#Auto door systems

[duraslidesingapore]

A comparative study of sliding doors & windows over the conventional system

The concept of space saving and at the same time enhancing the look of the environment and matching the construction with the contemporary styles and desires have given rise to a lot of innovations in the civil engineering sector. One such innovation is the sliding door. This concept is quite simple where the wings of the door, instead of being hinged at one side, slides on a railing with wheels fitted at the bottom, or conversely hangs on a railing that is fitted at the top. In either ways, the doors slide on parallel to the walls. Now that the door panes slide along the walls, they do not fling open which obviously consumes lesser space to open and close. This concept of sliding doors are nowadays becoming more and more common especially in modern commercial constructions like shopping malls, airports, banks and similar. These doors can also be fitted with locks for the purpose of security as well. These doors come with a set of advantages like space saving, more ventilation, aesthetic looks, proper concealing in environments where air locking is required and so on. 

Coming to the advantages of using sliding doors apart from the space saving aspect and cosmetic perspective, sliding doors do have a lot of other plus points to their credit as well. when it comes to the maintenance, these sliding doors have a better edge over the their former systems, owing to the fact that they are made up of lesser movable parts their maintenance costs are negligible compared to the other doors with much higher maintenance, especially in case of wooden hinged doors. The conventional type of doors usually comprise of hinges which has to bear all the weight of the door, which is the main reason for its losing the balance and alignment which apparently calls for maintenance. Another disadvantage with the conventional type of wooden doors is that wood loses its shape and warps due to weathering actions. In this respect sliding doors make use of bearings and rails to slide open, which adds up to their durability. The following consideration is the ease of usage. In case of sliding doors, the operation is extremely easy and hassle free because of the sideward movement, which in no way needs much force or pressure to open and shut. In addition to this, the opening space can be controlled without any other contraptions like door bushes or stoppers that are usually used in hinged doors. Totally sliding doors and windows have become the preferred choice of many in recent years. Duraslide also provides other types of doors such as Auto Door Systems, Glass Folding Doors, Swing Glass Door, etc.

Likewise, companies like Duraslide are a trusted name among the reputed customers, developing new designs with sleek and modern look Duraslide helps to make a dramatic style statement especially in shower doors, sliding glass door, sliding screens and partitions, in civil constructions and automobiles like commercial vans and vanity vans.

[locksmithsandiegoinc]

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[24hourlocksmithhouston-blog]

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[locksmithspasadenatx-blog]

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[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: Auto shop teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: You’re just trying to pass your final elective. He’s the instructor who doesn’t say much—but sees everything.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Slow burn. Tension. Rough hands. Fully clothed grinding. Praise kink. Light degradation (mocking). Desperation. Size kink. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. Creampie. CAR SMUUUUT

Word count: 7.8k

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You don’t mean to be late.

You were up before sunrise. Had your coffee. Even got to campus early enough to scroll on your phone in the parking lot for a minute, thinking you had it handled. But then you wandered straight into industrial hell—half a dozen identical doors, metal walls, concrete floors, zero signs. You passed the same auto bay twice before it hit you: you were completely turned around.

By the time you find the right garage, your heart’s pounding, breath hot and tight inside your hoodie, and your palms are sweating like you’re about to take an exam instead of change a tire.

Not exactly how you pictured starting your final semester.

After years of grinding through labs and clinicals and late-night study sessions, all that’s left is one elective. Just one. You waited too long to register and ended up with whatever had space—Intro to Automotive Systems. Your advisor called it “hands-on” and “practical,” which you’re now realizing was code for grimy, loud, and probably full of dudes who think power steering is a personality.

Still. You didn’t think it’d feel like a trap.

The second you shoulder open the garage door, everything stops.

Voices. Movement. Even the air seems to still, thick with heat and oil and whatever tension you just dragged in with you. The room’s huge and bright, all fluorescent lights and slick concrete, a silver car lifted on the central platform like it’s waiting for judgment.

A half-circle of students is already gathered near it. Every single one turns to look at you.

But your eyes don’t land on them.

They land on him.

He’s standing at the center. Arms crossed. Broad shoulders under a dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—tan skin, thick wrists, a smear of grease at the edge of one hand. No clipboard. No smile. Just a hard jaw, a scowl deep enough to cut through steel, and a pair of eyes that say you’re late, you’re a problem, and he’s already tired of your shit.

Welcome to class.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you—long enough to make your stomach twist. Like he’s daring you to speak. Like he’s already counting the seconds you’ve wasted.

Then finally, he says—voice low, rough, like it’s been dragged through sandpaper:

“You show up at my door late again… don’t bother walkin’ in.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t trying to make a scene. You weren’t trying to be that student. But your voice still comes out quieter than you mean it to—reflexive, not confident.

“I’m sorry. I got turned around. There weren’t any signs—“

“This was your one and only chance,” he cuts in, fast. Flat. “Don’t waste it.”

No shouting. No venom. Just final. The kind of warning that doesn’t need to be repeated.

And just like that, he turns away. Dismisses you like the conversation never even happened.

“We’re starting with fool orientation,” he says, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Gloves stay on. Phones stay away. If you’re lookin’ to coast through this course, I suggest you drop now. Saves me the trouble later.”

Someone in the back snorts. A quiet laugh. Probably meant to take the edge off.

It doesn’t help.

Your face is hot. Neck flushed. Embarrassment crawling just under your skin—but it’s not just that. Not entirely.

You slide your bag off your shoulder and take your place at the edge of the group, jaw tight, lungs pulling in air like it might settle something inside you.

He didn’t just reprimand you.

He sized you up. Labeled you.

And even with his back turned, you swear you can still feel the weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades—like he’s still watching.

Like he doesn’t trust you not to crack.

***

Joel moves through the instructions like he’s done it a thousand times.

Voice low. Direct. Nothing extra.

He points out the lift controls. Walks the group through the eyewash station. Taps the emergency stop switch like it’s muscle memory. No jokes. No icebreakers. Just business.

You follow along the best you can—pen moving before you even think about what you’re writing. But there’s still that knot in your chest, that lingering flush from earlier. It tightens every time he glances your way. Even briefly.

You shouldn’t care. You know that.

But something about the way he moves—calm, solid, purposeful—paired with that voice, all grit and weight like it’s been lived in for years… it’s hard not to notice.

Especially when he steps back from the lift and says, ��Alright. Time to get your hands dirty.”

The energy in the room shifts. A few students straighten up.

“You’re each gonna need a basic set of tools to start,” he says, reaching toward a dented red box on a rusted metal cart. He taps the lid once, like he’s knocking on it for effect. “Socket wrench. Flathead and Phillips screwdrivers. Pliers. Oil filter wrench. Torque wrench, if there’s any left. Don’t just grab whatever’s shiny—check for damage.”

He pauses, scanning the group. His gaze drags across you for half a second—barely long enough to hold—but you feel it anyway.

“They’re all labeled. Organized. Color-coded by station. Figure it out.”

Then he leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest again. “You’ve got five minutes.”

The group scatters, peeling off toward the bins at the back of the shop. Rows of toolboxes sit cracked open on a long shelf beneath a hanging board covered in outlines—wrench sets, ratchets, socket keys. Some of the students move fast, already talking brands, comparing grips like they’ve done this before. Confident. Loud.

You hang back.

Not because you’re avoiding it. You just… don’t know where to start.

The names on the board blur a little, and while you could probably ID a wrench in a lineup, nothing here is labeled clearly. You scan the outlines, searching for something familiar, but it all blends together—metal stacked on metal. Socket sizes. Jaw shapes. Handle styles.

You crouch beside one of the bins and pick up a tool at random. It’s heavy, rubber grip, open-jawed. You try to match it to one of the silhouettes on the board, hoping you don’t look as lost as you feel.

Behind you, someone laughs.

It’s sharp. Mean.

You hear it before you even register where it came from. A guy three bins down—gelled hair, backwards hat tucked under his goggles, already elbowing his buddy like you’re the joke of the day.

“Jesus. She doesn’t even know what a socket wrench looks like.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

You clench the tool tighter and start to put it back, already reaching for something else—anything else—when another voice cuts across the room.

“Hey.”

Joel’s voice doesn’t rise.

It doesn’t have to.

Everything stops. Every head turns.

He pushes off the wall, slow and steady, boots echoing over the concrete as he walks toward the kid who laughed. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something colder now. Tighter.

“Didn’t hear you volunteer to teach the class,” he says.

The guy straightens fast. “No, I—I was just—”

“Then shut your mouth. Pack your shit. Get out.”

“What?”

“You don’t laugh at anyone in my shop,” Joel says. “Don’t care if it’s their first day or their fiftieth. This is an intro class for a reason.”

Silence. Heavy and dead still.

The guy doesn’t move at first. Then he mutters something under his breath and storms out. His friend stays rooted to the floor.

Joel doesn’t watch him leave. He just turns slightly, eyes landing on you again.

You’re still crouched beside the bin. One hand braced against the edge, the other curled too tight around the tool in your grip. Your cheeks burn. Jaw locked. Shame mixes with heat and something else you don’t have a name for—something sharp and twisted that settles low in your gut.

Joel steps closer.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t crouch beside you. Just looks down and nods toward your hand.

“That’s a spark plug socket. You’ll need it later, but not right now.”

You glance up. “I didn’t ask for help.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. But not kind. Just… knowing.

“No. But if I don’t show you what’s what, I’ll end up watchin’ you use the wrong damn tool and blow your wrist out tryin’ to muscle it.”

You open your hand and let the socket rest in your palm.

Joel leans in—not close, but close enough that you catch the scent of him. Oil. Leather. Sweat layered under something sharp and clean. Like he doesn’t wear cologne, but still smells like something solid. Something lived-in.

He plucks the socket from your hand and trades it for another tool. It’s heavier. Shorter.

“This is your standard socket wrench. You’ll use it more than anything else in here. Start with quarter-inch heads—they’ll be in the red tray. Grab a set. Then flathead, Phillips, pliers. The rest you’ll learn as we go.”

You nod. Your fingers wrap around the wrench.

His voice softens. Barely.

“Don’t let anyone in here make you feel like you don’t belong. You showed up. That’s more than I can say for half of ‘em.”

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks.”

Joel straightens and turns without another word. The moment breaks as fast as it formed. He’s already moving across the floor again, barking something about PPE violations at the next station over.

But your hands still feel warm.

And the weight of the wrench?

Still nothing compared to the way he lingered.

***

The energy shifts again once Joel finishes the walkthrough.

He nods toward the back corner of the shop where a row of stripped-down sedans sits idle on concrete risers. Rusted tires. Mismatched panels. None of them road-ready—just teaching frames salvaged from junkyards and outfitted for beginners. Oversized bolts. Pre-loosened lug nuts. The kind of setup that won’t break your wrist if you screw it up.

“All right,” Joel says, grabbing a clipboard from the wall behind him. “Pick a bay. You’re gonna remove and reinstall a front tire. Nothing fancy. Just enough to prove you can ID your tools and not bleed all over my floor.”

A few students laugh. You don’t.

“Torque wrench. Breaker bar. Jack. Safety stand,” he continues, voice steady. “I catch anyone jackin’ without a stand or forgettin’ to re-torque—grade drops to zero. Don’t care how long you think you’ve been doing this.”

You catch the echo of his words from earlier.

This is an intro class for a reason.

You take an open bay near the tool shelf. Still not entirely sure what half the items on your checklist do, but you recognize most by sight now. Wrench. Jack. Gloves. The basics. You collect them quietly, stacking them into your arms one at a time. Even remember the safety stand, tucked under a cart near the wall.

The others pair up fast. Groups of two or three, some already laughing like this is just another lab credit. One girl from the front of the group drags her friend to a far bay and avoids looking at Joel completely.

You think about teaming up too—just to play it safe—but then decide against it.

It feels better to figure it out on your own.

The tire’s already mounted when you approach. You kneel beside it, gloves pulled snug, tools laid out beside you in a clean, methodical line. The torque wrench is heavy in your hand but balanced. You check it. Adjust.

Then you start.

Cap off. Lug nuts next.

You brace your knee against the sidewall and lean into the breaker bar. The resistance is sharp—metal groaning as it holds—but then it breaks loose with a loud click. The first nut comes free. You let out a breath. Keep going. Remember his instructions. Cross-pattern. Counter-clockwise. Don’t unscrew them all at once or the wheel shifts.

You’re so focused you don’t hear him walk up.

But you feel him.

That same prickle at the back of your neck. Like gravity’s shifted just slightly. Like the air changed.

You pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s five feet behind you. Arms crossed.

Watching.

He doesn’t speak. You turn back to your work.

Second nut. Third. You move the bar to the upper right lug and brace again—but the angle’s wrong. Socket slips. Your elbow jerks, balance tipping.

He’s already there.

“You’re losing your angle,” he says. Voice low. Close.

You don’t look up. “I noticed.”

“Breaker bar’s too high. You’re not getting enough leverage like that.” A pause. “You left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then flip sides. You’re working against yourself.”

You shift without answering. Try not to let it show—that his presence is getting under your skin. That it feels like something.

You reset. The bar clicks again, clean this time. The next bolt pops free.

Joel’s voice softens. Not much. Just enough to feel it.

“Not bad.”

You don’t thank him. Just nod once. Move on.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays there. Silent. Watching.

Long enough that the heat creeps up your spine again. The tension presses into your ribs. Not embarrassment. Not nerves. Something else.

Something heavier.

Then—quietly—he says, “Careful with the jack.”

And walks away.

You sit back on your heels, hands braced on your thighs. Your pulse is faster than it should be. You tell yourself it’s just the task. The tools. The pressure.

But the truth sits somewhere else.

Low. Hot.

In the way he said it.

***

Most of the class clears out by the hour mark.

A few students finish early and leave without waiting for Joel’s dismissal. Others hang back just long enough to log their tool returns before slipping out, voices echoing down the hallway outside the shop.

You pack slower than the rest. Not on purpose. You’re not trying to stand out. You just… aren’t done.

The tire’s off. That part you managed. But getting it back on—lining it up, tightening it right, hitting the torque—none of it feels solid yet. There was an uneven pull the first time. A shift. The way the wheel tilted before it caught. If this were a real car, a real road, you wouldn’t trust it to hold.

So you run through the steps again. Slower. More focused. You check the pattern, check the pressure. Try to feel the torque instead of guessing at it.

It’s only after a long stretch of silence that you realize you’re not alone.

You glance over your shoulder.

Joel’s still at the tool bench. Arms braced on the edge, gaze fixed on you beneath furrowed brows. The rest of the shop is empty. Quiet. Just you, him, and the soft clink of metal on metal as you tighten the last bolt.

“You planning on stayin’ all night?” he asks. Voice low. Not sharp.

You straighten, wiping your gloved hands on your thighs.

“I didn’t think I got it right,” you say. “So I wanted to try again.”

He watches you for a beat, then pushes off the bench and starts toward you. His steps are steady, deliberate. Boots scuff softly across the floor. His eyes flick to the tire, then down to the tools beside you.

“This won’t count for extra credit,” he says when he stops. “If that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

“It’s not,” you reply. “I just want to understand it. That’s all.”

Your voice stays even. You don’t look away.

Joel’s gaze narrows—not annoyed, not skeptical. Just thoughtful. Like he’s measuring something quieter than your form. Something in you.

He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t correct your grip. Doesn’t hover.

He just steps back. Folds his arms. Watches.

You move through the steps again. Lifting. Aligning. Bracing your knee where it should be. This time, the breaker bar holds. The bolts glide on smoother. The torque clicks clean beneath your hands.

When you’re done, you ease back on your heels, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your glove.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then—he nods. Once. Solid.

“Good job,” he says. “You got it.”

You breathe in slow. Try not to let it show how deep the words hit.

He starts to turn. Pauses halfway.

“Be ready for next class,” he says. “It’s not gettin’ easier from here.”

“I’ll be ready,” you answer.

He nods again. Then heads for the front, where the office light flickers on as he disappears through the doorway.

You stay behind, alone in the quiet clatter of cooling metal. The scent of oil still clings to your sleeves.

You don’t know why it matters so much that he saw you try.

But it does.

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It’s been three weeks since your first day in Joel Miller’s automotive class.

The nerves you walked in with—late, flustered, still figuring out where the hell you were going—have settled. You know your tools now. You understand the systems. You’ve taken apart and reassembled a brake caliper more times than you can count, and you’re no longer shy about getting elbow-deep in grease if it means understanding what you’re doing.

Joel hasn’t praised you much. Not directly.

But he doesn’t hover anymore. Not like he did in those first few days—correcting your grip, adjusting your stance, warning you like one wrong move would blow the place sky-high.

Now, he just… watches.

Quiet. Steady. From the far end of the shop, or from the corner of your station, arms folded, eyes always tracking. Sometimes you stay late after class—finishing up a task, reviewing something that didn’t sit right—and he never tells you to go. Never says stay, either.

He just keeps the door unlocked.

Stays nearby.

Steps in when it matters.

Today is one of those days.

The classroom is buzzing as he breaks the students into small work groups, assigning everyone a different section of a half-disassembled Toyota Corolla. You end up on the driver’s side, cross-legged on the concrete, halfway through replacing a stripped bolt near the caliper bracket. Your sleeves are rolled. Your gloves are streaked with grime. The socket wrench is wedged in place, angled just right.

You’re focused. Dialed in. Until a voice cuts in behind you.

“Hey,” someone says. “You’re tightening that backwards.”

You glance up, blinking sweat from your brow.

It’s him again—Kyle, maybe Kaden—one of the loud ones who always talks more than he works. He crouches beside you, close enough for his knee to knock against your arm, and gestures toward your wrench with a smirk like he’s doing you a favor.

“That’s a reverse-thread bolt,” he says. “You’ll strip the shit out of it going clockwise like that.”

You pause.

“No, I won’t,” you say flatly.

He snorts. Leans in further. “Swear to God, I saw this same build last semester. It’s reverse-threaded. Look, let me just—”

His hand starts to move toward your wrench.

You don’t get the chance to stop him.

Because someone else already does.

“Maybe have her show you instead.”

Joel’s voice cuts clean across the room—low, sharp, just loud enough to slice through everything else.

You both freeze.

Joel’s walking toward you now, eyes locked on the guy still crouched beside you. His expression isn’t angry.

It’s worse.

Blank. Tight. Cold in a way that makes your skin prickle and the air around you feel thinner.

“You’re completely fuckin’ wrong,” Joel says when he stops in front of the car. “That bolt’s standard-thread. Factory part. If you spent half as much time listening as you do runnin’ your mouth, you’d know that.”

Kaden blinks up at him. “I was just trying to—”

“Get back to your station.”

Joel doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to.

The kid stammers, mutters something under his breath, and backs off fast—disappearing around the rear of the car without another word.

You’re still sat. Still holding the wrench.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. Just glances down at the bolt, then nods once. “You had it right. Keep going.”

So you do.

He doesn’t stay after that. Just walks off, muttering something to another group near the back of the shop like nothing happened.

But every time you glance up from your work, you feel it—that quiet weight of his attention hanging at the edge of your periphery. Not constant.

Just enough.

Like there’s something he’s not saying.

Like whatever’s passing between you is starting to get too heavy to ignore.

***

The store’s colder than you expected.

Fluorescents hum overhead, casting a pale glare across rows of boxed tools, coiled cables, and plastic bins stuffed with brake fluid and air filters. It smells like rubber and engine oil and the kind of dust that never quite leaves.

The whole place feels half-forgotten but always moving—like the only people who come in already know exactly what they need.

You don’t.

You’ve been standing in front of the same pegboard display for six full minutes, squinting at torque head sets and trying to remember the difference between deep sockets and standard ones. You thought this would be quick. Something simple to practice with over the weekend.

Now your brain’s foggy. The labels don’t make sense. And your hoodie’s starting to feel too warm.

You shift your weight. Reach for a three-piece extension bar set and mutter under your breath, “I think this is right…”

“It’s not.”

The voice comes from your left—low, dry, and unmistakable.

Your heart skips.

You turn your head slowly, already knowing exactly who you’ll find.

Joel.

Two feet away. Wearing a faded Carhartt over a black thermal, jeans worn soft at the seams, grease still smudged on the top of his hands. His hair’s damp at the temples—like he just stepped out of the shower or wiped sweat off under a hood. Either way, he looks different here. Same scowl. Same narrowed eyes. But without the classroom lights or the safety goggles, he feels heavier. Realer.

He glances at the tool in your hand. Lifts a brow.

“You’re not runnin’ a breaker bar through an extension like that. Too much play. It’ll slip.”

You blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His voice stays flat. “Don’t lie. It’s embarrassing.”

Your mouth falls open, half-offended—until you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He’s not annoyed.

He’s watching you. The same way he does in class. Like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t finished yet.

You exhale through your nose. Try to stay calm. “I just wanted something to practice with.”

“Yeah?” Joel plucks the extension bar from your hand and places it back on the hook, then tilts his head toward a different aisle. “C’mere.”

You follow.

Of course you do.

Down a narrow row of socket sets and ratchet kits, your heart hammering like you’ve done something wrong.

He stops halfway, pulls a small boxed set off the shelf—shallow sockets, quarter-inch, neatly arranged—and hands it to you.

“This is what you want. Lighter. Easier to handle for what we’re doing. Good for practice. Won’t trash the heads.”

You take it, careful. Your fingers brush his knuckles.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I was guessing.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s not deciding what to say—he’s deciding if he’s going to say it.

“You remembered the torque pattern last week,” he says. “Handled that caliper clean.”

You blink.

That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve heard from him since day one.

Your throat tightens. “Thanks,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods once, then glances toward the front of the store. “Your car still out there?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why?”

Joel’s already moving—headed toward the glass storefront. He stops by the floor jack display, squints through the grimy window, then tilts his head slightly.

“You need new brake pads,” he says. “Left rear’s draggin’.”

You stare. “You got that from looking at my car?”

He shrugs. “Rear wheel’s darker. Dust build-up. You can hear it stick if you roll slow.”

You glance back toward the window, unsure whether to be impressed or… unnerved. “Okay, that’s either witchcraft or you’ve been staring way too hard.”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“I know what I’m lookin’ at.”

You shift the box in your hands. The air between you thickens—weight gathering behind the silence. You didn’t expect anything from running into him here. But now your palms are warm. Your pulse is high. And apparently, your car’s seconds from self-destructing.

Joel watches you another moment.

“You want me to take care of it?” he asks. Voice quieter now. “Brakes aren’t hard. I’ve got parts at the shop. Be faster than waiting ‘til next week.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’d… do that?”

He nods. “Won’t take long.”

There’s no pressure in his voice. No suggestion of anything else. But still—it feels heavier than it should. Like he’s not just offering help. Like he’s offering something else.

You don’t say yes.

You just follow him out the door in a hurry after paying for the tool set.

***

The shop is nearly dark when you pull in.

Joel backs into the bay like it’s second nature. The motion triggers the overheads—rows of fluorescents humming to life in staggered sequence, casting pale light across the wide concrete floor and the wall of tools you’ve only seen during class hours.

It feels different like this.

Quieter.

Cooler.

The usual sounds—keys, footsteps, the clink of steel—feel sharper in the silence. More intimate.

You park beside him and cut the engine.

Joel doesn’t say much. He walks around to your side and nods once—silent instruction to pop the trunk. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff but not cold. Focused. The same tone he uses in class, but stripped of distance.

He works fast. No fanfare. The jack rolls under the rear of your car like it knows the way. The tire’s off within minutes. You stand nearby, the socket set cradled in your arms, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex beneath the cuff of his jacket. The way his breath fogs faintly in the chilled air. The way he moves—efficient, practiced, solid.

He doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just moves with the same quiet, brute certainty he always does.

The silence should feel awkward but it doesn’t.

You lean against the wall near the open bay, watching him until he lowers the car back to the ground and wipes his hands on a rag from his pocket.

“That’ll hold,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You nod, swallowing the thank-you caught in your throat. It doesn’t feel like the moment for it.

Joel nods toward the car. “Show me the rattle you mentioned. In the dash.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. It happens when I turn the fan on.”

He circles around to the drivers side and opens the door, nodding for you to follow. You slide into the passenger’s seat. The heater kicks on, followed by a low, mechanical groan beneath the dash.

Joel listens for a beat, brow furrowed. “Loose mount. Bracket’s vibrating. Not dangerous—just noisy.”

He leans in further, fingers brushing over the vent. Then he opens the glove box and gives it a gentle tug.

He’s close now.

Too close.

The heat blowing from the vents fogs the windows slightly. The space between you shrinks with it. You can smell him—oil, leather, clean sweat—and feel his presence in a way that makes your pulse spike, even without him touching you.

He reaches across you, fingers brushing the radio dial.

And that’s when the song starts.

Something low. Old. The kind of classic rock he wouldn’t have expected from you, slow and drawled and aching. A gravel-thick voice murmuring about losing sleep over someone he never should’ve wanted.

Joel doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull his hand back.

He stares at the dash like he’s still listening, but you don’t think he hears a word of the song.

Then, quietly—almost like he regrets saying it the second it’s out—he speaks.

“If that guy touches you again,” he says, voice low, “I’ll pull him from the class.”

You inhale. Sharp. Not loud—but enough for him to hear it.

Your voice comes out soft. Not challenging. Not playful. Just one word:

“Why?”

Joel’s jaw flexes. His eyes drop.

He doesn’t answer.

He shifts like he might sit back. Like he might leave. Like the conversation’s already too close to something neither of you has dared to say.

So you move first.

You lean in slowly—no hesitation, no plan—and kiss him.

At first, he doesn’t react. His lips are warm. Slightly chapped. He doesn’t push forward, doesn’t pull back.

He just breathes.

Then he exhales.

And it breaks.

His hand lifts—finds the back of your neck—his mouth opening against yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this. His kiss is rough. Unguarded. Not practiced or precise, just real. Tongue sliding against yours, thumb stroking your jaw like he needs something to hold onto.

It tastes like coffee and breathless restraint.

When he pulls back—barely—his voice is hoarse.

“Get in the backseat.”

You don’t speak. You don’t ask.

You just move.

One second, you’re kissing him—mouths crushed together like the air between you doesn’t matter—and the next, you’re both reaching blindly for the back door. Hands fumbling. Hearts pounding. Breath lost somewhere in the heat of the moment.

You slide into the backseat first. Joel follows not a second later.

It’s dark. Warm. The kind of close, sealed-in air that smells like sweat and leather. He’s already reaching for you, grabbing your hips, pulling you across the seat until you’re straddling him. His palms are firm, fingertips pressing into your skin through your jeans like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you—prove to himself you’re actually here.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stares, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to breathe through the weight of it. “You sure?” He asks, voice low and rough.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I’m sure.”

Without another thought, he’s kissing you again, harder this time—hot and messy, lips open, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to taste every breath you take. His hands move fast, dragging your hoodie up, then your shirt, then slipping underneath your bra to squeeze, to feel.

You can’t help but gasp at the cool air hitting your heated skin.

He grins at that, and watches as you moan when his fingers find your nipple, when he rolls it between callused fingertips just enough to make you arch. His mouth drags across your jaw to your throat, humming deep from within his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Your hands find his hair, curling deep in the roots and pulling slightly. His mouth falls open as he looks up at you, letting his head rest against the headrest.

You grind against him—slow and deliberate—feeling the thick length of him pressed against your cunt through both layers of denim. Now it’s your turn to grin, “you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” You whisper, teasing, breathless. “All those nights after class, watching me?”

His hands flex on your hips, “don’t start.”

“Tell me.” You demand, letting your hips roll against his again, and Joel nearly falls apart right there.

“Every damn day.” He grunts, his palm running up the expanse of your bare back.

He entangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling your head back with enough force to bite—just a bit, and doesn’t stop until you’re staring at the ceiling of the car. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast. Then another. Then higher—until his mouth is warm over your nipple, lips soft, tongue flicking just barely.

You grip the back of the drivers side headrest, gasping at the sudden heat, then the cool air from his lips as he purses a breath across your chest. You’re aching, throbbing, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too focused on your chest—licking slow, open-mouthed circles around your nipple before sucking it between his lips. The free hand on your hip tightens, holding you in place as you writhe above him.

“Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “You’re teasing.”

He hums against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that rumbles through your ribs.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy for weeks,” he mutters, his lips moving to the shell of your ear, a soft whisper, “you’ll survive.”

He drops his head then and switches sides, mouth closing over your other nipple, sucking harder now. His tongue drags across the tip while his other hand slides up to roll the one he just left—pinching lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Sensitive,” he says, like he’s cataloging it. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Joel—please.” You whimper, letting your free hand fall to his shoulder, nails biting into his skin.

“You beg real pretty, you know that?”

He kisses your chest again—softer this time—then finally slides his hands down to your waist.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your breath is still shallow, your body trembling just from the feel of his mouth. His tongue. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chest. It’s too much and not enough and your jeans feel like they’re trapping you now—tight against your hips, soaked through, clinging to your skin.

Joel’s still staring up at you, flushed and focused, pupils blown wide with restraint that’s clearly cracking.

“Take these off,” you whisper, rocking forward slightly, grinding your soaked cunt right along the thick line of him through his jeans. “I want to feel you.”

His jaw flexes once, and then he moves.

His hands are suddenly at your waist, working the button of your jeans with quick, rough fingers. You lift your hips for him, thighs shaking slightly from the way he’s breathing—slow and tight, like he’s trying not to lose control.

The zipper lowers, teeth dragging open with a soft rasp, and he peels the denim down your hips, dragging your panties with it in one go.

“Lift,” he mutters, tapping your ass with a smirk.

You do. And then they’re off—shoved down your thighs, tugged around your ankles, and kicked somewhere into the shadows of the floor. The rush of cool air against your soaked pussy makes you gasp.

Joel groans when he sees you—head tipped back, throat bobbing with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already dripping.”

He drags his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow and firm, thumb grazing your cunt just once before settling his hands back on your hips. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

Just looks.

“Now yours,” you say, fingers already reaching between your bodies.

Joel lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-grunt—as you tug at the button of his jeans, then slide the zipper down over the aching bulge beneath. He lifts his hips as you work them off, the denim catching on his thighs before he shoves them the rest of the way down himself with a growl of frustration.

“Been wantin’ this,” he mutters. “Thinkin’ about you climbin’ on top of me like this. Every fuckin’ night.”

His cock springs free—hard, thick, already flushed and twitching at the sight of you bare above him.

Your thighs tighten instinctively, and then—without a word—you reach down.

Your fingers wrap around him at the base, slow and steady, and he groans—a low, gravel-slick sound that punches straight through your core. He’s heavy in your hand. Hot. Already leaking, the tip slick and flushed, thick veins pulsing beneath your palm like he’s barely holding on.

You stroke once—slow and deliberate, from base to tip—and his head drops back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You do it again—twisting slightly at the top this time, just enough to smear the precum down his shaft.

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex on your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” You whisper, eyes locked on him. “Thinking about me touching you like this?”

He growls—actually growls, hips jerking up into your grip.

“You have no fuckin’ idea.”

You stroke him again, then again, a little faster now, wrist twisting just right—and he’s breathing like a man on the edge, jaw tight, thighs tense, chest rising in sharp, shallow pulls.

“Feels good?” You ask in a murmur.

“Feels—” He cuts off with another moan when your thumb rolls over the head. “Feels too good. Gonna—fuck, baby, you keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, slow and wicked, and lean in—lips brushing his ear.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Joel growls again. One hand snaps to your wrist, gripping just hard enough to still you—but not to hurt.

“I’m hangin’ by a thread here, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough. “Don’t make me beg.”

You lick your bottom lip and tilt your head slightly, “but you beg real pretty, you know that?” You mock, gasping as he pulls your bodies impossibly closer and grinds up against your slick cunt with zero shame.

“I warned you,” he mutters, the words sharp against your neck. “You think I won’t beg? You think I won’t lose it for you?”

His hand slips between your bodies. One strong finger traces the seam of your folds—slick and swollen—and you shudder when he groans.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

He nudges his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet—just letting the head glide through the wetness, dragging it along your clit in slow, devastating passes.

“Go on, then,” he rasps, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted control? Take it. Sit on it. Make me watch you fuckin’ ruin me.”

You rise just enough to line him up, your hand guiding him to your entrance—slick and aching and so fucking ready.

And then—slowly, trembling—you start to sink.

The stretch is unreal.

Thick. Blunt. Hot.

You feel the pressure first, the way your walls fight to take him, your body instinctively pulsing around the intrusion. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and you gasp—sharp and broken—your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage.

Joel grunts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening like a warning to himself not to thrust up, not to ruin the moment.

“Shit,” he groans. “Baby…”

You slide lower. Another inch. Then another.

It burns, but it’s perfect—just enough to make your thighs shake, just enough to make your vision blur. You pause halfway down, forehead dropping to his, your breath catching in your throat.

“I can’t���I’m not—Joel, you’re so—”

“I know,” he pants, voice ragged. “I know. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby. Look at you.”

He strokes your back with one hand, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself through your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am already?”

You whimper, hips rolling in a tiny, desperate circle.

“Too much?”

You shake your head instantly. “No—it’s just… you’re stretching me so full. I feel you everywhere.”

Joel growls, low in his throat, and kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice breaking apart as he whispers, “Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You start to lower yourself again, inch by inch, until finally—finally—you bottom out.

The fullness knocks the air out of your lungs. You sit still, trembling in his lap, thighs twitching where they cage his hips. Your pussy pulses around him, fluttering tight, trying to adjust to the size, the stretch, the weight of him buried that deep.

He curses again, forehead pressed to your temple.

“Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ the fuck outta me.”

He kisses your neck. Then your shoulder. Then back up to your jaw, whispering between kisses.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You got me. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

You rock again, your thighs already trembling from the stretch. The drag of him inside you is slow, devastating—too much and not enough at once. Every grind brings your clit down against the ridge of his pelvis, and you can feel your slick spreading between your bodies, soaking the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then back down again—every movement heavy with reverence, with restraint. He’s guiding you, not controlling. Letting you take your time, letting you use him, even though his jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

“You ride so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just like that. Nice and slow. Let me feel every bit of it.”

You moan—soft and caught in your throat—and move again, lifting yourself an inch before sinking back down, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot just inside you.

Joel grunts.

His head drops back against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut, a pulse ticking hard at the base of his throat. He looks wrecked. Sweaty. Flushed. His shirt sticks to his chest, soaked where your bodies meet, and you realize with a sharp, hot rush that you did this to him.

You lean forward, pressing your chest to his, lips brushing his jaw.

“You like that?” You whisper.

His hands tighten on your ass. “Too much,” he says, voice hoarse. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

“Good.”

You roll your hips again, deliberately now—grinding your clit down against him, letting your body melt into his. The pressure builds low in your belly, slow and tight, a heat that curls and coils and refuses to let go.

Joel groans—deep—and buries his face in your neck.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he pants. “You’re so wet. So tight. Keep squeezin’ me like that, I’m not gonna last.”

You lift yourself higher this time, until just the tip of him is inside, and then drop back down with a moan.

Joel chokes on a sound—half growl, half prayer.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps. “You feel that? The way you stretch around me?”

You nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you do it again, and again—building a rhythm now, riding him slow but deeper, hips tilting with each pass to chase your own pleasure.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, over your ribs, slipping between your shoulder blades to hold you close as he thrusts up into you, gentle but deliberate.

You sob quietly against his mouth.

“Can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let it come. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

His thumb finds your clit—presses, circles, rubs you exactly how you need—and your whole body locks up.

Your orgasm hits with a sharp, crushing intensity—wringing your cunt tight around him, every muscle in your body drawn tight, shaking, clinging, your moan breaking apart against his neck.

Joel loses it.

The second he feels you fall apart around him, he thrusts up hard, his grip bruising, mouth open as he groans straight into your ear.

“That’s it—fuck, baby—give it to me—make a fuckin’ mess—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He comes with a growl, hips jerking beneath you, cock twitching deep inside as he spills, hot and thick, his breath stuttering in your hair.

Neither of you move for a long time.

You collapse against his chest, your body still trembling, his arms wrapped tight around you like he doesn’t want to let go.

Your pulse throbs between your legs, your slick mixed with his, dripping slowly down your thighs where you’re still seated, still full, still connected.

Joel presses his lips to your shoulder.

Then your collarbone.

Then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and soft now, the edge gone. “Need anything?”

You nod into his neck, still breathless.

“Water. A cigarette. A new spine.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and brushes a thumb along your jaw.

“You were fuckin’ perfect,” he says. “Took me like you were made for it.”

***

The windows are still fogged. The air inside the car is thick—humid with sweat, heat, and the sharp-sweet scent of sex that clings to your skin and seeps into the seats.

You haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

You’re still in his lap, thighs spread across thighs, skin flushed and trembling, his softening cock still buried deep inside you. The whole car feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Joel moves first.

One hand drifts up your spine—slow, steady. The other rests at your hip, fingers curling like he needs the anchor more than you do. His head is tilted forward, lips brushing your shoulder, breath cooling where sweat still clings.

“Gonna pull out now,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked against your ear. “Alright?”

You nod.

Your legs ache. Muscles cramping from how long you’ve been straddling him.

He’s careful—one hand steadying your waist, the other slipping to your thigh. You wince when he eases out of you, slow and wet, the stretch still echoing deep inside. The emptiness leaves your stomach fluttering, body still too full, too sensitive to register anything clearly.

Joel watches it happen.

His breath stutters. One hand drops between your thighs—thumb brushing where you’re dripping, slick and spent, your release already sliding down your leg.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Look at that…”

He leans over, finds the flannel he’d discarded on the seat next to you, and brings it up folded in his hand. The fabric is soft from wear, warm from his skin. He presses it between your thighs, gentle, slow, wiping the mess before it can fall.

You gasp—too overstimmed to hide it—and your hand flies to his wrist on instinct.

“Shh,” he soothes, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “I got you. Just wanna clean you up.”

You breathe out, let him.

Melt into his chest, boneless, every part of you raw and exposed. He wipes you down without rushing. Without speaking. Like it’s something he’s done before. Like he wants to.

And when he’s done, his hand lingers. Thumb tracing circles against your leg, lazy and warm.

He’s not ready to let go.

You sit up slowly, muscles tight. Your thighs ache when you move off his lap, cunt still pulsing with aftershocks. Joel helps—wordless and steady—one hand at your waist, the other bracing your back as you climb over the console.

You slide into the front seat, legs unsteady, one hand braced against the steering wheel like it’ll hold you together. The hoodie you left in the passenger seat is still there—twisted in a soft, wrinkled heap. You pull it on, swallowing a quiet breath, the cotton dragging across sweat-slick skin. You can’t even imagine trying to pull the jeans up right now with how slick your skin feels.

Joel stays in the back.

Half dressed. Chest rising slow. His shirt is clinging to his body, darkened with sweat, his jeans still undone. One arm slung over the back of the seat. The other resting on his thigh.

And his eyes—

They haven’t stopped watching you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You reach for the keys. The engine’s off. The dashboard blinks softly and the hum of cool air hits you harshly. You adjust the mirror—just slightly—and catch his reflection in the glass.

Wrecked. Quiet. Still tracking the curve of your jaw like he doesn’t know what happens next.

Truth is, you don’t either.

But your lips are swollen. Your thighs are sore. Your body’s buzzing, full of him even now.

And the air around you still smells like sweat and leather and Joel.

You’d let him do it all over again.

[motogadi]

Tesla's Cybertruck Roars into Action: Limited Deliveries, Jaw-Dropping Performance!

Tesla Cybertruck deliveries began with a few pickups, making them a rare sight on the streets. The Cybertruck’s impressive features include a steer-by-wire system, a 48-volt architecture, and astonishing acceleration in drag races. Tesla Cybertruck deliveries finally began on Thursday at a large celebration. The company only sent a few pickups, so you’re not going to see them all over town this…

[duraslidesingapore]

Why Sliding Doors and Windows are the Ideal Solutions?

Any civil construction whether domestic or commercial, undoubtedly comprises of a window and a door frame. These frames may be of the conventional material like wood, and may be of the usual mechanism of hinge and swing type. But in certain cases like the urban localities where space is a major issue of concern, arrangements like the installation of sliding doors and windows are integrated into the construction. But however space is not the not the only criteria to install a sliding door or a window. There are other aspects like optimizing the cosmetic look, functionality, enhancing the elegance of the building or the setup, complimenting the continuity of environment and vision and so on.   However it is most essential that an ideal sliding door or a window setup is chosen to enrich the aesthetic appeal and at the same time achieve maximum functionality and efficiency, depending on the requirement.

While discussing about the sliding glass door and windows, main concept behind them is the maximum usage of the wall or any other host surface. Another significant aspect is the creation of very large frames which give more brightness to the rooms or other areas where they are fitted. Adding to this, the sliding doors and windows allow enable space gain unlike the conventional casement windows, because of the fact that they do not have any inward or outward swing-open setups and are hence considered very ideal in many places especially the small sized kitchens where each bit of the working surface is quite valuable. These sliding windows and doors provide a great aesthetic effect as well with added high level brightness and ventilation, along with the reduction of limitations between the surrounding and the building. Likewise, many other added aspects like the sliding movement, utilization of space in a meticulous way and its practicality combine to justify the plus points of the sliding doors and windows.

Sliding doors and windows open and close by sliding along the track usually on the horizontal plane, but in certain cases, sliding windows also function in the vertical fashion. Sliding doors and windows are generally installed in high-rise building, balcony, veranda and the entry and exit to the garden areas. With the passing of time, there has been a lot of implements and developments in the installation of these sliding doors and windows. The materials that are best suited for these kind of devices, are steel and aluminium where in aluminium has been found to be the best material. With increase in demand for these sliding doors and windows organisations like Duraslide have taken up this sector with dedication and passion. Offering the best services the organisation has been an expert in the installation of these aesthetic devices in areas, like swimming pools, staircases, partitions, and much more. They also provide other types of doors such as Glass folding doors, Swing glass door, Auto door systems. The company also suggests the best solutions regarding contemporary constructions and the incorporation of sliding doors and windows accordingly.

[safeenabh]

The Advantages Of Tribolt Locks

Locks are synonymous with safety, and security. Different varieties of locks are available today compared to previous times. Compared to conventional door locks, Rim Locks are very poplar type of locks. Superior quality rim locks with three strong bolts to protect your home and office are called Tribolt Locks. Tribolt locks have more benefits. Due to their simplicity of use, high level of security, and durability, they have become increasingly popular among home and office owners . At South India Agencies, you find different brands of Tribolt Locks and other varieties of door locks of best quality that meet your safety needs.

Below are some of the main advantages of Tribolt Locks.

High Security: Tribolt locks are known for their superior security features. It is difficult for intruders to force the door open as three locking points secure it at the top, centre, and bottom. This type of locking mechanism is ideal for main entrance doors which are often targeted by burglars.

Easy to use:

Tribolt locks are simple to install and use, in contrast to conventional door locks. These may be fitted on any door without the need for special tools or installation expertise. Also, they have an easy-to-use mechanism for locking and opening the door. This makes it easier for elders, children, and people with disabilities to operate the door.

Durability:

Tribolt locks are made of high-quality materials and designed to withstand harsh weather conditions and resist wear & tear. These locks are also resistant to corrosion, rust, and other forms of damage, making them ideal door locks for outdoor use.

Utility:

Tribolt locks are best suited for all types of doors, including wooden, aluminum, and PVC doors. They can get installed on left and right-handed doors for homes or businesses based on usage and convenience.

Cost:

Despite their high-security features, tribolt locks are budget friendly for businesses or homeowners. They offer value for money, making them an attractive option for those who want to enhance the security of their property without breaking the bank.

Maintenance:

Tribolt Locks are easy to maintain and do not require lubrication or oiling frequently. The locking mechanism can be easily cleaned with a wet cloth and thus can last longer without major repairs or replacements.

To conclude, Tribolt Locks are the best type of door locks for anyone looking for security & reliability. The door locks offer high-security features, ease of use, durability, and more. You get the best brands and designs of Tribolt Locks and other door accessories like door closers, auto hinges, door access control systems, and much more at South India Agencies, the one-stop shop for all your home needs.

[buckyalpine]

18+ Minors dni Enemies to lovers with some massage therapist Bucky. Breeding kinnk, aftercare, Bucky is a secret softie, all that.

Imagine Rival Biker Bucky x f reader. A smutty, slutty little concept while I add the finishing touches to another fic, just getting this out of my system first. I just love the idea of a sexy, bad boy Bucky getting his hands on the one girl who won't give him a second glance because she's too good for him and they're from opposite worlds. Since childhood. Now he's a biker. Covered in black ink. He works in an auto shop. Owns the bar that brings in chaos. He's smoke, whiskey and leather.

She, however, is soft, pretty, smart and does not have the time to entertain someone like him. She has her degree. Working on a second. She has a career. She does not associate with the likes of him, not as the police chiefs daughter. She'll be damned if she has to even breathe the same air, especially when his gang is the cause for half the problems in the town that her father has been trying to get rid of.

Now, imagine that hours of working on her notes and papers leave her with unbearable knots and kninks in her back. She doesn't want to take a break but the pain only gets worse as the week goes by. It doesn't take long for her to shoot her regular massage therapist a message to book the very first available appointment.

-

You unclasped your bra, folding and setting it off to the side while waiting for Wanda in the warmly lit room. You could have sworn she was a witch with the way she made pain disappear; she’d also become a good friend after your many visits.

The knock at the door interrupted you as you slid your shorts off, leaving you in your panties, not rushing to jump onto the table considering it was just Wanda anyway.

“Come in!” You smiled, making your way to the massage bed as the door clicked open- “Oh my God!!” You nearly shrieked seeing Bucky walk in, a shit eating from spreading across his face as you scrambled to grab the tiny towel to cover yourself though it was a futile attempt. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

"You have an appointment, don't you?" He quirked an eyebrow as if it was clear as day why he was there.

"Yeah, with Wanda, why are you here, did you get lost on the way to jail?" Your face scrunched in a mix of confusion and disgust ignoring the roll of his eyes while you snatched your shirt to better cover up.

"Well Wanda couldn't make it in but she sent me" He said with a shrug, sighing when he saw your less than impressed face, "Don't flatter yourself, I'm just training under her as part of my physiotherapy internship"

"I'm sorry, you're trying to tell me you of all people are learning how to give massages? Please"

"Physiotherapy" Bucky corrected, "You're not the only one who has a degree, princess" Bucky watched as you groaned realizing you hadn't put your bra on, opting to stuff it in your bag instead of putting it back on in front of him.

"You are NOT laying a finger on me-ow!" You hissed, feeling the knot in your back tug at the rest of your muscles.

"You're not gonna be able to do a whole lot with that much pain" Bucky smirked, only half joking. He wasn't wrong. The pain was worse than before and you needed this an you really didn't have the time to reschedule.

"Fine" You mumbled, turning away from him so you could take your shirt off again, glaring at him when you noticed he hadn't turned away. "Could you at least give me some privacy instead of lurking in the corner like a pervert"

"Whatever you want, princess" He bit his lip as he faced the wall, hearing your feet pad across the tile to lay down on the massage table.

"Alright" You huffed after covering your lower body with the towel, now laying face down, immediately second guessing yourself as he walked over.

"Let me know if anything's uncomfortable or if you want me to stop" His voice was no longer snarky; in fact he sounded professional. "Where do you feel the most tension?"

"Um-shoulders and-lower back" You mumbled out the last bit, he was going to massage you there anyway so there so no pointed hiding it. You tensed at the feeling of his oiled fingers starting to work at your muscles, he had no right to be that good. At all.

“Shit” you hissed trying to keep your voice down, ignoring the clench of your stomach feeling his rough fingers press down on the areas that were tight. Little did you know Bucky was struggling far more than you were.

It went against every bit of professionalism he had. Every moan you tried to silence went right to his cock, his hands making their way lower before trailing up again. Fuck, you sounded so pretty...

"Better stop making those sounds"

"Or what" You challenged back before you could even stop yourself.

"Princess..."

"Your attitude is what needs fixing" Bucky growled, professionalism be damned, "fuck this"

-

You have no idea how you ended up here. It didn't matter though, not when there wasn't a single cohesive thought in your brain as you wailed letting Bucky absolutely rail you. Your back didn't feel an ounce of pain as he took you on all fours, pulling your hips to slam back against him, gripping your ass with enough strength to leave you sore.

"Feel better now huh baby, not trying to stay quiet anymore, are ya" He let out a low chuckle which melted into a groan feeling you tighten on his dick, "Such a good little princess like you letting me put my dick in you, dirty girl"

You hate to admit it but the clench of your cunt betrays how much you love this. It was so wrong. You had no business fucking someone like him and yet where you were letting his precum paint all over the inside of your walls.

"What would your daddy say princess, if he knew where you were right now, what you were doin'? Thinking you're studying when you're actually all pretty and naked, letting me rub that gorgeous body up and down, bet you'd let me put my cum in you too, huh? Bet your dad would love that, his perfect little girl all knocked up with some bikers baby"

You could have said no, stayed silence, just about anything but nope. You screamed feeling his fingers reach around the massage your clit, your orgasm wasting no time hurling towards you.

"Ja-Ja-JAMESSS"

"MMMPHH I love the sound of that baby, could get used to hearing you sayin' my name, say it again princess, say my name with my cock in you, c'mon, that's it"

"Fuck-James-I-James" You were a mess and loving every bit of it, tears starting to flow down your cheeks, all the pent up stress you were feeling finally releasing. You felt your throat tighten, a sob escaping your lips as you let go, your arousal making a creamy mess on the dark curly hair on the base of his cock.

"God, you're milkin me, you want my cum that bad huh baby, want a little biker baby in that tummy of yours, I'll give it to you, give you so much I might even put twins in there-FUCKK"

-

"Shhhh" Bucky cooed, wrapping you up in a fluffy towel while cuddling up your limp body, wiping away any remnants of tears while you stayed floating in a subby, post sex haze. "I got you, you did so good princess" You only manage to let out a weak whimper, giving into his warm, thick arms that rock you.

"You alright angel?"

"Mph" you mumble against his chest and he reaches over for a glass of water that's nearby, bringing it up for you to take a sip. You're surprised at how sweet he's being, drinking up before snuggling into him again. Damn him for being so warm and comfy.

"Y'know, there might be a little Bucky in there" He whispers with a playful smirk in his voice, fingers tickling your lower belly, chuckling when you narrow your eyes at him.

"You wish" You sass back, ignoring the butterflies you feel.

"I do" He admits, biting his lip, his previous cocky demeanor replaced with a shy one, though he tries to mask it. Poorly. His cheeks are pinker than the time you threw paint on him for pulling your pigtails. When you were both 4. "I'd want Bucky jr. to have your brains though"

Imagine that incident sets off a very interesting chain of events. A confession of feelings. You both couldn't be happier, meanwhile your father is grumbling about how he knew this fuckin' day would come, God damn it.

"I never liked that boy" He struggles to keep a scowl on his face watching you giggle like you were 4 again, running to the door as soon as you hear the rumble of his bike.

"Shut up, you love him" Your mom chides, watching Bucky swoop you up for a loving kiss, heading you a bouquet of yellow flowers as he always does.

-

"I still don't like 'em" Your dad says while you roll your eyes, your arm linked with his as he walks you down the aisle.

"Is that why all the files you had to build a case against him all suddenly went missing?" You tease and your dad shugs.

"Wasn't me"

-

just an idea.

[revlw]

𓏵 CTRL//OBEY

YAN! ITRAPPED X READER

Warning : obbsessive behavior , yandere themes , stalking , worshipping , self aware , ITrapped.

Note : Please do not romanticize real stalking or abusive behavior. This is for fictional and horror purposes only. Art : @/MrMiao_Noir on X

You hear about ITrapped before you ever see him.

Rumors. Whispers. A name spoken in hushed tones by survivors in the campfire light. Most describe him with confusion. “He’s not like the others,” someone mutters. “Doesn’t chase you like a normal killer… doesn’t even look like a monster.”

He doesn’t. Not at first glance.

When you finally see him, it’s under flickering lights in a run-down hallway. A basic noob avatar, low-poly and harmless looking—except for that Ice Crown on his head, glowing faintly, coldly. He stands motionless in the dark, head slightly tilted, as if studying you. Not attacking. Not even moving.

Then he vanishes.

You think it was a glitch.

It wasn’t.

His obsession begins not with violence, but with access.

You start noticing strange things in your rounds. Generators you just touched regress by themselves. Doors that should’ve been opened glitch out and lock. Items flicker in and out of existence. But these things only happen when you’re nearby.

At first, it’s frustrating. Then it’s unsettling.

You complain to others, but no one else sees it.

Except him.

ITrapped always appears briefly—standing in the background of your match, not lunging at you like other killers, not roaring or hunting. Just… watching. Frozen. Calculating.

Eventually, the sabotage stops targeting you. Instead, it starts protecting you. He disables traps you don’t see. Breaks paths for other survivors—but not you. You’re allowed to move freely, untouched.

You haven’t done anything to earn his favor. That’s what scares you.

You’re not playing the game. He is.

You begin to realize he’s more than just a presence in the matches. He’s altering the game itself.

Somehow, your matches always start with him now. The map selection glitches until it favors the ones he prefers. Load-in screens freeze when you try to quit. Your inventory resets to a “default” version, and the only item that stays is a strange crown-shaped charm he leaves in your loadout.

Players who get too close to you start having issues. One survivor who stayed by your side the whole round disconnects mid-match and can’t rejoin the server. Another finds their controls reversed. One player swears their Roblox account briefly locked when they tried to message you about him.

Still, he never harms you directly.

When you’re injured, he lets you limp away. He never tunnels you. He lets you finish generators—if you’re alone.

You realize, eventually, that he doesn’t want to kill you.

He wants to isolate you.

The first time you speak to him is accidental—proximity voice, maybe, or a glitched chat prompt.

You don’t even know what to say, but you try: “Why are you following me?”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then a quiet, unreadable line of text appears in chat:

“I used to fix broken things. Then I saw you. I don’t need anything else now.”

You feel a chill—not from fear, but because the message auto-deletes seconds later. Like the system itself didn’t want you to remember.

But you do.

From that point on, he no longer hides. He orbits you in every match. Other survivors grow suspicious. Some stop queuing with you. Others start blaming you when their matches glitch out. You’re alone more often now.

Which is exactly what he wants.

He never refers to you by your username. He calls you “buddy”—the way he once referred to Chance. The way someone might speak to a pet project, or a favorite possession.

You stop seeing him as just another killer. He’s no longer playing the game.

He’s rewriting it.

Your escape routes begin to vanish. The hatch doesn’t spawn when you’re the last one. Exits flicker with ERROR signs when you touch them. Sometimes, your screen goes black mid-match, and when it returns, you’re in a custom map no one else seems to recognize. He’s always there, standing still in the center.

“You’re the only file I didn’t want to delete.”

You can’t tell if he’s speaking in metaphors or literally viewing you as code.

Either way, you’ve stopped feeling like a player.

You’re Already His.

Eventually, he stops appearing to other players entirely.

Only you see him now.

You’re told he’s “disabled” or “removed” from the rotation, but he still shows up in your queue. You report it. Nothing happens.

One night, your screen boots up without you clicking anything.

The message appears in familiar black font:

“Game loaded: You + Me”

And when the round starts, you’re alone.

No teammates. No map.

Just him.

Just you.

Just silence.

And you could feel that he’s smilling.

@revlw 2025

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

What's an automotive technology that you wish had made it that didn't?

NSU Trapeze, 1973, by Bertone. In the late 60s and early 70s it seemed likely the rotary engine, invented by Felix Wankel, was going to take over the auto industry. The advantages of compact design, smoothness, low weight, and fewer parts over piston internal combustion engines gave rotary power a bright future. NSU was the first car company to develop the Wankel motor into series production but from the late 60s all major automobile makers were working on rotary power, perhaps most famously General Motors and of course Mazda. Alas as is often the case physics got in the way, despite its remarkable power the Wankel system has lower thermal efficiency and higher emissions relative to a piston engine. So from the early 70s one by one everyone abandoned their rotary programs apart from the Volkswagen AG (by now owners of NSU), Citroën and Mazda. Not only was Bertone's Trapeze rotary-powered but it also presents another configuration concept that seemed to have potential in the 70s and early 80s. Mid-engined 4/5 seat cars. A number of concepts were presented with 2 and 4 doors that could seat multiple passengers with engines placed behind the rear seats (in the Trapeze it was in the middle of them). However no-one ever got around to putting a mid-engine 4-door saloon into production and the industry moved onto almost universal adoption of front transverse engines and front wheel drive.

Fun fact about Felix Wankel (1902-1988) inventor of the rotary engine, he was extremely nearsighted and never held a driver’s licence but had the same chauffeur for most of his life

rotary gif by Y_tambe

[phoebejaysims]

Boutique Mod - DOWNLOAD

Inspired by the sims 2 shopping for clothes system, I present a sims 3 take on buying clothes, accessories and running a thriving boutique! Set up shifts, keep the racks stocked, and you might find yourself in profit!

Required:

Ambitions

NRAAS Master Controller + Integration Module

Optional:

ITF if you want to use the clothes mannequin and some visual effects.

Late Night if you want the animations for the security guard.

Seasons for extra interactions on the mannequin.

Savvy Seller Set for some visual and audio effects.

Full Documentation is included in the download. I spent a while writing it out, so please read thoroughly!

How Stores Work:

Set up a shift

Hire Employees (bosses count as employees so stores are fully functional with only one sim!)

Link at least one rack to the register

Open for business!

Employees:

Store employees can be given three types of roles: register attendant, sales attendant and security guard.

Employees will do their jobs automatically but you can always manually tell them to do things too like: restocking, dressing up mannequins, helping customers, among other things.

Customers:

Inactive and active sims can browse through the racks and have the ability to purchase items. They'll interact differently depending on if they are shopping at a clothes rack, accessory rack, or at a mannequin.

Inactives won't purchase outfits from mannequins unless you direct them to (or you enable auto-purchasing in the XML). However, they may "fake" buy clothes.

Once finished shopping, customers hold their bags and wait to be rung up! Take too long and they may abandon their purchase.

Shopping:

Adjust prices and restrict customers by age and gender to customise your store!

Clothes Racks:

Buy Clothes for your own sim, sims in your household, or (if you're an employee) suggest clothes for customers.

Employees that suggest clothes for customers can fulfil Ambition Stylist jobs this way.

Accessories Racks:

Choose accessories to be sold by adding them to the XML in the package file. The XML comes loaded with a few base game items already plus a couple modded items (Arsil's Sunglasses and lipstick - that won't be loaded unless you have them installed).

Sell buy-mode items as well as CAS items!

Make your CAS items wearable from your sim's inventory using your own meshes or my dummy accessory (see Documentation and XML for details).

Blacklist certain categories from being shown. If you want a dedicated shoe shop or an opticians, you can have it!

Try on products before buying them to see if they suit your sim. If there's a mirror in the room, they'll check themselves out in it.

Clothing Mannequin:

Try on the mannequin outfits to see if they suit your sim.

Plan different outfits to display and even set them to be rotated through seasonally.

Let your employees be creative and choose a random outfit for the mannequin to wear.

Buy clothes for your own sim, household members, or customers.

Allow or disallow inactives from automatically purchasing display outfits.

Security Gates:

Give your security guards something to stand and look threatening by.

You can try your luck at stealing from the shop. If you're caught, you'll have to pay up. If you get past the gates (or if there are no gates), enjoy your bounty!

Boutique Door:

Cloned from the Savvy Seller doors without the annoying 'kick-every-last-person-out-the-building-come-closing-time' feature.

Link this to a register and let the open and close sign automatically flip itself. Also, close the store or rename it, straight from the door.

Phone Interactions:

Ask for time off work (paid or unpaid).

Call in sick.

Cancel vacation days.

Credits and Thanks:

@dhalsims for adding geostates to the ITF rack for me. Modders, I really recommend her if you need any 3D models made also!

DouglasVeiga for the BG rack with the geostates.

@aroundthesims for allowing me to use her objects in my mod as always!

Sims 4 for all the animations that I converted.

Simstate & merchant mods for the idea to go into a mode to link racks to the register.

The OG shop for clothes mod and pedestal by @anitmb.

Arsil and @zoeoe-sims for wearable CAS items idea that I adapted.

Ani's Candle mod & Amb. Makeover XML which I looked at for inspo on how to do accessory rack xml.

Compatibility:

All new objects so shouldn't conflict with anything really.

Removes the 'plan outfit' interaction from dressers.

Made on version 1.67.

If you would like to donate as thanks, please feel free to do so at: my kofi! I don't take your generosity for granted!

Download: - Simblr.cc - 2t3 Boutique Mod Suggested Extra CC: - Lyralei's TS2 Conversions (incl. clothes changing booth) - More ATS3 Security Gates - ATS3 Friperie Set

Known issues, prop information and the full feature breakdown are all in the documentation.

Please be patient with me if there are bugs to fix. Also, anyone who DMs me "I don't know how to create a new shift" will be immediately fined £150.

With that said, please enjoy the mod and tag me in your beautiful boutiques,

Phoebe :)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Autoenshittification

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And companies that make powered wheelchairs:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

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

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

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