#it's for science! and for better control over your data!

[essektheylyss]

Hey y'all, asking a favor on behalf of some colleagues: if you play any mobile games and/or care about data privacy in games, please take this survey!

They're putting together a set of metadata to organize about mobile games and how those games collect user data in an effort to help users make more informed decisions about their data privacy, and could really use some responses as to how useful you'd find this particular type of information.

[sixeyesonathiel]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Bossware is unfair (in the legal sense, too)

You can get into a lot of trouble by assuming that rich people know what they're doing. For example, might assume that ad-tech works – bypassing peoples' critical faculties, reaching inside their minds and brainwashing them with Big Data insights, because if that's not what's happening, then why would rich people pour billions into those ads?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/06/surveillance-tulip-bulbs/#adtech-bubble

You might assume that private equity looters make their investors rich, because otherwise, why would rich people hand over trillions for them to play with?

https://thenextrecession.wordpress.com/2024/11/19/private-equity-vampire-capital/

The truth is, rich people are suckers like the rest of us. If anything, succeeding once or twice makes you an even bigger mark, with a sense of your own infallibility that inflates to fill the bubble your yes-men seal you inside of.

Rich people fall for scams just like you and me. Anyone can be a mark. I was:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/05/cyber-dunning-kruger/#swiss-cheese-security

But though rich people can fall for scams the same way you and I do, the way those scams play out is very different when the marks are wealthy. As Keynes had it, "The market can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent." When the marks are rich (or worse, super-rich), they can be played for much longer before they go bust, creating the appearance of solidity.

Noted Keynesian John Kenneth Galbraith had his own thoughts on this. Galbraith coined the term "bezzle" to describe "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it." In that magic interval, everyone feels better off: the mark thinks he's up, and the con artist knows he's up.

Rich marks have looong bezzles. Empirically incorrect ideas grounded in the most outrageous superstition and junk science can take over whole sections of your life, simply because a rich person – or rich people – are convinced that they're good for you.

Take "scientific management." In the early 20th century, the con artist Frederick Taylor convinced rich industrialists that he could increase their workers' productivity through a kind of caliper-and-stopwatch driven choreographry:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

Taylor and his army of labcoated sadists perched at the elbows of factory workers (whom Taylor referred to as "stupid," "mentally sluggish," and as "an ox") and scripted their motions to a fare-the-well, transforming their work into a kind of kabuki of obedience. They weren't more efficient, but they looked smart, like obedient robots, and this made their bosses happy. The bosses shelled out fortunes for Taylor's services, even though the workers who followed his prescriptions were less efficient and generated fewer profits. Bosses were so dazzled by the spectacle of a factory floor of crisply moving people interfacing with crisply working machines that they failed to understand that they were losing money on the whole business.

To the extent they noticed that their revenues were declining after implementing Taylorism, they assumed that this was because they needed more scientific management. Taylor had a sweet con: the worse his advice performed, the more reasons their were to pay him for more advice.

Taylorism is a perfect con to run on the wealthy and powerful. It feeds into their prejudice and mistrust of their workers, and into their misplaced confidence in their own ability to understand their workers' jobs better than their workers do. There's always a long dollar to be made playing the "scientific management" con.

Today, there's an app for that. "Bossware" is a class of technology that monitors and disciplines workers, and it was supercharged by the pandemic and the rise of work-from-home. Combine bossware with work-from-home and your boss gets to control your life even when in your own place – "work from home" becomes "live at work":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

Gig workers are at the white-hot center of bossware. Gig work promises "be your own boss," but bossware puts a Taylorist caliper wielder into your phone, monitoring and disciplining you as you drive your wn car around delivering parcels or picking up passengers.

In automation terms, a worker hitched to an app this way is a "reverse centaur." Automation theorists call a human augmented by a machine a "centaur" – a human head supported by a machine's tireless and strong body. A "reverse centaur" is a machine augmented by a human – like the Amazon delivery driver whose app goads them to make inhuman delivery quotas while punishing them for looking in the "wrong" direction or even singing along with the radio:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/02/despotism-on-demand/#virtual-whips

Bossware pre-dates the current AI bubble, but AI mania has supercharged it. AI pumpers insist that AI can do things it positively cannot do – rolling out an "autonomous robot" that turns out to be a guy in a robot suit, say – and rich people are groomed to buy the services of "AI-powered" bossware:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

For an AI scammer like Elon Musk or Sam Altman, the fact that an AI can't do your job is irrelevant. From a business perspective, the only thing that matters is whether a salesperson can convince your boss that an AI can do your job – whether or not that's true:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/25/accountability-sinks/#work-harder-not-smarter

The fact that AI can't do your job, but that your boss can be convinced to fire you and replace you with the AI that can't do your job, is the central fact of the 21st century labor market. AI has created a world of "algorithmic management" where humans are demoted to reverse centaurs, monitored and bossed about by an app.

The techbro's overwhelming conceit is that nothing is a crime, so long as you do it with an app. Just as fintech is designed to be a bank that's exempt from banking regulations, the gig economy is meant to be a workplace that's exempt from labor law. But this wheeze is transparent, and easily pierced by enforcers, so long as those enforcers want to do their jobs. One such enforcer is Alvaro Bedoya, an FTC commissioner with a keen interest in antitrust's relationship to labor protection.

Bedoya understands that antitrust has a checkered history when it comes to labor. As he's written, the history of antitrust is a series of incidents in which Congress revised the law to make it clear that forming a union was not the same thing as forming a cartel, only to be ignored by boss-friendly judges:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

Bedoya is no mere historian. He's an FTC Commissioner, one of the most powerful regulators in the world, and he's profoundly interested in using that power to help workers, especially gig workers, whose misery starts with systemic, wide-scale misclassification as contractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/02/upward-redistribution/

In a new speech to NYU's Wagner School of Public Service, Bedoya argues that the FTC's existing authority allows it to crack down on algorithmic management – that is, algorithmic management is illegal, even if you break the law with an app:

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-remarks-unfairness-in-workplace-surveillance-and-automated-management.pdf

Bedoya starts with a delightful analogy to The Hawtch-Hawtch, a mythical town from a Dr Seuss poem. The Hawtch-Hawtch economy is based on beekeeping, and the Hawtchers develop an overwhelming obsession with their bee's laziness, and determine to wring more work (and more honey) out of him. So they appoint a "bee-watcher." But the bee doesn't produce any more honey, which leads the Hawtchers to suspect their bee-watcher might be sleeping on the job, so they hire a bee-watcher-watcher. When that doesn't work, they hire a bee-watcher-watcher-watcher, and so on and on.

For gig workers, it's bee-watchers all the way down. Call center workers are subjected to "AI" video monitoring, and "AI" voice monitoring that purports to measure their empathy. Another AI times their calls. Two more AIs analyze the "sentiment" of the calls and the success of workers in meeting arbitrary metrics. On average, a call-center worker is subjected to five forms of bossware, which stand at their shoulders, marking them down and brooking no debate.

For example, when an experienced call center operator fielded a call from a customer with a flooded house who wanted to know why no one from her boss's repair plan system had come out to address the flooding, the operator was punished by the AI for failing to try to sell the customer a repair plan. There was no way for the operator to protest that the customer had a repair plan already, and had called to complain about it.

Workers report being sickened by this kind of surveillance, literally – stressed to the point of nausea and insomnia. Ironically, one of the most pervasive sources of automation-driven sickness are the "AI wellness" apps that bosses are sold by AI hucksters:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/15/wellness-taylorism/#sick-of-spying

The FTC has broad authority to block "unfair trade practices," and Bedoya builds the case that this is an unfair trade practice. Proving an unfair trade practice is a three-part test: a practice is unfair if it causes "substantial injury," can't be "reasonably avoided," and isn't outweighed by a "countervailing benefit." In his speech, Bedoya makes the case that algorithmic management satisfies all three steps and is thus illegal.

On the question of "substantial injury," Bedoya describes the workday of warehouse workers working for ecommerce sites. He describes one worker who is monitored by an AI that requires him to pick and drop an object off a moving belt every 10 seconds, for ten hours per day. The worker's performance is tracked by a leaderboard, and supervisors punish and scold workers who don't make quota, and the algorithm auto-fires if you fail to meet it.

Under those conditions, it was only a matter of time until the worker experienced injuries to two of his discs and was permanently disabled, with the company being found 100% responsible for this injury. OSHA found a "direct connection" between the algorithm and the injury. No wonder warehouses sport vending machines that sell painkillers rather than sodas. It's clear that algorithmic management leads to "substantial injury."

What about "reasonably avoidable?" Can workers avoid the harms of algorithmic management? Bedoya describes the experience of NYC rideshare drivers who attended a round-table with him. The drivers describe logging tens of thousands of successful rides for the apps they work for, on promise of "being their own boss." But then the apps start randomly suspending them, telling them they aren't eligible to book a ride for hours at a time, sending them across town to serve an underserved area and still suspending them. Drivers who stop for coffee or a pee are locked out of the apps for hours as punishment, and so drive 12-hour shifts without a single break, in hopes of pleasing the inscrutable, high-handed app.

All this, as drivers' pay is falling and their credit card debts are mounting. No one will explain to drivers how their pay is determined, though the legal scholar Veena Dubal's work on "algorithmic wage discrimination" reveals that rideshare apps temporarily increase the pay of drivers who refuse rides, only to lower it again once they're back behind the wheel:

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

This is like the pit boss who gives a losing gambler some freebies to lure them back to the table, over and over, until they're broke. No wonder they call this a "casino mechanic." There's only two major rideshare apps, and they both use the same high-handed tactics. For Bedoya, this satisfies the second test for an "unfair practice" – it can't be reasonably avoided. If you drive rideshare, you're trapped by the harmful conduct.

The final prong of the "unfair practice" test is whether the conduct has "countervailing value" that makes up for this harm.

To address this, Bedoya goes back to the call center, where operators' performance is assessed by "Speech Emotion Recognition" algorithms, a psuedoscientific hoax that purports to be able to determine your emotions from your voice. These SERs don't work – for example, they might interpret a customer's laughter as anger. But they fail differently for different kinds of workers: workers with accents – from the American south, or the Philippines – attract more disapprobation from the AI. Half of all call center workers are monitored by SERs, and a quarter of workers have SERs scoring them "constantly."

Bossware AIs also produce transcripts of these workers' calls, but workers with accents find them "riddled with errors." These are consequential errors, since their bosses assess their performance based on the transcripts, and yet another AI produces automated work scores based on them.

In other words, algorithmic management is a procession of bee-watchers, bee-watcher-watchers, and bee-watcher-watcher-watchers, stretching to infinity. It's junk science. It's not producing better call center workers. It's producing arbitrary punishments, often against the best workers in the call center.

There is no "countervailing benefit" to offset the unavoidable substantial injury of life under algorithmic management. In other words, algorithmic management fails all three prongs of the "unfair practice" test, and it's illegal.

What should we do about it? Bedoya builds the case for the FTC acting on workers' behalf under its "unfair practice" authority, but he also points out that the lack of worker privacy is at the root of this hellscape of algorithmic management.

He's right. The last major update Congress made to US privacy law was in 1988, when they banned video-store clerks from telling the newspapers which VHS cassettes you rented. The US is long overdue for a new privacy regime, and workers under algorithmic management are part of a broad coalition that's closer than ever to making that happen:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Workers should have the right to know which of their data is being collected, who it's being shared by, and how it's being used. We all should have that right. That's what the actors' strike was partly motivated by: actors who were being ordered to wear mocap suits to produce data that could be used to produce a digital double of them, "training their replacement," but the replacement was a deepfake.

With a Trump administration on the horizon, the future of the FTC is in doubt. But the coalition for a new privacy law includes many of Trumpland's most powerful blocs – like Jan 6 rioters whose location was swept up by Google and handed over to the FBI. A strong privacy law would protect their Fourth Amendment rights – but also the rights of BLM protesters who experienced this far more often, and with far worse consequences, than the insurrectionists.

The "we do it with an app, so it's not illegal" ruse is wearing thinner by the day. When you have a boss for an app, your real boss gets an accountability sink, a convenient scapegoat that can be blamed for your misery.

The fact that this makes you worse at your job, that it loses your boss money, is no guarantee that you will be spared. Rich people make great marks, and they can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent. Markets won't solve this one – but worker power can.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[mintconditioned]

attention is currency. stop giving it away for free.

every platform wants your attention because your attention = profit. tiktok, youtube, even your student portal — everything’s designed to keep you scrolling, spending, or stressing. time is a resource. start protecting it like your money.

but what does that actually mean?

it means that you’re not the customer on most apps — you’re the product. companies profit by selling your attention and data to advertisers. algorithms are designed to hijack your brain’s reward system—likes, follows, autoplay, endless scroll. none of that is an accident.

recently, the ftc hosted a 2025 workshop called “the attention economy: how big tech firms exploit kids and hurt families,” highlighting how platforms intentionally hook users.

studies show that 1 in 5 teens spends over 2 hours daily on tiktok—over recommended limits—and higher usage is linked to anxiety and lower self-esteem.

researchers also warn that algorithmic amplification (like tiktok’s for-you feed) fuels compulsive use by reinforcing targeted content deep into feeds.

here’s how to take your attention back and why it matters:

1. delete one app every weekend. just for two days. a brief digital detox, like removing social media apps over a weekend, can reduce stress and improve focus.

2. if you wouldn’t pay to see it, don’t give it your full attention. time is a resource—if content wouldn’t earn your money, don’t give your attention. treat it like currency.

3. make your phone boring. moving apps off your home screen and switching your phone to grayscale can reduce its addictive pull .

4. start “micro budgeting” your attention. time-blocking your screen use—like budgeting money—improves control and awareness over where your time goes .

5. set one hour a week as “no input” time. intentionally unplugged time helps spark creativity and mental clarity.

6. stop doomscrolling as “being informed.” reading endless crisis content at night increases anxiety—limiting you to scheduled, credible news consumption is healthier.

7. pay attention to what content energizes or drains you. teens who develop awareness of what content affects their mental health can proactively curate their online feeds.

your attention is your mental energy, your focus, your time. tech companies spend billions trying to hijack it. you don’t have to quit the internet — but you should treat your attention like money. once you give it away, you can’t get it back.

and your future, your mind, and your goals deserve better. sources:

federal trade commission. the attention economy: how big tech firms exploit children and hurt families. workshop, federal trade commission, 4 june 2025, ftc.gov/news-events/events/2025/06/attention-economy-tech-firms-exploit-children. accessed 25 june 2025.

bilali, angeliki, et al. “association between tiktok use and anxiety, depression, and sleepiness among adolescents: a cross‑sectional study in greece.” pediatric reports, vol. 17, no. 2, 2025, p. 34, doi:10.3390/pediatric17020034.

“teens, social media and mental health.” pew research center, 22 apr. 2025, pewresearch.org/internet/2025/04/22/teens-social-media-and-mental-health/. accessed 25 june 2025.

foo, bart. “can’t stop scrolling! adolescents’ patterns of tiktok use and digital well‑being.” humanities and social sciences communications, 2024, nature.com/articles/s41599-024-03984-5. accessed 25 june 2025.

[devdozes]

Why does the weather keep changing?!

Weather scientist reader x Scientist phainon whos artificially changing the weather :0 what could possibly go wrong PHAINON FANART AT THE END OF THE POST!!

The moment you saw the weather reports go haywire, you knew something was wrong.

For years, you had dedicated your life to understanding the unpredictable nature of the skies—studying storm patterns, atmospheric shifts, and climate changes. Weather was a delicate balance of science and nature, governed by centuries-old principles that even the most advanced meteorologists struggled to predict with absolute certainty. And yet, something—someone—was tipping the scales.

It started subtly. A mild anomaly here, an unexpected shift there. A sudden drop in pressure that meteorological models hadn't accounted for. At first, you chalked it up to a rare, yet natural deviation. Uncommon, but not impossible. But as days passed, the anomalies became more frequent. More erratic. More impossible.

One evening, you sat in your lab, staring at satellite images that simply did not make sense.

According to every forecast model, the eastern seaboard was supposed to experience heavy rainfall over the next 48 hours. But outside your window? Nothing. Clear skies. No clouds forming where they should have been. Not even a hint of humidity in the air. It was as if the storm had just... vanished.

You double-checked the data. Triple-checked. Ran simulations, compared historical trends, even consulted with your colleagues in other departments. Nothing added up. The storm should have happened.

The next day, the opposite occurred. A severe thunderstorm erupted out of nowhere, completely unpredicted by any meteorological model. Lightning struck in regions that had no atmospheric conditions to support it. You stared at your screen, watching real-time data pour in, and felt your stomach sink.

“This isn’t natural,” you muttered, fingers tightening around your stylus as you scrolled through satellite readings. “This isn’t possible.”

You reached out to national weather agencies, but they were just as baffled as you were. Some blamed equipment malfunctions. Others suggested it was a rare atmospheric anomaly. But you knew better. This wasn’t an error.

Someone was artificially changing the weather.

And you were going to find out who.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your investigation led you to an independent research facility under the name "Elysiae Dynamics." A company that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, its research papers riddled with vague references to “atmospheric influence” and “climate engineering.” No one in the meteorological community had ever heard of them until recently, and yet, they had just filed a patent for atmospheric manipulation technology.

That’s when you met him.

A tall, cheery young man, 6’2 with messy white hair and cerulean blue eyes, wearing a lab coat over a wrinkled button-up shirt and sneakers that looked far too casual for someone playing god with the atmosphere.

“Ah! You must be the weather scientist!” His voice was bright, chipper, like he wasn’t single-handedly disrupting global climate stability. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you are?”

“Phainon! Head of experimental meteorological engineering here at Elysiae Dynamics.” He beamed, extending a hand. “I’m the guy who made it rain during your picnic last weekend. Sorry about that! Just had to test a hypothesis.”

You didn’t shake his hand. “You—you what?”

“Oh, don’t look so mad! You should be impressed! I successfully altered the weather without any negative ecological consequences!” Phainon leaned against his desk, arms crossed, still grinning like a fool. “Come on, you of all people should appreciate this. Isn't controlling the weather the dream of every meteorologist?”

“It’s not a dream, it’s an ethical nightmare!” You snapped. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? The slightest miscalculation could throw entire ecosystems off balance! Not to mention the political implications—”

Phainon tilted his head. “But I didn’t miscalculate.”

His confidence was infuriating. His logic, irritatingly sound. And worst of all? You couldn’t deny that what he had accomplished was groundbreaking.

“…This is reckless,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “And insanely impressive. But mostly reckless.”

Phainon’s grin widened. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You groaned. “I need access to your research.”

“Oh-ho, so now you’re interested?”

“I was always interested. But now I need to make sure you’re not about to cause the next ice age.”

Phainon chuckled, stepping closer—too close. His presence was overwhelming in the way only someone deeply, unapologetically passionate about their work could be. “Tell you what, partner,” he said, voice teasing, “help me refine it, make it safer. You’re the expert on natural weather—I’m just the guy making it unnatural. Work with me, and we can create something truly extraordinary.”

You wanted to refuse. You really, really did.

But damn it, he had a point.

“…Fine.”

His eyes lit up, like a storm forming in the depths of a clear sky. “Excellent! Now, let’s get to work—I was thinking about making it snow in July next. Just for fun!”

You groaned. This was going to be a long partnership. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ And long it was. Over the next few weeks, you found yourself sucked into the chaotic whirlwind that was Phainon’s scientific madness. He worked at an impossible pace, throwing around ideas that shouldn’t have been possible but somehow were. One minute, he’d be theorizing about localized heatwaves, and the next, he’d be actively making them happen.

“You can’t just create a thunderstorm over the city because you think it would look cool,” you hissed one afternoon, watching in horror as Phainon gleefully adjusted dials on his control panel.

“Oh, but I can,” he countered, eyes gleaming. “It’s all about the precision. Watch—three, two, one…”

A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the city below.

“…Boom.”

You stared at him. “You are so going to get arrested.”

“Nah, only if they catch me.”

You groaned, shoving your hands into your lab coat pockets. “Unbelievable. You’re like a child with a god complex.”

Phainon grinned. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Damn it. He had a point. Again.

The worst part? You were starting to enjoy it.

Lately, though, you had been feeling exhausted.

The late nights, the stress, the mental load of balancing scientific integrity with Phainon’s chaos—it was all catching up to you. Your movements were slower, your focus slipping. Even Phainon, for all his oblivious enthusiasm, noticed.

That afternoon, when the sun was unbearably hot and the air in the lab felt thick and suffocating, you slumped over your desk, barely listening as Phainon rambled about his next experiment.

And then, suddenly—

A breeze.

Cool, crisp, and carrying the scent of oncoming rain. You blinked in confusion, looking up just in time to see Phainon, standing by the open window, a knowing smile on his face.

“You looked like you needed a break,” he said simply, leaning against the sill. “So I changed the weather. Just a little.”

Your eyes widened. The screens behind you, once displaying the sweltering forecast, now showed cloud cover rolling in. The suffocating heat? Gone.

“…You did this?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Phainon grinned. “Of course. Can’t have my partner melting away on me, can I?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Damn him.

“C’mon,” he suddenly said, pushing off the window ledge. “Let’s go outside for a bit. We’ve been in this lab for too long, and I changed the weather for you. C’mon.”

Before you could protest, Phainon grabbed your hand and dragged you toward the exit, leaving behind a room full of stunned scientists, their jaws practically on the floor as they watched him whisk you away like a force of nature itself. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The moment you stepped outside, a crisp breeze greeted you, carrying the scent of damp earth and something electrifying—the prelude to a storm. You glanced up at the sky, expecting the soft cloud cover Phainon had crafted just for you, but instead—

A downpour.

Cold, heavy raindrops pelted down from the heavens, drenching the both of you in an instant. It wasn’t just a light drizzle or a gentle summer rain—it was an absolute deluge.

You gasped, half in shock, half in disbelief.

Phainon, still holding your hand, blinked up at the sky in stunned silence.

Then you burst out laughing. Loud, uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh my god—did you leave the machine on auto mode?!” you choked out between fits of laughter. “Phainon, the weather just changed again! WHAT DID YOU DO?”

He stared at you for a second, then back at the rain, and then at you again.

“…I might have forgotten to turn off the randomization function,” he admitted sheepishly.

Your laughter only grew. “Are you kidding me?! We barely made it outside, and now we’re stuck in an artificial monsoon!”

Phainon, despite his momentary fluster, grinned widely. “Well, on the bright side—at least it’s refreshing!” And with that, he spread his arms out dramatically, embracing the torrential downpour like some mad scientist turned weather god.

You shook your head, still breathless with laughter. Your clothes were already soaked through, hair sticking to your forehead, rain streaming down your face—but in that moment, you didn’t care.

Phainon turned to you, eyes gleaming mischievously through the rain. “So, do you wanna run back inside? Or…” He took a step back, still holding onto your wrist, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Oh, you knew that look.

He was about to do something reckless.

“…Phainon,” you warned.

“Catch me if you can!”

And just like that, he took off—sprinting through the rain like a madman.

You groaned. Of course.

But your feet moved before you could even think about it, chasing after him through the drenched pavement, laughter bubbling in your chest. The other scientists, who had peeked outside to witness this chaos, simply stood there, utterly baffled as their two most brilliant colleagues—one being the cause of this entire mess—bolted through the facility grounds, completely soaked.

“Phainon, get back here!” you yelled, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” he called back, voice bright, wild, and full of life. "YOU STUPID LITTLE-"

THE SILLIES ARE BACK AAGIN I LVOE THEM SO MUCHCH AUGH

[alpaca-clouds]

Let Us Talk About Insects For Once

I could swear I have talked on this before, but I cannot find it (tumblr search is still busted) and also, it is something important, that sadly a lot of the big science communicators have communicated wrongly - mainly due to trying people to care about it.

You probably have heard this phrase before: Save the bees!

And the image this conjured up for you is this one:

The kinda adorable, fluffy little honey bee, who make nice and tasty honey for us, are being kept all around, and also have a very weird movie about interspecies romance dedicated to them, that communicates this issue wrong once more.

Well, what if I told you, that a) honey bees are just a very tiny minority of the insects responsible for polinating plants in the world, and b) are actually doing right fine, given that they are somewhat domesticated and people make money with them. So yeah, to the shock of absolutely no-one the Bee Movie is horrid pro-honey-bee propaganda.

Instead the animals mainly responsible for polinating our plants are other species of bees - those actually endangered often - who live often more solitarily and do not produce honey either at all or in as high quantities as the honey bee does. Butterflies, moths, wasps, flies, beetles and wasps instead are doing a whole lot of polination work, too.

And yeah, I get that the flies - such as the humble hoverfly - are not as cute or sexy, as the honey bee is, but... we kinda need them fort his whole pollination shit. I mean, by as much propaganda as the Bee Movie it, it was right about one thing: While it would absolutely not affect anyone if all honey bees went on a worldwide strike (good labor coordination though!), if we run out of polinators we might be a bit fucked.

So, honor the beetle and the humble hover fly.

Of course polination is not the only thing that we need insects for.

Yes, I am well aware that most time humans think of insects mostly as annoying pests, but let's be honest: We kinda know that they are somewhat important for the eco-system.

Other jobs that insects take over in the eco-system include, but are not limited to:

Removing waste (such as feces and dead animals)

Providing a food source for all sorts of small critters

Help plants filter water

Loosen the ground by digging through it and making it hence better suited to grow plants

Control one another and other animals, who without them would turn into a danger for humans and/or the eco-system

And that is without helpful jobs insects might actually take over for humans - especially in agrarculture, like hunting other pests or breaking down weeds.

So, you might notice: Even the stupid, digusting kinds of insects are kinda important and fulfill their own specific place in the eco system.

And as anyone who so much as looked at a car in the year 2000 vs today might have noticed... insects are kinda in trouble. Because in the year 2000 your typical car windshield looked like this:

Which is not what it tends to look like today. And while this is anecdote and not scientific data, we of course also have studies that confirm this subjective information.

Scientists have measured the biomass of insects in the environment with certain measures and have found results worthy of concern. Over here in Germany the flying insect biomass has decreased by 75% between 1989 and 2016. Sweden found the same 75% for a similar timeframe. The ground based insects looked better, though their biomass is harder to measure. Depending on the study their biomass has decreased between 18 and 34% over the last 30 years.

An US study found that the overall biomass has decreased by about 34% in the US, the abundance of insects (basically how densely they live and how likely it is for you to encounter insects) however by 61%. And mind you, the same study noticed that while this is an issue the abundance of certain insects - ones that in their current population might become a problem for either humans or the environment - increased.

Several studies also have found that while these decreases were observed, a similar decrease was observed in some species feeding on certain insects - especially birds and certain rodents.

Which lets me speak about the origins of this issue. Why are the insects dying?

I am guessing that both solarpunks and guerilla gardeners might be most familiar with the issue of the lawn and the impervious surfaces.

To make it short: A lot of insects rely either on earth to dig in, or on those plants to polinate - because it is an important food source. They might also rely on certain forms of biological waste (like dead animals and animal feces). And basiclly in a lot of areas we removed all of this. We replaced natural flowers with well maintained lawn, and compacted the ground, if not sealed it all together with concrete. We also remove those dead animals and the animal poo from nature, because it bothers us. And with that we take a lot of insects important elements to live on.

Which means that, yes, ideally a garden should look a lot more like the one beneath than what the HOA (a thing that pretty much is non-existent outside the US) wants you to have.

But again, this is not where it ends. We need more ground that is not sealed and not compacted. We need ground that insects can live and borrow in. Just as we need some animal carcasses to just rot where the animal died - and some animal poo to stink up some areas were humans might live. I am sorry, but there it is.

And yes, I hear you screaming. "But what about the poison?!" And yes, that is also another issue, that definitely is impacting the biomass - though the abundance is more influenced by the last three points.

Basically, yes, a lot of the stuff that farmers use to fight off either weeds or pests are obviously also killing the insects that we technically would love to survive. Because poison tends to not differentiate.

And then there is of course the other issue: Invasive species and climate change.

Germans might be well aware of these fuckers, that kinda look like ladybirds (no, but really, why are they called ladybirds and not ladybugs?) but are not. Or are, but not the right one. Basically they are species of ladybirds that are from other places on the world and somehow ended up over here, where for a variety of reasons they kinda end up killing the local ladybirds. Partly by competing for food sources, partly by being poisonous, and so on.

And of course they are not the only invasive insect species. In fact, the most invasive species tend to be insects and arachnids. And the reason for them living here is two fold.

While most of the time insects and arachnids tend to not be rewilded in places were they are not supposed to be, they do at times hitch rides on humans who travel the world - or in the luggage of said humans.

At times some of those species just happen to do the travelling on their own. For example, I spent the last two years collecting a couple of spiders of the Nosferatu spider species, that just managed to make their way from Southern Europe up here to Germany on their own.

And the reason they manage to survive is obviously climate change. It has gotten too warm and a lot of insects that would not survive here before now are capable of doing so.

And of course some insects that are natural in these parts, can no longer survive because it is too hot for them.

Those issues are obviously not just a thing in Germany. They are a problem basically everywhere.

Which reminds me of one thing. Don't get me wrong. There is some insects that are generally not really beneficial outside of feeding birds maybe. Mosquitos are one of those, which is why there are researchers arguing for erradicating them. Not becuase their bites are annoying, but because they get us - and some animals - all sorts of sicknesses. (Even though we obviously know that their existence once saved earth, lol)

But yeah, insects dying is a problem. And we should do something about it. Not just the sexy honey bee, but also some annoying flies and stuff.

And because y'all managed to read all of this so far, you get a picture of a pretty butterfly.

[bodybeyondstories]

The majority of cases are mild - 1

A mysterious virus is spreading through the city, leaving men with, among other symptoms, disproportionate bubble butts. Mayor Tan speaks in a press briefing while his team debates how long they can keep the situation--and their boss's posterior--under control; Devon, before he ever makes it to the clinic, comes to realize the treatment may not be working with his severe case; and Neil, an ardent journalist, goes to the lab determined to get some information about the crisis.

0 (initial prompt) | 2 (next)

[ ass expansion // bubble butt ]

3102 words

I decided to keep playing around with the ass expansion virus idea (see: previous rambles). I thought a 'triptych' approach might be kind of fun, with three vignettes that are part of an interconnected moment. Which leaves room for a different combination of perspectives told with each part (assuming I ever get around to continuing this). A close second for the title was (thanks to @embarrassedanon !) "Flattening the Curve."

- - - - -

I

“My team has been monitoring the situation, and they assure me, there is nothing to worry about at this time. The majority of cases are–”

“Mayor Tan!” came an insistent voice at the back of the press briefing. “Mr. Mayor, have you seen the latest data about infection rates? What’s your response to the uptick we’re seeing in…”

“Ugh, this guy again,” Ana muttered to the lanky man hovering next to her, both of them posted up just off stage.

Her attention could only last so long for this particular reporter who’d been incessantly crying wolf about this mysterious virus for months. She kept her focus on Mayor Tan, her lips moving along with his response, carefully scripted by her.

“Our rapid response team is world class and will move accordingly when specific thresholds are passed, came the mayor’s voice, as if through Ana’s soundless lips. “Until then, we encourage folks to be careful, but currently there is no need to panic.”

“That’s the guy from The Herald, right?” asked Jay, visibly unused to being even proximate to the spotlight. “He’s been maintaining this super useful data viz dashboard keeping track of the outbreak–”

“Not outbreak,” Ana corrected in a harsh whisper. “It is technically not an outbreak. We’re monitoring the situation until we can determine the appropriate designation for the spread of this…medical anomaly. We don’t need some journalist sowing panic before then.”

Jay, a full head taller than his superior, still managed to collapse in on himself under the heat of her side-eye. “I just think,” he stammered under his breath. “I mean, as the Public Health Advisor to the mayor’s office, I have some…concerns…”

“And as the Chief of Staff of the Office of the Mayor, I will let you know if, how, and when your concerns become the mayor’s concerns.” Ana graced him with a half turn of her face and a practiced, professional smile before turning back to the briefing.

“...like I’ve said repeatedly, we will let you know everything we know as we know it,” said Mayor Tan, hands held out in reassurance. “It’s still early days with this situation, and I know we’ve got plenty other things to cover in this briefing. How about one more before we move on to more pressing matters?”

“Mayor Tan,” began a reporter, “your team was still intimating that this was a hoax just last week. Why have you shifted that stance?”

He rested his palms on the podium and chuckled to himself. “I don’t think that’s the word we used, but our team believes in science, not pseudoscience, and we act on concrete data, not social media theories.” He shifted his posture, his fitted suit jacket bunching up over an eye catching posterior on the thirty-five year old politician. “As reliable data becomes available and new…developments occur, we shift our messaging and our strategies.”

Ana whispered along verbatim. She’d been guiding the mayor through his entire political career, knew him better than anyone else at this point. Working class beginnings, son of immigrants, got into a prestigious college, came back to the city to become a community organizer, got a Masters in Public Policy, won a City Council seat through a brilliant grassroots campaign–organized by her–and now sat in the Office of the Mayor. He was starting to get national attention, not just for his policies, but also his engaging demeanor, whip smart discursive abilities, and the toned, 6’0” frame on display during games of pickup soccer at his local community center. He was an eligible bachelor racking up social media views and a humble public servant who still took the bus to City Hall every morning. He was the kind of young, progressive leader that people needed to believe in right now, and both their sights were already set higher.

“I just,” Jay snapped her out of her reverie. “I just think we could be a little more proactive about this.” He showed her his phone, which displayed the latest statistics visualized by The Herald. Her eyes traced a line that had been lazily rolling up over the past several weeks, but was beginning to crook upward at a worrying angle.

“Look,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’re taking this seriously, we’re all taking this seriously. But the last thing this city needs is panic over some…BBL virus.”

“That’s not–the official terminology is–”

“Male Gluteal Hyper–yeah yeah yeah, I know,” she said with a subtle, sharp wave of her hand. “I also got that memo. But there’s a lot at play here and a lot at stake. We’re about to get our signature public transport expansion through the council, we’re finalizing contract negotiations with the municipal workers’ union, we’ve almost got the affordable housing plan through the budgetary process. We haven’t even announced the gubernatorial campaign yet and the polls are already showing a tight race. I know you care deeply about this and you’re brilliant at what you do, but so am I. You have to trust me to play this carefully and play it right. Imagine what we could accomplish from the governor’s mansion, let’s not let this…absurd situation derail everything.”

“Yes…yes, ma’am,” said Jay. He refocused on the briefing, the mayor having taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves as he settled into his usual rapport with the press, shifting his hips back as he leaned over the podium. “But do we have a plan in place for…that?” He gestured slightly with his chin to the prodigious bubble butt straining the young mayor’s fitted slacks. 

“For what,” replied Ana with a quirk of her lips. “The Mayor’s last physical was, as you know, just last month, and, as you know, he’s in excellent condition.”

“Yes,” said Jay carefully, “but that physical was several…pant sizes ago.” The mayor was famous for staying physically active and notably in great shape, but his glutes and hamstrings looked disproportionate compared to just a few weeks ago, crammed into a pair of slacks that had already been adjusted multiple times but still looked liable to burst at any second. “Has he been diagnosed yet?”

“Mm mm mm,” Ana playfully scolded, her attention still locked in to the mayor’s practiced responses. “We don’t use that word until we need to. Fluctuations that may or may not happen with the mayor’s weight are not public concern, his personal tailor signed a solid NDA, and besides…” she once again synced up with the mayor as he gave  his parting thoughts and began to walk off stage, carefully controlling his gait to de-emphasize the overdeveloped cheeks switching back and forth behind him.

“The majority of cases are–”

- - - - -

II

“--mild! Mild. I know, I get it, you’ve said that plenty of times.” Devon held his phone at arm’s length out of frustration as the disembodied customer service voice continued to reassure him that there was little to worry about. “Look, I’ve been taking the over the counter meds for three days, and I’m not…” his voice lowered, “I’m not seeing any improvement.”

“We suggest you take those for a week at the onset of symptoms. You started noticing the gluteal swelling three days ago?”

“Closer to three…um…weeks…ago,” he muttered, resting his face in his palm. “I just didn’t know…didn’t think that…didn’t want to…”

“Ask about the clinic!” came his roommate’s voice from the next room.

“Right, the clinic! There’s a clinic, right? Do I need to get a referral?”

“Unfortunately,” responded the voice. “That’s for our more severe cases, and capacity is very limited.”

“Well this case feels pretty severe,” Devon hissed, exasperation entering his voice as he gripped his morning coffee. “I only have so many work from home days and I…” he breathed deep, “I’m ripping through all my office slacks. If I can even get them over my…my–” 

“Yes, well that’s to be expected. There are some great online forums popping up for men with your condition. DIY sewing on the fly, retrofitting your car, fashion inspo, the best supportive accessories, office furniture tips…”

“I don’t think I need to–I just don’t think the…symptoms are weakening. Maybe there’s a stronger treatment?”

A drawn out pause on the other end, until finally a pensive breath out. “Okay. Let me see what I can do. Keep taking the medication and we’ll get back to you.”

Click.

Devon punched the air. He’d accomplished basically nothing but at least he had the illusion of some solution to the hefty buns ballooning behind him. He felt acutely the jiggle of his cheeks as he strolled into the living room, where his roommate, Leo, was reading emails while the local news played in the background.

“...we encourage folks to be careful, but currently there is no need to panic…”

“Since when are they livestreaming the mayor’s press briefings?” asked Devon.

“Since that.” Leo pointed toward the corner of the screen, which featured The Herald’s graph of new cases, ending with that worrying upward curve.

Devon sighed, rested his hands on his oversized glutes. He gave them a squeeze, sending a shiver of pleasure up his spine. “Then I guess it’s fitting I’m working from home again.” He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah dude, I assumed based on what’s not fitting,” said Leo, holding up the tattered remains of Devon’s pants, strewn angrily to the floor. “Did you get into the clinic?”

“Ugh, no. Maybe? I don’t know. Probably not.” Devon, clad only in striped bikini briefs and a button down, flopped onto the couch harder than expected. “They mostly gave me tips about…retrofitting my car?”

“Oh, I have a cousin that could help with that. He caught it last month right at the beginning of some trip with his friends, then everybody caught it, and they couldn’t find the meds at a pharmacy anywhere until they got back. They almost got in trouble for public indecency on the flight back because none of their pants…you know…anyway, he like, got a more spacious setup installed in his car. It looks pretty sweet.”

Devon groaned.

“But you won’t have to do that!” Leo rubbed his roommate’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “I mean, he looked like he was smuggling beach balls last I saw him. You’ll be fine, you’re nowhere near that stage.”

“Not yet,” Devon sighed. Three weeks, he scolded himself. After his pancake butt suddenly started putting on mass after years of working out, those first several days were great. He was riding the high of attention and compliments as his perky bubble butt steadily inflated into a donk. After a week, Leo was the first to suggest that maybe it wasn’t just the new leg day routine causing him to fill out his pants so well. Devon demurred, enjoying his fat ass so much that he didn’t notice the attention begin to shift, the stares taking on a different tone, comments becoming mixed with concern, mockery, lust. By the time he was staring down at a positive test, the melons stretching his briefs to the limit were evidence enough. The hemispheres of his backside were now comical, quickly approaching colossal, and nothing seemed to be slowing them down. If that wasn’t severe enough, what was?

Extricating himself from the couch was becoming an ordeal because of the constant shift of his center of gravity. His cheeks bounced wildly as he shuffled to his room, peeling off the bikini briefs with relief so he could slip into a more comfortable pair of extra spacious harem pants. Before he could open the drawer, his eyes locked on to the ten inch teal tower of floppy silicone cock on top of the dresser.

His back arched in anticipation, hole twitching with need as he fell onto the bed, the globes of his ass jiggling out of control and sending waves of pleasure. Of all his symptoms, the increased sensitivity had hit almost as hard as his skyrocketing libido, leading to a newfound enthusiasm for all manner of large and unique toys. Silver linings, I guess, he said to himself with a wry smile, reaching for the lube.

As he lost himself in a pool of morning pleasure, which, he had to admit, was becoming a more than daily thing, his phone sat abandoned on the kitchen counter. Occluded by his muffled moans face down in his pillow, he couldn’t hear it ring.

- - - - -

III

“Hello Devon, this is Randi–with an i–at Phantasy Labs. I’m following up from your call. We may have an option for cases like yours. One of our satellite clinics opening up is specializing in severe infections that aren’t responding to the over the counter meds. Give me a call when you get a chance!”

Randi tapped her left earbud, ending the call, and–with her most adept customer service face–turned her attention to the man anxiously tapping his fingers along the edge of the reception desk.

“Our favorite reporter, back again,” she beamed. “How can we help The Herald, today?”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The mayor had an impromptu press briefing this morning, I had to run across town. I was supposed to meet with someone from Epidemiology about the latest numbers?”

“As you can imagine, the Epi labs are swamped, but I’ll see if I can get you in.”

“Seems to always be the case,” he sighed. “Would it be possible to talk to someone about your data transparency? Research into the virus is publicly funded, if I’m not mistaken.”

“And we are just so grateful to have the support, trust, and financial partnership of the municipal government to tackle the spread. How about I redirect you to our IP specialists in Legal–”

“No, no, that’s fine!” he exclaimed. “Not again.” For months he’d been a fixture at that reception desk, with limited success in getting through to anyone actually working on epidemiological research or vaccine development. But the legal team was a rabbit hole he didn’t want to go back down.

Randi perked up as the earbud in her left ear pulsed with a lavender and green glow.

“It’s the Office of the Mayor,” she said, holding a finger lightly to the device nestled in her ear. “Official business, you understand.”

“Right. Well, if I could just–”

“I’m really sorry,” she cut him off with the gentlest wave of her hand. “Just give me a few moments. Go ahead and have a seat in the lounge. They just restocked.” She turned away and redirected her attention to the screen built into her side of the desk, tapping lightly as she whispered into the air.

Neil was familiar with every option of coffee, tea, and snacks that Phantasy Labs had to offer, having spent many mornings relegated to the waiting area, acutely aware that he would not be making it past the front desk. They're always changing this place around, he thought, wandering through the curvilinear architecture of the main lobby space. The undulating walls and bulbous pillars always looked strangely organic, as if the space was shifting its shape and growing new structures according to its own logic. It had never looked the same from one week to the next, but he had always managed to find the low seamless coffee table surrounded by oddly plush cushions made of a material he still could not figure out. 

This morning, however, it was nowhere to be found. In the spot where he felt it should be, he saw only a sheet of paper, placed flat on the floor, with an arrow drawn in permanent marker. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He had never seen any sort of analog technology used in this place, let alone pen and paper. Nor had he ever had any encounter here that felt outside the realm of a fully coherent, seamless, organic efficiency. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere.

He looked up to find that the arrow pointed to a smooth, blank wall. As he walked up to investigate, a barely perceptible seam appeared at the height of an average door frame, and the wall unfurled further and further with his proximity. He stepped through, finding himself in the middle of a hallway, the door silently shutting behind him. 

“Well, shit,” he muttered, unable to reopen the portal he just stepped through, or even detect the seam itself. Instead of the glowing dots he was used to leading him along, he saw the same nondescript pieces of paper with carefully drawn arrows, leading him deeper into the maze of the massive facility. “Okay Neil. You’re a journalist, this is what journalists do,” he told himself. He followed the trail of breadcrumbs to–to his relief–an actual door with a real handle, with the word “UTILITY” printed at the top.

He entered to find row after row of closely packed floor to ceiling shelving, full of what looked like all manner of lab equipment, supplies, and meticulously labeled containers. He wandered in, looking for another arrow, eventually beginning to worry as he came to the conclusion that he had gone on this quest for nothing and simply meandered into a supply closet in the middle of a labyrinthine research complex that he may never escape from.

“Hi.” The quiet voice behind him caused Neil to jump, bumping into a drawer of measuring tape. 

Between him and the door was a mousy man holding several sheets of paper, featuring the arrows that had led him here.

“Oh, sorry!” His face a contortion of apology. “Communication is really tight here, I had to find a way to get your attention. I’m Sai,” he added with a helpful smile. He looked like he generally spent most of his waking time in a lab, but the disheveled hair, unkempt stubble, and dark circles under his eyes told Neil he hadn’t gotten much sleep recently, let alone made it home. 

From the waist up, he looked petite enough to shove out of the way in a pinch, but Neil’s gaze immediately fell to the pair of globes hovering behind him, stretching his plaid leggings to the limit, rotund enough to see from the front. His svelte waist ballooned into a pair of gargantuan ass cheeks and thick thighs, so comically hefty they effectively blocked any hope of escape. “You don’t know me. I’m just one of the R&D interns. But some of us have been following your work with the, uh, virus, and…could we, um, talk?”

“Yeah,” said Neil, unable to take his eyes off of Sai’s wildly disproportionate posterior. “Yeah, definitely.” He pulled out his voice recorder from his messenger bag. “I have so many questions.”

[downbadperture]

how about a glados x reader where reader is just flirty and glados gets annoyed?

GLADOOOOOS YES YES This will be so cute

Glados x Flirty!Reader

Glados was originally considering dropping you straight down into the incinerator with all the incessant little quips you do when your supposed to be testing

The first you did it it was manageable, controllable. She mentioned how at the end of the tests you will receive cake and you said "Well I hope your name is cake then if you look as pretty as you sound,". She just casually brushed it off, saying she was flattered that a masochist like you would find her appealing but her priorities lay with science. Plus that she can do way better... Like the trash that gets clogged in the pipes. She expected that to be the end of it. But it just kept happening and you pause testing just to say them.

Things like "Ooo you're watching me? Well I mean i'm not complaining having your eyes... eye on me," or saying while looking straight at a camera "This one goes out to you, cupcake!" before completing a test.

She hated the name 'Cupcake' with a passion, she threatened to fill the chamber with neurotoxin if you kept demeaning her in such a way

But alas your testing scores were too high to exterminate you just like that. So she had to bare until she received enough data to finally relinquish you of your job and life so she never has to deal with these comments ever again

You would sometimes compliment her voice as well, that she could insult you all she wants if it meant she kept talking. She hated when you said that too, she would go on all the ways she could give you the most excruciating death imaginable and you would listen to her like it was pleasant. You would even ask questions just so she could keep going

"Aw I love when you say all those sweet nothings for me, Cupcake!" you would say, and she would then call you a dirty masochist then go silent until she had something else to say in the next chamber

You could hear fans whir a little bit louder then usual after you said that

When you were at the end of the testing track and was getting wheeled off to the incinerator, you escaped because of course you did. Once you entered her domain, you just stared at her with wide admiring eyes at the behemoth that has been talking to you and stalking you over the past only god knows how many hours you've been in this facility. There was a slight flush in your face as you leaned against the wall with a very cringy smirk going "Hey Cupcake,"

Glados scoffs, "I am a supercomputer with inconceivable knowlege, and I still do not know what you're trying to do right now,"

Yet she lets you live, possibly because she grew a liking to you or the most plausible, Glados reasons, is that you just give her far too much valuable testing data to just kill. There was so many different tracks, it would be a waste to have one of most experienced none-murderous test subjects she's had just go to waste

Definitely not because of that one time you sneaked a peck onto onto one of her claws when she was supposed to be grabbing you, not because of the million times you call her beautiful, not because of anything like that. No, definitely not.

[sophieinwonderland]

I have actually read your sources, none of which touch on the neurobiology of "plurality." However, several neurobiology studies have demonstrated that DID is only a result of trauma. As for the link with messages from Colin Ross, I do not see him as a credible source. I am well aware of his history with DID research, but unfortunately, his belief that he can shoot energy beams out of his eyes and his malpractice lawsuits makes him less than credible.

Reinders research group demonstrates that DID cannot be simulated (across various studies) as people claiming plurality are doing. I would recommend looking beyond simplistic literature and actually understand the real science behind trauma disorders. It makes it very clear that DID and being "multiple" is solely caused by trauma. Now given that "plurality" is a relatively new social contagion, alongside the destruction of research institutes within the US, i doubt any research directly comparing the neurology of people claiming to be "plural" and people with DID will come about.

I highly recommend expanding your "research" into more scientifically rigorous papers. Also the DSM does specify that DID is a trauma disorder, you just have not read the whole section, unless you ignored the part where it mentions that 90% of cases are from child abuse and 10% are from war, terrorism, or child prostitution.

You do realize that the lawsuits hinged around allegations that Colin Ross gave the patient "false memory syndrome," a syndrome made up by a group of accused child molesters to defend other accused child molesters, right?

30 years later, we still have little to no evidence that the syndrome ever existed. There are some studies that have shown some minor false memories can be implanted. But data is conflicting and nothing on the level of the severe persistent traumatic experiences that have been alleged have been validated. The foundation that created this made up syndrome has since closed down.

If you want to talk about pseudoscience, then you should probably talk about the pseudoscience that drove a lot of the malpractice lawsuits against specialists of dissociative identity disorder at the time.

As for Ross's belief that the human eye can emit energy, I genuinely don't see how that is relevant. Plenty of experts in various fields hold some sort of metaphysical beliefs. Especially when those beliefs are outside of their area of expertise. And Ross is primarily a psychiatrist, not a physicist or a biologist.

The fact is that Colin Ross is one of the foremost experts on dissociative identity disorder in the world. He is a doctor who has spent over 40 years working directly with patients with DID. He has written more books on the topic than almost anyone alive. If not more than anyone alive. His contributions to the field are still regularly cited by other reputable doctors because he is considered a credible source by actual academics.

He has spent his entire career fighting for trauma survivors. Working with patients, developing new treatments, and encouraging trauma-centered care.

You would struggle to find doctors with more experience than Colin Ross with treating dissociative identity disorder.

But I get what you are doing. You can't win on the front of expertise and experience. So you go for personal attacks. When faced with the reality that one of the most experienced expert on DID doesn't support your hate, you decide it's better to find anything you can in his history of fighting for trauma survivors to discredit him.

You cannot accept that the experts disagree with you. That you can't actually find ANY experts who support your belief that plurality can only come from trauma. So your only viable move is trying to attack the experts.

Reinders research group demonstrates that DID cannot be simulated (across various studies) as people claiming plurality are doing.

If these studies are the ones I think they are, what they show is that DID is distinct from "simulating controls." That is, a control group of neurotypical singlets that simply pretends to have DID. What they show is that "people pretending to have an alter will appear differently on a brain scan than people with DID."

It's really not relevant for a number of reasons, and frankly is built on a lot of circular reasoning. Since these studies literally only compare the DID group to roleplayers, you sort of have to start with the premise that endogenic systems are roleplaying to think this is relevant at all.

"Endos are roleplaying" -> "Studies comparing DID systems to roleplayers show that DID is different from roleplaying" -> "This proves that endogenic systems aren't real" -> "Therefore endos are roleplaying."

Citing studies comparing the brains of DID systems to neurotypical singlets who pretend to have DID as evidence that endogenic systems aren't real makes no sense!

I highly recommend expanding your "research" into more scientifically rigorous papers. Also the DSM does specify that DID is a trauma disorder, you just have not read the whole section, unless you ignored the part where it mentions that 90% of cases are from child abuse and 10% are from war, terrorism, or child prostitution.

How are you guys all failing this much at basic reading comprehension that you imagine words that aren't there? This talking point comes up all the time and it is always just wrong.

Here is the quote you're referring to!

Read it over closely a few times.

Note that it does not mention that this makes up the other 10% of cases, only that they have also been reported. Let's break this paragraph down.

Early life trauma represents an environmental risk factor for DID.

About 90% of cases report neglect or abuse.

The early life traumatic experiences can also include painful childhood medical procedures, war, terrorism and human trafficking.

Onset of the disorder has also been described after exposure to other dysfunctional family dynamics.

Going by this alone, these cases could make up the other 10%... or only 5% or 2%.

90% of cases show reports of abuse or neglect. And then an unspecified number of cases report other forms of traumatic experiences.

I am not saying that DID can for certain form without any trauma at all. I am just saying that if you think that this paragraph proves 100% of DID cases are traumagenic, you have fundamentally failed at reading.

[makehydrafictionagain]

Public Relations (MCU x Reader)- Ch. 2. Pt. 1

Summary: Tensions run high in Stark Tower as the aftermath of recent events leaves everyone on edge, working tirelessly to regain control. You grapple with your place among the team, leading to a confrontation that forces you to make a difficult decision. As emotions boil over, the line between staying and leaving grows increasingly blurred.

Here is the link for the previous parts.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

The atmosphere in Stark Tower was tense, the weight of the previous night’s attack pressing heavily on everyone. In the common area on the forty-fifth floor, a room primarily used for intense deliberation, the Avengers gather- exhaustion evident in their expressions. They deliberate, intensely, with the limited information they’ve managed to scrape together.

Steve Rogers takes the lead, his voice steady but firm as he outlines the team’s immediate priorities. “We need to know where he’s gone and what he’s planning. Without that, we’re fighting blind.”

Tony Stark sits slouched in his chair, arms crossed, his face a mask of guilt and frustration. “I can’t track him yet. He’s better than I thought, smarter. But I’ll find him.” His words are sharp, defensive, as if daring anyone to question him further.

Bruce Banner, seated beside Tony, speaks up hesitantly. “Helen and I are running diagnostics on the systems he corrupted. It’ll take time, but we’re making progress.”

Across the room, Thor paces like a restless storm, his hammer swinging at his side. “Ultron is using the scepter’s power. We should focus on that- its magic leaves a trace. If we find the trace, we find him.”

Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton listen quietly, their eyes scanning the room. Natasha finally interjects, her tone pragmatic. “Tracing him is one thing. Stopping him is another. We need to prepare for whatever he’s planning, not just react to it.”

The room fell into a pensive silence, no one feeling the need to add anything more to the pile of stressors in the middle of the room. One by one, they went their separate ways, last of which being Steve, who leaned against the windowsill with his arms crossed and fist rested on his chin.

-

Up in the lab, the air is filled with urgency. Tony works furiously at one of his holographic interfaces, pulling up streams of code and data faster than Bruce or Helen can keep up. His usual quips are absent, replaced by curt, focused commands.

“Banner, cross-check this against the last known coordinates we have for the drones,” Tony says without looking up.

Bruce nods, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “I’m on it. But if Ultron’s using adaptive code, it’s going to take longer than we’d like.”

Helen Cho, standing at another station, frowns as she examines a corrupted data sample. “It’s not just the code,” She says, calm but firm. “Ultron is evolving. He’s not leaving the same traces he did before. This isn’t just artificial intelligence- it’s something more.”

Tony glances over toward her without looking at her directly. “Care to elaborate?”

Helen looked at him evenly. “The scepter’s power is still a factor. We’re not just dealing with science anymore. There’s a blend of technology and something… else. If we don’t account for that, we’ll keep falling behind.”

Tony’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he redirects his focus back to the data, his mind racing.

As the hours tick by, the three work nonstop, their determination matched only by their growing frustration. Each of them know time is running out- and Ultron isn’t waiting for them to catch up.

-

You wake with a start, your body aching from the night before. You're still in your dress, the fabric wrinkled and stained with soot, grime, and blood.

Your hair hangs and clings in wild disarray, and your makeup depicts the chaos of the night before. You don't bother with an attempt to fix yourself. Instead, you push yourself upright and manage to throw the curtains to cover the window, wobbling slightly as you navigate the unsteady world around you. The lingering champagne buzz and a splitting migraine courtesy of the attack make each step a challenge. You press your fingers to your temples, as though the pressure might bring some clarity, before rubbing your eyes- a move that only worsens the mess of mascara already smudged beneath them. The mirror in the bathroom offers a harsh reflection you don't acknowledge. After a splash of cool water that does little to revive you, you drag yourself back into the dimly lit room, the weight of exhaustion and the night's events settling heavily on your shoulders.

Sitting at your desk, you flip open your laptop. The screen illuminates your reflection, and you barely recognize the disheveled woman staring back. You don't allow yourself to wallow. You have a job to do. The clock says 1:28 p.m. Or is that a 4?

Subject: Update

Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you begin drafting an email to Ms. Potts.

Ms. Potts,

I wnted to infom youthat I am okay, te team is okay,nd we’re regrouping as we speak.I’ll handle things on the media front and ensure the fallout isaddressed apppriately.

You pause, fingers tightening slightly over the keys. Your chest feels heavy as you think about the night before. The press event had gone so well- better than you hoped. Steve and Bruce had delivered their speeches perfectly, and the media response had been overwhelmingly positive. It was a win- a real win, something the team desperately needed after Sokovia.

And then it was all destroyed.

Your jaw tightens as you think of Tony. He’d been dismissive, reckless, with his little AI project . Ultron had stolen the spotlight from their hard-earned victory and turned it into something unrecognizable. Something terrifying.

You shake your head, trying to focus. You type another line into the email:

I’ll have a preliminary strategyto you y thisfternoon. Letme know if there are any key points you’d like incded.

_____ _____

You review the email briefly, as well as you can through a tight squint, then hit send. As the message disappears from your screen, you feel a wisp of satisfaction. At least one thing is in motion.

You turn your attention to a blank document, ready to draft the PR strategy. You start outlining key points: acknowledging the attack, expressing regret for the harm caused, and emphasizing the Avengers’ commitment to preventing further destruction. None of it made anything better. Not even close.

Your mind keeps drifting back to the night before. The victory party had been the culmination of days and nights of non-stop effort- a chance to truly celebrate the team's accountability and transparency. You had even let yourself relax, something you often never allowed around clients. For one fleeting moment, it felt like the team was finally on stable ground.

All for nothing.

Your frustration simmers as you type, each keystroke a quiet release of your anger. Tony’s arrogance had derailed everything, and now the entire world was left to deal with the fallout. You weren't naïve- you knew what you were walking into when you took this job. But still, you hadn’t expected this. Clearly, no one had.

You leaned into your screen, hoping that your typing skills served you well enough to create legible notes through the aura of your migraine. You couldn't tell. With a deep inhale, and even deeper exhale, you decide that before you can move forward you need to be wearing something that doesn't smell like whiskey, sweat, or electrical smoke. 

Standing up, you use your arms to guide you to the bathroom and strip, leaving your dress on the tile beneath you. The hot water eases the tension in your shoulders some, but does nothing for the 3 giant bruises on your abdomen and thighs that are thrown on you like paint. 

Having only washed your body, neglecting your routine, you step out onto the dress you removed minutes earlier. You make your way to your dresser and pull on a sweater and leggings- completely disregarding your preference for business-casual attire, and step into your slippers. 

Coffee. 

With very cautious steps, you grabbed your notepad and tablet that were precariously placed on the corner of your desk, found the door to the hallway, and used the walls to guide you toward the kitchen. Navigation felt like walking through a fog, but the promise of coffee pushed you forward.

At the counter, you poured yourself a mug of black coffee, your movements slow and deliberate. You didn’t bother with sugar or cream- there wasn’t any point. The bitter aroma alone was comfort enough, its warmth cradling you as you held the mug close to your chest. The kitchen was quiet, the faint hum of Stark Tower’s systems the only sound accompanying you.

Your footsteps were soft as you crossed to the same seat at the table you had previously claimed, a place you’d sat to observe the team of heroes not even a week ago. Back then, you’d felt like an outsider peering into a world you could never fully understand. Now, sitting in the same spot, the distance between you and them felt even greater, like an invisible wall you couldn’t- didn’t- hope to scale.

You settled into the chair, setting your coffee down with a gentle clink before setting your notepad and tablet down. With a sharp exhale, you flipped to a fresh page and began jotting down ideas. Your handwriting was uncharacteristically messy, the jagged letters revealing on paper the strain in your vision and the tension in your thoughts.

The tablet beside your remained dark, untouched. You couldn’t bear to squint at the blurry screen again, its flickering light only adding to your frustration. 

There's no question what’s being said online.

Instead, you focused on the notepad, letting the rhythm of pen on paper guide you as you tried to piece together fragments, slivers, of a strategy. Your brow furrowed, the faint lines between your eyebrows deepening as you fought to concentrate.

But the quiet didn’t last. The sound of approaching footsteps broke through your thoughts, a steady, confident rhythm echoing through the kitchen. You froze, your pen hovering above the page as the noise grew louder.

You looked up, squinting toward the doorway. The figure that emerged was instantly recognizable- not by sight, but by the unjustified confidence and ego, paired with the faint scent of cologne and a whisper of alcohol- or, the other way around. 

Tony Stark.

For a moment, you remained still, gripping your pen tightly as your gaze followed him. There was something almost surreal about seeing him like this, the man responsible for both the Avengers’ triumphs and their current chaos. His presence filled the room like a storm cloud, impossible to ignore. It pissed you off.

Tony’s steps didn’t falter as he made his way to the coffee machine, his movements fluid and purposeful. The sound of the coffee pouring into his mug seemed louder than it should have been, punctuating the silence with every drop. You didn’t say a word, your stomach tightening as you braced yourself for whatever confrontation was about to come next. Whether he initiated it or you did, both of you could feel something brewing.

“Wow,” Tony said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I thought you’d be gone by now.” He paused by the coffee machine. You couldn’t tell if he was looking at you, or looking at his cup. “Or was last night not enough of a reminder that your expertise is no longer needed here?”

You straightened, your grip tightening on your pen. “You mean the part where you caused a disaster so bad that Ms. Potts hasn’t even had a chance to return my emails yet?” Your tone matched his, sharp and biting. You leaned forward, your eyes narrowing. “No, Mr. Stark, that wasn’t a reminder. It was confirmation.” Tony, abandoning the mug he was preparing on the counter, came around to face you, turning his ear to you as if he had misheard.

“Give me a break. We’re a little beyond PR control at this point, don’t you think? Ultron doesn’t care about soundbites, and neither do I.” Tony took two more steps toward the table where you sat, encroaching on your personal space.

The way he loomed over you- standing while you sat- only made your anger flare. You pushed yourself to your feet, your vision sharpening enough to catch the irritation etched into his face. “Maybe not, but the world does. You’ve spent years building this company’s name- your name- and now you’ve tied it to a killer robot and another ruined city.” Tony’s jaw tightens as he steps even closer, yet you continue. “But sure, let's pretend none of that matters.”

“You’re right- it’s my company.” You can now clearly see the stress lines on his forehead and the bags under his eyes, and your heart rate quickens as he approaches. Despite standing tall, he still towers over you from the angle he's approaching.

Tony leaned closer, one hand gripping the table in front of you, his tone cold and sharp. “And frankly, I don’t see the point of keeping someone around who can’t even shoot a hunk of metal six feet in front of her.”

You freeze, your lips parting as though to respond, but the words don’t come. The room felt smaller, your blurry surroundings closing in as his words echoed in your head. 

Tony doesn’t wait for a reply. He turns sharply on his heel and strides out, the door clicking shut behind him. 

The silence that follows is deafening. You exhale sharply, your hands clenched into fists. Your mind races, replaying his words, your frustration mounting.

Finally, you snap your notepad shut, the sound breaking the stillness of the room. Shoving the dining chair back further, you leave the table, walking carelessly, intently to your room.

Your breath comes quick and shallow as your mind churns, emotions a storm of anger, hurt, and defiance. You don't pause, don't let yourself think. Instead, you pack your belongings quickly, tossing essentials into a small bag and hastily organizing the rest for shipment. After 45 minutes, your blood pressure has not lowered. You knew the rage-packing had something to do with that, but you take it as a sign that the decision you had already made was the right one. You pulled your hair into a bun, giving no care to your appearance, and sat on the edge of the bed with your hands gripping the mattress and your leg shaking angrily for a moment longer. 

Fuck this place.

You stood up and looked at your suitcases, packed up and set to the side.

They can ship it to me. Or not. I dont give a shit.

You slung the bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, your jaw tight, and straight down the hallway toward the elevator. Your chest felt tight, your thoughts spinning in an exhausting loop of frustration and self-doubt. 

I'm not doubting anything. I'm no help here.

Leaving Stark Tower was the only thing that made sense now. You weren't helping, you weren’t needed, and after Tony’s scathing words, staying felt unbearable. Impossible.

You were just a few steps away from the elevator when Natasha Romanoff stepped into your path, tablet in hand. At first, she didn’t even glance up, her focus seemingly on the screen, but she moved with deliberate intent, blocking your path with ease.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Natasha’s voice was calm but carried an edge, like a warning wrapped in silk.

You paused, gripping the strap of your bag, suddenly very aware that the room was now inhabited by multiple Avengers despite the silence before. Your tone came out sharper than intended. “I didn’t realize I needed clearance for the elevator.”

Natasha’s gaze flicked up then, sharp and assessing, pinning you in place. “You do when you’re planning to run. Especially now.”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I’m not running,” You said, your voice defensive. “I’m just… leaving. Tony’s right- this isn’t my fight.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly, her calm demeanor unnerving. She stepped closer, her voice lowering but firm. “You’re not just some bystander, _____. You’ve been in the room. You’ve seen the plans, heard the intel. You think Ultron’s going to forget that?”

The words made you falter, but only for a moment. “So what?” You snapped. “I stay here and keep being a liability? I’m not helping, Natasha. You don’t need me.”

Natasha crossed her arms, expression hardening. “You think this is about what we need? It’s about survival. You walk out of here, you’re making yourself an easy target. And the second Ultron decides to come after you, we’ll have to drop everything to save your ass.”

Heat rose in your cheeks. “I don’t need saving,” You bit out, your voice rising.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her tone turning sharp as a blade. “Look, I get it- you’re scared, and you don’t belong here. But leaving right now isn’t just stupid, it’s selfish . Stay. Help us fix this. Or at the very least, stay alive so we don’t have to add your death to our conscience.

Their voices had risen by now, echoing down the hallway, sharp and cutting. In the common room nearby, Steve, Clint, and Thor had fallen silent, their conversation abandoned. The tension of the argument drew their attention like a magnet, and they exchanged uneasy glances. 

Your breath hitched, and you turned away, unable to hold Natasha’s piercing stare any longer. Your grip on your bag strap tightened as the words sank in, heavy and suffocating.

Steve stood, the weight of the moment compelling him to step in. He approached slowly, his expression calm but serious, his presence alone enough to add to the tension in the hallway. Natasha glanced at him briefly before turning back to you, her voice softening just enough to temper the moment.

“You don’t have to like being here,” She said. “But you can’t leave. Not yet.”

Your eyes darted between Natasha and Steve, who now stood silently nearby, his somber presence adding weight to the conversation. Trapped. That’s how you felt. Your frustration and helplessness boiled to the surface, and you let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking your head.

“Fine,” You spat out, spinning on your heel and storming back down the hallway toward your room.

Natasha watched you go, her expression unreadable. “She’s not going anywhere,” She said quietly, almost to herself.

“Good,” Steve replied softly, though his gaze lingered in the direction you had gone.

He turned to leave, but Natasha’s voice stopped him, her tone low and knowing. “Go easy on him,” she said.

Steve glanced back, catching the flicker of understanding in her eyes. She knew exactly where he was headed. With a small nod, he turned away, his jaw tightening as he disappeared down the hallway toward Tony’s lab. Natasha let out a slow exhale, attention returning to the tablet in her hands- though her thoughts remained firmly on you and the storm brewing within Stark Tower, and out there somewhere in the world. In the common room, Clint shook his head, muttering something under his breath. 

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of unspoken questions lingering between them.

-

You stormed into your room, the door clicking shut behind you with more force than you intended, more force than you thought was possible with these fancy hinges. You stood still for a moment, breathing uneven, hands clenched into fists at your sides. Your mind spun, replaying the argument with Natasha, the sharpness of her words, the unspoken truth beneath them.

Stupid. Selfish.

You crossed to your bed and sat down heavily, your gaze falling to your lap. The anger swirling inside you flared briefly, but it wasn’t just anger at Natasha- it was at yourself, at the impossible situation you had found yourself in. You thought you could handle this, thought you could help. But now?

Stupid.

Your eyes drifted to the suitcases thrown to the side of the door.

Selfish.

The others were overthinking this. Ultron had no reason to care about you. You’re a PR person, not a strategist or a fighter. What could you possibly offer? You weren't one of them. Tony had made that clear enough.

Stupid.

Your chest tightened at the memory of his words. They stung, not because they were harsh.

He’s right.

-

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Steve’s voice cut through the lab like a whip, followed by the slamming and swinging of the doors behind him.

Bruce flinched, his head snapping up in surprise, while Helen glanced over briefly before returning to her work. Tony didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up, his focus seemingly unshaken as he continued swiping at the holograms.

“Saving the world,” Tony said flatly, the edge of snark in his tone. “You should try it sometime.”

Steve stepped closer, his presence towering, his voice hard. “You can’t just kick people out without consulting the team.”

“Oh, good, she finally left.” Tony mumbled, still not looking up from his work. 

“_____ left?” Bruce couldn't hesitate the words coming out, though he wanted to.

“Nat didn't let her leave.” Steve said, still focusing on Tony.

Tony straightened, any bit of a smirk fading as he circled around the workstation, his expression more guarded now. “She should have,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “She’s a liability, Rogers. She’s not a soldier, she’s not a scientist, and she sure as hell isn’t a hero. She’s in over her head, and she knows it.”

“She’s more of a liability out there,” Steve countered, his frustration rising. “Ultron will use anything he can against us. You really think he’s just going to let her walk away?”

Bruce shifted uncomfortably but nodded in agreement. “Steve’s got a point,” he said carefully. “Ultron’s not going to leave her alone. She’s already on his radar- we all are.”

Tony turned toward Bruce, his frustration snapping like a live wire. “And how’s that my fault? I didn’t tell her to show up here.”

“No,” Steve shot back, his voice rising, “but you told you to leave . You really think the right thing to do is send her out there- alone?”

Tony’s jaw tightened, and he turned back to Steve, his voice hardening. “And you think she’s safe here? Did last night not make an impression? This place isn’t safe for anyone, least of all someone like her.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of Tony’s words hanging between them. Bruce looked down at his monitor, clearly uncomfortable, while Helen kept her focus on her work, stoic.

Steve took a breath, reining in his anger. “ Here is the safest place for her to be,” he said, his tone quieter but no less firm. “Here she has us .”

Tony’s expression flickered, his eyes narrowing as if he was considering another retort. But when he spoke, his voice was quieter, almost muttering, “I can’t keep everyone safe, Steve.”

“Then I will.” Steve stepped closer, his tone resolute. “She’s staying.”

They locked eyes, the tension crackling like electricity between them. Tony’s jaw worked as though he wanted to argue, but no words came. Instead, he broke the stare, turning back toward his workstation, his silence brimming with frustration and something deeper he wouldn’t admit.

Steve lingered for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle before turning and walking out of the lab.

Tony stood still, staring blankly at his holograms. After a beat, he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he stepped away from his workstation. Without a word, he left the lab, the glass door to the elevator lobby sliding shut behind him.

Bruce and Helen exchanged a look, Bruce’s face marked with unease.

“Well,” Bruce said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, “that went well.”

Helen shook her head slightly, returning to her tablet.

-

For a moment, you sat still, staring at the empty space in front of you, your thoughts circling. Natasha and Steve thought Ultron would target you, but that didn’t make sense. He had bigger fish to fry: Tony, Bruce, the Avengers themselves. What value could you possibly hold in the grand scheme of things?

You forced yourself to stand, your movements deliberate as you pulled the suitcases from the ground and placed them on the bed. Slowly, you began to fix your messy packing. Clothes were refolded carefully, placed in neat stacks. Your framed photo of your family went into the wooden box along with a few other keepsakes you brought from home.

Each item you packed felt like a small admission of defeat, a quiet acknowledgement that this wasn’t where you were meant to be.

When you finished, the room was bare, stripped of any trace of your presence other than the suitcases and the wooden box that were lined up by the door, ready to go. You weren’t even sure you would see them again after today. 

I honestly, truly, don’t give a shit.

With that thought, you pulled the photos out of the box and placed them in your bag, wrapped in a shirt. Only your laptop remained on the desk, the last thing you’d need before leaving.

You sat down again, your hands numb and resting on your knees, thoughts heavy. The Avengers didn’t need you, and staying here wasn’t going to change that. It was time to go. That was the only thing that made sense anymore.

Your room, once carefully organized to make it feel like home, now felt sterile and impersonal, stripped of the touches you’d added during your brief stay.

You opened your laptop and began typing, movements methodical and precise. It wasn’t until the laptop screen shone on you that you realized how dark it was in “your room.” It’d been hours.

Subject: Thank you

Ms. Potts,

Thankou for the opportunity towork alongsidetark Industries and the Avengers. After carul consideration, I’ve determned thatmy role here is no longer beeficial to the team or themission. I belive it’sin everyone’s best interest if Istep aside during this criticaltime.

I’ve packed my bongings in the suitcasesnd wooden box theywere delivered in. Pleasehae them sent to 128 Briarwod Lane, Whie Plains, NY 10605, at your convenience. I will leave my access badge and keycard at t the front desk for collection. I trust this will nt cause any inconvenience.

I wish you and the tam the best in the days ahead.

_____ _____

You read over the email once, as best you could, ensuring its tone was professional and to the point. Then, with a deep breath, you hit send. The small chime of confirmation was like the closing of a chapter.

You shut your laptop and slid it into your bag, zipping it up with practiced efficiency. You glanced around the room one final time, your gaze lingering on the bare floor and the now neatly stacked cases. Your badge and keycard were held tight in your hand- not realizing how severely the anxiety had been accumulating until this very moment, with the sharp plastic edges of your identification pressing painfully into your palm.

Without hesitation, you hoisted your bag over your shoulder and stepped silently into the hallway. The Tower was quiet and dim at this hour, the hum of distant machinery the only sound accompanying your footsteps. You moved quickly, looking behind you often, keeping to the shadows and heading for the service stairwell. You stopped at the heavy door and readied your keycard, hoping to the heavens that it worked. You hovered it over the scanner and waited for a beep, either affirmative or negative. The light turned green and a chirp echoed through the halls, followed by the sound of the lock mechanism releasing. 

Thank you, Maria.

You were not prepared for a fight, so you hoped that was the case. Worst case scenario, though, would the team care enough to exert unnecessary energy into keeping you here? Part of you felt bad for using the trust Maria had placed in you to escape; she clearly felt that you didn’t require the typical security restrictions that most in your position would. To use that respect and run with it felt wrong, sure, but… 

I don’t know, I don’t care.

The descent, though you knew would be long, felt excruciating, every echo of your footsteps amplifying the tension in your chest. When you finally reached the ground floor, you paused at the door to the side lobby, your hand hovering over the handle.

There was no looking back. You pushed the door open and stepped into the dark room that led straight into the night. The city’s cool air hit you immediately, a sharp contrast to the stifling atmosphere of Stark Tower. The glowing logo loomed behind you, casting a faint light over the street.

You tightened your grip on your bag and walked away, steps steady and determined. You didn’t glance back, your focus entirely on the path ahead. For better or worse, you were on your own now. 

Thank god for Uber.

[wandringaesthetic]

A side effect of high infant and child mortality is the view that children are kind of expendable. I don't think the general population is really aware of this, but I think the average Tumblr user is aware that our current attitudes about children being precious and innocent only go back a little over a hundred years, and that's ALSO due to economic changes and education changes and I think evolved further because of birth control made it possible to not have more children than you wanted, but it's in part, imo, people mentally and emotionally justifying the fact that so many kids didn't grow up.

I don't have sources to pull on any of this, but a few data points:

Industrial revolution child labor. Kids, especially of the lower classes, were definitely viewed as expendable. Like, the general attitude not just that it didn't matter if they died but it might be better if they went ahead and did it. Read anything based in fact regarding Victorian era chimney sweeps or, like, all of Charles Dickens.

Things my own grandparents (the eldest was born in 1933) said about their experiences growing up and the attitudes of their own parents regarding children. The average degree of both emotional and physical neglect. Children served last if at all. The general attitude that children should be seen and not heard. I would also argue the degree to which bullying was seen as normal and a right of passage is a reflection of all this and the general eugenicist attitude.

The popularity of eugenics in the late 1800s and early 1900s. I think it's understandable, when up to 50% of your peers don't make it to adulthood, to believe that you and the others made it because you were strong and not because you were lucky. The howling , consistent injustice of the alternative is uncomfortable to sit with. We have science now! We don't have to leave it up to God's will! With that view, I think it's easy to think. If we just. Culled enough of the weak genes. Then we could put all this death behind us. everyone could make it. (I want to throw in that I think it is not unreasonable to try to breed out some genetic illnesses. Like if you have a family history of tae sachs or cystic fibrosis or sickle cell I think it is not unreasonable to say "hey, have you considered not reproducing? At least not with someone else with a family history of this?")

The article that went around on here a little bit ago about the Coney Island incubator babies. A lot of people thought they were doing something immoral and overly sentimental by trying to save them. They were weak and defective. they should go ahead and die.

[satoshi-mochida]

Metal Bringer launches this winter - Gematsu

Roguelite action game Metal Bringer will launch for PlayStation 5 and PC via Steam this winter, publisher PLAYISM and developer Alphawing announced.

Here is an overview of the game, via PLAYISM:

About

Samurai Bringer, Alphawing’s previous game, is a Japanese roguelite action game released in 2022, where you play as Susanoo and defeat world-famous Japanese samurai as you collect combat techniques to create your own fighting style. It has received over 800 reviews on Steam with a Very Positive rating. Metal Bringer is the second game in the Bringer series, and this time, the setting is completely different—in this game, you fight in a science-fiction world with androids and giant robots in horde-based combat that’s even more satisfying than the last game, and of course, your combat actions will evolve as you fight.

The Story

“The sky is blue, infinitely high, and infinitely vast… Whose words were these again…? Ah, I remember… It was about a virtual reality Rudra told me about. A fairy tale. How many years has it been since humanity took refuge underground? No one alive has ever seen a blue sky. And now, I’m trapped in the depths, in a small, lifeless room. Just how long have I been here…?” A young girl named Suria wakes up in a laboratory and finds out that she has been put in cyrosleep for 1000 years without her knowledge. In order to search for the rest of humanity, she builds Labor with her trusty Buds, and sends them off to investigate…

Highly Customizable Player Characters and Arms

Build and control android soldiers called “Labor”, or have them pilot giant machines called “Arms”. Each and every Labor and Arms you build is highly customizable. You can change the color and appearance of their features, or swap out parts to change their fighting styles. The sheer variety in character customization will allow you to create and fight with the mech of your dreams.

The More You Play, the Stronger You Get

Labors can be strengthened by installing over 150 different types of apps. Apps can be obtained by defeating enemies, but you lose all installed apps when you fall in battle. However, by analyzing an app’s data, you can carry it over to your next Labor, allowing you to perform better each run until you can freely trample all over your opponents with ease.

Obtain Enemy Arms Parts on the Go

Even the most powerful Arms will eventually wear down, but when that happens, you can use Arms parts left behind by the enemy. What’s more, you can analyze the blueprints of powerful Arms parts over the course of the game, which unlocks various customization options.

New Technologies, Both Visual and Audio

This game uses the same retro art style as Samurai Bringer, but just like Samurai Bringer, it also implements a real time pixel art generating system, and will also feature the newest raytracing technology for beautifully lit environments. The music too is made with the newest technology, as it is played in real time and changes according to the situation.

Character Designs by Suzuhito Yasuda

The protagonist Suria and the keyart were designed by Suzuhito Yasuda, and on the writing team, we have Sami Shinosaki on board! The pixel art portraits for Suria are drawn by illustrator kutsuwa.

Suzuhito Yasuda (Twitter) – Illustrator, manga artist, and character designer for multiple popular games and media, such as Durarara!! and the Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor series. Creator of the ongoing manga series Bootsleg and Yozakura Quartet (serialized in Monthly Shonen Sirius).

Sami Shinosaki – Novelist. Known for the novelizations of the Armored Core and Fire Emblem series.

Word from the Developer: Takahama Makoto from Alphawing

Hi, I’m Takahama, the development director of Metal Bringer. It’s been one year since we announced the game during last year’s PLAYISM Game Show, and in order to fully realize our original concepts, we’ve scrapped and rebuilded the game many times to improve it. At first, you might struggle to survive with your weak Labor and slow Arms, but gradually, you’ll gain more and more power until you eventually become unstoppable, with incredible mobility to match. This game is one where you can experience the thrill and satisfaction of growing stronger. We’re preparing a new playable demo right now, which will be showcased at PAX West 2024 and Tokyo Game Show 2024. Please stop by to try it out!

Watch a new trailer below. View a new set of screenshots at the gallery.

Release Window Trailer

English

Japanese

[lastflowerofyourhouse]

guess who has the uncontrollable urge to post exerpts from their drafts again!

this is from the loveday/cytherea fic entitled Exaltation of the Beloved Lady

-

Loveday wasn’t squeamish. You couldn’t be, if you were best friends with a prodigy animaphiliac. And besides that, she actually had a fascination with medical science. Cytherea had led her in dissections as children, guiding her hands and showing her where to cut, telling her the names of things. She loved to listen as Cytherea explained her research to her, referencing books of anatomy, pointing out what she was talking about. Loveday could hold an intelligent conversation about flesh magic by the age of eight, despite her complete lack of aptitude. Cytherea had told her, laughing, that it was a tragedy that she wasn’t a necromancer. That they’d really lost something when Loveday was born without aptitude. Loveday thought, privately, that Cytherea’s genius more than made up for it. 

And so it wasn’t squeamishness that made her uncomfortable with Cytherea’s studies. It was just that– Well. 

Cytherea hunched over a microscope, blood matted into the hair at her temples. Her hands were shaking, as they usually were, by that point. Her breathing had been getting gradually more aggressive for the past hour or so—she was recovering from a cold, and there was a dry, labored quality to it. She growled low in her throat, finally breaking concentration, and pushed away from the table. Loveday went to her, reached out, but Cytherea pulled away. “I’m alright,” she said. “I’m okay, but I can’t– it won’t–”

“I take it the samples are still dying?”

“It’s not only that they’re still dying, I could work with this if they were only dying, I could think of something else to do to them, but they’re dying at the same rate and showing signs of new growth.”

“Which is bad.”

“Which is absolutely terrible. I’m beginning to think I’d have better luck creating myself a new body wholesale than halting the decay of this one.”

“Rhea, that sounds to me like the scientific breakthrough of the millennium.”

“Oh, it’s fascinating, I could go down in history just for getting this far, but it’s not good enough.” These last three words were punctuated by Cytherea slamming the heel of her palm against the metal table, causing all the objects on it to jump.

“I need a living subject,” she said, speaking more to herself than to Loveday now, “One who’s healthy. If I could only see how cells respond when they’re not dying faster than they can be created, then maybe I’d have some good data to work with. That’s the problem with cadavers, you know, even the freshest ones produce no thalergy whatsoever, and my only ethical live subject is a dying girl. I don’t make for much of a control group, Lovie, let me tell you.”

“I mean,” said Loveday, “There’s always me.”

Cytherea looked up as if she’d forgotten that Loveday could speak. “What about you?”

“I’m healthy, and I’m still growing. I think. That means I’m producing more thalergy than thanergy, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Oh. But I’m still viable as a subject, right? I fit the profile.”

She blinked. “What? No, you produce quite a lot of thalergy, actually, you’re as healthy and vital as anyone your age can be. Exactly what one would hope for. I meant ‘no,’ as in, ‘no, I will not be using you for a live subject.’”

“But why not? I would work.” Loveday hated how petulant she sounded, how young. 

“Because it could be dangerous. New cellular growth occurring independent of your normal cycles of growth and decay—do you know what we usually call that?”

Pause. “Oh.”

“Mm. One cancer patient is enough for me, thank you. I will not have you on my conscience like that, Lovie, I refuse.”

[technicallylovingcomputer]

Top Web3 Use Cases Beyond Cryptocurrency: Real-World Applications That Actually Matter

When most people hear Web3 they immediately think about Bitcoin, Ethereum, and those wild cryptocurrency price swings we see on the news. But here's the thing – Web3 development is quietly revolutionizing entire industries in ways that have nothing to do with trading digital coins.

I've been following this space for a while now, and I'm genuinely excited about how Web3 is solving real problems that affect everyday people. From giving creators more control over their work to making supply chains transparent, these applications are already changing how we live and work.

So What Exactly is Web3, and Why Should You Care?

Think of Web3 as the internet's next major upgrade. Remember when we moved from dial-up to broadband? This is bigger. While Web2 gave us social media and smartphones, it also handed massive control to tech giants who now own all our data and decide what we can see and do online.

Web3 development flips this script entirely. Instead of Facebook or Google controlling everything, you own your data, your content, and your digital identity. It's like having your own little piece of the internet that no one can take away from you.

1. Banking Without Banks: DeFi is Changing Everything

Here's something that blew my mind: you can now get a loan without ever talking to a bank manager or filling out mountains of paperwork. Web3 development has created financial services that work 24/7, don't discriminate based on your zip code, and often offer better rates than traditional banks.

Take lending platforms like Aave – you can lend your digital assets to others and earn interest, or borrow against what you already own. No credit checks, no waiting weeks for approval. It's like having a bank that never closes and treats everyone fairly.

Then there's decentralized insurance that actually makes sense. Instead of fighting with insurance companies over claims, these protocols use transparent rules that automatically pay out when certain conditions are met. Community members assess risks together, making the whole system more honest and efficient.

2. NFTs: Way More Than Expensive Digital Art

I get it – when you hear "NFT," you probably think of those million-dollar monkey pictures that made headlines. But Web3 development has taken NFTs far beyond overpriced art into genuinely useful applications.

Imagine buying a concert ticket that can't be counterfeited, or owning video game items that you can actually sell or use in other games. That's what NFTs make possible. Musicians are using them to prove they wrote a song before anyone else, and photographers are protecting their work from being stolen online.

Even cooler? Some companies are putting property deeds and car titles on the blockchain. This means buying a house could eventually be as simple as transferring an NFT – no more weeks of paperwork and middlemen taking their cut.

The gaming world is where this gets really exciting. Remember all those hours you spent collecting rare items in World of Warcraft? With Web3 development, those items would actually belong to you, not the game company. You could sell them, trade them, or even use them in completely different games.

3. DAOs: What Happens When Communities Run Companies

This one sounds like science fiction, but it's happening right now. Decentralized Autonomous Organizations (DAOs) are basically companies run by their communities instead of a CEO in a corner office. Web3 development has made it possible for thousands of people to make decisions together without chaos.

Picture this: you and thousands of other people pool your money to buy expensive art, invest in startups, or fund community projects. Every major decision gets voted on, and the results are automatically executed. No corrupt executives, no hidden agendas – just transparent, community-driven action.

I've seen DAOs fund everything from climate change research to helping creators launch their projects. It's like having a company where everyone who cares about the mission gets a say in how it's run.

4. Finally, Supply Chains You Can Actually Trust

Ever wonder if that "organic" label on your food is legit? Or whether your medicine is real and not some dangerous counterfeit? Web3 development is making supply chains completely transparent, so you can trace products from origin to your doorstep.

Here's how it works: every step of a product's journey gets recorded on the blockchain. Your coffee beans? You can see exactly which farm they came from, when they were picked, how they were processed, and every stop along the way. It's like having a GPS tracker for everything you buy.

This isn't just about satisfying curiosity – it's about safety. Fake medicines kill hundreds of thousands of people every year, but with blockchain verification, you can instantly confirm that your prescription is legitimate. Food poisoning outbreaks that used to take weeks to trace can now be identified in minutes.

5. Your Identity, Your Rules

I'm tired of having different passwords for every website, constantly getting locked out of accounts, and worrying about data breaches. Web3 development is solving this with something called self-sovereign identity – basically, you control your own digital ID instead of trusting it to companies that might get hacked.

Imagine proving you're old enough to buy alcohol without showing your actual birth date, or demonstrating you have a college degree without contacting your university. Zero-knowledge proofs make this possible – you can prove specific things about yourself without revealing everything else.

This is especially powerful for people in countries with restrictive governments or those who don't have traditional forms of ID. Your digital identity lives on the blockchain, where no single authority can delete it or deny you access to services.

6. Breaking Free from Big Tech's Cloud Monopoly

Amazon, Google, and Microsoft control most of the internet's storage and computing power. That's a lot of eggs in very few baskets. Web3 development is creating alternatives where regular people can rent out their unused computer storage and processing power, earning money while making the internet more resilient.

Instead of your files living in one of Amazon's data centers, they're split up and stored across thousands of computers worldwide. This means no single company can lose your data, block your access, or jack up prices whenever they want.

I love the idea that my neighbor's computer might be storing part of my files while my computer stores part of theirs. It's like a neighborhood watch program for data – we're all looking out for each other instead of depending on corporate giants.

7. Social Media That Actually Works for Creators

Let's be honest – social media platforms today are pretty unfair to creators. You spend years building an audience, then the platform changes its algorithm and your reach disappears overnight. Or worse, you get banned for reasons that don't make sense, losing years of work instantly.

Web3 development is changing this dynamic completely. On decentralized social platforms, creators own their audience relationships and content. If you don't like one platform's rules, you can move to another while keeping all your followers and posts.

Even better, creators can earn money directly from their audience without the platform taking a huge cut. Some are creating "social tokens" that give fans special access to content, voting rights on creative decisions, or just a way to support their favorite creators more directly.

This isn't about getting rich quick – it's about making creative work sustainable and giving artists the tools they need to build real careers.

8. Healthcare Records That Actually Make Sense

Your medical records are probably scattered across different doctors' offices, hospitals, and insurance companies. When you need them most – like during an emergency – they're often impossible to access quickly. Web3 development is fixing this mess by putting you in control of your own health data.

Imagine having all your medical history in one secure place that you control, but can instantly share with any doctor who needs it. Emergency room visit in another state? No problem – your complete medical history is available immediately, potentially saving your life.

This also makes medical research much more powerful. When patients can choose to share anonymized data for research, we can accelerate discoveries for cancer treatments, rare diseases, and public health challenges. It's about giving people control while enabling the research that benefits everyone.

9. Making Environmental Action Actually Rewarding

Here's something that gives me hope: Web3 development is making it easier and more rewarding to take care of our planet. Instead of just feeling guilty about climate change, people can now earn money for positive environmental actions.

Got solar panels on your roof? You can sell excess energy directly to your neighbors without the utility company taking a cut. Recycle properly? Get tokens that you can trade for discounts or cash. Plant trees or capture carbon? Earn verified carbon credits that companies will buy.

The transparency aspect is huge too. When companies claim they're carbon neutral, you can actually verify their carbon offset purchases on the blockchain. No more greenwashing – just honest, verifiable environmental action.

Where Web3 Development is Heading

What excites me most about Web3 development is that we're still in the early days. The applications I've mentioned are just the beginning. As the technology gets easier to use and more people understand its benefits, we'll see innovations that we can't even imagine today.

The core idea – giving people control over their digital lives while making systems more transparent and fair – addresses so many problems with how the internet works today. It's not about replacing everything overnight, but about building better alternatives that people can choose when they're ready.

The Bottom Line

Web3 development is creating a more fair and transparent digital world that goes way beyond cryptocurrency speculation. From revolutionizing how we handle money and prove our identity to making supply chains transparent and giving creators real ownership of their work, these applications are solving real problems that affect everyday people.

The future belongs to those who understand that technology should serve people, not the other way around. Web3 is making that vision a reality, one innovative application at a time. And honestly? I think we're just getting started.

[sshbpodcast]

Character Spotlight: Data

By Ames

It’s the man you’ve all been waiting for! He’s one of the most popular Star Trek characters of all time. He teaches us humanity and friendship and science. He’s the outsider character of his series and uses his unique perspective to open our eyes to the world and the people around us. And he loves cats! No wait, we already spotlighted Commander Spock. Just kidding. I’m, of course, talking about Lieutenant Commander Data!

It’s hard for us at A Star to Steer Her By to narrow down the best moments from our android friend because he gets to do so damn much between The Next Generation series and movies, and he’s also my personal favorite character on the show, but we’ve somehow managed it! So use your positronic brains to read on below and listen to our discussion on this week’s podcast episode (tricorder scan to 1:03:10) to see where we drew the line. Saddle up!

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

Best moments

You are fully functional, aren't you? As we mentioned in our Picard spotlight, “The Naked Now” has the strangest mix of great and terrible character moments, and I couldn’t not include the incredibly hot Data/Yar romance that it created. It’s just nice to know that Data is programmed in multiple techniques, a broad variety of pleasuring. And later, the physical acting we get from Brent Spiner in that lean and fall was great!

My thoughts are not for Tasha, but for myself While the rest of “Skin of Evil” and the anticlimactic death of Tasha Yar aren’t really our cups of tea, we do have to admit that the tribute scene at the end is moving and well done. And that final moment when Data and Picard talk (even so briefly!) about the point of the ceremony and how empty it will feel without Yar… I’m tearing up just thinking about it.

Tied game, we’re going into overtime I also have to give Data credit for all the times he uses his big android brain to solve a problem, an advantage he has over pretty much any other character. For example, when he busts Sirna Kolrami up in a game of strategema by forcing a constant stalemate in “Peak Performance,” it feels like a win because he thinks outside the fluorescent holographic box!

One android with a single weapon Every so often, we also see Data in command, questioning his leadership skills or having difficulty connecting with his peers (more on that one in a second). But when he’s the only one who can survive the radiation on Tau Cygna, he takes charge to get its colonists to leave by blowing up their aqueduct in “The Ensigns of Command.” Try withstanding Sheliak attacks now, losers!

Thank you for my life While some of us on SSHB didn’t care much for Lal, you’ve got to admit that all of Data’s actions in “The Offspring” are on point. From questioning why he shouldn’t be allowed to create life, to letting his offspring self-identify, to keeping her out of the hands of Starfleet, it’s all good parenting. But what takes the cake is the heart-wrenching farewell scene after he tries to save her.

He who dies with the most toys… is kind of an asshole While we don’t get the cathartic release of Data phasering the hell out of Kivas Fajo in “The Most Toys,” we do get to take some pride that he is capable of overcoming his ethical subprogram to do away with someone who really has no right existing. When Geordi says that he detects a phaser firing in the transporter beam, you know he just needed a fraction of a second more and Fajo would be toast.

Your request for reassignment has been noted and denied Like in the afore-mentioned “The Ensigns of Command,” Data has some trouble adjusting to command when he takes control of the Sutherland in “Redemption, Part II.” It sure doesn’t help that his racist XO Hobson undermines his every decision, but that doesn’t stop Data from single-handedly foiling the Romulans’ plan and telling Hobson exactly where to shove it.

I've never been to a better funeral When it’s apparent that Geordi has been killed in a transporter accident in “The Next Phase,” Data grapples with the loss of his best friend in a very touching way, similar to how he mourned Yar as we mentioned above. And before he solves the puzzle of the episode and saves them, Data throws the best funeral I’ve ever seen for La Forge and Ro! People are just dying for a funeral like that!

The most human decision you’ve ever made We gave Picard a lot of accolades when we discussed his standing up for Data’s right to live in “The Measure of a Man.” Data gets a similar moment in “The Quality of Life” when he refuses to trade the lives of the Exocomps for those of other beings. It’s a nice episode of paying it forward, and we also get to see the scientific method on high display when he and Crusher deduce the little guys are alive.

Radioactive. What does that mean? Speaking of the scientific method! Even with his memories wiped in “Thine Own Self,” Data is able to piece together why the radioactive materials are hurting everyone in the village on Barkon IV. And with that clear slate of mind, we see that in all forms, Data is curious, caring, and willing to help people who are in need, even if it gets him speared in the back a little bit.

Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature… We’d be remiss if we didn’t bring up Data’s beautiful relationship with his cat, Spot. As everyone on SSHB is a devoted cat person, we found it a treat whenever we saw Data interacting with Spot, testing which food she’d like, and writing cat poetry. The best might be when Data reunites with her after the Enterprise crashes in Generations AND he has the emotions to appreciate it!

Resistance is fully functional We noticed in our TOS spotlights that it’s in the movies that most characters get to shine, and First Contact is that chance for Data. His scenes getting tempted by the Borg Queen are dead sexy and you can’t tell me otherwise. And his betrayal of the Collective by purposely sparing the Phoenix and then fumigating engineering to kill Borg Queen are the climax we all needed. I’ll be in my bunk.

—

Worst moments

I am stuck Especially in the early seasons, Data got used to make bad fish-out-of-water jokes. It was a silly habit the show had of depicting him as naïve about human culture even though he’s lived in it for years (and has the memories of the Omicron Thetans when the show remembers). Seeing him get stuck in a fingertrap in “The Last Outpost” is just such an example of dumb sight gags to make him look goofy.

I can’t use contractions, sir This is just a pet peeve of mine that could have been fixed so damned easily. Listen, writers, if you’re going to make it a plot point that Data can’t use contractions in episodes like “Datalore” and “Future Imperfect,” then be consistent. Run an apostrophe search in Microsoft Word and replace them, because in episodes like “We’ll Always Have Paris” when he states “It’s me,” it pisses me off.

Take my Worf, please! Don’t worry, we’re not done pointing out all the bad jokes told at Data’s expense that we see throughout the series (oh god, and just wait for the movies). And it’s a shame because Brent Spiner himself has such great comic timing and delivery, but when you make his jokes so obviously idiotic like in Ames’s least favorite TNG episode “The Outrageous Okona,” we cringe so hard.

Is anybody out there? We mentioned this one in our prime directive chat before, since Data just tramples all over it, but “Pen Pals” has some good discussion on the pros and cons of the situation. But that doesn’t excuse Data for making the decision on his own to get involved with the Dramen people, much less to bring Sarjenka onto the bridge (for crying out loud), necessitating a Pulaski mind wipe!

One seven three four six seven three two one four… There are a handful of times in TNG that we find it a terrible idea that Data (or any single being) has as much power as they have, considering how often they get possessed by things or duplicated by other things. So when Data single-handedly takes over the Enterprise in “Brothers,” disrupting the mission to save Willie Potts’s life, because Soong hacked into his brain, we raise eyebrows.

Jilting by association While I could joke that Data ever introducing Miles and Keiko was a mistake (and I have!), there’re still a lot of bad moves he makes regarding their relationship in “Data’s Day.” When he gets stuck in the middle of their nuptial stress, he’s so clueless how to handle the situation and keeps making things worse when, frankly, Miles and Keiko should have kept things to themselves.

Who programmed the book of love? Moving on to even more lousy relationships: Data’s brief, unnecessary romance with Jenna Desora in “In Theory” proves to be just another example of too many “Data doesn’t understand humanity” jokes that we hoped the show was over by this point. But alas, he’s written himself a love program to basically treat the situation like a sitcom and we were done with it.

Point that thing somewhere else From the moment Data stands directly in front of Bashir’s mystery device in “Birthright, Part I,” it’s obvious he’s going to get zapped by it. Really, Data? You couldn’t have stood literally anywhere else than in front of what is clearly an energy beam? And the rest of the episode, we’re stuck going on a dream adventure, and you already know how I feel about those!

Stop it, stop it, stop it Like in “Brothers,” it just seems weird to have Data getting controlled by his kooky family members when it happens again in “Descent.” This time, Lore has given Data the emotions he thought he wanted all along, but it turns out the very first emotion Data embraces is sheer rage. When he takes pleasure in killing Borg, you know maybe emotions just aren’t for him, and yet…

Open sesame! …when we get to Generations, Data has a fully fledged emotion chip that really needed more testing first. We’re subjected to just way too many of those dopey Data jokes, from Open Sesame to Mr. Tricorder to cackling at a 7-year-old joke. And to add kidnapping and torture to insult, it’s when Data is having a particularly bad reaction that Geordi nearly gets killed by Klingons!

I have been designed to serve as a floatation device We’re not done yet with the Data humor (and just way too much humor in general that doesn’t land) in Insurrection. While this film really gives Jean-Luc his time to shine, the rest of the cast are treated like afterthoughts, including Data who seems to be around for punchlines, like remarking about how the women’s boobs feel firmer, and serving as a life preserver.

Going out in a blaze of failure Finally, I need to criticize Nemesis yet again, as I am wont to do. It’s just… Data’s sacrifice for Picard is so unearned. I’d debate that it’s worse than the Kirk sacrifice in Generations that we put in that Worst Moments list too. Most of it is probably the abysmal script. I’ll sum it up by saying this: if you can’t make me care that my favorite character died, you’ve done something wrong.

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Now that we’ve found Data’s off switch, we can wrap things up this week. Don’t worry, we’ve got tons more character spotlights for the coming weeks, so keep your sensors here, journey over to SoundCloud or wherever you get your podcasts to follow along with our Enterprise watchthough, break the Prime Directive with us on Facebook and Twitter, and delete that comedian holoprogram from the computer!

[lixenn]

COMES IN TO BOTHER YOU. what was the first fic you wrote? do you have any cool keychains/trinkets you carry around? if money and time was no object, what field of study/career would you pursue? what is a book youre currently reading?

WOW SO MANY QUESTIONS I LOVE IT!!

Let's get you some answers then:

First fic

... Already stumped at that one, because damn my memory is so fucking bad. I can't even ruffle through my documents on laptop because when I first started writing I had a different one and I'm not sure if I transfered all the files when I upgraded.

*tries to make the brain do the thinking thing*

I think actually my first try at anything fanfic like was with my super cringy self-insert thing into the Percy Jackson universe. I didn't even know fanfic was a thing at the time and I'm pretty sure I deleted that document because it went absolutely no where, so yeah that was probably it. I was and still kinda am pretty obsessed with Uncle Rick's work, so it's no surprise to me that I tried my hand at writing fanfic without knowing the concept even existed. However I wouldn't be able to tell you what that story was about even if you put a gun to my head so I can't really give you much detail.

Cool keychain/trinkets

Unfortunately no cool keychains for me, I have a heart shaped one my mum got me from her trip to Berlin but that's pretty basic. As for trinkets? Do earrings count? Because I have some pretty dope sword earrings.

The keychain situation might change though, because my friend is going to Japan in May and he promised to get me a souvenir, so maybe I'll have a cool KHR keychain soon (might get something else though who knows ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Field of study/career

It's a toss up between Writer and Owner of Small Crochet Business. I would love to spent my day just being creative and making stuff. I do like science and I think with all the time I invested in my studies I can say I'm not bad at it but it's not my passion. Like, learning about new stuff is fun and I certainly can do experiments and data analysis but give me the option to simply chill on my couch/bed and just create, I would choose it over science every single time.

I'd probably need to get a better grip on scheduling my day because I realized having a strict routine does wonders for my mental health but otherwise just let me make stuff and I'll be happy.

BOOKS

*stares at all the books in my shelf that I've started but currently don't have the energy to read*

...

You want me to choose just ONE?

Well, if we take the one I read the most recently it's Assisstant to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Meahrer. It's a cozy fantasy romance, easy to read and quite funny at times. I liked the premise so I picked it up and I'm over half way through but my brain is so focused on writing right now, I don't really have the motivation to read (which is very strange since normally it's the other way around.)

Other titles that are gathering dust in my self:

The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch; also funny but in a more serious way, very heavy on the worldbuilding which is awesome but it takes a lot of brainspace so I put it on hold for now.

As Good as Dead by Holly Jackson; I binged the first two books in the trilogy in a day, but this one a bit darker than the others (which makes sense because shit happened) and I need to be in a certain brainspace for that.

The colour of magic by Terry Prachett; I read a lot of Discworld as a kid but I read it in German. This book is my first try reading Prachett in his original glory and it's actually a bit difficult, because again very heavy on the worldbuilding.

I know you only asked for one book, but I'm a chronic oversharer and you asked about BOOKS okay?! I'm bad at controlling myself when it comes to book discussions, so be glad I just kept it to four examples, I could have listed more!