourself:

Incorporate rewards into your study routine to stay motivated.

Treat yourself to breaks or small rewards after completing challenging study sessions.

Remember, everyone's study journey is unique, so feel free to tailor these study hacks to fit your personal preferences and learning style. Consistency and dedication to your study routine will play a key role in your success. Good luck!

Join our Girls in Finance project if you want to learn more about studying finance and the financial world <3

[normal-with-adhd-is-a-joke]

I've found something that works for reminding me to do tasks with ADHD.

When I get my syllabus at the beginning of the semester from each class I put on some relaxing audio (I use ASMR but music, especially instrumental, might work as well) and just put all of my assignments into my planner app. The audio helps reduce the frustration of repetitive tasks. If I get too frustrated I can take a moment to focus on the audio, calm down, and then keep going.

The planner app I use is called School Planner and the icon looks like this:

The reason I like this app in particular is because it has a feature that allows you to have an agenda on your phone's home screen.

Basically you can't look at your phone to play a game or go on Tumblr without being reminded that you have something due. I got a concussion at the beginning of last semester and wasn't well enough to get my assignments into the app. I noticed a HUGE reduction in my school performance because I forgot a ton of assignments without it.

[mayakimayahai]

Any super kind tumblrs who would fill out a google form for me? Pretty please?

Feedback main Yeh dalna hai

I highly appreciate the changes made in the guidelines for CUET 2025.

While most of these guidelines are commendable, i oppose the guideline of making all the questions necessary. Students coming from different backgrounds (icse, cbse) have studied different syllabi and it is really difficult to study the entire extra syllabus in 2-3 months after board exams.

I understand that reducing the number of optional questions might be necessary to reduce the number of 100 percentilers by increasing the difficulty level, and i suggest reducing the number of optional questions from 10 to around 5. Removing the optional questions altogether could be a step that can be taken in the coming years, simultaneously leveling the 12th syllabus across all boards, making the extra syllabus same for all the students appearing in CUET.

Removing the optional questions this year would be unfair to us.

[teastudieseveryday]

365-day challenge- quarter 1

Hi! <3

I was travelling for a week, finally I'm back and these are some updates:

I have been continuing my habits of scalp massages, being consistent with my routine, taking supplements, sleeping early, limiting social media presence. I have also started waking up earlier at 5am, but I struggle to get out of the bed and end up being out at 6:30am :( I will persist though. I listen to affirmations first thing when my brain is in a theta-alpha state for rewiring my subconscious, I've been doing it for a whole month now and I have been able to experience a better state of being, mindset shift, staying in a positive limbo and delusions before my major exam because beliefs are everything. I now have an even better sense of self and a higher self-esteem.

Not that major but randomly switching to Rednote (xiaohongshu) from other social media like gram which harvests our attention span has been so rewarding! Quitting short form of content is probably the best thing I've done this year too, rednote's content is healing (if you're into lifestyle, interiors, daily morning vlogs) Things I wish to include and haven't already (starting today)-

Working out 3x/week

Screen time avg of 4hrs/day reduced to 1-1.5hrs/day

10hrs/day avg study hours

Writing every day, even if it's just 500 words

Improve vocab in 2 languages I speak majorly

Offline for 3 weeks to complete every single bit of my syllabus & create revision routine

Posting every day is a little ott for me, instead I go for major updates every week and not real time updates, the 365-day challenge is my personal favorite project now.

[chaotic-archaeologist]

Hi Reid! I have a question about the american college/uni system that I've been wondering about for a long time and you seem knowledgeable and friendly enough to maybe help: How big/long are your courses? Like, how many do you take every term? Is every course the same size? How many subjects do you generally study at the same time?

For context, I'm from Sweden and our course sizes are based on a point system, where 30 points is supposed to represent 20 weeks (a term) of full time studying (40 hours a week). It's common to take 30 point courses (usually divided into subcourses, say 4×7,5 points, two for the first half and two for the second half of a term (or 6×5 with three at a time)), but you can also pick smaller courses (usually 7,5 or 15 points taken at 50%) until you get 30 points.

I think my real question is how this translates. If people speak about a, say, linguistics 101 course, is that a 30 point or 7,5 point course? And do all your courses stretch over an entire term? Please help, I just want to know how to interpret people talking about their courseload

Hi there, sorry it's taken me a while to get to this—I've been very busy prepping for the class I'm teaching.

Every university here is different, and credits (how many points you get per class, and how many total points you need to graduate) also vary based on whether your school does quarters, trimesters, or semesters. My only experience has been with semesters, so that's what I'll focus on here.

Here, most classes are either 3 or 4 credits. A usual 3 credit class might meet twice a week for 1:15 minutes each time. A class might be four credits if it's a higher level seminar or discussion based class with a higher number of more difficult readings.

Classes that have both a lab and lecture component can be more (around 6, I think? I never took one), and then there are less difficult classes that usually only run for half the semester that might be 2 credits. For example, I took a half-semester costume design class my freshman year. Below is the official jargon that talks about how credits are determined.

The current nationally recognized standard, the Federal Credit Hour Standard, defines a three-credit course as three fifty-minute classes per week over a fifteen-week semester (including final exam week), or the equivalent (for courses using a non-traditional format such as blended or online learning). This standard assumes that each credit hour generates two hours of assigned work for every hour of in-class contact. Thus, the guiding rule is 45 hours of work per semester for each unit of credit. For laboratory courses or their equivalent, one credit hour is assigned for three hours of laboratory, workshop, studio, fieldwork, independent study, etc.

You can also (sometimes) take a class pass/fail, although usually that reduces the number of credits it is worth. Finally, you can audit a class, which means that you get access to the syllabus, do the readings, and show up, but you don't have to do any of the assignments. Audited classes are worth no credits, but they do show up on your transcript.

Our undergraduate classes are often numbered 100-400, with 100 level classes being introductory, and 400 level classes being highly specialized with prerequisite requirements. Graduate level classes are 500 or higher.

Credits are different than the grades you get. Grades are on a 4 point scale, where 4.0 would be 100%, with 70% being a 2.0 and the lowest passing grade. I'm attaching a picture of the grade breakdown from my own syllabus to show you how my current institution assigns grades to percentage points.

Most colleges/institution require you to earn a C in order to pass a class. If you get that C, you get the full amount of credits for the course, same as anyone who got an A. However, your Grade Point Average (GPA), which is calculated by taking the average of every grade you've gotten, will be lower than someone who got all As.

At most institutions, you have to take 12 credits a semester (so 4 classes for 3 credits each) in order to qualify as a full time student, which comes with certain privileges. Usually you can take up to 18 credits, although this may cost more if the school doesn't have a flat rate tuition.

Finally, with a grading system like this one, undergraduate students are expected to earn a total of 120 credits to complete their bachelor's degree.

As for course sizes, they can range from 200+ person lectures at the really big universities, to 5-12 person seminar/discussions for the higher level classes. Lab classes or more hands on options will be in the 20-30 person range. But it highly depends.

I know that's confusing. Hopefully that helps? -Reid

[a-fox-studies]

January 20, 2024 • Saturday

• --- HARDCORE WEEK — Day 6/15 --- •

I finished up what was left of Data Structures syllabus. Now I can work on some practice questions tomorrow!

My flare has died down a little, I hope it reduces in the next few days, it's really hard to focus when your body is metaphorically on fire.

🎧 See You Later — GRAHAM

[sarkariresultdude]

"Minimum Qualification and Age Limit for SSC CHSL Exam 2025"

 The Combined Higher Secondary Level (CHSL) Examination is one of the most sought-after aggressive exams in India performed by the Staff Selection Commission (SSC). It opens up possibilities for 12th-skip candidates to steady government jobs in diverse ministries, departments, and corporations of the Government of India.

Combined higher secondary level eligibility

With lakhs of candidates making use of each year, the SSC CHSL examination offers prestigious roles like Lower Division Clerk (LDC), Data Entry Operator (DEO), Postal Assistant/Sorting Assistant (PA/SA), and Court Clerk.

1. Overview of SSC CHSL

Tier I: Computer-Based Objective Test

Tier II: Descriptive Paper (Pen and Paper mode)

Tier III: Typing/Skill Test (Qualifying nature)

This exam is designed to check trendy flair, reasoning, language talent, and simple writing and pc talents.

2. Posts Offered Through CHSL

Lower Division Clerk (LDC)/Junior Secretariat Assistant (JSA)

Postal Assistant (PA)/Sorting Assistant (SA)

Data Entry Operator (DEO)

Data Entry Operator, Grade ‘A’

Court Clerk (in some cycles)

Each post comes with a decent pay scale, profession boom possibilities, and task protection, making CHSL a appropriate exam for aspirants seeking early employment after better secondary education.

Three. Eligibility Criteria

a. Nationality

Citizen of India, or

Subject of Nepal/Bhutan, or

Tibetan refugee (before January 1, 1962), or

Person of Indian foundation migrated from pick nations (e.G., Pakistan, Sri Lanka) intending permanent agreement in India.

B. Educational Qualification

Must have passed twelfth Standard or equivalent examination from a diagnosed board or university.

twelfth Standard in Science movement with Mathematics as a subject.

C. Age Limit

Minimum Age: 18 years

Maximum Age: 27 years

Age Relaxation:

SC/ST – 5 years

OBC – three years

PwD – 10 to fifteen years (relying on category)

Ex-Servicemen – 3 years (after deduction of army service)

four. Exam Pattern

Tier I: Computer-Based Test

Subject No. Of Questions Maximum Marks Duration

General Intelligence 25 50

English Language 25 50

Quantitative Aptitude 25 50

General Awareness 25 50 60 minutes

Negative Marking: 0.50 marks for every wrong solution.

Tier II: Descriptive Paper

Mode: Pen and Paper

Duration: 1 hour

Maximum Marks: one hundred

Format: Essay (two hundred-250 phrases) and Letter/Application (150-2 hundred words)

Language: English or Hindi

Tier III: Skill Test / Typing Test

For DEO: Data Entry Speed of 8000 key depressions/hour.

5. Syllabus

General Intelligence:

Analogies, Coding-Decoding, Series, Classification

Puzzle-solving, Matrix, Blood relations

Direction Sense, Logical Venn diagrams

English Language:

Reading Comprehension, Cloze Test

Spotting Errors, Sentence Improvement

Synonyms & Antonyms, Idioms, Vocabulary

Quantitative Aptitude:

Number System, Simplification

Ratio & Proportion, Profit & Loss

Algebra, Geometry, Trigonometry

Mensuration, Time & Work, Data Interpretation

General Awareness:

Current Affairs, History, Geography

Indian Polity, Economy, General Science

Static GK (Books, Awards, Sports)

6. Preparation Tips

a. Know the Syllabus & Pattern Thoroughly

Understanding the shape of each tier facilitates in prioritizing study time and resources.

B. Create a Timetable

Divide day by day time into sections—English, Reasoning, Quant, GK. Allocate time for revision and mocks.

C. Focus on Accuracy and Speed

Practicing with mock assessments facilitates reduce bad marking and boom pace, in particular for Tier I.

D. Improve Typing Skills

Regularly exercise typing in each English and Hindi if performing for typing-based totally roles.

E. Read Daily

Reading newspapers, present day affairs magazines, and on line updates boosts General Awareness and English vocabulary.

7. Career Growth & Pay Scale

Pay Level (Post-smart)

Post Pay Level Salary (Approx.)

LDC/JSA Level 2 ₹19,900 – ₹63,two hundred

PA/SA Level four ₹25,500 – ₹81,one hundred

DEO (Grade A) Level 4 ₹25,500 – ₹81,one hundred

DEO (C&AG) Level five ₹29,two hundred – ₹ninety two,three hundred

Perks and Allowances

DA (Dearness Allowance)

HRA (House Rent Allowance)

TA (Transport Allowance)

Medical centers, pension, paid leaves

eight. Advantages of SSC CHSL Jobs

Government Job Security

Early Entry Point after Class 12

Attractive Perks and Benefits

Opportunities for Internal Promotions

Fixed Working Hours

[therearepeoplewho]

Put down the bad ideas (these ones) eg. Ur-Fascism i.e. :

While Eco is firm in claiming “There was only one Nazism,” he says, “the fascist game can be played in many forms, and the name of the game does not change.” Eco reduces the qualities of what he calls “Ur-Fascism, or Eternal Fascism” down to 14 “typical” features. “These features,” writes the novelist and semiotician, “cannot be organized into a system; many of them contradict each other, and are also typical of other kinds of despotism or fanaticism. But it is enough that one of them be present to allow fascism to coagulate around it.”

Summarised characteristics of Ur-Fascism:

The cult of tradition. “One has only to look at the syllabus of every fascist movement to find the major traditionalist thinkers. The Nazi gnosis was nourished by traditionalist, syncretistic, occult elements.”

The rejection of modernism. “The Enlightenment, the Age of Reason, is seen as the beginning of modern depravity. In this sense Ur-Fascism can be defined as irrationalism.”

The cult of action for action’s sake. “Action being beautiful in itself, it must be taken before, or without, any previous reflection. Thinking is a form of emasculation.”

Disagreement is treason. “The critical spirit makes distinctions, and to distinguish is a sign of modernism. In modern culture the scientific community praises disagreement as a way to improve knowledge.”

Fear of difference. “The first appeal of a fascist or prematurely fascist movement is an appeal against the intruders. Thus Ur-Fascism is racist by definition.”

Appeal to social frustration. “One of the most typical features of the historical fascism was the appeal to a frustrated middle class, a class suffering from an economic crisis or feelings of political humiliation, and frightened by the pressure of lower social groups.”

The obsession with a plot. “Thus at the root of the Ur-Fascist psychology there is the obsession with a plot, possibly an international one. The followers must feel besieged.”

The enemy is both strong and weak. “By a continuous shifting of rhetorical focus, the enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak.”

Pacifism is trafficking with the enemy. “For Ur-Fascism there is no struggle for life but, rather, life is lived for struggle.”

Contempt for the weak. “Elitism is a typical aspect of any reactionary ideology.”

Everybody is educated to become a hero. “In Ur-Fascist ideology, heroism is the norm. This cult of heroism is strictly linked with the cult of death.”

Machismo and weaponry. “Machismo implies both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality.”

Selective populism. “There is in our future a TV or Internet populism, in which the emotional response of a selected group of citizens can be presented and accepted as the Voice of the People.”

Ur-Fascism speaks Newspeak. “All the Nazi or Fascist schoolbooks made use of an impoverished vocabulary, and an elementary syntax, in order to limit the instruments for complex and critical reasoning.”

(source: https://www.openculture.com/2024/11/umberto-ecos-list-of-the-14-common-features-of-fascism.html )

For a fuller definition:

These features cannot be organized into a system; many of them contradict each other, and are also typical of other kinds of despotism or fanaticism. But it is enough that one of them be present to allow fascism to coagulate around it.

The first feature of Ur-Fascism is the cult of tradition. Traditionalism is of course much older than fascism. Not only was it typical of counter-revolutionary Catholic thought after the French revolution, but it was born in the late Hellenistic era, as a reaction to classical Greek rationalism. In the Mediterranean basin, people of different religions (most of them indulgently accepted by the Roman Pantheon) started dreaming of a revelation received at the dawn of human history. This revelation, according to the traditionalist mystique, had remained for a long time concealed under the veil of forgotten languages — in Egyptian hieroglyphs, in the Celtic runes, in the scrolls of the little known religions of Asia.This new culture had to be syncretistic. Syncretism is not only, as the dictionary says, “the combination of different forms of belief or practice”; such a combination must tolerate contradictions. Each of the original messages contains a silver of wisdom, and whenever they seem to say different or incompatible things it is only because all are alluding, allegorically, to the same primeval truth.As a consequence, there can be no advancement of learning. Truth has been already spelled out once and for all, and we can only keep interpreting its obscure message.One has only to look at the syllabus of every fascist movement to find the major traditionalist thinkers. The Nazi gnosis was nourished by traditionalist, syncretistic, occult elements. The most influential theoretical source of the theories of the new Italian right, Julius Evola, merged the Holy Grail with The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, alchemy with the Holy Roman and Germanic Empire. The very fact that the Italian right, in order to show its open-mindedness, recently broadened its syllabus to include works by De Maistre, Guenon, and Gramsci, is a blatant proof of syncretism.If you browse in the shelves that, in American bookstores, are labeled as New Age, you can find there even Saint Augustine who, as far as I know, was not a fascist. But combining Saint Augustine and Stonehenge — that is a symptom of Ur-Fascism.

Traditionalism implies the rejection of modernism. Both Fascists and Nazis worshiped technology, while traditionalist thinkers usually reject it as a negation of traditional spiritual values. However, even though Nazism was proud of its industrial achievements, its praise of modernism was only the surface of an ideology based upon Blood and Earth (Blut und Boden). The rejection of the modern world was disguised as a rebuttal of the capitalistic way of life, but it mainly concerned the rejection of the Spirit of 1789 (and of 1776, of course). The Enlightenment, the Age of Reason, is seen as the beginning of modern depravity. In this sense Ur-Fascism can be defined as irrationalism.

Irrationalism also depends on the cult of action for action’s sake. Action being beautiful in itself, it must be taken before, or without, any previous reflection. Thinking is a form of emasculation. Therefore culture is suspect insofar as it is identified with critical attitudes. Distrust of the intellectual world has always been a symptom of Ur-Fascism, from Goering’s alleged statement (“When I hear talk of culture I reach for my gun”) to the frequent use of such expressions as “degenerate intellectuals,” “eggheads,” “effete snobs,” “universities are a nest of reds.” The official Fascist intellectuals were mainly engaged in attacking modern culture and the liberal intelligentsia for having betrayed traditional values.

No syncretistic faith can withstand analytical criticism. The critical spirit makes distinctions, and to distinguish is a sign of modernism. In modern culture the scientific community praises disagreement as a way to improve knowledge. For Ur-Fascism, disagreement is treason.

Besides, disagreement is a sign of diversity. Ur-Fascism grows up and seeks for consensus by exploiting and exacerbating the natural fear of difference. The first appeal of a fascist or prematurely fascist movement is an appeal against the intruders. Thus Ur-Fascism is racist by definition.

Ur-Fascism derives from individual or social frustration. That is why one of the most typical features of the historical fascism was the appeal to a frustrated middle class, a class suffering from an economic crisis or feelings of political humiliation, and frightened by the pressure of lower social groups. In our time, when the old “proletarians” are becoming petty bourgeois (and the lumpen are largely excluded from the political scene), the fascism of tomorrow will find its audience in this new majority.

To people who feel deprived of a clear social identity, Ur-Fascism says that their only privilege is the most common one, to be born in the same country. This is the origin of nationalism. Besides, the only ones who can provide an identity to the nation are its enemies. Thus at the root of the Ur-Fascist psychology there is the obsession with a plot, possibly an international one. The followers must feel besieged. The easiest way to solve the plot is the appeal to xenophobia. But the plot must also come from the inside: Jews are usually the best target because they have the advantage of being at the same time inside and outside. In the U.S., a prominent instance of the plot obsession is to be found in Pat Robertson’s The New World Order, but, as we have recently seen, there are many others.

The followers must feel humiliated by the ostentatious wealth and force of their enemies. When I was a boy I was taught to think of Englishmen as the five-meal people. They ate more frequently than the poor but sober Italians. Jews are rich and help each other through a secret web of mutual assistance. However, the followers must be convinced that they can overwhelm the enemies. Thus, by a continuous shifting of rhetorical focus, the enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak. Fascist governments are condemned to lose wars because they are constitutionally incapable of objectively evaluating the force of the enemy.

For Ur-Fascism there is no struggle for life but, rather, life is lived for struggle. Thus pacifism is trafficking with the enemy. It is bad because life is permanent warfare. This, however, brings about an Armageddon complex. Since enemies have to be defeated, there must be a final battle, after which the movement will have control of the world. But such a “final solution” implies a further era of peace, a Golden Age, which contradicts the principle of permanent war. No fascist leader has ever succeeded in solving this predicament.

Elitism is a typical aspect of any reactionary ideology, insofar as it is fundamentally aristocratic, and aristocratic and militaristic elitism cruelly implies contempt for the weak. Ur-Fascism can only advocate a popular elitism. Every citizen belongs to the best people of the world, the members of the party are the best among the citizens, every citizen can (or ought to) become a member of the party. But there cannot be patricians without plebeians. In fact, the Leader, knowing that his power was not delegated to him democratically but was conquered by force, also knows that his force is based upon the weakness of the masses; they are so weak as to need and deserve a ruler. Since the group is hierarchically organized (according to a military model), every subordinate leader despises his own underlings, and each of them despises his inferiors. This reinforces the sense of mass elitism.

In such a perspective everybody is educated to become a hero. In every mythology the hero is an exceptional being, but in Ur-Fascist ideology, heroism is the norm. This cult of heroism is strictly linked with the cult of death. It is not by chance that a motto of the Falangists was Viva la Muerte (in English it should be translated as “Long Live Death!”). In non-fascist societies, the lay public is told that death is unpleasant but must be faced with dignity; believers are told that it is the painful way to reach a supernatural happiness. By contrast, the Ur-Fascist hero craves heroic death, advertised as the best reward for a heroic life. The Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death.

Since both permanent war and heroism are difficult games to play, the Ur-Fascist transfers his will to power to sexual matters. This is the origin of machismo (which implies both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality). Since even sex is a difficult game to play, the Ur-Fascist hero tends to play with weapons — doing so becomes an ersatz phallic exercise.

Ur-Fascism is based upon a selective populism, a qualitative populism, one might say. In a democracy, the citizens have individual rights, but the citizens in their entirety have a political impact only from a quantitative point of view — one follows the decisions of the majority. For Ur-Fascism, however, individuals as individuals have no rights, and the People is conceived as a quality, a monolithic entity expressing the Common Will. Since no large quantity of human beings can have a common will, the Leader pretends to be their interpreter. Having lost their power of delegation, citizens do not act; they are only called on to play the role of the People. Thus the People is only a theatrical fiction. To have a good instance of qualitative populism we no longer need the Piazza Venezia in Rome or the Nuremberg Stadium. There is in our future a TV or Internet populism, in which the emotional response of a selected group of citizens can be presented and accepted as the Voice of the People.Because of its qualitative populism Ur-Fascism must be against “rotten” parliamentary governments. One of the first sentences uttered by Mussolini in the Italian parliament was “I could have transformed this deaf and gloomy place into a bivouac for my maniples” — “maniples” being a subdivision of the traditional Roman legion. As a matter of fact, he immediately found better housing for his maniples, but a little later he liquidated the parliament. Wherever a politician casts doubt on the legitimacy of a parliament because it no longer represents the Voice of the People, we can smell Ur-Fascism.

Ur-Fascism speaks Newspeak. Newspeak was invented by Orwell, in 1984, as the official language of Ingsoc, English Socialism. But elements of Ur-Fascism are common to different forms of dictatorship. All the Nazi or Fascist schoolbooks made use of an impoverished vocabulary, and an elementary syntax, in order to limit the instruments for complex and critical reasoning. But we must be ready to identify other kinds of Newspeak, even if they take the apparently innocent form of a popular talk show.

(source: https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/umberto-eco-ur-fascism )

[lemonluvgirl]

Ok, so this idea just would not leave me alone. I told my husband about this idea for a three-chapter Everlark modern high school AU and he really liked it and told me I should write it. So, here is the first part.

August

Junior year

Panem HS

Another year, another seat in the back of the class next to the window. Another bland teacher introduction followed by the passing out of the class syllabus. Then come the dreaded icebreakers. 

Never mind that we live in a town of less than 3,000, or that our graduating class will have less than 200 members if every one of us manages to make it through the next two years of high school. And forget the fact that we’ve all been in the same grade together since kindergarten. Every single year our teachers insist on forcing us to ‘get to know each other’. 

If I don’t already know the favorite season and holiday of the person sitting next to me by now I probably never will. (It’s Delly Cartwright, and hers are summer and Christmas respectively) 

But everything about this class, about this day, hell, probably about this entire year will be completely predictable. The brains, like BT Latier will work their asses off to get top grades, and the sportos like Cato Anderson will try to copy their homework and cheat off them during tests. Girls like Galinda ‘Glimmer’ Franklin and Clove Moretti will ignore the no cell phones rule and regularly update their Twitter and Instagram during the lecture and will only get called out about 40% of the time. 

The rest of us will just muddle through, hopefully paying enough attention to pass the exams and avoid remedial tutoring in the library with Ms. Trinket who, contrary to first impressions, is not a vapid airhead who wears too much makeup and hairspray but in reality, is a total hard ass and does everything in her power to make sure the kids she tutors pass their classes. My life is all about reducing stress and hassle, so I’ll be avoiding her at all costs this year. Besides it’s much easier to just pass the first time around than have to deal with the fallout from failing. 

So I inwardly roll my eyes at the whole charade of introductions and do my best to try and look only mildly bored. 

When it gets to my turn I don’t bother standing up. 

“My name is Katniss Everdeen. I’m 17. I’m stubborn and good with a bow and that’s pretty much it.” I say dryly, and it gets a few chuckles. 

After that, the spotlight of my peer’s attention moves on and no one spares me a second glance. Which is exactly how I prefer it. Everyone here already knows I’m not very interesting. I hate the whole school spirit scene, and I’m not in any clubs or on any committees. The last time I was voluntarily a part of something, was five years ago. I quit track in middle school so I could spend more time hunting in the woods to supplement the money from my father’s income that we lost after his death. I’ve gotten so good at it that Mr. Abernathy, the owner of the local sporting goods store, took me on as a seasonal hire last summer. I parlayed that summer gig into a year-round job that helps keep food on my family’s table, and shoes on my little sister’s feet. 

My life is a series of responsibilities and expectations that my classmates could never relate to. And their lives are a carefree existence of parties, dances, and soap-opera drama that I have no interest in. 

They live in their little bubbles and I live in the real world and we will go on co-existing in this way until graduation breaks the cycle. 

I zone out of the rest of the class. We won’t do much work today if at all, so I allow myself the small indulgence of looking out the window and planning for this year’s hunting season which is set to open up for archery on the first of October. 

That leaves me only a few weeks to finish getting the permits and stock up on the needed supplies. 

This year will be harder than the years before since I’ll be hunting alone. My best friend and hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne, graduated and left for Maryland this past summer. He’ll be in Annapolis, training to become an officer and a marine while I’ll be up to my elbows in wild turkey and white-tail deer. 

Even though I’m happy for him, I can’t help but feel saddened by his absence. Now there will be no one to watch my back in the woods. No one to help me carry a hundred or more pound buck back if I manage to bring one down like I did two years ago. 

The only thing I can think of is maybe asking my boss, Haymitch if I can borrow his truck and if I can rig up a travois then—

The bell rings and I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the shuffle of feet and the whoops of excitement and laughter that my classmates let out at the sound of the last period ending. 

I pick up my old hunter-green JanSport, that’s due for another patch of duck tape soon, sling it over one shoulder and make my way to the door. 

My exit is delayed by the clump of jocks jostling each other playfully around the doorframe. I breathe out an annoyed huff as I wait for them to pass. 

One of them, one of the kinder ones, turns around and shoots me an apologetic look, bright, clear blue eyes shine back at me for a moment before his friends call his attention and pull him roughly behind them. A piece of folded-up paper falls out of the side pocket of his backpack in the midst of this and lands at my feet. 

I swoop down to pick it up and my mouth opens to call out his name but the words died on my lips before they can slip off my tongue. 

I catch sight of something completely unexpected when I automatically glance down at the paper in my hand. It's the letters K.E. inscribed neatly on the corner that spark my curiosity and prompt my hand to open up the folded paper to see what’s inside. 

I lose my ability to speak, to even think for a moment because it’s me. 

I’m staring down at a picture of my own face, straight dark hair pulled back into an unseen braid that hangs down my back, while a few stray pieces fall around my eyes, framing an oval-shaped face, dark brows perch surreptitiously over slanted grey eyes and a straight nose above a generous mouth that’s for once not tilted down into a frown, but is instead caught in a relaxed position, not quite smiling but something like the ghost of it, is settled on my lips. And my head is tilted to the side, curiously. 

I have no idea when he caught me making this expression. Maybe when I was looking out the window? When did he draw this? Why did he draw this? Is this some sort of practice for art class? I think he takes Ms. Portia’s intermediate art class at the same time I take shop. I’ve seen him going into that wing of the school because it’s right across from the shop building. Maybe he’s just practicing his life study skills. Maybe he’s taking turns drawing everyone in our history class. 

I move forward and stick my head out the door, calling out, “Peeta,” but the hallway is empty. 

I look back down at the drawing in my hand and fold it back up carefully, before slipping it into the most secure pocket of my backpack, thinking I’ll give it back to him tomorrow.