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[mostlysignssomeportents]

Autoenshittification

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And companies that make powered wheelchairs:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

End Game 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your gaming buddy asks to meet up but it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: I'm a sleepy babay.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

There’s a finality to the tap of your thumb. You hold the block button for a moment before you let it go. The window pops up asking if you’re sure. Yes. Certain. This is just a mistake and when you’re older and wiser, you’ll be thankful you made it. If you even remember it. 

You lay back and put your phone down. Done. Over. No more Jacob. No Andy.  

Maybe you’ll go back and see Kara again, or she can come here, even if she hates this town. You can at least be thankful that it reconnected you two, and you have to be grateful to learn a hard lesson. Don’t mess with strangers online. You’re better off alone. 

You close your eyes. You’re exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, and yes, physically. Who knew scooping ice cream could be so much work? 

When you wake up, you’re sore and still groggy. The sun peers in at you brightly in the slat between the curtains. You groan and hide under the pillow. Your shift starts at noon. You can’t spend all morning doing nothing or the whole day is wasted. 

You drag yourself out of bed. Your grandma is still asleep. You’re sure she was up until dawn with her latest haul from the used book store. You clean up the cluster of wrappers around her chair and tidy up the kitchen, dumping the old coffee and brewing a new pot. 

You go to grab your phone and pause as you see an unusual notification. Your email? Huh. You don’t really use that besides for school. You open it up, thinking it might be about enrolment. No. It’s him. Andy. Holy moly. 

You scroll up and down, skimming the blocks of text. Oh god. You hit delete. You’re not reading all that. You said what needed to be said. 

You have your coffee and load the machine for whenever your mother gets out of bed. You eat and wash up, catching up on some Youtube before you make yourself get your uniform on. You head out, walking to work to enjoy the sunshine, and key in between tying on your apron and chatting with Gavin, the high schooler who does half-shifts every now and then.  

He leaves at four and you have your complimentary cone just after five. Peanut butter chocolate; classic. You eat at the window as you watch the mostly empty street. Your phone vibrates and you slide it out, hoping to take advantage of the lull. 

WhatsApp request? No way. The shammy recruiters always want a piece of you. At least you never fell for that. 

You bite into the cone and your phone suddenly blows up with Insta notifications. Bots! Ugh. So annoying. Every new follower is faceless with some generated name. You mute the notifications and put your cell away. You really are a boring person. 

As you look up, tires crush over a patch of gravel and your barely catch a glimpse of the car as it rolls just around the corner. You feel like you’ve missed something. Maybe your grandma is right about you always having your nose buried in a screen. Who is she to talk? She lives in her novels. 

Your shift ends at eight. You lock up and stop by the convenience store down the block. Nothing special, just a tray of carbonara you can shove in the nuke. As you pay at the counter, the door chimes to signal another customer. You accept your meagre meal as the other patron strides into the aisle. You don’t look over as you go directly for the door. You’re starving for more than a scoop. 

Your footsteps seem to echo through the dull streets. The frozen meal makes your hand hurt as your other holds your cell phone close. You text Kara as you finally get through the essay she wrote about Calvin’s latest antics. You wish you could convince her to play something. You feel aimless without an analog stick under your thumb. 

There’s a scuff, close behind you, loud enough to make you jump. You fumble with your phone and glance over your shoulder. You don’t see anything but the thick oak outside Luella’s. Ugh. Alright, you need to eat and lay down. It hasn’t been a busy day but still a long one. 

You pass through your grandma’s front door. She’s where she always is, in her chair, but something’s off. Something’s different. The smell of pollen hangs in the air and a pot stands on the coffee table with several white orchids tall in the soil. You frown. The last time you got her flowers, she didn’t even put them in a vase. 

“Oh, those are pretty,” you say. 

“Mph, not mine,” she grumbles, not looking up. 

“Not... who’s...” 

“Delivery man said your name. I didn’t read the card. I’m not a snoop.” 

You nod, thankful at least that she isn’t nosy. You go to the table and examine the pot. Who would send you flowers? 

You take the card off the tall pronged stick and open the envelope. You slide out the paper and unfold it. 

‘I know I’ve told you a million times, so I’ll show you how sorry I am instead. Yours always, Andy.’ 

You nearly drop your handful. Your eyes flick up to the pot and you have to stop yourself from pushing it off the table. What the hell? How... how does he know where you live? You never even mentioned what town you’re from. He only knows your college and it’s so small, he wouldn’t have heard of it. 

It’s enough to unsettle you. That he knows where you live is bad enough but the flowers themselves make a point. It’s not over. He’s not walking away but what else can you say to make him? Didn’t he get it? You think were pretty nice considering. 

“You got some boy?” Your grandma raises her eyes from the page. You can’t remember the last time she even bothered looking at you. 

“Not exactly,” you tuck the card away and put it in your pocket. “I’m going to make my dinner.” 

“Eh,” she grumbles, “fine. Get them flowers somewhere else. They stink.” 

You lift the vase, hugging it around the pot, and carry it from the room. You balance it against your hip and go into the kitchen. You use your free hand to pull open the freezer and put the pasta inside. You’re not so hungry anymore. 

🎮

The irises are pretty. The pot they came in is fancy, probably expensive. It underlines once more the gap between you and the real Jacob. Between you and Andy.

It only reminds you of how ridiculous you must have sounded. So, you just can’t understand why he’s doing this? Why is he still trying? For you? A girl with dwindling hopes of even finishing her low-tier college degree. 

You try to forget. You don’t have a shift that day but you can’t just sit around. Usually, you would. You’d hole up in your bedroom and play video games. Not anymore. He ruined that. You’re disappointed you’re letting him. 

You got down to the library for a while and wander around. There’s nothing there you’re very interested in. They still haven’t got the latest release in the series you’d read in high school. Oh well, you’ll wait around until one day you learn the fate of those revolutionary spies. 

You walk the main strip of the town. It isn’t very extensive. There’s a coffee shop and the used bookstore which also carries hobby supplies. There’s the same diner that’s been there since you were a kid and the interchangeable business that open and close year after year. 

There’s a vibe in your pocket. It’s not Kara. Another WhatsApp request, more Insta bots, and Discord. You haven’t been on the server in ages. You couldn’t keep up with all the channels and most of it was arguing about mining strategies. 

It’s Andy. Frig. You should’ve blocked him there too. You just hadn’t thought of it. 

‘Did you like the flowers?’ 

You don’t answer but he’ll see that you read it. It isn’t long before he’s typing. 

‘I am still very sorry. I wish you’d talk to me. Hear me out.’ 

Hear him out? He said everything. His son is dead and he lied to you. That’s not anything you can hash out. 

‘I know you’re not working today. I’ll make a new world and we can chat there.’ 

No. That’s not going to happen. Over. O-V-E-R. It’s done. You’re not going to be like Kara. When you cut the cord, it’s snipped. 

You won’t answer. That’s just bait. He’ll keep nibbling if you do that. You press the chat settings and block. That’s better, you can’t breathe. 

You put your phone on silent and back in your pocket. You wish you had the money to try the sushi place. It won’t last long in the bodunk town so you probably won’t ever get to. Oh well. Back on campus, they sell decent California rolls at the cafeteria. Decent, not necessarily good. 

You go home. To your grandma’s house. It doesn’t always feel like home. You know she’s counting the days until you leave. You are too. 

You wish you were brave enough to apologise. To say sorry your mom and dad didn’t want you. That she got stuck with you. It feels like saying it out loud would be worse. Just wallow in the unspoken resent, one day you won’t ever come back and maybe then you can both be happy. 

In your room, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your Switch taunts you from across the room. You want to mine or race or even scare yourself with some Hellblade. You can’t. More Youtube. More wasted time. That’s what people like you do; people from small towns with no one who loves them and no money; waste time. 

The mindless videos help you relax but not forget. You just can’t get rid of the little tickle at the back of your head. There’s a tinge of shame that remains and a sliver of guilt. It will go. It has to, one day. 

You catch yourself staring at the orchid. You can smell it. You want to throw it away but that feels rude. Even if Andy would never know, even if you shouldn’t care. He hurt you, didn’t he? He lied. Well, you could give it to Mahalia next door, she loves flowers. 

You lay in indecision. You don’t want to do anything but lay there. Now that you’re still, you have no strength. Your day off is chipped away in your laziness.  

The next day awaits you with another shift at the booth. And the day after and the day after. 

Your fourth day in a row and you get a new Discord message. You know even before you open it, even by the blank avatar and nondescript username. It’s him. Just leave me alone. Let it go. Let me forget. 

‘I know you don’t want to hear from me but I need you to hear me. I can’t stop thinking of you and what happened. I can do better. Please, let me apologise.’ 

Blocked. Again.

Work. Again.  

You’re half asleep as you fill cones with soft serve. You smile and swallow yawns, faking it for the hyper children and cheerful couples. 

When it slows, you work on cleaning the freezer, switching out empty containers with ones from the deep freeze. As you check the soft serve, there’s a tap on the open walk-up window. Oh shoot. You should’ve been paying better attention. 

You turn back to greet the next customer but as you approach the window, your chest deflates. Frozen, like the tubs around you. You stare at Andy as he smiles at you. He wears a short-sleeve button up with blue, grey, and white stripes. His hair blows in the soft breeze. 

“Do you have butterscotch ripple?” He asks brightly. 

You blink and hesitate. You don’t know what to do. How did he get here? How did he find you? Why is he here? 

You reach for the window and before he can stop you, you shut it. You lock it from the inside and step back. His face falls and his brow arches as he stands straight. He says your name, his voice muffled by the glass, and puts his palm to the barrier. 

“Please,” he begs. 

You shake your head and turn your back to him. If your manager was here, you’d be in shit. That’s a no-no. Never turn away a customer, only shut the window when you lock up. 

You ignore him and go back to tidying. There could be a line up out there but you don’t care. Your hands are shaking and it’s not just the temperature.

You just can’t believe he’s there. You can’t believe he won’t just give up. You don’t want to believe it because you’re afraid. You’re terrified and he seems entirely clueless about how scary he’s being. 

Flowers are one thing but showing up at your job? That’s a flaming red flag that even you can see. Not only because you told him plainly that you don’t want to talk to him again, but because he’s a grown man. Fortysomething and he can’t take a hint. Why would a man his age want to talk to someone as young as you? That’s another red flag on its own. As if catfishing you wasn’t enough. 

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - June 20, 2023

🐕 - Meet Sheep Farm's Newest Employee: Collie Hired After Ejection from Car!

1. Border Collie ejected from car during Sunday crash found on sheep farm, herding sheep

Tilly, the 2-year-old Border Collie who was ejected from a car Sunday during a crash, has been found. He was found on a sheep farm, where he had apparently taken up the role of sheep herder. 

According to Tilly's owner, he has lost some weight since Sunday's crash and is now drinking lots of water but is otherwise healthy.

2. After 17-Year Absence, White Rhinos Return to the Democratic Republic of the Congo

The Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) recently welcomed the reintroduction of 16 southern white rhinoceroses to Garamba National Park, according to officials. The last wild northern white rhino was poached there in 2006.

The white rhinos were transported to Garamba, which lies in the northeastern part of the country, from a South African private reserve. In the late 19th century, the southern white rhino subspecies was believed to be extinct due to poaching until a population of fewer than 100 was discovered in South Africa in 1895, according to WWF.

3. UK to wipe women’s historic convictions for homosexuality

Women with convictions for some same-sex activity in the United Kingdom can apply for a pardon for the first time, the Home Office has announced.

The Home Office is widening its scheme to wipe historic convictions for homosexual activity more than a decade after the government allowed applications for same-sex activity offences to be disregarded.

It means anyone can apply for a pardon if they have been convicted or cautioned for any same-sex activity offences that have been repealed or abolished.

4. Study shows human tendency to help others is universal

A new study on the human capacity for cooperation suggests that, deep down, people of diverse cultures are more similar than you might expect. The study, published in Scientific Reports, shows that from the towns of England, Italy, Poland, and Russia to the villages of rural Ecuador, Ghana, Laos, and Aboriginal Australia, at the micro scale of our daily interaction, people everywhere tend to help others when needed.

5. In a First, Wind and Solar Generated More Power Than Coal in U.S.

Wind and solar generated more electricity than coal through May, an E&E News review of federal data shows, marking the first time renewables have outpaced the former king of American power over a five-month period.

The milestone illustrates the ongoing transformation of the U.S. power sector as the nation races to install cleaner forms of energy to reduce greenhouse gas emissions from fossil fuels.

6. Iceland becomes latest country to ban conversion therapy

Lawmakers in Iceland on June 9 approved a bill that will ban so-called conversion therapy in the country.

Media reports note 53 members of the Icelandic Parliament voted for the measure, while three MPs abstained. Hanna Katrín Friðriksson, an MP who is a member of the Liberal Reform Party, introduced the bill.

7. The temple feeding 100,000 people a day

Amritsar, the north Indian city known for its Golden Temple and delicious cuisine, is also renowned for its spirit of generosity and selfless service. The city, founded by a Sikh guru, embodies the Sikh tradition of seva, performing voluntary acts of service without expecting anything in return.

This spirit of giving extends beyond the temple walls, as the Sikh community has shown immense compassion during crises, such as delivering oxygen cylinders during the COVID-19 pandemic. At the heart of Amritsar's generosity is the Golden Temple's langar, the world's largest free communal kitchen, serving 100,000 people daily without discrimination. Despite a history marred by tragic events, Amritsar continues to radiate kindness, love, and generosity.

----

That's it for this week :)

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BUY ME A COFFEE ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog.

[fearful-quartet]

So I've been listening to The Magnus Protocol, and managed to get my dad into TMA last year so he's now listening to Mag Protocol too. So last night we were listening in the car to the latest statement, and I was half-jokingly saying which fear the statement sounded like mostly, to which my dad starts talking about how he doesn't think these statements and the O.A.I.R are connected to the Fears at all. I'm gonna try to put a cut for anyone not caught up but here's how this led to a theory of mine:

So Lena said to Gwen that there's good and bad forces that need to be balanced, but she never said which side of that the O.A.I.R. is part of, if any. I was noting this when it hit me.

Every single Magnus Protocol Statement so far has been about misfortune coming around due to perceived fortune or a fortunate opportunity becoming misfortune.

Let's break this down ep by ep so you see what I mean.

Episode One: It's a little hard to figure out what the fortune is to the misfortune, especially since it's mostly getting us used to the characters and the overall setup of the show, but for the first statement I think it's not the statement giver, but the husband. Harriet (the one emailing) says he sounded excited in an unsettling way (I am assuming the "he" she is talking about is her husband since she doesn't mention anyone else). When she meets him, or what has him, she describes that he laughed and laughed. Her misfortune was his fortune, his joy.

The second statement in that episode of course is about the Institute, but by way of a bunch of spelunkers looking for something intriguing to discuss. I haven't quite figured out the connection here but I am sure there is one, even if it's through the characters (aka Sam) finding something within it.

Two: A lot easier to connect to this. Daria is finding joy through getting this tattoo that allows her to change how she looks and alter her appearance immensely (and grotesquely). Enough said.

Three: This statement is one that overall I just don't understand tbh, but I think it shows the opposite? As in the victim is experiencing fear and discomfort the entire time, but towards the end you'll notice he gets much more happy and calm about the situation.

Four: This is again easy, it's about a violin that needs blood but will give you amazing talent if you pay that price, and horrible bloodshed if you don't. Self-explanatory.

Five: The guy is trying to make a living off watching and reviewing horror movies, gets excited at a live showing of one just for him, then realizes it's not what it seems and posts everyone should see it. Easy enough. (Very Grifter's Bone in energy)

Six: The introduction to infamous new tumblr sexyman, Needles. I shouldn't have to spell out how he gets pleasure from others in pain by needles.

Seven: All I gotta say is it's "all for a good cause" and you should get the picture.

Eight: Utilizes that uncanny fear of false hospitality if you ask me, but either way this statement is clearly taking something associated often as comforting and twisting it.

Nine: The dice literally affect fortune and misfortune and likely make the statement giver into the embodiment of fortune. 'Nuff said.

Ten: Bonzo needs no explanation for this in his introductory episode so let's move on.

Eleven: This one goes more into obsession territory than anything, which is another running theme of the show and another theory, but it also talks about how the sea brings comfort so that could be part of it. (Also I noticed the sneaky possibly Dr. David reference in there lol)

Twelve: Now I know what you're gonna say, "How is this one connected to fortune at all, Cal? It's about some woman being traumatized at a strip club!" Well think about this: what if it wasn't supposed to end in Bonzo? Gwen gave Bonzo an "assignment," didn't she? And Lena pretty much outright says that this statement was that assignment. So it's possible this is what happened after stopping the initial outcome.

Thirteen: The latest episode as of typing this, and the most clear with evidence. The man literally gains a fortune from his own misfortune, so ya know it's right there.

So every statement is a good thing turned bad or a bad thing turned good. So what? Magnus Archives had plenty of statements similarly framed, so why am I focusing on it here?

Because what is the tagline for Magnus Protocol again?

Fear takes many forms.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Last night they were acting Moliere in Fourteenth Street; Dickens was being played through the auspices of Nigel Playfair. Further uptown, George M. Cohan was unveiling the latest George M. Cohan musical comedy. But Broadway, being eternally curious, turned out in greatest numbers at the Biltmore Theater in Forty-Seventh Street, where the result of Mae West's latest encounter with the drama was being performed. This was the exhibit—play is not precisely the word—with a vaudeville background, whose preliminary trip through the Bronx and Queens had been followed by rumors that here was something that might arouse the police to action.

So began the review by an unnamed theater critic for the Times on October 2, 1928. It appeared, not in the arts section, but following a front-page story about the police ... taking action.

The play was Pleasure Man, a reworking by Mae West of her earlier play The Drag. It dealt not with vaudeville, as the critic said, but burlesque, and finished with a lavish drag ball.

Cops were stationed at all theater exits and just as the play was ending, reserves surrounded the front. When the cast tried to leave, they were arrested—56 in all, including West, who also acted in the show.

Of course this attracted audience members (some in evening dress, the Times noted) from other theaters nearby. The presence of cabs and other cars waiting to pick up theater-goers and actors added to the chaos.

Flashlights exploded as news photographers tried to capture the actors being led into paddy wagons. The police had to make five trips to get everyone to the station house on 47th St., where they were charged with indecency.

By 2:30 in the morning, Actors Equity posted bail. West's was $500, which may have been more than the others because she was doubly guilty, having written the play as well as acted in it. The producer, director, and theater staff were not arrested.

For some reason, the cops let the next day's matinee start, but raided it halfway through and arrested everyone once more. They had their own theatrical flair.

The trial wasn't held until April of 1930, and resulted in a hung jury. By that time West was a star, having triumphed in another play of her own called Diamond Lil. The next year she went to Hollywood.

Top photo: J.D. Doyle via Digital Transgender Archive Second photo: NY Daily News

[midnitetech]

You guys, the incomparable @oshinsimblr made a video reviewing some of my latest mods. I love her so much!

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

a little treat (nsfw)

AO3 link

Summary: Larissa decides to treat herself to a massage. ;)

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♥ please do not hesitate to leave me a comment on ao3 if you feel so inclined -- it makes my heart sing ♥

taglist: @opheliauniverse @dumbasslesbi @bychrissi @scream-queenlover @muffintopxs @bigolgay @gwenslucifer @weemswife @zephyr-is-tired @yourhauntedhead @carnivorousflowers @i-have-insane-that-i-am-paper @softshrimpy @willowshadenox @syrenacrainn @pro-weems-places @weemssapphic @dianneking @imprincipalweemspet @kimiinou @ninelesbien @i-love-nerdy-stuff @eveymay @myzzjolanda @pluied-ete @brienneswife @gwenzone @principal-weems09 @inlovewithalcinadimitrescu @gela123 @emilynissangtr @gwendolinechristieiscute @h-doodles @winterfireblond @farahissaiamyloves @alexusonfire @missmacfire

It’s 10am and Larissa can’t focus for the life of her.

She’s wound too tight, her shoulders are achey, she has a throbbing headache and she feels a deep discomfort in the pit of her stomach. It’s the final month of the winter semester, and the stress is really getting to her. Wednesday’s latest stunt caused more grey hairs to appear on her temples and everybody seems to be on her case — the mayor, the parents, the teachers, the students. 

She needs a fucking vacation.

She can’t afford to take a vacation — the school would collapse without her. Wednesday would probably burn it to the ground if Larissa took a single day off. 

She could, however… perhaps… maybe… take an afternoon off. Nobody has to know. It would be just one afternoon — it could even be today. She desperately needs to unwind somehow. 

But what should she do? Just… take a nap? Is she even physically capable of taking a nap? She doubts it — she’s far too anxious for it. She’d just end up working again.

She arches her back, cracks her neck. Her shoulders are terribly stiff. 

Perhaps she should get a massage.

She’s never had a massage before. She never seems to find the time for something like that, and quite honestly, she always thought it a waste of money. However, her shoulders don’t seem to share her opinion — they might just petrify if she continues to live like this.

She googles massage places nearby. There appear to be plenty — but one in particular sticks out. People seem to love it. It has many reviews, all of which are excellent.

"really REALLY enjoyed my massage :) 10/10"   "Ask for Tilly when you come if you like gentle hands. Fantastic experience."   "The Best message place……. reccommend…….."   "I’m a regular here. I always leave satisfied. Highly recommend."   "my first time getting a massage like this.. but i loved it!"

Before she knows it, Larissa is calling the massage place and booking an appointment, and, fortunately, they seem to have an opening this afternoon. The woman on the phone asks her if she wants a regular massage and informs her that they only have female masseuses — Larissa finds that a bit odd, but thinks nothing of it. She just wants her massage. A regular one — whatever the hell that means.

She spends the rest of her day working and anxiously waiting for the time to leave. She answers parents’ phone calls, deals with insufferable teenagers, schedules an appointment with the Mayor for tomorrow afternoon — her headache gets worse when she thinks about how she’ll have to debase herself, grovel and beg for more funding. She, however, ignores most of her emails, despite the angry red notifications popping up on the app annoying her to no end. She makes a pact with herself to look at those after the massage.

The time to go finally arrives — she lets out a sigh of relief as she locks her office and goes to exit the school building. She loves Nevermore, but you can get sick even of your favourite things if you look at them every day. 

She gets in the car, ignores the phone that buzzes incessantly, new emails arriving every couple of minutes. The massage will need to be out of this world if she wants to forget about all this stress — and she doubts it will be. She already regrets doing this — it will probably be a waste of time and money. She wonders if she’s capable of relaxing at this point. Does she even remember what being relaxed feels like?

She's lost in thought as she drives to the massage place. She thinks about emails that need to be answered, anxiety pooling in her stomach, and listens to the robotic voice of her phone navigation — before she knows it, she’s already arrived. 

She parks the car and enters the establishment — the place seems decent. A young, cheerful receptionist greets her as she approaches the desk.

“I have a 5 o’clock appointment,” she says, not bothering with a greeting. She thinks about her emails.

The receptionist checks her laptop, and Larissa checks out her cleavage. She considers the outfit a bit inappropriate for the workplace, but Larissa isn’t one to complain about a pleasant view. However, if any of her employees dressed like that, she’d have a word with them. 

“Ah, yes, I have you right here. Miss Weems, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“A regular massage, is it?”

What is it with these people and their “regular” massages? What even is a “regular” massage? And does that imply there’s such a thing as an “irregular” massage?

She doesn’t, however, ask any of those questions — instead she just says yes and impatiently taps her fingers on her purse. She wants to be done with this as quickly as possible so she can return to Nevermore. She’s getting quite fidgety. What if she returns and finds the school in ruins?

“Alright. You can always change your mind during, you know that,” the receptionist says and Larissa ignores her, still tapping her fingers on her purse. 

“You can go inside and get comfortable. Your masseuse will be with you shortly.”

Larissa just curtly nods and goes to the massage room, eager to get this over with. She anxiously checks her phone. She has 36 unanswered emails. She feels nauseous. Maybe this was a bad idea — maybe she shouldn’t have taken an afternoon off. God knows what Wednesday will do if she realises Larissa left the school grounds. She then remembers her appointment with the Mayor tomorrow and her stomach churns. She has to think about how to best present her case — balance the grovelling with the persuading, and maybe throw in a bit of flirting for good measure…

Her mind is racing. She eyes the emails again. Maybe if she just responds to a couple of urgent ones… it will take a minute or two at most — and then she can undress.

She responds to three emails — none of which are truly urgent, but should probably be addressed sooner rather than later — when she hears a knock on the door that brings her back to reality, and she realises she’s still dressed. 

She opens her mouth, wants to ask for five more minutes, but the door opens before she can speak and the prettiest young woman Larissa has ever seen enters the massage room. 

“Hi! Miss Weems, I presume?” she asks. 

Larissa drops her phone on the ground and swears out loud.

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You enter the massage room and the first thing you see is a tall, gorgeous, blonde woman in her forties, still fully dressed. You’re a bit confused — doesn’t she know how this works?

“Hi!” you say. “Miss Weems, I presume?”

The woman drops her phone on the ground. 

“Fuck,” she says, and immediately covers her mouth, as if surprised by her own reaction. “Fuck,” she repeats. “Yes. Sorry.” She bends down to pick up the phone.  

She — Miss Weems — is, by all accounts, rather odd — the tallest woman you’ve ever seen, dressed like a 1940s movie star, with hair so blonde it’s almost white pinned in an intricate updo, swearing instead of a greeting (to be fair, she has the most beautiful, velvety voice and a British accent that would probably make anything she says sound sensual and sophisticated), apparently unaware you have to be undressed for a massage.

You are immediately enamoured with her. 

“I can give you a couple more minutes,” you say as you watch her fumble with her phone, shoving it in her purse. “You do kind of need to be undressed for this.”

“I'm sorry, I seem to have lost track of time — I just needed to respond to a couple of emails. They were quite urgent.”

“That’s alright, Miss Weems, but we do have a limited amount of time.”

You have no one scheduled for another half an hour after her, and for this woman, you’d gladly cut your break short — but you don’t say that, deciding to remain professional. 

“I apologise,” she says, taking off her coat. “My head seems to be elsewhere. I’ll undress in a moment.”

“You can leave it on the hanger there,” you say. “I’ll leave you to it, I can give you another ten minutes.”

“Oh no, we shouldn’t waste time,” she says. She strides across the room, hips swaying in the tight skirt, to put her coat on the hanger. A pleasant scent of subtle, citrusy perfume reaches you as she passes by you. “I’ll undress in a moment.”

She hangs the coat, then pauses, turning towards you. “Do I need to… fully undress?”

She seems a bit nervous. You find her confidence and charisma mixed with clumsiness and nervousness absolutely irresistible. 

“People generally do, but you can undress to your comfort level. You’ve booked the regular massage, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been asked that about a dozen times today. Yes, I’ve booked the regular massage,” she says, sounding annoyed as she unbuttons her shirt. 

“We're required to double-check. Just know that if you change your mind during, we charge a higher fee.”

Larissa ignores you. You have a feeling this woman can be a handful. 

You don’t mind.

You try not to be creepy and stare at her chest as she takes her shirt off, so you go fumble with the massage oils, even though you already have everything ready.

She shimmies out of her skirt, and you can’t resist — you stare at her long legs, clad in nude stockings that are held up with garters. Who even wears garters nowadays? And why does she look so hot in them? 

As she undoes the garters and pulls her stockings down, your eyes drift from her legs to her lacy underwear. Your throat is suddenly dry.

Small talk would probably be a good idea. You have to remain professional.

“So, this is your first time getting a massage?"

"Is it that obvious?" she asks, giving you a pretty, practiced smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. You can tell her mind is elsewhere.

"How come you’ve never had one before?”

“Oh, I’ve just never really had the time. But the back pain has really been getting to me lately. I’ve been feeling rather stressed.”

You can believe that — despite being absolutely stunning, the woman is as stiff as a stick. You can tell the woman hasn’t relaxed in decades. Her shoulders and neck appear rigid, her jaw seems to be perpetually clenched, and she wasn’t even able to put her phone aside for five minutes to undress for a massage. 

“Oh? Is your job usually stressful or is it just a rough period for you?”

She scoffs. “I think it suffices to say my job requires me to deal with teenagers on a daily basis.”

“That does sound stressful,” you say, deciding not to pry further. You need to shift the conversation away from her job — get her to relax. “I'll try my best to make you forget all about that today, Miss Weems.”

“I do hope you manage that, darling, but I’m afraid I’m a tough case. And no offence, but how much experience do you have with this?” She flashes you a bright smile — it reads as condescending. It pisses you off — and turns you on. “You seem awfully young. Are you in college?”

Definitely more than you since this is your first massage, you want to say, but instead you decide to be polite. “I’ve had sufficient training. And yes, I’m in my last year of college.”

“I must tell you, I’m not sure I believe a massage could relax me — but I’m willing to give it a go, since I’ve already put the time aside for it.”

Oh, you’re never the one to back away from a challenge.

“I hope to change your mind then, Miss Weems.”

She gives you a saccharine, patronising smile, but says nothing.

You’d like nothing more than to fuck that smile off of her face.

You no longer bother averting your gaze as she removes her bra (a sheer, lacy thing that doesn’t cover much anyway) and reveals small, beautiful breasts. Your immediate thought is they’re the perfect size to put in your mouth. 

No matter if you’re attracted to your clients or not, you are always professional — you’re here to provide a service that you’re well payed for. You always manage to keep your own feelings and thoughts hidden and under control. 

It isn’t every day, however, that you have an actual goddess on your massage table — and one who challenged you, saying you couldn't possibly help her relax. Oh, how you wish she hadn’t chosen the regular massage… 

Suddenly, a devious thought pops up in your mind. You could… entice her a bit during the massage. Make her want it.

She appears a bit self-conscious walking to the massage table clad only in nude lacey underwear, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink, but she keeps her head high and shoulders back, channeling confidence you aren’t sure she actually possesses. She’s still a vision, however, self-conscious or not. You watch her thighs and ass jiggle as she walks and it’s the most erotic thing you’ve seen in a while. 

Should you do it?

She climbs onto the table — she struggles to do it elegantly, as she’s a bit tall for it. You somehow find that very cute. Her ass jiggles as she finally settles face down on the table. You resist the urge to slap it. 

Oh, fuck it. It’s your last week on the job anyway.

You smirk as you rub the oil between your palms, warming it up. 

You’re going to play dirty.

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Larissa tenses up as she feels soft, warm hands touch her shoulder blades. She isn’t used to people touching her. And to be quite honest, it’s been quite a while since she was naked (or almost naked) in front of anybody. She feels vulnerable.

“Allow yourself to relax, Miss Weems. This is your time.”

Her time — she hasn’t had an hour to herself in… who knows how long. She wants to relax, but it’s just so hard and…

Oh. 

She lets out a groan as the girl presses on just the right spot. Oh, that feels good. 

“Does that feel good, Miss Weems?” 

She hears the smugness in her voice, and she’s tempted to say no just to be spiteful, but then she presses on that good spot again and Larissa melts into the massage table.

“Mhmmm,” Larissa manages to utter. 

“Oh? I thought you were hard to please, Miss Weems.”

Now the girl is just being cheeky.

“In my school I punish the smug students when they talk back to me,” she breathes out and then moans as the masseuse finds another spot that makes her brain go fuzzy.

“Oh, you’d like to punish me? That’s kinky.”

Well. This seems to be going in a… direction. Not that Larissa would mind if the situation was different — she’s very much attracted to the girl — but this isn’t that sort of massage place…

….right?

“Are you… allowed to talk to me like that?” Larissa asks.

“Well, if you upgrade to the erotic massage, I can talk to you however you’d like. I could tell you how I’d like you to punish me. Or anything else you want, for that matter.”

Oh. So that’s why everyone kept checking if she wants the regular massage. And why the woman on the phone made sure to inform her they only have female masseuses available. And why the upgrade was so much more expensive.

The masseuse ventures a bit further down Larissa’s back, warm hands slick with oil gliding over her skin until they reach the band of her underwear. She rubs little circles around the edge of the fabric, sticking her thumbs underneath it, teasing, but not going further, and then going upwards again, following the line of Larissa’s spine. Her feather-light touch makes Larissa shiver. 

It’s been some time since Larissa was touched like that — couple of years, for sure. Four? No. Six? Oh, heavens. How has it already been that long? She’s just always so busy, and one night stands require so much effort, and dating requires even more, and…

Larissa’s brain is empty as the pretty masseuse runs her hands up her legs and starts to massage her buttocks, oiling them up, squeezing and kneading. Larissa moans quite loudly, and immediately feels her face go red with embarrassment at the sound she just produced. 

“I…”

“Of course, there’s no obligation,” the masseuse says, rubbing circles with her thumbs just where Larissa’s buttocks meet her legs. Larissa feels heat pool in her core. “You can have the regular massage.”

“And what does an… erotic,” she stumbles over the word, “massage usually imply?”

“It implies sensual touching, dirty talk, if you want, and we do offer mutual touch for a higher price. Oh, and we guarantee an orgasm.”

Larissa scoffs. “You guarantee it? That’s confident.”

Suddenly she feels hot breath on her ear. She shivers.

“Let’s make a deal, Miss Weems — if you don’t finish, I don’t charge you anything.”

Larissa hears herself speak before she’s aware she even made a decision. 

“Deal.”

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

You glance at the clock as Larissa accepts your proposal. You have 40 minutes — that should be plenty of time. Worst case scenario, you extend the appointment into your break. 

You don’t know what it is about this woman, but you yearn to make her come undone. She’s wound so tight, seems to be some sort of a sick workaholic, and yet you can sense the suppressed desire radiating off of her. It’ll be a special pleasure to make her lose her composure. 

You rub her shoulders and back, trying to relax her as much as you can, finding the spots that make her moan, venturing lower and lower on her back.

“Can I take these off?” you ask, lightly pulling on her underwear. 

“Yes,” she says, and lifts up her hips to help you slide it off of her.

You fold her underwear, putting it to the side, but not before noticing the distinct wet spot on it. 

“I will undress — is that alright with you?” you ask.

“Yes,” she breathes out as you massage her lower back and buttocks. There’s a spot that makes her shiver when you run your hands over it — you make sure to repeat the motion, and you are rewarded with a loud moan. 

“Be aware you can revoke consent at any time,” you recite the obligatory line as you strip naked swiftly and efficiently. You do a quick job of rubbing oil on your breasts and stomach and then climb onto the massage table, straddling her legs and pressing your body against hers. She lets out a high pitched moan as you rub your breasts along her back.

“You said something about punishment, Miss Weems? Tell me, do you prefer good girls or bad girls?” you ask as you slide your hardened nipples against her oiled back.

“Fuck,” Larissa groans.

“Or do you prefer being called a good girl yourself?.”

Larissa whines.

“Do you like that, Miss Weems? Wanna be a good girl for me?”

“I— fuck,” she groans as you start running your palms over her thighs, squeezing and caressing, getting closer to her chore with each stroke.

“Is this alright? Be aware you can revoke consent at any time.”

“Yes,” she says.

“So you want to be a good girl, hm?” you say as you finally brush your thumbs against her core. Despite the slick massage oil, you can tell she’s wet. She spreads her legs as you touch her.

“Yes,” she says, quietly — as if she has a hard time admitting it.

“Will you turn for me?” 

You help her turn on her back beneath you. Her blue eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide, and a few stray hairs are sticking out of her updo. She is flushed in her face and chest, which somehow renders her milky, freckled skin even more attractive. 

“Good girl,” you say as you quickly grab more oil and rub it between your palms. She blushes a deeper shade of red.

“I just have to say that I don’t usually… do this,” she says.

Sometimes people feel the need to justify themselves, especially if it’s their first time having an experience like this — and even more so if they’re indulging in a fantasy they consider embarrassing or dirty — no matter if it’s something as common and innocent as being called a good girl.

You rub oil around her breasts and on her stomach. You feel her getting self-conscious, tensing up, glancing around nervously and fidgeting. 

“What a pity,” you say, palming her breasts, making her gasp, “that a pretty thing like you doesn’t know how to let herself be worshipped. You’ve been so good, worked so hard — you deserve to be taken care of.”

She produces a quiet whine — she seems to like that. Good. You’re back on track.

“Relax for me, that’s it,” you say, making sure to arch your back prettily, providing a nice view for her as you massage her breasts. You can feel she's slowly relaxing under your touch. “Good girl,” you praise her and run your thumbs over her nipples at the same time. She lets out a throaty moan. 

“Is it okay if I use my mouth?” you ask, lowering your head to her chest that's slightly heaving under your touch.

“Yes,” she says with a hoarse voice. You leave a trail of kisses across her chest, the oil greasing your lips, before you take her right nipple in your mouth and suck on it. She keens and her hands immediately fly to your head to press you harder against her chest.

“Fuck, sorry,” she breathes out. “Can I do that?”

“Yes,” you say. “Want me to suck harder?”

“Yes — ah — and bite, please — mmmm, fuck,” she mewls as you suck and bite on her nipple while you pinch the other one with your hand. You use your free hand to caress her torso, her hips, knead the soft flesh on the side of her upper thigh.

“Such a good girl,” you murmur against her breast, taking her hard nipple between your teeth. “Asking for what you want. Is there anything else you want, hm? Or like?”

You run your hand in the inside of her thigh, teasing.

“I, ah… I like… dirty talk,” she manages to say between moans as you bite on her nipple and gently run your fingers through her folds — she’s soaked.

It isn’t a common thing for you to be so turned on by a client — it’s just a job, after all — but the feeling of Larissa’s wetness on your fingers, her wanton, broken moans, her slow, but certain relinquishing of control… it’s just so delicious. You want to fuck this woman every day. 

You kiss your way upwards to her neck and plant a hot kiss on her jaw. “Is this okay?” you whisper into her ear. She nods.

“I need you to be a good girl and use your words,” you murmur. Your obligatory line is “I need verbal consent” — but Larissa inspires you to be creative with it. 

“Yes,” she says with a breathy voice.

“So you like dirty talk, hm? You’d like me to tell you how hot and wet your cunt is against my fingers? And how much it will turn me on to fuck you?” you whisper, spreading her wetness across her clit, making her gasp and buck her hips into your hand. 

“Yesyesyes, please fuck me,” she whines, rolling her hips into your hand. “Fuck me like you’d fuck a dirty slut.”

You feel heat pooling in your own core at her words — and at the idea of fucking this uptight woman like a dirty slut.

You slowly slide a finger inside of her, curling it, and she spreads her legs further. She looks absolutely magnificent like this, flushed, chest heaving, eyes closed, mouth agape and head thrown back, all spread out for you, begging to be ravished. You start pumping your finger in and out — slowly, curling it inside — and she grabs your back and pushes you closer to her. Her gaze is hazy and hooded as she looks at you. “Harder,” she rasps, and the sheer lust in her voice makes you shiver. You go harder. 

Her moans are becoming louder as you continue to fuck her, and you decide to add a second finger. “Fuckyes,” she groans and moves her hips to meet your thrusts.

“You look so pretty while I fuck you like a dirty slut,” you say, voice breathy with exertion. “Such a good girl. You look so hot.”

She whines and tangles her hands into your hair. You wouldn’t usually let a client do that — but you let her. 

“Add another finger,” she says with a husky voice. She throws her head back and moans as you slip a third finger inside of her, then pushes your head towards her chest. You suck and bite on her nipples, alternating between both breasts as you fuck her hard and fast, making sure to angle your palm so it hits her clit every time you pound into her.

“Go harder,” she pants. Your hand kind of hurts at this point, but you oblige. The pain is immediately forgotten as you feel her starting to clench around your fingers.

“Your cunt feels so good around my fingers,” you murmur before sucking on her nipple.

“Fuckfuckfuuuck,” she whines as you pound into her. You can sense she’s very close. She’s bucking her hips into your hand and digging her nails into your shoulders, and her moans are becoming higher in pitch. You make sure not to falter in your movements, keeping a hard and steady pace, and soon her moans become high-pitched whines and intelligible swearwords.

“Be a good girl and come for me.”

As you say it, she grabs your hair, pulls your face up towards herself and kisses you.

Usually, you’d pull away if a client did that.

You don’t pull away.

It’s a hot, sloppy kiss, and she cries out into your mouth and closes her thighs around your hand as you fuck her through her orgasm. She spasms with the aftershocks and you can taste her cries of pleasure and her hot breath in your mouth. It’s raw and filthy and erotic.

You slowly pull your fingers out of her as she comes down from her high, her breathing slowing down, her grip on your faltering. She's putty in your hands, completely relaxed. 

You stay like that for a moment. Her eyes are closed, her chest still heaving. Your hand hurts, but you don’t care.

You glance at the clock — three minutes to spare. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, opening her pretty blue eyes. Her mascara is smudged. She looks absolutely ravishing, thoroughly fucked and flushed. “Do I have to go? What time is it?”

“No,” you say. “Take your time.”

She smiles nervously. You can tell she doesn’t know what do say or do — and to be honest, for the first time since you’ve started this job, you don’t really know either.

“Take your time, calm down, and then I’ll help you clean yourself up. I have half an hour to spare. I don’t want you to rush. I don’t charge extra for that.”

She nods, and closes her eyes. You stay like that for a couple of minutes — you rub hear arms, gently and reassuringly. 

“Well,” she says after minutes of silence, and smirks. She opens her eyes. “You won the bet. I’m pretty relaxed right now.”

You both laugh. 

The cleanup process is not as awkward as you expect it to be. The silence is somehow pleasant, rather than awkward. When you're both dressed and Larissa is heading towards the door, makeup freshly reapplied and her updo redone, she nervously glances towards you.

“So, uh, if I were to… come again,” she says, then pauses, and you can see her wincing at herself for the accidental pun, “would I be able to, um, I suppose, make sure you will, uh—”

“It’s my last week here.”

“Oh.”

She stands at the door awkwardly. “It’s been…” she pauses, glances nervously around the room, clearly struggling to find words. After a couple of moments, she finally meets your gaze, and you shiver under the intensity of it. 

“Thank you,” she says, her voice clear and genuine. You can tell she means it.

She turns to leave, but you stop her. 

“Wait,” you say. She waits, watches you grab a piece of paper from the side table and scribble on it. You approach her, awkwardly extending your arm, giving her the paper.

“My number,” you say, looking up at her.

She takes it. The corners of eyes crinkle in the loveliest way as she smiles at you before leaving.

She calls you a week later.

[gillyweedgrl]

You should be watching Pit Babe! - A Brief Review

Saddens me to think how many people are missing out on a great show because they think it’s not worth more than a trash watch, if that.

I mean, realistically, is it the most amazing cinematic work of all time? No, not unless pretty-boy power bottoms with daddy issues are your thing, which in my case they are, so let's talk about Pit Babe!

Note: I've tried to keep the spoilers to a minimum, they're mainly in the tags and links so follow them at your own risk, you've been warned.

Honestly, Pit Babe is a pretty damn good show, especially if you A) pretend the Omegaverse factor doesn’t exist and take the show for what it is and B) you don't mind not knowing what's going on half the time, just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.

Overall, Pit Babe has got a good production value, a slightly absurd yet entertaining plot, a great choice of cast with amazing chemistry and pretty decent acting skills amongst the mix of seasoned actors and newbies.

For a totally biased fair and balanced review: There are some details that are left vague instead of being explained in depth or at all (yet), but that’s to be expected when you adapt a novel into a movie or series. It would get boring for the audience if the pace was interrupted to explain all those little details that we’re likely to find out along the way anyways (shout out to those who've watched the latest episode; finally!).

There are also some scenes that feel like they’re not as necessary and some background/plot devices that made a little more sense in the novel but I personally don’t feel like they detract too much from my viewing experience.

Babe (played by Pavel) and Charlie (played by Pooh) as the main leads do a really good job at shouldering a large percentage of screen time. Charlie comes across as happy-go-lucky, a bit clumsy/goofy, entirely fearless and a little naive, which is mostly true, but there's clearly more to him than that. Right from the start Babe is clearly someone guarded, detirmined and skilled at what he does (racing cars and having sex) and he has a very tight cirlce of people he trusts. There's a winning combo right there, quite tsundere/sunshine from the outside but definitely more breath the surface that gets exploded as they go.

Way (played by Nut) is Babe's best friend and racing companion, they've been racing together at Team X-Hunter for years but there's clearly more than friendship on the mind for Way, though the feelings appear to be one sided.

Alan (played by Sailub) is the owner of Team X-Hunter and an all-round cool Uncle (which the whole team call's him (despite barely being in his mid 30's). He's kind but firm, he cares for his team like they’re his family and it does seem as though they’re his only family.

And the rest of the cast consists primarily of:

Team X-Hunter:

Dean (played by Lee); a junior racer with slight douche vibes

North and Sonic (played by Michael and TopTen); everyone’s babies, they’re junior racers and content creators

Jeff (played by Pon); the newest member of the team, he’s a part time mechanic and full time conspicuous

Pete (played by Ping); the money guy Alan brings on board to sponsor the team

Team Red Racing (the rival team):

Winner (played by Pop); the guy who never seems to win against Babe

Kim (played by Benz); the new racer they hired to beat Babe

Tony (played by S Vorarit); Red Racing's newest benefactor and *shock horror* Babe's former foster father (try saying that ten times fast)

Kenta (played by Garfield); Tony's right hand man

Then, there’s the 🌶🔥🤯

I, personally, enjoy a little spice/heat in my shows. It’s not necessary for every show, of course, but I do think that when it serves a purpose to the story and it’s done well then it can be quite enjoyable and this cast/production team is doing it really well.

As I said, the chemistry between the cast really is amazing (both on and off the screen, if you're interested in that kind of thing) and although the spicy scenes aren’t nearly as abundant as they are in the novel, there are some really good ones. I decided to bite the bullet and binge read the novel over the past couple of weeks, I blame @pharawee’s breakdown posts for those sleepless nights, and it was worth it for me but not necessary for watching the series.

Lastly (as if this post isn't long winded enough as it is) there are a handful of things in this series that we don't see too often in BL's and make it worth watching even more:

It's got race cars, murder attempts, mafia influence and supernatural powers (at least half the characters have one).

There's no evil ex-lover out to get revenge or get back together with one of the mains (thank the BL gods).

It's got a Soft Top/Dominant Bottom dynamic where the title character is both super masc and a pretty princess.

And we can't forget, it is technically an Omegaverse series (or rather, it's Omegaverse-lite) which none of us saw coming!

Anywho, to conclude; yes, you should be watching Pit Babe. No, you don't have to read the novel to understand what's going on because none of us understand what the hell is going on at any given time. Charlie and Babe are fucking around and finding out, the rest of us are just long for the ride, Alan and Jeff are having a whole ass rom-com-drama in the corner, the babies are making their content and having a blast and the others aren't quite on the map yet (or are they? *wink, wink*), but I sure hope they will be soon!

If you made it this far, thank you and are you okay? Do you need to have your brain checked?

[knickynoo]

Back to the Future: The Animated Series, s02ep013 "Verne Hatches an Egg"

✨Last episode of the series!✨

Previous episodes linked here.

In this episode: Verne gains a cute little buddy, creepy Mr. Wisdom returns, and a jarring final moment with Real Doc

Well, friends, we've reached the end of our journey into the world of the animated series. It was almost exactly one year ago today that I posted my review of the first episode, and it's been a super fun project to work on. I'm kind of sad to be done with it.

Let's see what this last episode has in store for us, shall we?

We start in the lab, where Doc is making adjustments to his latest invention, the "ELB Pediatric Policer."

It's basically a lie detector designed to be worn by children, lol. When a child does something they know is wrong, or if they lie about something, it flashes with lights and blares a siren. He plans to present it at the Annual Convention of the Home Inventors of Mad Geniuses.

Gonna be real with you, Doc—not sure how I feel about this invention. Sounds like a good way to raise very anxious, paranoid children.

Anyway, this reminds Doc of something that happened to Verne when he was doing show and tell one day.

The cartoon begins with someone attempting the steal the DeLorean. They're shrouded in shadows, but it's pretty clear that it's Verne. He's got a pretty high track record for DeLorean thievery. Doc's security system catches him, though, locking him into the car, setting off an alarm, and taking a picture, which is sent directly to Doc's room.

Quick little sidenote, but I don't think I've mentioned that Doc regularly calls Clara "Clarabelle" over the course of the series. When he's woken up by the alarm system, it's the name he uses to call to her, and I was like, "huh. why have I never written about this in my posts?" I looked it up, and Clarabelle (the spelling according to the subtitles on the DVD) is a variant of the more official spelling, which is Claribel. It means "bright and beautiful" but seems to be a pretty obscure name, as it's only listed at .009% usage at the height of its popularity in 1893.

So, I'm left wondering: Is the animated series implying that it's perhaps her "real" name, with Clara being her nickname? Or is this just an affectionate nickname Doc uses for Clara? And if it's a nickname, is it something Doc simply thought had a nice ring to it, or is it because he's secretly a big fan of the Disney character Clarabelle Cow??

That's Clarabelle with her boyfriend Horace Horsecollar, btw. If you even care.

Verne tells Doc that he was only taking the DeLorean so he could go looking for something cool to bring to show and tell. Doc decides to help him out by letting him borrow an arrowhead he has. Verne is psyched, but before he can even reach the school building, Biff Jr. intercepts him and demands his lunch money. He steals the arrowhead from Verne.

Verne's teacher isn't happy that he had nothing to show or tell about, and she tells him that if he doesn't bring in something the next day, she's going to make him play Prince Charming in the upcoming school play. Which is a really weird threat if you ask me!! How does one force a child into a lead role of a play he doesn't want to be in just because he didn't have show and tell? What kind of school is this?

Verne is horrified by this news on account of he'd have to kiss some girl named Beatrice. He says he'd rather be, "dead like a dinosaur" which gives him a sudden idea. I sense a bad decision coming! And I bet Marty is going to be in on it because he always enables Varne in these types of shenanigans.

Yep. I knew it.

The boys take a quick trip to prehistoric times, where Verne swipes a dino egg for show and tell.

Shortly after arriving home, the egg hatches, and Verne finds himself caretaker to the world's cutest dinosaur.

Look at that guy. (Verne faints when he sees it)

Within the hour, the dinosaur has already grown significantly, and it escapes outside to the yard, where Verne begs Jules to help in hiding him. Just then, they hear Doc approaching and quickly work to form a ridiculous story in which the dino is their friend who painted himself green because they're playing a game involving aliens.

They're able to get away with it on account of Einstein is so afraid of the dinosaur that he launches himself at Doc's face and refuses to move.

Doc decides to take Einie to the vet, leaving his sons and their "friend" to continue their game. Jules insists Verne return the dino, but Verne wants to keep him as a pet. He names him Tiny.

It doesn't take long for Tiny to go missing in town. He ends up at the Tannen home, where Biff Jr. is watching Mr. Wisdom (who you may remember from an episode earlier in the season). If you don't, you just need to know that Mr. Wisdom is an evil children's TV show host who also happens to be one of Doc's old college roommates.

Mr. Wisdom announces that he's offering $50,000 to any viewer who can capture and send in an alien, bigfoot, or dinosaur. Very unfortunate timing, huh? Biff captures Tiny and sends him into the Mr. Wisdom show. After airing a special episode featuring Tiny, Mr. Wisdom plans to kill him and sell pieces of him to research labs for money.

Thankfully, Verne comes clean to his parents, and they work together to form a plan and sneak onto the set to free Tiny.

When Mr. Wisdom starts his show and reveals the "dinosaur," it's really just Marty and Jules on stilts.

Jules looks just like the monkey in that one meme.

The family gets home and prepares to bring Tiny back where he belongs. Before he goes, he spits out a baby tooth, which Verne is excited to be able to take to show and tell.

With that story wrapped up, we go back to Real Doc, who teaches us a little about eggs using a raw one. While he's talking, he takes out the lunch he'd packed, of which one of the items is a hard-boiled egg. Can you guess what happens? Yeah, he mixes up the two eggs. After some time to think about it, he feels pretty confident that he's figured out which one is the hard-boiled one and. And he just BITES into the egg, shell and all, like an absolute lunatic. And he's wrong about it being the hard-boiled one.

Who does this? Who on EARTH eats a hard-boiled egg in this manner? Are you telling me that Doc regularly leaves the shells on his eggs and bites into them like an apple?? He eats the shells? Is that what I'm supposed to take away from this??

We're ending the animated series with the revelation that this is how our beloved scientist finds it acceptable to eat a hard-boiled egg?? What am I supposed to do with this now? How will I make peace with this information?

Join me next time for nothing. The animated series is over, folks. Doctor Emmett Brown eats eggshells.

Adiós.

[bestgaddi]

Best Site for Finding Best Cars in India 2024

Best Site for Finding Best Cars in India 2024: Finding the perfect car can feel like searching for a needle in a haystack. With so many options and considerations, where do you even start? That’s where the internet becomes your best friend. Today, we’ll dive deep into the best site for finding the best cars, including Bestgaddi. We’ll cover tips, tricks, and everything in between to help you drive off into the sunset in your dream car. Buckle up, because this ride will be informative and fun!

[ash-writies]

(RK900 x Connor x fReader)

BINGO - Hurt on the job OR Car crash.

The androids didn't pay attention because they were arguing and Reader gets hurt chasing the suspect or gets injured to protect them OR Reader was chasing the suspect via carcase. You choose.

A/n: Since I already did hurt on the job, I went with Car Crash. Check my latest update “here” to see the new asks I’m accepting :) Likes and reblogs are very appreciated ;)

Summary: Connor made a mistake the night before and Nines won’t let him live it down. After talking to him on your way to catch a suspect, he tells you why.

Warnings: Angst, fluff towards the end, reader is chillin in the hospital

~1.1k Words

You looked at your computer screen, eyes scanning over the words as you tried to ignore the Androids next to you. You and Hank had began working together when you realized your cases had some similarities. You glanced at Hank who was typing across from you, unaware of the tension beside you. You pressed your lips together and tried again to review what you had so far.

It was a planned assault on an android. Luckily the android, a PL600, was not too damaged. There were a few more attacks like this that were given to you along with the cases Hank and Connor had gotten. The attackers were a human and an android; the victims had explained their dynamic, the human was asking all the questions and the android was doing all the work. Whether the android had deviated was still up in the air, along with the purpose of the attacks. You were hoping to catch them soon so one of the RK models could determine the former. You were also hoping they’d be more involved in the investigation.

You glared at them, knowing they wouldn’t miss it. They were arguing since earlier last night about Connor making a mistake but Nines wouldn’t drop it. You were sure that’s what they were doing right now and Connor’s guilty expression as he looked away confirmed it.

Suddenly Hank groaned, “it feels like we’re getting nowhere!”

“Yeah, all we got is a list of victims and crime locations,” you sighed, running your fingers through your hair. 

Nines reviewed the list before adding, “the locations might be able to reveal where the suspects are hiding-”

Hank threw his hands up, “why didn’t you say anything?”

“I haven’t determined a probable location,” he glanced at Connor who quickly looked away. 

Feeling pretty tired of this tension, you stood and turned to Nines, “can we talk real quick?” He nodded and followed you outside. Once you were around the corner, out of sight and earshot, you turned to Nines with a frown, “are you still going on about last night?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-” he began, looking away.

“Don’t play dumb, I know you’re saying something to him.” 

He frowned, eyes flickering to yours for a moment, “well it’s between me and him.”

“Not during work hours-”

“Then I’ll drop it during work hours,” he snapped before storming off.

He must’ve been true to his word because he and Connor began working together, albeit reluctantly, to find some possible locations. When they reduced it to four possible spots, You decided to split up and check them. You and Hank took your respective partners and left.

On the way to the first location Nines only spoke to tell you the plan for entering. You wondered if they added pettiness to his code of if it was something he just grew into. The first location had nothing and no one. One the way to the second location you kept your eyes on the road but spoke to Nines, “why won’t you drop that Connor made a mistake? It wasn’t even anything serious.”

For a long moment he didn’t say anything, “because you favor him over me. I don’t understand how you can like the inferior model…”

Your jaw almost dropped, RK900 was jealous? “I don’t like him more than you-”

“Yes you do,” he interrupted, “you treat us differently.”

“Well yeah, you’re different people. You don’t react to somethings the same way Connor does.” You pulled into the parking lot of the second location and put the car in park.

“You’re more affectionate towards him…” he said after a pause.

You turned to face him, eyes searching his face and finding something sad and vulnerable, “I didn’t realize you wanted me to- you always stayed further away, out of reach.” Of course, right now- when you’re supposed to be going inside or coming up with a plan- you realize how his behavior was defensive. 

Suddenly his face changed, ending the moment, “there they are!” You followed his eyes to see an android and a man running to their car. You threw the car into drive and followed them as they speed away. You turned on the sirens, glad you took a car from the station and put all of your focus into following them. You don’t need to see Nines to know that he’s alerting Connor and the others at the station of the situation.

You fight the urge to slow down as your car barrels towards theirs. You braced as you came into contact with their car, knocking them off course and sending you sliding into a stoplight pole. 

You didn’t feel car come into contact with the pole. It took you a while to feel anything. When the darkness cleared from your vision you saw Nines pulling you out of your seatbelt. You were saying something but you didn’t know what, his LED was red but he was talking in a low calm voice, “you’re alright, you’re okay, everything’s fine.” You trusted him but couldn’t shake the panic that settled in your chest, you kept your hand on his wrist as the darkness returned.

You slowly blinked as you tried to adjust to the lights in the hospital. The room you were in had two big windows with the curtains drawn and one wall painted sage green. On your left Nines was sitting in a chair, LED yellow, and his eyes closed. While you were content just watching him sit, you knew he’d prefer to talk to you. You shifted and called his name, “why are you here?”

“So you didn’t have to wake up by yourself,” he said before recapping what you missed and your condition (whiplash and a concussion), “Connor and Hank are speaking with the suspects now and Connor will join us at home tonight.”

“Okay, are you alright?” he nodded, “do you want to join me?”

“No, you need your rest-”

You moved to the edge of the mattress, “C’mon~ lay with me…” He reluctantly followed your request. Once he was settled he wrapped an arm around you so you don’t fall. “I’m sorry I made you feel less than Connor. I should’ve talked with you about it or realized sooner.”

“It’s alright, I shouldn’t have held it in for so long.”

“Promise you’ll talk to me more?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation going before falling asleep.

“I promise,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” you murmured, letting yourself drift asleep, “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

[wawa-cupcakes]

Tim Drake starts a revolution. On accident. Part 1:

When he thinks about it the press, nor any of Gotham, or likely even much of the Justice league, had never seen Tim Drake without a coffee in his hand. So maybe this whole thing had been a long time in coming? The look of exasperation on Bruce’s face tells him no. But Jason cackling on the floor tells him yes. So who’s to say really.

It happens randomly one day. Tim is just leaving WE ready to get back to the Batcave so he can synthesize the half baked formula he thought up during the board meeting this morning for The Jokers new toxin. He made himself an especially large coffee with the Kureg Steph bought him for his office.

At the door he’s met with reporters, all asking about WE’s latest foray into buying housing their employees. And amongst all the questions being hurled at him he picks out the one about Coffee. I mean it’s only natural to have a fine tuned sense about these things when someone relies on coffee like it’s their actual blood. (And frankly it might be at this point Tim isn’t sure)

“What brand of coffee are you drinking?” - The question that will unknowingly rocket all of Gotham into chaos for the next few weeks.

“Bustelo. I’m drinking bustelo. Black like my soul.” Tim throws over his shoulder as he slips into the car. And then he forgets about the whole thing because he’s got approximately 20 minutes and 48 seconds to sleep on the car ride home and he’s not gonna waste a second of it.

He does even find out about it until three days later when he opens the cabinet to find oh - Alfred hasn’t replaced the grounds yet. He just grabs a different bag, he deserves some freshly ground beans after the night he had anyway, and set to work on making some coffee.

When he sees Alfred a few minutes later he asks him to pick some more up the next time he’s at the grocery store. “Actually, Master Tim. They were out. I went yesterday. ”

Tim pauses what he’s doing. “What?”

“It seems your recommendation to the press the other day has been taken to heart. All the stores in Gotham are sold out.”

“WHAT!?”

Upon further research apparently Tim’s sort of accidental recommendation had sky elected sales overnight. The company’s stock was up, and apparently they’d already made a statement about increasing production. The inbox for Tim’s work email, the one he never checked, was flooded with emails from various coffee brands reaching out to attempt to get a sponsorship. Offering to send free samples, and some even life time supplies (Which actually didn’t sound half bad) for him to review.

So Tim does what any sane person would do. He takes the power he’s been given an warps it to fit his needs.

[corpocyborg]

Secure Your Soul: A Cyberpunk 2077 Fanfiction

This fic was previously published under the title “Before the Event Horizon.”

Summary: Six months ago, V’s boss at Arasaka ordered her to assassinate his rival. Instead, with the reluctant but invaluable help of her old friend Jackie Welles, she pushed them both off their thrones and claimed one for herself. Now the new Director of Arasaka Counter Intel has a problem. She’s uncovered information that indicates that Yorinobu Arasaka, the heir apparent to the Arasaka dynasty, is a traitor. But without solid proof, she’s forced to take matters into her own hands.

An AU in which Corpo!V never leaves Arasaka.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE MISSION

[read on ao3]

SIX YEARS EARLIER

V sat in a parked car and discreetly watched the windows of the hotel across the street through her Kiroshi. Assuming the rookie techie they’d partnered her with had done his job properly, this was the place where she’d find her mark. 

Not that V wasn’t technically a rookie herself. She’d only been working for Arasaka for a few months. But she came from a legacy family—both her parents had been Arasaka employees—and she’d attended Arasaka Academy for the last four years and transferred directly into Counter Intel post-graduation. The job fit her like it was made for her. Or, more accurately, it fit her because she had been made for it. 

On the other hand, Carter Smith, the techie in question… he was a smart guy, but too squeamish by far. V didn't understand reluctant corpos—if working for Arasaka hadn’t struck her as the best thing she could be doing with her life, she wouldn’t have done it.

But if he had successfully tracked the target, he was worth something. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt. For now. 

As she watched the hotel, V mentally reviewed the details of her case. Stephen Blackburn—a former Arasaka employee, pissed off that he hadn't been able to cut it in the corpo world—had made off with a datafile full of dirt on his former bosses. She knew the type. Jaded risk-takers with nothing left to lose. Dangerous because they were desperate, but predictable too. 

Blackburn wasn't her direct opponent here, though. She knew from Smith’s interception of his messages that he'd hired a merc to transport a laptop with the data on it for him. A merc whose identity was still unknown. V didn't like that. She planned better when she could analyze her enemy. So she waited outside the hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of him long enough to ascertain his identity. 

Her patience paid off. Forty minutes into her stake-out, a curtain moved in the top floor window of the building—in exactly the room that Smith had claimed was occupied by her target. She quickly zoomed in that direction. There. A face glancing furtively out at the street. Gone almost as soon as she’d spotted it, but her optics had been fast enough to grab a scan. If he had an NCPD record… and, as it turned out, he did. The relevant file popped up in the side of her vision. A surprisingly short rap sheet, starting with a carjacking when he was fifteen. The record identified him as Jackie Welles.

Hmm. An interesting coincidence. She recognized the name. The associated image, too, though of course he was older now. After her parents had died in the line of duty, but before Arasaka had offered her a spot at the Academy, she’d been forced to spend a couple of miserable years at a public junior high. He’d been one of her classmates there.

She even recalled attending his birthday party in eighth grade. One of those patronizing "everyone is invited" affairs. Truthfully, she’d only shown up to observe her classmates. Ever since she’d first arrived at the junior high from her high-end private elementary school, the other kids had baffled her. They’d spent far more time focused on the latest braindances and lazrpop songs than on their grades or futures. She’d figured that couldn’t be all they cared about, and she’d made a point of attending every social event she could score an invitation to until she figured out what truly motivated them. 

She’d learned a lot of useful information. Most scrawny thirteen-year-olds in Heywood, with no cyberware but a pair of Kiroshi, had to worry about potential abuse leveled at them from their classmates. Not V. It was amusing how easily bullies could be managed when you knew all the dirty family secrets that drove them to pick on those they assumed were weaker than them.  

She’d even used her Kiroshi to record all those social events she’d attended. She still had the recordings in her personal archive. V was in the habit of never deleting any of her data, no matter how old. Her experiences, even the ones she’d loathed living through, had shaped her into who she was today. Those memories were hers, and she wanted them kept safe.  

So then… what could they help her recall about Jackie Welles? She pulled up her archive and set the date range to May of ‘63. She located the recording of the party on the 26th of that month and clicked play. Suddenly, she was thirteen again, looking out at the past through her own eyes.

She sat in a bright red plastic chair in the corner of a crowded living room. It was abuzz with the sounds of children—laughing, talking, shouting, and eating. She watched as teenage V zoomed her Kiroshi towards her priority targets and lingered there one by one. She waited until teenage V focused on Jackie. He’d never been a problem for her, but considering it was his party, she’d still taken the chance to learn what she could about him.

There he was, surrounded by his family—a deeply affectionate mother and more brothers than was reasonable. No father. He’d been admitted to the hospital the year prior and had never returned to the Welles household. V had suspected that either Jackie or one of his brothers were responsible for that. She hadn’t missed the improvement in the Welles boys’ temperament after their father was gone. She’d bet he probably deserved it. He’d been a Valentino of the old-school variant, the kind who believed his word was law when it came to his family and liked to take on the role of the judge, the jury, and the executioner. Say what you will about modern Valentinos, but at least they’d left that mentality behind for the most part. 

It occurred to V that she’d seen a mention of the Valentinos in Jackie’s NCPD file. Originally, he’d been known to take on solo mercenary work, but he’d recently been flagged for involvement in gang activities. Had he decided to follow in the old man’s footsteps? Odds were his mother was sick with worry. A weak point if she'd ever seen one. 

An idea began to formulate in her mind.

She pulled up her optics' phonebook through the appropriate series of eye flicks, and called her techie. "Hey, Carter," she said when she received an answer. "Can you create a vocal modulator for me? Want to imitate a particular voice." 

"Sure thing. As long as you've got a sufficient sample."

"Think I should…" V began, pulling up the birthday video in her personal archives again. She identified a portion featuring a brief speech by Jackie's mother. Should be just long enough for her purposes. She forwarded it to Smith. "Will that work?"

"That's perfect," he said. "Give me a minute…" The voice on the line shifted. “All right, Jackie, time to blow out the candles, mijo.”

“Not bad, not bad. You sound just like her. In fact…” V grinned conspiratorially. “Feel like doing some role-playing?”

—

Getting into the building wasn’t difficult. V simply walked in and booked a room for herself. She asked for a room on the top floor, citing fear of a break-in as her excuse, in case the elevator was programmed to only allow access to the floor a guest was actually staying on. 

As she stepped out of the elevator on the top floor, she spoke quietly to Smith, whom she’d kept on the call, “Almost there. You clear on the plan?”

“Yep. I call his personal line, use the vocal modulator, and distract him long enough for you to grab the data and get out. No bloodshed for once.”

“That's the idea,” V confirmed. “No need for this to get messy.”

V turned the corner into the hallway that contained Jackie’s room and scanned the area for security cameras. There was just one, and it was situated in an obvious position near the top of the wall. Her optics were able to trace its trajectory in mere milliseconds, and they lit up its field of view for her so that she could pass by without being caught on video. 

“Almost there,” she told Smith. “And remember—don’t be afraid to scare him. If he’s not scared enough to get out of our way, we’ll have to take him down the old-fashioned way.”

“Understood.” 

“Good. Make the call in three minutes. I’m going silent.”

She was just outside the room now. She set her Kiroshi to thermal mode and spotted Jackie almost at once. He appeared to be sitting in a chair on the far side of the room.

V crouched and activated her optical camo. Her body vanished from sight, though of course, she was very much still detectable through a myriad of alternative methods. The thermal scanning she was using to keep track of Jackie, for one. But she didn’t plan to rely solely on the camo. 

Exactly three minutes later, she heard Jackie’s anxious, slightly muffled voice from the other side of the door. He was speaking Spanish. Interesting. Either Smith knew Spanish, or he’d set up a program that could translate his speech fast enough to sound natural. Generally, it was easier to translate for the listener, so most translation software didn’t bother with the other way around. She was pleasantly surprised that he’d exceeded her expectations. 

“Okay, okay, mamá,” Jackie was saying, as V’s cyberware translated. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

While Jackie was talking, V unlocked the door. It wasn’t difficult. The defenses were woefully outdated, and Jackie was making enough noise that it was unlikely he could hear the lock click.   

“Please, you have to calm down.” Jackie stood up and moved to the right side of the room, away from the desk. That was exactly what V had been waiting for. While he continued his increasingly impassioned pleas, V quietly pushed open the door.  

She immediately spotted the laptop on the desk on the left side of the room. Jackie himself was near the window where V had seen him the first time. His back was to the door. Perfect. 

She dashed toward the desk and stopped before the laptop, gazing at the screen. She considered grabbing it and getting out, but she needed to confirm that it had the data she was looking for or she might miss her best opportunity. So, despite the increased risk, she took the time to breach the laptop’s defenses.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jackie was explaining. “They wouldn’t do that. It must have been someone else.”

After a few agonizing seconds, V successfully accessed the data. It was all there. Everything she needed. Excellent.

Behind her, she heard the click of a trigger pressed partway down. An acidic voice filled the room. “What kinda sick fuck uses the sound of a man’s own mamá's voice against him?” 

V froze. Too slow. Bile-flavored dread rose in her throat, but she swallowed, pushing it down where it belonged. He hadn’t shot her yet. She still had a chance to talk her way out of this. She deactivated her optical camo. Slowly, she raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, you've got me,” she admitted. “Don't do anything rash. Let's talk. May I turn around?”

“Fine,” he growled softly.

Cautiously, avoiding any possible sign of aggression, V turned. The man she remembered as a constant optimist had clearly found some hidden stores of rage to draw from. He looked at her with open hatred, his gun pointed directly at the center of her forehead. 

“Now,” began Jackie Welles. “Do you have her? Do you have my mom?”

That explained the level of anger. For a second, V was torn. It could be useful to let him believe that, but it was likely more prudent to calm him down.

“I asked you a question, demoña.”

“No,” V stated clearly. “Nothing like that. I’m sure your mom is just fine. We don't have her. It’s just a vocal modulator.”

“You think I don’t fuckin’ know that?” He was nearly shouting now. “Can tell the difference between her and a stranger, even one that sounds just like her. But I know how that tech works. You need a voice sample to set one up. So how’d you know what she sounds like?” 

V felt a slight tremor of fear, mingled with excitement and appreciation. He'd been onto her all along. He was more astute that she’d given him credit for. This might actually be a fair match. “You and I, we went to middle school together. Eighth grade. I was at your thirteenth birthday party. Still happened to have the recording.”

“Eighth grade?” he said uncertainly. “I don't remember you.”

“That doesn't surprise me. I mostly kept to myself.”

“More like thought you were better than everyone else.”

“Ah.” V smiled slightly. “So you do remember me.”

“You trying to make me angry?” He moved slightly closer, still keeping his gun aimed steadily. A good sign. If he was trying to intimidate her, it was because her casual manner unnerved him. 

“No. The opposite, actually,” she said emphatically. “I’m trying to make you realize that we have a valuable and fleeting opportunity here.”

“There you go,” Jackie scoffed. “Always trying to make a deal. This isn't your office, demoña. I'm not your coworker.”

That much is obvious, V thought. She carried on regardless. “In about five minutes, my backup from Arasaka’s going to come through that door. Yes, you could kill me before then, but could you make it out in time? Could you hide the evidence that would allow them to find you again?”

“And what's your offer? Turn myself in? Surrender and maybe my punishment won't be that bad?”

“My offer is to let you go free.”

His shock made her smile again. No one could ever claim that she didn’t make reasonable deals.

“Let me go free? Just like that?”

“Indeed. With a guarantee of future protection from Arasaka’s wrath, assuming you don't antagonize us too badly. That's for letting me live.”

“A guarantee, huh?” He mocked her sales-pitch tone. “So I'm meant to, what, take your word for it?”

“No. I’d never ask anyone to take me on faith,” she explained. “That data you've got, it's very valuable. Could ruin any number of my superiors. I'll have to take it back to Arasaka, of course. However, I'm willing to let you hold on to a copy.”

“You'd leave evidence behind? If your superiors find out, they'd kill you.” He emphasized the word ‘superiors’ with the same mocking tone.

“Exactly,” V stated proudly. 

He looked at her like she’d sprouted a second head. 

"If I try to betray you," V continued patiently, "all you need to do is leak enough data to make Arasaka realize I let you keep a copy. They'll zero me, but they'll come for you too. And if you betray me, I can initiate the same events in reverse order. Continued loyalty would be the safest, most logical choice for each of us."

"That your foundation for an alliance?" Jackie cried in exasperation, his gun never straying from its mark in the center of her forehead. "Mutually assured destruction?"

V kept her hands held up, but she dared to lift her chin. "Yes." She looked him steadily in the eyes. "Because it works.”

A loaded silence followed. 

“And that's for letting you live?”

“That's for letting me live,” V confirmed.

He was silent again. Then, slowly, he lowered his gun. “Okay. Deal.”

“Excellent.” V lowered her hands just as slowly. “I’ll copy the data right now.” 

She turned back to the laptop, plugged in one of her extra empty datashards, and began the duplication process. She noted Jackie watching her movements closely. She kept her hands open and within his field of view, so he’d know she wasn’t trying to sabotage anything. As the loading screen appeared, she said to him, “There's more we can offer each other, if you’re interested.” 

“More? This ain’t enough for you?” His initial answer came quickly. But after a second, he sighed and added, “Like what?”

“You’re new to the Valentinos, right? Got contacts there. Could pull some strings. Keep you safe, help you rise.”

“Valentinos wouldn't make deals with ‘Saka.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Yes,” he insisted. “Honor means something to 'em.”

“Honor means something to us too, Jackie.”

“Right.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

The loading screen reached a hundred percent. She unplugged the datashard and handed it to him, then closed the laptop and placed it under her arm. “Think about it,” she told him as she pulled out one of her business cards. “Here's my contact info.”

He took the datashard from her and plugged it into the port in his head, confirming that everything he needed was on it. Then he took her business card. “Okay. I'll think about it.” He started to turn away, but then he paused and asked her, “What about Blackburn?”

It took her a second to place the name. “The guy who hired you? He's a dead man. But you don't care about him.”

“How would you know?” 

She chuckled slightly. “If you did, you'd have brought him up way earlier.” 

Jackie scoffed. “Sheesh. Cinco minutos we’ve been talking and you think you know me already.”

V didn’t respond. He hadn’t denied it. 

“What would you want?” he asked bluntly, dropping the thread of the previous conversation. “For the protection?”

V smiled. She’d guessed he’d be interested in that offer. He was a man driven by competing goals—he wanted to stay safe for his mother, but he also wanted his chance at becoming a Night City legend. He’d probably agonized for years over which path to follow. And she’d just offered him a way to do both. “That’s easy. I’d want you to keep that data safe. In case I have a misunderstanding with a superior some day and need to settle the matter properly. But that’s an issue for the future. Right now, you should leave. They’ll be here soon. Go on. I’ll make sure they don’t come after you.”

He nodded at her and walked out. V let out a breath and leaned her back against the wall, allowing herself a brief moment of celebration. Nothing like a brush with death to make you remember you’re alive.

“That was kind of you, V,” said a soft voice in her ear. “Protecting him like that. Instead of solving all your problems with violence.”

“Carter—”

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Someone’s gotta keep our bosses on their toes, don’t you think? Over and out.” 

He disconnected the call. V smiled to herself in amusement. He’d called her kind. It was strange the way people's minds worked. But she didn't have time to dwell on that now. She gripped the laptop tightly and left the room, already planning what she'd say when she brought in the data but not the merc that should have gone with it. 

Letting him go hadn’t been her original plan, but she had to admit she’d wanted a copy of that data since she’d found out about it. It was far too dangerous to keep on her person, or leave unguarded in any of her safehouses, or entrust to any ally that could be traced back to her. But Jackie Welles… who would ever guess the two of them were working together? As long as she could keep him in line—and she believed she could—she could even send him updates as she collected new intel, growing his database of Arasaka’s dirty secrets but making sure they were used only when she wanted them used.

She smiled to herself again. This might be the start of a lucrative partnership.