#seize the means of computation

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Kickstarting a book to end enshittification, because Amazon will not carry it

My next book is The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation: it’s a Big Tech disassembly manual that explains how to disenshittify the web and bring back the old good internet. The hardcover comes from Verso on Sept 5, but the audiobook comes from me — because Amazon refuses to sell my audio:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-internet-con-how-to-seize-the-means-of-computation

Amazon owns Audible, the monopoly audiobook platform that controls >90% of the audio market. They require mandatory DRM for every book sold, locking those books forever to Amazon’s monopoly platform. If you break up with Amazon, you have to throw away your entire audiobook library.

That’s a hell of a lot of leverage to hand to any company, let alone a rapacious monopoly that ran a program targeting small publishers called “Project Gazelle,” where execs were ordered to attack indie publishers “the way a cheetah would pursue a sickly gazelle”:

https://www.businessinsider.com/sadistic-amazon-treated-book-sellers-the-way-a-cheetah-would-pursue-a-sickly-gazelle-2013-10

[Image ID: Journalist and novelist Doctorow (Red Team Blues) details a plan for how to break up Big Tech in this impassioned and perceptive manifesto….Doctorow’s sense of urgency is contagious -Publishers Weekly]

I won’t sell my work with DRM, because DRM is key to the enshittification of the internet. Enshittification is why the old, good internet died and became “five giant websites filled with screenshots of the other four” (h/t Tom Eastman). When a tech company can lock in its users and suppliers, it can drain value from both sides, using DRM and other lock-in gimmicks to keep their business even as they grow ever more miserable on the platform.

Here is how platforms die: first, they are good to their users; then they abuse their users to make things better for their business customers; finally, they abuse those business customers to claw back all the value for themselves. Then, they die:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

[Image ID: A brilliant barn burner of a book. Cory is one of the sharpest tech critics, and he shows with fierce clarity how our computational future could be otherwise -Kate Crawford, author of The Atlas of AI”]

The Internet Con isn’t just an analysis of where enshittification comes from: it’s a detailed, shovel-ready policy prescription for halting enshittification, throwing it into reverse and bringing back the old, good internet.

How do we do that? With interoperability: the ability to plug new technology into those crapulent, decaying platform. Interop lets you choose which parts of the service you want and block the parts you don’t (think of how an adblocker lets you take the take-it-or-leave “offer” from a website and reply with “How about nah?”):

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

But interop isn’t just about making platforms less terrible — it’s an explosive charge that demolishes walled gardens. With interop, you can leave a social media service, but keep talking to the people who stay. With interop, you can leave your mobile platform, but bring your apps and media with you to a rival’s service. With interop, you can break up with Amazon, and still keep your audiobooks.

So, if interop is so great, why isn’t it everywhere?

Well, it used to be. Interop is how Microsoft became the dominant operating system:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay

[Image ID: Nobody gets the internet-both the nuts and bolts that make it hum and the laws that shaped it into the mess it is-quite like Cory, and no one’s better qualified to deliver us a user manual for fixing it. That’s The Internet Con: a rousing, imaginative, and accessible treatise for correcting our curdled online world. If you care about the internet, get ready to dedicate yourself to making interoperability a reality. -Brian Merchant, author of Blood in the Machine]

It’s how Apple saved itself from Microsoft’s vicious campaign to destroy it:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay

Every tech giant used interop to grow, and then every tech giant promptly turned around and attacked interoperators. Every pirate wants to be an admiral. When Big Tech did it, that was progress; when you do it back to Big Tech, that’s piracy. The tech giants used their monopoly power to make interop without permission illegal, creating a kind of “felony contempt of business model” (h/t Jay Freeman).

The Internet Con describes how this came to pass, but, more importantly, it tells us how to fix it. It lays out how we can combine different kinds of interop requirements (like the EU’s Digital Markets Act and Massachusetts’s Right to Repair law) with protections for reverse-engineering and other guerrilla tactics to create a system that is strong without being brittle, hard to cheat on and easy to enforce.

What’s more, this book explains how to get these policies: what existing legislative, regulatory and judicial powers can be invoked to make them a reality. Because we are living through the Great Enshittification, and crises erupt every ten seconds, and when those crises occur, the “good ideas lying around” can move from the fringes to the center in an eyeblink:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/12/only-a-crisis/#lets-gooooo

[Image ID: Thoughtfully written and patiently presented, The Internet Con explains how the promise of a free and open internet was lost to predatory business practices and the rush to commodify every aspect of our lives. An essential read for anyone that wants to understand how we lost control of our digital spaces and infrastructure to Silicon Valley’s tech giants, and how we can start fighting to get it back. -Tim Maughan, author of INFINITE DETAIL]

After all, we’ve known Big Tech was rotten for years, but we had no idea what to do about it. Every time a Big Tech colossus did something ghastly to millions or billions of people, we tried to fix the tech company. There’s no fixing the tech companies. They need to burn. The way to make users safe from Big Tech predators isn’t to make those predators behave better — it’s to evacuate those users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/18/urban-wildlife-interface/#combustible-walled-gardens

I’ve been campaigning for human rights in the digital world for more than 20 years; I’ve been EFF’s European Director, representing the public interest at the EU, the UN, Westminster, Ottawa and DC. This is the subject I’ve devoted my life to, and I live my principles. I won’t let my books be sold with DRM, which means that Audible won’t carry my audiobooks. My agent tells me that this decision has cost me enough money to pay off my mortgage and put my kid through college. That’s a price I’m willing to pay if it means that my books aren’t enshittification bait.

But not selling on Audible has another cost, one that’s more important to me: a lot of readers prefer audiobooks and 9 out of 10 of those readers start and end their searches on Audible. When they don’t find an author there, they assume no audiobook exists, period. It got so bad I put up an audiobook on Amazon — me, reading an essay, explaining how Audible rips off writers and readers. It’s called “Why None of My Audiobooks Are For Sale on Audible”:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/25/can-you-hear-me-now/#acx-ripoff

[Image ID: Doctorow has been thinking longer and smarter than anyone else I know about how we create and exchange value in a digital age. -Douglas Rushkoff, author of Present Shock]

To get my audiobooks into readers’ ears, I pre-sell them on Kickstarter. This has been wildly successful, both financially and as a means of getting other prominent authors to break up with Amazon and use crowdfunding to fill the gap. Writers like Brandon Sanderson are doing heroic work, smashing Amazon’s monopoly:

https://www.brandonsanderson.com/guest-editorial-cory-doctorow-is-a-bestselling-author-but-audible-wont-carry-his-audiobooks/

And to be frank, I love audiobooks, too. I swim every day as physio for a chronic pain condition, and I listen to 2–3 books/month on my underwater MP3 player, disappearing into an imaginary world as I scull back and forth in my public pool. I’m able to get those audiobooks on my MP3 player thanks to Libro.fm, a DRM-free store that supports indie booksellers all over the world:

https://blog.libro.fm/a-qa-with-mark-pearson-libro-fm-ceo-and-co-founder/

Producing my own audiobooks has been a dream. Working with Skyboat Media, I’ve gotten narrators like @wilwheaton​, Amber Benson, @neil-gaiman​ and Stefan Rudnicki for my work:

https://craphound.com/shop/

[Image ID: “This book is the instruction manual Big Tech doesn’t want you to read. It deconstructs their crummy products, undemocratic business models, rigged legal regimes, and lies. Crack this book and help build something better. -Astra Taylor, author of Democracy May Not Exist, but We’ll Miss It When Its Gone”]

But for this title, I decided that I would read it myself. After all, I’ve been podcasting since 2006, reading my own work aloud every week or so, even as I traveled the world and gave thousands of speeches about the subject of this book. I was excited (and a little trepedatious) at the prospect, but how could I pass up a chance to work with director Gabrielle de Cuir, who has directed everyone from Anne Hathaway to LeVar Burton to Eric Idle?

Reader, I fucking nailed it. I went back to those daily recordings fully prepared to hate them, but they were good — even great (especially after my engineer John Taylor Williams mastered them). Listen for yourself!

https://archive.org/details/cory_doctorow_internet_con_chapter_01

I hope you’ll consider backing this Kickstarter. If you’ve ever read my free, open access, CC-licensed blog posts and novels, or listened to my podcasts, or come to one of my talks and wished there was a way to say thank you, this is it. These crowdfunders make my DRM-free publishing program viable, even as audiobooks grow more central to a writer’s income and even as a single company takes over nearly the entire audiobook market.

Backers can choose from the DRM-free audiobook, DRM-free ebook (EPUB and MOBI) and a hardcover — including a signed, personalized option, fulfilled through the great LA indie bookstore Book Soup:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/the-internet-con-how-to-seize-the-means-of-computation

What’s more, these ebooks and audiobooks are unlike any you’ll get anywhere else because they are sold without any terms of service or license agreements. As has been the case since time immemorial, when you buy these books, they’re yours, and you are allowed to do anything with them that copyright law permits — give them away, lend them to friends, or simply read them with any technology you choose.

As with my previous Kickstarters, backers can get their audiobooks delivered with an app (from libro.fm) or as a folder of MP3s. That helps people who struggle with “sideloading,” a process that Apple and Google have made progressively harder, even as they force audiobook and ebook sellers to hand over a 30% app tax on every dollar they make:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell/posts/3788112

Enshittification is rotting every layer of the tech stack: mobile, payments, hosting, social, delivery, playback. Every tech company is pulling the rug out from under us, using the chokepoints they built between audiences and speakers, artists and fans, to pick all of our pockets.

The Internet Con isn’t just a lament for the internet we lost — it’s a plan to get it back. I hope you’ll get a copy and share it with the people you love, even as the tech platforms choke off your communities to pad their quarterly numbers.

Next weekend (Aug 4-6), I'll be in Austin for Armadillocon, a science fiction convention, where I'm the Guest of Honor:

https://armadillocon.org/d45/

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/31/seize-the-means-of-computation/#the-internet-con

[Image ID: My forthcoming book 'The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation' in various editions: Verso hardcover, audiobook displayed on a phone, and ebook displayed on an e-ink reader.]

[gutsby]

Too Close for Comfort

Pairing: Joel Miller x Babysitter!Reader

Summary: You’ve been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, you’re surfing the web on her dad’s computer, and you find some…unusual things in his search history.

Or, Joel likes to jerk off to your lookalike on PornHub. It’s time you showed him what the real thing is like.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Creampie. Mommy/Daddy Roleplay (HEAR ME OUT!!) Brief boot humping. Squirting. Perv!Joel. Breeding kink.

Note: ‘Just call me if anyone else checks in…and by anyone, I mean any swingin dick’ is a line from No Country for Old Men

Word count: 12.7k

Purple slime had been Sarah’s idea.

It was an innocent thing, really. The four-year-old had practically been bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide and shining with excitement when she’d begged—‘Can we pleeeeease?!’—and who were you to tell her no?

You’d only be breaking one small rule of Joel’s, after all. One silly little admonition he’d made before leaving for work the first day you’d started babysitting for him. That had been over a year ago, and he hadn’t even sounded that serious when he’d said it. He probably wouldn’t mind if you bent the rule this one time at Sarah’s behest.

‘Don’t go in the computer room, please.’

Don’t use Joel’s desktop. Don’t rifle through any of the drawers in Joel’s office—it was a mess, but everything was in its place, according to him. Just don’t go in there.

But in exchange for Sarah agreeing to take her nap that day without protest, you’d promised to order her slime.

Purple, gooey, glittery, sticky stuff for her new collection.

You weren’t sure when the fuck putty had become the plaything of choice for kids in Pre-K, but you hadn’t been in a place to judge; whatever Sarah wanted to do, so long as it was safe for her to play with, was totally fine by you.

It was just one rule.

Surely if Mr. Miller knew how badly his daughter wanted the slime, he’d be fine with you booting up his computer once. That was what you kept telling yourself, anyway.

What kept humming through your mind as the desktop came to life and you toggled straight for Google Chrome.

Be quick, be quiet, it’s fine. It’s fine.

Purple goo—it was safe. Innocent. Completely justifiable.

What could the sweet, old, forty-something and forever polite Joel Miller possibly have to hide on this machine that made it wrong for you to buy this one simple toy?

You reached for the keyboard and inhaled a quick breath.

Then you typed one letter, and your heart nearly seized.

P…

…ornhub.com

It was the very first thing that appeared in the search bar.

You couldn’t unsee it. Instinctively, your hand clamped over your mouth, and your eyes widened. You couldn’t help but read the four URLs that immediately dropped down below the first; they were just so garishly inviting.

Hot, Naughty Babysitter gets POUNDED by her Boss!

Slutty Babysitter Gets Railed from Behind and Loves It

Big Dick Boss Gives Babysitter a Passionate Raw Fuck

‘I’ve Never Done This!’ Babysitter Deepthroats Cock

“Oh…my gosh,” you said, words muffled by your palm.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. It was just too bizarre, too far out of character, too unlike your boss.

The man had scarcely said ten words to you altogether that didn’t relate to your job in some way or another. He rarely ever engaged in casual confab, and he certainly wasn’t the type to flirt, or make you uncomfortable in the slightest. Frankly, in all the time you’d been babysitting, you always thought you were just…invisible to Joel Miller.

Not this. Never this.

You were still staring at the screen when you realized that you’d missed one URL title from the list. It was long.

It was the most unnerving one of all, you came to see.

Babysitter Lounging Poolside in Hot Red Bikini Gets a BIG Surprise—Her Old Boss Teaches Her How to FUCK

Your hand lowered from your face. It trembled, contemplating, before coming to rest atop the mouse.

Something about this seemed familiar. Strangely…off.

You couldn’t explain it, but your head and your heart and your hand gravitated to that one odd link in particular. You hadn’t even meant to move the mouse. Or press it with your finger. But there you went, following your instincts like some dumb, brainless ditz, and then the screen was changing. Going dark with the shift to an adult site before brightening anew with the thumbnail.

It was paused on one frame. Your jaw slackened.

The girl staring back from the scene was you.

Or looked exactly, uncannily like you anyway.

It was then that you noticed what she was wearing, too—what you guessed wouldn’t be on her body for long—and you glanced down to your own shoulder. Just like your on-screen doppelgänger, you were wearing the same bikini in a bright, cherry-red hue beneath your tank top.

You wore it under your clothes damn near every day, indulging in the Millers’ backyard pool more often than not, and even being allowed to swim there on the days Sarah had summer camp—Joel had been so obliging.

So accommodating and sweet.

You never thought he’d be seeking your fucking twin online on a porn site after watching you traipse around his property wearing it. Your gut clenched; you clicked.

“Hey, sweetheart! Everything go OK?”

The voice that rumbled through the speakers was low. Male. Vaguely paternal and with a hint of a Southern lilt.

You swallowed, knowing exactly where this was going.

You weren’t sure why you were even watching when you could already predict what would become of it. The camera panned over a body identical to yours; it landed on a face that was smiling and sweet and so like your own you almost had to question whether it might not be you after all. Had you somehow forgotten this secret porn alter ego in a bout of amnesia? You kept watching.

The girl bit her bottom lip and let out the phoniest giggle.

“Yes, sir. Perfectly fine. Do you like my new bikini?”

Be so fucking serious, you thought, critically.

Then you remembered it was porn, not an Oscar-winning film. You saw the camera tilt down to her tits, and you had to admit, she had a great rack. A bit nicer than yours.

For a beat, you wondered if Joel had thought the same.

You had to batter those thoughts away, because the next second brought a big, burly hand onto the screen. It reached for the girl with her perfect, perky breasts and it kneaded them softly. No further pretense or prelude was needed—they just jumped right in and let it happen, like this was a normal thing for a babysitter and a boss to do.

Maybe in some other universe it was. In a world where a girl your age could just smile, and bat her eyes, and let them roll back gently as a whimper crossed her lips and she begged him, ‘More, daddy, more!’ this was all okay.

The man squeezed the flesh harder. She whined, and he proceeded to push the red nylon aside and expose the whole expanse of her breast—and holy shit, even the nipple looked like yours. Your mouth opened wider, and for a moment, it was like you couldn’t breathe as you watched that old, sun-kissed hand fondle the breast of a girl who looked just like you. Who was peering up at a man who sounded almost like Joel, murmuring, ‘Attagirl.’

You’d heard your boss say that once.

It had been such a silly, off-handed thing that you doubted he even remembered saying it. But one time, you’d struggled to open the passenger door to his truck before he drove you home. Once you’d narrowly managed to pry it open and slide into your seat, he’d laughed and rumbled: ‘Attagirl.’ Your face had warmed.

Just like your cheeks were doing now, all hot and bothered and desperate to hear more. Presently, the man slid the top off of the girl’s chest, and her breasts hung freely. You could hear him groan behind the camera at the sight, and not too long after that, before he could reach to touch her tits again, she was crawling on her knees toward him. Shuffling easily and expertly across the lawn chair and undoing the belt, button, and zip of his pants in a matter of seconds. A hand smoothed over her head, and you could see her preen beneath his touch.

Before she’d even wrapped her lips around his cock, your stomach was churning. Your fingers were stirring from the mouse and moving gently—again, of their own volition, it seemed—toward the waistband of your own bottoms. It was sick, admittedly. So wrong to be wanting to touch yourself to the very same video your boss had indulged in himself, in the very same chair he had done the deed. But you couldn’t help it. Your fingers slipped under the the fabric of your shorts, then your bikini, then your throat let out the tiniest noise upon seeing a cock appear on-screen. It was abnormally large, of course.

Silently, you wondered if Joel’s might not look the same. Your stomach flipped as soon as the girl took it in her mouth, and your index and middle fingers landed on your clit. You barely needed to touch to feel a jolt of pleasure.

Her head bobbed up and down. You felt powerless to do anything else but rub. And circle. And moan the slightest bit when you saw her coat his length with her shiny spit.

You heard that your noises mirrored hers. You didn’t care. Really, it felt as though you were in a trance, and you couldn’t stop watching, or touching, until you’d had your fill. Like Mr. Miller had done himself. It was all too much.

Before you even realized it, five minutes had passed, the man and woman on-screen were shifting from oral to raw, penetrative sex, and you were nearing your peak. Right before the cock that had been lodged down the girl’s throat could slide into her wet, glistening cunt, you felt your stomach lurch. You rubbed harder, watching the fat and leaking tip of the man’s cock tease through her folds, and just as he was about to slide in and you could finally find your release…a door banged open downstairs.

You almost screamed.

As quickly as you could, you yanked your hand out of your pants and clicked out of that browser even faster. The second you heard footfalls on the steps, you scampered out of there. Half-sprinting, half-tip-toeing down the hall and toward the bathroom, before halting at the door. You made your presence known with one light stomp of your foot, pretending to be turning and walking out, and as soon as you did, Joel was right there. Staring.

Sweating.

Scrubbing at his face with one weary hand, before taking a rag and wiping it through his beard. He sighed heavily.

“Long day?” you chirped while trying to mask the panic.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Joel answered, voice wan, “How’s my little terror? Asleep? She give ya any trouble?”

Just asked me to buy her a toy online and inadvertently led me to find your internet Spank Bank archives full of women who look like me. Other than that, it was fine.

“I put her down about an hour ago. She was great.”

You forced a smile, and Joel seemed to believe it.

“Perfect. Need me to give you a ride home?”

“No, no, you should stay here with Sar—”

“‘S’alright. Tommy’s right downstairs.”

Of course he’d brought him home.

“No, really, I can walk. It’s fine—”

“Don’t be silly. C’mon, kiddo.”

Kiddo.

Kiddo.

The man had been jerking off to the thought of you for who knows how long, and now he called you ‘kiddo’?

You hated how arousing the nickname sounded from him

You despised yourself for rubbing your clit in his office.

Most of all, you loathed the way your panties had gotten wet the last time you’d climbed into his truck and heard that word crawl off of his old, drawling tongue: ‘Attagirl.’

Reluctantly, you nodded your head. You followed him downstairs and hoped the car door wouldn’t stick again.

He had to stop.

It was no longer a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ his dick would lead him straight off a cliff, and today, Joel was starting to think that precipice was looking extra nice. Tempting.

Almost as inviting as the divot he could see at the small of your back, glimmering with a couple hot beads of sweat under the midafternoon sun. He swallowed.

Sarah was at camp today. You’d had the time to yourself, and the weather was blistering hot, and of course, where else would you be but his backyard? He’d told you ad nauseum, ever since you started babysitting his kid, that his pool was open to you whenever you so chose to go.

Presently, Joel wished he could revoke that invitation.

Seeing how you were flipped on your stomach, body all soft and warm and splayed out on one of his deck chairs—wearing that fucking red swimsuit, of all things—Joel was left to ogle from his office window, and inside, he felt like a certified pervert. Arguably, he was. His old, worn hands had all but glided to find his mouse as soon as he’d sat down at his desk and saw you out there, and no sooner had his cursor found Chrome than his cock started to stir. He’d wanted to watch. If not you in all your bare, sun-baked glory, then surely the woman he could see getting her throat and cunt stuffed on his screen.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Was he really that much of a gooner he couldn’t let his kid’s babysitter lounge outside without stroking his dick?

Shit. He had the bottle of lotion in one hand and the box of tissues in the other in no time at all. He ripped three free Kleenex aside and reached for his mouse once more.

He was pissed at himself. He toggled over to the Hub with a grunt, and in no time at all, had you pulled up.

Joel liked to pretend it was you, anyway.

If he couldn’t have the sweet young thing every swinging dick in this town would’ve killed to have himself, he could rub one out to a girl exactly like you. He could fantasize.

He could skip the video to 8:53 on the dot, as he always did, and he could rub himself raw. It wouldn’t take long.

He always fast-forwarded to that exact part, without fail, because she moaned like you then. He’d never forget it.

It had almost been six months since it happened, and he still remembered that sound as clear as day. You’d been hauling your backpack off the couch in the living room, having stuffed the thing full with more school supplies than you could feasibly carry, and Joel had been in the kitchen, unseen. You’d lifted the bag with effort, and once you had, you let out a soft but audible whine. You dropped the bag back down to your feet, and when you bent to try again, you’d moaned fully. It was like the stretch had made you feel good, or something. You’d huffed and managed to get the weight slung over your back with modest success, then left, but Joel had been changed. Too quickly had he retreated to his office and swore to find any clip where a moan sounded like that.

“Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!”

Granted, the dialogue was cheesy, but the sound after it was identical to the one you’d made. Joel repeated it.

He hadn’t even noticed, but he’d already lathered his hand and cock with lotion. He was scrubbing vigorously while your twin wiggled her hips and begged her co-star to put it in, to quit teasing her pussy like that, can’t you see I’m practically dripping for you, daddy? Look at it!

Unfortunately, Joel’s head was turned the other direction—away from the screen, and toward the window—watching you where you sat out on the lawn.

He stroked harder. He groaned.

You had just turned onto your back. Your tits looked incredible. Joel reckoned they’d look even better with his dick pushed up between them, and at the thought, his mouth watered. His lips were slightly parted, and he feared he might drool. What a sight he must have been then: jaw slack, lids heavy, cock in hand, and moan after moan bubbling out of his throat. He got closer to climax.

“Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.”

It wasn’t long after that that Joel heard the girl whine in pleasure—the man behind her had notched in the first inch and told her to behave—and meanwhile, he watched your chest rise and fall, rise and fall outside. It was calm. Unlike the girl being taught how to fuck poolside, you remained untouched. Spotless. Placid and serene while your hands picked up a magazine and began flipping through it. While Joel’s orgasm crested inside him, he wondered if you’d ever want to try something like that. Roleplay. Or would it be fake at all? Had you ever been touched by a man, shown the best ways to give and receive pleasure, or was it all brand new, like it was supposed to be for the woman on his screen? Joel panted, and he fucked his hand harder. He groaned.

“Oh, daddy, it’s so big! Feels so good going inside me!”

“You love gettin’ fucked by an older man, don’t you?”

“Yes, daddy, yes! Please don’t stop—oh, OHHH!”

Joel wanted to be the only older man you had.

If he wasn’t the first, he sure as fuck could be the last. Give you all the dizzying, euphoric feelings your body deserved and stretch you open gently for the taking.

He could teach you so much, ruin you for any oth—

Shit.

What the fuck was this asshole doing here?

At the back gate, he saw his neighbor Dieter.

The man strolled across the lawn, and Joel’s orgasm receded in a blink. He was walking right over to you.

No. No, no, no. Joel released his dick from its vice grip and felt the thing twitch in indignation. Meanwhile, the sound of skin on skin continued to flood his eardrums from out of the computer speakers, where the happy babysitter-boss duo was hitting a brutal pace. The girl let out one over-the-top shriek of pleasure, and Joel clicked pause. He toggled out of the browser. Then he redirected his gaze out the office window, where his own girl was being accosted by Dieter. His blood boiled with anger.

Who did this creep think he was? The man never so much as looked Joel’s way or approached his property unless it was to ask to be ‘lent’ some booze or else ask after some friend, relative, or coworker Dieter wanted to be introduced to—he was perennially unemployed and a fuckboy bachelor to his core. The last Joel had heard, he’d spent the last year in Los Angeles, or Paris, or some other too-big city to chase his singing and acting dreams

And here he was now, hitting on his poor, defenseless babysitter. Joel wouldn’t stand for that in any world.

Though his dick was still erect, it had softened some, too. His rage facilitated that, and him shoving his length back in his jeans, zipping it up, and all but punching the desktop off made it spongier still. He walked like he was mad at the floor beneath his boots. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so defensive—he had just been rubbing one out to the sight of you less than five minutes ago—but now wasn’t the time for thinking. He had to act.

Protect, if he had to.

What if his neighbor wanted to go for a swim, too?

Joel would drown the man with his two bare hands if he so much as reached for your bikini-clad form. He stalked loudly down the hall and searched for a less sweaty shirt to wear, then some deodorant, then a comb. He peered in the bathroom mirror and saw his black-and-grey locks all out of sorts, and for a second, he contemplated taking a shower. You’d probably be able to smell his unsatisfied desire from outside. He looked, and felt, a bit unhinged.

Joel decided he didn’t care, before plodding downstairs.

Outside, you lay in the same position he’d seen you last. Your hand was shielding your face. You were smiling.

And beside you, Dieter was grinning even bigger.

Joel made a beeline down the porch steps, then across the lawn, like his life might’ve depended on it. Scowling.

“—but getting cast in Gladiator II would’ve been wild—”

Of course Dieter was yapping about his failed acting career. Of course. Joel could hear him drone on as he approached, though he didn’t register a word of what he said. Instead, he waved a hand. He feigned a calm tone:

“Dieter! How’s it going?”

And he slowed down, too.

Just as he drew in, his neighbor volleyed a look his way. Joel couldn’t miss how his smile twitched down a little.

“Joel.”

Accepting a cordial hand in greeting.

“Doing alright, how ‘bout yourself?”

Joel nodded fine, just fine and offered some offhand remark about not having seen him since last summer, and Dieter couldn’t resist the chance to puff up and mention a school he’d been attending. Joel didn’t hear it, or give a shit. His gaze was already trained on you. Your own flitted from Dieter, to Joel, then to Dieter again, and your lips were smiling kindly enough. You seem humored.

“Mr. Bravo just got back from Berlin,” you beamed.

Then Dieter met your look and shook his head.

“Dieter, sweetie, Dieter. Or Dee, if you want.”

Joel almost wanted to vomit in his mouth.

“Germany, huh? What brings you here?”

No sense in beating around the bush.

Joel meant to ask why Dieter was here, in his backyard, with his babysitter, of course. Why the fuck he was eyeing you like that, like your tits were two Emmys and the only way to earn it himself was to stare as long, and as hard, as possible. Joel cleared his throat instinctively.

Dieter blinked and cast a glance back to him.

“Oh, here. Yeah. I, um…I just wanted to see if you had that— that—” He snapped his fingers, “That leafblower.”

Leafblower?

He was so full of shit.

“My leafblower,” Joel repeated.

It was fucking July, for crying out loud.

Evidently, his neighbor didn’t seem to care. He met Joel’s gaze with an even look, and he nodded his head.

He doubled down: “Yeah, the leafblower. I’ve had some debris pile up in my yard since I’ve been gone, y’know.”

“Are you gonna be in Austin long? Or are you going back overseas once you’ve had that casting call?” you asked.

You cocked your head with genuine curiosity. Joel grit his teeth, but he tried not to let his discontent show anyplace else on his face. A muscle might’ve jumped when he saw how smugly Dieter smirked at your intrigue.

“Oh, I’ll be here long enough, don’t you worry,” he said.

That was it.

Joel gestured to the shed in the back corner of the yard, about to tell Dieter that the leafblower was in there, go knock yourself out, when his neighbor cut in once again.

“In the meantime, maybe I’ll have you babysit for me. I hate to steal Sarah’s pal, but maybe you can split your time between my place and Joel’s. What do you think?”

You blinked a little quicker, like you weren’t quite sure what to say at first. Joel took the chance to interject.

“You don’t have any kids, Bravo,” he practically growled.

“I know. I’ve got cats, though,” Dieter just grinned back, flitting a cheeky look to you. “And you have no idea how naughty those pussycats can get while a man’s away.”

That was really all Joel could take. He didn’t even let you answer; he just pointed to the shed and made a fist with his other hand at his side. His chest was heaving breaths.

“You and her can chat when she’s off the clock, how ‘bout that? Leafblower’s in the shed. Door’s unlocked.”

His words didn’t invite protest of any kind. Dense as he was, Dieter probably sensed that he’d ticked his neighbor off with the suggestive comment to his babysitter, and he backed away, both literally and figuratively. He bid a quick, cavalier goodbye with a shit-eating grin stretching his lips, and then he went to the storage shed and left.

You were still blinking, still creasing your brows tight, by the time the back gate had slammed shut behind him. You watched after him, teeth gnawing at your cheek.

“He seemed like a funny gu—”

“What do you think you’re doin’?”

Joel’s words appeared to sting like a slap in the face. You jerked your head back to him, seeming to say, ‘What?’

“You know what. Don’t play innocent now,” Joel griped.

You continued to stare, then started to shake your head.

“Mr. Miller—”

“Don’t Mr. Miller me, either,” he snapped, far shorter than he’d ever spoken to you before. His nostrils flared, “You’re old enough to know better. You did all of that.”

“All of what?” you shot back.

“Attracted men like Dieter into my yard.”

“He’s your neighbor! What do you expect?”

Offense marred your tone. He didn’t entirely blame you.

“No, no—he never sticks his nose over here unless he sees something he wants. You were flaunting yourself.”

At that, your mouth fell open.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Miller? Are you serious?”

“Language, young lady—”

“I don’t give a shit.” You stood up from your chair. Your eyes flashed with ire. Just like his hands had before, yours curled into fists. You stood your ground with him. “You invited me to come swim here whenever I wanted to. You did that, asshole. What did you expect me to sunbathe in, army fatigues and fucking combat boots?”

Joel blinked hard at that. He didn’t like being mocked.

“Still shouldn’t be that damn skimpy. And I said lang—”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, dad. Don’t act like you’re mine.”

Don’t act like you’re mine.

Joel’s chest tightened. His gaze seared into yours, almost as though he were as angry as you were now, but deep down, the man only felt remorse. Resentment. Whatever rage he harbored now was reserved for himself

He shouldn’t have gone there.

He shouldn’t have masked his own jealousy with pseudo paternal scolding. He looked like a dickhead doing that.

And you weren’t shy to let him know it in the slightest.

Presently, your finger was jabbed in his face. You were planted less than two feet from where he stood, and though you were noticeably dwarfed by his size, your next words had him beat by a foot, if he’d had to guess.

“I watch your kid, Joel. I am not your daughter. If you don’t want me hanging around here in my hot red bikini, then you can just say that. But don’t blame me for him.”

Joel bristled at your words, though he wasn’t sure why. When he opened his mouth to speak again, you added:

“And don’t blame me for that, either.”

Suddenly, he realized your finger was pointed at his legs.

Or, rather, what was poking up stiff between them.

Joel’s cheeks heated up to a thousand degrees.

You’d just caught him. You’d seen his arousal.

And you were turning on your heels again.

Before Joel could even try to summon the words to his tongue, you were grabbing your things. Shoving your shoes onto your feet. And Joel had only to stand there.

Feeling stupid and inert beside you.

As you went to the back gate, he somehow managed to call that you didn’t have a car, let him drive you back.

You didn’t even dignify his words with a verbal response.

You just raised your middle finger over your shoulder.

And then the gate crashed shut behind you.

You would be walking home that day.

Two big eyes and round cheeks were all you could see.

Then, they darted beneath the covers and were gone.

“Oh no, where’d sweet Sarah go?” you wondered aloud. Sitting at the edge of the bed and pretending not to see where she’d just dipped her head under the blankets, you furrowed your brows and proceeded to pat around you.

Everywhere you felt with your hands, you completely ignored the big lump under the duvet. It was a game.

A silly one at that—hide-and-go-seek was generally best left to places where you couldn’t figure out her location in the blink of an eye. But you played along. You heard a soft giggle. You continued feeling around the twin-sized mattress like this was the most bewildering puzzle of all.

“Whe-ere’s Sarah?” you sing-songed.

You heard a shuffling of limbs, a sniffle.

Your palm tapped right by those little feet.

And as soon as you did, she screamed. At four years old, Sarah hadn’t quite mastered the art of being stealthy.

You’d cut her some slack. You always had.

Blindly passing where her body lay, you glided to the opposite side of her bed and tapped inquiringly there.

“Is she…here?” You got a pillow.

“No!” Sarah shrieked back.

Such a helpful, obliging kid. She’d make a terrible spy.

“Is she…up here?” You rapped the headboard twice.

“No!!” she squealed.

You glanced over at the clock on her nightstand. It was approaching bedtime. Taking note of this, and knowing you couldn’t keep up with the charade for much longer, you let out a sigh. You stood from the bed, looked around the room with dramatic éclat, then started to walk away.

“Okay…I guess if Sarah’s not here I’ll have to leave…”

The second you said that, Sarah threw the covers back. She jumped up in bed, and she stomped her little feet.

“No! No! I’m here! I’m here!”

You spun on your heels, eyes wide with faux surprise.

“Sarah!”

And then you rushed back over, just in time to watch her drop to the bed and flash you a wide, exuberant smile.

“Your Sarah,” she corrected.

She adored it when you called her that. Your Sarah.

You nodded your head in agreement, “My Sarah. Sorry.”

She nodded too, like she’d just reminded you of the most important thing, and then she slipped back under her covers. She let you drag the purple duvet over her frame, all the way up to her chin, and when she was all snug inside, she gave another smile. She kicked her feet again.

“Stay,” she commanded, tone still sugar-sweet.

“I will, baby. ‘Til your daddy gets back, I’ll be here.”

“I mean forever!” Sarah dragged out the last syllable, and, not yet content with the answer you’d proffered, tried swaying you again, still more emphatic, “For-ever!”

If your daddy wasn’t such an ass, I might consider it.

Instead, you smiled back at her and shook your head. You smoothed the hair away from her face, then you leaned in and kissed her forehead with a gentle peck.

“Then my family would miss me. I gotta see them.”

“Says who?” Sarah’s pout was unmistakable.

Before you could reply, she cut in again.

“You can be my family. My mommy.”

Your throat constricted at those words. You weren’t sure what to say, or how to assuage your sweet Sarah then.

Again, you were about to open your mouth to speak, when your pint-sized companion piped up again. This time, her voice was softer. Surprisingly delicate and low.

“I want you to be my mommy,” she told you quietly, “Then you’ll live here. With me and daddy. And you’ll never have to go home again and we can play all day!”

Your heart ached. You kissed the tip of her nose and turned away, momentarily, to hide the hurt on your face.

Sarah Miller deserved much more in a mother than you.

When you looked up again, her grin was big. Hopeful.

“Don’t you wanna be my mommy too?” she asked.

“‘Course I do, baby,” you answered without hesitation, “But…don’t you think your daddy should have a say too?”

Somehow, her face got even brighter.

“He will! He— he…”

Sarah trailed off a second, as if considering her words. She didn’t understand what marriage meant. You’d help.

“Your daddy,” you finished for her, speaking slow and soft as you leaned in close, “is a good man who deserves a good woman to make your mommy. Don’t you agree?”

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Yeah, but—”

“And a mommy’s gotta be someone he really loves.”

“But he…”

She was thinking again. You could tell. You pressed on.

“He is gonna find someone great someday. He’ll love you and her to bits, and y’all will get to play together all day.”

“But he loves you!” Sarah cried, at length.

A beat.

Your breath faltered.

The girl’s words had scarcely hung in the air for more than two seconds, and their meaning hardly registered in your brain before your own were coming out fast. Certain

“Your daddy doesn’t love me, baby. I’m just his friend.”

“Yes, he does! He told me so himself!”

Again, you shook your head.

“You misunderstood him, sweetie.”

You tried to smooth her hair back again, but Sarah’s head bucked away. She scrunched up her nose in clear protest and refused to let you cradle her face until she’d spoken her piece. When she did, her voice was pleading all over:

“Daddy loves you, he told me. You can be my mommy.”

And for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, you felt your heart balloon in your chest. Your gut clenched—but not for the reasons she or you wanted it to. The truth was that you didn’t have the words to tell a four-year-old girl that her father didn’t love you like that at all, that his head and his heart were anywhere but with you, and that, if you were being honest, you were furious with him. How he could so much as hint at such nonsense was beyond you. His little girl dreamed of having a mother. It was stupid and senseless and cruel to even suggest that that woman could be you. You sighed.

But, despite your every thought and feeling to the contrary, you knew you had to soothe the girl with some small semblance of hope. Something to hold her over for the night, so she didn’t cry herself to sleep thinking that you didn’t want to be her mommy. Gently, you leaned in.

You lifted the covers back up from where they’d fallen. You tucked them snug around her torso, and you paused.

Your tone was measured and soft when you spoke next:

“I don’t know about your daddy, baby. What I do know is that I would be the luckiest lady alive to get to be your mommy, alright? I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

And you meant it. You saw one look light up her face, and every ounce of anger that had been provoked by her father was forgotten in an instant. Her grin ensured it.

“Anywhere,” she parroted back.

“Anywhere,” you said, again.

Then you kissed the crown of her head, wished her sweet dreams, cut the little light off. You left the room quietly.

It was only when you were out of there and far enough away down the hallway that your skin started to burn.

You couldn’t help it. Anger was fast to trickle back.

This feeling was only compounded when the next moment brought a sound to the landing on the stairs. You glanced over down the hall, muscles all tensing at once, and when you saw him there, it was as though your rage just bubbled over. Your jaw clenched; your stomach flipped in a way so decidedly unlike how it had done for him two days ago, in his office, and suddenly, your throat was working again. You kept your voice low this time, keen not to draw Sarah’s attention out there, but the words you used were clear. Quiet. Doubtlessly effective.

Even in the dark, you saw his brows jump when he heard:

“Joel, we need to talk.”

It had been two years since he’d had a woman in here.

Joel wished it were under any circumstances but these.

Presently, your eyes were ablaze. The two of you had just stepped into his room and shut the door behind you, and with the click of a latch, you hadn’t thought to hold it in:

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He blinked.

Well, many things.

Joel wouldn’t have had the space to explain it all if you’d given him a week, and still, he had to say something. He blinked again, made a sound in his throat as if to clear it, then shook his head. His shoulders sagged in his jacket.

“I…I’m sorry.”

For the other day. For getting caught up in his own anger and taking it out on you. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for now, or what he should say, but he thought it best to start there. He shrugged his jacket off and set it over the back of the nearest chair. He turned to you again, where you were standing with a warning look.

“Don’t say sorry to me,” you said. “Say sorry to Sarah.”

Sarah?

Before he could speak, you went on.

“You’re just setting her up for heartbreak, you know that? I mean how selfish— how stupid could you possibly be?”

You pursed your lips like tears might threaten if you didn’t. This caught him off guard—his daughter? What could he have said or done to hurt her in any of this?

“What are you talking about?”

“You said I’d be her mom, Joel!”

He winced. You furrowed your brows and set your mouth in a line—really trying to fight the emotion behind it—and, while all the rest of you bristled in anticipation for what was to come, Joel softened. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to be the guy who lost his head at the thought of seeing you cry and forget the whole reason you were upset with him in the first place, but he couldn’t help it. Though you looked like you wanted to kill him right then, Joel drew closer. He shifted toward you.

“Did— did she, uh…call you…mommy?” he said, pained.

“Yeah. And you let her believe she could,” you spat.

He hadn’t meant to do that, either. Sarah had been calling you that for a while when you weren’t around to hear, and after enough times telling her otherwise, he’d just stopped correcting her on it. Sarah wanted a mother. You were the closest thing she had, and who was he to sabotage that? At the time, he’d just wanted to…pretend.

That was a running theme he had going with you.

Right now, you didn’t seem to care about that.

You just rolled your eyes in that cool, juvenile way when you didn’t hear a response from him, and he had to bite his tongue from saying something worse. He hated when you did that. It made him remember your age—the reality of you being his kid’s babysitter and how guilty he should feel for wanting to do something more about that eyeroll.

He wasn’t your father.

You weren’t Sarah’s mother, either.

You most certainly weren’t the girl on his computer screen, as much as he would’ve liked to see you that way, and even though you were standing here in his bedroom.

That was all fantasy. Make-believe. This was his reality.

You were visibly pissed and wouldn’t budge an inch.

“Is it really so bad if she says it?” he grit out.

Your eyes widened. You scoffed.

“Of course it is, Joel!”

You backed away.

He hated seeing that, too. He hated having you move from him, not toward him, wearing that scowl on your lips as you did. His fingers twitched—itched—at his side.

“Sarah’s young. She doesn’t…mean anything by it. She’ll grow out of it soon enough. And I don’t want to hurt her.”

“You’ll hurt her even worse by not telling her the truth!” you snapped. You sounded exasperated saying it now. “We’re not a family. I’m the goddamn babysitter, and— and— you’re Sarah’s father. Act like it, for Christ’s sake.”

That set his teeth on edge.

Joel felt the urge to fight back, but narrowly refrained. He flexed his fingers, and he bit down hard to keep the vitriol at bay. Because that was exactly what fathers did. They controlled their anger; even when faced with a smart-mouthed babysitter who wore his patience out.

Even when your arms were folded over your chest in that impossibly tight, white tank, and your tits looked like they might spill from the fabric at any given moment. Joel swallowed and refocused his gaze before going on.

“Don’t tell me how to be a father.”

Something flared in your eyes.

“Why? I’m fucking right.”

“Language, young lady.”

That only seemed to irk you worse; your hands flew up.

“Yeah, well,” you started, accusing, “If we’re playing house, I might as well be allowed to say what I like.”

“We are not playing hous—”

“But you want to, right? That’s why I’m always here.”

“No, I need a—”

“Maid? Mommy?”

You paced closer. Joel’s jaw clenched.

“Obedient little housewife?” you sneered.

Your eyes were shining like two derisive pools. With every blink, you seemed to mock him more. Goad him on and beg for your reward, though you hardly knew what it was.

“C’mon, Mr. Miller,” you chided, voice low, “What is it?”

What he was, or what he’d stand to take. It wasn’t this.

“Keep runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth, I’ll show you what.”

The words flew off his tongue before he could stop them.

It was a reflex—something that had been stewing in his mind since the second you’d set foot in his room and went on provoking him. But it was wrong, of course.

He was wrong for even thinking it, much less saying it.

Now your eyes were round, and your mouth was slightly agape, and your brain was likely working a thousand miles a minute to process what had just been said.

Joel had to fix it.

“That— that ain’t—” he began, already hating himself.

To his surprise, and embarrassment, a laugh rang out.

Its sound was explosive and short. It split the air with such hot, bitter force that his words dropped off. His gaze had no choice but to remain plastered on yours.

“Oh, I bet.”

You grinned, humorless.

You didn’t appear shocked in the slightest. In fact, his remark seemed only to embolden you then, as you teased that smile wider, drew yourself closer, and tipped your chin up. You looked doubly enlivened by his last admission. Vindicated in some strange, inexplicable way. Your breaths were warm, and the swell of your breasts came to hover just inches from his chest when the last thing he needed to happen, happened between you next.

You pointed again. Joel didn’t need to look down.

“‘Don’t tell me how to be a father,’” you repeated his words from before, voice taking on a low, faux baritone.

Your amusement was clear. His cock was hard.

It seemed you’d never let the latter slip past you.

“Is that what we’re gettin’ at here, Mr. Miller?” you asked, tone now precocious. Probing, “You showing me what a great daddy you are, and me being the mommy you al—”

“No.”

Joel pushed off. He didn’t want to hear another thing.

He headed straight for the door, prepared to usher you out of it. This conversation had taken an irreparable turn.

When he reached for the handle, though, he had to stop. Your voice made him stop, echoing from the opposite end of the room. Joel turned, and he saw you on his bed.

“I’m just curious. Is that really what you meant?”

You were sitting at the foot of it, legs casually hanging off. Your look was innocent, and still more knowing than Joel could bear. The heat left to swirl in his groin nearly suffocated him below the waist, and he inhaled deeply.

“Mean what? I didn’t…mean anything.”

His touch fell from the doorknob all the same.

Your feet were swinging when he faced you completely.

“Just like you didn’t mean for Sarah to call me mommy?”

Maybe he had meant it more than he let on. He couldn’t answer. Joel felt every bit the creep he knew himself to be—decades your senior and letting you rest on his bed, soft, smooth legs kicking back and forth as he watched.

He was good at that, wasn’t he? Watching. Waiting. Aching from the comfort of his home office while he watched those filthy clips on repeat, images of you flitting through his mind at every stretch, moan, and whimper. His will was powerless to his perverted needs. He had only to defend himself against their influence by planting his feet firmly in place and refusing to move.

“You wanna teach me, though. Don’t you, daddy?”

It was as though your words reached him from another place. Somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind—his memory—and the tone of it stirred him. It was familiar, in ways you couldn’t have possibly understood. Unless you were living in his head, there was no way in hell you could’ve known what those lines meant to him.

‘Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.’

It made him ache.

Joel still wouldn’t move, but you could come to him.

He blinked once, and you were there. Off the bed. Walking to him. Down on your knees in front of him.

This had to be the work of his own sick imagination.

He groaned at just the sight of your smile, curving slow.

And then you peeled off your top, revealing the bright, nylon, cherry-red fabric he’d seen far too many times on his computer screen and off it—on you, by his pool. Joel sucked in a breath and shook his head, gaze darkening.

“Thought you didn’t wanna play mommy,” he growled.

If this was all just in his head, he could talk as he wanted.

“I don’t,” you answered him soberly. Suddenly, your chin was in his hand. Your eyes were still glistening up at him. “But you need to get this out of your system. Just once.”

Out of his system.

Joel was out of his fucking mind with desire.

“Just once?” His voice cracked as he said it.

Only one time. That was alright. Forgivable.

From what he half-believed to be a figment of his own perverted mind came the word from your lips: ‘Once.’

The next had the thumb that was cupping your chin slipping between those same lips. Still smiling while your mouth slid down to his knuckle. You sucked him gently.

And in just one glimpse, one fleeting second on that lone, thick thumb, the sight below him had every other obscene thing entrenched in his memory beat by a mile. You were better than everything else he’d seen or tried to dream up. You were real, he hoped, sliding your shiny wet lips up and down the surface of his skin, and when you pried them off, and you asked for his cock, he had no choice but to oblige. He had to rack his brain for words.

This was his babysitter, his daughter’s companion, his—

“Sweet fuckin’ girl,” he said when he first felt you there.

Before he even knew what became of his belt, buckle, and zip, the base of his cock was in your hand, and your lips were hovering precariously over the tip. Your breaths were soft and hot. Your graze drank him in with curiosity.

“Should I kiss you here, daddy?” Your mouth lowered.

“Right there, sweetie,” Joel breathed out.

He truly couldn’t believe it when the warmth of you enveloped his tip. When the first lick of your tongue came to collect the bead of precum sitting at the slit and he damn near bucked his hips up. You licked at it again.

And again. And again. And again.

You whimpered lightly, enjoying the taste.

The second you pulled your mouth away, Joel hissed.

“Baby, please—” he started, tone strained.

“What? Where does daddy want it?”

The question was so innocent.

It was clear you wanted to hear him guide you through it, as evidenced by the way your lips twitched at his hand smoothing down and over the crown of your head. Joel held it like he might never get this chance again, and, at once, his voice lowered along with it. He scarcely recognized himself with how gently he spoke then.

“Let daddy show you,” he said, “Open your mouth.”

And you did.

Your jaw fell slack, your lips split apart, and your eyes peered up with a wide and open stare. In a look, you seemed already to say that you trusted him to fill it.

No sight on a screen could’ve made him so hard.

He fed you an inch, eyes locked with yours as he did. His cock slid in another, and another, then stopped. He pulled back. The wetness and the warmth of your mouth nearly did him in, and the way you whined for more had him fisting your hair tight. Trying to keep his composure.

“That alright, honey? Feel…nice goin’ in?”

“Yes, daddy,” you hummed obediently.

Your mouth opened wider.

“More, please?”

Your tongue was flattened in a second. Joel slid back in, and his shaft was greeted by the slick, shiny cushion of the muscle underneath. He sank in. He invaded every inch of your mouth he could find, and he breathed out.

“Just like that, sweetie. Takin’ daddy so well.”

What little gurgles he heard stifled between your lips at that, spit drooling gently from either side, he only found more endearing. When he pulled back and saw strings of your spit trail after its path, he felt delirious. You were real, coating the whole throbbing length of his cock with your saliva and your precious soft whines, and you were sweet for him. Pliant for his cock. Jaw obliging and inviting and hanging wide open for him to fuck again.

He let you have it. He slid in once, grazed your throat, slid out again. He cupped your face in his hands and thumbed your cheeks. He coaxed your lips wider for him. You took it all well; you responded to every tender little directive from the man who was stuffing your mouth, ‘Faster now, atta girl’ and ‘Take daddy deeper’ and ‘Keep that pretty mouth open and those eyes on me.’ Joel was so caught up in the feel and the friction and the intimacy of every passing moment that he almost didn’t see when you started to shift your legs. Parting them.

And, right when the head of his cock had reached the back of your mouth and was teasing down your wet, open throat, he felt it fully: your whimpering plea.

You grinding your cunt against the toe of his boot, and peering up at him with eyes all wet, wide, and needy.

You rutted your hips. It looked like you couldn’t help it.

It seemed as though it were a mere spasm of the body that you couldn’t control—like his cock down your throat was too good for your sense or your oversexed mind to handle. He’d scarcely stirred in place when he felt you humping him, whines rippling down his length with every bob of your head as you keened for some kind of release.

Joel had never seen anything like it. He didn’t know what to say or do except stroke his hand over your scalp and pin you with a look. His cock twitched in your mouth.

“Is that how we ask to get fucked in this house?”

His tone surprised him with how steady it stayed.

Your mouth still full of him, you tried to shake your head.

What came next was more instinct than logical thought; Joel pulled you off his cock and onto your feet. His touch on your body was soft. He couldn’t pinpoint a reason for his being so gentle, but every second that elapsed now seemed to demand it. He was teaching you to please. There could be no better place for kindness than here.

He’d lead you to the bed and guide you down himself. He’d tell you to open your mouth and then he would kiss it, and lick inside it. Maybe spit inside it, too. He’d tug at your bikini straps, watch your breasts give way to the pressure of the pull before bouncing right back in place. He’d take off your top. Latch his mouth around a nipple, swirl his tongue across the skin, and he’d kiss you again.

Joel did all these things, and you let him. You met him with whimpers, with wide open legs, and eventually, with your feet digging into the covers beneath you, begging, ‘Daddy, please put it in.’ Your gaze was febrile as you did.

Whether you meant it, or were simply pretending for him, gave Joel pause. Just as you’d tried to yank your jean shorts down your legs, he dropped his hands to your own. He stopped them in their path. He leaned closer.

“Do you know what you and me are about to do, hm?”

His question was barbed but sweet. Testing the waters.

Were you game to keep playing house? Did you want it?

These things mattered to Joel; whether the wetness between your legs was meant for him and him alone. Whether you needed him there, like the breath in your lungs. He wouldn’t fuck you if he wasn’t. He might feel lonely at times—desperate to feel your cunt squeeze his too-old cock like your life depended on it—but he was a man who wanted to be wanted, too. An instant of clarity hit, and suddenly he was asking it, plain and in your face:

“Do you wanna do what mommies and daddies do?”

Your mouth fell slack. Again. You nodded.

Either you were the single best actress, or you wanted it. Hoping desperately for the latter, Joel kissed the side of your face. You turned your head, quickly, and captured his lips in yours instead. You pulled him down to you.

“Like this?” you murmured, words muffled against him.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and then ground your clothed lower half with his—Joel’s cock was tucked haphazardly back in his boxers, and his jeans, unzipped, hung just underneath them around his hips. He felt like a teen again, clothes thrown askew and hormones all wild.

Except he wasn’t. He was a grown man, in his own bed, with his child fast asleep down the hall. He thanked his lucky stars that their rooms were as far apart as possible, and that he no longer had to worry about the prying eyes of his mom or dad trying to catch him out after curfew. This wasn’t high school, or a night out in college, or the time a condom had split and Sarah had been conceived.

Now if he could just make sure she didn’t get a sibling…

Kidding.

“Pill,” Joel choked out, just as your legs drew him in to meet your movements, “Are— are you on the pill, or—”

Am I going to have to hit up a Texaco at 10 PM to get some rubbers and admit I haven’t gotten laid in a year?

You grinned.

“IUD.”

That works, too.

Joel probably shouldn’t have seemed so eager. He probably shouldn’t have taken your face in his hands and kissed you so hard, either. But his skin was ablaze; his eyes were wild; his limbs were molten; and his head—you didn’t want to know where it was. What he was thinking.

What he wanted to tell you while he tugged his cock back out and started working his hand up and down it. It felt too intimate, too depraved, to be spoken aloud.

Then, to his shock, you said the words yourself:

“Show me how you’d make me a mommy anyway.”

If not for protection. If not for common sense. If not for that thrumming, pulsing, warning repetition in his head: Do not get her pregnant. Do not give your kid a sibling.

But this was all pretend, wasn’t it?

Joel yanked down your shorts, practically tore them from your legs, and situated himself between them, breathing hard and fast, before he nodded his head and kissed you. With his one free hand, he held the base of his dick, and he guided it closer to your slick, puffy, aching entrance through the barrier of your red bikini. He rutted his hips.

You were bare beneath him, save for that one scrap of fabric between your lower half and his. You smiled, and you wriggled your body against his, and you drew him in. Joel groaned when he felt you slide your bottoms to the slide and let him feel, for the first time, how wet you were. How warm, inviting, and tight that cunt must be and how badly he needed it. How desperately he had to be buried inside that heat—he all but panted the words:

“Can daddy put it in?”

You spread your legs wider. You nodded.

Then he did. Without one breath of a thought to the contrary, he pushed the head of himself past the fabric, through your folds, into that wet and precious spot he’d only dreamed he’d ever feel, and he let out a full-throated moan. He felt your walls contract, heard the tender little squelch of your body making room for his length, and he damn near blew his whole load right there. You felt good.

Your chest rose with a breath, and your eyes widened.

Like you hadn’t just had him down your throat, drenched in your spit and gliding in and out: “He’s so big, daddy.”

Joel’s lips kissed your cheek. His tip kissed your cervix. You whined a little, and he pulled you in closer to him.

“I know, honey, I know,” he cooed, rocking you with the softest motions, “Ain’t that what mommy likes, though?”

Your lips parted again. A strangled whine of assent slid out, just as his hips withdrew himself back to that shiny, bulbous head, and then he fucked back in. Back and forth, back and forth, Joel sent your body bouncing with every thrust. He felt you clench, and the strokes sped up.

The bed creaked underneath. It seemed to shake the whole room. In truth, there wasn’t a thought in Joel’s head except for the ones relating to you and how good you took his cock, but somewhere, not far off, there was the instinct of a father idling too. With every stab of the headboard against the wall and every moan of yours under him he had to smother with his lips, he was reminded you two had to be quiet. He leaned in.

Grazing your ear with a stubbled chin, and fucking you gently into his bed, Joel sank his weight even lower.

“Can mommy stay real quiet for daddy? Can she try?”

From the way your eyes were glazed, he expected you to nod. And you did, just barely, heels digging in the mound of his ass and your fingers finding his sides. But then you slid a touch up his ribs; you squeezed the flesh. You let him pound your cunt for a few more precious seconds, and just when he thought that was the end of it, you tilted your head to him. Your nose bumped his, and you grinned, flashing the single most pretty, fucked-out look.

“Feels like a fucking dream, daddy,” you breathed.

Joel balked. He almost stopped right then and there.

Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!

Oh.

You couldn’t have known that.

There was no shot you knew where the fuck those words were from. Or what they meant. Joel furrowed his brow and kept rutting his hips, hands tightening in the sheets beside your head as the scene from his naughty all-time favorite film flickered briefly through his mind. No shot.

Then your legs wound around the backs of his even tighter, and your eyes were all but shining with a fresh, twisted glint. With a measured tone, you went on for him:

“He’s so big, daddy. Feels so good going inside me.”

You even mimicked her tone. Joel paled above you.

His hips stalled a moment, and your cunt hugged him tight. Your teeth nipped at his chin, playfully, and before he could even try to speak again, your lips were there.

At his ear, whispering what he’d dreaded hearing most.

“You should really clear those PornHub searches after you’re done. Or at least lock your office while I’m here.”

Joel’s thrusts stopped completely.

He was about to search for his voice again, when your walls clamped down around him, and his vision went swimming. His cock pulsed inside you, and he groaned.

Then his hips picked up; it wasn’t a conscious decision. He just needed to fuck, needed to finish, needed to see the light twinkle and burst behind your eyes while he stuffed your cunt full. It didn’t matter what you knew—your lips were curled in such a sweet, smug smile below him, there was likely no use in trying to explain himself now. Joel just gritted his teeth, and he tried smiling back. He fucked you faster, and harder, than he’d done before.

When you clawed at his back, the pace grew merciless. Every inch of the space around him, it seemed, was filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, whimpers, and moans. As before, Joel almost didn’t recognize his voice.

‘That so?’ was all it could manage to get out at present.

With your cunt fluttering repeatedly, hips rolling with his own, and those lips letting moans spill out one after the next, it was all he could do to try to keep his composure.

Joel kissed you, and then he flipped your body around. He moved back to find the headboard and rest himself against it, got your legs straddling his, and slid you down

Down, down, down on his cock. Stretching you out. Then moving you back up again. Making you bounce in his lap and have your hands fumble to find his shoulders. You squeezed his biceps and moaned, and at the same time, his slick-smeared lower half rutted to greet yours. Your essence drenched him; he could feel it soak straight through the black-and-gray hairs at the base of his cock.

You looked perfect like this—better than any girl on camera could’ve been. Your hips rolled, and you moaned while sliding up and down on his dick, again and again. Joel felt the trembling pulse through your body and his, groaned at the grip of your cunt around him, and helped you ride him. With one hand at the small of your back and the other cupping your face, he held you close to him. Your pace quickened, and the hand at your chin made its way to your throat, to hold you firmly there.

Joel had a thumb on your pulse and his eyes raking over your writhing form when he felt compelled to talk again.

Share a truth, since all the rest was coming out anyway.

He didn’t think so much as feel it flow from there, like the blood rushing through his veins. Joel winced at a fresh influx of pleasure and let you grind on him twice more. Then he was gripping you tighter, fucking up into you harder, and he was skimming his teeth along your skin. As a knot coiled deep within his stomach, he let it out:

“Wanna cum inside this pussy, baby. Fill her up with me.”

The head of his cock struck a dizzying blow to someplace close to your cervix, and you held him tighter.

“Yeah, Mr. Miller?” You couldn’t help the teasing tone.

You fought a breathless laugh, then were forced to suck in a gasp of air just as quick; his length sheathed itself inside you completely, and Joel’s grip constricted on your throat. He kissed you. He lapped his tongue into your mouth while he fucked up into you, again and again.

You whined, and he mumbled against you, “That’s right.”

You hissed at him deep in your guts, and he went on:

“Gonna stuff her full. Make her wet and messy and drippin’ with me. Show mommy how much daddy lov—”

He cut himself short. His balls were heavy, full, and ready to paint you white, but that line was a touch too far, even now. He couldn’t say it outright and not sound like a fucking creep, no matter how deep in this roleplay you happened to be. Joel squeezed your hips and grunted.

And, for what felt like the fifteenth time that night, you surprised him. Your chin tilted to his, your lips brushed against his mouth, and you smiled, again. It was tender.

“How much does daddy love me, hm? Show me.”

Your walls clenched at the end of the last sentence, and Joel couldn’t help but groan in your mouth. His eyes lifted to yours, and in your gaze, he found anything but incredulity—you already knew what he felt, somehow.

“Sarah tell you that, too? That I love you?” he growled.

He’d said it once. At the time, he hadn’t thought he’d meant it at all, but the words just sounded so good when it came to you. Sarah had asked him if he’d wanted you to be her mommy someday, if he loved you like a daddy loves a mommy, and he’d said he did. Looking back, it hadn’t felt half as good as it did right now: peering into your eyes, feeling your warmth swallow him whole, and sensing you were nearing your climax, all because of him. It made him want to say it over again, now face-to-face.

Be it roleplay, fantasy, fixation—he needed to say it now.

“Daddy does love you,” he went on, before you could even respond. His pelvis rutted against yours, and his gaze stayed steeped in desire as he felt you grip harder, “Loves you so damn much he wants to stuff a big load in that pretty little cunt. Make you his. That alright by you?”

Your gaze went blank in an instant. Your lips twitched.

Something delectably wet, tight, and far too tempting shuddered someplace inside you, and with pride, Joel sensed the remnants of it leak out and smear his tummy. You liked that idea. Still, you seemed hesitant as your teeth snagged your bottom lip between them. You drew one steadying breath, and you slowed your movements.

“I’ve never…had that,” you admitted quietly.

Then that sticky-sweet embrace your cunt held him in got even wetter. Like your mind wasn’t fully on-board, but your body was all in. You were close, by the feel of it.

But Joel would only give what you were fully ready to take. At length, he lowered one hand to the small of your back, and his thumb rubbed at the skin. He let you feel him in only the shallowest of strokes, bouncing you softly

“Ain’t gotta be inside, then,” he murmured, assuring, “I’ll shoot this load wherever mommy tells me to go, alright?”

That made you whimper.

From there, your mind seemed to be decided all at once.

“Cum inside. I-I want it.”

Joel swallowed thickly.

“You sure, sugar? I can—”

Suddenly, your hips were stirring. They started up quicker than before, and your hand was swift to plant itself flat on his chest, as though to stabilize yourself.

“Cum. In. Me.”

It was the most decisive, and desperate, you’d sounded all night. Your gaze flitted to his, and in it, he saw a plea.

With a look like that, Joel knew he couldn’t make you wait. He wouldn’t make you wait. Trying not to smirk as he did, he leaned in and kissed you, and felt you drip more arousal as something knotted in your belly. He smoothed your hair away and delivered the gentlest thrusts from below—he knew it wouldn’t take much.

“Mama goes first,” he prodded. He felt you tense, and clench, and leak a little more down his front, and when the head of cock nicked a soft ridge, he groaned, too. “Cum for daddy now and he’ll give you his load, OK?”

Then his touch slipped between your legs. You keened.

“Daddy, I—” you hiccuped, grip tightening like a vice when his thumb found your clit and started rubbing.

Joel circled faster.

“Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

“I can’t,” you cried, “Feels too—”

Good. Your body seemed to finish for you.

It started with a pulse. Then a pinch. A trickling warmth. Joel hardly knew what else to do but keep rubbing that little pearl between your folds, even when you started to gush around his hand. It wet his tummy; it drenched all the hairs around the base of his cock, and still, he kept thumbing your clit and rocking you back and forth above him. He let you cry out and bite his shoulder while your climax tore through you, and though he knew you had to be quiet, he couldn’t help but relish the sound. He smiled

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Give it to daddy.”

And, while he also told you to keep breathing and let him have it all, he was right here—in a matter of seconds, he was slipping off, too. He couldn’t hope to try and stop it. With one more pulse of your walls, you groaned and got your wet, spent, needy hole stuffed full of him, just how you’d asked. Joel flooded your insides with his seed and kept you fucked straight down to the hilt so he wouldn’t see a drop of himself escape. He hugged you tight and heard you whine at that primal sensation, getting pumped with rope after rope of his cum, then he felt your limbs go limp. Joel kissed the side of your face. He cradled you, held you securely in place, and let the last of his spend paint your walls in a couple more gentle spurts

When it was over, he stroked your back. He sensed the aftershocks of your climax pass through your tired frame, and he made sure not to rock you too hard against him. He just wanted you to feel that he was there, if the heft of his cum and his cock still deep inside you wasn’t enough.

His head grew clearer, too. While still drawing short, ragged breaths in time, he managed to find the words that had evaded him before—what he should’ve said.

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled into your hair.

You just nuzzled your face deeper.

“Don’t be.”

“But I—”

Then you tilted your head—enough for your gaze to meet with his, briefly, and tell him all that he needed to hear.

“You’re a good dad, Joel.”

He opened his mouth, but you were already pressing on.

“And I don’t…mind if Sarah calls me what she wants for now. I’m sure you’ll find someone great to be her mom someday, and then this whole thing won’t even matter.”

For some reason, the sound of it made Joel wince.

He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but he knew he didn’t want you thinking that. His grip constricted around you.

“No,” he muttered, indistinct. Defiant.

“No?”

You almost laughed.

It was insane, admittedly—just last night he’d been dreaming of the feel of you in the grip of his fist, wishing for nothing but his own release and a fleeting thought of your body underneath him, and here he was, doing this.

You’d said it was a one-and-done deal, and maybe it was.

But for him, maybe, it wasn’t. He’d be remiss not to try.

If you shot him down and left him to pine and meander through the manifold archives of PornHub for the rest of his horny life, that would be alright. At least he had tried.

With these thoughts thrumming through his brain, Joel was about to pull you closer and venture to speak again, when, for the second time, his words were cut short. His voice was presently supplanted by a sound that startled you both, and in a moment, he recognized what it was.

A knock.

“Da-a-a-a-a-a-addy?”

Shit.

He nearly caught a knee to the gut with how quickly you tried scrambling off his lap, limbs revived and frantic and desperate to get your clothes back on before that tiny voice could resume its speech—or get a hand to the door

“Yeah, sweetie? Give— give daddy a—” ‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath as he tripped over your shorts on the floor, “—a minute. I’ll be right there. Just gimme a sec.”

Joel fell. You floundered. His hand snagged the edge of the bed before he hit the ground fully, while you set off across the room to fight the strings of your bikini top and wrestle the thing on. The second you sensed that battle was lost, you grabbed your shirt instead. You were just yanking it on, and Joel was just regaining his bearings and about to chuck your shorts your way, when a voice through the door stopped the two of you cold—again.

To your horror, it was hopeful. Too sweet to be real.

“Can I sleep with you and mommy tonight?”

You could’ve soundly beat Joel’s ass with that pretty, skimpy swimsuit in your grasp and not regretted a thing, if he had to guess by the look you were flashing him now.

He didn’t blame you. His hands shot up in silent defense.

“Mommy— mommy’s not here, honey. She went home.” Joel shortly tried, and failed, to keep the pretense of innocence alive, all while dodging the first swing of your bikini’s bra at his head. He ducked; you struck a lamp.

He jumped back, a wordless grin stretching his lips as he righted that fixture fast. With one look, it seemed to say:

I’m so, so sorry, baby.

But inside his head, he couldn’t help but admit this was a little bit funny. Probably sensing this, you swung again.

“Yes, she is! I heard her,” Sarah huffed outside.

Joel was sliding up his jeans. Apologizing with his eyes and also trying not to crack an even bigger smile at you.

“Don’t be silly, Sar—”

“You’re having a sleepover!” she accused.

Well, in a manner of speaking.

Joel had just buckled his belt and redid his zip when a flash of red nylon smacked him in the face. Playfully.

You were evidently beginning to fight a grin like his, dropping the feigned indignation and pacing closer.

“Sleeping my ass—” you started in a whisper.

And you were about to chase him again, or else propose jumping from the window to get out now and save face, maybe, when Joel felt an old, familiar feeling crop up inside him. Like before, it wasn’t the kind of urge he could fight; his instincts took over, and he did it swiftly.

Admittedly, the timing was terrible—but he kissed you.

He pressed his lips to your own and relished the feeling. He grabbed both sides of your face and walked you back to the bed—the same one drenched in sweat and your release, which he’d definitely need to change in a minute—and for a fleeting moment, it was all he needed. Your mouth was on his, grinning a little and promising silently that if Sarah ever does walk in on us, I’m gonna kill you.

Against his better judgment, he pushed you back on the bed. He dropped his weight over your body and kept the kiss ongoing, feeling need surge inside for something far beyond the physical. It couldn’t be ‘one-and-done’ here.

But for now, at least, in spite of his feelings, it had to be.

Joel didn’t want to let go or stop kissing, but the next second left no room for much else, unfortunately. His daughter’s voice returned, and the words that followed proved impossible to ignore, for either one of you then.

All color drained from his face, and your eyes widened.

“I heard mommy screaming before. Is she alright?”

[jervis-tetch-my-beloved]

IM SORRY IM NOT ACTIVE ON DISCORD

[b3aches]

Just backed this on kickstarter. I'm pretty excited about it, tbh.

[laejoh]

Key among these solutions is the concept of interoperability, which would allow users to take their apps, data, and content with them when they decide to leave a service, thus reducing the power of tech platforms.

[rafessecret]

Omg I need dadward and brother rafe rn pleas

⋆˚࿔ doll¡ reader && rafe cameron with ward cameron

YOUR FINGERS, THIER FILTHY SECRET.

He shouldn’t have clicked the link.

It was just some random file on the family computer, auto-saved deep inside your folder—buried beneath school essays, old birthday collages, selfies in sunlit rooms with that innocent smile of yours. He thought it’d be nothing. Thought it’d be safe. But when the screen loads, his lungs seize.

It’s you.

The footage is grainy, dimly lit by the amber glow of your bedside lamp, shadows dancing across your walls like voyeurs themselves. You’re tucked up on your bed in the softest little pyjamas—those barely-there shorts riding up your thighs, your tank top tight enough to cling to your tits, no bra underneath, nipples poking through the cotton. It’s the kind of thing you wear around the house without thinking twice.

But you’re not being innocent tonight. Ward’s eyes narrow, his whole body going still as your fingers slip beneath your waistband, slow and secretive like you're trying not to be heard. His cock gives an angry twitch. He shouldn't be seeing this. He shouldn’t want to see this.

But fuck, he does.

Your lips part in a shaky sigh, your head tipping back against the pillow as you drag your fingers over your cunt, lazy and tentative. Testing yourself. Dipping low, teasing that soaked little spot between your thighs like you don’t even know how sinful you look. Ward’s hand hovers over the mouse, frozen—but the other drifts lower, slow and deliberate, palming the heavy bulge in his pants with a shuddering groan.

You’re so soft. So needy. Hips lifting in these tiny, desperate rolls, seeking more pressure, more friction. Your lashes flutter, mouth falling open around the sweetest breathy moan—and it punches the air out of his lungs. Because he knows that sound. He’s heard you hum over morning coffee, giggle on the phone, and whisper sleepy thanks as you pad through the kitchen in those stupid fuzzy socks. But this? This is new. This is a version of you no one’s supposed to see.

❝Fuck,❞ he growls, breath hitched as he rips his belt open and drags his slacks down just far enough to free himself. His cock is thick, flushed, already leaking—and he strokes it with a tight grip, slow and cruel, matching the rhythm of your fingers. His mind spins with images: you, pinned beneath him and soaking wet, those shy little moans strangled by his mouth as he pushes you past your breaking point. Did you know the camera was on? Did you mean for this to be saved? Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you’re that careless.

Or maybe—maybe you wanted someone to see. Wanted him to see.

His jaw clenches. The idea makes his cock twitch in his fist. Maybe you’d be embarrassed. Maybe you’d cry if you knew. Or maybe you'd whimper and hide your face and beg him not to stop even as you blushed, thighs spread and shaking for more. Maybe you liked the idea of being watched. Corrupted. Caught.

And god, you’re so close now—hips stuttering, breath quickening. One hand still working between your legs, the other clamped over your mouth, failing to smother the whimper that slips out. That’s what ruins him. The sound. The sight of you completely unravelling, legs tensed, chest heaving, body jerking as you cum on your fingers like a good little mess.

Ward’s head falls back with a broken groan, ropes of cum spilling across his fist, his belly, and his slacks. His muscles tense, vision going white-hot with pleasure as he fucks his hand through the waves, biting down a grunt as he rides it out. Silence settles thick after the storm.

The video ends. He breathes hard, blinking at the dark screen like it personally offended him. His heart still hammers. His cock twitches in the cooling air. Slowly, he wipes himself up, zips his pants, and clears the browser history like a man possessed.

But that video? That stays.

He even makes a copy.

Just in case you ever need reminding of who’s watching.

Rafe finds it by accident. Or maybe not. Maybe he was snooping through your folders again, looking for something—anything—to get off to. You’d left your laptop open, humming through sleep mode like it wanted to be touched. And Rafe? He always touches. The video isn’t labelled, just tucked into a folder with your name on it. When he opens it and the grainy light flickers to life, his breath stutters.

It’s you. Soft and pretty in those tiny pyjamas, legs spread, hand between your thighs. The moment your fingers drag through your slick, Rafe nearly chokes on a groan. ❝Fuck,❞ he whispers, already hard under the covers. He’s in bed, lights off, the house quiet—nobody around to hear the filthy sounds you make. The breathy little whimper you try to smother with your hand? It kills him. His cock throbs.

Because this wasn’t for just anyone. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t careless. You made this for him. You knew he’d find it. Knew he’d watch it with his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself to the sight of you coming apart like that. His fist pumps slow and tight, tip flushed and leaking, matching your pace. He can’t tear his eyes away. ❝Fuckin’ knew you were mine,❞ he growls through clenched teeth, hips twitching. ❝Knew it, baby. You wanted me to see.❞

When you cum, shaking and whimpering like a dream, Rafe spills with a broken sound—hot, thick ropes painting his stomach as he bucks into his hand. His chest heaves, mind spinning. He watches the whole thing again before bed. Saves a copy to his phone. Just like his old man did.

Neither of them knows the other’s watching.

But you? You know exactly what you’re doing.

And who it’s for.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : okay, not gonna lie, I’m a little unsure about this one, but I figured I’d give it a shot. hope it’s not too much, but if you’re into the dirty stuff, I think you’ll like it.

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire , @faiyaz555

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Dead on main. No trick only treat.

~~Сhildhood friends and deals~~

The Justice League has to summon a ghost from another dimension to address the threat. They don’t know what price the Ghost King will take but there’s little time to bargain. Another spirit threatening them has already seized all the computers on their base. John doesn’t know what else to offer. A summoned ghost starts to look bored. Gold, jewelry? A favor from a member of the League? Like the Ruler of All Dead needs it. No one dares to make another offer, and the King is in no hurry to set out his demands. Maybe try to pull off a soul sale scam?

Suddenly, Red Hood breaks into the hall, walks up to Phantom and shakes his shoulder vigorously. Red Hood: You, get Technus out of here right now. I need access to the files and fast. Phantom: That’s rude, dude. Where did you grow up? in the cave? No "hello, no how are you, Danny", really? Red Hood: I’ll pay the usual price. Phantom: Deal.

What is the price? John sees Batman and gets in his way. The usual price, his guy said. Means Jay was already out of the deal alive and well. This hyperprotective bat would only piss off the ruler if he interfered.

The King quickly deals with his subordinate using a thermos and remains to watch working Hood. Red Hood: What do you want? I’m busy. Danny: You and I have a contract~ Red Hood: All right, all right. Jay throws M&Ms right in the face of the ghost. But king doesn’t look angry. He opens the package and starts sorting the candies by color. Phantom quickly eats up all the green ones and passes the red ones to Hood. Jason takes them without any questions.

Strange. John has never seen a summoned creature share its reward with a human. And the son of a bat looks too comfortable with it. Wait, since when do super-powered beings think that candy is a decent wage?John makes one of the most likely deductions using his experience. Constantine: Batsy, how long has your son been sleeping with the King of Ghosts? Batman: He…what?!

~~~~~~~

Dick *knocking at the door*: Little Wing, you hate ectoplasm and everything what is neon green, so why? He’s dangerous! Jason who turned on the music to not listen to his crazy family: ~He’s poison but tasty~

Dick: NoOOoo

~~~~~~

Jason: And now everyone thinks that I sold my virginity to you for a bargain or something, because interdimensional creatures like you aren’t supposed to help for nothing. Like you’re playing favorites. I’m gonna fucking kill John. Danny: Well, I wouldn’t say no to that. Jason: What? Danny: I mean, to k-kill John, yeah. How dare he.. Jason: Omg, you’re still so terrible liar, Fenton.

Danny: Sorry :(

Jason: No. Say it again.

~~~~Twelve years ago~~~~ Maddie wasn’t thrilled to learn that Danny was trying to make friends with Todd’s son. Their neighbor was terrible. And his son was definitely a street rat and probably a juvenile delinquent. Maddie: Danny, honey, there’s got to be a reason this boy is talking to you. Even kids from the crime alley are always looking for a bargain they can make or a fool they can fool. Danny: But Jason is so cool! He knows so much about books and alleys and.. Maddie: But you don’t want to be a fool, do you? Danny: Okay, Mom, I get it.

So, if Danny wants a cool friend, he’s got to offer a bargain.

He didn’t have a lot of pocket money for every month but Jason needed it more anyway. And his lunch that Jack was picking for him was big enough for two and only bitten on Tuesdays. Nice. Jason: Do I understand correctly? You will pay me and give me food, and I, what? Protect you from bullies? Danny: No! I’m not weak, I don’t need to be protected. Just..maybe we could sit together at lunch and walk each other home sometimes? Jason: Nay Danny: But why? You want something else? Jason: Money’s fine but your homemade food is…strange. Danny: I can bring sweets if you want. Jason: Deal. 3 pop tarts for a joint lunch, a party size bag of M&Ms if you waste my time out of school.

~~~~

Sometimes they share sweets when they hang out but more often Jayson takes them home to save in case his parents have money problems. Sweets have a long shelf life stored and he may not be afraid to poison himself. Over time, candy becomes their currency and a secret language for all occasions. Need help without unnecessary questions? M&Ms. Problems with learning? Skittles. The question is about family? Snickers. There will be a serious conversation? Pop Tarts.

Jason: One snickers and a pack of gum. Danny: Yeah, Jason? What do you want? Jason: My mom wants to meet my friend. Come to lunch on Sunday. Danny: Okay, you managed to pay for my expensive services. Jason:…and you just lost the gum from the deal.

~~~~~~

Jason threw a package at Danny: Three pop tarts. We need to talk. Danny: All right? Jason: Why are you avoiding me all week?! Danny: Well, it’s just..you’re Wayne now. Jason. Still Todd. And what about that? Danny: You can hang out with the cooler guys now, I didn’t want to embarrass you. Jason: Bullshit! I’m still the street rat, and you’re trying to avoid our contract. me. And I don’t even need money from you anymore. What the hell? I thought you are my friend. Danny: And I am!

~~~~~~

Robin: What’s a schoolboy doing in an alley at night? Danny: Um, I…nothing? Don’t tell my parents, Mr. Robin sir. Robin: It will cost you so many Chunky Bars, you have no idea. Danny:...Jason? Jason: N-no. Danny: Damn yes. What are you doing in green shorts on the street at night?! Jason: Cosplay. Danny: Oh yeah? Then I’m just your hallucination. Don’t hesitate to ghost me. I’m going home, Disgrace In Pixie Boots, bye. Jason: fu%&c$#u

[viilan]

i’m just thinking of a danny phantom x dc au where reader is phantom and is bruce bio kid, but with a side of yandere batfamily just image.

tw: death mention, ig?

reader is gender neutral !!

* You know the universe where dan exist and how he came to exist? what if that happens. what if you couldn’t stop them dying one by one, or perhaps it was just the family, anyway, you have to move. don’t ask me how you feel out your bruce kid, but you are shipped out there

* despite being phantom, a superhero. you still fear what your future hold. you heard of bruce wayne and his family, many different thing and you don’t know what to think

* you just hope he was nice

* your first day to the mansion was fucking awful. you were pick up by a private jet which was cool, and bruce wayne was ,, nice but every attempt of conversation fell flat, he was more focus on the computer and you couldn’t figure out what he was looking at.

* when you left the plane, the whole place was covered by press which put you on edge. bruce just look at you, pulling you close. “keep your head down and walk fast, ( reader ).” before brisk walking you to a car.

* “alfred, tell me what happened.” he spoked, not even focus on how mindblogging that was.

* the butler, who you assume was alfred start to drive. “everything been fixed, i’m sure you should focus on your certain task instead of that.” you watch as bruce stiffen slightly and he look at you, regret flashing against his face.

* “i’m sorry about that, (y/n). it been a hectic day.”

* you couldn’t rest the urge to scoff, looking at him with a unamused expression.

* “i had a urgent matter to trend to,” he explained, clearly choosing his word ever so carefully. you shifted, a sour taste in your mouth. “it fine.” you murmured.

* bruce look at you with a expression you couldn’t read. “enough of that, how are you feeling, after everything-“

* “i’m as fine as i could be, with the whole dead family thing,” you said. , he just look at you with a expression you couldn’t decipher. “i guess we have that in common.” you tried to joke, watching as his face sour and you tense.

* “shit, fuck. i’m sorry- i didn’t mean- like that.” you mention. rubbing a hand over your face. a deep red covering your face. “i guess i shouldn’t be a comedian, huh?” you wonder what jazz would say if you were in your shoes, she probably would make him cry.

* the drive back was silent after that, despite your awkward rambling, you just choose to be quiet after a fifth apology, looking outside the window. you inched closer. curious about your new home, you could sense the ectoplasm, this could be fun at least, you could put your energy into fighting and maybe meet the batman.

* the door open and you jump back, looking up at a older man who give you a smile. “we’re here.” bruce slide out with ease and you fumble after him, tired beyond word could describe.

* you let them lead, barely being able to step into the door before your ghost sense went off, you look around. not spotting anything out of the usual but your hair stand on end.

* “let me take your bag,” the old man spoke, you flinch, grip tighten before you realize and hand them over. “oh, uh thank you..”

* “alfred, i’m the house butler, young master.” he smile at you, it didn’t put you on ease. “show her around when i tend to this.” bruce spoke, not even sparing you a glance.

* “… i fucked up with that dead family comment; didn’t i?” you asked, passing a glance to alfred, who only crack a smile. “let me lead you to your room, i’m sure you want to rest.” he lead you down hallways, it seem like a maze. “if you have any request, let me know.” he spoked. “i will leave you be to unpacked.”

* you give him a smile, forced but he took it to leave. you look around the room curiously, it was quite big and spacious. void of life. you grabbed your bags and dump them on the bed. looking over your small collection of things from home. everything else was gone, destroy in the fire or seized by the government. you were glad you destroy whatever you could which was almost everything.

* your things mostly consisted of the other things. you had some of jazz notebooks, her stupid bear. you have some of their clothes, blueprints and some weapons. the fenton thermos was broken and you need to fix it just in case. tears burn at your eyes and you sniffle softly. “how the fuck am im gonna do this?” you whispered, gathering up the blueprint and weapons, sniffing as you went to find a hiding spot, you found a spot in the wall, using your power to put them away before you sit down, tears pouring down your face.

* you never felt so alone.

[ please please tell me if you want more because i crave attention and need people to share my ideas withs ]

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dean Obeidallah at The Dean's Report:

On August 20, a little before dawn, 87 year-old Lidia Martinez was abruptly jarred awake by an unexpected knock on her door. The longtime activist who for over 35 years has worked to expand voter registration among seniors and veterans in south Texas, cautiously peered out the door. Standing on her doorstep were nine police officers dressed in tactical gear and carrying firearms. After showing her a search warrant, Martinez’s home was searched as she was forced to stand outside in her nightgown in her driveway in full view of her neighbors. Martinez was later questioned for three hours after which the police seized her phone, computer, personal calendar and more.

[...]

These bad faith searches orchestrated by Paxton were predicated on the claim that the people being investigated were registering non-citizens to vote—despite zero evidence presented of wrongdoing. Very alarmingly, if Donald Trump and House GOP have their way, these types of raids would be happening nationwide with federal law enforcement under a GOP President.  That is why GOP House Speaker Johnson is now demanding the proposed SAVE Act be included in any deal to provide funding to keep the government open.

To be clear, federal and state law already makes it a crime for non-citizens to vote. But this new federal legislation would establish criminal penalties for registering an applicant to vote in a federal election who fails to present documentation proving U.S. citizenship.  That means that what we are seeing in Texas is coming attractions of what the GOP wants to do nationally.

Keep in mind despite Texas AG Paxton’s two year investigation, no charges  have been filed against any of the people whose homes were searched.  Indeed, there may never be charges because even Paxton’s basis for the search is BS. In his press release announcing the investigation, the Texas AG presents no evidence of wrongdoing. Instead, Paxton makes baseless claims like these organizations have set up voter registration booths outside state agencies where people could register inside. Paxton’s press release literally includes this question with no answer: “Why would they need a second opportunity to register with a booth outside?” But nowhere in his press release does he even allege any criminal conduct—only questions.

And Paxton—a close ally of convicted felon Trump—showed his bad faith earlier in August on a radio show when he peddled lies about non-citizens voting. Paxton declared, “There’s a reason Joe Biden brought people here illegally. I’m convinced that that’s how they’re going to do it this time, they’re going to use the illegal vote. Why were they brought in, why did he bring in 14 million people?” adding, “He brought them here to vote.”   That is nothing more than the type of BS you hear on Fox News. But now Paxton has weaponized government by targeting people registering those he believes will vote for Democrats. The backlash to Paxton’s actions have been swift. LULAC requested that the Department of  Justice investigate Paxton's office for Voting Rights Act violations. LULAC CEO Juan Proaño and the group's national president, Roman Palomares, summed up well what is really going in their letter to the DOJ: "These actions echo a troubling history of voter suppression and intimidation that has long targeted both Black and Latino communities, particularly in states like Texas, where demographic changes have increasingly shifted the political landscape.”

The Texas GOPs voter intimidation tactics are based on the faux outrage campaign against noncitizen voting.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Are the means of computation even seizable?

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH in TOMORROW (May 15) at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

Something's very different in tech. Once upon a time, every bad choice by tech companies – taking away features, locking out mods or plugins, nerfing the API – was countered, nearly instantaneously, by someone writing a program that overrode that choice.

Bad clients would be muscled aside by third-party clients. Locked bootloaders would be hacked and replaced. Code that confirmed you were using OEM parts, consumables or adapters would be found and nuked from orbit. Weak APIs would be replaced with muscular, unofficial APIs built out of unstoppable scrapers running on headless machines in some data-center. Every time some tech company erected a 10-foot enshittifying fence, someone would show up with an 11-foot disenshittifying ladder.

Those 11-foot ladders represented the power of interoperability, the inescapable bounty of the Turing-complete, universal von Neumann machine, which, by definition, is capable of running every valid program. Specifically, they represented the power of adversarial interoperability – when someone modifies a technology against its manufacturer's wishes. Adversarial interoperability is the origin story of today's tech giants, from Microsoft to Apple to Google:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

But adversarial interop has been in steady decline for the past quarter-century. These big companies moved fast and broke things, but no one is returning the favor. If you ask the companies what changed, they'll just smirk and say that they're better at security than the incumbents they disrupted. The reason no one's hacked up a third-party iOS App Store is that Apple's security team is just so fucking 1337 that no one can break their shit.

I think this is nonsense. I think that what's really going on is that we've made it possible for companies to design their technologies in such a way that any attempt at adversarial interop is illegal.

"Anticircumvention" laws like Section 1201 of the 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act make bypassing any kind of digital lock (AKA "Digital Rights Management" or "DRM") very illegal. Under DMCA, just talking about how to remove a digital lock can land you in prison for 5 years. I tell the story of this law's passage in "Understood: Who Broke the Internet," my new podcast series for the CBC:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/08/who-broke-the-internet/#bruce-lehman

For a quarter century, tech companies have aggressively lobbied and litigated to expand the scope of anticircumvention laws. At the same time, companies have come up with a million ways to wrap their products in digital locks that are a crime to break.

Digital locks let Chamberlain, a garage-door opener monopolist block all third-party garage-door apps. Then, Chamberlain stuck ads in its app, so you have to watch an ad to open your garage-door:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

Digital locks let John Deere block third-party repair of its tractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

And they let Apple block third-party repair of iPhones:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/22/apples-cement-overshoes/

These companies built 11-foot ladders to get over their competitors' 10-foot walls, and then they kicked the ladder away. Once they were secure atop their walls, they committed enshittifying sins their fallen adversaries could only dream of.

I've been campaigning to abolish anticircumvention laws for the past quarter-century, and I've noticed a curious pattern. Whenever these companies stand to lose their legal protections, they freak out and spend vast fortunes to keep those protections intact. That's weird, because it strongly implies that their locks don't work. A lock that works works, whether or not it's illegal to break that lock. The reason Signal encryption works is that it's working encryption. The legal status of breaking Signal's encryption has nothing to do with whether it works. If Signal's encryption was full of technical flaws but it was illegal to point those flaws out, you'd be crazy to trust Signal.

Signal does get involved in legal fights, of course, but the fights it gets into are ones that require Signal to introduce defects in its encryption – not fights over whether it is legal to disclose flaws in Signal or exploit them:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/05/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography/

But tech companies that rely on digital locks manifestly act like their locks don't work and they know it. When the tech and content giants bullied the W3C into building DRM into 2 billion users' browsers, they categorically rejected any proposal to limit their ability to destroy the lives of people who broke that DRM, even if it was only to add accessibility or privacy to video:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2017/09/open-letter-w3c-director-ceo-team-and-membership

The thing is, if the lock works, you don't need the legal right to destroy the lives of people who find its flaws, because it works.

Do digital locks work? Can they work? I think the answer to both questions is a resounding no. The design theory of a digital lock is that I can provide you with an encrypted file that your computer has the keys to. Your computer will access those keys to decrypt or sign a file, but only under the circumstances that I have specified. Like, you can install an app when it comes from my app store, but not when it comes from a third party. Or you can play back a video in one kind of browser window, but not in another one. For this to work, your computer has to hide a cryptographic key from you, inside a device you own and control. As I pointed out more than a decade ago, this is a fool's errand:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/01/10/lockdown-the-coming-war-on-general-purpose-computing/

After all, you or I might not have the knowledge and resources to uncover the keys' hiding place, but someone does. Maybe that someone is a person looking to go into business selling your customers the disenshittifying plugin that unfucks the thing you deliberately broke. Maybe it's a hacker-tinkerer, pursuing an intellectual challenge. Maybe it's a bored grad student with a free weekend, an electron-tunneling microscope, and a seminar full of undergrads looking for a project.

The point is that hiding secrets in devices that belong to your adversaries is very bad security practice. No matter how good a bank safe is, the bank keeps it in its vault – not in the bank-robber's basement workshop.

For a hiding-secrets-in-your-adversaries'-device plan to work, the manufacturer has to make zero mistakes. The adversary – a competitor, a tinkerer, a grad student – only has to find one mistake and exploit it. This is a bedrock of security theory: attackers have an inescapable advantage.

So I think that DRM doesn't work. I think DRM is a legal construct, not a technical one. I think DRM is a kind of magic Saran Wrap that manufacturers can wrap around their products, and, in so doing, make it a literal jailable offense to use those products in otherwise legal ways that their shareholders don't like. As Jay Freeman put it, using DRM creates a new law called "Felony Contempt of Business Model." It's a law that has never been passed by any legislature, but is nevertheless enforceable.

In the 25 years I've been fighting anticircumvention laws, I've spoken to many government officials from all over the world about the opportunity that repealing their anticircumvention laws represents. After all, Apple makes $100b/year by gouging app makers for 30 cents on ever dollar. Allow your domestic tech sector to sell the tools to jailbreak iPhones and install third party app stores, and you can convert Apple's $100b/year to a $100m/year business for one of your own companies, and the other $999,900,000,000 will be returned to the world's iPhone owners as a consumer surplus.

But every time I pitched this, I got the same answer: "The US Trade Representative forced us to pass this law, and threatened us with tariffs if we didn't pass it." Happy Liberation Day, people – every country in the world is now liberated from the only reason to keep this stupid-ass law on their books:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/15/beauty-eh/#its-the-only-war-the-yankees-lost-except-for-vietnam-and-also-the-alamo-and-the-bay-of-ham

In light of the Trump tariffs, I've been making the global rounds again, making the case for an anticircumvention repeal:

https://www.ft.com/content/b882f3a7-f8c9-4247-9662-3494eb37c30b

One of the questions I've been getting repeatedly from policy wonks, activists and officials is, "Is it even possible to jailbreak modern devices?" They want to know if companies like Apple, Tesla, Google, Microsoft, and John Deere have created unbreakable digital locks. Obviously, this is an important question, because if these locks are impregnable, then getting rid of the law won't deliver the promised benefits.

It's true that there aren't as many jailbreaks as we used to see. When a big project like Nextcloud – which is staffed up with extremely accomplished and skilled engineers – gets screwed over by Google's app store, they issue a press-release, not a patch:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2025/05/nextcloud-accuses-google-of-big-tech-gatekeeping-over-android-app-permissions/

Perhaps that's because the tech staff at Nextcloud are no match for Google, not even with the attacker's advantage on their side.

But I don't think so. Here's why: we do still get jailbreaks and mods, but these almost exclusively come from anonymous tinkerers and hobbyists:

https://consumerrights.wiki/Mazda_DMCA_takedown_of_Open_Source_Home_Assistant_App

Or from pissed off teenagers:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/9/29/23378541/the-og-app-instagram-clone-pulled-from-app-store

These hacks are incredibly ambitious! How ambitious? How about a class break for every version of iOS as well as an unpatchable hardware attack on 8 years' worth of Apple bootloaders?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/25/mafia-logic/#sosumi

Now, maybe it's the case at all the world's best hackers are posting free code under pseudonyms. Maybe all the code wizards working for venture backed tech companies that stand to make millions through clever reverse engineering are just not as mad skilled as teenagers who want an ad-free Insta and that's why they've never replicated the feat.

Or maybe it's because teenagers and anonymous hackers are just about the only people willing to risk a $500,000 fine and 5-year prison sentence. In other words, maybe the thing that protects DRM is law, not code. After all, when Polish security researchers revealed the existence of secret digital locks that the train manufacturer Newag used to rip off train operators for millions of euros, Newag dragged them into court:

https://fsfe.org/news/2025/news-20250407-01.en.html

Tech companies are the most self-mythologizing industry on the planet, beating out even the pharma sector in boasting about their prowess and good corporate citizenship. They swear that they've made a functional digital lock…but they sure act like the only thing those locks do is let them sue people who reveal their workings.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/14/pregnable/#checkm8

[tamamita]

how would you describe independent artists in a marxist framework?

Owning the means of production in a big business and extracting surplus value from your workers = The Bourgeoisie, aristocrats, or Capitalists

Owning the means of production in a small entrepeneurship, partaking in labour, and extracting surplus value from your workers = The Petite Bourgeoisie, small business owners.

The only similarity between the two is that they are reactionaries. The shopkeeper, who own his small business, gains nothing from seizing the means of production, he already owns them, and he is his own employer so he will not benefit from socialist protection for workers.

Owning the means of production and producing commodities with no labour force besides yourself = An artisan. Falls under the concept of small entrepeneurship.

An independent artist or freelancer is still exploited, since they sell their labour to a company to produce commodities in exchange for a wage. While an independent artist may own their means of production (a tablet, computer and etc), these companies will still exploit you and extract (fees) surplus value from you. Ergo, Patreon, OF, Substar and other platforms. In a modern context, an artisan is not the same as an independent artist. Like, don't worry about it, you're not a bougie, lmao

[misfitwashere]

TIMOTHY SNYDER

FEB 5

Imagine if it had gone like this. 

Ten Tesla cybertrucks, painted in camouflage colors with a giant X on each roof, drive noisily through Washington DC. Tires screech. Out jump a couple of dozen young men, dressed in red and black Devil’s Champion armored costumes. After giving Nazi salutes, they grab guns and run to one government departmental after another, calling out slogans like “all power to Supreme Leader Skibidi Hitler.”

Historically, that is what coups looked like. The center of power was a physical place. Occupying it, and driving out the people who held office, was to claim control. So if a cohort of armed men with odd symbols had stormed government buildings, Americans would have recognized that as a coup attempt. 

And that sort of coup attempt would have failed. 

Now imagine that, instead, the scene goes like this.

A couple dozen young men go from government office to government office, dressed in civilian clothes and armed only with zip drives. Using technical jargon and vague references to orders from on high, they gain access to the basic computer systems of the federal government. Having done so, they proceed to grant their Supreme Leader access to information and the power to start and stop all government payments.

That coup is, in fact, happening. And if we do not recognize it for what it is, it could succeed.

In the third decade of the twenty first century, power is more digital than physical. The buildings and the human beings are there to protect the workings of the computers, and thus the workings of the government as a whole, in our case an (in principle) democratic government which is organized and bounded by a notion of individual rights.

The ongoing actions by Musk and his followers are a coup because the individuals seizing power have no right to it. Elon Musk was elected to no office and there is no office that would give him the authority to do what he is doing. It is all illegal. It is also a coup in its intended effects: to undo democratic practice and violate human rights. 

In gaining data about us all, Musk has trampled on any notion of privacy and dignity, as well as on the explicit and implicit agreements made with our government when we pay our taxes or our student loans. And the possession of that data enables blackmail and further crimes.

In gaining the ability to stop payments by the Department of the Treasury, Musk would also make democracy meaningless. We vote for representatives in Congress, who pass laws that determine how our tax money is spent. If Musk has the power to halt this process at the level of payment, he can make laws meaningless. Which means, in turn, that Congress is meaningless, and our votes are meaningless, as is our citizenship.

Resistance to the coup is the defense of the human against the digital and the democratic against the oligarchic. If Musk controls these digital systems, Republican elected officials will be just as helpless as Democratic ones. The institutions that they voted to create can also be “deleted,” as Musk puts it. 

President Trump, for that matter, will also perform at Musk’s pleasure. There is not much he can do without the use of the federal government’s computers. No one will explain this to Trump or to his supporters, of course. 

A coup is underway, against Americans as possessors of human rights and dignities, and against Americans as citizens of a democratic republic. Each hour this goes unrecognized makes the success of the coup more likely.

[tprings-hair]

what happened on tarsus iv?

this is my attempt at creating a definitive list of information on what kirk experienced on tarsus iv for fic writers and other fans who want to know wtf is up with kirk's backstory.

(I have a longer, more general post on tos kirk's backstory here.)

"Kodos the Executioner, summary. Governor of Tarsus Four twenty Earth years ago. Invoked martial law. Slaughtered fifty percent of population Earth colony, that planet. Burned body found when Earth forces arrived. No positive identification. Case closed."

let's start with this quote from spock, detailing the information he found on their ship's computer.

first of all: at its core, this episode is tos's take on the nazis who escaped capture. adolf eichmann was only found in 1960, and would certainly have been in the public memory as a high profile nazi who managed to make a new life under an assumed name. he was not the only one to have escaped capture, and I don't think I need to explain which conspiracy theory the circumstances of kodos's faked death call to mind.

this episode was an exploration of what form cruelty and authoritarianism might take in star trek's universe, with a huge amount of influence from shakespeare's work. the two together make up this central dilemma: is it kodos? might kirk be condemning an innocent man? if it is kodos, does kirk have the right to act as judge, jury, and executioner? is it possible for someone who carried out terrible acts to live a new life somewhere else, and not have the violence follow?

SPOCK: According to our library banks, it started on the Earth colony of Tarsus IV, when the food supply was attacked by an exotic fungus and largely destroyed. There were over eight thousand colonists and virtually no food. And that was when Governor Kodos seized full power and declared emergency martial law.

MCCOY: I've heard of it.

SPOCK: You may not have heard it all. Kodos began to separate the colonists. Some would live, be rationed whatever food was left. The remainder would be immediately put to death. Apparently he had his own theories of eugenics.

MCCOY: Unfortunately, he wasn't the first.

SPOCK: Perhaps not. But he was certainly among the most ruthless, to decide arbitrarily who would survive and who would not, using his own personal standards, and then to implement his decision without mercy. Children watching their parents die. Whole families destroyed. Over four thousand people. They died quickly, without pain, but they died. Relief arrived, but too late to prevent the executions. And Kodos? There never was a positive identification of his body.

the thing is, this introduces a number of inconsistencies. it could easily be chalked up to confusion between multiple drafts of the script, but if you want to look deeper and see where the information comes from, you'll notice the two survivors have very different stories than the official starfleet record.

specifically, spock says that they died quickly and painlessly, and though he is sure that karidian is kodos, he does not seem to treat him as a legitimate threat to anyone's safety. we don't know if kodos ever directly killed anyone, or if he only gave the orders. but kirk and leighton seem to agree on the violence: leighton refers to his own injury as "the bloody thing (kodos) did", and kirk recalls kodos "blasting" others out of existence. it's possible kirk was saying it to confuse kodos, so kodos might say "that's not how it happened" and give himself away. it's also possible that leighton sustained his injury at a different time than the massacre. it seems likeliest to me in any case that the information on the ship's computer is not the entire truth.

which also means you can headcanon whatever you want and nobody can tell you definitively that you're wrong. be free with your tarsus iv headcanons.

exploring the tarsus iv lore (or lack of it) has led me to this sort of consensus in the fandom that kirk was looking after a group of children. I think it's a very cool way of exploring how central it is to his character that he has to be in control, protecting people, and fighting back, and I've read and enjoyed some absolutely fantastic fics with that premise. even william shatner seems to agree. in his novel collision course (which gives kirk and spock a sort of alternate first meeting as teenagers and gives some great insights into how shatner viewed kirk's backstory), kirk ().

the ship's computer specifies the number of survivors later in the episode as nine, and lists them as

Kirk, J., Leighton, T., Moulton, E., Riley, K., Eames, D.

before kirk cuts it off. once leighton dies, the last two surviving are kirk and riley.

the novelization by james blish names a couple more characters, and in order of age: Leighton, T., Molson, E., Kirk, J., Wiegand, R., Eames, S., and Daiken, R., which was what they called the role of kevin riley initially. he is specified as being five years old at the time, and kirk is not a child or teen but a midshipman.

and collision course names still more characters. edith zaglada, an eight year old girl who kirk saw killed. donny, tay, and billy are named as other survivors. this novel doesn't get into kodos's motivations or kirk's circumstances, but it gives us two new characters, griffyn and matthew, who are teenagers employed by kodos as bounty hunters for escapees of the initial massacre. starfleet arrives just as edith is shot and griffyn is trying to convince matthew to shoot kirk. we don't really know if kirk knew any of the other survivors, but he mentions edith's name specifically a few times as a death that affected him a lot. it's heartbreaking to watch city on the edge of forever with that in mind. I also can't find a source for anyone calling him JT, but collision course does call him jimmy during the flashback chapters.

crucially, the novel isn't technically canon. so you can have your gang of children led by JT, or you can have jimmy stick with a couple of people, or you could do something totally your own. none of these are wrong! do whatever your heart desires.

if you want some practical details, there's a great post here by @spirk-trek and pt 1, pt 2, and pt 3 of a great post by @pywren. I may make my own tarsus iv headcanon post if anyone is interested, and if I do I'll link it here.

[bitterballad]

the roommate agreement.

━━━ © bitterballad

PLOT! You and Eren were assigned to be roommates in a co-ed dorm. Your opposing lifestyles lead to some amusing clashes, but over time the two of you find a way to co-exist with one another. That comfortable rhythm turns into something more once someone flirts with you at a party.

WARNINGS! modern!au. college!au. slight praise kink i think... overstimulation, PROTECTED sex (always wrap before you tap)

NOTES! hiiiii eren is silly in this fic bc i said so. i also made him a sports medicine major bc i wanted to. word count is 4.3k. enjoy!

You were going to kill your roommate. It's six in the morning, you fell asleep maybe three hours ago, and he's awake rummaging around his side of the dorm. He does this everyday: up early, headphones in listening to god knows what, and waking you up with his antics.

"Where is it?" He muttered to himself. His words were too loud for your liking, though most would say his everything is too much for your liking.

You press a hand to the bridge of your nose, pinching it lightly. "What the hell are you doing?" You asked, voice groggy.

Erens head shot up, looking at you for a second before he goes back to rummaging. "I can't find my other sneaker."

"So?" You counter.

"I need it to run."

"Run barefoot for all I care. Just be quiet." You groan, wanting this conversation to be over with so you can go back to your lovely dream. 

He huffs at your words. "I am being quiet."

"Be quieter!" You pleaded. Whether it was with him or god, you didn’t know.

He gave you a tight-lipped smile, and went back to his previous actions. He attempted to be quieter, but that just wasn’t enough. You tossed and turned, trying to find a spot on your twin sized bed that was farthest away from his noise. Obviously, that didn’t work.

It’s times like these you regret accepting the co-ed dorm. Sure, none of the other dorms had room, and this one was way cheaper. But you would take expensive girls over Eren.

This noise will never end. You knew it at the bottom of your heart. So instead of wasting time trying to fall asleep and failing, you sat up in your bed, got one of the books laying face down next to your legs, and began studying. Your computer was already open from last night, and you had highlighters and pens littered across the blanket. 

“If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it.” You mumble, eyes scanning through the words on the page, barely comprehending this. Why the fuck did you choose Pre-Law?

Eren’s head shot up. “What are you doing?” He asked you, eyes and voice full of curiosity. This is the first time he’s seen you like this. He usually witnesses you study at your desk for a brief moment before his Physiology class. Other than that, it’s passing moments. This time, he’s taking you in, analyzing everything about you.

“Studying. I have a test tomorrow and I can’t sleep.”

Your eyes had already diverted back to your computer, but he stayed trained on you. As he slipped his shoe on (yes, he found it) he noticed the bags under your puffy eyes. Was this his fault? 

Guilt flashed in front of him and coursed through his veins. Of course this was his fault. He’s a loud 20 year old boy. He should have some manners when living with a girl.

Digging through his nightstand, he placed a bottle of something on your desk before heading out.

The bright rays of the laptop burned your eyes. With each scan of a sentence your eyes itched more. You sucked in a large breath before slamming the laptop shut, groaning with a mix of annoyance and crankiness.

Your eyes dart to the nightstand, landing on a small, purple bottle of melatonin gummies.

A smile graces your lips.

You pop two gummies into your mouth and lean back against your headboard, letting the artificial strawberry taste settle on your tongue.

He's already gone, the door shut behind him a few minutes ago, but the echo of his presence lingers. You stare at the door for a moment longer than you mean to, the corners of your mouth twitching.

Stupid, thoughtful bastard.

The next few weeks fall into a strange rhythm. Eren still wakes up too early. You still stay up too late. But now, he leaves you small peace offerings—sometimes it’s melatonin, other times it’s an extra protein bar tossed onto your desk without a word. You never say thank you out loud, and he never asks for one.

Instead, you start leaving the window open before you sleep because you know he likes the fresh air after a run.

You catch him glancing at you more often. Not the usual up-and-down guys do when they’re checking you out, but the kind that lingers like he’s trying to read something written on your face. You pretend not to notice. You’re both pretending.

Then one night, it changes.

You come back to the dorm earlier than usual, slumping in with your bag dragging behind you. You’re exhausted, your notes are a mess, and your brain feels like overcooked pasta. You don't even bother turning on the light.

You expect to be alone.

Instead, Eren’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, headphones in, scribbling something in a notebook. When he sees you, he pulls the buds out. “Hey.”

You grunt a tired hello.

He watches you toe off your shoes and collapse face-first onto your bed. “Rough day?”

You answer with a muffled noise into your pillow.

There’s a pause. Then: “Wanna talk about it?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “Since when do you ask if I want to talk about things?”

“Since I got tired of you pretending you’re fine when you’re obviously not.”

You blink.

He shrugs, trying to play it cool, but you catch the way his fingers twitch in his lap, the way his jaw clenches like he regrets speaking.

You sigh. “Law is eating me alive. I have two midterms, a paper, and a TA who literally sighs every time I open my mouth.”

“Want me to kill them?” he asks casually. Too casually. Maybe you’re living with a serial killer.

You snort and ignore the thought. “Yeah. Bury the body in the woods behind the gym. No one would find it.”

He grins, and just like that, the weight in your chest lifts a little.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your temples. “You’re not…bad at this, you know.”

“At what?”

You hesitate. “Being…someone I can count on.”

That gets him. He freezes for half a second before he looks away, color blooming on his cheeks. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters. “I’m still a pain in the ass.”

You smile tiredly. “Yeah. But you’re my pain in the ass.”

The words hang in the air like a held breath.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. The light from his desk lamp casts shadows along his jaw, his cheekbones, and something softer in his eyes.

That moment doesn’t end. Not really. It stretches over the next few days like a string pulled too tight—neither of you breaking it, but neither of you acknowledging it either.

You tiptoe around it, side-stepping the way Eren starts waiting up for you after your late-night study sessions, the way he always asks if you’ve eaten, the way he starts playing music you like when you're both in the room.

And you? You stop wearing headphones when he's around. You start taking his hoodie off the chair and wearing it when your laundry’s overdue. You don’t mention it. He doesn’t either.

You're both cowards, really.

One night, you’re both in the room, coexisting in your usual not-quite-comfortable silence. You’re curled at your desk, typing up a paper with a half-empty cup of tea going cold. He’s lying back on his bed, his sketchbook balanced on his knee.

It’s been an hour since either of you spoke.

Then he says, out of nowhere, “Do you think we would’ve been friends if we weren’t roommates?”

You look up from your screen. “What?”

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Just wondering. You kind of hated me at first.”

“I still kind of hate you.”

He grins. “Yeah, but now you make it sound cute.”

You toss a pen at him. It bounces off his forehead. “Asshole.”

He tosses it back. “So? Would we have?”

You pause. He’s being serious. It’s in the way he fiddles with the spiral of the notebook, the way his gaze is fixed on the ceiling like he’s afraid of what your answer might be. You don’t want to lie. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t usually let people like you get close.”

“People like me?”

“Loud. Relentless. Hot.”

He turns his head toward you so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “You think I’m hot?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t take it back. You go back to typing instead, as if you didn’t just drop a hand grenade into the center of your shared space.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, and you try not to squirm under the weight of it.

Then he says, soft enough that it’s almost a whisper, “I wouldn’t have minded chasing you a little.” Your fingers pause on the keys. He clears his throat, pretending to be more casual than he is. “You know. If we hadn’t been roommates. If I’d met you in class or something.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. So instead, you do what you do best: pretend. “I would’ve ignored you completely,” you say without looking up. “Blocked you on all platforms. Reported you to campus security.”

“I’d find a way.”

He says it like a promise.

The next weekend, Jean invites you both to a party off-campus.

You don’t want to go. Parties aren’t your scene, and the idea of standing around in a too-small apartment trying to shout over music while nursing a warm drink sounds like the seventh circle of hell.

But Eren gives you that look—wide eyes, raised brows, that barely-suppressed grin that says I dare you—and suddenly you’re digging out a clean pair of jeans and brushing your hair like it’s a real event.

When you step out of the bathroom, he’s leaning against the doorframe waiting for you, and the way his gaze flicks up and down your frame is not subtle.

You roll your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, biting back a smirk. “You clean up okay.”

“You’ve seen me with crusty eye bags and ramen breath. Don’t pretend I’m suddenly cute.”

“You’ve always been cute,” he says, not missing a beat.

You open your mouth to fire something back, but nothing comes out. He walks ahead of you before you can figure out what to say.

The party is a blur of noise, cheap vodka, and body heat.

Jean’s apartment is packed with people you vaguely recognize from lecture halls and campus cafés. You get separated from Eren almost immediately, and you don’t panic—but you also don’t stop glancing around for him every few minutes.

You’re standing near the kitchen when a guy approaches you. He’s tall, grinning like he’s used to getting what he wants, and he leans in close when he talks. Too close.

You’re trying to politely brush him off when you feel a warm hand slip around your waist.

“There you are,” Eren says, voice too casual. “Been looking for you.” The guy backs off immediately, muttering something under his breath as he disappears into the crowd. Eren doesn’t remove his hand. You don’t ask him to.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

He looks down at you. “You okay?”

You nod, then gesture to the living room. “Wanna get out of here?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

Back in the dorm, there’s a quiet that settles between you. Not awkward—just…waiting. You sit on your bed, shoes still on, and watch him toss his jacket onto the desk chair. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

You frown. “For what?”

“For dragging you there. Should’ve known you’d hate it.”

“I didn’t hate it,” you lie. Then you sigh. “Okay, maybe I did. But it wasn’t your fault. That guy was a dick.”

His jaw tightens. “You sure he didn’t touch you or—?”

“He didn’t,” you say firmly. “You got there just in time.”

He exhales through his nose, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Eren,” you say softly. “Why do you care so much?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks over, slow, careful, like he’s approaching a wild animal. He stops when he’s standing in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint citrus of his cologne.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he says, voice low. “But somewhere between you hating my guts and stealing my hoodies…I started thinking about you all the time.”

You swallow.

He takes a step closer. “It’s stupid. We’re roommates. It’s messy. But I can’t stop.”

Your heartbeat is deafening in your ears. You whisper, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I think I’m already in too deep. And if you don’t stop me now, I’m gonna kiss you.”

You stare at him. Then you lean forward.

Your lips slot into his like puzzle pieces. It's messy, anxiety inducing, and above all it's addictive. He’s addictive. Eren Jaeger is your own personal brand of heroin, and fuck you were feining for a syringe. 

His lips go from yours, to your cheek, jaw, and then trail down your neck. Your breath is heavy and your mind is blank. All you can think of is Eren. 

“You good?” He mumbles, lips still on your neck. “Got all quiet.”

You blink, and the words come out breathless. “I’m good.” Hands meet his brown hair, gently pulling him away from your neck. It’s ironic, considering you don’t want him to stop. Regardless of what you want, he goes back to your lips, humming as you happily accept it. 

The pain in your legs must be mirrored in his, cause he quickly pulls you onto his bed, sitting you on his lap and letting his hands rest just above your hips 

His hands flex against your waist, thumbs pressing into the space between your ribs and hips like he’s trying to ground himself. Almost as if hes trying to prove that you’re actually here, straddling him, kissing him like you’re a starved woman.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’ve been hungry for this, for him, for longer than you would like to admit.

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth, He’s warm beneath you, heat radiating from every inch of him, and when your hips shift forward without thinking, the sound he makes nearly breaks you.

It’s anything but holy, but you would worship it if given the chance.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice low, gravelly. “You can’t do that unless you want me to lose my mind.” You do it again anyway, hips rolling slow, just to feel the way his breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, cheat heaving. “You’re not playing fair.”

You smirk, eyes hooded. “Wasn’t aware this was a game.”

Eren leans forward, mouth ghosting the shell of your ear. “Then I’ll make some rules.”

And just like that, you’re on your back, his hands splayed on either side of your head, his lips crashing into yours again like he can’t stand the space between you. It’s less polished now, more desperate. Tongues, teeth, the slow drag of your bodies pressed together as the kiss turns hungrier than before.

His hand slides up beneath your shirt, fingers grazing over your stomach, hesitant. He breaks the kiss long enough to search your face. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” You whisper, breath catching.

That’s all it takes.

He kisses down your collarbone, slow and reverent, while his hands explore the shape of you like a map he’s memorized in dreams. You arch into him, and he exhales a shaky breath against your skin. 

“Been thinking about this,” He confesses into your shoulder, voice wrecked. “About you. For months.”

Your hands trail down his back, nails dragging lightly along his spine. “Then stop thinking.”

He shivers at the contact and then looks up at you, eyes burning. “Yeah?”

You nod, pulling him back down with a kiss that’s all heat and need. His mouth is on yours before you can even catch your breath. His hands roam, bold and greedy, as they explore the new skin he’s been denied for too long. You’re gasping into his mouth as his fingers tail up your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra.

“Can I?” He asks, voice rasped against your lips.

“Yes.” You breathe it like a secret.

He makes quick work of the clasp, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle, and you feel the fabric slip off your shoulders. The moment your chest is bare, he pauses, only for a moment, to take you in.

“Jesus,” He murmurs, more to himself than to you. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

You feel heat rise to your face, but before you can say anything, his mouth is on you. Hot. Wet. Slow. He kisses down one breast while his hand kneads the other, and the contrast of the warmth and pressure sends sparks racing down your spine.

You arch up, hips grinding against his thigh for friction, and he groans. It’s low and rough and into your skin, and the sound of it makes you want more.

“Eren,” You whisper, nails digging into the back of his shoulders. A silent plea.

He pulls back, lips swollen and glossy, eyes almost as dark as sin. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name knocks something loose in you. Your hips roll again, this time with more purpose, and you feel the harm press of him between your thighs. “You have too many clothes on.” You pant, tugging at his waistband. 

“I’m working on it,” He chuckles, breathless. “I was a little preoccupied.”

You help him kick off his sweats and boxers in a messy tangle, your underwear and his shirt discarded somewhere along the way. Then you’re both bare, skin to skin, nothing in between. Suddenly the air shifts, the tension isn’t playful anymore. It’s charged. Heavy.

He leans over you, one hand braces beside your head, the other sliding down your thigh. His fingers dipped between your legs, and when he finds how soaked you are, his breath stutters hard. 

“Shit. You’re-”

“Don’t say it,” You gasp, already writhing from the way his fingers are teasing you. “Just, please, Eren.”

He doesn’t make you beg.

Two fingers slip inside you, slow and deep, curling just right as his thumb circles your clit. Your back arches off the bed and a broken moan escapes your lips.

“God, look at you,” He whispers, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “So fucking perfect like this. Falling apart.”

Your hands grab at him blindly. His hair, his arms, anything to anchor you as his fingers pump into you with a steady pace. It’s filthy and deliberate and you love it. He watches every twitch of your body, every gasp that tumbles from your lips, almost like he’s memorizing this.

When you’re trembling beneath him, thighs shaking, he withdraws his fingers. A whine escapes you, but he ignores it. “You ready?” He asks, voice hoarse. 

You nod, unable to form words at the moment.

He fumbles for a condom in the drawer, tears it open, and rolls it on. Then he’s between your legs again, hand guiding himself to your entrance, and he pauses just long enough to meet your eyes. “Last chance” He murmurs.

“Please.”

That’s all he needs.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he bottoms out. Still, it’s not enough, Not for him, not for you. He gorans low in your ear as you clamp around him, your body greedy.

“Fuck. You feel so fucking good,” He grits, pulling out halfway before snapping his hips forward again, harder. “I knew you’d be like this.”

A gasp escapes you, nails digging into his shoulders once more. He sets a pace that's deliberately slow, but deep. Every thrust knocks the air out of you. His hips grind against your clit with every stroke, sending jolts of pleasure sparking through your core.

“So well. Takin’ it so well.” He mumbles, dragging his teeth along your neck. “Didn’t think you’d let me fuck you like this.’

You let out a broken moan. “Didn’t think—fuck—didn’t think I needed this.”

He groans against your skin. “You do need this. I can feel how badly you need it. Just look at you.” He adjusts his angle slightly and drives into you harder, You arch, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“Eren!”

His hand comes down to grab your thigh, spreading you wider. “Right there? Tell me.”

“Please. Right there, don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping,” He says, panting now, sweat slicking his brow. “Not even close.”

You come hard, harder than you expected, the orgasm pulling a cry from your throat and a shudder through your whole body.

But Eren doesn’t let up.

While you’re still trembling, oversensitive and wrecked, he slows only for a moment, just long enough to kiss your cheek. “You’ve got another one in you. I know you do.”

You blink up at him, dazed. You open your lips to protest but all that comes out is a soft moan. He doesn’t give you time to protest

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit again with cruel precision. “C’mon. Let me see you fall apart again.”

You’re already on the edge. He picks up the pace, rougher this time. The drag of his cock against your still-sensitive walls makes you cry out, hips twitching as your body fights between escape and need.

“Too much?” He mumbles against your ear, but the way he keeps fucking into you say thats he knows the answer. You shake your head, biting your lip to keep from screaming. “Then take it.”

Your second orgasm crashes into you like a wave, this one messier, tears welling in your eyes as your body convulses around him. You sob his name, legs shaking around him like a vise.

“Fuck—baby—gonna come.” He pants, losing rhythm. “You’re unreal.”

He groans your name like a prayer as he thrusts deep, hips stuttering. He comes with a grunt, burying himself in you to the hilt as you both shake.

But even then—even then—he doesn’t pull out. Instead, he kisses you, slow and dizzying, letting your breathing sync.

Then you feel his hand trail down your stomach again.

You flinch. “Eren—”

“Please,” He whispers, almost begging. “Wanna see you fall apart one more time.” Your hips lift to meet his touch. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then lower. Your neck, your check—as his fingers slide back between your legs. “You can take it. You’ve been so good. Please.”

You cry out as his fingers circle your clit again, slick from both of you. The stimulation is brutal, your nerves frayed, thighs trembling.

But God, the way he watches you—like you’re his favorite thing in the world, like you’re his to break and rebuild—it keeps you from wanting to stop. He slips two fingers inside and curls them just right, and this time, when you come, it’s with a full-body quake. Your vision whites out. Your voice breaks. Your hands fist the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.

And Eren?

Eren looks at you like he just saw a god.

Your body is limp against the mattress, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat. Every inch of you aches in the best possible way. Eren’s hovering over you, barely holding himself up on trembling arms. His hair is a damp, wild mess that falls into his eyes. He looks completely ruined. Like he gave you everything he had. And somehow, he still smiles.

“Holy shit,” He says first, breathless. “You good?”

You huff a laugh, dazed. “I’m not sure I exist anymore.”

Eren chuckles and collapses beside you, flopping dramatically on his back. “You absolutely exist. You just don’t have bones right now.”

You roll your head toward him, barely able to lift an arm. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

He shoots you a smug, sideways grin. “I’ve been holding back.”

You raise a brow. “That was you holding back?”

“I didn’t even tie you up.” He shrugs, trying to sound casual, but clearly holding back laughter.

“Yet.”

That gets him. His gaze snaps to yours, and there’s a flicker of something. Anticipation, amusement, and a little fear. “Hold on. That sounded like a threat.”

You turn your body toward him just enough to poke a finger into his bare chest. “You ever pull that ‘just one more’ thing again without warning me, and I will be the one in charge next time.”

Eren grins. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

You blink at him, deadpan. “You should be terrified.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he throws an arm over his eyes and groans. “I’m so into it, it’s disgusting.” He says embarrassed. 

You both laugh, soft and breathless, wrapped in the aftermath of everything you just did and everything that might come next. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s warm. Comfortable.

He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, watching you like you’re still a little unreal. Then, quieter: “You’re staying here tonight, right?”

You give him a look. “Eren. This is our room.”

He blinks. “Oh. Right.” A pause. “Still felt like I should ask.”

You smile, slow and fond. “Of course I’m staying.”

“Good,” He says, tugging the blanket over the both of you. “But I’m sleeping in your bed tonight. It smells nicer.” He doesn’t make good on his word, pulling you into him instead. 

A chuckle comes out. “Try it and I’ll smother you with your own hoodie.”

He grins like he’s never been more in love with someone in his life. And as the two of you sink into the covers, tangled, sore, and completely satisfied, neither of you bother pretending anymore.

tag list: @ickbite @halfwayhearted @pedriache

[cvldbones]

kind of losing my mind about the idea of mel in the most recent fic still taking calls sometimes after they get together and langdon getting jealous and trying distract her and make her feel good while she’s talking to someone else

no this is so delicious like...

Mel is propped up on two pillows, her legs stretched long with her laptop balanced on her lap. Frank studies the way her fingers fly over the keys, how she occasionally bites the corner of her thumb in concentration. She's humming to herself almost absently, and when she feels his eyes on the side of her face, she glances at him.

"What?" There's an edge of defensiveness to her tone, but she's smiling.

He shakes his head and shifts, leaning his elbow against his own smushed pillows so he can look at her. "Nothing," he says. "Can I see what you're writing?"

Mel flushes, pulling her knees up until they knock into the back of her laptop. She bites her lip and glances back at the screen, typing another long string of sentences. She purposefully angles the computer away from him as she does so, and he frowns. "It feels weird," she admits, flitting her eyes to him for just a second. Her fingers are splayed over her mouth in a nervous gesture.

He gently pries them away, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "It's not weird for me," he promises, and she laughs. "No, seriously. And, I mean, if you won't tell me..." Frank pushes himself away from the top of the bed. He kisses her hand one more time before hovering between her thighs, both hands holding on to her knees. "I can at least make it fun for you, too."

"Frank," she says, half-warning and half-want, and he grins.

"Keep working." His voice is bright and unbothered as he tugs her pajamas down her legs. "I won't distract you."

"You already are," she mutters, and he laughs roughly. He slips one arm beneath her leg and grips the very top of her thigh to hold her in place. With his other hand, he drags his fingers up and up and up, until he meets the practical cotton fabric of her underwear. She spreads her knees obediently and he breathes out against her, right where he can already see wetness pooling. "Frank," she says again, though it comes out more as a whine.

"Your client," he reminds her, just as he tugs her underwear to the side and presses his tongue against her clit. Her fingers stutter on the keyboard, and he moans into her cunt. He usually likes to ease her into it with gentle licks and nips and a slow teasing of her entrance with his fingers, but he's been thinking about this since she started her shift an hour after they got home, and he has no desire to keep things soft, right now.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," she groans, and her thighs tighten around his head. "You couldn't have waited fifteen minutes - "

"Nuh-uh," he murmurs into her cunt. He licks a long stripe, right up the middle, and her skull knocks against the headboard.

"Oh, if this guy doesn't..." she's muttering under her breath, and so Frank slides two fingers inside of her, grinning when she releases a broken whimper. He pumps into her relentlessly as he sucks her clit, his other hand gripping her thigh hard enough to bruise. When she's getting close, her walls tightening around him so fucking perfectly, there's a soft thud and then the feel of her hand tugging at his hair, moving him where she wants him. "Just - right there, yes, fuck - "

She comes in a loud shudder, her entire body seizing as he keeps his fingers nestled deep within her. She doesn't give him time to savor the moment, though, before she's yanking him away from her cunt and back up to her mouth, hands shaky where they hold either side of his face. He groans into the kiss and skates his thumb along her jaw to slow her down.

"Oh, are you finished?" he asks, cheeky, and she glares at him half-heartedly.

"In more ways than one," she confirms. She nods down at him. "Now take off your fucking pants."

"You know I love it when you tell me what to do," he whispers in her ear, tugging on the lobe with his teeth. That chat client long forgotten, he obeys. Of course he does.

[hivemuthur]

Maybe this is gonna be a strange ask, but how do you think Viktor would be like, if he existed in the real world? Do you have any headcanons for real world Viktor, some adaptations of canon Arcane lore…? I’m new here, and I know you have stories set in modern times, but I kinda want to know your understanding of him first (so I get everything when I check those out).

Hi Anon! This is a very fun ask, thank you! And if you are new here, welcome! Got very long, so under the cut:

So, since in Arcane we see Viktor in around his 30s mostly and he is said to have an eastern-European accent (specifically Czech per Harry), first and foremost I HC him as a Czech millennial. And those facts matter to me in terms of his character building, because here the generations of millennials and gen-X overlap due to the existence of Soviet Block. What it means culturally: most of the western trends and technology were introduced to Eastern Europe throughout the 90s and 00s. The way his situation is presented in Arcane makes me believe that a character such as him wouldn't be coming from an imperial country. If we put him in his 30s now, he also wouldn't remember communism, but would be the last generation affected by it through his elders and the slow shift in the general system.

It's perfectly valid that he would still be disabled. As I favour femoral rotation for his disability, it's very likely that when he was born it wasn't spotted and treated properly, leading to him using a mobility aid throughout his life. I do believe that with medicine advancement in 00s, it would be possible for him to avoid wearing the back brace OR fully reverse the need for it due to the last few years rise in awareness about physiotherapy. When it comes to his lung disease: it wasn't very common in Europe to have areas so heavily polluted for him to have definitely developed it, but! If I were to give him one, it would be squamous cell lung cancer, which can affect anyone with proper genetic predisposal or weak immunity only after a short exposure to for example asbestos. I admit, I tend not to, because I really don't want him to die :c So, for me, he grew up in some small city in Czechia :x

As for what he is like: definitely a nerd. I can see him finishing biochem or maths/physics profile in highschool and then following it through to university (unis here are state, so education is free, you just have to pass the exams). Throughout school I can imagine him attending after-hours extracurriculars such as chemistry classes or programming classes where kids could play computer games on ZX-Spectrum in the last 30 minutes (and given how long those games would load it's not a lot of game time okay). I can see him programming his own games and being able to make an early radio receiver using a crystal detector. He would construct toys too. And maybe break toys to make new ones.

I think he would follow through with STEM/engineering but with an idealistic purpose. Oddly, I don't think he would become a physician (I'm a med person, so I'm allowed to say this) - I believe a lot of physicians are ego-driven (this is not necessarily a bad thing). There is no ego in anything Viktor is doing throughout the show: he doesn't attempt to steal Jayce's research, he wants to see it through, because it could change the world for the better. So he doesn't let Jayce drown. He's not interested in being the face of it. The ambition lies within the goal, not within the recognition.

Moreover, I think he would act from within deep philosophical understanding of life, which would lead to him reading a lot of books on different subjects. I can see him reading fantasy, sci-fi as well as people like Deleuze and Jorge Luis Borges and connecting all those dots. When it comes to relationships, I think he would be more open to those in modern era, especially when we erase the seizing fear of death coming from his health deteriorating. Still, hard to get through to or to be found by his person, but entirely more possible than in Arcane universe.

From smaller things, I think he would still be a workaholic. I think he would love animals, because it's impossible for someone so kind to not love them. I think he would feel alienated by the world and have difficulty taking pleasure from spending time with large groups of people simply because of his intelligence and the ability to think systemically. Which is why once someone who he gets on with appears, he would keep this person very close, no matter if it's friendship or romantic relationship.

In general, I think Viktor would grow up to be a very well-read, intelligent, kind and ambitious man that would struggle against the system his whole life. I think he feels a lot and deeply but doesn't show it so often, it would be visible in his work.

Okie, I think these are the most important aspects of his character in modern era for me. I hope I passed the test and now you can enjoy my modern Viktor blabber in fics!