#reduce your expectations to zero

[crescenthistory]

sunrise on the reaping spoilers !!!

sorry, i see people talking about how maysilee donner in all her "one of us has to be the worst victor in history. tear up their scripts, tear down their celebrations, set fire to the victor's village. refuse to play their game." glory was not a rebel?? did we read the same book?

haymitch himself agreed that maysilee was twice the rebel he ever was, standing up to the capitol with an upturned chin and sharp words from day one without ever wavering. why else do you think they took her voice to kill her?

[crayon-the-roof-goblin]

a weird mushroom appears!

does Crayon approach it?

Crayon just swallows it whole

[blazehedgehog]

Soaking this in

If you don't know what this is, here's an explanation: Both Fortnite and Call of Duty employ something called "Skill-Based Matchmaking" (SBMM for short), and it has become the bane of a certain subset of players who very vocally yell about how it is ruining multiplayer games.

In short, the game secretly and quietly keeps track of your "skill level." Even if a game has both ranked and unranked modes, it is always tracking this skill level stat that reports back how quickly and easily you're getting kills. When you connect to a new match, it tries to group you with players near your skill level.

The idea being you start with zero skill stat, and by playing the game well, your skill stat levels up until you eventually plateau and you are forever playing the game with people that are just as good (or bad) as you are, within some level of variance.

This means if you're one of these career streamer guys or a Youtube clip compilation sort of dude (or both), then you very quickly get put into high tier matchmaking pools with all the other career streamers and wannabe esports pros. Hence the very loud, very vocal complaints, because if you're one of those guys, the idea of having a "casual match" goes away. Everybody is always firing on all cylinders and you're expected to do the same in order to keep your rank and not look embarrassing to your captive audience.

So Activision apparently ran an experiment per Charlie Intel (article here) where they reduced SBMM's effectiveness, meaning the big fish pros and the little tadpole casual players were thrown into more games together.

The result was a sharp uptick in players rage quitting matches early, some even quitting the game entirely and never coming back. The report notes that while player retention for players with a high skill rank was improved, they make up such a small percentage of the player base (apparently less than 1%; the article has some grammar problems) that servicing them really doesn't make sense.

As it turns out, low level players don't want to get hopelessly destroyed by wannabe esports pros. And those pros make up such a small percentage of the player base it doesn't make sense to keep feeding them more low level chum, even though they are the hungriest for it. As more and more low level players permanently leave the game due to frustration, it turns into a wasteland where high level players are getting mad at each other until they also get frustrated and leave as well. SBMM ensures long term health for a game's multiplayer ecosystem.

And being a Fortnite player, it's so validating to hear this. "SBMM is ruining multiplayer" was always a narrative coming from streamers and youtubers who were frustrated by having to actually TRY instead of being able to score easy clip compilation fodder on clueless newbies.

Enjoy sticking to your smurf accounts now, I guess.

[gangplanksorenji]

Step One: Be Fair at All Times.

Pairing: TWICE’s Chaeyoung x Male Reader

Word Count: 5,027

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This was a quick fic extension from the prompt exercise @mintwithchoco gave us! Thank you for another exciting prompt and it was really fun writing these kinds of stuff! Anyways, enjoy reading!

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There it goes, the devil within you tempting you and it’s only a matter of time before you give in.

The ebullient sounds of students roar around the classroom and beyond, as always, and it’s a natural phenomenon to even cause trouble somewhere near to where you are at. You can hear someone trying to separate them yet it seems like they’re failing, and nonetheless, you wouldn’t care less.

That’s you, evidently distracted as the miniscule resonance of sounds piques you as you blankly stare at the void of the paper that will define your future in this subject. It’s only a matter of time before the clock reaches zero, and you still can’t figure out why you can’t think of what can be the answer to such a simple question.

Final exam, final day, the final reckoning. The suffering is nearing its demise, but it seems to extend whenever you circulate around that damn question, and it’s just going to get worse.

You’ve cheated swiftly for god knows how many times and you’ve done it in times of desperation. Trying to cover it up with a hand up on your forehead just to look at what the girl beside you may answer—

“Letter ‘B’, huh? Seems right?” Your devilish eyes scout the prey like an eagle, capturing it and rewarding yourself with the possible fruit of your sinful labor. It pretty much makes sense, mostly complacent knowing you’ve caught the answer from one of the brightest minds this class has ever known.

You circle your answer as the clock nears its end, just with two minutes left. You feel pressured, knowing there’s three more left two answers with such little time left. All of your classmates traverse their way onto the professor’s desk and slamming the test paper there, somewhat confident and increasingly anxious.

And you, huh, stuck with the hindrance that can defy expectations.

The sound of people sharing answers and conversations distracts you, always tempted to eavesdrop with the possible answers but you miserably fail. Time is running out and you’re just the only one left in your column to be answering and with the mindset of absolute indecisiveness, you let your gut feeling break the trance and answer for yourself.

Done—three questions, three letters answered.

You fidget the hem of your shirt as your friend just outside the classroom gets your attention, gesturing to quickly go with them once you’ve passed the papers. You placed yours on top of the stack of papers that you’re unnerved to see until a force stops you from advancing further and out of the classroom. You look back and fuck, it’s Ms. Son, an eyebrow raised, her hand gripping onto the hem of your jacket.

“Go beside me, we’ll have a talk once everyone is out.”

And there your future goes, possibly reduced to atoms as your gamble didn’t save you further, and your fate has succumbed onto an unfavorable one.

Knowing you’re not going to get out soon, your friends look over at you with a face teasing you and laughs reverberating around them, as you look at them with envy and disgust.

“Ma’am, what did I—”

“Just stay there.” Her tone is stern, composed like the finest as you gulp in nervousness, not knowing what her mouth has to offer later.

Oh—and your filthy mind is fucking you up with the possible thought about—

“Not now, not now.” Is what you whisper on yourself, and it’s even making it worse knowing how every action of your professor sends those lustful thoughts up in your filthy mind.

You’re just counting each person that passes by and submitting their papers, until the last student bowed to her and shutted the door carefully, leaving you and the professor alone, and you, utterly unsure on how things may unfold.

“Take a seat.”

“Wha—what—”

“I said, take a seat and we’ll have a talk.” The look that she gave you shoots up a nerve up in your spine, and it’s intimidating, possibly coerced with those doe eyes. Your eyes are uneasy, incredibly cautious as you anticipate what she can say to you. It didn’t take long before you swiftly traverse your way onto the nearest chair and grabbed it, and seating with emotions evident precarious.

Well, it’s in ways knowing how your professor possibly caught you in the scene of the crime, and you fathom the inevitable consequence that may come right after.

“Your bright mind might know why I called you so suddenly, am I right?” In all honesty, you’d assume it’s all about how your eyes dart to the paper of others, relentless and desperate. It was the only strong answer that you can mutter to her, but your lips pursue itself to be shutted, unable to talk with how she’s getting you in this disposition of anxiety.

Then you gathered the courage, yet it wasn’t enough to be truly vocal. “N-no, Ms. Son…”

“Sure you do.” Quite the privy, and she read you like a book. “Speak up.”

Your lips quiver, the damned hubris earlier instantly fell off into a cliff so easily. You’re definitely uneasy right now, all frozen as just wanting these things to end and learn your lesson. Your hands fidget onto your pants, as she inches herself closer and breaks you in that trance. 

“You know, I’ve been watching you from the start when you took a seat in that chair. It became quite interesting considering the fact that what you’re displaying right now is clearly not what we are all used to.”

You gulped and stared at those dark orbs that emphasized that gravitas until day one, and it’s more evident with the point that she got you immobilized and that earns that subtle smirk curling up in the crevice of her lips. “And besides, you’re becoming too much of a problem, aren’t you aware of that?”

You grit your teeth not-to-harshly, lips continuously bearing the nervous state. “I am—I am p-pretty much aware of that, Ms. Son.”

Fuck, she is quick and it catches you off-guard—her hands tug on your tie, investing your utmost attention towards her and it just ignites her possibly sadistic disposition. 

Then she clicks her tongue, and raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

You nod, eventually getting frantic as she stops you, the tremble in your breath enough to make her reconsider her control and the ways of schooling you. She looks at you, eyes scanning your features which etches a question in your brain but quickly dismisses it. She’s close enough for you to smell that floral perfume that just intoxicates you into her even more.

You’ve never been this close to a girl like this, and you’ve probably hit the jackpot consider that you’re just inches away from a tempting action that you’d be too afraid to do, considering that you’re still daunted under her spell. 

“I still can’t believe I can shut you up so easily like this.”

Then, she just pulled herself away from you gently, as she faces away from you, removing her glasses and tying up her hair with a dark-colored band which raises questions in your brain. It was out of the blue as your eyes are averted towards her and her only, then her voice heightened your senses even more. 

“You’ve been a pain for the university, in case you didn’t know—multiple reports have been scattered all over our bulletin board, written with your name for god knows how many times and thinking to myself, if you’d be any better.” Her face is stern, eyes glued to your pupils ignited with disappointment and the possible anticipation, before shaking her head slowly and clicking her tongue to intimidate you. “Guess what? Probably you will. Considering the potential—your precarious self is finally showing its true colors, hm? Well, We would be doing something unorthodox.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, utterly confused at this point as you’re oblivious with what her true motives are. “W-what do you m-mean, Ms. Son?”

“Well, I need to ask you one thing first.” She then takes a seat, now face-to-face with you as you’re in all ears to listen despite the growing discomfort and awkwardness. “Do you want it the ‘straightforward’ one or ‘thoroughly explained’ one? Both end up in the same route.”

She is full of surprises, for what you can assume. Wanting things to end as soon as possible, you ended up choosing the former choice with a stutter, and that made her smile a little.

She’s a simple woman, and you’ll get what you’ve chosen.

“You, young man, would need to confess everything that you’ve done to besmirch your name in this institution while I—” She tugs onto your belt and the hem of your pants, earning a yelp from you as she continues her proposition. “—suck your cock, indulging in the pleasure while in the challenge of telling the truth while we are at it. That’s how straightforward it can get.”

Unbelievable. That’s what your mind concluded after hearing such words that you wouldn't have thought would come out of her mouth.

It doesn’t fucking matter if you’re going to register such explicit and unethical words as her voice freezes you another time, and it’s commanding. “Stay still and say everything on my command. If I’m satisfied, I may even let you cum and consider this as something confidential.”

Jesus. You never thought she could be like this, evidently ambiguous yet here you are, unable to do anything but comply.

“Get up and strip. All the way, pants down.” You’re eager to do what she tells you to, nervously unbuckling your belt as your uneasiness earns a chuckle escaping her lips. It was quick from you, not wanting your future on the brink of collapsing, even though it’s most likely diverting to that path.

Your cock springs into life, throbbing and invigorated, and that alone, sparks the interest from her eyes. 

“Looks like your little friend here is dying for some action—did I really rile you up, hm?”

Son Chaeyoung and her choices of words are really something else, and it’s just bringing you down to your knees. Who would have thought that such a professor that looks so innocent and bubbly could be so intimidating and stern?

The duality drives you insane, moreso, the way her small, dainty fingers wrapping around your shaft, stroking it so leisurely that it makes you moan so sexily. Her modicum of patience is tested, and eventually, she’ll start the final nail of the coffin.

“Let’s start off with the tip of the iceberg, shall we?” She kneels down, abrupt with her movements as she spits onto your raging crown, lathering it with lubrication that can elevate on what’s about to happen. “Why’d you cheat, hm? You better tell me the truth.”

As you’re about to speak and look over the distance, you throbbed and moaned her name with the dismissal of honorifics, her lips quick to envelop itself on such an insatiable meal that she’s been deprived of, obviously.

“I w-was desperate t-to just, uhm—shit, oh—uh, just c-can’t think of the answers—god.”

Her bobs are consistent and moderate, her fingers massaging your base as she looks up with you, ejecting herself onto your cock with a big pop. “Tell me more, that can’t be the only reason you can come up, hm?”

You look down and admire her gradually messy façade, but then stand your ground knowing it’s the right answer. “But, Ms. Son—I a-am telling the truth—oh, shit.”

She continues to bob her head onto your shaft, skilfully impaling her throat with more than half of it, and makes one hell of a mess all around it. Her hands find their way onto your thighs, grasping it for some leverage as she wrings out the best bits of pleasure you’ve ever experienced in your entire life and adds up to the pleasure you’re experiencing.

“I j-just w-want to pass, that’s al—oh, fuck, really, Ms. So—god.” Her vibrations onto your shaft sends you in short circuits, even more with the ways she’ll hollow up her cheeks to prove a point and to diligently test your capabilities.

You weren’t taking it like what she’s possibly expecting, but it doesn’t matter—you’re fighting for what could be better here despite the challenge brought by her pleasurable mouth.

She’ll pull away from your cock, covered with her saliva and her face, getting messier that even turns you on even more. “Desperation? Wasn’t that in your vocabulary? Maybe you just wanted the fun of doing something that isn’t right, hm?”

At this point, it’s just throwing water at the ocean, because no matter how honest you can be, she’ll continue to make you cry in pleasure. Admit or not, she’s great at giving you head, possibly the best contender that gave you one and that definitely surprises you.

And you can’t think straight again to come up for a reason, as her head continues to deliver such gratification, evidently running those mascara tears on her cheeks and the lipstick that smudged onto the base of your shaft, considering how talented she is with her own limits.

She’d eventually gag, and you’d orchestrate another reason with the mix of a cry of her greatest product. You’d swim onto what her lips can offer, and you’re loving how great she blows you as the effects of anxiety fades away ever-so-quickly.

“God, that’s w-what I can j-just say—p-please, Ms. Son.”

She pulls away, and you’re throbbing relentlessly, precum spilling out and unshackled, signaling what may come closer to the promised land. “It wasn’t such a hard task, hm? Now, tell me everything you’ve done to earn yourself such a vice spot in the vicinity.”

Then, it can just spiral out of control there. You’re fighting for what you can and she’s determined to do absolutely everything to get what she wants, and you’ll give it to her, whatever it takes.

“E-Everything, Ms. Son?” She’s really testing you, revealing secrets no other ethical person should ever know but with her continuous bobs and her lazy stare towards you, seals the answer for such a rhetorical question. She didn’t even mine pulling out to let herself be clear, as actions speak louder than words, her hands gripping you tighter than usual as frantically gratifying you to satisfy her truly with your genuine answer.

Only if she knows the battle you have to go through to articulate thoughts in your head just for the urge to finish this mess of an interrogation even though it’s the natural human instinct to really indulge with such pleasure, no matter the time or place.

The struggle is stating the obvious, and that curls up a smile on her mouth between numerous frantic bobs as you whisper how good it feels, closing your eyes as the information your lips escape was reaching her wit’s end. Then she pulls, eyes darting and feels like could kill and she’s tantamount as before with the objective on why she’s doing this in the first place. “Why can’t you talk, hm? Am I making it too hard for you?”

You can’t lie, not when your heart is racing so fast that you can’t pull up a game that can possibly encourage her to believe your lies. She has the utmost authority, the unbreakable control that you wouldn’t dare break, because assessing this situation, you have everything to lose.

“Seems like you’re pretty scared, hm? All of that tough and hubristic side gone just because of my mouth—hah, it’s pretty surprising. I possibly thought you’d take me better, but it looks like this isn’t going to work so well for you, won’t it?” She’s right, goddamn right. She’s stroking you leisurely, not giving a care for what her hands can do to you as she looks, sighing in disappointment as she continues. “Look at you, all groaning and an utter mess, dying to cum—you’re going to cum, aren’t you?”

She got you into this pliant disposition, biting your lips repeatedly as the pleasure is getting too much, even if it’s just her fingers alone. You’re nodding evidently, desperate for this to be over but then you’re pretty hypocritical if you’ll deny how great she offers you pleasure.

You’re begging and she chuckles lightly with the despair and pleasure distorting your face. “Too bad you still can’t release everything yet—you still have to answer my question.”

She lets your length throb uncontrollably in the air, the poor twitching of it as it needs someone to aid it is just a sight of her own pleasure. She’s keeping her promise, words sealed and etched, and knowing you want to cum to her so badly, you’d gather up the mental drive to confess everything to your heart’s content.

“Now, speak.” She indulges down hungrily and god, you’re figuratively on your knees as her mouth is your kryptonite. 

You’re doing your best, and you’d do whatever it takes to end this up on a good note, even if it takes both your names to be besmirched, and hers with a more weighted punishment.

The sudden, lazy bobs helps you to think more clearly, and that alone is a sigh of relief. “W-we have taken a video, a h-humiliation just for fun—oh shit…”

That possibly piqued her, pulling out and looking up with that ruined countenance that you’re dying to cum onto. “We possibly came around that case, go on, don’t keep me waiting.”

“We just f-felt like it—we had some issues—oh god, uhm—l-like back then—shit.” It was a true struggle to fight it, you’d eventually give in as her head pumps onto your cock vigorously with the words you’ve said, earning more moans that just amplifies the experience. You’re possibly adapting to her patterns and the pleasure that she brings on your shaft, a scrutiny with evident efforts from you to possibly know whenever she’s satisfied or not. You still need more information to come up with reasonable conclusions, yet it’s a challenge considering the gratification that’s the bottleneck of this hypothesis.

Screw the science behind this stuff or whatever articulative, because you’re just moaning uncontrollably with faint begs that you didn’t even know your mouth could utter.

“We’re getting somewhere, huh? What issues? Anf why do it within the premises? Care to elaborate?” It’s her stare, that damn, sullied stare that’s remarkable and etched within the deepest parts of your brain, even so, making you twitch evidently that made her smile devilishly. She’d deliver such feverish then sluggish strokes that make your thighs shudder, precarious to just indulge and swim into the pleasure, yet her hands are the only one preventing the possibility of tearing down such robust architecture.

You’re trying to speak up yet you struggle, and she assures you equivocally, even though you’d know how this can end in both ways. 

“Come on, you can do it—it’s just my hands.” She continues and you’re groaning in need, even tempting to grab those blonde locks just for leverage. “Elaborate.”

It’s another cycle of agonizing pleasure, and you wholeheartedly acquiesced it—the lingering anxiety of being caught and what can destroy your image is what is keeping you away to dismiss such pleasure, and it feels wrong received something sinful with one of the most respected professors in the university.

You have a strong claim whenever things go downhill—she initiated this in the first place.

You can feel yourself getting nearer and even if she tells you not to, you feel like the d in you will break loose once she continuously pumps her head onto your ruined length. You struggle to provide details, as the play within the temperature of her warm mouth and breeze of the air conditioner really adds on riling you up, and it’s not helping whenever you look down with such a sullied visage of hers—chin dripping with her own saliva, face ruined with her makeup and tears, her necktie drenched with her drool and most of all, those unholy set of bobs that could milk the living reservoir your balls can hold.

You try your best but then you can’t take it anymore and she knows it, evident with the way your cock throbs and your plethora of pleas.

It’s coming until she pulls out again for the umpteenth time, and the climax that was supposed to hit an all-time high dies down, depositing such miniscule amounts of cum that you pray for her to be oblivious about.

“Fuck—s-shit, Ms. Son.”

She analyzes your shaft like she’s thoroughly checking test papers—eyes darting on every inch, hands inspecting and possibly admiring such a wonderful and delectable sight. “Looks like you came a little. Don’t worry, I know you can’t hold it anymore but you know that right from the start that I never break promises.”

“But, Ms. Son—”

“I said what I said.” Her fingers trace and tease your thighs, and it sends shivers with you. You know she’s just going to edge you and hinder your euphoric high when your answers are not in her favor. Again, you can’t play any games against her and not when she’s controlling you like a puppet. “Whenever I’m satisfied with your answers, I’ll let you cum, and it’s going to be better than this.”

You know the key to achieve such euphoria, yet it barely registers within you to utter what can satisfy her for two reasons: the first one can be the cause of just the immense waves of pleasure just coursing within you that makes you think that everything that you’ve been saying is disparaged, as well as the effort of articulating them with honesty; and the last, possible reason could be the criteria that doesn’t really meet the standards, therefore, the prolonging effect of an ecstatic denial.

Or the worst part is just the fact that she’s doing this for the sadistic pleasure of hers—you name it, as anything can be possible at this moment.

“Care to also explain how you had something special with a student?” Her strokes are practically in a more of a massage, dearly pleasurable and soothes you, calming your nerves and fading that anxiety away. Even with all of these, her questions still hit like a truck, getting yourself to think about the ways to feed off her satisfaction while making yourself in a great position. “A classmate rather, in fact. Really putting it up to the test, hm?”

Her strokes suddenly become frantic, mustering a velocity that plays within the limit of her wrists, and the devilish look on those eyes of hers really concludes the fact that she’s possibly playing you know. You groan repeatedly, the sea of symphonies orchestrated to best fit her satisfaction with your struggles as you deserve it (honestly, you really do, considering the defamatory things you’ve done inside the premises).

You feel yourself shuddering and begging for her mercy inadvertently, and just laugh as her strokes maintain that pace like before. “No, no—tell me why the both of you did it inside the library out of all of the other places, hm? Possibly can’t hold it in?”

Now, it seals the deal that she’s just playing with you right now, a toy that can’t do anything but release the indulgence of her dexterous masterclass. It’s definitely equivocal, and right now, the answer can possibly be obvious but it’s a must to answer her correctly, if you really want your reward. 

She stands up, looking up a little while she manages those pleasurable strokes, one and another, and you, eliciting a groan every three or two. “What about the unapologetic behavior towards your peers when playing basketball—gosh, that was a disappointment.”

That look on your face while she spills every defamatory act you’ve done says it all—frozen, eyebrows furrowed and your eyes permeated with fear and defeat. The apprehension lingers longer than before, yet it feels contradictory considering the pleasure she delivers with every stroke. 

Then she speaks again, earning a shudder on your shoulder and your gaze locking into hers. “And the worst of them all—” She tilts her head a little, eyes scanning you from head to toe, and her lips curling up that hubristic smirk, subtly nodding right after. “—is that you can’t even talk properly when a professor’s hand is diligently stroking your dick—it’s pretty much a shame, no?”

You subtly nod as your lips quiver right after, a breath summing up a note which just explains the nervousness that is still within you. Her boldness still catches you off-guard, maintaining her composure even with the investment of such an act and her ruined face thanks to her.

“But I really appreciate you trying your best even with the fact that it’s incredibly hard to think straight. Am I right?” You utter a ‘yes’ and nodded, and that made her smile in satisfaction. “But since you’ve been compliant, I think it’s time to relieve your nerves a little.”

Those words would make you erupt at any second, as your reservoir is filling up quickly, accumulating and savoring the last bits of pleasure before the climax hits you like a truck. With the persistent throbs and begs coming out of your mouth, she wouldn’t be oblivious about how damn close you are.

Then she speaks, a command eager to ignite the fuse that’s been lit up since she started this mess. “Cum. Cum for me.”

Her words unlock something within you, and it’s the best of both worlds as you grab onto the blackboard, releasing everything with your heart’s content. Spurts erupted like a volcano, shooting multiple projectiles up in the air and landing on her hand, arm, and maybe even the floor with how thick the volume of your load is. She didn’t flinch nor faze with the amounts of cum that had been deposited and made sure that she wouldn’t be as messy as she was earlier. Albeit the composure, you could tell on those eyes that she loves how hot the scene is, gleaming in satisfaction in your orgasmic trance. You feel yourself extending more than what you can bear, her strokes evident to be the contributor to the gratifying element of her dexterous expertise.

“God—seems like you’ve not been blowing it for weeks, possibly months—god, there’s so much.” Her hands feel glued to your shaft, stroking your shaft fully with a leisure pace as she kneels down, then looking up to you with a possible action in mind to conclude this denouement. 

She didn’t even dare to ask you, as she indulged into tasting you again, her lips meeting your sensitive head and her tongue dancing around the messy slit, cleaning you off. Once she feels like she's done what she can, those inviting licks on her fingers to tidy it up makes you lock your gaze onto hers, riling you up with how sensual her tongue dances around her fingers and tasting every bit of your cum, not wasting any drop.

“Gladly, your cum is enjoyable to even swallow—it tastes pretty good, possibly greater with the way I treated you.” She stands up modestly, fixing herself up as you’re still frozen on the spot, mind-boggled with what she had made you do. Then, her eyes dart that telepathic question, a confused expression of hers that is enough to break your trance and work onto dressing yourself up. 

She was quick to apply makeup on herself and maintained that professional composure even with the sinful act the both of you had invested into. “Glad you’re cooperative with me—I even expected worse but I like the way you tried. Consider this as a start of an agreement that should be strictly clandestine except for the both of us.”

You paint that confused face, unsure of what your professor is implying. “W-what does this mean, Ms. Son?”

She stares onto you with such seriousness, and then grabbing your necktie and tiptoeing a little to whisper in your ear. “I’ll ensure that I’ll cover up your defamatory acts in these premises under one condition.”

You gulp, then tilt your head a little bit and ask. “What’s t-that, Ms. Son.”

“This cock—” She cupped the bulge onto the clothed fabric, making you shudder in response as well as your eyes lighting up in anticipation of her following words. “—is the condition. I need someone to vent out my stress sometimes, and I possibly found someone who can do a great job at it.”

Now that regains the confidence within you that was dead into the greatest depths earlier, curling up a faint smile up your lips.

“But for now, let’s get out of here before anyone suspects us.” And so the both of you did, deftly to check and clean everything, making sure that nothing around the vicinity can spark any suspicious marks.

This feels surreal, every event happening in such quick succession yet you will not complain, but rather thank the gods above that this is the reality.

---

As the both of you part ways like it’s just the wind breezing by, you notice a paper that’s been in your pocket for who knows how long, and it’s surely your professor’s fault. You’re quick to unfold and open it, only to reveal such a note that can defy the future of your academic path.

“Be at the front of the women’s bathroom at 6 pm. Third building, fourth floor. See you there, I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh god, this is real, is it?” You still can’t believe what’s happening, utterly perplexed with how she possibly orchestrated this mess yet everything is certainly bona fide.

Holy shit, what can possibly fuel this of yours? Did she intentionally call you earlier because she wanted you physically? Did she want more from you? Is this just a test and you’re being lured with one of her games?

No one knows and no one probably will, because you’re living in the reality that the respected Son Chaeyoung is now something more than just a professor. Guess you may have learnt your lesson in such an unorthodox way, but it’s probably going to elevate your experience here from now on, for what it's worth.

[carmenized-onions]

You get an unexpected call from an old friend in need of an emergency repair on her opening night.

Good thing: that's kind of your whole gig.

Bad thing: you've been avoiding the Berzatto family since the funeral.

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader, but also like, reader's friends with the entire crew (esp Richie, Syd & posthumously Mikey), so if you're just here for the platonic fun of those dynamics, pls enjoy!

tasting notes; slowest of slow burns, semi-strangers (you'll see) to friends to lovers. lot of hurt/comfort. there will be angst, cause it's FX's The Bear.

portion; in progress!!

recommended listening; handmade spotify playlist.

faq; if you got some Qs

kofi; tip your repairman! if you want.

possible allergies; fully spoils the entire series (par for season 3, as I'm writing this ahead of release, so, p.s if you're from the future: off-canon). I've never written smut before and I couldn't tell you if I'm gonna be willing to try by the end of this-- So if that's your thing, temper thine expectations! Mikey is very central to the reader's background-- which is also quite padded, so def prep the brain for a more in-depth look at his passing and struggles w/ addiction. No Y/N, just a FUCK ton of nicknames.

TABLE OF CONTENTS A.K.A REPAIR INVOICE

Tony, Terry, Tommy? | Walk-In Hotfix

Do the Thing! | Toilet Repair

Pretty. | Bolting Down Booths

I Want To. | Wellness Check

Where To? | Delivery Fees

Doing Too Much. | House Call

The Other Shoe | Consultation

Carved In. | Separate Invoice

Ad Interim. | No Service

Zero Pulse. | Oven Hotfix

Just Dropped. | Missing Invoice

Something to Do. | Catering

Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

Don't Say It. | Closing Out

Loosen Your Grip. | R & D (FINALLY!!)

Repairman's got reduced hours now, call back later.

[mandoriana]

Arthur: Merlin, you...

Merlin: Don't say anything. I'm so stressed that I don't want to talk or see anyone right now...

Arthur: Oh, is there something I can do to help?

Merlin: Honestly, nothing you do will reduce my stress right now...

Arthur: Are you sure?

Arthur challenges with a mischievous smile.

Merlin: 🤨 Yes, why do you...

Arthur starts to slowly take off his shirt. Merlin blinks in surprise and fixes his eyes on his prince's chest, not knowing what to expect.

Arthur: On a scale of zero to ten, what's your stress level now?

Merlin blinks, coming out of his trance.

Merlin: What is stress?

Arthur laughs and moves closer to Merlin, letting his shirt fall to the floor. He places his hands on Merlin's shoulders and begins to massage them gently.

Arthur: I bet I can make you forget your problems.

Merlin tries to maintain his composure but can't resist and allows himself to be led by Arthur to the bed.

[lizzy019]

Can u do smth where dally's gf gets jumped super bad? THANK YOUUUIUU.(it's perfectly fine if not☺)

AAAAHH THIS ASK IS DELICIOUS!

~~~~~~~~ 🖤-> ~~~~~~~~~~~🌿~~~~~~~~~~~ 💚! ~~~~~~~~~

Pathetic, you mustered up in your head despite the pained alarms buzzing.

You hadn't expected to be jumped, you were just trying to get home. Clearly that was an issue to the guys who had chosen to pick on you and punch you until your knees scraped painfully against the cement of the sidewalk.

What had you done? You weren't wearing skimpy clothes, you hadn't done anything to provoke them, so what was the deal?

You hurried off to Buck's place, trying hard to run and not just give up. You were so dazed that you honestly couldn't even feel the pain in your face and stomach anymore, you were just set on running to escape.

The cold breeze made the open wounds burn in an uncomfortable manner, causing your already shaky body to shiver as you hurried like you were hiding from the drizzling rain.

Soon enough you had found yourself at the boisterous building of Buck's, and you made zero hesitation to run up to the door and knock vigorously. God, even your knuckles hurt from trying to defend yourself.

The door had swung open, making the music just a bit too loud for you but regardless you tolerated it.

"Dally?" Buck assumed, letting you in without much more than a glance.

You nodded, stepping in and finally letting yourself mellow down. Oh, you must've looked so pathetic. Drenched in rain and blood, even sweat from running so much. Only now the adrenaline started to dissipate, but it lingered as you climbed the stairs.

His apartment door was unlocked, you could tell by the way it didn't look fully closed. So in a flurry, you swung open the door and hustled inside. Maybe Dallas wasn't here and just forgot to lock his door? It was a possibility knowing Dally.

But when the door had opened, Dally poked his head out from around his belongings cautiously before seeing what looked to be you in pain and cold. Everything was a blur past that.

Quite instantly, you were sat on his ratty bed, wounds being cleaned and kisses being peppered all over your tear stained face. Makeup smeared, face discoloured and expression terrified. You could only tremble as he dabbed away the blood from your cheek.

"Dal- Dally, they were gonna beat me up... Dal, I was so scared." You sniffled, grasping his knee purely out of emotional distress.

Dally only nodded curtly, focused on the subject at hand and making sure to bandage you up nice and proper. He even managed to get his hands on some ice packs to reduce the swelling of some of the blows, but you still found it to be painful.

Even the towel he purposely put on his heater for a minute or two to warm up before he covered your shoulders and dabbed off the wetness clinging to your hair. Maybe this wasn't so horrific.

Regardless of the situation, everything seemed to become more tranquil as he bundled you up in his arms and finished drying off exposed parts of you like your knees, shins, calves and feet. All of which were done so gently that you were convinced this wasn't the Dallas you were used to. What a gentleman!

"'S alright now, you're safe. Brave, huh? Tuff to be runnin' through the dark an' in the rain just to escape some nasty fuckers." He praised you, the corners of his mouth curling just a bit to make it seem like he was smiling.

You felt warm inside from his fulfilling words, a bubble of hope forming and pushing away all the other thoughts bombarding you.

Yeah... maybe this wasn't so bad.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Lazy kisses ✧

Plot: Cuddling with your boyfriend .

An idle Sunday lazed by in sun-dappled tranquility, the midday silence cloaking your shared bedroom in a syrupy warmth.

Not even the hazy tick of the bedside clock intruded upon this blissful pocket of domesticity - save for the occasional breathy sigh escaping your lips as you lost yourself within the pages splayed before you.

Nestled amidst the cozily rumpled sheets lay Leon - your normally unshakable, clear-eyed sentinel anchored steadfastly against the world's roiling tides of nightmarish evil.

Yet within these achingly finite moments behind closed doors, even that stalwart facade softened into pure boyish vulnerability.

Gradually stirring from a deep, much-needed slumber after over a week's deployment, Leon drowsily burrowed tighter against your bare thigh with a mumble muffled by plush bedding.

Still smeared in the dregs of jet lag and weariness plaguing those steely features despite being worlds away from his latest harrowing operation.

Simply sinking deeper within your comforting presence with a reflexive nuzzle sent your chest swelling with boundless affection.

Those habitually hyper-alert gunmetal irises remained obscured beneath a heavy fringe of tawny lashes, angular jawline lax.

Leon Kennedy - the living epitome of unrelenting willpower and heroism borne from steel - reduced to nothing more than an endearingly rumpled mass in slackened repose beside you.

Just one innocuous shift of the mattress was all it took for those gunmetal blues to finally drag open through a squint, fixating upon your doting half-smile with a tender yearning.

The sort which inevitably dissolved every carefully maintained stoicism within their molten depths.

Reaching across the sliver of space between you, Leon toyed idly with a lock of your tousled hair, drifting nearer until your faces hovered a hairsbreadth apart.

Until his baritone burr ghosted over your parted lips like velvet rasping across satin.

"Hey...missed you," that chiseled visage tilted into yours ever-so-slightly, thumb sweeping reverently along your jawline with undisguised longing.

"Kiss me?"

Catching your giggle before it could fully bubble up, you nodded and carefully tucked your novel away.

Because the toweringly heroic, hyper-competent government operative you'd fallen so maddeningly hard for morphed into the gentlest, neediest lover once breaching your oasis's bounds.

Skimming the calloused pad of your thumb across his whiskered jaw, you felt that delicious familiarity thrumming beneath in the tautening of sinewy muscle and tendons as Leon initiated the achingly slow, unhurried collision of your mouths.

Yet with none of the commanding intensity one would expect from such an epitome of masculine fortitude.

Instead, the instant your lips brushed in gossamer friction, Leon melted like warmed honey into your soothing embrace.

Solid contours molding seamlessly against you as that impassioned heat blossomed steadily across your mouths and into hungry, writhing depths.

Sloppy and luxuriantly decadent, your limbs languidly tangling as scorching pants mingled on feverish cusp of perpetual collapse.

Silken muscle glided in achingly deliberate, indulgent strokes of worship. Chasing the maddening bliss only he could lure forth with such practiced reverence.

Wholly cherished and consumed, swathed in the rich cedar and gunpowder musk cloaking your senses, you both spun deliriously in a centrifuge of celestial descent - until rasping breaths and tender caresses ultimately pulled back the hazy veil.

Lids fluttered open in tandem, mere inches between your swollen, reddened lips as molten slate gray bore unguarded into yours.

A barely-perceptible smile ghosted across Leon's finely-hewn features - rare and infinitely more beautiful than any treasures hoarded across the globe.

"Thanks, gorgeous..." he purred, hoarse and thoroughly spent as you traded trembling inhales and exhales.

"Was needing that. Bad."

And with zero preamble, he reclined back into that sweet respite afforded between your cradling arms and heartbeat's lullaby like a contented infant - soaking in the solace and reprieve you alone could grant.

Peering down at your beloved, honed warrior recharging his depleted batteries while you tenderly sifted adoring fingers through his burnished forelocks, you couldn't help but shake your head through another helpless giggle.

Leon Kennedy.

The very man entrusted with safeguarding humanity from incomprehensible evil incarnate.

A deadly, hyper-lethal force to be reckoned with by hell's legions.

Yet in this sanctuary of love and tenderness you shared, he teetered forever on the precipice of simply dissolving into a huge, needy baby within your sheltering arms.

And honestly? You wouldn't have traded this meltingly sweet authenticity for all the universe's wealth and laurels.

[rowinablx]

Alright, let’s rip into this with the subtlety of a sledgehammer through a stained-glass window. Buddie shippers—you know who you are, the ones clutching your fanfics like sacred texts and screaming into the void of Tumblr and Twitter about how Eddie Diaz and Evan "Buck" Buckley are destined to be soulmates despite zero evidence in the actual show—your toxicity is a blight on the 9-1-1 fandom, and it’s high time someone called it out for the festering mess it is. You’ve turned what could’ve been a fun, speculative corner of the internet into a cesspool of entitlement, delusion, and outright hostility that makes wading through fandom discourse feel like trudging through a landfill after a rainstorm.

First off, let’s talk about your obsession with "subtext" that isn’t there. You cherry-pick every lingering glance, every moment of platonic camaraderie, and twist it into some grand romantic narrative that exists solely in your heads. Buck and Eddie are best friends—brothers-in-arms forged by trauma and trust—and you’ve warped that beautiful bond into something it’s never been scripted to be. You’re not "reading between the lines"; you’re scribbling your own fanon over a script that doesn’t support it, then throwing tantrums when the writers don’t cater to your fantasies. Newsflash: the show isn’t your personal sandbox. Tim Minear and the team don’t owe you a damn thing, least of all a romance that’s never been hinted at in canon beyond your fevered imaginations.

And oh, the toxicity—where do I even start? You’ve harassed actors, writers, and fellow fans with a venom that’s frankly unhinged. Oliver Stark says Buck’s bisexual awakening with Tommy Kinard was a story he was proud to tell? You flood his mentions with whining about how it "should’ve been Eddie." Ryan Guzman dares to play Eddie as a straight man with his own complex arc? You call him homophobic or claim he’s "queerbaiting" by—checks notes��existing as a character who doesn’t conform to your headcanon. You’ve turned the fandom into a battleground, doxxing people who ship other pairings, sending death threats over BuckTommy, and acting like anyone who disagrees with your Buddie gospel is some kind of fandom heretic. It’s not passion; it’s a tantrum dressed up as devotion.

Let’s not forget the mental gymnastics you perform to dismiss anything that contradicts your ship. Buck’s relationship with Tommy—canon, on-screen, confirmed—was a groundbreaking moment for a character who’d been floundering in dead-end romances with women. But instead of celebrating that representation, you sneered at it, called Tommy a "stepping stone," and insisted it was just a plot device to "delay" Buddie. You couldn’t handle that Buck’s queerness didn’t revolve around Eddie, so you trashed a perfectly good storyline out of spite. And when BuckTommy inevitably ended—because relationships in procedurals often do—you didn’t mourn it as a natural arc; you gloated like it was some cosmic victory for your cause. That’s not shipping; that’s a cult mentality.

The entitlement is suffocating. You act like 9-1-1 is a choose-your-own-adventure book where your votes dictate the outcome, and when it doesn’t bend to your will, you scream "queerbaiting" louder than a foghorn. Here’s a reality check: queerbaiting requires intent to mislead, and 9-1-1 has never dangled Buddie as a promise. You built that expectation yourselves, then blamed the show for not delivering. Meanwhile, actual queer rep—like Buck’s bisexuality or Hen and Karen’s marriage—gets overshadowed by your relentless whining. You’re not champions of representation; you’re gatekeepers of a fantasy that drowns out what’s real.

And the irony? You claim to love these characters, but you reduce them to props in your shipping war. Eddie’s struggles with grief, faith, and fatherhood? Irrelevant unless they serve Buddie. Buck’s journey of self-discovery and vulnerability? Only matters if it ends with Eddie’s arms around him. You don’t care about their growth as individuals; you just want your fanfic validated on-screen, consequences to the story be damned. It’s selfish, shallow, and sucks the joy out of a show that’s supposed to be about heroism, not your soap opera wet dreams.

So here’s the brutal truth, Buddie shippers: your toxicity has made you the fandom’s own emergency call—a disaster everyone else has to navigate around. You’ve taken a show about found family and turned it into a battleground for your unhinged obsession, alienating anyone who dares to enjoy 9-1-1 for what it actually is. Keep clutching your fanart and screaming into the echo chamber of your fandom, but don’t expect the rest of us to pretend it’s anything but noise. And while BuckTommy didn’t last long, at least it was canon—something your ship, for all its noise and bluster, will never be. Deal with it.

[moonsglare]

okayokay but reader who teaches inexperienced mavuika to be better at pleasing them omg

anon u get my vision. u GET me like [nsft utc]

poor mavu who’s a little rusty at this whole thing having been incoporeal for the last 500 years. her expression is carefully schooled confidence but you can see the way her throat bobs as she settles between your legs, hands almost shy as she rests them on your parted thighs. her lips are ever so slightly parted, part awe part desire, as her eyes zero in on the folds of your cunt. her fascination draws a breathy giggle from you, and you wind your own hand in her sun-warmed hair.

“go on, baby,” you coo at her, lightly tugging, an encouraging pressure. mavuika swallows again, then leans forward to press a wet kiss to your mound. you breathe a soft sigh of pleasure, the wamrth of her breath on you sending little shivers up and down your spine. mavuika takes your reaction in stride, mouthing more at your dripping sex, two fingers sliding up to part your labia and then she’s licking a long stripe up from your entrance to the stiff bud of your clit.

you mewl at that, tightening your grip on her hair, and you swear your hear mavuika moan. “good girl,” you manage, keeping your eyes trained on her as she bobs her head with the movement of her tongue, and you see her entire body shiver at the praise. her expression is pinched into one of desperation as she laps at you, and it makes you want to praise her more. but you hold back for now; saying it too often makes it lose its strength, after all.

“mavu,” you call to her sweetly, and she opens her eyes to look up at you obediently. the hand in her hair travels lower to stroke her cheek, and you smile as she leans into the touch. “suck my clit, baby, please?”

mavuika groans at your words—you’re polite, yes, but it’s only cursory. she knows a command when she hears one. with a little hesitance she takes her tongue away from teasing your entrance to travel a little higher, over to the bud of your clit. her eyes flick up, little suns, as her lips seal around it and she gives a small, tentative suck. you were expecting it, but the bolt of pleasure shooting through you still has your back arching and your head being thrown back against the pillows.

“mmgh— good girl, mavuika,” you pant, seeing stars behind your eyelids. “good girl, just like that— use your fingers, baby, please? put those pretty fingers in my cunt.”

mavuika whines at that, scrambling to rearrange herself in a way that’d give her the best angle to slip two of her long fingers into your tight, wet heat. through it all she keeps her lips wrapped around your clit, refusing to leave it for even a second. you groan when you feel the pads of her fingers prod against your entrance, only to taper off into a moan when they push in, stretching your aching walls. mavuika breathes your name like a prayer at the sound of your pussy drawing in her digits, the wet squelch only rivalled by the smacking sounds of her sucking and kissing at your clit.

mavuika learns you like a skill. relentlessly, intently, thoroughly. when she finds those spots that have you keening and writhing she targets them over and over, stoking those embers in your gut into a raging fire. she's burning hot to the touch, a firestarter, and for all the obedience you demand from her you're nothing but kindling in her hands. you tip over the edge like a lone spark to ignition, only distantly aware of the curl of her fingers or the lash of her tongue as you lose yourself in the pleasure, the world reducing down to the woman between your legs.

the flame of your orgasm eventually peters out into low, slow-burning embers, and you can't help the twitch of your hips when mavuika withdraws her fingers. her eyes are blown wide when she sits up, lips and chin glossy with slick. her hair, once sunset read, has almost turned noon-bright, and you manage a weak chuckle at the sight of her obvious arousal. you reach out a trembling hand, encouraging her to come closer, and she crawls over your spent body into your touch. your thumb brushes over her lips, wet with your slick and come, and they part with a thready moan when you call her a good girl and that she did such a good job.

you push your thumb against her lips and she opens her mouth, letting you rest it gently on her tongue. "pretty girl," you rasp idly, a thought spoken aloud, and mavuika makes a low noise in response. it's only then do you notice the drag of her hips along your abdomen, and you remember that your pretty girl has yet to come herself. you slip your finger from her mouth and drift your hand to cup her nape, pulling her in close to whisper your next orders against her lips, and to relish the way her entire body shudders in response.

"let me teach you a different way to ride next, baby."

suffice to say, for the next day or so, natlan's archon was not seen astride her beloved flamestrider.

[jinisnuggets]

➳ 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓼𝓸 𝓘𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓪𝓽 𝓓𝓸𝔀𝓷𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵

PAIRINGS | Dom! Idol! Sunoo x Sub! Gn! Reader

GENRE | Smut

WORD COUNT | 0.7k

WARNINGS | Nicknames (Love, baby), swearing, (chest) play, rough dom Sunoo, overstimulation, A little time-skipped

SYNOPSIS | In a fan's eye he may be innocent, but to you he is your little monster

NETWORK | @en-diaries @starlit-network @k-library @blossomnet

A/N | Hi! This is my first time writing smut in a LONG time, so I'm open to any feedback/criticism you may have :D

His hips grinded against you as he pinned you down onto the bed, holding your arms tightly to ensure your stay. Light groans escaped from his mouth, as he kept his lips glued onto yours, not daring to separate from your warm touch.

“Sunoo- stop..” you spoke softly, seeing him smirk at you knowingly. He knew what he did to you and felt proud of it.

“Love, you know you don't mean that.”

His bulge grew, moaning in response to his tightening pants. Your ears burned, you couldn't focus and it was his fault.

Commenter: You're so cute and innocent! My Sunoo!

He read the comment out loud and smiled at the camera, making half a heart against his cheek and speaking in a somewhat high pitched voice, as a form of aegyo.

“Thank you!” He said, and shortly after the conversation took place, he ended the live, walking into the room where you found yourself, pushing you up against the wall roughly and beginning to sloppily kiss you.

At first there was nothing concerning about it, that was until you decided to be a bit of a tease and lightly massage his still covered dick, which you could tell was hardening.

“Fuck.” He groaned, feeling his pants tighten around his length, as he became desperate for more of you.

His finger found his way to your pants, undoing the buttons and rolling down the zipper, slowly lifting them from your thighs and taking them off of you.

That's how you ended up here, slammed against the bed cushion with your partner on top of you, grinding his dick into you with little to no compassion.

“Ne - Need you.” He groaned vaguely. His dick began to ache from the prolonged erection. His eyes squeezed shut as you nodded, assisting him in the removal of your clothing.

“Sunoo, don't tire yourself too much.” You said, making him nod though you knew he likely didn't put any sort of mind into what you said.

He lifted your leg, putting it over his shoulder as he practically slammed into you, showing zero mercy as he did so.

He lined himself up with you, starting to slide his long and thick friend into you however stopping due to the overwhelming tightness which had been wrapping around him. He cried in response, making you blush due to the sight of your sensitive lover.

“Shit Sunoo, so big and for what..?” You moaned, tears already flowing down your cheeks as he couldn't hold back his chuckle.

“Please, I know you can take more than this.”

He was never this rough with you, you never even expected this from him.

You guessed it was supposed to be his warning as the very next thing he did was start rapidly slamming into you. It took you by surprise, immediately covering yourself with a pillow to reduce the noise of your loud screams.

This was the same man who rarely ever initiated physical contact with you due to the fact he felt shy about it, he rarely ever intertwined your fingers together and he always preferred to have safe sex over anything.

But today, he was abusing your walls harshly, with a force you weren't even aware he had. His cock was bare and the simple thought of it made your stomach tangle into tight knots, ready to snap at any given moment.

“Sunoo-” you moaned, needing to stop in order to catch your breath. “I'm.. close.” You muttered.

His pace slowed down, making you cry in desperation at the sudden disappearance of feeling.

“I'm not done yet.” He hissed, which was enough to scare away the building up orgasm and make you sink back into the mattress, nodding in understanding.

He picked up his pace once more, this time leaning down to kiss your chest, flicking your nipples as his tongue toyed with the other; you held your mouth, once more feeling those tight knots forming in your stomach.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, uncontrollable tears flowing down your sensitive skin.

“My poor baby,” He teased, “I'll be done with you soon, no worries.” He reassured, landing another kiss onto your nose. You nodded in understanding, preferring to remain silent; it wasn't like you could even say anything.

“Fuck- Y/n, I'm close.” He said, feeling his dick reach its limit before cumming, making a mess all over you.

He picked up his pace, feeling his parts squish against your soft outsides, causing him to let out loud moans and screams.

You both came at the same time, he fell onto you making you wrap your arms around him, cuddling him.

“Thank you..” he muttered, leaving his cock inside of you, allowing it to rest in the depths of your warmth.

[otp-after-dark]

🔥 Absolute Blasphemy: They Butchered Nick and June — And They Butchered the Whole Damn Point of THT

Oh, I'm going scorched earth now.

A love story built on blood, sacrifice, and rebellion… reduced to nothing.

TL;DR: Nick gets on a plane that might be rigged to explode. June just lets him. The show runners expect us to call that “love” or “closure.” No. This is character assassination, a betrayal of everything Margaret Atwood built, and a complete erasure of the core themes that made The Handmaid’s Tale matter. And if I have to hold onto my own damn ending to make peace with it, I will. Because the one they gave us? It’s a disgrace.

❌ Nick Blaine Would NEVER Do This. And June Would NEVER Let Him.

Let’s rewind to who these two actually were.

Nick Blaine isn’t just some brooding side character. He’s been a co-lead since Season 1 — a man caught in a fascist regime who chose resistance every single time it meant protecting June.

In Season 1, he coordinates June's escape to the Boston Globe.

In Season 2, he makes sure June survives childbirth and helps coordinate her escape (again) to get her out.

In Season 4, he literally helps orchestrate Fred’s murder as a gift to June.

In Season 5, he makes it clear he’ll never let her go and love anyone but her.

So now you're telling me this man — this careful, bleeding, haunted man — just gets on a plane he has to at least suspect is rigged with no contingency plan, no warning, no desperate last-minute glance, no whispered plea? He might not know the plane is rigged — but he’s not stupid. And even if he didn’t know, it makes it worse that he left without a word, without a glance, without any instinct to reach for her. The Nick we knew would never walk away from June like this. Whether he knew or not, the show robbed him of his voice, his fire, and his final stand.

And June — the woman who launched a rebellion, helped smuggle dozens of children out of Gilead, murdered her rapist, survived ritual torture and psych ops, and stared down Serena Joy and Aunt Lydia with fire in her eyes — now just watches him go?

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t run. She doesn’t fight. She accepts it.

This is not them. This is not the Nick and June we bled for. This is emotional fraud.

😤 And the Worst Part? FRED WAS RIGHT?

“Every love story is a tragedy if you live long enough.” – Fred f***ing Waterford

Let me tell you something: When FRED, the rapist, tyrant, manipulative narcissist who tried to justify every monstrous thing he did with flowery biblical metaphors, becomes the voice of thematic truth in your show? You’ve failed. Spectacularly.

Because when Fred said that line, it was supposed to be ironic. It was supposed to highlight how he romanticizes suffering while enacting horror. It was supposed to expose his hypocrisy.

But now? Now it’s just… true? Nick and June — the one relationship built on shared survival, silent sacrifice, unspoken longing, and acts of revolution— are left with nothing? And we’re supposed to nod solemnly like, “Yes, Fred was right. All love dies eventually”?

NO. NOPE. HELL NO.

The whole point of Nick and June was that their love transcended the regime. It was never allowed. It was never convenient. And it still endured. That was the story. That was the point.

If Fred was right, the entire narrative collapses in and of itself.

🤬 This Is Narrative Cowardice.

Let me be clear: I can handle tragedy. I can handle heartbreak. I’m not asking for sunshine and babies.

But this isn’t tragedy. This is narrative negligence.

A tragedy would have been:

June dragging Nick off the plane at gunpoint, only for them to be captured.

Nick sacrificing himself but leaving behind a message, a choice, a voice.

June choosing to go with him, knowing it’s doomed, and facing the consequences together.

What we got instead was:

Nick walking to a likely death like a resigned bureaucrat.

June barely reacting.

Zero resistance. Zero passion. Zero truth.

It’s not tragic. It’s lazy. It’s gutless. And it reeks of a writing room that either lost its nerve in the current political climate or no longer believes in the story they were telling.

🧨 This Is Not Atwood's THT. This Is Prestige TV Pretending to Be Smart and Politically Safe.

Let’s not sugarcoat it. This finale isn’t just disappointing — it’s cowardly. It’s prestige-washed, watered-down, and terrified of its own legacy.

Margaret Atwood didn’t write a metaphor. She wrote a warning. Every horror in The Handmaid’s Tale was pulled from history. The pain. The punishments. The systemic control of women’s bodies. All of it has happened before.

At its core, her book carried one thesis: Oppression thrives on silence. Resistance lives in memory, desire, and identity. Even in captivity, even when stripped of everything, a woman can still rebel — by remembering herself.

That’s who Offred was. That’s who June used to be. A narrator who named her pain. A woman who found rebellion in wanting, in loving, in refusing to disappear.

And early on, the show got that. It gave us fire. It gave us June spitting in Fred’s face. June orchestrating Fred’s murder and kissing Nick like a blood-soaked thank-you.

Her love with Nick wasn’t soft. It wasn’t quiet. It was survival. It was resistance. It was a threat to Gilead itself.

But now? Now June is muted, judgmental, and a hypocrite. Nick is neutered and pro Gilead. WHAT?! And their love — once radical — is treated like a tragic inconvenience.

The final insult? Fred f***ing Waterford gets the last word.

That line should’ve been mocked. A narcissist’s delusion. A warning of how tyrants romanticize the violence they cause.

Instead? The show treats it like the truth. Like the point.

That’s not a tragedy. That’s a betrayal.

This finale isn’t bold. It’s not emotionally mature. It’s not a reflection of trauma or nuance.

It’s storytelling that’s scared of passion. Scared of fire. Scared of the very themes it once claimed to stand for.

This isn’t Atwood. This isn’t feminist. This isn’t revolutionary.

It’s politically safe. Emotionally hollow. And I reject it completely.

✅ The Ending That Still Makes Sense (a summary of my ending)

Forget this muted finale.

In my ending — the only one that makes emotional sense — Nick finally snaps. He stops playing the good soldier. Stops pretending he doesn’t care. He shows up at June’s door like a man on fire.

And June? She’s already past the point of no return. Done with pretending Canada is salvation. She’s ready to do something reckless. Dangerous.

He opens the door. She gets in the car. There’s blood on her hands. Tears in her eyes. But clarity, too. And she says it:

“We’re in this together. Fucking drive.”

That’s it. That’s all it ever had to be.

Two people who loved each other too hard for the world they lived in. Who chose each other in the face of death. Who didn’t walk away.

Not passive ghosts. Not tragedy porn. Not whatever the hell this finale tried to sell us.

This Finale? UNFORGIVABLE.

You don’t get to build Nick and June as a story of love under fire, love as resistance, love as something holy and real in the middle of hell — and then tell us that none of it mattered.

You don’t get to give Fred Waterford the final word on love. You don’t get to strip June of her fight. You don’t get to neuter Nick and erase his heart.

We remember who they were. Atwood got it right. And we’re not buying this lame ass crap.

[maxwellatoms]

Hello Mr. Atoms, I'm an animation student in college and fan of your work. I got this assignment in which I need to ask questions to a professional in the area. Could you pretty please answer them? It'd mean a lot to me.

1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.

2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?

3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?

4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?

5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?

Okey dokey.

1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.

Not really, in that there seems to be no career left.

The animation industry swelled its numbers greatly before 2020. Almost immediately after that, corporate greed synergized with a pandemic to reduce animated programs and the number of people working on them to almost zero. It takes almost a year from beginning to end to make a single episode of an animated show (by the modern standard). There was nothing being made in 2020 and four years later, we''re not in a much better spot. It's going to be a long drought for (especially) Kid's TV Animation.

Recently, many of my former co-workers have hit the financial wall and can't continue, moving away after (sometimes) 20 years in the industry. I begin to wonder if I'm very far behind.

A "bounce back" a year from now would need to start today. There are still some animated shows being made now, but those are almost universally "library" properties. That means it's an existing I.P. (Intellectual Properties like Garfield/Mario/Batman/Star Wars) so as an artist you're immediately in that box. Depending on the property and the studio, it can be an unpleasantly tight box. I grew used to holding and maintaining the vision for a show, but it's less fun when it's not my vision. It's even less fun when you can't inspire someone to follow your vision because they've been so ruthlessly abused.

I'm pretty sick of how big media corporations treat their employees. If I inherit one more burnt out crew due to mismanagement, I'm gonna lose it.

Over a decade ago I fought hard to get board artists story credit for the episodes they were actually writing, and felt like I'd won a big victory for everyone. The second my back was turned, it all reverted.

Mostly... what is the point now? My career is/was developing ideas, crafting those ideas into a workable show, then managing teams of thirty to seventy people to produce a couple of dozen episodes per year. Studios actively do not want new ideas right now, and are actively searching for ways to eliminate what artists from the process. I'm not sure what my job would be under this new system, but it feels like they decided to hang onto the anxiety-inducing deadlines while removing anything remotely pleasurable from the experience.

2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?

It's the only way to get anything done, currently.

The current state of the industry is not sustainable. I (along with a lot of other animators I know) are trying to decide what's next, and pretty much everyone agrees that "you just have to make something".

It is (in that very specific way) a great time to be a young animator. The system was never going to treat you well anyway. If you can get something like a Hazbin Hotel happening without studio help, you can currently write your own ticket. I'm super proud of Vivsie, because that's a LOT of stuff to handle. I never had to handle my own marketing or drum up money to make Billy & Mandy happen.

There are opportunities there, but it's definitely "Hard Mode". The best idea is probably to team up with a few other people you like and like to work with.

Hopes? I hope that the young animators take over and make something new on top of the bones of the old industry, rather than just allowing that industry to patch its rotting hide with their collected works.

3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?

I suspect true AI might just peace-out like ScarJo in "Her", but we're not there yet. What we have now isn't Artificial Intelligence at all (though I do believe it may be the underpinnings of the Artificial Suconscious of what may one day become an actual Artificial Intelligence.)

The LLMs and "Generative AI" are (so far) a big dumb waste. They consume tons of energy and aren't great for doing anything creative. If you've sat down with Chat GPT for a creative writing session, you've probably run into the "out of the box" limitations which prevent it from talking about sex or violence-- which happen to be a major component of most stories.

Still, the technology has come incredibly far in an incredibly short amount of time. I imagine we're going to hit the point where we're being hazed by artificially generated political ads way before Generative AI can produce a consistent and usable character turnaround, so that'll be the test. Whatever the legal fallout is from this stuff over the next few years will set the tone.

Still, studios have a vested interest in pleasing their shareholders. Generative AI potentially has the capability of not only replacing swaths of money-eating artists, but handing that control directly to the billionaire studio heads. Mark my words: We're headed straight for billionaire-generated content.

I don't think the public at large will want to watch Elon Musk's fever dreams, so there's that. So law and general distaste might stave it off for a while, but I think there's just too much impetus for studios to continue to try to please their investors. "AI Art" is here to stay.

Eventually that will lead to millions and millions of bots generating millions and millions of songs and paintings and movies all day every day. Most of it will be utter trash. Right now (so I'm told) viewers are already burnt out, and will generally only click on what they already know. On Netflix, where there are twenty things you've never heard of and one you have, you're more likely to pick the thing that gives you comfort and gives you a guarantee you're not wasting your time. With exponentially more A.I. trash, how would you even begin to filter it out?

You'd need absolute control of an already existing distribution system. We currently have a few of those, and all of the media companies are desperately trying to merge with them to insure their own survival.

To me, the post-Gen-AI landscape looks a lot like old-school Cable, but with endless I.P. and fewer masters.

4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?

The real question is, maybe, "What am I even doing?" These days I try to do a lot of gardening. I'm trying to learn new art skills, because suddenly twenty five years of experience managing, drawing, and writing isn't worth much. I recently worked on Jellystone until Zaslav lost 2.5 billion in the wash and had to find justification for his new yacht. The show before that? Also culled midway through to save money. The days of multi-year gigs seem to be over, and if I'm going to scrape by doing freelance, maybe I can do that somewhere else.

I'll always make art. I can't seem to help it. Ideas aren't my problem-- it's executing those ideas without the help of a structured pre-existing system. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to pull that off. My strengths are great, but were always supported by friends I worked with.

Can I start an indie cartoon with all of these cool friends? Sure, maybe. Most of those people have gone on to have other careers of their own and got used to being paid. Now nobody is getting paid and no one can pay anyone else. My immediate circle are all now middle-aged people with families and no jobs. Convincing them to give up a large chunk of their day for an idea that's not guaranteed to pay off is going to take some real effort.

I technically have fifteen years until I can claim my "retirement", assuming that still exists by then. That's a pretty big hole to fill with... I don't know what.

The difficult "What comes next" discussions at home are really just starting.

5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?

There are a lot of cool animation people out there. I already mentioned I was proud of Vivsie. I was also reminded recently just how great C.H. Greenblatt and Mr. Warburton are. I know they're my friends. They're both just really upstanding, creative people who take good care of their crews.

The treatment of animation industry professionals by the studio system has been one of the most demoralizing and heartbreaking parts of this demoralizing and heartbreaking time.

---

So there ya go. If you want to look for someone whose attitude is a little more upbeat, I won't blame you a bit.

Wherever you are, I wish you the best of luck. For me, just climb up there and crush it. I would very much like to add you to #5 someday.

[andy-wm]

I've had enough of this fuckery.

Regardless of the bullshit politics within this fandom (in ALL directions) and my dissapointment that the AMA K-pop award has become yet another way for people to tear each other down, regardless of that...

I am extremely, endlessly proud of Namjoon.

I am - today and every day - in awe of his talent, hard work, bravery and authenticity.

I am constantly amazed at his gentleness and his greatness.

He is our leader for a reason.

His RPWP album is a masterpiece that showcases his ability to push himself into - and out of - philosophical and musical spaces that challenge him. He's constantly inviting us into his personal space, showing us who he is, and telling us how he feels about the world he lives in.

It's an absolute privilege to exist in the same space and time as Namjoon.

How many times has he sacrificed himself to protect the other members?

How many times has he pushed back on the stereotypes that ARMY is labelled with?

Hes carried our banner into every battle. Did you forget that?

How much has he given of himself to create the songs we listen to?

Who do you think writes the love letters that BTS sends to ARMY??!

Who do you think holds the line for BTS and ARMY when shit gets real?

THIS MAN DOES.

The fucking LEAST we as a fandom can do is show the man some respect.

This member against member infighting within ARMY has to stop now.

It has to stop RIGHT NOW.

In a few weeks, all seven of our members will be released from active duty - from serving in the armed forces - which they have done with the dedication and propriety expected of people of their standing.

And what are we, their very public and visible fandom, doing?

We are gouging each other's eyes out and flinging mud at the members, all in the name of a 5-minutes-of-fame award that's nothing more than a popularity contest and has no consequence in the long run.

ZERO CONSEQUENCE.

You know what does have consequence?

The way this fandom behaves. And right now, its pretty fucking embarrassing.

Wheres the apobangpo now, ARMYs?

Wheres your goddamn decorum?

You should all be ashamed.

So how about this. Nobody else comes into my asks with any more bullshit about this fucking award.

If you've got nothing nice to say,

How about shut the fuck up.

Reducing both Namjoon and Jimin to pawns in this ridiculous rivalry is insulting to both of them.

It makes a mockery of the bond shared not only between the members, but between BTS and ARMY.

Just. Stop.

And if you cant get your head around celebrating the merits and success of ALL MEMBERS regardless of who your bias is, maybe it's time to find the door and see yourself out of the magic shop. Theres no place for you here.

[bits-and-babs]

𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆, 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 — 𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆

synopsis : könig’s job affords him an air of authority and power that few other professions can. an admission that you find this particularly attractive piques his interest.

pairing : könig x f!civilian!reader (‘perle’)

warnings : 18+ mdni. gun kink!!! this is zero plot, 100% filth, i got a little carried away- gun in mouth. könig is flirty and cheeky because he is, damn it. domxsub dynamics, praise kink, fingering, oral sex (m receiving). size kink, degradation kink, uniform kink all present if you really squint.

könig masterlist ୨୧ main masterlist ୨୧ join taglist ୨୧ ask

Forest green eyes gaze at you through a black, threadbare veil, an eyebrow arching in silent query. Despite the draped cloth obscuring his expression, you can imagine he's smirking, the edge of his lips pulling up as he grapples with your admission. Pride and self-satisfaction roll off König's massive shoulders in waves, though the sheer immensity of his frame makes it feel far more like an avalanche. 

"You like my uniform?" He repeats your admittance, his thick accent lilting in amusement. It's mortifying, you think, to let König into your mind and show the elite soldier just how much he affects you.

You'd hate to seem disrespectful, to reduce his valorous job to some kind of uniform kink- 

"Schatzi?" König pushes gently, watching you squirm under his interrogation from across the room. Chewing on your lip, you note how it smarts slightly, tender from worrying it with your teeth. 

"Mhm- It's more... That I like it on you." The confession makes you cringe internally, expecting König to laugh or reduce your fantasy to that of a 'civvy stereotype'. 

König appears momentarily caught off guard. You see both dark eyebrows arch in mild surprise before a sort of realisation and subsequent amusement settle into those viridescent irises. 

"You mean I am special?" He muses, setting towards you ever so slowly. For such a hulking mass of man, König moves stealthily, delicate footwork almost inaudible. "Not just any soldier?"

"No!" You insist instantly, cheeks heating up under his inquisitive gaze, "No... It's just you- Just you in the uniform."

König hums softly, a sound of acknowledgement as he advances towards you slowly. The intimidation you feel drips down your spine and settles in the pit of your stomach. He's not as threatening as a lion, with brute force and indiscriminate power. No, he reminds you of a hyena, cunning and wily. The knowing look in his eye only adds to the feeling that he's up to something, and your heart thumps in your chest when he continues to search your expression. 

"Tell me. What about the uniform do you like so?" He urges you to detail your desires. You're beginning to wish you'd never mentioned anything because König looks like he's dangling bait between your eyes to coax you into a trap.

"Uhm," you fumble for an answer, those lush eyes calmly studying your trembling frame. When you drag your eyes over König’s body for an answer, you observe the strain of his shirt buttons and the revolver holster strapped to his thigh. He's sown extra length to the leather ties with scraps from a belt, standard military equipment far too small for his tremendous frame.

"I like- The way it fits you? The power, the guns, an-"

"The guns?" He wonders aloud, but there's a sly inflection to his question, guileful. Swallowing thickly, you wonder if you've overstepped a mark, opening and closing your mouth like a witless fish as you attempt to piece together some kind of backtrack-

"You understand their danger, of course?" König quizzes rhetorically, seemingly sated by your vehement nod, "You think they look good? Then... I am willing to share a glimpse of one. That is, if you continue to be so open and honest with me." 

It's an odd sensation, the feeling of your blood running cold but the pit of your stomach burning hot with arousal. König doesn't even give you a moment to dispute, halting his advancing footsteps and deciding instead to revert, putting distance between you and taking a seat. 

"K- König-" You want to ask him to tell you what he has planned, but the words wither on your tongue when you see him draw the stainless steel revolver from its holster. It glints in the fluorescent lighting above your head, coaxing you forward. It's as though he's pushed cotton between your lips, drying your mouth. 

"Perle," he copies you, shifting his hips forward in the seat and slowly letting his colossal thighs part. From here, his eyes look darker, his pupils swallowing his irises as he drops his hand and places the revolver in his lap. "Come take a look."

It cracks up the length of your spine, sparking white hot and burning in your cheeks. W-What? You let out a nervous giggle, stepping forward to begin your approach. 

König doesn't seem to like it, though. He tilts his head in silent warning, and you stop dead in your tracks. He told you-

"Crawl for me, Liebchen," König murmurs, resting his bicep against the seat's headrest. Every inch of his body is relaxed, muscles lazy as his eyes drag across the length of his body. You're almost certain you can feel their path across your skin, leaving burning embers in their wake. God, it's genuinely pathetic; how quickly you fall to your knees. 

The intensity of his gaze bores into you as you settle on your hand and knees. Embarrassment no longer controls you, your arousal overriding any possible humiliation as you crawl across the floor towards him. König's eyes are an open book, pleased and proud of your willingness to take orders–– it encourages you, prompting you to put a slight sway to your hips. 

You'd have to be blind to notice it; the generous length bobbing and straining against the khaki trousers. Despite his obvious discomfort, König does nothing to satiate his arousal, focusing all his attention on you alone when you finally kneel between his feet. 

"Mein kleiner Schatz," the purr rumbles in his chest as König reaches forward, stroking the barrel of the gun across your cheekbone. The chromed steel is cold, chilling your skin and breaking goosebumps across your arms. "You look so pretty like this."

Anticipation prickles down your spine, whimpering softly. You lean into König's touch, turning towards the pistol and pressing a kiss to the steel barrel. You see the flicker of arousal in König's green eyes and how his eyelids grow heavy. 

"Scheiße, you like that?" he groans, dragging the nose of the gun across your lips like the bullet of a lipstick. "My weapon big enough for my girl?" He smirks when you nod, looking up at your lover through your lashes. 

It's downright vulgar, utterly disgusting, but you can't help yourself anymore. The way König looks down at you with this look in his eyes, like he could swallow you whole, makes arousal curl so hot and thick in your stomach that you can't deny your throbbing clit any longer. Sliding your fingers underneath your waistband, you rub small circles on your clit. 

"Oh," König sighs, watching as you let out a gasp of relief. The breath expels from your lungs hot and heavy, misting up the reflective steel surface of the revolver. "Look at you, Perle. Share with me; I want to watch." 

Fumbling with the buttons on your pants, you desperately work out of them and yank them over your hips, panties and all. The searing gaze above you settles on your pussy as you play with your clit, adding to the bliss that sparks across your skin. 

"Mhmm," König hums again, like you've placed an exquisite meal before him. "All wet for me, Schatzi; it's all across your thighs." 

You nod weakly, breath shuddering as you grind into your palm with a whimper. "P-Please-"

"Kiss the gun again, Perle. I'll make you feel good," he promised you, his voice thick and deep with his arousal. You nod thoughtlessly, far too overwhelmed by the need to feel his hands on you to deny his request. You press your lips to the barrel of the gun over and over, slowly and sensually, as though you were kissing his cock. 

"Good girl," he praises, though his words catch in his throat when you take a leap. Opening your mouth, you bring the barrel tip between your teeth, looking up at König through your lashes and letting out a wanton moan. 

Big mistake. 

König uses the balls of his heels to skirt forward in the seat, his knees on either side of your head. He stares down at you, chest heaving as he leans down and pats your hip sharply. 

"Stand up on your knees," he orders, the severity in his voice similar to how he speaks to his KorTac team. You can’t help but wonder if he gets a kick out of it too– some kind of power surge thanks to his promotion.

"Yes, colonel," you address him by his title as you rise, and König growls so deep and low that you're sure the floor rumbles beneath you. He works his massive hand over your own, taking control and slowing your fingers' ministrations to a maddeningly slow cycle. 

"Such a good girl, Shatz," he coos, and once again, you can hear the smirk on his lips as he watches your body crumple with the wave of arousal his control shoots through you. "So receptive. Would you like it in your mouth?"

Whimpering softly, you look up at him in question. Was it safe? Well- Of course it wasn't safe; none of this was. 

"Trust me," he urges you softly, finally replacing the swirling touch of your finger with his own. There's no escaping the drag of his fingerprint, the digit so much larger than your own. 

You nod again, the blissful arousal so mind-numbing that it overrides your fear. Then, letting your jaw hang loose, your eyes practically roll back into your skull when König rests the barrel of the deadly weapon across your tongue.

"Hahh," König groans, sinking his fingers into your soaked cunt. You wail, body bracing and shuddering at the intrusion as his fingers alone stretch you out. "Is that good, Mein kleiner Schatz? Hmm? Does it feel cold in your mouth?"

You nod slightly, managing a quiet 'mhm-hm' to answer your Colonel vocally. Excitement blooms in your chest when you see it pleases him, his fingers sliding deeper into you while working your clit ever so slowly. 

"Does it feel good, though?" He checks in with you, still adamant about your comfort despite his dominant role. You nod again. 

"Good," he chuckles, staring down at you with such an intensity that you almost forget his eyes are green, his pupil dilated so much that they've practically devoured his verdant irises. It rocks you, another blissful wave of arousal sweeping from head to toe. 

Wrapping your lips around the barrel, you allow yourself to get carried away even further. You hollow your cheeks, eyelashes fluttering as you put on the erotic display to work König up even more. 

"Schei- Filthy girl!" You're unsure if he meant to scold you, but König sounds far too wrecked for it to land the way he intends. He rocks his fingers up inside of you suddenly, instantly finding your G-spot and working it ruthlessly. "Alway distracting me, making me lose my min..."

His words are drowning out as your heartbeat thuds against your sternum and in your ears, something sickly sweet and thick like molasses trickling through your veins as your orgasm begins to surge in your abdomen. 

The squelching, wet sounds of König's fingers working in and out of your tight cunt are deafeningly loud, though, audible enough that they reach your ears even over the thumping of your heart and heavy gasps of breath. "K- König-"

"Can you take it deep in your throat for me, Mein Perle?" He asks, sounding utterly wrecked and haggard. Your vision blurs, but you definitely see the lurch of his cock in his khaki cargo trousers. "Please- Please, just for me-"

He doesn't need to ask you twice; his begging is interrupted by a filthy groan of your name when you easily take the barrel further down your throat to the point your upper lip could almost brush his thumb on the hammer of the gun.

"Hahhh, fuck!" König spits, watching tears well in your eyes at the stretch in your throat and cunt. He gently pulls the gun from your mouth, careful not to hurt you but knocking your teeth thanks to his trembling hand. "I'm making you cum, and then you'll do that to me, Shatz. Filthy girl-"

The moment the gun leaves your lips, König's fingers arch against your g-spot and his thumb circles your clit simultaneously. It's devastating, and you're barely able to hold yourself up as the ecstasy bursts through you brightly. It's as though a grenade has gone off, but it keeps building and building- 

" König-... KönigKönigKo-ooh-" You squeak his name, his brutal, sniper precision knocking the oxygen from your lungs as your tears drip down your face. "I'm cummmmugh-!"

It’s like static in your ears and across your skin when it burns through you. It crackles across your nerve endings, arcs up your spine until you’re leaning back against it, arching your back as if attempting to escape the intensity of the ecstasy he draws from you. You want to scream his name, begging him to stop, to carry on, but the words drown among the wails and whines of bliss. 

It feels like it goes on forever, your body suspended in euphoria and caged, grounded, only by König’s thighs. 

When your vision straightens, your chest heaving violently, König's hands delicately push your hair from your face. He's careful with you in these moments, the vulnerable aftermath where your mind is drunk on hormones and your body is in shock from the extremity of your orgasm. There's no rush for your recovery; your lover lets you take all the time you need. 

It's only when you manage to straighten yourself somewhat, shaky hands resting on his knees in a wordless show of readiness, that König nods his head. 

"That's it, Schatzi," he whispers to you, holding his breath as he waits his turn anxiously. 

Your mouth waters at the ruddy colour of his thick, veiny dick, and you lean forward to take the head into your mouth in a repeat of your actions earlier. König's hips jolt forward, grasping the arms of the chair with a white-knuckle grip at the vibrations that rock down his shaft when you hum around him. 

"Oh- Oh fuck-!" He chokes out when you gently graze your teeth over the sensitive, velvety head, just as you did the gun barrel. You see König's eyes roll back, and one of his eyebrows arches as the sensation takes over. He's twitching in your mouth already, salty precum dribbling down the arch of his cock and spilling onto your tongue. 

You take your tantalising time, kissing at the head of his dick once more before slowwwly easing him into your wet, hot mouth. König's gasps of bliss are pathetic, the imposing man reduced to a clammy mess of whimpers and keens of your name. It's so simple to work him up, the simple act of your palms smoothing across his thighs enough to get his cock jumping against your tongue. 

The warmth of your mouth around König's dick is too much for him, his head lolling back in the chair. You see him squeeze his eyes shut, bracing against the heaving of his chest and the slight rocks of his hips into your mouth. 

Your hand finds his balls, gently trailing your nails over them, and König's hips suddenly jolt upwards. He slips deep, tip knocking the back of your throat and catching you off guard in a gag. 

Pulling back, you squeeze his knees tight and take a deep breath. 

"Oh fuck- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-" he apologises fervently, lifting his head like he's got weights tied to it, and it's far too heavy. He can't seem to hold it up straight, and it instantly falls back again with a spluttered wail when you shush him, wrapping your mouth around his cock and tracing his slit to taste his precum. 

He's close already; you can tell by the way his dominant energy dissipates and his balls draw up tight. He’s completely forgotten the act he’d been putting on, his revolver discarded on the beside you and desperate pines of your name falling from his lips.

"Scheiße," he gasps, the wooden arms of the chair creaking beneath the pressure of his grip. "Ah, Sch- shhhh-"

Anticipating his orgasm, you sink heavily onto him, taking as much of his impossible length into your throat as possible. König's hands fly from the chair, grasping the hair on the crown of your head and holding you on his cock like he's terrified you'll withdraw. 

“Ahah- Ah- Mein Perl- fuck!”

He cums with a lurch of his dick, a pathetic, trembling whine spilling from his lips as you swallow it down, the walls of your throat tightening around him. Ragged gasps of breath reach your ears, and your clit burns with the need for attention yet again as you continue to milk König. There's so much of him-

Suddenly, he's using his grip on your hair to pull you off, and he slips from your lips with a wet, audible pop. You look up at his languid body sprawled in the chair, wiping his wetness from your chin. 

"Hah, Schatz…” he watches you, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, "You are too good to me."

You shake your head gently, still sitting on your knees as you rest your head in his lap. They're aching after holding your weight for so long on such a hard floor, but you'll gladly take the bruises as a medal for your hard, valiant work. 

His hands immediately find your hair with a much softer, kinder touch, brushing through the threads and skirting his fingertips over your scalp. "No. I just want to show my appreciation for my heroic soldier, remember?" 

A soft, tired chuckle shakes his body, and you can't help the smile that splits your lips as a response. "Ah, of course. I remember. 'Not like others in uniform'."

"You're not," you insist gently, closing your eyes as he brushes his battle-calloused knuckles across your cheekbone, "None of them make the uniform look so sexy."

"Ah-hah! I knew it was the uniform!"

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[stupittmoran]

This is a Tesla model Y battery. It takes up all of the space under the passenger compartment of the car. To manufacture it you need:

--12 tons of rock for Lithium (can also be extracted from sea water) -- 5 tons of cobalt minerals (Most cobalt is made as a byproduct of processing copper and nickel ores. It is the most difficult and expensive material to obtain for a battery.) -- 3 tons nickel ore -- 12 tons of copper ore You must move 250 tons of soil to obtain: -- 26.5 pounds of Lithium -- 30 pounds of nickel -- 48.5 pounds of manganese -- 15 pounds of cobalt

To manufacture the battery also requires: -- 441 pounds of aluminum, steel and/or plastic -- 112 pounds of graphite

The Caterpillar 994A is used to move the earth to obtain the minerals needed for this battery. The Caterpillar consumes 264 gallons of diesel in 12 hours.

The bulk of necessary minerals for manufacturing the batteries come from China or Africa. Much of the labor in Africa is done by children. When you buy an electric car, China profits most.

The 2021 Tesla Model Y OEM battery (the cheapest Tesla battery) is currently for sale on the Internet for $4,999 not including shipping or installation. The battery weighs 1,000 pounds (you can imagine the shipping cost). The cost of Tesla batteries are: Model 3 -- $14,000+ (Car MSRP $38,990) Model Y -- $5,000–$5,500 (Car MSRP $47,740) Model S -- $13,000–$20,000 (Car MSRP $74,990) Model X -- $13,000+ (Car MSRP $79,990)

It takes 7 years for an electric car to reach net-zero CO2. The life expectancy of the battery is 10 years (average). Only in the last 3 years do you start to reduce your carbon footprint, but then the batteries must be replaced and you lose all gains made.

And finally, my new friend, Michael, made some excellent points: I forgot to mention the amount of energy required to process the raw materials and the amount of energy used to haul these batteries to the U.S. sometimes back and forth a couple of times.

But by all means, get an electric car. Just don't sell me on how awesome you are for the environment. Or for human rights.

Credit: @Hanna Roth