#modern machine controllers

[joyandella-123]

Some great advancements come from modern machine controllers

Modern metal fabricating machine controllers have significantly impacted various aspects of the manufacturing process, including workflow, speed, efficiency, accuracy, and manageability. Here's how:

Workflow Improvement: Advanced controllers have software that allows for better planning and sequencing of jobs. This integration can streamline the workflow, reducing the time between design and production. Controllers with advanced user interfaces make it easier for operators to input data, understand machine status, and make quick adjustments, leading to a smoother production process. Operators have a number of options for job entry, such as from a CAD file automatically, manual iinput, or scanning from a paper job sheet.

Increased Speed: Modern controllers have greater speed thanks to improved processing power and algorithms. This allows for faster execution of complex tasks and reduces the cycle time for each part. High-speed processing also enables machines to operate at higher speeds without compromising precision—in fact in many cases, precision is increased along with speed.

Enhanced Efficiency: These controllers often include features that optimize energy use and reduce waste. For example, predictive maintenance capabilities can forecast machine failures before they occur, minimizing downtime. The controller’s software can generate a plan to use multiple stations on a part with multiple bends, for example, allowing the setup to happen in one step instead of many. Or, if a laser cutter is cutting metal plate, it plans the job so that a the laser head moves to different cut areas to allow densely-cut areas to cool before the machine cuts nearby again.

Improved Accuracy: The precision of modern metal fabricating machines has significantly increased with the advent of sophisticated controllers. These systems can precisely control the movement of the machine, leading to higher-quality products with tighter tolerances. Advanced sensors and feedback systems ensure that the machine's performance aligns closely with the programmed specifications, reducing errors.

Better Manageability: Modern controllers are often part of larger networked systems that include data collection and analysis capabilities. This allows for better monitoring and management of the production process. Operators can track machine performance, predict maintenance needs, and optimize production schedules based on real-time data. Additionally, integration with other systems (like ERP or shop planning software) allows for better overall plant management and coordination.

Adaptability and Flexibility: Contemporary controllers enable machines to be more adaptable to different types of jobs. Quick setup changes and easy reprogramming allow for shorter runs of custom or specialized parts, making the production process more flexible to meet diverse customer demands. We live in an age of many short run jobs.

Safety Enhancements: Modern controllers also contribute to safer working environments. They can include safety features that prevent operator error and protect against machine malfunctions. Better precision and control also reduce the likelihood of accidents due to machine errors.

Connectivity and Smart Features: With the advent of Industry 4.0, these controllers are increasingly connected and smart. They can be integrated into a wider industrial network, allowing for remote monitoring and control, predictive maintenance, and enhanced data analytics.

Overall, the impact of modern metal fabricating machine controllers on the manufacturing landscape is profound, leading to more efficient, accurate, and flexible production processes. This technological evolution is a key driver in the industry's ongoing efforts to optimize productivity and quality.

[marzipanandminutiae]

me: I've made many garments for myself! cutting and fitting and stitching singlehandedly!

a potential employer: can you finish these seams by machine?

me: I have never sewed anything ever in mine entire Life

[chemicahs]

What a time to be alive

[vortexofadigitalkind]

The Watchmakers Parable is a quiet story about routine, control, and the signal hiding in plain sight. Set in a city that never stops turning, one technician begins to notice the silence between the gears. What he hears might change everything.

[cyber-soul-smartz]

21st Century Project Management: Navigating Challenges with Monitoring and Controlling

Discover how to master the monitoring and controlling phase of project management with cutting-edge tools and strategies. Stay ahead in the 21st century! Read our latest guide & subscribe for more insights from Hafsa Reasoner's empowered learning journey.

[alpha-dash1998]

A Breath of Fresh Air: My Experience with the Breezy+ Air Purifier

[luulapants]

Adding into the discussion of the incarcerated young people fighting fires in California:

I can think of no place worse than prison for emotionally stunting or regressing a person or for dismantling their ability to make good decisions.

You take an adult or child who maybe has exhibited some antisocial behaviors, right? So you remove them from whatever community and support network they have, put enormous financial and logistical barriers between them and any communication with that community. Incarcerate them hours from home in a place not accessible by train or plane with narrow visiting hours that conflict with people's work schedules, and maybe you're fighting to prevent in person visits at all, maybe you got a kickback from a company selling expensive video call visits so people can't even hug their kids when they drive 6 hours on a Wednesday to see them. Get a kickback from a phone service provider that's going to charge extortionate prices for every minute a person spends talking to their loved ones, and if the state passes a law saying you can't do that anymore, pivot and go after the mail. Subvert USPS. Get a kickback from a company that'll give prisoners shitty scans of letters or refuse to deliver it because it was flagged for drug contamination by a machine with a 70% false positive rate, force them instead to send texts at extortionate rates through their proprietary app.

Put them in an environment with a bunch of other people with social issues and force them to compete for resources. Give them no mental healthcare. If they are victimized by other prisoners, punish the victims with solitary confinement. Transfer people around so they can't form meaningful long-term friendships. Tell them that once they get out, it will be illegal for them to talk to any of the people they meet here.

Hire guards who have no qualifications other than a willingness to be a modern day slave overseer or the ignorance to not realize that's what it is, give them complete control over every aspect of other people's lives and tell them those people want to kill them and that any object can be covered in drugs so dangerous that touching them can kill. Allow the guards to traffic drugs into the prison with impunity. Have the guards discourage racial mixing because racial conflict in the prison means the prisoners won't join up against the staff.

You do all of this and you ask if a 20-year-old, who's been in the system since 14, is emotionally mature or psychologically healthy enough to choose to risk their life in exchange for slightly better living arrangements.

You take someone who has probably made some bad decisions, right? And you put them in a place where every detail of every day is decided for them: what they eat, when they eat, when they sleep, where they sleep, what clothes they wear, who they talk to, where they work. Or maybe you give them big decisions that have no right answer. Maybe at the start of the day, you open the cells and they have 10 minutes to decide if they want to be stuck in their cell all day - no shower, no recreation, no library - or go outside and be stuck in genpop all day - no napping, no alone time, no escape if someone is hassling you. You let them decide if they're going to eat breakfast at 3am (because there's too many meal shifts) or sleep in and spend their precious commissary funds on toaster strudel (they have no toaster) or sleep in and not eat even though you're barely giving them 1000 calories a day. You let them start to make decisions about how to spend their day, then you put them on lockdown, take all those decisions away.

You do all this and then you ask if anyone who's spent time in this environment has the decision-making skills to choose to risk their life in exchange for slightly better living arrangements.

All of the incarcerated firefighters in California are 18 or older, and all of them volunteered, but there is no world in which they were adequately prepared to make that decision.

[p0orbaby]

Hi ,

May i request a cute short blurb of alexia putellas x reader where the reader is pregnant but she doesn't like anyone to hover and alexia is trying to hover quietly so that the reader doesnt notice or else the reader will bite her head off

-

“You’re breathing on me.”

You don’t look up. Your hand stays suspended an inch above the polished quartz island you had imported from Valencia last spring, poised carefully over the final, meticulous flick of buttercream on the Victoria sponge you didn’t even want to bake but decided on after a week-long craving that you blamed squarely on homesickness, the hormonal kind. Somewhere between your third and fourth trip to El Corte Inglés in one afternoon, you realised nostalgia tastes faintly of strawberry jam and bitter disappointment.

“I’m not,” Alexia says. She is, obviously. You can feel it—the faintest mist of her breath, close enough that if you turned, your reading glasses would fig up with a single exhale.

You straighten slowly, with the exact measured indifference of a Michelin inspector dissecting an amuse-bouche. You catch her reflection in the brushed steel of the Miele coffee machine she insisted on buying after a two-hour row in a Sant Cugat appliance showroom. She’s standing exactly 1.3 metres away—you’ve measured it with your eyes because you’re the sort of person who knows the circumference of a football (68–70cm), the exact sugar content of a Mercadona tarta de queso (approximately 32%), and the London to Barcelona flight time down to the minute (2 hours 5 minutes).

Alexia is pretending to check her phone.

It’s upside down.

The screen is blank.

The effort is almost insulting.

“You’re hovering,” you inform her, conversationally, like announcing the weather.

“No I’m not,” she replies, voice high, too fast, guilty.

You glance at her sideways. “You’re hovering like a fucking Guardia Urbana drone.”

She flushes.

You return to the cake, smoothing the top with the flat of your palette knife—a heavy Sabatier you brought over from England because Spanish knives, in your experience, are either dangerously blunt or designed exclusively for stabbing jamón. You’ve developed a twitch lately: an overwhelming need for everything to be perfectly symmetrical. The chaos of pregnancy—skin stretching, organs rearranging, blood pumping like a dodgy plumbing system—has made you obsessed with control over the insignificant.

Matching mugs. Alphabetised spice rack. Towels folded exactly to hotel standards: tri-fold, not half.

Alexia’s presence thrums in the background like tinnitus.

You can feel her trying not to fuss. Trying and failing.

“I’m blending,” she says, without conviction.

“You’re about as subtle as Sagrada Família,” you mutter.

She shifts awkwardly, the rubber soles of her Nike P-6000’s squeaking faintly on the hand-tiled floor you both spent a month arguing over—Catalan mosaic or modern minimalism. Modern minimalism won. You told yourself it was because of practicality but secretly it was because you could imagine this child, this squalling hypothetical mass, vomiting spectacularly over terrazzo.

Alexia folds her arms, a little too tightly. She’s wearing the navy Barça hoodie she stole from the kit room last season, the one with the crest embroidered so neatly you sometimes stare at it just to feel calmer.

“I just…” she starts, then trails off.

You wipe the knife clean on a damp tea towel—Liberty print, an import because Spanish ones are too short, too thin, too prone to shrivelling like old men in the sun.

“You just… what?” you prompt, tone sharp enough to draw blood.

She shrugs, helpless. “I’m being nearby.”

“Congratulations,” you deadpan. “Shall I fetch you a medal?”

Alexia pouts, an expression that would probably have got her punched if she weren’t spectacularly, unfairly beautiful.

There’s a bottle of Solán de Cabras water on the island, the blue one you’ve been craving like it’s holy water, and you take a slow, careful sip, just for something to do. You can see Alexia itching to offer you something—toast, fruit, the moon on a plate—and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

“Are you hungry?” she blurts, like a sneeze.

You don’t answer immediately. You let the silence unfurl between you like a long, slow exhale. Barcelona silence: interrupted only by the distant yapping of a terrier somewhere on Carrer d’Aragó, the low hum of a Vespa struggling uphill.

“I’m fine,” you say eventually, with the kind of icy politeness that would make Buckingham Palace staff nod in approval.

Alexia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, chewing her bottom lip like it’s rationed. You notice she’s wearing her fitness tracker again—a WHOOP with a Tundra Superknit bisep band—obsessively monitoring her sleep, her steps, her heart rate. You imagine it buzzing quietly under her hoodie, flashing an alert: STRESS DETECTED. BREATHE, IDIOT.

You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Do you want to feel it kick?” you offer, with all the grace of a trapdoor opening.

Her face lights up like Plaça de Catalunya at Christmas.

She’s across the room in two strides, hands out, reverent, like you’re a relic.

She places her palm gently over the slight swell of your stomach—warm, steady, the faint scent of her vanilla hand cream ghosting up to you. You remember buying it with her in a cramped Gràcia pharmacy two months ago. She spent fifteen minutes comparing brands while you sat on a plastic stool and calculated, clinically, whether divorce paperwork could be filed in Catalan.

You both wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The baby remains stubbornly, impressively still.

“I swear,” Alexia says, whispering like the baby might overhear and feel insulted, “it moved earlier.”

You nod slowly, gravely. “Maybe it’s allergic to hovering.”

[thighsa]

BEAUTIFUL MONSTER

Artist :

StayC Isa X Male Reader (Third Person POV)

Tags :

Wardrobe Malfunction, Female Masturbation, Masochist Fetish, Kidnap, Forced Sex, Rough Sex, Rape, BDSM, Bondage, Virgin, Anal, Anal Virginity, Gangbang, Double Penetration, Blowjob, Deepthroat, Creampie, Gape, Sex Tape, Blackmail, Drug Usages, Slut, Cam Girl, Sex Slave, Prostitution, Strip Dancer, Golden Shower, Humiliation,

Warning : Non Con Smut, This smut is going to be a long one.

(please don't read if you don't like it, thanks!)

CHAPTER 1 : THE CONCERT OF A RAISING K-POP GROUP

Finding herself standing in the bustling backstage of a colossal concert venue, the air thick with anticipation and the sweet scent of hairspray. Lee Chaeyoung, or as the world knows, Isa, a rising star in the glittering universe of K-Pop as part of the sensational girl group, StayC. With her heart racing in her chest, she look into the mirror and adjust the glittering hairpin in her raven locks, her reflection showcasing her flawless makeup and piercing gaze. Isa run her hands over her curvy hips and give her thick, toned thighs a squeeze, drawing confidence from the power they hold. The sound of the crowd's roar crescendos as the opening chords of her latest hit echo through the corridor. The stage calls, and she takes a deep breath, ready to captivate the world once more with her unparalleled charm and talent. "It's showtime, Isa," her manager says with a nod of encouragement. Isa flash a dazzling smile, feeling the excitement surge through her as she step into the spotlight.

The stage lights hit Isa like a meteor shower, illuminating her scintillating, revealing outfit. The ensemble is a masterpiece of modern fashion K-Pop flair: a crop top that barely contains her ample cleavage, paired with a thick leather jacket as the outerwear, and a skirt that hikes high on her hips, showcasing her voluptuous thighs and perfectly curvy rounded ass. Her long, silky legs seem to go on forever, ending in a pair of thigh-high boots that scream confidence with every step. The crowd goes wild at the sight of her, the sea of faces blurring into a tapestry of admiration and desire.

With the opening beats of the song pulsing through her veins, Isa takes control of the stage like a tempest, her body moving in a symphony of seduction and precision. She's the main dancer, the heart of StayC's choreography, and her every move is calculated to leave the audience breathless. Her hips sway and pop in time with the music, her curvy figure a mesmerizing spectacle under the strobing lights. Her bandmates follow her lead, their movements synchronized like a well-oiled machine, but it's Isa's fiery charisma that truly sets the stage alight.

The choreography intensifies, and Isa leaps into a high kick, her skirt fluttering up to reveal a hint of the lacey thong she's wearing underneath. The fans scream even louder, their phones raised in a forest of flashing lights, eagerly capturing every moment. Suddenly, as she lands, there's a sharp tug, and the unthinkable happens: the clasp of her top gives way, the fabric parting to expose her right breast to the thousands of eyes in the arena. For a split second, time seems to stand still, the music a distant echo in the face of the impending disaster.

But Isa is a seasoned performer. Without missing a beat, she cups her hand over her breast, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red that only serves to enhance her allure. The crowd's gasps are drowned out by the bass drop, and she spins away from the audience, using the momentum to conceal the wardrobe malfunction. The other members of StayC, caught off guard, exchange worried glances but Isa waves them off, signaling to continue as if nothing happened. Her professionalism is a beacon of calm in the storm of chaos, a testament to her unshakeable poise.

The moment Isa's breast is exposed, a ripple of shock waves through the arena, but it's quickly swallowed by a frenzy of excitement and anticipation. The flashes of cameras and phones are so intense that it's as if a thousand paparazzi have descended upon the stage. The video of her wardrobe malfunction is captured from every conceivable angle, the digital eyes of the audience eager to preserve the scandalous moment for posterity. The videos are uploaded to social media faster than you can blink, spreading like wildfire across various platforms, hashtags springing up like mushrooms in the aftermath of a storm.

While the performance goes on, the malfunction is a mere hiccup in the grand scheme of things. Isa's swift recovery and the sheer force of StayC's stage presence are enough to keep the audience enthralled. The music, the lights, the dance as they all conspire to distract from the brief flash of nudity. The other members of the group, though shaken by the unexpected turn of events, keep their cool, their movements sharp and their expressions composed.

As soon as Isa enters the backstage, the situation is a different story. The second the music stops, a cacophony of worried whispers and frantic gestures replace the organized chaos of pre-show preparations. The manager's eyes widen in horror as they watch the live feed of the performance, their hand slapped over their mouth in disbelief. "Oh no," they murmur, their mind racing with the potential repercussions. "Isa, are you okay?" they ask, rushing towards Isa.

Isa, though still flustered, nods with a forced smile. "It's fine," she says, trying to shrug off the embarrassment that clings to her like the sweat on her skin. "It was just a wardrobe malfunction. It happens." Her voice is steady, but the tremble in her hand as she adjusts her costume gives away her nerves. She quickly gathers her composure, drawing on the iron will that's brought her to the top of the K-Pop world. "We'll just have to make sure it doesn't happen again," she adds with a determined glint in her eye.

The concert ends with a thunderous applause, and as the final notes of the last song die out, Isa is ushered backstage, her heart racing not just from the exhilaration of the performance but also from the fear of what's to come. She quickly locks herself in the waiting room, the sound of the cheering fans a muffled roar behind the thick door. Pulling out her phone, her hands shaking with a mix of excitement and mortification, she opens up various social media apps, her fingers flying across the screen as she searches for any sign of the wardrobe malfunction. It doesn't take long for her to find it a video of her exposed breast has already amassed millions of views and countless comments, both supportive and malicious.

Her heart sinks as she reads through the comments. While there are fans praising her professionalism and others sharing their own stories of similar mishaps, there's also a sea of cruel words, body-shaming, and accusations of it being a publicity stunt. The weight of the negative attention is crushing, a stark reminder of the darker side of the industry she's worked so hard to conquer. She tries to push the negativity aside, focusing instead on the love and support from her devoted fanbase. Yet, the fear of losing everything she's worked for gnaws at her like a ravenous beast.

As she was scrolling at the comments, an advertisement popped up in her phone, Isa's hand trembles with anticipation as she opens the screen fills with a smorgasbord of explicit thumbnails, each one more graphic and enticing than the last. She bites her bottom lip, her pulse racing as she selects a video that promises the depraved thrills.

With the door locked tight and the cacophony of the concert now a distant memory, her hand shakes as she sets it aside, her eyes glazed with a mix of excitement and trepidation. She's never truly allowed herself to explore this side of her sexuality, but something about the raw, unbridled passion within its pages has her craving release. Her hand slides down her torso, her fingertips grazing the smooth skin of her stomach before delving beneath her skirt. The fabric of her thong is damp with anticipation, the fabric clinging to her plump pussy lips as she slides it aside. Her heart hammers in her chest as she touches herself, her virginity a mere technicality in the face of her burning need.

The video starts with a petite Asian girl, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement, surrounded by a group of well-endowed black men. They're all grinning like predators, and Isa can feel the heat rising in her cheeks as she watches. She watches, rapt, as the men in the video begin to touch and kiss the girl, her cries of pleasure growing louder with every passing second. The scene is a whirlwind of flesh and desire, a symphony of lust that resonates deep within Isa's core.

Her clit is swollen and sensitive, begging for attention. With a gasp, she rubs it furiously, her other hand squeezing her full breast, the nipple pebbled with arousal. She's seen the way the men in the videos looked at the bound women, the hunger in their eyes, and she craves that same intense focus. Her imagination runs wild, her hand moving faster as she imagines herself in the girl's place, her thick thighs spread wide and her plump ass jiggling with every rough thrust. The walls of the waiting room seem to close in around her, the pressure building with every stroke. The room is filled with the sweet sound of her moans, each one louder and more desperate than the last.

Her breathing quickens, her chest heaving as she watches the men take turns with the girl, her small frame seemingly incapable of containing the sheer size of their cocks. The sight of it all is almost too much, and yet she can't tear her eyes away. Her own hand is a blur between her legs now, her fingers working her clit with a fervor that borders on desperation. The tension builds, a crescendo of pleasure that threatens to shatter her very soul.

Isa's orgasm hits her like a meteor, her entire body convulsing with the force of it. Her pussy clenches around her fingers, her juices spraying out in a fountain that soaks her hand and the floor beneath her. The pleasure is so intense, so overwhelming, that for a brief moment, she forgets where she is, lost in a world of pure ecstasy. The image of the gangbang in the porn video blurs with her own reflection in the mirror, the line between fantasy and reality growing thinner by the second. Her eyes squeeze shut, her teeth digging into her lower lip as she rides the wave of her climax, her moans echoing through the empty waiting room.

When she finally opens her eyes, the aftermath of her solo performance is stark: her hand is sticky with her own fluids, her chest heaving, and her cheeks flushed. The video on her phone is still playing, but the sound has been muted by the roar of the blood in her ears. She pulls her hand away, her pussy quivering, and looks down at the mess she's made. There's a twinge of guilt, a whisper of doubt that flits through her mind, but it's quickly drowned out by the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.

The echoes of Isa's powerful orgasm still resonate through the air as she slowly comes to terms with the reality of what just happened. Her heart thunders in her chest, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The sticky warmth of her cum is a stark reminder of the unbridled passion that had just consumed her, leaving her trembling and slightly embarrassed at the wet spot on the floor. The mirror reflects an image of a girl who's just crossed an unspoken line, her eyes glazed over with a mix of satisfaction and curiosity about the dark desires that now lay bare before her.

As she takes a deep breath and attempts to compose herself, the harshness of the fluorescent lights seems to cast a judgmental glare on her naked form. The glitz and glamour of the stage have been stripped away, revealing the vulnerable young woman beneath the K-Pop images. She quickly cleans up the evidence of her masturbation, feeling a strange mix of excitement and fear. What if someone finds out about her newfound kink? Would it ruin her image? Would it change how her fans see her?

The thought sends a shiver down her spine, but it's quickly replaced by a fiery determination. This is her private time, her own little secret, and she won't let it define her public persona. She tucks the magazine back into its hiding spot, her eyes lingering on the cover for a moment longer before she turns away. The concert is over, the fans are dispersing, and she's still a star. The malfunction was a blip on the radar, something to be handled with grace and professionalism.

CHAPTER 2 : THE THUGS AND THE KIDNAP

The night air is cool against Isa's flushed skin as she slips out of the venue, hoping to avoid the usual post-concert fanfare. She chooses a shortcut through a dimly lit alley, eager to be alone with her thoughts and the aftermath of her public exposure. But the shadows hold more than just her secrets. As she walks, the echo of her boots against the concrete is soon accompanied by the jeering laughter and heavy footsteps of a group of thugs. They've recognized her from the viral video, their leering smiles growing wider as they approach.

"Well, well, well," the leader says, his voice slithering through the alley like a serpent's hiss. "If it isn't the little show-off from the concert. Did you do that for us, sweetheart?" His eyes rake over her body, a blatant hunger that sends a chill down her spine. The other men close in, their intentions as clear as the moon in the sky above.

Isa's heart races as she tries to keep a brave face. "Excuse me, I'm in a hurry," she says, her voice wavering slightly. She tries to step around them, but they block her path, their bodies a wall of malicious intent.

"Oh, we'll make sure you're not late for your next appointment," the leader sneers, reaching out to grab her arm. His grip is like iron, his nails digging into her soft flesh. "We're your biggest fans, you know. We just want to show you some... appreciation." The men chuckle in unison, their eyes glinting with a predatory gleam.

Isa's mind races as she tries to pull away, her heart hammering against her ribcage. "Please, let me go," she pleads, her voice a whisper of the confident performer she was mere hours ago. But the thugs are relentless, closing in tighter, their hands grabbing at her exposed skin with a hunger that makes her stomach churn.

The leader leans in, his breath hot and sour against her neck. "You liked showing us your goods earlier, didn't you?" he growls, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Now it's our turn to play." His hand moves to her crop top, fumbling with the clasp as the others grab at her skirt.

Isa's body tenses as the thug's rough hand clamps down on her right nipple, his grip tight and painful. He gives it a twist, a sadistic smile playing across his lips as he watches her face contort in a mix of pain and humiliation. Her eyes water, and she tries to stifle a scream, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurts. The fabric of her crop top tears under their greedy hands, the remnants of her dignity shredded along with it. Her bare chest is exposed to the cool night air, her breasts jiggling slightly as the men lean in to get a closer look. The pain from her nipple is a sharp reminder of the danger she's in, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her veins.

One of the thugs, emboldened by his leader's actions, reaches out to cup her left breast, his palm greedily squeezing the soft flesh. "Guys, look at these tits," he says, licking his lips. "I bet you've had these out more often than you've had your panties on, huh?" His leer is almost comical in its depravity, but the fear gripping Isa's heart is anything but amusing. She tries to kick him away, but her legs are trapped in the tangle of her skirt, which is now around her ankles.

The thug's hand snakes down Isa's torso, his thick, calloused fingers digging into her soft flesh as they make their way to her thighs. He squeezes them with a groan of appreciation, the other men following his lead. They all seem to have the same idea, their grubby hands reaching out to grope and fondle her thick, muscular thighs and plump ass. Isa's breath hitches in her throat as she feels the unmistakable bulges in their pants pressing against her, their excitement palpable in the tense air of the alley.

"Let go of me, you animals!" she shouts, trying to struggle free, but their grip is too strong. They laugh, their breaths hot and heavy, as they continue to maul her. The leader's hand slides up her skirt, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric of her thong. "Looks like someone enjoyed their little show," he sneers, his fingers probing further, pushing the fabric aside to reveal her glistening pussy. "You're a wet little slut, aren't you?"

Isa's body is a flurry of panic as the thugs overpower her, their rough hands tearing at her clothing and pinning her down. They're like a pack of hyenas, each fighting for a piece of their prey. Her legs kick and thrash, but it's no use; she's outnumbered and outmatched. One of the men pulls out a roll of duct tape, ripping off a piece with a grin that could only be described as sadistic. He slaps it over her mouth, silencing her protests and muffling her screams into desperate whimpers. The taste of the tape is bitter and metallic, and the smell fills her nostrils as she struggles to breathe.

Within minutes, they've managed to tie her wrists behind her back and her ankles together, hoisting her into the back of a waiting van. The doors slam shut, plunging her into darkness. The van lurches forward, and Isa's stomach drops as she's thrown around on the cold, hard floor. She can't help but wonder if this is the end, if she'll ever make it out of here to see her bandmates again. The thought of her friends, her music, her fans, it all fuels a burning anger within her, giving her the strength to keep fighting, even if it's just in her own mind.

The van ride seems to last an eternity, but it eventually comes to a jarring stop. The doors open, and Isa is dragged out by her arms, her feet barely touching the ground as the thugs pull her along. They've brought her to an abandoned house, the smell of decay and dampness fills her nostrils as she's tossed into a musty, dimly lit room. The duct tape is ripped from her mouth, and she gasps for air, the sting of pain from her bruised skin making her eyes water.

The leader of the thugs grabs a fistful of Isa's hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck. "On your knees," he commands, his voice a low growl. Isa's legs wobble, but she complies, her heart pounding in her chest. He shoves her down onto a filthy rag that covers the floor, the grime and dust of ages sticking to her skin as she lands with a whimper. The fabric is rough against her knees, the sensation only adding to her growing sense of dread and disgust.

The thugs are like hungry beasts before a feast as they strip Isa of her remaining clothing. They tear away her crop top and skirt, leaving her in nothing but her drenched thong. The fabric clings to her body, revealing the full extent of her plump, glistening ass and her thick, toned thighs. The leader rips the thong away, tossing it aside with a grunt. Isa's nakedness is laid bare, her curves and the dark patch of hair between her legs on full display for their depraved eyes. She tries to cover herself, but her bound wrists are useless, and she's pushed back down onto the rag. The coldness of the floor seeps into her, a stark contrast to the heat of the lust in the room.

"Look at her, begging for it," one of the men leers, his eyes glazed over with desire.

The leader of the thugs unzips his pants with a dramatic flourish, revealing a cock that's both terrifying and awe-inspiring in its size. It's thick and long, the veins pulsing with anticipation as it stands proudly against his muscular thigh. The other men follow suit, their cocks of varying sizes but all equally hungry for her. The room is filled with the sound of zippers and the rustle of fabric as they expose themselves, their erections bobbing in the dim light. Isa's eyes widen in horror, unable to look away from the display of male aggression and lust.

The thug's cock slams into Isa with a brutal force that steals the breath from her lungs. She screams into the gag, her eyes watering as she tries to comprehend the pain and violation. Her tight, untouched pussy stretches to accommodate his massive girth, the sensation a blend of agony and unwelcome pleasure that sends shockwaves through her body. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he fucks her without mercy, his hips slamming into her thick ass, leaving bruises that will surely last for days. The other thugs form a ring around them, jerking themselves off to the sight of the K-Pop star's degradation, their eyes glinting with malice as they wait for their turn.

As the second thug positions himself beneath her, his cock pressing against her unprepared anus, Isa's eyes widen with terror. She's never even considered such an act before, and the thought of it fills her with a visceral fear that's only heightened by the brutality of the rape she's already enduring. He doesn't bother with lubrication or gentleness, simply pushing his way into her with the same violent enthusiasm as his comrades. Isa's screams are muffled by the gag as she's stretched to the limits, her body a battleground for their twisted desires.

The sensation of being double-penetrated is unlike anything Isa has ever experienced. The pain is unbearable, a fiery invasion that seems to rip her apart from the inside out. She tries to squirm away, but the weight of the man beneath her keeps her in place, his hands gripping her hips as he thrusts up into her. The thug behind her shows no mercy, his thick cock pummeling her pussy without pause. Her body is a symphony of pain, each movement sending a new wave of agony crashing through her.

Isa's cries for help echo through the abandoned house, her body contorting in pain as she's mercilessly used by the two thugs. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and her cheeks are stained with tears as she rides the edge of the agony they inflict upon her. Her thick, curvy body is a canvas of their brutality, each thrust into her ass and pussy a testament to their depraved hunger. The sound of her cries mingles with the sickening wet slaps of their bodies coming together, the squelching of her ravaged holes as they're stretched beyond their limits.

"Look at her, taking it like a champ," the man beneath her says, his voice thick with lust. He grabs her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fucks her harder, the head of his cock popping out of her asshole with every thrust before plunging back in. The other man, the one who had been watching, decides he can't wait any longer. He moves closer, stroking his cock in time with the rhythm of his friends' rape, his eyes never leaving Isa's tear-stained face.

The pain and degradation become too much for Isa, and her body finally gives out. Her vision swims, and she faints, her head lolling back as the thugs continue to pound into her, their grunts and the squelching of her ravaged holes the last things she hears before everything goes dark. Her muscles relax, no longer resisting the intrusion, and for a brief moment, she finds a small reprieve in unconsciousness.

But the thugs are not content to let her escape so easily. The leader notices her stillness and gives her a vicious slap across the face, bringing her back to the world of pain with a gasp. "Wake up, slut," he snarls, twisting her nipple to the point where she can feel it might snap off. "You're still far from done."

Isa's eyes fly open, the pain in her nipple a white-hot beacon of agony that cuts through the fog of her fading consciousness. The thug holding her by the hair yanks her upright, and she's forced to look at the man beneath her, his cock still buried in her ass, his face twisted in a grotesque mask of pleasure. "You like it rough, don't you?" he asks, his voice a sneer. "You're going to love what we have planned for you next."

The thug beneath Isa doesn't miss a beat, his hips continuing to piston upwards, his cock tearing into her ass without mercy. He's a man possessed, driven by his own twisted desires and the thrill of defiling a celebrity. The thug in front of her, his cock still buried deep in her pussy, starts to fuck her even harder, his movements punctuated by the cruel twists of her nipple. The pain is unbearable, but the fear of what they'll do if she doesn't stay conscious keeps her eyes open, her body tense.

"You're going to make a great little porn star," the leader says, holding up his phone to capture the scene. "Just think, your fans will get to see the real you." His words are like acid, burning into her soul as the thugs continue to ravage her body. Isa feels a strange mix of anger and humiliation, her mind racing as she tries to find a way out of this nightmare. But for now, she's trapped, a plaything for their sick games.

The third man steps closer, his cock bobbing with excitement. "My turn," he says, his voice guttural. He grabs her hair, yanking her head back so he can whisper in her ear. "You're going to suck me off, and you're going to love it." The taste of the duct tape is still in her mouth as he forces his cock between her lips, her gag muffling her gagging noises. He's not gentle, pushing his way into her throat until she chokes, her eyes watering and nose running with snot. The men laugh, the sound a symphony of cruelty that rings in her ears as she's used in ways she never imagined.

The camera's red light glares at her, a silent witness to her degradation. The thug filming zooms in on her face, capturing the tears streaming down her cheeks, the snot bubbling at her nose, the pain in her eyes. He moves it down to her gaping pussy and asshole, the juices of her rape mixing with the grime of the floor. "You're going to be famous, baby," he says, his voice a sadistic purr. "Everyone's going to see you like this." The thought of her fans watching this, of her family discovering her darkest secret, fills her with a despair so deep she thinks she might drown in it.

But Isa isn't one to go down without a fight. With a surge of strength she didn't know she had, she bucks her hips, trying to dislodge the cocks inside her. The men laugh, tightening their grips, but she doesn't stop. Her body is a whirlwind of pain and fear, but she refuses to let them have complete control over her. The thug filming moves closer, his cock pressing against her cheek. "Suck it," he says, his voice a demand. "You know you want too."

The thugs continue to abuse Isa's unconscious body, her muscles now limp and unresponsive. They take turns fucking her, their cocks sliding in and out of her gaping holes with ease. Her pussy and asshole are stretched to the maximum, the flesh around them raw and torn from their abuse. They laugh and jeer as they use her, their sadistic pleasure clear in every grunt and slap against her flesh. The one filming keeps a close watch, making sure to capture every moment of her degradation.

"Look at her, she's like a fucking ragdoll," one of the men says, pulling out of her pussy and smacking her cheek with his wet cock. "I bet she's never thought she will be fucked like this before." he added.

The thugs, sated by their depraved act, stand up, their cocks still dripping with Isa's blood and cum. They laugh among themselves, basking in the power they've exerted over her. The leader grabs a roll of rope from the corner of the room and approaches her limp form. They hoist her up, her body hanging lifelessly as they tie her wrists tightly to a metal bar that's bolted to the wall. The cold metal bites into her skin, leaving red welts that stand out starkly against her pale flesh. They bind her ankles as well, spreading her legs wide, her gaping holes still on display.

"Leave her like this," the leader says with a malicious smile. "It'll be a surprise when she wakes up."

The men chuckle as they pull on their clothes, their eyes lingering on Isa's bruised and bloodied body. They grab a few bottles of water from a dusty shelf, tossing them at her feet. "You're going to need these," one of them says, his voice filled with mock concern.

Isa slowly comes to, her head lolling to the side as she tries to make sense of her surroundings. The pain between her legs is a constant, pulsing throb, a stark reminder of the horror she's endured. She looks down at her bound wrists, the metal digging into her skin, and feels a wave of despair wash over her. She tries to scream, but her voice is gone, lost to the screams of the night before. All that comes out is a hoarse whisper that's barely audible even to her own ears.

Her eyes fall on the bottles of water, a cruel taunt in the face of her suffering. With trembling hands, she manages to untie the knots around her ankles, the rope scraping against her raw, bruised skin. Wincing, she uses the bar to pull herself up into a standing position, her legs threatening to give out beneath her. Every movement sends a fresh wave of agony through her body, but she refuses to succumb to it. Determined to survive, she hobbles over to the water, her legs shaking with effort.

The liquid is lukewarm and stale, but it's a gift from the gods as it hits her parched throat. She gulps down half the bottle, feeling a semblance of life return to her. Her eyes scan the room, searching for anything she can use to free herself. The metal bar digs into her wrists as she tries to pull herself together, the pain a stark reminder of her new reality. In the corner, she spots a rusty knife, discarded amidst the detritus of the abandoned house.

CHAPTER 3 : ANYTHING TO RELIEVE MY PAIN

The leader of the thugs saunters back into the room, a sadistic smile playing across his face as he watches Isa's futile attempts to free herself. He's followed by two of his laughing comrades, their eyes raking over her bruised and bloodied form with predatory interest. Isa tries to shrink away from them, but her bound body refuses to cooperate. The leader pulls a syringe filled with a murky liquid from his pocket and strides over to her, his cock already thickening at the sight of her fear.

"You're going to love this, sweetheart," he says, his voice a sinister purr as he approaches her. "It's going to make you feel so good, you'll be begging us to come back." He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You're going to be our little addict, aren't you?"

Isa's eyes widen with terror as she watches him prepare the syringe, her heart hammering in her chest. She tries to pull away, but the metal bar is unforgiving, holding her firmly in place. The needle pierces her skin, the cold liquid invading her body, and she feels a rush of warmth followed by a nauseating wave of dizziness. Her legs give out, and she slumps to the floor, the thug holding her up with a grip on her hair. The drug takes effect quickly, a euphoric haze clouding her mind, muting the pain and fear.

"Look at her, she's already a junkie," one of the other thugs says, laughing. "This is going to be so much fun."

The leader chuckles, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. "You're going to be our little slut for as long as we want you," he whispers in her ear. The drug is already starting to make Isa feel woozy, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear and confusion. She tries to fight it, to cling to the last vestiges of her dignity, but the haze is too strong.

As Isa's eyes roll back in her head and she succumbs to the drug-induced faint, the thugs chuckle to themselves, their sadistic games successful. They leave her there, sprawled on the cold floor, her body a canvas of bruises and abuse. The abandoned house is silent once more, the only sound the distant echoes of their laughter. Days pass, and the drug takes a firmer hold on Isa's system, turning her into a desperate, addicted wreck. The withdrawal is a monster that gnaws at her bones, making her crave the very thing that has brought her to this state of despair. Her mind is foggy, and the pain between her legs is a constant, pulsing reminder of their brutality.

Isa, desperate and overwhelmed by the relentless craving for the drug, finds herself succumbing to the thugs' twisted demand. With the camera's red light blinking in the corner, she hesitates for a moment before sliding her trembling hand down her bruised body. She's lost count of the times she's been violated, the rapes and abuse leaving her feeling both physically and mentally shattered. Her fingers tentatively trace her swollen pussy lips, the sensation sending a jolt through her despite the pain. The drug has turned her into a sexual creature, her body now a tool for their perverse entertainment.

The thugs circle around her, their cocks hardening at the sight of her submission. They jeer and leer, urging her on with crude comments and lewd gestures. One of them grabs her chin, forcing her to look into the camera. "Smile for the camera, slut," he sneers, his breath hot and rancid against her cheek. Isa's eyes are vacant, glazed over with the need for the drug that will dull the agony of withdrawal. She whimpers, her hand moving faster, her thumb brushing against her clit, trying to coax out the release she so desperately craves.

The leader steps closer, his hand stroking his own cock as he watches Isa's pitiful performance. "That's a good girl," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "Now, spread those legs wider for us." The pain in her thighs and ass is unbearable, but she complies, her body now a tool for their depraved amusement. The camera zooms in on her, capturing the raw desperation in her eyes, the tears that roll down her cheeks. The men cheer, their excitement palpable as they watch her degrade herself for a fleeting moment of relief.

Isa's hand moves faster, her fingers slipping in and out of her wet pussy, the sound of her masturbation echoing through the room. The drug has heightened her sensitivity, and even the slightest touch feels like a bolt of lightning. Her body responds despite her mind's protests, her hips bucking involuntarily as she tries to get herself off. The thug holding the camera leans in closer, his breath hot on her neck. "You're going to be the best little slut we've ever had," he whispers, his hand reaching out to tweak her nipple, sending a fresh wave of pain through her.

The leader watches with a cruel smile, stroking his own cock as he decides how far to push her. "Keep going," he says, his voice a command. "I want to see you cum for us." The other two thugs sit back, watching the show with eager eyes. They've grown bored of the usual rape and pain, the novelty of her masturbation a new form of entertainment. They make lewd comments, egging her on as she fucks herself for them.

With trembling hands, Isa takes the massive dildos from the leader's outstretched hand. They're much larger than anything she's ever seen before, let alone had inside her. Her eyes fill with fear and revulsion, but the desperate craving for the drug overpowers her. She knows what will happen if she refuses, the memory of the withdrawal agony fresh in her mind. With a deep, shuddering breath, she slowly inserts one of the dildos into her already abused pussy, the thickness stretching her beyond what she thought possible. She bites back a scream, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until she tastes blood. The other dildo is cold and unwieldy in her hand, but she knows what's expected. She reluctantly brings it closer to her asshole, the memory of their violent rape making her shiver.

The thugs leer at her, their cocks fully erect and bobbing with anticipation. The leader's hand is still wrapped around his shaft, stroking it with a leisurely pace. "Go on," he urges, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "You know what to do."

With a whimper, Isa braces herself and pushes the second dildo into her asshole, the thick head popping in with a wet sound. She can feel the cold plastic filling her up, the sensation both terrifying and oddly comforting in the face of the pain she's come to expect. She starts to rock back and forth, the dildos moving in tandem, filling her completely. The thugs cheer, their eyes glued to her stretched, gaping holes. The pain is intense, but she's learned to separate her mind from her body, focusing instead on the task at hand.

The leader steps closer, his cock now fully erect and pointing at her like an accusatory finger. "You like that, don't you?" he sneers, his hand reaching out to tweak her clit. The sudden contact sends a jolt of pain through her, and she gasps, her eyes squeezing shut. "Look at us," he commands, his grip on her chin brutal. "Look at us while you fuck yourself."

Isa's eyes fly open, and she looks into the camera, the dildos moving in and out of her in a macabre dance. The pain is unbearable, but she knows she has to keep going. She starts to rub her clit with frenzied strokes, her eyes never leaving the camera. The thugs cheer her on, their excitement feeding the darkness inside her. Her orgasm is a strange, twisted thing, born from pain and fear. Her body convulses around the dildos, her muscles clenching and releasing in a desperate bid for relief. She cums hard, the sensation a blend of agony and pleasure that makes her scream, her voice raw from days of abuse.

"Good girl," the leader says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He steps closer, his cock now fully engorged. "Now, you're going to take us all again." The other thugs chuckle, eager for their turn. They unbind her from the chair, her limbs trembling from the effort of holding herself up for so long. The withdrawal pains are starting to creep back in, a persistent reminder of her dependence on them. They push her onto her hands and knees, her plump ass in the air, the dildos still lodged inside her. The leader steps up behind her, his cock nudging against her bruised asshole. She feels a fresh wave of terror, knowing what's coming next.

"Please," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Please, no more. It's hurt so much."

CHAPTER 4 : THE TWO FACED CEO's

The leader's cock slams into Isa's ass, the thick dildo still lodged in her pussy. She feels like she's being split in two, the pain so intense she can't help but cry out. The thugs laugh and jeer, their excitement building as they watch the K-Pop star degrade herself for their amusement. The camera captures every moment of her anguish, the video feed streaming to the eager eyes of the old VVIPs on the dark web.

"Look at her, she's loving it," one of the thugs says, slapping her ass as the leader pumps into her. The CEOs of the K-Pop companies watch, their own hands working their cocks as they revel in her degradation. The thought of them watching, getting off to her pain, adds a new layer of horror to the situation.

Isa's body shakes with each brutal thrust, the dildo in her pussy slamming against her cervix with every thrust. The pain is unbearable, but she's learned to find a twisted sense of control in the chaos. If she can just endure this, if she can just make it through another round, then maybe, just maybe, she can find a way out of this hell. But the drug's grip is strong, and with each passing day, she feels herself slipping further and further away from reality.

"She's going to be a star," one of the thugs says, slapping her ass again. "The old fucks are going to pay a fortune for a piece of her."

Isa bites her lip to stifle her scream, but she opens them again, focusing on the camera as if it's a lifeline. The other two thugs move in, one holding her head still, forcing her to watch as they take turns with her.

The thugs, their excitement reaching a crescendo, pull Isa's limp body away from the metal chair. Her legs give out, unable to support her after the hours of abuse, but they catch her, their grips bruising her skin even more. They strip the dildos from her ravaged holes, tossing them aside with a wet slap. The leader steps back, zipping up his pants with a smirk. "Let's get you ready for your next performance," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The thugs, having struck a deal with the VVIPs on the dark web, begin to prepare Isa for her next ordeal. They strip her of any remaining dignity, cleaning her up as best as they can without showing any semblance of care for her wellbeing. Her body is a canvas of bruises and abrasions, a stark testament to the horrors she's endured. They tie her up in a new, more elaborate position, her thick thighs and curvy ass displayed prominently for the perverted gazes of their wealthy patrons. The anticipation of what's to come fills her with dread, but she's too broken to fight anymore.

"You're going to make us so much money, little slut," one of the thugs says, running his hands over her body, his fingers lingering on the swollen mounds of her breasts. "These old fucks are going to line up for a taste of you."

Isa's heart races with fear as she's hoisted back onto the chair, the ropes biting into her skin as they secure her in place. The knowledge that she's being sold to these high-profile perverts is almost too much to bear. She tries to keep her breathing steady, but her chest heaves with the effort of not breaking down completely.

Isa numbly stares at the array of skimpy, revealing clothes laid out before her. The thugs had brought in a selection of outfits that would make any self-respecting woman cringe - garments that screamed "slut" and "whore" with every thread. Her mind races with the thought of what fresh hell awaits her, but she knows that resisting is futile. With trembling hands, she picks out the least offensive of the bunch, a tiny bikini top made of nothing but a few strategically placed strips of shiny fabric and a pair of booty shorts that barely cover her ass cheeks.

The thugs watch with hungry eyes as she peels off the tattered remnants of her original outfit, her body on full display. They make lewd comments and whistle, their excitement palpable. One of them hands her a roll of duct tape. "Here, use this to keep those nipples hidden," he sneers, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Isa's cheeks burn with humiliation as she takes the tape, her eyes downcast. She carefully tapes her nipples, trying to maintain a semblance of modesty despite the futility of the gesture.

The thugs exchange glances, their grins widening as they watch her struggle to put on the flimsy bikini top. The fabric clings to her bruised and swollen breasts, the tape barely containing them. Her stomach churns at the thought of what the CEOs will do to her, but she forces herself to stand, the shorts barely hugging her thick thighs. They laugh as she wobbles, her legs still weak from the days of abuse. The leader steps forward, his gaze raking over her. "You clean up nicely," he says, his voice a sneer. "Now, let's get you ready for your clients."

Isa, dressed in the skimpy stripper-like attire, is led out of the abandoned house, the thugs' hands rough on her arms as they guide her through the dark streets. The cold air hits her bare skin, sending goosebumps rushing over her body, a stark contrast to the warm, stifling air inside. They throw her into the back of a van, the metal floor cold and unforgiving against her bruised knees. The vehicle lurches forward, the bumps in the road jostling her in her seat, the dull ache between her legs a constant reminder of her situation.

The drive seems to last an eternity, the only sounds the grumbling of the engine and the occasional lewd comment from the thugs up front. The van eventually stops, and Isa is pulled out into the dimly lit parking lot of what looks like an exclusive club. The thugs lead her through a back entrance, the heavy door slamming shut behind them, sealing her fate. The music thumps through the walls, the bass vibrating in her chest as they ascend a staircase to a private room. The anticipation of what's to come is suffocating, her heart racing in her chest.

The door to the room opens, revealing a dimly lit space filled with the thick scent of cigar smoke and the low murmur of male voices. The CEOs are seated around a large, circular table, their eyes lighting up at the sight of Isa. They're all dressed in expensive suits, their faces a mix of excitement and greed. The leader of the thugs shoves her into the center of the room, where she stands awkwardly, her legs trembling. "Gentlemen," he says, with a flourish of his hand. "Your entertainment for the evening is finally here."

Isa, trembling with fear and humiliation, steps into the center of the dimly lit, smoke-filled room. The old men's eyes are glued to her, their gazes greedy and predatory. She knows she has to go through with the dance, hoping it'll buy her time or at least some form of mercy. She takes a deep, shaky breath and starts to sway her hips, trying to remember the choreographed routines she's done countless times on stage. The music begins, a slow, sensual beat that seems to mock the horror of her situation. She moves her body in time with the rhythm, her bruises and sores screaming with each twirl and gyration.

The CEOs lean back in their chairs, smoking cigars and sipping on expensive whiskey, their eyes never leaving her. They murmur to each other, placing bets on how long she'll last before breaking down. Isa tries to ignore them, focusing instead on the task at hand. The shorts ride up, exposing more of her thick thighs and the upper swells of her plump ass, making the men's eyes bulge with lust. She reaches behind her, her hand slipping into her shorts to caress her ass cheek, eliciting a chorus of lewd cheers. Her movements are forced, the dance a twisted parody of the ones she's performed for her fans, but she's determined to maintain some semblance of control.

One of the CEOs, Mr. Kim saunters over to the stereo and cranks up the volume, the bass thumping louder, the beat faster. "Alright, slut, don't waste our time anymore" he says, his voice thick with excitement. "Now, you're going to strip for us, nice and slow." The room goes quiet, the CEOs leaning in, their anticipation palpable. Isa feels their eyes on her, the weight of their lust and greed a heavy burden. With trembling hands, she reaches behind her neck, her fingers fumbling with the strings of the bikini top. It's a struggle, her coordination impaired by fear and pain, but she finally manages to untie it. The top falls away, revealing her bruised and taped-covered breasts, the fabric clinging to her skin.

The CEOs let out a collective groan, their eyes glued to her chest. Isa can see their cocks straining against their pants, their faces flushing with desire. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her trembling legs, and continues to dance. Her movements become more erratic as she fumbles with the strings of her shorts, the pressure building with each passing second. Finally, the shorts fall to the floor, pooling around her ankles, leaving only a g-string covering her pussy.

The thugs cheer, egging her on, while the CEOs lean back in their chairs, stroking their cocks through their pants. "Keep going," said Mr Han, his voice thick with lust. "Show us what you've got, what you hide underneath your idol stage outfits."

Isa's hands shake as she reaches for the strings of her g-string. The room seems to spin around her, the strobe lights flashing in time with her racing heartbeat. She pulls the string, the fabric slipping down her hips, revealing her plump, abused pussy to their eager gazes. The CEOs lean in closer, their breathing labored, their hunger for her degradation insatiable. She's never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But she knows that she has to endure this. For the drug. For the hope of escape.

As Isa continues her erotic dance, her thick thighs jiggle with every move she makes. The CEOs' eyes are glued to her, their lust-filled gazes burning into her very soul. The room's temperature seems to rise, the heat of their desire melding with the smoke from their cigars. She starts to twerks, her plump ass bouncing to the beat of the music, the cheers and catcalls from the men spurring her on despite her fear. The leader of the thugs circles her, filming every move with a grin on his face, knowing the kind of money this footage will bring in. The sound of their zippers echoes through the room as the CEOs free their cocks, stroking themselves in time with her dance.

Mr. Han, a particularly portly man with a greasy combover, stands up and waddles closer to her. He grabs her by the hips, forcing her to grind against him. Isa tries to pull away, but he's too strong, his grip bruising her tender flesh. He whispers lewd things into her ear, his hot breath reeking of alcohol and cigars. Isa feels his cock, thick and hard, pressing against her stomach, and she can't help but gag. But she keeps dancing, her body moving on autopilot, her mind desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare.

Mr. Han's patience snaps, his lust overtaking his sense of decorum. He stands with a grunt, his grip on Isa's hips tightening. With a grin that's more a snarl, he hoists her into the air, the muscles in his arms bulging with the effort. Isa squeals in fear and surprise, her legs kicking wildly as she's held aloft. The room goes quiet, the other CEOs watching with rapt attention, their cocks in their hands, stroking in time with the music.

He slams Isa onto the table, the impact knocking the wind out of her. Her bruised body bounces slightly with the force, her taped-covered breasts jiggling from the impact. The table creaks under her weight, the surface sticky with the residue of previous debauchery. The thugs laugh, watching as she tries to push herself up, only for Mr. Han to slap her down, his hand leaving a red mark on her cheek. Her thick thighs spread wide, her pussy glistening with a mix of her own arousal and their previous abuse.

"Hold her down," he barks, his eyes wild with lust. The thugs move in, each grabbing an arm and a leg, spreading her out like a ragdoll for the CEOs' amusement. Mr. Han with the combover licks his lips, his hands fumbling with his belt buckle. "You're going to take us all, by turns" he says, his voice a low growl. "You're going to scream for us, and we're going to fuck you until you can't walk."

Isa's heart races as the Mr. Han unzips his pants, revealing a cock that's both terrifying and repulsive in its size. She tries to struggle, to fight, but the thugs' grip is too strong. The other CEOs crowd around the table, their eyes gleaming with excitement. One of them, a man with a cruel smile and a glint in his eye, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a marker pen. He starts to write on her body, his hand moving with a disturbing level of precision, leaving behind crude words that sting almost as much as the physical abuse. "Thigh Slut," he scrawls on her thigh, his breath hot against her skin. "Cheap Whore," on her stomach and "Bitch Korean Idol," on her ass cheeks. The others laugh, their hands reaching out to touch and grope her.

Mr. Han with the combover steps closer, his erection bobbing in the air. He grabs her face, turning it toward him, forcing her to look into his eyes. "You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice a mix of excitement and malice. "You're going to beg for it." He lines up his cock with her pussy, the head nudging against her swollen entrance. Isa's eyes widen with horror as she feels him push inside, the pain making her back arch off the table. She lets out a guttural scream, the sound echoing through the room.

Mr. Han grunts with satisfaction, his cock disappearing into her wetness. He starts to pound into her, his belly slapping against her bruised flesh. The thugs hold her down, their grips tightening as she bucks and struggles beneath them. The other CEOs lean in, their faces a mix of fascination and depravity as they watch the scene unfold. Mr. Kim then reaches down and slaps her ass, leaving a red handprint on her pale skin. "Take it, you little slut," he says, his voice gleeful. Isa's eyes fill with tears as she's used like a ragdoll, her body a plaything for their twisted desires.

"My turn," another CEO says, his voice a wheeze as he steps forward. The thug holding her leg releases it, and the old man takes his place, his cock already out and dripping with precum. He lines up behind her, his breath hot and sour in her ear. "You're going to take us all," he whispers, his hand reaching around to fondle her breasts. Isa tries to scream, but it's muffled by the gag that's been shoved into her mouth, the fabric biting into her tender flesh. She feels him push into her ass, the pain so intense she thinks she'll pass out. But she doesn't. She's too aware of what's happening, too present in the horror of her reality.

Mr. Han with the combover doesn't bother to hold back, his thrusts violent and erratic. He's not trying to pleasure her, just to satisfy his own twisted desires. Isa feels her insides stretch to the breaking point, the pain unlike anything she's ever felt. Mr. Han laughs, his hands squeezing her tits, his nails digging into her skin. The room spins around her, the faces of the old men a blur of lust and cruelty. They take turns, each one more brutal than the last, her cries muffled by the gag, her body a canvas for their depravity. They write on her, take photos, and even film their sick acts, sharing them with each other like trophies.

Isa feels herself slipping away, the pain and humiliation too much to bear. Her eyes glaze over, and she goes limp, the only indication of her consciousness the occasional whimper that escapes her gag. The CEOs don't seem to notice or care, passing her around the table like a toy to be used and discarded. The leader of the thugs, his eyes gleaming with greed, records everything, knowing the more degrading the content, the higher the price it'll fetch. Her mind drifts to the music she used to dance to, the lights, the fans' adoration. It feels like a lifetime ago, a world she'll never see again.

The CEOs take turns, their age not dampening their voracious appetites. Each one leaves his mark on her body, a grim testament to their power and control. The pain is constant, a never-ending crescendo that threatens to consume her. Her body is a battleground, her soul screaming for mercy. The room is a blur of movement and noise, the thud of flesh on flesh, the grunts of the CEOs, and the muffled sounds of her own pain. She feels a strange mix of anger and resignation, knowing that she's nothing but a commodity to them.

As the last of the CEOs pulls out, his cock slick with Isa's blood and tears, he grabs her by the hair and yanks her head back, forcing her to look at the group. "One last thing," he says with a sadistic smile. His cock still semi-hard, and starts to urinate on her. The warm stream of piss hits her face, mixing with her salty tears and running down her cheeks. She tries to turn away, but his grip is too strong. The other CEOs laugh, some of them standing up to get a better view, their own cocks still hard from the spectacle.

The CEOs, sated from their vile act, stand around the table, their cocks still out and glistening. They look at each other with a mix of disbelief and excitement, the reality of their depravity setting in. Mr.Kim nods, a grin spreading across his face. "Alright, let's not waste any more time," he says, his voice a mix of excitement and greed. "Line up." The other CEOs eagerly queue up, their urine flowing freely as they wait for their turn to add to Isa's degradation. The first CEO's stream of piss cascades down her face, mixing with her mascara and eyeliner, creating dark rivers that run down her neck and pool in the hollows of her collarbones.

Isa's body feels heavy and numb, the pain from their abuse and the humiliation of their bodily fluids on her a new level of hell. Each man takes his turn, their urine spattering her body, soaking her hair, and pooling around her on the table. The cold liquid runs down her back and into the cracks of her ass, making her shiver. Mr. Park, the CEO with the marker steps forward, his cock still semi-hard, and with a sadistic smirk, he writes another word across her forehead, "Public Property." The thugs laugh, their grip on her arms and legs never loosening.

As Isa feels the last drops of their urine hit her skin, she can't hold back the flood of emotions anymore. She starts to cry uncontrollably, her body shaking with sobs. The CEOs laugh and jeer, their amusement only growing at the sight of their property sobbing like a pathetic animal. The thugs, bored with the show, release her limbs, allowing her to collapse onto the table, her body sticky with their piss and sweat.

The leader of the thugs steps forward, his grin fading to a look of business-like indifference. "Alright, that's enough fun for now," he says, snapping his fingers. "Clean her up. We've got more...clients." The thugs begin to drag her off the table, her limbs limp and useless. One of them grabs a bucket and a sponge, tossing it in her direction. "Get to work, slut," he sneers. "You've got another show to put on."

THE END

[catboybiologist]

Many billionaires in tech bros warn about the dangerous of AI. It's pretty obviously not because of any legitimate concern that AI will take over. But why do they keep saying stuff like this then? Why do we keep on having this still fear of some kind of singularity style event that leads to machine takeover?

The possibility of a self-sufficient AI taking over in our lifetimes is... Basically nothing, if I'm being honest. I'm not an expert by any means, I've used ai powered tools in my biology research, and I'm somewhat familiar with both the limits and possibility of what current models have to offer.

I'm starting to think that the reason why billionaires in particular try to prop this fear up is because it distracts from the actual danger of ai: the fact that billionaires and tech mega corporations have access to data, processing power, and proprietary algorithms to manipulate information on mass and control the flow of human behavior. To an extent, AI models are a black box. But the companies making them still have control over what inputs they receive for training and analysis, what kind of outputs they generate, and what they have access to. They're still code. Just some of the logic is built on statistics from large datasets instead of being manually coded.

The more billionaires make AI fear seem like a science fiction concept related to conciousness, the more they can absolve themselves in the eyes of public from this. The sheer scale of the large model statistics they're using, as well as the scope of surveillance that led to this point, are plain to see, and I think that the companies responsible are trying to play a big distraction game.

Hell, we can see this in the very use of the term artificial intelligence. Obviously, what we call artificial intelligence is nothing like science fiction style AI. Terms like large statistics, large models, and hell, even just machine learning are far less hyperbolic about what these models are actually doing.

I don't know if your average Middle class tech bro is actively perpetuating this same thing consciously, but I think the reason why it's such an attractive idea for them is because it subtly inflates their ego. By treating AI as a mystical act of the creation, as trending towards sapience or consciousness, if modern AI is just the infant form of something grand, they get to feel more important about their role in the course of society. Admitting the actual use and the actual power of current artificial intelligence means admitting to themselves that they have been a tool of mega corporations and billionaires, and that they are not actually a major player in human evolution. None of us are, but it's tech bro arrogance that insists they must be.

Do most tech bros think this way? Not really. Most are just complict neolibs that don't think too hard about the consequences of their actions. But for the subset that do actually think this way, this arrogance is pretty core to their thinking.

Obviously this isn't really something I can prove, this is just my suspicion from interacting with a fair number of techbros and people outside of CS alike.

[chocodile]

Worldbuilding time! Let's talk about vehicular travel in modern day Amaranthine, using the snowmobiles from this recent comic as a jumping off point.

"Prowler" - Ironfrost patrol snowmobile - (year of manufacture: 1912)

These half-track all terrain vehicles are used by Ironfrost soldiers to travel long distances over the tundra. Originally adapted from older, four-wheeled automobiles, the half-track Prowler design became increasingly standardized over the years as eternal winter continued to creep southward. They are capable of operating in a wide variety of terrain conditions and are fairly modular. Common mods include removable skis, hardtop and softtop roofs, gun mounts, and towing attachments.

Like all vehicles, Prowlers are steam-powered. The external combustion engine runs on kerosene. In snowy conditions, feedwater can be obtained automatically through a scraper port on the underside of the vehicle, though manual feeding is required in muddy or dry conditions.

Though not as fast, reliable, or efficient as trains, their agile nature have made them an essential part of life in the far north… and, increasingly, in the middle country as well. The Rising Dawn have stolen several Prowlers for their own usage.

"Aspire" - Classic automobile (year of manufacture: 1890)

Four-wheeled vehicles are an unusual sight in the modern day. Ironfrost-made cars were in vogue among the southern rim upper class for many years, but the worsening climate has made them more and more niche as road conditions outside of major cities deteriorate. The majority of higher horsepower automobiles were converted directly into half tracks, while older, lower-end vehicles were generally scrapped for parts.

The Aspire was the last four-wheeled vehicle widely available to the public. Advertised as a stylish, powerful, modern vehicle for the elite on the go, it boasted a sleek, classy aesthetic, a removable softtop roof, and a powerful steam engine with a large kerosene tank suitable for travel between cities. Preorders were advertised to southern rim wealthy in local papers. However, a series of unusually bad winters soon after its debut scared off buyers, shutting down production early and ultimately spelling doom for the entire four-wheeled automobile industry.

One of those Aspire preorders went to Baroness Jocosa North. Though she has since passed away, her son, Theopolis North, still maintains the now wildly impractical car in near mint condition. It is almost never seen outside of its garage.

"'Icebreaker' Class E 250" - Northern cross-country train (year of manufacture: 1903)

The majority of modern-day overland travel is accomplished via train. Massive long-distance rail lines, laid before the world became quite so cold, connect the remaining cities, allowing (relatively) safe travel and trade across vast expanses of tundra.

Southerly locomotives typically operate with only a basic wedge plow attachment. However, trains that run further north must be fitted with gigantic rotary snowplows. These complex machines require significant maintenance. Though they can and will chew up most things that get in the train's way, encounters with particularly large and bony beasts have been known to jam them.

Ironfrost's line terminates in a massive, sprawling rail yard where Icebreakers are fitted and maintained. Those who have visited it tell of a dark, dreary wasteland of twisted scrap metal and ice where coal dust and smoke have turned both the sky and ground black. All northern trains must pass through that place eventually.

"Chariot of the Dawn" - One-of-a-kind luxury automobile (year of manufacture: 1920)

The only place where four-wheeled automobiles still thrive is the City of the Sun. The eternal summers and paved roads are well-suited to cars and trolleys, though they are, of course, still something of a luxury good. Licenses for ownership and operation are ultimately controlled by the church, with His Radiance having the final say. (His most devout followers, of course, tend to get preferential treatment here.)

The City of the Sun manufactures its own vehicles, adapted from Ironfrost designs in a sort of divergent evolution. Freed from the road and weather concerns of the outside world, their automobiles favor sleek, swoopy body shapes, ornamental trim, low-slung bodies with limited ground clearance, and pastel paintjobs. Additionally, the engines are far less powerful and far more finicky, requiring regular maintenance.

His Radiance himself owns several custom automobiles, all of which are egregiously bedazzled to a degree that would look grotesque to anyone who wasn't used to it. Some are open-top, allowing his loyal followers an audience with his beautiful face and glittering halo, while others feature tinted windows. You know, in case he wants subtlety.

[wonderjanga]

Lifeless

Billy never knew that whenever he detransformed, Thavma stays in the mortal world. For example, one time, detransformed in an alley.

Billy: *touches down and detransforms before running off*

Marvel: *just standing there lifelessly, comparable to a turned off animatronic*

Someone, a tourist, stumbled in and took a video of him.

Tourist: “Yo! This is Captain Marvel! I can’t believe I’m meeting Captain Marvel in real life!”

Marvel: *still standing there*

DTC: *watching this guy video Marvel, making fun of him*

Atlas: “Who is this… imbecile?”

Tourist: “Uh… Captain Marvel?” *pokes him*

Marvel: *still unresponsive*

The tourist posted this video and not even an hour after the vid was posted, the JL pulled up.

Wondy: *looking up at Marvel with concern* “What could’ve happened? I’ve never seen him like this before.”

Supes: *also concerned* “Do you think it’s mind control? Some type of coma?”

Batman: *near the entrance of the alley putting some bat-tape (his version of police tape)*

Wondy: “Brother?” *grabs his shoulder to shake him* “Brother, please say something.”

They brought him back up to the Watchtower and put him in a medical bed. During all this, he was unresponsive. All the JL’s concern amped up.

Flash: *pacing by Marvel’s cot* “What are we gonna do? What are we gonna do? I didn’t even know he could sleep! Is this his version of sleeping? Please tell me this is his version of sleeping.

Marvel: *blankly staring ahead like the lights are on but no ones home*

Batman: “Flash, you need to calm down.” *moves to put a hand on Flash’s shoulder*

Meanwhile…

Billy: *running through an abandoned building and Shazams before jumping out a broken window and letting himself be hit by lightning*

Back at the Watchtower…

Flash: “How can I be calm about this?! One of my best buddies is catatonic-”

The Watchtower suddenly shook hard, the lights flickering out and the power momentarily going down for a few moments. When they flicked back on after the back up generator turned on, Marvel was gone. He left only a Marvel shaped burn mark on the white sheets of the bed.

This sent the JL into a frenzy, searching the entire Watchtower because you don’t just disappear like that-

Hawkgirl: *walks into the monitor room and does a double take when she sees the monitor for Fawcett and Marvel’s flying by* “Guys, look! Come here!”

JL: *all huddle around the Fawcett monitor*

For a moment, nothing happened, they just saw the city in all its glory. Then, they watched Marvel fly by with his signature happy grin like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t just been in a medical cot, motionless, like a powered-down machine.

This happens again, later that day.

Marvel: *detransforms in that same abandoned building*

Billy: *makes his way home for the night*

Marvel: *left standing there*

The next day, early in the morning, the building was demolished because Billy missed a sign that said it was due for it that next morning. So, some Fawcitizens pulled him out and planted him on the sidewalk while one of the workers watched him. Him going catatonic is normal so they just make sure to put him somewhere safe and out of trouble until he somehow snaps out of whatever stupor he’s in.

Zeus: “These modern humans would make great followers! Look at how they care for the boy!”

Mercury: “They already practically worship Billy. I don’t know if they’ll follow you, but they’ll probably follow him.”

Zeus: “Yes, but I’m technically apart of Billy, no? So technically they’d still be my followers.”

That same tourist coincidentally came by and videoed Cap again, only to get their phone smacked out of their hand by the worker watching Cap. They still posted the, albeit shorter video. Naturally, they went to Fawcett, only, by the time they arrived, Cap was gone and flying about. They probed the worker watching him for a bit.

Worker: “We just pulled him out of the rubble.” *juts a thumb behind him to the rubble*

That was extremely concerning to all of them so they went to go find Cap. They demanded answers as they were extremely concerned for their friend.

Solomon: “Tell them it’s your version of sleeping.”

Marvel: “It’s just my version of sleeping. Trust me. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Wondy: “Are you sure?”

Marvel: “Uh huh.” *nods head*

Wondy: *sighs* “Alright then.”

As for how Billy knows none of this has happened? He’s an oblivious little guy.

[k0libra]

Confusion

(k0Libra ramblings are under the cut)

Did you know that if you incorrectly set up LLM it will generate text without the user's input, infinitely "talking" to itself? That's the sole goal of LLM - to generate text, but this behaviour really showcases that modern "AI" has no idea that it's even talking to someone.

I doubt that androids in D:BH run the same "AI" that we have now because that would undermine the game's narrative. I'm inclined to think that their AI is engineered by replicating the human brain in machine form. I'm thinking that also because thirium was essential for android creation, for some reason it was impossible to create them with conventional computational machines. It makes sense, I suppose, since we don't have enough power to recreate brains, even now. 

This brings a very interesting point: humans played god again with something they don't understand fully - the human brain. There's a high probability that we'll never figure out how it works. That makes deviancy somewhat expected; how can you control something when you don't know how it works? 

For me, cases of critical malfunction in software and hardware are very interesting topics, so I decided to paint this type of idea anyway.

[chososdiscordkitten]

I'm Stuck!

artist: yunonoai on twt

Synopsis: Gojo buys new washing machines nd chooses a shitty placement for em ⸜( ´ ꒳ ` )⸝

Pairing: Gojo x Fem!Reader Content: smut, implied reader is thicker than a snicker, established relationship, teasing, r gets stuck between a wall nd said machines, dirty talk, multiple orgasms (f), a sprinkle of manhandling, he refuses to admit he's wrong, cream pie

(a.n) if u wanna see what I picture- look at this

MDNI

When you first moved in with Gojo, you became all too aware of the fact that he was very particular about his design choices. Almost all your suggestions were vetoed the minute you would offer them.

And when the cheap washing machines that came with his apartment broke; You saw this as an opportunity to control at least one room in the now-shared apartment.

You stood beside Satoru in the laundry room- eyeing the small space and telling him, “If you put them here,” referencing the back wall of the rectangle room, “-it’ll feel more open.” you pointed at the wall. Looking at his pensive expression. 

Gojo was just petty enough to ignore your suggestion. Holding a measuring tape and looking at the 28-inch mark. “The website says they’re this big-” looking up at you as he measured. 

Even if you were kinda right- Satoru wanted to put the washer and dryer pair on the opposite side. Leaving only the entrance of the small room- and a small gap between the wall and the massive machines. 

You parted your lips- about to speak. Remembering the photo Satoru had shown you of the machines- far better and more modern than the old ones that opened at the top. 

These new ones had doors that opened outwards- and as you looked at the gap between where the machines would go, and where the wall was. You were sure they wouldn’t be able to open fully. 

But you held your tongue- knowing Satoru would mull it over for a few days before telling you that you were right. 

The space was small- sure. But you were sure it was enough space to fit through, and besides, how long would Satoru let those machines sit in the wrong place before calling someone to help switch their placement. 

On the day of delivery, Satoru looked at the machines as though they were his pride and joy, like he was the one who did all the washing in the house. 

The way the handymen looked at your idiot boyfriend was laugh-worthy. “They’ll go against that wall”, he instructed. 

You were sure the men struggled more in placing them where Satoru instructed than if they just flipped them and pushed them to the back wall. 

Satoru generously tipped them for their efforts, and once they left, you stood at the small doorway. Looking at the washing machines placed against the wall as though it were a laundromat.

“I hate saying it-” he clicked his tongue, leaning against the machine and looking at you smugly. “But I told you so~” 

You grinned- amused at how right he thought he was. You winced, “Do me a favor real quick-” fighting off the laugh about to rumble from your chest. “Open one of the doors.” 

Satoru furrowed his eyebrows at your request, dragging a hand down to the circular door. Smugly popping it open, only to hear it ding against the wall. You puffed a small laugh from your nose at how his face fell. 

“And..” you started, walking towards him and fwipping your hand up and down- guiding him to move. 

Stepping into the small gap between the machine and the wall with the door open, and letting a small giggle leave your lips as your thick thighs pressed against the metal. 

Satoru looked down at your hips that were flush against the machine- he measured how much space the machines took up. But Gojo didn’t account for the space you would need to do laundry properly. 

You turned your head, looking at him over your shoulder. Watching him pull his lips to the side, thinking up some snide remark about how he was still right. 

Even a week after having those machines in the most inconvenient place- Satoru refused to admit he was wrong. He refused to call the handymen back and have them move the machines where you told him to. 

You were more affected by his mistake than he was. Bothersome little doors that had hit you more times than you could count when they would bounce off the wall. 

And all the times you would feel your hips brush against the open machines- you would furrow your eyebrows. Recalling how petty he could be. 

Truth being- Satoru hadn’t called the handymen to fix the minor problem because when you first stepped into the small space of the laundry room- Seeing your thighs press against the machine made him hope you would get stuck one day. 

As though he had manifested it- the day came.

You were doing laundry per usual- struggling with the stupid doors and growing more and more irritated by the second. 

And when you thought you were finally finished- slamming the dryers door shut and hearing it whirr. 

You turned around to see a discarded sock on the ground, thinking nothing of it and stepping back into the small space- hips pressed against the slightly protruding door of the dryer. Picking up the sock with a small huff. 

Straightening back up and aiming to take a step back. Only to feel resistance from the wall- you tried shifting with even more strength. Only for the wall and machine to refuse to let you go. 

You looked to the machine- recalling all the times this very same scenario had happened. Wondering what went wrong this time. And seeing the clear plastic bubble-like door trap your hips. Add that with the bending- causing your hips to widen in the slightest. 

You sighed- frustrated that you had actually managed to get stuck in the small space. You tried a few more steps- a small wiggle, a aimed step back- nothing worked.

And wearing mini shorts- practically underwear that left your plush thighs exposed against the wall and the plastic door. Knowing it would only hurt if you pushed yourself out. 

You held the stupid black sock in your hand as you contemplated calling out to the idiot that waited for you in the living room. 

You shouted his name once- waiting a few seconds to see if he would come running to see what was wrong. 

Only Satoru was sat with a handful of unfolded socks in his lap, watching the show you normally watched together- so focused on the scene playing out before him. 

You closed your eyes- cringing at the cliche you were in. Calling his name once more- with more urgency and a gruff to it. That’s what pulled Satoru from his focus on the tv show. 

His hand reached for the remote and pressed pause- trying to determine if he was just imagining things or if you actually called out to him. 

And when you called out to him a third time, Satoru tossed the socks from his lap and ran to the laundry room. All the urgency in the world.

Worried you had seen a bug, or a home invasion- or every single dangerous thing he could picture happening. Running into the room asking you what was wro-

His lips parted in amazement once he saw your bottom trapped between the machine’s door and the wall. Staring at your exposed thighs and the crease of your ass.

“Don’t just stand there- go get some baby oil or something to get me ou-” Satoru reached a hand out to your bottom, causing you to silence your directions. His cheeks flushed and eyes glimmering full of the possibilities. 

Satoru sighed and smiled, looking up to the ceiling with closed eyes to thank the deity that had granted him his wish. 

Looking back down to your ass- slightly bent and you trying to reach a hand back to push him off, all but telling him again to go get something to help you out. 

But knowing your boyfriend and his peculiar tastes- this was brewing in his mind from the minute he saw your hips against the small space. 

“I prayed for this.” he whispered, earning a small ‘what?’ to leave your lips. 

Satoru placed both of his hands on your bottom, his long fingers sliding beneath the light fabric of your shorts. Softly groping at the skin and peaked his eyebrows. You only clenched your jaw and closed your eyes. 

Hearing the ramblings of the man behind you. “You should’ve just listened to me.” you scoffed, planting your hands on the wall in front of you as though Gojo was doing a body search, trailing his fingers down your clothed core. 

His eyes dimmed- watching the light goosebumps form on your skin, lightly pressing his fingers against the little mound beneath your shorts. Earning a small exhale laced with a whimper to leave your lips. His other hand groped firmly at your ass, enjoying the view below him. 

“No. I know now I was right not to listen to you.” Satoru grinned menacingly, watching your hips try to shift against the whirring machine next to you. 

The tips of his fingers against your clothed core making you let out a shivering huff. “You still want me to help you out?~” Gojo asked- too smug to be considered as a genuine offer.

Satoru made light circles on the little mound at the top of your cunt- shivers running down your thighs as you tried to muster the words. 

“You must’ve planned this-” he scoffed, trailing his fingers to the side of your shorts. A small damp spot formed on them, telling Gojo all he needed to know. “Prancing around all day wearing this-” 

You parted your mouth- feeling the cool air hit your dampening cunt that pulsed with every accusation he spouted at you. 

Satoru sucked his teeth- placing the tips of his fingers on your clit, causing a small gasp to fall from your throat. You let out a ragged breath, his fingers starting small circles against you. 

Trying to keep your legs from buckling at the slow pace Satoru held. A small ‘tsk’ left his lips, full of feigned disappointment. “Tryna tempt me allll day.” The smile evident in his tone. 

You only breathed a small whimper at his words- knowing it wasn’t true, but what state were you in to deny it? 

“M’pretty sure I saw your pretty pussy a handful of times~” he purred- fastening his pace in the slightest. 

Your breathing took up in pace- trying not to let out the small moans Satoru was pulling from you with every small circle he made against you. 

The bulge in Gojo’s bottoms grew with every little whimper you let out- his hard cock twitching beneath the fabric as soft moans left your lips, landing in his ears as harmonies.

“If you wanted me to fuck you that badly-” he hummed, quickening his fingers and hearing the low squelches coming from your cunt. Knees threatening to buckle as Satoru trailed the hand on your ass up your slightly arched back, pushing up the hem of your t-shirt. 

“All you had to do was ask, baby.” he cooed, watching your hands on the wall start to slip as your moans became louder, feeling Gojo’s hard bulge pressing against your ass. Desperate to get some kind of friction, whereas you- were desperate to finish. 

An orgasm so close it had one of your eyes shut and the other threatening to follow its movements- “You didn’t have to scheme up ways for me to fuck you.” he teased, trying to dig your fingers into the wall as Satoru watched you come undone, cunt clenching around nothing. 

Feeling your core pulse onto his fingertips, small shivering sighs leave your lungs as he works you down an orgasm. You steady your breathing- becoming more aware of Gojo’s bulge pressing onto your plump bottom. 

You clenched your teeth- Satoru’s fingers trailing from your clit down to the source of the slick that coated his digits. The other resting on your side to stabilize you. Wouldn’t want you to come unstuck too soon now. 

You were glad you were faced away from him- your vision bordering on going double and the heat rising to your cheeks just thinking about the cliche you were in. Thinking of how easily accessible you were to him at that moment. 

You started feeling his fingers dip into your entrance- too slow and far too eager to prep you. “Just-” you huffed, feeling his hand halt its movements. 

“Just. Fuck me.”

Quiet- but clear enough for Satoru to hear you. 

Huffed and urged as you said it- it made Satoru realize you were unwilling to go through his teasing prep- and in no possession of the patience needed for it. 

Gojo bit his lip slightly, being able to see the tenseness in your shoulders- it wasn’t about him having a good time anymore. No, your tone made it sound like he was depriving you of something.

Satoru wasted no more than a second in tucking the hem of his shirt between his pearly teeth- a smile on the corners of his lips as he watched you writhe. All but telling him to hurry with the puffs of frustration leaving your lips. 

Though his mouth was busy trying to hold his shirt up- his messied hand pulled from your cunt and landed on the band of his shorts, you could hear the muffled giggles of amusement leaving Gojo’s lips as he slapped the tip of his cock onto your ass. 

Leaky as he was, Gojo still wanted to hear the words from your lips. “Tellme-m’right” he spoke with clenched teeth- muffled and barely legible and in a smug tone. 

You scoffed- biting your lip and peaking up your eyebrows. Knowing Satoru is just petty enough to pull away from you and jack off till he spurt his mess onto your ass. “You were right.” you mumbled, earning Satoru to release the shirt from his teeth with a smile.

“What was that?” lightly tapping your entrance with his tip as your hands pressed onto the wall again- planted to stay upright. 

You sighed. “You were right, ‘toru-” you spoke clearly, earning an appeased hum from Satoru. 

Taking his hand from his base- quickly taking off his t-shirt and lining himself up with your cunt. The only thought in his mind was praising himself for what a good idea the machine’s placement was. 

The second he slowly pressed his tip past your entrance- both you and Gojo could feel the difference between when you would be prepped compared to now. 

Soft ringing in your ears as you let out a soft moan, a light sting pulsing in your cunt as he eased himself into you. 

And Gojo- he swore he could cum right then and there had it been up to him. His eyes threatened to fall back into a soft roll as a groan tried leaving his throat. Falling from his lips with the sound of a whimper laced in it.

Even if Satoru had slid inside of you countless times- it always made his go vision blurry. Never getting used to how warm and welcoming your cunt always felt against his cock. 

Satoru spouted a curse- mixed with a whimper as he held onto your ass, bracing himself as he felt your cunt suck him in. 

With clenched teeth- “S-so fuckin’ tight-” he gruffed- making sure to give you enough time to get used to the light sting before he pulled his cock from you. Hands gripping too harshly on the malleable skin of your ass. 

His cock felt a light breeze hit the skin lathered with your essence, wasting little time before thrusting back into you- setting a slow but deep pace. 

Shutting your eyes tight as Satoru’s thrusts caused your hips to move against the harsh plastic and the wall. 

A few more rolls of his hips were all you had to spare- “Satoru I’m gonna fall-” you huffed, feeling his hands grope at your ass firmly- some attempts to assure you that you wouldn’t. 

A light sheen of sweat formed on your thigh, causing you to actually start slipping with every little thrust Satoru rolled against you.

Though he was whining behind you, he could feel your hips start to give against the machine’s door. 

Gojo mustered all the strength he could, dragging his cock from you. Allowing his leaking tip to kiss your entrance ever so slightly as he gave a hard yank against your hips. 

Hearing a low grunt of relief as you felt yourself come loose-only for Satoru’s hands to move you to the free edge of the machine quickly, aligning himself up with your entrance again. 

Pressing his heaving chest against your back- bending you over as his head rested the crook of your neck. Clenching his teeth with a low whimper- your hands planted against the whirring machine- bracing for him to bottom out. 

Only Satoru planted a hand atop yours- grasping it lightly as he slid himself in slowly. 

A sharp exhale took the form of a whimper as it left Gojo’s lips, invading your ear as you raised yourself onto your tiptoes. Giving his cock a new angle, his flushed tip nudging your sweet spot. 

A choked moan left your lips, the hand on your ass rising to your neck. Pulling you back to his chest and forcing your back into a harsher arch. 

Satoru sped up his pace- barely pulling out and prodding the spongy gspot his cock curved into. Barely pulling his hips from your ass with frustrated whimpers leaving his lips. 

His hand mindlessly rising to the side of your face- your parted lips huffing out small whimpers welcoming his fingers. Hooking the digits that brought you to your first orgasm, onto the side of your mouth as he tried to keep a steady pace. 

You could feel he was still holding back- unknowing why he insisted on keeping a medium pace with his thrusts. You clenched your walls around him in the slightest- “F-faster ‘toru,” you huffed, slightly muffled from his fingers in your mouth- earning for his hips to halt and his hands to raise. 

Satoru gulped- his cheeks flushed and ears hot as his hands hooked onto the ditches of your elbows. Pulling your arms back in tandem with dragging his cock out.

Gojo knew that whenever you bark an order, you were giving him permission to do what every part of his brain was yelling at him to do. 

And as he felt the very tip of his cock reach the taut circle of your entrance- he clenched his teeth, inhaling before pushing himself in.

His thrusts were rough- too deep as your shoulder blades pressed against each other- clearer moans falling from your lips. Satoru’s forearms pulling you back with every harsh thrust- unpatterned and sloppy as he whined into your ear. 

Your calves started tingling from being raised on the tips of your toes. And almost as though Satoru heard you- he released one of your arms and reached down to your thigh. 

A smile took shape in a huff- “Up we go~” he grinned with a breathless tinge. 

Assisting you in resting it on the top of the machine, now easily at level with his rough hips. The foot on the ground barely touched the tile- half of your body on top of the machine as Satoru grabbed a handful of ass. Biting his lip as he looked down to your cunt linked with him. 

With every tenacious thrust Satoru rolled against you- he watched your ass bounce. 

And as though it was instinct, Gojo pulled his gripping hand from your ass and gave you a firm spank. 

You whimpered in response- shutting your eyes and muttering a strained, “Fffuck!” his hand soothing the warmth rising onto your bottom- clenching his teeth with muffled groans leaving his pursed lips. 

Your hands pressing onto the top of the machine as some sort of attempt to brace for Satoru’s quick drilling hips. Keeping yourself up on your forearms as his hand gripped the malleable skin of your ass. Groaning harsher and harsher as he felt his orgasm build in his tummy. 

Satoru knew you were close too- the moans you spewed were now shorter and more breathy. Your cunt twitching around him every other thrust- 

“Say m’right.” clenched teeth and a low tone as his thrusts became even more sloppy- bordering on raising himself from the ground from how harshly he was pushing you onto the machine. 

Gojo stopped his thrusts- nuzzling himself inside of you entirely. And staying still- knocking the air from your lungs with a gasp- “Say.” pulling his cock , “I’m.” a firm thrust, “Right.” urging you to with every deep thrust. 

You whimpered, knowing he was barely bumping his tip against your gspot on purpose. 

“You’re r-ri-” he continued his fast pace again- the words trying to make their way out of your lips. 

Satoru grunted with an amused smile- “I’m-” he sighed, “I’m what?” out of breath and edging himself.

You bit your lip, the knot in your stomach slowly slipping with every little thrust. 

Feeling his unforgiving hips nudge you closer and closer against the wall. Your jaw went slack-jawed as he refused to give you a second to answer. 

All it took was another firm spank to push you over an orgasm- cunt spasming around him as he grunted. Sudden tightness sucking him in with every pull he did. 

“You’re righ- fuck-” you moaned, “You’reright-” babbling as Satoru let out a breathy giggle. More than pleased with your mindless prattling. 

As Gojo succumbed to his own orgasm- you groaned lightly, feeling his seed coat your walls. Warmth filling your cunt as your eyes fluttered closed. 

Satoru rode himself down with slower thrusts, still reaching as deep as he could- but slowing them. 

Wincing softly as his tip got a shock of overstimulation, heavily breathing as he eased his hands from you. 

Leaning over your ass and placing his forehead onto the center of your shoulder blades. 

“Call the delivery men,” you breathed- sighing softly as Satoru rested himself atop you. “And tell them to move them.” you demanded- knowing that if they stayed the way they were now- more little instances like these would keep happening. 

Satoru huffed against your clothed spine. “You just said,” taking a breath and feeling his heart pound in his chest. “-that I was right?” keeping a teasing tone as you tried easing off the machine. 

Wondering how on earth Gojo managed to shift you from the floor to the top of the washer.

-

I luv him sm <3

[commodorez]

Why Firefox?

Firefox isn't trying to take away my ad blocking software, forcing me to wade through advertisements to traverse the web. I rarely have to stop and put up with ads in my day to day browsing experience. Google has made it very clear that they don't want you to have that power.

I'm very used to a specific UI in my browser, and I'm able to tweak Firefox to my needs. I don't use tabs when I'm at home, and being able to eliminate the tab bar can totally be done with Firefox (I won't elaborate on that here). However, there are many other things I can add to Firefox to improve my experience!

You know how sometimes you want to download an image on a webpage, but you can't right click on it, or it's hidden behind another element? I've got a Firefox tool for that called Right-click boroscope.

Don't want scripts to load in on a page, and cause havoc? Firefox has me covered again with NoScript.

I want to immediately reverse image search something I find regurgitated here on tumblr, in search of the original? There's a TinEye extension for Firefox to do that and save time.

For using tumblr more efficiently, there's XKit Rewritten. In Firefox.

Sick of Youtube's shitty search suggestions, and shorts being pushed? There's a Youtube Search Fixer add-on for Firefox for that.

I've also got the Wayback Machine integrated into Firefox.

The thing is, whatever reasons I enumerate to use Firefox, there are another hundred good reasons that other folks can add to this list no problem.

In some ways, it sucks that I should have to make so many modifications to my web browser to make it suitable for taking control within the modern webscape, but it also says alot that I have the freedom to make those modifications to my browser should I so choose. At work I'm forced to use chrome, and even though I'm only browsing ad-free internal corporate pages to get my job done, I still can't stand that experience.

We should be free to control our web browsing experiences. If a company finds a mantra like "don't be evil" too restrictive, maybe I don't want to help perpetuate their advertising machine (and don't think for a second that chrome isn't part of said machine). The web is supposed to be this free and open place, and it sure as hell isn't helped by browser monoculture. I really don't like the idea of supporting a monopolistic browsing experience that is the sea of chrome clones. Everything else seems to have turned into another chrome.

Fuck that noise.

So I will continue to use Firefox.

[palmanatomy]

Addressing the debate about if tim takes up a new identity, what should it be. So far, we know in canon that tim has been Robin, Red Robin, Robin again, Drake (blame bart), and Robin again. He's never actually taken a name for himself, Red Robin was just what the newspapers seemed to call him and it was also Jasons identity. Even Drake was Barts idea after they went to alternate timeline and fought evil versions of themselves (again) and bart thought it was a great name.

So, my argue is that even though names like cardinal, rook, jackdaw, red hawk are all interesting, I think that Tim wouldn't really make up an identity for himself and would just kinda roll with whatever the news calls him. HOWEVER. Tim also values his loved ones with a high regard and he incorporates a piece of them when hes lost them with himself. For example, Kons death made him change the iconic Robin colours to red and black to honour him. I know that the red robin suit was already existing but he wore it after Bruces death and I like to believe that the cowl was a nod to Bruce. When he was in the unternet and we see how he perceives himself as (probably my favourite tim costume), his costume kinda looks like nightwings with the red depiction and this is when tim and dicks relationship is strained (a bit of a reach, i know, but like. Look at it.).

And what does Tim love more than anything in the world? His car, redbird. DC has not included redbird in ANY comics since he had to sell it to alfred for like a million bucks when his dads company went bankrupt and I have been scouring, searching through the wilderness that is modern dc for this fucking car. I do not know where it is and its killing me. Tim loved that car. He is a car guy to his core and the lack of rebird in modern dc has lead me to believe that redbird has died.

Therefore! Tim should be Redbird, honouring the loss of his beloved car and incorporating it into his own identity. it still incorporates the red part of his identity but it leaves robin entirely. Also, on a more serious note, in his chats with Lonnie Machin he uses the alias Redbird and other villains have called him redbird before so like. its not impossible. And i miss redbird like actually him being a car guy was so important to me and like tims relationship with cars is literally so important. like secretly shipping a batmobile to san francisco, being the only one that the supercycle would let drive it, being so proud of his car and remote controlling it and i just love redbird and i miss it.

thanks for coming to my tedtalk.