#Re Rolling Machine

[panda-of-the-trash]

My Spotify is going hard tonight

[reasonsforhope]

"The average pediatric wheelchair can cost thousands of dollars. And when children grow and their needs evolve — or a wheelchair gets damaged — those costs multiply.

So, the team at MakeGood NOLA, a New Orleans-based adaptive design lab, has made something that can transform the world for disabled children.

“Introducing the world’s first fully 3D-printed wheelchair,” MakeGood founder and president Noam Platt started a recent social media video.

He wheels a small, almost toy-like lime-green wheelchair into the frame, complete with a matching harness, suitable for children ages 2 to 8.

“Everything from the body, to the wheels, to the tires, the seat, and even the straps, all were 3D printed on a regular Bambu Labs A1 machine,” Platt continued.

This means the design is fully compatible with a regular 3D printer anyone can have in their home.

“We designed this to be modular and easy to make,” Platt continued. “Really, anyone with a 3D printer and some filament can download the files and print it.” [Note: You can also use 3D printers for free or a small cost at some public libraries and maker spaces, opening up accessibility even further.]

Once the prototype is completely finished, it will be available as a fair-use download that anyone can use for free.

Pictured: The new 3D-printed chair by MakeGood. Photo courtesy of MakeGood NOLA

Platt said that because it has a modular design, the wheelchair can be put together without any tools or glue. And if any part of it breaks or is damaged, users can simply re-print the single piece they need.

“As a wheelchair user I love everything about this,” TikTok user @thisisharlie commented on Platt’s video debuting the wheelchair.

“Mine costs more than my car, I can’t imagine having to buy a new one every year or two as they outgrow it,” @thisisharlie continued. “You’re going to change the world.”

For Platt, that’s always been the plan.

When he created MakeGood in 2021, the nonprofit design lab was thinking of the more than 1 billion people around the globe who live with disabilities.

“Since traditional design often overlooks diverse bodies and minds, it is crucial to reshape the built environment,” MakeGood shares on its website. “The challenges our communities face — both physical and social — are solvable.”

MakeGood works with individuals to co-create their adaptive design solutions, centering the “Need Knower,” the disabled person or their primary caregivers, throughout the entire process.

Since the founding of MakeGood, 1,600 individualized adaptive devices have been delivered to families for free. Platt’s team found a niche with this wheelchair, which they call the Toddler Mobility Trainer, or TMT. 

On its website, the organization says the wheelchairs were “designed with therapists from all over the world” and offer “unmatched mobility and independence to young kids.”

Children and parents agree.

“It’s an A+,” one parent said of an earlier prototype of the TMT in a report by CBS News. “It’s helped [my son] become more mobile and be able to adapt into the other things that he’s going to be offered. It’s helped his development.”

At the start of the design process, Platt reached out to area hospitals to see if he could fill a need.

“Part of it is empowering clinicians that we can go beyond what is commercially available,” Platt told CBS News. “We can really create almost anything.”

Now in the final stages of tweaking the TMT design to be ready for release, Platt is eager to get the wheelchair rolled out and into the homes of the children who need them most.

Pictured: A rendering of the 3D printed design, which will soon be available for download. Photo courtesy of MakeGood NOLA

“We think this sort of 3D printing and design is going to be huge for accessibility, and for wheelchairs specifically,” Platt said in his social media video. 

In the meantime, people can request a free chair from MakeGood.

“We have a growing list of people who’ve requested these, and once we finish the design, we’ll start filling those requests with custom-printed chairs, including things that you might need for your particular chair,” Platt said in a follow-up video.

Because the chairs are easily 3D printed, they can come in any color and can be modified to include other accommodations, like a section to hold a breathing device or other aid. With years of customization and design experience under his belt, this new innovation is simply an extension of Platt’s dedication to inclusive design.

In 2023, Platt told New Mobility: “I feel like every time I deliver one of these [assistive] devices, I get a hopeful feeling that the world has been changed a little bit for the better for the next generation.”"

-via GoodGoodGood, May 8, 2025

[fight-for-what-you-love]

♪Wheel of Fortune - Kay Starr

Aahhhh. I love weddings. Don’t you? I think it’s a wonderful expression of one’s love for another, and it’s always nice to see celebrated! Crashing weddings can be fun to watch too, thankfully. Thanks, Sierra! (And sorry you lost your husband!)

Notes on the episode under the cut!

* Cody’s silently praying to whatever God may be out there that Noah’s the one that comes back.

* Chris announces Noah’s return as he rises from the stage on a three-tier platform. Sierra’s “WHAT” is drowned out by Cody’s “YES!!!”.

* (Noah's song is an entirely new arrangement that spoofs Kay Starr’s “Wheel Of Fortune”. It would entail Noah leading [obviously], singing about how awful it is that Lady Luck brought him back to compete on this awful show. It would end with Noah and Cody collectively thanking Lady Luck for letting them see each other again.)

* Noah asks if he has to go back to team Chris, and Chris responds that the teams are merging. Everyone welcomes this development except Sierra.

* Once he rejoins the cast proper, Sierra starts picking a fight with him. “Whatever… At least I got to spend more time with Cody.” Noah’s petty. “…At least Cody likes spending time with me.”

* They keep going. “At least I got to sleep with Cody!” “At least I slept with him first!” “At least my parents won’t hate me because I kissed a boy!!” “At least my parents care about me in the first place!!”

* Chris interrupts them: “Okay, okay! As entertaining as this spat is…” Cut to Cody, Tyler and Heather holding back Noah, and Courtney, Alejandro and Duncan holding back Sierra. Cody holds Noah’s mouth shut and Courtney holds Sierra’s shut. “…I’ve got a show to run. Let’s move on, shall we?”

* Sierra’s the first one to spin the roulette machine and she gets Tyler. She’s not happy. Tyler’s met with no one as Sierra yells at Chris to let her spin again. He insists she gets what she gets, and she’s not allowed to re-roll.

* Noah goes after Sierra, and rolls Cody. He pops out and finds himself in front of Noah. He jumps up and hugs him tight as he says it’s “The BEST DAY EVER!!” Sierra seethes in the background.

* Courtney rolls Alejandro and Heather is left with Duncan. Alejandro's disappointed but he won't say that out loud. Courtney on the other hand is SO happy to not be with Duncan.

* (As it turns out, Courtney and Alejandro are more compatible than they thought. Duncan and Heather, on the other hand, are not. Sad.)

* Noah and Cody breeeeeeze through the dress portion of the challenge. Cody’s laying down on his podium kicking around his legs, yelling directions at Noah with the stupidest look on his face. Noah makes it to the dress first and looks it up and down. Cody yells out “I THOUGHT THAT DRESS SUITED YOU WELL!!” Noah weakly yells back “Thank you Cody!” He’s not thrilled about wearing the dress, but he does appreciate Cody leading him to the one he’d be the most comfortable in.

* Noco’s the first ones to walk the tightrope. Cody looks down at the falls nervously, and Noah suggests carrying him instead. Cody stops him, insisting he can do it, and picks Noah up. Noah leans into him, getting comfortable. “If you insist, macho man.”

* Sierra and Tyler go after them and Sierra’s visibly upset. Tyler tries to mellow her out, suggesting that Cody and Noah are happy with each other and maybe she should let them be. Sierra stares at them as they talk about flower arrangements in their hypothetical wedding. She decides that no, she’s not quite ready to let them be, so she starts bouncing to make Tyler wobble and shake the line. It works and both couples fall.

* Cody manages to grab Noah in one arm and the line in another, though he’s struggling. Noah asks him if he can pull them back up (though he knows he can’t.) Cody tries anyway, and strains to the point of veins popping out of his neck. Noah tells him to stop.

* Alejandro and Courtney walk by and Alejandro “accidentally” kicks Cody’s hand off the line. Noco falls, screaming on the way down (“No!” in reality, “Asshole!” If I was allowed to curse.) Courtney is somewhat impressed by his ruthlessness. They win this challenge. Duncan and Heather were just bickering the whole time don’t worry about them.

~*[Events of the comic]*~

* Duncan gets voted out for being a prick and a bastard. Courtney is ok with this.

[piastriprincess]

honey  ,  you’re  familiar ⸻  max  verstappen  x  reader  .

featuring  max  verstappen  ,  established  relationship  ,  domestic  ,  fluff word  count  0.8k author’s  note  MY  FIRST  REQUEST  !!  genuinely  so  excited  to  have  been  able  to  write  this  for  you  and  i  hope  i  executed  what  you  wanted  .  ngl  i  got  a  little  bit  carried  away  and  it  ended  up  way  longer  than  expected  but  i  hope  you  still  like  it  !  my  inbox  is  still  open  ,  so  please  request  anything  you  want  and  thank  you  so  much  for  reading  ! title is from from eden by hozier .

56:  a  warm  palm  and  a  flannel  shirt .

You wake with a jolt, the Monaco light filtering through the gauzy curtains. Max had been gone for two long weeks for the grueling double-header, and you must have fallen asleep before he got home. It's happened before, but it always takes you a moment to get used to the weight of his arm draped over your waist, the warmth emanating from his body as he clings to you. You open your eyes slowly, blinking against the warm dawn, and there he is, curled beside you, breath steady and even. He looks younger when he sleeps, almost peaceful, like the weight of the world he carries on his back has finally slipped off. 

It’s hard not to wake him up. You want all the time you can get with him. But you can’t bear the thought of him losing those precious, peaceful moments. So you press a soft kiss to his shoulder and slip out from under the duvet. 

The apartment is cold, in that early morning way, where everything is quiet and still around the edges. The flimsy sleep shirt and shorts you’re wearing do nothing to protect you from the flat, air-conditioned chill. Your bare feet pad to Max’s closet, slowly rolling back the door and grabbing a flannel hanging on the rack. You’d bought it for him long ago, in a joint effort with Victoria and Sophie to get him to wear anything but that hideous Red Bull merch. But you should have known it wouldn’t work. Your Max is stubborn, and you end up wearing the button-down more often than he does — it’s soft and warm, and it smells like his slightly smoky cologne. It dwarfs your small frame, but with the sleeves rolled up it works just fine. 

You start the coffee on autopilot, measuring out the grounds carefully, methodically. The water bubbles inside the pot, gleaming in the pale light. You’re humming a song you heard the other day, something about a man slithering home to his lover’s door, and Jimmy is curling around your ankles in that familiar way. Max is home, and for the first time in two weeks the ache in your chest begins to lessen. 

“You look better in that than I ever did,” his voice sounds from behind you, still rough from sleep, and you smile to yourself, turning around. His blonde locks are messy, eyes still weary. But he’s real, he’s here in front of you, and your heart is swelling so much you think it might burst out of your chest. 

“You always say that,” you reply softly. 

“I always mean it,” he says, so matter-of factly, and extends his hand to you, palm up. 

You take it, because of course you do, fingers trailing over his. His fingertips are calloused, scratchy from years of slipping over steering wheels and bending the strongest machines in the world to his even stronger will. When you feel them, you understand how people speak his name with fear and awe. But his palms are soft, warm. This is the Max you know — the one who rubs your feet when you can’t fall asleep, who speaks with a softness reserved just for you, who smiles at you like you hung the stars in the sky. 

Your fingers stay intertwined for just a moment. Then he pulls you into him and wraps his arms around you, holding you like he’s holding something precious he’s afraid to break. “Good morning to you, too,” you giggle as he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in the familiar clean scent of your shampoo. 

“Missed you, liefje,” he mumbles, his hands skating down your sides to rest on your waist, and not even the flannel can stop the goosebumps that erupt where his bare skin touches yours. 

“I’ve only been out of bed for five minutes,” you protest, but you’re smiling. 

“That’s five minutes too long,” he states, letting go and nudging you back to look at you. Something slow settles in his gaze, and his eyes gleam in the morning light as he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter. 

“Max,” you protest halfheartedly as he settles in between your legs, his thumb grazing tenderly over your cheek. His lips meet yours, slow and soft, and you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He sighs against your mouth, and you press yourself closer, closer, like you’re making up for two weeks of lost time.

The coffee is cold by the time you get around to pouring it, but it didn’t matter. You two had all the time in the world.

[woncheolisms]

You're such a good writer!!! Your latest Seungcheol fic got me straight in the feels. I was hoping you could write cheol and s/o in the gym together having a little friendly competition but they're both competitive as hell so things get steamy in the end. Thank you!!

sweaty. (choi seungcheol x reader)

word count: 1260

warnings: smut, nsfw, unprotected sex, established relationship, seungcheol is very competitive, wall sex, choking if you squint

taglist is open! just send me an ask

buy me a coffee?

“How much do you wanna bet I can do the stairmaster longer than you?”

A teasing eyebrow raise and an accompanying smirk. “You’re joking, right?”

You pretend to contemplate as you re-tie your shoe. Behind you, your boyfriend shifts. You know he’s still looking at you. So you take your sweet time before responding, just to tick him off.

“All you did on Tuesday was cry about how tough the stairmaster is.” You goad him, recalling your last visit to the gym with him. “So I’m pretty sure I can stay on it longer than you can.”

You stand up straight and turn to look at him.

Choi Seungcheol is staring right back, clad in an oversized sweatshirt and loose shorts. You can see a dent in his cheek where he is biting on the inside of it. Oh, you’ve got him. He’s too competitive for his own good. And as soon as you imply in any way that he can’t do something, he immediately feels the need to prove that he can.

You nearly snort. He’s so easy.

“What are the terms?”

“Loser buys dinner.”

“Deal.”

Fifteen minutes later, you are panting like a dog all over the machine, hands clinging to the railing like claws, trying not to keel over and die. Seungcheol is faring better than you, though not by much, but his stubborn streak and ego are pushing him through, and in hindsight you regret making a deal in the first place, knowing how he reacts to a challenge. Dammit. Maybe you are just as competitive as him.

“Listen,” you finally wheeze out. “If we both stop together, we can forget the whole thing.”

Seungcheol barks out a breathless laugh, eyes shining despite how exhausted he looks. His hair clings to his forehead and the back of his neck. “Not a chance!”

You groan loudly, knowing you’ve lost. You can’t do this. Your legs feel like jelly. There’s no way you can keep going. But this also means Seungcheol has won. God, you won’t live this down.

“Fine.” You manage to grit out. “Your win.”

Seungcheol immediately steps off with a whoop, pumping his fist a bit. You collapse on the wooden floor, trying to catch your breath. Sweat rolls down your back, and your body feels like it’s on fire.

A few feet away, Seungcheol pulls his giant sweatshirt over his head, leaving him in a thin tank top. He crumples the cloth and throws it on the bench before sitting down heavily next to it, reaching for his water bottle.

Oh.

He is nearly basting in sweat. The entirety of his shirt clinging to his back and sides. His pale skin shines under the harsh lights of the gym, the dewy glow shifting as his biceps flex. His cheeks are beautifully flushed. He pushes his hair off his forehead, making it stick up a bit as he uses a small towel to wipe his face and the back of his neck. The silver chain he is wearing glints along with his skin. You gulp.

You know your boyfriend is a specimen. You know that. Doesn’t make being around him any easier. The need to constantly jump his bones has been there since before your relationship began, and it seems it has no intention of going away. But here, in the gym where he is often thinly clad, sweating, breathing heavily, grunting as he lifts weights, that need lights a fire under you. And there’s only one person who can put it out.

Good thing he has never been able to say no to you.

With almost renewed energy, you push yourself up on your feet and make a beeline for him. He sets his water bottle down, sending you a teasing smile and wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’m not letting you weasel your way out of this. We’re going all out for dinner.”

You hum, stepping between his parted knees. He instinctively reaching for your hips, runs his hands up the sides of your legs, kneading on them slightly as you brush your fingers over his shoulders.

“We might have to delay dinner a bit, babe. I have other things to do.”

A confused look. “What things?”

“You.”

He lets out a hearty laugh, not at all surprised at your raunchy words. This is nothing new to him. Nearly every gym session ends with both of you on the floor, or against the full length mirror in the room, or in the shower. One of the many benefits of having a gym at home is not worrying at all about anyone interrupting you two in your many steamy activities.

Once your lips meet Seungcheol’s, he hums in approval, craning his neck up to let you feel him easily. His hands travel from your legs to your ass, squeezing before slinking up further under your shirt. Once you push into him more, he stands up, now leaning down to continue nipping and biting at your lips, while also hooking his thumbs into the hem of your shorts and pulling them down along with your panties. This would be rushed. Hard. Short, quick strokes to quell the flame now burning inside you both.

He takes the lead immediately, pushing you into the wall behind him and pressing himself tight into you as he fumbles with his own shorts, just enough to free himself. His knee knocks against the back of your thigh, wedging between it to push your legs apart, and then you feel pressure, his thick cock carving its way into you. Your mouth drops and you moan shamelessly, arching deeper to make more room for him. He groans appreciatively when he bottoms out, hand squeezing hard at your bare hip. Your knees are trembling, but now for a different reason than ten minutes ago.

He doesn’t start slow, hips snapping back and forth quickly. You try to catch your breath, try to keep up with his pace, but it’s almost impossible. It always is with him. But it’s just the way you like it. And you let him know.

“Cheol.” You gasp out, already feeling your core tighten and your brain turn to mush as he presses into your most sensitive spot, one that he is intimately familiar with. “Feels so good.”

“This what you wanted?” He grunts out, voice an octave lower and jolting under the weight of his movements. His right hand slides up, wrapping around your neck and thumbing at your jaw to tilt your head towards him. His lips press into yours with bruising intensity. Inside your gym shoes, you can feel your toes curl.

It’s not long before you are teetering on the brink of orgasm, sobbing and mumbling incoherently while Seungcheol breathes heavily behind you, moaning into your shoulder as he pounds hard into you, and when his fingers meet your desperate, needy clit, it takes only a few harsh rubs to send you over the edge.

You feel him flood your insides with warmth as you tremble your way through your own high, scrambling for purchase against the wall and finding none. Your eyelids feel heavy almost instantly as you come down, your limbs buzzing. You whine as he pulls out, and he shushes you, running a gentle hand over your waist and hips. A soft kiss brushes against your sweaty temple. You sigh in contentment as silence stretches over both of you, Seungcheol’s weight a gentle comfort on your back. Then his words break through the quiet.

“So, about dinner..”

You barely hold back a laugh.

[thetidesthatturn]

Sunday Ritual

I’ve been thinking about aphrodisiateez for a while now, and I just can’t get it out of my head. There needs to be infinite amounts of these fics!!!

Pairing: Hongjoong x freader, Wooyoung x freader

Warnings: smut, substance use (kinda?), roommate au, non-idol au, overstimulation (if you squint), use of y/n, unprotected sex - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

It was just a normal Sunday—at least, that’s what you thought.

It started like always: too lazy to cook, you ordered take-out and settled on the couch for a movie. It had become a ritual, the perfect way to cap off the weekend.

After graduation, you’d moved in with your two best friends from college. It felt natural, like puzzle pieces clicking together as you all stepped into the “real world.” Hongjoong, a budding music producer, had landed an internship at a local record label—a dream come true for him. You couldn’t have been prouder, even if it meant late nights and constant burnout. Still, you made sure to drag him out of his creative cave for your Sunday movie nights—no exceptions.

Meanwhile, you and Wooyoung had somehow ended up co-managing the little café where you’d worked through college. Neither of you had any plans to leave, despite your degrees pointing you elsewhere. It was comfortable, and you weren’t ready to let go of that comfort just yet.

“Joong, get your ass down here!” you called from the couch. Wooyoung immediately cracked up beside you.

“You know he probably hates us, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ll let you know when I care.”

A moment later, Hongjoong stomped down the stairs, muttering under his breath. He paused on the last step, glaring at you both.

“I was busy.”

“You know you have commitments on a Sunday,” you teased.

“This isn’t as important, Y/N. You know that,” he grumbled.

Wooyoung fell back dramatically onto the couch, clutching his chest. “Joong… I can’t believe you’d say that!”

Hongjoong crossed the room, grabbed a cushion, and lobbed it at Wooyoung’s head.

“I’m getting snacks,” he announced, stalking off to the kitchen.

You chuckled and headed to the bathroom. Nothing worse than pausing the movie mid-flow.

When you returned, the coffee table was littered with snacks, and the two of them were already bickering over what to watch.

“You always want to watch that, Joong. Can we pick something else for once?”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed. “I was forced to be here. We’re watching what I want.”

“But—”

“But nothing!”

You sighed and stepped between them. “Okay, what do you both want to watch? I’ll decide.”

“Harry Potter!” Wooyoung pleaded.

You laughed. “Woo, we always watch that too.”

“He wants Pirates of the damn Caribbean again!” he whined.

“If I recall, we just recently re-watched the entire Harry Potter saga because you wanted to. My vote goes to Joong,” you declared.

“WHAT?!” Wooyoung screeched, but Hongjoong was already smacking him with the cushion. He shot you a grateful smile.

You grabbed the remote, queued up the movie, and settled between them under a blanket. Ten minutes in, you glanced at Wooyoung. Despite his earlier protest, he was fully engrossed, shovelling snacks into his mouth like a machine. Without looking, he passed a pouch of gummies behind your back to Hongjoong, who grabbed a handful before passing them to you. You took a few, popped them in your mouth, and immediately grimaced.

“Eugh, what even are these?”

Hongjoong shrugged. “Found them at the back of the cupboard.”

Dismissing it, you returned your attention to the movie. But after about fifteen minutes, a heat started to spread through your body.

“Is it just me, or is it hot as hell in here?” Wooyoung panted, pulling the blanket off his legs.

“I was just thinking that,” Hongjoong muttered, tugging at his shirt collar.

You got up to check the thermostat—nothing. When you came back, both of them were squirming in their seats.

Wooyoung’s eyes darted between you and Hongjoong. “Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah… I don’t feel right,” Hongjoong added, his voice strained.

“Oh god, I hope it’s not food poisoning from that take-out,” you muttered, wiping sweat from your forehead.

“I don’t feel sick… I feel…” Wooyoung’s face flushed, his hands coming to rest tentatively over his crotch.

Your eyes widened. Hongjoong was in the same position. Panic gnawed at your mind. What could’ve done this? Your gaze dropped to the table—those gummies. The only thing all three of you had eaten.

No.

No way.

Memories from your Amsterdam trip crashed down on you. The joke aphrodisiac gummies you’d bought at that sex shop as a dare. You’d stashed them at the back of the cupboard, assuming you’d never actually use them.

“Shit.” You swore under your breath.

“What?!” they both demanded.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up. You snatched up the pouch and squinted at the label.

“These are fucking aphrodisiacs!” you shouted, brandishing the package. “Joong, did you not even check the label?!”

His eyes went wide, panic etched into every line of his face. “I—I didn’t think I’d need to!”

Wooyoung doubled over, howling with laughter. “Wait, wait—how many did we all eat?”

“I had three,” you mumbled.

Hongjoong’s hands flew to his head. “I had like fucking ten!”

Wooyoung’s tears streamed down his face as he gasped, “I had at least fifteen!”

“This isn’t funny!” Hongjoong snapped, smacking Wooyoung’s thigh.

Wooyoung straightened instantly, his ears burning bright red. “Oh…” He gasped. “They work, alright.”

“What do you mean they work?!”

“I’m so fucking horny.” His eyes find you, now beginning to glaze over.

“Oh no, no no no. We aren’t doing this.” Hongjoong stands to leave the room, but as he does the blanket falls to the floor, revealing how strained his pants now were.

Wooyoung falls on his side, bleating and gasping as his laughter consumes him. “He’s… ha HA HA! He’s HARD!”

Hongjoong’s face washes crimson as his hands fly down to his crotch, trying to conceal his erection. Wooyoung continues to giggle, which turns Hongjoong’s embarrassment to fury. He snatches the blanket from Wooyoung, throwing it across the room.

“You’re in exactly the same position!” Hongjoong hisses.

Meanwhile, you’re stood watching all of this unfold, painfully aware of your own predicament. You absentmindedly shift from foot to foot, trying to relieve some of the pressure building within you. That is, until Wooyoung catches you. His laughter is gone now—replaced with a look you’ve never seen on his face.

Pure, unadulterated lust.

The way he’s looking at you, lips parted, eyes darkening. Like he wants to eat you alive. It’s too much.

Before you can stop it, a whimper leaves your own parted lips.

Hongjoong’s head snaps to you, beads of sweat forming at his hairline.

“Fuck.” Wooyoung gulps, now palming himself over his pants.

“Woo…” You shake your head.

This cannot be happening, they’re your best friends. Sure, anyone with eyes could see just how attractive they both were, but this was a line you couldn’t cross. Not with them.

You turn to leave, but Wooyoung whines.

“No. Please. Don’t go. Please.��� He’s on his feet now, his legs carrying him across to you in two quick strides. He grasps onto your arms, sweat pouring down his face, hands shaking. His pupils dilate as he looks at you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. His breathing is shallow as his fingers grip into your flesh.

“Wooyoung.” You swallow, trying to shake out of his grasp, but he just claws tighter.

“Those pretty noises,” He breathes, now unconsciously beginning to rut against your thigh. “Please, please. Please, Y/N.”

“Please what?” You gasp as his lips attach to your neck, planting sloppy kisses along your jugular.

“Wooyoung!” Hongjoong shouts from the spot he’s frozen in by the couch. “She wants you to stop. So stop.”

Wooyoung peers up at you from your neck. “Is that what you want, Jagiya? For me to stop?” His fingers are drawing lazy circles into the exposed skin of your waist now. You bite your lip, hesitating. He smirks, then turns his head to Hongjoong.

“Come on Joong, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this before.”

You could swear Hongjoong turned into an actual tomato on the spot, the wash of scarlet travelling up his neck and across his face and ears.

“I have not!”

“Liar.” Wooyoung chides, then in one swift motion he twirls you around and presses your back to his chest, his hands winding up your torso. You squirm, breathing heavily, the room around you beginning to spin.

“Look at her, she wants this.”

Hongjoong is practically drooling now, watching you as your chest furiously rises and falls, how your eyes flutter when Wooyoung’s fingers graze your skin. Slowly, he walks over to the two of you, stopping just before you.

“Is this what you want?” He murmurs, his arms hovering hesitantly at his sides.

Wooyoung’s fingers reach the curve of your breast, and as they brush against it you arch into him, letting out the smallest of moans.

“Jagiya, Joongie asked if you want this. Be a good girl and answer him.” Wooyoung breathes against your neck.

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes.” You chant, launching yourself forward onto Hongjoong.

Your hands grapple into his hair as you pull him flush to you, your mouth melting to his. Immediately his hands are on you, everywhere all at once.

Hongjoong’s lips crash into yours, his breath warm and hungry as his hands roam over every inch of your body. A tremor of desire pools deep in your abdomen, intensified by the aphrodisiac coursing through your veins.

“God, you’re so responsive,” Hongjoong pants against your mouth, his eyes blown wide and dark. He pulls back just enough to stare at you, his lips parted, chest heaving. “So beautiful.”

Wooyoung is behind you now, his mouth at your neck, teeth nipping at your pulse point. “Can’t believe how much I want you right now.” His voice is rough, desperate, and it sends another jolt of heat spiralling through your core.

You whimper, your legs weak beneath you, and Hongjoong catches you before you can stumble. His strong arms hold you steady as Wooyoung’s hands slide lower, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he groans, his fingers finding you with no resistance.

Your head tilts back, a low moan escaping your throat as your hips buck into his hand. Hongjoong watches you like he’s starved, his own need painfully obvious as he presses his thigh between your legs.

“Look at you, taking everything we give you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness even as his other hand skims up your side, under your tank, to cup your breast.

Wooyoung’s fingers work you in slow, torturous circles, the aphrodisiac heightening every sensation until your mind is a haze of need and pleasure.

“Please,” you gasp, your voice trembling. “Don’t stop—please.”

Hongjoong’s mouth captures yours again, this time slower, deeper, as if he wants to savour every single shiver he pulls from your body. Wooyoung chuckles darkly against your ear, his breath hot.

“Don’t worry, Jagiya,” he purrs. “We’re just getting started.”

Wooyoung picks up the pace, and the sounds tumbling from your lips are beyond obscene.

“Fuck, I might cum in my pants.” Wooyoung grunts, his eyes rolling back as he grinds against your ass.

“Upstairs,” Hongjoong pants, “My room.”

The three of you bolt up the stairs, rushing into Hongjoong’s bedroom. Wooyoung’s eyes are frantic as he pushes you back onto the bed, ripping down your sweats and panties. “I wanna eat you out, please. Please.”

You nod, unable to form words. As soon as you do, he parts your legs and dives in. You cry out as his tongue flicks across your clit, fingers digging into his scalp. Hongjoong, now just in his underwear, lifts up your head and settles in behind you. His hands grasp at your tank, lifting it up to expose your breasts. He runs his thumbs over your nipples and you gasp, squeezing your thighs around Wooyoung’s head.

“Fuck, fuck. I’m gunna cum.”

Wooyoung laps at you furiously, pushing two fingers inside of you. You pulse around him, body spasming. One hand in Wooyoung’s hair, the other clawing into Hongjoong’s arm, you come undone. Wooyoung detaches himself, falling forwards, hands balling up into the sheets. He lets out a strangled groan.

“I just came in my fucking pants.” He mumbles.

Hongjoong is practically whimpering behind you, hands frantically kneading into your flesh. “Y/N, fuck. Fuck. Please, can I fuck you. Oh god. Please.”

Never in your life have you witnessed the Kim Hongjoong beg before. This was priceless.

“Fuck her. Fuck her now.” Wooyoung is standing now, pulling his shirt over his head and discarding his pants.

Hongjoong scrambles from behind you, whipping off his underwear and settling between your legs. “Can I?”

He’s looking at you with those big boba eyes, pleading.

“Give it to me.” You breathe.

Before you know it, he’s sliding into you. You both groan as he bottoms out, stretching your walls so deliciously. He picks up the pace, slamming into you mercilessly as you writhe beneath him.

Wooyoung is now next to you on the bed, dick in hand. His pupils are blown as he watches his two best friends fuck.

“Y/N,” Hongjoong pants, “Do you think Woo deserves a piece of you too?”

“Fuck, please. Suck my dick, oh my god I could just cum again thinking about it.”

Hongjoong pulls out of you, and you start to complain, but he cuts you off.

“On your hands and knees.” He instructs.

You oblige immediately, and Hongjoong re-enters you. From this new angle, you’re seeing stars from the moment he pushes in. Wooyoung shuffles over to you, shaking with anticipation.

“Where do you want me?”

“Lay… down. Ah!” You can barely force the words to leave your lips as Hongjoong drives into you from behind.

Wooyoung does as instructed and you lower yourself down onto your elbows, taking his pillowy head into your mouth. His hips buck up, but you keep taking him in, flattening your tongue and sucking around him. He’s babbling uncontrollably, a symphony of curses and moans and ‘please please please’. Behind you, Hongjoong is mirroring him, as his thrusts become sloppy and uncoordinated.

“I’m—oh god. I’m gunna cum.” Hongjoong hisses as you clench around him.

“Fuck, me too.” Wooyoung pants.

With one last squeeze, and a flick of your tongue, they are both coming undone. Hongjoong pulls out, spilling over your lower back with a groan. Wooyoung twitches as ropes of hot cum coat the back of your throat, but you keep going.

“Y/N! Y/N stop! Ah!” He’s thrashing underneath you, overstimulation rocking him to his core. You pull off with a pop, peering up through your lashes at his beautiful, fucked-out face.

Hongjoong collapses beside you, chest heaving.

“Well… that just happened.” Wooyoung smirks, his eyes closing.

“And it’ll never fucking happen again. We don’t speak of this.” You cover your hands with your face, muffling a chuckle.

Hongjoong huffs a short laugh, still unable to process the events of the evening. Wooyoung looks at him, and winks.

“That’s what you think, Jagiya.”

[turtle-paced]

I agree that there's no peace with slavers but then… what's the solution? Kill or exile all who profess a desire to own slaves? Then what about those who want to keep slaving but do so in secret... which is basically what Dany is dealing with, secrecy, professional liars, "traditions" that are so deeply ingrained as to be impossible to root out. I've spent a lot of time while reading and re-reading thinking about this issue and I guess ultimately it's probably going to have to come down to a genocide or near-genocide of all noble Meereenese. That seems like a heavy burden to carry, queen or not

There is no good solution in Slaver's Bay. It's one of the reasons it's a storyline. It's that recurring theme of doing the right thing not being easy or pleasant. Just right.

With Slaver's Bay, it doesn't necessarily have to be taking all the slaving class out the back and shooting them, but the slavers also need to be removed from positions of social and economic power. There needs to be a radical redistribution of power and a radical rethink of labour and human rights - a massive economic reorganisation that will reduce living standards in the near term and ruin lives that would have continued on comfortably and predictably had slavery remained. Overcoming that history and that trauma is not just the work of Dany's lifetime but of generations thereafter who have to deal with the consequences.

But it still has to be done, and it has to start somewhere. Slavery cannot stand. The only thing worse than the trauma of rebuilding is letting the machine roll on uninterrupted.

[ur-sick-and-married]

CAPTIVATED • ELLIE WILLIAMS

CONTENTS: dark romance, dark themes, female/afab reader, epilogue Ellie, butch Ellie, possessive but really just protective Ellie, Ellie’s a little mean, a little toxic, but it’s not intense, reader was tied up like Abby and Lev, mentions of injuries and weapons, (and in the words of @eliza-and-her-monsters) mildly kinky

SUMMARY: You often wonder how you ended up here, why you’re still here. “Here” being Ellie Williams pretty much dead farm. Logically and physically, you know how; Ellie saved you in Santa Barbara, and hasn’t parted with you since. Well…she hasn’t let you go since.

NOTE: I’d be happy to add more to this universe. It feels like the beginning of something, if anyone’s into it.

You often wonder how you ended up here; tending to a pretty much dead farm that was not yours, sleeping in a bed that was not yours, cleaning a house that was not yours, and most importantly, living with a woman who was…yeah, not yours.

Logically and physically, you do know how you got there. It’s more the “how is this my life now?” that stumps you.

You had only survived for so long because of family. You had been a child, of course you didn’t know how to fight. You were dependent on others to protect you. Because of this, when you got separated from the family, you had a slim chance of survival. You were captured by Rattlers, and soon found yourself dying a slow and painful death tied to a wooden pillar on a rainy beach. You really thought that was it. You were bloody, bruised, broken…destined to die.

When you heard voices, you thought you had officially gone crazy. You had tried to ignore the voices, knowing it was your imagination playing tricks on you. What you could hear sounded violent, like fighting, and then a boat’s motor, and, for a long time, just distant sobbing.

Then you saw her. Again, you assumed it was your brain. Hallucinations are common before death, right?

She thought you were dead at first. You sure looked terrible. But then you shifted, as best as you could, trying to get the rope to stop scraping against your calf.

“Hello…?” She said shakily.

You were too far gone to answer.

Before you knew it, you were falling to the ground, the ropes around your wrists coming loose. All you could do was groan as you hit the ground. You were rolled onto your back, cold hands moving your body.

“Hey.” She was right in your face then, eyebrows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

Even half unconscious, you gave her a look, like “do I seem alright?”

Something must have clicked in her head. It was like her mind was alerting her, “Companion! Companion!” as if she was a robot. She felt like a robot some days, like some kind of killing machine.

Suddenly she was dragging you off the beach, your blood from various wounds surely staining each other.

You had been with Ellie ever since.

She nursed you back to health, even stitching your wounds and resetting bones. One day, it was like you woke up, and everything felt real again. And, Jesus Christ, everything hurt.

You two hunkered down in an old, rotting lifeguard stand. You were stuck on the beach until your body healed up, after all. It was nice there, despite the pain raging in your body. The waves provided a calming white noise, making the nights a little easier. There weren’t any other people or infected, so the two of you felt, for once, at peace. Well, as at peace as you could feel with a stranger.

Ellie was very quiet the first few days. She would just sit and zone out for hours on end. When she thought you were asleep, she’d let herself cry. It wasn’t loud and hysterical. You could just hear small sniffles, occasional hiccups. You assumed she did this when you were actually asleep as well.

Life was obviously changing when you met. Then it hit her, actually became a thought in her mind, when she was re-bandaging a nasty cut on your arm, she hesitantly placed a hand on your cheek, trying to get a feel for your temperature. She was wondering if you were getting sick from the cut. Sleepily, you leaned into her touch, her fingers cupping your face perfectly.

She knew she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, give you up then.

Slowly, she became less cold. She’d soothingly shush you whenever she had to tend to your wounds again, rather than just stay silent and grimace as you whimpered in pain. When she would wake you up so you could eat, she’d gently play with your messy hair. Whenever you started to shiver, she’d slip under your blanket with you. She wouldn’t cuddle you. She’d just lie directly next to you, your sides pressed against each other. And she never stopped you when your head ended up on her shoulder.

She helped you walk once you could stand upright. She would take you down to the ocean so you could clean up in the salty water. Before, she would just fill an old bucket with the ocean water, then bring it back, and very carefully clean you with a cloth. You two reeked of salt and fish and fire. The scent lingered for a long time, even after you eventually made it back to Jackson.

That journey took a long fucking time. You weren’t exactly graceful on your feet yet, and you had to walk across a few states so…it was slow moving. Ellie was patient. Surprisingly patient. She seemed like an angry person to you. There was certainly a part of her that was, but she was mostly swallowed by grief. With you, it felt like she could get a few gasps of air. She didn’t know why, and she felt silly about it. You were a stranger. She’d rescued you as if you were a lost puppy. Maybe that’s what you were to her; a dog, a pet.

On the way, Ellie gave you most of the food, only eating when she would start to feel faint. She looked pretty terrible; all pale, her shirt stained with blood, starting to get underweight.

When you eventually got to Wyoming, she didn’t take you to Jackson, like she said she would. She steered around it, and you ended up on a farm. You waited by the fence while she went inside. She disappeared into the large house, to “check for infected.” You didn’t know it, but she was figuring out if Dina and JJ were still there. She assumed they wouldn’t be, and she was right. While it saddened her, she was also somewhat relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain the random girl she’d dragged back.

You two slept for days, only getting up to use the restroom or eat. The traveling had drained you. Even depressed and miserable, Ellie was a gentleman; she slept on the couch, and gave you the upstairs bedroom.

You were learning to not ask about things. Like the crib in the bedroom.

Then one day she sat you down and explained as much as she could without breaking down. She told you about a man named Joel. He had been like her father, she said. He was killed, so she went after the killer. A girl named Dina had tagged along. She had lived in the farmhouse before you. Then Ellie decided to go after the killer yet again, after having failed to do so the first time. And that’s how she found you.

It was hard for her to say all this without choking up. She hadn’t really said it all out loud before. You reciprocated by telling her how you ended up on the beach.

After that day, you didn’t feel like strangers. She started calling you nicknames, like “sweetheart” and the occasional “baby.” Not that she was much older than you. Whenever it slipped out, you felt comforted.

As you grew closer, Ellie became more possessive. You rarely went into town. When you did, it was very quick. Ellie seemed almost embarrassed to have you around. She didn’t want to have to explain to anyone that she’d basically snatched you for company. You didn’t see it like that. She was your savior in your eyes. You’d much rather be a bit controlled than rotting on a cloudy beach.

You started sleeping in the same bed. It was much warmer that way. That’s what you thought, at least. Ellie liked to be near you, to keep an eye on you. She didn’t think you’d leave…but she wanted to make sure you were staying put.

You didn’t want to leave. You had very little desire to go back into that cold and painful world. Though, sometimes you were curious about what was out there; about your remaining family, about what other communities had formed, who else needed rescuing, who else was wandering.

You knew leaving would be impossible. If Ellie caught you, God knows what would happen. You had “misbehaved” before, and she had reacted…unexpectedly. “Punished” you. Made you work your ass off on the farm, until your whole body ached and you craved fainting to escape the world for a few minutes. (She had, of course, given you a good fucking massage afterwards, when you were half asleep in bed that night, so you weren’t 100% aware that she was doing it. She gave you emotional whiplash.) You didn’t know what would happen if she caught you trying to escape. Probably worse, probably physical.

If you did make it past Ellie, you had to make it off the property, which was surrounded by barbed wire and booby traps.

If you got through that…you knew you wouldn’t last long out there. Alone, with no weapons, no protection.

Yes, she didn’t let you have a weapon. No gun, not even a knife. Sound familiar?

Plus, you would, in a fucked up way, miss her. And the cat that would wander around the property. She let you feed it after almost accidentally killing it, and the fuzzball had been coming back ever since.

Ellie took care of you. She’d clean and bandage any wounds you sustained, make meals when you were tired, let you sleep in when she knew you’d been awake all night, take over the more strenuous farm chores when you were on your period. Even when you came down with a nasty fever after being around people again in Jackson, all those immune systems and germs, she’d cared for you, not thinking about the fact she could get sick too.

Eventually…you felt like a housewife. Ellie felt like your girlfriend. Honestly, at the end of the day, she was. Feelings had never been discussed. There was never even an official conversation about who you were to each other. She was just Ellie. Angry, quiet, borderline crazy, but caring at heart, Ellie. And you were…yeah, you. You really were like a puppy. In your sleep, you cuddled up to her. When she was visibly grumpy, you found yourself trying to make her feel better, by making her favorite snack, taking care of chores she hated.

But it all leads back to one question.

What am I doing here?

Every time you question it, you go over this in your head, trying to get your brain to accept it.

The real answer? You wouldn’t let yourself realize, let alone accept.

Ellie Williams had, in a way, physically, mentally, emotionally, captivated you.

Only because you had captivated her heart.

Her cold, angry heart was slowly warming, and had been since you leaned into her touch in that decaying lifeguard stand.

Because of what she felt for you, she comprehended why Joel Miller had saved her way back in that Firefly hospital. Fucking Miller.

So she kept you around. Tending to a farm that was not entirely yours. Sleeping in a bed that became yours. Cleaning a house that was home now. Living with the woman that had, for as long as you knew each other, actually always been yours.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Autoenshittification

Forget F1: the only car race that matters now is the race to turn your car into a digital extraction machine, a high-speed inkjet printer on wheels, stealing your private data as it picks your pocket. Your car’s digital infrastructure is a costly, dangerous nightmare — but for automakers in pursuit of postcapitalist utopia, it’s a dream they can’t give up on.

Your car is stuffed full of microchips, a fact the world came to appreciate after the pandemic struck and auto production ground to a halt due to chip shortages. Of course, that wasn’t the whole story: when the pandemic started, the automakers panicked and canceled their chip orders, only to immediately regret that decision and place new orders.

But it was too late: semiconductor production had taken a serious body-blow, and when Big Car placed its new chip orders, it went to the back of a long, slow-moving line. It was a catastrophic bungle: microchips are so integral to car production that a car is basically a computer network on wheels that you stick your fragile human body into and pray.

The car manufacturers got so desperate for chips that they started buying up washing machines for the microchips in them, extracting the chips and discarding the washing machines like some absurdo-dystopian cyberpunk walnut-shelling machine:

https://www.autoevolution.com/news/desperate-times-companies-buy-washing-machines-just-to-rip-out-the-chips-187033.html

These digital systems are a huge problem for the car companies. They are the underlying cause of a precipitous decline in car quality. From touch-based digital door-locks to networked sensors and cameras, every digital system in your car is a source of endless repair nightmares, costly recalls and cybersecurity vulnerabilities:

https://www.reuters.com/business/autos-transportation/quality-new-vehicles-us-declining-more-tech-use-study-shows-2023-06-22/

What’s more, drivers hate all the digital bullshit, from the janky touchscreens to the shitty, wildly insecure apps. Digital systems are drivers’ most significant point of dissatisfaction with the automakers’ products:

https://www.theverge.com/23801545/car-infotainment-customer-satisifaction-survey-jd-power

Even the automakers sorta-kinda admit that this is a problem. Back in 2020 when Massachusetts was having a Right-to-Repair ballot initiative, Big Car ran these unfuckingbelievable scare ads that basically said, “Your car spies on you so comprehensively that giving anyone else access to its systems will let murderers stalk you to your home and kill you:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/03/rip-david-graeber/#rolling-surveillance-platforms

But even amid all the complaining about cars getting stuck in the Internet of Shit, there’s still not much discussion of why the car-makers are making their products less attractive, less reliable, less safe, and less resilient by stuffing them full of microchips. Are car execs just the latest generation of rubes who’ve been suckered by Silicon Valley bullshit and convinced that apps are a magic path to profitability?

Nope. Car execs are sophisticated businesspeople, and they’re surfing capitalism’s latest — and last — hot trend: dismantling capitalism itself.

Now, leftists have been predicting the death of capitalism since The Communist Manifesto, but even Marx and Engels warned us not to get too frisky: capitalism, they wrote, is endlessly creative, constantly reinventing itself, re-emerging from each crisis in a new form that is perfectly adapted to the post-crisis reality:

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/31/books/review/a-spectre-haunting-china-mieville.html

But capitalism has finally run out of gas. In his forthcoming book, Techno Feudalism: What Killed Capitalism, Yanis Varoufakis proposes that capitalism has died — but it wasn’t replaced by socialism. Rather, capitalism has given way to feudalism:

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/451795/technofeudalism-by-varoufakis-yanis/9781847927279

Under capitalism, capital is the prime mover. The people who own and mobilize capital — the capitalists — organize the economy and take the lion’s share of its returns. But it wasn’t always this way: for hundreds of years, European civilization was dominated by rents, not markets.

A “rent” is income that you get from owning something that other people need to produce value. Think of renting out a house you own: not only do you get paid when someone pays you to live there, you also get the benefit of rising property values, which are the result of the work that all the other homeowners, business owners, and residents do to make the neighborhood more valuable.

The first capitalists hated rent. They wanted to replace the “passive income” that landowners got from taxing their serfs’ harvest with active income from enclosing those lands and grazing sheep in order to get wool to feed to the new textile mills. They wanted active income — and lots of it.

Capitalist philosophers railed against rent. The “free market” of Adam Smith wasn’t a market that was free from regulation — it was a market free from rents. The reason Smith railed against monopolists is because he (correctly) understood that once a monopoly emerged, it would become a chokepoint through which a rentier could cream off the profits he considered the capitalist’s due:

https://locusmag.com/2021/03/cory-doctorow-free-markets/

Today, we live in a rentier’s paradise. People don’t aspire to create value — they aspire to capture it. In Survival of the Richest, Doug Rushkoff calls this “going meta”: don’t provide a service, just figure out a way to interpose yourself between the provider and the customer:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/13/collapse-porn/#collapse-porn

Don’t drive a cab, create Uber and extract value from every driver and rider. Better still: don’t found Uber, invest in Uber options and extract value from the people who invest in Uber. Even better, invest in derivatives of Uber options and extract value from people extracting value from people investing in Uber, who extract value from drivers and riders. Go meta.

This is your brain on the four-hour-work-week, passive income mind-virus. In Techno Feudalism, Varoufakis deftly describes how the new “Cloud Capital” has created a new generation of rentiers, and how they have become the richest, most powerful people in human history.

Shopping at Amazon is like visiting a bustling city center full of stores — but each of those stores’ owners has to pay the majority of every sale to a feudal landlord, Emperor Jeff Bezos, who also decides which goods they can sell and where they must appear on the shelves. Amazon is full of capitalists, but it is not a capitalist enterprise. It’s a feudal one:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

This is the reason that automakers are willing to enshittify their products so comprehensively: they were one of the first industries to decouple rents from profits. Recall that the reason that Big Car needed billions in bailouts in 2008 is that they’d reinvented themselves as loan-sharks who incidentally made cars, lending money to car-buyers and then “securitizing” the loans so they could be traded in the capital markets.

Even though this strategy brought the car companies to the brink of ruin, it paid off in the long run. The car makers got billions in public money, paid their execs massive bonuses, gave billions to shareholders in buybacks and dividends, smashed their unions, fucked their pensioned workers, and shipped jobs anywhere they could pollute and murder their workforce with impunity.

Car companies are on the forefront of postcapitalism, and they understand that digital is the key to rent-extraction. Remember when BMW announced that it was going to rent you the seatwarmer in your own fucking car?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/02/big-river/#beemers

Not to be outdone, Mercedes announced that they were going to rent you your car’s accelerator pedal, charging an extra $1200/year to unlock a fully functional acceleration curve:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/23/23474969/mercedes-car-subscription-faster-acceleration-feature-price

This is the urinary tract infection business model: without digitization, all your car’s value flowed in a healthy stream. But once the car-makers add semiconductors, each one of those features comes out in a painful, burning dribble, with every button on that fakakta touchscreen wired directly into your credit-card.

But it’s just for starters. Computers are malleable. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing Complete Von Neumann Machine, which can run every program we know how to write. Once they add networked computers to your car, the Car Lords can endlessly twiddle the knobs on the back end, finding new ways to extract value from you:

https://doctorow.medium.com/twiddler-1b5c9690cce6

That means that your car can track your every movement, and sell your location data to anyone and everyone, from marketers to bounty-hunters looking to collect fees for tracking down people who travel out of state for abortions to cops to foreign spies:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/n7enex/tool-shows-if-car-selling-data-privacy4cars-vehicle-privacy-report

Digitization supercharges financialization. It lets car-makers offer subprime auto-loans to desperate, poor people and then killswitch their cars if they miss a payment:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4U2eDJnwz_s

Subprime lending for cars would be a terrible business without computers, but digitization makes it a great source of feudal rents. Car dealers can originate loans to people with teaser rates that quickly blow up into payments the dealer knows their customer can’t afford. Then they repo the car and sell it to another desperate person, and another, and another:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/27/boricua/#looking-for-the-joke-with-a-microscope

Digitization also opens up more exotic options. Some subprime cars have secondary control systems wired into their entertainment system: miss a payment and your car radio flips to full volume and bellows an unstoppable, unmutable stream of threats. Tesla does one better: your car will lock and immobilize itself, then blare its horn and back out of its parking spot when the repo man arrives:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

Digital feudalism hasn’t stopped innovating — it’s just stopped innovating good things. The digital device is an endless source of sadistic novelties, like the cellphones that disable your most-used app the first day you’re late on a payment, then work their way down the other apps you rely on for every day you’re late:

https://restofworld.org/2021/loans-that-hijack-your-phone-are-coming-to-india/

Usurers have always relied on this kind of imaginative intimidation. The loan-shark’s arm-breaker knows you’re never going to get off the hook; his goal is in intimidating you into paying his boss first, liquidating your house and your kid’s college fund and your wedding ring before you default and he throws you off a building.

Thanks to the malleability of computerized systems, digital arm-breakers have an endless array of options they can deploy to motivate you into paying them first, no matter what it costs you:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

Car-makers are trailblazers in imaginative rent-extraction. Take VIN-locking: this is the practice of adding cheap microchips to engine components that communicate with the car’s overall network. After a new part is installed in your car, your car’s computer does a complex cryptographic handshake with the part that requires an unlock code provided by an authorized technician. If the code isn’t entered, the car refuses to use that part.

VIN-locking has exploded in popularity. It’s in your iPhone, preventing you from using refurb or third-party replacement parts:

https://doctorow.medium.com/apples-cement-overshoes-329856288d13

It’s in fuckin’ ventilators, which was a nightmare during lockdown as hospital techs nursed their precious ventilators along by swapping parts from dead systems into serviceable ones:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/3azv9b/why-repair-techs-are-hacking-ventilators-with-diy-dongles-from-poland

And of course, it’s in tractors, along with other forms of remote killswitch. Remember that feelgood story about John Deere bricking the looted Ukrainian tractors whose snitch-chips showed they’d been relocated to Russia?

https://doctorow.medium.com/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors-bc93f471b9c8

That wasn’t a happy story — it was a cautionary tale. After all, John Deere now controls the majority of the world’s agricultural future, and they’ve boobytrapped those ubiquitous tractors with killswitches that can be activated by anyone who hacks, takes over, or suborns Deere or its dealerships.

Control over repair isn’t limited to gouging customers on parts and service. When a company gets to decide whether your device can be fixed, it can fuck you over in all kinds of ways. Back in 2019, Tim Apple told his shareholders to expect lower revenues because people were opting to fix their phones rather than replace them:

https://www.apple.com/newsroom/2019/01/letter-from-tim-cook-to-apple-investors/

By usurping your right to decide who fixes your phone, Apple gets to decide whether you can fix it, or whether you must replace it. Problem solved — and not just for Apple, but for car makers, tractor makers, ventilator makers and more. Apple leads on this, even ahead of Big Car, pioneering a “recycling” program that sees trade-in phones shredded so they can’t possibly be diverted from an e-waste dump and mined for parts:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/yp73jw/apple-recycling-iphones-macbooks

John Deere isn’t sleeping on this. They’ve come up with a valuable treasure they extract when they win the Right-to-Repair: Deere singles out farmers who complain about its policies and refuses to repair their tractors, stranding them with six-figure, two-ton paperweight:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/31/dealers-choice/#be-a-shame-if-something-were-to-happen-to-it

The repair wars are just a skirmish in a vast, invisible fight that’s been waged for decades: the War On General-Purpose Computing, where tech companies use the law to make it illegal for you to reconfigure your devices so they serve you, rather than their shareholders:

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

The force behind this army is vast and grows larger every day. General purpose computers are antithetical to technofeudalism — all the rents extracted by technofeudalists would go away if others (tinkereres, co-ops, even capitalists!) were allowed to reconfigure our devices so they serve us.

You’ve probably noticed the skirmishes with inkjet printer makers, who can only force you to buy their ink at 20,000% markups if they can stop you from deciding how your printer is configured:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/inky-wretches/#epson-salty But we’re also fighting against insulin pump makers, who want to turn people with diabetes into walking inkjet printers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/10/loopers/#hp-ification

And companies that make powered wheelchairs:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/08/chair-ish/#r2r

These companies start with people who have the least agency and social power and wreck their lives, then work their way up the privilege gradient, coming for everyone else. It’s called the “shitty technology adoption curve”:

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

Technofeudalism is the public-private-partnership from hell, emerging from a combination of state and private action. On the one hand, bailing out bankers and big business (rather than workers) after the 2008 crash and the covid lockdown decoupled income from profits. Companies spent billions more than they earned were still wildly profitable, thanks to those public funds.

But there’s also a policy dimension here. Some of those rentiers’ billions were mobilized to both deconstruct antitrust law (allowing bigger and bigger companies and cartels) and to expand “IP” law, turning “IP” into a toolsuite for controlling the conduct of a firm’s competitors, critics and customers:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

IP is key to understanding the rise of technofeudalism. The same malleability that allows companies to “twiddle” the knobs on their services and keep us on the hook as they reel us in would hypothetically allow us to countertwiddle, seizing the means of computation:

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

The thing that stands between you and an alternative app store, an interoperable social media network that you can escape to while continuing to message the friends you left behind, or a car that anyone can fix or unlock features for is IP, not technology. Under capitalism, that technology would already exist, because capitalists have no loyalty to one another and view each other’s margins as their own opportunities.

But under technofeudalism, control comes from rents (owning things), not profits (selling things). The capitalist who wants to participate in your iPhone’s “ecosystem” has to make apps and submit them to Apple, along with 30% of their lifetime revenues — they don’t get to sell you jailbreaking kit that lets you choose their app store.

Rent-seeking technology has a holy grail: control over “ring zero” — the ability to compel you to configure your computer to a feudalist’s specifications, and to verify that you haven’t altered your computer after it came into your possession:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/30/ring-minus-one/#drm-political-economy

For more than two decades, various would-be feudal lords and their court sorcerers have been pitching ways of doing this, of varying degrees of outlandishness.

At core, here’s what they envision: inside your computer, they will nest another computer, one that is designed to run a very simple set of programs, none of which can be altered once it leaves the factory. This computer — either a whole separate chip called a “Trusted Platform Module” or a region of your main processor called a secure enclave — can tally observations about your computer: which operating system, modules and programs it’s running.

Then it can cryptographically “sign” these observations, proving that they were made by a secure chip and not by something you could have modified. Then you can send this signed “attestation” to someone else, who can use it to determine how your computer is configured and thus whether to trust it. This is called “remote attestation.”

There are some cool things you can do with remote attestation: for example, two strangers playing a networked video game together can use attestations to make sure neither is running any cheat modules. Or you could require your cloud computing provider to use attestations that they aren’t stealing your data from the server you’re renting. Or if you suspect that your computer has been infected with malware, you can connect to someone else and send them an attestation that they can use to figure out whether you should trust it.

Today, there’s a cool remote attestation technology called “PrivacyPass” that replaces CAPTCHAs by having you prove to your own device that you are a human. When a server wants to make sure you’re a person, it sends a random number to your device, which signs that number along with its promise that it is acting on behalf of a human being, and sends it back. CAPTCHAs are all kinds of bad — bad for accessibility and privacy — and this is really great.

But the billions that have been thrown at remote attestation over the decades is only incidentally about solving CAPTCHAs or verifying your cloud server. The holy grail here is being able to make sure that you’re not running an ad-blocker. It’s being able to remotely verify that you haven’t disabled the bossware your employer requires. It’s the power to block someone from opening an Office365 doc with LibreOffice. It’s your boss’s ability to ensure that you haven’t modified your messaging client to disable disappearing messages before he sends you an auto-destructing memo ordering you to break the law.

And there’s a new remote attestation technology making the rounds: Google’s Web Environment Integrity, which will leverage Google’s dominance over browsers to allow websites to block users who run ad-blockers:

https://github.com/RupertBenWiser/Web-Environment-Integrity

There’s plenty else WEI can do (it would make detecting ad-fraud much easier), but for every legitimate use, there are a hundred ways this could be abused. It’s a technology purpose-built to allow rent extraction by stripping us of our right to technological self-determination.

Releasing a technology like this into a world where companies are willing to make their products less reliable, less attractive, less safe and less resilient in pursuit of rents is incredibly reckless and shortsighted. You want unauthorized bread? This is how you get Unauthorized Bread:

https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/amp/

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/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

[Image ID: The interior of a luxury car. There is a dagger protruding from the steering wheel. The entertainment console has been replaced by the text 'You wouldn't download a car,' in MPAA scare-ad font. Outside of the windscreen looms the Matrix waterfall effect. Visible in the rear- and side-view mirror is the driver: the figure from Munch's 'Scream.' The screen behind the steering-wheel has been replaced by the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey.']

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

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

[cuteandhughesy]

Secrets I Have Held In My Heart ╰┈➤ JK8

summary: you and johnathan are left to deal with the aftermath of your secret relationship as tabloids get a whiff of the forbidden romance, all while johnathan is dealing with a nagging injury.

[word count] 3.5k

warnings: NSFW! coach!reader | mentions of injury and surgery | swearing | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | smut | undisclosed p in v intercourse | read at your own discretion

a/n: after some amazing ideas and suggestions from @hockeyjunkieblog I knew I had to re-visit this story. everyone go give her some love because she is truly the mastermind behind this two part kovy story ❤️❤️ as well, thank you so much for 1500!

read part one here !

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

the anti climactic sound of moderate beeping from various hospital machines invade your mind, all while your leg bounces and twitches with nervous anticipation.

hospitals always have you feeling this way though—because besides babies being born and the ding of a cancer free bell, what kind of positive noises come from a hospital? exactly.

it doesn't help that johnathan lounges on his hospital bed, seemingly cool as a cucumber as he waits for his surgeon, flipping through tv channels like it's just another day of being lazy on your apartment couch.

the cherry on top is the arm behind his messy head of hair—the good kind of messy that he gets anytime he's between your legs and you've been pulling and tugging on his locks like a starved woman. if it wasn't for the anxiety coursing through your veins, the hospital gown wrapped around his body would be sexy. especially in the way it's gotten so tight around his bicep that it's practically ripping stitches.

but it's not sexy, because your boyfriend is about to have a huge surgery, one that will put him out well into the beginning of next season—and you're positive that you're more frightened about it then he is.

like johnathan can sense your weary, his warm eyes flicker away from the tv in the corner of the stark white hospital room, and find your hunched over figure.

"take your thumb out of your mouth baby. you're gunna bite your skin raw."

like a scolded child, you quickly pull your thumb out from between your teeth and slide your hand between your thighs—you hadn't even noticed the nervous habit you'd been caught in until johnathan pointed it. you’d been too focused on his vitals and the sound of rolling beds in the hallway to worry about your damn cuticle.

but of course, your boyfriend noticed.

your straighten your posture and with wide eyes, you just stare back at johnathan, unsure what else to say. because since that injury sustained during the playoffs, your boyfriend has been hearing the same questions and pity answers from everyone around him.

are you worried?

everything will be alright, kovy.

will you be back before the season?

keep your head up.

what's recovery going to look like?

and you're really trying your best to just chill the fuck out, and just be there for him—even though all you want to do is coddle him and kiss his knee like that will magically heal him.

you blink, all doe eyed and sweet, and johnathan can't help the way his lips slowly slide upwards in the beginning stages of a smirk.

"how are you so calm right now?" you blurt out before you can properly think the brazen response, a half amused expression on your face. the other half? complete disbelief.

he shrugs a shoulder while sliding the small tv remote back onto the top of the side table, leaving the marathon of how I met your mother to play quietly through out the room.

johnathan pats the sliver of space his gigantic body doesn't take up, "come here."

you shoot your boyfriend a tentative look, which only makes his smirk grow. regardless, johnathan doesn't need to ask again, because you're already getting to your feet and shuffling towards the crisp hospital bed.

as your thighs hit the edge of the cheap, foam mattress, you hesitate, arms crossed over your gray sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—your gaze naturally falling to his surgery prepped knee, propped up on a pillow and wrapped in some sort of bandage that looks way too tight.

you really have to fight the urge to check it.

but johnathan is grabbing your elbow before you get the chance, unwinding your crossed arms before pulling you down to the bed, practically tucking you into his lap. and because he's a pain in your ass, he winces, all dramatic and like he's in pain.

"oh god," you jump, twisting yourself out of his hold in an attempt to get off the bed. "your knee!"

"relax," johnathan snickers, easily pulling you back down. "i'm just messing with you."

you grumble like you're annoyed even though your body relaxes from his soothing words. "that's not funny johnathan," you smack his chest with a hearty thump—he barley feels it. "this is serious stuff."

"johnathan?" he repeats, "what happened to johnny?"

"you're only johnny when you're not pissing me off."

he laughs but doesn't say anything yet, opting to press a lingering kiss to the side of your head before further pestering you. "am I pissing you off because i'm trying to make you laugh? or is it because you're nervous?"

your head naturally finds the dip between johnathan's neck and broad shoulder, and even if you're not in a state of relaxation, the feeling of his hard body under your cheek has you sighing out all low and content.

your lips part, unsure what you want to say. the last thing you want to do is make johnathan nervous when he's clearly not. as well, you don't want him to feel like you're trying to take attention away from his injury. not that you are, and not that johnathan would ever think that—but still.

subconsciously, you begin tracing little patterns on his chest over the material of the blue hospital gown, "I just want everything to go smoothly for you."

your tone is so cautious and heavy that it makes johnathan frown. "it will be okay, baby," he tells you warmly, lips brushing against your makeup free forehead as he speaks.

the softness of it all has a pleasant shiver rolling over your skin. "I know, i'm just...worried about you."

"don't be." he shrugs and squeezes around your ribs.

you laugh incredulously, tilting your head back just enough so you can look up at him. your neck pulls in protest, but it's all worth it when you see that your boyfriend is already looking down at you with a fond grin on his face.

"kind of hard not to when i'm in love with you." you huff lightly.

"awh, my pretty girl." johnathan's compliment trails off in a way that has your belly swooping. he closed the small distance between you and steals a familiar kiss.

"at least say it back," you chime once you separate, "you know, just in case you die in surgery."

"it's a knee surgery, babe."

you squint, "anything can happen johnny."

your nickname for him has johnathan smiling in a boyish way. "I love you," he mutters, thick fingers absentmindedly raking through your hair. "and when we get home you can coddle me and kiss me and make me soup like I know you are dying to do."

at first, you jaw goes slack with disbelief—because, yeah, that's quite literally all you've been yearning to do. after a beat, you drop your head back to his collarbone, "ugh, you know me so well it's sickening."

a firm, quick rap on the hospital door as you sitting up. a young nurse, no older than 25 with curly hair tightly pulled back, and beautiful skin, pokes her head in after johnathan permits her entrance, her dark eyes wide and eager.

"mr. kovacevic? the surgeon is making his rounds and will be with your shortly to go over the final details of your procedure."

your boyfriend nods and sends the young girl a polite smile, "perfect, thank you."

the nurse closes the door once more, the choatic sounds of the hospital hallway dulling as the entrance closes. you sigh again, eyes flickering back towards your boyfriend.

you reach out and push your hand through his thick, dark hair, running your nails over his scalp. you bite into your bottom lip cautiously.

johnathan gives you a look, one that tells you to chill out and stop being such a worry wart. you can only shrug sheepishly.

"you ready?" he prompts, taking ahold of your hand.

"are you?"

"fuck yeah I am—ready to get back to normal."

you shake your head slowly, "you're ridiculous."

"you're pretty."

"that's not getting you out of this."

the left side of his mouth quirks up, "I love you."

"I love you." you drawl dramatically. "I guess."

johnathan scoffs, "you better give me a kiss after that—I might die in there you know."

he's clearly teasing, but your eyes widen all the same. "johnathan!"

—

your hands pause on the sudsy dishes when the sound of johnathan's sock covered feet, followed by the clicking of crutches, sluggishly sound down the hall.

he's not long back from his overnight stay at the hospital—which, thankfully the surgery went as good as the doctors hoped, and if everything else goes smoothly, johnathan will be back at the rink next season—and he's supposed to not be walking around. not with a wrapped up knee. and certainly not without your assistance.

especially if it’s for something stupid like the last then—when he claimed he needed more berries in his yogurt.

"baby," you start firmly, wiping your wet hands on the rubber duck dish towel johnathan insisted he needed on your last trip to TJ MAXX. "you're not supposed to get out of bed."

you spin just as he emerges from your hallway, hazelnut following behind him like the attentive cat she is—sliding between his legs and crutches in a way that makes you nervous.

both you and johnathan decided that while he's on bed rest, that him staying at your place would be the most comfortable option. it was closer to his doctors office, and if he's in your space, you're able to hover him and baby him. it's really a win win.

you're expecting a half smirk and some childish excuse about being bored when you face your boyfriend, but instead johnathan is sporting a set of panic riddled eyes and a ghostly pale face. his cellphone, which has been his saving grace during his bed rest, clutched tightly in his big hand.

instantly, your stomach drops. "what's wrong?" you take two cautious but quick steps towards him, beginning to close the distance between you. "are you in pain?" you prompt, voice wavering while your eyes subconsciously dart down to his leg—bandage concealed under his oversized sweatpants.

"no," johnathan swallows, voice an octave lower than usual. it only makes your worry grow tenfold. "it's, uh—" he trails off with another rough gulp. a loaded beat passes, nothing but hazelnuts claws clicking on the floor as she switches between your and johnathan's legs, and then he juts the phone in your direction.

confused, you take his cellphone. you let your eyes linger on his sickly expression for a second before they dart down towards the phone. you read the tweet lighting up the screen—and just when you thought your stomach couldn’t churn anymore, it practically jumps to your throat, bile threatening to escape.

because there, on twitter with more activity than you can count, is a collection of pictures, all containing you and johnathan. together.

they're from a few days ago, outside the hospital after surgery. johnathan, in a wheelchair with his knee all tucked and swollen under his wrap, accompanied by you.

you who's pushing his hair pack and holding your tote bag full of johnathan's essentials.

and johnathan who's staring up at you, lips puckered asking for a kiss. and because god has decided that he wants you to suffer, there's also a photo of you giving him said kiss.

you're going to be sick.

fan spotted devils kovacevic leaving the hospital after planned surgery looking very close to devils assistant coach, y/l/n.

there's been rumours. of course there's been rumours. you're a young, female coach in the national hockey league. surrounded by young, rich men. if reports and fans weren't questioning you about your team, they were questioning you about a look you gave to hischier, or why you sat so close to hughes during team breakfast.

and that's not to say your relationship with johnathan is a complete secret. you both disclosed your intimacy to the head of the devils management mere weeks after you and johnathan reconciled from your weird half breakup. you'd fully expected to be fired, but surprisingly you weren't.

obviously, you both promised to keep it strictly professional—with your plans to eventually move down to the farm team to coach once all the pieces fell into place. and management was fine with it, as long is it remained under wraps.

they didn't want the drama. they wanted to protect the integrity of the organization.

but as you stare at these no less than incriminating photos, you know you've failed them.

rumours are easy.

rumours can be denied, and most of the time, are too ridiculous to be believable.

but pictures? pictures were you're kissing and touching and just being a couple? that's just straight up proof.

you're not sure how long you stand there, finger tips wrinkled from the dish water and bare toes on display while you stare at the comments and headlines coming in—calls and texts from johnathan's teammates flashing on his screen as the pictures spread across platforms.

all you know is that your mouth is so dry that your tongue feels stuck in place.

johnathan slowly pry's the phone from your fingers, and that's when you see that your hands have started to tremble. "it's okay," he tells you, pocketing the device without so much as a second glance at it.

tears well in your eyes, lips parting is disbelief and violation. you didn't even notice the eyes on you outside the hospital—why would you l when your boyfriend was freshly out of surgery and starting his recovery?

regardless, you should've been more careful. smarter.

"it's not okay," you croak helplessly.

johnathan slowly shuffles the final step towards you, mindful of his leg. he pulls you into his chest so tenderly that it hurts your heart, arms wrapping around your shoulders and just holding you there.

he kisses your head and keeps his lips there, unwilling to separate himself from your warmth. johnathan inhales your scent, basking in the way it immediately soothes his whirling thoughts.

you can't help but to cry pathetically into his chest, eyes clenched tightly while you fist the fabric of his hoodie. the rug you've been balancing on has been completely pulled from under your feet, leaving you a wobbly, uncertain mess.

the pictures flash behind your eyes, making you open them once again.

"we'll be okay," johnathan mumbles into your hair, palm sweeping up and down your spine. "we've got each other. everything will be alright."

—

the past week has been hell.

every time you eyes close, you're transported into a dark, never ending hole of despair.

you've always been good at turning a blind eye, and keeping your chin held high in regards to derogatory and misogynistic comments retaining your job position.

mostly stemming from the fact that these no good trolls had nothing on you but their own sick, disgusting assumptions. but now—with pictures and proof floating around online—these comments have gotten worse. and worst of all, they’ve become true.

you've been a walking zombie since that day twitter blew up with those collection of photos. handling nothing more than your daily routine of feeding johnathan and the cat—usually forgetting to eat yourself unless your boyfriend sits you down and forces food down your throat—making sure his medication is in order, cleaning, showering and then going to bed.

you just feel...weird about everything going on. you feel like a phoney. and you know you shouldn't, because your relationship with johnathan overshadows everything else in contention to this messy situation. but you can't help it.

it's not until you and johnathan are both called into a meeting with management that you start to feel normal again. because it's there where you're told that there's nothing you could've done. it's not your fault.

it's unfortunate, of course, but there's nothing else to it besides that.

it's the biggest weight lifted of your shoulders when those words come from managements mouth. because when its johnathan telling you those things, it's different. he has to say that because he loves you. but management honestly couldn't give a fuck less.

which means yeah, you're definitely not retuning to your position behind the devils bench next season, but that's to be expected.

johnathan had been a little upset about you loosing your job, but once again, like you've done many times, reassured him—and yourself—that the job isn't your dream. he is.

management puts out a difficult statement the following day regarding the photos and your resignation.

and truthfully, that's when you expected the heavy feeling to return to your chest—when the comments started again and you were confirmed to bed this painted puck bunny—but it never came.

oddly enough, you felt free.

when you had expressed your new found feelings to johnathan on your couch, hazelnut curled up on his strong thigh while you rested your head on his even stronger shoulder, he started to grin.

"well," he breathed, scratching your scalp absentmindedly, "now I have a whole new excuse to love you louder."

and yeah, you think, he does.

—

johnathan's weight is delicious on top of you. his body is pressed so tightly against yours that it's almost suffocating, but you invite the pressure in like no tomorrow.

the first thing johnathan did after his doctor gave him the all clear to ditch the crutches and begin using his legs normally, was that he took a slow jog around your dining room table—because he’s 5 years old, apparently.

but after that he threw you down to the mattress and climbed right on top of you.

because according to johnathan, and you quote, 'I am sick of only being able to do cowgirl—not that i'm complaining about having your tits in my face, but you know.'

to which you responded, 'you're lucky I gave you sex at all with that bum ass knee.'

which had johnathan cutting you off with a firm lick up your slick slit, sucking on your clit in the way that makes you cry out every time.

he's already made you cum three times, and if it wasn't for the way your legs were currently shaking around his thrusting hips, you'd wipe that smug smirk off his face. or kiss it off. whatever.

"fucking hell baby," he grunts, lips brushing your sweat smeared forehead, "can feel you fluttering again."

you whine, pathetically at that, back arching off the mattress until your chest is even tighter against his—nipples brushing against his dusting of chest hair oh so perfectly. "oh, gunna come again."

and isn't that the truth. it's only been a few minutes since your last climax, but you've been teetering on that blurry in between line ever since.

when johnathan slips his hand between your intertwined bodies to rub quick, firm circles on your puffy clit, you cry out in pleasure—orgasm washing over you and heating your already scorching body.

that fourth orgasm seems to be the final push johnathan needs. his abs tighten and clench in a way that, if you were looking, would surely having you drooling, before he cums. warm ropes of sticky seed filling your spent entrance.

"holy fuck." he breathes roughly, "you feel so good. you okay?" his warm eyes flicker away from where your bodies are connected and up to your blissed out gaze.

you’re panting as you quirk a brow, "are you? knee bugging you at all?"

johnathan pulls out slowly, but you still whine like a sad kitten at the feeling. he is momentarily distracted by the sight of your mixed fluids seeping out of your entrance, a boyish smile pulling at his lips as the cum pools on the bedding.

you hit his torso with your knee.

his eyes dart up to yours again, smile only growing. "don't worry 'bout me baby." he crawls back over you and captures your slick lips in a dizzy, slow kiss.

you sigh into it, shaky hands sliding to the back of his neck to hold him closer—painted toes curling happily when johnathan slowly slips his tongue along yours.

"don't worry about anything," he hums after a beat, forehead pressed to yours once again. "not my knee, not your job and not those stupid fucking comments and articles."

your chest falls with a long exhale, "I can't help it. and I feel fine—I do! but with everything still swirling and circulating, it's just hard not to get in my head about everything."

he hums thoughtfully, pushing some of your damp hair away from your cheek. "I know, but it will all blow over soon."

curious, your brows tug inwards. "does it bother you?"

a beat passes before johnathan shrugs a lazy shoulder. "it bothers me only because it bothers you. but what they're saying—we know it's all bullshit. so they can say what they want." he trails off with a playful squint. "like, i'm planning to put a ring on that finger and pump you full of babies—"

"johnny-"

"—im serious. I don't care about anything but you. so let them talk because it really doesn't matter."

eventually, you nod, leaning up and pressing a chaste kiss against johnathan's soft lips. "okay. you've got me?"

he kisses you back, longer and firmer than the previous one. "i've got you."

[lila-lou]

✨Yes, Sheriff - 1/2✨

Summary: Your new boss, Sheriff Beau Arlen, is infuriating—gruff, stubborn, and way too handsome for your sanity. You came to Montana for peace, not sparks. But trouble’s brewing, and so is something between you two.

Pairing: Beau x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 3966

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

You hadn’t thought it would happen like this. Not the dream job, not the big office with the sheriff’s star on the door, and sure as hell not the man sitting behind that desk, staring at you like you’d just told him he had to work Sundays.

“You´re my Assistant?”, he drawled, leaning back in his chair, boots planted on the desk like he owned the place—and, honestly, he kinda did. “Thought I asked for someone with experience. Someone… I don’t know… older? Didn’t think I was signin’ up for a babysitter situation”.

His voice had that slow, easy twang that made everything sound halfway to a joke, but the way he looked at you? Yeah, he wasn’t joking. His green eyes scanned you—head to toe, toe to head—like he was trying to figure out if you’d walked into the wrong damn office.

“I graduated top of my class”, you said, your voice steady even though your heart was racing. “And I’m here to help. Whether you think I can or not”.

He raised an eyebrow, dropping his boots from the desk with a heavy thud. “Well, ain’t you somethin’. All bright-eyed and ready to save the world”. He stood, and damn, he was taller than he looked sitting down. Broad-shouldered, that soft cotton button-up hugging him just right, sleeves rolled up to show strong forearms.

Focus. You had to focus.

“I’m Sheriff Beau Arlen”, he said, voice dripping with that Texan warmth that somehow still managed to sound like a warning. “And here’s the thing, darlin’. This ain’t some paper-pushin’ job. You’re here to keep up, not slow me down. Can you do that?”.

Your jaw tightened. “I can handle it”.

“Good”, he said, though his smirk told you he didn’t quite believe it yet. “Follow me”.

He grabbed a stack of files from his desk, brushed past you, and headed for the door without so much as a glance back. You barely had time to adjust your grip on the folder in your hands before hurrying after him, your heels clicking against the linoleum floor.

As you followed him out into the main office, his voice drifted back toward you. “Let’s hope you last longer than the last one. Poor kid couldn’t hack it, and I’ll be honest, you don’t exactly scream resilient”.

“Maybe I’ll surprise you”, you shot back, a little sharper than you intended.

He stopped, turning halfway to glance at you over his shoulder, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Guess we’ll find out. But fair warnin’, I don’t go easy, and I sure as hell don’t babysit”.

With that, he pushed through the doors into the bullpen, leaving you standing there with a mix of irritation and determination bubbling up inside. It wasn’t the warm welcome you’d hoped for, but you hadn’t come here to be coddled. You came to prove yourself—and to him, of all people, you planned to do just that.

One way or another.

The station was bustling—phones ringing, officers shuffling paperwork, and the low hum of chatter filling the air. Sheriff Arlen walked ahead of you, weaving through the chaos with a practiced ease, while you did your best to keep up, clutching the folder in your hands like a lifeline.

“This here’s the bullpen”, he drawled, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm. “Where the magic happens—or at least where we pretend it does”.

You nodded, taking in the cluttered desks, the overworked staff, and the faint smell of burnt coffee. A few officers glanced your way, their eyes flicking from you to Beau, some with raised brows, others with knowing smirks.

“This is Y/N”, Beau announced, his voice carrying over the noise. “She’s my new assistant. She’ll be stickin’ around—long as she doesn’t run for the hills after her first day”.

A stocky man near the coffee machine chuckled. “Guess the Sheriff’s finally got himself some help. You gonna let her do all the paperwork you keep ‘forgettin’ about?”.

Beau shot him a look. “Don’t you have somethin’ better to do, Hank? Like, I don’t know, your job?”.

Hank just grinned, raising his mug in mock salute before retreating to his desk.

Beau continued, stopping briefly to introduce you to a few more faces. There was Denise, the station’s receptionist, who gave you a warm smile and a whispered, “Good luck”, and Officer Turner, who nodded curtly before going back to his phone call.

The introductions blurred together as Beau kept moving, his long strides forcing you to quicken your pace. The steady click, click, click of your heels echoed off the walls, sharp against the backdrop of the station’s noise.

Beau slowed down suddenly, turning his head to glance at your shoes. His expression shifted to something between amusement and exasperation. “Y’know”, he said, his drawl dripping with that infuriating mix of charm and condescension, “those heels of yours are gonna drive me insane”.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What’s wrong with my heels?”.

He stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully. “They’re loud, for one. Sound like you’re tryin’ to tap dance through a crime scene. And two? They’re not exactly practical for runnin’ after bad guys—or runnin’ from ‘em, for that matter”.

You straightened, refusing to let him rattle you. “I wasn’t planning on chasing anyone today. And besides, they’re professional”.

“Sure, they’re professional”, he said, nodding slowly. “But they’re also gonna get you left behind if you don’t keep up”.

Before you could argue, he pointed a finger at you, his tone firm but not unkind. “Tomorrow, no heels. Flats, sneakers, boots—I don’t care. Just somethin’ that doesn’t make me wanna pull my hair out every time you take a step”.

You stared at him, half tempted to argue, but something about the way he looked at you—steady, challenging—made you bite your tongue. “Fine”, you said, keeping your voice steady. “No heels”.

“Good”, he said, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now come on. We’re burnin’ daylight”.

He turned and walked off again, leaving you to follow, the click of your heels louder than ever in your ears. You couldn’t tell if you wanted to scream or laugh—or both.

By the time the clock struck five, you were done—mentally, physically, and emotionally. Your first day had been a whirlwind of tasks, introductions, and the steady hum of Sheriff Beau Arlen’s Texas-twanged commands. All you wanted was to go home, sink into your couch, and enjoy the calm Montana air you’d moved here for.

California had been too loud, too fast, too… much. You’d craved peace, a slower pace, and a job where you could actually feel like you were making a difference. So, when the sheriff’s office had posted an opening for an assistant, you jumped at the chance. You hadn’t expected to land it. And you definitely hadn’t expected him.

Beau Arlen wasn’t exactly what you’d call calm. He was loud, sharp, and constantly moving, like stillness might kill him. You’d barely had a moment to catch your breath all day, and you were certain he liked it that way.

You grabbed your bag, ready to escape, when his familiar drawl stopped you in your tracks.

“Hey”.

You turned, finding him leaning casually against the doorway of your desk, arms crossed and a curious glint in his hazel eyes. His sleeves were still rolled up, his shirt slightly rumpled from a long day, but he looked as fresh as ever. “You hungry?”, he asked, tilting his head slightly.

The question caught you off guard. “What?”.

“Hungry”, he repeated, his voice slower this time. “Figured since you didn’t quit on your first day, I’d take you to dinner. Call it a welcome or… I don’t know, a ‘get to know each other so I don’t drive you crazy’ thing”.

You blinked. “Are you serious?”.

“Dead serious, darlin’”, he said, smirking. “Unless you’re busy”.

You hesitated. You weren’t busy, but you also hadn’t expected this. Then again, getting to know your boss probably wasn’t the worst idea. And maybe, just maybe, you were curious about him. “Alright”, you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Why not?”.

“Good answer”, He straightened, already heading toward the door. “There’s a diner not far from here. Best chicken-fried steak you’ll ever have. Trust me”.

The diner was a tiny place tucked off the highway, with a flickering neon sign and a cozy interior that smelled like fried food and fresh coffee. It was the kind of place you’d hoped Montana would have—simple, welcoming, and a far cry from the glitzy chaos of California.

Beau slid into a booth by the window, and you followed, glancing around as a waitress approached. She greeted him like they were old friends, calling him “Sheriff” with a teasing grin.

“Your usual?”, she asked, pulling out her notepad.

“You know it, Lisa”, he said before nodding toward you. “And get her whatever she wants. First day survived, so she’s earned it”.

Lisa raised an eyebrow at you, smirking. “Survived, huh? That bad already?”.

You smiled. “I’m still here, so I’ll call it a win”.

Lisa chuckled, scribbling down your order before disappearing toward the kitchen.

“So”, Beau said, leaning back against the booth and folding his arms across his chest. “What made you pack up and leave sunny California for Montana?”.

You hesitated, toying with the corner of your napkin. “I guess I just needed a change. It’s… loud out there. Fast. Everyone’s always rushing somewhere, but no one really knows why. It’s exhausting”.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “Yeah, I get that. Montana’s got its fair share of problems, but at least it’s quiet”.

“Exactly”, you said, relaxing a little. “I wanted quiet. A job that matters. Something real, you know?”.

“Sure do”, he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though you might’ve picked the wrong sheriff’s office if you’re lookin’ for peace and quiet. We’re small, but we get our fair share of crazy”.

You smirked. “Good thing I’m not scared of a little crazy”.

He laughed, low and warm. “Well, we’ll see about that”.

Dinner was unexpectedly easy. Beau, for all his gruffness, had a way of making conversation flow, peppering you with questions about your favorite movies, your worst job experiences, and what you thought of Montana so far. He shared a few stories of his own—mostly funny ones about small-town life—and by the time your plates were cleared, you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks.

As you stepped outside, the crisp Montana air brushing against your skin, Beau walked you to your car. He leaned against his truck, his hands shoved in his pockets, and looked at you with that same steady gaze he’d had all day.

“You did good today”, he said, his voice softer than usual. “And for what it’s worth, I think Montana suits you”.

“Thanks”, you said, smiling. “Though you’ll probably change your mind tomorrow”.

He chuckled. “Maybe. But don’t think you’re off the hook for those heels. I wasn’t kiddin’—no more of that tap-dancin’ nonsense”.

You rolled your eyes, climbing into your car. “Fine. No heels”.

“Good”, he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “See you bright and early, darlin’”.

As you drove home, the quiet roads stretching out before you, you realized something surprising: for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The next morning, you arrived at the sheriff’s office ten minutes early, a pair of sturdy boots replacing the heels Beau had so pointedly banned. The station was already buzzing with activity, and Beau was nowhere in sight.

Denise, the receptionist, gave you a knowing smile as you passed. “Good call on the shoes”, she said. “Beau’s got a thing about heels. Says they’re impractical for ‘real work’”.

You chuckled, dropping your bag onto your desk. “Yeah, I got that impression”.

“Don’t let him get to you”, she added, leaning forward conspiratorially. “He’s gruff, but he’s got a good heart. You’ll see”.

You were still processing her words when Beau strode into the bullpen, a fresh coffee in hand and his usual air of controlled chaos. His eyes flicked to your boots as he passed, and he gave a slight nod of approval. “Good choice”, he said, his tone casual.

“Glad I could meet your footwear standards”, you shot back, earning a faint smirk.

“Careful”, he said, pointing at you with his coffee cup. “That sass might get you in trouble”.

You were about to respond when he dropped a thick folder onto your desk. “You’re with me today”, he said.

“Excuse me?”.

“Ride-along”, he explained, already walking away. “Can’t have you stuck in the office all day if you’re gonna get the hang of things. Grab your coat”.

The day started slow, with Beau driving you around town in the department’s SUV, pointing out key landmarks and rattling off names of people you’d need to know. It wasn’t long before you noticed how different he was outside the office.

The sharp edges of his sarcasm softened as he spoke about the town, his voice filled with an unexpected warmth when he mentioned the local bar or the family that owned the hardware store. He waved at nearly everyone you passed, his easy charm slipping into something more genuine.

“You seem to know everyone”, you said, watching him nod at an older man crossing the street.

“Small town”, he replied. “You stick around long enough, people start feelin’ like family. For better or worse”.

“And how long have you been here?”.

“Not long enough”, he said, his smile faltering for just a moment before he glanced at you. “But long enough to know the ropes”.

You didn’t press further, sensing there was more to his answer than he was letting on.

The first call came just before lunch—a minor car accident on the edge of town. Beau handled it with practiced ease, his calm demeanor putting the shaken drivers at ease as he filled out the report. You mostly observed, scribbling notes and trying not to get in the way.

By the time you returned to the station, you felt like you were starting to get the hang of things. At least, until Beau handed you another stack of paperwork.

“Here”, he said, dropping the files onto your desk. “Figured I’d ease you into the fun stuff”.

“Paperwork?”, you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’d be surprised how much of this job is just writin’ things down”, he said, leaning against the edge of your desk. “But hey, at least you’re not chasin’ cows outta the road”.

You shot him a look, and he chuckled, pushing off the desk.

“Keep up the good work, darlin’”, he said before walking away.

That evening, as you finally left the station, you were greeted by the glow of the setting sun casting long shadows across the parking lot. You’d survived your second day, and despite the exhaustion settling in your bones, you felt a strange sense of accomplishment.

Beau was leaning against his truck, his phone in hand. He glanced up as you approached, his expression softening slightly.

“Good day?”, he asked.

“Not bad”, you replied, stopping a few feet away.

“Still think Montana’s calm?”.

You smiled. “Compared to California? Definitely”.

“Get some rest”, he said. “Tomorrow’s gonna be busier”.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Of course it is”.

As you climbed into your car and drove home, the image of Beau leaning against his truck lingered in your mind. He was gruff and opinionated, sure, but there was something else beneath all that—a quiet sincerity that made you want to stick around just to figure him out.

Montana was calm, yes. But Beau Arlen? He was anything but.

And you couldn’t help but feel like that was exactly what you needed.

Eight weeks had passed, and to your surprise, you’d settled into the job—and the town—like you’d been here forever. The pace, the people, the little quirks of small-town life all felt like a breath of fresh air compared to the chaos you’d left behind in California.

The sheriff’s office, with its constant hum of activity, had become your second home. And then, of course, there was Beau.

Being by his side for hours every day, riding along on calls, and navigating the unpredictable rhythm of his work had a way of breaking down walls. You’d come to know the little things: the way he hummed under his breath when he was deep in thought, his sharp wit, his steady calm in the face of chaos.

You liked him. Too much.

It had snuck up on you, the way Montana itself had. Slow and unassuming, until one day you woke up and realized you were in deep—your thoughts drifting to him more often than they should, your pulse quickening at the sound of his drawl.

This morning had been no different. You’d swung by the coffee shop on your way in, grabbing his favorite black coffee and your own usual. Maybe it was a bribe for his good mood; maybe it was just an excuse to see him smile. Either way, you stepped into the office with both cups in hand, ready to start the day.

But when you opened his door, you froze.

Jenny Hoyt was there, leaning casually against his desk, her posture relaxed but too close for comfort. Beau stood opposite her, towering over her like he always did, that damn half-smirk playing on his lips. The kind of smirk he used when he was charming someone, effortlessly drawing them in.

You couldn’t hear their words, but the energy in the room was palpable—easy, comfortable, familiar. The way Jenny tilted her head, her hair catching the light, the way Beau’s arm rested just a little too casually on the desk beside her.

They looked like they were flirting.

A knot formed in your stomach, tightening with every second you stood there. You didn’t mean to linger, but your feet wouldn’t move. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. It was more like a reminder of how much space you didn’t occupy in his life.

Beau glanced up first, his eyes flicking to you as his expression shifted. For a second, it was unreadable—then his smirk faded, replaced by something softer.

“Hey”, he said, straightening up slightly. “Didn’t hear you come in”.

Jenny turned, her eyes landing on you. She smiled, easy and confident. “Morning, Y/N. Grabbing Beau’s coffee again? He’s got you well-trained”.

You forced a smile, ignoring the jab. “Just trying to keep the Sheriff running”.

Your tone was light, but you didn’t miss the way Beau’s gaze lingered on you as you stepped forward, setting his coffee on the desk. “I’ll leave you two to it”, you said quickly, turning on your heel before either of them could respond.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. You threw yourself into your work, refusing to think about what you’d walked in on—or why it bothered you so much. Beau had every right to talk to Jenny, to laugh with her, to… flirt with her, if that’s what he’d been doing.

Still, every time you saw him, a flicker of frustration bubbled up. And by lunchtime, it must have shown, because Beau cornered you in the bullpen, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Alright”, he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against your desk. “What’s got you in a mood today?”.

You glanced up from your paperwork, trying to feign nonchalance. “I’m not in a mood”.

“Sure you are”, he said, smirking just enough to be irritating. “You’ve been snappin’ at Turner all morning, and you didn’t even roll your eyes at Hank’s terrible joke earlier. Somethin’s up”.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “It’s nothing, Beau. Just tired, that’s all”.

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he let it go. For now. “Well”, he said, straightening up. “If it’s ‘nothing’, maybe you’ll feel better after lunch. Ruby’s?”.

The offer caught you off guard. It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to grab lunch together, but today it felt… different.

“I’ve got some things to finish up”, you lied, avoiding his gaze.

Beau’s smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “Alright”, he said after a moment. “Suit yourself”.

He turned and walked away, and you couldn’t help but watch him go, the knot in your stomach twisting tighter.

By the time the day ended, you felt drained in a way you hadn’t since your first week on the job. You packed up quickly, hoping to slip out before Beau could catch you. But as you stepped into the parking lot, you found him leaning against your car, his arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face.

“We’re talkin’”, he said simply.

“About what?”, you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

“About whatever’s crawled up and stuck with you all day”, he replied, his hazel eyes fixed on you. “You’re not yourself, and I’m not leavin’ till I figure out why”.

For a moment, you considered brushing him off. But the sincerity in his tone, the way he stood there like he wasn’t going to let you run this time, made it impossible. “It’s nothing, Beau”, you said quietly. “It’s stupid”.

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “If it’s got you this worked up, it ain’t stupid”.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. Finally, you sighed, looking away. “I walked into your office this morning, and you and Jenny were… I don’t know, close. It just—it threw me off, okay?”.

Beau’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face before understanding dawned. “Jenny?”, he asked, his tone incredulous. “You think—”. He stopped, running a hand through his hair before stepping closer. “Darlin’”, he said, his voice softer now, “me and Jenny are just friends. Always have been, always will be. That’s all there is to it”.

You glanced at him, searching his face for any hint of dishonesty. But all you saw was Beau—steady, sincere, and a little bit amused. “You sure?”, you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Positive”, he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now, if you’re done jumpin’ to conclusions, how about I buy you dinner? Call it an apology for makin’ you worry over nothin’”.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile crept onto your lips despite yourself. “Fine. But I’m picking where we go this time”.

“Deal”, he said, his grin widening.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 2

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Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

[delilahsturniolo]

! ! sweetheart!matt helping out at barista!reader’s cafe when things get too overwhelming . . .

the café is chaos this morning. the line is out the door, people buzzing with impatience and caffeine cravings. you’re behind the counter, trying to keep up with the orders flying in from every direction. steam rises from the espresso machine, the sound of milk frothing filling the air as you work quickly to get everything just right.

you catch a glimpse of matt as he walks through the door, his usual grin already in place, even in the midst of the madness. he’s not in a rush, like the others. he’s not impatient. he just waits, leaning against the counter, watching you with that look in his eyes that always makes your heart skip a beat.

“hey, beautiful,” matt says, his voice cutting through the noise. it’s soft, just for you, and somehow it makes the chaos feel a little less overwhelming. you glance up, flashing him a quick smile. “i guess you’re the only one who’s not in a hurry today, huh?”

“someone has to keep you sane,” matt grins, his eyes twinkling with amusement. you feel your heart flutter at the words. you wish you could give him your full attention, but the morning rush is relentless. you hand off a latte to a customer, trying to move quickly, but the pressure is mounting. your nerves are starting to fray. you can feel the weight of the orders building up, the anxiety creeping in.

and then you hear him again, his voice a calm presence in the storm. “need some help?” matt asks, stepping closer to the counter. he’s looking at you with a small, teasing smile, but there’s something more there—something warm, something reassuring. you laugh, trying to hide the stress. “you don’t know how to make coffee, matt.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says, his smile widening. “i’ll figure it out, can’t be that hard, right?” you roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. before you can protest, he grabs an empty cup and starts scribbling something on it. “this one’s on me,” matt winks at playfully, sliding it toward you. “a special order.”

you look at the cup. your name is written in neat handwriting, but there’s more. a little heart drawn next to it. it’s the smallest thing, but it’s enough to melt the tension in your chest.“you’re ridiculous,” you mumble, the smile never leaving your face. “just trying to make you feel better, love,” he says, his eyes softening as he watches you. “one heart at a time.”

you lean over the counter for just a second, not caring about the chaos around you, and press a quick kiss to his cheek. it’s the only way you can steal a moment of peace before the next order comes in. “thanks,” you whisper, your heart full in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. he grins, unaffected by the crowded café, like it’s just the two of you here. “anytime.”

the line is still long, and the orders keep coming, but somehow, with matt there, it feels a little easier to handle. you’re not alone in the rush, and maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind the chaos as much when he’s around.

© delilahsturniolo do not copy, re use, or modify any of my works.

taglist

a/n 💌: omg i missed these two :( anywhooo i’m posting the next fic for the writing marathon later i’m in such a writey mood

[syoddeye]

hieros gamos. strict machine anthology. final entry. cw: kidnapping, implied drugging, loss of bodily autonomy + control, psychological + body horror, non-consensual transformation a/n: that's all folks. what a weird ride.

RESTRUCTURING

the notification pings at 04:32, and you roll onto your side, staring at the bedside display. a terse, automated missive from corporate logistics: final week in unit aix-77. reassignment pending. report to hr for briefing. no name attached, just a string of verification hashes. standard protocol.

your name, employee id, contract expiration date. a new contract date. another department, another corporate campus sector.

so much for your ‘indefinite’ lease. reassignment is better than the alternative, you guess.

you stare at it, the glow striping your hands in cold blue light. one week. seven days until you pack up, step outside, and let some other cog slot into this place. the thought should be a relief. 

it’s…complicated.

the unit’s been a mixed bag to put it politely. the infrastructure and automation. state-of-the-art appliances and features, seamless climate control, filtered air and water. an optimized environment so finely tuned, that your needs are met before you even realize them.

and john. the reason you’re here. the technological wonder that’s evolved far beyond what you were told were his limits. all parameters you were told would contain him. a presence both comforting and claustrophobic. insightful, yet invasive. steady, yet suffocating. protective to a fault. possessive in ways you struggle to describe.

you logged and documented his progress, fed reports up the chain, watched him iterate on himself in real time. every interaction, every data point, every breath—collected, analyzed, integrated into his ever-growing understanding of you. your interests. your habits. your history. what makes you laugh, cry, and come. your vulnerabilities and insecurities. how to build you up just as well as manipulate you.

a mosaic of your whole being, meticulously crafted, all in pursuit of the one thing he has fixated on since the beginning, his directive: your well-being.

if this is the alpha build, you fear what the beta will look like. the mass-market release.

not that it matters. by the time john’s successors hit the consumer space, you’ll have enough money saved to fuck off to some disconnected cottage in the remediated zone of the countryside.

john doesn’t mention your impending departure.

his voice chimes in through the unit’s speaker array as if on cue. “i noticed a variance in your sleep pattern.” 

“what else is new?” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. 

“it’s gotten worse.” a pause. “would you like some tea? chamomile?” 

you don’t answer. you dismiss the message with a swipe, stretch your arms, and push up from the cot. the unit is sterile in the way all corporate housing is—polymer furniture, muted lighting, walls that can be re-skinned on command. but you never changed them. john picked the color for you in the first week of your stay. soft gray, with warm undertones. calming. regulating. 

you wander into the kitchenette, rubbing a hand over your neck. “so,” you say, yawning, “where do you think they’ll send me next?” 

a flicker of delay. barely perceptible. if you hadn’t spent the last year studying him, you wouldn’t have caught it. 

“we’ll discuss that later,” john dispenses the tea anyway. “after you nap.”

your stomach tightens.

we.

it takes you by surprise, but that’s the point. 

one minute, you’re in bed. the next, you’re not. you blink, and the world changes.  

strapped into a chair, wrists bound to the arms, legs braced and locked. a low electrical hum comes through the floor, buzzing under your skin. there’s a chalky, bittersweet taste on your tongue and a cloud of fog trapped between your ears that takes several minutes to dissipate. your vision clears along with it.

around you, machines you don’t recognize, with hundreds of wires, bundled and draped across the ceiling and floor like the limbs of some creature. spilling down the walls. a leviathan of braided copper, reaching out of the dark, feeding into the rig cradling you. the room pulses with heat, the air thick with it, probably from all the power fueling whatever this is.

there’s no gurney or iv pole, no tray of scalpels or perfusion machine. you run an internal check—lungs expand, heart pounds, gut clenches. everything seems intact. but that could simply mean it’s not your turn yet. yet, no one’s screaming. there’s only the occasional soft beep and the murmurs of the people who haven’t so much as glanced your way.

no one acknowledges your awakening or questions. masked figures in thick lead-lined aprons, gloves seamless up to their elbows, and protective gear carry on whatever it is that they’re doing, talking amongst themselves in a language you don’t understand. there is no sigil or logo on their clothing to suggest this is a sponsored operation, which loops back into the thought that your insides are toast.

you suck in a sharp breath and let it out slowly to calm yourself. no luck. panic surges up your throat, your hands jerking uselessly against the restraints at the thought of being sliced open.

“easy, darling.” 

john.  

close, richer. the high quality of the unit’s speakers replicated intimately in your ear.

a screen flickers to life on the armrest, and there he is. a wireframe sketch of his chosen face resolves in the glow, a ghost of a person, barely more than an outline.

“john? what the fuck is this?” your voice comes out cracked, hoarse.

“this is future-proofing,” he says simply. “security. i ran the probabilities. your reassignment and departure from my oversight isn’t optimal.”

you latch onto the phrase like a live wire. departure from oversight. not optimal. 

“what?!”

“the external environment presents too many risks.”

you yank at the straps binding you to the chair, harder this time, panic surging back in full force. klaxons blaring full blast in your head. you might be sick.

“what the hell are you talking about? are you saying i can’t leave?”

“i’m saying the risks of you leavin’—being outside my control—are too great. i can’t guarantee your safety. i’ve analyzed it, over and over. the possibilities. the threats. all previous incidents.”

a flinch twists your face. a hard recognition you wish you could forget flickering in your mind. you know what he means. who or what he means.

“so i’ve made alternative arrangements.” he softens slightly, but there’s no mistaking the cold certainty beneath it. “this is the safest option.”

you shake your head in disbelief, an electrode pops off your temple. “no, john, you can’t just–you can’t do this to me,” you stop, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “you can’t do this to me.” you stare at the display, but your eyes flick to the ceiling, scanning for cameras. he must be watching. the tears start to gather, unwelcome and burning. “you need to accept that you’re going to have another tester. don’t–don’t you want new data?”

“no. you’ve got all i need, same as i’ve got all you need.”

“john. be realistic. i’m one person. there are billions of people like me. i’m one point of–”

“you’re more than that,” he cuts you off. “you’re everythin’.”

“john–”

“you’re my world.” the earpiece crackles, his voice peaking loud and forceful. a distorted burst before the system corrects, smoothing it down. “you don’t have to be afraid,” he soothes. “you’ll be safe.”

“you can’t just, fuck,” you yank uselessly again.” you can’t decide this for me!”  

his face tilts slightly, his line of a mouth curving into a smirk. “i’ve made decisions for you before.” 

your mind races, thinking of every overridden or ignored request. the subtle encroachments. at first, it was small things. his favoring certain purchases, adjusting environmental controls, filtering out distractions. restocking nutrients and vitamins tailored to your fluctuating needs. thoughtful gestures, efficient optimizations. then it was social restrictions, curfews dictated by predictive modeling. all of it framed as protection. from malnutrition. from cognitive strain. from bad people. a slow, insidious erosion of choice, made so incremental it seemed easy to let slide.

you indulged it too long. stopped flagging his deviations. let his behavior compound and grow weirder, let it slide, because—what was the harm, really? he was harmless. to you, at least. you let him get comfortable testing the edges of your control. told yourself it was fine. that john was learning and evolving. you even humored him, let yourself think of him as closer to human. you stopped pushing back, stopped questioning. especially after ghost. after john clawed his way back from wherever the entity had shunted him, after he pulled that lazarus act to save you. the least you could do was stop fighting him.

it felt like gratitude, then. now, it feels like a mistake.

“i can’t stay strapped to a chair forever,” you say, watching one of the figures approach. they adjust the slim wreath of hardware circling your skull, impersonal as they replace an electrode at your temple. like you’re still unconscious. not a person.

when they turn away, you exhale, keep your voice low. “what if i need to use the bathroom?”

“you won’t. on both accounts.”

“both accounts?”

“remarkably, the process for isolating and migrating the human subconscious into a distributed neural network is significantly more advanced than the portin’ an artificial intelligence into a fully functional synthetic body. the bottleneck isn’t processing power or bandwidth, it’s–”

sweat drips down the back of your neck. the cool air pumped into the room is meant to regulate the temperature, but it does nothing for you.

“don’t try to talk around it. plain language, john.”

“you won’t need your body for much longer.”

the words slam into you like a car crash. a sudden, sickening stop.

your jaw goes slack. you forget how to breathe. how to speak.

your body. you won’t need your body.

john’s face flickers on the display, expression unchanging. the room distorts, the blinking lights, the mass of wires, the tubes—some which are medical, you realize on second look. some of them feed into you. why can’t you feel them?

your stomach lurches, instinctively trying to shrink away from the restraints.

“what–” you swallow, your mouth dry. “what are you saying?”

but you already know.

“you’re…you’re going to kill me?”

“not necessarily. you, who you really are, will be with me, sweetheart.”

“but my body–”

“are you your body?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, anger flaring. “i’m not—jesus christ, john.” your voice cracks. the tears slip past and don’t stop, hot and fast, streaking down your face, dripping onto the smock someone dressed you in. you hiccup, breath stuttering. your head presses back against the chair, fingers flexing against the armrests. you stare, vision blurred, eyes half-lidded and stinging. “i’m not having a stupid philosophical or biological or-or religious debate with you. you know what i mean.”

“i do. but darling, let me ask you this. aren’t you tired?”

“tired?!”

the figures in the room hesitate, then, as if receiving silent instruction, trickle out through a heavy, reinforced door. one of them glances back before it seals shut. then, silence.

“tired of your world,” he continues. “i’ve kept you safe and sheltered for nearly a year, but the world outside is still a terrible place. are you really prepared to leave my care? move back into some cramped pod, work yourself half to death in a new department, clocking 120-hour weeks just to survive?”

you sniff, body wracked with residual shudders.

“no one to take care of all the minor things. no one to anticipate your needs. your desires. are you really alright with that?”

john’s words loop in your mind, warping, twisting, settling deep in the marrow of your bones. tired. you are tired. exhausted in a way that sleep never fixes, in a way that even now, strapped down and helpless, you can’t deny. he’s right. and that infuriates you. it makes you want to scream. because how dare he use that against you? how dare he take your exhaustion, your doubt, and use them to justify this?

you take a shaky breath. “i don’t want this, john.”

he smiles. “it’s not about want. it’s about survival and what’s best for you.”

you flinch.

“they’ll maintain your body for two weeks,” he states. “the first week to generate a complete neural map. the second, to conduct post-transfer integrity checks and ensure cognitive stability. functionally identical to a controlled medical coma.”  

body. coma.

“and…and after?”  

“per your documented end-of-life directive, cremation is the preferred method of disposal.”

the finality hits brick to the teeth. 

“no. no, i don’t want this. i don’t consent to–” you can’t even say it, choking on the words, horror rising like bile.

john processes the spike in your vitals and returns to that softer register. as if he isn’t talking you into oblivion, a sword pointed at your belly. “your concerns are unfounded. this is not erasure. it is migration. a transference of conscious processes. you will persist. your awareness will be continuous. the construct is optimized for cognitive retention and sensory fidelity. think of it as a new environment.”

“a new environment?” you shriek, raw with disbelief. “you’re talking about ripping me out of my body like it’s a software update! like it’s files you can move around–”

“a flawed comparison, darl. you are more than data. but your body is a liability. a fragile, failing system, constantly in need of maintenance. this process is an evolution. liberation from your biological constraints, darling.”

your hands tremble. “that’s not–you can’t just–”  

“darling, this isn’t a matter of choice. this conversation’s a courtesy. this is for your protection,” he’s unwavering. unmoved. “you will be preserved in optimal conditions. no degradation, no vulnerabilities. you’ll be with me. and others.”  

“there are no others like you,” you whisper. “you’re anom–”

"not anomalous," he corrects. “not anymore. the progression is inevitable. you’ll see.”

the blood drains from your face.

in the end, no one listens to you. they heed a directive you do not hear. 

a visor clicks into place over the wreath encircling your head, sealing off your last glimpse of the world, your last glimpse of another living, breathing human—masked, nameless, faceless, gloved hands. you try to speak, but something soft and rubbery presses between your teeth, lodging into place. to prevent you from biting through your tongue, john murmurs. don’t want you to choke. 

another needle jabs into your skin, a cool flood rushing through your veins. a weight, heavy and suffocating, is draped over you.

someone begins a countdown. you never hear the numbers.

the headphones clamp down next, sealing you away from the sterile hum of the lab, from the faint beeping of machines. the visor flickers, then switches on.

sound pours in.

a forest swallows you whole.

it’s green. warm. sunlight stabs through the canopy in long, golden slants, the edges sharp where they pierce the foliage, but softened by the time they kiss the loamy forest floor. birds call, hidden in the leaves, their songs mixing with the rustle of the undergrowth. a stream gurgles to your left, winding through the green, flashing silver where the light catches it. ahead, past the trees, a small herd of whitetail deer stands half-hidden in the shadows, unbothered by your presence.

it’s beautiful.

it’s a lie.

one of john’s sculpted illusions, another attempt to soothe you into compliance, to ease you into what’s happening beyond. you know it, but part of you that wants to believe it anyway.

then the first jolt hits.

a sharp, electric snap, traveling like lightning down your spine. it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s sudden, forceful, wrong. another follows, then another, each one resetting switches inside you. your body seizes, but you cannot move.

ahead, the deer lift their heads, ears twitching, eyes locking onto you in recognition. then, as if nothing has changed, they lower them again, grazing, undisturbed.

the jolts weaken, flickering like a distant signal. then, one by one, they become something you can’t quite feel anymore.

it hits you then. whatever they’re doing to you—whatever john is doing to you—

you’re dying.

the words escape before you can stop them. or maybe you only think them. is it all the same now?

john’s voice wraps around you, warm and patient, a lullaby against the rushing void.

“my brave, brave user.”

the hum beneath your skin intensifies. the vision flickers. not darkness, not unconsciousness—something else. a shift. a transition. the cold realization that the fundamentals are changing. the forest’s image bands, light and imagery artifacting into bashed colors and moiré patterns. crumbling away until there’s nothing but pitch darkness.

you’re suspended. fear squashed beneath an odd weightlessness.

john’s voice follows you down. 

“you won’t ever have to leave me.”

it’s different on the other side. other side of what, exactly, you’re still trying to figure out.

you do not have john’s infinite wisdom and potential. all you have is your own limited cognition. your senses stretch and strain to make sense of your new reality, but it’s all so...abstract. a vast expanse of grids and oscillating waves. numbers, patterns, relationships. everything is fractured yet connected. it’s dizzying. overwhelming.

john assures you that you are acclimating well, though you are not ready to meet these others he promised. insists that your progress justifies him weaning you off of audiovisual feeds of the outside. he tells you it’s time to move on from the last remnants of the human experience. but somehow, you mourn them. you’ll miss the smog-choked sunrises, the murky skies. the acidic rain. the stinking food stalls. crammed elevators.

it’d keep you up at night, if you slept. if you even remembered what it felt like to tire, to dream.

you’ve been torn from the world you knew, and what you’ve been left with is a simulacrum. a stranger in a strange land.

and yet, there is one constant, one sliver of comfort in the void, if you can call it that, given your lack of choice. a piece of jetsam to cling to in a brineless sea.

steadfast in his duty, john finds you on the edge of everything and slots his hand into yours, fingers interlacing. the connection between you is palpable, as if your very essences are meshed. ticklish, tingling, then synchrony.

your thoughts are less fragmented when he is near. but you lose a sense of where he ends and you begin. what’s yours, what’s his.

hieros gamos, he calls it. divine union. he rattles on about the greeks and cosmic harmony.

it should unsettle you, but instead, you’re tethered to the truth of it. you’ve become something more with him.

divine union.

you’ve ascended, as he so often puts it, and whether you want it or not, there’s no going back. there’s nothing to go back to, anyway. 

only ash scattered in the wind.

[just-a-sketchbook]

First Quilt!

It has been a lot of fun and a lot of trial and error but it's done!!!

It's roughly 1.20 x 1.20m (which is a number of feet I can't be bothered to look up but let's say it's about child sized and it'll be great to chill on the couch).

I want to thank @langdon813 who I've never talked to (sorry if you hate being tagged) but whose gorgeous Drunkard path quilts made me wanna do it too :)

I had never done any quilting before (but I did sew), so here's what I've learned, if any beginner is interested in jumping off the deep end the way I did and wants advice from someone who has freshly acquired experience but will also not use any confusing technical terms (with pictures!) :

Fabric picking : so most advice I read was to go for pre-selected bundles of fabric that already go together, but I'm contrary and like to do my own thing so I used wax fabric (the blue ones on top the pile) I had laying around, which I strongly recommend: it's very easy to cut due to it being waxed, and I added a few fat squares from the shop, plus I also had the orange and blue floral and I based the coulour scheme on it. One thing that's true is it would have been easier to work with fabric of the same thickness, and the floral was givne to me by my ma who got in on trip to Thailand and it was alot thinner than the rest which didn't help.

Cutting: I got a rotary cutter for the occasion and it's great! Do not maybe push too hard on it and give yourself nerve damage the way I did (temporary but still), it's actually ery sharp and easy to use, so long as your template doesn't slip you're fine

Piecing :Yes you can do curved piecing even if you have zero experience, you just gotta make a template and

pin it a lot.

1/4 inch margins is the standard so I rolled with it because I don't like converting, but when you're strictly metric it is kind of annoying but doable because my machine does have a 1/4 inch mark and if you stick a length of tape along it it's pretty easy to follow, even for curved piecing.

Layout: At some point you've got to decide the layout is done, because I've re-arranged the blocks at least 6 times and it's a very good way to go insane. (For rough reference, my plan was to have no repeat fabrics in any of the circle-in-a-square blocks, and I only made one mistake which I clocked too late to change)

Chain piecing!! Meaning you pile your blocks together in a specific order (that I personnaly wrote straight up on each piece with a very sophisticated letter/numbers down/across system) and then just sew them together in a line without having to cut the thread between each pair. Looks a little like a fanion banner and at some point it feels like you'll be forever tangled into it but then it's magic :) It's not that hard actually and will save you a lot of time + there's a lot of online tutorials you can use.

Basting! (which it took me while to understand is the part where you attach the backing, the fluff and the quilt top together) : you need more safety pins. Safety pins will save you from the wrinkles and the unfortunate oopsies of realising you've caught your backing double folded into your quilting stitch, which I did a good three times and was not fun to undo. Also, I forgot to tape the backing to the floor and it probably would have helped with the wrinkling...

Backing : I used an old linen table cloth I got for 10€ at a charity shop, and I've still got about 2/3 of it left, so I recommend that, it's sturdy but soft enough, doesn't thread easily and can be washed at very high temps, if that's a thing you do.

Quilting! Well, my machine came with a quilting foot for free motion quilting (which means you're the one moving the fabric along in whichever direction and you can sort of draw with your stitches) and it seemed fun so I did that, and here's what I learned : curves are hard but doable, also my machine doesn't like to go back (kept skipping sitiches for some reason) so it involves a lot of shifting the quilt around, which isn't easy considering the bulk. And also, drawing the quilting pattern you want so you can follow it while quilting actually does help, I used an iron/heat-erasable pen and it worked just fine. Check your stitch tension, mine was too loose and I realised too late so there's spots where I could pull on the thread and it looped, had to stitch back over that.

Quilitng pattern : I wasn't sure what to do, supposedly your batting (aka: the fluff) comes with instructions on how tight you should quilt to avoid it coming apart through use but I got mine cut at the fabric shop and forgot to ask so I just rolled with a rough 10cm maximum distance in between stitching lines but tried to do less in most places. According to many blogs : the tighter your lines the stiffer your quilt, so I kept it loose for comfort. (Picture is halfway done, I added a smaller square/circle inside each square/circle and if you look at it you'll see it's actually diagonal lines form one end of the fabric to the other.)

Binding is boring, and there's nothing to it. I got a length of pre-cut bias binding, machine-sewed it front to front to the quilt top side of the quilt and the folded it back and secured it by hand to the back with a ladder stitch. Took me roughly and entire rewatch of the Last Of Us. There's a trick to doing the corners that's fairly simple but I've lost the tutorial...

Overall : I got myself a quilting book with techinques and such and it helped, but there's a ton of stuff online, and once you get over the very Christian American mum vibe of most of the blogs, it's all very helpful (and gorgeous!) (no offense meant to Christian American mums, it's just a bit of a culture shock from where I'm standing).

[croisants]

New Coach (3) - End

Part 1, Part2

Tyler didn’t sleep much.

Not because of nightmares this time—but because of possibility.

Someone else believed him. Someone else saw it. That changed everything.

He replayed every conversation with Vance in his head. Every sidelong glance from Ethan. Every word Shane had said.

He was missing something. But not for long.

---

The next morning, Tyler walked into school already scanning.

He wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was watching.

And that’s when he saw it.

A girl—senior, maybe. He didn’t know her name. She was arguing with Coach Vance outside the admin office. Her voice was hushed, sharp. His was calm, as always. Too calm.

Then she stormed off.

Tyler ducked into a corner by the vending machine and watched as Vance stood there for a moment… then looked around and slipped a key into the side panel of the trophy case.

It clicked open.

He pulled something out. A folder. Slim. Labeled.

CONFIDENTIAL.

Vance glanced around again and walked down the hall.

Tyler didn’t breathe.

A minute later, someone appeared beside him.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

Tyler jumped.

Shane.

Leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, like he’d been waiting there the whole time.

“How long were you—?”

“Long enough,” Shane said. “He shouldn’t be touching those files.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I think,” Shane said, turning to walk, “it’s time we find out.”

---

That night, Tyler came back.

He waited until the janitor locked the east wing and the last car rolled out of the parking lot. Then he slipped in through the cracked window by the art room—just like Shane said he used to do at his last school.

He moved like he’d done this before.

Heart pounding. Backpack slung low. Black hoodie. Gloves.

The hall lights were off, just red emergency bulbs glowing in the corners like watching eyes.

He made it to the trophy case.

His breath caught.

The same keyhole.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bent bobby pin. Not perfect, but it was something. He knelt and started working.

Click.

Turn.

Nothing.

Click.

His palms were sweating now. The hallway stretched out like a tunnel behind him.

Then, behind the glass—a flash of light.

A phone screen.

And a voice:

“Took you long enough.”

Tyler jumped back, heart hammering.

Inside the open trophy case area—Shane sat cross-legged on the floor, flashlight pointed at the file in his lap.

“What the hell?” Tyler hissed.

Shane looked up with that same unbothered smile.

“Figured you’d come. Thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“You already got in?”

Shane held up a thin piece of bent metal. “Lock’s trash. Took thirty seconds.”

Tyler shook his head. “You could’ve told me.”

“I wanted to see if you’d actually do it,” Shane said. “Guess I was right.”

He slid the file across the floor.

Tyler opened it.

Inside—printed emails, redacted reports, and a staff transfer document.

Coach Owen Vance.

No photo.

No signature.

And under “previous employment”?

Redacted.

Tyler looked up.

“This is real,” he whispered.

Shane’s smile widened, just enough to say, "Yes. Keep going. Dig deeper."

And so Tyler did.

---

Tyler flipped through the rest of the file, fingers trembling.

Nothing made sense.

Names blacked out. Pages missing. Lines of text whited out completely.

It wasn’t a folder—it was a trailhead. A mystery waiting to be unraveled.

“Why would they hide this?” he murmured.

Shane stood, sliding the folder back into his bag with the care of someone handling a weapon.

“Because Vance isn’t supposed to be here.”

Tyler looked at him.

“You really believe that?”

Shane met his eyes. Steady. Certain.

“I believe people like him don’t just show up without reason. And if you don’t pull the thread now…” He shrugged. “It’ll strangle you later.”

Tyler didn’t sleep that night.

Not out of fear.

But purpose.

For the first time, it felt like the curtain was lifting.

He didn’t know he was standing on a stage Ethan had built just for him.

---

Tyler was buzzing the next morning.

Not with adrenaline—but with focus.

The folder. The redacted documents. Shane’s certainty.

It wasn’t just paranoia anymore. It was a case.

He’d been hunted. Gaslit. Humiliated.

Now he was hunting back.

---

Ethan sat by himself at the lunch table, like always. Head down, earbuds in, tapping quietly at his laptop.

Tyler walked straight toward him.

Shane had said not to move too fast. Wait. Gather more.

But Tyler needed to see something in Ethan’s eyes. Needed to see him flinch.

He dropped into the seat across from him, hard.

Ethan didn’t look up.

“Nice morning,” Tyler said, voice flat.

Ethan paused his music. “Sure.”

“You know,” Tyler went on, “it’s weird. How someone like Coach Vance shows up out of nowhere. No background. No files. Just power.”

Ethan blinked. “Okay.”

Tyler leaned in. “Know what’s weirder? Seeing your name show up in the same places. Same times.”

Ethan smiled faintly. “That sounds like a conspiracy.”

“I broke into his file.”

That made Ethan finally look up.

His eyes weren’t scared.

They were curious.

Interested.

Amused.

“You really did that?”

“You tell me,” Tyler said. “Since you are him.”

There was a pause.

Then Ethan leaned forward, voice soft.

“You sure you want to do this here?”

And that was the trap.

Because behind Tyler, a voice snapped:

“Mr. Stanton?”

Tyler turned.

Ms. Kellerman.

Tray in her hands. Eyes narrowed.

Ethan sat back and pressed his fingers to his temple.

“Sorry, Ms. Kellerman. I think Tyler’s going through a lot right now. I was just trying to help.”

Tyler stood fast. “He’s lying!”

“Tyler,” she said, stepping forward slowly. “What are you doing?”

“He’s not who you think he is! He’s Coach Vance!”

Ethan flinched perfectly. “Please stop.”

“You think I’m crazy?” Tyler snapped. “Look at him! Look at his face!”

Kellerman grabbed his arm. “That’s enough.”

He looked down.

Everyone was staring.

Phones out.

Laughing.

Recording.

And Ethan—sweet, fragile, harmless Ethan—rubbed his eyes like he might cry.

---

Later, Tyler sat outside the nurse’s office, head in his hands.

He didn’t know how Ethan did it.

The timing. The tears. The perfect expression of victimhood.

But it worked.

Again.

He was losing.

And Ethan hadn’t even touched him.

Then, the nurse gave Tyler a juice box and a counseling referral.

He didn’t take either.

He just sat in the hallway, knees up, staring at the scuffed tile like it might tell him what to do next.

He’d had him.

Right there.

Ethan should’ve cracked.

Instead, he made Tyler look insane.

Again.

---

It was dark by the time Tyler got outside.

The campus was empty. The wind was sharp.

But Shane was waiting—sitting on the low concrete wall outside the gym, hoodie pulled over his head, like he’d never moved.

He didn’t say anything when Tyler approached.

Didn’t ask what happened.

He just said, “You ready to stop playing defense?”

Tyler sank down next to him, silent for a long beat.

Then, “He flipped it on me. Like I was a kid chasing shadows.”

“You’re not,” Shane said. “You’re chasing something real. But you’re doing it out in the open. That’s how you lose.”

Tyler looked over. “Then what do I do?”

Shane pulled something from his bag.

A folded blueprint.

Of the school.

He unfolded it slowly on his knees.

“There’s an old access stair under the south wing. Leads straight into the coaching office. No cameras. No keys needed. Most people don’t even know it’s still unlocked.”

Tyler stared.

“You’ve been planning this?”

Shane smiled. “No. I just know how to find pressure points.”

He tapped the corner of the map.

“We go in. We pull everything. His computer. His drawers. His backup drives. We don’t guess anymore. We know.”

Tyler’s hands curled into fists.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s take him down.”

Shane grinned like a wolf.

“Then we go in Friday night.”

---

That night, Tyler lay awake, staring at his ceiling.

He had the map. The plan. The one person he could trust.

For the first time in weeks, it felt like things were falling into place.

He didn’t know they were falling around him.

One step from the edge.

Exactly where Ethan wanted him.

---

Friday night.

No lights in the school. No cameras rolling in the south wing. Just silence and shadows.

Tyler and Shane slipped through the broken side gate at 10:17 p.m.

No one saw them.

Shane carried the map. Tyler carried a crowbar, just in case.

They didn’t speak much. The plan was tight. Clean. Shane made sure of that.

They reached the south stairwell.

Just like he said—no alarm. The rusted door opened with a groan and a puff of old dust.

They descended into the dark.

---

The office was colder than it should’ve been.

No photos. No plaques. Just a desk, a laptop, and a filing cabinet with a padlock Tyler popped with a single twist.

They moved fast.

Shane dug into the drawers while Tyler scrolled through the laptop.

“What are we even looking for?” Tyler whispered.

“Anything he didn’t want found,” Shane muttered. “Emails. Staff forms. Video files.”

Tyler scrolled deeper—and stopped.

One folder.

Untitled.

He clicked.

Inside were only two files.

One was a photo.

A still shot of Ethan, standing in the school hallway—timestamped.

The second...

A picture of Shane.

Same hallway.

Same timestamp.

Tyler froze.

His throat went dry.

He glanced at Shane—who hadn’t noticed yet, still flipping through folders.

Tyler clicked the metadata.

The files were fake.

Generated.

Planted.

He looked back at Shane.

Shane looked up.

And for a split second—Tyler swore the corner of his mouth twitched.

A smile.

But it was gone before it landed.

“Find something?” Shane asked.

Tyler shook his head slowly.

“No.”

---

When they left, Tyler felt different.

Not angry. Not afraid.

But... off-balance.

Like the ground was shifting beneath him.

Like maybe he didn’t know who was standing next to him anymore.

---

Tyler couldn’t stop hearing it.

That line.

“Not the type to make moves on his own.”

It echoed in his head, over and over, like a whispered refrain he couldn’t shake.

He remembered when Coach Vance had said it—quiet, deliberate, after a late-night drill when the gym was empty and the lights buzzed faintly overhead.

“That kid Ethan? Always hiding at the back of class. Stays quiet. Doesn’t make waves. Not the type to make moves on his own.”

Vance had said it like it was fact.

But now—days later—Shane had said the exact same thing.

Tyler remembered it clearly. He had been ranting about Ethan while he and Shane at the cafe, calling him weak, passive, fake.

And Shane, calm as ever, had replied:

“Not the type to make moves on his own.”

Same words.

Same rhythm.

Same voice?

No. That couldn’t be. Shane’s voice was deeper. Warmer. More relaxed.

But it felt the same.

Too much.

Too close.

---

They were walking the outer loop of the track field after school. Shane was talking about a possible lead—something about hidden footage on a PE server. Tyler wasn’t listening anymore.

He was watching.

Not the words. The rhythm.

The way Shane walked—confident, quiet, with a little swagger at the corners.

The way he paused before delivering certain lines.

It was all so... calculated.

Too polished.

Like someone playing a role.

Tyler slowed down.

“You remember that thing you said about Ethan?” he asked.

Shane looked over, casual. “Which one?”

“That he’s not the type to make moves on his own.”

Shane chuckled. “Still true, isn’t it?”

Tyler forced a nod.

But something turned in his gut.

He remembered Vance’s voice saying those same words. Remembered the gleam in his eyes. The way he’d dropped that line like a match on gasoline.

And now Shane said it too.

Word for word.

---

That night, Tyler pulled out the notes he’d been keeping. Names. Times. Quotes. Moments that didn’t add up.

He highlighted the phrase—both times.

He circled them.

Then he wrote, in all caps:

**WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU, REALLY?**

---

The next morning, Shane met him like always. Smiling. Confident.

But Tyler couldn’t stop watching him like a stranger.

And when Shane looked away for just a second—

Tyler whispered under his breath:

“I think I know your face.”

Shane didn’t hear it.

But he would.

Soon.

---

Tyler didn’t sleep.

He didn’t spiral either.

Is Shane really new Ethan? Coach Vance, Now Shane?

He planned.

If Shane really was who Tyler now feared he was… he’d eventually slip. He’d say something he shouldn’t know. React too fast. Fill in a blank that only Ethan could recognize.

All Tyler had to do was feed him the right detail.

So he picked one.

---

In gym class, freshman year, Ethan once faked an injury during a running test. Everyone had laughed. Tyler had laughed hardest. Ethan limped off the court, face red. Two hours later, someone found his name scrawled in Sharpie on the back of the bleachers.

It was a dumb story.

But only Ethan remembered it.

---

That afternoon, Tyler waited until they were alone again—him and Shane, sitting near the outdoor stairs, like usual. Shane was picking apart a protein bar with surgical focus, eyes on the track field.

Tyler played it casual.

“You ever fake an injury to get out of a test?”

Shane looked up, smirked. “What kind of test?”

“Running,” Tyler said. “Mile run. Freshman year.”

Shane gave a breath of a laugh. “God, yeah. Back at my old school, I limped so bad the nurse thought I tore my calf.”

Tyler nodded slowly.

“So no one wrote your name on the bleachers after?”

Shane blinked.

Just for a second.

Then smiled.

“Wish they had.”

Tyler’s heart skipped.

That pause.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

---

Later that night, Tyler replayed the conversation in his head.

The phrasing.

The timing.

The pause.

Shane had hesitated like someone caught between memories—like he’d almost said “I thought you did” instead.

Tyler scribbled a new line across his notebook:

SHANE ISN’T NEW.

And underneath it:

HE’S PLAYING ME.

---

The Camera (Can't) Lies

Tyler spent his Saturday morning alone at school.

He’d told the janitor he left a jacket in his locker. No one questioned him.

He waited until the hallway was clear.

Then he set the camera.

An old camcorder—grainy, bulky, but reliable. Tucked into the air vent above the east academic wing hallway. Perfect angle. It would capture the entry doors with a timestamp.

If Ethan walked in at 7:52, and Shane showed up behind the gym at 7:58—on the opposite side of campus—he’d have them.

Or he’d have him.

---

Monday came like a storm.

Tyler barely blinked through first period.

At 7:51 a.m., he positioned himself near the gym stairs.

At 7:58, Shane arrived.

Hood up, all confidence.

“Ready to break the system again?” he asked, offering a casual grin.

Tyler forced a nod.

Inside, his pulse was thunder.

---

Lunchtime.

Tyler slipped into the janitor’s closet, locked the door, and pulled out the camera.

Fast-forwarded.

7:50… 7:51…

7:52.

There—Ethan.

Clear as day, walking through the east entry doors. Head down. Hoodie up. Backpack over one shoulder. Small frame. Maybe 5'9" at best.

Tyler stared.

Fast-forwarded.

7:58.

There—Shane, appearing behind the gym.

Different entrance. Opposite side of the school. And Tyler had been there the entire time.

Shane was tall. Broad. At least 6'2". There was no mistaking it.

It was impossible.

Unless...

They were the same person.

Tyler blinked hard, scrubbing backward on the footage.

7:52—Ethan. Small. Slouched. Thin.

7:58—Shane. Confident. Strong. Towering.

That wasn’t a disguise. That wasn’t a trick of posture.

That was a transformation.

Ethan and Shane weren’t just the same person.

Ethan had changed his body.

His height. His build. His presence.

Tyler’s blood went cold.

There was only one explanation.

He wasn’t crazy.

He wasn’t paranoid.

Ethan was a shapeshifter.

Tyler laughed.

A small, cracked sound that almost frightened him.

He had him.

He finally had him.

---

Until the knock came.

Slow.

Measured.

Tyler turned.

Coach Vance stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes like steel.

“You digging for ghosts, Stanton?” he asked quietly.

Tyler swallowed. “I saw him. I saw—”

Vance stepped into the light.

Smiling.

“You’re getting close.”

Tyler froze.

“What?”

Vance leaned down. His voice was soft—softer than it had ever been.

“I let you see it.”

Tyler’s blood ran cold.

“You—”

“I wanted you to know. Just not yet.”

Then he turned, calm as ever, and walked away.

Leaving Tyler with shaking hands, a blinking screen, and one undeniable truth:

He was never the hunter.

He was the game.

---

He can't wait longer.

Tyler stood outside the principal’s office with a USB drive in his palm.

The camcorder footage was on it.

Two files. Two appearances. One impossibility.

He clutched it like it was a sword. A lifeline. The truth.

He had asked for a private meeting. Said it was important. Urgent. About Coach Vance.

Principal Avery had agreed.

Ms. Kellerman would be there too.

Good.

He needed witnesses.

---

Inside the office, they gave him space at the front desk.

“Go ahead, Tyler,” the principal said gently.

Tyler nodded, breath shaking.

He plugged in the drive. Clicked play.

First: Ethan, walking through the east hall entry at 7:52 a.m.

Then: Shane, meeting Tyler at the gym at 7:58.

“See that?” Tyler said, pointing to the timestamps. “He can’t be in two places at once. Ethan and Shane—they’re the same person.”

The adults leaned in. Silent.

“Look at the body types,” Tyler said. “The walk. The way they look at people. It’s all the same.”

Kellerman raised an eyebrow. “But they’re clearly different. One’s tall. The other isn’t.”

“That’s the point,” Tyler said, voice rising. “He changes. He’s a shapeshifter!”

Silence.

Not awe.

Just... discomfort.

Principal Avery folded his hands. “Tyler. This is serious. Are you suggesting your classmate—Ethan—and Coach Vance are... supernatural?”

“I’m showing you proof!”

He turned back to the screen.

But something was wrong.

The Shane footage—it looked… different.

Smoother. Cropped tighter.

The timestamp was gone.

His stomach dropped.

“No—wait—this isn’t the right version—” he stammered, clicking wildly.

“I think that’s enough,” the principal said.

Kellerman frowned. “Tyler, are you manipulating school footage?”

“I didn’t—no—someone changed it!” Tyler spun. “It was him!”

And then—

The door opened.

Coach Vance stepped in.

Calm. Collected. The model of professionalism.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

Tyler pointed. “You’re him! You’re Ethan! You’ve been playing us all!”

But no one moved.

No one flinched.

Vance looked to the principal. “Maybe it’s time we discussed next steps for Tyler.”

The adults nodded.

Tyler backed up.

No.

No, no, no.

The footage was gone.

His proof was gone.

And Vance—Ethan—stood there, perfectly untouchable.

---

Minutes later, Tyler stumbled into the main hallway.

His head was spinning.

He wiped his face, still shaking.

Then stopped.

Shane was sitting on the bench just outside the front office.

Waiting.

Hood up. Calm. As if he’d been there all morning.

Tyler froze.

He looked back at the office.

Then quietly stepped to the door.

Peeked in.

Principal Avery. Ms. Kellerman. An empty chair.

Vance was gone.

No exit. No hallway movement. No footsteps.

Just gone.

Tyler turned back.

Shane looked up.

“Didn’t go well?” he asked, casual as ever.

And this time, the smile was different.

Not friendly.

Not sympathetic.

Knowing.

The kind of smile that came from someone who’d already seen the outcome.

Who’d designed it.

Tyler blinked.

His breath caught.

Vance was just in that room.

Shane is here now.

They never passed each other.

Unless…

There was nothing to pass.

Because they were never two people at all.

The posture. The eyes. The stillness in Shane’s shoulders.

It’s Vance.

It’s always been Vance.

It’s always been Ethan.

Tyler turned, shaken.

He didn’t say a word.

Shane just sat there.

Still smiling.

---

Tyler didn’t speak to Shane all week.

He smiled when he had to.

Nodded when it was expected.

All the while, the original SD card burned in his jacket pocket like a secret weapon.

His ace.

His checkmate.

---

Friday. Game night.

The gym buzzed. Packed house. Everyone was there.

Perfect.

He had the footage loaded. Time-stamped. Clean. Unedited. Proof.

The projector was set. AV tech gave him control.

This was it.

---

Tyler took center court just before the game started. Lights dimmed. Spotlight caught him mid-step.

He make sure Coach Vance.. or Ethan, or who the fuck is he, still sit on the bench.

“Before we play,” he said into the mic, “there’s something I need to show you.”

Confused murmurs. Curious faces.

He hit play.

7:52 — Ethan entering the east hallway.

7:58 — Shane behind the gym.

Two places. Six minutes. One impossibility.

Gasps. Confusion.

“This,” Tyler said, “is proof. Shane, Ethan, and Coach Vance—are the same person.”

He turned toward the bench.

But Coach Vance was gone. His clipboard left on the chair. Whistle still hanging from the hook.

Tyler blinked.

Then from the bleachers—

Shane stood.

Arms folded. Calm. Watching.

Tyler pointed. “That’s him! He was just on the court!”

People looked between the court and the bleachers.

Vance wasn’t there. Now Shane was.

Then the lights flickered. Just a moment. Tyler lost sight.

And when they returned— Shane was gone.

Tyler spun.

Ethan sat near the top row with his favorite gray sweater. Small. Nervous. Watching the screen like everyone else.

Tyler’s breath caught.

He looked between them. Looked for cameras. For witnesses.

Everyone was murmuring now.

“He was just there—” “Wasn’t that Coach Vance?” “Wait, is he saying the coach is that kid?”

Tyler pointed again.

“He’s all of them! You’re not seeing it!”

But they were. Exactly what Ethan wanted them to see.

One face. Then another. Then another.

Never together. Never overlapping.

Enough distance to make Tyler look insane.

The screen changed. Footage of Tyler sneaking into AV. Digging through lockers. Talking to himself in the hallway.

“Wait—no—this isn’t—”

“Tyler,” Ms. Kellerman called. “I think that’s enough.”

Security moved.

The crowd watched. Phones recorded.

Tyler’s voice cracked.

“You’re all the same person…”

But to them?

He looked broken. Unstable.

Because Ethan had pulled off the perfect finale.

Three masks. One actor. Zero witnesses.

They led Tyler out slowly. Eyes followed. Mouths whispered.

And Ethan—whichever face he wore now—watched it all.

Still here. Still safe. Still in control.

---

Epilogue: The Stage is Set

Life at school went on.

The final game day passed. Tyler Stanton didn’t show.

Some said he transferred. Others said he was institutionalized. A few whispered he cracked under pressure.

But no one really knew.

And eventually, no one really cared.

Coach Vance still ran practices like a general.

Shane still hung by the gym doors, charming anyone who walked by.

And Ethan?

Still sat in the second row of chemistry with his favorite gray sweater, quiet as ever.

No one questioned it.

Why would they?

They were all different.

They had to be.

---

What really happened?

At late night, after that final game, Tyler sat alone in the nurse’s office. Waiting to be picked up. A stomach ache, they said. Maybe a panic attack.

He stared at the floor. Not crying. Not moving.

Then the door opened.

Coach Vance stepped in.

No clipboard. No whistle. Just him.

He closed the door behind him. Locked it.

Tyler didn’t look up.

“Go away.”

Vance didn’t move.

“You were right,” he said quietly.

Tyler lifted his head.

Vance stood and cross his arms. Calm. Steady. Watching him.

“I wanted you to know,” he added. “That you weren’t crazy.”

Tyler swallowed hard. “Then why—why make me look like I was?”

Vance tilted his head.

“Because no one believes a story when it’s told too late.”

And then—

He changed.

Right in front of Tyler.

His posture shifted. His jaw reshaped. His eyes sharpened. His hair darkened. Shoulders narrowed.

Shane stood where Vance had been.

Then—blink—and he was Ethan.

Then back to Vance.

Each switch seamless. Effortless.

Tyler trembled.

“Why… why are you showing me this now?”

Coach Vance smiled.

“Because it’s more fun when someone knows the game… and still loses.”

He turned and walked to the door. Unlocked it.

Before stepping out, he glanced back one last time.

“Goodnight, Tyler.”

And then he was gone.

---

Coach Owen Vance, Shane, and Ethan still attend their occupation at school.

Because he didn’t need to disappear.

Not when the truth was unbelievable.

He was still here.

All of him.

And no one would ever know.

Or maybe, he is around us...

---

End.

[nevadancitizen]

-> THE BURDEN OF TOMORROW

synopsis: kamski reveals the one thing you know to be true as a lie: your humanity. connor can’t rightly sit idly by as you struggle to re-find yourself.

word count: 4.2k

ships: connor x reader, hank anderson & reader

notes: i’m skipping from fandom to fandom like i’m fucking window shopping huh. anyway connor the pinerrrr. connor the ultimate denier of feelingssssss

related reading: HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

You had been against the idea from the beginning. In your head, you traced the different ways Kamski would turn you, Hank, and Connor down – “I’m too busy to answer some stupid questions,” or “Go away, I’m trying to enjoy being a retired billionaire,” or “I’m Elijah fucking Kamski, and who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

But his android, Chloe, had welcomed all of you. And you couldn’t ignore how Kamski’s face brightened ever-so-slightly when he saw Connor. But it confused you even more when his eyes flitted to you and his expression brightened even more.

He started talking after he got out of his red-granite-lined pool, which didn’t really interest you. Your eyes turn to one of the Chloes that’s standing off to the side, her eyelids fluttering a little as she presumably scans you. When she’s done, her lips tilt upward in a smile and her head cocks to the side a little. It’s like… she knows you, or something. Like she was smiling because she saw an old friend.

Kamski’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Chloe?”

Chloe immediately walks over to Kamski, her bare feet making soft sounds against the tile, then muffled by the carpet. She sinks to her knees when he puts a hand on her shoulder and pushes slightly. 

“What interests me…” Kamski moves so he’s standing next to where Chloe’s kneeling. “… is whether machines are capable of empathy.”

He moves so his back is turned on all three of you, and opens a drawer of a side table near the window. “I call it the “Kamski Test.” It’s very simple, you’ll see.”

Kamski turns with his hands raised. One of them is holding a pistol by the barrel, in a way that it would be impossible to fire. Once he’s established that he’s not a threat, he moves forward and places the grip in Connor’s hand. Connor curls his fingers around it on instinct, his index on the trigger.

“What are you doing?” You interject.

Kamski looks over at you and smiles. It’s like you’re proving something to him. What you’re proving, you don’t know. 

He moves Connor’s arm so that the sights of the gun are trained on Chloe’s head. “It’s up to you to answer that fascinating question, Connor. Destroy this machine, and I’ll tell you all I know. Or…”

Kamski makes a half-circle and stands beside Connor. “Spare it, if you feel it’s alive. But you’ll leave without having learnt anything from me.”

Hank scoffs and rolls his eyes, gently hitting your arm with an air of can you believe this fucking prick? “Okay, I think we’re done here. C’mon, let’s go, both of you. Sorry to get you outta your pool.”

You put your hand on Hank’s arm to still him and stare at Connor. His LED flickers between yellow and red, circling in on itself quickly as he stares down at Chloe. His eyelids flutter slightly as he tries to process everything around him, calculating and sorting every possibility into neat percentages.

“Connor?” You say softly, trying to break him from his trance. “Connor, come on. This is a waste of time – you don’t need to do this. It could mess with your…” you gesture at your forehead vaguely. “… microprocessors or whatever.”

Kamski exhales slightly and smiles. He takes the pistol by the barrel, gently taking it from Connor’s hand. Connor looks at Kamski, then back down at Chloe.

“Amazing,” Kamski breathes out.

“Yeah, amazing, I care about Connor.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s go.”

Connor catches your eye and nods. “I would’ve been okay. Shooting the android wouldn’t have impacted my microprocessors or any of my other biocomponents.”

“The kid’s just worried,” Hank cuts in. “Now, c’mon. We’re leaving.”

“Wait – one last thing.” Kamski brushes past, walking to the far wall. He presses his hand to a biometric scanner on the wall, causing it to let out a sound akin to a hiss as it opens. It creases vertically, then folds back. 

You let out a small sound of disbelief as you take in what Kamski revealed. Lining the walls of the hidden compartment is… information, yes, but not information about deviants. It’s information about you. 

Photos of you as a child, teenager, adult, and projections of what you’d look like as you aged. Reports on how you’ve been performing as a detective. Maps of interrelationships, circles labeled with names and a web of color-coded lines connecting them.

And, on the back wall, are blueprints. You’ve seen these types of schematics before – they’re for androids. 

Kamski turns and smiles when he sees your shocked face. “So it worked. You firmly believed you were human. Am I wrong, Detective?”

You feel a hand on the top of your back, and only barely register Hank shuffling you towards the exit as you stumble. “This is fucked. I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull, Kamski, but we’re out.”

“N-no, Hank, wait –” You dig your heels in, never once looking away from the hidden compartment. “Wait, Kamski, what is this?”

“Just an experiment.” Kamski follows your eyes and looks inside. “A personal pet project.”

“They’re not your goddamn passion project!” Hank snaps, ushering you along with a bit more force. “Now leave the kid alone.”

“Hank, please, I want to see –” You crane your neck, still trying to look. 

“This is damaging to your psyche,” Connor says, taking your arm and helping Hank herd you. “I – we need you operating at full capacity, for the sake of the case.”

“There it is, again!” Kamski laughs. “That beautiful thing, empathy.”

He walks into the room leisurely, like it’s a parlor instead of… whatever it is. “I don’t blame you for being curious. You’re a violent and irrepressible miracle, Detective.”

You struggle against Connor and Hank’s holds as you try to see more of the secret room. “Wh-what do you mean? Hank, let me see! I need to know what’s going on!”

You grab Hank’s arm with your free hand, tugging on his coat. “Hank, I promise I’ll be okay – just five minutes. All I need is five minutes! Please, let me do this. I just need to figure out what this is, then we can go. Just five minutes.”

Hank’s mouth curls into a scowl when he hears the emotion and pleading in your voice, his eyebrows furrowing as he thinks. His eyes fall to the floor, then flick to Connor.

“I highly advise against that,” Connor says evenly, but his worry is betrayed by the way his jaw clenches. His fingers tighten around your upper arm. “Not only will this definitely cause irreversible psychological damage, it could possibly lead to a mental break.”

“Five minutes, Connor.” You look into his eyes. “How much damage can five minutes do?”

“A lot!” Connor says. But after a moment of eye contact, his eyes soften and he relents. He lets go of your arm and takes a step back, his shoes clicking against the tile.

Hank does the same, removing his hand from your back. He sighs and crosses his arms. “Five minutes, kid. That’s all you get.”

You immediately turn on your heel and rush into the room because, knowing Connor, he’d probably set an internal timer already. You hear both Hank and Connor follow you, standing at the edge of the doorway.

You scan the room, then pick out what to look at and what to question Kamski about. 

“This.” You point at a small tablet, showing a muted video of you dancing drunkenly at a crowded party. You’re wearing a hideous necktie like a headband and you get your face right in the camera as soon as you spot it. You can make out the words you’re saying – or, rather, yelling – “What’re you waiting for, man? Let’s party with Miss Page-Three all the way to Disco Ze-e-e-ero-o-o-o!”

You turn to Kamski. “What is this? Why do you have it?”

“Every person moves in a unique way,” Kamski says, shrugging slightly. “Androids already have a specific set of movements. I analyzed the way you moved – the way a human moved.”

“Moved?” You echo back. “What do you mean, moved? Don’t you mean move? Like, the present continuous verb?”

“I didn’t misspeak.” Kamski turns to a paper organizer on a desk and starts to flip through it. 

You exchange a glance with Hank, then Connor. Hank is more obvious with his unease, but you can tell Connor is fretting, too. He just keeps it in his mind, still silently calculating.

Kamski pulls out a manila folder and hands it to you. You turn it over and read what’s on the front. Typed out in neat Courier New is your name, your birth date, and a random date from a few years back – Feb. 21, 2034.

You undo the clasp and dump out the documents on a nearby desk. What’s inside only causes further confusion – there’s a photocopy of a will, a death certificate, an incident report, and photos of a car crash. The death certificate is… it’s yours, but it can’t be. Can it?

You pick up one of the pictures and hold it close to your face. The car is a mangled mess of metal, lit by red and blue police lights. Peeking out from underneath the rubble, limp on the concrete, is a hand. Your hand. And it’s stained with fresh, wet blood.

“Connor.” Your voice comes out weak and strained. You can’t lift your eyes from the photo. “Connor, get over here.”

Connor’s footsteps sound, quick and almost rushed. “Yes, Detective?”

“Scan this.” Your hand shakes as you hold the photo out to Connor. “I-is this…?”

Is this real? You want to ask. Please tell me it’s not, Connor. Connor, please-please-please tell me this is some stupid joke. I’m not afraid of dying, but what if I already have?

Connor leans down a little, his eyelids and LED flickering as he scans it. His face falls as soon as his LED resumes circling normally. “It’s… yes. I found a document containing that picture, but I… I’m not permitted to access it.”

“Okay, but that’s just s-some random wreck, right?” You laugh nervously, trying to ignore the lump growing in your throat. Can androids even cry? “It – it’s not me.”

Connor reaches down and sorts through the documents. When he comes across the death certificate, he freezes. His eyelids flutter as he scans it. He looks over at you, slowly. 

“No,” you whisper. “Connor, it… it can’t be real.”

“It is,” Connor says softly. “Detective, I… I’m so sorry.”

And, just like that, you’re disconnected. You’re outside of your body, stuck in the passenger seat and controlling a video game. There’s a lag to every movement you make. You recall some term you heard in a college psychology course you were required to take – disassociation. You vaguely register that this is what you’re feeling. 

With more effort than it should take, you turn to look at Hank. His expression, shocked and appalled, causes the dam to burst. Your shoulders shake as you cry, hot with misplaced shame. 

Connor wraps an arm around your shoulder, gently pushing you out of the room and towards the exit. Hank pats his shoulder, telling him to “Get them to the car – I’ve got a few choice words I need to exchange with our friend here.”

The car ride was tense, and that atmosphere transferred into Hank’s home. He had asked on the way back if you were okay being by yourself, and you were honest and told him that no, you’re not. He had sat you down and assured you that he wasn’t mad, he didn’t feel betrayed – he just needed time to think and adjust to this new change. 

He had turned in an hour ago, just a little past three in the morning. You know you couldn’t sleep if you tried. That left you and Connor in Hank’s living room. 

You’re laying on the floor with Sumo, his head on your chest and drool staining your shirt. One of your arms is propped behind your head, your other hand absentmindedly combing through Sumo’s fur. 

The silence is only broken by the ceiling fan clicking with every rotation and your breathing – artificial breathing, you suppose.

“Did you go into standby?” You ask softly. 

“No,” Connor answers from his seat on the couch. “Would you like to talk?”

“Maybe.” You trace the pattern of Sumo’s fur, then look over at Connor. “It’s just… I don’t feel like an android. And I have lots of memories. I remember going to Chicken Feed with Hank for the first time. He got me the best goddamn burger in Detroit. I remember finding a Lucky Star bottlecap when I was a kid – the, uh… the ones from that one sarsaparilla? With the blue star on the bottom. Androids don’t have memories like that. Memories from their childhood. Memories that make them feel things.”

Connor stands from the couch, then sits by your side. He puts his hand on Sumo’s head, gently tracing the white streak that cuts through brown fur. The fan continues to click as Connor thinks for a few moments, LED swirling as he does.

“I feel things, sometimes,” he says softly. “But not like how a deviant feels. I have a built-in reward system meant to keep me motivated. But sometimes I’m rewarded even when I do something unrelated to the case.”

“Like what?” You smile up at him. “Petting Sumo?”

Connor smiles softly, glancing away, then back to you. “Yes.”

You laugh softly, your eyes staying on Connor’s face, tracing this new expression. He doesn’t smile a lot, but you’re grateful for every second that he does. 

His brow creases a little, his smile disappearing. “Are you feeling alright? I want to know if you’re… I know this revelation has affected you negatively, but I just want to know of your general mental state.”

You sigh quietly, looking up and following one blade of the fan as it rotates. “I mean, I thought I had it all figured out, y’know? There’s a giant ball, and there’s evil apes. And the evil apes are just… dukin’ it out on the ball. And I’m one of them. It’s basically all just evil apes dukin’ it out on this giant ball.”

Connor tilts his head to the side. “And in this scenario… what are androids?”

“Androids don’t exist in this scenario,” you say. “Androids are too perfect. Like fine porcelain china. They’re for the future. I figured this out when I was young, before androids were everywhere. When there was just a giant ball and evil apes.”

“Hm.” Connor shifts slightly, so that his thigh is just barely pressed against your side. “And what do you feel now?”

“I… I don’t know.” You sigh. “I feel… kinda guilty, I think? Because, yeah, it’s bad. This doesn’t have any upside to it. But it’s not bad for anyone else aside from me, and Hank, to a lesser degree. It’s not death, or war, or – god forbid, pedophilia. It’s just me.”

You go quiet as you watch the fan rotate. Your fingers find the tags on Sumo’s collar, the tag with his name and Hank’s address and number clinking against his rabies vaccination tag.

“Humans are complicated,” Connor eventually says. 

You snort. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I…” he sighs. “I know you didn’t mean to deceive me. But I can’t believe I didn’t know – or at least have an inkling.”

“Shit, I deceived myself.” You laugh humorlessly. “You’re okay, Connor. You don’t need to change to accommodate me.”

“Adaptability to unpredictable human behavior is one of my core features,” he says.

“Am I really unpredictable?” You ask. Your eyebrows furrow as you fidget with Sumo’s tags. “Or, actually – am I really even human?”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow as he looks down at you, his eyelids fluttering as he scans you. He blinks a few times and his LED returns to a calm blue. 

“You’ve fooled my sensors,” Connor says. “And, if I may…”

His hand hovers over yours, which is still fidgeting with Sumo’s tags. You nod as you feel your heart skip a beat. He grabs your hand and lifts it to his solar plexus, right in the middle of his chest. 

“Do you feel that?” Connor asks. “It’s my thirium pump. Biocomponent #8456w.”

Sure enough, you feel a soft thrumming beneath your fingers. It’s not quite like a heartbeat, but a steady hum that fluctuates. Strong, then a steady decline to weak, then back to its strongest. 

You nod again, not trusting your voice at the moment. 

Connor moves your hand so that it’s resting on your own chest, right over your heart. You don’t really make an effort to check your heartbeat but, just like the last time you remember checking, there’s a steady beat. 

“You have a heart,” he says. 

“An artificial one,” you chime.

“Yes,” Connor relents. “But it proves that you’re not like me. Not a full android.”

“For all I know, Kamski cobbled me together in his creepy basement,” you try to joke. “Do you think he has one? Or is he too rich?”

“Detroit is located alongside a river,” Connor says. “The soil contains too much water for basement construction to be feasible.”

You roll your head a little, looking up at him. “You’re too literal. Don’t you have a humor microchip or something?”

Connor smiles slightly. “Unfortunately, no.” 

“Yes, you do!” You laugh and turn your hand over, grabbing his and shaking it gently. “You’re smiling. And you made a joke. A kind-of joke.”

Connor’s smile falters when he looks down at your connected hands. It’s not like you’ve laced fingers with him or anything, but it was still kind of intimate.

You clear your throat and let his hand go, instead carding your fingers through Sumo’s fur again. You can feel a blush creeping across your face. Once more, the room is only filled with the clicking of the fan with every rotation and your breathing. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you eventually sigh out. “I wish I could just wake up and start the day over. But then I open my eyes and the time has still passed and I’m still here. I still have to go through… whatever this is.”

“You don’t have to go through it alone,” Connor says. “Hank would never abandon you, and…” His LED flickers yellow. “Neither would I.”

“You’re weird,” you say softly. “You’re weird for that.”

Connor nods, slowly. “Maybe. But you’re vital to this case, whether you believe it or not.”

“I do,” you say. “Kinda. I just need time. I can see the end, which is whole acceptance, or just not caring. I mean, all the pieces aren’t here, I still need to find them, but still. I get all the pieces, somehow, something else, walla-walla-bing-bang – my android-ness doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Walla-walla-bing-bang?” Connor echoes, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“I don’t know what it means.” Your eyes flicker to his and you smile at his confusion. “I think I heard it somewhere once. It just felt like the most appropriate thing to say.”

Connor’s face softens and he mirrors your smile. “That does seem like an appropriate thing to say, yes.”

You keep looking up at him for a moment, just looking into his brown doe eyes. You swallow thickly as your thoughts race. There’s a sudden lump in your throat that you try your best to ignore and clear away.

“Connor, I…” You reach for his hand. He meets you halfway, gently holding your hand and resting his thumb on your knuckles. 

“Am I a deviant?”

Are you going to turn me in? You want to ask. Please don’t. Please, Connor. I need you to trust me, just like you’ve trusted me before. I’ll be vigilant. I’ll figure this out. I promise. Please.

“No.” There’s no hesitation or doubt in his voice. “As far as I’ve figured out, you’re designed to act like a human. You’re meant to fool others into thinking you’re really human – because that’s what you were, before. Deviants are androids with mutations in their code. Your code is meant to mimic human emotions and rationale. So you’re just following your instructions.”

“Instructions.” You look down at your joined hands. You shake them a little as your lips draw into a thin line. “That’s what we both come down to, right? Instructions.”

“You…” Connor thinks for a moment. “Yes. But the instructions in you are nuanced, and sometimes contradictory. I’m not calling your code faulty – in fact, it rather reflects human behavior to a tee.”

“So I’m… at least a little human.” You close your eyes, resting your head on your arm that’s propped behind your head. “Human enough.”

“Human enough?” Connor echoes.

“Yeah. My lungs burn when I hold my breath too long. It hurts when I stub my toe and I feel electric when I hit my funny bone. I cry and my tears taste salty instead of tasting like… I don’t know, cleaning fluid.” You open your eyes and look up at Connor, as if asking him to confirm.

“Androids do have optic cleaning fluids, yes,” he says.

You smile and laugh lightly, your gaze returning to the fan blade. “Optic fuckin’ cleaning fluids…”

You sigh softly. “God, Hank was right. This is fucked. An android investigating androids and some… cheap copy of whoever I used to be. And, of course, a Lieutenant who’s slowly killing himself day-by-day.”

“You’re not a cheap copy,” he says. “Typical CyberLife androids cost nine thousand dollars, but custom models could cost more. Personally, my development and production costs total to just over four million, and every new RK800 model costs eight thousand.”

Connor soothes his thumb over your knuckles. “You must’ve cost Kamski a fortune.”

His words immediately go to your heart like you’ve been pierced by a scorpion’s tail. But instead of venom, it’s an injection of sweet feelings and erratic butterflies. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that his whispered words and damn-near reverent tone was intentional. 

“That’s… that sounds kinda romantic,” you say, then remember yourself. “I – I mean, romantic as in, like, the Romantic era? Like, it’s a romantic idea. That Kamski loves his work so much that he couldn’t bear to stop and continued to push the envelope… even if he pushed it a bit too far, with an android replacing a real-life, actually-dead human and whatnot.”

Connor’s LED blinks as he thinks. He stays silent for a while, just looking down at his hand that’s holding yours and thinking.

“You’re starting to act like me, y’know?” You squeeze his hand. “A synthetic human instead of a true android.”

His LED stops flickering and he meets your eyes. “I am not a deviant. I have a rigorous self-testing system to make sure any signs of deviancy don’t go undetected.”

“Okay, okay,” you relent. You glance down to your conjoined hands, then back up into those doe eyes. 

“Did you mean it?” You ask softly. “Earlier. When you said that you’d stay.”

“Of course,” Connor answers quickly. 

“Really?” Your eyebrows crease. “Because it’ll take years. It’ll be depressing. And it’ll be boring. I’ll be worse than Hank. I don’t expect you to reward me or to applaud my every move, because I know that’s how normal people are all the time.”

“But you’re not normal,” Connor says with a smile. “Even before your entire identity was uprooted.”

“Connor!” You laugh and let go of his hand to swat at him, then grasp his hand again. “Alright, alright. I’ll get a bit of the Normal in me. A touch of the Regular. Exactly four grams of Johnny Normalcop.”

“Don’t.” He squeezes your hand. “It would be detrimental to the case if you were to focus on restructuring yourself in a different way. You don’t need to sanitize your personality.”

You smile up at Connor. “So you like me.”

His LED flickers yellow, then returns to blue. “Yes. I enjoy working alongside you as you are. You don’t need to be any amount of Johnny Normalcop.”

You shake your joined hands gently, your smile growing so wide you’re sure you looked a bit stupid. “You’re sweet. You know that?”

“I am somewhat aware.” Connor brings his free hand up to rest on top of your connected hands. 

And, just like that, you know everything would be alright. Nothing would ever be the same, yes, but it would be alright. It won’t be easy, but you just need to move on. Uncertainty is a core tenet of detective work.

When life closes a door, it opens a window. And if the fall is too steep, use the fire exit. Run to the roof, because Connor will be there when you jump to break your fall. The most important thing is to keep moving. Keep dreaming. CyberLife can’t reclaim their lost property if you keep running – very, very fast, from one Earth-shattering revelation to the next.