#Tiny Supplier

[theworkshopmann]

Tiny Supplier

Type: Misc/cosmetic

Class: Engineer

Paintable: Yes

Accepted in game: No

This reworked cosmetic was made by Steam user Aspilate. Posted on April 15th 2023, you can vote for this right here!

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

Out of curiosity, in the Timothy "Trash" Drake AU, where does Tim get the materials for the Cardinal suit? Does he take the money out of his own account and then like, hand make it all, or does he have someone else who does it? It looks really cool in your design of it!!

Thank you so much for the ask!! And honestly I hadn't considered the details much but I think this explination fits the best

Tim makes all of the stuff himself, its meant to look more "homemade" than say Batman or Nightwings very clearly engineered suits. As a result despite how wild some of his tech is, its made with fairly common materials.

This kid was still forced to go through school all over again, so he got super into enginnering and would request random supplies from his parents who could care less as long as he was busy.

SO Tiny Tim had the black Amex flipping through which suppliers would provide the best quality while being easily bribed to keep it off the record.

Or Tiny Tim who managed to hack a government satalite via his new D.S after he got bored of playing Pokemon Emerald

[starsinthenigth]

★woah, Kendra drawing- and..uh-★

★..who- who's this-★

[jrueships]

WHOEVER THE FUCK IS RECOMMENDING MED PPL TO GO INTO RADIOLOGY JUST CUS IF THE MONEY, IM GONNA FUCKING gET YOU

[tricksforclicks]

Saturday Hopper did 6ft on the wall and won judge's choice and enough treats for a year

[autarkman]

Best Dream Tiny houses by

www.tiny-haus-deutschland.de

[tardis--dreams]

I wish i could get buproprion without a prescription this shit is way too good to give up ㅠㅠ

[gutsby]

Love Tap

Pairing: Dad!Joel x Reader

Summary: Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

Warnings: 18+. Joel Miller is a MUNCH Oral (f!receiving). Unprotected p-in-v (quickie). Slice of life, domestic-style and Joel calls you ‘Mama’ a whole lot. One playful bite.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: ‘You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up’ is a line from 2Pac’s song, ‘Hit ‘Em Up.’

Joel Miller was a wonderful father.

Occasionally, he forgot how to act like one.

He had a tendency to get a little careless. Sloppy.

Letting the dignified, ever-respectful façade slip every now and again and smacking your ass when you walked past. Copping a feel when you had to squeeze by him in the kitchen. Best of all, pinching your cheek through your skirt while you were cradling the baby—his baby—and leaving you no choice but to shoot him a quick back-the-fuck-up-before-you-get-smacked-the-fuck-up look and a covert middle finger to remind him that he wasn’t supposed to be slapping your butt in front of the kids.

It was just bad practice to engage in those dumb, flirty antics, particularly when your four-year-old son had made it his mission in life to imitate everything dad did.

But again, Joel would sometimes forget that.

On a morning when he’d woken up a little too early with an erection that was a tad too stubborn to ignore, he got especially forgetful. He found himself plastered to your backside at the edge of the bathroom counter with a grin, knowing damn well you only had twenty-five minutes to get the family dressed, fed, and on the road.

“Joel, you are so—”

“Quick. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes suddenly pleading with yours in the mirror. You just might’ve had the willpower to turn his honeyed gaze away were it not for the lips that followed it. Tracing the shell of your ear and behind it, down your neck, leaving trails of soft kisses down the skin until he reached the collarbone, your sweet spot, and licked it—the bastard.

“Five. Minutes.” Your words were equal parts invitation and warning as you shimmied your PJs over your butt.

“You know I’ll have ya finished in two, sweet pea,” Joel teased—but deep down, you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Both of you had cum and were done in a record-breaking four and a half minutes, swapping pyjamas for normal clothes in less than half the time and stepping back out of the bathroom with your hair only marginally tousled.

By now you had the ‘Pre-K starts in thirty’ types of quickies down pat. You were proud. You glanced over your shoulder to see a similar glint in Joel’s eye, and as you started out the bedroom door, you felt a tap on your ass—or, with the sheer breadth of your husband’s hand, more like a WHACK, followed by the sound of a stifled laugh.

“Can Daddy get some more’a that later?” he quipped.

“More’a what?”

Aw, hell.

Your sweet, forever nosy mini-Joel was standing directly in front of you with two pinched brows and a mostly eaten dino nugget clenched tight in his tiny fist.

You opened your mouth to conjure up some half-assed excuse for the spank your son just saw, but then your husband was scooping the kid up in his arms and toting him straight down the hallway, and you heard, faintly:

“Whatcha gettin’ from Mama later?”

“None of your beeswax, bubs.”

Joel got his second helping around lunchtime.

He’d been in between calls with what felt like an endless stream of subcontractors, suppliers, architects, and project managers when he swung by the house. You were in the midst of baking cardamom buns when he blew through the kitchen like an EF5 tornado and decided he’d be feasting on something else entirely.

“Joel, my buns,” you whined as soon as he’d carried you up the stairs and tossed you onto the bed, eager as ever.

“Fuck your buns.”

“You already fucked ‘em this morning—can you relax?”

Your husband already had your pants tugged halfway down your legs. You let him, then helped him kick the fabric the rest of the way off when it got to your ankles.

“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Miller, y’know that?”

Something in the way he smirked as he sank his face between your bare thighs told you he already knew that. You would’ve liked to try and scold him again—give him a little more grief for the baked treats that would surely be burnt to a crisp by the time he was done—but then you felt his tongue lick a stripe up your slit, and you refrained.

Even if you’d wanted to, you scarcely would’ve been able to form a single word apart from, ‘Fu-cking hell, Joel’ and ‘Right there, right thereohfuuuuuuckfuckfuck.’

That was just fine by your husband.

In fact, he seemed perfectly content to lap at your slick, glistening folds while you moaned and cursed his name; it made him proud. Appreciative. Maybe even a tad too smug for his own good, if he were being honest, because the way you fisted his hair and rutted your hips against his face made you act a little more like him. A touch more reckless, sloppy, and desperate than your daily obligations as parents would seem to allow. A bit less proper and refined and a lot more slutty—all for him.

Joel teased your clit with a few soft touches from the tip of his tongue, and you almost tore the sheets in two.

“That feel good, Mama?” he hummed.

“F-Fingers, fuck, Joel— fingers,” you begged.

Still using his tongue, Joel drew the shape of a lemniscate extra slow just to spite you. You whined and bucked your hips in protest, but the man was undeterred—he knew exactly what he was doing. The only way he could be tempted to use his fingers now would be to spread your lips apart and lick you more, which he did.

Joel licked and sucked and drove you up the fucking wall with those figure eights until you nearly couldn’t take it. In one hasty, desperate move, you tilted your hips and tried to slip a finger past Joel’s mouth, into your cunt.

He bit that finger. You yelped.

“JOEL!”

It wasn’t that the bite actually hurt—his teeth barely grazed skin—but rather the way he refused to speed up. Gauging your wants and your needs with expert precision, he massaged the hood of your clit with his tongue and took care to plant suckling kisses as he did. You moaned and squeezed the bedspread, relishing the vulgar sounds of his mouth and the need he was building inside you. You turned your head to the side and whined into the pillow, knowing from the depths of your soul you needed release, but Joel just wouldn’t oblige you…yet.

When he grinned against your wet, warm, and slippery folds, his mouth might as well have joined in and said, ‘Keep going—you’ll cum on my tongue when I say so.’

Instead, Joel opted to say ‘Mama’ again, softly.

Mama.

He always called you that when he took you extra slow. Sometimes when he took you quick, too. Like a reminder to you both that you were, in fact, the mother of his children, and if the man had had it his way he’d have given you fifty more by now, daycare bills be damned.

He was generous like that. Always giving, giving, giving.

Just not when it came to doling out orgasms sometimes.

“I have a divorce lawyer on speed dial, just so you know,” you hissed through gritted teeth, head falling back when Joel’s tongue sank forward—inside you, then, “FUCK!”

“Mhmmm,” he hummed before retracting once more. Licking the soft, fleshy rim and nearly eliciting a scream.

Joel traced a circle with his tongue. He savored the taste. While you were whining and grinding your hips against the wet spot underneath you—a puddle that would only grow larger the longer he went on—your husband was devouring you, kissing your thighs every now and then.

“Well, if we split, my tongue goes too,” Joel said. Smug.

“Texas is a community property state,” you murmured, “I taught you how to eat pussy so your mouth is a marital asset.”

Silently, Joel wondered how that argument might hold up in court, grinned, then continued licking your cunt. You squeezed his head with your thighs, dug the balls of your feet in the sheets, and let out a lewd, pornographic scream that could’ve woken half the street. Luckily, your neighbors were probably all at work, your bedroom walls insulated just well enough to mask the noise, and Joel’s resolve crumbling slowly as he kissed between your legs.

One wanton, shameless, ‘I’m gonna cum, Joel, please’ was like music to his ears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten with a wife and mother as sweet as you, so upright and polite in your day-to-day life and then a hot, trembling mess beneath his tongue when he needed you like this the most. Surely he couldn’t treat you so mean.

Joel wedged two thick fingers in your slick, dripping heat and beckoned you to him as kindly as he possibly could. Rubbing the pads of both digits, callused as they were, against the spongy insides of your core and flicking them forward—‘C’mere, Mama, Daddy’s right here, go on’— so of course, you had no other logical choice but to cum.

It was all habit by now. A dazzling, sumptuous routine.

And Joel Miller was certain he’d never tire of seeing it.

Your spine arched off the mattress an inch or two, toes curling at the feeling, and while the sensation spanned over your body, your husband was the first to see it, sense it on his lips and tongue and fingers just as well. He squeezed your hip, told you how fucking pretty you looked when you came for him, then patiently waited out the spasms and cries and fingers lacing through his soft, dark locks like he was your last remaining tether to earth.

Then he kissed the inside of your thighs and smiled.

“All better, honey?” he hummed.

“Yeah,” you breathed back.

“Still want a divorce?”

A smirk and a response of ‘Not until you knock me up at least one more time’ was hovering somewhere over your tongue when you felt the bed shake. Buzzing. Vibrating?

Joel sat up between your legs and yanked something out from under his ass. He peered down at the thing—staring into a screen—and cocked a brow as he looked back up.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he said simply. Grinning.

He lobbed the phone your way, and you just barely managed to catch it between two trembling hands.

Incoming Call: Francisco C. Morales Elementary

You shot Joel a look and answered it instantly.

Disoriented, disheveled, and slightly foggy from climax, you half-expected to find one of your son’s disgruntled teachers on the other end of the line, reminding you that today was a noon dismissal and everyone was supposed to pick their kids up an hour ago. Your husband was the one who would always keep up with school schedules, so your gaze narrowed at him, butt scooting up the bed while he tried to dive right back between your legs.

“He-llo?”

You smacked a hand away from the front of your blouse.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?” a voice trilled through the phone.

Yes, unfortunately, it was.

You almost had to backhand Joel across the face when he tried to bite the button off your brand new top, teeth ruthless in their pursuit of getting you fully naked now.

“This is she,” you squeaked.

Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line—as though they knew you had a broad, hulking husband with a cock as hard as sheet metal trying to tear your clothes off while you talked. You stifled a shriek and a giggle when you felt your relentless man move down.

Joel was busy working your blouse from the bottom with that feral mouth of his when the voice sounded again:

“We’d really appreciate it if you and your husband could come see us this afternoon to have a little chat about—”

Your eyes widened. You clutched your phone even tighter and this time, more seriously, shoved Joel away. When he frowned and started to pout, you raised a finger.

“A-About what? Has my— has he done something bad?” Your voice all of a sudden tight, words wavering just enough to snag your husband’s attention too.

“We can explain more when you get here, he’s just…”

‘What the fuck?’ Joel mouthed silently, leaning in.

“What? What’s he done?” You couldn’t help it.

You heard a long sigh across the line, and you knew that wasn’t good. It sounded a lot like the kind of sighs you made whenever your baby made a colossal mess all over the kitchen floor, or your husband slammed a door too loud and woke the kids from their nap, or your son just—

“—keeps slapping his classmates on the butt.”

“Wait, what?”

You blinked. Joel coughed. Together, half-naked on the bed, you sat up a little straighter and leaned even closer into the phone, hearts starting to thud in your chests.

“Your son was just…spanking other kids and asking if he could ‘get some more’a that later,’ and when his teacher asked him where he’d learned to do a thing like that—”

You turned. Joel paled. Your gaze could’ve seared a hole through the front of his skull if you stared any harder, and just as your son’s principal continued talking, Joel raised his hands in surrender, already trying to apologize.

“Honey—”

“—and he told her he saw your husband do it at home—”

You didn’t need to hear another word. You were already fishing for your pants, yanking them back up your legs and brushing aside your husband’s soft, red-faced attempts at consolation, and when you were dressed, you started straight for the door. Already babbling some half-coherent apology to the woman on the phone, dodging Joel’s impossibly large hands and arms and hugs as he tried to pull you back into his chest and tell you he was sorry. You just might’ve let him, and maybe even believed him to be sincere, if you didn’t see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he fought to wrangle you in.

You’d made it to the door and were just about to pivot to give Joel the finger, tell him this was not funny at all, and he was coming with you right now, when both of you halted at the threshold and were obliged to turn again.

You sniffed the air, and your husband made a face.

Was it—

Before you could think, a plume of smoke drifted out through the kitchen door. Your eyes widened, and right as the fire alarm let out its piercing scream, you wailed,

“My buns!”

[avegemstones]

[mazamba]

"You need what?"

"I know it's a lot to ask," cut in Danny before Batman could go from confused to angry, "Just let me explain. I swear it's for a good reason."

Batman eyed his teammate skeptically. King Phantom was one of the League's newest and youngest members. Despite his unorthodox introduction to the team, he and his sister, Stray, had proven to be valuable additions to the Justice League and to the Teen Titans respectively. He was tall and imposing, despite his relatively slender frame. His visage was made the more menacing by the Crown of Fire that hovered above his head in a tiny version of the Aurora Borealis instead of his predecessor's green flames, the royal armor over his jumpsuit, and the fur-trimmed coat made of a rippling window into space.

"Ok, so you know how Bruce Wayne adopted Cassandra Cain, but she's David Cain's biological daughter, right?"

"..."

"...right! So, at some point, David sold human eggs on the black market," he continued, "you have no idea how hard it was to get the information on Vlad's supplier, but we did figure out that he bought the eggs from Cain for his experiments and then completely messed up the cloning process."

"How?"

"We have no idea! But my clone, my sister, has my ghost DNA, but part of mine and someone else's human DNA."

"What makes you think it's Cassandra's?"

He pulled out his phone, a two-year-old model with a cracked screen, and showed him the face of his sixteen-year-old sister in her human form next to a picture of Bruce's own eighteen-year-old daughter from a tabloid.

"She looks a lot like me," he admitted, "but she also looks a lot like Cassandra Cain, so we think Vlad got a sample mixed up or forgot to take out a nucleus or something and made-."

"A daughter instead of a clone."

It was a good thing Phantom wasn't particularly good at reading body language, or his tightening fist might've alerted him that something was wrong.

"I mean... sort of? It's different with clones. She's technically my daughter but I turned nineteen, like, a month ago, so I don't thi- I'm getting off track! The point is, Dani's destabilizing again and I need a clean DNA sample to help her. I tried to get into Wayne manor, but the place is warded to hell and back. You know Bruce Wayne, right? Can you help me talk with Cassandra?"

Batman sighed and turned his head to Phantom's right.

"Orphan."

"Motherfu-! How long has she been standing there!?"

She didn't respond to his yelp/question and instead turned to Batman.

"Take a tube to Gotham and ask Cassandra Wayne for a DNA sample."

Orphan nodded and walked off to the tubes.

"... Is it just me or was she a little quieter than usual?"

Bruce sighed, not looking forward to whatever his week was about to become.

[sttm99]

CW...? Recreational drug use, swearing

Unedited. I just wanted to get this out of my drafts

"Shit!"

Sero swore loudly as he gripped his phone, eyes narrowed and glaring into the screen, before he haphazardly threw it on to the bed next to his, Bakugo's, and the edge hit the blonde on his shin.

"Fuck is wrong with you, Duct Tape?!" Bakugo yells out in anger, immediately reaching down to rub St his shin, his other hand gripping his pillow in preparation to chuck it at Sero's head.

"Dude says supply's delayed. The stuff's coming tomorrow instead." Sero groans, falling backwards unto his own pillow, unconsciously but successfully evading the pillow Bakugo threw at his head.

"Seriously?" Kaminari groans loudly.

"Fuck," Bakugo grumbles. "I'm fucking stressed, I need some shit today."

Kirishima hums in affirmation and the boys all grumble in their shared bedroom.

UA had organised a week-long trip in a nice beach house near the edge of the city, for their year, a sort of getaway to welcome in the new session. At least that was what they were told. Classes A and I were paired together for the same week, seeing as the house wasn't big enough for all the classes to use at the same time.

And due to the fact that they'd been paired with a Management Course class, the Hero students had believed the trip to be solely for relaxation, and extracurricular.

And boy, were they wrong.

They'd been training non-stop.

Even the Management course students had to partake in some exercises alongside their daily assignments. It was only day 4 and everyone was nearing their breaking point.

Which was why Sero had convinced Bakugo, Kirishima and Kaminari to pool some money together and buy some weed to take the edge of their stress.

For some reason, Sero knew a supplier and ordered a batch of 35 grams, something to get them through the rest of the week, and the boys were admittedly excited for it to come, even Bakugo, despite his haughty words of not wanting shit inside his body.

Unfortunately, the supply got delayed to the next day.

"You guys though, I know where we can get some stuff." They all turned to look at Kaminari.

And that was how they began their journey to sneak up to one of the rooms the Management course girls were occupying, specifically the one belonging to one of Kaminari's 'friends'.

"I swear, if we get caught searching for weed, I'm fucking skinning you alive, dipshit." Bakugo grumbled, hands stuffed tightly in the pocket of his sweatpants as he padded softly across the hall of the second floor, right above his own.

It was late, way too late for this. The teachers were sleeping, their classmates were sleeping, everyone was sleeping due to the stress of the week. Heck, they should have been sleeping. But no! They'd all agreed to Sero's stupid idea of drinking lots of coffee right before training so they could still be awake afterwards in order to smoke.

Bakugo huffed in frustration. Why on earth did he ever think Sero had good ideas?

"Shhh," Kaminari whispered as he paused by a door, "You don't wanna wake up the wrong people." He had his ears pressed to the wood, trying to hear movement, determining if anyone was awake.

"You hear anything?" Sero whispered, leaning atop Kaminari's body.

"Yeah," he replied before softly knocking on the door.

There was silent for a moment, before hurried hushes and loud whispers could be heard from behind the door. Kaminari grinned slyly, Sero pumped his fists in the air, Bakugo rolled his eyes, inching forward as well.

A loud thud was heard, a shake against the door, then it was hastily pulled open, revealing a tall, blonde girl, in just tiny sleep shorts and a lacy bralette that did nothing to hide her breasts.

Kirishima quickly averted his eyes at that.

The girl didn't notice, the obvious tells of a high showing on her; loopy smile and blown out pupils. She swayed against the door, "Guys..." she said, her speech drawn out, "It's boys~"

But before she could continue, she was hastily shoved to the side, a yelp coming from her lips as her body fell to the left and another arm shot out to reduce how open the door was, shielding her and what Bakugo suspected to be other, barely dressed girls.

"What do you want? It's late?" Another girl popped into the frame, you.

Dressed in a small, tight fitting shirt and large, knee length shorts, you held the door close, your body blocking the boys from being able to see inside your room.

"(Y/n)," Kaminari greeted with a grin.

You quirked up a brow, eyes scanning over the boys he'd come with. Bakugo wanted to believe your gaze had lingered longer on him, because he couldn't tear his away from you.

Your eyes were dazed as well, pupils large, and your balance was off, but you were more clear headed that the blonde girl before you, and you had your eyes narrowed at them.

"Fuck do you want, Kami?" Bakugo could tell you were trying hard not to let your speech draw, but your voice was soothing, nice. "It's late."

But he was growing impatient, and just slightly frustrated with how his friends eyed you. Not like he even had any right to be possessive.

"You got any good stuff?" Kaminari whispered lowly, eyes as wide as his grin.

You furrowed your brows, trying to feign ignorance, even though they could smell the weed under the harsh scent of perfume you'd drowned yourself in to cover your tracks.

"You know..." Sero whined. "Good stuff."

Bakugo had had enough of their beating around the bush, shoving past the two boys and placing his hands on the frame and the wooden expanse of your door. You gasped as he leaned forward, getting his face close to yours, breathing in your labored breath, and giving you a sly grin at the scent of weed pouring from your lips.

"Weed. I smell it on you. Pass us some, will ya?" He said slowly, his voice low and so close to you.

You couldn't help the purse of your lips or how your gaze just momentarily drifted to his mouth.

"You wanna buy it? It's not free." You retorted.

"We got some coming tomorrow. We'll pay back."

You narrowed your eyes, considering it. You wanted to say 'no', he could be lying. But when he spoke to you in that stupidly sexy, raspy voice, with your head light from your blunt, you couldn't help but want to do what he said.

"I got pre-rolled blunts. How many you need?" You breathed out.

"Four." He muttered.

"Five," Kirishima interjected. "Shinsou's coming too." He said when Bakugo turned back to raise his brow at him.

You took the opportunity to admire his side profile.

"You pay back 10 grams, that's 5 skinny blunts." You spoke up.

"Deal," Bakugo whipped his head back to you, licking at his lower lip.

"You pay back tomorrow."

"Wait, noo~" a voice calls out from behind the door, and a mop of black hair enters the frame, arms wrapping around your shoulders, and you turn your attention to your friend. "We're gonna be at Kento's tomorrow." She said.

You pushed her off you, distaste curling your lips. "I'll be here. You can give it to me tomorrow."

Bakugo nodded once, his eyes wandering down your legs. "That's fine. The blunts then?" He asked.

You gave him a look once more before pushing the door open a bit more and turning round to walk into the room. He could see your legs wobble as you walked, could see your ass jiggle as you moved. He bit at his lower lip.

You almost tripped as you knelt between two beds, bending your torso to the ground and reaching underneath the bed on your left, your ass lifted in Bakugo's direction, in perfect view.

He felt himself begin to harden at the sight of it. You had to be doing it on purpose, tempting him.

All too soon, you were getting back up, a small box in your hand, and you picked out five pre rolled blunts, then you were pushing the box back underneath the bed and standing up, walking back over to the door and handing Bakugo the blunts.

"Don't forget tomorrow, you hear me?" You narrowed your eyes, knowing full well you probably didn't look the slightest bit intimidating.

Bakugo smirked down at you, leaning closer just a bit, drowning you in his height, his presence, the heat radiating off his body. "'Course I won't." He turned back momentarily to hand Sero and Kirishima the blunts.

"You can leave now," You said, smirking slightly, eyes dazed and lower lip caught between your teeth.

"See you tomorrow then?" Bakugo's voice was low, teasing.

"Of course." You responded softly, shutting the door as he pushed his weight off it and began walking away.

Kaminari quickly caught up to him, his arm coming to rest over Bakugo's shoulders, his body bumping into his. "Yo, the fuck was that?" He asked, voice low as he stared at Bakugo.

Bakugo grunted in response. "What? Fuck are you talking about?"

Sero scoffed as he matched their steps. "You were all over her. I could see your dick twitching."

"Why you looking, duct tape?"

But Sero only laughed at him.

"If you're interested go for it," the boy shrugged. "She's hot."

"Shut the fuck up." Bakugo spat, "You're gonna wake everyone."

"He's just mad he didn't get to hit." Kaminari snickered over to Sero.

Bakugo watched you in passing the next day. You were even prettier in the daylight, with your hair done, and dressed in casual clothes, smile wide as you conversed with you classmates.

Sero had managed to get the weed, 35 grams early in the morning, and Bakugo had fought the boys on who would be the one to give it to you. Now, as he trained with his classmates, perfecting their quirks and working on their physiques, he couldn't help catching sight of you all the time.

While your class had to do a 5k run as a mandatory physical exercise, before heading in to have a 2 hour class, consisting mainly of assessments and scenarios, Bakugo watched you as best as he could without getting caught.

"You're distracted." Sero snickered as he walked past Bakugo, shoving his elbow into Bakugo's side. "Looking at-"

"One more word and I'll incinerate you." Bakugo snarled, pushing Sero over the back of the couch.

"Bakugo?"

He turned his head around at the feminine voice, looking down at Uraraka gazing up at him. "What is it?"

"He's right though, you have been looking distracted."

He huffed. "I'm fine."

Sero stood up, rubbing at his head, and gave them a look, then walked away.

"You know if there's anything on your mind," she began, voice soft, palm moving up on his arm. "You can tell me."

Bakugo glanced up, just in time to see you walking into the kitchen with two others from your class by your side; the busty blonde from the night before and a boy he vaguely recognised. You walked to the counter, reaching up and grabbing a box of cereal from the overhead cupboards. When you got it and dropped it back on the counter, your eyes met his, then you looked at Uraraka's palm on his arm.

"I'm fine, really." He looked down at the brunette. "I'm going to my room." He shrugged her arm off him and stood up, making his way to the stairs.

"This should be 10 grams, right?" Bakugo mumbled, as he looked at the weed, laying atop some useless piece of paper he planned to use as wrapping.

Kirishima looked over his shoulder, rulers and pencils scattered on the desk beside the weed; Bakugo's attempt at 'measuring'. The redhead shrugged. "I think so. Looks like 10 grams to me."

Bakugo huffed and quickly began wrapping the paper over the weed. "Not like she'll weigh it or anything. This is about 10 grams." He mumbled as he took out a zip lock bag from a pile at the corner of his desk, opened it up and stuffed the paper-wrapped weed inside.

He stood from his desk.

"We're smoking some today, so don't waste too much time, yeah?" Kirishima said to him as Bakugi began approaching the door. "Or we'll do it without you."

"Just go ahead without me." Bakugo said.

Sero chuckled to himself. "You wanna fuck her or drop off weed?"

The blonde boy glared. "You wanna fuck her?" He retorted. "You've had a lot to say about my thoughts on her since yesterday."

Sero only raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning back on the headboard of his desk. "Just saying, bro. And what if I do?" He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "She is hot."

"Whatever. I don't fucking care," Bakugo scoffed rather harshly as he pulled open the door, slowly. It was late, everyone was meant to be sleeping, though the two teachers that chaperoned the outing didn't seem to care all that much if students heeded to the bedtime.

He crept slowly up the stairs at the end of the hallway, eyes looking round the walls, feet soft and silent, the bag of weed tightly in the pocket of his hoodie. Though Aizawa and the management course teacher didn't seem all that strict, or interested in what the students got into during their free time, he didn't want to take risks.

He made it to your door easy enough, knocked softly, once, then two more times after that. His stomach tightened as the door was pulled open, the loosened, relief coursing through him at the sight of you again.

You were dressed in a pale tank top this time, and silk sleeping shorts, much shorter than the one you'd worn the night before. Bakugo thought your thighs looked amazing.

"You got the weed?" You asked him. Your voice was steadier, a bit deeper, and your eyes didn't waver the way they'd done before.

He nodded slowly, inching it out of the pocket of his hoodie. You caught sight of it and pulled your door open just a bit wider, inviting him in.

Bakugo walked into the room you were occupying, not much different from his, his eyes scanning it as you shut the door and opened your palm to him, beckoning for the weed.

"Where are your roommates?" He asked as he handed it to you.

"Snuck out. One of our classmates has a villa nearby. He's hosting a party." You mumbled, setting the bag of weed on the dresser near the door and pulling open one of the drawers.

"You didn't go with them?" He was happy you didn't, happy that your friends had left and you'd remained, here, alone with him.

"I wasn't interested. Not in good terms with the host."

Some silence for a while.

"The fuck? You're weighing it?" Bakugo's eyes widened in shock as he quickly made his way over to your side, watching as you brought out a little scale from one of the drawers, dropping the zip lock bag unto it. "Why do you even have a scale?"

"Of course I'll measure it," you smirked, hands on your hips as you watched the scale. "And I have one cause I can."

You and Bakugo leaned closer to take a good look at the calibrations at the base of the scale. You squinted slightly, lips turned downwards as you counted the thin lines, matched them with the numbers above them.

"That's like 11.5." Bakugo frowned as he looked at it. "You gotta gimme one and a half grams." He stood back up and smirked at you.

You chuckled softly, opening up the zip lock and pulling out the wrap of weed. "Lemme roll it and we'll smoke some here, huh?" You offered.

"That's extra that came out of my stash." He argued, knowing full well he wanted to share a blunt with you.

You grinned, opening up your drawer again and pulling out some rolling paper. "That you're gonna smoke. With me."

"He sounds funny."

"He's a fucking dipshit."

You laughed, passing taking the blunt from Bakugo's fingers and bringing it to your lips. He watched you, having just finished narrating to you one of Sero's stupid, stupid ideas. Bakugo watched as you brought the blunt to your mouth, wrapping your lips around it, where his own lips just were, and then inhaling.

You'd convinced him to smoke the blunt with you, pulling him to sit on your bed, the one nearest to the wall, and expertly rolling a blunt with your pretty, dainty fingers.

He'd watched them, noticed your nails, pretty, well manicured.

Now he looked up at you with his lips slightly parted, pupils blown wide and head feeling light, as you blew smoke from your lungs. You were sat up, leaning back on your hand behind you, palm on the bed, legs crisscrossed on your sheets.

He sat at the edge of your bed, legs planted on the ground as his hands ran through his blonde hair.

You giggled softly, holding the blunt to him now. "Here." Your voice came out breathy and soft.

He kept his eyes on your own as he leaned into the blunt, wrapping his lips around the edge, where your own just was, and inhaling.

"This is an indirect kiss, you know." You whispered.

He kept looking at you as he pulled away, keeping still for a moment, holding in the smoke.

"Blow it out, will ya?" You said to him, but you were leaning into his face now, weren't you?

He leaned closer, hand reaching up to cup your jaw, his lips meeting yours halfway, eyes closing. You opened your mouth against his as he blew the smoke into it.

Then you were both pulling away and you were blowing out the smoke.

"I liked that." You said softly with a smile, head tilted cutely to the side, and you were biting your lower lip.

"The weed or the kiss?" He chuckled softly, his voice so raspy and deep.

"Both."

And then he was kissing you again, eyes fluttering shut as you grabbed your waist, pulling you so you sat sideways on his lap. His tongue licked at your lips, pushing into your mouth as his hands slipped under your tank and caressed the bare skin of your stomach.

You moaned softly into his mouth as your hands came up to brush through his hair.

"Bakugo," You muttered, pulling way and moving positions.

You were straddling his lap now, your dainty, well manicured fingers gripping on to the hem of his hoodie. "This the weed, right?"

He chuckled, his palms sliding along your hips, tips of his long fingers grazing your ass. "I wanted to fuck you when I saw you yesterday, and I wasn't high then."

You licked at your bottom lip, arms wrapping around his neck. "Really? You wanna fuck?" You whispered against his cheek.

"Fuck yeah. I want you."

And then you were kissing again, slow, with so much tongue and spit, and his hands were everywhere, ravishing you. He was palming at your breasts over your tanktop, groaning and moaning, then gripping at your hips, pushing your core against his boner.

You sighed, buring your face in the crook of his neck as his fingers slipped underneath the bottom of your shorts, feeling at the bare skin of your ass, squeezing and groping at the plump flesh.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

il/licit

words: 2.1k

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, unprotected p in v sex, drug dealer!reader and drug dealer!rafe, brief mention of death, marriage, pills

“so proud of you baby.” you press your lips against rafes, smiles barely dropping off either of your faces to kiss.

“thank you princess.” rafe says, giving you another peck before walking to accept his trophy and prize.

when the local country club started their private golf competition, you encouraged rafe to join, never expecting that he would win the whole thing, but he had a perfect game, all the conditions falling into the right place to bring him to the top of the leaderboard.

you watch with pride in your eyes as rafe takes various pictures with the president of the country club, someone of the wives of the other players, all elite members in the country club and prominent business figures in the outer banks, congratulating you with a pat on the shoulder.

you take in the situation as the sun beats down on your face, an idea sparking.

it's not until a week later that you bring it up to rafe, not wanting to spoil his win by admitting while he posed with his trophy that you were forming a plan.

“i think we should legitimize. get away from selling to teens and work upwards. you know all those housewives have pill addictions already, we could become their suppliers, and then you'll have an in with their husbands.” you explain to rafe, hands gesturing as you continue your already thought out plan, a look of genuine interest on rafes face.

“can your supplier get those kind of pills?” rafe asks. he figures you'd already inquired.

“yeah. for cheap as shit too. this is better than coke and weed, rafe.” you finally sit down, having begun pacing like you always do when explaining a plan to rafe.

“then let's do it baby.” rafe nods.

you met through dealing, having sidestepped barry to deal directly with rafe when you saw his potential to reach a whole new higher class kook market, never expecting to fall in love with him at the same time, but you made the ultimate power couple, you supply, rafe deals, you both get paid.

--

“have you found your first mark?” rafe whispers in your ear, seeing the familiar look in your eyes as you scan the crowd.

“notice how mrs mitchell keeps sneaking off? she hates these types of events, shes popping pills just to keep herself from freaking out.” you whisper back, eyes on the woman as she begins to sway again, a telltale time it's ready for her to sneak away and down more pills from the tiny container in her purse.

you smirk as she excuses herself, just as you predicted.

“be right back.” you take a deep breath before walking away from rafe, a comforting squeeze of your waist in encouragement before you go.

you follow her towards the restroom before she ducks into a hallway. you round the corner just as she's digging into her purse.

“you know, if you had something stronger you wouldn't have to take so many.” your voice ringing out makes her jump, snapping her purse closed.

you don't give her time to react, pulling the bottle of pills out of your own purse. you hand it over, a cautious look on mrs. mitchells face as she takes them out of your hand, reading the label. it's the same drug she's already taking, just as a much higher dosage. you got the scoop by plying one of the other members of her book club with drinks at the country club until she spilled.

“how much?” mrs. mitchell asks, and you smile, glad she's not stupid, but it's why you chose her as the first.

“you owe me nothing for this bottle. just spread the word. ive got better than whoever is currently supplying you. get the word around and there will be more where that came from.” you glance to the bottle in her hand before leaving her to swallow her pills by herself. you already know who her dealer is of course, a crooked pharmacist who writes fake prescriptions, but has to keep them in extremely low doses to not rouse any suspicions.

you enter back into the main ballroom, quickly finding rafe chatting to one of the businessmen in town. you stride up, politely introducing yourself are rafe wraps his arm around your waist, well aware that some of the older men may look at you with a predatory gaze and not wanting them to get the wrong impression that you were open to any advances.

“how did it go?” rafe whispers when you get a moment alone.

“good.” you glance at mrs. mitchell through the crowd, her eyes glossed over but relaxed. “she’s gonna get the word out. we’re on our way up, rafe.”

--

“you look so hot.” rafe groans, pressing kisses to your neck as you finish adjusting your dress in the mirror.

“too hot? should i change? it is just bookclub.” you sigh. when mrs. mitchell invited you to join her bookclub, you knew exactly what she was really asking you there for, especially when she slipped you a piece of paper with names and preferred drugs.

“nah, very respectable.” rafe says, reaching around you to do up one of the buttons on the top of the dress, covering up more of your cleavage.

“we should be thinking about next steps. once i have the in with the housewives, whats the next play?” you question, more thinking out loud than anything else, not expecting rafe to have a solid plan yet.

“cameron developments. ward left it to me.” your hands pause over smoothing out the skirt of your dress as you turn to face rafe. he hasn’t spoken to you about his deceased father much, all you know is that he died in a different country and that it was tragic. you never wanted to pry, but couldn’t resist googling a bit about ward cameron, and the business he used to run.

“are you sure baby? we can start our own thing.” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing your body to his as a physical comfort. rafe puts on a strong face, but you know sometimes he needs it.

“its already established, has all the proper documentation since we are trying to get more legit. we could always rename it cameron and y/l/n developments though.” rafe smirks.

“what, you don’t want me to take your last name?” you raise an eyebrow.

you can see the surprise on rafes face. you’ve never spoken about marriage before, but you’ve been together for a long time now and are clearly planning for the future as a couple.

“i always thought you were more traditional than that, rafe. i guess i could hyphenate.” you hum, but rafe aggressively shakes his head.

“no, baby, i’m making you mine. all the way.” rafe presses your back against the mirror as his lips find yours, glad that you’re just wearing a clear lip gloss as he makes a mess of your mouth.

“mmm.” you hum, pushing at rafes chest. “can’t be late. would look bad.”

rafe groans, but he knows you’re right, knows you need to give a good impression to all the prominent book club members. “i’ll drive you.”

you nod, grabbing your purse, the one with a hidden compartment in the lining where you’re hiding all the drugs you’re going to distribute, but you’re not worried, not when one of the women is the wife of the police commissioner. 

“you know, it would also look really good to everyone else if we got married. seems so silly to say boyfriend and girlfriend when we are surrounded by all these old married couples.” you tell rafe as he drives you towards mrs. mitchells house.

“baby girl, you don’t have to convince me to marry you.” rafe says, looping your fingers together. “i’ve already been looking for a ring.”

--

“why are half the people you're inviting to the wedding old as hell?” your friend asks as she helps you sort through wedding invitation envelopes, somehow able to stay blissfully unaware of the fact that you are not just a drug dealer but the most prolific one on the island and are working your way up.

“it’s important now that rafe is restarting cameron developments that we stay on their good side. it’s respectful to invite them.” you explain with a shrug. you never idealized weddings, didn’t really have any grandiose ideas for it, and you never thought you’d feel the excitement about getting married like you feel now that you’re with rafe.

“i guess.” she shrugs. “i just don’t want them to be boring.” “boring?” rafe calls out, entering into the dining room, the entire table covered with envelopes and pieces of paper. “is any party we throw ever boring?” he questions, making your friend shake her head and giggle as rafe presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“how is planning going?” he questions, rubbing his thumbs over your shoulders, glad that you haven’t seem too stressed, trying to manage a wedding along with everything else under your belt.

“really good.” you admit. “although i still haven’t chosen a dress.” “budget is no issue, you know that right?” rafe says. he knows you grew up struggling, which is why you turned towards dealing in the first place, but the money is flowing now, not just from the pills you’ve been pushing towards the upper crust, but from cameron developments getting started again.

“i know.” you sigh, grabbing your binder filled with printed out pictures of wedding dresses you like as inspiration. “i just feel like i want so many different things. i think i might do one dress for the ceremony and another for the reception.”

“you’ll look beautiful no matter what.” rafe says, bending down to press a kiss into your hair, pretending to nuzzle into your side as he whispers. “mr. johnson talked to me at the country club today. his wife has some friends who want the same shit she’s on.”

rafe straightens out, glancing over to your friend to make sure she didn’t hear anything before pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “have fun, ladies.”

--

“mrs. cameron.” rafe says, hands rubbing over the sole of your foot after he took your heels off for you, sat on the edge of the bed in your reception dress.

“husband.” you coo back, eyes fluttering closed, partly from the exhaustion of the party, partly from how good it felt to have rafe rubbing your sore feet.

“wife.” rafe leans forward, kissing your shin before moving upward, head hidden under the skirt of the dress as he pushes your thighs apart. his teeth bite down on your garter before tugging it off, flinging it away before standing, tugging at his tie.

you reach behind yourself to work on undoing your dress as you watch rafe undress, baring his muscles to you. “i almost don’t want you to take the dress off. you look so beautiful.” rafe says as you work the dress off of your shoulders before standing up and letting it drop to the floor.

“mmm, thank you baby.” you press your lips against his, pushing his hands away as you undo his pants and push them down his legs along with his underwear. “you’re gonna have to help me get the bobby pins out of my hair before we go to sleep.” you giggle, hair pinned up with a few face framing curls falling free.

“can i help you out of this lingerie first?” rafe asks, rubbing the white lace covering your skin.

“of course you can, husband.” you use the name again, so glowing from the day that you don’t even think about all the pills you have to distribute, or that cameron developments is acquiring some land next week. it’s just you and rafe in your honeymoon suite.

rafe works his hands carefully over the lingerie, for once being patient and not just ripping it off of you. when you are finally completely bare for him, he helps you lay back on the bed, taking a second to pause and look at you lying there, shiny diamond on your finger.

“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” rafe says honestly. he’s sure if it wasn’t for you he would still be getting drunk or high every night, and low level dealing at house parties.

“i can’t take all the credit.” you hum. “we make a great team.” “forever and ever.” rafe says, draping himself over your body as his hand laces with yours, feeling your ring against his fingers.

you spread your legs before wrapping them around his waist, raising your hips as your cunt rubs over his length teasingly.

“forever and ever, husband.” you nod to confirm, pressing your lips against rafes as he sinks inside of you.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @emma77645 @wearemadeofstardust0

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: Leaving Twitter had no effect on NPR's traffic

I'm coming to Minneapolis! This Sunday (Oct 15): Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Monday (Oct 16): Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

Enshittification is the process by which a platform lures in and then captures end users (stage one), who serve as bait for business customers, who are also captured (stage two), whereupon the platform rug-pulls both groups and allocates all the value they generate and exchange to itself (stage three):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

Enshittification isn't merely a form of rent-seeking – it is a uniquely digital phenomenon, because it relies on the inherent flexibility of digital systems. There are lots of intermediaries that want to extract surpluses from customers and suppliers – everyone from grocers to oil companies – but these can't be reconfigured in an eyeblink the that that purely digital services can.

A sleazy boss can hide their wage-theft with a bunch of confusing deductions to your paycheck. But when your boss is an app, it can engage in algorithmic wage discrimination, where your pay declines minutely every time you accept a job, but if you start to decline jobs, the app can raise the offer:

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

I call this process "twiddling": tech platforms are equipped with a million knobs on their back-ends, and platform operators can endlessly twiddle those knobs, altering the business logic from moment to moment, turning the system into an endlessly shifting quagmire where neither users nor business customers can ever be sure whether they're getting a fair deal:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

Social media platforms are compulsive twiddlers. They use endless variation to lure in – and then lock in – publishers, with the goal of converting these standalone businesses into commodity suppliers who are dependent on the platform, who can then be charged rent to reach the users who asked to hear from them.

Facebook designed this playbook. First, it lured in end-users by promising them a good deal: "Unlike Myspace, which spies on you from asshole to appetite, Facebook is a privacy-respecting site that will never, ever spy on you. Simply sign up, tell us everyone who matters to you, and we'll populate a feed with everything they post for public consumption":

https://lawcat.berkeley.edu/record/1128876

The users came, and locked themselves in: when people gather in social spaces, they inadvertently take one another hostage. You joined Facebook because you liked the people who were there, then others joined because they liked you. Facebook can now make life worse for all of you without losing your business. You might hate Facebook, but you like each other, and the collective action problem of deciding when and whether to go, and where you should go next, is so difficult to overcome, that you all stay in a place that's getting progressively worse.

Once its users were locked in, Facebook turned to advertisers and said, "Remember when we told these rubes we'd never spy on them? It was a lie. We spy on them with every hour that God sends, and we'll sell you access to that data in the form of dirt-cheap targeted ads."

Then Facebook went to the publishers and said, "Remember when we told these suckers that we'd only show them the things they asked to see? Total lie. Post short excerpts from your content and links back to your websites and we'll nonconsensually cram them into the eyeballs of people who never asked to see them. It's a free, high-value traffic funnel for your own site, bringing monetizable users right to your door."

Now, Facebook had to find a way to lock in those publishers. To do this, it had to twiddle. By tiny increments, Facebook deprioritized publishers' content, forcing them to make their excerpts grew progressively longer. As with gig workers, the digital flexibility of Facebook gave it lots of leeway here. Some publishers sensed the excerpts they were being asked to post were a substitute for visiting their sites – and not an enticement – and drew down their posting to Facebook.

When that happened, Facebook could twiddle in the publisher's favor, giving them broader distribution for shorter excerpts, then, once the publisher returned to the platform, Facebook drew down their traffic unless they started posting longer pieces. Twiddling lets platforms play users and business-customers like a fish on a line, giving them slack when they fight, then reeling them in when they tire.

Once Facebook converted a publisher to a commodity supplier to the platform, it reeled the publishers in. First, it deprioritized publishers' posts when they had links back to the publisher's site (under the pretext of policing "clickbait" and "malicious links"). Then, it stopped showing publishers' content to their own subscribers, extorting them to pay to "boost" their posts in order to reach people who had explicitly asked to hear from them.

For users, this meant that their feeds were increasingly populated with payola-boosted content from advertisers and pay-to-play publishers who paid Facebook's Danegeld to reach them. A user will only spend so much time on Facebook, and every post that Facebook feeds that user from someone they want to hear from is a missed opportunity to show them a post from someone who'll pay to reach them.

Here, too, twiddling lets Facebook fine-tune its approach. If a user starts to wean themself off Facebook, the algorithm (TM) can put more content the user has asked to see in the feed. When the user's participation returns to higher levels, Facebook can draw down the share of desirable content again, replacing it with monetizable content. This is done minutely, behind the scenes, automatically, and quickly. In any shell game, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye.

This is the final stage of enshittification: withdrawing surpluses from end-users and business customers, leaving behind the minimum homeopathic quantum of value for each needed to keep them locked to the platform, generating value that can be extracted and diverted to platform shareholders.

But this is a brittle equilibrium to maintain. The difference between "God, I hate this place but I just can't leave it" and "Holy shit, this sucks, I'm outta here" is razor-thin. All it takes is one privacy scandal, one livestreamed mass-shooting, one whistleblower dump, and people bolt for the exits. This kicks off a death-spiral: as users and business customers leave, the platform's shareholders demand that they squeeze the remaining population harder to make up for the loss.

One reason this gambit worked so well is that it was a long con. Platform operators and their investors have been willing to throw away billions convincing end-users and business customers to lock themselves in until it was time for the pig-butchering to begin. They financed expensive forays into additional features and complementary products meant to increase user lock-in, raising the switching costs for users who were tempted to leave.

For example, Facebook's product manager for its "photos" product wrote to Mark Zuckerberg to lay out a strategy of enticing users into uploading valuable family photos to the platform in order to "make switching costs very high for users," who would have to throw away their precious memories as the price for leaving Facebook:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

The platforms' patience paid off. Their slow ratchets operated so subtly that we barely noticed the squeeze, and when we did, they relaxed the pressure until we were lulled back into complacency. Long cons require a lot of prefrontal cortex, the executive function to exercise patience and restraint.

Which brings me to Elon Musk, a man who seems to have been born without a prefrontal cortex, who has repeatedly and publicly demonstrated that he lacks any restraint, patience or planning. Elon Musk's prefrontal cortical deficit resulted in his being forced to buy Twitter, and his every action since has betrayed an even graver inability to stop tripping over his own dick.

Where Zuckerberg played enshittification as a long game, Musk is bent on speedrunning it. He doesn't slice his users up with a subtle scalpel, he hacks away at them with a hatchet.

Musk inaugurated his reign by nonconsensually flipping every user to an algorithmic feed which was crammed with ads and posts from "verified" users whose blue ticks verified solely that they had $8 ($11 for iOS users). Where Facebook deployed substantial effort to enticing users who tired of eyeball-cramming feed decay by temporarily improving their feeds, Musk's Twitter actually overrode users' choice to switch back to a chronological feed by repeatedly flipping them back to more monetizable, algorithmic feeds.

Then came the squeeze on publishers. Musk's Twitter rolled out a bewildering array of "verification" ticks, each priced higher than the last, and publishers who refused to pay found their subscribers taken hostage, with Twitter downranking or shadowbanning their content unless they paid.

(Musk also squeezed advertisers, keeping the same high prices but reducing the quality of the offer by killing programs that kept advertisers' content from being published along Holocaust denial and open calls for genocide.)

Today, Musk continues to squeeze advertisers, publishers and users, and his hamfisted enticements to make up for these depredations are spectacularly bad, and even illegal, like offering advertisers a new kind of ad that isn't associated with any Twitter account, can't be blocked, and is not labeled as an ad:

https://www.wired.com/story/xs-sneaky-new-ads-might-be-illegal/

Of course, Musk has a compulsive bullshitter's contempt for the press, so he has far fewer enticements for them to stay. Quite the reverse: first, Musk removed headlines from link previews, rendering posts by publishers that went to their own sites into stock-art enigmas that generated no traffic:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/oct/05/x-twitter-strips-headlines-new-links-why-elon-musk

Then he jumped straight to the end-stage of enshittification by announcing that he would shadowban any newsmedia posts with links to sites other than Twitter, "because there is less time spent if people click away." Publishers were advised to "post content in long form on this platform":

https://mamot.fr/@pluralistic/111183068362793821

Where a canny enshittifier would have gestured at a gaslighting explanation ("we're shadowbanning posts with links because they might be malicious"), Musk busts out the motto of the Darth Vader MBA: "I am altering the deal, pray I don't alter it any further."

All this has the effect of highlighting just how little residual value there is on the platform for publishers, and tempts them to bolt for the exits. Six months ago, NPR lost all patience with Musk's shenanigans, and quit the service. Half a year later, they've revealed how low the switching cost for a major news outlet that leaves Twitter really are: NPR's traffic, post-Twitter, has declined by less than a single percentage point:

https://niemanreports.org/articles/npr-twitter-musk/

NPR's Twitter accounts had 8.7 million followers, but even six months ago, Musk's enshittification speedrun had drawn down NPR's ability to reach those users to a negligible level. The 8.7 million number was an illusion, a shell game Musk played on publishers like NPR in a bid to get them to buy a five-figure iridium checkmark or even a six-figure titanium one.

On Twitter, the true number of followers you have is effectively zero – not because Twitter users haven't explicitly instructed the service to show them your posts, but because every post in their feeds that they want to see is a post that no one can be charged to show them.

I've experienced this myself. Three and a half years ago, I left Boing Boing and started pluralistic.net, my cross-platform, open access, surveillance-free, daily newsletter and blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/drei-drei-drei/#now-we-are-three

Boing Boing had the good fortune to have attracted a sizable audience before the advent of siloed platforms, and a large portion of that audience came to the site directly, rather than following us on social media. I knew that, starting a new platform from scratch, I wouldn't have that luxury. My audience would come from social media, and it would be up to me to convert readers into people who followed me on platforms I controlled – where neither they nor I could be held to ransom.

I embraced a strategy called POSSE: Post Own Site, Syndicate Everywhere. With POSSE, the permalink and native habitat for your material is a site you control (in my case, a WordPress blog with all the telemetry, logging and surveillance disabled). Then you repost that content to other platforms – mostly social media – with links back to your own site:

https://indieweb.org/POSSE

There are a lot of automated tools to help you with this, but the platforms have gone to great lengths to break or neuter them. Musk's attack on Twitter's legendarily flexible and powerful API killed every automation tool that might help with this. I was lucky enough to have a reader – Loren Kohnfelder – who coded me some python scripts that automate much of the process, but POSSE remains a very labor-intensive and error-prone methodology:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/13/two-decades/#hfbd

And of all the feeds I produce – email, RSS, Discourse, Medium, Tumblr, Mastodon – none is as labor-intensive as Twitter's. It is an unforgiving medium to begin with, and Musk's drawdown of engineering support has made it wildly unreliable. Many's the time I've set up 20+ posts in a thread, only to have the browser tab reload itself and wipe out all my work.

But I stuck with Twitter, because I have a half-million followers, and to the extent that I reach them there, I can hope that they will follow the permalinks to Pluralistic proper and switch over to RSS, or email, or a daily visit to the blog.

But with each day, the case for using Twitter grows weaker. I get ten times as many replies and reposts on Mastodon, though my Mastodon follower count is a tenth the size of my (increasingly hypothetical) Twitter audience.

All this raises the question of what can or should be done about Twitter. One possible regulatory response would be to impose an "End-To-End" rule on the service, requiring that Twitter deliver posts from willing senders to willing receivers without interfering in them. End-To-end is the bedrock of the internet (one of its incarnations is Net Neutrality) and it's a proven counterenshittificatory force:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/06/save-news-we-need-end-end-web

Despite what you may have heard, "freedom of reach" is freedom of speech: when a platform interposes itself between willing speakers and their willing audiences, it arrogates to itself the power to control what we're allowed to say and who is allowed to hear us:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

We have a wide variety of tools to make a rule like this stick. For one thing, Musk's Twitter has violated innumerable laws and consent decrees in the US, Canada and the EU, which creates a space for regulators to impose "conduct remedies" on the company.

But there's also existing regulatory authorities, like the FTC's Section Five powers, which enable the agency to act against companies that engage in "unfair and deceptive" acts. When Twitter asks you who you want to hear from, then refuses to deliver their posts to you unless they pay a bribe, that's both "unfair and deceptive":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

But that's only a stopgap. The problem with Twitter isn't that this important service is run by the wrong mercurial, mediocre billionaire: it's that hundreds of millions of people are at the mercy of any foolish corporate leader. While there's a short-term case for improving the platforms, our long-term strategy should be evacuating them:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/18/urban-wildlife-interface/#combustible-walled-gardens

To make that a reality, we could also impose a "Right To Exit" on the platforms. This would be an interoperability rule that would require Twitter to adopt Mastodon's approach to server-hopping: click a link to export the list of everyone who follows you on one server, click another link to upload that file to another server, and all your followers and followees are relocated to your new digs:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/23/semipermeable-membranes/#free-as-in-puppies

A Twitter with the Right To Exit would exert a powerful discipline even on the stunted self-regulatory centers of Elon Musk's brain. If he banned a reporter for publishing truthful coverage that cast him in a bad light, that reporter would have the legal right to move to another platform, and continue to reach the people who follow them on Twitter. Publishers aghast at having the headlines removed from their Twitter posts could go somewhere less slipshod and still reach the people who want to hear from them on Twitter.

And both Right To Exit and End-To-End satisfy the two prime tests for sound internet regulation: first, they are easy to administer. If you want to know whether Musk is permitting harassment on his platform, you have to agree on a definition of harassment, determine whether a given act meets that definition, and then investigate whether Twitter took reasonable steps to prevent it.

By contrast, administering End-To-End merely requires that you post something and see if your followers receive it. Administering Right To Exit is as simple as saying, "OK, Twitter, I know you say you gave Cory his follower and followee file, but he says he never got it. Just send him another copy, and this time, CC the regulator so we can verify that it arrived."

Beyond administration, there's the cost of compliance. Requiring Twitter to police its users' conduct also requires it to hire an army of moderators – something that Elon Musk might be able to afford, but community-supported, small federated servers couldn't. A tech regulation can easily become a barrier to entry, blocking better competitors who might replace the company whose conduct spurred the regulation in the first place.

End-to-End does not present this kind of barrier. The default state for a social media platform is to deliver posts from accounts to their followers. Interfering with End-To-End costs more than delivering the messages users want to have. Likewise, a Right To Exit is a solved problem, built into the open Mastodon protocol, itself built atop the open ActivityPub standard.

It's not just Twitter. Every platform is consuming itself in an orgy of enshittification. This is the Great Enshittening, a moment of universal, end-stage platform decay. As the platforms burn, calls to address the fires grow louder and harder for policymakers to resist. But not all solutions to platform decay are created equal. Some solutions will perversely enshrine the dominance of platforms, help make them both too big to fail and too big to jail.

Musk has flagrantly violated so many rules, laws and consent decrees that he has accidentally turned Twitter into the perfect starting point for a program of platform reform and platform evacuation.

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/2023/10/14/freedom-of-reach/#ex

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

Image: JD Lasica (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Elon_Musk_%283018710552%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[starsinthenigth]

★okay here is a w.i.p of urhhhh, rise! donatello with my tiny/shrunken!riseofthetmnt!oc.. that I'll probably never finish but, erh

[teencopandthesourwolf]

LOVE YEW

on ao3 HERE

.

“Here!”

Stiles slams something down on the coffee table to the left of Derek's (Stiles's) laptop.

Derek is searching online, only a little psychotically, in the hope of finding a store that sells these very specific organic coffee beans he tried in a hipster coffee house recently. Derek isn't a hipster—he isn't—he just likes nice coffee, is all. Really, he should have asked the barista to find out not just the brand name but their supplier's address too because this is driving him insane. Maybe he is insane? More likely just incredibly shit at the internet, but he thinks he'd prefer to plead insanity if challenged.

Derek unknits his eyebrows and looks down at… a green thing. It's sort of feather shaped and has many spindles with bronzed edges.

It's a leaf.

His eyebrows knit themselves back together as he blinks down at the thing a couple of times.

“It's a leaf,” he says, because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to say.

Then he looks up—and back and forth at Stiles who is now pacing the apartment and alternating between clicking his fingers and flicking his thumbs and shaking his arms out at the sides of his body; his stimming can get pretty extra when he's anxious.

Derek's frown deepens with immediate concern. He must've really been deep in it with the infuriating Google searching to not have noticed the smell of Stiles's distress when his mate first arrived home.

“Hey, what's—”

“Yes, Derek, it's a leaf. It is a leaf that I brought all the way home. For you. From the cemetery.”

He's still pacing.

“Okay, well do you want to tell me—“

“It's an Apology Leaf. Obviously.”

Obviously.

“And, Derek, do not laugh, because—"

“I won't but could you just—“

“—this isn't funny. I'm ridiculous, I know, and I know that that's funny. But this? This is decidedly deeply unfunny, alright? This is totally not at all funny, Derek. It's like, a thing without one tiny ounce of humour in it, as in not the slightest bit funny in a gazillion sombre years. Do you hear me?” He inhales deeply, holds the breath, then blows it out harshly via puffed-out cheeks as he clicks and flails some more.

Derek hears Stiles and is of course prepared to wait for him to explain whatever this is, because Derek would wait for Stiles until the end of time, if he had to. Although that's not likely a thing to happen in any reality as this is Stiles who can't go for longer than fifteen seconds without talking. But still, Derek thinks it's the sentiment that counts. 

“You, Derek Hale, are good, and someone as good as you deserves somebody far, far better than a ratbag like me. Hence the leaf,” Stiles now tells him in a rush of even more confusing words, his chemo-signals tinged with shame for some worrying reason Derek is yet to discern.

Stiles glances over anxiously from his place of animated, mysterious penance—and then looks away again just as quickly while still trying to wear footprints into the recently painted varnish on the wooden floor of their new apartment.

Derek is clueless as to the cause of Stiles's meltdown, but neither things are a first. Stiles struggles sometimes—just like Derek does, who has plenty of his own outbursts (albeit more moody than vocal) that Stiles has to Private Dick his way through.

Derek is also trying his best not to worry too much about thinking that this is somehow his fault, so now sets his mind on attempting to marry these seemingly unrelated things in his head.

He thinks about the facts he's been presented with:

What is, at an educated guess, a Pacific Yew leaf.

and

Stiles's rather unhinged and self-deprecating dig at himself-slash-compliment for Derek.

...Yeah, no, he's not getting better at this game any time soon. 

“Uh,” he says helpfully, and Stiles rolls his eyes in that Do I really have to do everything myself around here? way of his which, rude.

Good job Derek loves the kook.

“It was just sitting there, on top of my mom's gravestone when I got there,” Stiles says quietly, incredulously, gesturing at the innocuous leaf.

Then he's off again with the pacing.

“And I knew, straight away, I knew,” he says, getting louder again and laughing in this accusatory sort of way, pointing somewhere into the ether, eyes manic.

Derek scratches his nose. He hopes he will soon know, too, because honestly, he's kind of blindfolded in the dark here.

“She was obviously telling me what a dipshit I was! What a douche I am! A massive ass-hat! Total loser!”

“I mean, that's mostly fair, but maybe total loser is a little strong.” Derek will often speak Stiles's language when Stiles is freaking out, using humour to try and ground him. 

Stiles carries on as if Derek hadn’t said anything.

“And I was like, Come on, mom, give me a break, will you? and she was like Seriously, Mischief? You really wouldn't let the special person in your life, your special little guy—”

“You can just say boyfriend, Stiles.”

“—come with you to the cemetery to visit me? Like, as if with that leaf she was reminding me that you are the one person who actually gets this shit, which, I do know. Of fucking course I know. And then—get this—I swear to God, Derek, I felt her literally slapping me upside the head! No fucking word of a lie, man. Like, thousands wouldn't believe me. Millions. They'd say that it must have been the wind or my incredibly vivid imagination. But I know, Der. I know that it was her,” Stiles continues with the confession without stopping for breath.

Derek has thought it before and he'll think it again: the kid's lung capacity is seriously impressive.

“And I also know that I totally should've said yes when you asked me if I wanted you to come with me to the cemetery this morning. Because the thing is, I did want you to. I really, really did. But I just… I just…”

Stiles starts slapping himself on the forehead with both his hands and Derek has had enough of that already. He gets up off the sofa and walks over to Stiles, catching those slim wrists in his grip, gentle yet firm.

“Please don't,” Derek says, imploring Stiles to stop. Derek can understand frustration, but can't stand Stiles hurting himself.

Stiles deflates a little. He then takes a step towards Derek and leans in, resting his forehead against Derek's, their noses lining up like penguins.

“I just—I should have said yes to you when you asked because I honestly, truthfully wanted you there. It's just that I've only ever been there with my Dad. And even then, not as many times as you might think. Not even Scotty has been there with me. It's just a place—it's usually something I do alone. You know?” Stiles' front teeth worry at his pretty lip. 

And yes, Derek does know.

So he says, “Because you feel guilt, right? Even though there isn't a thing in this universe or any other that you should feel guilty about.”

Guilt just for being alive. 

Slightly cross-eyed with the proximity and angle, Stiles looks at Derek in a way that says he knows just how much Derek knows about this stuff.

“Yeah. Yes, exactly. And I guess I didn't know how to be that with somebody else around.”

“But Stiles, that's completely—”

“No, Der. It isn't, actually. Because you're not just somebody else. It's you. And I'm in love with you.” Stiles finally takes a breath while Derek's heart is busy swelling to twice it's size. He will never tire of hearing Stiles Stilinski say those words to him. “And I absolutely should've trusted in that. In us.”

It is, of course, completely fine that Stiles went to the cemetery alone to visit his mother, but Derek also gets where the kid is coming from. He too takes a breath, now, a big one, because this kind of stuff doesn't come as easily for him as it does Stiles.

He swallows his nerves and pushes on.

“I love you, Stiles. And it's alright that we're not perfect. Neither of us are. Us—you and me—we're both just… Finding our way.”

After a moment, Stiles adds, “Together.”

They smile at each other like huge dorks.

“Yeah.” Derek breathes, and his heart might just burst.

Derek scents Stiles, and Stiles breathes deeply too, now. “Thanks,” he says, then Derek kisses him, just as deep and for a long while, because it's his favourite thing to do in the whole damn world.

Eventually Derek pulls back, runs a thumb over Stiles's mouth and says, “You know what?”

Stiles's brow lifts inquisitively.

Derek lets go of Stiles's wrist and takes his hand instead, leading him back to the sofa and sitting them both down squarely by the coffee table where he had been sat fruitlessly Googling not so long ago.

“I believe you,” Derek says.

Stiles frowns. “Huh?” It's his turn to be confused.

“Millions wouldn't, but I believe you, Stiles. About your mom.”

He reaches across and picks up the Apology Leaf, cradling it for a brief moment in his palm before nudging at Stiles's hand and urging him to take it, which he does.

Derek then grabs the laptop, side-eyeing his previous Google search—WHO NEAR ME SELLS PHOENIX ROAST ORGANIC COFFEE BEANS THAT TASTE LIKE HOME—and forcing himself not to get instantly sucked back into that particularly vexing nightmare, while also trying his best to angle the screen away from Stiles who, if he saw, would fall off the sofa laughing at Derek's admittedly pathetic research skills.

Not everybody is a… Technophile? Cyberpunk? Derek has no fucking clue about any of this shit.

With Stiles now passing comment on the aesthetic qualities of the Apology Leaf, Derek uses both index fingers to tap out the words of the thing he wants to look up, taking no notice of Stiles who is trying his annoying not-very-best to smirk at Derek's sorry efforts in Derek's periphery. Clicking through a few different links, this time Derek manages to find what he's after without any trouble, amazingly. He then hands the laptop over to Stiles, who carefully places the leaf down on the arm of the sofa beside him before fully taking the computer from Derek. 

Stiles purses those pretty lips of his as he scans the information on screen, squinting a little.

“Uh, well yeah. It's like you said, Der; It's a leaf. From a Yew, according to this.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Your mother's ghost is infinitely more clever than you.” Stiles's squint deepens further. “Stiles, she is absolutely spot on about this. Just—scroll down the page a bit, dumbass,” and he ducks his head and smiles, seeing as accusing Stiles of Internet-related Dumbassery is really fucking funny because, irony. 

Stiles tuts but does as he's told.

Derek gives him a minute to read the passage on the website he found. It says:

The Yew tree can live for many, many years. It has deep connections with magic and the universe. It was regarded as the protector of the soul by the ancient Greeks. You’ll find this tree planted at many burial sites throughout the world as it’s recognized as a guardian of the dead.

It is believed that Odin (from the Nordic legend) hung himself from the Yew for nine days and nights. It’s symbolic of its everlasting and regenerative properties and is often associated with transformation and change after a difficult time. The Celtic tradition honours the Yew tree for symbolising death and rebirth.

Stiles is smiling this gorgeous, open smile by the time he's finished reading, and Derek makes an unrealistic wish to be able to keep it there forever.

“So, you were right,” Derek says, “when you said that she knew. You were just a little mixed up about what, is all.” Derek takes another deep breath. “What your mom knows is that you got the chance to begin again, Stiles. After all the shit we went through, you actually got to start over. With somebody who will absolutely protect your soul with their life.”

Stiles suddenly blinks furiously, like somebody just threw salt in his eyes.

“And you knew it, that she knew... something,” Derek smiles back, lovingly, before that smile turns a little wry. “It's just that you were kind of—now, how should I put this…?”

“No. Do not do it!” Stiles shouts—instantly catching on because he'd easily be the brightest bulb in any box—and he's pointing again, at Derek this time. “Puns are my stupid thing, you charlatan, and I can and will sue!” he warns, outraged yet smiling again as he wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

“—barking up the wrong tree,” Derek finishes, his smile now positively wolfish.

Stiles shakes his head and narrows his eyes, but he's chuckling, too as he says, “You do remember that it's you who's the canine in this relationship, right, 'wolf? If anybody's going to be making barking sounds, it's you.”

“Speciesist,” Derek quips.

Stiles pokes his tongue out. Then he's quiet for a few seconds (but definitely no more than fifteen).

“You know, I really was wrong when I said you deserve better than me. We actually absolutely deserve each other, Hale. Because it turns out we are both humongous assholes.”

After a moment, Derek grins more.

“Well, I would have answered that with I love my asshole, but you had to go and use the word humongous, and there's no way I would say that about my asshole—even though I would have technically been talking about you when I said it, seeing as it's actually you that is my favourite asshole.” And he pulls a rare, goofy face, just for Stiles, who laps it up. “Also, thinking about it, I would also have to say that loving my actual asshole is, in fact," he points at Stiles, “your job.” 

Stiles dramatically slaps a hand over Derek's mouth.

“Oh my God, Derek, stop! My ghostly mother could be listening in to us right now! Jeez, dude, have a little decorum, won't you?!” And if Stiles saying that isn't ironic, Derek really doesn’t know what is.

“Sorry, mom!” 

Grinning even more, Derek pushes Stiles's hand away from his face.

“Hey, wanna know the coolest thing?” he asks.

“Why in the name of anything sacred did you bother posing that as a question, Der? Like, when would I ever say no to that?”

Derek leans over and kisses Stiles again, soft and languid this time. The boy's lips are dry and warm and he tastes just like autumn.

Stiles hums and smiles into Derek's mouth as if he really, truly does love Derek. 

After another glorious moment, Derek pulls back, looks at Stiles and says, “Yew trees aren't even native to this part of California.”

.

for @greyhavenisback my beloved <3 sorry i'm a dipshit, douche, massive ass-hat and a total loser, sometimes xp

(i got the info on tree symbolism HERE btw)

[brandyschillace]

Needle felted my cats because of course I did. Also built the bookcase and made a number of the tiny books. Made teapot and cookies from clay. Inherited Navaho horse hair baskets from my grandmother (who was half Cherokee, herself). Made the wee brain in jar. Purchased most other items from various suppliers. :) Cats are posable.

Also decided to build a solarium and make tiny plants and a stuffed chair.