#ss press fittings

[groovedfittings]

Premium SS Press Fittings for Seamless Installations

Get your pipes connected with ease using Groovjoint LLC's durable and versatile SS press fittings. Offering a fast, leak-proof piping solution, these fittings revolutionize installations for residential or commercial use. For customizable, quick-connect SS press fittings, contact us at 312-803-2627 or visit our website today

[pureverwatertanks]

Stay protected from life-threatening waterborne illnesses with Purever nano filters. With their superior filtration capabilities, these nano filters offer exception impurity removal rates. The highly advanced nano filter membrane helps in eliminating biological impurities and chemical impurities like heavy metals, chloride and fluoride.

[rhinoxusa-blog]

USE SS Pipes to remove rust stains from toilets

There are several reasons why rust stains would have developed. One of the prominent reasons could be the accumulation of rust-carrying water in the pipes. Plastic or PVC pipes are also one of the culprits for carrying rusty water. Plastic and PVC pipes cause chemical leaching in the water and that rusty water also can cause stains in toilets. That’s why construction and plumbing experts are now recommending stainless steel water pipes, stainless steel plumbing fittings and ss plumbing solutions. Stainless steel is a very good raw material when it comes to water disbursal or for plumbing requirements. Stainless steel press fittings also ensure a leak-proof joint and stainless steel is a corrosion-free material. So that means ss press fittings or pipes would never cause water rusting and hence your toilets won't develop any stains. For more info: https://rhinoxusa.com/

[rhinox1]

Which Material is The  Best For Clogged Drain Vent Pipe

The quality and material of vent pipes play a crucial role. Half of the households that experience clogged pipes have reportedly realised that using inferior quality plumbing material is the main culprit. No wonder, the world is now shifting to stainless steel pipe fittings and stainless steel press fittings to ensure longevity and hassle-free management of plumbing systems.

You will face less worrisome situations when you use Ss plumbing and ss plumbing fittings because that will ensure that there are no cracks and bursts in pipes especially when you use high quality stainless steel press fittings by Rhinox India; the most trusted name in ss fittings.

But if you haven’t installed stainless steel fittings in your household; you may face such problems regularly. The only good solution is you can call over the plumber to fit it and resolve the clogged drain vent pipe issues.

https://rhinoxindia.com/

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Sunk Cost

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, death and injury. Mild angst and mentions of PTSD. Smut. Word count: ~4.8k

Summary: Following the Battle of the River Plate, she is deployed to the Falkland Islands to tend to the survivors of the HMS Exeter. Some of the naval officers are in better shape than others, and when one in particular makes it his mission to bed her before shipping back home, she decides to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. "Conchies" is slang for conscientious objector.

She had travelled aboard the SS Lafonia to the Falklands, accompanied by two doctors and eleven other nurses to treat the injured of the HMS Exeter following the battle of the River Plate.

Having qualified as a nurse almost five years ago, she was experienced in dealing with blood and injury and, in the days spent sailing across the South Atlantic Ocean, she had been steeling herself for the inevitable carnage she would be witness to.

Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the utter devastation she was met with upon arrival. Pulling back the canvas flap of the medical tent, the smell was the first thing to hit her, pushing her backwards like an invisible, oppressive force; burned flesh and the rancid, yet somehow sickly sweet scent of decay.

Everything from minor burns to missing limbs needed to be treated, but those sailors were the fortunate ones, they still drew breath. Seventy two British sailors had lost their lives defending against German forces.

It would be two weeks until a boat arrived to collect those fit enough to travel back to England, so those able bodied enough to do so assisted with dressing wounds and changing bed pans. She was grateful for the help as, despite there being fourteen medical staff to attend to their patients, it was overwhelming and she was tired, so tired.

She had smiled, though it had not quite reached her eyes, as she’d been introduced to the private that would be assisting her on her rounds.

“Name’s Tom, Tom Bennett,” he’d greeted her with an incline of his head and a lopsided smirk. 

“Nice to meet you, Private Bennett,” she’d replied as politely as she could, discreetly taking him in.

He stood around six feet tall, a mop of sandy coloured hair atop his head. He was classically handsome with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, and carried himself with a self assured swagger that emphasised the fact that he knew he was good looking. She could have overlooked his vanity, were it not for the fact he was apparently cocky in every other respect too.

Her exhaustion had worn her patience thin, however, she was certain that the sailor assigned to helping her with her rounds would have grated upon her nerves even with a full night’s rest. She found his unwavering smirk and continual stream of flirtatious remarks wholly inappropriate, considering the situation they found themselves in. There was no doubt in her mind that he had fought bravely and his service upon the Admiral Graf Spee was to be highly commended, but it didn’t mean she had to enjoy his company, she merely endured it.

“Private Bennett, I need to give this patient a sponge bath, can you please dispose of these dressings?” She asked, keeping her tone curt as she seated herself beside a cot.

“My turn next, yeah?” He quipped cheekily, causing her to press her lips into a tight line to suppress the urge to sigh.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, her stern gaze wholly unaffected by the way the blue of his sparkled with mischief. “The dressings, Private Bennett.”

“You can call me Tom, y’know,” he said airily, the smirk on his face never faltering as he snatched up the dirty bandages and turned to walk away.

“I’d rather not,” she muttered wearily to his retreating form, turning her attention back to the sailor laid dozing in the cot beside her.

All of her rounds were much the same; Tom trailed behind her, flirting shamelessly, and every remark made her blood boil. For the patients yet to regain consciousness, she could mercifully ignore him. However, for the sake of maintaining a pleasant bedside manner for those who were lucid, she had to smile, laugh and remain polite.

As the days dragged on, she found herself wishing the boat coming to ferry Tom Bennett back to England would arrive sooner. Attempting to keep her temper in check and not give him a well deserved telling off in front of everyone was becoming as exhausting an effort as it was caring for the wounded. He was a pain in the arse.

It had been a particularly demanding day - several of the patients being treated for severe burns had developed infections - by the time the next nurse arrived to relieve her of her duties, she was desperate to be off of her aching feet. Sitting down heavily upon a bench in the rest area, she fished her cigarette case from her apron pocket, flipping it open and placing one delicately between her lips. Before her hand could reach for her matchbook, a flash of flint followed by flame ignited in front of her, illuminating the end of her cigarette into a bright, cherry red glow.

She blew out a tight line of smoke, her eyes narrowed in displeasure as she looked up at the smug face of Tom Bennett. The sight of him was enough to spoil the pleasant taste of tobacco that she usually revelled in upon her first drag. The corners of his mouth were upturned into a self satisfied smile, his eyes crinkled in quiet amusement as he looked down at her. He always looked like he was entertained by a joke that only he was privy to, it drove her crazy.

“Thanks,” she said curtly, taking another drag.

“Anything for you, gorgeous,” he winked, seating himself beside her and lighting up a smoke of his own.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she muttered darkly, gazing off into the distance, her lips pursed.

“Do what?” He mumbled around his cigarette, keeping it perched at the corner of his mouth.

She sighed, pressing at the point between her eyebrows with the thumb of her free hand, an absentminded gesture of exasperation. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it?”

Tom snatched his cigarette from between his lips, holding it between the forefingers of his right hand as he raised his palms in a defensive gesture. “Enough misery ‘round ‘ere, ‘int there? Jus’ tryna make you smile.”

“Well, you’re not,” she spat, taking a quick puff, savouring the short burst of lightheadedness that the nicotine rush afforded her.

He gave an easy shrug, fixing her with a dopey grin. “Well, I don’t see anywhere ‘round ‘ere where I can buy you flowers, so my witty charm will have to do.”

She scoffed, flicking away her butt, and rose to her feet, storming off.

“See you tomorra, yeah?” he called after her, “unless you want someone to help warm your cot tonight?”

Fucking prick.

Sleep evaded her that night. Tom had gotten under her skin. It made her furious that with so many men injured and dying around them, he failed to see the gravity of their situation. How could he be cracking jokes and making clumsy attempts to seduce her in the midst of a war? He needed to be taught a lesson, to be taken down a peg or two, and she decided she was the person to do it. Perhaps if the tables were turned on him, then he’d realise just how inappropriate his behaviour was and feel rightfully ashamed of himself.

The following day, as Tom accompanied her on her rounds, she laughed heartily at his flippant remarks, allowed her fingers to linger against his as he passed her bandages, and stared deep into his eyes every time she addressed him.

“Lucky sod,” he’d jested as she’d dabbed gently at the burns on a patient’s chest.

“You’ll get your turn later,” she’d quipped back with a wink, causing his jaw to fall agape. He’d been quick to close his mouth again, averting his attention to the floor as his cheeks had turned crimson.

It was obvious her being receptive to his advances was having an effect on him. All day she saw the way his eyes widened in disbelief, the slight blush that crept into his cheeks when she returned his flirty banter. He was uncomfortable with not being given the brush off, and she was enjoying every second of it.

“What are you playing at?” His voice came from behind her, as she was rifling through the medicine cabinet, searching for a bottle of iodine. It was a quiet corner of the medical tent, partitioned off from the sick beds for medical personnel to replenish supplies and dose out medicine.

“What do you mean?” She asked casually, not turning around as her hands continued to move aside brown bottles. She hoped the clink of the glass was enough to disguise the hint of amusement in her voice, and if not, at least he couldn’t see her smiling.

“You’re flirting with me,” he stated simply, though his voice didn’t carry its usual confidence.

“Am I?” She replied with faux innocence, casting him a glance over her shoulder.

He wasn’t standing as straight as he usually did, his brow was furrowed and he had his hands clasped in front of him. He was nervous.

Good, she thought.

“I–I think so, yeah…”

She rounded on him, closing the distance between them, delighting in the way his posture visibly stiffened as she pressed close, placing her palms against the broadness of his shoulders.

“I guess I finally figured there’s no use in denying what’s between us,” she cooed, “can’t fight it any longer.”

“Yeah..?” He asked, blinking rapidly, lips parted as he stared down at her with wide eyes.

“Absolutely. You deserve a reward, Private Bennett,” she said, reaching up to card her fingers through the softness of his hair. “You fought so bravely, it would be an honour for me to give myself to you. You’re a war hero.”

His face blanched, and for the first time since she’d met him, she saw the corners of his mouth turn downwards, a flicker between anger and sadness causing his brow to furrow and his gaze to dull. He grasped her wrists gently, moving her hands back to her sides, before quickly walking away.

She had expected to feel triumphant in managing to fluster him enough to get him to back down, but she didn’t. It was wholly unsatisfying, a heavy feeling of guilt sat like a stone upon her chest. There was something in her words that had utterly knocked the wind out of Tom’s sails, she had pushed too far. She hadn’t embarrassed him, she’d crushed him, and the worst part was she wasn’t entirely sure what she had said that had caused such an unexpected reaction.

He was quiet for the rest of her rounds, silently following orders, not meeting her eye when he spoke or was spoken to. It was as though all the light had gone out of him. He didn’t hang around for a smoke once she was relieved of her duties, so she was forced to follow after him as he strode back to the sleeping quarters reserved for uninjured naval officers.

“Hey, wait!” She called out, her feet hurrying to keep up with his longer gait, finally falling in step beside him. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

He stopped, huffing out a sigh as he turned his face upwards, briefly closing his eyes, before looking back down at her. “Forget about it,” he muttered, “message received loud and clear. I won’t hassle you no more.”

She was left standing there as he walked off, leaving her alone. Despite what he said, she knew forgetting about it was the very last thing that she would be able to do.

Her rounds were miserable over the days that followed. Tom didn’t laugh, he didn’t smile, he didn’t even speak unless spoken to. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she missed his jokey flirting. Whatever this was, the silence and sadness that hung between them, she hated it. She couldn’t question it in front of patients, and as soon as his obligation to her was fulfilled for the day, he hurried back to the naval quarters, making it clear he had no desire to speak to her.

Even the patients had started to notice it - of course they had - the stony silence that the pair worked in was a stark contrast to Tom’s usual annoyingly proud and jovial demeanour.

“Lover’s quarrel?” A private with a head injury asked playfully, as she pulled away his dressings to check on the wound.

Tom spoke before she had the opportunity to respond, his tone arrogant and steeped in annoyance. “Nope, just focusing on the job, mate. Got a ship coming to take me away from here tomorra, and the quicker I’m on it the better.”

She felt her heart lurch at his words. So preoccupied with the fact that Tom was refusing to speak to her, she had completely forgotten that he’d be leaving soon. Now his departure loomed imminently and the thought of it made her chest tighten uncomfortably. He couldn’t just leave and never speak to her again without giving her the chance to make amends, or to help her understand what she’d done wrong in the first place; that wasn’t fair.

He didn’t even look at her as she turned to him, instead he handed her the clean set of bandages he’d been holding and walked away, leaving her to finish up with her patient alone.

“Must be nice,” the injured private remarked, as she pressed the clean dressing to his wound and bandaged it up. “Wish I was leaving.”

“Me too,” she uttered softly, a sombre feeling settling over her as she realised she was talking as much about herself as she was the patient she was treating.

Tom was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the day, and she was left to complete her rounds by herself. She supposed she would grow used to it once he left. The strain they were under would be lessened by those fit enough to travel on the boat tomorrow being removed from their care. However, she felt like she was missing a part of herself without him at her side; like looking at the wall and not being able to see her shadow cast upon it. The weight of his absence would fade, but the hurt and uncertainty wrought from his disdain would not. She needed to put things right before he sailed away from her tomorrow, or she would forever live with the guilt of it.

She waited impatiently for the rest of the day for nightfall, deciding that if this was a conversation she was going to pursue then it was better to do so without witnesses - or at least when those witnesses were asleep - the canvas confines of both the medical bay and sleeping quarters provided very little privacy.

Once it was suitably dark, she made her way to the large tent that housed the cots of the naval officers. The humidity made the night air sticky and it clung to her skin, feeling as thick as the inky blackness of the sky above her.  A wave of nervous apprehension washed over her as she reached for the canvas flap - what if Tom was already asleep, or refused to speak to her? What if other sailors were awake and questioned her reason for being there?

A simple white lie of delivering pain relief could deal with the latter of those problems, but she had no idea how to deal with the former. Before her pounding heart and trembling hands could convince her otherwise, she pulled back the partition, greeted by darkness and the gentle snores of those who were asleep. A few kerosene lamps were lit by the beds of those who were still awake, their dull glow illuminated the men that were sitting up reading, smoking or playing solitaire with playing cards spread out across their blankets.

Her eyes searched the gloom for Tom, half expecting him to be fast asleep. Finally, she spotted him, and her stomach erupted into nervous flutters as she saw that he was still awake. She felt as if she was intruding upon something far too intimate, seeing him in the tight white t-shirt and briefs of his underclothes. He laid upon his front, the legs of his tall frame almost hanging off the edge of the cot as they crossed over at the ankle. The low lighting that glowed across the sharpness of his features cast long shadows across his corner of the tent, however, it was not dark enough to hide the yellow canary that fluttered around the small cage that he had balanced upon his pillow. His attention was so focused upon the bird and its shrill twittering that he didn’t even notice her as she stepped carefully towards him.

“Who’s this then?” She asked quietly, once she was a few paces away from Tom’s cot.

His head snapped up quickly, brows raising in surprise as he took in the sight of her, almost as if he couldn’t believe she was standing in front of him. He cleared his throat, shifting onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow before responding. “Her name’s Vera.”

“Vera…that’s a pretty name,” she said, offering him a soft smile as she fidgeted awkwardly with her fingers, forgetting everything she had wanted to say to him.

He lifted the cage, placing it gently on the floor between his cot and the tent wall, then looked back at her. “So what brings you ‘ere then?”

“You won’t speak to me,” she replied. Her voice sounded small, sad and vulnerable to her ears, and she loathed it. She had come here to apologise and then leave, not get upset.

“Usually, people take a hint when that happens, they don’t barge in on them when they’re going to bed.”

His reply hit her like a physical blow, and he must have seen the way her face fell, as he was quick to follow it up with; “But I guess I can’t blame ya for wantin’ a peek at me in me undercrackers.”

She felt instantly lighter as she saw the playful grin spread across his face, turning hers away as she felt her skin grow hot.

Silence fell between them once more and she drew in a steadying breath before lifting her gaze to his again. “I couldn’t let you leave without knowing how sorry I am,” she stepped closer, “I don’t know what I said that ticked you off exactly, but what I did I did with the intent to teach you a lesson, to humiliate you, and that was wrong. I was sick of your flirting, but I realise now that after all you’ve been through that you were just trying to make a horrible situation a lighter one. You’re so brave, and–”

“I’m not fucking brave,” he snapped, making her jump.

“What?” She moved to stand directly beside his cot, her head tilted slightly in confusion.

“I’m not brave,” he repeats, his voice turning to the hushed tone he’d used previously. He scrubbed a hand across his face and fixed her with a tired stare. “I’m not a war hero.”

She blinked rapidly, furrowing her brow as she perched upon the edge of his makeshift bed. “Is that what got you upset? Because I called you a war hero?”

“Do you know why I joined the Navy?” He asked, shuffling back to make more room for her to sit within the narrow space.

She shook her head, allowing him to continue speaking.

“Was avoiding the nick,” he uttered, sniffing. “I’m not a hero, I’m a coward dodging a stretch in prison.”

She was surprised by this, but not repelled. He was hardly the first man to join up to the draft to avoid the authorities, and he would be the last. She sighed softly, looking him in the eye. “That doesn’t change any of what you’ve been through, or how bravely you fought aboard that warship. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Well, I’m not,” he said sullenly, “I’m not going back. The minute I get back home that’s it, I’m done with this bloody war.”

“You can’t do that,” she told him softly, suddenly feeling afraid for him.

“Why not? It’s not my fight. I saw people fucking die. I don’t wanna give my life for something I don’t believe in.”

“You could be hanged for desertion,” she argued, a hint of desperation in her voice. Before she had time to think about it, her hand reached for his, grasping his fingers with her own.

“Dad’s a conchie,” he said, intertwining his fingers with hers, “I could be too.”

She glanced down to where their hands were joined, almost wanting to scream in frustration. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, what am I s’posed to do?” he seethed, snatching his hand back, leaving her to silently mourn the loss of the contact.

“I can’t convince you to do anything, Tom, but please talk to your dad before you make a decision you can’t take back.”

“Y’know, that’s the first time you’ve called me that,” he said, his expression softening.

“What?”

“My name. It’s usually always Private Bennett. I like it when you call me Tom.”

She averted her gaze, feeling her skin blaze with embarrassment once more. “I guess I should get going. Us talking’s probably keeping people awake.”

His hand shot out, grasping hers once more as she rose to leave, making her freeze in place.

“Stay,” came his softly uttered plea.

“There’s all these other people,” she protested in a quiet voice, though she sat back down.

“I just want you to lay next to me. We probably won’t see each other again after tomorrow, and I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

“I dunno…”

“No funny business, I promise,” he said with a smirk that immediately crumbled her resolve. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“Alright…”

Tom laid out straight and pulled the blankets up around himself, holding one side up in silent invitation for her to join him. She slid underneath, not realising quite how tight the confines of the single cot were until her body was pressed right up against his.

Wordlessly, he leaned over to turn out the lamp, then turned to face her, slinging an arm over her waist and closing his eyes.

She laid there with her eyes open, just about able to make out his features in the darkness. The humidity combined with the heat of Tom’s body and the blankets thrown over them made it uncomfortably warm, and it was an effort not to squirm. But that wasn’t her only means of discomfort. It was difficult to keep her breathing steady and her body from trembling in spite of the heat; she hadn’t anticipated being in such close proximity to Tom to have such an effect on her. The feeling of the long, lithe muscle of his body pressed against hers made her pulse race and her core throb with desire, though the sensation was intermingled with pangs of guilt. He was seeking comfort in her, and here she was lusting after him when she’d spent the last two weeks berating him for doing the same to her.

His breaths fanned softly across her face, and she was convinced that he had fallen asleep, until his grasp on her waist tightened slightly, his fingers digging into her flesh. She froze at the intimacy of it, ashamed of the way desire pooled between her thighs at the gesture, until he ducked his head to bury it into the crook of her neck.

“Help me,” he whispered against her skin, a desperate plea for something, anything to make him feel better.

She reached up tentatively in the darkness, her fingers stroking through the silkiness of his hair. He sighed contentedly in response, and the sensation made her shiver, causing an involuntary tug at his tresses, making him groan and grip her tighter.

“Please,” he murmured into her neck. His hips began to grind against hers, the evidence that he was just was affected by her as she was him more than apparent as it pressed repeatedly against her.

Before she had time to consider the absurdity of it all, she hooked her thigh over him, prompting him to roll onto his back as she straddled him. Her chest rose and fell erratically as she stared down at him. He looked back with wide, imploring eyes, his fingers flexing firmly against the swell of her hips, urging her into action.

The touch was enough to ground her, to give her pause to realise they were in a tent full of sleeping sailors, that she’d rebuffed all of Tom’s previous advances, that come tomorrow she’d never see him again.

She swallowed thickly, trying to move off of him. “We shouldn’t.”

“Please,” he repeated with more urgency, his grip upon her tightening, stilling her and preventing her from moving away.

It was the begging of a desperate man, a man who had seen awful things, who was afraid to die, who was sailing away tomorrow into uncertainty. How could she say no? And how could she deny herself? Over the last two weeks she had seen unimaginable horrors, worked tirelessly, didn't she deserve a little fun?

She allowed the throbbing between her thighs to guide her actions as she reached beneath her skirt of her uniform, tugging her knickers to one side. Tom’s breaths grew unsteady as his eyes watched her in the darkness, his own hands moving to push down his briefs.

As the swollen head of him pressed against her entrance she felt that she was aroused, though not wet enough to make his passage an easy one. She had to rise and sink down repeatedly against the upward thrusts of his pelvis before the tight muscles of her heat finally yielded to him.

Sinking all the way in to the hilt, Tom hissed loudly, earning himself a quiet scolding from her. “Quiet, or you’ll wake people up.”

He bit his lip as she rocked her hips gently, allowing herself to adjust to the intrusion. It had been a while since she’d been with anyone this intimately, and it stung slightly, though the pain was not unpleasant.

She gazed down at him, seeing the crease between his eyebrows as they furrowed against the intensity of his pleasure and the effort to stay quiet. Seeing his face contorted into such a state, even though the darkness prevented her from seeing him clearly, was enough to have her sensitive walls clenching with desire, and she took that as her prompt to begin moving in a steady rhythm, lifting up as she rocked forward, then down as she pulled back.

“Fuck…” Tom murmured under his breath, his fingers leaving indentations in the flesh of her hips.

“Does that feel good?” She asked, her voice breathless with exertion.

“Y–yeah…don’t stop.”

In that moment, none of it mattered; the sheen of sweat upon her skin, the other people asleep around them, it all faded to nothing. Her only focus became the man beneath her begging for more and the exhilarating ache each time the head of him brushed against a sensitive spot deep inside of her.

“You’re so brave, Tom, and you’re doing so well, making me feel wonderful,” she breathed, as she moved atop him.

His expression was one of utter submission and pure adoration, his eyes were glossy with pleasure, his full lips were parted. He clung to her as though he was a drowning man and she was his lifeline, and she supposed she was in a way. She served as a much needed moment of respite when all around him was fear and uncertainty.

She could feel her peak beginning to crest alongside his, his cock pulsed inside of her with each spasm of her core. She pulled off of him as white hot waves of pleasure crashed over her, stifling his groan of satisfaction with a hot, messy kiss - the first they’d shared - as she tightened repeatedly around nothing and he spilled himself across his lower abdomen.

He laid against her chest afterwards, once he’d cleaned himself up, and she cradled him to her breasts, gently ruffling his hair. A satisfied ache had settled between her thighs, and her eyelids felt heavy with tiredness.

“Will you write to me?” He asked quietly.

“If you keep your promise, Tom, then I might not know where to write to.”

He hummed quietly before falling silent.

“You will keep your promise, won’t you? You’ll speak to your dad?”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, almost thoughtfully, “I promise.”

Tom left the next day, and she didn’t see him again, though he often crossed her mind. Six months later, when she was stationed in a hospital in Paris, her heart stuttered in her chest as she looked upon the familiar, yet bruised face of a man laying unconscious in the ward she was working in. She smiled as she approached the bed and looked upon the sleeping form of Tom Bennett. He’d kept his promise. He was a hero after all.

[lovingchrissposts]

mama

Warnings: slight swearing, angst? Use of y/n, crying, babies. (Warning to me.) stress, anxiety

Requested: yes but lost the ss

Summary: y/n had a bad day and her kid Destiny isn’t listening so she gets upset and starts to cry in her husbands arm and then her baby starts crying for her, proving her bad feelings wrong.

Dad chris x fem reader

I was sitting on the cold marble tile floor of the bathroom next to our toddler Destiny. She had tan skin, caramel brown curly hair that bounced right above her shoulders with golden brown eyes beaming up at me.

“Baby please just let me put you in the bath? You can play with ducky.” I beg grabbing her rubber duck from the Luke warm bath water and squeezing it making a squeak noise.

“I no no wanna mama.” Destiny yells and sits on the floor starting to have a tantrum. “Destiny, please sweetie. Mommy’s had a long day.” I sigh running my hands through my brown hair down my shoulders.

Destiny looks at me with a sad expression and i take a deep breath trying not to snap at her. “Honey.” I say putting my hands under her arms and lifting her up but she just kicks her arms and legs at me making me set her back down.

She starts to scream and cry before I hear the front door open and it’s my husband Chris coming home from work. “Okay, okay, shhh..” I whisper starting to feel tears prick at my eyes.

She’s never been like this.

I hear the door open and I look up to see my husband standing in the door frame, still in his work suit his hair a little messy. “Hey mama, hey destiny how’s my baby?” Chris whispers bending down and kisses my cheek.

I look up at him and he sees the tears in my eyes knowing I’m exhausted and need a break.

Chris swooped up destiny into his arms flying her around. “Is this my favorite little girl?” Chris asks smiling at destiny and looks at me and moves his head to the side motioning for me thst it’s okay for me to go.

“Dada!” Destiny yells giggling and holding onto Chris.

Her giggles echo through my head as I walk into me and Chris’s bed room and into our master bathroom. I walk up to the mirror and reach for my cotton pads and micellar water to remove my makeup.

I finish taking off my makeup and get a quick shower. I couldnt stop over thinking and stressing over everything that was going on. I just feel like I wasn’t fit for taking care of a fucking child.

I get out of the shower and put on a satin spaghetti sleeve night gown before leaving the bathroom and getting in on the right side of me and Chris’s shared bed.

I pull the covers up to the dip in mh waist and laying on my side. A few minutes go by and the door quietly opens and Chris walks in straight to the closet to change.

He walks out s few minutes later in just a pair of boxers and no shirt. Without either of us saying a word he gets in bed behind me and spoons me from behind.

“Im right here. It’s okay,” he whispers into my ear resting his head on my shoulder with his lips right next to my cheek.

I feel my emotions start to get the best of my and my throat tightens as my warm tears spill out of my eyes making me sniffle gently and grab Chris’s hand.

“Oh y/n.” Chris gently whispers and rolls me over so I’m facing him. He takes my face in his hands.

“I-I don’t-“ I start to stay but he shushes me and presses his finger to my lips. “Shhh.. ma, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

I nod and sniffle shutting my eyes. “Look at me y/n” Chris states in a gentle tone so i look up at him. “You’re okay, just relax. I’m right here.” He whispers kissing my forehead and i sniffle dipping my head into his chest and closing my eyes.

I feel his fingers rub my waist and the small of my back through my loose night gown.

After a few minutes I’m calmed down and Chris pulls back to look at me. “Alright, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong baby.” He says reaching onto my bed side table to grab a hair tie because I always get hot after crying.

“Thanks,” I whisper and tie my hair back looking up at him. He just smiles down at me and rubs my waist waiting for me to talk.

“I just feel like Destiny prefers you over me all the time. I wouldn’t care but it’s getting to the point she won’t listen to me, let me hold her, or anything. She just starts to cry..” I admit looking up at him and he nods his head and wipes the loose tears on my face.

“I understand baby, but she’s 2 and they always go through a phase like this. She still loves you and I do too okay? Don’t forget that.” Chris whispers and kisses my forehead making me smile.

“But what else is wrong, it seems like more than just that.” He says trying to get me to open up. I sigh and look down.

“Im just really stressed.. and I haven’t felt good all day and I’m tired and destiny not listening isn’t helping my case at all.” I admit and sniffle again.

“Y/n,” Chris starts to whisper pulling me on top of him to rest on his chest stroking my back and the ends of my hair.

The water works start again as Destiny starts to cry and I look over at the baby monitor and she’s crying ‘mama..’

Chris sits up with me still laying against him and he looks at the monitor and then smiles back at me.

“Looks like she needs you mama.” Chris whispers into my ear making me sniff away my tears and get off his lap to check on Destiny.

“I’ll be right back” I say with confidence walking out the door as chris chuckles.

I open the door slightly seeing Destiny cuddled up in the corner of her crib wailing and screaming ‘mama’

“Baby, baby im right here.” I whisper walking over and picking her up out of her crib, bouncing her in my arms.

“mama.” Destiny says through tears into my shoulder wrapping her arms around my neck. I take a seat in the chair in her room and look at her

“What’s wrong baby?” I whisper stroking her cheeks to remove the tears off her small pink cheeks.

“why mama crying in bath..?” Destiny asks me with her small baby voice and I laugh softly kissing her cheek.

“Oh don’t worry about mama, i was really tired.” I say exaggerating not wanting her to worry.

“Oh otay.” she whispers back to me and pointing back to her crib.

I smile softly and lay her down. “Get some good sleep for mama okag baby? Me and daddy are right down the hall.” I say making her feel comforted.

“Otay.” She whispers and cuddles her stuffed animal that’s a monkey Chris gave her from when he was a kid.

“Love you, little monkey. Get some good rest. Holler if you need me.” I whisper closing her door as I walk out gently.

I make my way back to me and Chris’s room seeing Chris fully awake on the bed on his side. I crawl back into bed next to him and he puts his arm on my waist and looks down at me with his signature smirk.

“You look pretty tonight.” He whispers to me making me get butterflies

“Christoper. Not tonight I’m too tired I’m sorry.” I say turning him down softly and he sighs. “Fine, shoulda saw that coming.” He says chuckling, leaning down to kiss me and I gently kiss his lips before cuddling into his arms falling asleep.

I love my family.

Taglist (request to be on!!): @b2cute @luverboychris @st7rnioioss @i-tothe-d-tothe-k

[ltwilliammowett]

The anti seasick ship SS Bessemer Saloon Steamship

The SS Bessemer Saloon Steamship- SS Bessemer for short - was an experimental Victorian passenger side wheel steamer designed to counteract seasickness and operated between Dover and Calais. Her inventor was Sir Henry Bessemer.

Bessemer Saloon Steamer, 1874

In 1868, Bessemer, who suffered from severe seasickness, developed the idea of a ship whose passenger cabin - the saloon - was to be suspended on a gimbal and mechanically held horizontally, thus levelling out the swell and sparing the occupants from the ship's movements. Sounded too good to be true, but more on that later. He patented this ingenious idea in December 1869 and after successful trials with a model in which the levelling was carried out by hydraulics controlled by a helmsman observing a spirit level, Bessemer founded a limited company, the Bessemer Saloon Steamboat Company Limited, which was to operate steamships between England and France. Capital of 250,000 pounds was used to finance the construction of a ship, the SS Bessemer, whose chief designer was the naval architect Edward James Reed.

SS Bessemer, by Henry Spernon Tozer 1874

And so she was built by Earle's Shipbuilding in Hull. She bore the shipyard number 197 and was launched on 24 September 1874. As already mentioned, she was a paddle steamer with four buckets (two buckets each on port and starboard, one forward and one aft). She had a length of 106.68 m (350 feet), a width on deck of 12.19 m (40 feet), an outside width over the bucket boxes of 19.81 m (65 feet), a draught of 2.26 m (7 feet 5 inches) and a gross register tonnage of 1974 tonnes. What also characterised her was that she was completely identical fore and aft, she had two bridges and two wheels, which simply made her faster and more manoeuvrable in both directions. Her maximum speed was about 17.4 knots.

The inner saloon was a room 70 feet long (21 metres) and 30 feet wide (9.1 metres), with a ceiling 6.1 metres above the floor, Moroccan-covered seats, partitions and spiral columns of carved oak and gilded panels with hand-painted murals. The press liked to call it the floating clubhouse. However, the swinging saloon was only intended for first class passengers. The second class, on the other hand, did not enjoy this and had to make do with cabins on the sides of the hull.

Harper's Weekly Interior Pages showing the newly building ultra Luxury Bessemer Channel Steam-Ship, 1874

The disaster begins

On 21 October 1874, the Bessemer had her first misfortune. She had just arrived in Hull to be fitted out when she was driven ashore in a storm. She was refloated and found to be undamaged, which was not entirely true, as would later become apparent.

In March 1875, the ship sailed on a private trial voyage from Dover to Calais. During this voyage she is said to have steered well and even had a top speed of 18 knots. Her swinging saloon is also said to have worked excellently. However, things didn't go so smoothly because on arrival in Calais, a paddle wheel was damaged when she crashed into the pier because it didn't react to the rudder at slow speed.

The first and only public voyage took place on 8 May 1875, with the ship sailing with her revolving cabin locked (some observers suggested this was due to the ship's severe instability, but Bessemer attributed this to lack of time to repair the previous damage). The ship was operated by the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. After two attempts to enter the harbour, it again crashed into the Calais pier, this time destroying part of it. Calais billed the company £2800 for the damage.

The Bessemer Saloon-Ship running foul of Calais Pier. Illustrated London News, 1875

Due to the poor performance, investors lost confidence and the company was dissolved in 1876. On 29 December 1876, the Bessemer ran aground on Burcom Sand in the Humber upstream of Grimsby, Lincolnshire, after the removal of the swivelling saloon and other extensive alterations. She was refloated and taken to Hull. The Board of Trade's investigation into the grounding found that the captain was at fault. His certificate was suspended for three months.After removal, the designer Reed had the saloon cabin taken to his home, Hextable House, Swanley, where it was used as a billiard room. When the house was later converted into a women's college, Swanley Horticultural College, the saloon was used as a lecture theatre, but was destroyed by a direct hit when the college was bombed during the Second World War.

The Saloon as a lecutre theatre

The ship was then docked in Dover until it was sold for scrapping in 1879.

The Theory of the Top. Volume IV, by Felix Klein, Arnold Sommerfeld, London, 2010

The Nautical Magazine for 1874

Sir Henry Bessemer, F.R.S.: An Autobiography, 1905

The Gale, The Times. No. 28140. London. 23 October 1874. col E, p. 8.

London, Chatham & Dover Railway Company

[serenity-ren-bliss]

I want my boy back

War is a busy, overwhelming time. It's easy to forget yourself and those around you, to lose yourself in the heat of the battle, and to abandon those important without even noticing.

Fandom: House of the dragon

Prompt(s)/Premise: Fictober Day 2: Neglect - Jacearys Velaryon x Fem!Reader, Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Reader, Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst to fluff

Notes: I am so sorry for the delay, it's hell week at my school

Translations: Raqiarzy = beloved Javi Dārilaros = my prince(ss)  ñuha jorrāeliarzy = my love

TW: These men are DENSE, Aegon is referred to as "king", unhealthy relationship dynamics?

------------------------------------------------------

Prince Jacearys Velaryon

When Jace first learn about Luke's death he spiraled into a fit of rage. Nothing seemed to matter more than ending this war and avenging his brother. His fury spiraled in his mind mixed with frustration, over his mother refusing to let him fight, over his status as a bastard, mixing with his protectiveness - his drive to fight off whoever and whatever dares to threaten his family, and the young Prince Jace you had come to love, began to dull into a hardened, frustrated, warrior, one all-clear away from raising hellfire.

He was still your beloved, don't get me wrong, but he was never fully there, never able to enjoy the sweet moments. You felt like he was slipping away slowly. He became short-tempered, unfocused, always ready to fight something, and it became harder and to console him, to live with the mess you could see clouding his brain and consuming him.

Jacearys spent all of his free time training. Swinging swords of metal and wood in a never-ending quest to be stronger, fight harder, to vanquish his enemies. It was watching him train, sweat, trip, bleed, and get back up and ignore his own injuries in favor of continuing that broke you. That made you decide- you couldn't live with this anymore. With watching your betrothed slowly lose himself. Losing you in the process.

You sighed, walking up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face you, his expression softening just a little. You pointed at his side- he had scrapped it rolling on the floor.

"It's just a scrape, love. I'll take care of it later." You shook your head, your eyes hardening, your expression challenging him to dare defy you. He sighed in defeat, sheathing his sword and following you to your chambers. He sat on your bed as you retrieved bandages and ointments. You knew soothing his busy mind would not be nearly as simple, but you couldn't bare to not at least sooth his flesh.

You reached the hem of his shirt, holding his gaze to silently ask his permission. He simply nodded. He let you strip him of his protection, allowing you, only you, to see his soft flesh. that was all you needed. You pulled it up, just enough to see the bloody scrape. It harmed you to see his blood, staining the nearby skin and the cloth of his clothes. With a sigh, you picked up a wet towel, pressing it to the scrape.

"You mustn't be so harsh on your body, Jace." Your chiding was laced with concern as the towel soaked up the blood. You put it aside, producing a jar of ointment and gathering it on your fingers to press into his flesh. You continued gently scolding. "It pains me to see you harmed so casually. You need to rest." Jacearys only rolled his eyes, his expression stern, jaw set. "I'm fine, raqiarzy." You raised a skeptical eyebrow, as if to say 'really?'. You sighed, putting the ointment down and started wrapping him with bandages. "Jace, you are burning yourself out. I can see it in your eyes, Javi Dārilaros. You've been so tense... you need to rest."

Jacearys scoffed, reaching a hand out to hold your face, forcing you to look in his eyes. "I'm fine, Javi Dārilaros. I need to be as strong as I can. To protect you." "And to avenge Luke." You said the quiet part out loud, watching as his expression tightened. "But Luke wouldn't want this, Jace. I don't want this."

You sighed, looking into his eyes, searching for a second for that soft, young love you adored in Jace. "You're losing yourself, I'm losing you. We haven't been able to just be young and in love, not since this war." It was selfish, to want to be carefree and in love in a time like this. But at your age, when this world seems so big and so dangerous, you couldn't help but be a little selfish. "Jace, it feels like your slowly walking away from me, like my prince, the man I love is buried under your desperation for vengeance. Is it too much to ask for you to just take a break, and just be my betrothed again?"

Jace's expression softened, that love slipping back into his gaze. The gaze you finally began to recognize those eyes again. He sighed. "If it truly matters that much to you, my darling... then alright, I will rest with you more." You smiled, leaning up to press a light kiss to his lips. He chuckled, pulling you closer to press another.

Prince Aemond Targaryen

Aemond was ruthless. In a way he didn't truly understand. His mind poisoned with grudges, the world around him seemed to be against him, making fun of his torture, refusing to allow him to find comfort. He found himself admiring his uncle Daemon, violent and strong, protective and glorious. He steeled himself, making that who he needed to be. All in a bid to protect you.

You, the one thing this cruel world seemed to be nice enough to let him have. The person who knew him better than anyone, who cared about him in a way no one else ever came close to. You who he adored more than anything. Who he dedicated himself to doting on.

Until the war came. Aemond, as acting Prince regent, was in charge of battle, of strategy, and of protecting his people. Though he cared little for that last one- the smallfolk and courts could be wiped out and he wouldn't shed a tear- it was you he was interested in protecting. Only you.

Still, he wanted power. And his position was the perfect door to grasping it. With Aegon... unfortunately out of commission (a development he played no part in whatsoever...allegedly), Aemond was now the highest power on court. And he threw himself into this power. Day after night, scheming, planning strategizing, over war tables, papers, training grounds gripping quills and markers and swords.

You began to loose sight of him. You'd see him a few times, watch him train or bring him a plate of food, but he barely acknowledged you. He didn't come for meals, tea, or walks. You watched him slowly dawn that scheming smirk more and more, and it slowly became all he was. Cold, calculating, ruthless.

You'd sit in the garden and paint the flowers or play music- things he used to come and watch. He was fond of the sight of you so calm. Seems he has since lost interest in the fickle things. You were fine with that.

Fine with not seeing him, with living in barely content silence, in biding time for this war to finally be over. Because he promised you - once this is over you will be happier than ever. And you wanted to believe him. So you did. You trusted your husband more than anyone. So you were fine.

Until one night, when your forced air of content cracked. You had gone to sleep in the cold bed, your husband still occupied by his work. Your sleep was light- as it usually was these days. Until it wasn't. They came suddenly- screams of fire and blood. And then vanished just as fast as you snapped awake.

The sun had yet to rise, the room was dark and eerily silent. You tried to return to your slumber, sleep of the sight, but it didn't come easy. You tossed and turned and you couldn't seem to drift off. Till eventually you couldn't bare how the room seemed to suffocate you, and you slipped on a robe. You figured a walk in the gardens would do you some good- or a glass of water.

That was until you walked past the only lit room in the castle. Aemond was standing at the war table, mumbling angrily to himself as he thought of plan after plan only to scrap it when he saw the gaping holes. You watched him work, as the gears in his mind turned you found your longing for his touch grew tenfold. You wanted to approach him- to seek the warmth of his embrace and the soothing melody of his voice.

You sighed, entering the room quietly.

"Husband," Your voice was heavy with sleep as you approached him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Come to bed." Aemond sighed, turning to face you.

"I'd wish for nothing more, darling, but I must finish this." You shook your head. "Finish it later, I need you." He sighed fondly, putting down his pen. "Alright, only for you, ñuha jorrāeliarzy."

He followed you back to the room, allowing you to pick him out nightclothes and letting himself relax in bed for the first time in a while. You curled up to him, resting your head against his chest. He smiled, welcoming you.

"You're awfully clingy tonight." His voice was laced with jest, and in your tired state you could barely respond with more than a small smile. "I miss you. You're awfully busy these days." He sighed. "I'm sorry about that, ñuha jorrāeliarzy. You know why I must be vigilant." You hummed in acknowledgement, but he could tell you weren't as content as you seemed. "How about we break our fasts together and then spend some time in the gardens?" "I'd love that."

King Aegon Targaryen the 2nd

You knew when you agreed to marry Aegon, things wouldn't be easy. A product of years of neglect, harsh rumors, and emotional and verbal abuse, Aegon was far from a good man. Cold, ruthless, lacking any form of empathy or respect. At least at first. You knew, more than most, that Aegon was, in a lot of ways, a child. Attention seeking, emotional, in some ways, mostly malicious ways, playful.

Over time he learned to let himself be nicer with you, sweeter. To trust that unlike his mother, his father, his grandfather, or anyone else in his life, you wanted him. You believed that he could be someone amazing and you loved that someone. That was until the war broke out.

Between the stress of his new position, the constant warfare, the chastising of his mother and the courts and the insulting of his brother, Aegon spiraled. He turned to sinful pleasures of alcohol and whores, became violent, snappy, cold. And you tried, Gods you tried, to support him.

You endured the drunken slurs, and the alcohol on his breath, the screaming and the crying, the violence. Praying to the Gods, believing in your husband, that one day you could coax the man you love out of him. But that day never came.

Slowly, you lost faith. By the end of the year you stopped trying. You stopped cleaning his dirty, drunk, body, you stopped listening to his rambles, you stopped trying to spend time with him. You were tired. Tired, and fed up, and done trying for a marriage he valued so little.

You didn't think Aegon cared. He seemed to care so little for his surroundings, you assumed he simply didn't notice your lack of presence as you retreated into yourself, preferring isolation over sitting at a cold supper table, the man you once loved so close yet so far, listening to the Dowager Queen scold him. You spent meals in your chambers with your thoughts and your books. You slept alone in your bed, feeling cold and empty. It was dull and lonely.

That was till one night, the maid who would usually come to bring you supper came empty handed.

"Your grace requested you in the dining hall, my Queen."

You were confused, hesitant, dreading it almost, but you agreed. You didn't wish to anger your husband. The walls of the hallways were deafening as you walked. You entered the hall, looking around at the near-empty seats, your husband being the only one present. You hesitantly sat down in front of him, simply bowing your head at him. His expression was cold, almost glaring. You ate in an awkward silence, neither of you finding words to fill the air.

When you had finished, you stood up, intending to return to your chambers, when you were stopped by the feeling of a hand on your wrist.

"Do you truly loath spending time with me so much?" Aegon's gaze hardened as you avoided looking in his eyes, refusing to touch on the swirl of emotions that pooled in your chest. Your husband had none of that, his hardened gaze turning into an angered glare at your silence. "Answer me, Wife. Do you truly despise me so much you'd rather hole up in our chambers than be even in the same room as me? Do you truly find the sight of me so revolting!?"

You didn't. As much as his behavior upset you, you could never bring yourself to truly hate your husband. But for some reason when you tried to speak the words, your throat felt lodged and the words stuck.

Aegon took your silence as all the answer he needed. He seemed to deflate with defeat, before letting you go. "Go then, leave me." Your opened your mouth to speak, desperately looking up at his eyes, reaching out for the man you loved, but he had none of it. "I said GO!" You flinched, the boom in his voice striking a fear in you that just a few months ago you never imagined you'd have. Not of him, at least. You nodded, before turning on your heel and running out.

He came home drunk again that night. More drunk than he'd been in a while. He smelled of beer and sweat and other things you didn't even want to think about. Not when you knew there was only one way they could stain his skin. No- that was still to heartbreaking a vision.

You had tried to just go to sleep, hope things would go back to the dullness in the morning, but you found yourself restless in his absence. He entered your chambers with a wobble in his step. You sat up to face him, ready to have to stand up and drag him to the bathroom, like every night he chose to drown in sin. However, this night he didn't make himself a nuisance in that way. He strode right up to the bed, and collapsed beside you.

You reached over, softly pulling his hair out of his face. You expected the usual mindless drunk stare- not the sadness that plagued his blue eyes. He reached out, grabbing your wrist, and yanking you so you lied against his chest, his skin warm and sweaty, but after the initial shock, there was something oddly comforting about him holding you in his arms.

"Why do you hate me?" You hated the sound of his voice. He sounded defeated, broken. Like a kicked child. You sighed, finally finding the words you had so wished to say.

"I don't hate you, Aegon. I just... I hate seeing you like this. You're always drunk and you've become miserable- and it's making everyone else afraid of you. I love you, you know that more than anyone. But your spiraling. And I've been trying my hardest to help you, but... it feels like you don't want to be helped. Like no matter how many times I sober you up, you will always get drunk again. It's tiring."

Aegon sighs, his grip tightening. " It's... hard. Now that I'm supposed to be king, she expects everything of me. I never wanted this, neither did my father." You nodded. It's true, the late king had always been vocal about Rhaenyra being his heir, even after he found a son. It was Alicent who refused to give up Aegon's perceived birthright. It was Alicent who had so little belief he could be anything but a drunkard, but who also scolded him like she expected better. She never did. She always acted like he was a lost cause, she never taught him. It was his mother's fault he was unable to be a normal adult. And here you were, picking up the pieces of her failure. Because despite his rough edges, you knew the Aegon who hid buried in years of abuse- you knew the man you loved.

"I can help you. Only if you let me." He grunted in approval. a

[hogans-heroes]

“Alex,” murmurs Gale at his shoulder, three days into the march when they’re already frozen down to their bones. There’s ice in Gale’s hair and in the scruff on his face, and his lips are so chapped they barely move when he speaks. They walk together in silence, one numb foot in front of the other.

“Yeah?” Alex says, but Gale doesn’t respond.

They all hang from a thin thread of survival now, even more so than before. These new guards, the SS, are different, going on killing sprees when it suits their fancy. The bodies they leave strewn beside the road are brutalized, slashed and stabbed, fingers and ears cut off and throats slit. There’s always signs of a struggle, the snow in a wide swath around them sodden and melted with blood, and Alex has vomited more than once after passing another victim. Cold, starvation, and sickness are enemies too, scattering their own victims along the path. Some of them Alex recognizes, some he doesn’t, yet Gale always makes a soft choked gasp as they pass each one, and Alex can feel him shaking even if they’re not touching.

“Gale?” Alex prods after a while of the other boy not responding. Gale swallows thickly, keeping his gaze on the wooded horizon.

“I hate to ask anything of you,” he says. “Especially now. But…you’re the only one I trust with it.”

Alex looks over at him. They can't stop walking, having seen too many men killed for that and still carry the blood they walked over on their shoes. Alex hums and looks down at his feet, swerving to press their shoulders together.

“Anything,” he says lowly, and means it, though a huff from Gale showed his thoughts on such extreme dedication. Gale licks his lips and Alex almost tells him to stop it, that it will only make things worse, but Gale nods his head past Alex’s shoulder and Alex follows his gaze to see Bucky struggling to drag along another prisoner who was weakening fast and couldn't stand on his own.

“Take care of Bucky.”

The request is quiet and pained, and Alex’s brow furrows as he turns back.

“Isn’t that your job?”

Gale’s eyes soften and he shakes his head. “Promise me,” he rasps. “And you—” He breaks off into a coughing fit, nearly doubled over. “You stay low. I’ve got your back as long as I can. They won’t touch you.”

- Learning Curve, chapter 3/3

We’re almost there guys

[groovedfittings]

Shop High-Quality SS Press Fittings online for Reliable Plumbing Solutions

SS Press Fittings are a modern technology that allows you to connect stainless steel pipes and tubes without welding, threading, or heat jointing. They are easy to install, hygienic, durable, and reliable.

[kattvez]

Heil Trump! 100 years on repeat.

This might make you pause and think, "No way—that could NEVER happen again!" But let’s look more closely, because the similarities are alarmingly real. Germany didn’t turn into Nazi Germany overnight; it was a slow descent, almost imperceptible at first. You may have heard the analogy of a frog in a pot of water, where the temperature rises so gradually that the frog doesn’t realize it’s being boiled alive until it’s too late. That’s what happened in Nazi Germany—and it’s what we risk today in the United States if we don’t pay attention to the warning signs.

In the early 1930s, many Germans, including Jewish citizens, dismissed Hitler as a passing phenomenon. They thought he was just a fringe figure—a "spook" who would fade away. They believed his extremist views wouldn’t gain traction. But Hitler’s appeal grew as he presented himself as a charismatic leader promising to restore Germany’s glory. His message was simple: make Germany great again. Sound familiar?

With the world reeling from the Great Depression, Hitler gained widespread support through his protectionist economic policies, offering a vision of economic relief and national revival. Many Germans, desperate for stability, ignored the darker, insidious rhetoric that came with his promises. Today, millions of Americans, feeling left behind by globalization and the rise of the tech economy, similarly turn to promises of economic revival and national pride. Like in 1930s Germany, the allure of quick fixes to complex problems can make people overlook the dangerous ideologies lurking beneath the surface.

One of Hitler’s key strategies was to undermine core democratic institutions, eroding public trust in Germany’s legal and political framework. We’re seeing echoes of this in Donald Trump’s actions. As both a candidate and a former president, Trump has repeatedly undermined the credibility of institutions when they don’t align with his interests—the courts, the electoral process, even the certification of an election. His rhetoric suggests that any institution not serving his goals is suspect, creating a divide in the public’s trust in these democratic systems.

A hallmark of Trump’s approach has been his relentless attack on the media, branding it as “fake news” whenever it criticizes him or his policies. The Nazis used a similar tactic, calling independent journalists the “Lügenpresse,” or "lying press." In both cases, this tactic seeks to sow doubt about any information that challenges the leader’s narrative. By discrediting the media, both Hitler and Trump attempt to shape reality to fit their own agendas, isolating their followers from independent sources of truth.

Scapegoating minorities has also been a disturbing common thread. Hitler blamed Jewish people for Germany's economic problems, stirring up public resentment against them as the "internal enemies" of the nation. Trump has similarly focused on specific groups, notably undocumented immigrants, portraying them as the root of America's economic and social issues. He has created a crisis around illegal immigration, expanding the role of ICE to target this group, often painting them as threats to safety, jobs, and stability. Today, similar tactics are being used against transgender individuals, who represent a tiny fraction of the population but have become a focal point of political and social resentment. Trump's rhetoric fuels these hostilities, using marginalized communities as scapegoats to rally support and divert attention from more complex issues.

Furthermore, Hitler relied on affiliated militias like the SA and SS to intimidate opponents and enforce Nazi ideology. Trump, while not formally organizing militias, has encouraged self-recruiting groups and militias, famously asking them to “stand by” during moments of tension, as seen during the January 6th Capitol riot. His cozy relationships with authoritarian leaders, like Putin, echo the alliances between Hitler and Mussolini, reinforcing the dangerous allure of authoritarianism.

The situation today may even be more dangerous because of technology. In the past, hateful rhetoric and propaganda required physical presence at rallies or the reading of pamphlets. Now, hateful content—whether anti-Semitic, anti-trans, or racist—finds its way to people’s screens, reaching millions in an instant. Algorithms amplify divisive content, pushing more extreme narratives into the mainstream, often without individuals even seeking it out.

It’s easy to believe that “it could never happen here,” but history shows that democracy is fragile, and small shifts in public sentiment, unchecked power, and targeted scapegoating can lead to devastating consequences. The parallels between Germany’s descent into Nazism and aspects of today’s political culture are a reminder of the importance of vigilance, empathy, and a commitment to protecting democratic values before it’s too late.

[pangtasias-atelier]

A Blueberry Surprise

The very first commission done! This short little story involving Gri/ss and a blueberry Bou/cheron was done for my buddy @fillip003

I haven't done much blueberry inflation but I do kinda like it ngl especially for fe guys

“Hmm? What’s all this?”  The veil of darkness offered by the waning crescent moon high above them broken up by a scant few lit candles waiting for him, Boucheron stares at the unexpected sight in front of him.

“Thank you for helping me with that corrupted thief,” The note awaiting him reads, the signature underneath it the delicately neat cursive usual of Alear’s. A freshly baked pie in front of him, the dessert is massive as it fills up most of the table, the massive pastry seemingly made with the largest pie dish in the Somniel —if not all of Elyos. The sugary aroma wafts as it struggles to maintain its intoxicatingly inviting warmth in the near dead of night. 

And Boucheron sits at the table. His growling stomach, demanding something to sate itself with such a treat tauntingly placed in front of him. “I guess I haven’t been too quiet about my late night snacks,” He whispers to himself before cutting into the pie with the provided cutlery, the dessert easily giving into the sharp knife.

Unbeknownst to Boucheron, his gifter waits for him outside, Griss spying on him through the window. “Why pretend to be so coy?” Griss flashes a grin at him. Sharp canine teeth gleam in the dead of the night, the flickering red glow of the candle melding with his bright red tattoos and piercing eyes as he watches from afar. “You always sneak food from the Cafe Terrace. You even have a nice little paunch to show for it,” He mutters to himself as he covers his mouth. His eyes shift downward at the bit of a tummy Boucheron sports. The lowest button is strained against it, the white fabric of his button gathering from the strain. 

As if sensing the intent from Griss, Boucheron glances down at his little belly. “I can always work it off. I always do,” He reaffirms himself with a contented smile. He plops a hefty forkful of the blueberry pie in his mouth. The next bite comes easily to Boucheron. And the next.

The edges of Griss’ smile spread further across his face once he sees Boucheron finally take a bite of the pie he so carefully and dedicatedly made just for him. He keeps his thoughts to himself as he watches, well aware of Boucheron’s claim no longer able to be true after his ‘little’ experiment comes to fruition. The pie made by his magic, the spiked creation had been done on a whim —like most of Griss’ actions— as payback for bumping into him on one of his lost escapades. 

He eats the personally prepared treat as if it were the finest thing that makes even the freshest goods available in Flora Mill’s patisseries pale in comparison.

“Excellent,” Griss turns his attention away from Boucheron’s ill fitted clothes and to his face. A barely perceptible speck of rich, navy blue mars Boucheron’s nose. “I made it all just for you. I’m sure a growing boy like you could use all the calories,” He snickers, leaning forward as he presses himself against the open windowsill, his thin yet defined abdomen touching wood. 

The speck of blue soon turns to a blotch on Boucheron’s face, more and more of his ivory skin transforming into a deep blue shade as Boucheron continues to heap praise onto what he thinks is Alear’s baking by showing just how much  he loves it. Another slice of pie ends up on his plate —courtesy of himself— the near instant he finishes his first. Boucheron voraciously tears through the twice as big slice; bits and specks of the sugary sweet confection splattered on his mouth and cheeks. Not that they’re very noticeable for much longer with Boucheron’s entire face soon matching the very same color.

Griss continues to watch as Boucheron devours more of the pie, each slice he cuts himself larger than the last. His eyes continue to stay on Boucheron himself though. The shade of blue travels further down Boucheron’s body; his neck matches his face before even his defined collarbones even match that as well. His clothes unfortunately obstruct the rest of the transformation.

Boucheron huffs as he feels as if a silver axe is weighing him down, his weight suddenly bearing down on him at all once. He rests his hand on his gut. The resulting squelch catches his attention. He feels his clothes beginning to strain against his swelling body, his width filling up more of his seat as he grows.

“Wh-what!” The seat crashes down onto the floor, chair upturned as Boucheron stands. Looking down at himself, he sees the blue seep onto his arms, the forearms and wrists suspiciously matching the shade of his pie. “Alear! What did he…” Boucheron shouts before quieting down upon remembering the hour. He glances around.

His clothes continue to struggle against his bulging body. The buttons of his shirt are the first to come undone, the few buttons that were once holding on for dear life now clattered uselessly onto the floor. And his blue gut is in early full display for him. The semi taut gut still pushes further out. A belt quickly comes clattering to the ground after a bit of struggling. 

“I gotta…” Boucheron huffs. He takes a step forward, his widened thighs cumbersomely large. “Gotta oughhh…” HIs body sloshes with his labored steps, his entire body churning with newfound liquid. His bright orange pants begin to tighten around him. The waistband digs into his blubbery flesh.

“Surprise~” Griss suddenly appears behind Boucheron; he grabs him by the engorged wrist. “Where do you think you’re going? And after all the trouble I went through making this for you. Why don’t you take a rest? You really look like you need it,”

“Y-you!” Boucheron heaves as he grabs himself, hands groping his bulging near spherical gut. The last remaining bits of his clothes soon turn into shreds as he feels more juice filling him up. “You did this, Griss? Ugh, of course you did,” His arms struggle to hold up his gut, overburdened arms quickly losing all sort of musculature they once had. He also feels his arms slowly sink into his enormity with his figure ever so slowly encroaching into spherical territory; all semblance of his former fit self is taken over by Griss’ magic. Words fail him at first, his eyes enraptured at the sight in front of him for a brief moment, hands caressing his bulging width. He holds back a moan once his pants finally tear. Free from the confines of them, his boots don’t last much longer, all of his girth exposed to the elements. The cold wind he feels seemingly sobers him up, Boucheron taking another step.

“I’m leaving,” Boucheron decides with another step towards the exit. So tauntingly far —as if he were back marching past Brodia’s borders so many months ago—  Boucheron wipes away the sweat trickling down his face. And he sees nothing but more droplets of juice.

“No need to be so shy. Especially when you’re already such a fat ass,” Griss decides for the two of them and pushes Boucheron down onto his back. “I mean, everyone has to know about how much you’ve been stuffing yourself lately,” He hastily climbs on top of him, the second half of the pie in hand. His clothes end up drenched in blueberry juice.

Boucheron glares up at Griss past his own bulging cheeks which begin to take up more of his vision, the deep blue of his own skin obstructing his peripheral vision. “So! That doesn’t mmpph…” More pie ends up in Boucheron’s mouth, Griss feeding it to him. 

“Make sure you watch where you walk next time. Though, I guess I don’t have to worry about you bumping into me for a long time. Especially since you don’t seem to be in a rush to fix this huh,”

Boucheron’s cheeks are marred with a darker tinge of blue, the deeper shade something akin to a blush. But he says nothing, his half lidded eyes as he accepts the food all the confirmation Griss needs.

“I’m just helping you relax. No need to pretend like you’re not enjoying yourself,” Griss laughs in Boucheron’s face, a large chunk of pie in hand.

Boucheron only lets out a moan, his breath coming out in deep huffs as he stares up at Griss. “This… this is good. Give haahh me the-hmmpphh!” 

Griss shoves more pie into Boucheron’s mouth. He feels him swell underneath him, the straddling position he uses to sit on him no longer working with him swiftly spreading out. “Good. Now, I’d hate for this pie to go to waste. Don’t you think the same?” Griss keeps shoveling more pie down Boucheron’s throat. He laughs all the while, watching as the Cafe Terrace begins to feel cramped from his size alone. And sitting atop him, he himself is dwarfed by Boucheron’s enormity, Boucheron becoming completely helpless as he blimps out.

Chairs and tables are pushed out of the way. Anything and everything is useless against the rushing torrent of lard that is Boucheron. His body swells and grows, the floor covered in blueberry juice. And soon, even his breasts begin to leak the very same liquid, torrents of the cloyingly sweet juice spilling from his tits. 

“Well,” Griss says once he’s finally out of pie. “Looks like you’re stuck like this. So what do you want to do now?” He rests a hand on Boucheron’s tits, fingers coaxing more juice from him.

“I -hnnghh…” A mess of moans, Boucheron says little else to Griss.

“Guess you do enjoy being such a massive waste of space. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful bench warmer. If you don’t break it, that is,” Griss enjoys his own personal bed for the moment, lazily resting on Boucheron’s enormity. 

“Ughhh…” Boucheron continues to moan. He desperately attempts to move his arms but the massive limbs refuse to budge.

So Griss gives him some help, clearly aware of where Boucheron needs it. “Don’t worry. You’re gonna have to be juiced all the time. I’m sure they’ll figure out what to do with all the excess. Maybe they’ll just give it all to you! You’d probably like that,” Griss reaches for Boucheron’s tits once more and presses his fingers against the over swollen tits. Griss laughs as he makes a repeated mess in the Cafe, the entire floor drenched in Buocheron’s juices as well as Boucheron’s monumentality itself. 

Eventually he tires himself. But not before leaving Buocheron unable to form a single coherent thought, Boucheron’s tired wheezes and huffs loudly sounding out in the night. ”Well, I guess I’ll let you rest for now. I can’t wait to see your face once everyone realizes it's you,” Griss lays on his back, giving Boucheron’s tits another couple of pats before letting out a yawn.

[naiadere]

euphoria

yandere! mnemosyne’s dream perfumer headcanons

content warnings: follows perfumer wearing the ss skin, not mnemosyne's dream perf; implied forced relationship, implied past non-con touching

perfumer has me giggling and kicking my feet in the air ngl 😭😭 next post will be about miss keigan <3

— yan! mnemosyne’s dream perfumer who gets all dressed up in her most lavish and luxurious skin. sitting at her grand vanity with one of her legs crossed over the other, staring into the mirror as she fixes her makeup. she expects that you're already sitting besides her, on the rectangular cushion-seat, and when she sees you're not, she waves you over and pats the empty space to her right. if you were anyone else, she'd snap her fingers and not even spare you a glance as she curls her lashes, but you're her darling -dove and although her face reads faux annoyance, simply looking at you does wonders in lifting her mood (and fastening her heartbeat).

— yan! mnemosyne’s dream perfumer who continues to stare into the reflective glass, lips curling into a smug smile when she hears you approach, feels your presence so very close to her, knowing that you've returned right back to her-- exactly how it should be. you may be under the impression that she's paying you no mind whatsoever, that her attention is focused on beautifying her already lovely face. but if you continue to look at the mirror that stands before the two of you, you'll see her eyes trail over your figure through the corner of her thickly-lashed eyes.

— yan! mnemosyne’s dream perfumer who lets out an long, exasperated sigh. setting down the makeup utensils and extending her arm around your shoulder. she's meticulous with her hand placements, her arm once resting on your shoulder now sliding dangerously close to the side of your neck as she reels her forearm in, locking the open space right in front of your neck and pressing into your throat. her left arm finds its way to your torso, slowly working its way up to your chest, and she's finally satisfied when the palm of her hand is placed flat over your heart. your breath hitches, feeling the constriction in her movements, and she's pleased to know your heart is beating just as fast as hers is.

— yan! mnemosyne’s dream perfumer who leans her head onto your shoulder, the rest of her body subconsciously doing the same. your eyes are trained to the mirror, and although this is most certainly not the first time you've found yourself on the receiving end of her suffocating affections, the intimate and fleeting touches still make you nervous. she purses her lips, and the hand once placed over your chest finds it's way to your chin, cupping the sides of your face, "perhaps you want some attention as well, hm?"

— yan! mnemosyne’s dream perfumer who planned on dolling you up regardless of if you stubbornly protested or willingly submitted. what kind of lover would she be if she didn't dress you up to show you off? she's gentle when applying any cosmetics on you, which contrast her often bitter and harsh words that she hides her warmer feelings behind. she knows what products are compatible with your skin type, and what styles compliment your features, she knows which designer clothes fit just right against your body, and what matching jewelry is flashy enough to let everyone else know that you're hers. but of course, nothing wards off unwanted pursuers like her signature perfume that she practically douses you in.

you don't often find yourself partaking in any of the violent struggle games, even less-so nowadays with the perfumer insisting you stay away from any of those barbaric matches. she'd scoff, telling you it was child's play, and rather unnecessary. why play in a game with all those other survivors and two hunters when you could sit pretty in her care? but perhaps she was feeling nice, or your continuous obedience has finally satiated her raging nerves, because she allows you to play in a duo hunter's match, with her of course.

the lakeside village doesn't have the most romantic scenery, of the few maps available for the violent struggle game-mode, it'd likely be considered the least romantic of the three. but the perfumer is nothing if not improvisational, leading you by hand to the far side of the lakeside village, to the shore that overlooked the gloomy ocean besides the old wooden boat. she lightly brings your hand to her lips, kissing it gently before spinning her heel, and you watch as an opulent chair manifests behind her.

she lightly pinches the sides of her dress by her hips, gathering her dress as she takes a seat. her hands brush over thighs, dusting off the non-existent grime, and she looks up at you with expectant eyes and a knowing grin. your frown doesn't deter her, and she innocently tilts her head, patting her lap as you continue to stand still. you can't help your eyes that instinctively the area — as if your companionship with the perfumer was exactly secret anyway — and you hang your head shamefully, as you walk towards her.

just as you're barely within her arms reach, she stretches a hand out, arm snaking around your waist as she guides your leg to rest against her sides. you're hesitant to fully sit down, but she's persistent, and your body is putty in her hands as she simply does the rest for you, only stopping until you're comfortably straddling her lap. she has a cheeky expression on her face, sighing sweetly as her arms find their way around your waist once more. the perfumer pulls you closer, her hands now intertwined on either side of your caged body, and although you express your concerns for your teammates that have been shouting for help (now dwindling in numbers), she simply brings her index finger to her lips with a careless smile.

[danses-with-dogmeat]

Bighorner - Danse x f!ss first time together and Danse is... really shy and awkward about the whole thing so she has to take the lead 😳

Congrats and keep up the amazing work!

You. Are. So. Right. About. This. Anon!

I literally love this so much, and I love Danse so much, and ahhh 😩

Okay, but real talk, this ended up much more hurt/comforty than it did purely fluffy, sooooooo, yeah, just a quick heads up on some talk of depression and negative self image/self talk.

(And it's definitely suggestive, but nothing horribly explicit, so just a heads up on that as well.)

But I still hope you like it! <3

His hands stayed planted firmly on the mattress below, even as he felt the weight of her press down into his lap.

She smelled sweet. So close to him, Danse could make out the delicate scent of flowers clinging to her hair and her wrists as they moved to wrap up and around his broad, bare shoulders.

Where Sole had managed to find perfume in the Commonwealth, Danse didn't have a clue. But he wasn't about to complain about it, or to ponder it too deeply in this moment.

No, he was far too occupied for that.

She tasted even better, Danse noted as her soft lips met his firm ones. His head hardly tilted, his mouth just barely managing to reciprocate as he felt himself begin to overheat.

The ex-paladin tried to keep his mind on her, on the feel of her, the press of her soft, bare thighs around his waist, the slight weight of her arms resting over his shoulders, the light sweep of fingers through the back of his hair, the sweet taste of the snack cakes they'd shared after dinner resting on her tongue as it moved to caress his own.

He wished that was all he could focus on.

But like the lapping of waves, subconscious thoughts ebbed and flowed into his otherwise occupied mind, and left him gasping for air.

A machine shouldn't be capable of these feelings.

Sole rocked her hips in his lap, her barely-clothed core grazing deliciously over the slow-forming bulge in his ill-fitting dress pants.

Shouldn't be engaging in these actions.

His fingers tightened their grip on the mattress, his brows scrunching together as his eyes stayed firmly closed, as through that could free him from these thoughts, as though it could somehow block them out.

It's not fair to Sole.

He nearly bit into his own tongue, pulling away to spare Sole from the potential harm of his clenching jaw, opting instead to set his lips against her neck, puffing soft breaths over the sensitive skin there and reveling in the way he felt her shutter and gasp overtop him.

She deserves someone better.

He kissed her there again, trying to melt into the action fully as he felt her hands move to tangle more firmly in his dark hair, his spine tingling at the way her nails scraped so satisfyingly over his scalp, at the way he felt her breath spill warmly over the exposed expanse of his back.

Someone with more experience.

His own breath picked up in his chest, and Danse's body jolted as Sole ground her hips into him again, feeling her heat, her slick want, as it permeated through her thin clothes and his.

Someone real. Someone human.

Danse grunted lowly at the feel of her rubbing against him, the muscles in his stomach clenched tightly, and he felt Sole's lips brush up over the shell of his ear.

Someone actually capable of love.

He flinched as she laid a kiss on the side of his head, and forced himself back and away more brusquely than initially intended.

Danse felt like he'd been punched hard in the chest at the look of surprise on Sole's face. He felt terrible, he felt wrong, this all felt wrong.

He knows how strongly he feels for her, he wants, so desperately to show her how much he craves her, craves this. It was wrong to deny her when they wanted the same thing, wrong to shove her away when he was giving her every hint to continue forward, wrong to stop this when it was what he wanted most.

To be with Sole in such a close, intimate way, to share these precious, vulnerable moments with her, to allow her in, when he's never done so before, not in a way that felt this substantial, this meaningful, he knew in his heart of hearts that he wanted nothing more.

But his mind told him his heart was wrong. That it didn't exist, and even if it did, he wasn't entitled to that sort of closeness with someone real, with someone as good and as kind and selfless and human as Sole.

The conflict was driving him mad.

"Are you alright?" Her concerned voice met his ears, even as his amber eyes stayed firmly fixed on something nonexistent behind her. "We can stop, if you want Danse, it's okay."

He shook his head mutely at that.

It's not what I want.

But it's what you deserve. The voice said, and he wished it were physical, it were standing here in front of him so he could toss it out the door and never have to see it again. So he could leave it outside while Sole and him remained safe within the walls of her home, undisturbed and alone with only each other and these feelings that he knew couldn't be as wrong as the voice told him they were.

"I'm sorry." He managed through the ruckus within his head.

"There's nothing to be sorry for." Sole's touch was gentle as she smoothed her hand over one stubbled cheek. "Here, I can--"

He felt her weight shift back and to the side, one leg moving upwards to dismount from his lap, but finally, Danse's hands moved from their spot rooted to the mattress, and he settled them at her waist, the movement soft, but still firm in the way they halted her efforts to separate from him.

"No, I... I'm sorry that I'm... Not reciprocating in quite the way I would like to, but... If I have your permission, I'd like to try to continue."

Sole released a small chuckle at that.

"My permission, huh?" She smiled.

Danse only blinked.

"Well, you do. You definitely have that, but... Sweetie, if you aren't comfortable, we can take it slower than this."

"That's... not quite the issue here, I-I, well, I'm enthusiastic to be with you this way, but..."

He paused as his voice gave out and even as he tried to swallow around it, a lump remained firmly in his throat.

"You can tell me." Sole's hand was stroking over his face again, fingers catching slightly at the rough hairs upon his jaw and cheek.

He closed his eyes, soaking in the feel of her tenderness, and then somehow summoned the willpower to carry on with his shameful admission.

"I know I shouldn't feel this way, but I can't help but feel... undeserving of your affections. Especially in regards to something so... well, so human."

Sole's eyebrows drew upwards at his words, sympathy plain in her expression as she leaned in, and Danse very nearly braced himself for another kiss, before her forehead met his in another show of wholesome tenderness.

"You are more worthy of my love than anyone I've ever met, Danse."

His heart ached in his chest at her words, giving a painful throb against his ribcage, and confirming its existence to the hateful voices within.

He couldn't hear them now, through the loudness of his own heartbeat, the emotion surging through him for the woman still within his arms, the cacophony of her words, echoing through his head and making a permanent home there, where the voices perhaps had been hiding.

They would be back one day, Danse knew. They would always be there, but maybe... Maybe with Sole beside him, she could help to keep them at bay.

[inshelliesworld]

Buckle up. This is long.

Last night after dinner w/my fam I watched the SAG awards so I am a little behind on the conversation around the Chris Evans Clown Show Comedy Hour. However I read a couple of asks received by @nancydrewwouldnever about how he’s been looking like the Raggedy Andy version of his normal self these past few months and I couldn’t agree more.

I thought so watching the SMA videos People put out.

Back during my more naïve days, I just thought he was possibly exhausted and that could very well still be true. But after the rabbit hole I’ve been down for the past couple of months, I am of the opinion he's exhausted for a different reason than work requirements. Which is just that – my opinion: observation mixed with speculation.

I don’t think this RS – if it is rooted in PR like I think it is – was ever intended to last this long. From what I have gathered, the Netflix show and movie for which AB would have benefited the most having a lot of attention were originally supposed to both release in the first half of 2022. One or both were delayed, the show being very delayed -from first/second quarter all the way to the last quarter of the year. So not only did she lose out on a bump for the movie, but by the time her show finally launched it pretty much had already been axed by NF. So when Mr. SMA 2022 does the CP Marathon (horribly) with her, the only project she has going on at the time is hanging by a thread.

That's her fault for being lazy and entitled. A million golden opportunities were missed by her/her team, but I feel like Chris wasn’t going to sell anything very well anyway, as he likely was being pissy about this situationshit lasting so long. Which led me to thinking that “laser focus” press question was a plant to tie back to the earlier article BUT made me think it could possibly have been contrived as a way to signify the end of their "RS" had it gone to plan. The question would allow room for him to insinuate he was single again and “focused on finding the right partner” to “pour himself into” bc “awe, shucks, I’m just so unlucky in love…” 💀

BUT THAT CAN’T HAPPEN… he can’t signal the end of something that hasn’t yet been announced. So it looked to the viewer, and especially his fandom, that he was signaling his singlehood – and for his fans, to debunk the rumors flying around about his Lolita. NOW he has to stutter around and trap himself in word prisons and go take a quick pap sprint the same time as SMA announcement bc that’s when the show drops and do more photos and BS to sell the OVER year-long narrative when they were really prepped to do a 9ish-mos storyline. All the OG pics and scares (IMO) that were preemptively shot not only look slightly better but they also would have fit in with starting the RS storyline Fall 2021 and, if nothing would have been delayed, the end falling somewhere Summer 2022.

I think this is why he does such a shit job selling it. He struggles to sell intimacy anyway, but he’s not even giving it the ole college try bc he’s pissed off that it’s taken more time than he expected and dragging his feet. I mean…. All these rumors about the same chick for months HAS to have a negative impact on his harem, right?? 😂 Now she’s pissed that he’s dragging his feet – or maybe she wanted it to turn into more than what it is and he’s noped the fuck out – so she throws a hissy fit with the yoga cert mess, her mom’s pic, and her OF shower pictorial.  

It's possible had this not dragged along for this long, all the dirt that has surfaced RE: her and her sOuLMaTes being racist, antisemetic, fat phobic, basically all around horrendous ppl that has TANKED his image and lost him a good portion of his fandom would have maybe not surfaced. The mess would have been announced, been annoying, and been over before anyone cared enough to dig that much - or at least make that big of a deal about it, bc he would have been rid of her. I know that this dumpster fire mimics SS a lot but I think that Chris agreeing to a much shorter version in the beginning is why there are SO MANY pictures all at once. He probs didn't want to do this for the 2 years or whatever that SS committed to.

I think he has thrown his own tantrum of “I ain’t doin this shit anymore” and has left it to someone else to handle which is why he is AWOL from everywhere, including going out to dinner with his friend/castmates, and not doing his own SM anymore (I personally don’t think he’s posting anything at all right now himself). Seems he’s also made sure that he/his team control the mass narrative to the GP.

I think they’re riding this shit show out until the end, letting their teams do whatever they need to do. Even if she has the DESIRE to show up for anything like the Twitter reading (was she even invited? Was she wanted by her castmates/showrunners? Hollywood is show BUSINESS afterall so even if she wasn’t wanted she would be expected to show up to make good on production companies’ investments & save face?) the situations aren’t really going to be great for her. There would be – and SHOULD BE – backlash involving the discriminatory posts, which she obvs has no intentions of denouncing. IMO she should have done it anyway for her fans, but her not doing it goes a long way to prove her entitlement, lazy ass attitude, and ungratefulness. But from the looks of  those Star Power reports from IMDB that someone shared, it’s not her that’s hurting… it’s HIM. 🤡

He’s suffering greatly, which is also deserved, and he very likely knows it. It has taken a noticeable toll on his looks, his presence, his gait, and his energy. He looks like a shell of his former self bc he is. And he’s seemingly off licking his wounds until he can start his Chris Evans Redemption Tour.

I would like to put it out into the universe that my birthday is next month and it falls within their usual “drop” timeframe so it would be a fantastic birthday gift if March’s bomb was the BUA.            

[password-door-lock]

“Boss,” you stammer, slamming the door to the intelligence room behind you. “Bossbossbossbossboss.” It comes out sounding like one very, very long word as you practically catapult yourself into Unknown's arms.

He didn't ask you to do that, but he doesn't particularly mind— it seems like you know your place at Magenta: on his lap, where he can keep an eye on you and stop you from wreaking whatever havoc you've got your heart set on at the moment. “What is it?” He asks, expecting more of the same nonsense that you always try to serve him in moments such as this one.

“Okay, so, as you know, you told me to go find something useful to do and leave you alone,” you recount, “Presumably because you're doing something so horrible that you don't even want me to see it, which says an awful lot, considering all the shit you've let me see already.” You're not entirely wrong there, but Unknown doesn't bother letting you know. You can press as much as you want, but he's never going to give you any more information than he sees fit.

“Yes,” Unknown agrees instead, nebulously allowing you to fill in the blanks for yourself. A month ago, he would have been certain that you'd make up some nonsense and be wrong about it, but he has learned that it's better not to underestimate you. His assistant is many things, but stupid is not one of them. Unobservant, perhaps. Dependent, of course. Annoying, even— but never stupid.

“Right,” you shake your head, before promptly nestling into his embrace as if you're seeking comfort. You're wildly misguided if you think you're going to get it from him— but, then, Unknown doesn't need to tell you that. “Well, anyway. So I thought, why don't I clean the water heater?”

“What water heater?” Unknown has never seen anything like that during his time at Magenta, and he's spent quite a while here.

“It's in the basement,” you wave him off, like it means nothing that you went down there without his permission. “There's this little door, and it's blocked with this cart thing, so I unblocked it, and then there's this tiny room with just this water heater that's like, well, you know, it heats water— anyway, it takes up half the room, and—”

“Did I tell you to go down there?” Unknown tightens his grip on you. If you'd been in the basement at the wrong time, you could have seen something much worse than what would have been on his screen had you stayed by his side. And the fact that you knew enough about the water heater to think of cleaning it suggests that you’ve been down there before and seen it already— he isn’t pleased with this development. Does he really have to keep an eye on you all the time to stop you from causing trouble?

“You said to be useful,” you counter, “And I was being useful.”

Unknown groans. “Then what's the matter?” He has no idea what you saw or who you ran into. The basement is not a pretty place, after all, and you’re quite timid, all things considered. If he wanted you to go down there, then he would have sent you himself. 

“I saw a bug!” You squeal, dramatic as always. “And it was terrifying. Comfort me.” 

It irks him that you think you get to give him orders, but nevertheless, Unknown heaves a sigh of relief. He can't believe he was ever actually that worried over his assistant— as if anyone in paradise would be enough of a fool to lay a hand on you. With the exception of the Savior, nobody around here would even think of trying something like that. And you wouldn't have stalled so long if anything had happened, anyway... you'd have called him to the scene immediately, and Unknown would have dealt with it on the spot. “That's it? You see bugs every day, prince(ss). I’m not going to coddle you every time.” 

“Yes, but this one was technically in my home,” you protest with a shudder, “So it’s at least five times scarier. And it was huge— I think it was some kind of cockroach or something.” 

“Hm.” Unknown considers this information. He doesn’t really follow, but he also doesn’t want to prolong this bug discussion any longer than he has to. It’s better if you just drop it and let him get back to work. 

“Anyway, it ran in front of the water heater as soon as I opened the door,” you complain, “I don’t know how the hell it got in there, or if there’s others, or anything like that—  I just slammed the door and blocked it again, and then ran back here as fast as I could to tell you that there's a bug by the water heater, which I did not clean. For your information.”

Unknown huffs. Honestly, he should have known better than to turn you loose in the first place. Even if he had explicitly told you to avoid the basement, you would have found a way down there anyway. You may be more clever than he originally gave you credit for, but that doesn’t seem to have much bearing on your listening skills, which have proven to be severely lacking.

“That's why we don't go sticking our nose where it doesn't belong,” he purrs, enjoying the way that you retreat entirely into his embrace, pressing your face against his chest. Yes, that's how it should be... you should depend on him, rely on him, revel in the feeling of his attention, his fingers in your hair or his lips against your ear. You should be his, wholly and completely, bending to his whims and changing your shape to fit inside of his grasp. That's the only way. “Just stay with me, assistant. I'll look after you, since you can't figure out how to do it yourself.” If your reaction to a single cockroach was so passionate, he can’t imagine what you would have done if you’d actually encountered something scary— but if he keeps you here, then neither one of you will ever have to find out. 

“Sure,” your soft concession feels like a victory. Unknown just hums in response, returning to his work as you continue to cling to him. He won’t comfort you, of course, but he will allow himself to give you this.