#net control operator

[n2qfd]

Been 15 years since I was a Net Control Station… and I don’t ever think I ran a CW net.

There’s some fear out there of being an NCS and I get it. It’s not like there aren’t nerves here too when I’m in the hot seat. But don’t ever think it’s an extraordinary thing you can’t do. If you’ve been checking into a net for a while you know the routines. It’s not hard to fill in and call the net now and again. Take the leap, your fellows will help you along and you’ll find there is even more to our hobby than you thought.

When you look around waiting for the thing you want to happen, don’t ask who’s gonna do it, ask for check ins (QNI,) take it slow, but do it.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Antiusurpation and the road to disenshittification

THIS WEEKEND (November 8-10), I'll be in TUCSON, AZ: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

Nineties kids had a good reason to be excited about the internet's promise of disintermediation: the gatekeepers who controlled our access to culture, politics, and opportunity were crooked as hell, and besides, they sucked.

For a second there, we really did get a lot of disintermediation, which created a big, weird, diverse pluralistic space for all kinds of voices, ideas, identities, hobbies, businesses and movements. Lots of these were either deeply objectionable or really stupid, or both, but there was also so much cool stuff on the old, good internet.

Then, after about ten seconds of sheer joy, we got all-new gatekeepers, who were at least as bad, and even more powerful, than the old ones. The net became Tom Eastman's "Five giant websites, each filled with screenshots of the other four." Culture, politics, finance, news, and especially power have been gathered into the hands of unaccountable, greedy, and often cruel intermediaries.

Oh, also, we had an election.

This isn't an election post. I have many thoughts about the election, but they're still these big, unformed blobs of anger, fear and sorrow. Experience teaches me that the only way to get past this is to just let all that bad stuff sit for a while and offgas its most noxious compounds, so that I can handle it safely and figure out what to do with it.

While I wait that out, I'm just getting the job done. Chop wood, carry water. I've got a book to write, Enshittification, for Farar, Straus, Giroux's MCD Books, and it's very nearly done:

https://twitter.com/search?q=from%3Adoctorow+%23dailywords&src=typed_query&f=live

Compartmentalizing my anxieties and plowing that energy into productive work isn't necessarily the healthiest coping strategy, but it's not the worst, either. It's how I wrote nine books during the covid lockdowns.

And sometimes, when you're not staring directly at something, you get past the tunnel vision that makes it impossible to see its edges, fracture lines, and weak points.

So I'm working on the book. It's a book about platforms, because enshittification is a phenomenon that is most visible and toxic on platforms. Platforms are intermediaries, who connect buyers and sellers, creators and audiences, workers and employers, politicians and voters, activists and crowds, as well as families, communities, and would-be romantic partners.

There's a reason we keep reinventing these intermediaries: they're useful. Like, it's technically possible for a writer to also be their own editor, printer, distributor, promoter and sales-force:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#intermediation

But without middlemen, those are the only writers we'll get. The set of all writers who have something to say that I want to read is much larger than the set of all writers who are capable of running their own publishing operation.

The problem isn't middlemen: the problem is powerful middlemen. When an intermediary gets powerful enough to usurp the relationship between the parties on either side of the transaction, everything turns to shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/12/direct-the-problem-of-middlemen/

A dating service that faces pressure from competition, regulation, interoperability and a committed workforce will try as hard as it can to help you find Your Person. A dating service that buys up all its competitors, cows its workforce, captures its regulators and harnesses IP law to block interoperators will redesign its service so that you keep paying forever, and never find love:

https://www.npr.org/sections/money/2024/02/13/1228749143/the-dating-app-paradox-why-dating-apps-may-be-worse-than-ever

Multiply this a millionfold, in every sector of our complex, high-tech world where we necessarily rely on skilled intermediaries to handle technical aspects of our lives that we can't – or shouldn't – manage ourselves. That world is beholden to predators who screw us and screw us and screw us, jacking up our rents:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/yes-there-are-antitrust-voters-in

Cranking up the price of food:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

And everything else:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

(Maybe this is a post about the election after all?)

The difference between a helpmeet and a parasite is power. If we want to enjoy the benefits of intermediaries without the risks, we need policies that keep middlemen weak. That's the opposite of the system we have now.

Take interoperability and IP law. Interoperability (basically, plugging new things into existing things) is a really powerful check against powerful middlemen. If you rely on an ad-exchange to fund your newsgathering and they start ripping you off, then an interoperable system that lets you use a different exchange will not only end the rip off – it'll make it less likely to happen in the first place because the ad-tech platform will be afraid of losing your business:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-shatter-ad-tech

Interoperability means that when a printer company gouges you on ink, you can buy cheap third party ink cartridges and escape their grasp forever:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Interoperability means that when Amazon rips off audiobook authors to the tune of $100m, those authors can pull their books from Amazon and sell them elsewhere and know that their listeners can move their libraries over to a different app:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/07/audible-exclusive/#audiblegate

But interoperability has been in retreat for 40 years, as IP law has expanded to criminalize otherwise normal activities, so that middlemen can use IP rights to protect themselves from their end-users and business customers:

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

That's what I mean when I say that "IP" is "any law that lets a business reach beyond its own walls and control the actions of its customers, competitors and critics."

For example, there's a pernicious law 1998 US law that I write about all the time, Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, the "anticircumvention law." This is a law that felonizes tampering with copyright locks, even if you are the creator of the undelying work.

So Amazon – the owner of the monopoly audiobook platform Audible – puts a mandatory copyright lock around every audiobook they sell. I, as an author who writes, finances and narrates the audiobook, can't provide you, my customer, with a tool to remove that lock. If I do so, I face criminal sanctions: a five year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine for a first offense:

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

In other words: if I let you take my own copyrighted work out of Amazon's app, I commit a felony, with penalties that are far stiffer than the penalties you would face if you were to simply pirate that audiobook. The penalties for you shoplifting the audiobook on CD at a truck-stop are lower than the penalties the author and publisher of the book would face if they simply gave you a tool to de-Amazon the file. Indeed, even if you hijacked the truck that delivered the CDs, you'd probably be looking at a shorter sentence.

This is a law that is purpose-built to encourage intermediaries to usurp the relationship between buyers and sellers, creators and audiences. It's a charter for parasitism and predation.

But as bad as that is, there's another aspect of DMCA 1201 that's even worse: the exemptions process.

You might have read recently about the Copyright Office "freeing the McFlurry" by granting a DMCA 1201 exemption for companies that want to reverse-engineer the error-codes from McDonald's finicky, unreliable frozen custard machines:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/28/mcbroken/#my-milkshake-brings-all-the-lawyers-to-the-yard

Under DMCA 1201, the Copyright Office hears petitions for these exemptions every three years. If they judge that anticircumvention law is interfering with some legitimate activity, the statute empowers them to grant an exemption.

When the DMCA passed in 1998 (and when the US Trade Rep pressured other world governments into passing nearly identical laws in the decades that followed), this exemptions process was billed as a "pressure valve" that would prevent abuses of anticircumvention law.

But this was a cynical trick. The way the law is structured, the Copyright Office can only grant "use" exemptions, but not "tools" exemptions. So if you are granted the right to move Audible audiobooks into a third-party app, you are personally required to figure out how to do that. You have to dump the machine code of the Audible app, decompile it, scan it for vulnerabilities, and bootstrap your own jailbreaking program to take Audible wrapper off the file.

No one is allowed to help you with this. You aren't allowed to discuss any of this publicly, or share a tool that you make with anyone else. Doing any of this is a potential felony.

In other words, DMCA 1201 gives intermediaries power over you, but bans you from asking an intermediary to help you escape another abusive middleman.

This is the exact opposite of how intermediary law should work. We should have rules that ban intermediaries from exercising undue power over the parties they serve, and we should have rules empowering intermediaries to erode the advantage of powerful intermediaries.

The fact that the Copyright Office grants you an exemption to anticircumvention law means nothing unless you can delegate that right to an intermediary who can exercise it on your behalf.

A world without publishing intermediaries is one in which the only writers who thrive are the ones capable of being publishers, too, and that's a tiny fraction of all the writers with something to say.

A world without interoperability intermediaries is one in which the only platform users who thrive are also skilled reverse-engineering ninja hackers – and that's an infinitesimal fraction of the platform users who would benefit from interoperabilty.

Let this be your north star in evaluating platform regulation proposals. Platform regulation should weaken intermediaries' powers over their users, and strengthen their power over other middlemen.

Put in this light, it's easy to see why the ill-informed calls to abolish Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act (which makes platform users, not platforms, responsible for most unlawful speech) are so misguided:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

If we require platforms to surveil all user speech and block anything that might violate any law, we give the largest, most powerful platforms a permanent advantage over smaller, better platforms, run by co-ops, hobbyists, nonprofits local governments, and startups. The big platforms have the capital to rig up massive, automated surveillance and censorship systems, and the only alternatives that can spring up have to be just as big and powerful as the Big Tech platforms we're so desperate to escape:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/23/evacuate-the-platforms/#let-the-platforms-burn

This is especially grave given the current political current, where fascist politicians are threatening platforms with brutal punishments for failing to censor disfavored political views.

Anyone who tells you that "it's only censorship when the government does it" is badly confused. It's only a First Amendment violation when the government does it, sure – but censorship has always relied on intermediaries. From the Inquisition to the Comics Code, government censors were only able to do their jobs because powerful middlemen, fearing state punishments, blocked anything that might cross the line, censoring far beyond the material actually prohibited by the law:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/22/self-censorship/#hugos

We live in a world of powerful, corrupt middlemen. From payments to real-estate, from job-search to romance, there's a legion of parasites masquerading as helpmeets, burying their greedy mouthparts into our tender flesh:

https://www.capitalisnt.com/episodes/visas-hidden-tax-on-americans

But intermediaries aren't the problem. You shouldn't have to stand up your own payment processor, or learn the ins and outs of real-estate law, or start your own single's bar. The problem is power, not intermediation.

As we set out to build a new, good internet (with a lot less help from the US government than seemed likely as recently as last week), let's remember that lesson: the point isn't disintermediation, it's weak intermediation.

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/2024/11/07/usurpers-helpmeets/#disreintermediation

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

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en (Image: Cryteria, CC BY 3.0, modified)

[artbyblastweave]

Team Fortress 2 ultimately really wound up giving Venture Bros energy with how all the high-level plot stuff ended up either self-negating (Grey getting backstabbed by his own mercs for control of a life extension machine that they don't actually know how to operate) or having been pointless the entire time (The Administrator) with most of the quote-unquote "net gain" of the story being the cast members finding ways to move on and find fulfillment in the face of, and ultimately outside of, an untenable genre-fiction status quo.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍

pairing: lighthouse keeper!joel miller x mermaid!reader

genre: mermaid AU, explicit, fluff, comfort, romance, minors dni

word count: 8.5k

summary: As the man responsible for operating the lighthouse, Joel lives a solitary life on the isolated coast. He has no complaints, enjoying the hauntingly beautiful songs that echo from the sea at night. One stormy night, he rescues a mysterious mermaid tangled in a fishing net. As you recover in the lighthouse, the two form an unlikely bond and find comfort in each other's company.

warnings: mention of joel from time to time visiting a brothel, loneliness, mermaid anatomy things, oral (fem receiving), piv, touch starved!joel and reader, mild breeding kink, squirting

a/n: full disclaimer I made up the mermaid lore, facts and anatomy, the only mermaid romance book I read was goddess of the sea by P.C. Cast and I read that all the way back in high school so I remember very little of it (I think I remember some of the steamy stuff but honestly it's all very vague so if there are any similarities that's why) 🧜‍♀️🌊

**stunning gif made by fanna aka @pedrorascal 💙

When in darkness look for the light. 

Joel heard this at different points in his life. His father, bless his soul, adamant about reminding him that there was always good to be found, even when it didn’t seem like it. When his father passed, Joel thought of the words endlessly. The more he thought about them, the more it made less and less sense to him. What was one supposed to do when the light that was sought didn’t exist? It would’ve made more sense to him if the message was about creating your own light, not depending on another. He would make sure to remember that if he ever had kids. 

The lantern in his hand groaned upon placing it on the nearby windowsill. It was a small window, the glass coated in thick dust. He smelled the sea. The salt of it burned his nostrils, the taste lingered on his tongue.

With a practiced hand, Joel reached for the oil lamp, its polished brass surface gleamed in the fading light. He carefully opened the reservoir cap and began pouring the clear, fragrant oil. The room filled with a faint scent. He listened to the waves as he lit the lantern, creating the sole light that guided him up the lighthouse. Joel imagined the violent waters hitting the bedrock. With time, they would all turn into sand. He looked up. The stairs were endless, going round and round. He spotted seaweed and mold in the same places, observed the humidity that darkened the underside of the stairs that barely hung onto the walls.

The small flame on the wick grew, casting an amber light that illuminated the inside. Joel's eyes focused on the growing flame, his gaze steady as he watched the light take hold.

“I’m home,” he said freely, his voice echoing. On the contrary belief, Joel actually had a regular home. He had a stove, a fridge, a bed. But this... this always felt like his true home. The smells, the sounds, the atmosphere, all of it was familiar, hugging him tight as soon as he stepped inside.

He climbed the stairs, his knees starting to ache when he was halfway to the light room. He didn’t stop, only slowed his steps. The air was fresher at the top. More breathable compared to where he was not moments ago.

He reached the top of the staircase, his breaths coming in steady rhythm as he pushed through the burn in his knees. The narrow corridor opened up into the lantern room, and he stepped into the circular chamber.

Joel reached for the mechanism that controlled the rotation. He gave it a gentle turn, feeling the gears engage beneath his touch. The light began to move, its beam sweeping across the darkening sea. The room filled with the rhythmic cadence of the light's rotation. 

But that wasn’t the only thing that reached his ears. 

A melody that flowed like the ebb and flow of the tides called out to him, guiding him to the clear, towering windows of the lighthouse. Every night he heard it, yet never managed to see the person—or thing—responsible for it. For years it had accompanied him. Another friend that the sea had gifted him to fight the loneliness he felt from time to time. His nose nearly brushed the glass, a chill settling in his bones. Sometimes he thought he heard lyrics as painful as the song itself. 

Joel’s brows furrowed when he noticed the thick fog settling above the water. No matter the light he put out into the world, it would be a hard night for captains and crew. 

The cadence still heavy in his ear, Joel stepped away from the panes. He picked up his log book and took a seat. He grimaced when the chair groaned under his weight. Joel had placed his desk so he would still have a view of the sea. The brine-laden air filled his lungs as he ruffled through the pages. 

Picking up his pen, Joel began to write. 

Lighthouse Keeper's Log: Joel M.  Date: October 22, 18XX Weather: Heavy fog blanketing the coastline, strong easterly wind, temperature 58°F. Lighting Operations:  Lit the lamp at 18:30 hours. Due to thick fog, visibility greatly reduced; light rotation pattern altered to emit one long white flash every 20 seconds. Despite challenging conditions, light remains steadfast in its duty. Vessel Sightings: Limited visibility makes it impossible to spot distant vessels. Unusually rough seas observed, even in the absence of a clear storm. Large waves breaking against the shore; powerful surges felt within the lighthouse. Remaining emergency supplies: Blankets, dry rations, and signal flares. Remarks and Notes: The fog is a thick shroud, obscuring the sea beyond the immediate coastline. The normally serene cove now a theater of restless energy, waves crashing against the rocks with an almost primal force. An eerie beauty to the fog and the untamed sea—a reminder of nature's might and mystery. Life at the Lighthouse: Dinner of canned beans and bread awaits. Appetite normal. 

Joel chewed the inside of his cheek. He tapped his pen against the worn paper before resuming taking his notes. 

Heard the song again. It always sounds like it’s in longing for something more. I’m starting to think I’m making it up from my own loneliness. But I can’t really complain much I picked this life. 

He let out a groan. There was some comfort in knowing no one would read these but he didn’t want to sound like a crazy person if someone did end up stumbling across the notes. 

Joel leaned back in his chair, extending his legs. His muscles hummed happily at the stretch. He still had to check and make sure what supplies he had left to put in the log, he also needed to make sure no additional repairs were needed. He dragged a heavy palm down his face. Why the hell didn’t he check when he entered the base? Now he had to go down all those stairs again. He loved the lighthouse but hell, he could do with less workout. 

With a sigh, he got up and left the room. He descended the narrow spiral staircase that wound its way down into the base of the lighthouse. He carried a lantern to light his way, its feeble glow dancing against the walls. The sound of the crashing waves outside gradually faded into a distant rumble. His unease grew as the melody disappeared completely. 

Joel knew the lighthouse like he did the back of his hand. But that didn’t mean the structure even spooked him from time to time. It wasn’t easy being alone in the dark, watching the endless horizon just wondering about life. Hearing the aria subdued those thoughts— the thoughts that made a convincing point that he’s lived an empty life.  

Reaching the bottom, Joel stepped into the dimly lit chamber that housed the mechanical workings of the lighthouse. Gears and mechanisms stood in silent vigil, their intricate interplay hidden beneath layers of metal and shadow. The steady tick-tock of the clockwork echoed softly in the confined space.

Setting the lantern on a nearby table, Joel approached the massive gear assembly responsible for the light's rotation. He ran his fingers along the metal surfaces, feeling the vibrations as the gears turned in precise harmony. His trained touch could detect even the slightest irregularity.

A toolbox lay open on the table, its contents glinting in the lantern light. Joel selected a wrench and began to carefully tighten bolts and adjust connections. He moved with the grace of a musician tuning an instrument.

As he worked, his thoughts shifted to his guitar at home. He wanted to play again. Perhaps accompany the song he heard every night. His fingers weren’t as they used to be. It took time to remember how to move them over the strings, the cords, it frustrated him, making it easier to give up as soon as he touched the instrument. 

The lantern's glow flickered as Joel adjusted the final cog, ensuring that the gears meshed flawlessly. Satisfied with his work, he stood back and observed the assembly for a moment, watching as the clockwork continued its patient dance.

Then. . . a sound. 

An unfamiliar sound. It was followed by a frustrated shout and some wild splashing. Joel stood still, his spine stiff as they came. He thought the sea was playing tricks on him, which was why he remained there. Listening. The sound repeated itself, some colorful curses flying out of the mouth of whoever lingered outside of the lighthouse’s walls. 

Joel promptly headed for the door. Whoever it was, it sounded like they needed help. His mind raced. It could’ve been a multitude of things; a shipwreck that led hald conscience crew to the shores, a kid playing past their curfew, a—

. . . a woman entangled in a net.

What?  

He stilled, eyes wide with shock. All air was expelled from his lungs, mouth incredibly dry despite the chill that quickly settled in his bones. He blinked over and over, his mind trying to comprehend the sight before him. Waves crashed around her, framing her while she fought against the stubborn net. It’d been a while since Joel was in close proximity to a woman. He wasn’t a hermit, but most of the time he kept to himself, and when he needed a release provided from something other than his hand. . . he earned enough a month to spend on certain services. 

She was beautiful. Her back bare and her front hidden, looking like a starfish washed a shore. She struggled again and with a snarl, she flipped over. 

Joel’s cheeks warmed, the night chill that settled in his bones quickly dissipated thanks to the sight before him. As if to accommodate the moment, a particularly large wave washed over her, drops of salty water wetting the cuffs of his pants. She only wore a bra—at least that was what Joel assumed it was. It was the same color of a brewing storm, silver that gradually softened as it disappeared into her skin. Stunning. 

He swallowed. Temptation fogged his mind, his cock becoming stiff under the thick fabric. He was only a man after all. Joel knew little that could resist someone like her, she was hypnotic. With another swallow, his gaze moved lower. He wondered if the rest of her was just as revealing. 

But the rest of her was hidden by the vastness of the sea. 

For the better, he thought, cock straining against the zipper. He wouldn’t have touched her, of course, but it would’ve made it harder to think. 

And to help her. 

Joel's gaze finally met her face, which was equally as beautiful as the rest of her, despite being the target of her unwavering glare.

“Ahoy,” he said, voice thick. His greeting did little in wiping away her untrusting stare. “Uh. . .seems like you’ve gotten yourself in a. . . bind.” 

“Funny,” she answered, her voice the complete opposite of the statement. Wrestling against the net, a hiss escaped her lips the moment she tried. “Are you going to help or just make puns, human?” 

Human? 

Joel raised an eyebrow, being caught in a net would be annoying for sure but it shouldn’t be hurting her. He tilted his head and came closer. She regarded him like a wild animal, her need to flee evident in her eyes. He sighed. “Don’t give me the coyote look, I’m not a canine.” 

“I’ll look at you however I want to.” 

She moved and when the net brushed against her skin, she winced in pain. Pulling her arms close to her chest, she made an effort to keep from touching it. This time the pain was evident over the contours of her face, prompting worry to cross over his. 

“Stop movin’,” he ignored her sharp tongue and knelt next to her. “Is that a barbed net? Shit. We need to cut you out.” 

Another wave. A scream. 

Panic flared under his skin, without telling her to wait, he jolted inside of the lighthouse. He rummaged through his toolbox and when he came back, Joel noticed the trickle of blood going down her cheek. “Don’t worry,” he said quickly, his body collapsed onto his throbbing knees. “I’ll get you out.” 

Her stare grew gentle as he meticulously severed the ropes. Joel's attention was drawn to the cuts and bruises that marred her. He didn’t even know her name but he knew that he hated seeing her like that. So hurt and vulnerable. Another wave washed over them. Joel snarled at the sea, his annoyance growing at the wickedness of his greatest love. 

“The name’s Joel,” he grunted and moved down her body, freeing her inch by inch. Her spine turned as rigid as a plank. “Am I hurtin’ you?” he asked, stopping momentarily. He looked up but she wasn’t facing him. 

“I-It’s not that,” she said. All of her bite from before had dissolved like foams upon the sea. “My. . .lower half got caught up badly when I tried to break free. It—It might be too gruesome to see, so just give me the cutters and  you can go.” 

Joel scoffed. As if he would let her do this by herself. “If you’re hurt that bad all the more reason to stay and help you, honey. Just stay still.” 

“But—” 

“Stay still,” he ordered. Joel spread his finger across her lower back. He was surprised to find her skin so cold. He needed to free her and wrap a blanket around her ASAP. 

One by one, he cut through the net, more of her exposed to him. It almost felt like he shouldn’t be seeing such a sight. It didn’t matter though, he’d help her no matter what— he’d decided on that the first moment he laid his eyes on her. His hand moved downward, pinning her to the spot, maintaining her still. She let out a gasp, one laced with fear. Joel didn’t understand why. 

He shook his head and pressed on. 

Only when he lowered his gaze back down did he feel it. The smooth, leathery texture of her skin. It was slippery, soft. . . scaled. It took his eyes a moment to process. Subtle around her waist, the color became more pronounced as it extended downward. Scales. Beautiful scales that shined under the moonlight. It was the same color as her bra, gray that cheated its way to a light shade of blue. Joel swore he saw some gold scattered in there as well. 

He stopped moving—hell, he stopped breathing. 

“You noticed,” she said simply. Joel’s head snapped towards the voice, the tips of his ears red. 

“What—” he shook his head. “Are you a fuckin’ mermaid?” 

Silence. 

“. . . maybe.” 

“Don’t pull my leg, girl,” he warned. The words didn’t match his tone. Joel was simply in awe, his mind more of a mess. “I can see your damn scales as clear as day.” 

“Then why are you asking?” she snapped. “Could you please just help me out? It hurts.” 

“I was just curious,” Joel grunted, voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t say anything else and continued in silence. When she was free, he threw the net toward the lighthouse. He would discard it later. “Now what?” 

“Now,” she answered, the first smile gracing her lips. “I leave. Thank you.” 

Joel couldn’t deny the selfish throb of his heart. He had so many questions he wanted to ask. He wanted her to stay—wanted her to want to stay. With him. Why was that he didn’t know. A cold gust of wind blew while he watched. The mermaid turned to swim away, and as she did Joel didn’t miss the small tell tales of pain. 

He saw blood. It turned the sea into a nasty color. The words clawed up to his throat, he pushed them back as much as he could. 

Stay. 

He wanted to shout but couldn’t. It wasn’t his place. 

Luckily, fate was on his side tonight. 

She couldn’t move her tail, every movement like knives into her meaty flesh. The waves slowly brought her back to shore, like a gift. 

Her, however, didn’t share his enthusiasm. Tears built in her eyes, again, Joel could swear he saw golden specks in them. 

“I have a place,” he said. “A secret place you can stay until you heal. I have supplies.” when she didn’t seem convinced, he added. “Let me take care of you. Please.” 

A male. A human male. 

A man. 

The notion still escaped you, his hands one of a gentle giant’s as he carried you down the treacherous steps. He didn’t attempt to steal your gaze no matter how long you stared at him. And no matter the pain, you couldn’t stop. There was a roughness to his features, his appearance rugged with lines deepened by time drawn over his face. You observed the grays in his hair, in his beard. Witnessed the divot in the middle of his bottom lip, so full for a man seemingly unbothered by what you were. 

No matter how strong or wise, to see a creature that was believed to be none other than myth must’ve come as a shock. 

But you remained silent. 

So did he. 

You settled on observing your surroundings. Nestled beneath the weathered stone foundation of the lighthouse, smooth walls resided, etched over centuries by the relentless caress of the sea, glistened as if adorned by a myriad of precious gems. The low ceiling, curved and worn, hinted at the gentle erosion that had sculpted this intimate haven.

The passage meandered downward, its narrowness opening into a grand expanse that drew a gasp from your numb lips. The chamber widened into an awe-inspiring grotto. Stalactites and stalagmites formed natural columns that reached toward each other as if yearning for an embrace. The rhythmic lullaby of waves filtered through unseen crevices.

At the heart of the chamber, a crystalline pool shimmered in shades of sapphire and emerald. Slender rays of moonlight, filtered through a labyrinth of underwater tunnels. An intricately woven nest of dried seaweed laid upon the surface, the smell of it reminiscent of home. 

However, you weren’t one to lower your guard so easily. No matter how pretty the prison was. 

Still in his arms, you shoot him a look of untrust. The fingers that gingerly held you tensed, blunt nails slightly digging into your wounded flesh. “Don’t give me that look,” he grumbled, averting his gaze. “It’s connected to the sea, you can leave whenever you want. . . or escape, if you would prefer to put it that way,” he walked to where the sea connected to the earth. “It’s completely closed off to the outside. If someone wants to find this place they’ll have to go into the lighthouse first and well,” he turned sheepish, red coloring his cheeks. “No one does.” 

“That’s kinda sad,” you remarked. You didn’t ignore the twinge of sadness coiling your heart. “You don’t have a family?” 

“No,” he answered. You didn’t expect to hear the rasp of his voice, the same tone when you dragged your finger through the rough gravel of the shores. He still refused to meet your gaze. “So. . . you’ll be safe. You don’t need to worry.” 

Joel gently lowered you into the sea, his legs half-submerged in the water. As salt touched the wounds, an incoming hiss grated against your throat, and pain bloomed, spreading through your tail.

You discerned the sound of his pulse racing beneath the cloak of his human flesh and bone. When you turned to look, you found him both mesmerized and distressed. 

“Can I bring you medicine?” he frowned when your gaze turned into one of amusement. “What? Don’t mermaids need medicine?” 

“Not for something like this,” you grinned. You thread your fingers in the water, careful not to move your tail as much as you moved to lay face first on the shore. “The sea will heal me. It hurts, but the wounds aren’t big enough that it would require external help.” 

Defeated, he shook his head, “If you say so, sweetheart.” 

You watched as he balled his hands into fists and released them. He repeated the motion over and over until he prepared to leave. Your eyebrows raised. He wanted to take care of you, ached for the companionship the close proximity would force upon them. Surprisingly, you felt bad. You’ve seen this lighthouse a million times, never once you thought such a sad man would be on the other side of cold walls. You sucked a sharp breath and decided to throw him a bone. 

“I will need food,” you called out, stopping him in his tracks. His shoulders raised, you swore if he were a dog his ears would be standing with attention. You swiped a tongue over your bottom lip, a bit of life in them now that you were in the water, he had a strong back, wide shoulders that any creature would admire. 

“What d’you eat?” 

You smiled, “Anything really. I’m not picky.” 

He turned then, he seemed so large in front of the narrow path that would lead up to the lighthouse. “What about fish?” 

“Unlike what your fairytales might entail, we do eat fish,” you answered with a burst of laughter. 

You laughed again when the crease between his brows deepened. He wrinkled his nose, “Feels wrong.” 

Despite his words, he looked lightened by your laughter, something like adoration swimming in his eyes. 

You shrugged and shuffled further into the water. It signaled the end of the conversation, prompting Joel to disappear back into the depressing labyrinth of the lighthouse. With a sigh, you turned your back, staring at the ceiling. You wondered how long you’d have to stay here. You had wrinkled your nose at the medicine that was offered, yet you knew it wouldn’t be a speedy recovery.  

You sighed again, disappearing into the water. You watched as the last of your oxygen formed bubbles that head to the surface, your gills starting to expand. The image of the stalactites became distorted, the moonlight that touched the soft waves bouncing around in the water. 

You really shouldn’t be complaining. At least the human who found you seemed to be a good one unlike the many you’ve seen during the centuries you lived. 

The ache in your tail growing tender, you closed your eyes. 

Joel, despite his imposing ruggedness, was quite nurturing. As the day passed, you noticed that he began to regard you with a sense of purpose. He went back home during the days, only to come back with heaping amounts of food and water. 

He never did bring you fish though, which made you giggle whenever you thought of it. 

“You don’t drink water.” Joel had said it as a statement rather than a question. You nodded and pushed a plump grape between your lips. The salt from your skin coated the fruit, highlighting the flavor. 

“I don’t.” 

“Is there somethin’ else that you drink? I can try to find it for you,” he said thoughtfully. His eyes met yours, your grin making him short of breath. He looked away, something that he commonly did whenever he was frustrated. And you noticed how easy it was to rile him up whenever you stretched, the sheer scales that covered your breasts almost sheer. You thoroughly enjoyed his gaping mouth and lustful gaze. You wondered when was the last time this man was touched. 

"Drinking water, as you know it on land, is quite different for me beneath the waves," you explained with a playful glint in your eyes. "You see, our world is a delicate balance of salt and currents, and our bodies have adapted to it."

You gestured gracefully to the shimmering water around you, your tail swaying gently with the motion of the still water. "When I need water, I don't sip from a cup or a stream. Instead, I have a connection with the sea itself. Just as your body knows how to breathe without thinking, my tail and skin allow water to flow through."

"Imagine this," you continued. "In the embrace of the ocean, my body senses the ebb and flow of the tides, the salt and minerals suspended in every drop. When I need hydration, my skin and scales absorb the sea's essence, drawing it into my very being."

You leaned closer, lips an inch away from his, your voice a mesmerizing cadence. Joel’s breath hitched, his chest expanding with each word whispered. He licked his lips, your eyes dropping to observe the movement. You imagined that same tongue sinking into your mouth, licking the salt. A shudder crawled up your spine, your breasts feeling tender and heavy. "So, you see, I drink in a way that's in tune with the rhythm of the sea, a silent conversation with the waves themselves. It's a connection, a dance of existence that ties me to the world I call home."

“Do you miss it?” 

The question took you by surprise and you blinked rapidly, “What?” 

“Your home?” 

“I—” Such a perceptive man. It surprised you. “The sea is my home. I’m never apart from it,” you said, shaking your head. A soft smile touched your lips. 

“What about where you were born?” he pressed. “Your family? Friends?” 

“So many questions,” you hummed. And, with a burst of confidence, you touched his cheek. Him leaning into the touch was something you hadn’t expected. “I’m not to go back.” 

“You were banished?” 

“I left.” it looked like he was about to ask more. Before he could, you pressed your thumb against his lips, feeling his warmth, his whole body grew rigid but didn’t pull away. “Too many rules,” you explained. “Not a very fun place to live.” 

With a graceful flick of your tail, you returned to the water, leaving a glistening trail of droplets in your wake. You vanished beneath the surface, you waited a moment and look up. There he was, leaning further into the water. Trying to capture a glimpse of the mythical creature he was nursing to health—

Propelling yourself with a force gentle enough that wouldn’t re-open the wounds, you broke through the surface and wrapped your arms around his neck. He let out a yelp as you pulled him under, bubbles caressing your bodies, rushing to escape the sea. Joel’s eyes went wide, panic lingering in the depths. You met his gaze and smiled, his heartbeat was muffled yet loud under the water. In order to calm him, you placed an open palm right above that frantically beating heart, closing your eyes, you willed your emotions over him. Calmness. Serenity. 

You’re safe with me, Joel. The only one of your kind that can say that.

He heard you. You watched the panic melt away from his gaze, replacing it with shock. Normally, if he was a merman himself, he’d be able to answer. Something tugged at your heartstrings, your gaze falling to the depths of the water.   

You felt his hands cup your waist, instinctively pulling you closer to him. He was firm, warm against your chest. To be touched. . . you missed it. Like he did when you cupped his cheek, you nuzzled closer to him. Your breasts flushed over the planes of his body, your nipples tight as they grazed against the fabric of his shirt. 

Warmth. 

You chased it. Ached for it. He seemed to be the same. His fingers denting your flesh, his arousal hard over your stomach. You would’ve allowed him anything in that moment. For him to kiss you, hold you, fuck you— you’d grant him anything, like a genie in a bottle. 

But, nonetheless, he was human. And humans needed air no matter how strongly they fought against it. 

His eyes became apologetic, brows furrowing. He gestured up and you shook your head, prompting confusion to cross his face. 

Mermaids were known to take human lovers. They would usually transform once a month to head for the shores. No one wanted to share more of themselves than they had to. Their world was a secret to be kept, an unspoken rule they all knew since birth. Looking at him, you knew he was at his last drops of oxygen. His cheeks were puffed up, eyes questioning your motives. 

Evolution had granted your kind one more gift—the gift of life. 

Your hands slid up his chest, your fingers bunched the collar of his shirt, you tugged the fabric. The sound of the currents flooded your ears. You felt your gills expand. Joel was unaware, he brushed your lips together, eyes coming to a close. 

A kiss. A simple kiss. 

His lips parted alongside yours, his tongue curious. You met him halfway and slanted your mouth over his, closing the gap entirely. 

You breathed air into him. Filling his lungs with oxygen. Your gills quivered at how much was needed for him to make this moment last. His chest dilated and Joel finally opened his eyes. With a smile, you pulled back, dragging your lips down to his neck instead. Slightly embarrassed of what he might think of it.   

His fingers curled under your chin, pulling you back up so you’d face him. You laughed when Joel attempted to ask his questions with nothing other than his eyes. 

You didn’t answer this time, only shrugged. His lips broke into an exasperated smile and despite the lack of it, you felt the air around you crackling, arousal pouring between your legs and mixing with the sea.  

Joel pulled you towards his lips once more. Eager for another taste. 

She was sleeping. 

Joel’s steps were feather-light as he approached her, his guitar in hand. He’d foolishly mentioned how he was trying to remember and her eyes had gone wide with excitement, asking him to bring it over. But since she was sleeping, he decided not to bother her with it and gently placed the instrument aside. 

He asked about it once, how her kind slept, apparently, they would drift to sleep underwater most of the time. That’s where they felt safest. He didn’t pry on the matter but could hear a hint of hurt lingering under her words. 

So, when he first saw her sleeping, his heart had warmed at the sight. 

Right now was no different. His gut felt oddly warm, his heart swelling in his chest, everything feeling a bit too tight. 

They hadn’t talked about the kiss—or the touches for that matter. 

Again, he hadn’t pressed for answers. He wasn’t sure what good they would do anyway. They were a part of different worlds, different species, how would it work? 

Joel tilted his head to the side. 

Seriously how would it work? She didn’t have. . . well. . . a vagina. At least not one he could see. 

Did she lay eggs? 

Joel blanked at the thought. They drank like fish so who was to say that they didn’t procreate like them too? 

He violently shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking about that, it was none of his goddamn business. With his mind feeling clearer, his eyes roamed over her sleeping figure. She was a silent sleeper. Her hands were tucked under her head, most of her tail submerged beneath the water, flowing freely with the soft ripples of water. All he wanted to do was to kneel beside her and stroke her hair, her body that seemed soft and supple. 

Joel managed to do half of what he wanted. He took a seat near her, the gravel crunching under his weight, her breathing more audible now that he was close. 

It’d been almost a month since he found her entangled within the nasty fisher’s net. He didn’t know how long it took mermaids to heal but he had a sneaking suspicion that she had. His mouth dried, a sudden uncomfort riling his stomach. He was afraid she was staying here for his sake. To spare his feelings. That notion just didn’t sit right with him. It was unfair to her, and, in some ways, it was unfair to him. He didn’t believe a creature like her would want to stay with an old man like him. He had nothing to offer. No land, no money, no nothing. 

Only the lighthouse. 

The kiss had been one of convenience, he told himself almost every night, stroking himself while replaying the moment over and over. He hadn’t visited the brothel since. None of them could compare to how she made him feel, and he doubt he’d go even after she left. 

“You’re thinking loud,” a murmur came from next to him. She stirred and flipped to her back, eyes finding his a second later. Joel could see her dreams still glimmering in her eyes, adding a shine. Her brows furrowed when his gaze lingered longer than it should have. “What?” 

“Nothin’,” he answered. “I brought the guitar.” 

“Really?” she was suddenly wide away, her upper hand lifting and tail splashing as she came to a sitting position. “Will you play for me?” 

Despite himself, he grinned, “That’s why I brought it, sweetheart.” 

He reached out and picked it up. When he returned, he caught her eyes on the exposed skin of his stomach, her lips parted. Briefly, her gaze found his. 

“I—um—” she looked away, bottom lip sucked between her teeth. “I know some songs so maybe I can join your playing.” 

Something flickered inside of him—a familiarity he couldn’t quite place. 

“That sounds lovely,” he balanced the guitar over his lap and strummed a couple of strings, their sound filling the cave. His gaze expectant as he looked back at her. “Go on now, don’t be shy.” 

She puffed her cheeks, huffing with annoyance, “That’s not fair, I said I would join you, not the other way around.” 

“You’re breakin’ my heart,” with a fixed gaze, his eyes grew soft and he smiled. “Please?” 

With a sigh she shifted closer, her tail swaying with an elegant fluidity. Her voice, when it finally graced the air, was hauntingly beautiful—a melody that seemed to bridge the gap between the human world and the mysteries of the sea. The lyrics spoke of lost homes and forgotten dreams, of endless depths and aching hearts. It was a song of longing and solitude, a mournful tale that seemed to capture the very essence of her existence.

As she sang, Joel's fingers moved deftly across the strings of his guitar, weaving his own notes into the fabric of her song. The cave's quiet embrace amplified the sound of his guitar, each note resonating against the walls. The music swirled around them, an unspoken conversation between two souls who had found an unexpected connection.

He watched her, the soft glow of the cave reflecting in her eyes as she sang. Her voice carried a weight that tugged at his heart, stirring emotions he had long kept buried. 

Without thinking, Joel's voice joined hers, his rough yet tender tones intertwining with her song. As their voices merged, the cave seemed to come alive, the walls reverberating with the bittersweet harmony of their duet.

In the midst of the music, a memory began to surface—the melody she sang felt achingly familiar. He strummed the guitar with increasing fervor, his fingers dancing across the strings as he tried to match the rhythm of her song.

And then it hit him—the realization that sent a shiver down his spine.

It was her. 

The sound that accompanied him every night. 

The sound that kept him sane. 

The sound that made him feel less alone. Less broken.

The sound of an old friend. 

It was her. It had always been her. 

Joel suddenly stopped, his eyes wide and lips agape as he just. . .stared at her. She was lost in her song, only noticing the loss of the soulful sound of the guitar moments later. Joel watched her blink with confusion, on edge, thanks to his gaze. “It’s you,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “You’re the song.” 

“I’m. . .what?” 

Wanting her to understand as soon as possible, Joel began humming the melody every part of him had grown accustomed to. He went on until her features shifted from confusion to recognition, a hand coming to cover her mouth. 

“You heard me?” she whispered. 

“I did,” he swallowed. “Every night.” 

Joel didn’t waste any more time. He held her gently by the neck, feeling her pulse as he crashed their lips together. He licked himself deep into her mouth and tasted the sea on her tongue. Her hands limply pawed his chest, bunching his shirt between delicate fingers. 

Her moans were even more beautiful than her song. 

He couldn’t get enough of it. His mouth devoured her, eating her alive with every fat swipe of his tongue. Her moans were swallowed by him. She was pliant, body trembling against his, desperate in the way she allowed herself to be consumed. Her breath stuttered as he cupped her breasts, the scale that covered them slowly sinking into her skin, leaving her bare to his tongue. 

Joel wanted no time in lowering himself, sucking the pebbled flesh between his lips. He swirled his tongue and nipped her with sharp teeth. She thread her fingers through his hair, pulled him closer. Joel looked at her between heavy lashes. Her breathing was frantic, her heart like a hummingbird’s in her chest. He pushed her tits together, dragged his tongue quickly from one swollen nipple to the other, she threw her head back with a wanton moan, the sound bouncing off of the walls. 

He felt the sting of her nails on his shoulders. Her trails thrashed against the calm waters and his one hand slid down to where the scales began. Joel never felt them properly before. He cupped the area where her ass would be if she were human, the pads of his finger digging into her flesh. She seemed to enjoy that. Her body shuddered, her scales growing wetter by the second. 

Joel parted from her chest with a pop, his lips were damp and a string of saliva followed him. “How does this work?” he asked, voice nothing but gravel. 

Still in a haze, she blinked. Confused. A smug smile tugged at his lips, pride, and cock swelling simultaneously. Finally, when she understood, she took his hand and led it down to her front. Joel didn’t look. He wanted to memorize her face instead, engraving every part of her into memory. As he was preoccupied, he felt it, an opening similar to a human woman’s. She still held her wrist while he explored. He traced the lips, the wetness between them. 

Her eyes rolled back when he brushed against the crown of her cunt, a throbbing pearl hidden. “Joel,” she breathed. “Again, please.” 

He nuzzled her neck and laid a kiss. “You’re not that different from your human counterpart it seems,” he murmured, goosebumps rising where his lips touched. “I want to eat this pretty cunt out, sweetheart. Let me taste you.” 

She nodded hazily, eyes clouded by lust. Joel splayed her over the shore, the bottom half of her tail still lazily moving under the water. He didn’t care about getting wet. Moving down, he straddled her and looked down. 

The breath got knocked out of him. 

Her hands were on each side of her head above the gravel, her chest raising up and down heavily as she looked up at him, gaze half-lidded. Joel’s gaze traveled lower. Just like he imagined, there was an opening a bit lower from where her tail started. The gaps between the scales had become almost non-existing, accommodating the perfect cunt that’d blossomed for him. It was wet. Glistening. He went down on his elbows, his mouth watering at the sight of it trembling. 

“So pretty,” he rasped. “Gonna fuckin’ devour you, honey.” 

He pressed his lips hungrily, tongue delving between her folds and tasting her from within. He didn’t separate as he moved his jaw. Her cunt fluttered and squeezed his tongue, begging him for more. Joel obliged, dragging his mouth up and down and purposefully bumping her clit with the curve of his nose. 

She was so darn wet. Soaked. He heard whimpers of his name but he was too far gone to grace the pleas with a response. Joel closed his lips around her clit and sucked, applying pressure with a pointed tongue. His fingers joined in on the fun, he pushed them in knuckle deep, scissoring them as he drew circles over the throbbing bundle of nerves. 

“That’s it,” he hummed, his breath warm against her core. “Fall apart for me, sweet temptress.” 

It was too much, too fast. 

His tongue was merciless, his words like a honeyed poison. Your mind was nothing but a haze. The world around you is left spinning. You didn’t remember the last time someone had you like this, so hungry and desperate. All you could do was beg for more. His fingers were thick and long inside of you, pressing harder and harder until he reached the spot that made you see stars. 

It didn’t take you long after that. His tongue flat over your clit, you felt your muscles begin to tighten, your scales practically vibrating in answer to the strokes of his mouth. 

His hand moved to the side of your face as he increased the pressure with his tongue, making you moan and thrust your hips against him. Your body was his to control and it responded eagerly to each touch, kiss, and lick. As his lips pressed harder and deeper, his mouth moving sloppily, your breathing began to quicken, your heart pounding in your ears amidst the sound of the waves lapping against your tail. 

He moaned into your pussy, your ears narrowed on the sound, forgetting all else. Feeling your slick becoming heavy on his tongue, he repeated the sound and your chest heaved, beasts tingling. You could feel your entire body tensing up, your fingers gripping his wet hair for leverage as you shuddered and exploded in his arms.  Your muscles tightened and quaked against him as his jaw and tongue continued their wicked work until finally, mercifully, you were released and slipped off the edge into the depths of rapturous bliss. A squirt of wetness soaked them both, filling his mouth and making a mess of his plump lips. 

Your world stilled and your eyes rolled back in your head as you lay there in his arms, savoring every second of nirvana that his tongue had so generously gifted to you. He didn’t stop until you were tugging at his hair. Joel did so with a soft growl, his gaze dark as he faced you, a wicked hunger still clouding his eyes. His hair still tight between your fingers, he parted his lips, and a string of saliva fell in a vicious drip from his tongue. You shuddered. Never breaking his gaze, he delved his fingers between the delicate folds and spread the mess he made. Debouched, was the only this you were able to think about. 

This man was every bit of hungry as you were. 

“Joel,” you whined upon feeling your arousal rapidly building between your legs once more. “I want to feel you.” you swallowed. “Want your cock.”  

“Say that again, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Convince me how bad you want it.” 

You weren't sure what to do, but you humored him anyway. Crunching up, you met him halfway in a wet kiss. “I want you to split me into two, Joel,” you whispered into his lips. “Want to feel the stretch of your cock. Want to feel that it’s real. I want you to fuck me so good that you’ll be spilling out of me as you take me again,” you dragged your lips down his throat. He was shaking. “Again,” a kiss. “And again. . .” 

“Fuck,” he moaned. “So filthy for such a pretty thing.” 

“Joel,” you whispered, ignoring him. You cupped his cock through his jeans and began to stroke him. His forehead fell to your shoulder, hips canting shallowly into your wanting palm. “Prove to me that humans can fuck just as well.” 

You’re not sure what it was—Jealousy? Pride? Whatever you said that got under his skin, you were glad. 

Joel pinned you to the gravel, his rough hands sliding from your shoulders to your waist. He stroked where the scales began, sending tremors and tingles up your body. He freed himself of his belt with one skilled hand and pulled out his cock. The tip glistened, precome still oozing from the tip. Your mouth watered. For a human, he was rather blessed. He eagerly stroked himself over you, his cock jutting from his fist. You warmed at the sight, slick wetting the inside of your thighs and adding to the mess. You couldn’t help it. There was just something so incredibly erotic about a man fucking his fist. It felt so primal. So instinctive about it.  

He pushed into you with a clipped groan, the movement almost punishing. Your insides clenched and all the air in your lungs seemed to desert you by the force of the thrust. Looking down at you, Joel smiled. The curl of his lips menacing and taunting. He pulled back agonizingly slow before he was rutting back into your spasming hole. You let out a sound between a hiss and a moan. His glee only seemed to heighten when you held on to his biceps, grounding yourself against the rock of his hips. 

“What’d you say, sweetheart?” he said, tone laced with venom. You were in a thick haze of lust, your mind finding trouble understanding his words. When you couldn’t answer, he slammed harder into the tight fist of your cunt. Your body drooled all over him and you felt like you couldn’t breathe. “Can humans fuck?” he said cruelly. 

Your mind was scattered. Especially when he sucked a nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh. His fingers began to move down your tail where the scales were most sensitive. Joel didn’t know this. As he skimmed a line back up with blunt nails, he was taken aback to feel you gripping him tight, slickness flowing from you like a broken fountain.

Your lungs burned. Your body nothing for of aflame. A strangled moan left him, the tightness of your cunt forcing him to slow. “Holy shit,” he moaned, jaw slack. “What the fuck—” His eyes went to meet yours only to find you hidden under your hands. An adorning smile grazed his face. “Hey, look at me,” he said and rolled his hips as an incentive. A short breath parted your lips. You lowered your hands, eyes tearing as you met his gaze. “Why so embarrassed darlin’? That was fuckin’ hot.” 

You didn’t answer. Not enjoying your silence, Joel again grazed your scales with his nails. He nearly came when you squeezed around him again, forcing the hitch of his breath. “You like when I do that?” he murmured. 

“Y-Yeah,” you answered. “They become sensitive during intercourse.” 

“Interestin’,” he hummed, looking down to where his cock was still buried deep. Keeping your hips pinned, he pulled out and grinded his cock over your tail instead. Your eyes grew wide from where it was glued. He made a delicious mess of the scales, slick and precome staining the vibrant blue and gray. Pleasure rippled across your tail and your brows furrowed, your expression melting in bliss. 

“I could stare at your face forever,” he muttered. “I don’t think I ever seen such a fucked out expression.” 

Heat gathered under your cheeks but honestly, you couldn’t really focus on it. Joel slipped back inside of you, despite how wet you were, you could still feel him stretching you wide. And with every wild thrust, he managed to get deeper and deeper. His cock pulsed, fingers now a constant pressure on your sensitive tail, “Gonna come,” he moaned, eyelids fluttering. You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close until you felt the entirety of the man’s weight. 

You wanted to feel him dripping out of you and you made your message clear by holding him in place. He was vocal where his face was buried in your neck. Tongue and teeth abusing the skin. His movements were rapid, the sound of skin against skin echoed, cock pressing hard into your heat. He fucked you until he stole his third orgasm from you, it felt like a jolt of electricity, your slick coating his length and dripping down. It was so overwhelming that you bit where his neck met his shoulder. You ignored the fact that this marked him as yours, and that the mark of a mermaid would last for weeks. 

Joel didn’t mind the pain. In fact, it spurred him on. He whined into your skin, hammering until he spilled into you, filling you until it was spilling from where he was stretching you. The way you fluttered and clenched was too much for him, he fucked his come back into you, hearing it make those sloppy wet gushing noises against his hips. He drove his hips forward until there was nothing left of him. His moans bounced off of clenched teeth. 

And when your arms fell back to the gravel, limp with pleasure, he stopped. 

You sighed happily at the touch of his lips over your heated skin. He kissed a trail down to your breasts, kissing each one, his softening cock slipped out of you and he went lower. Kisses and licks on your stomach and lastly one placed on your trembling mound. 

Your hands hastily pulled him back up for a long, lazy kiss. It was full of emotion, each swipe of your tongue conveying something else. Gratitude, pleasure, love. 

“You’re healed aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips. 

“Yes.” 

A beat of silence. 

“Now what?” 

“Now,” you sigh. “I leave.” A humorless, bitter chuckle left your lips. “But I really don’t want to.” 

He answered almost immediately, “Then don’t.” 

Joel pulled back to look at you, his gaze warm like the sun dancing above waves. You let out a sigh. Just like the sun, the look was also blinding. “I can’t live in this cave forever.” 

His brows drew together with confusion and you worried that perhaps you accidentally said something else. He shook his head, “Who said anythin’ about livin’ in this cave?” Joel’s lips curled in amusement in answer to your shocked expression. “You were already livin’ close to the lighthouse, weren’t you? You can come and visit. And I can visit the shores more often, As long as you’re not on the other side of the sea, we can be together.” 

He looked at you expectantly, and when your silence grew, so did his doubts. “Right?” he asked. 

“Right,” you repeated. You giggled at his relieved expression and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “I don’t know why I just assumed I’d have to live here. Like some sort of weird prison.” 

“Hmmm,” Joel smiled dragging his nose down from your temple to your cheek. He pulled you close and you laid your head over the expanse of his chest. “I guess I just fucked you that good.” 

“Don’t get so full of yourself. I was just taken by surprise.” 

“Sure, honey,” he answered, smile widening into a grin. “Whatever you say so.” 

(i made this moodboard before fanna's stunning bday gift to me which is the gif above but I adore this mood board so I decided to put it here thank you for reading xx)

[saphronethaleph]

Skydancer

“Well… darn,” Leia said, with feeling.

Apparently she’d picked entirely the wrong time to look in on the rebels in the Dennogra system. The Imperials had somehow got wind of the presence of the base, a sting operation had gone into play – while she was there, no less – and a Star Destroyer and an Interdictor were hanging overhead, TIE fighters flying cover over the base while stormtroopers closed in.

Her transport was already disabled, burned out by the first wave of fighters, and the local Rebel net had gone silent thirty seconds ago with the last report being that Base Orenth and Base Trill had both been neutralized.

Leia reached for her hold-out pistol.

She had a choice coming up, soon. She’d either be surrendering herself into Imperial custody, hoping for the means to make an escape attempt, or she’d be selling her life dearly.

And…

...she couldn’t see herself surrendering to Imperial custody. They knew she was a Rebel, now. Tarkin might be dead, but she had no reason to expect that any Imperial captors would be even as merciful as him.

Her fingers slid over the grip of the blaster as she moved from cover to cover, ears alert for any sign of the Stormtroopers closing the net, then paused as she spotted something.

There was an A-Wing fighter left in the hanger.

Leia frowned, trying to remember what she knew about the A-Wing.

It was… shielded, she knew that much, and it was fast and agile. And it didn’t rely on an Astromech droid to make hyperspace jumps.

That was it, then. That was how she could get out of this.

She just needed to handle enough fighters to get clear, and then the Interdictor – either escaping it by flying out of its range, or disabling it.

The A-Wing had concussion missile launchers, didn’t it? And the shields on an Imperial cruiser or destroyer were…

Leia thought about that a moment longer, checking in all directions, then made up her mind and ran for the fighter.

“Hey – stop!” a voice shouted, and Leia whirled. Without stopping, she snapped off two blasts, and one stormtrooper fell with a smoking hole in his breastplate.

The other ducked into cover, then returned fire, and Leia paused by the front leg of the A-Wing before firing twice more. That left her only two shots left in the small energy cell, but the shot did down the other stormtrooper, and she hurried up the ladder into the cockpit before sealing the canopy and hitting the self-start button.

The fighter’s computer flashed an unhappy pattern of lights at her, and Leia bared her teeth.

“Come on, you bucket of bolts,” she muttered, stabbing at a few controls, then the status screen came up. She flicked the repulsors online, then the shields, and a moment later a blaster bolt peened off the shield and into the corner of the hangar.

Blasters came up next, and Leia twisted the yoke. It was intuitive and responsive, a sign of good design, and she walked her fire across a whole squad of stormtroopers.

Then she keyed the main engines, and the whole hangar behind her was fried as the powerful engines boosted her upwards.

Two patrolling TIEs immediately began closing in on her, the sensor screen pinging a warning, and Leia muttered a curse.

She wasn’t a pilot… but this was a very fast and very agile fighter.

And it wasn’t like anyone else was showing up to save her skin.

A twitch of the yoke, and she snap-rolled ninety degrees to starboard before spinning halfway around. The twin cannon spat fire, blowing one TIE to pieces and clipping the wing of the other, and the second one wobbled in an uncontrollable roll before managing to get some control of itself and come back around.

Another element of two TIEs was vectoring in, and Leia finished her spin before diving towards the ground. There were Imperial ground elements down there, still visible, and if the fighters were going to shoot at her she could at least decoy them to try and hit the ground forces – then a large Imperial walker was looming up before her, and Leia adjusted her angle a little to aim between the front and back legs.

Pulling back out again as soon as she shot between them, Leia glanced around to get a good handle on the situation, then yanked the yoke back and switched from engines to repulsors. That meant the big engines weren’t pushing her forwards any more, letting her make a tight turn, and she pulled the trigger twice about when she’d be lined up with the pursuing fighters.

Three more explosions lit the sky, followed by drifting clouds of smoke as bits of TIE fighter rained down, then Leia switched back to main engines and turned towards her next targets.

Even a novice like her could tell that she didn’t want to be surrounded by enemy fighters. So the only way out of this was going to be to make sure they didn’t – or couldn’t.

“We feared we’d lost you, Princess,” General Rieekan said, as Leia clambered down the side of the A-Wing she’d appropriated. “When we heard about the attack on the Dennogra base, we feared the worst.”

“I was all right,” Leia replied. “Fortunately I had an A-Wing.”

“You’re not wrong,” Wedge agreed, inspecting it. “That’s definitely an A-Wing.”

He frowned. “What actually happened, Princess? The report was that there was an Interdictor overhead… was that incorrect?”

“No, there was,” Leia agreed. “Along with a Star Destroyer. Like I said, I had an A-Wing. Whoever designed that fighter is a real expert, it can be flown as well as you please by even a novice.”

Wedge, Carlist Rieekan, and everyone else present not named Leia Organa exchanged confused looks.

“...no, it can’t,” Wedge said, slowly. “It’s a good bird, a bit lighter than I prefer, but it’s extremely temperamental… who else was flying with you? Did anyone else get out?”

“All the other fighters were taken out on the ground by the initial bombardment and fighter strike,” Leia replied. “The one I used happened to be deeper into the hanger and it survived.”

“You escaped by yourself?” Rieekan asked. “Princess, I’m… sorry for my tone of voice, but that’s impossible. Or it shouldn’t be possible. Those two capital ships carry nearly a hundred TIEs between them, and while some of those squadrons are bombers or boarding elements that’s still-”

He broke off, because Leia was counting under her breath.

“...that sounds about right,” she said. “Well, I counted about sixty, anyway, and maybe a dozen bombers.”

“I think we need to check the gun camera footage,” Wedge decided. “I want to see this.”

About an hour later, Leia was in the middle of catching up on important messages when Rieekan came into the meeting room she was using.

So did Wedge, and most of the other pilots on the cruiser.

“We’re not worthy,” Derek Klivian declared. “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

“Hobbie,” Wedge said, shaking his head. “Are you ever going to stop that?”

“Nope, sir!” Klivian replied.

“He’s got a point,” Rieekan said. “Princess, we’ve reviewed the gun camera footage. And then taken some anti-nausea medication.”

“Is there something wrong?” Leia asked.

“Well, you’re one of the best pilots in history,” Wedge replied. “None of my best pilots could do that. I’d have said even Luke couldn’t do that, but then Hobbie told a joke and we decided to actually do it.”

“Princess,” Rieekan went on. “I regret to inform you that a genetic test has revealed that you’re Luke Skywalker’s sister. We think you’re both the children of Anakin Skywalker, who went down in galactic history as the single most capable natural pilot ever recorded.”

“...though you might just earn the top spot, now,” Tycho added. “Seriously, that was at least fourteen consecutive chakra manoeuvres and you shot down at least two fighters per chakra manoeuvre. And I never knew the A-Wing could do half of the other things you made it do.”

Leia was still wrapping her head around Luke Skywalker’s sister.

“Ever considered being a pilot?” Wedge added. “I’d say we can give you lessons but that might not even be necessary…”

[wiktor420]

⌗ BACKCHANNEL cecil stedman x male!agent!reader ONE-SHOT

⤷ the GDA implants covert comms into field agents, it was meant for efficiency. Not late-night calls. Not whispered confessions. Not this.

cw: mutual masturbation, voice kink, edging, delayed gratification

wc: 2.5k

[✗] - your name After all the recent failures from the new Guardians of the Globe, the GDA decided it was time to implement some changes. A way to keep reckless heroes in check during battle. Keep them updated on their vitals, location, proximity to backup, and more importantly, to keep them connected to HQ at all times.

Enter: Backchannel Comm Units.

Sleek, surgically implanted behind the ear, invisible to most standard scans, and linked directly to GDA operations. The units run on encrypted frequencies only accessible to high-clearance staff, meaning most agents never know who’s monitoring the channel.

Only that someone always is.

The official story? It’s for security. Real-time feedback. Faster mission recall.

The real story? It lets people like Cecil Stedman tap in. Late-night check-ins. One-on-one feedback. Maybe even...other things.

Untraceable. Off-record. Private.

An unlisted channel—one of many routed through the GDA’s encrypted comms net, used for off-the-record briefings. Clean ops. Shit you don’t write down.

You’re field command. His eyes on the ground. When things go south, he calls you.

That’s what it was meant to be. Work.

Then the calls started coming after hours. Short at first. Sparse.

A simple:

“You back?” “Everyone accounted for?” “Sleep’s not optional, agent.”

But they kept coming. A check-in here. A stray observation there. A grunt of approval you pretended not to care about. Eventually, the silences grew longer than the missions themselves.

Now, they’ve become something else.

Something that doesn’t fit inside your day-to-day. Something you don’t talk about during briefings.

Like tonight. ✗

The comm buzzes low on your desk. It’s past 2 a.m.

You’re still in your base gear, jacket peeled off, boots kicked somewhere by the door. There’s a fresh scrape on your shoulder from a near-miss in Cairo. You didn’t file a report.

The moment you pick up, it’s quiet.

“You’re still up.”

That voice again. Low. Rough. All gravel and control.

“I don’t sleep when I don’t have to.”

“You should.”

You lean back on your bunk, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Thought you said sleep was optional.”

“Not when you’re running on fumes.”

You can hear something in the background—probably his office. That low hum of whatever tech he has on at the moment or the occasional flick of his lighter.

“Why’re you really calling, Cecil?”

Silence.

You wait.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Stripped of the usual edge.

“Had a breach in Tokyo. Cleared now. Just… needed to know you were still breathing.”

You smile faintly.

“Still breathing. Still armed. Still underappreciated.”

“Not by me.”

That lands heavier than you expect. You swallow hard, jaw tightening. He doesn’t say things like that. Not to you. Not to anyone. But lately? He’s been slipping. There was the night he stayed on the line for hours, just listening to you breathe. The time he watched your entire spar session through the monitors and didn’t bother hiding it. The way he sometimes says your name like it tastes different in his mouth than anyone else’s.

After a click of your tongue, you ask. “Long day?” Your voice now significantly softer.

“Long life.”

You don’t laugh. Neither does he. You shift slightly on the bed, one knee pulling up toward your chest.

“Why me?”

“What?”

You lick your lips. “Out of everyone. Why do you call me?”

A pause. You hear the faint click of his lighter. The inhale. The slow exhale.

“Because you don’t ask for anything.”

That stings more than you thought it would.

“So that’s why you like me?” you say, a little too bitter. “Because I know how to shut up?”

“No.” He sighs. “Because when I talk, you listen.”

You blink. That stops you. Because it’s true. The weight of his voice always settles somewhere deep in your spine. He could say anything and you’d lean in. Not because you’re loyal. Not even because he’s your superior. But because it’s him. Something raw starts crawling up your throat before you can stop it. You sit up straighter, rubbing a hand over your face.

“You’re not sleeping either.”

“Didn’t say I was.”

Another silence. It stretches long and taut, like a wire strung too tight between you. And still, neither of you hangs up.

“You in uniform?”

You pause.

“…Parts of it.”

“Where?”

Your heart jumps. It’s not even the question itself, it’s how he says it. Low. Controlled. Like he’s not asking just to picture it. Like he’s trying not to. Odd. You hesitate, pulse fluttering in your neck.

“…Jacket’s off. Shirt’s open. Pants still on.”

“Fuck.” He breathed out.

His voice breaks a little. You swear you hear him shift in his seat, fabric rustling. Your breath catches.

“Cecil,” you murmur.

“You started this.”

Your hand drifts to your stomach. Slow. Cautious. The heat that’s been building under your skin for weeks finally tipping toward combustion.

“I didn’t think you’d go there.”

“I’ve been there,” he says, voice gravel-slick.

“Every time you call in with blood on your boots. Every time I see you in that gear, half wrecked and still standing. Every time you look at me like I’m not a goddamn monster.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“So yeah,” he huffs out. “I went there.”

You close your eyes, your free hand tightening around the edge of the mattress.

“I’m alone,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

You can hear the shift in his breathing now. It’s not subtle. Not practiced. The usual restraint slipping, inch by inch.

“I keep thinking about your hands,” you admit. “The way they’d feel.”

“Rough,” he says without pause. “Calloused. Bigger than you want. ...But steady. I’d take my time.”

You hold back a whimper, jaw clenching as your hand slides lower, under the waistband of your pants. No pretense now. No excuse. Just need. Pure and electric.

“Touch yourself, [✗]” he says, low and sharp. “I want to hear it.”

He says it like he’s said a hundred other things. Measured. Level. A man used to being obeyed. But the difference now? His voice is low. Like gravel and smoke in your ear, heat curling down your spine. You close your eyes, swallowing hard, and slide your hand down, slow.

“You gonna do it,” Cecil says, low and even, voice threading directly into your skull through the comm embedded just behind your ear, “or are you just gonna keep panting like a  bitch in heat?”

And your body went still. “…You know I’ve got a briefing in six hours,” you say, trying for humor, failing miserably.

“So finish in five. I’ll even talk you through it, because I’m generous like that.”

The growl in his voice makes your breath stutter. He’s not even pretending this is mission-critical. And still, you’re answering to it like you are.

Your breath stutters, but your hand’s already under the waistband of your pants, fingers curling around your cock, slow and tight. You’ve never gotten hard so fast off a voice alone, but Cecil’s isn’t just any voice. It’s gravel and steel, slow-burning like a fuse, and when he talks like this, it's like his mouth is right against your ear. You’re already half hard, have been since you heard him breathe your name—but you don’t rush it. He wouldn’t like that. Cecil isn’t a man who rushes. He waits. He watches. And right now, he’s listening, probably with his cigarette between his fingers and his belt still fastened.

You want to hear him crack.

So you stroke yourself slow, palm just teasing your length, not enough to tip you over, just enough to keep your breath hitching in a way you know he can hear. He hears the shift in your breath and hums, quiet, dark approval. 

“Good. You that desperate, agent?” he murmurs. “Needing my voice to get off?”

“You’re the one who called,” you rasp.

“And you answered.”

The silence between you hums with static. It’s not silence at all, it’s the tension of everything unsaid. Every time your hands brushed in passing. Every hour spent in his office, pretending those looks didn’t mean something.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” you murmur, breath catching as your fingers wrap around your cock. Already half-hard. You’re embarrassingly responsive when it comes to him, and he fucking knows it.

“You’re right. You shouldn’t. But here we are.”

You spit into your hand without thinking. Stroke again. A filthy sound slicks through the comm and Cecil groans. Like he felt it in his gut.

“That’s it. Good boy.”

You groan, quiet, choked, fisting your cock tighter now. Each stroke is like dragging yourself closer to the edge without ever tipping over. You’re breathing hard, trying to stay quiet, but it’s slipping.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

You bite down on a groan, pumping slow. You shouldn’t be doing this. Not with him. Not like this. He’s your boss, your handler, the one with the kill switches and contingency plans, but that’s not what matters right now. What matters is the way your name sounds when it drags out of his mouth, low and hoarse like he’s been holding it in for weeks. You stifle a moan, pick up the pace just slightly, dragging your thumb over the head with a hiss.

Cecil exhales a soft curse under his breath. “Shit. Keep going. Slowly. I’m—fuck—I’m already hard."

“You touching yourself too?” you ask, voice ragged.

“You want me to?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I wanna know what you sound like when you’re not pretending this doesn’t mean anything.” There’s a pause—just a beat—and then you hear it: the soft rustle of movement, the unmistakable sound of a belt unfastening, and a quiet exhale like he’s finally letting himself feel it.

“...Yeah.”

You both groan. It's slower now. He talks you through every motion, not in that usual hard-ass, control-freak tone. No, this is different. This is Cecil off the leash.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice strained.

That catches you. He never lets you hear him like this. But there’s something wrecked in his tone now—tight, gruff, breath hitching just enough to crack through his usual control. You grin into the dark. “Pretty sure I do.”

“Cocky little shit.”

But there’s no bite in it. Just heat. Just hunger. You stroke yourself slow, imagining the way he’d look right now, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, hand working his cock just off-frame in that dim, smoke-hazed office. You wonder if he’s leaning back in his chair, jaw tight, watching the line go dead silent so he can hear every sound you make. “Cecil…”

“Don’t talk. Just listen.”

And fuck, you do. You lie back, mouth open, body tense as he feeds you filth in that rasping voice, cool and commanding even as it frays at the edges with need.

“Bet you get hard on deployment. Full suit. Blood on your hands. Knowing I’m listening in. Watching from my monitor while you drag yourself home alone.” “You think I haven’t heard it? The panting after missions? That little hitch in your voice when you think you’re muted?” “You think I don’t get hard too, hearing you lose control in my fucking ear?”

That wrecks you a little. Your stroke quickens. But you’re holding on this time, barely.

“You gonna come for me?” he murmurs. “Make a mess of yourself just because I said so?”

You almost say yes. Almost. But then:

“I want you to come too,” you say, voice hoarse. “Want to hear you when you do.”

Silence.

Then:

“Jesus Christ.”

The way he says it? Like he’s actually affected. Like he’s been holding back.

“You really wanna hear what I sound like when I break?”

“Yes,” you breathe, honest and raw.

You hear him move then, quick and rough, like he’s dropped all pretense. Breathing louder now. More ragged.

“Then get me there.”

“Tell me how you’re stroking it. How tight your hand is. How wet.”

You lean your head back against the pillows, fingers tightening where they wrap around your cock. The sheets are a mess already, twisted and damp with sweat, but you don’t care. Not when his voice sounds like that, deep, smoky, cutting into your ear like a command he knows you’ll follow. “I’m leaking for you, sir. So fucking wet I can hear it.”

The sound backs it up, slick, obscene, a slow rhythm that echoes faintly through the line. You make sure the mic catches it, knowing full well how sensitive the comms are when they’re calibrated right. Knowing Cecil probably had yours tuned higher than regulation weeks ago.

He doesn’t say anything yet, but you hear it. His breath catches. You keep going.

“Using my whole hand. Slow pulls. Palming the head on every upstroke—fuck, I’m throbbing for you.” A pause crackles through the comm. Then:

“You using your spit?”

You groan softly, embarrassed at how fast that short sentence makes your cock throb. “Yeah,” you murmur.

“Bet you’re flushed. Spread out, cock in your hand like you were waiting for me to call.” he mutters, voice thick now, unsteady.

“I was.” Silence. Then—

“Fuck. You’re gonna make me come,” he growls, and there’s something frantic under the words. Like you’ve stripped away whatever control he had left.

You stroke faster, wrist twisting with every upward drag. You picture him, shirt rumpled, tie loose, belt undone, his cock heavy and flushed in his fist, mouth parted, eyes dark and half-lidded behind the glow of his monitors.

You wonder if he’s thinking about you bent over his desk. You bet he is. And god, that thought alone nearly unravels you.

“Say my name,” you rasp. “I want you to come saying my name.”

There’s a pause.

Then:

“Fuck, [✗]—” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“—I’m gonna fuckin’—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. You hear it. The catch in his throat. The hissed curse. The wet, choked sound of him losing control after holding it too tight for too long. You finish soon after. It wrecks you. Utterly. Your climax crashes into you like a wave, hot and blinding. You arch against the bed, groaning loud, spilling over your fingers and stomach, gasping his name like a prayer. You barely register the sound of his voice breaking, deep and ragged, a low growl dragged out into something damn near desperate as he comes too, muffled curses punched into the comm. It’s messy. And you don’t care. Not when it’s him on the other end. Not when you know he’s just as undone.

For a second, the only sound is both of you breathing. Shaky. Overheated. Then, quiet. Gruff.

“We are so fucked.”

You let out a shaky breath. You okay?” 

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just come all over a classified intel report.”

You snort. Then groan.

“Gonna need a minute before I’m functional again.” You smile, eyes closing.

And then you hear it—softer, maybe even fond:

“Take two. I’ll still be listening.”

You laugh, breathy, post-orgasm high. “I can bring you coffee.”

“You better.”

Your heart stutters. He’s not signing off. And somehow, that’s hotter than anything else. a/n: i need him so bad chat.. inspired by sexlapis' fics, how is she so good at this

[rederiswrites]

How did you end up having so many sheep to bottle feed? I didn't know anything about sheep, is disinterest from the moms normal/common?

I'd love to hear more about the sheep process in general it's really neat to see on my dash

Alright, so, first off, I am an inexperienced shepherd, and came into this (my first) lambing season FAR less prepared than I would've liked due to my mother being in the hospital for the weeks leading up to lambing. Not only that, but Soay are weird, mostly feral, archaic sheep, and a lot of the care principles that are expected for most sheep don't really apply to Soay, so you end up relying on the far, far smaller body of Soay-specific literature. So there's a lot I just don't know.

Sometimes, for any number of reasons, a ewe may reject a lamb. Rates of rejection vary so much with various factors that so far I haven't found anyone willing to give a simple blanket statistic on the subject. Nutrition, ewe experience level, environmental factors, breed, and a million other things could play a part. We've had two rejections out of eight births (one singlet and one set of twins), and I genuinely do not know how bad that is relative to baseline.

Soay are reputed to be good mothers and easy lambers, and so far that seems to be true for all the mothers who bonded with their lambs. Bonding is the critical period right after birth during which baby and mother get each other's scent, and baby begins to nurse. But bonding can be effected by the mother's experience--ours are all first time mothers; there's not a single experienced mother in the flock. It can be effected by disturbance during the bonding period after birth, like a human taking the lamb away for too long or getting its scent confused by washing or by handling with another lamb's scent on their hands, etc.

Our ram is currently in dog kennel prison, because after having seemed to be a pretty good dad for a while, he started running one of the ewes off her new lambs repeatedly. If he had done that with a previous ewe during the night, that might have caused one of the rejections, and we wouldn't have seen it. Larger or more controlled sheep operations might well separate the ram from the ewes during this period pre-emptively. That would have been laborious for us at a time when we're Fucking Swamped, like, just so underwater bro, just fucking drowning. So we didn't do it initially. We can't know now if one of the failures to bond might be his fault.

And of course it's entirely possible that we, the shepherds, effected the ewes in some way that our inexperience doesn't allow us to see. It's part of the process. Learning, when your learning experiences come at the cost of another creature's wellbeing, is one of the very difficult parts of animal husbandry.

What fascinates me is how willing the lambs are to bond to humans, and multiple humans at that. We jokingly refer to each other as Mama-mama, Papa-mama, Sister-mama, and Brother-mama, and just walking through a room right now is likely to net you a flurry of tippity-tapping hooves as all three bottle babies eagerly follow under your feet.

So what'll happen now is that these guys will continue to need a bottle roughly every four hours, day and night, for six weeks. During that time, it'll be up to us to haul them out to the pasture progressively more often, until they're getting most of their nutrition through grazing and a little feed. On a more traditional or established farm, the bottle babies might be kept in a barn, but we don't have anything resembling a barn. On the other hand, we're hardly the only people to bring a bottle baby into the house, given that you have to feed them in the middle of the night/constantly. Soay are hardy sheep who can do well even on fairly poor pasture, and don't need supplemental feed at all on good pasture. Maryland is, I think it's safe to say, a much gentler climate than the islands of the Outer Hebrides where Soay lived feral for a thousand years. So really, we only give our sheep grain-based feed to facilitate their bond with us as the goodie-givers.

Someday, Binabik will hopefully be a big, fine ram, and if we play our cards right, he will still be fairly trusting and affectionate to us, which will lead to the rest of the flock being somewhat more trusting. This should help us catch them for medical care more readily, so a bottle baby now and then is a good thing. We really, really did try to get the twins (whom we're now calling Minnie and Kazoo) to bond with their mother, because we did NOT need more lambs in the house. But here we are, and here I am, with three snoozing lambs around my feet.

[hollcwboy]

episode 5 ‘death is coming’ — scene analysis

the moment when l&c find danny in the water is one of my favorite instances of soft world building in the series. the nature of the world stroud created is one that we only get to see a small glimpse at, and most of the history and infrastructure surrounding the Problem is either implied or skimmed over, because the center of the story is lucy, lockwood & george. this scene stands out because it asks questions of the institutions in power in london, and places the characters in a positional dilemma regarding their ability to control their own lives (and ultimately their deaths).

lockwood says danny used to be an agent, someone kind and effortlessly cool, who looked out for him when he was starting out. lucy then asks “how did he go from that…to a relic man?”

this question has an answer, even if it’s not stated: the ghost industrial complex. children like danny who grow up under agencies are abandoned once their talent fades. they no longer have the skills for work in the field, but carry a lifetime of trauma in only their twenties. they haven’t had the time to develop other skills that could get them other employment, and are forced to turn to smuggling or other illegal work in order to survive. danny represents any agent who ages out of the industry—anyone without an existing safety net or supportive family who lacks the resources to do anything else but what they already know.

lockwood has no faith in the system. he ditches adults, forms his own agency out of his literal home, bashes the big agencies and their rules. lockwood operates from an extreme place of privilege—he has his own house to make an agency from, a safe place to go back to. seeing someone he looked up to die because the system failed him leaves him powerless and guilty—even if he can escape the confines of the complex, his friends cannot, and death is coming.

[cgtg]

looking @ all of this godtier stuff, i wanna say i dont rlly think classpecting is all that. it's a fun analytical tool for exploring a character's themeing and role in a narrative. but it's fundamentally impossible to assign an "arc" 2 a living person, & within sburb itself the godtier system has a very questionable view of what its characters arcs mean/should be. like. you can 100% interpret classpects as bullshit within the text.

that being said, again, they're still a fun narrative tool to bring outside of homestuck itself, & if you remove them from the intelligence/structure of SBURB they are rlly fun for vibes-based introspection. they aren't made up of nothing, they have clear inspiration & meaning to hussie.

i view classes like roles in a play. anyone can pick any of them for any reason, multiple at different times even, but you only know for sure if one fits you by playing it. my perspective on it is rly close to funk mclovin's theory.

i view aspects as a bit more immutable bc i feel like they speak to more core traits rather than the shit u operationalise, which is much more up to personal choice.

i have always felt a distinct calling to the space aspect, for well over a decade. i relate heavily to a lot of the core themes it portrays. i could ramble for ages abt that, legit.

the course of picking "witch" has been a progression to me. "seer" encapsulates how i am/was when trapped in passivity both internally & externally. relegated to a problem solver, advice friend, helper. a role which i perform well but am deeply unfulfilled & drained in.

the "witch" class encapsulates my fundamental need to have my own autonomy, function, control, freedoms in my life for myself & not for others. that is ultimately what i desire to be, & i feel that the "witch" encapsulates it well. i also fuck heavily with the archetypal "lonesome magician who is feared & revered for their wisdome and power" character. kid me would've fuckin *loved* being a wicked witchman.

like, i think it's worthwhile to work backwards from what you think of yourself & *then* put the godtier jammies on. bc fundamentally it is impossible to put humanity in all these little boxes, especially when we don't have enough evidence to prove the true validity of those boxes or their limitations. & they purely operate within the limitations of a piece of fiction made by one person.

this is why, although i don't put much stock in the actual system of classpects, my classpect is deeply personal to me. bc it culminates from extensive introspection. i also find it incredibly interesting 2 see how others classpect themselves, bc it is a fundamental expression of the self to place yourself in these grids, & *requires* personal interpretation of the system by a means that *also* says something about you as a person. like, it's a net gain if you're interested in how people live their lives & define themselves, which i am.

uh... basically have fun & be yourself

[mr-president]

I think one of my favorite Funtermina things is how it uses characters as narrative foils, specifically in how those characters interact with each other and everyone else.

Karin and Daan’s is the most discussed as it’s probably the most apparent within the text: their volatile opposing viewpoints on life via their upbringings (despite being extremely similar otherwise). When Karin and Daan interact, it’s like a person arguing with themself. They clash like ammonia and bleach, unable to reconcile how similar they are (haha cleaning chemical analogy) yet toxic in their association.

Marina and Levi represent the different realities of Prehevil, what with Marina’s privileged upbringing versus Levi’s absolute shitshow of an existence. And yet, they get along incredibly well and form a cadence with one another because through each other, they can reconcile their upbringings in Prehevil. Levi is the Prehevil Marina tried to escape—Marina is the Prehevil Levi hoped to return to.

Marcoh and Olivia are interesting because—and I will argue this to the death—their relationship is wholly as siblings. And they’re also deeply connected by their relationships with their sisters, specifically how those sisters formulated and defined how they see themselves. Marcoh has done nothing but live to protect his sister, while Olivia has forever lived in her sister’s shadow. Their identities revolve completely around their sisters, and this also colors their relationship with each other as siblings.

I wish it was explored more, but I think there’s a level of disenfranchisement when Marcoh fervently tries to protect Olivia the same way he protected his younger sister (edit: rb for amendment). He clearly sees her in that role, and Olivia’s already got guilt written into her about her disability making her a “charity case.” I say this also because of their different opinions on guns, power, and death: Marcoh has no bloodlust and seems exhausted when he has to hurt others, while Olivia becomes almost jubilant when she receives a gun. And those reactions to enacting violence are directly informed by their relationships with their sisters: a begrudging responsibility vs empowerment.

My favorite is probably Abella and O’saa as foils. As characters they’re probably my favorites, and their foil makes it even better.

Abella easily connects with everyone around her, ensuring that they’re all getting along (or not killing each other) and she tries desperately to help everyone, even at her own detriment. She cares, so much, even too much.

O’saa on the other hand, is the exact opposite. He actively chooses to connect with everyone as little as possible, to the point where you can kill someone in front of him and he won’t give a shit. This is, obviously, to his detriment in terms of his goal towards enlightenment. He cares too little, even if at all.

They perfectly represent the dichotomy between altruism vs selfishness, the mundane vs the macro, democracy vs individualism. Fundamentally, both Abella and O’saa get shit done, and what makes them so compelling as foils is how similar the results of their different processes are.

Both of them are the only two that are capable of saving everyone. Abella does so by interacting with many of the other contestants, while O’saa does this by ignoring everyone and just occam’s razoring that shit. They both get shit done and to the greatest net success, but in both cases, because they operate on extremes, it’s to the detriment of themselves. The game shows this literally because, well, they sacrifice themselves to Logic for the greater good, but the game also implies this detriment via their moonscorches.

Chaugnaur represents how others have reduced Abella to a sexual object for their pleasure or a mindless brute for labor. It is a physical manifestation of how interacting and connecting with others can be to one’s detriment because Abella often cannot control how people see and define her. Mastermind, on the other hand, is O’saa’s brain swelling and overtaking everything else on his head to the point where he is blind (save for the eye) and mute, only able to speak in mumbles. Mastermind is how O’saa values logic, knowledge, comprehension over anything else, becoming blind to other viewpoints save for his own. Additionally, it’s unable to communicate or connect with anyone else, only able to ruminate get never share its thoughts.

Abella is one of the first to Moonscorch; O’saa is one of the last. I love them as foils because even though they’re the most different in terms of anything, they don’t hinder one another at much all. They’re just kinda chill. And this makes sense because their dichotomies aren’t volatile like Karin and Daan’s, nor complementary like the others. Rather, they operate in balance—you cannot be too altruistic without some selfishness. To help everyone and to achieve enlightenment, you must consider both the mundane and the greater picture. Society operates on a shared democracy and on empowering individuals.

Still, the fact that even operating on the extremes has the greatest positive effect (in terms of utilitarianism) really says smth abt whether these values even matter. But I’d argue that they do matter, cause it’s that question of whether it’s worth it to suffer or even sacrifice for the greater good.

As a whole, each foil represents a central theme/motif of Fear & Hunger: internal vs external locus of control (Karin and Daan), environment dictating identity (Marina and Levi), relationships and their impact (Marcoh and Olivia), and the thematic shitshow that is Abella and O’saa.

Tldr; the game is about some girls and their boy best friends.

[darkmaga-returns]

How did ‘fact-checking’ become so ubiquitous?

Why was Covid propaganda so effective?

What does information warfare look like?

A new database of US Government spending on nearly 900 grants totalling over $1.5 billion (USD) related to mis- and disinformation (MDM) gives a clue.

I recently spent a couple of weeks reviewing this database, compiled by digital rights nonprofit liber-net, a job which involved reading every single database entry. What I learned was shocking, but not surprising.

From a near-billion dollar award from the Department of Defense (DoD) to military contractor Peraton in 2021 to “counter misinformation from US adversaries,” to $200,000 from USAID for a chatbot to counter unapproved vaccine narratives in Uzbekistan, to $24,800 from the State Department to “address the spread of populism” in Romania, these awards demonstrate the breadth of the US Government’s interest in narrative control, both geographically, and topically.

[realcleverissues]

Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent Launches Nationwide Push for Financial Literacy, WATCH

~~~

SMH

Aside from the tone-deaf nature of someone worth half a billion dollars preaching to struggling families the importance of financial literacy, the deeper issue here is that this guy is preaching bootstraps precisely as his team (trump et al) are f*cking the market and economy. (As of today, 4/22/25, the Nasdaq is down over 15% from the start of the year!) The "personal responsibility" chants of the GOP were always about avoiding the need for "social responsibility" or "governmental responsibility". It's a way of dismissing environmental circumstances and insisting that if you are poor and suffering, it's entirely your fault. But this is next level. While it's true that personal responsibility is *part* of what causes our life outcomes, it is only part. (The tariff nonsense is a good example. So was Covid. One can think of a thousand more that operate on smaller scales as well.) But it's amazing how much the GOP is pushing the bootstraps narrative even while the economy is crashing, clearly beyond our control, and is being caused by this dude and his team. Even further, they're dismantling the systems that help people when we fall on hard times. It's just so blatantly wrong. They're pissing on us and saying it's raining - and that it's our fault we can't farm in it!

Sadly, most of their base (and frankly, most of the country) buys into this personal responsibility and "meritocracy" narrative (by which I mean, ignoring the role of external factors in causing and mitigating such issues), which is precisely how they justify doing whatever they want. If you lose all your money in the stock market bc they crashed it - it's entirely your own fault. If you are bankrupted by a medical emergency - that's also your fault. If you lose your job due to tariffs - that's your fault. And if you can't get back on your feet, esp as social safety nets are gone - that's also your fault. If you die of poverty - yeah, your fault. oh well.

Personal responsibility for all - expect those on top making the decisions that affect everyone else.

p.s. Unsurprisingly, the video I found which is shared above is hosted by the Daily Caller, a rightwing site. No sense of irony from them about this post as the market crashes.

Pps. All that being said, do make sure you're working on your financial literacy (e.g. @bitchesgetriches ) bc we're all gonna be broke due to trump and co.

[argumate]

seems wild that this is all public knowledge? there have been over a hundred firebombings of tobacco shops!

Each shop in Hamad’s turf is forced to pay $2000 a month in cash, a kind of ‘tax’ to be allowed to operate and sell the cheap illicit cigarettes being smuggled in by the gang. Those who refuse are threatened, and if they fail to fall into line, their shops may be firebombed.

But the ‘tax’ is just a drop in the bucket compared to the enormous profits being reaped by the syndicates that are supplying and selling illicit cigarettes.

Across the city, the most common black-market brand is selling for $18 to $25 for a pack of 20. Legitimate cigarette brands cost $38 to $50 a pack due to high federal taxes.

It costs the syndicates about $2 a pack to buy in Dubai, with the sale price in Melbourne almost entirely pure profit.

The illicit tobacco market is now worth about $6.27 billion a year, up more than 530 per cent since 2017, according to the Australian Taxation Office.

[shadowsofdread]

meet me in the city

word count: 2041

warnings: suggestive themes

featuring ... cecil ryen, and @tiredassmage's tyr deckard

(this was written for the oc kiss week prompt, "first")

In the shadow of the Imperial Citadel on Dromund Kaas, ex-Cipher operative Cecil Ryen decides to be reckless. (cross-posted from AO3)

In the long, intervening decades since his sudden and unexpected departure from his homeworld, Cecil Ryen forgot how unique Dromund Kaas was. The qualities that stood in stark relief against any other world he visited: Ziost, Hutta, Alderaan, even Corellia, once, to name a few. None—save, perhaps, Tatooine—was quite so determined to slaughter its inhabitants.

Its murderous intentions were ubiquitous. Expansive, fast-growing jungle untamable by any industrial-strength pesticide or controlled burning. Fauna and flora both had at least three to five ways of killing the unprepared. Home to an ancient Empire that desired ultimate victory over its millennia-long adversaries and the Sith's mortal enemies.

What shocked Cecil the most was the scent that clung to his nostrils even as he made his way down the interior corridor of the hotel. Charged energy, ozone, a crack of lightning caught within a held breath. At any moment, even down to an infinitesimal fraction of time, a storm could erupt upon Dromund Kaas.

Cecil lived that way all of his life, until the lightning finally struck. He was a cautious, reserved sort. Kept his head down, as he was told. Studied hard, often at the expense of his health, as he was told. He graduated valedictorian and was set for a career in the Imperial military when those lofty expectations of being promoted to Moff and serving the Dark Council were unceremoniously shattered by an offer from Imperial Intelligence.

He did everything as ordered, and he did them well. Exemplary, if he dared to say so.

No good deed goes unpunished.

The younger man in front of him—alright, not quite in front, more slightly leading at his left—came to a standstill, and Cecil withdrew from his thoughts.

Dromund Kaas seemed the fitting sort of place to find a man like Cipher Nine.

Cecil watched through narrowed lashes as Nine deftly flicked the keycard from his wallet. Despite the air having been cleared about their respective intentions, old habits die hard, and his gaze remained on Nine's nimble hand as it returned the card to its original place and the door whooshed open.

A small smile creased an aging, but still youthful face, crinkling gray eyes. Nine elegantly swept his hand towards the doorway. His black gloves briefly eclipsed the form of his fingers against the backdrop of the darkness within. "After you?"

In the feverish research Cecil threw himself into after he found Lucia left abandoned and cold on that expensive and hideous rug she insisted on buying a good ten years back, skin ghost-pale and lips stained with bloody bile, Cipher Nine seemed twice the agent he'd ever been on paper. Stories filtered through a dozen channels that found their way to Nar Shaddaa about terrorism in the Empire, about great machines set upon their crown jewel of a capital, and ridiculous rumors of a secret organization pulling the strings of the galaxy finally brought low. Of what he could make of the massacred and deprecated records, much of those odd stories inevitably led back to Nine.

It was why Cecil knew it was by intention that his wife was left on display, and had died in a gruesome and evidently painful manner.

Cecil glanced at Nine's hand, still hanging awkwardly in the air, before he crossed the threshold ahead of him.

He felt blindly along the wall and found the switch. Soft, golden light flooded the room, illuminating Nine's figure as he followed him in. Cecil cast a wide net of the room. It was impeccably neat, characteristic of the accommodations this close to the central district. He didn't need to touch the emerald green sheets fitted to the king-sized bed to know they were Old Ziosti silk. The ornate bed frame was of a dark mahogany embellished with solid gold trim. An intricately patterned, deep red rug bisected the main area of the suite.

Combining all of the furniture of the room, the monetary cost likely approached, if not surpassed, a year's salary of what he earned back in the day in service to Intelligence.

"You needn't go to all this trouble," Cecil said. It finally dawned on him just how ridiculous—and idiotically reckless—this whole situation was. He was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the assassin who made him a widower. He'd taken Nine on his word simply because the offered explanation made sense; Lucia was long overdue for it, for all she had done to their son.

Nine smiled; a sliver of teeth peeked at the corners. "This was their only vacancy, and I didn't see a reason to waste time looking for a cheaper room." He ducked his head as he casually worked off his gloves. Blond strands curtained his eyes from view.

Cecil scoffed. He was not the only idiot in Kaas City, then. He still thought he was chief among them.

"Eager, are you?" There was still a sensible voice somewhere inside the recesses of his mind banging on the walls, begging him to come to his senses. Funny, how that voice had been the loudest of them all only days ago, until it was usurped by a voracious hunger for the hunt, for the Game. The one he forfeited some four decades ago. Abandoned his cards and left the table in a storm. Lightning struck, and he would not be hit twice. "They say patience is a virtue."

Cecil turned fully in Nine's direction, only to find the man had come closer. A step just out of the invisible boundary Cecil would consider personal space. He couldn't tell if Nine was doing him a courtesy, or testing him.

"I'm afraid that's never been my strength," Nine said, still smiling so easily. A few hours ago, Cecil had the man trapped against the wall of a tucked-away alley, vibroblade held lightly against the exposed, vulnerable flesh of his neck. It wouldn't have been much to end him. Cecil had wanted to try it. How would the infamous Cipher Nine find his way out of the impossible odds this time?

Cecil cocked his head. On paper, Cipher Nine was twice the agent he ever was. The man standing before him, however, was an enigma.

"It's a miracle you've survived this long." Nine chuckled, like it was a compliment. For some ineffable reason, this infuriated him.

In the moment of awareness after Cecil gripped Nine by the forearms and pinned him to the nearest wall, he realized anger wasn't quite the emotion he was looking for.

Nine looked up at him. No fear lay there, nothing that could even be described as trepidation. Curiosity, then, as gray eyes—in the shadow of Cecil's body blocking out the light of the room, they were not dissimilar to a passably pleasant Dromund Kaas day—examined his face. Whatever he found must've pleased him. Nine's smile widened to show more of his teeth, canines pressing slightly into his bottom lip.

"You can admit that you're curious."

Cecil's jaw jumped. He returned to Nine's eyes. "There's no mystery. Luck and bullheadedness go a long way."

Nine laughed. He tilted his head back far enough that it kissed the wall behind him and laughed. Cecil's face fell into a pout. He'd missed something.

Crow's feet jumped out at the corners of Nine's eyes as they squeezed shut. Smile lines dimpled at the creases of his mouth. Then his eyes opened again, though that foolish smile remained stubbornly in place.

Then, stranger yet, the man's features softened entirely. Cecil went stiff as Nine's fingers gingerly held the lapels of his jacket. "That's not what I meant."

An awful scratching emanated from the dank, shadowed halls of the back of his mind, like a corrupted audio file playing abruptly from a defunct speaker. That sensible man he was mere days ago screamed and cursed and kicked the machine.

His gaze, however, fell back to Nine's mouth. Noted the difference in shade between his sun-kissed skin and his lips. Examined the particular shape of his teeth that were pressing into pink flesh. All of this belonging to a man who accomplished more than Cecil could've ever imagined possible from a Cipher agent. Principally, that he was still alive at all. A relic, a ghost out of time, outlasting the masters that gave him his designation and purpose.

Eager didn't come close to describing the way Nine was looking back at him.

Cecil wished he could split his consciousness in twain and hand the wheel over to the sensible part—the passive husband, who maneuvered quietly all of these years, who left the table when the hand dealt to him ensured he'd lose the game, who finally figured out the only way to actually win was to not play at all.

Nine tilted his head. The motion reminded Cecil of a dog impatiently waiting for its owner to throw the stick. His hold slackened. "If you've changed your mind -"

Forcibly, Cipher Three took the wheel.

Damn the game, and the rules, and keeping his head down, and being careful, and all of the things that guaranteed survival and not much else. The smart thing, Cipher Three knew, would be to leave now that his mission was complete, or even to reach for his blade and tie up one last loose end.

Damn the smart thing, and throw the damn stick.

Cecil kissed him. A harsh, abrupt thing like a vicious right hook. He was woefully out of practice. Lucia hadn't wanted a thing from him—physically, at least—in years. Infidelity was the least of her crimes. And it caught Nine off-guard, if only for a moment.

Nine pulled him closer insistently. One of Cecil's hands left his arm to brace itself on the wall next to Nine's head. Clumsily, like a teenager, Cecil kissed him and Nine chuckled against his mouth. He tasted sharply of the whiskey that Cecil bought him back at the bar. The least he could do, for no doubt giving the man a heart attack.

Hot breath fanned across his face as they parted only just. Already, Nine was chuckling again. His thumb affectionately teased the corner of Cecil's lapel. His free palm fit delicately along the curve of his neck. "You had me worried," Nine said. It sounded genuine. "Not that I would've minded, but the bill for this room was rather steep."

Cecil grumbled gruffly in reply, though it conveyed no real meaning. He surveyed the younger man's face, flushed pink by their exchange. Where the shade had deepened the most, he could make out freckles standing out against his skin. How interesting.

He wondered how far down they went.

(The sensible Cecil Ryen was, at present, bound and gagged and stuffed in a broom closet in the basement of his own mind. Cipher Three, on the other hand, was insatiably eager to find out.)

Cecil's hands snaked down to Nine's waist, then his hips. He surely hoped that Nine wasn't any heavier than he looked. Nine's gray eyes widened owlishly, and Cecil couldn't help the wicked grin that overtook him at the sight.

"Well, we'd better make your money worth it, then."

On his body's own martial strength and a prayer, Cecil hefted the other man up from the ground by his hips and close to his body. Nine gasped, arms flying instinctively around his shoulders and legs hooking around his waist. Cecil grunted, nearly losing his grip in the adjustment, but found it again just as quickly.

Nine laughed, breathless, flushed scarlet. His face was above Cecil's now, and he looked down at him slightly dazed. He was cautious as he adjusted himself, and nimble fingers toyed idly with the hair at the nape of Cecil's neck. "As impressive as this is, try not to drop me." He paused. "Or throw out your back."

"Shut up, Nine," Cecil growled, with little actual bite, and kissed him again with a fervor entirely unknown to him. Unknown, or merely forgotten. What he most certainly forgot, but was quickly remembering, was how to kiss someone breathless.

With Nine gasping against his mouth and thoroughly distracted from the effort it was taking to keep him from crashing to the floor, Cecil turned them around and made for the bed.

He hoped the frame was as durable as it was extravagant.

[lyssophobiaa]

Quick sketch for Piers’ bionic arm.

Design Features

•Aesthetics: Streamlined, ergonomic design with a minimalist look, often featuring a matte or metallic finish.

•Materials: Lightweight composites like carbon fiber and titanium, providing durability without sacrificing mobility.

•Color Options: Customizable colors or finishes, including options for skin-like textures or futuristic metallics.

Technology

•Actuation: Advanced motors and actuators that enable precise, fluid movement mimicking natural limb motion.

•Sensors: Integrated sensors (e.g., myoelectric sensors) to detect muscle signals for intuitive control and movement.

•Feedback Systems: Haptic feedback mechanisms to provide users with sensory information about grip strength and object texture.

Safety and Durability

•Water and Dust Resistance: High IP ratings to protect against environmental factors.

•Emergency Features: Manual override systems or fail-safes in case of technology malfunction.

Advanced Technological Interface

•Integrated Biosensors: Built-in biosensors that can analyze blood or interstitial fluid samples to measure viral load in real time.

•Data Analytics: Utilizes algorithms to process biosensor data, providing insights on viral dynamics and trends.

•Alerts and Notifications: Real-time alerts sent to the user or healthcare provider when viral load exceeds predetermined thresholds.

•Communication System: Integrated with a communicator on the wrist, the arm serves as a reliable device for maintaining contact with his team. This system includes encrypted channels for secure communication during high-stakes operations.

•Objective Management Display: The arm features a holographic display that provides a detailed version of the communicator’s data, allowing Piers to view mission objectives and tactical data in real-time. This feature minimizes the need for external devices and keeps critical information accessible.

Augmented Reality (AR) Compatibility

•Enhanced Visualization: The arm’s display projects augmented reality overlays, allowing Piers to see additional information, such as enemy positions, weapon stats, or tactical directions, directly in his line of sight.

•Environmental Scanning: The arm can analyze the surroundings for potential threats, detect biological or chemical hazards, and provide alerts for safer navigation through hostile environments.

Electricity Conduction and Control

•Energy Conduit Design: The bionic arm acts as a conductor for the constant electrical energy generated by Piers’ mutation. It includes specialized channels and circuits designed to manage this energy flow, allowing Piers to use his mutation’s electrical pulse without it spiraling out of control.

•Dielectric Structures: The arm’s design incorporates materials that mimic the dielectric properties of his mutated tissue, particularly in the finger joints and bones. These dielectric components help regulate and contain the high voltage his body produces, diffusing excess energy safely throughout the arm.

•Controlled Release Mechanism: To avoid overload, the arm features a controlled release system that allows Piers to release pulses of energy strategically, whether in combat or to alleviate the internal buildup. This system prevents the arm from overheating or sustaining damage from prolonged electrical activity.

Containment and Compression of the Mutation

•Compression Framework: The prosthetic was specially designed by UMBRELLA engineers to act as a containment “net” around his mutation. It includes a flexible, reinforced framework that compresses the mutated tissue, keeping it in check and preventing further growth or erratic shifts in form.

•Adaptive Pressure System: As the mutation strains against the arm, sensors detect any changes in size or energy output, triggering adaptive responses. The arm tightens or loosens as necessary to hold the mutation back, functioning almost like a high-tech brace that adjusts in real-time to maintain Piers’ arm in a stable form.

•Automatic Safety Lock: In the event of a significant spike in mutation activity or electrical output, the arm engages an emergency lock to keep the mutation from expanding. This feature is a safeguard against sudden bursts of energy that could cause the arm to revert to its mutated state.

Dependency and Risks of Removal

•Rapid Mutation Onset: Without the prosthetic in place, Piers’ arm begins to mutate almost immediately, returning to its original, unstable form. The electrical pulse that his body generates becomes unrestrained, emitting a continuous, breath-like rhythm that is both painful and dangerous, with energy leaking through protruding bones and exposed tissue.

•Uncontrollable Pulse: When uncontained, the electrical pulse from his mutation surges in intensity, lacking any natural “closure” or stopping point. This pulse causes rapid fluctuations in his vital signs and risks systemic overload, leading to loss of control over his mutation and putting him at severe physical risk.

Miscellaneous Details

•The arm has a unique serial code engraved on an inner plate, serving as an identifier for UMBRELLA technicians. This code also links to Piers’ personal health records, mutation data, and arm specifications for quick access during maintenance or in emergencies.

•Due to the intense electrical pulses generated by his mutation, the arm is equipped with an internal cooling system. Micro-fans and heat-dissipating channels prevent overheating during extended use, keeping the arm at a safe, comfortable temperature. If the arm overheats, an internal alarm alerts Piers to prevent any potential damage.

•The outer layer is treated with a UV-resistant coating to protect it from environmental damage and exposure. This ensures that prolonged exposure to sunlight or harsh conditions doesn’t wear down the arm’s exterior, making it more durable in diverse climates and situations.

•Designed for various operational environments, the arm is fully waterproof and corrosion-resistant. It functions normally underwater, which is crucial for aquatic missions or when exposed to rain, mud, or corrosive substances.

•The holographic display can be customized to show additional details, such as weather, GPS navigation, or tactical maps. Piers can also set personal preferences, like color schemes or alert tones, for a more intuitive user experience. This flexibility lets him prioritize the information he finds most critical during missions.

•The communicator has an onboard language translator, enabling Piers to communicate with individuals across different languages. The arm’s display shows translated text, and a subtle earpiece can even relay audio translations, making it easier for him to gather intel and negotiate in multilingual environments.

[mariacallous]

Americans love to focus on presidential campaigns. The House of Representatives and Senate receive some attention every now and then, but our political love affair tends to center on the race for the White House. When congressional elections gain some attention, it usually happens during the midterms when political junkies don’t have much else to talk about.

But this is a mistake. Congress matters. The outcome of congressional elections during a presidential campaign is crucial to shaping the first two years of an administration, the period when the opportunity for legislating is greatest. In the coming months, the fate of the Democratic Party agenda—regardless of who wins the presidency—will depend as much on how power is distributed on Capitol Hill as who lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

Even after a mandate election, just one chamber of Congress can be sufficient to check a new president’s agenda. This was the story in 1980. The election was devastating to Democrats. Ronald Reagan, who was a key figure in the modern conservative movement that took hold in the 1970s, promised to move the national agenda sharply to the right after the one-term presidency of Jimmy Carter. And then, for the first time since 1954, Republicans won control of the Senate with a majority of 53 seats.

The saving grace for Democrats that year was the House, where they remained on top. While Reagan defeated Carter in an Electoral College landslide, 489-49, Democrats exited Election Day with a 243-seat majority. Though the number of conservative Democrats had increased, the caucus as a whole was quite liberal compared with the Republicans. Under the speakership of Tip O’Neill, the lower chamber became the last bastion of liberalism. Using this as a base of power, Democrats were able to veto many of Reagan’s boldest initiatives while continuing to push forward their own agenda, even as the chances for passage were minimal.

The impact of a Democratic House was evident in both domestic and foreign policy. Republicans were forced to back away from many of their most ambitious plans to slash the social safety net. When the administration moved to reduce Social Security benefits for early retirees in 1981, O’Neill mobilized a coalition as he warned that the president aimed to dismantle this popular program. Republicans were shaken. Rep. Carroll Campbell was frustrated with the electoral impact: “I’ve got thousands of 60-year-old textile workers who think it’s the end of the world. What the hell am I supposed to tell them?” Democrats also approved a budget that raised taxes, a move that was anathema to Reagan’s acolytes. In 1983, the administration worked with congressional Democrats to shore up the financial strength of the program. The Democratic majority would be bolstered in the 1982 midterms, which took place in the middle of what O’Neill called the “Reagan recession.” The political scientist Paul Pierson showed in Dismantling the Welfare State? the limited progress Reagan made on cutting most major programs.

Similar effects were evident with foreign policy. Reagan’s hawkish posture toward the Soviet Union had been defining as he rose in national prominence during the 1970s. He railed against Presidents Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, and Carter for practicing the policy of détente, easing relations with the Communists, while ramping up rhetoric against the Soviet Union, calling it an “evil” empire in moralistic terms that presidents had traditionally avoided. He also curtailed negotiations over arms agreements and increased support for anti-communist operations in Central America.

House Democrats responded in force. In 1982, 1983, and 1984, they passed the Boland Amendments, which curtailed Reagan’s ability to provide support to the government of El Salvador and the anti-communist rebels in Nicaragua, the Contras. The global nuclear freeze movement also found strong support on the Hill as a number of members supported resolutions for limitations on nuclear arms production. “I can’t remember any issue, including Watergate, that has moved so many people so quickly,” Democratic operative Robert Squier noted in 1982.

None of this meant that Reagan could not achieve big changes. After all, the president pushed through a massive supply side tax cut in 1981 that made deep inroads into the finances of the federal government and began a path of ongoing cuts that privileged wealthier Americans and business. Scared to oppose him, many House Democrats voted for the cuts of their own accord. Reagan increased the defense budget, and his administration used illegal methods to direct support to Central America. And House Democrats couldn’t stop the enormous impact that Reagan had on pushing national rhetoric toward the right, either. Nonetheless, House Democrats played a pivotal role in restraining conservatism while protecting the liberal legacy of the New Deal and Great Society.

The reverse has also been true. Some congressional elections are extraordinarily dramatic. For all the attention paid to the legendary political prowess of Lyndon B. Johnson, the fact that the 1964 election produced massive Democratic majorities in the House (295) and Senate (68), while shifting the balance of influence within the party away from conservative southerners toward the liberal North, was instrumental to the passage of the Great Society legislation: Medicare and Medicaid, the Voting Rights Act, higher and secondary education funding, immigration reform, and more all became possible because of the size and structure of the Congress that Johnson was able to work with. “The once powerful coalition of Republicans and conservative Democrats appeared to have been rendered impotent, or nearly so,” the New York Times noted in 1964. Once the 1966 midterms revived the conservative coalition of southern Democrats and midwestern Republicans that had ruled Capitol Hill since 1938, Johnson’s window for legislating closed.

Most recently, there was the 2020 election. One of the most important outcomes was Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock winning in Georgia, giving Democrats two Senate seats and effective control of the upper chamber. As soon as they won, the Biden administration’s fortunes changed dramatically. With unified control of Congress, Biden’s path to legislative success opened. Although the administration would have to struggle to placate the demands of Sens. Joe Manchin and Kyrsten Sinema, Biden kept his party united enough to move a series of major bills on COVID-19 relief, infrastructure, and climate change. In so doing, he racked up an impressive record.

When Biden was still at the top of the Democratic ticket, one of the greatest sources of concern for Democratic legislators such as former Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Rep. Adam Schiff was that he was making a Republican Congress almost inevitable. Democrats in many parts of the country watched as their polling numbers plummeted.

With the energy and momentum that Harris and her running mate, Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz, have brought to the campaign, the odds for Democrats to win control of the House and possibly the Senate have vastly improved.

As much as Democratic voters will be focused on raising money, canvassing, and promoting their presidential candidate, they would do well to devote as much energy to key congressional races—whether the seats in Long Island that Republicans picked up in 2022 or Senate races in states such as Montana and Ohio.

Johnson always understood how Congress controlled his fate. In 1968, when Treasury Secretary Henry Fowler told the president, “You are the master of the Senate and always have been,” Johnson responded: “I’m not master of a damn thing.” As a veteran of Washington, Johnson always understood that his legacy would ebb and flow based on the composition of the Congress.

This time around, Democratic control of one or two chambers will be pivotal, regardless of who wins. If Donald Trump is reelected as president, congressional power will be essential to impede his inevitable efforts to aggressively deploy presidential power and dismantle the administrative state.

If Harris wins, on the other hand, congressional power will be essential to ensuring that she can use the limited window she would have to expand on and strengthen the legislative legacy of Biden—and to start tackling new issues aimed at exciting an emerging generation of voters.