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cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

what if a professor yeonjun, like your tryingnto pass his subject but things took a turn for the worse(?)

TEACHER'S PET

summary: you're halfway through your sixth semester of korean literature when professor yeonjun becomes something you never expected. strict, disciplined, and impossibly attractive, he always keeps his distance — until you start finding ways to get his attention. your chemistry is undeniable, and one night, the tension between you finally breaks. now, you're caught in a dangerous game where his praise and control are all you crave.

pairing: teacher!yeonjun x student!reader

genre: smut, dom/sub, teacher/student, praise, worship, slow burn, dark romance.

warnings: explicit content, power dynamics, age gap, manipulation, consent issues, rough sex, dirty talk, possessiveness, adult themes, dominance, and submission.

wc: 6,4k

notes: i’ll just say one word: HORNY

you’re halfway through your sixth semester of korean literature when professor choi starts becoming something else.

not that he wasn’t already magnetic in his own cold, untouchable way — no one misses his entrance when he steps into the lecture hall. tall, composed, his posture always impossibly straight, sharp jaw clean-shaven, hair perfectly styled. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t stumble, never second-guesses his words. and he’s always in those immaculate suits, dark and crisp, tailored within an inch of their life, like they were cut specifically for his body. the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

a single glance from him carries more weight than a paragraph of scolding from any other professor. he rarely smiles. never laughs.

his voice is low, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm — the sort of calm that unsettles, that keeps people on edge. everything about him radiates discipline, control, a restrained sort of dominance that makes students sit straighter in their chairs without realizing, makes them go silent before he’s even said a word.

he’s always been that way — precise, unapproachable — but lately, something’s changed. maybe it’s the heat creeping into the city, the way spring’s begun to press against the windows and sneak into the folds of everyday routine. or maybe it’s the way he’s adjusted to it: losing the jacket sometime between office hours and lecture, rolling up the sleeves of his pristine white shirt as if it’s nothing, revealing strong forearms, veins barely visible beneath smooth skin, the subtle flex of muscle as he writes across the board. his watch — black leather band, silver face — rests snugly against his wrist, catching the light.

it’s a small change, but it wrecks the room. girls who used to barely make it to class on time now arrive early, hair done, lip gloss shining, pretending to read while stealing glances every time he turns.

and still, he never gives them anything. he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t linger. he doesn’t even make eye contact unless he hasto. he finishes his lectures right on time, closes his laptop, gathers his things, and vanishes down the hallway like a shadow that doesn’t belong to this world. some students have joked that he sleeps in the faculty office. others say he doesn’t sleep at all.

but for some reason — you’re different.

you’re not sure when it started, but it’s clear. he knows your name, your handwriting, the way you think. he returns your essays with his signature red annotations, always concise, always insightful — and once, once, he underlined a sentence and wrote just one word beside it: brilliant. and that one word sat in your chest for days. he asks you to help him distribute materials, to collect papers, to make extra copies when needed. he trusts you. you’re always the one he calls to the front when there’s something more technical to handle. nothing inappropriate. never even borderline. but it’s always you.

you’re the top of the class, and he treats you like it — but sometimes, you wonder if it’s more than just academic. sometimes, you want it to be.

that afternoon, the air is unusually heavy, the kind of warm that sticks to your skin and makes everyone slightly irritable, slightly sluggish. the windows are open, but they do nothing. the fans click lazily overhead. you’re wearing one of your usual skirts — neat, within code, but undeniably short — and he’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open just enough to make your eyes catch there. he’s halfway through a lecture on mid-century poetry, voice smooth as ink over paper, when he gestures for you without breaking his rhythm.

“copies for the next class,” he murmurs, pen still sliding across the attendance sheet, head down.

you nod, standing from your seat with the casual ease of someone used to being called. the rest of the class barely glances up. you walk to his desk, hips swaying slightly, fingers brushing the edge as you reach for the stack of printed pages.

and that’s when it happens.

he looks.

not in passing — not the impersonal sweep of a professor monitoring a student’s approach — but really looks. his gaze drops, and it doesn’t move. it lands just above your knee, where your skirt lifts slightly as you lean forward. you can feel the heat of his stare like sunlight against bare skin. there’s a flicker of something raw and real in that second — not restrained, not filtered through professionalism, but human. male.

you don’t say anything. you don’t have to.

his breath catches, ever so faintly. his adam’s apple moves.

and then, like he’s realized too late that he’s given himself away, his eyes shoot up — fast, sharp — locking with yours.

for a split second, there’s nothing between you but tension. not the kind that can be laughed off or misread. it’s the kind that coils low in your stomach, that makes your fingers twitch and your heart pound and your thighs press together on instinct.

his expression doesn’t change. he doesn’t speak. but something in the set of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, tells you everything.

you straighten slowly, the papers clutched in your hand, and your fingertips brush the wood of his desk — a silent connection, brief and electric. he doesn’t move. neither do you.

then he clears his throat, a quiet sound, but rough — hoarse in a way you’ve never heard before.

“thank you.”

the words are simple. but the way he says them... you feel them. low in your belly.

and as you return to your seat, every step feels heavier. like something has shifted. like a line has been crossed — not fully, not yet, but enough that it’s there, smoldering just beneath the surface.

and you know — so does he — that it’s only a matter of time.

you leave the lecture hall with the rest of the students, but your steps are slower, deliberate, your mind replaying that single second — the way his gaze lingered, the flicker of tension, the sound of his voice when he said thank you like it wasn’t just about the papers. outside, the air is sticky with spring, warm enough that your thighs cling faintly with each step. you can feel your pulse where it shouldn’t be, in places no professor should ever reach — and he hasn’t, not yet, not even with his hands or his mouth, but his eyes touched you today. and it’s not something you can forget.

you don’t get far before you hear your name behind you. calm. commanding.

“can you stay for a moment?”

your body answers before your mouth does. you turn back around, nodding, eyes wide, heart stammering like you didn’t spend the entire walk out hoping he’d stop you. he holds the door open, just slightly, enough to let you pass back into the lecture hall once the corridor clears.

inside, the room is quieter now. emptier. there’s still heat, clinging to the walls, to the seats, to your skin. he doesn’t say anything at first, just gathers the remaining papers from his desk and gestures toward the back door — the one that leads to the inner corridor, the private hallway professors use to access their offices.

he doesn’t wait for you to follow. he knows you will.

you walk behind him, eyes drawn to the curve of his back, the strong, clean lines of his body even beneath something as simple as a white dress shirt. he moves with a purpose that makes you nervous. when he unlocks his office, the sound of the key turning echoes too loud in your ears.

it’s cooler inside. the light softer. the door closes behind you with a dull, final click, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, the air between you charged and private and wrong in all the ways that make your skin tingle.

he doesn’t sit behind his desk this time. he leans against it, arms crossed, sleeves still rolled, watch still gleaming on his wrist. he watches you. quietly. intently.

“i wanted to talk about your last essay,” he starts, and his voice is back to that measured, even tone you’ve come to crave. “it was... different.”

you stand a few feet from him, bag still slung over your shoulder, fingers curled tight around the strap.

“different?” you echo, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

he nods. “you went beyond the assigned reading. contextualized the text through secondary sources, philosophical frameworks. you didn’t have to.”

you shrug a little, trying to sound casual. “i thought it would... strengthen my argument.”

he looks at you, his gaze steady, unreadable. “did you?”

you hesitate.

and then, you say the thing you’ve been swallowing for weeks. maybe longer.

“i did it so you’d notice.”

his posture doesn’t shift, but something in the air does — a sharp crackle, invisible but unmistakable. you breathe out slowly, your chest tight, like you’ve crossed some threshold you can’t walk back from.

“i do everything right,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “i hand in everything early. i study more than i have to. i volunteer. i do the extra work. i — i watch you. i listen so carefully. and you never...” your throat tightens. “you never give anything away.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then he straightens.

walks around his desk slowly.

each step feels deliberate, measured, heavy in a way that makes your spine tingle.

he stops in front of you.

too close.

close enough that you can smell him — the faint scent of something clean and warm, like cedar and laundry soap and static heat.

“you think i haven’t noticed?” he says softly.

you look up at him, your breath caught between your ribs. his eyes burn into yours — not angry, not cold, but sharp with something else. something older. deeper. restrained.

“every essay,” he murmurs. “every time you raise your hand. the way you sit at the front, the way you’re always two steps ahead. you’re not just good. you’re brilliant. and you know what that does to a man who’s used to mediocrity.”

your breath shudders out of you. your knees feel a little weak.

he takes one step closer.

his voice dips lower. more dangerous.

“you crave praise,” he says. “don’t you?”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“you want more than a grade,” he says, and this time, there’s something else in his voice — reverence, almost. something like awe. “you want to be seen. worshipped.”

you nod before you realize you’ve moved. “yes.”

his eyes darken.

“you don’t just want approval,” he murmurs. “you want to be mine.”

the words hang there, suspended in the space between you, electric and terrifying and perfect.

you feel your thighs press together, your fingers twitch at your sides. your breathing is shallow. it feels like the world has narrowed down to this exact moment — this man, this room, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever let get this close.

and then his eyes drop.

slow.

scorching.

they rake down your body — over your lips, your throat, the swell of your chest, the hem of your skirt — until they settle on your legs. bare. still slightly flushed from the heat.

“you wear these,” he says, voice low and tight, “and you act like it’s nothing. like you’re innocent. but you want me to look. you’ve wanted it every time.”

you can’t speak. you’re trembling — not with fear, but with the unbearable ache of being understood.

his fingers move — just slightly — brushing a paper off his desk, his knuckles grazing the edge, so close to your waist you stop breathing.

“you don’t want discipline,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “you want devotion.”

his eyes meet yours again, and this time, the mask is gone.

and what’s beneath it is dangerous. hungry.

but he hasn’t touched you. not yet.

and somehow, that’s worse than if he had.

his gaze doesn’t move from yours — heavy, reverent, consuming — but his hand lifts, slow and sure, brushing the air like it’s just discovered the right to touch.

“look at you,” he murmurs, like a confession. “so fucking perfect.”

your breath catches, and he sees it. sees the way your thighs shift just slightly, your lips part like you’re about to speak but can’t quite find the shape of the words. his hand lowers, lands gently on your hip, firm but not rough. fingers spreading, slow as sin, as if to measure how much of you he can claim with one palm.

“do you even realize,” he whispers, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes your ear, “what you do to me?”

you shiver.

he lets the silence stretch, deliberate, letting the weight of his touch anchor you in the heat building between your skin and his. his hand slides down over the curve of your ass — nothing rushed, just exploring, mapping it like it’s sacred. he squeezes softly, almost experimentally, and hums.

“god,” he mutters. “you feel even better than i imagined.”

you whimper at that — softly, involuntarily — and the sound makes something shift in him.

both hands are on you now, large and warm, kneading your ass in slow, indulgent motions, as if he’s been waiting a lifetime just to touch you like this. he groans under his breath, the sound rough, low in his chest.

“you like this,” he says, not asking. stating. owning it. “you like being touched. praised. adored.”

you nod, breathless. “yes—”

the sound barely escapes before it’s ripped apart by the crack that fills the room.

his palms land hard — both hands slapping the flesh of your ass with a force that makes your body jolt forward, eyes wide, mouth falling open in a sharp gasp that turns into a helpless moan.

“ah—!”

his hands immediately return to you, rougher now, gripping hard, dragging you back into his hold like he dares the air to take you from him.

“that’s it,” he growls, voice tight, burning. “so fucking good for me. i’ve been watching you — every little skirt, every smart little answer, the way you look at me like you know i’d ruin you if i ever touched you.”

his fingers dig into the flesh, thumbs pressing deep, kneading you with a hunger that borders on reverence.

“and you want it, don’t you?” he whispers, voice thick, sinful. “you want to be handled. worshipped. broken the right way.”

your head nods before your mouth even catches up. “yes— please—”

his fingers find the hem of your skirt then — finally — and push it up. not fast. not impatient.

he does it slow, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s waited too long to open. like your skin is something sacred he’s waited to uncover.

the fabric lifts inch by inch, and you feel the air hit the backs of your thighs, feel the way his breath stutters the moment he sees the curve of your ass fully revealed beneath the soft fabric of your panties.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and reverent. “look at you.”

he palms your ass again, skin to skin now, the heat of him burning into you. he slides his hand between your thighs — not yet touching where you ache, but close enough that your knees threaten to buckle. he pulls you back against him, slow and hard, until you can feel the thick press of him behind his slacks, hot and heavy and so fucking there.

“do you feel that?” he growls into your ear. “that’s what you do to me. every class. every time you walk in like you don’t know how fucking perfect you are.”

his hand glides up your back, smooth, then down again — slower this time, more deliberate. he caresses, explores, worships.

“and you want more,” he murmurs, kissing the words into the space just behind your ear. “don’t you?”

you moan — softly, needily — and nod again.

“say it.”

“i want more,” you breathe, barely able to stand. “i want everything.”

he groans, deep and guttural, and his fingers curl into the waistband of your panties.

but he doesn’t pull them down. not yet.

instead, he presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, slow and firm.

“then beg for it.”

his words are low, steady, edged with something feral — but laced with so much control it makes your knees weak. you’re already trembling, your thighs pressing together, trying to find friction where there is none, but he waits. unmoving. unreadable. his hands rest heavy on your hips, grounding you.

you turn your head slightly, enough to look over your shoulder. your voice comes out breathy, desperate, soft like silk but soaked in need.

“please... please, i need your mouth—”

his grip tightens.

you gasp.

“look at you,” he murmurs, like he’s marveling at something rare, precious. “already begging. already soaking through these little panties.”

his fingers trace along the edge of them, teasing, brushing the damp fabric between your thighs.

“you’re so good for me,” he breathes. “so ready. so perfect.”

then, slowly — achingly slow — he sinks to his knees behind you.

you feel the heat of his breath before you feel his mouth. his hands push your cheeks apart gently, reverently, spreading you open just enough, and he kisses the curve of your ass first, soft, trailing, worshipful kisses that make you moan already. then lower. the tip of his nose brushes against the back of your thigh as he inhales.

“you smell like heaven,” he groans.

and then — finally — his mouth meets the damp cotton of your panties. not even skin yet, and still, your body jolts.

he presses his lips right where you need him most, and kisses, slow and deep, like he’s tasting something sacred through the fabric.

“so sweet,” he murmurs against you. “so good for me, baby.”

you whimper, fingers clutching the edge of his desk, hips rolling back instinctively.

he chuckles low, a dark sound that vibrates straight into you.

“needy little thing,” he purrs. “you want my mouth? you want to come on my tongue?”

“yes— fuck, yes, please—”

“then ask again.”

your breath hitches. “please... use your mouth on me, professor. i want it— i want you.”

there’s a beat of silence.

and then he pulls your panties to the side.

you gasp as cool air hits your wet heat — and then his mouth is there.

no teasing this time.

just tongue, lips, heat.

he licks you slowly — a long, torturous stroke from bottom to top — before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently.

you cry out, legs nearly giving in.

“oh my god—”

his grip holds you steady, and he hums in approval, tongue circling, flicking, devouring like he’s starving. he praises you between licks, voice muffled and wrecked.

“so perfect.”

kiss.

“so fucking good.”

lick.

“you taste like a dream, baby.”

you whine, hips rocking, chasing every flick of his tongue, every stroke, every moan he breathes against you. he knows exactly what he’s doing — keeps it slow, keeps you on the edge, keeps whispering filthy praise between each wet, reverent kiss.

“that’s it,” he groans, “grind on my mouth. take what you need. come for me, smart girl.”

your fingers dig into the wood. your thighs tremble. and when his tongue flicks just right — slow, firm, curling — the pleasure crashes through you like a wave. your cry echoes off the walls, broken and raw.

“professor—!”

he groans, gripping your ass tighter as you fall apart, licking you through it, tongue relentless, hungry, tender. he doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking and your breathing turns to whimpers.

he pulls back slowly, breath warm against your skin. and then, he presses a kiss — soft, reverent — to your soaked, sensitive cunt.

“that’s my good girl.”

you whimper.

still trembling, you turn slowly to face him. he stands again, tall and dark-eyed, lips glistening with your arousal, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt.

your voice comes out hoarse.

“please... don’t stop. keep praising me. keep touching me.”

his gaze deepens.

and then, without a word, he reaches for the leather belt around his waist.

the clink of the buckle sliding open feels like thunder.

his eyes never leave yours.

he pulls it off — slow, practiced — then moves to unbutton his slacks.

you watch, spellbound, as he lowers the zipper and slides them down just enough to free himself.

and when he does — you see it.

long, thick, flushed with need, his cock stands hard and heavy in his hand, the head glistening with precum, veins prominent, and so big it makes your breath stutter.

he strokes it once — slowly — and groans deep.

“you did this,” he growls. “with your voice. with your body. with that perfect, needy little mind of yours.”

he steps closer, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

“now tell me how much you want it.”

“i need it— i need you, professor,” you gasp, body still trembling from your last orgasm, your thighs sticky, weak, mind already unraveling. “please, i want to feel you inside— please—”

he growls, a dark, low sound that rips from his throat as he steps behind you again. you feel the heat of him press against your ass, thick and heavy, his cock sliding slowly between your cheeks, teasing you, smearing precum against your skin.

“fuck, listen to yourself,” he rasps, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around to your front, up your stomach, until it cups your breast over your blouse. “so fucking desperate. begging your professor like a filthy little slut.”

his thumb rolls over your nipple through the fabric, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him, moaning when his mouth finds the side of your neck. he sucks softly, then bites, then soothes with his tongue, all while kneading your breast harder now, fingers gripping the soft flesh like he owns it.

“you wear these little skirts for me, don’t you?” he growls, his cock rutting slowly between your ass cheeks. “sit in the front. raise your hand. act like a good girl, but all you want is this cock in your pussy.”

you whimper, nodding helplessly, eyes fluttering.

“say it.”

“yes, professor,” you cry, breath hitched. “i wear them for you. i want to be your good girl. i want your cock inside— please—”

his hand slides under your blouse now, yanking down your bra with no hesitation. he groans when his palm meets bare skin, fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, the sting sharp and electric.

“fuck, these tits— soft little things made for my hands,” he grunts, massaging both now, his body flush to yours, breath hot against your ear. “you’re made for me, aren’t you? this body... this pussy... all mine.”

you nod again, panting. “yes— yes, all yours, professor—”

“good girl.”

his hand drops suddenly, dragging between your thighs again. two fingers find your soaked folds and slip inside without resistance.

“jesus— you’re dripping,” he groans, pushing deep, curling. “already stretched for me. i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

you cry out, body rocking back on his fingers, chasing the pressure. he scissors you open slowly, fingers fucking you at a steady rhythm, your slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

schlick, schlick, schlick.

“listen to that,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw. “you hear how wet you are for your professor? so fucking needy. so ready.”

and then— he pulls out.

you whine at the loss, but he’s already moving— grabbing your waist, spinning you around to face him. his mouth crashes against yours, deep and filthy, tongue claiming yours as his cock presses against your core. you moan into his mouth, grinding against him shamelessly.

he breaks the kiss with a growl, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

“turn around,” he orders, voice sharp. “against the wall. now.”

you scramble to obey, heart racing. the cold surface of the wall meets your palms, your cheek pressed to the plaster, back arched, skirt still hiked over your ass.

he steps in close — impossibly close — and grabs one of your legs, lifting it and bracing it on the edge of the wall ledge, opening you further.

you gasp at the stretch, at the exposure, but then you feel it — the blunt head of his cock, hot and heavy, nudging your entrance.

“this pussy,” he murmurs, dragging the head through your folds. “mine now.”

and then — slowly, so fucking slow — he pushes in.

inch by inch, your body stretches around him. your moan breaks into something wrecked and needy as he fills you, thick and perfect and so deep.

“fuck— professor—”

“that’s it,” he grits, bottoming out with a groan, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. “take it. take all of me. just like that, smart girl.”

he doesn’t move yet.

just stays, buried inside, letting your walls flutter around him, letting you feel just how deep he reaches.

his hand slides around your ribs again, back to your breasts, massaging them slowly as he begins to thrust — shallow, grinding strokes that drag against every nerve ending.

“feel that?” he whispers, voice thick. “that’s how much i wanted you. how long i’ve needed this. your tight little cunt wrapped around my cock. moaning my name.”

his pace picks up, fucking you slow and deep, filthy wet sounds echoing with each thrust, your slick coating him with every roll of his hips.

your body melts into the wall, your hands flat against the surface, your cries muffled until you turn your head and gasp, “harder, professor— please—”

his grip tightens.

“you want more?”

“yes— please— ruin me—”

he slams into you, once, hard.

your scream echoes off the walls.

and he starts fucking you.

he slams into you again — rough, deep, precise — and your whole body jolts against the wall, fingers scrambling for something to hold on to as the air punches out of your lungs.

“fuck, professor—!”

“that’s it,” he growls behind you, voice ragged, his cock dragging out and slamming back in, relentless now. “take it. take every fucking inch.”

the sound of skin on skin echoes through the room — wet, brutal, merciless. your cunt is soaked, slick squelching every time he buries himself to the hilt. the position only makes it filthier — one leg raised, your skirt bunched up around your waist, his cock slamming up into you at the perfect angle.

slap, slap, slap.

his hands roam everywhere — gripping your waist, then sliding up to your breasts, squeezing them roughly, thumbs circling your nipples until they ache. you sob, overwhelmed by how full you feel, how worshipped and ruined you are at once.

“you love this, don’t you?” he pants, teeth grazing your ear. “my cock fucking you stupid. your tits bouncing in my hands. you’re so fucking perfect.”

“yes— yes, i love it— please don’t stop—”

“you wanna come again?”

“please, professor, please—!”

he growls, one hand snaking down between your thighs again, finding your clit and rubbing tight circles, fast, cruel, while he fucks you through it.

“then come for me, smart girl,” he hisses. “make a mess all over my cock. now.”

your scream breaks, ragged and desperate, as your orgasm hits — violent and raw, your body clenching down around him so tight he nearly chokes on his next breath.

“oh fuck— yes, that’s it— fuck, look at you,” he groans, hips stuttering as your walls spasm around him, milking him. “cumming so hard, just from my cock, my voice. my praise.”

tears sting your eyes, your body trembling uncontrollably, and you sob against the wall, still pinned by him, your leg burning with the stretch, cunt throbbing from the force of it.

“please— don’t stop— i can take it, i swear— professor—!”

he doesn’t stop.

he grabs your hips harder, slamming into you faster, his thrusts brutal now, chasing his own release. his breath is hot and filthy in your ear.

“you’re fucking perfect,” he groans. “tightest, wettest little pussy i’ve ever felt. my good girl. my fuckin’ favorite.”

you cry out again, overstimulated and shaking, but it only makes you wetter. the filthy sound of your cunt being wrecked echoes louder, and he loves it.

“you were made for this,” he grits. “made for me. you feel that, baby? how deep i am? how your body takes it?”

you whimper, barely able to form words. “yes—yes, professor—”

“open your mouth.”

you obey without question, tongue out, eyes dazed, tears on your cheeks.

he leans forward, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “so fucking pretty when you’re ruined.”

then he spits into your mouth.

and you moan — filthy, wrecked, submissive — swallowing without hesitation.

“good girl.”

he fucks you harder now, both hands on your waist, lifting your body slightly to angle you just right. every thrust punches a moan out of you. every drag of his cock has you seeing stars.

then he groans loud, teeth gritted.

“fuck— i’m gonna cum—”

you nod frantically. “inside— please— fill me up— i want it, professor, i want it so bad—”

he slams into you one last time, hips locking, cock throbbing as hot, thick cum spills deep inside you. he holds you there, buried, groaning against your shoulder, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

you’re both panting, soaked in sweat and sex, bodies trembling against each other.

his hands stroke down your sides now — slow again, tender. reverent.

“you’re so fucking good,” he whispers. “the best. my best girl. took me so perfectly.”

you hum softly, still twitching, body limp, held up only by his arms.

you turn your head to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

“again,” you whisper.

he smirks.

“on the desk this time.”

after he fucks you against the wall, leaving you trembling and gasping for air, he doesn’t give you a moment to rest. his hands are on you immediately, lifting you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, and pulling you toward the desk. you’re barely able to catch your breath before he’s bending you over it, your palms flat against the cold wood, your ass raised for him.

you whimper as his hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as he positions himself behind you again. but this time — this time it’s different. he doesn’t immediately dive into you. instead, he’s teasing, pressing his hard cock against your folds, dragging it through your slickness, making you shiver with every slow pass.

“still so fucking wet for me,” he mutters, voice dark, low, full of satisfaction. “can’t get enough, huh? need me to fuck you again?”

“yes,” you whisper, voice broken, body still trembling from the aftermath of your last orgasm. “please… don’t stop, professor… fuck me.”

he chuckles darkly, hands trailing up your spine, then gripping your neck with a firm, possessive hold. “you’re mine now. you’ve always been mine, haven’t you?”

you nod, swallowing hard as his fingers tighten around your neck, just enough to make you dizzy, to make your head spin with the overwhelming dominance he exudes. “yes, professor… only yours.”

he pulls you up, your back against his chest, his breath hot against your ear. then, with a swift motion, he spins you around, making you face him. your legs are still shaky, but he holds you steady, one arm around your waist, the other trailing down to unzip his pants. you can already feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his cock pressing against your stomach.

he grins down at you, eyes dark with lust. “you’re gonna ride me now,” he says, voice commanding. “show me how much you need me.”

you don’t hesitate. your body moves on its own, like it’s been trained to follow his commands. your hands slide down his chest as you straddle him, guiding his cock to your entrance. he watches, eyes locked on you, his grip tightening on your waist as you slowly sink down onto him, inch by inch.

you gasp as he fills you completely, stretching you, your walls clenching around him as you take all of him in. you can’t help but moan, the sensation of being filled so completely, so thoroughly, making your head spin.

“god, professor— you’re so big,” you whisper, voice shaky.

he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “you love it. you love every fucking inch of me inside you.”

he’s right. you do. you love the way he fills you, the way his cock hits the deepest part of you with every slow roll of your hips. but it’s not enough. you need more.

you begin to move, slowly at first, lifting yourself up, then sinking back down, over and over, your body trembling with every thrust. his hands grip your waist, guiding you, his thumb brushing against your clit, making you moan louder.

“that’s it,” he breathes, watching you carefully. “ride me like you mean it.”

you pick up the pace, hips grinding against his, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. you’re so wet, so desperate for him, the pleasure building inside of you, tight and unrelenting.

and then he stops you, his hands gripping your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark, filled with desire, but there’s something else there too — something possessive, hungry, as he stares into your eyes.

“don’t forget,” he says, his voice low, commanding. “you’re nothing but my toy. my good girl. don’t you forget that.”

you nod quickly, breathless. “yes, professor— I’m your toy. only yours.”

“good girl,” he whispers, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer to him, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s just as desperate as the rest of it. “now, look at me. I want to see your eyes when you come for me.”

you can barely hold onto your composure as you ride him harder, faster, the pressure building inside you until it feels like you’re about to explode. his hands move to your neck again, gripping gently, controlling your every movement, his eyes never leaving yours, locking you in a gaze that feels like ownership.

“come for me,” he commands, his voice rough, the praise dripping from his words. “now.”

the orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you, your body shaking uncontrollably as you cry out, “professor— fuck— i’m coming—!”

he growls, his hips slamming up into you, taking you through the orgasm, the feeling of him buried deep inside you making everything more intense, more overwhelming.

when you finally come down, he doesn’t let you rest. instead, he spins you around, pushing you up against the chair beside the desk, lifting your leg and guiding you back down onto him, your eyes locked on his the entire time.

he places his hands on your neck, fingers trailing down your spine, pulling you closer, guiding your movements.

“look at me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice thick with lust. “I want you to remember this. you belong to me. now and forever.”

you nod, barely able to breathe, as your body moves in time with his, desperate for more, addicted to the feel of him inside you.

the next day, the classroom feels different — suffocating, heavy with an unspoken promise. the air is thick with the memory of what happened last night, but neither of you speaks a word of it. you sit in your usual spot, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of your notebook, a burning heat in your stomach, your thoughts still spinning.

and then, he walks in. professor choi. tall, composed, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room, but they linger for a split second longer on you. a moment — just a moment — but it’s enough. the intensity in his gaze is unmistakable. he knows, you know he does. and it makes your pulse quicken, your breath catch in your throat.

you lower your gaze, trying to hide the smirk pulling at your lips, the heat rising to your cheeks as you remember every single thing he did to you, the way his hands, his lips, his body controlled you, made you his.

but you can’t escape it. every look, every glance he sends your way, makes you feel exposed, like he’s taking you all over again with just his eyes. his usual stern demeanor cracks every time his gaze slides back to you. it's as if he's savoring the moment, the memory, the power.

“please take out your notes,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence, but there's something different about it. a rasp, a barely contained tension that makes you shiver in your seat.

you do as he says, but you can feel his eyes on you as you reach for your things. his eyes, watching you closely, and when your hand brushes against the edge of your desk, you hear a small, approving hum from his direction. you can almost feelthe weight of his gaze on your skin, the heat crawling over you, making your heart race.

your body is still aching from last night — sore in all the right places, a constant reminder of everything you gave him, everything he made you feel. and now, in front of the class, it’s like a secret, a dangerous game you’re both playing.

the lecture goes on, but you can’t focus. not when every time you glance at him, you see the way his eyes flicker down to your legs, to your chest, to the way your fingers tap against the desk. you wonder if he remembers the exact moment he pushed you against that wall, if he can still taste the sweetness of your mouth on his, the way you felt when you begged for more.

it’s maddening, knowing he’s holding back just as much as you are. but then, as if he can’t resist any longer, he lets his gaze linger just a little too long. you catch it, his pupils dilated, his lips pressed together in a barely contained smirk. he’s remembering too.

and that’s when he says it — softly, just for you to hear, barely above a whisper, but the words sink into you like fire.

“you did well last night. so well.”

your breath hitches, and you glance at him, locking eyes for just a moment. there’s no one else around you, no one who can see what’s happening between you two. but you feel the charge in the air — the silent agreement, the unspoken promise that this isn’t over. that it’s just begun.

you can’t help but smile, just a little. you know he sees it. and you know he’s already thinking of the next time

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mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months ago

Text

Everyday homeowners are human shields for Wall Street’s Internet of Shit slumlords

The American Dream, such as it is, used to be two dreams, one based on work and solidarity, the other on asset appreciation and disconnected individualism. We killed the first one.

As the New Deal gave way to the post-war social safety net, Americans discovered two paths to social mobility: they could join a union, and they could buy a home. Joining a union meant that your wages would rise with productivity, and that the democratic ideal that you were meant to approach once every two years at the ballot-box could follow you into the building you spent more waking hours in than any other: your jobsite.

Labor unions used their political power to win labor rights, so that even workers who weren't a union couldn't be arbitrarily fired, or maimed on the job with impunity, or harassed or abused. And while the labor movement was mired in the same racist legacy that every American institution brought forward out of genocide and slavery, where racialized people started unions of their own or demanded representation from the unions who nominally represented them, they thrived.

Then there were houses. On the one hand, owning your home insulated you from the petty tyranny of the landlord, the threat of eviction, rent hikes, indifferent or dangerous building maintenance, and all the other miseries that arise when you think of a building as your home and someone else thinks of it as an asset, and the board is tilted so that they win every argument.

But homeownership wasn't just sold as a way to get out from under scumbag landlords: it was primarily sold as a way to build intergenerational wealth. Your house wasn't just a place to live: it was an asset, and it appreciated.

And if the dividends of labor protection were unevenly distributed between white people and racial minorities, the dividends of home ownership were almost entirely hoarded by white families. Federal policies – redlining – combined with racist lending at the local level, meant that Black families and other racialized groups were stuck in tenancy, while white families build wealth thanks to federal subsidies:

https://web.archive.org/web/20170220005558/https://www.demos.org/sites/default/files/publications/Asset%20Value%20of%20Whiteness.pdf

Those were the two American dreams: a good job and your own home. We killed the first one, and the second one devoured us whole.

Without a strong labor movement, wages stagnated. Corporate power waxed, and with it, the power to pollute, to poison, to maim and to defraud. The labor movement wasn't strong enough to stop Reagan from killing free UC tuition when he was governor of California. It wasn't strong enough to hold back spiraling health care prices. It wasn't strong enough to block the business lobby from neutering antitrust and ushering in four decades of market concentration, market capture and corruption. Workers couldn't save their defined benefits pension and were railroaded into market-based 401(k)s, forcing them to play the stock casino against their bosses, ever the sucker at the poker table.

With stagnant wages and out of control medical, educational and end-of-life bills, homeownership – the thing you do as an individual, where your gain is someone else's loss – became the American secular religion. Your house wasn't just a place to sleep and keep your photo albums: if it appreciated enough, you might be able to liquidate it on your deathbed and pay off your eldercare, your healthcare, your kids' college debt, and leave enough left over for your kids' downpayments.

And so every American who had a home became the enemy of every American who didn't – including one another's children. Every home built threatened your own property values. The racist, batshit American school funding formula, which sees schools funded out of property taxes, meaning the richest kids get the best schools, turned out to be a great way to increase your property values.

Protections for tenants, meanwhile, threatened the entire American way of life – the American dream itself. Every protection a tenant got – protection from eviction or rent hikes, the legal right to a safe and well-maintained home – reduced the value of every home in town.

After all, the better a landlord has to treat their tenants, the less money a landlord can make from a rental property. The less money a landlord can make from a rental property, the less they'd bid on a house like yours if it went up for sale.

And since anyone planning to buy your house to live in it has to outbid a landlord who might want to rent it out, giving tenants any protection threatened everything – the one asset you owned, which was your plan a, b and c for paying off all that health, education, and assisted living debt:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Today, the house-as-asset scam is breathing its last. There are millions more people who need homes than there are homes available. Sure, homelessness is a fantastically complex problem, but you could address every aspect of it – addiction, mental illness, joblessness – and millions of people would still be homeless, because there aren't enough homes for them to live in:

https://headgum.com/factually-with-adam-conover/myths-about-homeless-people-with-dr-margot-kushel

70% of all inflation in 2024 came from the cost of housing; a quarter of that came from illegal collusive behavior by landlords to hike rents:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/up-to-a-quarter-of-rental-inflation

Wall Street landlords have raised gigantic war-chests and are buying up homes at a rate never before seen, converting every available single-family home in many cities from an owner-occupied home to a rental. Private equity and hedge fund landlords have elevated charging junk fees to an absurdist theater project: you pay a "convenience" charge for paying your rent in cash. But also for paying your rent by direct transfer. Oh, and also for paying in cash. When Wall Street is your landlord, your home is a slum, dangerously undermaintained, sometimes lethally so:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords

Capitalists hate capitalism. The best thing to sell is something your customer can't live without, and that no one else has for sale. That's why "the market" loves private prisons so much:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

The vast sums Wall Street is putting into buying up all of America's available housing stock is a bet that they can establish regional monopolies over having a home, and charge all the market can bear.

That's the plan at Invitation Homes, a company that was just targeted by the FTC for a slate of eye-watering crimes against the tenants in the 80,000 single-family homes they've acquired:

https://www.ftc.gov/news-events/news/press-releases/2024/09/ftc-takes-action-against-invitation-homes-deceiving-renters-charging-junk-fees-withholding-security

Invitation Homes purchases homes as they come on the market, and they're also a leading customer of the "build-to-rent" housing industry, a fast-growing segment of new housing starts.

Writing about the FTC's enforcement action against Invitation Homes, Matt Soller brings in Starwood Capital Group, who manage Invitation Homes properties, and own 14,000 more homes in the sunbelt. Invitation and Starwood hate the anti-monopoly movement, and Barry Sternlicht, Starwood's billionaire CEO, really hates FTC Chair Lina Khan:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/monopoly-round-up-corporate-slumlords

The FTC complaint lays out a suite of just comically sleazy things ways that Invitation abuses its tenants, starting with false advertising. The company lists its houses at relatively low rents, then charges a large fee to apply to live there. When you pass the application process, you're told the rent is actually much higher, and if you walk away from the deal, you forfeit your application fee. That scam's netted Invitation $18m since 2019.

Stoller really hates junk fees, calling them "convenience fees without any convenience, service charges without any service performed." He lays out Invitation's long list of junk fees, which honestly sound like a list that Chatgpt would spit out if you prompted it for fifty junk fees that wouldn't pass the giggle-test: "utility management fees" "Lease Easy bundle fees," "air filter delivery fee," "smart home technology fees," etc etc.

"Smart home technology fee?" Yeah, Invitation's gone in hard for Internet of Shit smart home tech. The SVP who oversees Invitation's smart home fee program was ordered to "juice this hog" (you guys, juice doesn't come from hogs).

After decades of recruiting everyday American homeowners to demand anti-tenant policies that benefit giant corporations, American tenants have few rights on paper and even fewer in practice. That's left the door wide open for Invitation to abuse their tenants in a myriad of dismal and unimaginative ways: stealing their deposits, trashing their credit reports to retaliate against complaints, illegal evictions, busted appliances, mold, vermin, insects – the whole slumlord playbook.

As Stoller writes, there's a twist: "this landlord isn’t just a random slumlord, it’s one of the biggest Wall Street players in housing."

There are vast fortunes to be made in converting the human right to housing into an asset class, but those fortunes end up in the hands of a very small number of billionaires. On their own, they wouldn't have the political power to dismantle protections for tenants.

Realistically speaking, most kids who grew up in their parents' owner-occupied homes are going to end up tenants, thanks to undersupply and housing inflation. But those kids' parents have spent decades demanding policies to make their homes as valuable as possible – including mortgage tax breaks (but not rent tax breaks!), looser eviction laws, and less enforcement of what few protections tenants have.

Middle class homeowners are the useful idiots and human shields of the billionaires who are determined to force every American under 40 raise their kids in a rented slum full of spiders, ratshit and black mold, which will still cost 60% of their take-home salary.

That's why the FTC's action against Invitation Homes is such a big deal. And as Stoller points out, Chair Khan is really just implementing Kamala Harris's campaign promise to get Wall Street out of the landlord business.

Wall Street's raid on your bedroom and kitchen has inspired a generation of "finfluencer" copycats who buy and flip apartment buildings, sucking ever-larger amounts of cash out of them until they're unfit for human habitation, with mountains of rat-infested garbage ringing their crumbling walls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

Any future worth living in is going to get housing right. We need to stop thinking of housing as an asset and realize that it is, first and foremost, a human right. That's the premise of my 2023 solarpunk novel The Lost Cause, which just came out in paperback:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865946/thelostcause

You can't protect yourself from rising seas or rising healthcare bills through individual home-ownership. Solidarity – the kind of solidarity that once powered the union movement, and that is powering it again – is the only way to defeat the housing profiteers. The New Deal wasn't perfect, which is why whatever we do next has to be bigger, further reaching, and more inclusive than what FDR did almost a century ago.

The only minority that should be excluded from the next New Deal is billionaires.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/01/housing-is-a-human-right/#rentier-tech

Image: Sam Valadi (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/132084522@N05/17086570218/

Carlos Delgado (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wall_Street_-_New_York_Stock_Exchange.jpg

CC BY 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic

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shanastoryteller · 3 months ago

Note

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY SHANA!!!! IT IS 6 AM AND DRUNKELY TRYING TO PUT A SENTENCE TOGETHER 😭 I NEED PERCY AND TONKS AND THEN EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT 💖💖💖

Dolores Umbridge is a lot of things, but she isn't careless.

Percy's life would be a lot easier if she was.

"What's wrong?" Tonks asks as he paces the length of their living room.

"What makes you think anything's wrong?" he returns, although it's mostly rhetorical. His hair is probably a mess considering he's been running his hands through it and his job doesn't normally reduce him to pacing.

She shifts, blocking his path so he has no choice but to stop in front of her. Or go around her, and he hasn't been quite pushed to that point yet. She reaches up and smooths his hair back from his face into something close to how he usually styles it. "You're home before me. What's going on?"

He has a lot of opinions on the distribution of government secrets, none of which apply to Tonks. She's smart, she's loyal, and she would never betray him. Plus, technically, her clearance is higher than his anyway. He's never been legally allowed to know most of what he does. "Fudge is sick of the bad press and blaming Dumbledore so he's going to shoehorn in one of his people for the defense position."

She frowns. "Not anyone from our department then."

No, although an auror would make the most sense. But Kingsley has always been Amelia's and frankly Fudge wouldn't risk giving the position to any of her reports, direct or not. "I'm considering recommending Dolores."

"Implementing some new child hating policies?" she asks.

He rolls his eyes. "I can't outmaneuver her while she's here. She's got Fudge's ear and half the ministry is in her pockets. I'm trying to be careful about this, but she keeps getting in my way. She hasn't stayed in power this long by being sloppy, unfortunately. But if she's busy playing government stooge at Hogwarts-"

"Then you have some breathing room," Tonks finishes. "Well, it's not like the kids haven't been taught by worse. Man, some of the defense professors I had - at least the past few years' worth have sort of known what they were doing."

True, although unfortunately two of the better ones had been either possessed by Voldemort or working for him. It's too bad they can't get Lupin in there permanently, but even if they could get him past Fudge and the board a second time, he won't even consider it until Voldemort is dead for good. Something to consider for a later time, perhaps.

"She's going to give them hell," he says. He's talking about all the students, but he's specifically thinking of his brothers and Harry and Hermione and all their friends. Especially Harry. Dolores already hates him and Harry has the self preservation instincts of a phoenix.

Tonks grabs the front of his shirt and tugs him close enough to kiss. She's taller than usual and he tilts his head back, feeling some of the tension drain out of him as she digs her thumbs into his hips. "Better make it worth it, then."

He will.

#hii!! i hope things are going well <3 #prompts are closed #prompt answers #asks #lance-with-a-chance-of-anxiety #harry potter #siat

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dandelionsresilience · 9 months ago

Text

whether the internet becomes an intolerable surveillance state, ubiquitous subscription model, or unusably ad- or AI-ridden shithole, I think we need to remember

how to do things offline

either on your personal hard drive (just because it’s an app doesn’t mean the information is stored in your device) or on paper. I’m not saying the collapse of the internet is imminent, and I’m not suggesting we do everything completely without technology, or even stop using it until we have to. (to be clear, I also don’t think the internet will just blink out of existence, suddenly stop being a thing at all; rather I think it might continue to lose its usefulness to the point where it’s impossible to get anything done. anyway) but some people may have forgotten how we got by before the internet (I almost have!), and the younger generation might not have experienced it at all.

I figure most people probably use the internet mainly for communication with friends and family, entertainment and creation (eg. writing), and looking up how to do things, so here’s how to do those things offline:

First and most importantly, download everything important to you onto at least one hard drive and at least one flashdrive! files can get corrupted and hardware can get damaged or lost, but as long as you keep backup copies, you have much-closer-to-guaranteed access versus hoping a business doesn’t decide to paywall, purge, or otherwise revoke your access. I would recommend getting irreplaceable photos printed as well

download and/or print/write down:

anything important to you - photos/videos, journals, certificates, college transcripts

contact info - phone numbers and/or addresses of friends/family (know how to contact them if you can’t use your favourite messaging app), doctors (open hours would be good too), veterinarians if you have pets, and work

how-to’s - recipes (one, two), emergency preparedness (what do I do if… eg. I smell gas)

other things you might google: cleaning chemicals to NOT mix, what laundry tag symbols mean, people food dogs and cats can and can’t eat, plant toxicity to pets

and know offline ways to find things out - local radio station, newspaper, a nearby highway rest area might have a region map, public libraries usually have a bunch of resources

also, those of you who get periods should strongly consider not using period tracking apps! here’s how to track your period manually

free printable period tracker templates (no printer? public libraries usually charge a few cents per page, or you can recreate it by hand)

moving on to entertainment, you can still get most media for free! it’s completely legal to download your favourite movies to your own personal hard drive, you just can’t sell or distribute copies (not legal advice)

movies: wcostream.tv (right click the player) - the url changes every once in a while but usually redirects; I recently noticed that it’s hiding a lot of movies behind “premium,” so it may or may not work anymore | download youtube videos

music: how to get music without streaming it | legal free downloads

games: steamunlocked.net - doesn’t have every game and can be slow to update, but very reliable

books: free online libraries | legal free downloads

otherwise passing time:

active outdoor games

for road trips (social verbal games)

for when power’s out

for sheltering in place (not all offline, but good ideas)

board games (often found at thrift stores)

ad-free customisable games collection (mobile)

read, write, draw, or whatever your craft is, sing, dance, clean, reorganise, take a bath

go outside - excuses include napping (if safe), eating, reading, finding cool plants/animals/rocks, playing with the dog

places to go include:

zoos and museums can be surprisingly cheap

parks and nature preserves

library, mall, or game shop

and a few miscellaneous things for good measure:

time budgeting | household management

how to use a planner | I’ve had success with visually blocked-out schedules like these

please add on if you have any other offline alternatives to common uses of the internet!

#anti capitalism #off grid #internet #technology #how to #my post

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stubz · 9 months ago

Text

Black out

"I want that backup generator up and running! All power on essentials only! Engines, med-bay, defenses, everything else is secondary!" the Captain roared to all those in the command room.

"Calis! What's our status?"

"Generator is 5 mekrons away from being ready, dispatch has covered 30% of the ship already and distributed lights. No report of any injuries yet, although there are several dozen passengers stuck in the elevators. We are in contact with them and they are all alright."

"And the-"

"The youngling centre is fine, Kim and Max have reported to me that they are fine as are the younglings." the first mate smiled knowingly.

"...good. Alert me should anything change."

"Of course Captain."

"10 mekrons away from the station Captain. Repair workers are already at the dock ready to board and fix our power and the station has prepared board for us."

"Excellent. Calis!"

"Yes Captain!"

"Care to join me in getting our young?" the first mate smiles and nods.

"How do you think they faired?"

"Well, it's hard to say. According to Kim and Max they have light, probably flashlights, but for the children to be stuck in a mostly dark room for 6 horvaths..." Calis shrugged.

"True...I assume that Nova is a tad nervous by now...she never liked the dark. Even if we can see well enough in the dark." Captain lightly smiled.

"I am certain that the humans have thought of something to keep her and the others calm."

"Without a doubt!" He laughed. "Probably introduced them to some new game I'll be no doubt playing for the next few weeks."

"As will I, Dali will no doubt-what on earth is that light?" as the two got closer they noticed a warm orange glow seeping out from under the door. The entrance to the youngling centre.

"...that's not a flashlight..."

"...do you smell smoke?"

The two adults looked to one another before rushing the door.

"Dali?!"

"Nova!"

"Mapa!"

"Papa! Look look! We're roasting mars-millows!"

"...Captain...Calis...care to try a marshmallow?" asked a sheepishly smiling Max.

For a moment neither the captain or first mate spoke, too confused by the sight before them. A circle of younglings sat in the middle of the centre, all of them holding out little sticks with marsh-mell-ohs on the end. In the centre sat a youngling whose head and shoulders were on fire holding his own stick and marsh-mell-oh.

"...Max, is that...is that youngling a Fyreian?" slowly asked Calis.

"Yes, yes he is."

"And are you using him...to cook?"

"...he said it was fine." the youngling in the middle of the circle of younglings eagerly nodded.

"...good to know but why are you...roasting marsh-mell-ohs on him?"

"...it was Kim's idea!"

"Hey! ...Okay yeah it was my idea and in my defense we've kept the kids busy like this about 2 hours and it was a last resort."

"...alright. Now how does one roast one of these white squishy things?"

...

"So how did you come up with this idea?" the captain asked, glancing away from his roasting marshmallow.

"Well after doing every game we could think of we had to take a break to think of what else we could do. That's when the first kid actually had time to realize that we're stuck in the dark...and then we had a mass panic."

"We tried everything to calm them down but the both of us were too tired to do that properly," winced Max apologetically. "since well, we're well past our usual shifts. But luckily Kim came up with this idea!"

"Marshmallows! Now obviously we couldn't use a real fire and we can't just let 20 kids use candles to roast them so-"

"Wait wait wait...a candle?" Calis asked.

"Yea, during blackouts I would light a candle and roast marshmallows with it."

"...carry on."

"So we decided to use Fure since he can control how hot he gets and he's easier to manage than a fire."

"Told you they would have the younglings entertained." Calis whispered to their captain who snorted.

#black out + candles + marshmallows + boredom = roasting marshmallows at the kitchen table with a candle and chopstick #was so gud #roped my mom into doing it with me #she thought i was a genius while my brother thought i was developing a marshmallow addiction #i will teach a child this #just not a young one #one that can be trusted with candles #...so probably not a child but a teenager #idk #the adventures of kim and max running a space child centre #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities

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fans4wga · 2 years ago

Text

Writers Guild West Official: Era of Hollywood Mergers Hastened the Strike

August 10, 2023

Laura Blum-Smith, the Writers Guild of America West’s director of research and public policy, considers the strike a result of a tsunami of Hollywood mergers that has handed studios and streamers the power to its exploit workers.

“Harmful mergers and attempts to monopolize markets are a recurring theme in the history of media and entertainment, and they are a key part of what led 11,500 writers to go on strike more than 100 days ago against their employers,” Blum-Smith said on Thursday at an event with the Federal Trade Commission and Department of Justice over new merger guidelines unveiled in July.

She pointed to Disney, Amazon and Netflix as companies that “gained power through anticompetitive consolidation and vertical integration,” allowing them to impose “more and more precarious working conditions, increasingly short term employment and lower pay for writers and other workers across the industry.” But she sees revisions to the merger guidelines that address labor concerns a key part of the solution to prevent further mergers in the entertainment industry moving forward.

“The FTC and DOJ’s new draft merger guidelines are part of a deeply necessary effort to revive antitrust enforcement,” she added. “Compared with earlier guidelines, the new ones are much more skeptical of the idea that mergers are the natural way for companies to grow. And they focus more on the various ways mergers hurt competition, including how mergers impact workers.”

In July, the FTC and DOJ jointly released a new road map for regulatory review of mergers. They require companies to consider the impact of proposed transactions on labor, signaling that the agencies intend to review whether mergers could negatively impact wages and working conditions. FTC commissioner Alvaro Bedoya, who was joined by agency chair Lina Khan, said in a statement about the guidelines that “a merger that may substantially lessen competition for workers will not be immunized by a prediction that predicted savings from a merger will be passed on to consumers.” Historically, transactions have been considered mostly through the lens of benefits to consumers.

The guidelines lack the force of law but influence the way in which judges consider lawsuits to block proposed transactions. They also tell the public how competition enforcers will assess the potential for a merger’s harm to competition.

Antitrust enforcers have steadily been taking notice of negative impacts to labor as a result of industry consolidation. “We’ve heard concerns that a handful of companies may now again be controlling the bulk of the entertainment supply chain from content creation to distribution,” Khan said last year during a listening forum over revisions to the guidelines, in a nod to anticompetitive conduct by studios that led to the Paramount Decrees. “We’ve heard concerns that this type of consolidation and integration can enable firms to exert market power over creators and workers alike.”

Adam Conover, writer and WGA board member, said in that April 2022 forum that his show Adam Ruins Everything was killed by AT&T’s acquisition of Time Warner in 2018 when TruTV’s parent company forced the network to cut costs. He stressed that a handful of companies “now control the production and distribution of almost all entertainment content available to the American public,” allowing them to “more easily hold down our wages and set onerous terms for our employment.” It’s not just writers that are impacted by an overly consolidated Hollywood either, he explained. After Disney acquired 21st Century Fox in 2019, he said that the studios pushed the industry into ending backend participation and trapping actors in exclusive contracts preventing them from pursuing other work.

Blum-Smith said that aggressive competition enforcement is necessary as “Wall Street continues to push for more consolidation among our employers despite the industry’s history of mergers that failed to deliver any of the consumer benefits they’ve claimed that left writers and audiences worse off with less diversity of content and fewer choices.”

“More mergers will leave writers with even fewer places to sell their work and tell their stories and the remaining companies will have even more power to lower pay and worsen working conditions,” she warned. “Strong enforcement against mergers is essential to protect workers in media and workers across the country and these guidelines are an important step in the right direction.”

#sag-aftra strike #sag strike #actors strike #hollywood #wga strike #writers strike

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translightokme · 3 months ago

Text

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rottenpumpkin13 · 1 year ago

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What if the entire Shinra Building was suddenly left without electricity on an unbearably hot day with no backup power supplies? (the irony and absurdity of the whole situation seems kinda funny 🤭)

The Heat Wave From Hell (Literally)

• The hottest day in Midgar arrives with the worst scenario possible: all the power, including generators and backup systems, is down in the Shinra building—and in the Shinra building alone. It would be easy to leave and find another place in Midgar with air conditioning while the power gets fixed, but everyone has obligations and work that keep them there. Surprisingly, everyone is handling it well.

*Genesis walks into the SOLDIER lounge and sees everyone in various stages of suffering—with Angeal being the most prominent, since he's laying on the floor in only his uniform pants*

Genesis: Goddess, you look terrible.

Angeal: Aren't you hot?? Why are you still in full uniform?

Genesis: As if I would abandon the dress code and my gorgeous coat for a bit of mild heat. You're all overreacting.

*Kunsel passes out in the corner*

Genesis:

*Sephiroth appears out of nowhere with a watering can and pours it over his corpse*

Genesis: !?

Angeal: Sephiroth, what are you doing?

Sephiroth: Hydration is crucial in combating this heat. Not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness, confusion, heat stroke, and eventually death.

Genesis: Oh please. That's what weak people tell themselves to make peace with the fact they can't handle a little heat.

Angeal: You're sweating, do you know that?

Genesis: You're hallucinating.

Angeal:

*Just then, Zack drags in Cloud—literally, by the legs, because the man is passed out*

Zack: Good news! I found Spike and he's just as close to dying as I said he'd be.

Cloud: My body isn't built to endure heat. Summer in Nibelheim was equal to autumn here.

*Sephiroth offers Cloud a water bottle*

Cloud: Thanks, but I don't drink water unless it's cold.

Sephiroth: Hydration is crucial in combating this heat. Not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness, confusion, heat stroke, and eventually death.

*Cloud starts tapping his forehead*

Sephiroth: What are you doing?

Cloud: Trying to find the off button.

• Zack takes Cloud to Angeal's office since the window there is huge and allows air flow.

*Cloud is rocking back and forth*

Cloud: I can't take this much longer. I can feel my sanity slowly slipping away. Why don't we use ice materia to cool off?

Zack: Because all the materia in the building is being used by the president and the board to keep them cool.

Sephiroth, appearing in the doorway: Inequality. Unfair distribution of resources. The rich bask in their cool environment and leave the rest of us to endure unnecessary suffering.

Cloud: Where did you even come from!?

Sephiroth: Drink the w a t e r.

*Zack shuts the door*

Zack: We don't have materia, but I got the next best thing!

*Zack pulls out a container of dry ice*

Zack: Ta-da! Look at what I got from Kunsel!

Cloud: Uhh....isn't that toxic?

Zack: Huh. I don't know. I'll go ask Genesis since he knows about chemistry.

*Zack opens the door*

Sephiroth: In extreme heat conditions, dehydration can lead to serious health complications and death within a matter of—

*Zack shuts the door*

Zack: Eh, we should be fine. Hey, let's go put these in the vents and cool the place up!

Cloud: Good idea!

• The heat seems to be getting worse. Sephiroth continues to make his rounds around the SOLDIER floor, insisting that people drink water, Genesis refuses to part with his leather, and Angeal is slowly losing what little sanity he has.

Angeal: I'm sweating so much, I feel like I'm melting. I smell like a zoo. I can't wait until the tower has cold water again so I can take a cold shower.

*Sephiroth offers him a bottle of water*

Sephiroth: I believe you will benefit from drinking some water.

Genesis, hyperventilating and sweating: Well, I'm not even bothered.

Angeal: JUST TAKE THE COAT OFF

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Genesis: NEVER

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Angeal: YOU WILL DIE

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

genesis: FASHIONABLY AND WITH DIGNITY

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Angeal: DON'T BE A CHIL—IF YOU DON'T GET THAT WATER OUT OF MY FACE, SEPHIROTH, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL TIE YOU TO THE CEILING BY YOUR HAIR.

Sephiroth: ........

• Angeal can't take it anymore and leaves. He heads towards the break room, where it's so hot, people have started taking frozen items from the break room freezer and are applying them to their bodies to cool off. This angers Angeal greatly.

*Angeal watches Kunsel walk off with a pack of frozen bacon on his neck*

Angeal: Guys, I get that it's hot, but there's no need for this!

*He watches Roche walk away with a bag of frozen french fries on his head*

Angeal: This is such a waste of food!

*Cloud walks by, rubbing frozen peas all over himself*

Angeal: Cloud, don't—

Cloud: IF YOU TAKE MY PEAS I'LL KILL A MAN

Angeal:

*Sephiroth comes up to them with a knife*

Sephiroth: Hydration or castration.

Angeal: Shiva's tits.

• Zack is sure his dry ice plan is fool-proof, but he wants to consult Genesis first. So he finds him in the data room….spinning on an office chair.

*Zack walks up to Genesis*

Zack: Hey Gen, how much dry ice can I put in the vents without it becoming toxic?

Genesis: If you pour the the dry ice in your lungs it'll taste like ice cream and you can then meet the goddess in another plane.

Zack: …..what?

Genesis: The goddess won't judge you for your sins if you find a raccoon and raise it to become a race car driver.

Zack: This is bad! You're delirious from the heat!

Genesis: Sometimes I wonder how many screwdrivers it takes to bake a cake but then I remember that the mako tastes sweeter if Sephiroth spits it into your mouth like a mother bird feeding her young.

Zack: Man, I know exactly what you mean.

• Zack goes through with his plan, but as the cool air hits his face, he starts having doubts—what if the amount he put in was too much? What if he poisons everyone? Better go tell Lazard before things get out of hand.

*Zack runs up to Lazard, who's struggling to cool himself off with a small, battery-powered fan*

Zack: We have a problem! I tried to cool the entire level by placing dry ice in the vents, but I accidentally put too much and it became toxic!

Lazard: Dry ice doesn't just become toxic like that, Zack. I'm sure it's all in your head. Try to relax and handle the heat wave in a civilized manner like everyone else.

*Angeal tackles Genesis to the ground and is trying to force him out of the leather coat*

Genesis: A BEAR IS ATTACKING ME!

Angeal: TAKE THAT DAMN COAT OFF. YOU'RE GONNA HAVE A STROKE!

Genesis: A BEAR IS FORCING ME TO UNDRESS!

Angeal: YOU'RE DELIRIOUS!

*Sephiroth appears with a hose and starts spraying the two of them with water*

Lazard: When this is all over, I will be taking an extended vacation where I will try various calming, illicit substances and none of you will hear from me for six months.

Zack:

• It turns out the amount of dry ice Zack put in the vents was too much, forcing them to evacuate the entire level and regroup in the Skyview Lounge. Word is that they're working on restoring the power, but in the meantime, everyone has to wait there. Meanwhile, Zack is growing increasingly worried about Genesis, and since Angeal has washed his hands with the situation, Zack turns to Sephiroth for help.

*Zack finds Sephiroth in the crowd and runs up to him, dragging Genesis along*

Zack: We have a problem! Genesis is delirious and making no sense.

Genesis: If you grind black pepper and place it in your socks, the ground will taste like cheese when you eventually walk the path to self discovery.

Sephiroth: That's because not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness....

*Genesis sways in place*

Sephiroth: Confusion....

Genesis: Where did we hide the pet parrot who told everyone my secrets and cooked excellent omurice?

Sephiroth: Heat stroke....

*Zack feels Genesis' forehead*

Zack: OW THAT'S HOT

Sephiroth: And eventually death.

*Genesis faints*

Zack: !!!

Sephiroth: Wow. If only we had listened to Sephiroth and DRANK THE FUCKING WATER.

Zack:

Sephiroth:

Zack: Cool your tits, man.

#storytime #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #cloud strife #lazard deusericus #crisis core

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