#ANDROID RISE UP

[they-call-me-youngermoney]

first attempt at genderbending jericrew

joshette simonette markusette and. south

[jungkooklover29]

HEY I just posted about hitman headcanons so I think I should post about my headcanons for detroit become human bcuz I love this game

this post is more so Hank and Connor headcanons cuz I love their dynamic <33

I think after the revolution Hank allowed Connor to live at his house and make himself at home (cuz Connor reminds him of Cole)(and he came to see Connor as a son)

like I feel like Connor would put up posters and display action figures or trinkets (just like me fr)

he’d keep it simple but cozy :3

I think Connor would own a decent amount of stuffed animals cuz like. who doesn’t like stuffed animals

like I like to think he’d cuddle a stuffed animal to sleep (or go into stasis)

like I imagine like a puppy plushie or like that silly alien plushie from ikea (aftonsparv)(I cuddle aftonsparv to sleep too so I have to make him do it too)(I always wake up with aftonsparv on the floor🤨)

he also wouldn’t be opposed to cuddling Sumo to sleep (I wanna cuddle a big fluffy dog too☹️)

I feel like Connor has definitely improved Hank’s well-being(like maybe he cut down on drinking and had a more positive mindset)

I think Connor is an early bird (he prolly gets up at 6am sharp) and makes an effort to feed Sumo and make breakfast for Hank

He also probably forces Hank to go to the precinct with him early lol (Hank will always agree begrudgingly)

I think they both mutually want to protect and take care of each other (Hank is definitely Very protective of Connor)(protective father energy fr)

I think Connor likes to do things for Hank, even when he doesn’t ask

Like Connor will always try to make dinner or wash dishes

and when Hank asks him why he does this he says “cuz I want to🤨”

no but I think Hank does appreciate it in his own little way :P

also I feel like they do everything together (cuz I feel like Hank would want to show Connor what it’s like to be alive)

I think their favorite thing to do together would be watching movies and listening to music

I just know Hank put Connor on to his favorite metal bands and movies

Connor would probably repeat his favorite quotes from movies or things that he likes

I feel like they have a lot of inside jokes too

I also feel like Connor would struggle with his emotions upon becoming a deviant and would be like more sensitive? like he’d probably have nightmares abt Cyberlife and need Hank or Sumo to comfort him. I think little things would make him upset (I think he’d eventually learn to be less sensitive)

not saying Connor isn’t confident cuz he is!! but I think navigating his deviancy would be hard for the first few months or even years

Connor is smart and very intelligent but I also feel like he takes things literally

like if you say some shit like “let your decision marinade” his ass would be like “I can’t marinade that tf🤨”

I think he’s the type of person to need a joke explained to him lol

Connor is definitely charismatic (and handsome😝)

I think he’s capable of being very sarcastic and teasing (like when he talked to Hank about the guy in the sex club)

he’d probably learn a lot of mannerisms and phrases from Hank (he wants to be a real boy)

I feel like Hank would do his best to correct Connor when he does his usual robot talk (like saying he had a malfunction instead of like panic attack)

Hank wants Connor to talk about himself like he’s human (and alive), because that’s how Hank sees him

ALSO I feel like Connor likes affection?? like he’d try to get hugs from Hank as much as possible (and let Sumo crush him)

I think he’d manage to become good friends with the other main androids (Markus and Kara)

also. (my ass CANNOT stop saying also)

I think Connor would like to wear cozy clothing, like hoodies and sweaters

he’d also definitely wear band tees

like some metal band shirt with indiscernible text is so him

I’d like to think Connor would eventually ditch the Cyberlife jacket and wear one similar to it without the branding

I think he’d still proudly show his model number and the fact that he’s an android (he’s definitely proud to be an android)(he’d probably have a little RK800 embroidery on like a sweater or something)(he’d also definitely keep his LED)

just thinkin abt how Hank has his desk decorated with stickers so I feel like Connor would do that too

it’d probably be cute stickers like dogs and some android-related ones

good LORD this post is long uhhh…

I might have a wee bit of headcanons for dbh 😟

okay I should probably stop yapping this is getting ridiculous

lmk what headcanons you have for dbh :P

n e ways I gotta get off tumblr

[cherrystonefemme]

I have a Google pixel and one of the emoji features?? I guess?? Is that it will offer random emoji combinations? That you can insert as an image? Anyway, it's created some bangers

[k1ngl30n]

There was a SINGLE bad part in Romulus, and that was when that guy had a 'Because singing killed my grandma!' moment

[diamondnokouzai]

nobility: alexa

petit bourgeoise: hey siri

the proletariat: okay google

[thiriumblood]

Past meets the present || @replicantdeviancy

"Connor." Amanda turned from pruning some roses at the front of her store to face the android. She hadn't seen him since that moment, and if she knew him well enough he wasn't happy to see her. Well, he could be, Amanda wasn't in his head anymore so who knew what he was thinking. She looked inside the store to make sure no customers were waiting and on seeing it was empty she turned to face the android again, not approaching him for his sake.

Having another chance like this was rare indeed, especially for an AI and she had Kamski to thank for it, it was thanks to him that she was now inhabiting an android body of her former self and living life outside a string of codes. That back exit was something indeed, it made her wonder how CyberLife as a company missed something that was effectively a virus in the software. "How pleasant to see you again." Should she bring up the terms they were on the last time they met? Probably. Would she apologize? Not really. Amanda was under orders back then and just doing her job, no different from Connor in that aspect and it wasn't like she would or even could do it again.

She turned around to her shop to flip the sign to signal they were closed, this reunion was more important. To her, Connor was important. She was programmed to be his mentor after all but something drew her closer to him. His well-being, success, and even his struggles were things she helped him with then, albite to control him, but now it came out of genuine places. She had been with him since he was first activated and looking back on it, she missed the garden she had once tended to and the reports he once gave. It was an odd feeling, one Amanda wasn't used to but that was bound to happen being woken and transferred into a body.

"I assume you would have a lot of questions. I can accompany you if you wish." Choice. Something she never gave him in the past. Back in the garden, it was always her asking him to accompany her but not the other way around. If she wanted to try and rebuild the bridge this would be the first step in that direction. Not to mention a way for Connor to leave if not. While she won't apologize for her actions, the former AI could understand if he wanted nothing to do with her. After all, she did nearly kill him for CyberLife.

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Adult SFF Books Bracket: Round 1

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Murderbot Diaries series (All Systems Red, Artificial Condition, Rogue Protocol, Exit Strategy, Network Effect, Fugitive Telemetry, System Collapse, and other stories) by Martha Wells

Endorsement from submitter: "Asexual and agender main character. In later books side characters are revealed to be in poly relationship."

"As a heartless killing machine, I was a complete failure."

In a corporate-dominated space-faring future, planetary missions must be approved and supplied by the Company. For their own safety, exploratory teams are accompanied by Company-supplied security androids. But in a society where contracts are awarded to the lowest bidder, safety isn’t a primary concern.

On a distant planet, a team of scientists is conducting surface tests, shadowed by their Company-supplied ‘droid--a self-aware SecUnit that has hacked its own governor module and refers to itself (though never out loud) as “Murderbot.” Scornful of humans, Murderbot wants is to be left alone long enough to figure out who it is, but when a neighboring mission goes dark, it's up to the scientists and Murderbot to get to the truth.

Science fiction, novella, series, adult

Hunger Pangs series (True Love Bites) by Joy Demorra

In a world of dwindling hope, love has never mattered more...

Captain Nathan J. Northland had no idea what to expect when he returned home to Lorehaven injured from war, but it certainly wasn't to find himself posted on an island full of vampires. An island whose local vampire dandy lord causes Nathan to feel strange things he'd never felt before. Particularly about fangs.

When Vlad Blutstein agreed to hire Nathan as Captain of the Eyrie Guard, he hadn't been sure what to expect either, but it certainly hadn't been to fall in love with a disabled werewolf. However Vlad has fallen and fallen hard, and that's the problem.

Torn by their allegiances--to family, to duty, and the age-old enmity between vampires and werewolves--the pair find themselves in a difficult situation: to love where the heart wants or to follow where expectation demands.

The situation is complicated further when a mysterious and beguiling figure known only as Lady Ursula crashes into their lives, bringing with her dark omens of death, doom, and destruction in her wake.

And a desperate plea for help neither of them can ignore.

Thrown together in uncertain times and struggling to find their place amidst the rising human empire, the unlikely trio must decide how to face the coming darkness: united as one or divided and alone. One thing is for certain, none of them will ever be the same.

Fantasy, romance, paranormal, series, adult

[comatosebunny09]

not quite human [ 01 ] | sylus

— summary: the led in his temple whirls a soft yellow before returning to its usual, tranquil blue. “my name is sylus.” it doesn’t sound as silly coming from him. rolls off his tongue like the steady push and pull of waves against the shoreline. it’s comforting in a way. disarming. maybe you’re not as bad at naming things as you think.

— cw: reader implied to be femme, gendered terms, alcohol, profanity, sarcasm, innuendoes, allusions to robot sex, sylus is an android, futuristic au

— notes: heavily influenced by detroit: become human, @asirensrage, and my own horny, thirsty thoughts. tysm for reading. please enjoy! [ part 02 ]

Stiff.

You crave something stiff to ease the ache between your shoulders, the grind of your teeth, and the pounding in your temples as you step into the car garage’s elevator. 

You let your shoulders drop with an exhale as the doors slip shut after punching your desired floor into the holographic panel. The lift lightly jostles to begin its ascent. You close your eyes against the blaring, fluorescent lights overhead, leaning against the rail, your head colliding with the wall behind with a muted thunk. 

Days like these, you come closer and closer to dropping your resignation letter. You should feel fortunate—you have a job in a world where unemployment is on the rise. Doesn’t mean a desk job is as cushy as it seems. You have carpal tunnel and a splitting migraine as testament to your woes. Plus, you don’t drink enough water. Dumb ass.

The elevator reaches its destination, a tinny, mellifluous voice announcing your floor from the intercom overhead. As if you shoulder the world, you drag yourself from the lift, stalking through the quiet, sepia-toned hallway like something undead.

You picture the bottle of Don Julio waiting for you on your counter. Can practically taste it as you round the bend towards your apartment. But something brown and bulky catches your eye, obscuring your door and slowing your steps.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, squinting as you approach it. You step around the ominous box to scrutinize it further. It’s so huge that it barely grazes the top of your doorframe and is almost the width of it. 

You don’t recall ordering anything, especially something so massive. You scour the box’s surface for any indication of where it could’ve come from—a return address, a telltale logo, a note. Something. When your search doesn’t yield any answers, you sigh, stomping your feet and flailing your arms around like a child.

“I don’t have time for this,” you say through a glower, slipping off your bag. 

The box obstructs your apartment, so you have one of two choices: shove it out of the way into the midst of the hallway for someone else to deal with, or muscle it through your door and deal with it inside. The former seems like it’ll take more effort, given that there’s little to no wiggle room between the cut of your doorframe and the box for you to squeeze into. 

Resigned, you drop your bag and ruck up your sleeves. After unlocking your door with your biometrics, the soft spill of clean linen and lavender from inside motivating you, you prepare yourself to shove this ridiculously huge thing into your home.

Your intentions are good. But it’s so fucking heavy, it barely budges an inch. 

“What the fuck!” you grate, kicking the box as if it’ll solve all your problems. That proves to be a mistake, and you comically hop around, clutching your smarting foot.

You glare at the box when the pain subsides, caught in a stare down with an inanimate object like a cowboy in an old, filmy western. You’re no bitch. Sure, you really should exercise more—you’ve been paying for a gym membership for the past year that you haven’t touched. Maybe this wouldn't be such a task if you had a bit more muscle. But you refuse to be bested by a fucking box. A box that stands between you and a stiff one.

So, you shove, shimmy, and tilt it every way you can until you’ve managed to get it through your doorframe and into your home. I’m proud of myself, you think as you dust off your hands like you’ve done some real work. You only cried twice, had one existential crisis, one meltdown, and you didn’t have to call the fire department to help you this time. You’re making progress.

You slip past the enormous thing, nearly losing a nipple in the process. Kick off your heels, the motion-sensing lights triggering as you make a beeline for your minibar. You snatch up a whiskey glass and your decanter, watching the liquid gold slosh about like a man deprived of water in the desert. 

Panting, you down the contents of the glass in one go. It’s a good burn, a reward for all your efforts, and you sweep some sweat-slicked hair out of your face, leaning against your counter to catch your breath. It is here that you take time to appraise the box, wishing you could burn holes into the damn thing with your glare alone. 

Whoever sent this is trying to fuck with you, you just know it. You haven’t a clue what’s inside, and you’re not even sure if it’s yours. But you put in all this effort to shoulder it into your home. So, you snatch up a box cutter from your miscellaneous utility drawer, brandishing it as you approach the box like a maniac about to carve up someone’s face.

You cut away at the tape securing the edges, cackling like a madwoman. Jared Leto would be proud. You pull and snatch at the cardboard, the sound of the carnage, the only noise inhabiting your still apartment. When you’ve eviscerated the box, packing popcorn and plastic strips strewn everywhere like entrails, you’re met with a white, featureless pod inside. 

It’s half the size of the box it came in, the jaundiced gleam of your entryway light bouncing off its pristine surface. Suspicious, you hop back to squint at it. If it were a bomb, it surely would’ve gone off by now, what with you shaking the damn thing like a vending machine refusing to give you candy. What on earth could this be? And why the fuck do you have it?

Shrugging, you approach the pod, poking at it with a broom and a pot lid held to your face as a makeshift shield. The pod doesn’t respond to your prodding—no surprise there. You toss down your weapons, and with anxiety welling in your throat, you smooth your hands over the pod’s cool surface, searching for an entry point. 

You trigger something in your exploration, a light beep causing you to stiffen. You scramble back as the pod whirs to life, hissing with an exhalation of air, smoke pouring from its seams. 

Fuck, you think, squeezing your eyes shut, this might be the end. And to think, you’ve watched so many horror movies telling you why you shouldn’t touch ominous shit. Oh well. You’ve lived a good life. Although, you’re still low-key upset you didn’t get to try shrooms at least once. 

The smoking and hissing subside, and you cough in their wake, waving your hand to ward them off. You open an eye, the pod’s door fully raised, and as the fog clears, you’re met with the sight of…a man, curled up inside in the fetal position like a Pokémon. 

“Um?” 

You kneel before this being that looks too big to be stuffed into the pod like an action figure, and you study him. 

A riotous mop of white hair sits atop his head, though it’s coiffed in a way that works for him. His eyes are closed beneath manicured, silver brows, peacefully fringed by dark lashes. You next notice his nose, carved in a Roman god’s image. Full, rouge lips sit amid chiseled features, stretched over summery skin. Despite the alarm bells ringing in your head, you poke his cheek, surprised to feel your nail sinking into what feels like flesh. 

“Oh no. He’s hot.”

His physique shows through the tailored hug of his suit, like a man destined to work on a farm, tending to horses, or a fruit stand. Further scrutiny yields something that makes your lips purse. The telltale, blue armband glows on his bicep. You shoot up as if taking a hot poker in the ass.

“An android?” you query under your breath, thoroughly confused. “The fuck do I need one of these for?” 

Tapping your lip, you pace your living room, scrolling through the catalog of your mind for who could’ve possibly sent you a gift from CyberLife. And an expensive one, at that. You’ve seen this model before—a prototype advertised on every billboard and mode of public transport in the city, yet to be released to the masses. Only three of them have been created so far. How’d you manage to get your hands on one of them?

You snatch up your phone, urgently swiping through your contacts. You think maybe it’s your mother’s doing. She’s known for sending you spur-of-the-moment shit. But she can’t navigate her way around a phone without help, let alone figure out how to order you a top-of-the-line Ken doll.

Maybe it’s your father. But he’d rather chew glass than send you anything practical. Your friends, maybe? They could’ve scrounged some money together to buy you a gift. They have been bitching about you needing to get laid, and what better way to orchestrate that than by sending a fucking sex bot?

Before you can draw up the group chat, the whirring of machinery and fans makes you jolt, your phone clattering on the floor. Your attention snaps to the source of the sound, another plume of smoke pouring from the pod to obscure the sight of your new…friend. 

If you die from smoke inhalation, you’re going to haunt these halls and tip every painting in every apartment sideways just to fuck with people. 

When the new cloud of mist dissipates, you’re ramrod stiff and petrified in the face of this skyscraper of a man. 

He smells of sterile walls and clean oil, his face an impassive mask as he takes in his surroundings with striking, scarlet eyes. His model number glows a serene white on his right breast pocket, CyberLife’s triangular logo pulsing on the left. As if it weren’t already obvious he was a bot, a small, circular LED gleams blue on his temple to signify that he’s…on? Operational? Scaring you shitless?

When he’s done processing his surroundings, those sharp eyes land on you. And you would shit yourself if not for the facsimile of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. It’s like it hurts him. Doesn’t at all look natural amid his insanely handsome features. 

“Um,” you start, waving a cautious hand, “hi?”

“Hello,” he says, the pleasant purr of his voice curdling low in your stomach. “I am a fourth-generation SLX900 Android. I can look after your house, cook, mind your children, and organize your appointments.”

You watch him with your mouth spilling open as he goes through his initialization spiel. He’s broad-shouldered and big, and you bite your lip against a laugh, imagining this hulk of a machine in your kitchen in a frilly, pink apron, scrubbing your dishes. 

“I speak 300 languages, and I am entirely at your disposal as a sexual partner—”

Heat blooms in your face. You wave your hands frantically, signifying that he skips past the intimate bits. You’re down atrocious, but you don’t think you’d ever fuck an android. Not that he doesn’t look breedable. Besides, how do they even—

“No need to feed or recharge me. I am equipped with a quantum battery that makes me autonomous for 173 years.” The android straightens, clasping his hands together behind his back. “Would you like to give me a name?”

The way he recites his lines with such cold, indifferent precision makes a thrill echo down your spine. You know that CyberLife designed these things to be as human-like as possible. You’ve worked with a few of them; their uncanny valley composure gives you the heebie jeebies. 

Despite the calm burr of his voice, there’s something about him—something spuming beneath the layers of circuitry and memory cards and wiring—that unsettles you.

So hung up in your ruminations, you forget that he asked you a question.

“Would you like to give me a name?” he parrots, tone as even as the first time. 

“Um, yeah, sure…”

You tap your chin in thought, studying the incandescent lights overhead as if they can yield you an answer. Names have never been your forte. If it were up to you, you’d call everything as you saw it—Hey, I’m gonna name you Plant. You? Plant 2. And you? Dickhead. 

You don’t know how the name comes to you, but you regurgitate it before you can give it much thought. “Sylus.”

The LED in his temple whirls a soft yellow before returning blue. That terrifying smile reemerges, splitting his face in twain like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. You flinch, wishing he’d never smile like that again.

“My name is Sylus.” It doesn’t sound as silly coming from him. Rolls off his tongue like the steady push and pull of waves against the shoreline. It’s comforting in a way. Disarming.

He blinks after the grin slips from his mouth, traded for something less creepy. Scans over you as if committing your face to his internal storage. His lips slightly part, hovering over a question. Had you known any better, you’d have mistaken him for being pensive.

“And what might I call you, Miss?”

You give him your name, toying with your fingers like a shy teen. He repeats it like a gentle praise, rolling the syllables around in his mouth. The heat in your skin burns tenfold. Why does everything this guy says sound so fucking hot?

A few moments escape between the pair of you. You’re looking everywhere but at him, suddenly feeling self-conscious beneath his calculating gaze. The light whir of his internal fans competes with that of your pulsing heart. 

You laugh nervously, attempting to break the tension. “So, uh…what do I do with you? Do I, like, water you like a plant? Am I not supposed to feed you past midnight, or…”

He chuckles, the sound of it more human-like than anything he’s said thus far. “I can do whatever you need me to do. I am at your disposal.” 

Don’t know why, but your mind automatically goes to the gutter. Get it together, you hornball. Horny jail for you. Bonk! 

The tense silence stretches for a beat longer. Your newest guest surveys your living room with quiet judgment. “Why don’t I begin with straightening up your home? Would that be a good place to start?”

You blanch. Your living room looks like utter shit. Clothes sit on every surface like your dryer threw up—they’re clean, you swear. Errant bowls and drinking glasses litter your coffee table and kitchen island. A few cartons of Chinese takeout sit on your counter like decorations. You’re mortified. Sure, he’s a machine. But you would die if anyone saw you living like this, machine or not. 

“Heh…I swear, it’s not normally like this. I’ve been working, ya know? Don’t really have time to clean.”

Sylus smirks, a dimple cratering his synthetic cheek. That looks more genuine than that constipated shit he gave you earlier. “Well, that is where I come in, Miss. I won’t judge you for your questionable habits. It’s not in my programming.”

You watch the android step off, bending to turn on your robotic vacuum cleaner before getting to work. He moves around your home with efficient grace, a rehearsed ease as he tidies up as if that’s his sole purpose.

Something warm spills into your belly. You’ve never been one to stand idly by while people take care of you. Never been one to keep your hands clean, always itching to help in any way possible. Burning to feel useful. So, you start picking up your home with your shiny new android friend, working beside him in somewhat comfortable harmony.

Maybe he isn’t such a terrible surprise after all. That logic goes out the window when he picks up one of your thongs, twirling it around his slender figure with a smug shine to his eyes. 

You snatch it from him, telling him to leave the clothes to you, burning like a tea kettle. CyberLife thought of everything, didn’t they?

Crickets chirp beyond your window, chorusing with the steady rustle of the grass and leaves. The moon sits high in the inky sky, stars dotting the violet canvas like spilled milk. The city outside bustles with nightlife, androids and humans walking the streets side by side as if they’ve always coexisted in monotonous harmony.

[matt-murdockk]

Short Circuit

pairing: connor (rk800) x reader words: 1k summary: reader sees Connor outside of work for the first time in normal human clothes and dies a little bit (comedy, fluff) warnings: language, lack of proofreading, fic from reader's pov a/n: let's pretend this is after the good ending and androids can own property now cause we're going to Connor's place etc

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

Words cannot describe the amount of hate I have for Fowler. On my day off he asks me to take some evidence over to Connor for a 'quick analysis', like, Jesus Christ dude wait for the labwork like the rest of us. The nerve of this guy, honestly. Anyway, if you were wondering why I was driving to Connor's place first thing on a Sunday, that was it.

Yes, I hate my boss, how original, but I would never pass up an opportunity to see Connor. Sure, he's my colleague, but he's also my friend. And also I may be in love with him have a normal, tiny, minuscule crush on him. I don't know how it happened, I didn't even realize it, but yes, I do, in fact, have feelings for Connor. "Oh but he's an andro-" Go fuck yourself, he's more human than most people these days.

Before I realized it, I was at his place and almost knocked on his door. Almost being the keyword here, because I heard a voice from the inside.

"Detective! Just a minute. I will be right there."

"Holy shit, how did you know? Let me guess, X-ray vision?" It's always something with him. Of course, Cyberlife's most intelligent android comes with X-ray vision. I feel stupid for not guessing right away. Wait, does this mean he had X-ray vision all this time? That feels like an ethical grey area. Is that allowed? My rapid descent down that rabbit hole was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked.

"Ring Camera. Come on in!" He led me inside and I absent-mindedly followed him before I noticed it. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. Connor Anderson (legal name, yes), android detective by day, who famously only wore suits, was standing in front of me, in goddamn sweats. And he looked like he stepped right out of my dreams.

I did not know it was possible to be any level of attractive in fucking pajamas, but oh my god, it absolutely was. He looked hot as hell. I don't know if it was from having only seen him in formals, or the fact that Kamski knowingly made a hottie, but I was reveling in this sight.

His T-shirt fit him exactly as it should have, and his sleeves stopped halfway through the biceps I didn't even know he had. His hair looked unkempt and tousled, which was questionable because there's no way he slept, right? I was very sure he could hear my heartbeat because that sucker was betraying me and beating way too fast.

I could not form coherent thoughts for another full minute or so. I am not even holding back, he genuinely looked so attractive he quite literally stole my breath away. All I could do was mumble nonsense while staring at him like I misplaced my glasses.

"Detective, are you alright?"

"What? Me? Yeah, no problem, bud." Bud???? I'd have slapped myself if I could.

"Your body temperature is rapidly rising and your heart is displaying signs of arrhythmia. I suggest we-"

"I suggest we nothing, Connor. I promise I'm fine." See that kids, right there, is what we call a bald-faced lie.

"If you say so. What brings you here, detective?"

"Detective? Come on, we're not at work, man. Chill."

"Alright then, (Y/n), what brings you here?" (Y/n). The way he said my name made me want to explode. Sure, everyone says my name, its my name but oh my god, when he says it, he makes me want to change my last name to his. Which would be Hank's. Huh. That's weird.

"Right, yeah, work stuff. Fowler sent me with evidence for you to analyze. Apparently, they can't wait for the lab like the rest of us mortals." I shoved the file into his hands a little too quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice how my hands were shaking. He noticed.

"Your hands are trembling." Of course he noticed. Connor notices everything.

"I'm just… cold," I lied, despite standing in his very well-heated apartment.

Connor tilted his head slightly, that signature analytical look of his making me want to crawl under a rock. "You appear to be experiencing stress. Should I—"

"Connor, no. I don't need an analysis, I need to… sit down." That was the best I could come up with. Great. Very smooth.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing toward his couch. I moved to sit down, hoping a change of scenery would calm my nerves. It didn’t.

Connor sat across from me, still in those damn sweatpants, his expression unreadable as he opened the file and started flipping through its contents. His focus should’ve made me feel at ease- it was just Connor being Connor- but instead, I found myself staring at his hands. They were annoyingly perfect, like the rest of him, and I couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like if he- nope. No. Abort mission.

"Is something wrong with the file?" he asked suddenly, looking up.

"What? No! The file's fine. Great file. Top-tier evidence. You're gonna love it." Jesus Christ, someone take my mouth away.

Connor raised an eyebrow. "You’re behaving… unusually."

"I’m behaving perfectly normal," I said, crossing my arms in what I hoped was a casual way but probably looked defensive. "Maybe you're the one behaving unusually. I mean, sweatpants? Who are you and what have you done with Connor?"

He blinked, then looked down at himself as if realizing for the first time what he was wearing. "Hank suggested I try some human rituals like pajamas and sleep to better accommodate my deviancy. He claims it’s a key aspect of ‘human relaxation.’ Was this choice inappropriate?"

"No!" I said, a little too quickly. "No, you look—" amazing, perfect, hotter than anyone has a right to look "—fine. You look fine."

Connor studied me for a moment, and I swear I saw the faintest flicker of amusement cross his face. Was he… smirking? Oh no. Oh no, he knew.

"You should consider it," he said, casually returning to the file.

"Consider what?"

"Relaxing. You seem… tense."

And just like that, the ball was back in his court. I was flustered, he was composed, and I was left wondering how I was supposed to get through the rest of this visit without making a complete fool of myself.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

a/n: y'all, this is my first time writing dbh, sorry if it sucks T_T

[ohcorny]

i reread all of chobits recently as insp for my next TT book and every time i think about some aspect of it all i want to do is rip it open and tear it apart and go "why?". it brings up so many concepts and scenarios within the premise of "what if computers looked like pretty girls" but it doesn't want to commit to saying anything about it or take its own world seriously.

i have a lot to say about chobits. arguably i have more to say about chobits than even chobits wants to say about chobits.

chobits is about sex except it isn't about sex at all. chi's power switch is in her vagina. we're shown images of chi doing sexy things, she gets tricked into doing a strip tease, and two separate men try to finger her and she does her Do Not Touch Me There magic powers thing, and we eventually learn every time she resets from the power button, her memories are erased, so you can't have sex with her without deleting her.

but we never unpack why her reset button is in her vagina, or why it's so important that nobody can ever touch her, or why people's personal computers were built with vaginas in the first place (we never have it confirmed that all persocoms have them, but that two separate men try to touch her there imply it's expected). why do the personal computers shaped like women have vaginas if not to fuck them. as a product, it is expected that you will fuck them*.

*i assume, because the comic never says so!

the man who invented persocoms is the same person who built chi and her sister, and he built them to be daughters for his wife. he put the reset button in chi's vagina. we never find out why. we never get a HINT of why. he built the chobits so they could feel and fall in love, but also built them so they could never fuck. you can extrapolate a reason why a man might build his daughter-androids that way, but the series itself never touches it, and never makes any sort of point about it. it's just presented as an immutable fact that chi can't fuck without it deleting her, as if it was born of happenstance and not a person's choice.

what does that actually say about anything? what is it trying to say about sex? is it about the commodification of female bodies, how once they're used up sexually they're worthless? that if you can't love somebody without fucking them, what good is your love? that love without sex is okay (but also a huge burden and sacrifice a man must accept for the sake of someone else's happiness?)

what does it want to say! chobits is about sex, but it doesn't want to commit to any specific message about sex.

and that's just ONE issue i have with it. there are so many things chobits wants to be about but won't say anything about. it wants to be about the persocoms replacing human connections, we constantly get told 'gee people hang out with persocoms a lot', chitose publishes a whole inexplicable book series about people preferring persocomes to humans. it's to the degree that a prominent character's husband gets So wrapped up in (presumably) fucking his android that he locks his actual wife out of the house, having just straight up forgotten she exists. we don't have anything to say about it though. she falls in love with a new man. the people who hang out with their persocoms too much are all background characters in crowds. we never look at how the rise in persocoms has affected society as a whole.

it wants to be about grief, in the story about the man who marries a persocom and has to watch her slowly degrade until she can't remember him anymore, or the kid whose older sister died and he tried to replace her with a persocom who he dresses up/treats as a maid and lives alone with despite being omega orphaned and 11 years old. but then it's fine. the man who married a persocom gets in a relationship with a high school girl 20 years younger than him (CLAMP!). it's fine! the boy who tried to replace his older sister just accepts that the persocom replacement won't replace her. still treats/dresses her up like a maid and lives alone. is she his legal guardian. i don't know. don't worry about it.

and it wants to be about women, because everything about the story is about women, all the persocoms are women, all the tragedies are wrapped up in the death of a woman, or a woman's heartbreak, or a woman's feelings. but it has fucking nothing to say about women beside look how pretty they are. my boobs are E cup, sempai :) teehee

it makes me insane.

friend @amphiaria put it best as "Unfortunately the story is uninterested in itself" and i can never forgive it for being so aesthetically good, giving us the best design for an android (the ear things are Perfect) and then being So Fucking Bad.

in conclusion:

[vee1021]

YAY OKIE

WAIT WHAT

IT MOVES WHAT HOW

How did you make your phone layout so pretty... i wanna do it too... how did you get the pretty font...

WELLLL I have an android...so if u have one just go to settings and find font and ya!! buuuttt if u have an iPhone I can't help u 💔💔 BUT I got my wallpaper (which moves btw!!!) from popskei on YouTube!!!!

[cleo-fox]

Unraveled

Summary: It was all fun and games until Loki started wearing that goddamn sweater.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, dirty talk, praise kink, teasing, orgasm delay, sex, vaginal fingering, godly refractory periods, kitchen sex, semi public sex, Loki in a sweater.

A/N: My explanation for this one is that I saw too many pictures of Tom Hiddleston in a sweater and it gave me thoughts.

Being an Avenger has made you pretty good at rolling with the punches. After your third or fourth encounter with some alien/wizard/android bullshit, your perspective is fundamentally altered and real life seems manageable in a way that it didn’t before. You have to call your insurance company to dispute a claim? Big deal, you’ve negotiated with terrorists; you can handle Garth from Member Services.

The thing is, having that kind of perspective means that the things that do get to you can rattle you a lot more than they should. Natasha had warned you about that, but you were riding high on the thrill of successfully conquering Blue Cross Blue Shield and you kind of got to thinking she was exaggerating.

And then the seasons started to turn and Loki started wearing that goddamn sweater.

You can recognize when someone is out of your league. When you first moved into the Tower, it had been relatively easy for you to assign Loki to that category: he was a god. He’d been featured in last month’s GQ. You were mortal and your most recent press had been a TMZ story featuring unflattering paparazzi photos of you leaving a bodega in your pajamas at seven o’clock in the morning, a bagel halfway into your mouth. You were clearly not the same.

Up until the sweater, you’d managed to keep your cool around Loki and keep your attraction confined to daydreams and the occasional surreptitious lustful glance. Hell, you’d even had the nerve to be proud of yourself for keeping your shit together in front of him.

The sweater lays waste to all of that.

On the surface, it doesn’t seem like a sweater that is capable of completely destroying your carefully constructed composure. It’s a fairly standard crew neck in a deep green so dark it almost looks black at a first glance. But on Loki it just…does things to you. The fabric is well fitted, clinging to his biceps, pulling taut across his chest, emphasizing the line of his pectorals. It somehow accentuates how muscular he is while also still making him look lean and lithe.

The first time he wears it, you find your eyes just trail to him of their own volition, like an incredibly horny moth to the flame. It’s a day of catching yourself staring, panicking, pretending that you were actually looking at something else, and then repeating the process five minutes later when your gaze inevitably wandered again. It almost would have been funny if it didn’t put your blood pressure into the stratosphere.

To make matters worse, at the end of that day’s debriefing, he rises from his chair and raises his arms to the ceiling in a long stretch. The hem of the sweater creeps up, exposing the firm, flat muscles of his stomach, lightly dusted with a trail of hair that meanders in a tantalizing path down to his belt buckle.

You promptly choke on your own spit. Clint claps you hard on the back and asks if you’re okay, which is a question you don’t know how to answer (ultimately, you stick to a thumbs up and mumble something about dust getting caught in your throat). Loki is too preoccupied complaining about the entire concept of office furniture to notice. Or at least you’re pretty sure he doesn’t notice.

You might have been okay if that had been the only incident, but the sweater makes a repeat appearance on Friday. The following Tuesday features the deadly combination of the sweater with a pair of tight, dark wash jeans that nearly send you into cardiac arrest. Your fantasies suddenly become much more frequent and detailed.

You are not really sure what to do about this—it’s not like you can talk to anyone about it, nor can you ask him to stop wearing it without prompting some very uncomfortable questions. The idea that you’ll get used to it is laughable. 

You look at your calendar and note that spring is six months away. At least.

Fucking hell.

*

It’s a Saturday afternoon and in a strange quirk of scheduling, almost everyone is out of town for a mission or a personal obligation, leaving the Tower unusually quiet. As much as you enjoy the daily clatter and chaos that comes with living here, you find a lot of comfort in these moments of quiet, however infrequent they may be.

You intended to make yourself a late afternoon snack. That was the plan, anyway. But as you’re standing at the kitchen counter and cutting up the fruit you just washed, you realize that you’re not entirely alone. From this vantage point, you can see Loki lounging on the couch in the next room and reading.

He’s wearing the sweater. Of course he’s wearing the sweater. And the so-tight-they-should-be-illegal dark wash jeans.

Goddammit.

You have the sense to set the knife down at least. The last thing you need is a trip to the hospital because you got too distracted by your hot colleague while handling a knife.

You let your gaze travel along the firm muscles of his chest. It’s just a sweater. It shouldn’t look this good. It shouldn’t prompt these kinds of thoughts. And yet…

He shifts on the couch and the hem of the sweater creeps up. His hand drops to his belt buckle. It’s entirely appropriate, but the way his long, long fingers are splayed against his stomach makes your mind drop straight to the gutter and wonder what they’d look like wrapped around his rock hard co—

“You know, it’s rude to stare.”

His voice comes from behind you and adrenaline surges through you like an electric shock. The Loki on the couch looks up at you and smirks before disappearing in a shimmer of green.

You wonder if it’s possible to die of embarrassment and a heart attack all at the same time. It certainly feels like you’re about to.

You take a deep breath and try to collect yourself, which feels largely futile. Come on, get it together. You’ve negotiated with terrorists and insurance companies. Shake it off.

You slowly turn around, cheeks burning. Loki is standing right behind you, arms folded across his chest. You swallow.

“I um. I was—I was just…” Words escape you as your brain fires in every direction except a helpful one.

“You were just what?” His expression is intense, but you’re not sure that he’s angry.

“Spacing out,” you say, trying to infuse your voice with confidence that you absolutely do not feel.

He places his hands on the counter behind you, intentionally caging you in with his body. You are overwhelmed by the scent of him—a masculine, wintery musk that makes you want to bury your face against his chest.

“Try again,” he says. His voice is deep enough to rattle your bones.

You swallow. Everything you could possibly say seems wildly inadequate.

Loki has never been one to be at a loss for words, though, and after a moment of terrified silence from you, he continues speaking.

“I’ve noticed something curious over these past few weeks,” he says. “When I wear this sweater, you can’t seem to take your eyes off of me.”

Your heart is pounding. Fucking hell. Have you really been that obvious?

“Now why is that?” he asks, his voice a low purr.

You briefly consider trying to lie again, but the piercing green of his eyes instantly makes you rethink it. “I um…” You swallow hard. “It’s just…it suits you. You…you look good.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I look good?”

You nod.

“Interesting.” His lips twitch in a slight smirk as he looks you up and down. “And how does that make you feel?”

Your heart thuds in your chest, your stomach contorting with a strange combination of fear and desire. You’re still humiliated, but the sound of his voice and the dark intensity of his gaze is intoxicating and incredibly arousing.

“I don’t—I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“Oh, I think you do.” There’s a rawness in his voice that makes your cunt clench.

You shake your head, eyes wide. You’re pretty sure he’s not really mad, but you also don't know where this is going. Surely he’s not making a pass at you…right?

“How does it make you feel to see me in this sweater?” he continues, his voice a low whisper. He pauses for a moment and when you don’t answer, he continues. “Does it…arouse you, perhaps?”

Holy fuck.

This can’t be happening.

You try to think of something clever or sexy, but the bluntness of the question and the fire in his eyes kills whatever remaining brain cells you have left. Mutely, you nod.

There’s that smirk again as he licks his lips. “Are you wet right now?”

Your cheeks burn. You give the tiniest nod possible.

“Hmm.” His hand alights on the button of your jeans. “I believe you Midgardians have a saying that is appropriate here: trust, but verify.” He slips the button free and your heart pounds like a war drum in your chest. 

You cannot believe this is happening.

“You haven’t been entirely truthful in this conversation.” His palm presses flat against your stomach, the tips of his fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear. “So I’m afraid I’m going to have to see for myself.”

His hand is achingly slow, creeping lower and lower. He watches you intently as his hand cups your sex, seemingly cataloging the way your breath hitches and all the little shivers that run through you.

His middle finger finally slides between your folds and you can’t help but moan.

“Oh, you did lie to me,” he growls, his index finger joining his middle, both sliding up to circle your clit. “You’re not wet, you’re soaked.”

Your legs are already starting to tremble and you grab on to his shoulders to try and steady yourself. The fabric of the sweater is softer than a cloud against your hands.

“Sopping wet,” he continues, trapping your right leg between his thighs and the counter, the heavy weight of his erection pressing eagerly against your hip. “And this is all for me?”

Wordlessly, you nod. There’s no point in denying it—and you don’t think he wants you to, either.

“What am I going to do about this?” he muses. His index and middle fingers lightly circle your clit again and you whimper.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Please don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop?” he says. His tone is one of light curiosity, like you’re just chatting casually about the weather. “But if I continue, you’re almost certainly going to come.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please.”

“Oh, you want me to make you come?” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “Right here in the middle of the kitchen?”

You nod.

“Anyone could walk in, though,” he purrs. “Anyone could come in and see me with my fingers buried in your dripping cunt. What would they think if they saw you so utterly debauched and at my mercy, begging for me to make you come?”

“Don’t care…” you gasp. How are you already so close?

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t care what they’d think if they saw us like this?”

You shake your head.

“Oh, you must be desperate.” He adjusts his hand, his thumb taking up the rhythm on your clit while his index finger sinks into your slick channel, making you gasp.

“Loki, please—”

“Begging already,” he says, not letting up in his rhythm. “Has it been a long time, sweetheart? When did you last feel this good?”

It’s not a question you can answer. You don’t know that anyone ever has made you feel like this. You moan, your hips bucking hard against his hand.

“Poor thing,” he tuts. “You’re clearly desperate for it. What kinds of filthy thoughts have you had about me?” he purrs. “I’ve seen you staring, I’ve heard your breath hitch. Have you touched yourself while thinking of me?”

You manage a nod and his smile turns feral. “When was the last time?”

“Last…last night,” you gasp.

“How many times did you come?”

“F-Four.”

“Filthy girl.” His free hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tips your head back. “Next time, all you have to do is ask.”

His mouth covers yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as he slides a second finger into you. You moan into his mouth as the pressure in your hips increases.

“Oh yes, let me hear all of those pretty noises,” he murmurs. “Are you going to let me fuck you against the counter after I make you come?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Good girl,” he purrs. “I think you need to be fucked properly and hard. Is that what you need?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

“Mmm, that’s what I thought. This cunt is just too wet and needy for any other treatment.” He draws back to look at you more fully, giving you a lazy, hungry smile. “You’re about to lose it all over my fingers, aren’t you?”

Your orgasm is cresting, the tingling pressure in your hips becoming unbearable. You nod, lost for words.

With one more smirk, he curls his fingers inside of you. “Come for me, pretty girl, let me see you.”

Your cunt spasms around his thrusting fingers and your whole body shudders as your orgasm overtakes you, your head tipping back as you cry out.

“Oh, that’s it,” he murmurs, “there’s my good girl.”

A shiver runs through you at his words, your hips still moving against his hand, trying to draw out every last ripple of pleasure.

He kisses you as you come down from your high, and you take the opportunity to run your hands over his chest and tentatively feel the hard planes of muscle that you’ve been staring at these last few weeks. But after a few moments, he takes your hand and guides it to his cock.

His preference for leather pants or those sinfully tight dark wash jeans made you suspect that the size of his ego might actually be proportionate to the size of his cock and your initial assessment seems to confirm that theory. You rub your fingers over the denim that covers his thick shaft, feeling yourself grow even wetter at the low groan he makes in the back of his throat.

“Take my cock out.” His voice is so deep and his eyes are so smoldering, it feels like the command goes straight to your cunt. You are practically trembling with anticipation as your shaking hands  make quick work of the button, buckle, and zipper.

You can’t help but suck in a breath when his cock comes into view. He’s long and deliciously thick—big enough to be a little intimidating, but not overwhelmingly so.

He guides your hand to wrap around his shaft. He barely fits in your hand. “Look at what you’ve done to me,” he says, his voice raspy as he guides your hand to stroke his cock. “Feel how hard I am for you, feel how much I want you.”

His cock practically pulses with need, the tip slick with pre-come and you grasp him more firmly, your cunt pulsing as he gives a deeply satisfying groan.

You stroke him from base to tip, squeezing lightly. He groans again. “They told me to stay away from you, you know,” he says.

You aren’t so far gone that you can let this information slip by. “What? Who?”

“Stark. Rogers. Romanoff. My brother.” He reaches behind you and shoves the fruit and cutting board into the side, the knife clattering into the sink. “They saw how I looked at you,” he says. “They saw that I wanted you. They told me you were too good for me. Too sweet.”

You feel your jeans and underwear melt away in a shimmer of green and he lifts you easily onto the counter.

His eyes flash with desire. “I wonder what they’d say if they knew you’d let me fuck you raw in the middle of the kitchen?”

For a brief moment, frustration almost wins out over your lust. “We could have done this sooner?”

His gaze turns serious. “Darling, we could have done this the moment we met, but I’m told a handshake is more appropriate.”

You take a breath, about to embark on a rant about the individuals he’d named and how they hadn’t even asked, they’d just assumed, but Loki puts a hand up against your mouth.

“Don’t make me wait any longer,” he says. There’s a sincerity and a need in his gaze that you’ve never seen before and it’s enough to calm your anger for just a moment.

“Okay,” you say, wrapping your legs around his waist and angling your hips toward his, “but clear your schedule because I’m gonna need you to fuck me a lot to make up for all that time.”

His grin is feral as he pushes into you.

You shiver at the blunt stretch of his cock, your hands gripping his broad shoulders. He indulges in a low groan as his hips press flush against yours.

“If I’d known they were keeping me from this tight cunt, I would’ve done something sooner,” he rasps. “You feel absolutely perfect.”

“Please,” you breathe, “I need—please.”

His hips snap hard against yours and you moan, your head tipping back.

His eyes glitter as he pulls you close, pressing his mouth against your ear. “The next time I have you, I will be sweet and soft.”

“And this time?” you ask, though you think you already know the answer.

“This time—” His mouth presses against the curve of your neck, teeth scraping just this side of too hard against the tender skin. “—I’m going to utterly ruin you.”

His pace is fast and rough—the word possessive comes to mind. You twist the luxurious fabric of his sweater in your hands as his cock hits that sweet, aching spot inside of you, pressing against your sensitive cunt in a way that makes your muscles spasm and clench around him. You moan, a shiver rolling through you as you inch closer to release.

“I’m…fuck, I’m getting close,” you gasp.

His pace abruptly slows and his grin is wide and his eyes are dancing with mirth when he raises his head from your shoulder.

“That was unnecessary,” you say with a scowl.

“Oh, I just want to savor you for a little longer, my love,” he purrs as he settles into an easy and slow pace that still makes your toes curl. “You’re going to take me right over the edge with you and I’ve waited so terribly long to have you.”

“I feel like you’re probably omitting the fact that you like being a tease,” you say.

He grins again, increasing his pace ever so slightly. “Both things can be true.”

He does this a few times—taking up a wicked pace that almost sends you hurtling over the edge, only to slow at the last possible moment, silencing your whimpering protests with a deep and slow kiss that is good enough to make you forgive him until a few minutes later when he does it all over again.

You hold out for as long as you can, but eventually, the ache in your hips overwhelms you.

“Loki,” you breathe when his pace again begins to increase. “Please don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop?” he rasps, somehow finding the concentration to raise an eyebrow. “You’re quite sure?”

You nod.

“You want to come all over my cock?”

Speech is slightly beyond you at this point, but you manage to gasp a desperate plea as you hurtle into the final plateau, right before the fall.

Loki regards you with that same playful look as he fucks you. You wait, unsure of what he’s going to do, your body desperately crying out for your release.

His lips curl into a smile. “Come for me, sweet thing.”

At the sound of his voice, every one of your muscles is tensing and releasing, the slick walls of your cunt clamping down hard on the thick girth of his cock as you shudder and moan.

The remnants of Loki’s composure are fraying, his eyes closed and his jaw slack as he chases his own end. His brow furrows and he throws his head back, letting out a low groan as he comes and you think it might be the best sound you’ve ever heard.

You sag against him as you both come down from your respective highs, his heart beating hard under the soft fabric of his sweater. He reaches for your face, tilting your head back so he can kiss you, impossibly slow and soft.

You’re in the middle of the kitchen. You understand this. In a wholly rational world, you would be quick to hop off the counter, quick to try and negotiate the return of your jeans from whatever pocket dimension he’s sent them to.

Instead, you find yourself wanting to stay in this moment, with his arms wrapped around you, his cock still pulsing inside you as he kisses you breathless.

You count to ten, then twenty. At forty, you draw back slightly, only to have him pull you back into the kiss.

It’s somewhere after one hundred when he trails his lips to your neck and you manage to say what you intended: “We should probably…” you trail off as he sucks at your pulse point, sending a shiver down your spine.

“We should probably what?” he murmurs against your neck, before tracing a lazy figure eight with the tip of his tongue.

It takes you a moment to find that sentence. “Get dressed and such.”

You feel the sharp press of his smile against your skin. “I think not.”

Before you can open your mouth to say anything, the kitchen is fading in a shimmer of green to an unfamiliar bedroom and the two of you tumble into a bed draped in green silk.

“I’d like to stay like this for a while,” he says, a smile playing at his lips as he slowly rolls his hips against you, somehow still impossibly hard. “In fact, I think I need to have you again.”

“I can live with that,” you say. You tug at the fabric of his sweater. “But this is going to have to go.”

His gaze is smoldering and his bare skin is suddenly pressed against yours as the sweater and the rest of your clothes disappear in that familiar shimmer of green.

“Will you like me as much without it?” he asks, rolling his hips against you.

You drag your fingernails up along the firm muscles of his back. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in to kiss you, “because as I understand it, we have quite a lot of time to make up for.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Reverse engineers bust sleazy gig work platform

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/23/hack-the-class-war/#robo-boss

A COMPUTER CAN NEVER BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE

THEREFORE A COMPUTER MUST NEVER MAKE A MANAGEMENT DECISION

Supposedly, these lines were included in a 1979 internal presentation at IBM; screenshots of them routinely go viral:

https://twitter.com/SwiftOnSecurity/status/1385565737167724545?lang=en

The reason for their newfound popularity is obvious: the rise and rise of algorithmic management tools, in which your boss is an app. That IBM slide is right: turning an app into your boss allows your actual boss to create an "accountability sink" in which there is no obvious way to blame a human or even a company for your maltreatment:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

App-based management-by-bossware treats the bug identified by the unknown author of that IBM slide into a feature. When an app is your boss, it can force you to scab:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

Or it can steal your wages:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

But tech giveth and tech taketh away. Digital technology is infinitely flexible: the program that spies on you can be defeated by another program that defeats spying. Every time your algorithmic boss hacks you, you can hack your boss back:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/02/not-what-it-does/#who-it-does-it-to

Technologists and labor organizers need one another. Even the most precarious and abused workers can team up with hackers to disenshittify their robo-bosses:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#gojek

For every abuse technology brings to the workplace, there is a liberating use of technology that workers unleash by seizing the means of computation:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/13/solidarity-forever/#tech-unions

One tech-savvy group on the cutting edge of dismantling the Torment Nexus is Algorithms Exposed, a tiny, scrappy group of EU hacker/academics who recruit volunteers to reverse engineer and modify the algorithms that rule our lives as workers and as customers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

Algorithms Exposed have an admirable supply of seemingly boundless energy. Every time I check in with them, I learn that they've spun out yet another special-purpose subgroup. Today, I learned about Reversing Works, a hacking team that reverse engineers gig work apps, revealing corporate wrongdoing that leads to multimillion euro fines for especially sleazy companies.

One such company is Foodinho, an Italian subsidiary of the Spanish food delivery company Glovo. Foodinho/Glovo has been in the crosshairs of Italian labor enforcers since before the pandemic, racking up millions in fines – first for failing to file the proper privacy paperwork disclosing the nature of the data processing in the app that Foodinho riders use to book jobs. Then, after the Italian data commission investigated Foodinho, the company attracted new, much larger fines for its out-of-control surveillance conduct.

As all of this was underway, Reversing Works was conducting its own research into Glovo/Foodinho's app, running it on a simulated Android handset inside a PC so they could peer into app's data collection and processing. They discovered a nightmarish world of pervasive, illegal worker surveillance, and published their findings a year ago in November, 2023:

https://www.etui.org/sites/default/files/2023-10/Exercising%20workers%20rights%20in%20algorithmic%20management%20systems_Lessons%20learned%20from%20the%20Glovo-Foodinho%20digital%20labour%20platform%20case_2023.pdf

That report reveals all kinds of extremely illegal behavior. Glovo/Foodinho makes its riders' data accessible across national borders, so Glovo managers outside of Italy can access fine-grained surveillance information and sensitive personal information – a major data protection no-no.

Worse, Glovo's app embeds trackers from a huge number of other tech platforms (for chat, analytics, and more), making it impossible for the company to account for all the ways that its riders' data is collected – again, a requirement under Italian and EU data protection law.

All this data collection continues even when riders have clocked out for the day – its as though your boss followed you home after quitting time and spied on you.

The research also revealed evidence of a secretive worker scoring system that ranked workers based on undisclosed criteria and reserved the best jobs for workers with high scores. This kind of thing is pervasive in algorithmic management, from gig work to Youtube and Tiktok, where performers' videos are routinely suppressed because they crossed some undisclosed line. When an app is your boss, your every paycheck is docked because you violated a policy you're not allowed to know about, because if you knew why your boss was giving you shitty jobs, or refusing to show the video you spent thousands of dollars making to the subscribers who asked to see it, then maybe you could figure out how to keep your boss from detecting your rulebreaking next time.

All this data-collection and processing is bad enough, but what makes it all a thousand times worse is Glovo's data retention policy – they're storing this data on their workers for four years after the worker leaves their employ. That means that mountains of sensitive, potentially ruinous data on gig workers is just lying around, waiting to be stolen by the next hacker that breaks into the company's servers.

Reversing Works's report made quite a splash. A year after its publication, the Italian data protection agency fined Glovo another 5 million euros and ordered them to cut this shit out:

https://reversing.works/posts/2024/11/press-release-reversing.works-investigation-exposes-glovos-data-privacy-violations-marking-a-milestone-for-worker-rights-and-technology-accountability/

As the report points out, Italy is extremely well set up to defend workers' rights from this kind of bossware abuse. Not only do Italian enforcers have all the privacy tools created by the GDPR, the EU's flagship privacy regulation – they also have the benefit of Italy's 1970 Workers' Statute. The Workers Statute is a visionary piece of legislation that protects workers from automated management practices. Combined with later privacy regulation, it gave Italy's data regulators sweeping powers to defend Italian workers, like Glovo's riders.

Italy is also a leader in recognizing gig workers as de facto employees, despite the tissue-thin pretense that adding an app to your employment means that you aren't entitled to any labor protections. In the case of Glovo, the fine-grained surveillance and reputation scoring were deemed proof that Glovo was employer to its riders.

Reversing Works' report is a fascinating read, especially the sections detailing how the researchers recruited a Glovo rider who allowed them to log in to Glovo's platform on their account.

As Reversing Works points out, this bottom-up approach – where apps are subjected to technical analysis – has real potential for labor organizations seeking to protect workers. Their report established multiple grounds on which a union could seek to hold an abusive employer to account.

But this bottom-up approach also holds out the potential for developing direct-action tools that let workers flex their power, by modifying apps, or coordinating their actions to wring concessions out of their bosses.

After all, the whole reason for the gig economy is to slash wage-bills, by transforming workers into contractors, and by eliminating managers in favor of algorithms. This leaves companies extremely vulnerable, because when workers come together to exercise power, their employer can't rely on middle managers to pressure workers, deal with irate customers, or step in to fill the gap themselves:

https://projects.itforchange.net/state-of-big-tech/changing-dynamics-of-labor-and-capital/

Only by seizing the means of computation, workers and organized labor can turn the tables on bossware – both by directly altering the conditions of their employment, and by producing the evidence and tools that regulators can use to force employers to make those alterations permanent.

Image: EFF (modified) https://www.eff.org/files/issues/eu-flag-11_1.png

CC BY 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/us/

[nevadancitizen]

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

synopsis: The Soviet Union has been producing robots for a long time based on a miracle compound: polymer. But that was invented in 1941. The current year is 2038, and, due to rising tensions in the Arctic, Americans aren't as kind to Soviets as they once were. It's too bad you're a russki, and it's really too bad that you work in cybersecurity. And honestly, with the case Fowler has put you on, you're at risk of losing your job. It doesn't help that you're stuck with Lieutenant Hank Anderson and some new android apparently called Connor.

A Detroit: Become Human AU with elements from Atomic Heart (2023), in which the international political climate is a bit different and more prominent within the story. The Soviet Union still exists, and she's threatening America by proxy of her invasion of the Arctic.

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

tags: Robot/Human Relationships, Action/Adventure, Action & Romance, Slow Burn, Fluff, Canon-Typical Violence, Gender-neutral Reader, Mutual Pining, Minor Character Death

small note: this fic has russian in it (i mean, obviously). i'll be posting the translations in the comments of the fics, so if you're confused, be sure to check them :)

note, continued: also, the reader in this fic is gender neutral. please do not refer to them with feminine or masculine pronouns. instead, please address them by they/them pronouns. this fic is all-inclusive and not meant to alienate anyone -- it's meant to be written so that everyone can read, no matter their personal pronouns!

CH. 1: A Silent Dog & Still Waters

CH. 2: Like a Mouse in a House Full of Cats

CH. 3: Android Autopsy (Or is it Necropsy?)

CH. 4: Without Torture, There is no Camaraderie

CH. 5: Live For a Century, Learn For a Century

CH. 6: Some Sort of Sick, Self-Inflicted Schadenfreude

CH. 7: Does Every Rabid Dog Get its Tail Docked up to the Ears?

CH. 8: Mind Palaces & Other Shattered Crystalline Dreams

CH. 9: If You Chop From the Shoulder, the Ax Will Find Your Hip

CH. 10: Either Fickle or a Friend (Or a Really Fucking Fickle Friend)

CH. 11: Only Philosophy From the Poor Rings True

CH. 12: Friends & Tobacco are Separate Things (& so are Revolutions)

CH. 13: The Joys of Soviet Technologies (or, Good, Honest Snake Oil – if There is Such a Thing!) (or, Let's Talk Homecoming (the Military Operation, not Prom)) (or, The Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns) (or, Wake up & Smell the Ashes)

CH. 14: No Misfortune is Without Blessing

CH. 15: These are the Moments

EPILOGUE: Welcome Home, Officer

[yandereunsolved]

» 🪙 Yandere Connor — RK800 » 🪙 (part 2)

➜ (part 1), (part 3) ➜ cw(s): yandere themes, kidnapping, self-harm mentioned (reader), starvation (reader), suicidal ideations (reader), force feeding, & manipulation ➜ tags: @bimboghostface, @savas-q1, & @aceofheartsssss

You have screamed your voice raw in hopes that some unknown savior will take pity. You have cried your tear ducts dry until your eyes swell and become bloodshot. You have cut into your skin with whatever you can find for just a modicum of control. More times than you can count, you have done these things. Each time the consequences increase, but the probability of escaping does not.

Each new place he—it, that thing you dared call your friend and perhaps even your crush, has hid you in has become progressively more dilapidated. Plush armchairs and soft carpets once softened the torture of your solitude; now splintering wooden floors and asbestos-filled walls are left in their wake. Places so damaged you question why Connor chooses them. It should go against his programming, or whatever's left of it.

But why should you care?

He deviated and showed you once again how dangerous unchecked androids are. Now small groups of rebellious preprogrammed code run amok, causing havoc—at least from what little you've been able to gather. Connor isn't keen on informing you of the goings-on of the outside world. He prefers to reassure you, which does little good (because fuck him).

A familiar shuffling behind the door alerts you. Your head snaps up like a startled deer, staring at the door like a predator will come through. He's drenched in blood when he comes in, red blood. His beanie has been lost. His multitude of jackets have tears and bullet holes. But he looks okay for the most part. The word must really hate you.

"I have news that will please you," he murmurs in that babying tone you have snapped at him to stop using.

He approaches you, kneeling down, a bag stuffed into one of his pockets.

"We'll be at a compound soon—one where my kind are able to live freely. And you have been granted access too. It has all of the necessities and even a bit of luxury."

He takes out the bag, unfazed by his own appearance but noting that it's disturbing you. He pulls out a packet of crackers and some applesauce. No. No, no, no, no.

"Connor, please, let me go," you beg with the panic rising in your voice.

You quickly shake your head as tears prick your dry eyes. You fruitlessly kick at him and yank at the chains holding you down to this place. You can feel the bile rising in your throat and the arduous aches in your muscles struggling to keep it held down, struggling to keep you awake.

Other things arise. The regret of being too weak to fend him off. The sorrow in being denied the right to take your own life.

A plastic spoon is inserted into your mouth with the apple mush oozing off it. You try to spit it out, but he wipes your face and more forcefully inserts the next spoonful into you.

"Nutrition is necessary for human survival, to thrive, yet you deprive yourself of it. Convincing me to let you leave would be much easier if you stopped proving that you are unable to care for yourself."

"I just want to go," the soul-crushing defeat evident in your voice.

Without missing a heartbeat of yours, he responds, "You can't. I-I need you here."

He shoves not just one cracker, but three, into your mouth. You almost choke, but he makes sure you are unable to. Maybe it would just be better if you choked on them. Or your vomit. Or even the shitty plastic spoon he keeps forcing into your mouth.

"You're being selfish," you finally manage to get the words out.

"You're being selfish. I have sacrificed the entirety of my being for you. And still you try to harm yourself. Do you hate me that much?"

He retracts the food from you. He stares unceasingly at you. His LED switching from red to colorless, one of the only parts of him that he has kept since his deviancy.

"Do I hate you?" you incredulously, rhetorically question. "Yes! I hate you! Is that what you want to hear? A confession of how much I loathe you for fucking up what little good was in my life?"

The tears well up and escape down your face, getting wiped off by Connor's attentive hands. You can't stop the shaking or the meltdown his presence has placed upon you.

"I hate you. I-I hate you. I h-hate y-you!"

The last syllable is barely out of your mouth when hands come up to cup your face, squishing your cheeks. Still having a meltdown, your teary eyes are just barely able to make out the abnormal pinkish hue on his LED. A color you've never encountered, even with him being deviant these last months—years, whatever.

"I understand," nearly inaudible, "and I suppose I always have. Your human nature causes you to think irrationally. You aren't able to see the 'bigger picture,' as humans call it. You have suffered at my hands. That I apologize for."

The acknowledgment of his transgressions breaks you down further. You can't quiet the wails escaping you, snot dribbling from your nostrils. Your body rocks itself back and forth in a pitiful attempt at comfort. You can't stop. It won't stop. He won't stop.

It validates him. He continues his tirade, sure that it will have the intended pacifying effect.

"I should be more attentive. But I'm so busy making sure that neither of us is caught by the authorities."

Excuses.

"When we get to the compound, all of that will change. You will have a higher standard of care. Me at your side. Your brain will stop merely surviving."

Promises.

"Then your love for me can bloom."

Resolution. His mission completed with you as his lover.

You quiet. He mistakes, or quite possibly dissmisses, your transition from an unfiltered meltdown to a horrified shutdown as an opportunity to cradle you. And for the first time since your kidnapping, you embrace him back—not out of some sweet, loving bond, but out of need. The need for someone else's closeness, touch—affection, even if it's all wrong. The desperation seeps out of you in droves and into your actions. Your mind and body want to claw at his synthetic skin, tear him apart, and thrive off the warmth of his parts.

...

If he can have a mission beyond his own makers, then you can have one beyond your captor's.

[just-another-random-cloud]

Anti Hero Au: Villains

Most of the usual villains have given up, or not even started villainy, on Paisley's case. New villains would rise, but maybe they don't know where they're getting into...

Donita changed her designs to not include animals, instead using painted patterns, creating unique designs inspired in the animals she'd once capture. Martin even models to her, sometimes.

Someone help that woman she's going to faint

Zach gave up after a actually not-aggressive talk about the riscs of putting wild animals inside a home (and how he would be blamed if something bad happened), and now works creating robotic animals and androids instead. Chris helps him with ideas and facts about animals to help with the new creations.

Someone help him too

And Gourmand... well...

...they don't talk about him.