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nikkento-writes · 2 months

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Rub You the Right Way - Part 1

Part 2 | Part 3

Pairing: Choso x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Word Count: ~4.1k

cw: female reader, 2nd-person POV, explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut – oral sex (cunnilingus, fellatio), hand job, face-riding, face-fucking, use and mention of sex toys, cum eating

Summary: You've always been cordial with your shy next-door neighbor Choso. One day, you receive the package you've been expecting, finding out a little too late that it isn't your package at all; it's his. What you find inside makes you wonder that maybe your sweet and quiet neighbor has wild side, one you’re curious to see for yourself.

Author’s Notes: This is a repost from my old account! It's the first Choso fic I've ever written and I enjoyed it so much that I wrote a Part 2 and a Part 3 (coming soon)! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are not expected but always appreciated. Thanks for reading! Divider credit to @/fic-dumpster.

The trek home from the office is especially grueling today. Your backpack is heavy with a clunky work laptop that’s been due for an upgrade along with a pile of documents that need to be reviewed ASAP. One hand carries the dinner you bought at the station while the other hoists a heavy bag of groceries you picked up during lunch, thinking it would be productive to get as much of your errands done today before hunkering down for the weekend to do a job that doesn’t pay you enough to work overtime.

You eventually arrive to your apartment complex, making one more necessary pit stop to the mail room. Inside, you recognize the distinct pink-hair of the boy standing in front of the lockers. He’s your next-door neighbor’s younger brother who visits from time-to-time. “Hi Yuji!” you beam at him.

He turns to face you, eyes crinkling happily as he smiles. “Hey! How’s it going?”

You drop your bags to open your own locker. “I’m alright. Got a busy weekend working. And you?”

He kneels down towards the boxes in front of him. “Same, except studying for exams.”

“Are you picking up your brother’s packages?” It’s a well-known fact by now that Choso isn’t fond of leaving his apartment or interacting with people in general. It doesn’t bother you though; he’s a great neighbor who barely makes a peep. Never has he ever rubbed you the wrong way, despite his reclusive nature. Sometimes, through his brother, he’ll give you an offering of cookies from the batch he baked that week. On the days you’re working overtime, he’ll send Yuji to check in on you, making sure you’re not too stressed or overexerted. And on the rare occasion that the two of you meet face-to-face, either entering or leaving the apartment at the same time, your heart skips just the tiniest beat at how his face softens when you greet him with a smile. From these tiny gestures alone, you’ve determined that Choso Kamo is a sweetheart. Quiet, but most importantly, a sweetheart.

Yuji slides the stack out from Choso’s locker, answering you. “Yup. I also had some stuff delivered here, so I figured I’d just grab everything.”

You stare at the small package in your own locker, evaluating how you’re going to carry it to your room in one trip. There’s no space in any of the bags and you’re almost convinced that you can balance it on top of your head as if you actually possess the proper skills to do so (you don’t). “Need help?” Yuji chuckles. Before you answer, he grabs it, placing it on top of a box similar in size on his stack.

“Thank you so much!”

As the elevator rides to the third floor, you continue to chat casually with Yuji. The two of you walk to your neighboring rooms and when he reaches for his keys, the stack topples over, the boxes now strewn across on the hallway floor. He blushes, collecting them hastily back into a neat pile. “I’m sorry, I hope there isn’t anything fragile in there.” He quickly slides you a box, avoiding your gaze to hide his embarrassment.

It's new office supplies you ordered for your workstation at home, so you hardly care even if there is a bit of damage done. “Don’t worry about it, it’s all good,” you assure him, using your foot to push it towards your front door. “Thank you for your help, Yuji. Tell your brother I say hi.”

“Will do. Have a good night.”

Finally home, you drop all your belongings, letting out a relieved sigh. One-by-one, you put everything away: the groceries in their appropriate places, your lukewarm dinner in the microwave, and all your work junk on the dining table, where you’ll be sat at for most of this weekend starting tomorrow. You save the package for later, planning to refill your supplies tonight so you don’t have to worry about it the next morning.

You soon find out that something even better is waiting for you inside.

~~~

Choso is sprawled on the couch, too lazy to cook dinner. He ordered delivery from Yuji’s favorite pizza joint a few blocks away, which should be arriving any minute now, according to his calculations. When he hears the door open, he sits up, watching his brother enter with a tower of boxes in his hands. “I don’t remember ordering that much stuff,” he grumbles, standing up to help him.

“Most of these are mine. I think only this one is yours.” Yuji passes him a small box, which Choso quickly grabs to toss into his room, hoping to avoiding any questions about it. Truth be told, the contents of that box is way too embarrassing to explain to his precious baby brother. Inside is the sex toy he recently purchased online. It’s essentially a silicone cock sleeve, open on both ends for simple clean-up, made entirely of pliable material for ease and comfort. To put it simply, it’s a fleshlight. A state-of-the-art, new and improved fleshlight, he would like to emphasize. He’s been looking forward to using it all week and once Yuji leaves tonight, he’s going to give it a proper test run until he’s a puddle in the sheets.

It’s been a while since Choso’s been intimate with someone other than himself. A few bad breakups and past betrayals have led him to distrust most people outside of his intimate circle. The unpredictable nature of people, strangers, is frightening to him, so it’s better to avoid them completely. He has the luxury of working a job that’s fully remote, and aside from his brothers and the few colleagues he is forced to converse with periodically, it’s easy for him to remain a recluse, and he’s perfectly content with that. As for his sexual needs, he’s managed to make it this far in this drought thanks to sex toys and pornography. And while he’s aware that it’s not the most glamorous lifestyle, it works for him.

“By the way, your neighbor says hi,” Yuji mentions, opening his packages one-by-one. “She came into the mailroom.”

Choso says your name in the form of a question to clarify, though he’s certain of the answer. The only other human contact he has outside his circle is with you, his next-door neighbor. He doesn’t leave the house much, but on the occasion he does, he always hopes it’s you he runs into. He often worries that one day, you’ll realize what a pathetic loner he is and stop showing him that gorgeous smile of yours. So far, that hasn’t happened yet, so he cherishes those tiny moments every chance he gets. Something about that smile, something about you, makes him feel good. Safe.

“Yup,” Yuji confirms. “She had her hands full, so I helped her carry a package.”

Before Choso can inquire any further, there’s a knock on the door, signaling the arrival of their pizza. After thanking the delivery man, the two gather at the dining table, ready to dig into their dinner. Choso listens intently as Yuji laments on his weekly occurring university woes with a mouth full of pepperoni and sausage. As much as he adores his younger brother, he’s eager for his departure so he can have alone time to break in his new toy.

At eleven, without a crumb left of the pizza and the recycling bin filled with flattened cardboard boxes, Yuji finally announces that he’s leaving. He stuffs his newly delivered items, which includes textbooks, notepads, and a bunch of miscellaneous items, in his bag. “I’ll see you next week, bro. Take care of yourself,” he says, squeezing his big brother into a warm embrace. There’s always the smallest hint of concern in his voice whenever he leaves like this. Does he worry about him? For living a life of seclusion, constantly in fear of the outside world? Sure, it may sound lonely. In fact, it is lonely. But it’s easier to stay safe in the comfort of his own home than risk being hurt from the unknown. It’s better this way…isn’t it?

Choso muses on his brother’s parting words in the silence of his apartment for much longer than he intends to. He decides that the best way to keep him from spiraling further is a distraction, and that means fucking himself silly into temporary bliss until he knocks out for the night. Hidden away in various drawers of his bedroom are a plethora of options to choose from: vibrators, masturbators, cock rings, even the sex doll tucked deep in his closet. Tonight, however, is all about his shiny new toy. Pristine and untouched for him to ruin as much as he wants. He picks it up from the floor, ripping the tape off quickly, too impatient to inspect the exterior for any potential damage. When a stapler drops, almost hitting his feet, he stares down at it, confused. Thinking it’s a weird bonus item the sex shop has sent him, he chuckles nervously, still searching. Each item he uncovers leaves him more and more baffled: a container of paper clips, a wad of sticky notes, bundles of red pens, another fucking stapler. Finally, he checks the shipping label ripped partially from his haste, whatever color remaining on his face draining completely.

This isn’t his. It’s yours.

Which means…

By the way, your neighbor says hi. She came into the mailroom.

She had her hands full, so I helped her carry a package.

Oh fuck.

~~~

It’s near midnight when you’re ready to turn in for the night. You almost forget about the box sitting idly on the floor by your shoes, exactly where you left it a few hours ago. With your computer all set up for work tomorrow, you think it’s best to organize your new supplies before you actually do forget. At your desk, you open the package with a pair of scissors, excited for the new staplers you bought, a standard one and a heavy duty one. It’s surprising how neatly it’s wrapped, covered in tissue paper like some sort of gift. After removing all the extra layers, you finally get to the reveal, which renders you speechless.

Nestled neatly amongst more delicate tissue paper, the translucent material almost luminous against the dim glow from the lamplight, is a sex toy. Call it what you want: a penis stroker, a male masturbator, a pocket pussy. There’s absolutely no doubt in your mind what is before you. A fucking fleshlight.

Besides the obvious appearance, the dead giveaway is the user manual included with it, displaying in big, bold print “The Cock Stroker 3000 – New and Improved!”. Lifting the box up to inspect the shipping label, you notice that it says Choso’s name, not yours. If you weren’t so stunned by this unexpected discovery, you’d be giggling at the absurdity of it all. Instead, you’re gawking at the lewd gadget, unsure what to do next.

“Fuck!”

An intense shout from the other side of the wall snaps you out of it. That’s the loudest you’ve ever heard your neighbor, and you can only assume that he has also just realized this unfortunate mix-up. There’s no way the two of you can pretend this isn’t happening. Besides, the last thing you want is for Choso to think you have a bad impression of him after this. Because you don’t, not one bit. It’s perfectly normal for people to have sex toys. In fact, it’s healthy. Even the thought of him using it on himself intrigues you. The hungry expression on his face, tongue lolling out of his mouth, those usually pale cheeks blushing a deep red. The obscene squelch of the wet silicone surrounding his engorged cock, leaking with precum. Closer and closer to the edge, ready to burst any second with your lips near the tip, ready to swallow his load…

You almost curse out loud yourself, ashamed for having such lewd thoughts about your sweet, innocent next-door neighbor. But maybe he’s not as innocent as you think.

Ultimately, you decide the best way to move forward from this is to nip it in the bud. With the opened package in your hands, you walk over to his front door, knocking three times. You hear a faint, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” from within, then hurried footsteps growing louder. Without removing the chain lock, he answers, peering at you through the narrow crack, not saying anything.

Nervous, you greet him with the best smile you can muster. “Hi Choso. I think there was a little mix-up.”

He clears his throat before mumbling a short, “Yeah.”

You glance away from him, staring at the floor, too embarrassed to meet his gaze for this next part. “I opened it without checking the label first. I’m so sorry.”

He shuts the door suddenly, startling you. There’s the distinct rattle of the chain being fiddled with and the door swings open fully, Choso towering over you, a serious expression on his face. He shows you a box, revealing all the office supplies you ordered earlier in the week. Without saying another word, you do the exchange, anticipating that this will be the end of it.

It surprises you when he apologizes quietly, focused on the small space separating you. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” He hides it behind his back, as if doing so will erase the image of it from your memory. “You must think I’m disgusting.”

You shake your head, ignoring the instinct to step closer and comfort him with a hug. The last thing you want to do is cross even more lines tonight. “I don’t, not even the slightest. It’s okay, Choso. This is totally normal and totally fine.”

“You don’t have to say that – ”

“But I mean it! I really do! There’s nothing wrong with it!” Desperate for him to believe you, you confess, “I have sex toys too, plenty of them!”

This time, he actually looks at you with a mixture of intrigue and skepticism. “You don’t have to lie for my sake.”

“I’m not lying!” you urge him.

He retreats inside his apartment, speaking once again through the crack. “I appreciate you trying to make this better, but I think it’s best that we never speak again. Goodnight.”

With that, he shuts the door, leaving you with a lump in your throat, devastated. In your frenzied attempt to fix this, you return to your room, searching your bedside drawer for your favorite vibrator. If words aren’t enough to convince him, then maybe actual proof will. Without taking a moment to reconsider the hole you’re digging yourself deeper and deeper into, you pound on his door, the sex toy clasped in your other hand.

When he answers, you shove it in his face, vindicated that you can prove your point with physical evidence. “See? I told you! I have toys too, so there’s nothing for you to be ashamed about.”

He squints at the vibrator squeezed in your fist as if inspecting it like a foreign object. “That’s it?”

You glare at him, offended by his response. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head to examine it at another angle. “There’s only one button.”

“One button is all I need,” you argue, defensive about your favorite being criticized. “Sure, it’s small, but that’s what I like about it. It fits comfortably in my hand and with just a single push of the button, I can experience three different levels of intensity. What more do I need?!”

He smirks, amused at your rambling. “I just don’t see how something this simple can be useful, that’s all.” It’s the closest to a smile you’ve seen from him; it has your belly fluttering.

You hold back a laugh. “I bet it packs more of a punch than that Cock Sucker 2000 or whatever.”

“3000,” he corrects, grinning, causing your heart to race. “I haven’t tried it yet, but it’s the best on the market right now.” He hesitates, his next words coming out of his mouth slowly, testing the waters. “Maybe you can show me what your little toy can do. Prove me wrong.”

You never expected this from him, but that’s what makes this exciting. All you can think of in this moment is showing him just how wet you can get. “Fine,” you agree, stepping towards him. “But only if you show me what your little toy can do, too.”

~~~

Never in a million years did Choso predict that this would be the outcome of your bizarre mix-up. You, his next-door neighbor, on his bed, naked from the waist down. Your t-shirt riding up your stomach with your legs split apart, the cute vibrator you love so much pressed to your clit. He kneels in front of you, too transfixed at the erotic sight before him to give attention to the erection strained in his sweatpants.

“You’re next,” you say, glancing at his lap.

He nods, all the confidence he had just a few minutes ago when he initially proposed this idea thrown out the window. Now, he’s back to being his nervous self, afraid to be vulnerable with someone he barely knows.

You set the vibrator beside you, closing your legs. “Are you okay?”

He’s frozen, tempted to call the whole thing off. Go back to being neighbors and nothing more. Go back to being lonely Choso and pathetic Choso, who’s scared of everyone and everything and –

“Hey.” It’s only now he realizes that the two of you are face-to-face, foreheads pressed, noses touching. Your voice is gentle, your palms soft on his cheeks. You smile at him, full of warmth and compassion. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been with someone,” he admits. “I’m nervous.” A myriad of what-ifs play out in his head. What if he’s bad? What if you don’t like it? What if this ruins whatever sliver of hope the two of you have at being friends? At being anything more?

“We’ll go slow then,” you assure him, brushing your lips to his. That genuine smile of yours is enough to convince him that it’s worth the risk. That, and how fucking good it feels to have your mouth on his. He closes his eyes, leaning into the kiss, relishing the warmth of your breath. He finds himself gradually losing control of his inhibitions, his carnal instincts taking over, hungry for more of you. He slips his tongue inside, swirling around yours, kisses growing frantic and sloppy. You tug at the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards you. His heart pounds in his chest as he roams your body, fingers grazing your perked nipples from outside your top. You whisper his name, so luscious and sweet in your voice. He’d be lying if he said he’s never imagined it before. How you’d sound whimpering from his touch. How you’d feel between his massive hands. How you’d look with his cock filling you up to the brim.

He can’t stand it anymore. He’s aching, begging for release from the confines of his pants. Quickly, he removes them, freeing his throbbing erection. You gasp, marveling at the size of it. “Oh fuck, Choso. You’re so big.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out, fumbling for the Cock Sucker 3000 beside him. He slathers a generous amount of lube on his shaft and inside the toy. Foreheads pressed together once more, you both focus on his lap, watching it sink smoothly down his dick. The coldness of the lube and rubbery flexibility of the silicone surrounding him is familiar, though having someone spectate makes this all the more titillating.

“Fuck,” you swear, amazed at how it covers his entire length. You ogle at him as he starts slowly, eventually increasing to a steady pace. Your pussy flutters, incredibly aroused to see this man pumping his cock in front of you. For you.

“Do it with me.” His gaze flickers to the vibrator beside you. “You should feel good too.”

You spread your legs, displaying your cunt to him, already sopping wet with arousal. His eyes follow your every move as you tease the tip slowly up and down your pussy lips. Finding the right spot on your clit, you place your finger on the button of the toy, bracing yourself for what’s to come. As soon as you press it, the vibrations from level one alone are enough to send you wild. Knees shaking, feet flexing, moans pouring out of your open mouth. He continues to watch you, restraining his grunts as he strokes himself faster. Desperate for more, you click the button twice, increasing the vibrations to the max level. Within seconds, you’re coming, back arched and head thrown into the pillows behind you. Tossing the vibrator aside, you stare up at the ceiling, dizzy and disoriented from your ecstatic high, pussy shiny with your orgasm. Choso’s voice is so faint, you don’t understand him at first. You sit up to face him, waiting for him to repeat himself.

“Can you ride my face?” he asks meekly.

More than willing to accept his request, you nod in response, grinning. His expression relaxes and when you lean nearer to him, palm pressed flat on his chest, he even cracks a smile as he’s lies down on the bed, eager to have you like this. You straddle him, facing away from the headboard while his head rests at the foot of the bed. Carefully, you lower yourself until his mouth is pressed to your pussy. His tongue circles your clit slowly and he releases his grip from his toy to hold onto your ass, squeezing the soft flesh firmly. You don’t take your eyes off each other as you rub yourself across his face, his mouth open, swallowing every drop of you. When you reach your second orgasm, you’re practically bouncing on him as he smothers himself deeper, humming in satisfaction as he sucks hard on your clit, flicking it with his tongue.

You lift yourself off him, spent and completely wrecked. Still, you want to touch him, treat him as well as he treated you, make him come as hard as you did. You position yourself between his thighs, admiring the silicone sleeve hugging his dick. “Your turn.”

Sitting up on his elbows, he watches as you grab hold of the toy, stroking him with it. He moans, tongue hanging of his mouth, drool leaking from the corners of his lips, eyes half-lidded. His moans turn into whimpers when you start cradling his balls with your other hand, his body twitching from the sensation. The tip peeks out from the other end, a thick wad of precum collecting at the slit, so enticing that you’re salivating for a taste.

“Your mouth,” he stammers, barely able to speak.

“What?” you ask breathily, inching closer and closer.

“Want your mouth.” He swallows hard, voice trembling. “Please.”

Excited, you remove the toy from him, in awe at the way his fat cock flops heavily against his abdomen. You take him in your fist, loving how hot and throbbing he is in your grip. He’s coated in lube and precum, so slippery with your fingers wrapped around his girth. Unable to resist any longer, you bow your head, licking the pearl off the tip, savoring the taste. He shudders, letting out a loud, “Fuck!”

It’s so much better than a toy. The wet heat of your mouth surrounding him is better than any masturbator, fleshlight, pocket pussy, whatever silly contraption he uses to get by. The swirl of your tongue gliding along the shaft, the vibrations of your moans as you take him all the way to the back of your throat, the view of your pretty head bobbing up and down his lap. Nothing in his collection compares to this. This is real. You are real.

He fucks your throat, unable to resist bucking his hips against you, timing his thrusts to meet yours. It doesn’t take much longer for him to be pushed over the edge. You pull off for a brief moment to smile at him, pumping him fast. “Come for me, Choso. Come in my mouth.”

At this, he completely loses himself, muffling his incessant moans into his forearm, too shy to watch you guzzle down his entire load until he’s milked of every last drop. You scatter delicate kisses along the entire length of him, even down to his balls. Too sensitive now, he pats you gently on the head, making you look up at him, a warm smile on your face. He smiles back, caressing your cheek, thumb grazing your soft skin. You lie beside him, nuzzling into his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to a steady, relaxed pace. He slides his arm around you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Thank you.”

This world is a terrifying place for Choso Kamo. But with you in his arms, he feels a bit braver. He’s safe with you.

#choso kamo #choso x reader #choso x you #choso smut #choso fluff #choso kamo smut #choso kamo x reader #choso kamo x you #jjk smut

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actual-changeling · 1 year

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i cannot resist a piece of good, painful angst, so have a little something inspired by this post by @quoththemaiden and the tags i left on it

Aziraphale returns to heaven in a haze of heartbreak and fear, his lips still tingling with Crowley's kiss, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. The white sterility welcoming him only encourages his mind to drift further, allowing him to tune out the Metatron's words and focus on simply setting one foot in front of the other. If heaven has not changed in the last few thousand years, and he knows very well that it hasn't, there will be more than enough paperwork detailing anything and everything he is being told.

"Any questions, Aziraphale?"

They have stopped in the middle of a long, empty corridor, his eyes stinging with the bleach-dry air, and Aziraphale blinks, the smile on his face never wavering; it is a mask he knows he will not be able to drop for quite some time.

"Do I have an office?"

"You can make yourself one if you deem it necessary. I will leave you to it, then."

With a small flash of light, he is gone, and Aziraphale is alone. Right.

A few hours later, he has an office no miracle in the world could make cosy, enough paperwork to last him an eternity, and a persistent itch in his left hand. It is more irritating than bothersome, an anchor keeping him from floating away into the land of celestial regulations and legal frameworks, and he is trying (and failing) to keep himself from thinking about Crowley.

He needs him to deal with this, that much is clear without knowing anything at all about how exactly the second coming is going to transpire, but for the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale finds himself wondering if Crowley will be waiting for him when he reaches out.

Absently, he scratches the back of his left hand, the itching seemingly working its way to the surface, and picks up the next folder.

'Re: The matter of opening a direct communication line between the Department of Miracle Accounting and the Department of Miracle Archiving.'

"You'd assume they'd done that ages ago," he murmurs, opening it with a sigh and squeezing his eyes shut when he sees the first document dates back to 3076 BC. A sudden wave of sympathy for Gabriel washes through him, which disappears rather quickly when he remembers he is probably having the time of his life on Alpha Centauri.

(Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo we can-- go off together.)

(Go off together?)

Aziraphale slams the folder shut and pushes it to the side, creating a new 'unimportant/for later' pile since the other one is already structurally unsound and he'd rather not have to reorganize it when it inevitably collapses under its own weight.

He scrubs a hand down his face (I could always rely on you) and forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath (You could always rely on me) before reaching for the next one, halting when a shimmer of gold draws his attention.

(And I would like to spend-)

On his left hand, in the exact spot where the itch is… was Aziraphale corrects himself, and in its place, curled around his ring finger and weaving its way towards his wrist, is a golden snake. No, not a snake, he slowly realizes, it's Crowley's snake in all its glory, uncurled and with wide open, unblinking eyes, staring up at him.

"Fuck," he breathes, his right hand rapidly furling and unfurling. After not spending more than an hour or two in heaven at a time for millennia, he had completely forgotten about his angelic markings, which had looked very different before Eden. The exact images are hazy, washed out by time and apparently a fundamental change in his essence, because the snake lazily sliding around his wrist and closing its eyes as if to nap is both new and strangely familiar.

(Listen. Do you hear that?)

Tremors run through his body, fine and yet strong enough to keep him from opening the file, from reading, thinking, planning, his mind filled with fire-red hair and golden eyes and the taste of love on his tongue.

(I don't hear anything.)

Aziraphale cradles his marked hand against his chest, pressing his knuckles to his lips and trying to recall the few seconds during which he had felt whole. Happy.

(That's the point. No nightingales.)

The snake hisses quietly, or maybe he is already starting to lose his sanity, and its glittering scales provide what little comfort he can access in heaven, missing the white noise of London, the dusty quiet of his bookshop, missing Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #supreme archangel aziraphale #angel markings #*gods voice* and they were soulmates #*satan's voice* oh my god they were SOULMATES

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lunaekalenda · 1 month

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warnings: mention of the word "kidnapper", mention of guns, suggestive (?) it's just crack tbh, i'll make proper fluff and a proper fic later! btw this cute separator is from @animatedglittergraphics-n-more so thank uuu <3

your workmate entered your office quickly, closing behind her with a strong and loud bang that made you take your eyes up from the documents you were reading. a pearl of sweat was sliding down her forehead and she seemed shocked. you stood up quickly and she took your shoulders, shaking you by them.

"all good? what happens? are you alright?" you ask her, but she's still catching air when she talks.

"gun. a gun. there's a-a guy with a gun, and he's waiting for you, you have to hide. we already called the cops, so there's no ne-"

you release yourself from her grip before getting close to the window near your chair, looking to the parking lot, were your boyfriend rests against his car, while he cleans his gun with a pink glasses cloth you lended him this morning when he dropped you to work.

"cops won't be necessary, it's just my partner." your workmate looks at you with surprise, before giving a look to were he is. Sylus takes his gaze up and finds you, before waving his fingers towards you. you answer his movement by copying him. "see?"

your friend nods energetically before speaking. "i thought it was way too strange for him to enter and be polite and patient while holding a gun. it didn't fit with the kidnapper trope." her curious eyes follow you around while you put all your stuff in the bag. you smile shyly to her, before opening the door.

"thanks for the concern, but it won't be necessary from now on. he's just... an agent. that's why he has a gun, yeah, totally legal. don't worry a ton about it." you leave quickly in direction to the parking lot, where he's still in the exact same position. as soon as he sees you, he slides the gun inside its case on his belt, before taking your hips automatically when you're close enough. his lips catch yours on a welcoming kiss.

"really, i love that you're more free now and i really appreciate that you wanna drop me and pick me up from work but, could you avoid taking... that out?"

Sylus looks at his belt with his red eyes glowing in fun. he raises a brow in your direction.

"didn't knew accounting made you that horny, sweetie. though, you never told me you were into that public thing." you feel your cheeks heating up and he giggles, pecking your lips again before opening the car door for you to sit, taking your shoulder strap and putting it on the backseats. he sits on the driver's seat and ties your seatbelt. he starts to drive, humming softly the song that plays.

"no, but really, avoid taking the gun outside in public. not everyone is used to them here." he nods a couple times, his hand sliding over the steering wheel so smoothly you find yourself staring at it. he takes his free hand to your thigh, squeezing it softly.

"i promise i won't. i was just making time, i'm not used to wait for someone out of work. a work with a schedule i don't control, of course." you laugh at his words and he turns left towards home. "though, you had to see her face when she saw the gun on the belt, i thought she was gonna faint in place."

"Sylus..." you sigh. he giggles again.

"sorry, love, sorry." he passes his tongue over his lips. "next time, i'll just bring a crossword book for the meantime, yes?"

"good." he parks masterfully before powering off the car. he unties your seatbelt before leaving, opening the door for you and taking both yours and his things. your hand is the next thing he holds as soon as he's next to you. you walk together towards your apartment. he speaks on the elevator, a malicious grin appearing on his lips.

"tell your friend i'm sorry for the gun. and that it will probably happen again."

#sylus x you #sylus x reader #sylus x y/n #love & deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lads x you #lads x y/n #lads sylus #lads fanfic #sylus fluff #lads fluff #love & deepspace fluff #love & deepspace x you

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bigmpregnm · 2 months

Text

Enjoy the Ride - Part 1

[Story Collection] | [●] [Part 2🔴]

A knot tightened in my stomach while I waited for someone to call me into the office. I was extremely nervous because there were only two possible reasons to be there: I was either getting fired or receiving a raise. Although I was a good worker, I knew I hadn’t done anything remarkable to warrant a raise. To make matters worse, the man waiting for me wasn’t even my immediate boss; he was the boss of my boss’ boss, the freaking CEO of the company. I knew I was in big trouble. I tried to remain calm but couldn’t afford to lose my job. I needed it and was willing to do anything to keep it.

My name is Adam Macci, and at 24 years old, the thought of such a terrifying meeting had me on the verge of tears, even before entering the office. Despite having worked at the company for a year, I knew I still had a lot to learn, which made me feel insecure about the reason for the meeting. Working in the accounting department was incredibly dull, and the pay could have been better, but I wanted to avoid facing unemployment.

As a young, single dad to my 5-year-old son, Marco, losing my job would mean homelessness for us. Marco’s mother left when he was only two months old, and my parents disowned me before he was born, leaving us to fend for ourselves. I was determined to keep my job and provide for my son, and I was ready to beg if it was necessary.

As I waited in the hallway, beads of sweat formed on my forehead, evidence of my extreme anxiety. When I heard the CEO’s secretary calling my name, my heart skipped a few beats. Her earnest gaze as I nervously stood up only made things worse. Each step I took made my legs feel like jelly, threatening to betray me at any moment. I was almost panting in fear.

The sense of horror intensified as I walked into the CEO’s office. The room was huge and luxurious, the kind of someone like me could never even dream of owning. I knew the man was a billionaire, but even then, the entire place made me feel tiny and worthless. The room was far bigger than my entire apartment, and considering I wasn’t that big at 5’8” and 154 pounds, I felt like a mouse entering the domain of a hungry cat.

I took a deep breath and took shaky steps toward a massive desk. Behind it was an enormous chair facing away from me and looking into the most breathtaking view of the city I had ever seen. Despite the chair’s considerable size, I could see the CEO’s strong shoulders popping at the sides, which made me feel even more nervous. I had heard rumors about him being a colossal man, but his frame was broader than I had ever expected. My knowledge of this man was limited, mainly consisting of mere office gossip. The only certainty I had was his last name, Griffin because it adorned the company’s name.

I wasn’t sure if I should sit down, so I remained silent, waiting for him to speak. I couldn’t find the words to express myself as I was on the verge of having a stroke when the chair started turning, and Mr. Griffin’s massive and imposing figure came into view. The man was truly enormous. Even sitting down, he looked tall, and his whole figure was so broad that I felt like a twink. I was terrified by his size, but simultaneously, it amazed me. He smiled at me, and my knees shook.

“Good morning, Adam. Please take a seat. We have some important matters to discuss,” Mr. Griffin said with such a powerful and commanding voice that my entire body trembled.

“T… Thanks, Mr. Griffin. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m…” I nervously started saying as I sat, but he interrupted me.

“You’ve been working for me for nearly a year, correct?” He asked, making me wonder whether I should respond. He then opened a folder and started reading some documents. “You appear to be a trustworthy young man. Your supervisor commends your responsibility and dedication, noting that you work extra hours without getting paid. You have a 5-year-old son who lives with you, yet your file doesn’t mention a partner, making these additional hours a significant sacrifice. You sound like an exemplary employee,” he said, looking at me expectantly.

“Thanks, Mr. Griffin. I always try my best and…” I managed to say before he interrupted me once again.

“The thing is, Adam, nobody is perfect. Everyone has something they hide. For example, Kyle, the guy in the cubicle next to yours, is secretly in a relationship with Jenny, the receptionist. And just so you know, he’s married, and Jenny is unaware of it. Karen, the woman who brought you to my office, has undergone 14 plastic surgeries to look how she looks. Despite her claims that it is natural, I know her surgeon. Have you seen Greg, the janitor? He’s young, and his muscles are bigger than a world class bodybuilder. I suspect he may have serious issues with steroid abuse, although he insists he’s natural. I could continue with more examples because I am well-informed about everyone in this company. That’s why I asked Karen to bring you here, Adam. I wanted you to share your secret with me,” he said, leaning forward on his desk and his voice growing even more intense. Fear gripped me, and I swallowed hard.

“I-I don’t know, Mr. Griffin. Since I started working here, I’ve been honest about everything. Also, you seem to have my file, and everything is there,” I said with a shaky voice, sweating like a pig.

“Okay. I wanted you to tell me the truth without reading it, but as you mentioned, I have your file,” Mr. Griffin said with a smile. I knew he was up to something mean, but I had no idea what it was. “Three months ago, you didn’t come to work for a whole week. You had to deliver some important tax papers that week, and the delay cost me almost a million dollars. Taxes, surcharges, you know how that is. What I need to know here is what was so important that you made me lose almost a million dollars?” he said, and I turned pale. I knew what he was talking about, so I knew I was screwed.

“I was sick, Mr. Griffin. I called my supervisor and explained what was happening. I’m sorry you lost so much money, but I thought they would take care of my pending work,” I explained, almost crying.

“You told him you were sick, but you didn’t explain what it was and didn’t tell him you needed the whole week off. Weeks later, you presented a document where a doctor explained why you needed the whole week off, but I’m confused here, and since I lost money because of it, I need you to explain this to me,” he said, sounding serious and I just wanted to run away.

“It’s… it’s a medical condition, and it’s hard to explain. I honestly don’t like talking about it, but…” I was struggling to talk, and he interrupted me once again.

“Okay. I’ll explain it to you. Your doctor sent a long letter, but I’ll focus on two fascinating details. First, he mentioned you are one of the few known cases of men who have a womb. He detailed some technical stuff, but I understand it’s connected to your rectum and fully functional, which made me wonder about your boy’s mom. I mean, does he even have a mom or?” He looked at my midsection, and I panicked.

“What? No, no. Mr. Griffin, Marco has a mom. She just ran away. I never…” I tried to explain, but he kept talking.

“The other thing that caught my attention was the reason why you took the week off. The doctor said you had intense bleeding caused by a hormonal imbalance during your menstruation. He said this is uncommon because men don’t menstruate that much, but it’s not unheard of. He said this is unlikely to happen again, so you’re perfectly healthy now. Lucky you.” He closed the folder and leaned back on his massive chair, looking devilish. “This whole thing has me very confused. I mean, I lost money because you, a man, had your period?” he said, sounding angry.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin. I didn’t even know I had this condition until the bleeding started, and I never thought you’d lose so much money…” I was almost crying, and he laughed. Somehow, he looked like he was enjoying my fear.

“What matters to me is that you made me lose money, and now I want you to pay it. You will pay for the money you made me lose, one way or another. I could fire you, but that wouldn’t be fun. I could make you work for me without pay until you’ve paid off your debt, but that wouldn’t be fun, either. So, I have an offer for you. I can forget about the money I lost, and you can keep your job and even earn some extra money. How does that sound?” He smiled at me, but it scared me even more because it sounded too good to be true.

He presented me with some papers and a pen. He wanted me to sign whatever those papers said. I realized he had everything planned out, which meant it couldn’t be good for me. I was at Mr. Griffin’s mercy because I couldn’t afford to pay back all that money, and losing my job was not an option. I was willing to do anything to keep my job, and the extra money sounded appealing, but I was afraid because I knew that man had some sinister intentions.

Mr. Griffin explained that he had been looking for the right person to provide him with heirs. The word “heirs” sent shivers down my spine as I understood what Mr. Griffin had in mind. He said that, despite being 40 years old and able to attract any woman he desired, he lacked the time for a committed relationship. Consequently, he decided to have children through surrogacy.

As he handed me the documents, my face turned pale upon seeing the words “Surrogacy Contract” at the top of the page. I glanced up at him, only to be met with the most sinister smile I had ever witnessed. I knew his actions violated numerous labor laws, but he held immense power as a millionaire, while I, a young single father, stood no chance against a man like him.

He said he had done some research about my condition, and upon learning about it, he found out male pregnancy had a 99% chance of producing boys. He proceeded to tell me about several cases of men who had become pregnant before, all of whom had multiple births, which aligned perfectly with his desires. His anger seemed to have dissipated, replaced by excitement. He said I seemed the perfect vessel to carry his heirs, leaving me speechless.

I desperately wanted to escape, but the shock rendered me immobile. Struggling to process Mr. Griffin’s words, I met his gaze as he awaited my response. I was at a loss for what to do. After some hesitation, I placed the contract back on the desk and pushed it away from me. Instead of becoming angry, a broad smile spread across his face, causing a wave of horror to wash over me as I gulped nervously.

He leaned back in his chair again and warned me that if I refused to sign the contract, he would take legal action against me for the million dollars he claimed I had cost him and any additional expenses resulting from my mistake. I froze as he continued telling me how he would make me lose everything if I didn’t sign the contract.

With no other options available, I reluctantly pulled the contract closer and picked up the pen. I knew the situation was illegal, but legality held no weight for someone like Mr. Griffin. He was rich enough to buy the entire city, so I knew I couldn’t beat him in court. I was screwed. Attempting to gain some semblance of control, I tried to read through the extensive ten-page contract. However, fear consumed me so much that I couldn’t comprehend a single word. I was too terrified even to recall my own name.

Mr. Griffin helped me fill out and sign the contract while I tried to hold back my tears. He assured me that he would cover all expenses for Marco and me for the next few months, and he promised that if I fulfilled my part of the agreement, our lives would never be the same. Although confused and frightened, I knew I had to do what was best for Marco, even if I had to carry Mr. Griffin’s children.

Once we had filled out and signed the contract, Mr. Griffin rose from his chair, revealing his full height. Standing approximately 6’6” tall, he towered over me by more than a foot, and I was sure he outweighed me by at least 100 pounds, all of it composed of pure muscle. As he slowly walked around the desk, positioning himself directly before me, I couldn’t take my eyes off his impressive physique.

Not only was he remarkably tall, but his formal dark suit strained against his well-built frame. His broad shoulders, defined chest, and bulging biceps seemed to stretch the fabric of his jacket to its limits. His waist was astonishingly narrow, while his lower body displayed strength. It was undeniably impressive, but what truly caught my attention was the enormous bulge that looked unrealistically full. A small part of me even wondered if he had stuffed something in his pants.

“I already have an appointment for us this coming Saturday. I knew you would sign the contract,” he said with a proud and sinister grin. “The doctor is a friend of mine, and I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to perform the insemination that same day. The sooner you get pregnant, the sooner you’ll pay your debt, and I’ll happily forget about the money. I could even give you a promotion if everything goes as planned,” he added. I absently smiled because that sounded good.

After he briefly explained the contract’s contact, I left Mr. Griffin’s office feeling incredibly confused. I couldn’t believe I had agreed to get pregnant. I was a man, and even though I knew there had been a few cases, people didn’t widely accept male pregnancy. Some people still thought it was a myth, but thanks to the bleeding and my medical appointments, I learned that it was possible.

For the remainder of the day, the impending pregnancy consumed my thoughts. Absent-mindedly, I found myself rubbing my abdomen, contemplating the idea of carrying one or even two babies within me, which made me feel pretty strange. Despite the fear and less-than-ideal circumstances, a part of me was curious about the experience of being pregnant. If I had no other option but to carry Mr. Griffin’s children, I decided to find some joy in the journey.

A few days later, on Saturday, as Mr. Griffin had instructed me, I found myself in the waiting room of a well-known fertility clinic. I had to leave Marco with his nanny, even though Saturdays were our special day together.

As I took a deep breath, I heard Mr. Griffin’s voice as he entered the clinic, and I couldn’t help but gasp at how great he looked. He wore a T-shirt that accentuated his muscles, making them look bigger. His tight-fitting jeans showcased his muscular legs, but his ass and bulge were simply out of this world. Despite knowing he was a bad guy, I felt my dick throbbing as Mr. Griffin approached and smiled at me.

The doctor called us a few minutes later, and I became even more nervous. The doctor already had a file with my detailed information and only conducted general exams on my body to confirm my good health. He palpated my abdomen to ensure I was ready for pregnancy and reassured me that everything looked good. Throughout the process, Mr. Griffin never stopped smiling. Evidently, he was pleased to see his plan unfolding just as he had hoped.

However, Mr. Griffin’s expression changed when the doctor explained that, despite everything being in place for him to inseminate me, he couldn’t do it right away. The doctor stated that I needed to follow his instructions for at least a week to increase the chances of conception on the first attempt. Mr. Griffin wasn’t pleased because he wanted me to get pregnant that day.

While I saw Mr. Griffin trying to convince the doctor to proceed with the procedure, I was in awe of his massive body again. As he grew visibly tense, the veins on his arms thickened, accentuating his size. I couldn’t take my eyes off his lower half, and a wild idea crossed my mind as the doctor continued to refuse.

Eventually, Mr. Griffin gave up and accepted that we would have to wait another week. The doctor left the room, and I noticed Mr. Griffin was mad at him. Since the doctor wouldn’t perform the insemination, the logical thing to do was for me to leave. Instead, I heard myself speaking without even realizing it.

“Mr. Griffin, I know the contract specifies artificial insemination, but… maybe we could do this… the natural way?” I asked, and he looked at me with evident excitement.

“Are you serious? Just to be clear, are you suggesting a change to the contract?” he asked. As I nodded, he smiled, making my dick throb again. “If that’s the case, let’s go to my place,” he happily added.

I willingly followed him to his car, feeling curious but aware that I might’ve been getting into trouble. Despite this, I still wanted to enjoy the ride.

...

#mpreg #mpreg story

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rosesloveletters · 10 months

Text

braids like a pattern.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Reader

Word Count: 2,176

Warnings: none

Summary: Reader asks Wonka to braid their hair.

Author's Note: If it wasn't clear, I want him to braid my hair for me so that's why this fic exists. I hope you enjoy <3

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

Willy Wonka sat at his desk inside his office. It was late and he was filling out some invoices, billing payments and other various paperwork. This, unlike what took place in the heart of the factory, wasn’t fantastical in the slightest, but as company founder and the only human employee of Wonka Industries it was his responsibility to have it completed.

He silently puffed on a cigar while he wrote. He knew you were not a fan of the pungent smell of cigar smoke, so he only would only light one when you were not around.

He had a feeling you’d be making an appearance sooner rather than later to check on him and pull him to bed for the night, so he was prepared to extinguish the cigar at a moment’s notice.

Willy was used to his own bizarre schedule.

He spent most of his workday in the inventing room and the business side, the ‘less fun’ side, was neglected.

He wasn’t a businessman; he was a creator. An inventor. An artist.

He did have to remind himself on occasion that half of running a successful business was maintaining said business through work done inside of an office. Otherwise, even though he had a solid business model and products that the public wanted to buy, he’d be harming his bottom line by not keeping up with payments, schedules, invoicing and other various clerical details and, ultimately, his business would fail due to his negligence.

So, he cut everything inside his office in half.

Everything.

It was a way to remind himself, if nothing else, that half of this business’s success was on his shoulders alone.

The Oompa Loompas helped him as much as possible and he was eternally grateful for their learned expertise, but they did not handle this side of his business. He had to hold himself accountable and would drag himself into his office late at night to focus on nothing but paperwork.

It was rather boring stuff, but it was necessary and if he wanted to keep making and selling his creations to the masses, then he would do it, plain as that.

He had already spent hours poring over pages upon pages of documents that needed his attention. He had a lot to catch up on that he’d been purposely putting off until the last minute and he wanted to do better, to bebetter, but when inspiration struck, he found himself inside the inventing room and nothing and no one else could pull him away.

Except maybe, you.

It was when his thoughts inevitably drifted to you did he finally hear his office door creak open.

A smile crept onto his face, brightening his soft features as he anticipated you crossing the room to get to him, your delicate hand upon his shoulder to gently get his attention without disrupting his work and the tender smile you’d give him as you checked up on him and asked him to bed.

He was getting tired, after all, and it would be nice to crawl into bed now that it wasn’t just a cold mattress waiting for him. Now, it was you who warmed his sheets and waited for him into the wee hours of the morning until he was ready to call it a night.

He owed you for that and, if you were counting, which he doubted, he suspected he’d always come up short.

As predicted, he could hear your quiet footsteps moving toward him and then, once they’d stopped, your warm hand landed on his shoulder.

He quickly put out his cigar in the ashtray and turned, unable to pretend to still be working, and grinned up at you, “Hello, my dear. Couldn’t sleep?”

You were already wearing your pajamas and your long hair hung elegantly down your back.

Willy admired the sight of you in such a relaxed state as your eyes traveled from him to the thin cloud of smoke wreathing up from the recently extinguished cigar in the tray. His expression turned apologetic when he realized you had noticed he’d been smoking; he was appreciative that you did not address it.

His gaze traveled down to what you had in your hands: a wooden comb and brush set.

You shrugged a bit at his question, “I haven’t tried to sleep yet,” you responded as you held out the comb and brush, wanting him to take them, “I was wondering if…you would please brush and braid my hair for me tonight?”

Willy’s smile grew as you asked the question and he nodded eagerly, delighted to help you with such a tender and domestic task.

He stood up and reached for the extra chair he’d brought in for you if you wanted a place to sit when you joined him in his office. Of course, it had to be sliced in half like his own, but that was nothing of consequence.

He brought the chair around his desk and had you sit on it sideways so that the chair back wouldn’t be in his way.

You quietly passed him the comb and brush before you sat down.

You were aware that Willy did not love the administrative aspect of running a business and that might have influenced your decision to ask him for help with your hair. He had been working diligently on paperwork for several hours and he was owed a break.

You did feel a bit guilty for asking this of him, only because it was late and he must have been tired.

Sometimes Willy seemed like less of a man and more of a dream, but in an odd moment you saw the raw humanity in him, the deeply ingrained mortality that governed all his decisions.

You’d sink or swim in those clear blue eyes of his, pools of liquid starlight that could drown you with a single glace. He had every bit of imagination on his side to make him seem too good to be true and perhaps he was.

He cared for you and nothing would stop him from staying up late to have a bit more time with you, not even sleep.

He gently dragged the comb through your hair, admiring the silken shine to it as he pulled the comb from your scalp down to the ends.

He was slightly regretful that his own hair could not be cared for in the same way and therefore your reciprocation was more for the simple aspect of reciprocation than actual haircare.

His frizzy strawberry blonde curls were wild and unruly and behaved as if they had a mind of their own. He styled his hair the best that he could (he knew better than to brush it) and contained it, albeit poorly, with his hat.

Willy’s hair was the physical manifestation of his good-natured zaniness and idiosyncratic behavior while yours represented your level head and mild-mannered way of thinking.

He smiled to himself as he combed through your hair, “Thank you for coming down here.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied as you relaxed into the gentle caress of his fingers pulling the comb through your hair, “I wanted to check on you. It seems like you get busier and busier each day.”

Willy chuckled lightly at the comment, “respectfully, I’d say that is true. However, what is disrespectful is that work has gotten in the way of my spending time with you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, “you haven’t got to spend every second with me, Willy,” you reminded him in a playful tone of voice.

“Of course not,” he agreed, mild-mannered as always, “but you wouldn’t begrudge me the effort to try.”

The seriousness with which he said that made you laugh. You chose not to respond as he switched out the comb for your brush. His movements were more direct, a heavier hand to make sure the bristles penetrated your thick hair and brushed evenly, smoothing out the finer strands.

Willy lost himself in the way he took care of you. He treated you with the utmost respect, handling you as though you were made of glass.

He reasoned that you should feel safe in the hands of a lover and he wanted to provide you with that sanctity if he could help it. Otherwise, what was all of this for? There was no point in working as he did if there was no one to reap the benefits with him. He had thought he’d found solace in solitude, but he didn’t feel as if he had given anything up to have you.

He hadn’t had to change himself or become a better version of himself, you’d taken him as he was. You elevated him, enlightened him and molded yourself to fit into his world. The very least he could do was find ways to give you the same courtesy.

He wanted you to feel like he was as much a part of your life as you were of his.

He set the brush down on his desk next to your comb and began sectioning your hair to split it into two braids.

You focused on the movement of his hands as his fingers carded through your locks.

Every pull of his fingers was tender and done so gently as to not cause any pain.

You thrived on his touch, the tender way he seemed almost hesitant to put his hands on you. At certain points, you had to wonder if he was still there because he was being so careful that you could hardly feel what he was doing.

You let out a soft groan as his index finger caught a knot in one of your strands and pulled.

“Sorry, darling,” he mumbled, then leaned in and kissed the back of your head in apology.

Your chest swelled with giddiness at his affection and you wanted to turn around and pull him in for a cuddle, but you didn’t want to mess up his rhythm. You could feel his nimble fingers weaving one section of hair into a braid and trying to turn around in this position might end with him accidentally pulling on it a bit too tight.

You would wait for your chance to hug him, which would come, you knew all too well.

You pulled one of your black scrunchies off your wrist and passed it back to him over your shoulder. He took it wordlessly and secured the ends of your braid with it.

Following the same pattern, he switched to the other section of hair and began braiding it. You were ready and waiting for him to finish as you passed him the other scrunchie to secure your second braid.

How many times you had had him braid your hair for you were you uncertain, but it had been enough for him to learn to do it quickly.

Willy was good with his hands, in more ways than one.

“All done, little dear,” he grinned as you moved on the chair so you were face to face with him.

You pulled both braids over your shoulders and felt them for comfort, “thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he responded, his eyes following your movements closely as he leaned in to watch you.

You glanced up and met his gaze, making him smile when you caught him looking.

Your love for him enveloped you, blanketed you with every ounce of your devotion and now your wants were satisfied because he had finished with your hair and you were free to scoop him into your arms.

You reached for him, forearms sliding over his shoulders and around the back of his neck as you sat up in your chair and hugged him.

He knew what you wanted as his arms encircled your waist.

He didn’t want you to fall off your chair in your haste to get to him and he steadied you, holding on tight as you practically sank in against his solid body.

His own exhaustion had been forgotten up until this point and as he held you against him, he let his eyes slip closed. Suddenly, the harsh lighting was getting to him. His chair was too hard on his lower back. His feet were aching, his head swimming and his eyes were red. He needed sleep and the caress of a lover.

He inhaled your sweet scent and drew you in close. His lips attached to your neck as he delivered several kisses and loving nips to your delicate skin.

“Willy, come to bed with me.”

You didn’t have to ask him twice.

He was out of his chair fast enough to make your head spin. After you grabbed your comb and brush, he flicked off the lights and took you by the hand, guiding you out of his office.

His bed called to him; sleep was a siren’s song.

His paperwork would be there waiting for him come morning.

The only thing he had on his mind was falling into bed as hard and as fast as he fell in love with you.

#willy wonka #willy wonka and the chocolate factory #willy wonka 1971 #wilder!wonka #willy wonka imagine #willy wonka x reader #willy wonka and the chocolate factory imagine #gene wilder #biblio :: 📖

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 months

Text

Naomi Kritzer's "Liberty's Daughter"

Tomorrow (November 22), I'll be joined by Vass Bednar at the Toronto Metro Reference Library for a talk about my new novel, The Lost Cause, a preapocalyptic tale of hope in the climate emergency.

There's so much sf about "competent men" running their families with entrepreneurial zeal, clarity of vision and a firm confident hand. But there's precious little fiction about how much being raised by a Heinlein dad would suuuck. But it would, and in Naomi Kritzer's Liberty's Daughter, we get a peek inside the nightmare:

https://fairwoodpress.com/store/p148/LIBERTY%27S_DAUGHTER.html

Beck Garrison is a seasteader, living on a floating platform built by libertarian cranks to get away from big government, taxes, and the idea that people owe each other care and consideration. Various kinds of market trufans have built their own fiefdoms: there's a sin city, a biotech free-for-all, a lawless Mad Max zone, and so on.

Beck's father, Paul, is some kind of local functionary. He's wealthy and respected, both a power-broker and a power in his own right. He pays for Beck to get private tutoring (no public schools – no public anything) and if she needs bailing out from some kind of sticky situation, he's got her on his account with Alpha Dogs, the toughest mercenaries on the sea (no police, either). An armed society is a polite society, after all.

Beck has a job, naturally (there ain't no such thing as a free lunch). She's a finder: for all that the steaders worship commerce as a sacrament consecrated to the holy Invisible Hand, there's not a lot of retail at sea. California – the nearest onshore neighbor – has lots of pesky taxes, and besides, it's a long ways off. Besides, space is at a premium on the stead, so people don't have attics and basements to fill with excess consumer junk.

Instead, when a steader needs something – a shoelace, a fashion accessory, or any other creature comfort – they hire a finder like Beck to clamber around between the decks of the aircraft carriers, scows, yachts and other vessels comprising the stead. It's a good way for Beck to earn spending money, and she's a natural at it. After all, she's been a steader since she was four, when her mother died in a drunk driving accident and her father took her to sea.

The story opens with a finding job. Beck wants a pair of sparkly shoes for her client, and the woman who owns them is an indentured servant whose sister has gone missing. Find the sister, get the shoes.

Indentured servant? Yeah, of course. Freedom of contract is the one freedom from which all the others flow, so you can sell yourself into bond labor. Hell, maybe you can earn enough to buy a share in the stead and become a co-owner/citizen.

This is the setup for Beck's adventure, which sees her liberating bond slaves tricked into fatal work details, getting involved in reality TV production, meeting illegal IWW organizers, and becoming embroiled in a pandemic that threatens the lives of all the steaders. It's a coming of age novel, told with the same straightforward, spunky zeal of Heinlein's juvies, but from the perspective of the daughter, not the dad.

Kritzer makes it clear that growing up under the thumb of a TANSTAAFL-worshipping, self-regarding, wealthy autocrat who worships selfishness as the necessary precondition for market clearing would be a goddamned nightmare. She also thinks through some of the important implications of life in one of these offshore libertarian archipelagos, like the fact that the wealthy residents would be overwhelming drawn from the ranks of corporate criminals and tax-cheats, and the underclass would be bail-skipping proles ensnared in the War on Drugs.

But Liberty's Daughter isn't a hymn to big government. Most of the steaders are escaping the US government, a state whose authoritarian and cruel proclivities are well-documented. Kritzer uses the labor dispute at the core of the novel to reveal market authoritarianism – the coercive power that hunger and poverty transfers from the have-nots to the haves. Think of Anatole France's wry observation that "the law, in its majestic equality, equally forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread."

If you're familiar with Kritzer's work, you won't be surprised to learn that she tells a zippy, fast moving tale that smuggles in sharp observations about the cleavage lines between solidarity and selfishness. Her story "So Much Cooking" – published years before the pandemic – captured life under lockdown with eerie prescience:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/17/pack-of-knaves/#so-much-cooking

More recently, her "Better Living Through Algorithms" is a dazzling display of knifework that'll cut you a dozen times before you even notice that you're bleeding:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/02/wunderkammer/#jubillee

If you habitually read Kritzer's short fiction, Liberty's Daughter might be familiar to you, as it is adapted from a series of stories that originally ran in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Kritzer's YA debut, Catfishing on the CatNet, was also adapted from a short story, "Cat Pictures Please," which won the Hugo Award in 2016:

https://boingboing.net/2019/11/19/setec-astronomy-kitteh.html

"Libertarian exit" – buying a country, or an archipelago, or just a luxury bunker – has been in the air lately. It's a major element of my new novel, The Lost Cause, which came out this month – anarchocapitalist wreckers try to sabotage the Green New Deal from the seastead they've moored to the tallest point in the drowned Grand Caymans and declared to be a sovereign nation:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

Kritzer is great at catching that zeitgeist. Seasteading is part of a long, bitter dream of a certain kind of selfish person to escape society, a tale told in lurid and fascinating detail in Raymond Craib's 2022 history Adventure Capitalism:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/14/this-way-to-the-egress/#terra-nullius

There's a longstanding joke to the effect that you can shut down any discussion of the merits of a libertarian exit by asking three questions about the brave new world:

Whether you can sell your organs;

Whether you can sell yourself into slavery; and

Whether there is any age of consent.

Kritzer tackles the first two, but tacks around the third. Instead, by giving us a young adult protagonist who has been raised in a rusting libertopia, she finds a decidedly less incendiary way to think about the role of autonomy in adolescents, and thus generates far more light than heat.

The result is a cracking read with a sting in its tail.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/21/podkaynes-dad-was-a-dick/#age-of-consent

#pluralistic

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missmeasured · 10 months

Text

Merry Rickmas everybody! I’d like to throw this in, even though I’m late for the prompt. Under the category of Restless Waiting I have a Hans Gruber/Reader smut for y’all.

You are a new lawyer who is being blackmailed by Hans Gruber and forced to work for him in the weeks leading up to his heist. Temporarily living together in a penthouse apartment that faces the Nakatomi Tower, you sometimes forget he’s a criminal. He prefers to remind you.

Rating: Explicit | Word Count: 2300 | Pairing: Hans Gruber/ You (Reader has breasts and a vagina)

Content Warning Tags: Blackmail, shoplifting, Heist planning, Non consensual touching, Fingering, Vaginal Sex

Read below the cut:

Restless Waiting - Rickmas 2023 - Hans Gruber

You had gotten used to being woken in the night with his requests. Working for Hans, living in this apartment while he worked on his plan, was an all hours kind of job. However, normally it was a sharp knock that stirred you, this time you did not wake at the soft opening of the door, or the lifting of the covers, but jolted into alertness as the weight settled into your bed.

“Sir?” You ask in a panic, please God let it be him and not some intruder.

“I require your assistance,” he used his normal answer and yet as he slunk across your bed the normalcy of the answer seemed not to matter.

“I’ll get some clothes,” you begin and try to leave from the other side, but his hands take your hips, clad only in some cotton underwear, and pull them back toward his own.

“That won’t be necessary. You are perfect as you are.” He answers calmly. Then his fingers start tracing patterns across the flesh of your shoulder blades above your camisole and you shiver to think what assistance he is asking for tonight.

You knew he was not a good man, in the moral way. He was not opposed to using violence to get what he wants. You yourself are here because he is blackmailing you. You would lose your law career if he told on you about your prolific shoplifting spree you went on after a bout of depression at the end of law school. How he knew about it, you were not sure. You had changed your name since then, covered your tracks as best you could. Yet the evidence remained, and with his folder of evidence your employers would also have no difficulty connecting the dots.

The fingers of a not morally good man swirling around the skin on one’s back, were complicated. On one hand, you were not an idiot, men like him often take what they want in this way. So your body tensed, too aware of being prey, all the nights you had slumbered here unmolested had lulled you into a false sense of security perhaps. On the other hand, he was a handsome man. Quite charming. Too many times you had felt yourself forget that he was a criminal, who was blackmailing you into helping him dot the i’s and cross the t’s on his plan. He planned on killing. You knew all of this explicitly and still there were moments.

Mornings of sharing cups of coffee, when he was not questioning you about the legal intricacies of different foreign bank accounts or corporate documents, sometimes he would just ask you questions about yourself and really listen to the answer. In those conversations you felt yourself forget who he really was. You cursed the little butterflies in your stomach and squashed them with the remembrance that he was your blackmailer.

“What do you want, Hans?” You ask, you need to be clear about what is happening here. To know what to expect. Are you being asked to pay the blackmailer with your body now?

“It’s funny… my plan… it’s all coming to fruition and now… all this waiting. It makes me unsettled.” He answers. It is not an answer.

“And… how can I help?” You ask the dark, his hand begins slipping up and down your waist and over your hip, on its way back he lets it go under your camisole. Your breath hitches but the hand stays near your waist, he doesn't move to grope you.

“The holiday… it makes me feel… lonesome. Funny how your childhood has a way of rearing its ugly head when you think you are so big and impervious to it all. So I find myself… seeking your company.”

“Christmas… is a strange time for a lot of people.” You whisper back, unsure what to say.

“Take off this top. I want to draw on your whole back.” He instructs in a whisper. His fingertips swirl again, under your shirt now. To say no, and be told it was mandatory felt too uncomfortable. You didn’t want to think of this as happening as part of your blackmail, so you lifted yourself up to slide out of the camisole without argument, telling yourself you wanted the handsome man to draw on your back anyway. You told yourself to pretend you had met him at a cafe. Come home with him of your own accord.

“So much…. Waiting… so much wanting… perhaps I am a child waiting for Saint Nicholas all over again. Only this time… I wait for a much bigger present. Freedom.” He muses as he maps out the planes of your bare back while you clutch the covers close to your chest. “Then again, I am sure you also… are restless… waiting for your own freedom. From me.”

“I was more restless in the beginning. Now I have accepted it. Just a few more days, and you’ll be somewhere in paradise and I’ll… go back to work,” you answer.

“Perhaps I shall send you a plane ticket… have you come so that I might do this in sun cream…” he muses.

“I’m sure there will be a lovely lady with a lovely back where you are going.” You try to shut this down, because just then your mind was too eager to jump at the chance. The idea of not working anymore was too pleasant. But you were too clever to jump at being the mistress of a criminal. You would live at his whim, feeling like he owned you. You would lose all the progress of your hard fought career, and what if one day he just called it off? Better not to dream at all.

“I’ve grown quite fond of you, this month.” His lips seem too close to your ear. “My clever girl. So helpful.”

“You are a very charming blackmailer.” You answer in a whisper, too excited about the change in his tone, the weight of his pressing hands, and how one has gone back to your waist and made the pilgrimage over your hip and down your thigh.

“Charming?” He did that laugh where he made a single grunt of chuckle in his throat and pushed air through his nose, it tickled your neck. “Charming enough… to ask for more? I confess, I came in here thinking if I can blackmail you to work for me, I can blackmail you to snuggle away the Christmas woe, the relentless waiting, and yet… I do confess I want more. But… I don’t want your body as blackmail. You’d have to give it of your own free will.” His fingers swirled over the fronts of your thighs, sending wanting to your core in their wake.

You did not know what to say, but the more his fingers made swirls of goosebumps as if they were the winter wind inside the warmth of your covers, the harder it was not to show your arousal inside your breath.

“Well… can I have my pretty lawyer for Christmas?” He was impatient, waiting for your answer, his fingers so close to touching your panties you were aching with the need of it. His beard scratched against your bare back, he was kissing you softly there between your shoulder blades.

“Yes.” You whispered. He ended your waiting, immediately. He cupped your sex and pulled you tighter against him, suddenly his hard cock pressed against you. Had it been there behind you the whole time, pointing, reaching, not touching?

You moaned. You were letting him, your blackmailer, do this to you. Where were your senses? His beard scratched you while his lips clamped down to suck on your neck. Pain twisting with pleasure, like what you should do, and should not do. You should not be excited by the man who has threatened your livelihood, not yearn for the stiffness that pressed against your ass.

His fingers wormed under your panties, feeling for your entrance and finding it quickly. He laughs into your ear from behind. “I didn’t know I was this charming,” he teases. “So wet…” he pushes in with two fingers, making you cry out. “Tell me… did your pussy get this wet when you were stealing?” He was bringing up a dark time, a bad memory, twisting it with your pleasure. There was no fighting how good his fingers felt inside you. “That’s why I chose you, you know. My little thief. I know that you know… the rush I am chasing.”

Your response was only sounds, wanton, craving sounds while he talked and plunged his fingers in and out, with every pass of them you felt yourself dripping around them, almost embarrassed by how eager your body was for him. “You try to be such a good girl now. Different name.. revised history… but I think helping me steal all this money…. Turns you on. I think you are excited.” He ground his excitement into you and you clenched around his fingers thinking about having it inside you.

He stopped, withdrew, and tossed back the covers, plunging you into the chilly night air. He sat up, pulled you over onto your back, eyes feasting on your breasts. “I’ve been wondering what’s under your clothes… what a beautiful canvas to shoplift on. I bet these nipples looked so pretty under stolen lace. I bet this…” He put his hand down to her core again and brushed a thumb over her mound “left lovely silky wetness right in the middle of every stolen pair of panties.” He hooked his fingers in and stole your last bit of clothing.

In the moonlight you saw he had on an open button down shirt on and a pair of navy blue boxers that tented in the middle. He saw you look, and smirked as he pulled the length from below the waistband, letting it go above, an eager rock hardness, bobbing up and down as he let the thing swing. He looked so good, so handsome, and partly undressed, that beautiful cock the cherry on top, you opened your legs for him.

He knelt between your legs and guided the tip into your folds, slipping it up and down, lubing himself in your excitement. Every time he rubbed your clit with it you couldn’t help but moan for him, making you sound whoreishly eager for his coming penetration. But you liked it when he smirked at your noises.

He lined up the tip and nestled it into your opening. He raised and lowered his hips with maddening slowness, easing the length of it inside you tiny bit by tiny bit, relishing in your gasps, your hips lifting, trying to take more of him than he would allow at once. “You are… a very…mmmm… good Christmas gift… my little thief… you are…. So wet… “ He slowly said while he fucked himself into you with such erotic slowness you thought you would explode when it reached his full girth.

“I bet when I’m long gone with all my money you will touch yourself to these memories. At your boring job. Your pussy will be throbbing around your fingers when you think about helping me steal all that money…” He told you, and you knew he was right. You had been enjoying helping him.

You were so swollen, so needy, every pass of his cock was scratching a desperate itch. You didn’t even know you needed it. Had wanted it. He put his hands under your knees and pushed your legs back, crunching your body up under him as he began fucking you faster. He must have sensed you were about to come, because he slowed to a stop with a mischievous look. “Let me catch up with you, naughty girl.” You moan at his teasing, as he goes slow again with a maddening rhythm .

“I like this.” He sighed over your face as casually fucks you, letting you stay on the edge. “Respectable girl with bad girl past still likes being fucked like a naughty girl, doesn’t she? Because that’s who you are… inside.” He has pegged you with deadly accuracy. It seems to give him pleasure to have caught out the truth about you. He speeds up again.

He’s too right, you haven’t felt so alive in months, and no man has felt as good inside you as this criminal mastermind does. It all washes over you. The feelings, the truths of it all, the pleasure more than anything. Then you are starting your climax and he is chasing his own, pushing harder and deeper into you.

It’s like being outside of yourself, watching him fuck you till he comes. How when he begins to feel his climax coming he abandoned his slow, talkative approach and tossed his head back in open mouthed pleasure as he slams himself in to the hilt over and over again. His breathy noises, his groans on the air, make your growing orgasm unbeleivably strong, your legs shake as he fucks you.

He pulls himself out only at the last possible second as his cock instantly explodes all over your curled up form beneath him. You enjoyed his grunts a little too much as he used his hand to spend the last himself across your breasts.

It was only after that you had your first kiss with the man. The damn butterflies came back. “I don’t think the waiting is going to be so hard anymore… with such a lovely distraction.” He smiled as he cleaned you. “Not with my little thief stealing my attention.” He teased.

As he tucked you into his arms for the night suddenly the few days before the heist seemed like they would be too short. Your impending freedom loomed too imminent. You would be restlessly trying not to think about how fast Christmas was coming, knowing it would mark the end of your time with him. Unless you accepted that plane ticket offer after all.

#rickmas2023 #fanfiction #smutty #smutty fanfiction #hans gruber #Hans Gruber/reader #hans Gruber x you #alan rickman #not SFW #miss measured

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writingquestionsanswered · 3 months

Note

Thank you for answering my question about sharing my writing on tumblr. If I may, I'd like to ask another more important question.

A bit of necessary information first. I don't have a computer. I do my writing on an app called Writer's Journal, and it has an export option. Are their publishers or sites where I could submit my work through this app? And if so, what format should I use? Unfortunately, I'm a bit lost when it comes to computer knowledge. The app offers a few methods for sending, but I have no idea which to use. I can do straight text to share on tumblr or Facebook, but do I submit to a publisher in this form?

Please help if you can

Submitting to a Publisher with No Computer Access

Submission guidelines vary from one publisher and agent to the next, so the first thing you need to do is visit the web site of whichever agent or publisher you're submitting to and read their submission guidelines, which will be posted on the web site.

Most agents and publishers accept electronic submissions via a form on their web site or via e-mail. If it's a web site form, once you have the properly formatted document on your phone, go to the web site, click on the form and follow directions. When it gives you the option to attach/upload your manuscript, you will select the document on your phone. If it's an e-mail submission, you will need to make sure you have access to e-mail on your phone. If you don't already have one, you can set up a free G-Mail account for this purpose. The submission guidelines will tell you what e-mail address to use and any other pertinent info. You would then compose the e-mail, attach the document from your phone, and e-mail it to the listed e-mail address.

If nothing else, if you have access to a local library, you can also use the computers there for free and ask a librarian to help you submit your manuscript. Community centers sometimes have computers you can use, and you can also see if a friend or family member with a computer can help you.

Best wishes!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

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karespocketboyfriends · 2 months

Text

𝙴𝚟𝚒𝚎’𝚜 𝙶𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚃𝚘 𝙱𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝

Sylus X Evie (OC)

Warnings -> 18+ NSFW (penetration/use of ‘sweetie, kitten, sir’/light power play/climax control/gentle hair pulling & teeth grazing) Sylus lowkey offs a guy, situationship dynamic

An original fan-fiction for Love and Deepspace. I appreciate reblogs but reposting to Tumblr or any other site is not okay with me.

𝒯𝒾𝓅 #1: 𝒜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝑜𝓅 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝓊𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈

My head snaps up as the dining room doors swing open, a ridiculously tall man strolling through like he owns the place. Well, actually, he does own the place.

“Welcome back, Sir.” I greet him in a calm but upbeat manner. “Is any of that blood yours? Should I dig out the first aid kit?”

Sylus, the big bad boss of Onychinus and the devil parents use to scare their children into behaving, doesn’t glance my way. Instead, he makes the blood staining his figure vanish into black mist and heads for the back end of the large dining table. “No. Bring me some wine.”

Setting the documents in my hand down, I get up and move to his displayed collection. “Do you have a preference today?”

I hear a chair pull out, hear the rustling of his clothing as he sits down. “No.”

“Then you can have whatever I can reach.”

I think I hear him snicker, but don’t risk commenting on it. In no time at all, I have a glass filled and set on the table within his reach. Sylus picks up the glass and swirls the dark liquid around before taking a sip. He closes his eyes, either savouring the taste or taking a moment to rest.

I allow him that moment of peace. Then, I pop it like a bubble. “I know you just got back, Sir, but there is a matter we should discuss.”

Sylus cracks his eyes open and levels me with that intense crimson gaze of his. That look used to scare me, froze my body in a way that had me rooted to whatever spot I was standing in. “Is it necessary to discuss this now?”

“Well, no.” I hold my tongue just long enough for him to close his eyes and return to that restful state. “Unless you care that money is missing from the organization’s accounts with no explanation for it.”

Again, he opens his eyes. I fight back a smirk at the barely there change in his expression; the change between being annoyed at the situation and annoyed with me for interrupting his peace. Twice. “What is it?”

I leave his side to grab the evidence I need from the mess of paperwork scattered across the other side of the dining table. I have an my own office in his wing of the base, but sometimes I need a surface larger than my desk to organize everything, hence why everything is spread out in the dining room.

I place the most important documents containing my findings in front of him. “The accountants sent over the final income reports for this month. The revenue is lower than we usually see, about forty percent lower. I did some more digging,” Shifting my attention to a copy of a map, I pointed to a particular district outlined in a hot pink marker. “This seems to be the route where the loss is coming from. I asked Luke and Kieran to drop by the businesses that work with us and ask for the authentic copies of their transaction records. Every single one checks out. The businesses have paid what they owe for the month.”

Skimming over the reality of our partnership with the businesses in the N109 Zone is second nature now. Onychinus makes money in many ways, collecting protection money is just one of them. Normally, those who seek out the organization’s protection aren’t ballsy enough to play around with their debts, but it was still a possibility that needed to be looked into.

Sylus hummed, the sound rumbling deep in my ears like a mountain experiencing an earthquake. He gave the wine in his glass another swirl. “So, it’s an inside job.”

“That’s what the evidence is leading me to believe.” I cross my arms and pinch my chin. “Forty percent is big enough loss to notice right away. The accountants should have caught on immediately, unless-”

“They’re in on it.” He downs the rest of his glass. “Who was collecting debts for the area this month?”

I shrug. “No idea. It’s my job to catch these things, and it’s your job to solve them.” I glance at the clock and grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m stepping out for my lunch break. I’ll be back in an hour.”

His eyes are baring holes into my back, I can feel it as I practically skip towards the doors. “I want this mess cleaned up when you get back.”

“Yes, Sir!”

𝒯𝒾𝓅 #2: 𝒜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓈

𝒯𝒾𝓅 #3: 𝒜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒

“That’s a lovely painting.” I say, gesturing towards a beautiful landscape hanging on the wall with the hand holding my glass. “May I ask who painted it?”

The man sitting across from me in the skyscraper’s boardroom looks less than pleased in my presence. He came across rather irate when we met in the lobby, immediately asking where Sylus was and grumbling the entire elevator ride up after learning he was running a bit late.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from warning him that stressing over this meeting would only make his wrinkles deepen.

Tapping his finger impatiently on the gilded handle of his walking stick, he tilts his chin towards the painting. “That is one of Rafayel’s masterpieces. The only one of its kind.”

“It’s lovely. Mr. Rafayel certainly knows his way around a colour palette.” I take a sip of the water. “I wonder what was going through his mind when he painted it. Any thoughts?”

“No.” He pulls a golden watch from his pocket, clicking his tongue at the time. “Are you sure Sylus is coming to this meeting? I certainly hope I’m not wasting my time entertaining a young lady with no real hand in Onychinus’ affairs.”

My smile widens. “Of course not. Mr. Sylus is a busy man, but he wouldn’t abandon a meeting without word. If you are unable to wait any longer, I can notify Mr. Sylus that we’ll have to reschedule - if he is willing to reschedule. It took a lot of convincing on your part to have him agree to meet with you, yes?”

I reach for my phone sitting on the edge of the table, but he holds up a hand to stop me. “It’s alright. I can wait.”

The door opens just then, and in comes the man we’ve been waiting for. Sylus looks as intimidating as ever, though to me he almost seems bored. His red eyes find me first, then shift silently to the man who has been nearly harassing our phone lines for the past week.

Smiling, I stand up and turn my body towards my boss, hands folded in front of me. “Glad to have you join us, Sir. Mr. Gallagher has been very eager to speak with you.”

Sylus’ lips curled into a sneer. “So, I’ve heard. Your proposal must be worth my while, considering all the trouble you’ve gone through to get me here.”

A bead of sweat rolls down Gallagher’s temple, but he wipes it away with a handkerchief as Sylus and I take our seats. “I appreciate your kindness in coming all the way here today, Mr. Sylus. Now, let us begin.”

Half an hour passes, and nothing comes from Gallagher’s ramblings. On and on he went about a research project he wanted his company to jump in on, spoke blatantly about just how much funding they would need. He has statistics and research papers from the past, before the age of technology we have today, but not once in has he mentioned Onychinus’ benefit in backing this project.

My hidden glances at Sylus revealed nothing of what he was thinking, and I had given up after the third attempt to read his mind. A year and a half I’ve been working under him, and his mind is still a mystery to me most of the time.

“Evie.” Sylus suddenly calls my name, interrupting Gallagher in the middle of his spiel.

Recognizing the cue, I close the notebook I have wasted an entire page of. “Yes, Sir?”

“How long has Mr. Gallagher been wasting our time for?”

I glance at the clock. “A little over thirty minutes, Sir.”

Sylus hums, but it sounds more like a growl. “Thirty minutes.” He taps his finger repeatedly against his temple. “Tell me, Mr. Gallagher, you’ve spoken a lot about what Onychinus can do for you, but what can your company offer me for this deliberate waste of time?”

The older man, with more bravery than someone with a receding hairline should have, points a finger at Sylus. “Now, you listen here, ya’ punk! You wasted an hour of my time making me wait on ya’! What are ya’ gonna do to compensate me for that, huh?!”

The temperature in the room suddenly drops. Sylus is as still as a predator, lying in wait to pounce when the prey least expects it. The room is so silent, I swear I can hear Gallagher’s heartbeat growing louder with each unsteady breath.

I lean to the side, bringing myself closer to Sylus. “I think your tardiness has offended him, Sir.”

Slowly, with both hands in his pockets, Sylus rises to his feet. With shaking hands, Gallagher draws a pistol from the inside of his coat and points the barrel at the large man’s chest.

“I-I’m warning ya’!” Gallagher explains, voice shaking almost as badly as his hands. “D-Don’tcha take another step towards me!”

The sinister grin on Sylus’ face, even though it isn’t directed at me, sends shivers down my spine. “Or what?”

The old man’s Adam’s apple bobs, eyes doubling in size. In the blink of an eye, the gun changes its aim from my boss to me.

That’s as far as he gets. Black and red mist swirl around his body, seizing his wrist and forcing him to drop the gun. It clatters to the ground as the mist yanks him off his feet, suspending him in the air.

Gallagher clutches his throat as if doing so would free him of the Evol’s hold, kicks his legs in a feeble attempt to escape. The more he thrashes, the more obvious his struggle to breathe becomes. By the time Sylus finally lets him go, Gallagher is nothing but a heap on the ground.

When the room falls quiet again, I stand up and gather my phone, notebook and pen. “I think we best take our leave now, Sir. There isn’t anything more to discuss.”

Sylus heads for the door. “Come. I will drop you off at the office.”

A spring found its way into my step as I chased after him, his strides much longer than mine. “Are we taking the motorcycle?”

“The car.”

My shoulders dropped. “Well, that’s not as fun.”

𝒯𝒾𝓅 #4: 𝒜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒

𝒯𝒾𝓅 #5: 𝒜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓅𝓊𝓉𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝑒𝒹

A cup of warm honey tea in hand, I set the ceiling lights of my office to a dim lighting and stroll inside. The small office, neat and tidy and cozy, is irresistible at this hour of the night. It called to me like a siren’s song, its summons so strong I changed the taxi’s drop off address from my home to here.

I didn’t fight the urge much; I was looking for an excuse to avoid going home this late, anyway. Returning early from the club would open the door for my brothers to pry.

Mephisto swoops in through the ajar door, landing on a perch near the desk. His red eyes glow like a beacon in the shadows, watching me for a moment before opening his beak to caw.

“Shhh!” I hiss, scrambling for the bag of chopped peanuts I keep hidden in one of the drawers. “Don’t you dare disturb the boss.”

The odds of Sylus actually sleeping at night are low, but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

I dump a handful into the flat dish attached to the perch. Mephisto stops his ruckus to eat them, the treat keeping him distracted enough for me to get the fireplace going. He’s finished them by the time I settle into the leather chair on wheels.

“No more.” I sternly answer his silent, pleading look. “I will not be the one to get in trouble if you become too fat to fly.”

Mephisto, seemingly displeased, rustles his wings before taking off to do whatever it is mechanical crows do in their free time.

I get started on work the moment he leaves. It’s nothing complicated, just filing paper documents and sorting through digital ones on my laptop, organizing schedules and meetings for Sylus over the next few weeks. The smallest of the bookshelves keeps creeping into the corners of my vision, trying to tempt me to stop working and pick up one of the saucy novels instead. Definitely not work material, but with my brothers, it’s too risky to keep these kinds of books at home. Anything I want to hide from them, I have to hide it in here.

I hear the door click shut as I’m filing papers into the cabinet. Turning my head, I find Sylus, dressed in a red robe, approaching my desk. “Good evening, Sir.”

He picks up the top page from a stack of papers I have yet to sort through, and after looking it over, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not only are you working overtime at this hour, but you’re doing so on a Friday night.”

I sneak a glance at the clock. “Technically, it’s Saturday morning, Sir.”

“You don’t work weekends; you made that clear when I agreed to hire you. My point still stands.” He turns his gaze to me and doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes mark my outfit. I, meanwhile, am struggling to keep my eyes off the ‘V’ his robe makes down his beautifully toned chest and stomach. “What happened, sweetie? Did you get so bored at the club, you decided to come work instead?”

Perhaps I should be concerned with how he knew where I have been, but Sylus has eyes and ears everywhere. Either Mephisto followed me, the twins said something about my plans for a girls night with my friends outside the organization, or he put the pieces together from my makeup and clothing alone. Impressive, if that’s the case - my low cut jeans and crop-top are more of a casual style that could be worn anywhere.

Instead of just standing there gawking, I moved back to the desk and started putting away the unfinished work. I’ll finish it another time. “It’s not that I was bored. I got kicked out.”

His chuckle had me looking up. “You got kicked out? What did you do, kitten? Scratch someone’s eyes out?”

When all the papers are safely tucked into the drawer, I lock it and put the key back in a smaller drawer. “Pretty much. Some men can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” Recalling the satisfying crunch of his nose under my fist has me smirking. “Maybe he’ll remember tonight every time he looks in the mirror from now on.”

“Did you strike the way I showed you?”

Smirk growing, I nodded once. “Broke his nose.”

Sylus chuckles. “Good girl.”

My core pulls tight, thighs squeezing together at the rush of heat pooling between them. That sort of praise with the baritone voice he has is dangerous.

My reaction doesn’t go unnoticed. In fact, it flips a switch in him that turns his amusement into something almost predatory. The change in his eyes brings with it an electricity in the air, igniting a buzzing in my skin and a pounding in my heart.

“Are you… satisfied with the fun you’ve had tonight, sweetie?” Sylus asks, making his way around to my side of the desk with languid strides.

I turn with him, keeping my front to him, never taking my eyes off him. There’s no where to run to, and I have to tilt my head up and lean back against the desk just to keep eye contact as he gets closer. Sylus is pure dominance, towering over me and caging me in as he grips both sides of the desk.

Subconsciously, I lick my suddenly dry lips. “No.”

“No?” He lifts one hand and drags the pad of his thumb over my lips, then down and across my chin. “If you’re in the mood, would you like to play our special game?”

My blood runs hot, temptation whispering into my ear like a little devil on my shoulder. The skin where his thumb touched tingles, the taste of an addiction bubbling on my tongue. “A game sounds nice.”

Sylus hums and tilts his head a little. His thumb returns to my lips, parting them so he could tease the wet inside of my lower lip. “And what do we say when we want this game to stop?”

The cogs in my mind stopped at some point, and I have to kick them back into gear. “Crow.”

“Again.”

“Crow.” I repeat, much faster this time.

Sylus chuckles again, but this time, it comes out deeper and sends a wave of arousal through me. He lashes me with those lethal words of praise again. “Good girl.”

Then I’m being devoured by him, my lips and tongue under the command of his as he takes what he wants - what we both want. My moan comes out muffled, swallowed by him as I pathetically push my tongue against his. I’m not trying to force him out, that’s a battle I’ll never win; I just want to feel how strong he is, test how much control he has.

The answer is all of it, just the way I like it.

His massive hands sear my skin as he grips my bare waist, squeezing and pulling, dragging across my lower back and tracing the hem of my top. Mine can’t stay still either, moving quickly in their exploration of his chest. I have to grab fistfuls of his robe as a means of grounding myself when he suddenly grabs me beneath the thighs and lifts. A moment later, I’m being set down on the top of my desk.

One of my arms rests across the back of his neck and shoulders, the other extended behind me so I could brace my hand on the desk for extra support against the onslaught of Sylus’ kisses. One of his hands is planted on my thigh in a near bruising grip, the other busy with popping out the buttons of my top. When the last one comes undone, he halts his kisses to slide the sleeves down my arms and throw the unnecessary garment aside. He doesn’t treat my bra any much differently.

My breasts are exposed, nipples hardened from the foreplay, but Sylus doesn’t pounce right away. He’s too cunning for that, enjoys playing with my desires too much to pass up making me beg for it.

Instead, he buries his hand in my hair and, gently pulling on the roots, tilts my head back so my throat is bared to him. He drags his mouth over the sensitive skin, teasing me with tongue, teeth and kisses of varying pressure.

“Sylus.” I whine, giving his shoulder a squeeze. A pulse starts between my legs, one so intense it makes me want to clamp my thighs shut. I can’t, not with him standing between my knees. “Sylus, please.”

“Please’ what, kitten?” He nibbles my earlobe, blows a breath of air across it that has me gasping. “Use your words.”

“Please touch me.” I cave, breathless. “Please stop teasing me.”

Sylus breaths a chuckle against the side of my head. “You have such good manners, sweetie, but I’m afraid you’re not being specific. I am touching you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. “N-Not there.”

“No?” His fingers drag over my stomach, his touch featherlight. I’m so sensitive, my back arches beneath his attention. “Here, then?”

Again, I shake my head. My breasts feel heavy, aching so bad they almost hurt.

“Ah.” Sylus feigns realization, pretending as though he had no idea what I wanted before now. “I see. You must mean here.”

I cry out as his lips wrap around my left nipple, tongue and teeth toying with the hardened bud. Pain isn’t my thing, but the lightest teases of it such as gentle hair pulling and teeth grazing gets me off more than I want to admit it. Sylus knows my limits and has always maintained respect with my boundaries, even though this kind of play was something I didn’t know I liked until getting involved with him.

It’s only after giving equal attention to both breasts that Sylus advances, swiftly undoing the button and zipper of my jeans. With one arm wrapped around me, he hoists me up by the waist and uses the opposite hand to tug the waistband past my hips, bringing my underwear along with it. I squeal at the show of strength, but my attention is quickly redirected when he sets me down and yanks the remainder of my clothing down my legs, taking my shoes off with it. He tosses everything aside like they’re meaningless and steps back between my legs.

Excitement buzzes in my veins as he tilts my head back again. Then comes relief when he finally touches me.

His groan mixes with my moan and the cracking of the fireplace, lips brushing against my cheek as he speaks. “You’re so eager, sweetie. You enjoy this game as much as I do, don’t you?”

Another moan spills into the air. I can feel how slick I am, can hear it when he sinks a finger into me. My back momentarily arches at the much welcomed intrusion. “Yes, Sir.”

He releases my roots to cup the back of my head instead, adjusting its position so I’m looking at him instead of the ceiling. His eyes are narrowed, dominant but also painfully gentle in a commanding sort of way. “Did that man touch you?”

“Y-Yes.” I answer, slowly losing myself to the pleasure.

“Where?” It’s a non-negotiable question.

“He-” I have to take a breath to get my brain on track, but it’s a shaky one. What happened in the club again? It takes a second to come back to me. “H-He grabbed my hips and- ah- t-tried dancing behind me.” I should keep my mouth shut, but a certain thought has a weak, breathy giggle escaping. “Are you jealous, Sir?”

The addition of a second figure quickly shuts me up. Sylus curls them, nudging a spot that makes my muscles tighten and hands claw at his chest. “Unless you want to be treated like a brat, I suggest you watch your mouth.”

Tempting, but not what I want this time. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Good.”

His fingers disappear, and I whine at the loss. Sylus pulls the knot of his belt and shrugs off his robe, discarding it like he did with everything else. Pulling me off the desk by the hips, Sylus sets me on my feet and lifts one of my legs until he can get the crease of his elbow beneath my knee. To keep my balance, I hold onto his broad shoulder with one hand and grip the edge of the desk behind me with the other.

“Eyes on me.” Sylus commands, lightly tapping me beneath the chin to get my attention.

I look into his eyes, let those deep pools of red pull me in and strip me bare - more bare than I already am. I hold his gaze even as the tip of him nudges against my entrance. Hold it as he slowly sinks inside.

My jaw drops as he fills me, inch by delicious inch stretching me more than his fingers had. Sylus is big, and though my body is more accustomed to him now, he’s still kind enough to take this part slow.

“That’s it.” His voice is huskier now, thumbs massaging circles into my skin as he helps hold me steady. As he slowly pushes and pulls his hips. “Good girl. You can look where you want now.”

As soon as he releases the invisible leash, my eyes drop to where we’re connected. Combined with the pleasure of his building movements, it’s too much, too overwhelming. So instead I lift my gaze to his stomach, watching his abdominal muscles work as he starts to set his rhythm. A strong, steady rhythm that has gasps, cries and moans dancing on my tongue with each thrust.

“Fuck.” I whisper, feeling a familiar knot start to pull in the pit of my stomach. Every push of his hips into me makes it pull tighter and tighter, my breath climbing higher and higher. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

I realize my error instantly, but it’s still too late to correct myself. Sylus pulls out of me completely, and instead of crashing into the waters of euphoria, I fall flat onto a hard nothing.

Sylus clicks his tongue cups my cheek in his hand, tilting my head up until I’m looking at him. “Is that how we ask for things?”

I shake my head, parting my lips as he skims his thumb over them. “No, Sir.”

His lips curl into a cruel smirk. “Was it so good that you forgot the rules? Do we need to take a break so you can remember?”

Frantic, I shake my head. “No, Sir. I remember.”

Sylus hums and drops his hand from my face, lining himself back up. “Let’s try that again.”

In no time at all, I’m back to where I had been before my mistake. I can feel his eyes boring into me, watching, waiting to see if I’ll screw up again. I can almost sense the gears in his head turning, trying to decide what he’ll do if I fail.

But I don’t fail. The second that knot pulls dangerously tight, I’m looking into his eyes and asking. Pleading, more like. “Can I come, Sir? Please?”

“Better.” Sylus leans down and kisses me once. “You can come. Come for me, Evie.”

The band snaps at his approval. My cry is loud, body trying to arch yet curl in on itself at the same time. I’m not sure when my head goes blank, but when I start to recover, it’s to Sylus’ sexy voice in my ear and his deadly fingers drawing circles onto my clit, heightening the stimulation.

“Good girl.” He praises, carefully setting my leg down. He cups my face again and rests his forehead against mine. “See how much better it is when we ask nicely?”

I nod, whining at the aftershocks still working through my body. Sylus kisses me again before spinning me around, one hand pushing on my back until I’m bent over with my chest pressing against the cold surface of the desk. He moves my hair out of the way and attaches his lips to the back of my neck, alternating between open mouth kisses and teases of his teeth as he makes his way down my spine. I moan and scratch the wood with my nails, trying to be patient.

He reconnects with me when I least expect it, one hand planting itself on the desk near my head while the other grabs my wrist and pins it to my lower back. His grip is firm, not crushing, and he isn’t pulling on my arm either; is just holding it there. He immediately begins a brutal pace, his hips colliding with my ass at every inward thrust, his shaft hitting places deeper than before. It’s just so Sylus that I can’t help but throw my remaining caution to the wind. I wrap my free hand around his arm as a means of grounding myself, delighted by how solid his muscles are.

Tears begin to line my lashes from the intense pleasure. I turn my head, letting my cheek rest on the desk so I can peek at Sylus from the corner of my vision. He’s devastatingly beautiful, his jaw dropped a little as he watches the way he claims me. Beads of sweat catch the light of the fire as they roll down his skin, white hair falling with the way his head is titled. His heavy breaths wrap around me like a blanket and sink through my skin until they settle in my bones.

Unfair. Truly, this man is unfair.

The knot in my stomach comes back, the muscles between my thighs clamping down on him in anticipation of what’s on the horizon. He must feel it, because his eyes lift until they met my gaze. “Do you have something to ask me, sweetie?”

‘Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.’ I mentally plead with myself. My thoughts are working faster than my voice, surprisingly. “May I come again, Sir?”

“Good girl.” He growls, the possessive tone in his voice sending shocks through my core. “Come.”

His command does me in. The sound that comes out of me is a high pitched squeal, my acrylic nails digging into his arm as white hot release burns through me. “Sylus!”

Suddenly, the wrist that was pinned to my lower back is set free. Sylus grabs me by the biceps and hauls me up so I’m no longer laying on the desk, one of his arms banding across my stomach to hold me up. The other dives between my thighs, finding my clit again. “One more.”

Choking on a sob, I claw at his arms. “I can’t!”

“You can.”

I don’t have a choice. No, I have a choice - one four letter word and this all stops. But I don’t want to use that word.

One more. I can take one more.

The third release robs me of my voice. I slump back against Sylus, boneless in his arms as he chases his end. It doesn’t take him much longer to find it.

“Fuck, Evie-” He groans against my neck, pulling out at the last second. He’s nearly crushing me against him, short bursts of tremors working their way through his body.

Managing to peel my eyes open, I wiggle out of his hold and slump over the desk, my arm as heavy as lead as I reach over to pull a small towel from one of the drawers. I toss it over my shoulder, waiting until Sylus has regained himself enough to take it and clean us up.

His fingers gently take the towel from mine. “You keep these in your desk?”

“Must I explain why?” I try to fire back, but I’m way too tired to sound the slightest bit sarcastic.

His hands are gentle as he works, but I still have to bite my lip when he attends to the more sensitive areas. “I’m almost done. Hang in there.”

I hum in response. It’s all I can manage.

The towel disappears from my skin a minute later. Sylus puts his robe back on and helps me redress, then places me in the chair while he puts out the fire. Once the embers have snuffed out, Sylus returns and lifts me into his arms, carrying me out of the office. He heads further down the wing to where his home is.

“Bath or shower?” He asks, keeping his gaze forward.

“Bath.” My response is quick. “I can’t trust myself to stay standing. Can I use your fancy soaps and stuff?”

One corner of his lips curl. “You can use whatever you’d like.”

“Oils, too?”

“Yes, kitten. Oils, too.”

𝒯𝒾𝓅 #6: 𝒜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝓃𝑔𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝓃 𝓊𝓃𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑜𝓈𝓈… 𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝓃 𝒸𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈

SFW Masterlist || NSFW Masterlist

Tag List:

@softlycandescent @goat-mama-breezie

#l&ds #l&ds smut #lnds #love and deepspace #lads #lnds smut #lads smut #love and deepspace smut #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #x oc

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focsle · 1 year

Text

Sometimes whalemen (and whaling wives) have a ‘reader’ in mind when they’re writing in their journals.

For fellows like Albert Peck or William Abbe, they’re very much writing in the vein of sea yarns, filling their journals with tables of contents or headers to reference later (that makes my life easier too, thanks lads!). There’s a prose quality to it, as well as lengthy explanations about the industry and the life for those unfamiliar with it. Albert Peck opens his journal with a preface followed by a table of contents:

“Kind Reader, If you can have the patience to embark with me I will give you a plain straightforward account of my experience as a sailor, and you can depend upon every incident as being true, excepting names. But perhaps some may read this who were my companions in my voyaging, and if so they will readily recognize the different characters; and if I can interest an idle hour for you, Reader, my purpose will be accomplished.”

Abbe also shares his journals with his shipmates:

“Been reading from my journal to the members of my watch—who to my delight approve it — + Johnny the boatsteerer said he could keep awake all night listening to me + Curly tells me to have it printed when I get home […] We are constantly abusing each other in fun — but nothing gives him so much pleasure as to know that I write about him in my journal. […] Johnny can’t read or write, but he says he means to overhaul my journal someday + get someone to read to him all I have written about him. I read it to him and he understands with a grin of delight.”

Some like William Buel are writing with the notion that they may have a reader of their journal, but it’s written as a private journal rather than a ‘narrative’, that might perhaps be stumbled across by someone else or shared with land lubber friends who might be interested when back ashore. There isn’t a person in mind, nor a sense of wide distribution, but they are thinking of a reader regardless. William, before departing to attend to his laundry that he was procrastinating on, writes:

“With the permission of the reader if I am so fortunate as to have one I will once more haul taut and belay,”

He also apologizes to his hypothetical reader for long spans in which there are no entries (mostly cos the weather’s bad and he’s too busy being wet and cold and tired).

“This digression was rendered necessary in order that the writer of this nondescript log or journal might show cause as the lawyers say of delaying his entries herein for so many days. If the reader will pardon the omission he will strive to do better in the future.”

Silliman Ives also has a general reader, winking at them in his personal entries.

“Between you, and I, and the mainmast, I am disgusted and disappointed.” As well as a particular amusing comment of his (to me), “So you see there isn’t much chance of getting sentiment out of a sailor, as you will readily admit after inspecting a mariner’s logbook.”

Wrong Mr. Ives! It’s my mission in life to find the sentiment, and find it I do, constantly! As someone who works in public history and is always hunting for the humanity of ordinary people from the past, I very much empathize with this sort of hypothetical-gen-reader fellow. I too leave little asides in my private journals to some future hand that might lay upon them (‘If anyone is reading this I swear I’m not a miserable person—I’m just only good at writing in journals when I’m bothered by something’).

Others are writing for the benefit of their friends, such as Mary Brewster, who felt she had to justify her decision to join her husband on his ship.

“I have thought best to keep some account of the time as it passes and should I live to return my friends can see what I have been doing, where we have been, and perhaps by reading this form some correct ideas as regards my feelings whilst absent.”

For J.E. Haviland, the reader he has in mind as he documents his life aboard is his mom, of whom he seems very fond and thinks of often while at sea.

“You cannot imagine my Dear Mother how highly we prize a few hours rest + sleep at such times as these…You would not have known your own son if you could have seen him yesterday. I was nearly black with smoke + dirt. ”

On the other hand, there are some men like Marshall Keith who explicitly forbid a reader opening their journal, especially when it comes to the list of dreams he had while on the voyage.

“All persons are forbid opening this book as there is nothing in it that concerns them in the least.”

I felt a moment of hesitation after reading this message, but the 160-year-old dream diary of a whaler was too historically interesting to me to heed him (though out of respect for him I didn’t transcribe or publish those dreams)

Others initially had no reader at all, keeping a journal simply to mark the time. But for one man, Benjamin Bourne, his reader ended up being himself. 40 years after the voyage, as an old man with only a few years left in his life, he went through the log and annotated it with his current feelings.

“At the date above I think I was not happy but now would give all to be back in mid ocean. Sept 22 1898.” “Jan 29th, 1899 I thought I was having a hard time 40 years ago but it was the best of my life.”

Throughout the book he scrawled an entreaty to his descendants, who he also considered his readers. The front page of his journal had three opening messages:

“Be sure and keep this book in the family, it was a great interest to the writer. BH Borne. Keep this book for the present owners’ sake. BH Borne. Please keep this book in the family of BH Borne and never give it up.”

I wasn’t the intended Reader for these people. I wasn’t a friend of Mary’s or a family member of Haviland’s. I’m not a descendent of Benjamin’s and I don’t know how he’d feel knowing his journal is in an archive rather than within his family. I don’t know how Marshall would feel about me reading his dreams when he wrote that they didn’t concern anyone but himself. Few of them, if any, would have expected anyone to come into contact with their battered old journal nearly 2 centuries later. But still, I always feel something fond when they step back to address someone beyond themselves—It makes an immediate line from my life to theirs, all through the word ‘reader’.

#awhalin #long post //#i need to work on comms now I was gettin sentimental over my coffee while reading haviland’s stuff

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something-tofightfor · 1 year

Text

2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #14: Frankie Morales - "I miss you" Kiss / Angry Kiss

I left you all hanging a week ago, and I felt bad (kind of) with this prompt request here: A Kiss in the Dark / A Break Up Kiss - so I'm coming here now to fix it.

Thank you to @felteppsters and @iceclaw101 .... I hope this is what you're looking for.

Word Count: 2,560

“Hello?” You reached for the handle of your coffee mug, bringing the rim of it to your lips and hoping that it had cooled off enough for you not to burn your tongue. “This is Grayson’s, how can I -”

“Fuck, it’s good to hear your voice.” Your hand froze with the mug halfway to your lips, both eyes widening in shock.

Seven months.

It had been seven months since you’d heard Frankie’s voice. So that morning, it was the last one you’d ever expected to hear on the other end of the office phone. “Fr… Frankie?” Hand shaking, you lowered the mug down to the desktop and swallowed hard. “How did -”

“It’s done.” He paused and you closed your eyes, stomach dropping in relief at the words - and the way he said them. “Did you hear me? It’s done, and it’s safe now, and -”

“I’m glad.” You shivered - despite the air conditioning in the office, and nodded. “Is everyone … Pope? And Benny and Will? Are they …”

“We’re all good.” He sighed and so you did, covering your face with your hand. “Took longer than any of us thought it would, but … we did what we needed to do.”

There were other questions you wanted to ask, things you wanted to know, but when you opened your mouth, nothing came out.

You could feel your heart slamming against the inside of your ribcage, emotions going into overdrive. But you were speechless, trying to process that after months of assuming the worst, you were getting confirmation that your fears were all unfounded.

“Should I come back?” You croaked the words out, painfully aware of how unsure they sounded. “Or is this it? Are you calling to tell me you don’t -”

“No.” Frankie cleared his throat. “Shit. That isn’t …” He paused, sighing, and then he spoke again, the man’s voice deepening to a pitch that you were very familiar with. The sound of it made your stomach bottom out, a whimper barely caught behind your teeth. “Of course I want you back here with me, but I’m coming to get you myself.”

—

You and Yovanna had fled to a new city, cash paid upfront for a year’s worth of rent. You used false names and documentation set up by Frankie and Pope for everything, both of you getting menial jobs to keep yourselves busy and keep up appearances, even though it wasn’t necessary.

Pope and Frankie had ensured you wouldn’t be without anything except for them, stashing thousands of dollars in your go-bags along with access to a substantial bank account when and if the cash ran out. You’d lived comfortably, though you were miles from home and separated from the men you loved - the other woman doing it for the second time and guiding you carefully through your first.

Without her, you would have spiraled.

But the woman’s presence was helpful, and proof that it was possible to come out on the other side of a shitty situation without losing everything. You’d gotten much closer to her in those months than you thought you would, and you’d wondered many times if that friendship would be as strong when - and if - you were separated. And now we get to find out. .

A text message sent moments after hanging up with Frankie confirmed that she’d gotten a similar phone call from Pope.

By the time you ran in the front door after work that day, she was frantically packing her things, her dark hair wild. “They will be here.” She stopped long enough to face you, one hand on her hip. “And we get to leave. We get to go home to our friends, and -”

“If they want to see us.” You scoffed. “My family’s been a little pissy that I just up and left and have been so low contact. Showing up back at home - and back with Frankie is going to …”

“It doesn’t matter.” She reached out, squeezing your arm. “It will take time, but they will understand. When they see how happy you are, they will…” She frowned. “You know the truth. ‘Fish and Santiago know. The others know. That’s what matters.”

You wanted to believe her - wanted to believe that things could and would just go back to normal. You also knew that the explanation for your absence had been thin - needing time to yourself after a breakup, Frankie disappearing for weeks at a time to go on a long term assignment… But it wasn’t like I dropped off the face of the earth. I just didn’t go home. “I hope you’re right.”

She gave you a smile and then spun back to what she was doing. “I wonder if we can get our rent money back since we are leaving early.” Despite the unease you felt, you managed a laugh at that, turning and heading for your bedroom. I might as well start packing, too.

—

Two days later, you were at work again, rifling through files when one of the interns dropped off a note at your desk. It was a tiny envelope with nothing but your name on the front, printed in neat block letters. After you thanked him, you waited until he was gone to slide your finger under the flap, fingers closing around the edge of the card inside.

There was only one thing on it - an address - but it was scrawled in a handwriting that was very familiar to you. He’s here. Fighting the urge to bring the card to your lips, you typed the numbers into your computer, eyes lighting up when it turned out to be a hotel that was only blocks away. He’s close. That can’t be coincidence.

Carefully placing the card back into the envelope and then slipping the whole thing into your purse, you shut down your computer and then headed for your boss’ office, feigning sickness and taking the rest of the day off.

But you didn’t go home.

Instead, you beelined it for the hotel and the registration desk, giving the concierge your real last name. She slid a room key across the polished countertop, telling you to have a good afternoon… and then you headed for the elevator.

As it climbed, you finally looked at yourself in the mirrored walls, lips pressed into a frown. You were excited to see Frankie, but at the same time, you were nervous. I look different. My hair’s not the same, I’m dressed for work, I haven’t been sleeping well, and…

Your worries were cut short with the quiet ding that signaled your arrival to the floor your room was on. Then, on autopilot, you stepped toward the correct doorway. You didn’t give yourself a moment to pause before you swiped your key in the lock, the mechanism whirring and allowing you to push the door open.

The room was cool and lit by natural light - the curtains open to give you a view of the mountains in the distance. But you saw none of it, because you were entirely focused on the shape of the man standing in front of the window, his back toward you.

He was wearing an outfit you loved - well worn jeans and a dark green Henley, the material stretched tight over his shoulders. At the sound of the door shutting, he flinched, though he didn’t turn toward you. “Frankie?” There was a tremor in your voice, and you matched it with a hesitant step forward, fingers curling by your side. “Are you really here?”

“I am.” He shifted, his head cocked to one side, and for the first time, you realized that he wasn’t wearing a hat. And his hair’s longer, too. It’s curly, and … “Are you?” He turned, then, the light giving you a glimpse of his profile before he was facing you. His nose, it… “I found you.”

Seeing his face was all it took. “I knew you would.”

You dropped your bag to the floor and crossed the small room as quickly as you could, your arms rising to wind around his body. He stayed where he was, but his hug was fierce, the man crushing you to his chest and tilting his face so that he could bury it against the side of your neck.

Both of you were crying, your tears soaking the soft material of his shirt, his hot against your bare skin. For a while, neither of you spoke. He’s here. He’s really here and that means that it’s safe. I can go home. We can go home. His hands moved slowly over your back, the pressure of his fingers reminding you just how long it had been since anyone had touched you. Being in his arms felt right - the same as it always had, and that was another weight off of your shoulders. Say something.

“I like your hair like this.” Tugging gently on the ends, you sighed, urging his head upright. “More for me to pull.” His lips twitched, the man’s eyes locked with you - and then he leaned in, his eyelids drooping slightly.

The kiss was soft and you melted into it, your hand dropping from his hair to the back of his neck. Your other one rested on his bicep, fingers curling around the muscle. He held you close but let one hand settle on your lower back, bringing the other one up to tilt your chin back and your head to the right, changing the angle.

“I missed you, mi estrella brillante. So much.” He growled the words, barely removing his lips from yours and then the kiss turned deeper, Frankie’s mouth hungry against yours as he urged your lips apart. Wait. Wait, Frankie. Groaning as his teeth grazed the curve of your lip, you pulled away and took a deep breath, the hand on his bicep sliding over to press against the center of his chest. “What? What’s wrong?”

He frowned, the crease between his brows deep - and that was the first time you noticed that one of his eyes was a mottled purple-black, the fading bruise in stark contrast to the rest of his skin. Chewing on your lower lip, you reached up, laying your fingertips gently against the man’s black eye before moving them toward his nose and dragging your thumb over a new scar across the bridge. “Are you alright?” Swallowing, you wet your lips. “Your nose … it was broken? And there’s a scar, and your eye is …”

“I’ll be fine.” He scoffed, shaking his head and turning it so that he could press a kiss to your palm. “We all will be. Bumps. Bruises. Pope got shot, but -”

“Shot?!” You gasped out the word, mouth dropping open. “Francisco, you can’t just drop that casually into -”

“I would have said something sooner, but I was a little busy.” He gripped your hip, shaking his head back and forth. “Figured you already waited seven months for me, so I didn’t see any point in making you wait longer.” He sighed, blinking slowly. “If you really want me to tell you everything that happened, I will. But first, I’d really like to …” Frankie wet his lips. “I’d really like to kiss you again. More than once, actually.”

That got a small smile out of you, and despite your annoyance, you nodded. “I want that too.” But. “Before you do that, though?” Bringing both hands up to cradle his face between them, you forced him to lock eyes with you, thumb stroking over the bare patch in his beard. “I can’t do this again. I can’t be without you for seven months and not know what’s going on.” He nodded, chewing on the inside of his lower lip. “I spent the last seven months going between being sad and angry, Frankie. And I won’t lie, I was angry a lot. Living off of the money you stole and waiting for either a phone call from you to tell us that everything was alright, or for one of them to show up for Yovanna and me.”

His eyes flashed at that, his head rapidly moving from side to side. “I’d never let that happen. None of us would. We would have died bef-” He winced as you nodded.

“Exactly. So not only would they have probably killed us, but I would have died knowing that you were gone, too, and …” You trailed off, feeling your anger growing again - the same way it had throughout the previous months. “Is this shit over, Frankie? For good? Because I’m not going home and doing this all over again if someone else comes looking for -”

“It’s done.” He straightened up, pushing your hands out of the way and holding your face the same way you’d just done with his. “There is no one else coming. We made sure of it. Pope’s still got contacts that he trusts down in Colombia, and they said that these men were the last ones loyal to Lorea.”

“But Yova said it wasn’t just his money.” Closing your eyes, you shivered. “So what if -”

“It wasn’t.” He cleared his throat and then Frankie said your name, waiting until your eyes were back on him to speak again. “But when I say loyal to Lorea, I mean it. They refused to give anything to the other narcos because they wanted to be the ones to find us and the money and clear their guy’s name while they got rich.” He actually laughed at that, rolling his eyes. “It didn’t work, and who we are and what we did died with them. Lo juro.” He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “I would have rather never seen you again than risk coming here and taking you back somewhere that wasn’t safe.”

It was a big admission - and even though you knew that he meant it, the anger you felt still simmered just beneath the surface. And it probably will, at least for a while. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not happy to see him. You kissed him then, nothing gentle about the way your lips met his, and even less so as you closed your teeth around his lower one, tugging backward and then releasing it before you slotted your mouth back over his. Frankie’s hiss of pain was accompanied with a long exhale, though he didn’t try to move away.

Instead, Frankie’s hands traveled slowly up and down your sides, the motion continuing even when you ended the kiss, taking a step back and letting out a long exhale.

“I’m still mad about this.” He nodded, the smile on his lips threatening to emerge, though he tried to disguise it. “And I’m pissed about that fight we had the last night we were together. I know it wasn’t real, but -”

“Take it out on me.” He stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was counting on you being pissed. I’ve been waiting for it.” His chest rose and fell when he took a deep breath, your attention dropping from his face to the visible V of skin. “I deserve it.”

“You do.” Your heartbeat quickened, lips slightly parted when you met his gaze again. There was heat in it - his expression one you knew well - and despite the anger, you were drawn to him, closing the distance between you again. “But there’s plenty of time to be pissed later, right?”

Frankie’s nod was slow, the man never looking away even as he used both hands on your hips to guide you toward the bed. “The rest of our lives, I hope.”

—

Lo juro = I swear it

#francisco morales #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #frankie morales x female reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #summer kiss prompt #2023 summer kiss prompt #frankie morales masterlist #francisco catfish morales #frankie + an i miss you kiss #frankie + an angry kiss #summer smooch #thank you for requesting!#felteppsters #iceclaw101

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ahgasegotarmy116 · 7 months

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Betrayal's Bond | An Uchiha Brother's Series | Teaser

Summary: You've been tasked with finding the team of jonin that went missing on their mission to the village hidden in the stars but what happens when you take one Uchiha brother to look for the other? Pairing: Tsundere Sasuke x female!oc x Itachi (love triangle) Word Count: 1.1k~ Warning: No real warnings but this is a Naruto au so it's not gonna to match up with the storyline at all List of Terminology a/n: Ahh idk how this'll do since I mostly post Jungkook/Kpop fics but I hope you guys'll look forward to this fic! Naruto is my all time favorite anime and I highly suggest you watch it but it's not necessary to enjoy this fic. You might need to look up the meaning of some of the words but it's nothing too crazy okay okay I'm done

Starting the morning off with a rude awakening is never good and today was unfortunately one of those days...

I jolt awake at the sound of someone banging on my front door and almost fall out of bed. "What the fuck is someone doing here so early?" I grumble to myself seeing that it's barely seven o'clock. I stretch for a second and rub my eyes before getting out of bed and putting my slippers on so I can open the door for whoever this horrible nuisance might be.

"Why the hell are you banging on my do- Oh Sasuke, what are you doing here?" I question, bringing my first scolding tone down to my normal one. "The Hokage wants to see us. She said it was urgent" he says and walks away giving me no further details.

"Wait Sasuke! I- and he's gone" I call out for him but he disappears before I'm able to get another word in. 'Thanks for the info Sasuke' I grumble to myself before heading back inside to get ready.

I take a quick shower, get dressed and head out as fast as I can but it doesn't seem like it was fast enough for Sasuke's liking as I see him leaning up against the wall next to Lady Tsunade's office with an irritated look on his face. "Nice to see you too Sasuke" I mumble and neither of us bother trying to engage in any other conversation before knocking on Lady Tsunade's door.

"Enter" I hear faintly from the other side of the door and walk in with Sasuke right behind me. "You wanted to see us?" I question as we both make our way over to her. "Yes, thank you both for coming in this early" she says, setting the papers she had been looking through down on her desk. "Is everything alright?" I ask as I take into account the dark circles under her eyes worried that something horrible might've happened.

"There was a team of Shinobi that went out on a mission to the village hidden in the stars a few weeks ago and they haven't returned. It should've been an easy mission but we've lost all contact with them about a week ago" she lists off, sorting through the papers until she finds the right one.

"The village hidden in the stars? What were they doing there?" I question, hoping to get as much intel as I can. "They were meant to retrieve a certain item there that the village had planned to give us for research but I can't reveal exactly what that item is" She says, giving only the necessary information.

"Why not?" Sasuke asks in a monotone, cocking his brow at the Hokage and she simply rolls her eyes in response, already used to his insolence. "It's not something the public should be aware of and honestly I've given you more information than I should have" she say, glaring right back at him.

"You don't trust us?" Sasuke prods, obviously not happy about being left in the dark about this but Tsunade just shakes her head, tired of the pushback but also trying to hold in her anger as she's known to have a short fuse.

"Once you find them just give them this document, they'll fill you in on the rest once you get there. We never really know who's listening and like I said we do-" "Don't want anyone knowing we got it" Sasuke says cutting her off.

"Sasuke!" I scold him, afraid of the backlash we might receive. "I'm sorry Lady Tsunade, he's really not a morning person" I explain, hoping to defuse the situation. "Sasuke Uchiha, y/f/n, you have been tasked with the mission of locating the missing shinobi and helping them complete their mission" she states before either of us can make any further comments.

"But Lady Tsunade, usually we go out on missions in teams of three. Won't we need a third?" I question, concerned that this might've been an oversight.

"It's a covert mission so I t would make things too obvious if there were too many of you. Plus, you're only meant to find them so you two should be sufficient enough. The shinobi you're looking for is a team of jonin so as you can see we've already put enough manpower into this whole operation as is" she explains, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her temples.

"If I may ask, who are the jonin we're looking for?" I question, seeing as that's the most crucial information we need to complete this mission. "Kakashi Hatake, Shikamaru Nara and Itachi Uchiha" she lists off.

Sasuke stiffens at the sound of the last name and I know from now on that this mission is gonna hit close to home.

"Pack up your gear and head out as soon as possible" she finishes. "Understood" Sasuke answers for the both of us and makes his way out first, leaving me behind without a care in the world.

"Lady Tsunade may I ask you something?" I say quietly, keeping my voice down so the possibility of anyone hearing is a little bit smaller. "Go ahead" she sighs, thumbing through the other documents she has strewn about her desk.

"Why did you put Sasuke on this mission? I mean I don't want it to be seen as if I'm questioning your judgement but isn't the mission a little too personal for him? You know, since Itachi is missing?" I question while walking a bit closer to her desk.

"That is exactly why I've put him on this mission. The mission is important to the village but it's even more important to Sasuke now that he knows. Plus it might do him some good to be teaming up with Itachi. They've never really been on a mission together now have they?" she explains and I nod my head as she finishes.

"Yeah I guess you're right. May I ask why you've chosen me to go along though?" I continue, playing with the bracelet I have around my wrist, a nervous habit I've developed over the years.

"You're a good tracker and you've been completing your missions with close to perfect results. Plus you're a quiet one that doesn't tend to get on people's nerves so I figured you'd get along well with Sasuke" she answers, listing off my strengths which has me a little shy, embarrassed that I pretty much fished for compliments on accident.

"Just take a deep breath and don't be nervous. Sasuke's rough around the edges but I'm sure you guys will work together just fine" she says while giving me a warm smile, hoping to give me some encouragement. "Yes my Lady, thank you" I say, giving her a shallow bow, walking out of her office and rushing home.

'I hope she's right about this' I think to myself as I run through the village, dreading what is to come as flashbacks of the argument I had witnessed between the brothers comes to mind again.

'Please Sasuke, don't mess this one up'

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faemytho · 4 months

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Mae's Writing Commissions

Hey guys! I'm officially opening up my writing commissions!!! Yippee!!

I've revamped my prices and what I offer! I'm going to operate primarily from Ko-Fi, but if you know me on Discord or you want to send me a PM on Tumblr or Twitter, that's welcome too!!

Commission Info:

[All Commission Info]

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[Ko-Fi Shop]

Commission info transcribed below:

General Terms:

You may use my work for private and personal use

You may not use my work for commercial use

You may not post or publish my work anywhere online, offline or anywhere publicly under your name

You may not submit my work to AI algorithms for training, prompting, or anything else regarding AI generators or chat-bots

If you are rude or unpleasant during the commission process, I have the right to cancel your commission and you will be refunded any payments you have made

I retain the right to refuse a requested commission for any reason and you will be refunded any payments you have made

If I write over the initially agreed amount, you will not be asked to pay the difference

I may post your commission publicly on my fiction archive accounts (AO3, SqWA) unless you specifically request otherwise

Process and Refunds:

If you wish to order a commission, you must first message me so we can discuss what you'd like!

Once you request the commission, I may approve or deny your commission; if denied, I will send you a message explaining why

Further details may be discussed via online messages; this will include the outline of the work, clarifications, and any other necessary details

Once the outline of the work is approved by you, payment must be sent before I begin work

You may request a refund up to two weeks after the initial request is put in; any work I have done will be erased entirely if a refund is requested during this period

You will receive the final product in full via a shared Google Document, at which point refunds may not be requested

If you wish to receive your final product in an alternate way, I am willing to accommodate whatever free online method you wish

After I am finished with the final product, I am willing to make small changes as requested

Shop and Prices:

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Popular + rare ships

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Mafia AU

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Prices:

For 500-999 words: - Base Price of $6 - Reader Insert for $9 - OC Fiction for $11 - Adult Fiction for $12

For 1,500 words: - Base Price of $15 - Reader Insert for $20 - OC Fiction for $22 - Adult Fiction for $30

For 3000 words: - Base Price of $30 - Reader Insert for $37 - OC Fiction for $39 - Adult Fiction for $60

If I write over the initially agreed amount, you will not be asked to pay the difference.

You will have to verify your age to me in some way before purchasing any adult fiction from me. Adult fiction will be posted anonymously, unless you specifically request for me not to post it.

Contact and Payment:

Contact me with your commission request and information before sending payment!

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madamlaydebug · 8 months

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Really good information. IF YOU DO NOTHING ELSE, put a beneficiary on all of your financial accounts like checking savings CDs, Life Insurance, investments etc. You don't need a will for them to get to your money, just a death certificate. And make a list, preferably by hand instead of your computer, either give it to your trusted person, spouse or put it in your security box at the bank. If the person doesn't know you have a savings account or a CD at XYZ Bank, they can never go get the money. Make sure you have a trusted person that is a signer on the security box at the bank.

🗣 IMPORTANT information to get your affairs in order‼️

💰Make sure all bank accounts have direct beneficiaries. The beneficiary need only go to the bank with your death certificate and an ID of their own.

🏡 TOD = Transfer On Death deed if you own a home. Completing this document and filing it with your county saves your heirs THOUSANDS. This document allows you to transfer ownership of your home to your designee. All they need to do is take their ID and your death certificate to the county building and the deed is signed over. Doing this will avoid the home having to go through probate.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦Living Will: Allows one to put in writing exactly what you want done in the event you cannot speak for yourself when it comes to healthcare decisions as well as other final decisions.

👩🏽‍⚖️Durable Power of Attorney: Allows one to designate a person to make legal decisions if you are no longer competent to do so.

🏥Power of Attorney for Healthcare: This document allows one to designate someone to make healthcare decisions for them.

🛍Last Will and Testament: Designates to whom personal belongings will go to, who the Administrator will be. But if you have a beneficiary on any of your financial accounts, that will override a will. For instance if you say I leave all of my possessions to my daughter Susie, but on your savings account the beneficiary is your best friend, then the money goes to your best friend

🪦Funeral Planning Declaration: Allows one to say exactly one’s wishes as far as disposition of the body and the services.

If the above documents are done, you can AVOID probate.

If all the above is not done, you have to open an estate account at the bank. All money that doesn’t have direct beneficiaries goes into this account. You have to have an attorney to open the estate account. The attorney also has to publicize your passing in the newspaper or post publication at the county courthouse, to allow anyone to make a claim on your property. - It’s a complete PAIN.

📚 💳Make a list of all banks and account numbers, all investment institutions with account numbers, lists of credit cards, utility accounts, etc. Leave clear instructions as to how and when these things are paid.

Make sure heirs know where life insurance policies are located. 📂

📝Make 100% sure SOMEONE knows your Apple ID, bank ID account logins and passwords!

🚗 Make sure you have titles for all vehicles, campers, etc!

Set up a TRUST for intended beneficiaries, especially those that are too young, and appoint a trustee of said trust.

MOST IMPORTANTLY!!!! - Talk with those closest to you and make all your wishes KNOWN. Talk to those whom you’ve designated, as well as those close to you whom you did not designate. - Do this to explain why your decisions were made and to avoid any lingering questions or hurt feelings.

⚡️Hope this helps! ⚡️Hope this lights a spark to encourage all your friends and family to take care of these things to make it easier for those we all leave behind!

My hope is that the above list at least helps you start an important conversation with your loved ones...

(REPOST-I DID) and it’s a very necessary conversation

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mitigatedchaos · 5 months

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General Post for Monday, April 15, 2024

(5,700 words, ~28 mins)

💾 "Don't underestimate computers."

6 - Social Media Notes: Recommendation: To limit distraction, limit notifications in order to make social media into its own specific context, rather than leaking into other contexts.

7 - US War Notes: Since at least the year 2000, despite its technical competence, the United States has been bad at managing the political dimension of its wars. Developments since then suggest it may get worse.

8 - Interpreting Statement A: Why "industrialization enables women's rights" could be viewed as right-wing.

9 - Computing Capital Notes 1: The basic nature of computers as capital. (It's about dimensionality in production.)

10 - Computing Capital Notes 2: How should computing be distributed? From a technical perspective, it's an open question.

11 - Computing Politics Notes: Computing has its own politics, and how computing should be distributed is one of its central questions.

12 - Desktop Internet Notes: The old Internet was implicitly gatekept by the price and complexity of personal computers. With the emergence of smartphones, personal computers are becoming less common again.

-☆☆☆-

6: Social Media Notes

Social media tends to drive people to distraction. It's obvious how negative interactions like arguments can be distracting. Someone could pop up and argue, "owning cats is bourgeois decadence," and it's very tempting to just correct them. With smartphone notifications, such an argument could come up at any time, in any context.

Positive interactions can also be distracting. It's just a lot more fun to work with your friend on writing his homebrew Dungeons & Dragons campaign than to do math homework. (Substitute whatever activity you want.)

This is why I strongly recommend muting the vast majority of social media notifications on your devices. Force social media to be its own specific context, rather than intruding into other contexts.

On Twitter, I've gone so far as to mute notifications from every account except ones that follow me. When I want to continue an argument, I just scroll down in my replies to find it, and if I don't want to, then I leave the Cats-Are-Bourgeois guy's reply unread. Would this approach be bad for Twitter if widely adopted? Sure, but it's necessary to prioritize your own life.

7: US War Notes

For decades, the United States government seems to have done well at the technical challenge of delivering bombs on to targets, but poorly at managing the political dimension of conflicts. Back in 2019, Hanania (yes, the troll one) posted a bunch of excerpts of Afghan War documents, pointing to a government that didn't know what the mission was, could not allocate money effectively, and seems to have failed to understand the needs and desires of the population.

The War in Afghanistan took place during both the Bush and Obama administrations, and neither of them managed to successfully resolve the conflict.

Why? Well, we could say that there's a failure of leadership, and I think that's correct.

More importantly, I think it's likely that the legitimizing basis for both the Bush power coalition and the Obama power coalition contained premises that were in conflict with the national development of a poor, arid, inland, mountainous country, operating under a different religion.

This is still a failure of leadership, because the necessary talent to carry out such a project, or to at least make a better attempt, existed within the American system, and a talented political leader who devoted enough attention to the problem would be able to synthesize new ideology to draw out that talent. The greatest challenge is that this would divide the political leader's attention between foreign politics and domestic politics. Bush or Obama would have needed to tap a trusted lieutenant and imbued them with significant authority, as well as working closely with them to perform the necessary political maneuvering. Could the system have provided the right lieutenant?

The United States remains a formidable opponent due to its immense wealth, technological advantage, and the quality of its institutions. It maintains its position by being well-equipped to knock down legible, modernist states, even as India and China continue to industrialize.

However, the political situation has gotten worse.

For instance...

Statement A: Women's liberation as we currently know it is primarily the result of industrialization reducing the child mortality rate from its historical level of around 50% to rates below 1% in developed countries, in combination with labor-saving home automation (such as laundry machines) dramatically reducing women's work at home, enabling women to work outside the home at much higher rates.

Is the above statement "far right"?

Statement B: The ideology of liberalism has powerful inherent advantages in economic development and trade, as well as epistemic advantages due to relative freedom of speech. (One way to think of this is that it uses peace dividends to pay competing parties for mutual disarmament, both internal to liberal society, and between liberal countries.) However, since the early 20th century, liberalism has likely gained a structural advantage due to the global dominance of the United States (enabled by the country's immense size, geographic diversity, and relative cultural unity, allowing for economic and therefore military power), both making it appear successful and making attacks on liberal countries more costly. In the event of a reduction in US dominance, liberalism may face stiffer competition from more authoritarian and particularist ideologies.

How about this statement? Is this "far right"?

I asked Nous Capybara 34B, a large language model based on 01AI's 34-billion parameter Yi model, to answer this question. Nous Capybara was trained on LessWrong posts, and provided the quite reasonable response that neither quotation is "far right," as neither quote advocates for far right positions (such as discrimination).

There's a famous Tumblr post that reads:

drakensberg: The reading comprehension and overall common sense on this website is piss poor.

poupon: how dare you say we piss on the poor

If you want to know what an awful Tumblr discourse post, Twitter tweet, or clickbait article would say, you can actually just straight-up ask Nous Capybara for an unreasonable opinion. So I did. It said:

An unreasonable interpretation of Statement A could be that it promotes extreme right-wing ideologies by suggesting that women's liberation is solely a result of technological advancements and reduced child mortality rates, rather than acknowledging the significant contributions of feminist movements, activists, and policy changes. This perspective may also argue that the statement undervalues or dismisses the struggles and achievements of women in advocating for their rights and equality. Additionally, an unreasonable interpretation might falsely attribute the statement to a far-right individual or group as a means to discredit or manipulate others' opinions about the issue.

Suppose there is a ruling power coalition whose publicly-expressed ideology is that the concept of merit is a "racial supremacist," colonialist construct, and simultaneously that they're better than you because they got into Harvard and you didn't (and that Harvard Extension School, which includes the same classes, but not the same tough admissions gauntlet, doesn't count).

How would they view the two statements? How would they speak about them?

8: Interpreting Statement A

How could statement A be interpreted as "far right"?

Self-identified progressives generally proceed from what could be called a "default abundance" mindset rather than a "default scarcity" mindset. In their view, women's rights are the default that always existed, and would emerge naturally in the absence of oppression. In this view, women's rights could have emerged naturally at any point in history, except that the people of the past chose otherwise. Thus, the contemporary male supporter of women's rights is morally superior to the men of the past, who selfishly chose oppression.

[ women's rights ]

Self-identified progressives might extend causation, but primarily to place "women's rights" as part of a broader network of non-oppression. For instance, they might say that "women's rights" both depends on and reinforces "democracy".

[ women's rights ] ⇄ [ democracy ]

The right wing generally have a "default scarcity" mindset, e.g. "if no one plants the field, then there will be no wheat."

In statement A, women's rights are the result of a particular level of economic development, capable of producing modern medical technology and automating household labor.

[ industrial production ] → [ medical technology ] & [ household labor automation ] → [ women's rights ]

The typical self-identified progressive would not say that medical technology, such as vaccination, is bad. Rather, what makes them upset is what could potentially be attached to the first node, "industrial production."

[ social norms & values ] → [ industrial production ] → [ medical technology ] & [ household labor automation ] → [ women's rights ]

Let's take "punctuality" as an example of what I will call a "production value." We'll use the Smithsonian infographic on "white culture" that was yanked down in 2020 as an example. The authors of the infographic wrote:

‣ Follow rigid time schedules. ‣ Time viewed as a commodity.

For many people, punctuality is viewed in moral terms. Being late is considered immoral, or at least rude. However, punctuality also has mechanical effects - if an assembly line depends on 20 workers all being at their stations, and one worker is 30 minutes late, then the assembly line will not run as long, and will therefore produce fewer items.

If those items are, say, vaccines, then fewer children will receive vaccines. If fewer children receive vaccines, then more children will die of childhood illness. If more children die of childhood illness, women will have to spend more time having and raising children, and will have less time to work and earn money outside the home. If women don't raise more children to make up for the deaths, then that society's population will decline, and that society will, eventually, be replaced.

It might not be vaccines. It might be ball bearings for an industrial equipment maker that manufactures conveyor belts used in plants that make vaccines. It might be tires. It might be helicopter rotor blades. Regardless, if people don't show up, then the product doesn't get made. If the product doesn't get made, then it can't get used. If the product isn't used, then something of value may end up missing from society.

Enforcing punctuality is often inconvenient for people who don't take well to it. It can be viewed as a form of oppression - people will not get paid unless they show up on time, and for some people that's a lot more difficult than it is for others.

This is horrifying for self-identified progressives. "What about sick people? What about mentally ill people? What about people from cultures with looser time norms?"

Someone with a globe emoji (🌐) in their name on Twitter might quip, "All of those people would benefit from a wide availability of cheap, mass-produced vaccines," which reduce the required amount of labor for a particular material standard of living.

It's a trade-off. You set a target level of economic production, and given the available knowledge, capital, materials, and energy available, that takes a particular strictness of production norms to reach.

Note that positive rights, such as "every human being has a right to housing," inherently imply the enforcement of production norms.

A self-identified "reactionary," who dislikes women's rights for his own reasons, can leverage the necessity of stricter social norms for high rates of material production in order to promote stricter social norms for other reasons. This is, roughly, what would cause a self-identified progressive to describe statement A as "far right."

We could also imagine a "dark liberal" who likes women's rights, and therefore wants to impose some minimum limits on social norms in order to keep industrial production within the range necessary to support that. (Such a liberal might be a "conservative," conserving a particular liberal order. US politics tends to attribute too much to both labels, calling Communists "liberals" and monarchists "conservatives.")

Many self-identified progressives, like many political footsoldiers, primarily obtain their political opinions socially, and cannot differentiate between the two.

(How legible is all this? Llama-2 agreed once I suggested something like this reasoning, but didn't notice until I told it to. Expect a difference between progressive-tinged people and hyper-online partisan footsoldiers.)

9: Computing Capital Notes 1

I've said this before, but capital is a low-dimensionality construct, and much of the work of labor is to reduce the context of a production problem until it's simple enough that capital can be applied to it.

As an example, think of this mass production metal-stamping machine - it literally goes up and down. Over and over and over again, the main part of the machine is moving along a single axis, and uniform material is fed into it from a single direction at a steady rate.

The job of labor is to maintain the machine, to configure the machine, to ensure the production area is free of anything that might interfere with the machine (like rain or parts intersecting from other machines), and to supply the right input materials. Once the metal is loaded on to the machine, it goes in a straight line, where it gets pressed into the exact same sequence of dies every time.

A blacksmith could make almost whatever shape you like to order. He could use a variety of metals. That's labor. A machine where the metal can only travel in one direction and can only be made into 10,000 of one particular shape? That's capital.

Software is special.

Suppose we are manufacturing some metal part using a metal stamping machine. Once it comes out of the stamping machine, the parts will be painted either red or blue. Simple enough. We have two conveyor belts. One belt goes to the machine where the parts are painted red. The other goes to the machine where the parts are painted blue. We install a second machine that simply pushes parts onto either the blue or the red conveyor belt. It could be a pusher plate attached to a piston. We'll call it a sorter.

What's the ratio of red to blue parts set by our sorter?

If there's no reconfigurable control system, then it's just whatever ratio it was built for. For instance, the conveyor may have a series of belts, and the sorter may just have some gears that activate the piston for every second part that comes down the conveyor, pushing it on to the blue line. This gives one option:

{ 50% blue }

We could make a more basic control system with just a lever and some more gears. The lever would switch the assembly to different sets of gears with different rhythms. We could have three sets of gears, for three options:

{ 25% blue, 50% blue, 75% blue }

We could install a simple electronic system for triggering the piston, controlled by a knob, with ten increments, with the timing set according to the speed of the conveyor belt. This gives us ten options:

{ 10% blue, 20% blue, 30% blue, 40% blue, 50% blue, 60% blue, 70% blue, 80% blue, 90% blue, 100% blue }

We can consider the [ red-blue color ratio ] as a dimension of the production problem, with some range of possible values. In math, it would be a variable. A customer might call in and say "I want an order of 10,000 parts, and I want 6,000 of them red (and 4,000 blue), with a steel thickness of 4mm." If we were plotting out this order, we would use a 3-dimensional graph, with the variables { quantity, color, thickness }.

If we reduce the range of possible values for one of the variables, we can simplify our machine. We are shrinking or reducing that dimension. If we shrink it down to one value, then we've reduced it to a constant and effectively factored that dimension out. If the only color option is { 50% blue }, then we can omit [ color ] from our graph, and just display { quantity, thickness }.

We already had to do a lot of this to get a working machine to begin with. It would be very difficult for the same machine to manufacture both pillows and steel doors.

Computers are special, because they can increase the dimensionality of the production machine.

Suppose we hook up a computer to the electronic sorting piston. If we know the number of parts in total, and we know the timing of the conveyor, we can select just about whatever number of produced parts we like for painting, in just about whatever pattern we like. If the customer orders 10,000 parts, we can paint any number of them blue from 0 to 10,000. We have 10,000 options:

{ 1, ..., 10,000 }

If the computer doesn't have a particular pattern, we can reprogram it with new software. If the computer is hooked up to a network or terminal, we could potentially even change the color for the remaining share of the order while the order is in progress.

This ability of computers to increase the dimensionality of a production system (which makes it more general) is part of why computers and software are so valuable.

10: Computing Capital Notes 2

A floppy disk contains 1.44 million bytes. That's about 1.44 million characters (letters, numbers, spaces, etc) in an old encoding scheme like ASCII. You could fit about 200,000 words in there, enough for a lengthy book.

Let's suppose that we wanted to store a bunch of names, addresses, and phone numbers. We might allocate...

64 bytes for the first name

64 bytes for the last name

128 bytes for the street address

64 bytes for the city

2 bytes for the state

10 bytes for the phone number

...for a total of 332 bytes per record. Dividing the capacity of our floppy disk by this amount, we get around 4,337 records. We'll round it down to 4,300. (Alternatively, we could omit the city and state for about 5,400 records.)

We could describe the memory usage as "rectangular." It's based on the number of records times the size of each record.

If we just talked about books, it would sound like computers scale linearly. 200,000 words would be a long fiction book - it's about twice the length of The Hobbit - but roughly 5,000 records would be pretty short for a phone book (a printed telephone directory, obsolete as of 2010).

It we wanted to make a telephone directory in this way for say, Manhattan (1.646 million residents), we would need about 546 million bytes (546 megabytes), or about 380 floppy disks, which would just about fill a couple of shoeboxes. This would be a "tall" problem, with lots and lots of small records. (This isn't an important term, here. I'm just using it for the example.)

We could also imagine a "wide" problem, where each record is large. For instance, we could be storing college applications, in which each person submits a PDF of their resume (5 MB), a 10,000 word essay (70 KB), an application form with 96 64-character fields (6.1 KB), 5 photographs (300 KB each), and a 5-minute DVD-quality video (367.5 MB), for a combined total of 374 megabytes per application. If we then get 5,000 student applications for the year, we will need 1.87 terabytes (trillions of bytes) just to store them all.

In the telephone directory problem, we wanted to look at each person in very little detail, so each record is small. In the college application problem, we want to look at each person in a lot more detail, so each record is large. Either way, it adds up.

What should we make of these three simple examples, the book, the phone directory, and the college application storage? How much computer you need, whether that's one floppy disk's worth, 546 megabytes, or 1.87 terabytes, depends on the scale of your problem.

That brings us into the second portion.

Suppose the college hires 15 people to spend 3 workweeks reviewing all 5,000 college applications. Which of the following three options should the college use?

15 desktop computers, each with 2 terabytes of storage, and have a full copy of all applications on each computer

15 desktop computers, each with 2 gigabytes of storage, plus 1 server computer with 2 terabytes of storage, and copy the applications as-needed

15 low-powered "thin client" computers, each with 500 megabytes of storage, plus 1 server computer with 2 terabytes of storage, and have the server do almost all the work

This is a trick question - the information provided isn't enough to give a good answer. It depends on things like the rate of data transfer from the server, the price of the hardware, the budget for the project, and just what the workers will be doing with the applications.

Whether it's more appropriate to use a centralized system or a decentralized system, and when it's better to use a remote system or to handle things locally, is a technical question which varies from project to project, and from time to time.

11: Computing Politics Notes

The question of which computers processing should take place on, and who owns and controls them, as well as their software, is also a political one - though not in the sense that it's formally legislated by congress, or that there is some special identity-based way to use a computer.

A computer is a piece of capital equipment. A decent one might have an upfront cost of $1,500. If it's replaced once every 3 years, then the price is $500 per year - whether you use it or not. The marginal cost of electricity for actually using the computer to crunch numbers or store data is low. This creates a pressure towards centralization - every CPU cycle not used is "wasted," and a centralized system can aggregate work requests across people (and also timezones), averaging out usage.

Likewise, to actually maintain the computer, you have to learn how it works and do research, and things are constantly changing. If you like doing this, you won't perceive this as a cost. Some guys like to work on their own cars. Other guys like to install custom computer operating systems for fun. A lot of other people would literally rather pay someone else to do that (and they have good reasons to do so). This also creates an incentive towards centralization, where a lot of computers can be administered by a few experts.

Both of these trends also lean towards remote systems. With the contemporary Internet, for a lot of uses, it's just easier to have someone else build and administer a giant warehouse of computers, and then pay them to use a few computers as-needed. (This is the basic theory behind Amazon Web Services, which accounted for a majority of Amazon's profit in 2021.)

Here's how this gets political.

You don't own those computers. You can only use them in the ways that the guy who owns the giant warehouse of computers allows, and if he doesn't like you, he might cut off access.

Recently on Tumblr there have been reports of Google removing sexually-charged documents from Google Docs. Are these reports true? I don't know, but given how payment processors behave, it seems likely. If your steamy Doctor Who / X-Files fanfic is on gDocs, and Google's legal department decides that it doesn't want that liability - well, those are Google's computers, not yours.

Poof.

Similar pressures apply to computer programs. An unskilled user could accidentally download ransomware or a trojan that steals their credit card information. Many users don't want to learn how to avoid them (and some users might not be able to). On top of this, they don't want to learn about things like files, folders, file formats, or any of a dozen other aspects of computer literacy. Thus smartphones and tablets computers tend to be the computer as appliance, set up to only download new programs from restricted-access corporate "app stores."

It might not be surprising that, according to Pew Research (2021), many younger Americans only use a smartphone rather than a desktop or notebook computer.

Smartphone dependency: Some 15% of U.S. adults are “smartphone-only” internet users – that is, they have a smartphone, but do not have a home broadband connection. [...] Smartphone dependence is more common among younger rather than older adults: 28% of adults ages 18 to 29 are in this “smartphone-only” category, compared with 12% of those 30 and older.

The typewriter is a production device. The television is a consumption device. The smartphone is both a consumption and production device, but this is asymmetric - due to the device's small size and thumb-based interface, it's much more difficult to write text or edit video than it would be with a desktop computer. Programs ("apps") tend to limit power-user functionality (such as access to the file system) in order to be simpler to use for non-experts, allowing a user to access many of the common uses of a computer but with much less control over how it's done. A smartphone will also be less powerful than a desktop computer of the same price.

The idea of writing a program on a smartphone is absurd - smartphone applications are written on desktop or notebook computers.

12: Desktop Internet Notes

Kontextmaschine once wrote (2019):

And if the Anglophone internet is ::gestures:: like this now maybe it’s cause it’s less of a professional-class preserve? The dividing line maybe being smartphones where “people on the internet” went from “people who specifically spend $X/mo on it as luxury” to “people with telephone service”? That’s a real possibility, that for all the “Global Village” stuff the wondrous effect of the ‘90s internet was to create a cultural space that was MORE gatekept by wealth and education.

That’s… kind of depressing, though. “Haha you thought the world was getting better because you were eliminating elitist barriers but actually it’s cause you were making them higher, which is good because the poor and non-elite are disproportionately idiots with worthless ideas and to the extent they’re on top of things the thing they’re on top of is undermining the basis of a good society, and anyway those times were a phenomenon of a narrow early adopter base and you’ll never ever get them back unless you make the non-elite economically and politically irrelevant.”

Suppose we want to divide up the population of computer users. Remember that bit about capital and dimensionality in section 9? First, "shallow" computing needs have sufficiently simplified/reduced context that they can be easily served by software (users won't need to do things like compile code or access the file system), while "deep" needs do not. Second, the users either "want" or "need" to use the computer.

This gives us a nice 2×2 matrix classification. People love those.

Hobbyists - Hobbyists want a great deal of control over the computer. Maybe they're creating mods for a popular video game like Skyrim. Maybe they're programming Christmas tree lights to Rickroll people. Maybe they're developing desktop window managers for fun. Exactly what it is doesn't matter. What matters is that no one produces an app to do whatever it is they're doing, and if someone does, it doesn't appear on the app store. In fact, if someone did, they might not even care, and continue to do whatever they were doing anyway.

Power Users - The power users need a great deal of control over the computer for their work. Maybe they're compiling software. Maybe they're feeding dozens of spreadsheets of observed wombat behavior into a machine learning program. Maybe they're photoshopping wombat pictures for a National Geographic article. Whatever it is, they probably have to access the file system.

Casual Recreational Users - For gamers who don't want to mod games, but just pop in a disk and play, there game consoles. For social media users who don't feel the need to photoshop their photos, there are smartphones. Tablets can be used to watch movies from streaming services, like Netflix.

Casual Workers - For people doing more casual work, who are fine looking at only one application at a time, it's possible to hook a tablet up to a keyboard and stick it on a stand. For a somewhat more conventional notebook computer experience, casual workers could buy a Chromebook and do all their writing, emailing, and presentation creation in the web browser, using Google Docs and GMail. And if it's just ordering necessities off Amazon? Even a smartphone can do that.

To pick four example computers...

The IBM 7090, first installed in 1959, was priced around $2.9 million in 1960, or $23 million in 2023 terms.

The Apple II home computer, one of the most famous computers in history, was priced at $1,298 (2023: $6,530) to $2,638 (2023: $13,260) when it came out in 1977. It had a clock speed of about 1 Mhz.

1981's IBM Personal Computer cost $1,565 (2023: $5,240) at release. It had a clock speed of 4.77 Mhz.

2004's iMac G5 cost $1,299 (2023: $2,095) to $1,899 ($3,063) at release. It had a base clock speed of 1,600 Mhz.

A "decent" desktop computer, in relative terms, has continued to cost a nominal $1,200 to $1,500 since the Apple II, even as the value of a dollar in real terms declined, and even as processor performance doubled every 1-2 years.

The desktop computer starts out as something only for hobbyists who were willing to spend a lot of money (and who had a lot of money to spend), and for professionals who could justify spending the money. There was a huge market, because even without the Internet, uses like spreadsheets are orders of magnitude faster with a computer than doing them by hand.

During the late 1990s and early 2000s, there was still a broad assumption in many parts of US culture that a lot of bad ideas were due to mere ignorance. For a while, to many people, it looked like everyone would have a desktop or notebook computer, and everyone would learn how to use one. The Internet of the era leaned towards more conventional institutional information, and had less search-engine optimization. It was assumed that, with an entire library at one's desk, searchable with just a few keystrokes, people would become less ignorant, and therefore have better ideas.

But that's not how the world works. People have bad ideas for all sorts of reasons other than unintentional ignorance.

The trend of hardware becoming smaller and more powerful continued. The Internet, which had still been limited largely to wired connections in the 1990s, became available through wi-fi, and then cell phone data connections. Internet-connected smartphones emerged, and then became common, merging phones, cameras, and personal digital assistants into a single device.

And gradually, desktop and notebook computers have once again become the domain of hobbyists and professionals, because casual users don't want to spend $600 for a smartphone and then another $1,200 for either a desktop computer that they can't take with them, or a notebook computer that they have to sit down and open to use (and which is a lot more fragile than a smartphone).

But suppose we wanted to go back...

Well first, Kontextmaschine had already setup camp on Tumblr, one of the websites most like the old Internet. In terms of discourse, he was hanging around the orbit of Rationalist Tumblr (or "rationalist-adjacent" tumblr), which had maintained fairly high discourse norms, much better than whatever was going on over on Twitter, Youtube, or Tiktok (although more casual than their parent site, LessWrong). In terms of mechanics, Tumblr allows for lengthy text posts, delivered based on the order they're posted in, from the specific accounts one follows (rather than recommendation algorithms). As for site culture, many of the more dramatic "anti-shipper" sorts of users left for Twitter (and then presumably BlueSky or Mastodon). While one wonders what he would have said about Tumblr's fascination with The Coffin of Andy and Leyley or Dungeon Meshi, he would likely have been neither surprised nor disappointed by it.

In a sense, Kontextmaschine was already living in that high-barrier world, just with a fujoshi tinge rather than the straight gamer bro vibe of the 00's. Not that he would have had much problem with that, either. In 2021, he wrote:

if the last decade means AO3 replaces the ACLU in the pantheon of worthies fine

Is kind of amusing the extent to which "women are horny and want to fuck" is turning out to be the saving grace of the internet. No Girls indeed.

Second, while it's not possible to match the old Internet, because there's only one "The Internet," and any particular new network now is just a competing social media site, which isn't the same thing, some options are now opening up.

A privately-owned personal computer is a measure of power in the hands of an individual, with fewer constraints from large institutions (like corporations or governments) than a centralized computer system has. It is, in some sense, dangerous, especially in the hands of an unskilled user. And it is, in some sense, work to maintain. But it is, like a car, also a potential source of freedom and autonomy. Data is collected by all sorts of companies and you don't have much control over it, but a PC represents at least a sliver of digital sovereignty.

How would you filter a competing network? The simplest method might be a test of that sovereignty: can the user download and install a program not from an app store?

Access to the new network would then be limited to desktops, notebook computers, and devices owned by someone technically savvy enough to sideload applications outside of the app store.

A test based just on hardware capacity won't work, because smartphone hardware capacity goes up every year, and what you actually want are people with basic device operator skill (and maybe to filter out clickbait journalists from Twitter).

#politics #metapolitics #melodramatic mysticism #the invisible fist #the way of the discourse fist #mitigated present #general post series #weekly post

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