#automated key machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

Text

Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @6urmom @gullableh @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @nyxthedeity @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hxsxxk-180294 @wordacadabra @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @purplefluffycows @raikan624 @avengemepercy @killerwendigo @winterjaysoldier @magnoliamoogle @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @iyskgd @ironenemycollective @bumblebeebutter @sizzlingstarlightsky @buckybarnesslutshop @starstruck-cowgirl @angelicdarkn3ss @confused-simp-jpg @hufflepuffsforjoy @nicolebarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @escapismurmom @paige0103 @dollface-xoxo @read-just-cant-stop @sycamoregirl444 @raikan624 @iwritememesnotprophecies @imissbenswolo-blog @lcolumbia1988 @paintmekala @knowingnothingnoel @captain-shannon-becker @jainaeatsstars @mm4t @houseofthechaos @chachkid @escapefromrealitylol

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

A/N: I am alive ! Sorry for the slow update but here is the next part !

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

Tw: cussing, fluff

Part 17

Words of Command - Part 18

The communal floor of Stark Tower was unusually still. A breeze from the automated ventilation stirred the long drapes beside the windows, and light poured in—soft gold across glass, metal, and silence.

The aftermath of what had happened the night before still clung to the walls like an echo.

At the center console, Tony Stark looked every bit the genius-billionaire-insomniac, hair tousled, arc reactor glowing through a rumpled Black Sabbath shirt, coffee in hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Holograms danced in front of him—blueprints, security schematics, and tracking data cascading in midair.

Agent Collins stood just to the side, shifting uncomfortably under Stark’s scrutinizing gaze.

“These,” Tony said, gesturing like a magician unveiling a new trick, “are the new key cards. Retina-matched, palm-synced, neuro-linked to your heart rate. So if you’re panicking, bleeding, or doing a very bad impersonation of me? It locks you out.”

He slid a card across the table toward Collins.

“Don’t lose it, rookie. Or misplace it in a vending machine like the last one.”

A beat. “And if you’re still thinking about shooting someone in this building? Maybe aim for the espresso machine next time—it has less moral ambiguity.”

Collins flushed, stammering, “Yes, sir. Of course. I—I’m sorry again—”

Tony waved a hand dismissively, then turned his eyes on you.

“And you,” he said, pointing, voice light but laced with something tighter, “Thumbelina.”

You blinked. “Hmm"

“Yeah. Honestly, the most terrifying thing about that entire debacle was how calm you were.”

He reached under the console and slid another card toward you. Unlike Collins’ sleek black one, yours was silver, marked with a small Stark Industries insignia and a delicate engraving of a rose.

“Custom-coded,” he added more quietly. “Highest clearance short of mine or Pepper's. And it tracks your location anywhere in the building… or, you know, if someone tries to relocate you.”

You hesitated before picking it up. “Tony, this is…”

He cut you off with a glance—his tone softening only fractionally.

“Don’t read too much into it, Thumbelina. Just… consider it your golden ticket to not getting Winter-Soldiered next time a Hydra Barbie struts through my door.” His jaw twitched faintly before he turned back to his holograms.

"Because between you and me? I don’t know what would’ve happened if Barnes had flipped. And I’d rather not find out.”

Behind you, Bucky stood against the window, arms folded tightly across his chest. His face was carved from stone, eyes unreadable. But at Tony’s last words, you saw the flicker in his posture—a subtle clench of his metal fingers. His jaw worked, once, before he spoke.

“I wouldn’t have hurt her.”

It was quiet. Firm.

Tony didn’t look back. “Good plan, Tin Man. Let’s stick to it.”

You reached out and gently brushed your fingers over Bucky’s hand. His head turned toward you immediately, eyes softer now, focused entirely on you.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

He glanced at the security card in your hand. “You keep that close. Anyone tries anything again... they won’t get the chance to finish a word.”

He meant it.

And this time, even Tony didn’t argue.

You found Tony later, alone on the terrace of Stark Tower. The city sprawled out beneath him, bathed in afternoon haze, a living thing of sound and motion.

He stood by the railing, sunglasses in place despite the shade, drink in hand—something amber that caught the light.

“Didn’t peg you for a brooder,” you said gently as you stepped out.

He didn’t look at you, just lifted the glass in a half-salute. “Rooftop brooding’s in the billionaire starter pack. That and daddy issues.”

You smiled faintly, letting the door slide shut behind you. The wind teased your hair, light and playful in contrast to the tension that still clung to him like static.

“I wanted to say thank you,” you offered. “For the card. The upgrades. Everything.”

Tony tilted his head, finally looking at you.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, voice still smooth, but quieter. “You didn’t ask to be dragged into any of this.”

“I’m here because I want to be. Bucky—he…”

“Thinks you’re his handler,” Tony interrupted, eyes narrowing behind his shades. “Still. Despite all the progress. And despite the fact he looks at you like you're the only safe place he's ever known.”

You looked down at your hands. “Yea, I know.”

Tony drained his drink and set the glass aside with a click of crystal on steel. “You know, if you were anyone else, I’d have locked Barnes in a vibranium box and shipped him off by now.”

You blinked up at him.

“He’s dangerous, Thumbelina. He’s got more kill commands in that head than most nukes. And if someone whispers poetry in Russian, he'll take out half my lab. So forgive me if I’m not sleeping well.”

The sarcasm was still there—but now it trembled just enough to show the cracks.

You stepped closer. “But you didn’t lock him up.”

“No,” Tony said, softer now. “Because he didn’t snap. Because you, god knows why, have faith in him.”

He exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair.

“I saw what happened the other night. He didn’t hurt you. That means something. I just…” His voice dropped. “I don’t want to be the guy who says I told you so after something breaks. And I sure as hell don’t want it to be you who pays the price.”

You placed your hand lightly on his arm. “Tony, I know what he’s capable of. But I also know who he is now. You’ve seen it too.”

He looked down at your hand. “You’re good for him. Maybe too good. Just—promise me you’ll keep that card on you. And if something feels off, you run, okay? Because even the best of us can lose control.”

There was a pause. He added, more gently, “And maybe I care more than I let on. Don't make me say it out loud or I’ll combust.”

You smiled through the tightness in your chest. “Noted.”

Tony nodded and pulled his sunglasses off, eyes tired but sincere. “Now go check Manchurian Candidate. Before he broods a hole through my floor.”

You turned to leave but paused. “Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you”

The workshop hummed with artificial light and low-toned rock playing from a half-covered speaker somewhere on the cluttered shelves. Screens flickered with diagnostic data, schematic overlays of Bucky’s arm rotating in slow motion beside a real-time scan of his nervous system. The scent of oil, hot metal, and solder hung in the air like cologne.

Bucky sat on the reinforced stool with his left arm clamped into a calibration rig, a faint whirr-click pulsing as Tony adjusted a servo near the elbow joint. He flinched, just slightly, more from reflex than pain.

“Relax, Tin Man,” Tony drawled, leaning in with a fine-point tool between his fingers. “You jump like I’m tightening bolts with a wrench and a prayer.”

Bucky gave him a narrowed look but didn’t rise to the bait. “You talk a lot for someone who’s supposed to be concentrating.”

“And you grunt a lot for someone with enough years to have heard jazz when it was edgy,” Tony shot back. His tone was teasing, but the undercurrent was cautious—calculated. He didn’t trust easily.

A silence passed, broken only by the soft hiss of hydraulics and a string of code scrolling on a nearby display. Then Tony added, more pointedly

“Since you didn't go full Terminator on us, I feel safe enough to bring up a topic of immense personal importance.”

Bucky sighed. “Let me guess. Her.”

“Ding ding ding.” Tony didn’t look up, but there was a smirk in his voice. “My favorite receptionist. Whisperer of stray murder puppies. You know she’s important to me, right?”

Bucky’s jaw twitched. His lips parted, slow and thoughtful. “She’s important to a lotta people.”

Tony side-eyed him. “Yeah. Which is why I’m keeping an eye on you, Frostbite. No offense... Okay, some offense.”

Bucky's gaze dropped to the limb Tony was working on. His metal fingers flexed, this time not in defense—but curiosity. Familiarity.

“You think I’d want to hurt her?” he asked, not with hostility, but that quiet kind of self-loathing that made even Tony pause.

“No,” Tony said after a beat, tone shifting slightly. “But you’re still figuring yourself out. And she’s got this... thing where she puts others first. Loyal to the end. And way too forgiving.”

“She’s not forgiving,” Bucky corrected gently. “She believes in people. There’s a difference.”

Tony actually looked up at that, giving Bucky a more measured stare. Something passed between them then—not quite friendship, but an understanding.

Mutual protectiveness.

Mutual guilt.

“You know she calls you ‘sweet when you’re quiet,’ right?” Tony said, smirking now, screwdriver back in hand. “Which is a weird thing to hear while trying to eat pancakes, by the way.”

Bucky gave a rare huff of a laugh. “That’s her. Says the strangest things with a straight face. Makes you believe ‘em anyway.”

Bucky looked away, jaw flexing slightly. “She deserves to feel safe, not… manage me.”

Tony finally looked up, goggles pushed to his forehead. That, more than anything, made Bucky uneasy. Tony’s sarcasm vanished for a moment.

“Still think she’s your handler?” Tony asked, voice flatter now, more serious.

Bucky shifted on the stool. “I don’t know. I thought that at first. But… not anymore.”

He flexed his metal fingers, gaze distant. “When she’s around, I don’t feel like a weapon. I feel like someone who could maybe learn to be human again.”

Tony’s expression didn’t soften—Stark didn’t really do soft—but it did shift. Understanding replaced the usual edge. He leaned against the bench, arms crossed.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Tony gestured dramatically. “Come on, Barnes. The looks. The way you practically short-circuit when she walks in. You’re over here talking like a noir detective monologuing about love and redemption. It's textbook.”

Bucky looked like he wanted to disagree, but… he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled and said, almost to himself. “She’s… soft. Kind. She's never called me Asset.”

Tony tilted his head, watching. “She also trusts you.”

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. “That’s why I want to protect her.”

Tony stood straight again, brushing his hands off. “Okay, Loverboy, don’t make this weird. Look—if you ever do forget who you are again, or even think about slipping—I’ll vaporize you myself. No hesitation.”

Bucky nodded. “I’d want you to.”

Tony held his gaze a second longer, then, satisfied, picked up the casing panel and returned to tinkering.

“She deserves a guy who knows what she’s worth,” he said offhandedly. “You ever figure that out, maybe you won’t need her to save you all the time.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “Maybe I don’t want her to stop.”

He glanced toward the glass wall separating the workshop from the common floor—where you’d left earlier to bake with Pepper, your laugh barely audible through the insulated door.

Tony finished the adjustment and pressed a button on his remote. The brace unclamped, and Bucky’s arm whirred smoothly as it came to life. He flexed the fingers again—no glitch, no catch. The smallest smile curved his lips.

“Not bad,” Bucky admitted.

“High praise, coming from Cap’s ex-roommate,” Tony said, then added quieter, “Just... don’t screw this up, Barnes.”

Bucky stood, glancing down at the arm before meeting Tony’s eyes.

“She sees something good in here. Even after all the bad.” he said slowly

Tony’s smirk faded, replaced by a more solemn nod.

The city outside the window blinked with quiet life—cool blue lights spilling across the sheets, striping your forms like reflections from a slow-moving river. Stark Tower always felt too big at night, the hum of its tech softened to a ghostly lullaby.

You lay on your side, head resting against your pillow, hair slightly mussed from sleep. The oversized t-shirt you wore—hung loosely around your frame, bare feet tangled beneath the throw blanket.

Bucky lay on his back beside you, fully dressed in sweats and a black tee, his metal arm resting across his stomach. The space between you wasn’t large.

His head turned slightly toward you, eyes silvered in the moonlight. “Doll?”

You nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

“I keep thinking about something Stark said,” his voice rasped, like gravel being gently scattered. “About you...”

"Tony says a lot of things, most of it bullshit." You deadpan

“Yeah.” Bucky chuckled under his breath, and it startled even him. “He does.”

There was a moment where the silence thickened again, this time with memory. He turned his head, eyes meeting yours in the dark. “Doll… I used to think you were my handler.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t anymore.”

That made your breath catch. You blinked slowly, not trusting yourself to speak.

“You feel different,” he continued, and his voice had that sounded like hesitant wonder. “When you touch me—it’s not… control. It’s comfort.”

“That's ... good,” you whispered.

His eyes softened. “I still wait for orders. I’ll catch myself looking to you like… like I need permission to breathe.”

“You don’t,” you said. “You never did.”

He nodded, but it was heavy.

Tired.

Honest.

“Yeah, but it feels easier when you’re nearby.”

His flesh hand shifted slightly on the sheets between you—like he was thinking about reaching for you but wasn’t sure it was okay.

His gaze dropped to your fingers.

He didn’t move away.

“I like hearing you talk,” he admitted, voice barely audible. “It makes the static go quiet.”

You smiled faintly, then yawned, your body curling slightly toward him. Not touching. Not really.

“I’m proud of you, Bucky.”

He turned his head again, looking at you with something raw in his expression—something real.

“Thanks, Doll.”

A long, steady breath passed between you. Outside, distant thunder rolls lazily over the city, a storm crawling in. The occasional flicker of lightning backlights the clouds, casting dim shadows that briefly stretch across the walls.

You’re both on your backs now, close but not quite touching. Then you feel it—a shift in the mattress. Just slight. Delicate.

Bucky is moving.

You don’t look at first. But his arm—his flesh one—crosses the neutral space between you, and fingertips gently brush your forearm. Not a grab. Not a possessive touch. Just the trembling edge of contact.

“Doll…” he says softly, voice thick. “Can I…?”

You glance at him.

His face is tense, but open. Not fearful, but expectant. The kind of look someone wears when they’re stepping out onto a frozen lake for the first time, testing if it will hold.

You nod.

He trails his hand up, slowly, fingers dragging against your skin until he reaches your wrist. There, he rests his palm lightly—not holding, just being. His thumb ghosts over the skin there, feeling your pulse.

“You always run cold,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You smile, a little shaky. “I guess so.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, in a voice as soft as the dark around you.

“Can I ask you something ? And you can lie if it’s easier.”

That earns a soft laugh from you, nervous and unsure. “Okay.”

His brow furrows slightly. His thumb still gently strokes your wrist, grounding himself in that fragile contact.

“When I’m not… y’know, losing my mind or tryin’ to kill anyone… do you like being around me?”

You shift to your side, facing him. His hand slips naturally to rest between you on the mattress, but his gaze stays locked with yours.

“I do.”

He nods slowly, you can see the next question forming, nerves tightening his jaw.

“Doll…” His voice is low and careful, like stepping into a room he isn’t sure he’s welcome in. “Can I…?”

You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. “Can you what, Bucky?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. His metal hand, lifts from the bed by mere inches. You see the muscles in his shoulder flex. He hesitates.

“Can I keep touching you?”

He’s not asking for permission to take.

He’s asking to connect.

You nod slowly, a little smile at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Buck. You can.”

He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding and moves with such delicacy it almost breaks your heart. He uses his flesh hand—bringing it up. His fingers skim the curve of your cheek, knuckles first, cautious and reverent.

He cups your jaw softly, thumb ghosting just beneath your eye like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve into mist if he presses too hard.

“You’re warm now,” he murmurs.

“So are you,” you whisper.

His mouth quirks—an actual smile, crooked and small. “That’s good. I feel like I haven’t been warm in a long time.”

You shift slightly toward his touch.

He watches you a moment longer, the silence between you thick with something tender. Then, gently, his thumb strokes your cheek again, “Doll… Do you—do you feel anything for me?”

You blink slowly, heart thudding so loud it drowns out the city noise.

“Bucky…” you say gently, voice barely above a breath. “I do feel something. I care. I worry. And sometimes when you look at me… I feel it all the way down in my ribs.”

Bucky releases a small, almost incredulous laugh through his nose. “That’s a hell of a place to feel something.”

You smile. “Well, that’s kinda ...where you live now.”

“Do you think…” he starts again, voice shaky, “if things were different—if I’d met you before—”

You lift your hand, placing it lightly over his metal fingers. “I’m glad I met you now, Bucky. Because this version of you—the one that’s healing, that’s choosing—he’s the one I want to know.”

His breath catches. Just a little. His lips part like he wants to speak again, but instead he lets his forehead drop forward, resting it gently against yours.

245 notes · View notes

saywhat-politics · 3 months ago

Text

President Trump is claiming without evidence that some of former President Joe Biden's actions are invalid because he allegedly used a machine to automate signatures on documents, which is a longstanding practice in the White House.

In a late-night Truth Social post, Trump said his predecessor's preemptive pardons of members of the House committee investigating the Jan. 6 insurrection are "hereby declared VOID, VACANT, AND OF NO FURTHER FORCE OF EFFECT, because of the fact that they were done by Autopen."

The notion that Biden relied on the autopen to sign important documents was heavily perpetuated by the Oversight Project, an arm of the Heritage Foundation that played a key role in promoting false claims about noncitizen voting last year.

198 notes · View notes

novaknows · 6 days ago

Text

F1 drivers as types of Minecraft players

@artielotl and I were talking in discord about our dark history in the MCYT fandom and this post spawned from that so enjoy.

Oscar : Redstoner. he enjoys making farms and automating stuff. likes to beuild a flying machine. probly enjoys modded minecraft to a big level, like create mod.

Lando : He is not good at this game. his house is made of glowstone and diamond bricks. he has 30 dogs. he has dinnerboned every mob. his Jeb_ sheep is is prized posession.

George : likes to biuld houses and farms. he has built a nice village and all the vilagers in it have names. he has a very nice house he built with alex ( aka he built it while alex burnt down the forest they were in)

Kimi : I feel like he could be a pvp try hard, but not too much. maybe a big parkor person. likes to play old school dropper maps in his free time.

Charles : Thinks he is an amazing builder. he is not. likes to fish until he gets frustrated with how long it takes and logs into a pvp server to unleash his anger.

Lewis : has a chill long running hardcore world. would like flying around, doing elytra maps and stuff. has a Minecraft dog named roscoe.

Max : This bitch is in the MINES. He wants all the best gear, he wants to kill all the mobs. Hypixel skyblock would hate to see this grinder coming. would ruin a kids day trying to become the best (potato war anyone?)

Yuki : I feel he would like building, or playing one of those complex cozy mods that has a lot of biomes and fun cooking things. would build a bakery, but also low key griefer tendencies. thinks its fun to watch things burn.

Alex : Not a low key griefer. he likes to explode things. but also, has like 15 pets. he spent 3 weeks breading the ideal horse so he could go FAST.

Carlos : Also a restoner, but like chill. he likes to build fun farms that also look cool.

Esteban : Had griefer tendencies, but now is a flower collector type. he has a nice house he built with Oli and Lance. Grinder but only to the extent that he wants to build things.

Oli : also a grinder type, but also likes pvp. a good mix of player type. likes to build but is ok at it, so he collects gear and also good at PVP due to hanging out with kimi.

Liam (and Isack) : TERRORISTS. They are on 2b2t and the enjoy the shit out of it. also like ice boat racing.

Lance: Builds a lot. big builder. relies on esteban to get him the things he needs to build big castles and such.

Fernando : Has been banned for griefing on multiple servers. is on tb2t but rage quit after being spawn killed and hasn't touched it in months.

Nico H : plays with his daughter. has a sheep farm for pink wool and a Cherrywood house because his daughter liked it.

Gabriel : only plays modded, but logs into hulks world to build dicks only to be yelled at and collects frogs and the other new mob types.

Pierre : legitimately enjoys fishing, builds a nice hut and collects treasures.

Franco : made it his personal mission to drain the ocean and mines out giant holes for no reason.

94 notes · View notes

fearfulfertility · 8 months ago

Text

CONFIDENTIAL LOGISTICS REPORT

DRC, Planning & Evaluation Office, Logistics & Infrastructure Division

Date: [REDACTED]

To: Director [REDACTED]

From: Administrator [REDACTED], Logistics & Infrastructure Division

Subject: Facility Expansion: New Paternity Compound Construction

Executive Summary

This report outlines the ongoing expansion of DRC-operated paternity compounds across several strategic locations nationwide. In response to increasing insemination rates and projected surrogacy demands, we have begun constructing new high-capacity compounds to accommodate more surrogates. These expansions will enable the DRC to streamline the conscription process, optimize surrogacy cycles, and ensure our ability to meet the population sustainability targets outlined for the next fiscal period.

The new compounds focus on enhanced security, specialized medical equipment, and increased surrogacy capacity.

I. Facility Expansion Overview

Strategic Locations and Site Selection

To ensure regional coverage and minimize travel time to detain and inseminated surrogates, the DRC has approved the construction of [REDACTED] new paternity compounds in FEMA Zones 4, 6, 7, and 8. These facilities will be situated in [REDACTED] areas, selected for their proximity to population centers, existing transport infrastructure, and relative isolation, ensuring operational security.

Zone 4: Atlanta, GA

Zone 6: Houston, TX

Zone 7: Omaha, NE

Zone 8: Denver, CO

Each compound is designed to accommodate [REDACTED] surrogates at any given time, with the ability to scale up to [REDACTED] in emergencies. Construction is scheduled for completion within the next [REDACTED] months, with the first inspections set to begin by [REDACTED] this year.

Paternity Compound Design Features:

High-Capacity Paternity Wards: Each compound contains specialized wards designed to manage surrogates carrying up to sedecatuplets (16), with private rooms for those at risk of premature labor.

Enhanced Monitoring Systems: Advanced surveillance and biometric monitoring ensure constant oversight and swift response to emergencies.

Security Enhancements: Reinforced containment protocols, secure access points, and patrol routes have been established to prevent unauthorized access and ensure surrogate compliance.

II. Specialized Equipment and Medical Support

Given the unique demands and expectations placed on surrogates, each paternity compound will be equipped with advanced medical infrastructure to ensure the safety and effective management of extreme weight gain, reduced mobility, and increased risks of organ stress.

Key Equipment and Infrastructure:

Reinforced Support Beds: Traditional hospital beds have proven insufficient for surrogates carrying high multiples, whose pregnancies can lead to total weight gains exceeding 200 lbs. Each ward will feature reinforced, adjustable support beds capable of accommodating extreme weights. These beds will be equipped with pressure-relief systems to minimize discomfort and reduce the risk of bedsores for near-immobile surrogates.

“I hate that I’m here! But… all I have is this bed! I can’t move, I can’t breathe half the time, but at least I have a fucking memory foam mattress!” - Surrogate S118-176-J, 27 days pregnant with decatuplets (10)

Automated Feeding & Hydration Systems: Automated systems will ensure continuous nutrition and hydration to support surrogates with reduced mobility. Given the caloric intake requirements for such pregnancies, these systems will monitor and adjust fluid and nutrient delivery, reducing the need for frequent staff intervention.

“I’m basically just a machine now, aren’t I? They hook me up, pump me full of these stupid protein shakes, and keep me breathing so I can keep carrying these bowling ball-sized kids. It’s disgusting!” - Surrogate S117-138-N, 18 days pregnant with quattuordecatuplets (14)

Custom Mobility Aids: Custom-designed lift systems and mobility aids will be integrated into each ward to facilitate the movement of surrogates. These devices will allow for safe repositioning, transfers to specialized birthing chairs, and support during transport.

“I don’t know how they expect us to move with this much weight on us. Even standing feels like my legs are going to snap. Those lifts? They’re humiliating... but without them, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed at all.” - Surrogate S120-494-P, 30 days into a sedecatuplets (16) pregnancy

Advanced Fetal Monitoring: Each compound will have real-time ultrasound and biometric monitoring stations to track fetal development. Given the accelerated gestational period, these systems will continuously update fetal positioning, size, and viability, enabling rapid response to complications.

"It’s terrifying. Knowing how big they are, how many there are… they’re not coming out normal. When I finally pop them all out, they’ll get better care than I ever did!" - Surrogate S119-667-N, 22 days pregnant with hendecatuplets (14)

Dedicated Obstetrics & Neonatal Care Units: Immediate neonatal care is essential, and each compound will include state-of-the-art neonatal intensive care units (NICUs) to support newborns. Advanced incubators and respiratory support systems will ensure the survival of even the most premature babies.

"They always tell me how important it is to ensure the babies survive, even if I don’t. I get it, I do… but knowing there’s a whole team of people ready to take over the second I’m gone? It’s like they’ve already decided how this ends." - Surrogate S117-856-M, 8 days pregnant with tridecatuplets (13)

Pain Management and Sedation Systems: Surrogates will experience extreme discomfort and physical strain. Each paternity ward will be equipped with integrated IV pain management systems, allowing for both localized and systemic pain relief. Sedation protocols can be initiated remotely if a surrogate's distress becomes vocal, ensuring they can not incite civil disorder.

“I’m so big I can’t even see my dick, which is now buried under all these babies and fat. I’d be lying if I said the meds didn't help to blitz me out of my mind... a caring them I'm a gigantic incubator now.” - Surrogate S119-461-L, 11 days pregnant with dodecatuplets (12)

Future Equipment Developments: Research teams are exploring next-generation mobility aids, including exoskeleton support harnesses, to provide mobility assistance for late-term surrogates. These innovations aim to improve surrogate survival to deliver full-term pregnancies. Once available, prototypes will be tested in select compounds.

III. Expansion Strategy: Future Projections and Scaling

Projected Surrogacy Demand: With the increase in insemination rates, each compound is expected to handle up to [REDACTED] inseminations per month once fully operational. This translates to a need for approximately [REDACTED] newborns annually to meet population sustainability targets. Our current projections indicate that these numbers are achievable.

IV. Conclusion and Recommendations

The successful construction and operation of these new paternity compounds are critical to effectively maintaining the DRC’s ability to enforce surrogacy mandates. Our specialized equipment and infrastructure improvements will ensure we meet demands while preserving control over our surrogate.

Report submitted by: Administrator [REDACTED], Logistics & Infrastructure Division

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

Sending...

Read...

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

To: Administrator [REDACTED], Logistics & Infrastructure Division

From: Director [REDACTED], DRC

Subject: RE: Facility Expansion: New Paternity Compound Construction

Dear Mr. [REDACTED],

I’ve reviewed the latest progress report on the new Paternity Compounds, and I must commend your team on the impressive strides made thus far, even with the ambitious timeline we’ve set.

I have been particularly interested in the improvements to our birthing suites. As you are well aware, managing multiple pregnancies presents unique challenges.

We are entering a critical phase. I want to emphasize that these upcoming births will set a precedent for all future operations. The successful use of these new facilities will allow us to demonstrate that our methods ensure the next generation's survival and that we can handle the demands without sacrificing efficiency or outcomes.

I look forward to seeing the first results when the initial surrogates reach full term and the birthing suites are fully operational.

Keep up the excellent work, and do not hesitate to reach out if additional resources or support are needed to ensure success.

Regards, Director [REDACTED]

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

Click Here to return to DRC Report Archives

#ai mpreg #male pregnancy #mpreg #mpreg kink #mpreg belly #pregnant man #mpreg morph #mpreg caption #mpregbelly #mpregstory #mpreg birth #mpreg art #mpreg story #mpregnancy #mpreg roleplay #male pregnant #caucasianmpreg

212 notes · View notes

srbachchan · 2 months ago

Text

DAY 6273

Jalsa, Mumbai Apr 19, 2025/Apr 20 Sat/Sun 1:12 am

words of wisdom from Shweta , sent to me 👆🏼 .. her repertoire of books and reading is immense .. as is of Navya .. it is such a delight to sit in their presence and company and be educated about aspects of life and the world .. it is astonishing ..

And that is what eats us elders up .. there is the desire to do and be a part of what this GEn thinks and does .. but the limitations of time barricade the impulse and the intent ..

Life did not move so rapidly in our time or in the time of our elders .. now the rapidity is so volatile that the wishes to accomplish all is overwhelming .. you do not want to miss out a single day, in case you miss something that you had wished you would want to do, or be a part of ..

The excitement of what the World does to day and the speed with which it does it is unbelievably attractive .. and one wants so desperately to be a art of it .. or many parts of it .. but time is not with us .. at our age we lament the time .. and we feel let down .. for the wish to be having the time to be involved , to test, to apply, to discover, to invent, to admire and enjoy that spectacle .. is huge ..

But the hugeness hits a wall .. the timeless wall of limitations ..

"एक घड़ी ख़रीद कर, हाथ में क्या बांध ली;

वक़्त पीछे ही पड़ गया मेरे ~ "

पूज्य बाबूजी के शब्द

My wishes as ever .. and the great battle of invention that percolates our lives persists to be in its excel ..

The excel of AI ..

So, I asked and it replied :

"Artificial Intelligence (AI) is the simulation of human intelligence in machines designed to think, learn, and make decisions. It powers technologies like voice assistants, recommendation systems, and autonomous vehicles. AI works through algorithms that process data, recognize patterns, and improve over time through machine learning. It is transforming industries by automating tasks, enhancing productivity, and enabling innovative solutions. From healthcare diagnostics to personalized education, AI’s potential is vast. However, it also raises ethical concerns about bias, privacy, and job displacement. As AI continues to evolve, balancing innovation with responsibility will be key to ensuring it benefits society as a whole."

The clarity of social implications is a massive debate , engaging thinkers and artists and writers and indeed all creative talent ..

For the creative content of a writer are his words .. and if the AI data bank consumes that , as a part of a legacy to be maintained over time infinity, it can be used by ChatGPT to refer or use that extract for its personalised usage .. making it the property of ChatGPT ... NOT the property of the writers or the artists, from where it originally came ..

So the copyright of the artist has been technically 'stolen' , and he or she never gets the benefit of ts copyright, when GPT uses it for its presence .. !!!!

The true value of an artists creation will never be restored to his credit, because technology usurps it .. gulps it down deliciously , with an aerated drink and finalising its consumption with a belch 😜🤭 ... END OF CHAPTER !!!

End of discussion .. !!!

In time there shall be much to be heard and written on the subject ..

Each invention provides benefits .. but also victims ..

बनाये कोई - लाभ उठाए कोई और, जिसने उसे बनाया ही न हो

Love

Amitabh Bachchan

104 notes · View notes

tj-dragonblade · 5 months ago

Text

[FIC] Love Machines in Harmony

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 5244 Tags: PWP, Human AU, Rich Guy Dream, Mechanic Hob, the garage doesn't feature in this one though, Service Top Hob Gadling, Enthusiastic Bottom Dream, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, brief appearance by glass sex toy, anal sex, spünkelcouchen, strength kink, manhandling, burgeoning feelings, which shall continue to go unspoken, eye candy wardrobe choices, oral sex, mild temperature play, brief mention of come swallowing

Notes: Fifth (5th!) in the Turbo Lover series. This is an immediate sequel/continuation to Shift to Overdrive. Title (of course) taken from Turbo Lover by Judas Priest. Previously in the series, in case AO3 is down: Customer Service With Every Nerve Alive Loyalty Rewards Program Shift to Overdrive

Summary: Passions are running high after the limo ride home, and the drawing room is closer than the bedroom

On AO3

Hob pushes Dream up against the door as soon as it's shut behind them, seizes him by the biceps and kisses him fiercely. He's managed to calm himself a little between the limo and the house and he's not in danger of popping off immediately but his fancy tailored trousers are very distinctly tented and it's all Dream's fault, the way he'd just crawled over and taken Hob out and licked and sucked him like candy all the way home—

"Your mouth," he pants, breaking the kiss, moving his hands to Dream's face, "Dream, you magnificent creature, your fucking mouth—you drive me insane—"

Dream surges back into the kiss, tongue squirming into Hob's mouth, the same tongue that had teased him so relentlessly—he can taste himself on it, still. Fuck. Dream is whining hungrily and grinding his hips against Hob's; they're both hard, and god but it's gratifying to know that Dream did what he did in the limo because it turns him on, he's not just trying to get Hob off. Which Hob has certainly picked up on by now; Dream has loved sucking his cock from their very first tryst but it's always nice to see the proof of how much he enjoys it.

But Hob is so, so wound up from all that teasing; he needs to fuck Dream right now or he may go mad.

He grabs Dream around the back of his thighs and hefts him up, swallows down the delighted noise that Dream makes and swings them around off the door as Dream's legs wrap around him. Dream has this big house with all these rooms and most of them are closer than his second floor bedroom; Hob kicks his shoes off there in the foyer and moves for what Dream calls his 'drawing room' with its sturdy antique-style furniture, pauses in the dark.

"Lights, dove," he manages, pulling free of Dream's kiss and dipping to suck a soft mark to his throat.

"Computer. Lights. Ambient," Dream says, a bit breathlessly, but the automated system that's keyed to his voice obediently brings up the lights in the room to a soft cozy glow. Hob, able now to see where he's going, heads straight to the green velvet couch and drops Dream onto it gently.

Dream makes a highly-pleasured little sound as he lands on his arse and scrambles up to turn and kneel on the sofa, hands gripping the back. "Hob, please," he gasps, with all the urgency that Hob feels, and Hob's not about to keep him waiting.

"Can I assume you've got lube on your person?" he asks, reaching around front to undo Dream's trousers and take them down along with his pants. He strokes over Dream's cock as he goes, and Dream shudders.

"Yes—but Hob—" He sticks his arse out out, bounces it a little; Hob takes the hint and draws back to look.

He sees the broad jewel-like base of one of Dream's favorite glass toys peeking from between those milk-white cheeks, and it makes his breath catch.

"Oh my god, Dream—" He wriggles the plug, tugs gently without any intent to remove it, and relishes the way Dream squirms. "All night? Or did you just sneak this in before we left the restaurant?"

"All night," Dream gasps, clutching at the green velvet upholstery of the couch back. "I knew—I knew that you would be absolutely mouthwatering in your suit, that I would need your cock without delay once coming home—" He bears down with a whine, the plug surging gently into Hob's grip as he pushes it free; Hob sets it aside as Dream babbles on. "I had to be ready, Hob, fuck me, please—"

And who is Hob to argue with that? He drops his own trousers, lines his dick up and slides in.

Dream moans, a sound of pure pent-up relief and decadent joy, and Hob answers him in kind. It's so good, to have him open and ready and gripping hot around Hob's prick, finally, finally after that limo ride. He groans again, draws back and thrusts in repeatedly until he's fucking with more enthusiasm than finesse, and Dream's voice is just one long note of pleasure warbling out of him every time Hob slams in.

Dream is stretched and slick, but obviously he's had the toy in all night and while the friction that develops as the lube thins out is good for a moment, it quickly becomes too much, uncomfortable. "Need more lube, darling," Hob pants, pulling out reluctantly.

Dream fumbles into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket and hands a slim tube over his shoulder without a word, breathing hard. Hob can't help the delighted chuckle that escapes him; of course Dream is prepared, of course it's the good stuff. He slathers it onto his dick, strokes the excess into the rim of Dream's hole and sinks back into him with a groan of relief, squeezing Dream's hips as he sets into a steady measured rhythm. Part of him wants to pound hard and fast and get them both there as soon as possible after the work up Dream had given him in the limo. Part of him wants to calm down just a hair and draw this out, carry the frenzied need as long as he can, and it's that part that wins out.

"Can't believe you're real, sometimes," he pants, splitting his focus with words meant to also wind Dream tighter. "I mean. Course you're real, you're here, I can feel you"—he thrusts in, grinds deep, and Dream gasps a breathless cry—"but I just. You picked me, you let me have you; feels too good to be true and god, I'm so lucky—"

Dream is pushing back into every thrust, mindless and eager, fingers clenched on the wooden frame and emerald green upholstery of the couch back. "Picking you—ahh—picking you was the best decision I have made in—in months. Hob—" He tosses his head, lets it drop forward again as Hob keeps driving into him. "I nearly crawled into your lap in the car, Hob, I needed you inside me so desperately—"

"That sounds like a lovely idea," Hob gasps, a vision blossoming in his mind. Can he manage it? He's not a hundred percent sure, but he has learned by now that Dream goes a little feral for displays of Hob's physical strength when they fuck; it'll be worth the try. "I do like the sound of you bouncing in my lap—here, lean up—reach back, grab my arms—" He braces his legs and tightens his core, breathes deep as Dream obediently grabs backwards at his biceps; he scoops his arms under Dream's thighs and lifts, leaning back at the same time for balance.

Dream mewls his surprise, trousers round his dangling knees as Hob bears him up, dick still inside him. Hob trembles, straining under his weight, but manages a couple good strokes into him and Dream's head thunks back onto Hob's shoulder with a breathless whine. Hob thrusts up into him a third time, a fourth, and Dream moans desperately.

"Hob—Hob—!"

Hob grunts, shuffles a half-circle in place and drops to sit on the couch, only partially-controlled. He lands heavily, Dream still on his cock, and he feels the way that gravity drives him deep as Dream comes down on top of him. Dream cries out, chest heaving, clawing at Hob's forearms in their tailored sleeves, thighs working for more.

"Hob—fuck—Hob—!" He's squirming on Hob's dick, feet scrabbling in an awkward shuffle to kick off his shoes and yank one leg free of his trousers; as soon as he's got it both feet are planted on the edge of the couch on either side of Hob's spread thighs and he's fucking up and down on Hob's cock, eager and desperate and unconcerned for the clothes still tangled about his right ankle. He arches back against Hob, panting, frenzied, the sounds spilling out of his mouth a symphony of effort and satisfaction.

Hob is just along for the ride at this point, soaking in every little moan and cry, grunting his own pleasure as Dream rides backwards on his prick like a man possessed. He glances over Dream's shoulder, down past the open black jacket and loosened silk tie, moves one hand from Dream's hip to push his shirttails up out of the way so Hob can see his pretty pink cock straining tall, pearly-wet at the tip as it bounces in rhythm.

"Christ, I wish you had a mirror in here. Wanna see full-frontal how pretty you are writhing in my lap, fucking yourself on my cock—" He has a great view, all things considered, but god what he wouldn't give for a spectator's angle too. He wonders how Dream would feel about filming themselves.

Dream reaches up and back, grasps the wooden frame of the couch behind Hob's head, his body drawn into a beautiful half-dressed arc as he continues to fuck himself with feverish abandon. "I will—get—get a mirror—for next time—" He shudders, grinds deep, circles his hips in sharp little jerks that make both of them moan, then starts bouncing again.

Hob is struggling to keep himself from getting too close to coming; he's generally very good at pacing and stamina maintenance so that his partners get everything they need from him, but sometimes Dream makes it terribly difficult. And this is definitely one of those times, Dream arched backwards in his lap fucking like it's his mission in life, both of them still in suit jackets and shirts and loosened ties, Hob's trousers still around his ankles and Dream's still hanging from his right foot—the urgency is tangible in every move they make and Hob is hanging onto control for all he's worth. He won't come before Dream is ready for him to, he won't—

Dream is starting to flag.

He's slowing, getting less coordinated, the noises he makes tinged now with frustration and Hob can't blame his thighs for giving out on him, the pace he's been going. It's impressive he's kept at it this long.

"Ho~ob—" Dream whines his name, arches, squirms low on Hob's prick, still clinging to the back of the couch behind them both.

"I've got you," Hob murmurs, taking his cue. He shifts his hips forward a bit, grips Dream firmly under both thighs and lifts, just a little, just enough. It gives him room and leverage to thrust, taking over the rhythm that Dream had established and the way that Dream collapses into his support is so, so gratifying. "I've got you—" He fucks into him gently for a few strokes, the effort of holding him up muting the urgency of his own arousal somewhat, focusing and gathering himself before gradually picking up the pace.

It's no time at all until Dream is coming undone, hands clenched on the back of the couch, voice crying out in one long continuous note as Hob pumps steadily up into him. It's work to keep him slightly aloft like this, yes, and it would be easy enough to change positions for something less challenging but Hob won't, because he knows Dream loves this. He is forever grateful for the upper body strength his job has gifted him that lets him do this for Dream, who deserves every happiness and every fantasy that Hob can give him. He lifts just a little more, feeling it in his chest and every arm muscle; he'll be sore tomorrow, definitely, but it's so entirely worth it for the way Dream is arching and shivering and wailing under his care.

It's only another moment of this, Hob trembling under the strain, Dream crying out his pleasure, and then Dream's voice climbs higher, urgent and desperate and breathless. "Hob—Hob—Hob—!"

Hob doubles his efforts, fucking for all he's worth until at last Dream comes, shaking against him with the sweetest little scream, semen jetting into his crumpled shirt and jacket. Hob lets him down, flush into his own lap, pushes deep into the spasming clutch of Dream's body and holds, riding it out until Dream goes limp.

God, but he is such a lucky bastard.

Dream is panting, sharp little whines off the end of each heaving breath as he comes down from it, body gone slack against Hob, hands settling on Hob's forearms and head lolling back on Hob's shoulder.

Hob nuzzles into Dream's skin below and behind his ear, drunk on the smell of his sweat and shampoo, his dick positively throbbing in the sheath of Dream's clutching arse. "Do you want me to finish now, beautiful?" he breathes, nosing at Dream's earlobe, flexing inside him and earning a breathless whine. "I'm close, I'm so fucking close after everything you've done to me tonight and the way you just came on my cock; it wouldn't be long at all." He flicks his tongue up the back of Dream's ear, spreads his hand—his blue-collar work stained mechanic's hand—in the sticky mess of Dream's expensive shirt tails. "Or do you want me to take you upstairs, put you arse-up in your gigantic bed and fuck you until you come again first?"

"Please," Dream says, still a little glassy-eyed and breathless. "Strip me bare. Carry me upstairs. Fuck me as you see fit and fill me with your seed—"

Seed. As if anyone else would ever actually call it that. Hob smiles into Dream's neck, helplessly besotted. He adores this man, this horny rich weirdo who can drive Hob out of his mind with pleasure but can't drive stick to save his life, who somehow thinks Hob's cock is the greatest thing he could spend his time on. He chuckles, kisses Dream's damp and heated skin. "As you wish."

Dream arches against him, languid and restless; carefully, Hob shifts him forward just enough to start pulling at his clothes without dislodging him from his cock. He gets Dream's shirt and jacket freed from between them, wraps Dream in an embrace that's maybe a little softer than what they actually are, tells himself it's just a good excuse to unbutton Dream's shirt and cuffs. He helps Dream pull his arms free of both pieces, lifts the tie over his head, sets everything aside on the green velvet couch. He reaches, manages to free the trousers from where they're stuck around Dream's ankle, then sets to work on his own shirt buttons.

Dream shifts carefully on his prick, leans forward and works his own socks off while Hob struggles out of his suit; this would definitely be easier if he removed Dream from his lap and stood up but Dream hasn't dismounted and Hob's not going to make him until he has to. He tosses his suit and tie aside with Dream's; part of him cringes at how carelessly they've treated the clothes knowing that they cost more than he could afford, but on the other hand if Dream is unconcerned then he's just going to roll with it. Dream's probably got a guy he can take them to for cleaning and pressing and next time Hob sees them they'll be just like new.

He's got more important considerations right this second anyway.

He wraps his arms around Dream again to keep him steady while he kicks off his own trousers, does a little bit of contortion to get rid of his socks, and takes just a second to bask in the delight of having Dream held naked against him, held close in his arms. Normally the cuddling comes once they're all done and he enjoys sneaking it in mid-coitus far more than he should, probably, but he's also beyond caring at this point.

He likes Dream. A lot. And Dream likes him too, he's very sure, even if they'll never be more than whatever casual arrangement this is. It's good enough.

"Gonna have to move you off my dick," he says, with a soft kiss to the side of Dream's neck.

Dream makes a small sound of protest.

"Come on, precious, let me get you upstairs so I can fuck you senseless again." He moves his hands to Dream's hips, lifts him up enough to slide his dick out.

The sound of loss Dream makes almost has him sliding right back in, but that's not the current goal just now.

Shakily Dream stands and Hob levers himself up after, makes sure his path out of the room is clear of discarded clothing or other tripping hazards, turns Dream around and back into his arms. He'd asked to be carried upstairs and damned if Hob isn't going to indulge him. He briefly considers doing it bridal style, but no. Another time perhaps; his muscles are already complaining about the amount of lifting he's done tonight and they'll be better balanced if he's got Dream wrapped around him instead. "Arms round my neck, sweetheart, up we go," he says, gripping the backs of Dream's thighs and hefting him up, and then, because how can he not, he kisses Dream.

Dream clings around his neck, locks his legs around Hob's hips and kisses him back, soft and eager and the little whine in his throat sparks the heat still bubbling in the pit of Hob's belly.

He is so, so gone on this man, and so very ready to come.

And he's promised Dream another orgasm first.

Dream kisses all along his jaw as Hob maneuvers around the furniture, makes his way out to the staircase and climbs the two floors up to Dream's bedroom. He slings Dream gently onto the bed, an enormous and insanely plush comfortable affair, and clambers after him. "On your stomach, love," he says breathlessly, grabbing Dream by the hips, rolling him over and maneuvering him into position.

Dream whimpers, scrabbles to get his knees under him somewhat and pushes his arse up prettily, presenting it, all but begging for Hob's attentions.

"Christ, you're so gorgeous," Hob murmurs, splaying both hands over Dream's cheeks, squeezing them, spreading them. Dream's hole is right there, slick and ready and open, and Hob's dick twitches in anticipation. He leans to grab the lube from the bedside drawer, smears it generously over his first two fingers, sinks them deep into Dream's body.

"Hob," Dream moans, clenching around him, as if to draw him deeper, and Hob can't help the warmth that floods through him. He puts it aside, fingers Dream slowly for a moment, stroking him with steady unhurried attention and letting his own dick settle a bit so he doesn't pop immediately. Dream is so responsive, squirming on Hob's practiced touch and loudly voicing his pleasure; Hob can't help working him harder, deeper, zeroing in mercilessly on his prostate until Dream is a frenzied incoherent mess.

"Hob—please, Hob—please—!" Those seem to be the only words he can manage, voice raw and begging, fists clenching again and again in the duvet as Hob expertly drives him higher. He's squirming helplessly, knees splayed, hips rutting into the bed, arse clenching and unclenching on Hob's relentless fingers and Hob again counts himself the luckiest bloke in existence, that this is all for him.

He's sure it won't take much more to get Dream over the edge, and his own need is becoming unbearable. He gives Dream another half a minute or so, stroking deep and thorough, savoring the way he keens, and then pulls out.

Dream makes the most desolate sound of protest, squirming wantonly, bereft and needy and uncoordinated in his desperation; Hob seizes him by the hips, pulls him around and up into position, spreads his pristine cheeks with calloused workman's hands and sinks his prick in between.

Dream takes him with a low trembling moan, an eager gasp, pushing up for more and Hob swears.

"Fuck, Dream—" He resettles his hands on Dream's hips, draws himself out and pushes back in again, slow.

"Hob," Dream moans, like he's the only thing that matters, writhing up to meet him, and that's that. Hob gives a few more slow strokes, feeling every inch of the slide in and back out, and then shifts position. He leans forward, one hand still tight on Dream's hip while the other braces himself on the mattress, and starts moving faster. He watches Dream's back, the little ripples of his spine as he pushes up into Hob's thrusts, the sheen of sweat on his pale skin, marks the contrast of his own black-stained nails next to it.

Perfect. Beautiful. God, he loves this, this whole thing, but Dream most of all—

He pushes the thought aside, gives in to the heat of his own desire and fucks, barely holding on as Dream cries out. He keeps going, thrusting and pumping harder and harder until Dream is shaking underneath him, sobbing his pleasure into the bedclothes, screaming when he comes undone again at last. And then, only then, does Hob let his need slip its leash, plunging hard and fast and fierce into Dream's pliant overworked body, fucking and fucking until he spills.

"Dream—ohh, fuck, Dream—" He's trembling as it hits, wound tight in the heat they've built up all night and struggling to keep his tongue in check, to not let the overly-amorous words flow from his mouth while he's pumping the last of his spend into Dream's arse. That's not what they are; he's not going to ruin this with his inability to keep from falling all-in head-over-heels at the slightest provocation. He'll be whatever Dream wants, and that's enough.

Dream makes the most decadent satisfied little noise as Hob finishes, squeezes around him, wriggles happily. Hob, despite himself, drops to plant a kiss between his shoulder blades.

"There we are, love," he breathes, panting, spent. "Was that what you needed?"

"Exactly that, yes," Dream says, breathless and hoarse, shifting languidly underneath him. "You are so very good to me, Hob." He sighs, content, never mind that he's face down in his own wet spot with Hob's dick going soft in his arse.

Hob chuckles, fond and exhausted. "It's my pleasure, truly," he says, and carefully disengages before climbing off the bed. "C'mon, let's get cleaned up and I'll tuck you into bed, if you like."

"You will join me, of course." Dream says it like it was never a question, and it really isn't. But it's nice to know he's earned the welcome.

The duvet will have to be laundered; he should have put down a towel but in the moment it just hadn't crossed his mind. He uses a washcloth to clean it up as best he's able while Dream gets the shower going—they're sleeping under the duvet, not on top of it; it'll be fine for the night.

Dream is languid and cuddly in the shower (a big glass-enclosed affair with optional rain features and plenty of room for two), and Hob is delighted to indulge him; they trade lazy, sated kisses while washing up and Dream lets Hob towel his hair dry, lets Hob gently scrub his body dry as well, and offers his own help in rubbing down Hob's chest hair, his arms, his legs. And his back, of course.

It's so easy, deceptively domestic, and Hob loves every second of it. He picks Dream up when they're done, a proper princess carry this time despite the protest of several muscle groups, and takes him back out of the en-suite.

Dream makes a delighted little noise, snuggles into Hob with both arms around his neck, warm and content as Hob carries him to bed. Hob manages to hold him up with one fatigued arm and turn back the covers with the other, lays him down and tucks him in before skirting around to the other side to climb in himself. He scoots in close to Dream, who's made very clear by this point in their arrangement that he enjoys cuddling, and murmurs gently into his hair. "Lights, dove."

Dream gives a quiet little huff. "Computer. Lights out, whole house."

The lights dim out obediently and Hob settles in, arms around Dream, skin to skin, sated and content and sleepily certain that he is the luckiest bloke in the whole wide world.

He wakes slowly the next morning, on his back in Dream's enormous bed, warm and hazily blinking awake. Eventually he stirs, tries to roll onto his side to pull Dream in for sleepy snuggles, but every muscle in his body protests and he groans, biting his lip to stifle the sound. Beside him, Dream pushes up on one elbow and smirks down at him.

"Good morning, Hob Gadling," he purrs, eyes gleaming, hair a tousled mess, and god, but he's beautiful. Hob's heart gives a little thump.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he groans, flexing his leg muscles experimentally. Yep. Gonna be feeling last night for most of today, definitely. His arms protest in equal measure, but he can't complain. Totally worth it.

"It is already past nine," Dream tells him. "Were you needed in the shop today?"

"Later, maybe." It's Saturday; they're not actually open. He had plans to go in and catch up some paperwork Matty had asked him to see to, but there's no rush on that. "Right now I'm all yours, if that's what you want." He's pretty sure it is.

"Wonderful." Dream dips to kiss his cheek. "I should like to keep your company awhile longer, yes."

Hob smiles, warm, content, delighted.

"Let me find you something to wear," Dream says then, wriggling out of the bed. Hob watches as he crosses to the wardrobe, noting the very careful way he walks, and grins to himself. He knows better than to offer apologies; Dream has told him how much he enjoys carrying the feel of Hob with him the next day when he has demanded a hard and thorough fucking the night before. And Hob believes in giving his lover everything that he wants.

"Here," Dream offers, pulling out a short silky robe. "I should be very pleased to have you wear this; it's brand new." He tosses it to Hob, who picks it up gently.

He rubs the silky fabric against itself, careful of catching it on his rough calloused fingertips. It's beautiful.

It's not Dream's color.

It's a rich dark teal, the same color as the shirt that had come with his ensemble last night, the color that Dream had said would suit his complexion perfectly. Did Dream buy this for him, specifically?

Probably so. He's made no secret of the fact that he loves spoiling Hob with whatever suits his fancy.

Hob slips the robe on, wincing as his sore muscles protest, and finds that it isn't quite large enough to pull closed across his chest. He stands with a groan, pulls it all into place and finds that yes, it'll belt around his waist and nominally cover his bits and arse but it still doesn't meet across his chest. He's wondering, as he goes to use the toilet, if he's wrong about Dream buying it for him, or if perhaps Dream has badly misjudged his measurements (unlikely, given the tailored suit from the night before).

When he's washed his hands and come back out he finds Dream waiting for him. He's wearing a long black worn-soft t-shirt that hits him mid-thigh and probably cost more than Hob made in one day, with nothing underneath. It's a very appealing look and Hob forgets about his too-small robe until Dream reaches to smooth the lapels, clearly arranging them to optimally frame Hob's chest.

"Perfect," he purrs, with a sultry half-lidded stare, and drops a kiss on Hob's chin. "Come. I will cook you breakfast."

Hob follows him down to the kitchen, coming to terms with the fact that Dream has explicitly dressed him to be eye candy, and finding that he's actually one hundred percent on board with that. It's heady to have someone as pretty as Dream attracted to him, turned on by him, wanting him on display, and he's more than happy to oblige.

Breakfast is delicious, the tea Dream makes is perfect, and it's absolutely delightful to feel Dream's eyes devouring him and his silk-framed bare chest while they eat.

Dream makes coffee after they've cleaned up the dishes, puts his usual ungodly amounts of milk and sugar to it, and takes an appreciative sip. His eyes are on Hob, half-lidded with pleasure as he lowers his cup, and languid heat stirs in Hob's belly.

"It needs something more, I think," Dream pronounces, making an indicative toast-like motion with his cup, and pushes off from where he leans against the counter in his barely-long-enough tshirt. He splays the fingertips of his free hand in Hob's chest hair, directs him back and pushes him gently down into the high-backed kitchen chair in the breakfast nook. Dream sets his coffee aside on the table and folds to his knees, runs fingers warm from his cup over Hob's exposed thighs, down their insides, pushing them wider. The skimpy robe barely keeps Hob's dick covered and he's stiffening up beneath it; it'll do little to keep his modesty in another minute and the fact that Dream designed it that way only heightens the whole effect.

"Love the robe, by the way," Hob says, because he hasn't said it yet and he wants Dream to know he's one hundred percent okay with being dressed up and ogled like this if it's getting Dream hot.

"I should like to open it, if I may?"

"'Course, love." It's hot that he's asking, actually.

Dream's slim fingers pluck at the knotted tie delicately and Hob bites his lip; by the time Dream has the belt undone Hob's dick is already poking eagerly between the folds of the robe barely covering his lap. Dream peels the silky material back reverently all the same, like he's opening a gift, and Hob has to remind himself to breathe.

When Dream has laid Hob bare he reaches up to the table beside them, retrieves his mug and takes a long sip, then another. His eyes are on Hob's the whole time and when he finally sets the cup aside again, he takes his time about swallowing his final mouthful.

And then he speaks, voice low and suggestive. "Might I have a splash of 'cream', for my coffee?"

Oh, but he is insatiable, a seductive menace, and Hob has no interest in resisting. "Whatever you want, sweetheart, take it. It's yours." I'm yours, he'd like to say, but holds his tongue against the spectre of Being Too Much.

"You are so good to me, my Hob," Dream purrs, smile ripe with promise, and bends to his task.

His mouth is coffee-hot and talented as ever, and this time Hob needn't worry about holding back. He slouches his hips forward, buries his work-roughened fingers that Dream so loves in Dream's messy bedhead, groans breathlessly as Dream's tongue wriggles along his shaft; Dream pauses after a moment to drink more coffee and the renewed heat when he takes Hob's cock again pulls a deep whine from Hob's throat.

Truly, Hob thinks, as Dream works him steadily up to the edge and over, swallows him down greedily, chases it with another swig of coffee and a satisfied smile, he is indeed the luckiest bastard alive.

= Started: 7/25/24 Drafted: 1/27/25 Posted: 1/30/25

#TJs Fics #Sandman #Dreamling #wip: turbo lover

57 notes · View notes

asphodelsandpomegranates · 1 year ago

Text

Experiment 1-1-7-0 (Huggy Wuggy x Reader)

When you had received the plans on “Experiment 1-1-7-0”, you had spat out your tea and had called your boss, Dr. Laith Pierre. He had told you that it was by no means a joke and it was one of the most important experiments that they had envisioned. After more explanations from Laith, you had finally conceded and took full commitment into making “Experiment 1-1-7-0”.

At least two dozen scientists, including yourself, were involved with the experiment. Many people had wanted the credit for this. You felt it was kind of silly as you weren't hundred percent sure if it would work or not.

A couple of months later, “Experiment 1-1-7-0” or Huggy Wuggy as you had named him, much to the other fellow scientist’s chagrin, had been a major success but there were a few adjustments that needed to be made. Huggy was extremely feral, obviously from some of the animal DNA that had been put into his body and had ended up being put into a steel reinforced glass cage to keep you and the others safe.

But you weren’t scared of him.

When you had started your first shift with the experiment, you had gone straight over to the cage where Huggy Wuggy sat, hunched over in a corner. With a little coaxing, you got Huggy out of his shell a little and have him trust you.

One of the head bosses had noticed this and had given you a promotion and put you in charge of looking after Hugy Wuggy. You couldn’t have been happier.

*************

Entering the basement of the factory, you made your way to the clocking machine and then straight to Huggy Wuggy’s cage.

The large, blue furred creature was no longer slouched in a corner but lying on his left side at one side of the cage. You made your way round to that side of the cage and sat down with your legs tucked in to one side.

You tapped your fingers gently against the glass that was encased with steel. Huggy Wuggy jerked a little in his sleep and blinked open his large dark eyes. He moved his crescent shaped head up towards you.

“Morning, sweetie.” you cooed, wagging your fingers in a kind of wave.

Huggy’s big red lips curled into a big smile and began to sit up a little.

“Hey, boy. Did you sleep well?”

Huggy made a loud chirping sound in response and began to shuffle a little closer to the glass wall that divided you.

“Yeah, that’s great.” you said. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

Huggy shook his head in an innocent fashion that made him look adorable, considering the large beast that he was created to be.

Looks could be very deceiving.

“Okay, I’ll go and find someone to get your food. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Huggy suddenly made a stage noise that sounded almost like a whimper. It made you halt as you began to get to your feet. The large furry creature was now pawing at the walls with his yellow glove-like paws.

You stared at him, confused. Then it dawned on you. The only times he acted like this was when you left him after your shift ended. The poor creature often pawed at the glass wall and whimpered as you w9uld say your goodbyes to him. More to the point, Huggy would roar and claw wildly at his cage as you left and the noise would echo throughout the whole factory. One time, he had attacked one of your colleagues sending her to the hospital, all because he missed you.

Now, the poor thing was thinking you were going to leave him again.

“It’s okay, boy.” you reassured him.. “I won’t be gone long, I swear. Just to find someone and get your food. I’ll be back soon.”

Huggy still continued to whimper but relented as you got to your feet and gently made your way over to a coworker.

“Hey, Ross. Can you get me some food for Huggy?”

“Sure. I’ll be about five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

You then made your way back to Huggy’s cage and typed in the key code: 56437.

“Holding cell open.” came the automated voice and you stepped inside.

The moment you stepped in, Huggy’s long limbed arms came around you and pulled you closer to him. Immediately, your ears were swamped with low purring.

It still baffled you how such an odd creature like Huggy could be so sweet and caring?

You reached up and scratched the spot between his eyes, making the purring grow louder.

(The End)

#huggy wuggy #huggy wuggy x reader #Huggy wuggy x you #huggy wuggy x y/n #Poppy playtime

297 notes · View notes

bisnes-socks · 8 months ago

Text

we've talked a lot about the lyrical content of the album but i wanted to say something about the musical side of it too. starting with autiomaa, because it struck me as musically so different.

first thing that kinda surprised me and poked me in the heart a little bit was the singing melody in the part that goes "hiekkaa silmissä, mut en mä näkis mitään muutenkaan", because that's not an easy melody to sing, considering he isn't a super strong clean singing vocalist. (i could write a whole essay about how he is vocally more able and more versatile than what people give him credit for, but strong melodic singing is not his top priority and that's perfectly fitting for what he does.)

so the melody challenges him and it goes somewhere you don't quite expect. as it keeps climbing higher and higher in that minor key, it sounds.. desperate. really sad. combined with the lyric about not being able to see, it's kinda haunting to me, and hearing that part the first time it kinda.. caught my breath in my throat because it sounds almost like pleading.

the first verse uses a lot of autotune and his delivery of the lyrics is in a lower and more monotone voice. i get this feeling of like... there isn't much emotion behind the voice at first. he sounds resigned, numb. and it's like the autotune is there to highlight that. the feeling of life being almost like automated. the autotune makes the voice sound a bit emotionless and machine-like, but also as if the autotune is trying to mask the monotone quality of it all, the monotone quality of life.

because the autotune is not there as much anymore in the second verse. and he sings higher in the second verse, with more effort and with much more emotion. oh he sounds a bit desperate again and it pokes me in the heart a little bit. he sounds like he is willing himself to be okay.

the synth sound that repeats the striking chorus melody, it reminds me of the synth sound in CCC, but like it's a distorted and broken version of that. a distorted version of the sound that, when heard basically anywhere in 2023, had people running towards it. a distorted version of the sound that no doubt represents a lot of mixed emotions. and when the song is kinda stripped down the way it is, what is standing at the end of the day is a beat, him and a distorted synth.

the beat and the chord progressions in the backing track remind me of things like scifi movie soundtracks, tron or something. there's a loneliness to that sound, because it's so easily associated with dystopias. it's like the soundscape of a digital desert. very fitting to this song, i think. i think it's a very well produced sound and a well produced track. there's also a moment, right before "kunhan kuuntelet" when the beat disappears. it kinda made me feel like i was falling, but it also really higlights what he's saying. how he is asking for you, us, anyone, to just listen, so the sound and the beat make room for that.

and one more detail. the one single yeehaw after the first verse, after "miks sydän ei oo happy, vaik se on lucky niinku luke". it's not there after the second verse anymore. and like. that one single yeehaw is so unbelievably sad to me. because it's like a demonstration of that whole thing where he's trying to be entertaining and trying to be funny, even when he feels nothing, just empty. like.. it's funny but it's not funny, not at all. it's almost painful that it's there. chills.

and one last thing i want to say about the lyrics. not so much about the content but i just want to say how much i like the way he uses language. he very clearly has a very good ear for what sounds good, what kind of syllables flow together, and he is very good at writing lyrics that are both interesting in their content but also just.. pleasing to listen to, as just sounds of the human voice. many such moments in this song, like "en mä näkis mitään muutenkaan" and "tunturin laki josta puuttuu puut" and the way he uses the words laki and lucky in close proximity. he's a good lyricist.

and this is a really good song.

#käärijä

102 notes · View notes

sparkyservices · 4 months ago

Text

Engineering solutions | Industrial equipment maintenance - Sydney

https://sparkyservices.com.au/ Engineering solutions | Industrial equipment maintenance - Sydney Request references from the companies to get in touch with their past or existing clients. Speaking directly to their clients can give you a better understanding of their service quality and reliability.

#Engineering solutions Sydney #Industrial equipment maintenance Sydney #Industrial automation solutions Sydney #Factory relocation services Yowie Bay #Industrial automation Berowra Heights #Skill Engineering Hire Lovett Bay #Machine Relocating Kurnell #Turn Key Automation Duffys Forest #Base Electrical Grays Point #Thermal scan Oxford Falls #Shift coverage Sydney #Thermal scan Sydney

0 notes

megalynnan · 6 months ago

Text

Thoughts on Defuntland's History of Animatronics.

-starting a history of disney animatroics with Homer's The Illiad. *chefs kiss* Kevin Perjurer should never stop telling stories like this.

-the RUR play - fucking horrifying, where can I find it?

-French is a beautiful language

"Real skin....real skin"

-When talking about how the disney Grandpa Chung's face skin would deteriorate, I assumed he was going to go "maybe thats why they used real skin.

-"no." -Walt Disney

-the California adventure bit had me spit a laughed so suddenly, and paused the episode to appreciate it.

-at the start of part 3. There is a lot of stuff about God in here. Like. A. Lot. Giving me Frankenstein vibes. Kevin, kevy, Mr. Defunctland, where we going with this? Are we as humans poor fathers/gods to our creations? Have we created life to reject it and turn it monstrous? Are we the monsters of this story?

-a lot of math and engineering here Kev.

-Lincoln had sort of legit cheekbones. "Unique"

-another pause at How TF did Walter "i want to be a dictator of an automous city in florida" Disney get technology for warheads?????

-is...is Lincoln christ in this metaphor???

-disney was such a shitty boss.

-and that's when the protests started.

-a 6 foot 7 robot Lincoln.

-soooo disney wanted to get rid of people...and have robots work instead???? Because the robots can't form a union????? Cue the RUR play.

-ah historical perfectionist anti union disney.....wants to create robots......

-"because I can't stop" walt disney on why he developed the lincoln animatronic. Big yikes my bud. Big yikes.

-PART 4

-a 6 foot 7 robot lincoln. Who would violently spasm and break his set. "It could kill you" - marc davis

-lincoln's great grandson crying at the world's fair is making me feel things.

-how TF was bradbury friends with Disney?? To get ideas for dystopia?

-bringing up a lot of monsters right now kev. Think we are getting back to the frankenstien stuff.

-kevin babe. Are we skipping over ada Lovelace?

-"the difference engine...the computer would not just be the new way to program animatronics, it would be the key to unlocking the next phase of mechanical life. A living machine, that appeared not just to move like a human, but to sense like one, to respond like one, to think like one. There's something inside us and we let it out."

Fuckkkkk So. We are just holding a mirror up to the horrors of our creation? Thanks kevin. Absolute banger of a line. Thanks for the existential dread.

I need kevin to get like awards for this shit. Seriously the best and most insightful Documentaries.

This. The disney Chanel theme song. The fastpass one. Garfield. All fucking top tier. The Epcot one is so beautiful too.

It's almost like he started by talking about defunct rides, and is now talking about a defunct culture. But as the culture is going under. And in true Kevin Perjurer fashion, he's starting at the beginning of the story. The idolization of business and consumerism and innovation for consumptions sake. The rot of leadership and how to make poor facsimiles.

He's not talking about how society is crumbling now, he's talking about the first termite that started eating away at the foundation. And I love him for it. I guess it's time to watch the fastpass video for fun.

#defunctland #disney parks #disneyland #walt disney #kevin perjurer #audio animatronic #audioanimatronic #the illiad #union busting #it cannot be overstated how shitty of a boss Disney was.

61 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

Brian Merchant’s “Blood In the Machine”

Tomorrow (September 27), I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine. On October 2, I'll be in Boise to host an event with VE Schwab.

In Blood In the Machine, Brian Merchant delivers the definitive history of the Luddites, and the clearest analysis of the automator's playbook, where "entrepreneurs'" lawless extraction from workers is called "innovation" and "inevitable":

https://www.littlebrown.com/titles/brian-merchant/blood-in-the-machine/9780316487740/

History is written by the winners, and so you probably think of the Luddites as brainless, terrified, thick-fingered vandals who smashed machines and burned factories because they didn't understand them. Today, "Luddite" is a slur that means "technophobe" – but that's neither fair, nor accurate.

Luddism has been steadily creeping into pro-labor technological criticism, as workers and technology critics reclaim the term and its history, which is a rich and powerful tale of greed versus solidarity, slavery versus freedom.

The true tale of the Luddites starts with workers demanding that the laws be upheld. When factory owners began to buy automation systems for textile production, they did so in violation of laws that required collaboration with existing craft guilds – laws designed to ensure that automation was phased in gradually, with accommodations for displaced workers. These laws also protected the public, with the guilds evaluating the quality of cloth produced on the machine, acting as a proxy for buyers who might otherwise be tricked into buying inferior goods.

Factory owners flouted these laws. Though the machines made cloth that was less durable and of inferior weave, they sold it to consumers as though it were as good as the guild-made textiles. Factory owners made quiet deals with orphanages to send them very young children who were enslaved to work in their factories, where they were routinely maimed and killed by the new machines. Children who balked at the long hours or attempted escape were viciously beaten (the memoir of one former child slave became a bestseller and inspired Oliver Twist).

The craft guilds begged Parliament to act. They sent delegations, wrote petitions, even got Members of Parliament to draft legislation ordering enforcement of existing laws. Instead, Parliament passed laws criminalizing labor organizing.

The stakes were high. Economic malaise and war had driven up the price of life's essentials. Workers displaced by illegal machines faced starvation – as did their children. Communities were shattered. Workers who had apprenticed for years found themselves graduating into a market that had no jobs for them.

This is the context in which the Luddite uprisings began. Secret cells of workers, working with discipline and tight organization, warned factory owners to uphold the law. They sent letters and posted handbills in which they styled themselves as the army of "King Ludd" or "General Ludd" – Ned Ludd being a mythical figure who had fought back against an abusive boss.

When factory owners ignored these warnings, the Luddites smashed their machines, breaking into factories or intercepting machines en route from the blacksmith shops where they'd been created. They won key victories, with many factory owners backing off from automation plans, but the owners were deep-pocketed and determined.

The ruling Tories had no sympathy for the workers and no interest in upholding the law or punishing the factory owners for violating it. Instead, they dispatched troops to the factory towns, escalating the use of force until England's industrial centers were occupied by literal armies of soldiers. Soldiers who balked at turning their guns on Luddites were publicly flogged to death.

I got very interested in the Luddites in late 2021, when it became clear that everything I thought I knew about the Luddites was wrong. The Luddites weren't anti-technology – rather, they were doing the same thing a science fiction writer does: asking not just what a new technology does, but also who it does it for and who it does it to:

https://locusmag.com/2022/01/cory-doctorow-science-fiction-is-a-luddite-literature/

Unsurprisingly, ever since I started publishing on this subject, I've run into people who have no sympathy for the Luddite cause and who slide into my replies to replicate the 19th Century automation debate. One such person accused the Luddites of using "state violence" to suppress progress.

You couldn't ask for a more perfect example of how the history of the Luddites has been forgotten and replaced with a deliberately misleading account. The "state violence" of the Luddite uprising was entirely on one side. Parliament, under the lackadaisical leadership of "Mad King George," imposed the death penalty on the Luddites. It wasn't just machine-breaking that became a capital crime – "oath taking" (swearing loyalty to the Luddites) also carried the death penalties.

As the Luddites fought on against increasingly well-armed factory owners (one owner bought a cannon to use on workers who threatened his machines), they were subjected to spectacular acts of true state violence. Occupying soldiers rounded up Luddites and suspected Luddites and staged public mass executions, hanging them by the dozen, creating scores widows and fatherless children.

The sf writer Steven Brust says that the test to tell whether someone is on the right or the left is simple: ask whether property rights are more important than human rights. If the person says "property rights are human rights," they are on the right.

The state response to the Luddites crisply illustrates this distinction. The Luddites wanted an orderly and lawful transition to automation, one that brought workers along and created shared prosperity and quality goods. The craft guilds took pride in their products, and saw themselves as guardians of their industry. They were accustomed to enjoying a high degree of bargaining power and autonomy, working from small craft workshops in their homes, which allowed them to set their own work pace, eat with their families, and enjoy modest amounts of leisure.

The factory owners' cause wasn't just increased production – it was increased power. They wanted a workforce that would dance to their tune, work longer hours for less pay. They wanted unilateral control over which products they made and what corners they cut in making those products. They wanted to enrich themselves, even if that meant that thousands starved and their factory floors ran red with the blood of dismembered children.

The Luddites destroyed machines. The factory owners killed Luddites, shooting them at the factory gates, or rounding them up for mass executions. Parliament deputized owners to act as extensions of law enforcement, allowing them to drag suspected Luddites to their own private cells for questioning.

The Luddites viewed property rights as just one instrument for achieving human rights – freedom from hunger and cold – and when property rights conflicted with human rights, they didn't hesitate to smash the machines. For them, human rights trumped property rights.

Their bosses – and their bosses' modern defenders – saw the demands to uphold the laws on automation as demands to bring "state violence" to bear on the wholly private matter of how a rich man should organize his business. On the other hand, literal killing – both on the factory floor and at the gallows – was not "state violence" but rather, a defense of the most important of all the human rights: the rights of property owners.

19th century textile factories were the original Big Tech, and the rhetoric of the factory owners echoes down the ages. When tech barons like Peter Thiel say that "freedom is incompatible with democracy," he means that letting people who work for a living vote will eventually lead to limitations on people who own things for a living, like him.

Then, as now, resistance to Big Tech enjoyed widespread support. The Luddites couldn't have organized in their thousands if their neighbors didn't have their backs. Shelley and Byron wrote widely reproduced paeans to worker uprisings (Byron also defended the Luddites in the House of Lords). The Brontes wrote Luddite novels. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was a Luddite novel, in which the monster was a sensitive, intelligent creature who merely demanded a say in the technology that created him.

The erasure of the true history of the Luddites was a deliberate act. Despite the popular and elite support the Luddites enjoyed, the owners and their allies in Parliament were able to crush the uprising, using mass murder and imprisonment to force workers to accept immiseration.

The entire supply chain of the textile revolution was soaked in blood. Merchant devotes multiple chapters to the lives of African slaves in America who produced the cotton that the machines in England wove into cloth. Then – as now – automation served to obscure the violence latent in production of finished goods.

But, as Merchant writes, the Luddites didn't lose outright. Historians who study the uprisings record that the places where the Luddites fought most fiercely were the places where automation came most slowly and workers enjoyed the longest shared prosperity.

The motto of Magpie Killjoy's seminal Steampunk Magazine was: "Love the machine, hate the factory." The workers of the Luddite uprising were skilled technologists themselves.

They performed highly technical tasks to produce extremely high-quality goods. They served in craft workshops and controlled their own time.

The factory increased production, but at the cost of autonomy. Factories and their progeny, like assembly lines, made it possible to make more goods (even goods that eventually rose the quality of the craft goods they replaced), but at the cost of human autonomy. Taylorism and other efficiency cults ended up scripting the motions of workers down to the fingertips, and workers were and are subject to increasing surveillance and discipline from their bosses if they deviate. Take too many pee breaks at the Amazon warehouse and you will be marked down for "time off-task."

Steampunk is a dream of craft production at factory scale: in steampunk fantasies, the worker is a solitary genius who can produce high-tech finished goods in their own laboratory. Steampunk has no "dark, satanic mills," no blood in the factory. It's no coincidence that steampunk gained popularity at the same time as the maker movement, in which individual workers use form digital communities. Makers networked together to provide advice and support in craft projects that turn out the kind of technologically sophisticated goods that we associate with vast, heavily-capitalized assembly lines.

But workers are losing autonomy, not gaining it. The steampunk dream is of a world where we get the benefits of factory production with the life of a craft producer. The gig economy has delivered its opposite: craft workers – Uber drivers, casualized doctors and dog-walkers – who are as surveilled and controlled as factory workers.

Gig workers are dispatched by apps, their faces closely studied by cameras for unauthorized eye-movements, their pay changed from moment to moment by an algorithm that docks them for any infraction. They are "reverse centaurs": workers fused to machines where the machine provides the intelligence and the human does its bidding:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/17/reverse-centaur/#reverse-centaur

Craft workers in home workshops are told that they're their own bosses, but in reality they are constantly monitored by bossware that watches out of their computers' cameras and listens through its mic. They have to pay for the privilege of working for their bosses, and pay to quit. If their children make so much as a peep, they can lose their jobs. They don't work from home – they live at work:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/22/paperback-writer/#toothless

Merchant is a master storyteller and a dedicated researcher. The story he weaves in Blood In the Machine is as gripping as any Propublica deep-dive into the miserable working conditions of today's gig economy. Drawing on primary sources and scholarship, Blood is a kind of Nomadland for Luddites.

Today, Merchant is the technology critic for the LA Times. The final chapters of Blood brings the Luddites into the present day, finding parallels in the labor organizing of the Amazon warehouse workers led by Chris Smalls. The liberal reformers who offered patronizing support to the Luddites – but didn't imagine that they could be masters of their own destiny – are echoed in the rhetoric of Andrew Yang.

And of course, the factory owners' rhetoric is easily transposed to the modern tech baron. Then, as now, we're told that all automation is "progress," that regulatory evasion (Uber's unlicensed taxis, Airbnb's unlicensed hotel rooms, Ring's unregulated surveillance, Tesla's unregulated autopilot) is "innovation." Most of all, we're told that every one of these innovations must exist, that there is no way to stop it, because technology is an autonomous force that is independent of human agency. "There is no alternative" – the rallying cry of Margaret Thatcher – has become our inevitablist catechism.

Squeezing the workers' wages conditions and weakening workers' bargaining power isn't "innovation." It's an old, old story, as old as the factory owners who replaced skilled workers with terrified orphans, sending out for more when a child fell into a machine. Then, as now, this was called "job creation."

Then, as now, there was no way to progress as a worker: no matter how skilled and diligent an Uber driver is, they can't buy their medallion and truly become their own boss, getting a say in their working conditions. They certainly can't hope to rise from a blue-collar job on the streets to a white-collar job in the Uber offices.

Then, as now, a worker was hired by the day, not by the year, and might find themselves with no work the next day, depending on the whim of a factory owner or an algorithm.

As Merchant writes: robots aren't coming for your job; bosses are. The dream of a "dark factory," a "fully automated" Tesla production line, is the dream of a boss who doesn't have to answer to workers, who can press a button and manifest their will, without negotiating with mere workers. The point isn't just to reduce the wage-bill for a finished good – it's to reduce the "friction" of having to care about others and take their needs into account.

Luddites are not – and have never been – anti-technology. Rather, they are pro-human, and see production as a means to an end: broadly shared prosperity. The automation project says it's about replacing humans with machines, but over and over again – in machine learning, in "contactless" delivery, in on-demand workforces – the goal is to turn humans into machines.

There is blood in the machine, Merchant tells us, whether its humans being torn apart by a machine, or humans being transformed into machines.

Brian and I are having a joint book-launch tomorrow night (Sept 27) at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-internet-con-by-cory-doctorow-blood-in-the-machine-by-brian-merchant-tickets-696349940417

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/2023/09/26/enochs-hammer/#thats-fronkonsteen

#pluralistic #books #reviews #brian merchant #luddism #automation #history #gift guide #steampunk #makers #tina #inevitablism #reverse centaurs #amazon #arise

549 notes · View notes