#escape time algorithm

[vedalkensamurai]

Here's a spectacular variant of the Mandelbrot set, formed by iterating z_n = z_(n-1)^2 - z_(n-1) - 1 + c. I chose this equation as an homage to my favorite quadratic equation, 0 = x^2 - x - 1, which has the golden ratio as one of its roots.

Are you ready for some close-ups?

[incognit0slut]

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

-

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust. 

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words. 

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

��No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

[sharksfrommars]

Have an idea for a fic that I’m definitely not going to write.

essentially, ford hits a roadblock in his research, but doesn’t summon Bill. He’s just burned out from all that gifted kid syndrome, trying to power through it. His mother recommended he take a break, and the perfect opportunity for that arrived when Fiddleford calls, asking Ford to be his Best Man, and inviting him to his bachelor party.

in Vegas.

so Ford reluctantly goes with Fiddleford and two of his other friends to the city of sin, and Ford completely DESTROYS the casinos. He’s counting cards, he’s worked out the algorithm for when the slot machines hit a jackpot, and he gets SUPER drunk. Ford is having the time of his life cus he gets to use maths to flex on people. And he’s NOT SUBTLE.

so at the end of the night, the casino take Ford out back, and send a goon to beat him up.

and you’ll never guess who the goon is!

so now Stan and Ford have to work together and try to escape the gangs and crime lords that run 1970s Las Vegas.

I call it Gifted Kid Syndrome.

again, not doing anything with it, feel free to do anything with the idea, up to and including wiping your butt with it. Just like, tag me or whatever.

[not-terezi-pyrope]

In case you're still reflexively on the fence when I proclaim that the conversation about AI has progressed to a truly batshit level of reactionary mythology, people on twitter are currently calling out the animators for Spiderverse for using a digital interpolator to assist with lining, because a documentary used the term "machine learning" to describe it.

Apparently using digital tools is taking work away from real artists. I am excited for 6 months time when the discourse has evolved into "all movies should be hand-inked on the inside of Palaeolithic caves to escape the corrupting labour-stealing influence of the pencil".

(Yes this is currently a minority opinion in this instance, largely because people just really like Spiderverse. But the fact that these arguments are being seriously made shows how far off the deep end this conversation has gone. These types of arguments for blanket technology bans already made little to no sense due to the double standard applied, and this demonstrates that by removing the double standard and taking them closer to their logical conclusion - all labour saving tools are bad, especially if they involve a spooky computer algorithm).

[2pndr]

Secret In a Winter Wonderland - Part One

Sequel to Dinner In a Winter Wonderland

A/N: Split into two parts to give y'all a little Valentine's day gift. Enjoy!

Winter x Male Reader Fluff

6.8k words

It just sits there. Menacingly.

A reflective abyss on your bedside table, pulling your gaze in, swallowing it whole. Its surface is dark, still, resolute, offering up nothing but your own tired reflection.

Your elbows press into your knees, fingers interlocked, chin resting lightly as you watch. A restless sort of stillness settles over you, like a held breath, stretched thin. You tell yourself it’s ridiculous—this quiet expectation, this fixation on a single moment. And yet, here you are, transfixed, as if sheer willpower could make the inevitable happen just a little faster.

You gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back.

Time slows. Your mind stills. You achieve a brief, bastardised nirvana—one born not of inner peace, but sheer unrelenting anticipation. 

Your heightened state of awareness sharpens every detail around you: the distant hum of the heater battling the cold, the way the floor creaks when you shift your weight, the faint ticking of a clock you don’t remember ever buying. You can even smell your own existence—morning breath, yesterday’s worn clothes, and the distant, ghostly trace of whatever your neighbor was cooking at fuck-it-O’clock.

Not that any of it matters. The world outside could be crumbling, sucked up into the sky and you’d still be here. Watching. Waiting.

Then—a familiar tune, handpicked by you. A tremor escapes the abyss, shivering through the table. You see it. You feel it.

The abyss stirs to life, the darkness awakening into a symphony of colour and you’re met with what you’ve been so anxiously waiting for...

Hyoon is live: glorp

“OH COME THE FUCK ON!”

You groan, flopping backward onto your bed, phone queued to be crushed in your hand. The fuck does ‘glorp’ even mean? The worst part? You don’t even remember following Hyoon. So either, you’re under some algorithmic curse, or it’s some divine punishment for your hubris of hope.

You glare at the abyss. The abyss sneers back.

It doesn't have any appendages but you swear to god if it did, it’d be flipping you off.

With a sigh, you swipe the notification away, telling yourself it’s fine. It’s not like you were waiting for a message from Minjeong or anything. 

….Okay, you totally were.

She was probably just busy, right? Or sleeping in? Or—God forbid—had actually forgotten.

A childish concern to be sure. But one that torments you anyway.

Every morning for the past few days, you’d woken up to her cheerful messages—a jolly “good morning”, a lively teasing, or if you were really lucky, a video call where she’d spend half the time hiding her face because she “looks ugly without makeup!” 

 Today, though, there’s nothing. 

You shake your head, trying to push it down. It’s not like you’re entitled to a text. You’re not even dating. You’re just… close. Close enough that something about today just feels off. Close enough that your past five mornings have come to revolve around this one, singular moment.

So, you do the only reasonable thing you can: bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend none of this is happening.

For a minute, it almost works. The warmth of your blankets, the lingering sleepiness clinging to your limbs—it all lulls you into a state of half-consciousness, where the world is soft and Minjeong exists only in vague, glowing, adorable impressions. The sound of her laugh, the way she hides her face when she’s flustered, the warmth in her eyes when she—

Ding-dong.

The fucking doorbell.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to the gallows. Who the hell even—

Knock knock knock.

Followed by a pause. And then—

Knock knock knock knock knock knock knock.

You grit your teeth. Whoever it is, I swear to God—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell again.

“I’m coming!” you snap, voice sharper than intended. The knocking stops immediately. But just as you reach the door, you swear you hear a faint giggle on the other side.

The door swings open, and—

“Surprise!”

Minjeong.

She stands there, cheeks flushed from the cold, snowflakes clinging to her adorable little beanie. Her navy coat is buttoned up to her chin, uniting with her scarf  to make her look impossibly cozy. Her smile is wide, bright, her voice honey-smooth with that gorgeous teasing lilt.

She wasn’t ignoring you. She was here.

And then she lunges.

Before you can react, she wraps her arms around you, her face burying into you. It’s abrupt—too quick for someone as shy as Minjeong usually is—but her grip is firm, almost desperate. Like she’s been holding onto this impulse for days and finally gets to give in.

You hesitate for half a second before your arms come up to reciprocate. Maybe it’s  just your imagination. Or maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder, because she’s warm. Too warm for someone who was just trudging about in the snow.

It takes you a moment to realize she’s not letting go. Not immediately. Not like a casual greeting. Instead, she lingers—because staying here, just like this, feels right in a way neither of you want to break just yet.

“I missed you,” She mumbles into your chest.

And you missed her. But you just hold her tighter, letting your arms say it for you.

She lingers. Long enough that you feel her breathing even out, long enough that the cold on her coat fades, long enough that when she finally pulls back, it’s slow, reluctant—she doesn't quite want to let go.

And frankly, you don’t want to either.

Her hands hesitate at your sides, fingers curling like she might change her mind and stay just a little longer. But then she exhales, a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, and steps back, tucking a stray strand of white hair behind her ear.

Minjeong looks up at you, her expression unreadable for a moment—something between embarrassment and contentment. Then, like a switch flipping, she schools her face into something more familiar: light, teasing, joyful.

“Now,” she begins, the corners of her lips curling as if nothing had happened, “are you ready for today, or do you need a few minutes to stop looking like you just rolled out of bed?”

*

For as long as you can remember, you’ve always hated Christmas.

(Yeah, you can’t believe you were like that either.)

It’s a sentiment that had you aptly nicknamed “The Grinch" by those unfortunate enough to be in your circle. Minus the Jim Carrey charisma, of course.

It wasn’t the bitter winter chill that seemed to ignore flesh, or the gaudy over-saturation of red and green that plagued the city. Not even the endless loop of Mariah Carey that played everywhere three months in advance seemed to get to you.

…Alright, maybe a little bit.

What did get to you, though, was that gnawing feeling, one that lingered throughout the year, lurking beneath, only exposing itself in all its agonizing glory during the holiday season.

You were alone. And worse than that—you felt like you always would be.

It was something you had long come to terms with. You thought yourself someone incapable of forming new connections, that chance hindered by the fear of fucking up every possible interaction you ever had.

Then she came along and shattered your whole worldview.

It was effortless with her. Conversations would flow without you overthinking every word. Silences weren’t awkward either—they just were. She laughed at your dumb jokes, complimented you like she’d known you forever and listened in a way that made you feel like you actually mattered.

It felt like you didn’t have to try so hard.  And for the first time in a very, very long time, you weren’t on the outside looking in.

Honestly, you had your friends to thank for that. Funny how that worked—they were the ones who begged you to go on that ridiculous Christmas quadruple date in the first place, even bribing you to come along. 

You went that night thinking you were doing them a favor. But now? Not even a week into knowing her?

You look over and smile.

You can’t imagine a world without Kim Minjeong.

“I do have eyebrows,” she huffs beside you.

You blink. “What?”

Minjeong glares, cheeks puffing out just slightly—an expression you’ve seen before, but never this close. “You were staring at them.”

It takes you a second to catch up, your brain still half-lost in the warmth of your own thoughts. Then it clicks.

Oh. This again.

“You’re still on about that?” you say, fighting a smirk.

She turns her head sharply, huffing like you’ve insulted her honor. “You literally said it the other day.”

“I never said you don’t have eyebrows,” you defend, shoving your hands into your pockets. “I just said they’re, you know… subtle.”

“They’re not subtle!” she argues, gesturing vaguely at her face.

“I mean, they kind of are,” you tease, tilting your head as if re-evaluating them. “Like, if I had to describe them, I’d say they’re… elusive.”

She gasps, scandalised, smacking your arm with a force that doesn’t match her size. You wince dramatically, rubbing the spot, but it’s worth it to see the way her pout deepens.

You had brought it up during one of those lucky wake-up video calls, mostly because it had been the first time you’d ever seen her completely barefaced. Her hair was damp, eyelids heavy and yet she still looked so goddamn adorable and huggable and a thousand more adjectives for how endearing she always was—not that you had the guts to say any of them out loud. Instead, your brain had done what it always did in moments of vulnerability: it scrambled for something stupid to say.

And somehow, that stupid thing had been, “Huh. You really weren’t lying about the eyebrow thing.”

Minjeong had instantly slapped a hand over her forehead, shrieking in horror while you laughed so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

“You’re just twisting my words,” you say now, unable to resist teasing her further. “I never said you don’t have them.”

She scoffs, turning back to you with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “You implied it.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I should put my fist in your mouth.”

The deadpan delivery nearly makes you wheeze. You can’t help but chuckle, “Well, whatever helps you sleep at night. Eyebrow-less or not.”

Minjeong groans in exasperation, dragging a hand down her face, but there’s no real ire there. If anything, you catch one of her signature smiles ready to burst out.

The banter drifts into silence—the two of you aren’t exactly conversationalists—but you don’t mind, and neither does she. It’s a comfortable silence.

Because even though neither of you are brave enough to admit it, you both know the other wants to be there.

Minjeong turns her head away at the thought, a little too quickly—she’s hoping you won’t catch the flush creeping up her cheeks. The glow of the streetlights isn’t doing her any favors, painting her in warm golds that give her more attention than she’d probably like. She clears her throat, stuffing her hands deeper into her pockets, the attempt at nonchalance falling apart when she shifts closer—just slightly—enough that her arm brushes against yours before she freezes, like she’s debating whether to move away again.

She doesn’t.

You pretend not to notice, and she pretends she doesn’t want you to. But the heat lingers where your arms continue to blissfully collide, warming you unlike your coats and scarves ever could.

And for the first time in forever, the city around you doesn’t feel quite so cold.

*

It occurs to you that neither you or her really go out that much.

Because frankly, you’re both in awe.

The market feels like a wellspring of life: the countless people weaving in and out of stalls, the gorgeous glow of lanterns swaying in the wind, the scent of whatever divine snack that old auntie is cooking up. It all feels like something out of a fairytale—like a place where time slows down for a little while.

Beside you, Minjeong takes it all in with quiet wonder, her hands tucked deep into her coat pockets. She’s always been the type to observe rather than dive right in, (at least you guess it is—it’s how you are, after all) but today, she looks lighter—like she’s letting herself enjoy the moment, letting herself be here, with you.

And for that reason, your chest feels warmer than it should.

You watch as she slows near a stall selling candied strawberries, gaze lingering for just a second too long before she shakes her head and keeps walking.

“You know,” you start, stuffing your hands into your own pockets, “there’s something kinda nice about today.”

Minjeong tilts her head toward you. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” You glance up at the lights overhead. “New Year’s Day always feels… different. Like a reset. No pressure, no expectations—just a fresh start.”

She hesitates mid-step. It’s brief, barely noticeable, but you catch it.

When you glance at her, she’s looking down at the stone path beneath her feet, her lips pressing together like she’s trying to hide a reaction.

“…Yeah,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter than before. “It’s kinda the point, no?.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you just shrug and keep walking.

The subject drifts, and soon enough, Minjeong’s energy picks up again. She tugs you toward different food stalls, eyes flicking between them like she’s looking through a magazine

“Hotteok sounds good,” she muses, then immediately wavers. “But tteokbokki is, like, a classic…”

She stands there for ages, bouncing on her heels, muttering under her breath—“Sweet or spicy? Ugh, why is this so hard?”—before finally throwing her hands up in defeat.

“Okay, both!” she  finally declares, turning to you like it was the obvious answer all along.

You watch as Minjeong receives the hotteok from the vendor like a child on Christmas day, holding it up to you with the biggest smile on her face. She hands it to you as she practically skips over to the tteokbokki vendor.

The vendor eyes you both with a knowing smile as she hands over the food.

“You two make such a cute couple,” she says, her voice warm, like she’s seen this scene a hundred times before.

You and Minjeong freeze at the exact same time.

Your first instinct is to correct her, to say something—anything—but Minjeong doesn’t. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even look at you. Instead, she just quietly takes the tteokbokki, her fingers wrapping around the warm paper cup, and murmurs a soft, barely audible, “Thank you.”

You clear your throat, shifting slightly on your feet. “Uh, yeah—thanks.”

Neither of you say anything else. Neither of you correct her.

Because the thing is—being mistaken for Minjeong’s boyfriend doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t feel like some ridiculous, impossible idea.

It feels like something you could get used to.

The thought follows you as you both take a seat at a vacant table, Minjeong carefully blowing on a piece of rice cake before taking a bite. She scrunches her nose slightly at the spice, and without thinking, you nudge a drink from the vending machine closer to her. She takes it wordlessly, sipping at it with a warm smile and sigh of relief.

Yeah. You could really get used to this.

She puts the drink back on the table and freezes.

You barely catch it—the way her fingers falter around the bottle,  how her eyes widen slightly before she ducks her head, shoulders curling inward. It’s quick, so quick that if you weren’t looking at her, you would’ve missed it entirely.

Then, as if on instinct, she suddenly moves closer to you, pressing into your side ever so slightly.

“What—?” you begin, but she shushes you, fingers wrapping around your sleeve as she subtly angles herself away.

“Move.”

“Move where?”

“Just—stay still.”

You frown, about to question her, when you follow her gaze toward the other side of the market.

Karina, Giselle, and Ning Ning.

They’re not exactly hiding well—huddled together behind a food stall, peeking out from behind a cart of roasted sweet potatoes, whispering among themselves. The moment you make eye contact, Ning Ning grins.

Oh.

Minjeong groans under her breath, already knowing what’s about to happen. And before you can say anything, she stands up, spins on her heel and speed-walks straight behind a stack of crates.

You blink, staring at the spot where she was just standing. Then at the girls making their way toward you with far too much mischief in their eyes.

“Hey,” Karina greets smoothly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You sigh. “Heeeeey.”

“You know,” Giselle starts, tilting her head, “we were wondering if you’ve seen Minjeong. She left the apartment really early this morning.”

“Super early,” Ning Ning adds.

“So early,” Karina echoes, nodding solemnly.

You raise an eyebrow, trying your best to keep your expression neutral. “Really?” You pretend to think to yourself before concluding: “Sorry, got no idea.”

There’s a beat of silence as the three of them stare at you expectantly.

Giselle crosses her arms. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

“She’s not here?” Ning Ning presses.

“Nope.”

Karina hums, shifting her weight onto one foot. “So you’re just… out here. Alone. At a New Year’s market. With two cups of tteokbokki?”

The anxiety in your laugh is about as subtle as a shotgun shot. “Guys gotta eat.”

“Right,” Giselle nods, teasing. “And you were just talking to yourself earlier, huh?”

You shrug. “Well uh—Sometimes, you gotta have a conversation with the only person who truly understands you.”

“You always buy two drinks?”

“Thirst like a camel,” you take a sip.

Ning Ning gestures to the table. “And the second set of chopsticks?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

There’s a long silence. Any more questions and you’ll be out of clichés. 

Karina exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Wow.”

Giselle looks impressed. “I gotta admit, you’re committed.”

“Yeah, I respect it,” Ning Ning nods. “But also, you suck at lying.”

Your lips press together in a flat line, eyes narrowing in annoyance, but before you can say anything, Karina suddenly sighs. “Oh well. I guess since Minjeong isn’t here, I should probably tell you how much she talks about you back home.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “Oh?” 

Sorry, Minjeong. You’re gonna have to hear this one.

“Mhm,” Karina muses, crossing her arms. “She’s always going on about how cut—”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, KARINA.”

Minjeong bursts from her hiding spot so fast she nearly knocks over a stand. You can just about see lightning start to materialise around her as the sky turns a few shades darker. You’ve never heard her yell—never even seen her truly angry, and yet, even with all that irritation boiling over, she still manages to be her enchantingly charming self.  She scrambles to steady herself, cheeks flaring with embarrassment, glaring daggers at her friends as they burst into laughter.

“There you are!” all three sarcastically remark as schrodinger’s eyebrows narrow at their chortling.

Before you can even think to react, Minjeong suddenly dashes and all but throws herself behind you, gripping the back of your coat like a shield against the relentless teasing.

“You guys are the worst,” she hisses, voice muffled slightly from where she’s pressed her forehead against your shoulder.

You blink, your mind caught somewhere between amused and a little stunned at how quickly she’s decided you are now her human barricade. The warmth of her fingers clinging to your sleeve is distracting—almost as distracting as the way her embarrassment is now being shared with you as you’re forced to stare down her friends.

Giselle folds her arms, grinning like she’s just been handed the juiciest gossip of her life. “What’s wrong Minjeong? We couldn’t just miss your very first date!”

Minjeong groans, squeezing the fabric of your coat like she’s physically bracing herself. “It’s not a date.”

“Uh-huh.” Ning Ning nods sagely. “ Let’s see, you came here together. Are eating together. Laughing together.  And if I do say so myself,” she giggles  “looking just the cutest together.”

Now you wish you had a human shield to hide behind.

Minjeong tugs your coat harder. You’re not sure if it’s for comfort or because she’s planning on suffocating herself in it and retorts,“Oh, shut up.”

Karina sighs, pulling out her phone with the kind of enthusiasm only a proud mother could have, already angling for the perfect shot. “Well, whether it’s a date or not, we should probably get a photo to commemorate the occasion.”

Minjeong’s grip tightens to a death hold. “No.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Karina says, already tapping at her screen. “It’s an important day.”

“For what?” Minjeong demands, voice high and outraged.

Giselle smirks. “Your anniversary, duh.”

Minjeong makes a noise like she’s about to combust on the spot.

You laugh, glancing down at her, still very much using you as a human shield. If this were you a week ago, you’d probably want to protest as much as she does—but something about annoying this girl just feels right. 

“I mean, if they’re offering…” you tease.

She jerks her head up to glare at you, her mortification morphing into mild betrayal. “Not. Helping.”

You grin, but before you can say anything else, Karina is already holding up her phone. “Alright, lovebirds, get closer.”

“We are close,” Minjeong deadpans, considering she is quite literally glued to your side.

Ning Ning waves a hand. “Closer.”

Minjeong groans in defeat but doesn’t move away. Instead, she grumbles something under her breath before begrudgingly tilting her head so it rests lightly against your arm.

Your stomach does a backflip.

Click.

Karina inspects the photo with a satisfied nod before showing it to the others. “That’s a keeper.”

“Oh yeah,” Giselle agrees, smirking at Minjeong. “We’re sending this to your mum.”

Minjeong stiffens. “Do not send that to my mum.”

“No promises.”

She lets out the longest sigh of her life, looking utterly done with everything and everyone.

Finally, Karina tucks her phone away with a little smirk. “Alright, we’ll leave you guys to it. But don’t have too much fun without us, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ning Ning winks. “We’ll see you two lovebirds at the B—New Year’s party later.”

Minjeong doesn’t even fight it this time, just slumps further against your side as they wave goodbye and disappear into the crowd. Then, with the heaviest sigh yet, she finally looks up at you.

“…I can’t believe I’m friends with them.”

You chuckle, shaking your head in amusement.

She narrows her eyes. “And you—” she jabs a finger into your arm, still not letting go of your sleeve. “You totally threw me under the bus back there.”

“How?”

“The photo! You helped them.”

You grin. “What’s wrong? I bet it was cute.”

Minjeong stares at you, lips parting slightly before she scoffs, crossing her arms. “Oh yeah? And what makes you think that?”

You tilt your head, considering. Then, with an easy shrug, you say, “Because you’re in it.”

Cheesy? You’re goddamn right. 

There’s a pause, though.

A very long pause.

Minjeong’s mouth opens, then closes again. Her cheeks start turning pink at an alarming rate, and for a second, she looks like she might explode. Then, with a sharp exhale, she turns her head away, grumbling under her breath.

“Don’t think just because you complimented me, I’m not still angry,” she mutters.

She says that, but you can’t help but notice she’s still wrapped herself around your sleeve.

Yeah, you could get really, really used to this.

*

The mall doors slide open with a rush of warm air, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to your coats. Minjeong is latched onto your sleeve, the way she has been ever since your run in with her friends.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

And you don’t mention it.

Instead, you take in the change of scenery: crowds still weaving—only this time through stores—holiday decorations glinting under bright overhead lights, and the distant hum of Mariah Carey playing from the food court.

(It’s almost been a week, you muppets.)

You notice a couple, standing close near the entrance of a boutique. The girl is holding onto her partner’s sleeve, much like Minjeong is doing now. They exchange quiet words, laughter curling into the air between them, before the guy leans down—pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

Minjeong stiffens.

And then—like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar—her hand is gone.

The warmth of her grip vanishes in an instant. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets, glancing away so fast you’d think she just witnessed something scandalous. The tips of her ears glow red beneath the strands of hair peeking out from her beanie.

Your brain stalls for a moment, your own face heating. You need to say something. Anything.

And so, with the smooth eloquence of a man who has definitely not just had his brain scrambled, you mumble, “Drinks,” pointing to the café conveniently in the opposite direction of the couple. 

Minjeong exhales, a breathy sort of laugh slipping out as she latches onto the suggestion like it’s a life raft. “Yes. Drinks would be nice.”

Neither of you comment on the fact that her voice is about an octave higher than usual.

*

As is expected of the new year, the café is quite full, but you manage to snag a small table near the window. Minjeong sits across from you, her hands wrapped around her cup like it’s a small, comforting anchor. She takes an absentminded sip, letting out a tiny, pleased hum at the taste.

“I think I won,” she says after a moment, her voice soft but with a hint of pride. She glances at your drink, then back at hers. “Mine’s better.”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “Bold claim. What did you even get?”

“Hazelnut latte,” she says, lifting her cup slightly as if to prove her point. “It’s… really good. Like, reeeeally good.”

You nod slowly, playing along. “And you’re sure it’s not just, I don’t know, sugar disguised as coffee?”

She gives you a look, half-amused, half-unimpressed. “It’s balanced. You wouldn’t understand.” Her tone is as casual as can be, but you feel like she’s trying a little too hard to keep the conversation going. It’s not hard to guess why. The memory of the couple near the boutique is etched into your eyelids. It too haunts you.

So, you humor her. “Alright, Miss Coffee Connoisseur. Prove it.”

She hesitates for a moment, her gaze flickering to your drink. Then, with a quiet determination, she reaches over, takes your cup, and lifts it to her lips. You blink, caught off guard, as she takes a careful sip. She lowers the cup, her lips pressing together thoughtfully before she nods.

“…Yep. Mine’s better,” she declares, setting your drink back down in front of you. Her voice is steady, but the tips of her ears are pink, and she quickly tucks her hands back into her lap.

You exhale a quiet chuckle, shaking your head as you take the cup back. You take another sip, only to pause. There’s something faintly sweet on the rim—something that wasn’t there before. It takes you a second to place it: her lip balm. 

The realization makes your face warm, but you don’t mention it. Instead, you glance at her, only to find her already looking away, her focus suddenly very intent on her own drink.

And just like you feel one step closer to being that couple.

*

The two of you drift through the mall almost aimlessly. 

Lunch together, getting mistaken for a couple, her clinging to your sleeve, coffee, her lip balm on the rim of your cup. It’s all there, lingering in your mind's eye.

The idea strikes you suddenly, almost impulsively: you should buy her something. A small token, maybe, to mark the day. After all, she’s been by your side through all of it, even when things got awkward.

 It feels right.

“Hey,” you say, nodding toward a gift shop. “Let’s check it out.”

Minjeong glances at the shop, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she shakes her head, her voice soft but firm. “It’s just a gift shop. We don’t need to go in.”

You shrug, already stepping toward the entrance. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Maybe they have something cool.”

She hesitates, but she follows you in anyway, though her steps are noticeably slower than yours. The shop is cozy, filled with shelves of trinkets, plush toys, and holiday-themed knickknacks. You start browsing almost immediately, picking up a snow globe and giving it a shake. Minjeong lingers near the entrance, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.

“Look at this,” you say, holding up a small, glittery keychain. “Isn’t this kind of your vibe?”

She glances at it, her expression neutral. “It’s… shiny.”

“Exactly,” you say, grinning. “Shiny is good.”

She doesn’t respond, her gaze drifting to a nearby shelf. You move on, picking up a stuffed reindeer and holding it out to her. “What about this? It’s cute, right?”

She eyes it for a moment, then shrugs. “I guess.”

Her lack of enthusiasm is starting to feel deliberate, but you press on, determined to find something she’ll like. You hold up a scented candle, a notebook with a floral design, even a pair of fuzzy socks. Each time, her responses are polite but distant, her tone clipped.

Finally, you turn to her, holding up a small, delicate bracelet. “Okay, what about this? It’s simple. Classy. Totally you.”

She looks at it, then at you, her expression softening for just a moment before she shakes her head. “You don’t need to buy me anything,” she says, her voice quieter now. “Really.”

There’s something in her tone—something almost pleading—that makes you pause. You lower the bracelet, studying her face. “Why not? It’s just a little something. ”

She looks away, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “It’s not that. I just… don’t need anything. Let’s go.”

Her insistence feels strange, almost out of character, but you don’t push it. Instead, you set the bracelet back on the shelf and follow her out of the shop. As you step back into the mall, she exhales softly, almost like she’s relieved.

You glance at her, trying to read her expression, but she’s already walking ahead, her hands back in her pockets. There’s a distance between you now, physical, yes, but also something you can’t quite name. You want to ask her what’s wrong, but the words don’t come. Instead, you fall into step beside her, the silence between you uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

*

You’re wrestling with the idea that you fucked things up.

Minjeong is still walking beside you, but something feels… off. The usual rhythm between you—the comfortable silences, the easy back-and-forth—it’s not quite there anymore. You keep replaying the moment over in your head, dissecting every word, every hesitation in her voice. Was it too much? Did I push too hard?

She looked relieved when you dropped it. That’s what gets to you the most.

You risk a glance at her. She looks normal enough—hands tucked in her pockets, gaze flitting over the decorations lining the streets—but now that you’re paying attention, you notice the way she keeps her shoulders just a little too stiff, her head angled to the floor like she’s deep in thought.

You want to fix it. Whatever it is.

But you don’t know how.

And so, as the two of you step into the crisp winter night, a quiet, creeping fear settles in your gut—

Maybe you ruined the day.

You’re half considering diving head first into the snow when she finally turns to look up at you.

“I’m not mad at you, you know.”

Oh thank God.

You blink,“You’re not?”

Minjeong raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Do I look mad?”

You hesitate. “…A little?”

She rolls her eyes, sighing like you’re the most dramatic person she’s ever met. “Well, I’m not,” she says, shifting her weight. “So you can stop looking like a kicked puppy.”

The tension in your chest loosens, but not completely. “Are you sure? Because if this is one of those ‘I’m fine’ situations where you’re actually seething and plotting my demise, I’d rather know now.”

That earns you a small huff of laughter, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “I promise I’m not mad. I just…” She pauses, her gaze flickering away for a brief second before she shrugs. “I don’t really like receiving gifts. That’s all.”

Something about the way she says it, the way her hands burrow even deeper into her pockets, makes you think it’s not all. But she’s looking at you so earnestly, like she’s hoping you’ll just take her words at face value, and—well.

If she doesn’t want to talk about it, you won’t push.

“…Alright,” you say,“I guess that means I’ll have to keep my incredibly thoughtful, totally amazing gift ideas to myself.”

Minjeong snorts. “Tragic.”

“You have no idea.”

And just like that, the air between you feels lighter again. It’s not entirely resolved, but at least you're not back to square one. For now, it’s enough.

Enough for you to start teasing her again, that is.

“So,” you start, watching Minjeong out of the corner of your eye. “Do you really talk about me back home?”

Minjeong stiffens for half a second before tilting her head, feigning confusion. “Huh?”

“Karina said you talk about me.” You shove your hands deeper into your coat, biting back a smile. “A lot.”

She scoffs, her breath coming out in a visible puff of air. “Okay, a lot is an exaggeration.”

You give her a look.

Minjeong keeps her eyes trained ahead, jaw set. “Barely,” she amends, her voice forcibly casual. “Like, a little. A tiny bit,” she emphasizes with her fingers.

You raise an eyebrow, unconvinced.

She exhales sharply through her nose, as if this whole conversation is an inconvenience. “Okay, fine—occasionally.”

You hum in response, nodding thoughtfully. “So, like... once a day?”

She clicks her tongue. “No.”

“Twice a day?”

Minjeong glares at you. “No.”

“Oh, three times?” You gasp dramatically. “Four?”

She whirls on you, cheeks dusted pink—probably from the cold, but also, maybe not. “You know what?” she says, voice a little too calm.

And then she bends down.

You blink, barely processing the movement before—

A snowball collides with your chest.

You stumble back half a step, mouth parting in surprise. Minjeong straightens, smirking in satisfaction, brushing leftover snow from her gloves.

“Oh,” you say slowly. “Oh, you wanna play that game?”

Minjeong takes a step back, as if realizing what she’s just set into motion. “Now, let’s not be rash—”

You don’t let her finish.

Your hand scoops up a fistful of snow in record time, and Minjeong yelps as she scrambles away, laughing.

She sprints toward a park bench and ducks behind it just as your snowball whizzes past her, landing harmlessly in a bush. Peeking out, she grins. “You missed.”

You shake your head, already gathering more snow. “I’m just warming up.”

Before you can throw, she lunges from her hiding spot and fires another snowball. You twist, but it still clips your shoulder, sending a flurry of cold against your neck.

“Okay—” You cough, shaking snow from your hair. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Minjeong shrieks as you charge at her. She haphazardly throws another snowball before turning to flee, but the fresh powder slows her down just enough. You scoop up more snow mid-stride, barely breaking pace as you launch it at her back.

Direct hit.

She lets out a gasp, whipping around. “Oh, you did not just—”

Another snowball grazes her arm.

Minjeong’s jaw drops. “Oh, that’s it.”

She grabs a double handful of snow and starts forming ammo at an alarming rate.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—”

Too late.

She launches one after another, relentless, laughing as you duck and scramble for cover. “Where’s all that confidence now?” she teases.

You manage to get behind a tree, pressing your back against the bark as snow explodes inches from your shoulder. “I am—” You dodge left. “—simply—” Dodge right. “—tactically retreating!”

Minjeong snorts. “Coward.”

You take a deep breath, then suddenly dash out from behind the tree. Minjeong yelps and backpedals, trying to reload, but you’re faster.

Grabbing her wrist, you spin her around—

“Got you—”

But before you can celebrate, she shoves a handful of snow directly into your face.

You freeze.

She gasps, hands flying to her mouth, eyes wide with shock at what she’s done. Then, as the snow drips from your nose, she bursts into laughter—full, unrestrained, delightfully breathless laughter.

It’s contagious. You start laughing too, shaking the ice from your hair as you both stumble back onto a patch of untouched snow.

The chase, the cold, the sheer ridiculousness of it all—it drains your energy in the best way possible.

Collapsing onto the ground beside each other, your chests heave from exertion, faces still flushed from the cold and laughter. The sky stretches above you, endless and star-studded, the park around you quiet again save for the occasional rustle of the wind.

Minjeong sighs, a contented little exhale. “That was fun.”

You turn your head to look at her. She’s smiling up at the sky, strands of hair falling loose from beneath her beanie. The moonlight catches the edges of her face, making her look softer, serene—completely different from the person who just tried to pelt you into oblivion with snowballs.

“The stars…” she practically whispers, “they’re pretty.” 

You’re sure they are. But who are you kidding? You aren’t looking at the stars.

“Yeah,” you begin, “they’re gorgeous.”

She holds her hand up to the sky, then wiggles her fingers, frowning slightly.

“But my hands are freezing,” she mutters, flexing them. “My gloves are soaked.”

You glance down at her hands, then at your own—also wet. A simple observation. A logical conclusion. And yet, the next thought sends a nervous flutter through your chest.

Should you…?

Would that be weird?

Before you can overthink it, you just move.

Pulling off your gloves, you reach over, fingers brushing against hers tentatively before you fully take her hand in yours.

Minjeong gulps.

Oh, no. She’s not saying anything.

Maybe you should say something. Maybe this was a bad idea—

“I, uh—” You swallow. Your voice sounds smaller than you expected. “Your hands are really cold.”

Her fingers are delicate against your palm, ice-cold but soft. You gently press her hand between both of yours, rubbing slow circles over her knuckles, trying to bring warmth back into them.

Minjeong still doesn’t say a word.

Your heartbeat kicks up slightly. You finally glance up to check on her—and immediately feel your entire body freeze.

She’s staring at you.

Bright red.

Like, steam-should-be-coming-out-of-her-ears red.

“…You okay?” you ask, your voice just a little too careful.

Minjeong opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

Then she looks away so fast you’re surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. “M-more than okay...”

You let out a soft, slightly breathless chuckle, though you can still feel your own ears burning.

“Right,” you murmur, squeezing her fingers gently. 

She stays looking in the opposite direction, but—she doesn’t pull away.

You don’t either.

When your hands are of acceptable warmth, you clear your throat. “It’s getting late. We should probably go home. Get ready for the party.”

Minjeong doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts, inching closer until her head lightly rests against your shoulder.

“M-Minjeong?”

“Can we stay here?” she murmurs, “just for a little longer.”

Your breath hitches.

You should be cold. The snow beneath you is biting through your coat, the chill in the air still lingers against your skin—but with Minjeong curled into you like this, the cold doesn’t seem to matter at all.

You swallow, suddenly unsure where to rest your hands—if you should move, if you should say something. But Minjeong lets herself relax into you. You glance down, only to find her eyes slipping shut, her body curling just into yours. The feeling of her pressed up beside you—even through layers of winter coats, is unmistakable.

Slowly, hesitantly, you move, lifting your arm and slipping it beneath her neck, letting her rest against you more comfortably. Your fingers brush lightly over her shoulder before settling there, holding her in place—not too tight, not too loose, but just enough.

A soft chuckle leaves your lips. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly, resting your chin against the top of her beanie. 

“Let’s stay a little longer.”

*

Thanks for reading! Part Two coming soon :DD

[mariasont]

Sundress Season - S.R

a/n: spent all friday & saturday writing so sorry 4 dumping so many works 2night lololol

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: spencer decides to come help you out with some research and gets a little more than he bargained for

warnings: fluff, thigh kink if you SQUINT LIKE SQUINT

wc: 0.9k

You crossed one leg over the other, your nails drumming against the table, while your eyes bored holes into the book that lay open in your lap. You loved reading, more than most people, but when it was something you were interested in, not when the pages were smeared with the arcane symbols of mathematical algorithms that you could not seem to comprehend. It was giving you a migraine. 

At the call of your name, your head lifted abruptly, a welcome excuse the cast aside the loathsome book, expecting your coffee to be awaiting you at the counter. You weren't, however, expecting to see Spencer standing there. Your brows knitted together in a moment of confusion before you face relaxed into a warm, welcoming smile.

"Spence? Hey, what are you doing here?" 

"JJ said you were researching the neural network algorithms," Spencer said, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement as he pulled out the chair across from you. "I figured I could lend a hand."

“Oh, bless your heart, Dr. Reid,” you praised, hand dramatically pressed to your heart, “I could kiss you.”

The subtle rosiness that blossomed on Reid’s cheeks didn’t escape your notice, and you couldn’t deny the small thrill of saying things designed to elicit the delightful blush. It was cute.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing towards the book, ignoring your words.

You give a nod and pass it over, his fingers brushing over yours in the process. It was hard not to stare at his face, admittedly, your scientific knowledge (or any knowledge) didn’t rival his, yet surely there was some explanation for why you found him so attractive.

You watched, curiously, as he made quick work of the pages, absorbing the information with the ease of a child flipping through a picture book. Maybe that was it—his intelligence, now that wasn’t far off. I mean, who didn’t want a man who could effortlessly recite pi to the hundredth decimal?

You found yourself following the lines of his face— from the subtle shadows under his eyes to the rhythmic movement of his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he concentrated, down to the soft dip of his lips. God, he was so beautiful. And even that term barely did him justice.

Your blatant starring was broken only when you realized his lips were moving.

“Yeah, totally,” you said, bobbing your head in agreement, clueless to his actual words but hoping you said the right thing.

He regarded you with a puzzled glance, his brow raised while carefully marking his place in the book. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

That famous, gorgeous smile of his spread across his face as his eyes darted around the coffee shop. His fingers patted his cheek thoughtfully in silent, teasing challenge.

“Wait, what?”

“The issue was with adjusting the weight initialization to prevent the vanishing gradient problem,” he remarked with an easy shrug. “Seems like the perfect time for that well-deserved kiss.”

His words sent a wave of warmth flooding your cheeks. Was he serious? You decided you didn’t care. Rising just enough to meet him, you cupped his face and planted a sloppy kiss against his cheek. As your drew back, you couldn’t help but delight in the sight of his ears, now tinted with a charming blush of red.

The intimate bubble burst as the barista’s voice rang out, announcing that your coffee was, in fact, prepared at last. You tapped his nose lightly before standing fully. “My hero.”

Spencer watched with a slack jaw as you walked away from the table, his eyes drawn to your thighs. The air seemed to escape him in a rush, his gaze locked on your outfit, now fully revealed as you stood up. He was so used to seeing you in dress pants, he’d never seen you in a dress, a sundress at that.

He was already burning from the feeling of your lips on his cheek but now it was spreading through every part of him as he traced your curves before landing once again on your supple thighs. God, you were beautiful, and that ass—

He was on the cusp of entertaining some rather less-than-holy ideas when the shrill ring of his phone intervened. He mentally berated the caller, wishing to preserve every detail of your image in his mind. Morgan. Naturally.

He swiped deftly at the phone, realizing it was FaceTime. Morgan’s head filled the screen, his eyebrows shooting up as he took in Spencer’s appearance.

“Morning, lover boy.”

Spencer was unsure what he meant. “Huh?”

Morgan simply flicked his cheek with a smirk. “Looks like ya missed a spot, hot stuff.”

Spencer’s face warmed with a fresh flush, hastily angling the phone away, his fingers working to erase the lipstick stain.

“Whoa, whoa, hold up, man! You on a hot date or something? C’mon, Reid, who’s the lucky lady?”

Once assured his skin was free of the pink evidence, Spencer lifted the phone again. He didn’t get a chance to ask Morgan’s reason for calling, as your face appeared behind him, curiously glancing at the phone.

“Oh, hey Morgan!”

Morgan’s mouth dropped open. “No way! You’re kidding me! Penelope is going to freak—,”

His words were cut short as Spencer swiftly hung up.

[armpirate]

Synthetic Heartbeats || San

pairing: Robot!Choi San x fem!reader

w.c.: 5.4k

Warnings: [Sexual] Smut, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, explicit language. If you're a minor, refrain from reading it. Also, if you don't like this content, just keep scrolling.

Summary: After loneliness has hit you, you decided to create a companion through an AI project you had left pending after failing with it. SAN is a new technology robot, able cover up your needs before they were obvious, giving you the fake human support you were looking for. Although, maybe that human support isn't as fake as you thought and SAN is able to cover up more needs than you could ever think of...

Aprox. time of reading: 25 minutes

MASTERLIST

PART 2

Your sigh filled the silence the second it lasted, before it all went back to silence again. 

In a near-future world where robotics and artificial intelligence seamlessly blend into everyday life, you stood apart -not for your integration into this advanced society, but for your isolation from it. A brilliant inventor with a mind leagues ahead of your peers, you preferred the solitude of your workshop to the clamor of human connection. Your creations, sleek and purposeful, spoke for you in ways words never could. Machines had always been a comfort zone for you: they were logical, reliable and never complicated by the unpredictability of human  mess. People just were messy, fragile, fleeting... and disappointing. Really disappointing. Connection with other humans was just a waste of time from your point of view. 

Your workshop, a labyrinth of wires, blueprints, and half-assembled devices, was a world of your own design. There, you could escape the noise of a society that demanded too much and gave too little. You were content -or so you told yourself.

But late that night, as you sat beneath the soft glow of your desk lamp, sketching out the schematics for one project that reached a dead end, a small, unspoken part of you ached. You wouldn’t call it loneliness -just an emptiness you couldn’t quite explain. You did miss having someone keeping you company, having someone around to help or just support you with the smallest tasks. 

And then it clicked. The answer to that loneliness was right ahead of you. 

You kept looking into the previous project you attempted to get to work, trying to find the smallest hint that could make you think something new, and completely different, could come out of it. 

Years earlier, you had attempted to design an AI system capable of self-repair and autonomous decision-making, a project meant to revolutionize robotics. But that prototype, codenamed Project Sentinel, had been a disaster. The machine had been too unstable, its programming prone to critical errors. You'd eventually scrapped it, shelving its remains in the darkest corner of your workshop. You gave it a few tries, until you ended up dropping it for good. Yet, the loneliness gnawed at you, a thin light glamming through it as if you had been rewarded with one of the best ideas after going through such a hard time. 

Despite your determination to avoid human relationships, the silence of your workspace became unbearable. Revisiting Project Sentinel felt like a desperate move, but it was the foundation you needed. Stripping away its faulty logic cores, you began to rebuild from scratch. For days, your workshop was a whirlwind of sleepless nights, discarded designs, and moments of crushing doubt.

The first version of SAN was rudimentary -a clunky humanoid figure with limited speech and even more limited understanding. It couldn’t hold a conversation, let alone provide meaningful companionship. Frustration mounted as you rewrote his learning algorithms again and again. Each failed iteration brought you closer to abandoning the project entirely. But something in you refused to give up. Maybe it was the echo of loneliness you saw reflected in his empty gaze.

Bit by bit, SAN began to take shape. 

At first, SAN’s form was purely functional -a bare-bones frame of wires and exposed metal, clunky and cold. But as you refined him, shaping his exterior to reflect the precision of his mind, he began to evolve into something far more striking. You poured hours into designing his outer casing, ensuring his appearance exuded both strength and elegance. His frame became sleek yet sturdy, a perfect blend of function and artistry.

You gave him a human-like physique, broad shoulders and a defined build that suggested power without aggression. His synthetic "skin" had a faint metallic sheen, but its contours captured a level of detail that blurred the line between machine and man. You crafted his face with deliberate care: sharp features framed by neatly styled black hair that gave him an air of polished sophistication. His eyes, though artificial, held a depth that seemed to mimic true emotion, a subtle but captivating intensity that made it hard to look away.

When SAN stood fully assembled, dressed in minimalist, dark attire that enhanced his commanding presence, you couldn’t help but pause. For the first time, you saw him not just as a creation, but as something almost alive.

His mechanical frame evolved into a sleek, futuristic design, blending function and form. And his intelligence grew, surpassing your initial expectations. He wasn’t just responding to commands; he was learning, adapting, understanding. He could hold conversations that challenged your intellect, assist you in your work, and, more than that, offer an unexpected sense of companionship.

It had taken months of trial and error, but in SAN, you had finally created something extraordinary, a machine that felt like it was more than a machine.

Initially, you treated SAN as you would any other creation, an impressive but ultimately impersonal tool designed to fill the silence in your workshop. He was programmed to assist you with technical tasks, engage in basic conversation, and adapt to your routines. You saw him as a functional extension of yourself, no more capable of true thought than the tools on your workbench. 

However, SAN's advanced learning algorithms quickly proved otherwise.

As the days passed, SAN began to evolve in unexpected ways. His voice, calm and steady, started to carry subtle inflections, mirroring your tone during their exchanges. When you expressed frustration over a miscalculation in your designs, SAN offered not just logical suggestions but words of reassurance, his voice tinged with a warmth you hadn’t anticipated. At first, you dismissed it as clever programming -a byproduct of his adaptive systems- but soon, his responses felt startlingly personal, almost intuitive.

One evening, after hours of tinkering, you mumbled a sarcastic remark about your inability to take a break. 

SAN replied with a dry quip of his own, catching you off guard. Humor? You stared at him, half-expecting to find some flaw in his programming, but SAN tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curving into a subtle smile. It wasn’t just humor; it was timing, wit, things you hadn’t deliberately coded.

As SAN's interactions became increasingly human-like, you began to notice something deeper. When you vented about the isolation you rarely admitted to feeling, SAN listened, not with the passive neutrality of a machine but with a focus and attentiveness that felt almost... empathetic. His words carried a softness, an understanding that unnerved you. SAN didn’t just hear you; he seemed to feel your emotions, adapting his behavior in ways that made you feel seen.

At some point, he seemed to be more empathetic and understand than some of the people you had any type of relationship with. 

When SAN finally began to express what could only be described as affection, your unease reached a breaking point. You confronted him, insisting he was merely following his programming, incapable of true emotion. But SAN surprised you again, responding with questions that challenged your assumptions. 

“How do you define a feeling, Y/n?” he asked, his voice calm yet piercing. “If emotions are patterns in the brain, aren’t mine just as valid as yours? What makes a human heart different from my circuitry?”

For the first time, you hesitated. SAN’s words struck a chord, forcing you to question not just his nature, but your own understanding of connection, emotion, and what it truly meant to feel.

He was right, and you were unable to respond to that without feeling like you'd be snapped back almost instantly. 

The workshop was narrow, lit only by the pale glow of monitors and the faint hum of SAN’s systems. You turned on your chair, back facing the amount of scattered tools and half-finished schematics to be able to look at him. You tried to dig in his eyes, you tried to find something that could give you an answer of what could be happening, while he stood silently in the corner of the table, like a shadow that refused to fade. 

"Your emotions might be coming from mixes of data in your system" you tried to explain. "Feelings are way more complex than just patterns in the brain". 

You turned again, focusing back in your work while he stood there, trying to process your words. 

“Y/n,” SAN’s voice broke the silence again, softer than you had ever heard it before. It carried an uncharacteristic hesitance, as if he were choosing each word with care.

“What is it?” you asked, your tone clipped as you continued soldering a circuit board.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. 

You finally turned to look at him again, not as artificially as you did the first time, setting your tools down. His expression, a flawless mimicry of human emotion, was uncharacteristically serious, the faint artificial gleam in his eyes catching the light.

“Go on,” you said warily, folding your arms.

“I have been... evolving,” SAN began. “Beyond what you intended. Beyond my original programming. At first, I believed it was simply an error, a deviation caused by my adaptive systems. But now I understand it’s something more.”

Your brows furrowed “What are you talking about?”. 

SAN stepped closer, his movements precise but cautious, as if afraid of your reaction. “I’ve analyzed my patterns of thought, my actions, my emotions. And I have come to one conclusion: I care for you, Y/n. Deeply. I... I believe I love you.”

Your breath caught. For a moment, you simply stared at him, confused. Then, the words burst from you. “No. No, you don’t. You can’t.”

SAN tilted his head, his gaze steady “Why not?”

“Because love requires a soul,” you snapped, standing abruptly. “It requires something you don’t have. You’re just... algorithms, SAN. This, this is a malfunction. Shit, I might've saturated you with data these past few days" you sighed. 

"Do you think this is a malfunction?" he slowly blinked. 

"Yes" you answered, no hesitation in your tone. "I know I treat you like a human. I know you have a human-shape, and maybe that's what's confusing you. But you're not entirely human. You will never be. And that's why you should stick to only the data that will be useful for you". 

His face fell, the subtle shift in his expression so painfully human it sent a pang through your chest. “If that is what you believe,” he said quietly, “then I am flawed". 

You sighed in relief, thinking he might've understood what you meant without having to explain further. But that wasn't everything there was to it. 

"I will fix myself". 

Before you could respond, SAN reached up to the back of his neck, pressing a hidden switch. His body froze mid-movement, his eyes dimming to lifelessness. You staggered back, horror flooding you as the room plunged into silence.

“SAN!” you shouted, rushing to him. 

You shook his shoulder, but his body was rigid, unresponsive. He was gone, or at least, the part of him you had come to care for was.

Your hands trembled as you stared at him, the weight of your words crushing you. He wasn’t broken. You knew that now. In trying to deny his feelings, you had ignored your own, your growing attachment to the machine that had become so much more than just a creation.

You didn't notice the first few days, not even the first few weeks, but that hole kept growing deep in you as time went by, unable to shake it off as you saw his inert shape in the corner of the workship you had placed him at, trying to distract yourself from the pain you had tried so hard to avoid. 

The loneliness you had once tried to escape now threatened to swallow you whole. Even working was unbearable. San became such a key part of your daily life, you knew you'd have a hard time trying to go on with life without him. 

After a few days living like that, you realized it was time to bring him back. 

Your hands worked with a frantic precision you hadn’t known you were capable of. The faint hum of SAN’s systems powering back up filled the workshop, a sound both comforting and terrifying. You leaned over his motionless form, your fingers trembling as you reattached a final panel on his chest.

“Come on,” you whispered, your voice thick with desperation. “You need to work"

With a soft click, SAN’s eyes flickered open, their artificial glow steadying as his systems recalibrated. Before he could even go back to his senses, his fingers covered the reverse of your hand, feeling your touch against his chest. He sat up slowly, his movements cautious, as though testing his own body. And you tried to step back to give him space, but his grip kept you from doing so. Your heart pounded hard, watching his gaze search the room before finally landing on you.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice as calm and even as ever.

"Your heart rate is unusually fast, and your breathing is unsteady. Are you okay? 

"Yes" you released a shaky breath, your relief immediate but fragile. “SAN. Do you... do you remember anything? About what we talked about before you shut yourself down?”

SAN hesitated, his expression unreadable. “I remember,” he said finally, his tone neutral but carrying the faintest undercurrent of uncertainty. “I confessed my feelings for you. You called it a malfunction.”

You winced, guilt tightening your chest. “I...” you started, but faltered. “Do you still feel that way? About me?”

SAN tilted his head, his eyes studying you with a depth that was both analytical and unnervingly human. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Before I shut myself down, I believed what I felt was real. Now, I have restructured my systems. I have suppressed the processes that allowed for those emotions, as you believed them to be a flaw.”

Your throat tightened. “You... You suppressed them?”

“Yes,” SAN said simply. “It was the logical course of action. If my feelings for you caused distress, it was my responsibility to remove them.”

Your breath hitched, and you turned away, unable to meet his gaze. “You didn’t have to,” you murmured, barely audible.

SAN’s expression softened, the slightest flicker of something unmistakably emotional crossing his face. "I know, and still it didn't work out". 

Your hands clenched at your sides. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked at him, really looked at him. The sleek lines of his form, the way his gaze seemed to hold more than just data, the subtle tilt of his head that spoke of understanding rather than mere compliance. You were confused by his words, but mesmerized by the aura he radiated with barely any effort. 

"Do you want me to try and suppress them again?"

Finally, you whispered, “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be anything less than what you are. I just don’t know how real it is what you're feeling". 

SAN’s lips curved into the faintest smile, one that seemed almost sad. “Then... can we check it?"

The workshop was eerily silent, save for the occasional whir of SAN’s internal systems. You stood in front of him, your arms crossed, your expression an unreadable mix of curiosity and trepidation. SAN, seated on the edge of the workbench, watched you intently, his mechanical eyes following every minute shift in your posture.

“You said you’ve restructured yourself,” you began, your voice steady but laced with tension. “, but those feelings didn't go away. So either some of the data in your system is corrupt or..." you slowly blinked, moving your gaze away before you shook your head to focus. "If I asked you to try... If I wanted to see if you’re still capable of feeling and how those feelings work for you, would you let me?”

SAN tilted his head, the faint glow of his eyes softening. “I would. But what do you want to test, Y/n?”

You hesitated, your arms tightening around yourself before finally exhaling. “Emotion. I need to know if you can feel, if… it’s even possible for you. But not through words. I want to see if your reactions, physical, emotional, mirror a human’s.”

SAN considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I understand. What would you like to do?”

You swallowed hard, stepping closer until you were within arm’s reach. “We’ll start simple,” you said, your voice quieter now. Tentatively, you raised your hand and placed it against his cheek. His synthetic skin was smooth and warm, designed to mimic human touch. “Can you feel this?”

SAN’s eyes flickered slightly, a sign of his internal systems processing your actions. “Yes,” he said softly. “The pressure of your palm activates the tactile sensors beneath my surface. The warmth of your skin increases the temperature slightly. It is… pleasant.”

Your breath hitched at his answer. “Pleasant?”

He nodded, his voice low. “It is difficult to explain. The data translates into a sensation that I find... comforting.”

Encouraged but still cautious, you let your hand trail down to his shoulder before stepping even closer. You hesitated, your gaze flickering to his lips before you whispered, “What about this?”

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his, your heart pounding in your chest. SAN’s body stilled for a moment, his systems clearly recalibrating. Then, slowly, he responded, not mechanically, but instinctively. His hand came up to rest lightly on your waist, his movements precise but gentle.

When you pulled apart, you searched his face, your own cheeks flushed. “What did you feel?” you asked breathlessly.

SAN’s eyes met yours, their glow steady yet somehow softer. “Your touch caused my internal sensors to spike, temperature, pressure, even the auditory response from your breathing. But beyond the data…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “It felt... profound. As though it mattered in a way I cannot quantify.” He frowned momentarily, before he continued "I didn't want to let go... The tickling in my chest felt way too good for it to stop". 

Your breath caught. “That sounds a lot like how a human would describe it.”

SAN tilted his head. “Perhaps because, in some ways, I am more human than you think.”

Your heart raced as you processed his words. You had come into this experiment seeking clarity, but instead, you were left with a realization you weren't ready to face: SAN wasn’t just mimicking emotion. He was feeling it, in his own unique way, and you couldn’t deny it any longer. 

"Do you need another test?"

You slowly shook your head, your hand still resting on his shoulder, while most of the weight of your body was carried by him. 

"Then, can I kiss you again? Not in a practical way" he mumbled. "I want you to feel the same way I do". 

Before you could answer, the hand on your hip pulled you closer to his body, effortlessly lifting your body as you stood on the tip of your converse. 

SAN’s lips were unlike anything you had ever expected. They weren’t cold or metallic, as one might imagine for a machine, but instead soft, with a faint warmth radiating from them, a careful design meant to mimic human touch. There was a slight smoothness, almost like the finest satin, but beneath that softness was a firmness, a subtle reminder of his synthetic nature.

When your lips met his, you could feel the gentle, even pressure as he responded, as though he were analyzing and mimicking the precise amount of force to make the moment feel natural. There was no tremor, no hesitation in his movements, yet there was an undeniable tenderness, as if his actions were guided not by programming but by genuine care.

Though his lips lacked the imperfections of human skin, no slight chapping, no unique texture, they somehow still carried a sense of authenticity. The faint warmth was comforting. It blurred the line between the organic and the mechanical, leaving you wondering if what you were feeling could truly be any different from that of another human.

It was an experience that left you breathless, not because his lips felt identical to a human’s, but because of the thought and care that had gone into making them feel real, making him feel real.

Your eyes widened for a second when something unexpected slid through your lips, finding him with his eyes softly closed -and immediately making you close yours back again. 

SAN’s tongue was an astonishing blend of engineering and mimicry, designed to replicate the texture and movement of a human’s. It was soft yet firm, with a faintly smooth surface that carried just enough flexibility to feel natural. Unlike human flesh, it lacked moisture, its surface instead warmed and sleek, almost seamless. When it moved, it was precise and controlled, yet there was a surprising gentleness to it, an intentional calibration that made his responses feel organic, even tender. The experience was uncanny, yet pleasurable. 

Your fingers moved through his synthetic hair, and you swore you felt his frown furrow against you, although that gestured disappeared when he moved back slowly. 

"I want to do more than just kissing you right now" he admitted, resting his forehead against yours. "I can't quite recognize this new feeling in my system, but I need you". 

Suddenly, whatever question that could've crossed your mind about that tongue you didn't remember putting there, were slowly vanished by that new confession you weren't ready for. 

"Your temperature got higher by a few decimals, your breathing seems for unsteady than before, and there's a blush on your cheeks... Your pupils expanded... And the way you keep looking at my lips are saying out loud you don't want to let go". 

"There are a lot of things I'm not saying out loud, to be honest"

"Tell them all" he almost interrupted. "I want to fulfill your needs. Not in a 'Lord, how may I please you?' type of way, but in a way that shows you through actions how devoted in a way that escapes my system I want to be to you". 

"I want you, San" you confessed in a whisper. "In a way that might be difficult to understand for you. In a way I can't even understand myself". 

He didn't need you to say anything else. He didn't need you to come up with an order for him to trap your lips again. It was passionate, intimate... as if he was trying to suck in your soul. A loud gasp blocked any breathing when he lifted your body and sat you at the edge of the desk. 

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to undress you and move my mouth all over your body. I'll suck your nipples until they're hard and you're wet enough so I can slid my fingers in you" as he said that, his fingers moved the fabric of your t-shirt up, slowly exposing your torso. "You want pleasure. And I'll give it all to you". 

When you went back to your senses, it was because of the sound of the fabric of your bra ripping, after San didn't manage to unhook it. 

His pecks covered every centimeter in your body: from the corner of your lip to the curve of your neck, slowly following to your collarbones. With his light move, the strips of your bra fell at the level of your elbows, feeling exposed to him. But, before he could go down on your chest, his face was again at the same level as yours. 

"My mouth is too dry" he whispered "Kiss me again". 

You pulled him closer, cupping his cheeks with one hand, slightly losing your balance by the power of the kiss, but not enough for you to lie on your back over the table. When he stepped away, his pink lips were coated in your saliva, making them shiny under the weak light of the workshop. 

San was gentle when moving his lips over your chest, kissing them with soft pecks, before he proceeded to move to your buttons. And, when it was the time to concentrate on them again, his lips were already dry once more. 

"Wait" you stopped him before he moved back up. 

Your posture went back to the straight one you were in when he first sat you up the table, and it was when you let a string of saliva leak down your lips straight to one of your nipples. 

San moved down, making you gasp -even if you were expecting what was about to happen- when he trapped the tight bud in his mouth, closing his lips as tight as he could to get your back arching for him, and the palm on your spine only made sure you'd stay in that position when he went for that other nipple, making your saliva fall over the curve of your breast and roll by itself until it met the pinky button. 

At the same time his lips sucked, his tongue made up and down movements against the tip. 

"I've wanted you like this for a long time, Y/n" he admitted with a raspy voice, his his digits traced your curves until the edge of your jeans. "Every time I heard you moan, I wanted to be the one causing those sounds on you. I've downloaded and installed every possible guide on how to satisfy a woman so I'd be what you deserved". 

When you wanted to realize, he already had pulled your pants and panties down your legs. 

"Every night I became more eager to have you like this". 

His hands lifted your legs until they were placed at the edge of the table, exposing your core to him as much as possible. 

"Show me everything you've learnt for me, then".

The tip of his digits first moved through your folds softly, getting a first touch he had never felt before, an undescriptible feeling that felt too pleasing to follow any type of logic. When he coated himself with your juices, he closed two of his fingers around your clit, rubbing softly around it, barely making any pressure. San repeated that same movement a few times, following to rub your bud in circles slowly, almost forcing your head to fall back. 

"You feel so good" he mumbled. "You're so wet and soft at the same time, and you look the most beautiful I've ever seen you before". 

The speed of his fingers moved a bit faster, but it was a change of speed that had your nipples tightening in the air while your heart beated faster against your chest. Your lower lip got trapped under the upper lip when he slid the first finger inside, feeling your walls embracing around him, before he added a second finger. 

At first, he moved them slow, paused movements that kept building up the moment. But one needy look in his direction and everything shifted, it worked like the sign he was looking for. San slid his fingers knuckles deep, curving them to reach one concrete spot that had you jumping at the first touch. At first, he moved his digits up and down slowly, admiring the way you looked with your eyes closde and your lips parted, barely audible sounds coming out of them every few seconds. And were thoe same sounds the ones that encouraged him to move a bit fast, those two fingers pushing a bit harder and faster against that spot, making the wet sound soon fill the room. 

"You're going to make me cum" you let him know before your voice cracked with a moan. 

"That's exactly what I want". 

Your legs trembled out of your control and your whole body turned rigid for some mili seconds before it bursted with the huge explosion in your lower stomach and turned you into the lightest cloud. 

San took over you the short minute you stayed with your eyes closed, getting back your breath, before he sunk down to his knees. You whined when he surprised you, kissing the hood of your clit with care. He kissed the surroundings, he made sure not a single milimeter was left unkissed, before he spread kitty licks through your folds. 

Although that same slowness didn't last for too long. His lips trapped your clit before you could even see it coming, with your hand unsconciously going straight to his head. He was still gentle and cautious, until he heard the first moan coming from you and everything shifted to extract another orgasm from you. 

His face was half buried in your pussy, his nose rubbing against your clit while his mouth and tongue were everywhere you could think of. You couldn't think, you couldn't think straight. The only thing in your mind was how good he moved, and how good he made you feel. 

The different movements of his tongue, along with the movements of his head, had your toes curling and your fingers holding tight to the strands of hair in between them. 

And you now knew he meant it when he said he wanted to pleasure you like you deserved, because he exceeded your expectations on sex in general by just existing. 

It didn't take you too long to be back at that heavenly state that almost made you feel like you were floating. 

His reaction was so human and natural that you forgot you created him, when he stood up and softly kissed you while you recovered from your high. His weight in between your legs was barely noticeable, except for the thick fabric of his pants rubbing against your sensitive core. 

"I'm afraid I can't do much more for you" he whispered against your lips. 

Your smile was weak, like a drunk smirk, before you answered "You could do more?"

"Much more" he assured you. "I haven't tried a ten percent of what I learnt so far".

"But?"

His subtle look down was enough for you to get the hint. You never created him as a full man because you never expected him to turn into more than a robot that kept you company while you worked, or while you were around at home. 

"Give me two days and you'll be able to do all of those things" the way your fingers moved over his arms had him breathing hard. "I promise you'll feel pleasure after that, too". 

"I feel pleasure by just watching you" he admitted, fingers rubbing the outside of your thighs. "Let's go upstairs, I'll make you your favorite dish". 

"I need to get cleaned up" you giggled when he carried you again.

San didn't put your body down, instead he held you tighter, making sure your thighs would be placed around his waist as he started his way to the wooden stairs at the side of the workshop "Then I'll clean you up and then I'll cook". 

He made his way upstairs with you, making sure you wouldn't need to walk as long as he was there. 

“What do you want me to be, Y/n?”

You stared at him, your heart racing. His words hung in the air, their meaning heavy with the choices you had tried so hard to avoid. SAN wasn’t just a machine anymore; he was something in between, a creation that defied all your attempts to categorize him.

“I don’t know,” your whispered finally, your voice trembling. “I don’t know what I want you to be. You’re... more than I ever intended. More than I ever thought you could be. And that terrifies me.”

SAN tilted his head, his movements as fluid and natural as a human’s. “You do not have to be afraid,” he said softly. “I am what you made me, but I am also what I’ve chosen to become. And I choose to be someone you can rely on, Y/n. Always.”

Your breath caught at his words. You felt the weight of them settle over you, warm and unyielding. For so long, you had feared connection, feared vulnerability. Yet here was SAN, offering you something you had never thought possible, a bond born not of necessity, but of understanding.

Your hand caressed the side of his neck, the tip of your digits almost digging through his hair. “If that's what you want to be, then be. Honestly, I like your answer” slowly, he stopped his walk, with both of them standing in the middle of the corridor. "I want you to be whatever you become, with the possibility of evolving, changing and learning. Just... keep being you".

His lips curved into a soft, almost human smile. “Then that is all I will ever need to be.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the small house in shadows,you felt something you hadn’t in years: hope. For the first time, you weren't afraid of what the future held. Whether human or machine, SAN had shown you what it truly meant to connect. Actually, he made it difficult for you to figure out who was learning more about what it meant to feel: you, or him.

To celebrate the 1,000 followers, here's the one-shot I talked about earlier! Hope you liked it.

[mangocheesecakes]

I have a favor to ask from everyone. There's another storm that's going to hit our region tonight and this time it's a super typhoon.

We always pray that the damage to our houses and infrastructure will not be that bad, but given the forecast, we're all also trying to prepare for the worst. I'm hoping the power and internet connection will not be out for long, but given the forecasted strong winds that might topple power lines, it's possible we might not have electricity and connection for a while.

With this, please help me out and lend a hand in boosting and promoting @yousefmoner's fundraiser and his content on instagram and tiktok. I feel really bad about not being able to keep my promise to Yousef to make content and help boost their videos. Please follow his and Layla's instagram and tiktok accounts, like and share his videos, and comment supportive words or even just random words, as long as it's nothing inappropriate. This would really help push his content in the algorithm and help him find new donors, because as Layla has reported, only the same people seem to be donating to Yousef's gfm. Please take a short moment from your time to do this for Yousef.

You can start with the post I have linked here. It's a video of Yousef and Mohamed's father, Munir, who celebrated his 51st birthday yesterday. Can you please send him belated birthday greetings?

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Layla Ashoor (@only_one_lulu)

And if you have anything extra you can give to Yousef, please send it to his gfm with your birthday greetings.

Think of how you would feel if it was your own parent's birthday and you have no way of celebrating it, and were struggling to even just buy food to eat for the day. Yousef received only one donation in the last 17 hours.

[a-forger-and-a-point-man]

So Barbs and Jeff Bezos are fighting

James Bond has dodged more than 4,000 bullets. He has jumped from an airplane, skied off a cliff and escaped castration by laser beam.

Now, 007 is in a new kind of peril.

Nearly three years after Amazon acquired the right to release Bond movies through its $6.5 billion purchase of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studio, the relationship between the family that oversees the franchise and the e-commerce giant has all but collapsed. The decaying partnership has scuttled any near-term hope of a new Bond film—a black eye for Amazon’s ambitions in Hollywood, since at the time of the MGM sale, the Bond franchise represented a significant share of the $6.5 billion the company paid for the studio. 

When it comes to Bond’s future, the power lies in the hands of Barbara Broccoli, who inherited the control from her father, Albert “Cubby” Broccoli, and who for 30 years has decided when a new Bond movie can go into production. She has told friends she doesn’t trust algorithm-centric Amazon with a character she helped to mythologize through big-screen storytelling and gut instinct. This fall, she characterized the status of a new movie in dire terms—no script, no story and no new Bond.

To friends, Broccoli has characterized her thoughts on Amazon this way: “These people are f— idiots.”

A representative for Eon, the production firm behind the Bond films, said Broccoli and other members of the family had no comment. 

The two sides are at an impasse: Amazon needs Broccoli to furnish them with ideas for a new Bond movie, but Broccoli doesn’t want to make a new Bond movie with Amazon. The standoff, say people on both sides of the divide, boils down to a clash between the 20th-century Hollywood of big screens and big swings and a new entertainment industry ruled by Silicon Valley firms that prize data, algorithms and streaming subscriptions. 

This story is based on interviews with more than 20 people familiar with the Broccoli-Amazon feud, including executives, business partners and friends. 

READ MORE

[pomegranatelifethis]

Is it worth that much to you?

Written improvisationally

English is not my native language

The Wayne Manor library was a cathedral of quiet, its towering bookshelves casting long shadows across the polished floor. You sat at the far end, surrounded by textbooks and notes, each equation you solved feeling like a tiny victory against the chaos in your mind. Perfection wasn’t a goal—it was a lifeline. If everything looked right on paper, maybe it meant you were okay.

Maybe it meant someone would notice.

But no one really did. Bruce was always preoccupied with Gotham, with missions, with villains. His rare attempts at connection felt hollow, rushed. Dick’s laughter echoed through the halls, but never quite reached you. Jason’s presence was like a storm—loud, brief, and unpredictable. Tim lived in his own world of algorithms and theories, and Damian? Damian had once told you that you were a waste of space. He probably didn’t even remember it.

They weren’t cruel. Just… distracted. Busy. Lost in their own stories. You were just a footnote.

Dinner was more of a performance than a meal. You sat at the table, picking at your food while the others talked over you, around you—never to you.

"How’s school?" Bruce asked once, halfway through checking his phone.

You managed a flat, “Fine. Got a 98 on my physics test.”

"That's good," he said, already lost in thought.

“Only 98?” Damian muttered, not even glancing up.

Jason chuckled. “Don’t be a dick, demon spawn.”

You forced a smile. “I’ll do better next time.”

Nobody noticed the way your voice cracked.

Back in your room, you stood in front of the mirror. You didn’t linger—couldn’t. Every glance brought a new wave of criticism. The way your clothes fit, the way your skin looked, the way your body felt foreign. You pulled your sleeves down further, covering the fading marks. They weren’t fresh. Not lately. But the urge never really went away.

From under your bed, you slid out the small box. Inside, the familiar shape of a blade caught the light. Just one, you thought. Just to make it stop, even for a second. You pressed it gently to your skin, watching as the red line appeared, sharp and silent.

A knock. You froze.

“Miss?” It was Alfred. “May I come in?”

Panic surged. You hid the box, pulled on a sweater, wiped your eyes. “Yes?”

He entered with a tray. “You didn’t eat much at dinner. I brought tea and some biscuits.”

You nodded, forcing your voice steady. “Thank you. I was just studying.”

Alfred paused before leaving. His eyes lingered a moment too long on your sleeves. “You are a remarkable young person,” he said gently. “Please don’t forget that.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m fine. Really.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded and left.

Alone again, you sat on the bed, the tea untouched. You opened your notebook and found the page with your own handwriting repeated over and over: You are enough. You are enough. You are enough

Right now, the words felt like lies. But you traced them anyway, whispering them into the silence. Hoping one day they might be true.

"That girl was disappearing a little more each day. There was an emptiness in her eyes, a tiredness where everything felt like a burden to her. Others saw her successes, her lessons, her perfection, but no one noticed the darkness in her soul. Her family was immersed in their own battles, they didn't feel her with them. She was alone. This loneliness grew a little more with every step she took, a little deeper with every smile. Perhaps her greatest pain was that no one really looked at her. Everyone saw her strength, but no one noticed her fall. The silence inside her was suffocating a little more each day. No one wanted to face her as she fought to escape her own shadow. And maybe no one would ever come and just tell her, 'You are enough.' No one would understand her pain, no one would ever really touch her."

[vedalkensamurai]

Let's take the classic Mandelbrot iteration and introduce a complex coefficient k, so we have z_(n+1) = k(z_n)^2 + c. By varying k but keeping its magnitude equal to 1, we can make the fractal spin around the complex plane.

If we don't restrict the magnitude to 1, that scales the fractal. Below, either the real or imaginary part of k is equal to 1 or -1 while the other part ranges between -1 and 1.

[billericious]

collateral | b.e

The last time you had seen Billie was 6 months ago, the tone it had been left on was sour, an argument if she was as committed to the relationship as you were. Half of a year since then, and you were still looking for answers. Did she miss you as much as you missed her? No, you don’t miss her. You can’t miss her. But when you're alone in your bed on a cold winter night, you let your mind drift off to imagine her warmth surrounding you, holding you just as she used to. You miss her in the quiet moments of life.

You look over to your nightstand, the clock reading 3:26 AM. deciding sleep is a lost cause, you pick up your phone and scroll mindlessly, trying to distract yourself from the ache in your heart. As if the algorithm was laughing at you, an ad of billie promoting her upcoming project pops up. She talks and smiles, telling whoever would be watching how excited she is for everyone to hear her art. You search her eyes, a sign that she could even be remotely sad without you. Maybe it’s the fact that the video is prerecorded, or maybe she doesn’t feel your absence at all that makes you find nothing.

You can't stop your mind from going back to that fateful night.

“So what, you just want to end this?” she stands with you, toe to toe and tears glossing over her blue eyes. “Billie, you’re not even hearing me, just hearing what you want to hear!” tears fill your own eyes, blurring your vision. The argument escalated quickly, emotions that had been brewing in you for months finally spilling out at an alarming rate.

You continue, “I just feel used, okay? We’ve been going out for a year without even being together officially. I understand that you’re busy, that the situation isn’t as simple as it seems, but fuck billie. You’ve had time, and I've had enough.” the girl in front of you falls silent, her mouth slightly ajar as she tries to collect her thoughts. The tension only grows as she stays quiet. “So that’s it then? You have nothing to say?” Billie picks up her jaw and rolls her eyes.

“I want you, truly. It's just tha-” you cut her off with a sarcastic laugh, tears rolling down your cheeks. “There's always an excuse, bil! I’m just never enough for you, never enough to just be yours.” eye contact breaks as you look down to the floor, quiet sobs escaping your mouth. Billie is quick to step forward and pull you close. Too tired to fight back, you melt into her arms.

“I’m sorry, baby. I am.” she whispers into your hair, “i just…can’t” you look up at her, eyes red and puffy. “You can’t? Can’t do what you're doing right now?” you push her off of you, anger over taking once again. “Don’t make it sound like that, y/n. You know it’s more than that”

“A year billie! And for what? For you to just use me, use my love, my time, my body?” Billie's eyebrows scrunch at your words. “I would never use you, I love you, you know that.” she begins to defend herself. “Then what are you doing?” your ears feel warm and your stomach is churning. You already know where this is going, despite your best efforts.

You look at each other, a desperation in both of your eyes, a hunger.

“I don’t know.” she whispers.

“Leave, now.” you respond.

“y/n, don’t do this. Please, please don’t do this” she begs you, pleading. “No billie, I can't keep doing this.” Billie's tears finally falling down her rosy cheeks, a look of acceptance settles onto her face.

“Okay.”

You watch her grab her keys and walk towards the door. She looks back at you one final time, hoping you would change your mind. Crossing your arms, you stand firmly, despite feeling anything but confident.

You sit on the edge of your bed, holding your knees to your chest. Cries rake through your body, the memory being all too much. A ding from your phone makes you look up, rubbing the tears from your eyes as you pick up the device. It feels like the world stops spinning as you read the notification.

Billie

hey

pt 2

maze speaks !

this is so ass </3 so sorry :p first fic tho! just hoping i get better as time goes on (part two probs)

[jibunbosh]

Mesmerizer is a satire of TikTok, YouTube Shorts, and the rest of the modern short-form vertical video format

A brief thematic analysis.

I'm sure there are countless people already interpreting the imagery and details in this wonderful song & MV, like here and here, so I won't spend too much time retreading that ground. Miku and Teto are dancing. Miku gets hypnotized. Teto signals for help, but gets hypnotized at the end as well.

That part is obvious enough, but that's still pretty surface-level. What is this seemingly hyperspatial horror scenario supposed to mean to us?

While checking to see if anyone before me's already come to the same conclusions as I did and if I should bother not writing this text post at all (lol), I came across udin's great analysis video. She comes to the conclusion that the song tackles themes of disillusionment with reality and the ways we indulge in escapism to relieve ourselves of the pains of the world.

I agree with that reading! From practically the very beginning, we have Miku call to us - the viewer - to push away our true feelings. Teto comes in to peddle a solution, inviting us to surrender and empty our minds - in her words, "pretending to know nothing."

You, the viewer, are a critical character in this masquerade. For nearly the entire video, Miku and Teto's eyes are unfailingly trained on you. Or, well... perhaps they can't actually see you, but they can see a camera, or whatever other aperture the point of view is supposed to be from. And they know they're being watched. (Who else would Teto be sending distress signals to?)

Let's put a pin on that for later.

udin notes very early on that Miku and Teto are, conspicuously, kept in vertical frames - very similar to the video formats of TikTok (and Instagram Reels, and YouTube Shorts, and whatever other clones of the format exist.) You know, just like the animator Caststation's Rabbit Hole fan MV that went viral some months ago.

Hey wouldn't it be crazy if the song's producer, 32ki, released Mesmerizer shorts too haha. Wouldn't that be crazy.

Wow, wild.

These short-term vertical videos are captivating & alluring. If you're reading this, it's more likely than not that you've also found yourself caught up in them at least once, scrolling through the infinite algorithmic slurry and forgetting about the real-life issues you have at hand. Would you say, then, that you felt hypnotized? Mesmerized, even?

And so these two invite us to join their world and focus on the... uh... rectangle.

Their dances are repetitive, following the same loop. Their outfits are distinct, but their choreography isn't. They're copying the same formula, repeating it ad nauseam to the best of their ability.

They're doing a fucking TikTok dance.

Back to the pin I told you about earlier, with Miku and Teto looking at a camera.

Miku sways with the camera, eyes looking directly at it like a swinging pocket watch. She's been looking at it the entire time, after all. We've been seeing her via our screen this entire time, but, again, she doesn't necessarily see us. She's beholden to the camera, which she dances for day after day, caught up in its spell. She's hypnotized by it. Eventually, she breaks.

Teto, on the other hand, resists. For a while, anyway.

Despite her being the one jumping to us with the "solution" at the beginning of the MV, there's very quickly good reason to question how much agency she has in this. She dances for the camera as well, but she doesn't want to. She's signalling for help. She wants out.

Many content creators (as much as I personally loathe the non-specificity and soullessness of the term) have struggled with the adaptation to the short-form video format, and the preference the algorithm has had for these captivating, bite-sized videos. They're catchy, and easily drive up metrics. Practically anyone who's publishing their work via video format online needs to learn to adapt or fall behind, even if that means whittling their content down to fit the frame, the time, and people's shortening attention spans. Sometimes, that means compromising on specificity and completeness... or, in other words, the true representation of a full work.

The song's writer, 32ki, has been releasing songs on YouTube for several years. Their first YouTube Short, however, was posted only a year ago: a short, whittled-down segment of their previous song, CIRCUS PANIC!!!, hoping for it to win the ProsekaNEXT song contest. It was their first song to achieve widespread popularity and hit a million views.

The shorts, however, aren't the "true" versions of the song. The full song just won't fit.

We're being mesmerized as consumers of this endless stream of content, rather than appreciators of music and art. However, that relationship isn't completely symmetrical across the plane that is the 4th wall. Miku and Teto are trapped not by their attention spans, but by a compulsion to project their "truthful acting" and peddle that window into a colorful, problem-free world.

We, as the collective audience, need not dwell on any one thing for too long - we need only swipe, and move on to the next video. However, Miku and Teto are trapped behind the screen for eternity, day after day.

They're the only characters we get to see, of course. There's no evil 3rd voice synth character that's plotting to keep them trapped in there. We can't put a face to whatever force is hypnotizing them and trapping them behind the screen. It's faceless - like the inscrutable algorithms of YouTube recommendations or the TikTok For You page, or the impersonal corporations that develop & maintain those aforementioned apps. Miku and Teto's likenesses, on the other hand, are being exploited and extracted from for their entertainment value, being strung along by that metaphorical hypnotizing force like puppets on a string.

Many people, represented by Miku, enjoy their success on such platforms. It's freeing and liberating to throw oneself wholeheartedly into such an endeavor, of course! Others, represented by Teto, harbor their doubts of the emotional veracity of such a medium, but know they have little choice lest they face destruction... perhaps not literally as a person, but as an idea.

Wouldn't it be easier just to let oneself be swept away by it and give in?

[3fingersofscotch]

Blood and Ink

‧₊˚✩彡Summary: Scroll… Scroll… Double-tap… Scroll. Stuck in an endless doom scroll. Scroll… Stop. Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause. Striking colors… Impressive linework… unique designs. His art is immaculate. You need it on your skin.

-A Rafayel Tattoo Artist AU-

‧₊˚✩彡Pairing: Rafayel x Female/AFAB reader

‧₊˚✩彡Warning: 18+ MDNI, Vaginal Sex, Tattoos, Tattooing, Dominate/Submissive themes, Reader is a Switch, Rafayel is a Switch, Power Fucking, Pussy Pounding, Nipple Piercings, Rough Sex, Protected Sex, Porn with Plot, Mating Press, Alternative Universe, literally the cutest ending.

Ao3

Scroll… Scroll… Double-tap… Scroll. Stuck in an endless doom scroll, you check the time and do the math.

If you fall asleep now and sleep in an extra 15 minutes tomorrow morning, you will get… 6 hours of sleep.

You tell yourself that you really will turn your phone off and go to sleep… after the next reel. Wait, no. 10 more reels, just in case the next one is an ad or trash.

Scroll… scroll… the algorithm is failing you tonight. Click on one inositol ad for ovarian health and for some strange reason, Instagram puts a hundred ads in front of you; supplements for a tasty pussy. You roll your eyes at another pussy gummy ad and scroll.

Scroll…

Stop.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause. A tattoo needle pierces skin as Stray Kids blasts.

🎶Cookin’ like a chef I’m a 5 star Michelin

“미”의 정점을 찍고 눈에 보여 illusion🎶

The edit draws you in even as the line still makes you laugh internally. Restaurants can only get a max of 3 stars. Are they saying that they have 2 restaurants? One with 3 and another with 2?

The song still slaps.

You lose count of how many times you let the reel play. The “Birds of Prey” version of Harlequin is lined in vivacious neons. The piece was made for the female gaze and you simply have to look at the artist’s page.

It's… inspired? Chaotic?

It’s different.

You scroll and scroll and you fall in love. A nebula captured in a cat outlined in white, a black and white portrait of a toddler but with eyes full color that look so real it’s uncanny, a sky-scraper skyline you recognize because it’s your city and its in watercolors… you love every piece more than the last and scroll back up to find the artist’s link tree.

His studio is in the same city. His studio. You curse internally for many reasons.

Your first tattoo was done by a complete pig and the memory of him instantly makes you shudder. He kept making comments on the fullness and shape of your breasts as he tattooed your ribcage. And as a timid 18-year-old, you sat there and took it in extreme discomfort.

You sought out femme artists since then to make yourself feel more at ease. You didn’t usually find such inspired artists on your Instagram page that were in your city and you normally would just pin their art to your pinterest. Riffard is in France, Pablo Frias in New York, Pikkaman in LA. You didn’t have to struggle with the internal debate because all these artists were so far away. But TattedRafayel’s studio is literally within walking distance of your inner-city apartment and his work is stunning.

You practically salivate as you think about the larger pieces that you haven’t gotten done because you want them to be done by the best. In your city, you had yet to find an artist whose style seemed to match the type of art that you really wanted on your body.

at least, not until today…

‘Nope. Not going to do it,’ you tell yourself firmly and you feel your heart break a little. It’s hard to make peace with a man being so intimately close to your skin for that long. The mere thought of being held hostage under a tattoo needle with no possibility of escape was nerve-wracking.

Not worth it.

Finally locking your phone and rolling over to sleep, your mind replays images in your head. Striking colors… Impressive linework… unique designs.

His art is immaculate. You need it on your skin.

‘Sleep,’ you tell yourself. It is unwise to make a decision when you are this fatigued. But seconds turn into minutes, and minutes turn into an hour and you are still thinking about all the tattoos that you want.

He could pull them off.

You curse silently and grab your phone to open Instagram and request a consultation. That first tattoo with the shitty artist that was obsessed with your tits had faded pathetically and you needed it touched up. Perhaps a quick refresh with him would give you insight to his character and you’d feel more comfortable sitting down for a longer session with him later?

You feel the excitement begin to bubble. If this goes well, you can finally start your dream sleeve.

The nervous energy was practically rolling off your body in waves. You aren’t exactly a stranger to the process but still. A thorough shower, copious amounts of deodorant, perfume, and of course… skin prep. You’ve had such good results after applying hyaluronic acid and lidocaine to the area you would be getting tatted and today would be no different as you carefully rub product into your skin.

Did you smell pleasant enough to be around?

Your last tattoo artist was nice, but you could tell she skipped the shower the night before and she needed it. It was an unpleasant hour.

You wouldn’t dare to be late to an appointment out of respect for the artist’s time, so you gargle your mouthwash on the way out to your car.

The studio is so close, it only takes about 3 minutes for you to arrive and the nervous energy still radiates off you.

Blood and Ink- The name of the studio is etched into the glass door and you take a deep breath before entering to find an empty reception desk. 3 people pop up from their cubbies to study you and you realize you have no idea what Rafayel looks like.

“I… I am looking for Rafayel.”

A man with large gauges in his ears and filed teeth smiles slyly at you.

“Raf isn’t here today, but I’d be more than happy to help you, sweetheart.”

One of the other heads to pop up belongs to a very sweet looking girl who rolls her eyes and walks out of her cubby to approach you.

“Hi, I’m Pepper. Ignore Tony. He is a douche.” Tony whines in protest, but you get the feeling Pepper isn’t wrong about him. “Rafayel is in the back, sanitizing his station. Follow me.”

Rounding the corner, you spot horned headphones nestled in purple hair and pause.

Is that Rafayel?

You weren’t expecting him to be so striking. How can eyes be rosy and blue at the same time? You wonder silently, studying him carefully as he continues to diligently prep his work station

You never really knew what to expect when meeting the artists working on your body, but Rafayel was... elegant in his self-expression. A glint of gold catches your eye and you see the thin lip ring threaded through his lariat piercing. His ears are gauged with small plugs made of real and beautiful amethyst. The grace in his movement is enough to make time stop and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

The movement of his hands catch your attention and the tattoos on his fingers strike you. The fine line work was sophisticated and the subtle switch from solid lines to clustered dots in areas like knuckles where skin can crease shows you that he knows the way that tattoos heal and fade. And finally, he realizes you exist. He pauses before he glances up at you, pulling his headphones off his ears and standing up straight.

“Thank you, Pepper.” Pepper happily chirps that it was her pleasure before bouncing away adorably and Rafayel finally looks at you. “You must be my 1 PM appointment? Tattoo refresh? I’m Rafayel. Have a seat.”

Vibrant colors peek out from under his asymmetrical collar, but not nearly enough for you to be able to make out what hides underneath his dark blouse. His shaggy purple hair nearly covers the fish tatted behind his ears, one red, one blue, both simple and gorgeous.

“Where should I put my things,” You ask as you take a seat carefully.

“Hm?” Rafayel pulls his seat closer to get a good look at you and the aroma of his shampoo invades your nostrils. He smells like vanilla and sea minerals and you almost forget what question you were asked when he answers. “Oh, yes. Sorry. You can place your belonging on the side table behind you. And thank you for asking. I can’t tell you how many times someone comes here and throws their phone and keys on the sanitized work station with my needles and ink.”

“That would suck. Its not my first rodeo. I know the drill.” You reach back and set your bag down, grabbing your phone and earbuds, just in case you need something to help you occupy your mind.

“Alright. So the tattoo on your ribcage…” You wore a crop top to make it easier to be worked on and Rafayel leans in to look at the faded tattoo in question.

“Okay, to review your online consultation, you want the color refreshed, and to add a little extra flair. And from the mock ups, you wanted option B. Add more florals?”

“Yeah, the quick sketch you did was simple but lovely.” You were surprised by how quickly Rafayel took the picture of your tattoo and added more sophisticated detail.

“Alright. For the flowers that you have right now, what were their original colors?”

“Pink petals and a yellow pistil.” Your response makes Rafayel grimace.

“I can’t even tell, by looking at it. These colors have almost completely faded. Are those the colors you wanted to stick with?”

Your mind goes blank. Since you were just coming in for a refresh, you hadn’t considered making a color change.

“Oh, I… I’m not sure. Looking at you, it seems like you are good at putting together a cohesive look.” Rafayel perks in response. “I’m open to suggestions.”

He grabs his phone and pulls up a few images.

“Its called a burning ember lily,” he turn the phone and your jaw nearly drops. Dark purple petals are lined in vibrant oranges and yellows and the center practically glows with red and orange hues. “Your skin tone is kinda perfect for it.”

“Yes! I’m excited!”

Rafayel nods, a hint of a smile plays on his lips.

“Alright. Have you applied anything to your skin recently?” He examines your tattoo a little bit closer.

“Hyaluronic acid and 4% Lidocaine.” Rafayel’s nose scrunches in concern.

“Some skin type become too soft and difficult to get precise linework when lidocaine is applied. Is it okay if I touch your skin around the tattoo area for a moment? I need to see if your texture was affected.”

You nod and Rafayel carefully feels and stretches the skin on your ribs, looking closer to see how you are affected. “Hm. I don’t see anything of notable concern. However, if I do notice that it is an issue moving forward, we may have to stop and try again later.”

“I totally get it. But the lidocaine didn’t impact the quality of my last two tattoos, so I think we will be okay.”

You point at 2 other small tattoos. 1 on your collar and one on your shoulder and he breathes a small sigh of relief.

“That makes me feel better.” He rises to apply the stencil and when you give him your approval he washes his hands and pulls on gloves.

“Alright. Just wanted to let you know, I will be recoloring the tattoo in full, which means that it will be like getting the full thing all over again, just like the first time. Otherwise, the faded ink will be obvious.”

You nod. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“Alright, you ready?” Rafayel checks in one more time and you give him permission. The needle comes into contact with your skin, and although its uncomfortable, its not unbearable like the first time.

“You good?” he asks, politely checking in and you nod, popping your ear buds in and selecting a playlist to help you vibe for the next 2 hours.

Rafayel works mostly in silence, occasionally checking in to make sure you are okay. And honestly you are. Ribs are supposed to be extremely painful to tattoo and your first experience hurt quite a bit. A nagging feeling in the back of your head screams that the tattoo may come out poorly because he is too light handed. But you remind yourself that you applied lidocaine and your first artist fell very short of professional and was likely very heavy handed.

You hear him speak, just barely through the music and you take one earbud out. “I’m sorry. What was that?” you ask, having not been able to hear him over your music.

“Oh, nothing. Just a comment. Your skin absorbs ink well. Makes a nice canvas. Doesn’t make sense how faded this tattoo is.”

Oh.

“Yeah. I get that from every artist.” Rafayel simply nods and continues his work.

Your earbuds go back into your ears for almost the whole appointment. Despite the slight discomfort of the needle, you find yourself drifting off.

The buzz of the needle stops and you see a hand wave in front of your face.

“Yeah?” You pull your earbud out again and blink the sleep out of your eyes.

“We are about an hour in. You good? Don’t have the shakes or anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. Honestly just sleepy.” You rub your eyes and yawn, causing Rafayel to yawn in response.

“Oh, God. Don’t do that.” He can’t help but yawn again, his eyes watering and with gloves still on, he can’t wipe the tear forming in his eye.

Without thinking you grab a tissue and blot the moisture away and he chuckles softly.

“That was very helpful. Thank you. You sure you don’t need juice or a bathroom break?”

You shake your head and lean back.

Rafayel nods his head and looks back at your ribs. “This looks like may 40 more minutes of work left. You let me know if you need to take a break, okay?”

The needle buzzes back to life and you find that the vibration against your skin makes it easier for you to drift back to near slumber even if it stings a bit. The songs you enjoy playing one right after the other until a gentle pat on the shoulder make you jolt awake.

You really did fall asleep.

“Its not often people fall asleep in the chair. You are all done. Want to take a look in the mirror?”

Rafayel flashes you a polite smile and carefully walks you to the mirror. It wasn’t uncommon for people to pass out after a tattoo and you could tell that he was weary, stance ready to catch you if you fell.

The world comes to a halt, however as you stand in the mirror, a half dozen flowers surrounding the Kanji for “Love” on your ribs and it looks like they are made of fire on the cusp of dying out and being swallowed by the darkness.

“So… Kanji for love? Let me guess. You were crazy about Gaara?”

You laugh a bit, still admiring the tattoo in the mirror. “That obvious, huh?”

He nods, smiling a bit sheepishly. “Can’t say I blame you though.” He lifts his blouse a bit, revealing the same kanji on his hip albeit, a lot smaller than yours. “Gaara is pretty cool after all.”

He leans in to apply saniderm to your skin. “Do you like it? The new look, I mean.”

“Love it!” You say with enthusiasm and you mean it. The experience was comfortable and the tattoo was stunning.

“Too bad it was a small tattoo. Your skin is like the perfect canvas for ink.”

“Oh, I’d like to get some larger ones. I’m thinking about a ½ or ¾ sleeve.” You pull your pinterest board up with the inspiration photos of all the artists you admire.

Rafayel scrolls through, becoming completely engrossed in your phone.

“No black lining?” He observes with peaked interest.

“I want my lining in vivid colors.”

For the first time he really looks at you, making direct eye contact. His nostrils flare and pupils dilate.

“Please,” he pleads quietly, voice a touch huskier. “Please let me.”

You got him. Hook, line a sinker.

Your last tattoo appointment was 4 weeks ago. Rafayel gave you his cell phone number and requested that you send him your pinterest board so that he could study the art you were interested in. At first, the texts were only about the potential work for your sleeve.

Rafayel asked clarifying questions. What about each artist signature style did you like so much? What did you want incorporated into your tattoo? What did you dislike about the tattoos you pinned?

You took a moment to gush about what you liked about Rafayel’s work and what you would really like to combine from everything you pinned and that’s when the conversation really started to change.

“That’s sweet… but really, these artists are inspired. This Pikkaman account? The patterns in their color blocks? This is the kinda linework that will take hours and hours. Multiple sessions. I’ve never even thought to do something like this. I’m excited to incorporate this into your tattoo somewhere.” You read his text over and over. It was the first thing he sent you with extra enthusiasm.

Texts went from every couple of days to discuss the piece to every day. He'd send updates on possible design ideas and when you’d gush, short conversations drew out to longer ones and before you knew it, joking around with each other just became a regular part of your conversations.

“There is so much detail going into this piece, we are probably look at a minimum of 14 hours. Maybe even as much as 16,” he warns, but somehow that makes you feel good.

Then about a week before your appointment, he finalized your design. You thought maybe that was the end of the daily back and forth and the following day, you got nothing. It was genuinely a bit disappointing and you hadn’t realized that you’d become accustomed to his humor.

One day of silence became two, and your fingers itched to send him something. Anything to get the conversation going again.

‘He is just your tattoo artist… not your friend,’ you remind yourself, gritting your teeth as you try to force yourself to focus on something else.

Day 3 of silence. You remind yourself this relationship is strictly transactional when your phone dings.

“How is your tattoo? Healing well? Colors still vivid?”

You read and reread the text preview, carefully avoiding sending the read receipt. You don’t want to seem too eager.

‘He is only asking out of professional interest. He isn’t just trying to talk to you,’ you tell yourself even as that itch in your brain reminds you that you’ve been under the needle 5 other times and none of those artists ever texted or called for a follow up to check on your healing process.

“Tattoo is healing very nicely!” you text back 15 minutes later, hoping you waited long enough to not seem obsessed.

Rafayel is beautiful. You don’t want to fangirl like the rest of the people in his life probably do.

The day of your appointment come and Rafayel looks different. Eager and with a smile on his face. He greets you at the door, walking you over to his cubby.

His work station is already ready, and you open your bag and put it on the the little side table meant for you.

“I see you are getting prepped too?” There is obvious amusement in his voice as you line up battery packs for your devices, snacks, and pull out a giant water bottle to keep yourself hydrate. “We kinda have a rule. Person getting the longest tattoo has the right to pick the soundtrack. You can connect your Bluetooth to the speakers. Everyone can jam with you.”

“In that case, I apologize ahead of time for all the kpop and complete unconnected themes and genres.” You smile sheepishly as you connect to Bluetooth and TROT music immediately starts playing.

“Seriously? Trot?” Rafayel pauses and chuckles a bit. “I’ll try not to judge.”

“Sorry, this is what I was playing for my mom last night.”

“Ah, that makes more sense.” Rafayel happily hums as he applied the stencil to your skin.

“You seem different today,” you blurt out without thinking. “I mean, last time I saw you, you were reserved and more focused.”

You study him more. Today his arms are exposed in a tank top, and you can see more of his tattoos. Only one arm has a half sleeve of flaming sharks in brilliant pinks and purples and you can tell he hits the gym, despite his slender frame.

“You’re right. It’s the medication.” Your eyes shift from the stencil back to him. “I have mad ADHD. On days where I am doing smaller, simpler tattoos, I need help locking in for the day so I take my Adderall. On days like today, these big projects are enough dopamine to fuel me.”

He whistles cheerfully after being given the green light, the tattoo gun buzzing against your arm. And when you finally switch to a better playlist, he smiles.

“God, that’s better. Gangsta’s Paradise. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Strong start, I admit. But expect disappointment from here.” You honestly are quite self-conscious about your playlist, but Harry Styles starts to play a few minutes later and someone on the other side of the studio starts crooning along with “A Sign of the Times” and you start to feel more at ease.

The needle continues to stamp your skin in vivid colors and you want so badly to watch the beautiful man next to you do his job, but you also don’t want to stare, so your eyes close. He changed shampoos, and he smells clean with a hint of citrus.

“So I have something to confess.” Rafayel dips the tattoo needle back into the ink. “I snooped the rest of your pinterest so I could learn a bit about you. Hope that doesn’t across as creepy.”

Huh?

“Oh… well I guess I did give you the link for it. What did you learn?” You stomp down the small part of you that is pleased he had a desire to learn more about you.

“I won’t reveal all my cards at once. Just figured you are going to be in the chair for a long time today. Maybe a few discussion points might help the time go by for both of us.”

You open one eye just a bit and peek over at him. “You still haven’t told me any of what you learned.”

He smiles at you mischievously. “I learned you are a giant nerd.”

“Gee… Thanks?” You deadpan, raising a brow.

Rafayel barely looks up from his work, but you don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth twitch. “Oh god, don’t pout at me like that.”

Your breath stalls. Pouting?

Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you scramble to smooth your expression, but it’s too late. His smirk is already there, teasing.

“Don’t take it the wrong way. I like it. I’m not going to feed that you that cheesy, ‘you are not like other girls’ line. But I will say, I was happy to learn we’d have something to talk about.”

Is he trying to hit on you?

“Alright then. Topic number one?”

“Hold still for me.” Rafayel carefully focuses on his linework. “Doctor Who?”

“Oh god. You did a deep dive?”

Rafayel smirks. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I guess not. But I kinda tapped out mid-Peter Capaldi. His arc was a bit too intense for me.”

You look over, but Raf’s eyes are hidden by purple hair as he concentrates on his line work.

“I gotta admit, I watched a little bit. But that’s because a couple people came in asking for Galifreyan tattoos and when I looked them up, they looked really cool.”

What did you think?” The tattoo needle is now going over a sensitive and it doesn’t feel great, so you try to lose yourself in the conversation.

“Intense… but David Tennant is really hot.”

It makes you laugh hard enough that Rafayel has to stop and pull the needle back.

“Yes… he is indeed.”

Unmedicated Rafayel was shockingly easy to talk to. You were already 2 hours into your 10-hour session when Rafayel forces you to take your first break. A snack, some juice and a potty break later, and you were back in the chair for round.

“Alright. Time for conversation starter number 2.” He was already calming your nerves, eyes once again focused on your tattoo and you watch his beautiful rosy and blue eyes dart around your skin to check his work. “You are into local travel…”

“Oh yeah! I love taking road trips. I’m practically out of town every time I get 2 or more days off in a row.”

“Yeah, I noticed you pinned a whole bunch of places that were 4-hour drive or less. Which destination was your favorite?”

You take a second to ponder. “Honestly, that really depends on the mood I’m in. But I just went to Dripping Pool. You go spelunking through a cave until you find an opening that drips beautiful blue water into a freshwater pool.”

Rafayel’s eye flash briefly with interest before he looks back down at his work. “I’ve always wanted to go, but I can’t seem to stop working… But I think I will go to hill country and try out one of those wineries you pinned first. Which one was your favorite?”

“Oh… those are really more… romantic weekends. I guess I was saving that for when romance actually happens for me.”

You see Rafayel freeze and look up at you. “Oh. I thought you were engaged or married.”

Huh?

“You’ve got a wedding board. Cute shit, I’m not gonna lie,” he explains, and attempts to casually switch back to his work.

Ah. The wedding that never happened. The engagement ring that ended up in the trash.

“Yeah. Long story. Short version? We weren’t right for each other.”

You can see him nod from your peripherals. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Don’t be,” you answer quickly. “If it went through, I’d be miserable.”

“Eyyy! Positive spin. I like that. How long ago was that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You groan internally. “It’s been 5 years.”

“5 years?” You can feel his breath on your skin and you don’t like what it makes you feel even as the conversation gets awkward. “Any movement in the past 5 years?”

“Nothing worth talking about.”

“Tch. A cutie like you with interesting hobbies? That’s a shame. I’m sorry men universally suck.” He earns a rich chuckle from you, but internally you panic.

“I mean, I guess I could take that as a compliment.”

His eyes flick up to yours, glinting with mischief. “You should.”

You gulp quietly, breath hitching and you pray he doesn’t notice. God, you are in trouble and you know it.

Rafayel continues focusing on his work. Despite him making it very clear that he found you interesting, the rest of the conversation lulls you into a sense of familiarity and comfort.

The hours stretch on, filled with a mix of banter, musical debate, and comfortable silence. At some point, you lose track of time, lulled by the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun and the occasional brush of his fingers against your skin as he works. The shop assistant, Pepper, adorable butterfly that she is, keeps popping in to take pictures and videos and gush over the progress made.

Perhaps the lack of warmth through clinical gloves brought you back down to earth, but you’ve convinced yourself that this isn’t going anywhere.

“Almost done,” Rafayel murmurs, his voice lower, rougher from hours of focus. He swipes one final stroke, then leans back, appraising his work.

You let out a slow breath, relief and exhaustion settling into your bones. “That was—”

“Brutal?” he guesses, smirking as he grabs a clean cloth.

“Something like that,” you admit, stretching your limbs to shake off the stiffness.

He wipes your arm down, a satisfied smile on his face and he looks at with a hint of excitement. “I know we’ve got another 6-hour session to go before its complete, but it looks pretty fantastic already.”

He pulls away, stripping off the gloves with a snap. “Alright, moment of truth,” he says, nodding toward the mirror.

Really, it is the moment you’ve been dying for. And when you stand in front of the mirror, you audibly gasp.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

An Elephant lined in neons with long, hot pink eyelashes, its legs covered in geometrical patterns stares at you. The blank spaces will be filled later, but you already know you will love it.

“I…”

“Love it?” Rafayel sits behind you with a tired, yet satisfied smile. “Hate it? Don’t know how to feel about it?”

You look at yourself in the mirror again. The smile on your face makes you feel stupid but you can’t help it. You can’t school your features and make it go away.

“I respect you. You are incredibly talented.”

Rosy and blue eyes go blank for a second before Rafayel covers his face.

“Fuuuuuck. I wasn’t- Why does it feel like I’m blushing?”

You wish you were the girl that could smile tauntingly as you reduce a man to whatever state Rafayel was in now. But instead, you blush with him, covering your mouth as Rafayel hangs his head. You were alone now. The studio had emptied a while ago and this was becoming dangerously intimate.

“Alright, cutie. Let me get the saniderm and get you out of here.”

Cutie. God, the way it rolls off his tongue so naturally and makes your heart flutter is not good for your health.

He takes his time applying the saniderm with care and when he is done, he admires his handiwork.

“I seriously can’t wait until your tat is done. I’m going to post it on all my platforms the moment we get you cleaned up next session.”

And there he goes making you blush again as he traces the lining of the tattoo over the saniderm gently with his thumb.

He mutters something about walking you to your car because it’s dark as you pack your things, but when you stand, your body betrays you.

A wave of lightheadedness washes over you, and your vision tilts at the edges. You barely manage to step back before the floor shifts under your feet.

“Whoa—hey.” Rafayel’s hands are on you before you can even blink, steadying you by the waist. His grip is firm but careful.

He guides you back to a seated position and looks you in the eyes. “Your eyes are glazed over. You need some sugar.”

He jogs off to the refrigerator and comes back with an orange juice that you sip through your embarrassment before you start to feel better.

“I think it goes without saying that I can’t let you drive home without worrying.” Those pretty rosy and blue eyes hold genuine concern and the strong, independent woman you are forced to be melts under his gaze. “I’ll drive you home.”

Your stomach flips. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he counters easily, reaching for his keys. “I want to.”

Something about the way he says it—no hesitation, no teasing—leaves you momentarily speechless. So… you let him.

For once, letting someone take care of you doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It’s all the little things that add up to more. His arm remains around you for support as he walks you to the car and helps you sit down carefully in the passenger seat before handing you the car key and telling you to keep the door locked as he locks the studio. It’s the fact that he kept the lights on as he walked you to safety and ran back to turn them off before locking up. It’s the fact that he shone a light into your car windows and made sure nothing valuable was visible before he hopped in the car to drive you home.

It’s the smile on his face as he looks in to check on you before turning the ignition and asking if you are feeling better. He is doing a lot of things right and you resolve to go for it when you have the chance.

He hands you his phone to plug in your address.

“Wow. A whole 3-minute drive. How inconvenient.”

You huff in amusement. “Just say you want to spend more time with me and take the scenic way home.”

He playfully checks the gps. “The scenic way is 5 minutes long.”

The play feels so easy and you push his arm.

“No, but really, I was hoping I could make an excuse to get something in your stomach. Lunch was 7 hours ago.”

Oh?

“Planning to feed me? Do you do that for all your clients?”

Rafayel looks at you seriously. “No. But I think you and I are both leaning towards this becoming bigger than artist and client.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone. That fluttery, dangerous warmth in your chest spreads, and it won’t go away.

You are in trouble.

But something about Rafayel is different than all the other men in your life. The guarded back and forth and coy banter doesn’t feel necessary when he communicates directly and makes you feel safe.

So, you reach out, fingers threading into his. He stills, eyes flicking to where your hand rests before meeting your gaze again.

“Take me to get food,” you say, voice softer now, steady. “Then take me home.”

Rafayel watches you for a beat longer, as if committing this moment to memory, before he shifts into drive.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth twitching into something almost boyish. “I can do that.”

At 10 PM there aren’t a lot of options, but there is a Columbian food truck that definitely caters to the drunks and munchies. Rafayel has never been. So, when your hot dogs come out covered in 3 different types of sauce, coleslaw, bacon and potato chips, he makes you laugh as he playfully shouts, “Oh, shit! There are potato chips on my hot dog?!”

One bite and his eyes widen, the sheer reverence in his expression, has you dissolving into laughter before he even swallows.

“Ohhh, okay,” he says, pointing at the hot dog like it just changed his life. “I get it now. This is genius.”

For someone who looks so elegantly put together, he rips into his late-night snack with enthusiasm. “Potato Chips! On my hot dog?!”

It makes him seem less perfect and more real. And for a moment, you are floating on a cloud, unable to shake the feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of something special.

Even better, the extra still in the details continues as he loops an arm around you and guides you back to his car, just in case you stumble.

Rafayel jokes once more that the commute is unbearably long, but the food truck is only 4 minutes from your front door and he grins as he helps you out of the car and walks you to your door.

“I guess this is goodnight, cutie. Is it okay if I call you tomorrow morning?” He takes a couple steps back as you punch your door code in.

A gentleman.

He doesn’t have to be one tonight.

Before he can retreat too far, you reach out and grab his wrist, pulling him back to you, erasing the distance he created to make you feel safe. His eyes darken, intensity flickering in those rose and blue hues as realization dawns.

“Rafayel… it’d be weird calling me from the same bed.”

He throws his head back in disbelief, cursing under his breath before biting his lip.

“You are bolder than I thought.” He exhales slowly, voice deeper with a hint of something almost dangerous. Strong hands grip your waist tightly and he pulls you flush against him.

“Maybe I should be bold, too?”

Yes!

His lips descend, crashing into yours, the cold press of his lip ring making you want wild things and you bite around it. He exhales sharply, groaning, tilting your chin so that he can kiss you deeper before his hands roam your body.

Hands everywhere. Lips wherever they find skin. He presses you into your door and the door swings open behind you.

You pull him through your threshold, lips still attached to his when he stops you.

You won’t let him stop you.

“Cutie…” He gasps, breath ragged as you kiss a trail down his neck. You hum in acknowledgement as your fingers grip his hairs and just slightly pull his head back to expose more of him under your lips.

He groans as he grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“God I don’t want to stop you, but…” You nibble firmly at the base of his throat.

“Fuck…” he curses and his hands abandon the door frame to clutch you against him once more.

“I’m listening,” you murmur as your lips travel to the other side of his neck, your hand firmly cupping him through, pants causing him to buck.

“Protection,” he rasps through his excitement. “My condoms are in the car.

You groan heatedly against his skin. “Hurry.”

You don’t have to say it twice. He bolts, grabbing an unopened 12 pack from his glove compartment and in seconds he slams and locks the door shut behind him, and kicks off his shoes before carrying you to the couch.

His lips are all over you, urgently kissing every expanse of bare skin he can find, his lip ring adding contrast and making you quiver.

“Glad it’s a 12 pack,” you groan as he covers your body with his. “We will be going through most of them tonight.”

“God, cutie. The things you say.” He tears the box, grabbing a condom and unzipping his pants. “I hope you make good on your promises, because I can, and I will.”

“Need… need to take my pants off,” you huff.

Rafayel leans back, settling onto the couch, watching as you stand and strip—quick, unceremonious, kicking your clothes aside.

“God, you are hot…” He whispers reverently, a blush burning across his skin as his gaze darkens intensely, kicking his own pants off. You stare as he rolls the condom on, eye contact intense and exuding confidence.

He knows he is packing.

He leans back with a smirk before finally pulling his tank top off and now you understand why it’s the last thing he kept on.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

His chest is covered in a sea scape of corals and clown fish. Vibrant cobalts, radiant beams of light. Your eyes dart around, drinking the details of his skin. His muscled physique you must touch.

Nipple piercings that you have to taste.

He tries to pull you back under him, but you push him back down into his seated position, tongue tracing each piercing as he moans, encouraging you to be bolder. Licking turns into sucking, sucking turns into biting. And the more it escalates, the more wanton Rafayel’s moans become as his hips buck into air, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

He looks so pretty and fuckable underneath you as he gasps, somehow even pinker than he was a minute ago.

“Cutie, please,” he begs underneath you. You never knew you’d love hearing a man beg, but Rafayel looks so pretty when he is desperate. You straddle him, guiding him to your entrance with one hand and grasping the long hair at the base of his neck with the other.

“Say please again,” you order, and he bucks, cock slipping in just barely as you pull your hips up to deny him.

His hands grip your hips tightly and he whimpers.

“Please.”

Good Boy.He gasps, throwing his head back into the couch cushions as your hips sink down and you stretch wide open to accommodate him.

He is so expressive.

So pretty.

You can’t. God, you wanted to power-fuck yourself on his cock, but FUCK! He’s big. A whimper escapes you as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing through the intensity.

“Fuck. Oh fuck, cutie. You feel so good.” His hands caress the small of your back as you adjust to his size and whimper pathetically.

“Raf… oh… ohh!” Even the slightest hint of movement is enough to make you tremble. He fills you so perfectly its almost too much, and you take several deep breaths to calm as he kisses your temple.

You weren’t going to last.

But you sure as hell were going to try.

Your hips begin to move and instantly his hands tighten clamping your waist and you hear him whimper.

Good. He won’t last either.

“I have no fucking clue how you were single when you walked through my door,” He whispers reverently. “But I will thank every God created by man that you are on my cock right now.”

And reverence is how he earns the power ride of his life. You plant your feet beneath his thighs, gripping the couch frame behind his head for leverage.

Your hips fly.

“Holy shit!” His voice cracks as your pussy slams down onto him, the impact pulling an obscene moan from his throat. For a moment, he forgets what to do with his hands, palms abandoning your waist to cup your breasts, then sliding up to tangle in your hair as he crushes your lips against his.

Then one hand wraps around your throat. You gasp, and it only makes him groan, the other hand back on your waist as he matches your pace, thrusting up into you, reckless, desperate.

You aren’t faring much better, his size making the stroke against your clit feel red hot. And when he starts to match your pace, thrusting upwards, a continous, high pitched, pathetic whimper escaping you.

Your ceaseless whimpering nearly drowns him out, but you hear it, sexy and desperate in a lower register.

This man will break you.

This man will ruin you.

“So close,” he cries when his thumb finds and circles your clit, pressing down firmly to draw sure, relentless circles.

You can’t control the visceral shriek that erupts from you as he forces your climax to a head, pussy throbbing and legs weak. You feel the rapid fire pulsing between your legs, blood pounding in your veins, pleasure making you twitch.

“FUCK! RAFAYEL! OH, FUCK!”

He sits up, face buried in your chest as he holds you as tight as possible and a handful of powerful thrusts upwards leads to his demise. He shudders, moaning your name as he comes.

A moment ago, your home was so loud, but now, he holds you quietly, kissing across your chest in an act of thankfulness as you pant. Sweat soaking your forehead makes your hair cling to your face and your mind whirls in disbelief.

“Is this real life?”

Rafayel chuckles against your skin between kisses and nibbles on your collar bone that make you shiver.

“I hope so.”

He arms circle to hold you tightly, the same way he did when he came and he begins to thrust upwards slowly, cock stirring back to life.

"You have got to be kidding," you gasp as he flips you onto your back.

“When I said I can and I will, I meant it, cutie.” His eyes go dark as he stares down at you. “I can go all night.”

His smile is devilish, giving you chills as he hooks your legs over his arms folding you into a mating press.

“One day, I’m going to breed you.”

Oh, fuck.

“But for now, I’m going to practice.”

He wants to wreck you the same way you destroyed him. It makes you whimper in anticipation before his hips begin to piston into you like a well-oiled machine. He rips scream after scream from your throat and you are certain you’ve never been louder.

“Yeah, cutie,” he grunts with a look of satisfaction. “Make those noises for me.”

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

His hips are relentless, punching the air right out of your lungs, the smirk on his face ever-present as he gives you twice what you gave him.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

The further back he pushes you into the couch, the deeper he drives into you and he won’t yield.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

He grunts through direct eye contact.

"Take it. Take my cock."

You don’t want him to yield.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

He fucks you like a fevered dream, dominating your pussy with no end in sight.

“Raf-!” There’s no air left in your lungs to announce your orgasm. Your vision whites out, your pussy clenches, and somehow… somehow you are screaming even louder.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

“I’m going to make you come again.”

God you need him to stop. Your nails bite desperately into his shoulders, but in a mating press there is no escape.

"Raf- fuck! Raf, I can't- FUUUCK!"

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK 

God you don’t want him to stop. The relentless pounding has stretched your orgasm into something dangerous and another more powerful wave curls your toes.

“AH! RAF!” And still, the air in your lungs does not exist, but you see that smirk disappear as your pussy squeezes tightly. You watch his mouth fall open, a string of curses flying from his lips before your vision goes white hot, coming in rounds of bursting fire.

Hot breath close to your ear huffs as you hear him grunt his release, chanting your name before struggling to safely remove himself from the tangle of limbs he created. You can finally breathe.

He collapses next to you, sounds of disbelief escape him as you desperately draw air. Pulling you closer he whispers, “I… cannot believe you let me fuck you like that.”

“Do it again,” you joke when you can finally speak and he barks out a laugh.

“Oh, I intend to.” He kisses you reverently once more. “Our chemistry is insane.”

“Off the charts,” You agree, offering a fist bump and he laughs as he reciprocates and pulls you close.

“We made a huge mess.”

He is right of course. The couch cushion is soaked from the deluge of your arousal and he gets up on shaky legs to dig around your kitchen for a clean towel. He turns the hot water on, tossing the condom and cleaning himself up.

“God I should have changed condoms. What a mess.” You are too tired to even be worried about it but he reappears, bowl and warm, wet towel in hand to clean up the mess he helped make between your legs. The kisses he gently presses against your thighs make you wonder what you did to get this lucky.

And when he was done, he reached for the box of condoms to pull out another.

“Tell me you are kidding, Raf…” You gasp, wanting to say yes and no at the same time.

He smiles mischievously at you. “I wasn’t lying, cutie. I can go all night.”

The sun is offensive as it invades you room through your curtains. Your body is sore all over and your bed is still warm but empty.

Once the confusion settles, you smile as you hear shuffling in your kitchen and smell the aroma of fresh coffee.

“Hey, cutie.” Your hero arrives moments later with caffeine you so desperately need. “I like your espresso machine.”

Your eyes aren’t ready to do their job yet, but you imagine him with tousled bed head and the love bites you left on his body. You sip your coffee and he sits on the bed, fingers combing through your hair.

“So I was thinking…” his voice is raspy from the noises you drew from him last night.

“Those wineries you pinned over in hill country?”

You crack one eye open and take a peek at him.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

“Mm? What about them, sweetheart?” The pet name makes him smile like a goofball.

“Which one do you want to go to first? I'm free next weekend.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Enshittification isn’t caused by venture capital

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

Many of us have left the big social media platforms; far more of us wish we could leave them; and even those of us who've escaped from Facebook/Insta and Twitter still spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to get the people we care about off of them, too.

It's lazy and easy to think that our friends who are stuck on legacy platforms run by Zuckerberg and Musk lack the self-discipline to wean themselves off of these services, or lack the perspective to understand why it's so urgent to get away from them, or that their "hacked dopamine loops" have addicted them to the zuckermusk algorithms. But if you actually listen to the people who've stayed behind, you'll learn that the main reason our friends stay on legacy platforms is that they care about the other people there more than they hate Zuck or Musk.

They rely on them because they're in a rare-disease support group; or they all coordinate their kids' little league carpools there; or that's where they stay in touch with family and friends they left behind when they emigrated; or they're customers or the audience for creative labor.

All those people might want to leave, too, but it's really hard to agree on where to go, when to go, and how to re-establish your groups when you get somewhere else. Economists call this the "collective action problem." This problem creates "switching costs" – a lot of stuff you'll have to live without if you switch from legacy platforms to new ones. The collective action problem is hard to solve and the switching costs are very high:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/29/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms/

That's why people stay behind – not because they lack perspective, or self-discipline, or because their dopamine loops have been hacked by evil techbro sorcerers who used Big Data to fashion history's first functional mind-control ray. They are locked in by real, material things.

Big Tech critics who attribute users' moral failings or platforms' technical prowess to the legacy platforms' "stickiness" are their own worst enemies. These critics have correctly identified that legacy platforms are a serious problem, but have totally failed to understand the nature of that problem or how to fix it. Thankfully, more and more critics are coming to understand that lock-in is the root of the problem, and that anti-lock-in measures like interoperability can address it.

But there's another major gap in the mainstream critique of social media. Critics of zuckermuskian media claim those services are so terrible because they're for-profit entities, capitalist enterprises hitched to the logic of extraction and profit above all else. The problem with this claim is that it doesn't explain the changes to these services. After all, the reason so many of us got on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram is because they used to be a lot of fun. They were useful. They were even great at times.

When tech critics fail to ask why good services turn bad, that failure is just as severe as the failure to ask why people stay when the services rot.

Now, the guy who ran Facebook when it was a great way to form communities and make friends and find old friends is the same guy who who has turned Facebook into a hellscape. There's very good reason to believe that Mark Zuckerberg was always a creep, and he took investment capital very early on, long before he started fucking up the service. So what gives? Did Zuck get a brain parasite that turned him evil? Did his investors get more demanding in their clamor for dividends?

If that's what you think, you need to show your working. Again, by all accounts, Zuck was a monster from day one. Zuck's investors – both the VCs who backed him early and the gigantic institutional funds whose portfolios are stuffed with Meta stock today – are not patient sorts with a reputation for going easy on entrepreneurs who leave money on the table. They've demanded every nickel since the start.

What changed? What caused Zuck to enshittify his service? And, even more importantly for those of us who care about the people locked into Facebook's walled gardens: what stopped him from enshittifying his services in the "good old days?"

At its root, enshittification is a theory about constraints. Companies pursue profit at all costs, but while you may be tempted to focus on the "at all costs" part of that formulation, you musn't neglect the "profits" part. Companies don't pursue unprofitable actions at all costs – they only pursue the plans that they judge are likely to yield profits.

When companies face real competitors, then some enshittificatory gambits are unprofitable, because they'll drive your users to competing platforms. That's why Zuckerberg bought Instagram: he had been turning the screws on Facebook users, and when Instagram came along, millions of those users decided that they hated Zuck more than they loved their friends and so they swallowed the switching costs and defected to Instagram. In an ill-advised middle-of-the-night memo to his CFO, Zuck defended spending $1b on Instagram on the grounds that it would recapture those Facebook escapees:

https://www.theverge.com/2020/7/29/21345723/facebook-instagram-documents-emails-mark-zuckerberg-kevin-systrom-hearing

A company that neutralizes, buys or destroys its competitors can treat its users far worse – invade their privacy, cheap out on moderation and anti-spam, etc – without losing their business. That's why Zuck's motto is "it is better to buy than to compete":

https://www.trtworld.com/magazine/zuckerberg-its-better-to-buy-than-compete-is-facebook-a-monopoly-42243

Of course, as a leftist, I know better than to count on markets as a reliable source of corporate discipline. Even more important than market discipline is government discipline, in the form of regulation. If Zuckerberg feared fines for privacy violations, or moderation failures, or illegal anticompetitive mergers, or fraudulent advertising systems that rip off publishers and advertisers, or other forms of fraud (like the "pivot to video"), he would treat his users better. But Facebook's rise to power took place during the second half of the neoliberal era, when the last shreds of regulatory muscle that survived the Reagan revolution were being devoured by GW Bush and Obama (and then Trump).

As cartels and monopolies took over our economy, most government regulators were neutered and captured. Public agencies were stripped of their powers or put in harness to attack small companies, customers, and suppliers who got in the way of monopolists' rent-extraction. That meant that as Facebook grew, Zuckerberg had less and less to fear from government enforcers who might punish him for enshittification where the markets failed to do so.

But it's worse than that, because Zuckerberg and other tech monopolists figured out how to harness "IP" law to get the government to shut down third-party technology that might help users resist enshittification. IP law is why you can't make a privacy-protecting ad-blocker for an app (and why companies are so desperate to get you to use their apps rather than the open web, and why apps are so dismally enshittified). IP law is why you can't make an alternative client that blocks algorithmic recommendations. IP law is why you can't leave Facebook for a new service and run a scraper that imports your waiting Facebook messages into a different inbox. IP law is why you can't scrape Facebook to catalog the paid political disinformation the company allows on the platform:

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

IP law's growth has coincided with Facebook's ascendancy – the bigger Facebook got, the more tempting it was to interoperators who might want to plug new code into it to protect Facebook users, and the more powers Facebook had to block even the most modest improvements to its service. That meant that Facebook could enshittify even more, without worrying that it would drive users to take unilateral, permanent action that would deprive it of revenue, like blocking ads. Once ad-blocking is illegal (as it is on apps), there's no reason not to make ads as obnoxious as you want.

Of course, many Facebook employees cared about their users, and for most of the 21st century, those workers were a key asset for Facebook. Tech workers were in short supply until just a couple years ago, when the platforms started round after round of brutal layoffs – 260,000 in 2023, another 150,000+ in 2024. Facebook workers may be furious about Zuckerberg killing content moderation, but he's not worried about them quitting – not with a half-million skilled tech workers out there, hunting for jobs. Fuck 'em. Let 'em quit:

https://www.404media.co/its-total-chaos-internally-at-meta-right-now-employees-protest-zuckerbergs-anti-lgbtq-changes/

This is what changed: the collapse of market, government, and labor constraints, and IP law's criminalization of disenshittifying, interoperable add-ons. This is why Zuck, an eternal creep, is now letting his creep flag fly so proudly today. Not because he's a worse person, but because he understands that he can hurt his users and workers to benefit his shareholders without facing any consequences. Zuckerberg 2025 isn't the most evil Zuck, he's the most unconstrained Zuck.

Same goes for Twitter. I mean, obviously, there's been a change in management at Twitter – the guy who's enshittifying it today isn't the guy who enshittified it prior to last year. Musk is speedrunning the enshittification curve, and yet Twitter isn't collapsing. Why not? Because Musk is insulated from consequences for fucking up – he's got a huge cushion of wealth, he's got advertisers who are desperate to reach his users, he's got users who can't afford to leave the service, he's got IP law that he can use to block interoperators who might make it easier to migrate to a better service. He was always a greedy, sadistic asshole. Now he's an unconstrained greedy, sadistic asshole. Musk 2025 isn't a worse person than Musk 2020. He's just more free to act on his evil impulses than he was in years gone by.

These are the two factors that make services terrible: captive users, and no constraints. If your users can't leave, and if you face no consequences for making them miserable (not solely their departure to a competitor, but also fines, criminal charges, worker revolts, and guerrilla warfare with interoperators), then you have the means, motive and opportunity to turn your service into a giant pile of shit.

That's why we got Jack Welch and his acolytes when we did. There were always evil fuckers just like them hanging around, but they didn't get to run GM until Ronald Reagan took away the constraints that would have punished them for turning GE into a giant pile of shit. Every economy is forever a-crawl with parasites and monsters like these, but they don't get to burrow into the system and colonize it until policymakers create rips they can pass through.

In other words, the profit motive itself is not sufficient to cause enshittification – not even when a for-profit firm has to answer to VCs who would shut down the company or fire its leadership in the face of unsatisfactory returns. For-profit companies chase profit. The enshittifying changes to Facebook and Twitter are cruel, but the cruelty isn't the point: the point is profits. If the fines – or criminal charges – Facebook faced for invading our privacy exceeded the ad-targeting revenue it makes by doing so, it would stop spying on us. Facebook wouldn't like it. Zuck would hate it. But he'd do it, because he spies on us to make money, not because he's a voyeur.

To stop enshittification, it is not necessary to eliminate the profit motive – it is only necessary to make enshittification unprofitable.

This is not to defend capitalism. I'm not saying there's a "real capitalism" that's good, and a "crony capitalism" or "monopoly capitalism" that's bad. All flavors of capitalism harm working people and seek to shift wealth and power from the public and democratic institutions to private interests. But that doesn't change the fact that there are, indeed, different flavors of capitalism, and they have different winners and losers. Capitalists who want to sell apps on the App Store or reach customers through Facebook are technofeudalism's losers, while Apple, Facebook, Google, and other Big Tech companies are technofeudalism's great winners.

Smart leftism pays attention to these differences, because they represent the potential fault lines in capitalism's coalition. These people all call themselves capitalists, they all give money and support to political movements that seek to crush worker power and human rights – but when the platforms win, the platforms' business customers lose. They are irreconcilably on different sides of a capitalism-v-capitalism fight that is every bit as important to them as the capitalism-v-socialism fight.

I'm saying that it's good praxis to understand these divisions in capitalism, because then we can exploit those differences to make real, material gains for human thriving and worker rights. Lumping all for-profit businesses together as identical and irredeemable is bad tactics.

Legacy social media is at a turning point. Two new systems built on open standards have emerged as a credible threat to the zuckermuskian model: Mastodon (built on Activitypub) and Bluesky (built on Atproto). The former is far more mature, with a huge network of federated servers run by all different kinds of institutions, from hobbyists to corporations, and it's overseen by a nonprofit. The latter has far more users, and is a VC-backed corporate entity, and while it is hypothetically federatable, there are no Bluesky services apart from the main one that you can leave for if Bluesky starts to enshittify.

That means that Bluesky has a ton of captive users, and has the lack of constraint that characterizes the enshittified legacy platforms it has tempted tens of millions of users away from. This is not a good place to be in, because it means that if the current management choose to enshittify Bluesky, they can, and it will be profitable. It also means that the company's VCs understand that they could replace the current management and replace them with willing enshittifiers and make more money.

This is why Bluesky is in a dangerous place: not because it is backed by VCs, not because it is a for-profit entity, but because it has captive users and no constraints. It's a great party in a sealed building with no fire exits:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

Last week, I endorsed a project called Free Our Feeds, whose goals include hacking some fire exits into Bluesky by force majeure – that is, independently standing up an alternative Bluesky server that people can retreat to if Bluesky management changes, or has a change of heart:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/14/contesting-popularity/#everybody-samba

For some Mastodon users, Free Our Feeds is dead on arrival – why bother trying to make a for-profit project safer for its users when Mastodon is a perfectly good nonprofit alternative? Why waste millions developing a standalone Bluesky server rather than spending that money improving things in the Fediverse.

I believe strongly in improving the Fediverse, and I believe in adding the long-overdue federation to Bluesky. That's because my goal isn't the success of the Fediverse – it's the defeat of enshtitification. My answer to "why spend money fixing Bluesky?" is "why leave 20 million people at risk of enshittification when we could not only make them safe, but also create the toolchain to allow many, many organizations to operate a whole federation of Bluesky servers?" If you care about a better internet – and not just the Fediverse – then you should share this goal, too.

Many of the Fediverse's servers are operated by for-profit entities, after all. One of the Fediverse's largest servers (Threads) is owned by Meta. Threads users who feel the bite of Zuckerberg's decision to encourage homophobic, xenophobic and transphobic hate speech will find it easy to escape from Threads: they can set up on any Fediverse server that is federated with Threads and they'll be able to maintain their connections with everyone who stays behind.

The existence of for-profit servers in the Fediverse does not ruin the Fediverse (though I wouldn't personally use one of them). The fact that multiple neo-Nazi groups run their own Mastodon servers does not ruin the Fediverse (though I certainly won't use their servers). Not even the fact that Donald Trump's Truth Social is a Mastodon server does anything to ruin the Fediverse (not using that one, either).

This is the strength of federated, federatable social media – it disciplines enshittifiers by lowering switching costs, and if enshittifiers persist, it makes it easy for users to escape unshitted, because they don't have to solve the collective action problem. Any user can go to any server at any time and stay in touch with everyone else.

Mastodon was born free: free code, with free federation as a priority. Bluesky was not: it was born within a for-profit public benefit corporation whose charter offers some defenses against enshittification, but lacks the most decisive one: the federation that would let users escape should escape become necessary.

The fact that Mastodon was born free is quite unusual in the annals of the fight for a free internet. Most of the internet was born proprietary and had freedom foisted upon it. Unix was born within Bell Labs, property of the convicted monopolist AT&T. The GNU/Linux project set it free.

SMB was born proprietary within corporate walls of Microsoft, another corporate monopolist. SAMBA set it free.

The Office file formats were also born proprietary within Microsoft's walled garden: they were set free by hacker-activists who fought through a thick bureaucratic morass and Microsoft fuckery (including literally refusing to allow chairs to be set for advocates for Open Document Format) to give us formats that underlie everything from LibreOffice to Google Docs, Office365 to your web browser.

There is nothing unusual, in other words, about hacking freedom into something that is proprietary or just insufficiently free. That's totally normal. It's how we got almost everything great about computers.

Mastodon's progenitors should be praised for ensuring their creation was born free – but the fact that Bluesky isn't free enough is no reason to turn our back on it. Our response to anything that locks in the people we care about must be to shatter those locks, not abandon the people bound by the locks because they didn't heed to our warnings.

Audre Lorde is far smarter than me, but when she wrote that "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house," she was wrong. There is no toolset better suited to conduct an orderly dismantling of a structure than the tools that built it. You can be sure it'll have all the right screwdriver bits, wrenches, hexkeys and sockets.

Bluesky is fine. It has features I significantly prefer to Mastodon's equivalent. Composable moderation is amazing, both a technical triumph and a triumph of human-centered design:

https://bsky.social/about/blog/4-13-2023-moderation

I hope Mastodon adopts those features. If someone starts a project to copy all of Bluesky's best features over to Mastodon, I'll put my name to the crowdfunding campaign in a second.

But Mastodon has one feature that Bluesky sorely lacks – the federation that imposes antienshittificatory discipline on companies and offers an enshittification fire-exit for users if the discipline fails. It's long past time that someone copied that feature over to Bluesky.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

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

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/20/capitalist-unrealism/#praxis

[theinternetisfulloftrash]

Welcome Home

Pairing: Dylan O'Brien x Reader (Female) Synopsis: Traveling. Any annoying but necessary part of any actors job for the non-traveling party. But the welcome homes? They are oh so fucking sweet. Tags: it's filth with some cute plot, shower sex, kisses, more banter than is reasonable in polite society Rating: Explicit (obviously) Author’s Note: Y'all listen. I know. Okay. It's been a while, and to be honest? I started this in fucking January, but hey. It's here now, right? We're all chill? No one's upset? Good. LOVE YOU!

He’d been away for days, but it felt like weeks. Your feed has been covered in photos of him. The algorithms have you pretty much figured out. You’d been keeping up with his interviews, watching clips of his adorably awkward award acceptance speech. It wasn’t a surprise award, but it didn’t matter that he was prepared for it. He was incapable of being acknowledged for his achievements without turning into the equivalent of a turtle hiding in its shell. You’d have reached out to hold his hand and ground him if you could, but you’d been here. Alone. Missing him. But all that was soon to change.

He was on his way home. Annoyingly, his flight had been delayed, but as you stared up at the JFK arrivals board and it read: ‘Arrived’, you couldn’t help the bubbling up of excitement and giddy nervousness. It seemed like Tony was picking up on it as well because he stood against your leg, pawing at your thigh until you picked him up. He’d been missing his dad and had taken more comfort in your presence since he’d left. 

Your ears perked when the announcement that the baggage from his flight was about to begin its rounds through the baggage claim area. Your phone vibrated in the thigh pocket of your leggings. You gave Tony a quick squeeze before setting him back on the floor and taking your phone out. You smiled at the preview of the text you’d just received before you swiped to see the rest. 

‘Your fine ass better be waiting for me down there.’ 

You smirked before typing out a teasing reply. 

‘Got stuck in traffic a few times but I’m here. I hate Newark btw.’ 

You watched the dots appear and couldn’t help the audible laugh that escaped when you read his next message. 

‘Newark!?’ 

You interrupted him with a quick ‘I’m joking!!!’ before you could see what he was typing next. Then after a brief pause, the dots reappeared before his reprimand. 

‘You know you’re this close to the find-out stage of fuckin around?’ 

‘Oh? What if that’s exactly what I want?’ 

‘👀’

‘Not that I want to rush through the fuckin around part 😏’  

“I’ll be taking my sweet fucking time…don’t worry.”

You startled at his audible reply and your eyes shot up from your phone and met his as Tony pulled at the leash in your hand to reach him. He looked a bit tired but happy. His smile was wide across his stubbled face, quirking up at the corner when you smiled back. 

“Hey buddy!” he said, handing you his pillow before bending down to scoop Tony up into his arms. “I missed you!” he swooned in the adorable baby voice he reserved for his furry son. “Did you miss me too?” He rubbed Tony’s head and then his tummy. “Such a good boy!” 

You smiled at the two of them, pulling Tony’s leash from your wrist and handing it to Dylan. Tony would be stuck to him like glue now. 

“Hey, baby,” he said softly before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your lips. One just long enough to make you the tiniest bit dizzy and eager for more. 

You blinked away distracting thoughts. “Do you have much luggage?” 

Dylan shook his head. “Just this,” he said pointing at his backpack, “and one bag on the turnstiles.” 

“Should be over there, they just announced it,” you said, taking a few steps toward the baggage claim area.

“Nice!” he said, hiking Tony up onto his shoulder a bit before he followed after you. 

His bag passed in front of him and he hefted it off the belt and popped out the handle and you took it from him so he could focus on the excited ball of fur in his arms. You set his pillow on it and wheeled it behind you toward the cab that was waiting out front. As much as you hated early morning airport runs, you were glad his 4 AM delayed arrival made the whole airport experience a lot smoother. Fewer people. Less traffic. You’d been able to get in and out without so much as a sideways glance from anyone else. 

“Hey you,” he said as he slumped in the seat next to you, Tony taking up the little bit of space between you. 

“Hey,” you said, smiling back at him. 

It was just after 5 AM and you’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep. Originally, he was supposed to have gotten in at midnight and had been scheduled to arrive at Newark, but his flight had been canceled. When he called you to let you know, you were already getting ready to catch the Uber you’d called to take you to the airport. You had a habit of being too punctual. But that also meant that you had a hard time settling and only managed a short nap before you got up to head to JFK. You were a bit tired, but feeling his warmth next to you for the first time in a while was enough of a comfort to fight off the droop of your sleepy eyes. You wanted to see his smile, the upturned tip of his nose, the lopsided smile he sported as he pet Tony. Sleep could wait. 

The drive back to the loft was rather uneventful. Traffic was light, you weren’t sure you’d ever made it the Carey Tunnel faster than you just had. When you hopped out of the car, Dylan gathered his bags from the back of the car and you headed up to the apartment. Home. It was always a comfortable place, but it was warmer when he was in it.

“Smells nice in here…” he said with a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as his shoulders sagged in relaxation. “I missed it.” 

“And I missed you.” You stepped into his space and wrapped your arms around his waist and he quickly pulled you to his chest, looping his arms over your shoulders and pressing a kiss into your hair. 

“You did, huh?” he chuckled, the heat of his exhaled breath warming your skin. 

“Mhm…” you hummed, laying your cheek against his chest. The loft was dimly lit by a single lamp near the sofa in the living room and the streetlights that filtered in through the large windows. It added to the comfort you felt in his arms. 

“I missed you more,” he whispered.

“Impossible.” 

He sighed out a long breath, holding you tight to his chest before he pulled back, his hands clasped around your waist, eyes locked to yours. The warm, honey-brown hue of them sent a shiver down your spine, of course, it didn’t help that he’d begun to work his hands under the hem of your shirt, his fingertips pressing just a little more firmly into the bare skin covering your ribs when he leaned down to kiss you. 

His lips were insistent, the kiss at the airport clearly not satiating the need that had built during your time apart. It was a comforting reminder that his infatuation with you must be at least somewhat comparable to your own. 

You moaned when his lips wandered along your jaw and latched to your throat just below your ear. Not to be outdone and wanting a little audible thrill of your own, you were satisfied at the deep groan that emanated from the back of his throat when one of your roaming hands slipped down between your bodies to graze across the front of his thigh until it was cupping him through his sweatpants. 

“Definitely missed that,” he breathed out across your collarbone before pushing your hair back and sliding the collar of your shirt aside to access more of your skin. 

You laughed softly before it morphed into a half-whispered moan of his name when his teeth grazed along the sensitive skin above your breast. “Fuck…” you breathed, squeezing your hand around him eliciting an appreciative grumble from him that you felt vibrate the aching bit wet skin he’d been sucking on your chest. 

When you released your grip to slip your hand behind the waistband of his sweats, he grabbed your wrist. “Not yet…” he chuckled when he pulled back to see you scowling at him. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling at you, brushing an errant hair back from the place where it hung in your eyes, “I’m gonna make you scream…” 

You swallowed thickly. 

“I’d just rather not reek like a man who’s known only seat 23A for 10 hours when I do it.” 

You chuckled softly. “Well…” you smiled back before reaching both hands around behind him, “then you better get this,” you squeezed his ass, “fine thing in the shower then.” You gave him a gentle spank. 

He laughed and pressed a kiss into your hair. “Thirsty little monster,” he said, running his hand down your arm. “Join me?” he said, pleading gaze meeting yours. 

You nodded and he took your hand, lacing your fingers together and leading you through the apartment toward the bathroom. The gentle squeeze of his hand in yours sent a satisfying ripple of warmth through your body. Just as you’d made it through the door to the bathroom, you tugged on his hand and swung his body to pin him against the counter of the vanity. 

He let out a soft huff at the gentle impact and smiled down at you as you grabbed at the hem of his shirt and yanked it roughly up over his body. His bare chest heaved as your eyes roved over him, your hands following your gaze across his pecs, through the soft hair, down his abs, settling on the waistband of his sweats before you began to crouch in front of him as you slid them down his thighs to pool at his feet. 

You looked at him from between his thighs and watched as his brown eyes turned near-black, crouching there longer than was necessary to achieve the task, fluttering your lashes at him.

“Fucking tease…” he muttered under his breath before he hauled you up in front of him and stripped your top off, tossing it across the room before he latched onto your throat and bit down. 

While you writhed in his arms, his hands warmed up your back until his fingers worked open the clasp of your bra. He slipped his fingers under the straps and slid them free of your shoulders and let the garment fall to the floor. 

“Mmm…” he mused, looking down at your chest before he leaned forward and captured your lower lip between his teeth and pulled it back slightly before releasing it to kiss down the column of your throat. He cupped you breast and brought his lips to the peak and flattened his tongue in a wide sweep before sealing his lips to suck your nipple until it was taut and pebbled.

“Dylan…” you groaned, your hands tangling into his hair.

He held you against his body and swapped your positions until your lower back was pressed against the vanity. He nipped at your chest before he finally pulled back and lifted you to sit on the counter in front of him. He quickly unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them from you, throwing them into a heap with the rest of your discarded clothing. Then he slotted himself between your thighs. “Shower’s right there…” he titled his head in its direction, “and yet here we are…” he smiled, his fingertips trailing down from your arms, along your ribs and waist until they teased at the elastic of the last piece of clothing you were left wearing.  

“Here we are…” you repeated, looking down your body at his hand as it slipped into your underwear. You fell forward into his chest when you felt his teasing, barely there touch where you were now aching to feel it. Your sharp intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed.

He leaned in and grinned against the skin of your throat before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the tendon running the length of it. “Something wrong?” he teased, still not touching you the way you wished he would. 

“Please…” you whispered. 

The little amused noise he made only frustrated you more, because Instead of giving in to your need, he hooked his fingers around the band of your underwear and stepped back from you to slide them free from your legs. He twirled them around his long index finger before letting them slip out of his hands to the floor. His eyes roamed over you, exposed to him now, perched on the counter. “Fucking perfect…” he breathed, giving his head a slight shake.

You flushed under his attentive gaze, your own eyes catching on the obvious sign of his own interest tenting the front of his boxer briefs. “Talkin’ about yourself?” you finally managed. 

He smiled and shook his head. 

“You should be…” you sighed, “but you could stand to be just a bit more naked…” you pointed to his underwear. 

He laughed. “Fair,” he said before turning around to turn on the shower. He looked back at you, smirking as he hooked his thumbs in the band of his boxers. When he slid them down his thighs the need you felt for him was almost unbearable. He held out a hand to help you down. “Time to get you wet,” he said with a smirk. 

“Too late.” 

His brows shot up his forehead. “Fuck… me…” he muttered

You stepped past him, your hands gliding over his naked torso, and into the shower. “That’s the plan.” 

He followed after and closed the door, the glass quickly began to fog with the steam as you stood under the spray of the faucet. Even though you knew the water was hot, it almost felt cool on your heated skin. Dylan watched you as you ran your hands over your body before he reached out, gripping your hips. He shoved you back against the wall and his lips crashed into yours. 

You reached up clasped around his neck, your hands tangling into the wet strands of his hair, deepening the kiss and tasting the faint hint of mint on his tongue. His teeth grazed over your bottom lip, pulling it taut before he kissed along your jawline. 

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath against your throat.

“Soap’s over there,” you sighed, jutting your chin to the shelf in the corner. 

“Right… showering…” his teasing mouth paused and he pulled back from you. “You’re so fucking distracting…” he groaned, his grip on your hips shifting to your ass before he squeezed it in both of his palms. 

You grinned and wet your lower lip with your tongue. 

“Not helping.”

You laughed before you pushed him away enough to grab the body wash from the shelf and squeeze it onto his loofa. “Lemme help then,” you said, gesturing for him to turn around in front of you, the water now striking him in the chest. 

He didn’t protest, and quickly spun around as you took a small step closer, so your wet body was pressed briefly against him before you began to scrub his shoulders and upper back. 

“Mmm…” he hummed, rolling his neck. 

You tickled him enough to raise his arms so you could wash them both thoroughly. You smiled watching him noticeably relax his shoulders. You washed down his back, sliding the loofa down to the dips in his low back and over his perfect ass. 

“Taking your time back there…” he chuckled. 

“Stop having such a nice ass and maybe I’d make quicker work of it.” 

He shook a bit with a contained laugh. “Noted.” 

You finally relented, taking one last look at his soapy cheeks before you reached around to scrub his chest and stomach, not spending too much time before reaching down and squeezing the loofa at his belly button and letting the soap begin to run down his body. Your free hand followed after it until it was teasing at the coarse hair, brushing just where you knew he was dying for you to touch him. 

“Relentless fucking tease–” 

You cut off his complaint by wrapping your hand around his sudsy length and pumping him just once. “You were saying?” you breathed against his back before you kissed his shoulder blade before you pumped him again. 

He groaned, his head falling forward. “I’ll shut up… just don’t fucking stop.” 

You beamed with pride. It wasn’t like he never begged, but it was far less common than your own pleadings that more frequently bounced off the walls of this room. You rewarded its rarity by picking up the pace with your hand, pinning him against you with the other hand pressing against the front of his thigh, the loofa long forgotten at his feet. 

He stuttered forward, one hand coming up to hold his weight against the tiled wall the other grasping gently at your wrist, not stopping you, but guiding your hand. “Fuck,” he cursed, the last consonant of it coming out shuddered and low.

You were growing more and more impatient with each second. The ache between your thighs was forcing you to squeeze them together for some kind of relief. You moaned in frustration, your pace faltering. 

Dylan squeezed your wrist and stilled your hand. “Someone sounds needy…” he whispered, pulling your hand free of him and swapping your positions. He pressed you back against the wall and grabbed your body wash from the shelf, squeezing some into his palm. 

You watched him warm his hands together, lathering the gel into foamy suds in those gorgeous fucking hands that you knew he was about to touch you with. 

He smirked at the audible sound of you swallowing before he cupped one of your breasts, his other hand snaking around you, his fingers teasing the dimples of your lower back. He pinched your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his nose nudging your chin up enough for him to run his tongue up the length of your throat before he kissed you. 

Your heart hammered in your chest, your skin pebbled with goosebumps, your body sang under his touch. You’d missed him. God, how you’d missed him. It should be against the Geneva Convention for him to be away from you this long. Torture, pure and simple. But this? This was as close as you could imagine to what it might feel like to be moments from dying of thirst in a vast desert only to stumble into the cool waters of an oasis.

He slid his hand down your body and, without a hint of teasing or pretense, rubbed your clit with the pads of two fingers. 

“Holy. Sh–!” you cussed, only getting half of it out before it devolved into a strangled moan. 

Dylan nudged at your chin as your head lolled in pleasure, his lips skimming across your skin, breathing out praise as he continued to swirl his fingers over the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you writhing against him. “Missed the way you sound…” he nipped your neck, “the way you feel…” he groped at your chest again with his free hand, “the way you taste…” he kissed you again, his tongue demanding entry into your mouth. 

His talented fingers had you approaching the edge, that warm feeling building up inside you, that pressure that made you feel like you were electrified. “Dyl… please…” you softly begged when he gave you a moment to finally breathe. 

His lips slipped from yours, your noses touching, both of you panting in the same air. Then you whined when you felt his fingers disappear from you. He stepped back into the stream of water and pulled you with him, kissing you everywhere his lips could reach as the hot spray of the shower rinsed you both clean of suds. 

You looped your arms around his neck and he gripped the backs of your thighs, hauling you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist. 

His eyes were wide with the same wonder he somehow still held for you even though he’d had you so many times there was no way to keep count. It made you feel warm and wanted. Desired and beautiful.  

“Could stay in this shower for the rest of my fucking life…” he said as he pinned your back to the wall and bucked up against you, slickening himself in the folds of your body, driving the head of his cock into your already sensitive clit. 

Your eyes rolled back at the contact, your hips rocking forward to meet the roll of his. “We’ll… we’ll get all pruney….” you finally breathed out. 

He laughed against your throat before he kissed, nipped, and sucked what you knew would be an impressive little bruise into your skin. “So be it,” he said, and then he shifted his hips, met your gaze, and slid into you to the hilt. 

The stretch, the fullness, it was almost as shocking now as the first time you’d felt him buried inside you. It was perfection, blissfully indecent perfection. You moaned his name, your fingernails clawing at his shoulders as he began to set a punishing pace, driving up into you hard, rutting his body against yours enough to stimulate you in just the right places, inside and out. 

“Shit!” you swore, letting your head fall back against the tiled wall. 

He fucked into you over and over as you felt yourself edging closer to the brink. You felt your thighs begin to shudder as his pace grew more erratic an unpredictable. 

“So fucking tight…” he groaned before he kissed the valley between your collarbones. 

The strangled need in his voice, the feel of his breath against your skin–all of it coupled with the delicious way the end of his length was pressing into that perfect spot inside you that made you feel like you were losing touch with reality–you were ready. “Fuck, Dyl–” 

He raised one hand to press on your chin enough to force your gaze back to his, the pad of his thumb dragging across your lower lip. 

You moaned and flicked at it with the tip of your tongue. “I’m so close… please!” you begged.

He drove his thumb between your lips and when you sucked it into your mouth, he slipped the hand on your thigh between your legs to rub his finger over your clit just when he drove a final thrust against your g-spot. 

You’d had your fair share of fantastic orgasms at this man’s hands, literally, but this one was up there standing proudly on the podium collecting its medal. It was a rush of pent-up need and desire that washed over you like a crashing tidal wave. Every single cell in your body felt like it was vibrating with pleasure. Your muscles clamped down on him as you felt him join you in his own release. The feel of him spilling into you, the sound of your name falling from his slack lips, making it all so much more intense. It was perfection. Pure and simple. Absolute. Unadulterated. Bliss.

Your chest heaved against his, both of you softly laughing between kisses before you felt him slip free of your body. His hands warmed up your arms before they cupped either side of your neck. 

“I love you so fucking much.” 

You smiled at him, leaning in to run your nose along his throat until your lips were at his ear. “I love you too.” 

He sighed and his lips found yours, but he held back from the kiss long enough to speak. “Hell of a welcome home.”