#advanced malware

[stormbreaker-290]

You should kisssss the Malware. I kisssss the Malware platonically but oooOOOoooOoo you know you want tooooOOoooOoo /silly

Hdsjjsjdagdjwhxbuahdjshsjzhd SO WHAT IF I DO HUH WHATAREYOU GONNA DO ABT IT /lh

[sixeyesonathiel]

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

[senki]

You missed it! Threat Actors simple paths into your network.

On December 3rd, 2024, six cybersecurity organizations published Enhanced Visibility and Hardening Guidance for Communications Infrastructure, detailing simple paths threat actors use to penetrate networks. Most people I talk to say, “This is nothing new.” “We’ve heard it all before.” “These are all Best Common Practices (BCPs); everyone should have deployed them already!” Do not ignore these…

[significantharassment]

i love sentient computers i shouldve been a sentient computer

[internett1line]

Understanding Network Sandboxes: Enhancing Cybersecurity for Businesses

In today’s digital landscape, cybersecurity is a growing concern for organizations of all sizes. As businesses continue to expand their digital footprint, cyber threats evolve, becoming more sophisticated and harder to detect. This is where network sandboxes play a critical role in ensuring the safety and security of sensitive data and IT infrastructures. What is a Network Sandbox? A network…

[jcmarchi]

6 types of fraud to remain aware of (and other trends) - CyberTalk

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/6-types-of-fraud-to-remain-aware-of-and-other-trends-cybertalk/

6 types of fraud to remain aware of (and other trends) - CyberTalk

Miguel Hernandez y Lopez is a Cyber Security Engineering Manager and member of the Office of the CTO at Check Point Software Technologies. Miguel has over 20 years of experience in the cyber security field. He was a member of the Honeynet Project, an international non-profit organization (501c3) dedicated to the investigation of the most recent computer attacks, and the development of OpenSource security tools to learn about how hackers behave. He is co-author of the Security Compendium ´Cyber Security and Global Information Assurance: Threat Analysis and Response Solutions´ sponsored by the U.S. Air Force Academy, USA (ISBN: 978-1-60566-326-5). Miguel holds a Master of Science of Technology from Universidad de Buenos Aires.                                                          

In honor of International Fraud Awareness Week, here at Cyber Talk, we’re joining the global effort to increase insight and education around fraud prevention.

Every year, organizations lose trillions of dollars to fraud, largely because they don’t understand the tactics that fraudsters employ or what kinds of prevention strategies to implement.

In this interview, explore what’s happening in the world of cyber fraud and how you can support more effective fraud-fighting initiatives. Let’s dive in:

What types of business fraud are you seeing at the moment?

There are several types of business fraud trending currently:

1. Cyber fraud. Cyber attacks are on the rise. Cyber criminals are using techniques such as phishing, malware or ransomware to steal sensitive information or disrupt business operations.

2. Internal fraud. This involves fraudulent activity by staff members within a business, including theft, falsification of documents or embezzlement.

3. Invoice fraud. This involves fake invoices being sent to a company in the hope they’ll pay fake charges without noticing.

4. CEO fraud. This is where fraudsters pose as a CEO of a company or another senior executive to trick an employee into transferring funds or sharing sensitive information.

5. Return fraud. This is particularly prevalent in the retail sector, where customers abuse the return policy for financial gain.

6. Payroll fraud. This can occur when employees manipulate the payroll system to receive more compensation than they’re due.

It’s essential for businesses to constantly update their security measures, educate employees about potential scams and implement strong internal controls to prevent fraud.

Fraud is expensive. Could you speak to the cost of fraud for businesses?

Absolutely. The cost of fraud can be substantial for businesses both financially and reputationally.

There are direct financial losses, which could soar into the millions, depending on the scale of the business and the fraud.

There are also investigation and recovery costs. Post-fraud, a business needs to conduct investigations and try to recover lost funds. These processes can be time-consuming and costly.

Beyond that, there are legal costs. Depending on the severity of the fraud, legal costs can be significant. If the company suffered a large loss, it may choose to prosecute the fraudulent party, increasing expenses.

Also, there are regulatory fines. In some cases, especially those involving data breaches, a business may encounter hefty fines from regulatory bodies for failing to protect sensitive information.

Further, a company may experience reputational damage. Although not directly financial, damage to a company’s reputation can result in loss of customers, decreased sales, and a drop in stock prices, all of which indirectly contribute to overall financial loss.

Lastly, after a fraud incident, companies may see increased insurance premiums.

According to the Association of Certified Fraud Examiners Occupational Fraud 2022, in A Report to the Nations, organizations lose approximately five percent of revenue to fraud each year, with the average loss per case totaling more than $1.78 million.

In your opinion, what impact could generative AI have on the future of business fraud? (What impact has it already had, if any?)

Generative AI could play a significant role, both positively and negatively, when it comes to business fraud.

In terms of fraud prevention and detection, AI can process enormous volumes of data, identify patterns, and detect anomalies more quickly and accurately than human analysts. Using sophisticated algorithms and machine learning methodologies, generative AI can identify potential fraudulent activities before they become damaging.

On the other hand, misuse of generative AI could potentially increase sophisticated fraud scenarios.

For example, think about deepfakes, in which generative AI can create hyper-realistic audio, video, or text that’s virtually indistinguishable from real content. Unscrupulous individuals can use these ‘deepfakes’ for scams, to create false identities, or spread disinformation that harms businesses.

While generative AI provides tools and capabilities that businesses can leverage for fraud prevention, generative AI also requires enhancement in security measures to prevent misuse. Aid from regulatory bodies, education, and a solid legal framework will be necessary to ensure that generative AI’s impact remains positive.

What types of technology solutions or tools would you recommend for fraud detection and prevention?

I would recommend cyber security solutions that have gained popularity due to their effectiveness in addressing modern technological challenges. These solutions are considered robust because they focus on enhancing security posture in a dynamic and evolving threat landscape.

For instance, when you are using Check Point to secure your business, you gain accurate prevention against the most advanced attacks through the power of ThreatCloud AI.

ThreatCloud AI, the brain behind all of Check Point’s products, combines the latest AI technologies with big data threat intelligence to prevent the most advanced attacks while reducing false positives, keeping a business safe and productive.

Why are these solutions and strategies considered advantageous for fraud prevention?

In terms of what Check Point offers…

Integrated security architecture. Check Point provides a comprehensive and integrated security architecture. Solutions often include multiple layers of security, covering areas such as firewall, intrusion prevention, antivirus, anti-malware, VPN, and more. Having an integrated approach can simplify management and improve overall security effectiveness.

Threat Intelligence and Research. Check Point invests heavily in threat intelligence and research. The company’s researchers actively analyze emerging threats, vulnerabilities, and attack patterns. This commitment to staying ahead of the threat landscape allows Check Point to provide timely updates and protection against new and evolving cyber threats.

Advanced threat prevention. Check Point is known for its advanced threat prevention capabilities. The solutions include technologies such as sandboxing, threat emulation, and threat extraction to detect and prevent sophisticated threats, including zero-day attacks and advanced persistent threats.

Cloud security. As organizations increasingly move their infrastructure and applications to the cloud, Check Point has expanded its offerings to include robust cloud security solutions. This includes protection for cloud workloads, applications, and data, as well as integration with major cloud service providers.

Network security. Check Point has a long history and a strong reputation in the field of network security. The company’s firewall solutions are widely used for securing network perimeters and enforcing security policies. Check Point’s expertise in network security is valuable for organizations with complex network architectures.

User-friendly management interface. Check Point products often feature user-friendly management interfaces that make it easier for security administrators to configure and monitor security policies. This can be important for organizations that want a solution that is both powerful and accessible for their security teams.

Scalability. Check Point solutions are designed to scale with the growth of an organization. Whether an organization is small or enterprise-level, Check Point’s products can often be tailored to meet the specific needs and scale of the environment.

Is there any other advice that you have for organizations?

I think that user awareness is crucial for fraud prevention – and for the following reasons:

Human factor. Often, human error or ignorance enables fraud. By enhancing user awareness, you help build the first, and sometimes most robust, line of defense against fraud.

Phishing attacks. In an age where cyber threats, like phishing, can lead to significant security risks, users who are aware of these threats aren’t as likely to fall for them as their peers.

Early detection. Aware users can identify suspicious activity, anomalies or changes in systems or transactions which may indicate a potential threat or fraud. They can escalate this early, enabling faster response and mitigation.

Mitigating insider threats. Employees who understand the signs of fraud are better equipped to spot and report possible internal threats.

Regulatory compliance. User awareness helps organizations stay in compliance with regulations that often require user training and awareness as a part of their requirements.

Culture of security. Training users around cyber security awareness creates a culture of security within the organization where every member, not just the IT or security team, has a role in preventing fraud.

In essence, users who are well-informed about fraud risks, ways to identify and respond to fraud, and the potential impact, add a valuable layer of protection for the organization.

For more insights from Miguel Hernandez y Lopez, please see CyberTalk.org’s past coverage. Lastly, to receive timely cyber security insights and cutting-edge analyses, please sign up for the cybertalk.org newsletter.

[paymentonlinemalaysia]

Security experts weigh in on Snake malware operation

Snake malware lay undetected in organisations in over 50 countries, stealing sensitive data and documents from NATO member governments, journalists and other targets of interest.

Our CEO Camellia Chan shared,”Traditional cybersecurity solutions are built for protection at the external layers, but such a vast landscape leaves too many gaps for cybercriminals to penetrate. Threat actors are multiple steps ahead and continue to evolve their tech and business models to bypass software defenses. Therefore, software security solutions find it difficult to identify newly modified threats and confidential data remains at risk. Organizations need to think outside the box – enter firmware level protection, a way to take cybersecurity to the next level.”

Read what Camellia and other industry experts had to say about this alarming reality in this article by Security Magazine: advanced malware protection

Contact us to learn more about how our solutions can protect you against similar attacks.

[digitalcreationsllc]

Grayling: Previously Unseen Threat Actor Targets Multiple Organizations in Taiwan

A previously unknown advanced persistent threat (APT) group used custom malware and multiple publicly available tools to target a number of organizations in the manufacturing, IT, and biomedical sectors in Taiwan. A government agency located in the Pacific Islands, as well as organizations in Vietnam and the U.S., also appear to have been hit as part of this campaign. This activity began in…

[maryymaruu]

I'm happy to be able to finally, officially, introduce my first Iterator oc, Three Signals! :"D

As one may tell, I can't help myself but to write novels on top and around my ocs, so apologies for the large amount of text.

Their lore is almost completed and I'd advise to referr to posts from here onward, if anyone is interested :0c

The story is grounded on a lot of my personal lore interpretation and headcanons, but those I will establish in a separate post some time! For now, it's still not 100% figured out, so there will be plotholes and uncertainty ^^);;

Three Signals belongs to a group far away from the in-game location. Specifically, a group pretty close to, if not outright including, Sliver Of Straw. That group is not particularly well integrated, and most members prefer to keep it to themselves.

After first generation was built, an issue arose; due to a large distance in the South between them and another group, the communications were weak, the signals were getting lost over particularly tall mountains. To fix that, Three Signals was strategically placed to bridge the distance, equipped with advanced for the time satellite plate, additional cell towers etc, essentially becoming a cell tower of the group.

A very vocal Iterator who quickly proved their creativity and love for their people and arts, became a perfect breeding ground for artists to find shelter from a rather conservative group climate. Their citizens were eager to involve TS into everything they did, only further strengthening their bond. They enjoyed their cyclical life together so much so, that the idea of Ascension slowly grew to be something undesirable. That raised controversy and distaint in the group against TS and their city of "heretics".

At some point, the tension grew enough to cause action to be taken. Other cities demanded arrest of TS's leaders and most prominent figures. TS and their city resisted, resulting in overly drastic measures; the city was pressured into compliance by force. Cutting off delivery of supplies and eventually attacking TS themselves with a malware attack, to shake the people out of the perceived heresy. A traumatic event for everyone involved. TS struggled to freely speak ever since.

Time passed, and the day of Mass Ascension came. Many of TS's citizens were not thrilled, many were fearful, many reluctant, many cried and reached out to their beloved Iterator for comfort. TS did their very best to comfort them, using what their city loved most; song. They sang, they sang all together, the city slowly rumbling with thousand voices into a solemn roar, then grew quieter and quieter again, until the very last voice left to be heard was Three Signals alone. And then silence ever since.

More time passed. Sliver Of Straw sends out the Triple Affirmative broadcast-

But TS, being equipped specifically to pick up weak signals, has heard something else coming from her; distressed cries of pain, and then the Triple Affirmative. Essentially convincing TS that it was nothing but an erroneous cry of a dying Iterator.

Horrified by what they witnessed, TS was moved to do whatever they can to try and comfort their fellow Iterators, to try and avoid something like that happening again. And what other way could TS do it, other than broadcast comforting tunes? A sign that they're not alone, and something to hopefully offer an alternative to spiraling into madness.

Their broadcast is wide ranged, but not enforced, and they're not even sure if anyone is listening or not- if its even effective or not. But at the very least, they can say they tried something.

(More to come)

[static-x3]

[they snigger, tossing the calendar over to the two]

"splendid, cuz this one's all me- faceless one tried to give it to bloodmoon to their great distain-"

[static walks in, flipping through something idly, taking a long overdramatic sip of their drink before stopping in front of Mal and Solaris]

"....do y'all want a pinup calendar-?"

(the Bloodbois were given a static calendar and bro was NOT Abt to let them see that shizzle so it goes here instead <3)

"sure, wouldn't hurt to add another to the collection"

"Sol for the love of god-"

"what? I have one of you and you have one of me"

[spikehunter]

Chuzzle Creepypasta

Yesterday I noticed my neighbor was having a garage sale. Hes a scary old man with yellow eyes and he works at the graveyard and is always covered in grave dirt and pieces of bones and stuff. But I wasn't scared because I respect his hardworking attitude. So I went to his garage and he had a bunch of old video games! I love video games. I picked up a box full of CD games and started looking through it and there were all the classics like Myst and Riven: The Sequel To Myst and et cetera, and then at the very back there was a game called Chuzzle 3. Now I used to love playing Chuzzle when I was a kid but I haven't played it in years, ever since the tragic accident where my friend Billy fell over and accidentally slit his throat on the disc and then it wouldnt run any more.

I held up the case for Chuzzle 3 and checked to make sure the disc was really in it. Yup its all there. I didn't even know they made a Chuzzle 3 on cd considering Chuzzle 2 came out in 2018 and it was like an iphone game, but I guess retro is coming back into style, so I didn't worry about it. I asked the old man how much for Chuzzle 3 and he looked at me strangely with a strange look on his face... "Just take it kid," he said which was really cool of him cause I only had $3 and I also wanted this dope pocket knife he had that was shaped like a wolf. I walked back home with a smile on my face, I was so excited to play Chuzzle 3 and see my friends the Chuzzles again after so many years! And also to practice some tricks with my new wolf knife. I used to love doing knife tricks when I was a kid but I haven't done it in years, ever since the tragic accident where my friend Dennis was doing knife tricks he saw on youtube and accidentally slit his throat with a balisong and then my dad took my knives away. My dad used to love taking my stuff away but he hasn't done it in years, ever since the tragic accident where he was cheating on my mom with a woman at the office and accidentally slit his throat on a business card.

I went home and put Chuzzle 3 in the computer. It took a really long time to load so I did some awesome knife tricks while I waited. When it was finally done I noticed it looked like kind of strange. There weren't any game mode selection buttons and not even any options or anything. There was just a purple Chuzzle and a button that said "Continue". The Chuzzle's eyes which were normally so happy had a strange, gloomy cast to them... almost like fear... or more accurately,... dread...

I clicked "Continue" and immediately it went into a level. It was pretty advanced, it had all the colors of Chuzzle right away and the locks were coming on fast, but I beat it quick anyway because I'm really good at Chuzzle. As I mentioned I used to play this game all the time as a kid, I would even play it instead of going to school sometimes. Honestly I never forgave Billy for ruining my Chuzzle disc. I went into the next level thinking about how much I hated his stupid ass. I didn't notice it but on the loading screen between levels, the same purple Chuzzle from the title screen was there, and its eyes were even more sad and tormented than before.

The next level was almost the same except halfway through a weird bug happened where one of the Chuzzles on the board turned into a red square. I couldn't match it with anything, I even tried to blow it up with a super chuzzle and nothing happened. I was starting to wonder if maybe this copy of Chuzzle 3 was a rare prerelease version or something. I took another look at the case and sure enough on the back it said "NOT FOR RESALE" in big black letters. Now this was really exciting, I used to love playing demo versions of games when I was a kid but I haven't done it in years, ever since the tragic accident where my friend Gerd downloaded some malware that gave him a seizure and while he was in the hospital the doctor accidentally slit his throat with a scalpel. I went back to the game and beat the level with the glitched Chuzzle no problem.

I didn't notice it but on the next loading screen there was red text above the Chuzzle that said "ITS ALREADY TOO LATE" in Jokerman font. I started playing the level and more glitched red square chuzzles appeared. There were 3 of them at once so I moved carefully and lined them up to match. When I did instead of popping cutely there was a horrible really loud sound from the speakers and all the Chuzzles on the screen exploded in blood and guts that smeared all over the screen, it was so freaky and gross I almost threw up, it was really scary. WTF was going on with this game?!?! Theres no way this was normal. I panicked and tried to eject the disc from the CD drive but nothing happened. I mashed the eject button really hard and nothing happened. When I looked back at the screen there were words written in Chuzzle blood that said "ITS YOUR FAULT". Honestly at this point I was crying and I pulled the computer plug out of the wall and the screen went black but somehow the Chuzzle level music kept playing, except it was a dark and twisted version, with the sound of a child crying softly mixed in.

I pried open the CD drive with my wolf knife (knew it would come in handy) and took the Chuzzle 3 disc out. It was burning hot and I almost dropped it. I put it back in the case and shut it. Just to be extra sure I got some packing tape and wrapped it all the way around the case. It was still light outside so I made up my mind to take this godforsaken disc back to the old man for some answers. I put my shoes back on and walked across the street, but to my surprised, his entire house was gone. It was just an empty grass lot and some stupid birds.

I went back home and sat on the couch. I didn't know what to do, I didn't even know what to think. I used to love thinking but I haven't done it in years, ever since the tragic accident where my friend Trudger thought too hard and a malevolent thoughtform slit his throat in the astral plane. He lived but he can't dream anymore and the only reason I was even hanging out with him was so he would dream up some strategies for my small business. So fuck him anyway.

I did some knife tricks for a couple hours but honestly I was getting really bored and understimulated, so I decided to give Chuzzle 3 another try. I cut the tape off with my wolf knife, plugged the computer back in, and put the disc in the tray. This time it started immediately and there was no Chuzzle on the title screen, just a shadow on the ground. I hit "Continue" and it went to a level where the board was really big, and all the Chuzzles were sad and shivering, and there were red glitched Chuzzles in a pattern that spelled out "HELL".

"What do you want from me?!," I yelled at the screen. All the Chuzzles shook and the glitched ones fell to the bottom of the board. The score meter went to 6,666,666. The normal Chuzzles still on the board started getting locked up one after the other. The lock sound was loud as hell. Every time it hit a Chuzzle it was like a gunshot through the speakers. And the scary music was still playing and it was even louder and scarier. Once all the Chuzzles were locked the whole screen went red and a line of Chuzzles that were all black except for their eyes appeared. As I looked at them, I realized with shock that they were my friends, Billy and Dennis and Gerd and Trudger, and my dad, and my other friends Yurt and Weevil who I didn't tell you about, and my twin brother Govrod, who died last year in a tragic accident where we were playing in the yard and I accidentally slit his throat with a machete. All of them were staring back at me with pure despair and hatred in their eyes. I started to feel sick. I couldn't say anything. A ninth Chuzzle slowly fell from the top of the screen... it was Me. I was crying uncontrollably. An ice cream truck drove by outside and I didn't even care.

The eight lost souls all looked at the Chuzzle of myself and started to shake like super chuzzles. They grew bigger and bigger until they crowded out the whole screen. And then they exploded. There was so so so much blood guys. Blood started coming out of the speakers and the keyboard and the other computer parts. The CD drive opened and ejected the Chuzzle 3 disc at hyper speed, and it lodged itself directly in my carotid artery. In the 2 seconds before I bled out and died, I wrote this post to warn you about "Chuzzle 3". No matter how much you love Chuzzle, DO NOT PLAY THIS GAME! IT'S NOT WORTH IT!! 2.5/10

[the-creatured]

Introducing, Qx93vt my OC.

For @that-willowtree and @vessel-eternal

I will update and edit this post with any information I remember. Vixen, feel free to leave a comment on something to change or DM me.

Name: Qx93vt

Nicknames: Q or Qx

Species: Humanoid Robot/Android

Pronouns: he/him or they/them

Sexuality: Technically pansexual

Status: Married to his wife Cupid (Vixen's OC)

Age: 34 active years (born 1991)

Likes: His inventor's house, the mans clothes, his wife, his fish, and his dog.

Dislikes: a failed invention, when people assume he is AI driven. DOD (more on that later)

Backstory: An engineer's kid was given some nonfunctional devices at age 13, one of which, was an old analog TV. He experimented with circuit boards, he crossed the right wires and eventually it turned on. The more time this kid spent working on it, the more it awoke. He was given a voice from an old radio speaker and other parts, then a face that was coded into his screen, emotions, a body, arms, legs. Soon, he was walking and talking. By the time the inventor had reached his late 30s, he had worked around a ton of dangerous materials, but had worked on advancing Q to the fullest extent. He was given a full functional body, a spare body, a positronic brain that was coded to learn and love. In the inventors last years, Q had taken up all household work so he could work on his inventions all the time and put his energy into them. He had sold most of his inventions and gained a fortune for his patents. He passed away and left Q with the house, his car, and the entire fortune. The government, when realizing Q had lived for years beforehand without the inventors main help and maintained the household. Granted him his own offical citizenship and was recognized as an independent self sustaining intelligent machine.

Later in his life, he met Cupid. Of course, the details arent fuzzy for him. But until I can come up with the full story pretend its a cute meet and they go on many dates and fall in love and marry. They have rings, her's a simple but very pretty golden ring with a diamond. His, a single smooth golden band.

Physical appearance: this is quite difficult because I haven't drawn his actual body underneath his clothes. He has a sleek toned build, it's smooth metal plates that interlock and layer to make joints and a smooth surface. A TV for a head, and very intricate hands. (Of course over the years, he advanced himself.) His most proud inventions for himself has been, a heartbeat that is uniquely his own, an internal heater so he's not freezing to the touch, his own program to make him learn like a human, a tasting mechanic, and a removable attachment for the wife. (Originally his inventor gave it to him but it wasnt detachable and he was very disturbed by this.)

He has a full manual with instructions for anything that could ever happen to him, for his wife. Its a very heavy and concise book, detailing how to jailbreak his system all to how to dry his screen off. Also includes a section on DOD and Qs warning signs. (more on that later)

His body is quite strong, resilient, water proof, fast, and can taste using a small sample tray at the bottom of his screen. (Because his wife cooks and bakes all the time and it would be unfair if he could never taste it)

He wears the same clothes daily apart from a few holiday or fancy outfits. His daily outfit consists of, a pale yellow long sleeve button down, grey slacks, a white waistcoat, and a busy tie. (He doesnt sweat so he doesn't need to change his outfit.)

The big bad!! (Because I can't have a sunshine character without giving them a horrible dark side and traumatic yearly experience with it!!)

DOD.exe: Digital Occulistic Disease.

This random code, segment of files, group of malware, came about when he first was just starting to learn and teach himself about 5 years after first awakening. His inventor didn't make it, program it, he didnt know it was on the circuit boards. Its a malicious entity that lives in the code and feeds off of the emotions the host feels.

Though mostly inactive and dormant, there is random occurances where he takes over the host body, goes into the memories. Finds the object most desired or adored by the host, and becomes utterly obsessed with them. Will do ANYTHING in its power to see that person, be near, get validation or just attention from it. If the object of obsession does not fully mirror the emotions, DOD will become violent, aggressive, and dangerous towards that person.

Often time Q will know when DOD has taken over, he is often awake for all of it and cannot do much. He cannot overpower him without help. The most he can do is make physical appearance different. He can control the screen somewhat, in his manual, he has the codes and systems he uses written out. The most common screen codes he uses to alert outsiders that the body is dangerous are. Flashing the screen quickly, black and white, for a strobe effect. Making eyes appear all over the screen, making huge text or pop up windows that warn the person. Often big red text that says "RUN".

DOD can change the screen but it takes a considerable amount of effort for him to do so, so he doesnt. He doesnt feel emotions, he doesnt understand humans, he doesnt care. He knows two things, obsession, and frustration. He can manipulate electricity in his hands and use that as a weapon. The body itself posseses incredible strength and speed.

First made: 6/9/2025

Last updated: 6/9/2025

[astralfandoms]

So no one asked, but I drew a bunch of hedgehogs because @forestdragonart and I were brainstorming all the hedgehogs that appear in 9 Years, and now it's time to do some explainations

If you're not interested, don't click through.

But if you are, keep reading :>

So, with that over with...

*cracks knuckles*

Let's go!

First Row is Sonic, Werehog, Executable, Malachite, and Sonny. The reason why I'm listing all of them as a group is because they are a system, with Sonic being the host! Werehog showed up during the events of Unleashed (obviously), Executable had been around for awhile but was taken out of dormancy during the events of Forces, Malachite was formed during the events of Colors, and Sonny was formed during the events of Generations!

Now onto all of the sonic-adjacent characters (aka the other hedgehogs)!

Lord Xenophanes, also known as Lord X, is a demigod of eclipses, raised to divinity by Dark Gaia, and he is involved in my reshuffling/rewrite of Frontiers, alongside...

Fatal Error, also known just as Error or Malware, is a demigod of mistakes and programming, created completely by accident by a god OC named The Creator of Mechanics (who I need to draw a reference for). It vanished a few decades back, only to suddenly reappear alongside Lord X for unknown reasons.

Fleetway, sometimes just known as Lord of Shapes, is a god of the Body and Mind as well as Shapeshifters. He, similarly to Lord Xenophanes, Fatal Error, Curse, Mephiles, Zip, and Majin, chose a hedgehog-esque form due to the associations with Sonic, someone is seen as trustworthy and good. He, however, is morally dubious at best, and uses his forms to mess with mortals.

Uncle Chuck is essentially Sonic's father in everything but name, having raised Sonic by himself after his parents passed. You may notice that I still have versions of them listed don't worry I'll get to that. Just know that Clutch is surprisingly well connected, knowing a lot of different kinds of people from his young adult years.

Shadow needs no introduction, but I have lore about Black Arms that I might eventually talk about but also might not because explaining how I am not a fan of alien storylines is a whole ass can of worms that I don't feel like introducing. All you gotta know is that he is not an alien, but instead has like. Nightmare Creature blood in him.

Manic is a whole ass motherfucker in this AU. He's not related to Sonic or Sonia, but is instead a young adult who never was in a foster home for more than a year, if that. He currently works at the White Resort, specifically as Clutch's right hand man.

Curse is someone who prayed so hard to Lord X that he was blessed with immortality and now lives as his eternal attendant. However, he hasn't been seen in awhile, due to shenanigans that went down.

Mephiles is the god of warfare who has beef with Ignis (the revamped versions of Iblis) due to the structured manner of warfare clashing inherently with Ignis's domain of chaos. The fires (pun intended) were only flamed with the Duke of Soleanna's inference but were managed to be calmed by Solaris's interference in the form of Elise and Jet.

Zip is the demigod of insanity who is known for her manic mannerisms and chaotic following of Fleetway's orders. It normally stays out of the limelight and prefers just following Fleetway around like a lost puppy.

Shard, also known as Metal Sonic 2.0, is an extremely advanced Metal Sonic who advanced so far that he has far exceeded his original programming and has become his own being. Is a devout follower of Eggman, but there are seeds of doubt planted in his head due to his counterpart...

Quicksilver, also known as Metal Silver, is a scrapped Metal Silver who was left to rot on Scrapnik Isle after it wasn't a successful copy. He is a people pleaser and follows Mercury around, caring probably too much about he and everyone else views him.

Scourge, as I have previously talked a bit about, is one of three Avatars who ended up helping with the Forces situation, with all three of them being prototyped experiments of attempting to get the Phantom Ruby to fuse with him, with his side effect being the purple colored stripes on him.

Sonia, as mentioned in Manic's section, is not related to Sonic or Manic, and is instead from a very rich family where she's Daddy's little princess. But, instead of being very bratty, she's extremely air-headed and gullible, not understanding a lot of class-based things. Every winter, she goes to stay at her practical uncle, Clutch's, resort, but no one seems to bother her, despite some shady figures following her...

Hydraulic, also known as Metal Sonic 1.0, is a bit of an outdated model compared to Shard, but realized that Eggman Enterprises was just...not where it wanted to be, so it ended up turning itself in, before being broken out by a certain platypus in a thought out revenge plan.

Majin, also known as Time Eater, is god of...well, do I need to say? It is usually very calm, very level headed, very slow to anger...but even it has its limits. And one platypus with a god complex is really trying his patience.

Alina is...technically not the original Alina, but instead a robotic counterpart made as an attempt to try to "revive" her without actual necromancy. And who was the one who made her? She doesn't remember much, but she remembers it being a man with a kindly face wearing green overalls...

Mercury, also known as Metal Shadow, is a failed Metal Shadow who, like Quicksilver, was abandoned on Scrapnik for not being a successful clone of Shadow. It is very quiet and brooding, rarely talking unless its services are needed. He both is annoyed and finds a sense of comfort in Quicksilver.

Amy is an extremely cheerful and optimistic girl who has an awful case of faceblindness and is part of the reason that this whole chart was even made. She's very energetic and helpful, but to the point where she'll stretch herself thin in an attempt to make everyone happy, even at the expense of her own.

Silver is, to put it bluntly, an extremely sad and depressed young man who for the longest time was plagued with visions he didn't understand and that no one was willing to explain to him. Hailing from the Lunar Kingdom, he has a deep (unwilling) connection to Mephiles, and is seen as both his prophet and priest, even if he never wanted to be that in the first place.

And, finally, we have Jules who, similarly to Alina, is just an attempt to "revive" him by building a robotic counterpart. And, similarly, Jules doesn't remember much about who created him, only having vague memories of hushed words and the glint of blue glasses.

And that's all of them!!

Wow, that took...way too long to actually type out, but if you made it this far, please comment what you think! I love hearing other people's vibes and opinions for these characters :>

Now, if you excuse me, I need to get to tagging all these bitches.

[friendly-books]

Artificial conditions

Artificial conditions by Martha Wells

“SecUnits don’t care about the news.” pg. 5 I hope we meet another hacked secunit who does watch the news and is the opposite of Murderbot

“I didn’t care what humans were doing to each other as long as I didn’t have to a) stop it  or b) clean up after it” pg. 5 Fair enough

“I was off the company’s inventory, but this was still the Corporation Rim, and I was still property.” pg. 6 Boo

“Then in my skim of the news broadcast I hit an image. It was of me.” pg. 7 Oh no

“I had a plan. Or I would have a plan, once I got an answer to an important question.” pg. 10 Is the question what happened before Muderbot hacked the gov module?

“Then, through my feed, something said, You were lucky.” pg. 18 Spooky I thought Murderbot was alone

So the ship’s sentiment??

“Maybe it was trying to be friendly and was just awkward at communicating.” pg. 19 Pot meet kettle

“It poked me through the feed and I flicked” pg. 19 Rude

“It could have squashed me like a bug through the feed, pushed through my wall and other defenses and stripped me of my memory.” pg. 20 So eldritch abomination sentient ship?

“How the hell was I supposed to know there were transports sentient enough to be mean.” pg. 20 Ha

“I said, “Okay,” shut down my feed, and huddled down into the chair.” pg. 20 Aww Murderbot’s scared :(

“tortured by clients for amusement” pg. 20 What. No don’t gloss over that Murderbot

“It opened the hatch for me. It wanted me here

Uh oh” pg. 21 Uh oh indeed

“Then it said, You can continue to play the media.

I just huddled there warily

It added, Don’t sulk” pg. 21 Ha

“Then it said, I’m sorry I frightened you

Okay, well if you think I trusted that apology then you don’t know Murderbot.” pg. 22 I think the ship’s just awkward

“I examined it for viral malware and other hazards.

And fuck you, I thought” pg. 24 Ha

“I will refrain from complaint, it said

(Imagine that in the most sarcastic tone you can, and you’ll have some idea of how it sounded.)” pg. 25 Ha

“After three episodes, it got agitated whenever a minor character was killed. When a major character died in the twentieth episode I had to pause seven minutes while it sat there in the feed doing the bot equivalent of staring at the wall, pretending to run a diagnostic.” pg. 25 Poor ship

“It said, The depiction is unrealistic

(You know, just imagine everything it says in the most sarcastic tone possible)” pg. 27 Ha

“You left to travel to RaviHyral Mining Facility Q Station.” pg. 29 To solve a mystery

“Yeah, well, fuck you, too. I thought, and initiated a shutdown sequence.” pg. 30 Ha

“The transport said immediately, That was childish.” pg. 31 Ha

“My crew complement includes teachers and students.” pg. 31 What are you ship? You seem to advanced? To be a transport ship

“I’m a construct. Construct and bots can’t trust each other.” pg. 32 Says who?

“My memory of the incident was particularly purged.” pg. 34 Ouch

“I knew ART (aka Asshole Research Transport)” pg. 34 Ha

“It said I have a full medical suite. Altercations can be made there.” pg. 39 Is ART trying to give Murderbot a makeover?

“Maybe because it was something humans did to sexbot. I was a murderbot, I had to have higher standards.” pg. 41 Higher standards?

“I came back online to find I was at 26 percent capacity.” pg. 48 Oh dear

“ART asked, Do you want to watch media?

I didn’t respond, but it started an episode of Sanctuary Moon anyway.” pg. 50 Aww that’s nice

“It would make it harder for me to pretend not to be a person.” pg. 52 You are a person Murderbot

“They took it off the map.” pg. 52 It’s a cover up dun dun dun

“Yes, the giant transport bot is going to help the construct SecUnit pretend to be human. This will go well.” pg. 55 Ha

“In my feed, ART said, I told you so.” pg. 56 Ha

“Rami admitted, “We know it doesn’t sound like a good idea to go.”

It was a great idea if you wanted to get murdered.” pg. 65 Ha

“One cycle’s share of the contract?” Rami sat up straight. “Really?”

Ter reaction meant I’d asked for far too little,” pg. 68 Oh no

“ART’s freedom to weigh in on everything I did was punishment enough” pg. 70 Ha

“Tlacey bought us passage on a public shuttle,” Rami told me. “That could be a good sign, right?”

“Sure,” I said. It was a terrible sign.” pg. 71 Ha

“I said, You have a weapons system.

ART repeated, For debris deflection.

I was starting to wonder just what kind of university owned ART” pg. 73 Dose ART have missiles? Now you’re wondering, buddy I’ve been wondering 42 pages back

“the bot pilot screamed and died as killware flooded its system” pg. 74 Oh no

“The person you’re going to meet with just tried to kill you.” pg. 78 Yep

“But whoever had removed Ganaka Pit from the map would have been trying to obscure its existence from casual journalists” pg. 81 Cover up

“That was when I felt the ping.” pg. 82 OH NO

“Who the fuck are you?” pg. 83 Rude

“I was looking at a sexbot” pg. 84 Oh hack their government module bot revolution

“I broke his arm and slammed an elbow into his chin” pg. 91 FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

“My Giant Asshole Research Transport” pg. 98 Oh your Giant Asshole Research Transport

“It had been left here, forgotten, slowly dying in the darkness as the hours ticked away.

Not that I was feeling morbid, or anything.” pg. 100 Poetry morbid

“I didn’t know why my performance reliability was dropping.” pg. 103 Trauma?

“In the feed, two human techs had discussed an anomaly” pg. 106 The plot thickens

“In the corridor near the living quarters I found the other ready room the one for the Comfortunits.” pg. 107 Oh

“It meant they had deployed during the “incident.” pg.  108 Oh did they start the incident?

“It said We have a problem.” pg. 111 Oh no

“Tapan was on the one of the upper platforms.” pg. 112 TAPAN what are you doing?!?

“ART said, Tell the human not to touch any surfaces. There may be disease vectors present.” pg. 115 ART is such a mother hen

“I know you’re mad.”

I tried to moderate my expression. “I’m not mad.” I was furious.” pg. 116 Ha

“The sexbot was standing on the other side of  the door.” pg. 119 Ah jump scare

“There’s no human controlling you? You’re free?” pg. 123 Robot Revolution Yes Muderbot is free!

“We could kill them.”

Well that was an unusual approach to its dilemma. Kill who? Tlacey?

All of them. The humans here.” pg. 124 What? 

“I could feel ART metaphorically clutch its function.” pg. 125 Ha

“if the humans were dead, who would make the media” pg. 125 Ha

“It was so outrageous, it sounded like something a human would say.

Huh.

I said to the sexbot, Is that how Tlacey thinks constructs talk to each other?” pg.125 Oh interesting

“It was a message string, three words. Please help me.” pg. 127 Oh dear

“It was probably a trap.” pg. 128 It’s definitely a trap

“Tapan was reminding me think of Mensah” pg. 129 Aw

“I was only 97 percent certain this meeting was a trap.” pg. 131 I’m 100 percent certain that this is a trap

“Wow I looked uncomfortable” pg. 132 Ha

“I like a mouthy bot. This is going to be interesting-“ pg. 138 Ew :(

“All you had to do was give them the fucking files” pg. 140 Muderbot swore

“When Tapan woke, I was sitting on the MedSystem platform holding her hand.” pg. 146 Aw :)

“No, ART said. Keep it. Maybe we’ll come within range of each other again.” pg. 148 YES!

“Maro nodded. “Okay. This is for you.” She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed.” pg. 150 Aww

Final thoughts

I enjoyed the book. I hope the Comfortunits get their government module hacked. I desperately want a robot revolution. I hope we learn more about what happened to Ganaka Pit. I like ART and I hope they come back. They’re clearly more than a university bot. I hope Dr. Mensah comes back.

Onto Rogue Protocol

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Timothy Snyder At Thinking About...:

1. Do not obey in advance. Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what a more repressive government will want, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do. 2. Defend institutions. It is institutions that help us to preserve decency. They need our help as well. Do not speak of "our institutions" unless you make them yours by acting on their behalf. Institutions do not protect themselves. They fall one after the other unless each is defended from the beginning. So choose an institution you care about -- a court, a newspaper, a law, a labor union -- and take its side. 3. Beware the one-party state. The parties that remade states and suppressed rivals were not omnipotent from the start. They exploited a historic moment to make political life impossible for their opponents. So support the multiple-party system and defend the rules of democratic elections. Vote in local and state elections while you can. Consider running for office. 4. Take responsibility for the face of the world. The symbols of today enable the reality of tomorrow. Notice the swastikas and the other signs of hate. Do not look away, and do not get used to them. Remove them yourself and set an example for others to do so. 5. Remember professional ethics. When political leaders set a negative example, professional commitments to just practice become more important. It is hard to subvert a rule-of-law state without lawyers, or to hold show trials without judges. Authoritarians need obedient civil servants, and concentration camp directors seek businessmen interested in cheap labor. 6. Be wary of paramilitaries. When the men with guns who have always claimed to be against the system start wearing uniforms and marching with torches and pictures of a leader, the end is nigh. When the pro-leader paramilitary and the official police and military intermingle, the end has come.

[...] 10. Believe in truth. To abandon facts is to abandon freedom. If nothing is true, then no one can criticize power, because there is no basis upon which to do so. If nothing is true, then all is spectacle. The biggest wallet pays for the most blinding lights. 11. Investigate. Figure things out for yourself. Spend more time with long articles. Subsidize investigative journalism by subscribing to print media. Realize that some of what is on the internet is there to harm you. Learn about sites that investigate propaganda campaigns (some of which come from abroad). Take responsibility for what you communicate with others. [...]

14. Establish a private life. Nastier rulers will use what they know about you to push you around. Scrub your computer of malware on a regular basis. Remember that email is skywriting. Consider using alternative forms of the internet, or simply using it less. Have personal exchanges in person. For the same reason, resolve any legal trouble. Tyrants seek the hook on which to hang you. Try not to have hooks. 15. Contribute to good causes. Be active in organizations, political or not, that express your own view of life. Pick a charity or two and set up autopay. Then you will have made a free choice that supports civil society and helps others to do good. 16. Learn from peers in other countries. Keep up your friendships abroad, or make new friends in other countries. The present difficulties in the United States are an element of a larger trend. And no country is going to find a solution by itself. Make sure you and your family have passports.

Timothy Snyder wrote in his Substack the twenty lessons on combatting tyranny that were in his book On Tyranny.

Key lessons:

1 Do not obey in advance.

2 Defend institutions.

3 Beware the one-party state.

10 Believe in truth.

15 Contribute to good causes

[miyuchimiya]

Something I made tehee. Since I can't find anything about momo-chan I just hc her as an anti-malware (advanced security measure; long range combat) and have an older sibling that is a anti-virus (earliest/oldest security measure; close combat).

Anti-Virus is hacked by you know who in attempt to bring himself back to pbb reboot but less security means danger. Two new viruses are at place in the story. First is Ashton being deleted but came back as a virus and a new unknown virus that led the contamination. At the early investigation of Eira, all problem was pointed at a character but all turned out to be more messy than expected. (Anti-virus didn't recognized Ashton as a threat because he was programmed as a character and not a virus, the change was concealed to them.)

This OC is more of a self insert character for all pbb fans, the name Eira is just a placement, idk really. More on about the lore, the game somehow got a new unknown virus and files of npc's are getting contaminated (zombie apocalypse type lol). Mission is find the source and exterminate it while keeping the boys' files untouched, problem? Most of the computers in BAiHR are contaminated already and only YOU through manual (beta virtual reality plugin) use of "anti-virus", those two, and momo can do it. (I thought of this as more as an action type of au, like human to magical girl against monsters or maybe anime like sword art online. I also wanna add that OC have a special brainwaves that tolerates the experimental use of VR, however, this could also lead to your brain being fried up if used long enough (WUH OH! Angst alert!).)

This is weird and a bit confusing but mind you I was amidst catching a cold when I made this post, so if any mistakes are made then I'm sorry and I blame the rain ;/