#Tunnel of love worker

[waddlesworth]

He’s so babygirl, guys. Got a comission of my fave boi. 🥺

Gonna be writing a Poptropica fanfic soon. I have some names for the Carnies (except Ringmaster Raven and Edgar), but none are set in stone. Suggestions are welcome and appreciated. ^-^

Guess The Weight Game Worker- Ned

Duck Stand Worker- Cliff

Fried Dough Lady- Wendy

Tunnel of Love Worker- Charles

Ferris Wheel Worker- Pete

Test Your Strength Worker- Marceline

The Twins- Ralph and Roger

[lookslikethatsallthetimewehave]

Names for the monsters?

I'm going to assume you mean the Creepy Carnies...

Warning: Names are subject to change XD

Lionhemoth (lion + behemoth)

Water-Foul (waterfowl + foul)

Brainworm (that's a real thing. Also it literally looks like a brain + worm)

Gyral (um...)

Grease Monger (grease + peace monger. She seems... nice.)

Heartstrings (I guess puppets have strings. And he's the Tunnel of Love Worker.)

Now the twins... I could just call them Ruckus and Riot XD

Monsters and proud!

[pawptropica]

Tunnel of love worker

The tunnel of love worker is a brown tabby ragamuffin!

[thehyperrequiem]

Ralph: What if the person who named Walkie Talkies named everything? Ralph: Pregnancy tests are Maybe Babies. Cupid the Tunnel of Love Worker: Socks are Feetie Heaties. Susie the Strength Tester: Defibrillators are Heartie Starties. Ringmaster Raven: Nightmares are Dreamy Screamies. Duke The Duck Game Worker: Stamps are Lickie Stickies. Wade the Weight Guesser: I hate you guys so much.

[mollysunder]

I know Vi's depression and angst next season is serious, but I can't help thinking about how goth make-up would have her looking like a clown. Unfortunately, I might not be able to take Vi seriously in those scenes (or at least not serious enough) , because she's literally Boo Boo the Fool.

It's one thing to feel disconnected from your community when you've been gone for so long, and it's a whole other thing for the community see you openly run around with an enforcer. And even more for the community to see you run around with a Councilor and a SQUAD of enforcers to basically arrest factory workers, including children, and leave a bunch of bodies behind, including a kid. I'm sure their families would be pissed to see you in the street.

Obviously Vi's depression is real and she's in for a real battle with her demons. But if I see her drinking in the club with her clown (KISS) makeup my brain's going to make a sad trombone noise, whomp whomp whomp.

[mariocki]

Susannah: Yes. Yes, he did risk himself. We all did. A lot of it... OK, a bit half-assed but at least... some of it will stick! You have to try. It's not going to work any more, running for the same old burrows... we're rafting off into space - God! Frank sees it. He said to me one day, 'Suse... you know what's going to do for us all? Not the failure of intellect, moral, muscle - but the failure of imagination! They're all too busy with their snouts in the trough to smell the fire.'

Crystal: Yeah, he says some really daft things.

-

Pam Gems, Loving Women (1984)

[holoprisms]

i need this guy so bad my teeth hurt

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Antiusurpation and the road to disenshittification

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

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

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

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

Oh, also, we had an election.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cranking up the price of food:

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

And everything else:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/07/usurpers-helpmeets/#disreintermediation

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

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

[pedriscroquettes]

𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐍 ✮ PEDRI

summary. your boyfriend loves you more than yesterday but less than tomorrow.

warnings. none just pure fluff. i’m so glad my starboy is back.

gabri speaks! listened to iman by maria becerra and it’s so pedri coded. had to write this immediately.

the herd of sweaty players heading through the tunnel to their respective locker rooms was a surreal sight. this was the biggest assignment you had gotten in the three years of you working for a sports journalism column. obviously you knew your boyfriend had a hand in the big step and often received sly remarks from the coworkers you had never gotten along with because of it. luckily for you, you had never been one to undermine yourself or listen to the comments of others.

there was also your boyfriend who would constantly read your pieces out loud and compliment you on your endless knowledge of the sport and plethora of creative words. it was like having your own personal editor. you yearned for the nights before his breaks where the two of you would cozy up in front of the tv revising your works in progress.

“why can’t you ever write about me like this? actually why can’t you write about me period?” he would whine with his flushed cheeks making a special appearance.

“i don’t write about you because they only have me covering the scandinavian leagues.” you said matter-of-factly.

“just tell them you’re dating me.” he would always say.

you never did but with the spanish press it was inevitable that your relationship would see the light of day. your world had flipped instantly and you found yourself on the next flight to germany. it took you a lot of reassuring words to help you understand that you deserved to be there. your boyfriend didn’t write your pieces for you, you did, you were the important figure. so, there you stood with a mic patiently waiting for the player you’d be interviewing to show up.

your co-worker had failed to mention who you’d be interviewing which had you scrambling for various questions to ask. you were fortunate to have an extensive vocabulary for different positions so you were sure that no matter who you’d be talking to your manage to make them comfortable. when you’re met with incredibly pink cheeks you realize why your cameraman was so giddy on the walk towards the tunnel. they were making you interview your own boyfriend.

“live in one!” your cameraman yells loud enough for everyone to hear.

“you’re such a dick!” you quietly scold pedri who’s currently smirking at you.

“you wouldn’t have done it if you knew.” he shrugged and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes because it was true.

you notice the cameraman counting down from three and quickly regain your composure. it’s fascinating for your boyfriend seeing how well you hide your affection for him. this is the first time he’s ever seen you in action and it’s quite mesmerizing the way the lights make you glow and how well you speak. somehow with all the chaos surrounding you two and the sweat dripping off his forehead you’re more beautiful than ever. it must be because you’re in your element he thinks.

“croatia has really done a great job of keeping the ball outside their box, do you think you guys will be able to break through?” you move the mic towards him waiting for an answer.

“of course i mean my connection with rodri is just working super for well for us i think we’ll be able to advance through the midfield more in the second half. modric will not make it easy but that’s why we’re here, to stop him.” he pants.

“lamine has been excellent throughout the first half how do you plan on using him to improve the play?” you scramble to say as time is running out.

“well lamine is excellent with the ball i think he’ll able to get us far into their zone. it’s really a team effort. he’s probably ecstatic right now and that’ll definitely help us.” he answers.

“thank you pedri. good luck in the second half.” your words contain honesty and you give him the most sincere smile.

“thank you, hermosa.” he compliments you on live television.

you want nothing more than to slap him but his hands around your hips take you by surprise. his lips are so close to yours and you immediately forget the camera is still rolling. it’s a quick peck but it’s a kiss nothing less. it’s your turn to display your flushed cheeks. in the blink of an eye he’s gone and you’re left alone to deal with the aftermath. you hear your coworkers tease you through your earpiece and the cameraman is currently laughing at you. you’re quick to redirect to the anchors back at headquarters. that night you and pedri make headlines for your performance in the tunnel.

[waddlesworth]

I wanna hug him so much. He probably has a lot of trauma after what Ringmaster Raven did to him and his friends. 🥺💕

[lookslikethatsallthetimewehave]

He thinks they are his children :) 

[simpforboys]

sweethearts nite

drew starkey x fem!youtuber!reader

summary: drew takes his girlfriend to Disneyland’s ‘Sweethearts Nite’

warnings: swearing, a bunchhhhh of fluff!!

first fic of 2024!! many more to come this wonderful year <3

happy valentine’s day to all of my valentines!!

“hello beautiful friends! welcome back, or welcome, to my channel. my name is y/n and today i’m bringing you along to mine and my boyfriend’s date night!”

as you finished your introduction, you cut the camera off as you relished in the feeling of Drew’s hand placed on your upper thigh. his left hand gripped firmly on the wheel, you were playing music off of your phone.

Drew had gotten used to your filming, knowing that you upload videos every other day. considering he also made a living from filming, he understood the schedule perfectly.

it was one of the reasons your relationship was perfect. the understanding of each other’s schedules and patience when something doesn’t go as planned.

you recently just hit around four million subscribers, and due to so many people witnessing your life weekly, you and drew both valued your privacy deeply.

but since you’ve been doing youtube for three years, you’ve gotten comfortable about the thin line between privacy and reality.

“for some of you new friends, this is my boyfriend, drew.” you stated, turning the camera back on as you panned it over to drew driving.

“hey guys.” he smiled, briefly turning to wave before continuing to focus his attention on the road.

within twenty more minutes drew pulled into the mickey and friends parking lot. you were buzzing with excitement as you stepped out of the car, making sure to grab your purse and accessories.

as you went around the car you saw drew pulling up his black dickies, the waistband of his tommy hilfiger briefs exposed.

you playfully hooked your finger in his waistband, letting the material slap gently against his v line as he smirked down at you.

“really, baby?”

“are these the ones i got you?”

“i think so.”

you slipped your bag on over your shoulder as drew took your hand in his, beginning to walk towards the escalators.

you grabbed the camera, recording your shoes standing next to each other. you panned it up to drew, surprised to see him making a goofy face (which made you snort into the camera).

➽───────────────────❥

“we’re here!” you announced to your camera as the two of you approached the front gate. the february sun was minutes from setting as stars peeked out from the clouds.

you filmed drew scanning your tickets, thanking the lady before walking past the turnstile. a wide smile was on your face as the train station in front of you was covered in pink lights.

“i think we need to grab these lanyards and wristbands.” drew said, placing his large hand firmly on your waist as he guided you over to where workers were passing things out.

luckily, it was a tuesday night so it wasn’t as crowded as it could have been. the time on your watch read 6:18 in the evening.

you thanked the workers as you slipped on your lanyard, turning the camera towards you. drew was used to you vlogging in crowded places, and with the use of his height, he continued to guide you through the tunnel.

your back as firmly placed against his chest, his hands on your waist as you happily talked to the camera. it was a routine every time you vlogged, one that gave you butterflies every time he did it.

because as you’ve never asked him to help keep you protected, he just took it upon himself to hold and guide you so you can do your thing. it was one of the things you loved most about him.

as the crowd started to fizzle out as people ventured further into the park, drew moved to the left side of you as you filmed the courtyard in the middle of the entrance.

“the hearts are so pretty.” you awed, the pink, red, and purple lights brightening the buildings of mainstreet right behind.

you hadn’t realized drew stopped walking with you until you were a few feet ahead and set down the camera. when you turned around, a shy smile twisted its way onto your lips when you saw your boyfriend taking photos of you.

“why are you taking pics of me?” you asked shyly, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. he wrapped his arms around you, beginning to walk with your body trapped to his.

“because you’re my girl and i love having photos of my girl.”

you grinned at his words, your pupils dilated as you stared up lovingly at him. anyone who was watching the two of you would’ve noticed the look in your eyes.

drew pulled his phone out again, turning the two of you around so your back was to his chest. he held the camera up as he snapped selfies of the two of you, wanting to save the memory.

“do you want me to take photos of you?” a woman asked, noticing drew’s selfies.

“yes please,” you grinned. you handed the woman your own phone, tucking your camera away as you cuddled next to your man.

happy smiles were plastered on both your faces as you posted, a genuine grin on your face when Drew placed a loving kiss on your temple.

“thank you.” Drew smiled to the lady, taking your phone back and as you and him scrolled through the photos.

“you’re so cute.” you grinned up at him, kissing the bottom of his cheek as he smirked slightly.

➽───────────────────❥

as the night went on, you and Drew went on rides, ate some speciality food, and shopped.

“i’m sooooo full…. holy shit is that the valentine’s day bakery?” you gasped, breaking into a soft jog with Drew playfully rolling his eyes behind you.

his bank account was definitely taking a hit for the night, but he knew he would make the money back, but he couldn’t make memories like this with you after tonight.

so, he sucked down the guilt as he paid for a festive churro for you. you kissed him softly as a thank you, walking over to a table to set up your small tripod.

when the camera was rolling, you gave Drew one half of the churro. “okay, taste test time.”

Drew was staring down at you with an adoring look on his face, ready to take a bite. you both put the cinnamon-y sweet in your mouth, your eyes rolling back slightly from how delicious it was.

“this is the best churro i’ve ever had.” you tell the camera, showing off the decorated churro.

(unbeknownst to you at the time, you hadn’t realized how much love Drew was staring at you with until you saw the comments moments after the video published)

“what do you think, baby?” you ask Drew, turning to him as he nods his head.

“it’s good. little too sweet for me, but it’s good.” he tells you, copying your actions and showing off his half of the churro.

“holy fucking shit- are you Drew Starkey and Y/n L/n?” a teenage girl ran over, her phone out and ready for pictures.

you and Drew smiled at her, the camera still rolling. “hi, yeah we are. it’s so nice to meet you.”

you hugged the girl, feeling her squeeze you tightly as she then turned to Drew and hugged him.

“can i get a photo? you two are like my bi panic couple.” the girl overshares, clearly very excited.

you laugh softly at her words as Drew looks confused, but doesn’t let it effect him too much as he bends down for the photo.

the camera snaps and the girl thanks you both one more time before leaving.

“what the hell is bi panic?” Drew asks, making you giggle at his question.

➽───────────────────❥

as you two walked over to Pirates of the Caribbean and Haunted Mansion, a couple of people stopped and asked you and drew, you or drew, to take photos with them.

it made both of you happy to see your supporters and especially how nice everyone was.

a yawn escaped your mouth as you stood inside the line for Pirates, the smell of the water filling your nostrils.

“we need to get a candle of this scent.” you tell your boyfriend, leaning against the railing to rest your feet.

Drew can’t help but smile and shake his head at your comment. “you want a candle of everything.”

“hey, i love candles! what’s wrong with that?” you tease, feeling as he wraps his strong arm around your waist to pull you into his chest.

he placed a soft kiss on your temple, your cold skin against his warm one.

“you’re so pretty.” he murmurs softly in your hair, continuing to press kisses on your head.

“says you.” you murmur back, kissing his lips in return.

[thehyperrequiem]

Ralph: What if mayonnaise came in cans?  Macchio: Well, that would suck because you can't microwave metal.  Cupid the Tunnel of Love Worker: Good morning to everyone except these two people. 

[bigboysfalldeep]

Time for a change - Male Body Suit

My life was kind of boring.

Working 9 to 5 every single day of the week, while being exhausted and restless on the weekends. I had basically no time for myself, and all I could think of was how much I needed a fresh start in life.

I talked to a friend online, and he told me about the body-suit serum. It would turn anyone into a body-suit, to take over their life.

He assured me it would work perfectly, and I had nothing to lose.

A few days later, I received the kit, including the serum, a few syringes and some sort of inhaler.

He said there are three steps to obtain the body suit.

1st: the injection, it will flatten the subject and create the suit.

2nd: the fitting, putting on the suit like a usual neoprene suit.

3rd: the inhaler, once you inhale the spray, the suit will be complete.

It seemed way to complicated to be false.

But there was still one question left; who did I want to be?

i was lazily skipping through TV channels when I ended up hooked to a football game.

That's when I saw him, Enzo Fernandez.

He was everything I desired in a man; a body of a god, so much money and most importantly, the exciting life of an athlete. I loved latinos so much, and was envious of his effortless beauty.

Every fiber of my body ached to be him, and I spent every waking moment fantasizing about it.

It took me two months to come up with decent plan.

I saved all the money I could, quit my job right before traveling to argentina.

One night, during an official friendly match between argentina and france, I disguised myself as a random worker, no body asked any questions even though I could barely communicate with anyone.

I watched the whole match, my mouth watering anytime I saw Enzo, my future body.

I felt my dick press against my jeans, my mind was in a haze, all I could think of was becoming him.

But I needed to focus, and not let this desire overwhelm me.

I stood inside the tunnel, as the argentina players walked passed me. One by one, wearing their sweat-soaked jerseys, shorts, socks and boots. They were so hot. But I waited for the special one.

I didn't know what I did to be that lucky, but Enzo was one of the last players to show up.

I swallowed hard, feeling the syringe in the palm of my hands, hidden inside my jacket.

"E-e-enzo," I stuttered, my throat tightening quickly.

He turned his head, raising an eyebrow, when he noticed I was holding a picture of him in my other hand.

"Quieres un autógrafo?" He smiled, pointing toward the picture.

I nodded, as he came closer. Quickly, I looked to the left, then to the right, no one in sight.

I was standing there for a reason, a blind spot, no cameras, and very close to a utility room, basically just behind me.

Enzo looked down, and before he knew what was happening, I injected him with the serum.

My heart pounded so hard in my chest, my muscles were trembling. If it didn't work, I would just get sued and end up in prison.

He let out a soft whimper, his eyes rolled back as he slumbed forward into my awaiting arms.

My body was moving on his own; I steadied him and pulled him into the utility room, locking it behind me. There was barely enough room for two people, let alone one unconscious footballer and a nervous mess.

I sat down and held him in my arms. His breathing was shallow, steady, as I ran a hand down his chest, feeling his firm muscles beneath the damp jersey.

It felt so good. Heat was radiating through the shirt, his muscles reacted to my touch and his scent, the musky, earthy smell of a man running around for 90 minutes, drenched in sweat and exhaustion filled the air.

His face was serene, yet his eyes were unfocused, his lips parted slightly, with him sighing contentedly from time to time.

I kept stroking him, running my fingers across his chest, his arms, and even lower, feeling his member through his tight shorts. Damn he was big.

My breath hitched in my throat as I felt him firmly.

That’s when the second stage of the process kicked in.

His body deflated, more and more until his tight clothes slipped from his skin. It looked weird, but the serum really was working.

It took me a second to take the next necessary step: putting him on.

It felt like a neoprene suit, like a diving suit, and I didn't hesitate any longer.

I put him on, his skin was tight, damp, yet a thrill coursed through me.

It was an ill fitting suit, tight suit, so tight, firm and uncomfortable.

I was shaking when I grabbed the inhaler, and at the count of three, I took a deep breath.

It left a sour taste in my mouth, my throat, but the effect was immediate.

My mind spun, my body quaked and I was barely able to steady myself against the wall.

Subconciously, I felt my chest, the skin tightened around my muscles, all of me was moving smoothly. Still, my insides were burning, my vision blurry and I let out a low groan.

Then, it all stopped.

It took me a moment to catch my breath, and my eyes fluttered.

I ran a hand across my skin, and I felt my muscles tense under my touch. I looked down, and was surprised.

I had abs, a toned chest, thighs and a huge throbbing cock.

"What the fuck happened?" I moaned, but it wasn't my voice- it was Enzo's.

In a hurry, I looked for my phone, unlocked it and turned on the camera. There I was, the beautiful Enzo Fernandez.

"Damn, it actually worked," I growled, running a hand through my damp, messy hair before I caressed my cheek and ran two fingers along my jawline. "Fuck."

His beautiful eyes, still slightly glazed over, looked back at me.

"Is this really me?" I said, and again, hearing his beautiful voice.

I instinctevly grew hard, and grabbed myself firmly, trying to prevent me from nutting right there, barely holding it in.

I closed my eyes, this had to be a dream, and I pinched myself. When I opened my eyes, I looked down and saw the toned body I had now.

Unable to process it fully, I ran a hand across my chest, along my arms, my thighs and back to my cock.

This was me, the new me.

I took several deep breaths, inahling something else; my new, musky scent. I lifted my arm, and buried my nose in my armpit, taking a deep sniff.

"Oh my god," I exhaled, the scent intoxicating my mind. "Fucking good."

I was unable to stop myself from leaking now, as I took another sniff.

My eyes rolled back quickly as I let out a rough, husky grunt.

That’s when I heard voices outside the room, people were looking for Enzo- for me.

I rummaged through the discarded pile of clothes on the ground, and put on the damp jersey, shorts, socks and lastly, the boots.

The jersey's sticky, damp fabric clung to my skin, and it made my breath hitch again. I could see my taut muscles through the wet fabric, nothing left to the imagination.

The shorts were even tighter, accentuating my big thighs, and the bulge at the front.

My hands brushed over it, and I pressed my palm against my length, eliciting another low moan from my throat. Then I felt my thick ass through the shorts.

"So tight," I growled, licking my lips.

I pulled up the socks to my knees, and put on the boots. So, so good.

I leaned against the wall, relishing in that moment, taking so many deep breaths.

The smell got even more intense, but I had to focus for now.

I pushed my old clothes aside and stepped outside. This body was strong, all the muscles moved just the way I wanted. I ran a hand through my tousled hair and across my firm chest, when some guy spotted me.

"Enzo, ahí estás." He said, approaching me with a shy smile.

At first I didn't know how to react, my spanish sucked, but some how, I had no issue understanding him like it was english.

"We were looking for you!" He said, placing a hand on my shoulder, leading me toward the locker room.

"Sorry, got hold up by a fan." I smiled, but hearing my new voice made me so heart, and I felt my cock straining my shorts. There was no hiding my erection, but nobody seemed to care much.

"Okay, okay." The guy waved it off, "The other's are already in the showers. We need to be in the bus in 20 minutes. Can you handle that?"

He looked at me, and I nodded.

"Sure, no problem." I said, confused when I learned to speak perfect spanish, but I didn't care.

We were right in front of the locker room, and I heard the other players snickering inside.

i opened the door and stepped inside, hit by the smell of a dozen, sweaty men.

I held back a low moan, as I felt myself leaking again. This was simply overwhelming. A few others were getting changed, and they spotted me, patting me on my shoulder, my tummy and my ass. Damn that felt good.

I now stood in front of the mirror, and looked at my reflection. Damn, I was hot.

I ran fingers along my arms, feeling my biceps flex firmly. Those beautiful tattoos, those firm muscles, felt so good.

The soccer gear fitted my body perfectly. The fabric, even damp with my own sweat, flowed along my firm muscles, accentuating my athletic frame.

My shorts were tight, yet extremely comfortable. The enormous bulge inside them was undeniable, and looked so good.

I lfited my arms, flexing at myself, and subtly, I took another deep sniff of my armpit.

The soaked jersey intensified my own scent, and I bit ny lip, trying to hold back several quiet moans.

Instead, a low growl escaped my lips, rumbling deep within my throat.

"So good," I said, stroking my chest, my tummy and even lower, feeling my tenting dick.

Another guy approached me, Julian was his name. He was in his boxers, showing off his beautiful body, and I couldn't help myself but drink in the sight of him.

"Good job out there," he giggled, patting my ass through my shorts.

"It was so good." I licked my lips at the sight of this beautiful man, taking in his scent as well.

His eyes roamed over my upper body, and he noticed my nipples piercing through the damp jersey.

"Don't look at yourself to much, cabrón." He teased, pinching my sensitive nipples. "The Coach will be pissed, when you are late, again."

I raised an eyebrow.

"He should be lucky we play for him, that fool." I smirked, and he mirrored me instantly.

"Ecaxtly, but still, don't be late." He tilted his head playfully and I nudged him with my elbow.

"Okay, bro."

Julian stepped into the showers and I took another, long look at my reflection.

I ran a hand down my chest, feeling the warmth of my body through the jersey.

My hand landed on my twitching cock, and I fondled me for a few moments. This felt so good; the clothes clinging to my skin, the scent of myself, and all the others mingling in the air and the excitement of wearing this professional athletes skin.

I took my clothes off, inhaling the scent of my jersey, before stepping into the showers as well.

Amidst the sound of my squadmates snickering, laughing and speaking to one another, I enjoyed all of it.

The feeling of my new body, the firm muscles, the smooth skin, the sound of my own muffled moans- fucking good.

This was the first time I came inside this new body. No one noticed, and what if they did? I didn't care.

Again and again, I shot a load into the shower, getting lost in the moment.

That was a fantastic start.

From that day on, I was Enzo Fernandez.

I went to training, got used to it all pretty quickly, and adjusted to this excititing life.

I wore his shorts every day at home, and used any given opportunity to jerk off. This body was a fine-tuned machine. And even though it took work to maintain it, it was way better than my old life.

[lets-try-some-writing]

In your professional opinion: what would be some Cybertronian Superstitions? Like do the miners hit the entrance of mines after someone dies inside it to help free their sparks from their tomb? Do people not say Unicron’s name after dark for fear it’ll summon him? Is there a name(s) that you can’t say inside the Iacon Hall Of Records or else you’ll be cursed with bad luck????

Please feel free to go hog wild with this.

Oh boy I LOVE the idea of that sort of thing. Honestly, I can see all sorts of little superstitions existing due to mythos and history.

Miners make it a point to never leave their tools unattended. They take them everywhere. To recharge, to fuel, even to get repairs. As for why they do this? There is a certain belief that the tools carry a bit of the luck and wisdom of those who held them previously. And since most tools are handed down from one fallen miner to the next, miners treat their tools with reverence. Many have carried the same pick, and each has left their mark. It cannot be disregarded.

Additionally, miners refuse to enter a deep tunnel system without whistling down it first. The habit has been long since made null and void by tunneling improvements, but there are stories of miners getting lost in the dark, before they adapted to it. Many died before their optics were augmented to the low light conditions. Great swaths of miners still believe that the wandering sparks of those lost in the dark linger there, scared and alone. Whistling down the tunnel before entering gives the lost spirits of the dead something to cling to, a guide to the afterlife in a sense.

Gladiators have a particular set of beliefs revolving entirely around the concept of honor. They know that their work is bloody and often cruel, and so they have developed a strange set of beliefs. Every gladiator, before combat, will take a stick or something equally useless, and snap it in half. They will give half of their broken instrument to a trusted comrade and march off to fight. If they return alive, the two pieces are to be put back together and promptly crushed into powder to be cast out upon whichever mech or beast died so that the gladiator could live. A sign of respect. However, if the gladiator were to die, their comrade is obliged to gather up the fallen's half of the instrument and have them run through their funeral rites with the joined object. This is done out of a belief that the dead must be honored, lest they linger in the living realm to haunt those who killed them (in the case of the gladiator surviving) or to stay with the other piece of their spark (in the event the gladiator dies).

Gladiators also have a firm belief that going into battle without paint will inevitably lead to bad luck coming upon them. They take meticulous care of their accenting paint, tracing swirls and jagged lines with delicate touches meant for those of higher castes. Some believe the marks distract enemies. Others say that the marks ward off attacks, letting otherwise lethal combat situations turn in their favor. No one really knows what they do. It is just something that must be done. Failure to go into battle without paint has led to more than a few gladiators meeting their end. Seeing such things has left the rest preferring to not take chances. Megatron himself went into battle without paint one time, and he quickly learned never to do that again when he returned with a brand new scar on his shoulder.

Amongst dock workers, there are various superstitions revolving around cargo in particular. It's bad luck to look at someone's cargo if it has a written letter attached. It doesn't matter what is in the box, it is considered a stain on one's spark to witness the usually rather sappy interactions between those who bother with sending hardcomms. Additionally, dock workers have long since grown to fear any box that comes in solid black. There was exactly one incident where a black box appeared amidst the cargo and disappeared without a trace, taking several other cargo pieces with it. Since then, any black boxes are either thrown right off the truck with a collective agreement that the loss will be signed off as an accident, or said boxes are loaded up with one unfortunate spark to transfer alone. Black boxes being delivered by one mech are often found missing, the driver and the box itself having vanished without a trace. Black boxes are terrifying, and not one dock worker is willing to risk it.

It is also notoriously bad luck among dock workers to deny the youngling with golden optics a ride. They will appear anywhere and at any time without rhyme or reason. When they appear, they never say a word, instead coming up to dock workers and pointing toward whatever transport they are loading up. Dock workers have long since learned to quietly nod and promptly ignore the youngling as they load up alongside the cargo. Interacting with the youngling results in the worker in question befalling some unfortunate end. Ignoring the youngling entirely leads to a similar situation. This superstition began long ago, and many younglings have abused it relentlessly since no one knows what the mysterious youngling from the myth actually looks like aside from their optics.

Low caste mecha as a whole have a strange superstition revolving around the concept of truth. They are notorious for keeping information to themselves, but low caste mecha never ever outwardly or blatantly lie. They are very careful to leave even the smallest grain of truth in their words. Why? Because telling lies brings the whispers of Liege Maximo. What are the whispers? No one is exactly sure. It is an evil omen, one that has led the low castes to develop odd honesty. They don't want to risk Liege's touch, not when he was stated to have been torn apart during the first age for his manipulations.

Low level soldiers hold the belief that giving away their names to one another is bad luck. Since they can all die at any given moment, they find it easier to remain nameless around one another. To them, remaining without a name in the optics of those around them ensures that survivors of battle can move on without fear. Giving a name means binding oneself to another. Their sparks might linger if they are attached, and that could lead to pain for both themselves and their comrades. So to get around this, soldiers don't do the name thing. Instead, every soldier refers to each other through characteristics or words of endearment. "Yellow" for a mech with yellow plating. "Comrade" or "Brother" for a mech they have served with frequently. Anything except a name. It would be cruel to bind the dead to living and the living to the dead.

Soldiers also have a belief that leaving a corpse to rot is incredibly bad luck. It doesn't matter whose corpse it is. It can't be left out. If nothing is salvageable, the spark chamber must be removed and taken to be given proper funeral rites. Not a spark wants to risk and angry spirit lingering because the body was not tended to properly. This belief extends to the point where soldiers will actively tear out their own spark chambers if they know they are going to die (or request others to do it for them). They don't want to linger and haunt those around them, so its best that the core of their frame is guaranteed proper rites.

Flyers of all kinds simply refuse to fly when Luna 1 and 2 are fully aligned. There are a thousand stories telling tales of fliers crashing, being killed, hit by rogue shots, and everything else. They won't risk it, and instead of flying, flyers will instead actively hide from the moons on such occasions. Usually unwilling to be locked in tight spaces, such cycles are the exception. To be seen by the moons is to be hunted. They won't risk it. Additionally, flyers have one particular stretch of Cybertronian landscape they all avoid like the plague. Mecha have been known to go in and never come back out, or if they do return, they are changed. They don't want to mess with that place, not for anything.

Flyers also hold the firm belief that one must keep their optics in perfect condition. They run tests all the time to ensure that their optics function without issue. Some even go so far as to get goggles or visors built into their frames just to protect them. Most chalk this up to a simple desire to not go blind. But flyers think differently. They won't get their optics replaced even if its an option. Why? Because they hold the belief that they carry the optics of a mech who didn't get to soar. Every flyer who has ever lived has had the optics of a grounder who will never get to grace the skies. For flyers, they see their optics as something sacred. They fly not just for themselves, but also for whoever their counterpart is, living or dead. They honor another through their sight, and so they must maintain their vision at all costs. Some call the phenomenon something akin to soulmates. The flyers state that it is the price they pay for their gift of flight.

(Note: Starscream and many of his people do not subscribe to the above thought process. Thundercracker is the only notable exception. Most chalk this up to his love of romance novels.)

Enforcers have many little quirks depending on city, but one they all share is the universal habit of naming their weapon of choice. It is a strange not quite religious belief for them. Whatever the thought process actual is, Enforcers rely heavily on their weapons, and as such, they must appease the weapon itself. They have to bond to it, make it an extension of themselves so that they can move it just as easily as a limb. They go about this through naming, and once named, they never get rid of the weapon in question. Even if its outdated, old, or broken. The weapon stays. If it is obliterated or lost, the Enforcer is obliged to get a copy of their prior weapon for the sake of their continued success. For this reason, most Enforcers fight with inbuilt weapons until they settle on something, and then they buy several copies just in case.

Enforcers will also never actively say "goodbye" to one another. Doing so would imply that there is a possibility of not coming back from the next patrol. So Enforcers simply don't use such language. "Good luck" or "Get those slaggers" are common supplements. Surprisingly, Enforcers only dodge around "goodbye" while on duty. They will casually wave off companions when not on the clock without a care in the world. However, if an Enforcer really does not like someone while on the clock, they will say "goodbye" as their polite version of a middle finger.

It is not exactly a rule, but Archivist as a whole simply do not refer to the Primes by name most of the time. There is a belief that uttering their designations aloud will bring their gaze upon whoever spoke. That can either be good or bad depending on the context, but since Primus's chosen can never really be predicted, most Archivists won't risk it. Instead, if they must say a Prime's name, they will tap a nearby surface a few times to supposedly draw attention away from themselves and hopefully keep the Prime in question from seeing them. It makes no sense, but even Orion Pax kept to the habit. Although some, like Orion, usually worked around this by coming up with slightly different pronunciations of the designations of Primes to hopefully avert their gazes.

Archivists also refuse to read anything relating to relics after a certain time. There is a longstanding belief that doing so can drive a mech mad. Hidden knowledge comes at Primus's chosen joor. Sometimes Archivists will reach grand discoveries at this specific time after delving into records of relics. But more often than not, Archivists have been noted having mental breakdowns, crying, losing their minds, or otherwise going haywire. Medical professionals chalk it up to exhaustion and mania. The Archivists believe it is a warning. They refuse to read about relics during Primus's joor. Obviously, there are some thing between the veil they are not meant to know.

Medics won't come within a ten mile radius of the smelting pits where most of the dead are dealt with. They believe it is a bad omen to linger in places of death, and that the wrath of the deceased can stick to their frames, making other patients lose their lives. This has led medics to make it a habit to remove dead mecha from hospitals as fast as physically possible, handing them off to medical students to carry to the pits. Medical students hardly ever do anything of note with the patients, so the professionals don't feel bad dumping all the potential bad luck on them. The only medics who actively hang around smelting pits are morticians and mecha focused on autopsies. They think lingering around the dead will help them understand the dead. That way, they can better diagnose just what killed a mech. Such medics are usually avoided by the rest who work with the living.

Medics have very sensitive servos. There is a longstanding belief that if a medic is to retire or happens to die, he or she must give up their servos to a younger medic in training. This is to pass on skill, at least in theory. It is also a sign that a medic in training is skilled and worthy of note. To take the servos of an old medic is to take on their legacy. Similarly to the miners, medics take honoring those who came before them very seriously. They will go above and beyond to keep their servos in perfect condition so that whoever comes after them can have the vital sensors that come with a medic's servos. Ratchet is one of the few mecha to not have inherited his servos from anyone. He has also never signed up to have anyone get them after he dies. Most take this to mean he never will die. And considering how long Ratchet has lived, a good chunk of the population firmly believe that Ratchet is eternal.

[dooblebugss]

I really need more of Tiso's ant behavior :)

I need to preface this by saying Tiso finds a lot of his ant behavior deeply embarrassing and "not very warrior-like". It's also a teeny bit weird and long so I'll put it under a read more ;v; I love this stuff but not everyone does

But notable (and fun) behaviors include:

Leaving scents/pheromones. This is purely instinctual and half the time he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Places he feels safe in, bugs he feels safe around, he uses his pheromones. The others can't sense it, nor do they know what he's doing (it usually looks like he's tapping things with his antennae or rubbing his chin against things)

He's a hongry guy. He's got a wild metabolism and, technically speaking, two stomachs. But Tiso can also go without eating for a long long time, as much as he hates it.

As much as he hates acknowledging it, he used to be a worker ant, specifically with tunnels and organizing. Due to this he's fairly good at navigating tunnels, and he kind of instinctively organizes things into piles and groups. When this is mentioned he gets very defensive.

Bit of a neat freak. He will spend a good long time grooming/cleaning his shell, armor, and antennae, until everything is good and clean and shiny. Diseases and fungal infections can destroy a colony, something that was drilled into him, so he's a little paranoid about it!

Stress will 'worsen' these behaviors. Leaving pheromones/scents, grooming, organizing. etc etc. Stress will also bring new behaviors, such as pacing and trying to administer medicine...with his mouth. (He hates this behavior the most.)