#then you are disgusting and there is no hope for you

[pricetagged]

MEDIEVAL SCAMMER GHOAP?! Please enlighten us🙏🙏🙏

Since you both asked so nicely, have a snippet of a whisp of a concept😅

I have an idea. Not fully fleshed out. I could go in two directions, either historical Ghoap working as Pardoners and taking advantage of ignorant village reader (corruption kink, religious themes, abuse of power etc.).

OR, for my monster-lovers, has anyone seen Dragonheart? I was picturing, like, one of them is something beastly, the other plays at knight = profit? Fantasy scam and rescue? So, it would go something like this:

(Tw kidnapping and kind of mean Ghoap)

---------

Your situation didn't look any better flipped on its head. Flipped on your head, rather. Snatched and thrown over a bulky shoulder, high– higher than even your standing position. It was discomfiting; it was terrifying. Blood rushed to your face not only in fury but also in shame as your skirts fluttered in the breeze.

He noticed, too. His greedy fingers dug into your thighs, skimming down like he was soothing a skittish horse. But you felt the way he lingered. The way he chuffed and squeezed tighter when you kicked out with all the strength of a skittish colt.

Your fists pounded uselessly against heavy splint-mail, hands-catching on rough nodules and spikes that didn't quite register as pain. Not to your panic-stricken mind, thoughts flying off in the wind behind you as the beast carried you off.

But the smack registered.

Perhaps it was the sound, the harsh slap of flesh on flesh. Whipping crack, like the snapping of a great branch. The precursor to an eerie stillness, violence begetting obmutescence. And it worked–

–for a second. For the time it took for your stinging nerves to catch up with your racing mind. Then you howled. Kicked and clawed and hissed like a feral cat as tears welled in your lash-line.

"How dare you–"

"Quit yer fashin'. Ye'll bring the whole kingsguard down this way–"

"–good–"

"–and then I'll have tae kill them all," That had your attention, legs tense under the heavy band of his bicep. "Dinnae much feel like sharin' ye around."

"Oh, you beast! You foul, vile, disgusting–" Your voice was high, words scratching as they hitched out of your aching throat.

It hurt to speak, vocal cords already shredded from the way you'd screamed when he'd first ransacked your village. Coughing on heavy, acrid smoke and crying futile warnings about the Black Knight and his monster-in-arms ('Quiet, girl. Viper-tonged harlot, slither off and for gods' sake, quiet!') . But it hurt more to be silent. You flung insults like broken arrows, hoping that they would somehow land. That they would hit, fortuitously, and pierce the thick-hide of this brute. But hope is vain, and the fancies of men make gods laugh.

You landed hard on something soft.

Ego almost as bruised as your knees, you kept your eyes low. Sweeping. Marshy, wet silt. Topsoil sluiced off, only mud and clay and reeds to your right. A cheerfully babbling brook just beyond, water murky and discoloured with backwash from– the water flowed past the estuary of the village so it must be– no–

The realisation was caustic. Mordant. Burning at you like the scorched air in your lungs.

"You're a monster," you spat the words, mouth watering in your haste to let ichor drip forth and blacken him as much as the foul, brackish water ahead.

"Noticed that, did ye," he laughed, words glancing off like feeble blows. "Best not tae piss me off, then. Stay there and behave yersel'. Company's comin'."

Glancing up at him was like a blow to the stomach, wind punched out and body shaking. You already knew that he was big, inhuman. But now you could see every inch; monstrous, twisted mockery of natural features. Like a man formed of rock, too immense and hard and jagged to pass for anything but artificial. Counterfeit. Contranatural. Creation's bastard. All tusks and teeth and shorn hair. Hair everywhere, even down his bare, bulging forearms and thick knuckles. Coarse, dark.

His eerie, bright blue eyes blazed around black, pupils wild and blown. It could be the thrill, cruel playfulness of an apex predator. Berserker-wide, coming down from the kill–

But he'd been carrying you for a while, bloodlust long-since sated on the men and manse of your homeland.

You shivered, sweat and cold mingling in a discomfiting damp that raised the hairs on your arms. (The hairs on the back of your neck were already needle-stiff and prickling).

You pocketed a stone, a big jagged filthy shard. One you hoped could bruise and slash and poison, turn wounds weeping and sick.

Now that you were silent, he seemed especially strident, swaggering around the barebones of what you supposed must be a dwelling. You felt the slight whistling of air from the cave behind, cavernous and black. If you had to run, to hide, you'd take your chances with the forest and river ahead. To be lost in the appetites of the mountain abyss would spell death as surely as at the hands of this creature.

You watched him, cocksure and comfortable as he shucked off his warhammer and began unbuckling his braces. If you could read the snarl of his crooked teeth, you'd perhaps say he was in high spirits. He sent you a wink as he shrugged off his splint-mail, gravelly laugh echoing in the cavern behind.

It disguised the approach of your visitor.

"Grabbed the wrong one, Johnny," you shrieked as something grabbed your forearm, hauling you up. Looking down you saw the muted sheen of a spiked gauntlet. Black patina, flaked in iron rust. You swallowed hard, lump in your throat so big that it caught any words that might try to escape. Him. The Black Knight. The Liar. 

"Ye said to grab the pretty one by the fancy house."

"She's not the magistrate's daughter. No ransom for her." He spun you around, metal biting hard into your chin as he arched your face towards his.

Cloaked in ink-black helm and visor, you could just about peer in to meet his gaze. He looked back with cold, assessing eyes. The voice that rumbled forth was as harsh and breccial as you remembered, words rending you apart with serrated precision: "Not worth a rescue mission."

He released your chin with a final shake of your head, huffing amusement as you rubbed at the thin scratches he left behind.

It was hard to breathe now, stomach swirling and head-light. Even if you could will yourself, it wouldn’t help. There was already a faint coppery smell leeching from the Knight; your heart recognised it even if you would not give name to it. It sped up, fast enough to rush past your ears with discordant force. 

You didn’t feel the other one step up behind you, not until it was too late. There, trapped between man and monster (man the monster), tight enough that you couldn't even shiver. You felt the power of the creature even more now without the armour, all muscle and fat, sheer power close enough to sink your fingers into. But you couldn't move, your shallow breaths already catching in your throat into soft, hitching whines. 

"Shh, it's alright, bonnie," Rough, clumsy fingers swiped under your eyes. You felt him crouch lower, stubbly hair and tusks digging into your powder-soft cheek. "Looks like we're gonnae have tae keep you, then."

------------

[saeun]

এ gojo satoru ᪲ ﹕ how to annoy the boyfriend pro style. ᪲ jujutsu kaisen ᧔ female reader.

+ extra: real suggestive terms ⸝ short drabble.

“Damn, I’m hard.” Satoru sighs in utter defeat, placing both hands at the sides of him to further emphasize the fact.

“What?!” Your jaw’s nothing but dropped and your eyebrows furrowed in either disgust, shock, or a remix of both.

You shouldn’t be too shocked — Satoru’s just a man. Who wouldn’t get a little stiff when they’re playfully fighting with a girl and she ends up straddling his hips with one hand flat on his chest and the other gripping his hair.

Unable to believe the words coming from his mouth, you rock your hips, trying to feel anything that’s not soft beneath you. Indeed, he’s not only hard, but both his hands flew to hold your hips, forcefully stopping you from rocking any more.

“Are you crazy?” He hisses, clenching his jaw to fight back the auto-reflex of bucking his hips up.

“Hey, I was just checking.” You smile, thinking of teasing him a bit more. You are the who’s one on top.

“Wipe that stupid smile and get off me.” Satoru orders, but his actions imply the opposite. His grip on you makes it a challenge to move and you’re enjoying the eye candy you were blessed with. The boner’s a plus too!

Since your hips were halted, you decided to push your luck. You slide the hand on his hair down to his neck and the other closer to the left side of his chest. Satoru squints at you, keeping silent but tilting his head to expose his neck more.

You lightly squeeze his neck, hoping it’d distract him from you going in for a nipple pinch.

You were successful, earning a groan as a reward while Satoru lost against his imaginary battle between reflexes.

Inhaling sharply, Satoru smiles sweetly at you, but his grip tightens painfully. Maybe you shouldn’t have pushed your luck.

“My sweet girlfriend, have you ever been in a headlock?”

[fangdokja]

How do you escape a yandere harem? Asking for a very distressed friend (me).

♡ Book. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Word Count. 1,128

♡ A/N. Basically me before I got married. lol. Yes. I hated anything romance both fiction and reality. So I like this concept haha. Also, I'm seriously debating on making this an actual novella. Maybe. I still have to finish my requests, but maybe.

You fucking hate romance.

Not in a casual, indifferent way. No, your hatred for romance is the kind that borders on seething disgust. The kind that makes you want to puke when two characters start making heart eyes at each other. The kind that makes you physically cringe when someone dares utter the words ‘soulmate’ or ‘true love’ in your general direction. Romance is a shit genre. A putrid, festering landfill of emotional drivel. You’d rather watch a slow-burn psychological horror where the protagonist’s sanity unravels, or a thriller where the final girl barely survives a slasher massacre, than sit through a single damn love confession.

So naturally, because fate fucking hates you, you get isekai’d into an otome game.

Not just any otome game. A reverse harem, noble court intrigue, “will you find true love?” kind of otome game. You wake up inside the body of some unfortunate, aristocratic protagonist, and your first instinct is to smash your head against the nearest marble pillar in the desperate hope that blunt force trauma will eject you from this nightmare. It doesn’t work.

Worse, you are surrounded by them.

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who is everything you loathe—tall, broad-shouldered, charismatic. A born leader, they say. His bloodline has ruled for centuries. A tyrant in the making. His voice is deep, his smile a calculated weapon. A future emperor whose touch alone makes noblewomen swoon and fall at his feet like wilting flowers. He looks at you like you’re already his consort. You look at him like you’re about to stab him in the eye.

“Dearest,” he says, rolling the word across his tongue with insufferable arrogance, “what an honor it must be for you, to be chosen by the future ruler of this land.”

You stare at him. “I’d rather be executed for treason.”

His smile doesn’t waver. It only deepens. “How rebellious.”

You realize, with mounting horror, that he finds this amusing. Worse, attractive.

♡ Yandere! Archduke is the kind of man who has never once heard the word ‘no’ and taken it seriously. A bastard-born noble who climbed his way into power with sheer audacity and an overwhelming lack of self-preservation. The type to talk you in circles until you don’t even remember what you were arguing about in the first place. He’s always smirking, always one step ahead, and always so damn annoying.

“You wound me, darling,” he drawls, lounging against the silk cushions of your carriage like he owns it (because he does own it; he bought it specifically for your ‘dates’). “I’m a man of reason. I can be persuaded to let you go.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

His smirk widens. “Of course. All you have to do is admit that you want me.”

Your expression darkens like storm clouds rolling in before a disaster. You exhale slowly. “I hope you contract the plague.”

He laughs. The bastard laughs. “Oh, sweetheart. That sharp tongue of yours only makes me want you more.”

You contemplate drowning yourself in the nearest fountain.

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage doesn’t need to chase you. You’re already trapped. A cold-blooded intellectual, a prodigy whose intelligence surpasses entire generations of scholars. He is the advisor to the throne, the master of arcane arts, the genius whose apathy is only rivaled by his obsession. And for some unholy reason, he has chosen to dedicate that obsession to you.

“There is no logic in your resistance,” he states, his sharp calculated eyes watching your every move like a scientist dissecting a particularly fascinating specimen. “The probability of you escaping me is exactly zero.”

You glare at him from inside the magic barrier he’s sealed you in. “Fuck you.”

His lips twitch. “Inevitable.”

You scream internally.

♡ Yandere! Demon King is the worst of them all. The nightmare incarnate. The shadow that stretches across the battlefield, that turns the bravest warriors into weeping corpses. Seemingly peaceful, but whatever shred of righteousness he once had is buried beneath millennia of bloodshed. He watches you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. You feel like prey. You are prey.

“I do not comprehend your reluctance,” he murmurs, tilting his head as though studying a curious, fragile thing. His fingers brush your cheek, and you physically recoil, like his touch might dissolve you from the inside out.

He does not retract his hand.

“You are mine,” he says simply.

“No, I am not,” you snap back, the venom in your voice laced with pure, unfiltered rage.

A pause. He exhales softly. Then he smiles.

“Ah,” he whispers. “A challenge.”

Your entire body locks up with dread. You suddenly understand, with absolute clarity, that you are fucked.

────────────

Your days are spent avoiding unwanted confessions, sidestepping ambushes disguised as ‘chance encounters,’ and resisting the overwhelming urge to commit arson. Your nights are spent planning elaborate escape routes that never come to fruition because one of the four nightmares always finds you first.

You try everything.

Poisoning the Crown Prince’s wine? He drinks it, licks his lips, and says, “Sweet. Did you make this yourself?”

Framing the Archduke for treason? He fakes his own death and then shows up in your chambers that same night, grinning like a lunatic. “Miss me?”

Teleporting away from the Supreme Mage? He rewinds time. You wake up in the same bed, with his arms around your waist.

Selling your soul to escape the Demon King? He is the one who answers.

You are doomed.

And worst of all?

It’s still a romance game.

You watch, helpless, as the ‘Affection Points’ rise every time you breathe in their general direction.

You don’t want a ‘Happy Ending.’

You want a cease and desist order.

And yet, the game continues.

Your suffering is eternal.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[dumbandpoeticsblog]

You hired him so people need to live in terror is that why you hired him really?

I hope you felt amazing knowing that because of your vote someone's family will be seperated

Someone will not be allowed identity because they don't live in the way you want them to live you're absolutely disgusting

reminders for today:

if you or someone you know might need it in the next few years, purchase plan b. the shelf life of plan b is 4 years, and we might not be able to access it as easily as we can now in the days ahead.

if you are larger/plus size: go online and purchase ella instead of plan b. plan b is less effective if you aren’t under 160 pounds.

if you can, purchase books that project 2025 is looking to ban.

mass deportations are starting. if you see ice vehicles or agents, yell ice raid and la migra as loud as you can.

if someone asks who you voted for, keep your mouth shut. they’re fishing for traitors.

if anyone, anyone at all asks about your neighbors or their legal status in the us, you know nothing. don’t be the reason that their family is separated.

if anyone asks about your religion or lack thereof, keep it vague. this administration will look for any excuse to persecute you.

your friends are trans or queer? for the next four years they’re not. don’t expose anyone’s status as a trans or queer person to anyone else, even if you think you can trust them.

did someone you know get an abortion? no, they didn’t. they were never pregnant.

in short, don’t be a snitch, and keep to yourself these next four years. we’ll make it through this even if it seems hopeless at times.

this is all i can think of at the moment, but i’ll be adding on to this as the day continues.

we can survive this. we’ve survived before, and we’ll survive again.

[luveline]

Ohh for your consideration, Hotch and a chubby ditzy/dreamer reader, and the idea of him saying something like “you’re so soft” while getting a little handsy with the double meaning of like, “your body is so soft/lovely and I’m in love with you” and also “I feel hardened after so many years of witnessing the cruel capacity of mankind and yet you make me feel soft/hopeful with your good heart and etc” and reader is none the wiser and is just like “I’m glad he can appreciate my body etc that’s so nice”

I’m obsessed with your Hotch loving on chubby reader if you can’t tell😭I read it whenever I feel bad about my body(often)🥲reading your works is like comfort from a friend and I love you miss jade❤️❤️❤️

“Can you do that thing you do?” you ask softly. 

Aaron wraps an arm around you casually. “I’d love to,” he says, pressing his chin into your forehead, “but I’ve no idea what thing you mean. But as soon as you tell me…” 

“With my ear?” 

Aaron hums in understanding, curling his arm upward, fingers vying for your earlobe. It’s an absentminded touch, hard to describe; he’s not rolling it or tugging it, just sort of touching it, but it makes you shiver with pleasure and curl further into his chest. 

Aaron stops you from disappearing into his neck. “What do I get in return?” 

“This isn’t given just ‘cos you like me?” you ask. 

“Nope.” He presses a nice kiss under your jaw. “This is ‘cos you asked me to, but I never said it was for free.” 

“Alright.” You let your fingertips run down his back like gentle rain. “What do you want, honey?” 

“What do I want? Everything.” 

You laugh near his ear, and it’s like– like spun sugar, something delicate and sweet, it drives him crazy. He has no choice but to let his hand slip behind your ear and neck, to hold you in place as he kisses beneath your jaw. His free hand trails down over your chest, stopping at your ribs, thumb pressing into the plushness there as it usually does. 

“You’re so–” He laughs to himself under his breath. “You’re soft,” he whispers. 

You grin. “Thanks. It’s nice that you like it.” 

“Who wouldn’t?” 

“Don’t act like I’m everybody’s type.” 

Aaron smarts. “That’s not what I meant, and you’re still wrong. Who wouldn’t like this?” he asks, letting his hand inch up to bordering impolite territory under your chest. 

“Well, what did you mean then?” you ask, just the hint of a pout on your lips. 

Aaron decides to kiss it off. “Don’t be like that,” he murmurs, warming your lips with his breath, “you’re perfect, it’s just not what I meant.” 

You kiss him back with a distracted little hum before pulling away. “So I’m soft in some other way?” 

“You are. It’s like… like coming home to… I don’t know, like fresh linens.” 

You wrinkle your nose, but it’s not a bad expression, far from disgusted. “It’s nice to have washed sheets. It feels luxurious.” 

He laughs. It’s not like he knew what he meant when he said it beyond the overwhelming feeling of you, but you’re not far off the mark. “You’re not like anybody else I’ve ever met,” he says, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the bridge of your nose. He stays there with his eyes closed for far too long. 

When he pulls away, you’re smiling, as you so often are. 

“Soft girl,” he says, pinching your chin between a careful thumb and forefinger. “But don’t tell anyone I said that.” 

“Oh, I won’t.” You cross your fingers plainly. “Your secrets are safe with me, honey.” 

[hookedonhuge]

make a story with a lot of bloating and belches please

Here we go! Ended up putting in more effort than planned, haha. Aches and Gains: What the hell… where am I? Who are all these huge men walking around? Oh that’s right, the gym. I was working out wasn’t I? Yeah, my muscles feel really sore, must have been a killer workout. Pushing myself to my absolute limit, what a legend I am.

Who is this? Someone waving. Oh they are worried. Don’t worry, haha, I’m fine. UURRP! I just take this place seriously, that's all. Needed a quick rest. Vision’s still a little blurry but I’m getting there.

Now where was I? Just finished a set or did I finish my whole workout? Yeah I’m so sore I must be done. Especially my abs, they are really tight. I guess it was a core day. BUURRP! Oh that feels much better. I can get up now.

Whoo! I’m starting to feel alive again. Let's check out my pump in the mirror. Bet I’m looking real huge today. This shirt is kinda hard to get off, it’s so tight. Must be a crazy pump. Ah, there we go!

What the?! I’m freakin’ huge but… why have I lost so much definition?! My belly is so damn bloated! That’s okay, just my protein shake kicking in. No problem. Damn, look at the pecs on me though! Jealous of these bad boys, losers? Hahaha! King of the gym today. UUURRRP! I was already big and now I’m even bigger! URP!

I keep belching. Kinda weird but it relieves the pressure in my belly. I just need to get it all out, and find my abs again, haha. BUUUUURRRRRP! What are they all looking at? Goddamn greatness, that’s what. Oh don’t give me that pissy look staff, this place might as well be mine anyway.

I still haven’t relieved all the pressure in my gut. Aaaahhh! It hurts so much. UUURRRP! It’s like I’m inflating. I can’t get it out quick enough. BUUUURRRRP! Yeah, I know everyone, I don’t want to burp this much, okay. Geez. Everyone is on my case today. Oh great, now a staff member is coming up to me. This is unbelievable, I haven’t done anything wrong. Oh… my protein shake. Yeah guess I left it back there. Thanks. URRPP!

That cleared some room for a bit more protein shake. Bottoms up. Tastes so good. I’m so hungry too. Can’t stop myself from chugging it all. UUUUUUURRRRRRRP! That hit the spot. Hope y’all can smell that, it reeks of stale protein, hahaha. Deserve it for being so judgy.

God! I can feel myself getting bigger. Yes! I’m growing so much, so huge. My gut though… I look like I’ve eaten a five-course meal… twice. Aaaaaahhhhh! So much pressure… need to get it out… now! 

BUUUUUUURRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPP!

Looks like I caught someone with that point blank. Looks like they might pass out too. Hey, want another one? UUUURRRRP! Hahahaha! Take this! BUUUUURRRRRP!

WOW! Just caught myself in the reflection and damn! I’m so big, I’m jealous of myself. Look at these huge guns. Boom! This chest keeps getting bigger too. And my back, chef’s kiss. So goddamn wide and perfect! Legs looking thick too! I’m such a beast, let's go! Who cares if I’ve got a big, bloated belly. Bigger is better right. I’d take it any day with these gains. BUUUURRRRAAAAP!

I’m starting to get used to these burps. Feels so nice when I let them out. Like a lion’s roar. So manly. UUUUUUURRRRRRRAAAAAAAP! Is this too disgusting for all of you? Well bad luck. BUUURRRP! I’ve got a lot more coming! BAAAAUUUURRRRP! Let me show you all what a beast like me sounds like…

BWWWWWWOOOOOOUUUUUURRRRRRAAAAAAUUUUUUPPP!

Hahahahaha! This entire gym reeks now! Oh look here, we have a big, strong man coming up to start a fight. I’m the king of this gym, okay bro. Wait, not looking for a fight. Complimenting me? Hell yeah! This big guy gets it. New gym buddy right over here. What’s this? A protein shake. Thanks bro, I actually feel like I need another one.

This is UURRP unbelievable, how BUURRP can a protein OOUURRP taste so damn UURRP good? What has BOOOUUUURRRP he put in this UUURRRP thing? No seriously what is in it? Nevermind. Just a bro helping another bro out by giving him some fuel.

Time to leave. Not sure if this gym can handle me for much longer. This employee at the reception looks pissed, haha. Well I’m gonna tell him what’s on my mind.

BUUUURRRRP-OOOOUUUURRRRAAAAAP-BWWWWWOOOOOUUUUURRRRRP!

Don’t think I’ll need to pay to get in anymore.

[revelboo]

Revel, this is very important (Atleast to us-). Me and my friend have both been reading Everything is Alright and we both agree on something, we were hoping that you could make Starscream a Girl dad, and make the first sparkling a girl. Only if you want to though and don't have any plans, we'd be alright if you don't do this too. We both really love and enjoy your writing, and check everyday for new updates from you. <3 Also, considering this is a request, If you don't mind and it isn't too pressuring, could we please have updates on the Brainstorm and Chromedome/Rewind fics?

Sure! I didn’t have a plan yet for Star’s kid so that works. I’ll try to update Chromedome/Rewind, Tailgate/Cyclonus, Sunder, Brainstorm, and Metroplex if I can today

Everything Is Alright Pt 123

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• “If I was in charge, we’d have conquered this miserable mudball already and crushed the Autobots,” Starscream says, lip curling and you freeze. “The Constructicons already have a refinery going, mining is in full swing. But we’d be much further ahead if you hadn’t let those disgusting Insecticons just scurry away. I’ve said that those little savages need to outfitted with mode locks and tracking implants they can’t just remove themselves.” You’ve heard Star’s side of the war. That they were fighting for freedom and to overthrow a corrupt senate, but this is the first time he’s mentioned conquering your world and it leaves you cold inside. Because was that his intention all along? Whispering to you at night whole knowing he was going to destroy everything and not even caring?

• “What do you mean about conquering Earth?” You ask and Soundwave tenses as your emotions begin to build. Glares at Starscream to stop, but the Seeker is on a roll, secure in the knowledge that Megatron can’t hurt him too badly now. Not looking at you to realize you’re upset. ‘The only value in this world is the energon Shockwave seeded millennia ago,’ Starscream says. “The only value? This is my world. My home.” And you’re shrugging off Soundwave’s hand to face the Seeker, little hands balled into fists. Furious and he’s never seen you angry like this before. “What do you to do to worlds you’ve conquered?”

• Rant faltering at the edge in your voice, Starscream sees Megatron smirk and realizes he’s just made a mistake. Wings dropping, he turns back to you and forces a smile. “Nothing to worry yourself over, little one. Our home is Cybertron. Yours now, too.” And your eyes narrow, looking from him to the other two and back as your face reddens and your chin lifts. Why are you so upset? You’ll love Cybertron. You’ll be with him and your sparkling.

• “I asked what you do to the worlds you conquer,” you repeat. “What’s left after you’re done? Is anything left?” Hates that the upset edge in your voice bothers him and knows it’s the bond pulling him to you, urging him to soothe you, but Megatron has no intention of interfering. Enjoying watching the SIC struggling for words, wings flicking as he finally catches on that he’s screwed up. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say, tossing your hands up and striding away, though there’s nowhere you can really go trapped on the berth. Watches Soundwave drift after you, touching your arm and getting his hand slapped. And Starscream is glaring at him like this is all his fault.

• “Typically,” Megatron growls and you turn to glare at him, unsettled by his lazy smile. “Worlds our war spills onto don’t survive.” Breath catching, you wish he was mass displaced so you could slap him. Actually right now, you want to slap all three of them. There has to be a way to keep your idiots from razing your home to ash with their stupid war. They’re bigger and stronger than you, but they need you don’t they? You’d gotten the impression from Star that fully bonding takes ‘til death do us part to the most literal extent. Which means you’ve got leverage to get your way, even if it’s absolutely awful to even consider holding your life over their heads by threatening yourself just to try and get them to behave.. “Though, I might be convinced to spare this world. With the proper motivation.”

• And he can feel the shift in your emotions, the cold calculation. Doesn’t like it one bit, either. Scheming and manipulation isn’t your strength. Curling his arms around you and tugging you back into him when you try to shrug him off, Soundwave tries to pin down exactly what you’re thinking, but as always your mind is too chaotic for him. But he can’t help but be worried. He’d played kingmaker for Megatron, started playing the same game for you, positioning you so you’re safest, but if you’re also playing? It complicates things. Needs to fully bond you as soon as possible so he can better protect you, be able to get a better grasp on your thoughts. Except. There’s the problem of your lifespan. If it was only his life, he’d take it, claim you, but his cassettes need him. Depend on him. And so do you. For the first time he can remember, his path forward isn’t clear to him. What he wants and needs at odds with reason.

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[wonallofme]

pinching!

tw and tags: bully!heeseung x plus size!fem!reader, descriptions of bullying, a lot of physical contact, noncon then heavy dubcon, oral sex (f receiving). word count: 2.3k note: originally written with a different idol in mind, this fic was already posted in my old blog. while talking to one of my best friends in the app we decided to re-post old fics for fun and idk why but while checking some of them I felt this one fitted Hee. I changed it a lot tho. anyway, hope someone here likes the concept. i’m a big fan of plus size/chubby reader but haven’t had the opportunity to talk about it here in the blog yet so, if you like it too, please don’t hesitate to hit my (empty) inbox! special thanks to fairy for being my first-ever beta reader ❤️

You have a couple of memories from that place, like how good it felt to hug your grandmother before bed, how there was a little stall in front of your school that always had tasty sweets, and how there was a little boy you used to walk home with after classes finished.

There wasn’t much objection once your mother said you would go back and live together in your grandmother's place not to leave the house empty. You had a couple of friends, but it was nothing special, so you said goodbye to them and moved with your mother without problem.

You had to admit you were kind of happy to move. Yeah, you wouldn’t be able to hug your grandmother, but at least you would feel her presence with the old floors and flower decorations that surrounded every room. Perhaps you could eat those sweets again, and there was the chance of making new friends too. Good things could come, you thought.

If you’re honest, you just hoped you could see him again.

You should've known at that point in your life that having expectations only leaves the sour aftertaste of disappointments.

The stall wasn’t there anymore, the entire house had changed because of your mother's decision, leaving no trace of your grandmother behind, and the sweet boy that used to follow you with a smile now followed you to make fun of you.

It was easy to recognize him. He had the same eyes and shiny smile, and you were elated to see a good, old friend all grow up into a real man. Sadly, he wasn’t as happy as you to see you again, showing you a disgusted face once you told him who you were.

‘’Don’t fucking talk to me,’’ he said, and you didn’t understand what you had done wrong. Perhaps you were too confident, your perfume wasn’t to his liking, or your hand was sweating too much when you touched him. You honestly had no idea why he reacted like that, but you understood that, just like his appearance, he had changed too. 

After all, that sweet boy you used to know would’ve never talked to you that way.

That interaction alone was enough to make you never want to approach him again. You didn’t want to hear that tone or see that expression again, so you did your best. You avoided him in the hallway, you stayed in your seat not to cross his way during breaks, and you didn’t look his way when you recognized his voice. 

It was all useless though.

You had become his new favourite thing.

At first, he was all words and no bite. He’d throw comments every now and then about your physical appearance, like comparing you to a pig when you ate your lunch in the cafeteria or mocking your uniform for being bigger than normal because of your size. 

His friends only laughed at these comments, and those who weren’t his friends stayed silent. They were different groups but shared one same trait– None dared to approach you, afraid of receiving the same treatment from him.

Then, he started to touch you.

He pinched your arm, telling you to give him your homework to copy it. Later, it was your cheeks, telling you to stop eating if you didn’t want to gain weight. Finally, one day, when everyone had left for the PE class while you were searching for your towel in your seat, approaching you silently from behind, he pinched your waist.

Scared, you turned to him. It had hurt a lot more than when he did it to your cheeks. You knew that, more than to bother you or call your attention, like on the other occasions, he had done it with all the intention of hurting you.

When you looked at his face, you noticed that his typical grin wasn’t there, replaced by a surprised expression and curious eyes instead. Somehow, you felt that something bad was about to happen, so you pushed him out of the way and walked out of there as soon as you could without caring that you were leaving with empty hands.

‘’Where’s your towel?’’ your teacher asked you.

‘’I forgot it,’’ you answered, not wanting to return to the classroom.

Later, Heeseung arrived with your towel in his hand, and you got punished for not bringing all the obligatory material.

He got worse.

if he crossed you in the hallways, he would shamelessly pinch your waist until you hissed, and when he found you in the library, between shelves, he would pinch your ass, grinning from ear to ear at the picture of you biting your lips not to make a sound so you wouldn’t get in trouble again.

As if everything he did was an innocent game, he smiled at you after nipping different parts of your body, like the side of your ribcage when you decided to walk away from his teasing, the back of your hand when you tried to push him away, or your thighs when he sat beside you in the cafeteria or the study room.

‘’Why are you doing this?’’ you whispered, pushing his hand away from prying under your skirt and pinching your upper leg.

‘’Look at all that skin,’’ he answered, grabbing your round hand with force to stop you from getting away. ‘’Your body is begging for it.’’

When you tried to do it again, to get away from his hands, he pinched the space of your chest that your bra didn’t cover.

Making you whimper in pain, he laughed at your hurt expression.

‘’It really hurts!’’ you tried to reason with him, but he was a lost cause. It didn’t matter that you were full of little purple and green spots, flinching at the mere sight of him lurking around, he wanted more.

This is going to end at one point, you tried to tell yourself.

He’d get tired and leave you alone when he found a new toy. It was impossible he only focused on you the entire time, and even if it was like that, it was your last year. After that, you prayed, you’d never see him again.

Everything comes to an end.

Your house was the only safe space you had. Even if it wasn’t anything like the warm memory you had about it, it was a place that had never been tainted by Heeseung, unlike your school, or the streets you walked to arrive there.

Sometimes, he would follow you while murmuring insults, pretending to be a good friend walking you home. Nonetheless, once you opened your entrance door and saw that he stayed feet away, you would exhale, relieved that he didn’t try to follow you inside, too.

‘’Your friend is waiting for you in your room,’’ your mother smiled. ‘’I’ll go and buy something for you to eat later’’ 

She, unlike you, was excited to have him there, and you, trying to breathe properly not to show how the panic was consuming you, nodded.

‘’He’s become such a handsome man,’’ she murmured before leaving.

There was nothing you could do to run away, it was your house, and opening your room door, you saw him calmly looking at your stuff.

Your pillow wasn’t where you left it, so it was impossible to deny he had been roaming around for a while, invading your space and doing whatever he wanted, like he always did.

Standing in front of your bookshelf, one of your diaries open in his hands, he sensed your presence.

‘’Didn’t know you took so many walks, thought you would never come,’’ he said, passing the page and inspecting its content as if there was something in particular he was looking for. ‘’It doesn’t explain why you still look like that though.’’

‘’Heeseung, I’ve done nothing to you,’’ you sounded as if you were begging at that point. ‘’Why– I just don’t get why.’’

‘’I have my reasons,’’ he answered, closing the book and leaving it where it previously was.

You flinched when he showed the intention of getting close to you. Your hands became fists behind you, fully alert, one of them gripping the knob, ready to run into another room in case he tried to hurt you again.

‘’We were friends,’’ you said, lower lip slightly trembling. ‘’Please, stop. It hurts, Heeseung. It hurts a lot.’’

He saw you like that, broken, vulnerable, and he beamed.

Walking towards you, you thought your body would listen to you and escape, but it didn’t.

As you remained frozen in your place, caging you with his body, he finished closing the door behind you. Too late, you only reacted after hearing the loud click the secure did.

You started trembling as you realised he had blocked the only way of running away you had.

‘’But if I don’t touch you, who else will?’’ he whispered, taking your shaking hand in his. 

Not pinching it this time, he interlocked his fingers with yours and pulled you closer to him. Your torso compacting his made you more conscious of how you were completely alone in your room, and, therefore, of how unrestrained he was allowed to act.

‘’If you’re good, I’ll stop being so hard on you. What do you think about that?’’ he offered.

You didn’t understand him. Being good with what? 

Looking up at him, you couldn’t move your chest from pressing his because his other hand, forcing you to stay in your place, went to rest over the small of your back, the generous curve from your ass to your waist that was the object of so many of his jokes.

You could see where his actions were going. 

You felt yourself get nauseous with his body temperature and his aroma suffocating you due to the inexistent distance between your bodies.

‘’My mom will come back in any second…’’ you didn’t know what other excuse to use.

‘’I’ll be quick,’’ he smiled, wetting his lips, unconsciously sending a signal to your brain that screamed for you to just be good and get it over with.

‘’Will it hurt?’’ Your face betrayed you, plainly showing all the fears you had, giving him, once again, the upper hand.

‘’Not anymore,’’ he assured you. His hand that used to bring you so much pain suddenly became gentle and trailed up, caressing your arm with multiple marks created by him before finding your chest, and groping it with obvious satisfaction a few times, he felt them until he decided he wanted to touch more of you.

His hands continued their way until he found his new goal.

He cupped your face with a tenderness you had never met from him before, and not wanting to provoke him in any way, you muted yourself. 

To his unpleasant care, thumbs caressing your cheeks, you didn’t make a single noise, not the hiss you always let out when he pinched you, nor the cry when he painfully rubbed your soft skin.

‘’Well done,’’ he praised you, proud of what he recognised as your acceptance.

He expected you to continue being so obedient when he obliged your thighs to open with his knee.

Quickly, he found his place.

You didn’t know what to expect, but you never imagined the situation would end with him ditching your pants somewhere in your room and desperately dropping to his knees so he could accommodate between your trembling legs, slurping all the involuntary wetness your body made you drip not to suffer when the moment of taking him arrived.

Not being able to call his name properly, you whined when his palms gripped your meaty thighs a bit too hard and his tongue found your entrance, penetrating it with sloppy stabs.

The sensation of the tip of his nose bumping against your clit and his fingers separating your plump folds made you bite your lips to stop what felt like a moan.

He was eating you out like a starved man.

Your hands went to his hair, and you have no idea what flooded you, but you felt free to hurt him too. 

You wanted him to suffer too.

Full of unknown courage, you pulled his hair and moved your hips to crush his face, using him instead of the other way around.

Then, it felt good– To hurt him felt way too good. 

You thought, maybe this is why he does it, because you had never felt so powerful and in control before, especially, with him.

Looking down, you two made eye contact even with your chubby stomach prodding out. 

His eyes had nothing of the mockery they always showed. Instead, they were completely lost, drunk and unfocused. You couldn’t contain your moans anymore when his eyes batted and he seemed pleased to have your attention on him.

Not much after he started fucking you harder with his tongue, the knot in your stomach started to feel so tight you knew it would snap in any second.

Without intention, or maybe with all the intention, you closed your large legs around his head, not caring that you were crushing his face as you strongly came over his mouth and nose. 

He mewled, hugging your legs as you asphyxiated him for many seconds before your orgasm finished and you inevitably relaxed. 

Just after giving him everything you had, you finally allowed him to breathe. 

You freed him from your hold, but he didn’t move away immediately.

Gulping your remaining juices, he hardly inhaled once through his nose before he started licking the drops of your orgasm inside your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses along the way until he found his new favourite thing.

With both hands on the back of your thighs, he blinked multiple times before his tongue found its way between your folds, searching for your clit to leave a last loving lick.

As if he was proud you had abused him, only separating forcedly because of your hands pushing his head away from your sensitive clit, he took open-mouthed deep breaths with a still dazed expression.

Regaining some of his senses, he talked with the lower half of his face glistening.

‘’See? This didn’t hurt, right?’’ he smiled.

[midnite-c6]

hear me out — nam-gyu is actually soooo icky. i don’t care what anyone tells me. he’s a icky icky man. he’s so fucking mean too. he thinks of women as possessions (he’s sooo misogynistic. you can’t convince me otherwise) like what do you mean women are their own person and can control their own lives?! no…. they are possessions!

additionally, he is sooo convincing with his words — he can get anyone to trust him quite easily (especially if they’re naive) and he’s taking full advantage of that.

honestly nam-gyu probably has anyone naive trying things they were always against. he has such a way with words when it comes to getting anyone to open up or doing what he wants them to do. he'll give them everything they need to get them to say yes even if it means making promises he doesn't even plan to keep or fulfill.

also, no one can convince me otherwise that this man doesn’t have a thing for trad wives. he definitely likes the idea of codependency and the fact that someone clings to him like a second skin (but let’s be honest, he definitely doesn’t make it out to seem like he likes it — it’s always constant degradation from him: “stupid bitch, can’t ever do anything for yourself, huh? i have to do everything for you”). also likes the idea of baby trapping, because you can’t leave him ♡ but 100% does not like kids.

i also can see him fetishizes the FUCK out of lesbians (once again… this man is ICKY) and i definitely feel like if he was the type to get into a relationship with someone who is bisexual (or closeted lesbian. specifically if he coerces them) he would exploit the shit out of it. bro definitely has a premium subscription to ph. constantly doom scrolling to find something he hasn’t watched yet (specifically lesbians or threesomes (two girls, one guy) it’s definitely one of his biggest fantasies. he is soo gross ♡)

he would probably likes giving some naive, lightweight (never done drugs before) drugs that he knows they wouldn’t be able to handle just so he they can take advantage.

I AM GOING INSANEEEE. i am clawing and gnawing at the bars of my enclosure.

warnings: 18+, DARK content, dubcon, baby trapping

bro i am so sorry i haven't let this out to the public sooner, this is so good and factual fr 💔 like this guy is an misogynistic incel honestly, idfc what anyone else says, u literally can see it in the show how he treats se-mi. he's a meanie.

THE PH SUBSCRIPTION IS SO REAL. also, forces or not, makes u watch porn with him, the disgusting ones like heavy bondage/bdsm, prolly whilst sticking a wand vibrator on ur clit in a setting that's intense BUT wont make u cum so its pure torture..

guys has anyone done se-mi x reader x nam-gyu ? like hello? hello????? ITS RIGHT THERE prolly would watch u & se-mi whilst he's cucking himself. or he's right in the middle of the action, both ur pussies rubbing on his dick.

also, i love nam-gyu corruption kink, to someone whos absolutely clean, pure, law abiding citizen, prolly doesnt even know half of the kinks or stuff u see in pornhub, BUT THAT'S WHY NAM-GYU EXISTS!! to teach you allat, to corrupt u :^

i just dont feel like hes a good person at all, in smut mindset, and in fr the character, hes those toxic bfs who's only "strong" cuz u're just a lil bit weaker than him. and if u try to leave, nuh-uh, u can't, u wanted a child to begin with right?

"fuck you mean, 'i'm leaving you'? bitch please," he scolds, pumping another load inside- straight to your womb, "you wanna be a single mom?" you shake your head immediately, you were on birth control.. but maybe not... oh no! "then don't bullshit me with saying you're 'leaving me'... you know you love me." let's just hope he'll be a good dad... (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

if anyone needs a fluffy lovey namgyu smut this aint the place.. jk, i would prolly post one too heheh <3 also, now i wanna make a full on incel!nam-gyu x reader smut mannn

[its-luna-noel]

puppy chronicles

01. the broken puppy | gojo x reader

The JJK men are gifted a hybrid puppy. ...wait, that kind of puppy? alpha!human!jjk men x omega!hybrid!reader

warnings: 18+, MDNI, f!reader, hybrid!au, omegaverse, hybrid!reader, omega!reader, clan leader!gojo, pet play, collars/leashes, previous abuse, smut, masturbation, heat/rut, knots, oral (f! receiving), mating press

word count: 7.4k next: the obedient puppy | geto x reader

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hi there, i couldn't get the idea out of my head so here it is, this is my first a/b/o fic so i hope you enjoy! this one is more exposition-heavy than i plan for the following ones. next up is geto:)

When Satoru Gojo finally takes his seat as clan leader, there’s a line of people eager to pay their respects, to shower him in praise, to give him gifts.

He wants to send them all home; he has enough money to never need a single thing any of them give him, but he sits and smiles and accepts every gift, even from elders who grimace at him and wish he never inherited the techniques he did.

He can’t help but feel a little smug as they turn their back and leave.

It’s clear that many visitors are simply there to try and earn his approval, to get on his good side before he finally makes all the changes he’s dreamed of since he was a teenager, since he saw the injustices of the system they’ve created.

He can’t wait to raze it to the ground.

The procession continues for what feels like hours, until finally, the last visitor approaches his seat, an old woman hunched in her age. She shuffles towards Satoru, and he lets out a silent sigh. She’s one of the original elders, one of the traditionalists that he can’t wait to take down. He’s sure she’s convinced he shouldn’t even be clan leader, despite his power, simply because of his outlook.

Oh, well. Her opinions change very little for him.

She bows before him in a sign of deference. “A gift, for you,” she says, and he almost sighs again, because he doesn’t want whatever she has for him, whatever ceremonial robes or old book of rules or whatever bullshit she’s here to give him.

Instead of handing over a dusty tome or a delicate box, she turns to the side and beckons over one of the bystanders.

Satoru turns to look, still expecting some traditional gift that only a corpse would hand over. But his throat constricts, and his eyes widen, and he’s staring at the young man who approaches.

The man’s hand is clenched, and around his fist is wound a black leather leash, which is pulled taut to keep its captive at heel. The clip of the leash is linked to a matching black leather collar, a silver o-ring pressed into the soft throat of its wearer. And then, startling blue eyes catch on bare skin, and there you are, head bowed and hair curtained around your face as you crawl on all fours towards his seat.

Satoru fights to swallow. He doesn’t know whether to feel disgusted or…aroused. “What is this?” he asks.

The old woman smiles, like the situation isn’t anything strange. “A hybrid puppy,” she says, “for your entertainment.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows again; his cock bobs as it twitches in his pants. “This is inhumane,” he replies, staring at you, and he tries to pretend that he’s looking at you with concern instead of with rapt attention.

The woman just continues to smile. “Sir, it’s tradition. Take this gift and enjoy.”

And then the leash is placed into Satoru’s waiting hand, and he holds the leather limply as the surrounding crowd bleeds out of the building.

Leaving the two of you alone.

Satoru’s six eyes are all focused on you, examining every part of you, every part of your beautiful body. You’re wearing nothing but the leather collar and a black leather harness, a strappy thing with small silver o-rings at each juncture. From beneath your hair poke two fluffy puppy ears, swiveled backwards in submission, and at the end of your spine is a matching fluffy tail, long beautiful fur obviously well-groomed. Your eyes are on the floor, your hair still obscuring your face, but you sit obediently on your heels, waiting for his command.

You don’t even tug on the leash once.

Satoru swallows again, because his mouth is so dry at the sight of you and all your bare skin, the smooth expanse of your body only broken by erotic black leather, your nipples hard in the slight chill of the quiet room.

His hand tightens around the leash.

He has to take a deep breath, to look away for a moment to gather himself because jesus christ you’re his in every meaning of the word, and the alpha inside him can’t get over that need to touch that body of yours offered so obediently to him. But the rational part of his mind, the human part, recognizes how vulnerable you are right now, how small and helpless you look at the foot of his seat. So he takes another deep breath and finally speaks, finally addresses the hybrid puppy at his feet.

“Are…are you okay?”

The question surprises you; no one’s ever asked you that. You don’t raise your eyes from the floor as you nod.

He’s silent for another moment. Then he speaks again. “Let’s…let’s get you dressed.”

He stands from his seat, and for a moment he’s towering over you, seeing how small and fucking delicious you look at his feet, and he again has to bite back an overwhelming desire to kneel behind you and bite all over you, marking you as his. But he holds back, and he takes yet another deep breath. “Come on…you can stand.”

You freeze at the words; you’ve never been encouraged to stand, to bring yourself up out of your submissive position in order to stand at the same level as those around you. You’ve always been treated like a pet, a puppy, something cute to pet and something sexy to use. And so, in your shock, you finally raise your eyes from the floor, and you look up at him, checking to make sure he really means it.

And then you meet pretty blue eyes, startling in their depth, their brightness, and you’re lost in them for a moment as you wait for confirmation.

He offers a gentle smile, but it wavers like he’s in pain. “It’s alright,” he softly encourages, nodding down to you. “You can stand.”

So you push yourself off the cold floor, stumbling on wobbling legs as you rise to your feet, and he steps forward to catch you, hands catching yours to steady you. “It’s alright,” he says again, but he doesn’t meet your eyes, and you think maybe it’s because he thinks you’re a disgusting hybrid, a little freak, but it’s actually because he’s torn between pitying you and wanting to slam you down onto the floor and fuck you right there, his cock already starting to strain against his pants because he can feel your heat, can feel how soft your hands are, can only imagine how good they’d feel elsewhere– He shakes the thought away.

His large, warm hand rests between your shoulder blades as he leads you out of the audience room of his family home, which now belongs all to him.

He leads you down hallways, through the labyrinth of the Gojo family grounds, across the property until you’re finally following him into his bedroom. A flash of apprehension and even fear spikes into your chest, but you try to swallow it because this is your purpose, this is your calling, to be an obedient little puppy for Satoru Gojo, to follow every order and be the good girl you know you can be. And so once you’re at the bed, you turn to look at him, turn to see if he’s expecting you to go back onto your knees and worship him as the clan leader he is.

Instead he smiles softly, moving to gently pet your hair and your fluffy puppy ears. But when he raises his hand towards your face, you flinch back, averting your eyes towards the ground. And he has to fight to swallow, because he knows puppies only react like that when they’ve been hit before, and a burning fury wells in his chest at the injustice of it all. Who could possibly hurt such a pretty, precious girl? He drops his hand, leaving you untouched, and repeats in a quiet voice, “Let’s get you dressed.”

He has to help you out of the harness, the strappy leather full of confusing buckles and rings. But his practiced fingers make short work of it, and he’s sliding the fabric away, tossing it onto the floor for him to take care of later. Then he moves his deft hands to the collar on your throat, and you flinch once more, like you’re afraid of the power he has when holding you there.

He doesn’t tug, or tighten, or hurt you. He just unbuckles the leather and steps back, holding the collar and leash in his hand as he watches you.

You stare up at him, eyes wide and confused. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve been without a collar, and your throat feels strangely bare without it. Almost unconsciously, you raise your hand to touch your bare skin, fingertips stroking over the cartilage of your trachea…

You’re not sure if he’s giving you freedom or if he’s showing you that you aren’t worthy of his collar. The thought makes your stomach clench, and all of a sudden, tears are welling in your eyes, and your tail tucks between your legs because you can’t bear to think about what will happen to you if you cry right now, but you can’t help it, how have you already lost your collar, you haven’t done anything bad have you–?

Satoru sees your reaction, and his eyes widen, and he drops the collar on the mattress like he doesn’t even care about what that piece of leather symbolizes, and it just makes you cry harder, until sobs shake your shoulders and big, fat tears cascade down soft, round cheeks.

His hands come up to cup those cheeks, thumbs brushing tears away, though they’re quickly replaced with more. You avert your eyes, your fluffy ears pinned down in distress and apprehension, and even though he’s touching you so gently, you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to raise his hand against you for being an emotional little wreck; you’re supposed to be a fun toy, an amusement park attraction, something to gaze at and play with, not something to watch bawl your little eyes out.

Satoru’s not angry; he’s just starting to panic.

“Sweet girl,” he says, and his voice is so soft and gentle when he speaks, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks, “I just want you to be comfortable. Do you want your collar back? Would that make you happier?”

You whimper, not wanting to say yes, because you shouldn’t have to ask for a collar; he should want to give it to you, should want you to wear his ownership proudly.

His heart nearly breaks at your expression, at how big and watery your puppy eyes look, and he just gently shushes you again, leaning a little closer as his fingers continue to just gently brush over your skin. “It’s okay. I want to get you something you like, alright? Something that fits you better, something that’s ours alone. Is that okay, pretty girl?”

You nod a little, still looking miserable, but the idea of getting a new collar, one that he picks out, one that’s more personal to what he wants from you, soothes a bit of your heartache. You reach up and wipe your tears with the back of your hand, and Satoru can’t help but smile at the endearing motion. One of his hands trails to your chin, giving a gentle squeeze between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s alright,” he comforts you again, taking a slow step back to give you some room to breathe. You almost don’t want him to; you want him to be close, want him to touch you, want him to grab you, to treat you like a thing to be played with, an object to be thrown around and pinned down and taken–

He doesn’t. And his gentle hands almost burn on your arms, almost ache on your skin, because you don’t understand why he’s doing this. What’s in it for him?

Satoru notices your apprehension, how timid you seem while you wait for him to finally snap and show you how much of an animal he can be, too.

But he doesn’t seem angry with you, nor derisive, nor aggressive; instead he still seems endlessly caring as he hands you clothes from his own wardrobe. He turns back to you, trying not to look at your naked body, at the smooth expanses of skin now unbroken by the leather you’d been strapped into when you arrived. And instead of dressing you like your previous handlers would’ve, he gives you back your autonomy and lets you dress yourself.

The gesture probably means little to him, but for you it’s monumental.

He lets you get dressed, his eyes respectfully averted (even though he’s already seen everything, through the strappy harness you were wearing), and while his gaze is on the opposite wall, you take the opportunity to examine him. He’s handsome, that much you can admit, and seemingly much kinder than the previous handlers you’ve had. He let you stand, let you dress yourself, let you get out of that flimsy outfit you were strapped into before you met him. And you almost want to thank him, but you know better than to speak out of turn, so you just get dressed in what he gave you, warm sweatpants and a big t-shirt that hangs off your shoulders. When you’re done, he clears his throat and returns his gaze to you.

God, you look so adorable in his clothes.

His eyes are soft as he watches you stand there, shoulders stooped in submission, like you’re waiting to be kicked while you’re down. An ache worms its way into his chest, because he doesn’t know how anyone could treat a pretty puppy like you with such an unforgiving hand.

A pretty, obedient, broken little puppy.

But he, even if he can’t admit it to himself, can’t resist saving something broken.

He tilts his head curiously, and he can’t help but ask, “Can you…um, sorry if this is, uh, rude, but… can you speak?”

You nod.

The corners of his lips twitch in a hint of a smile. “Can you say something, then?”

You hesitate, and then in a soft voice, almost like you’re afraid it’s a trap, you ask, “What do you want me to say?”

His smile grows a little when he hears your voice, quiet and timid. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

And so you think for a moment, because you’re so rarely allowed to speak your mind, to say whatever you want, and really at this moment there’s only one thing you want to say. Your fluffy tail swishes nervously from side to side, and you avert your gaze as you whisper, “Thank you.”

His eyes soften once more, and his voice is just as quiet when he asks, “For what?”

You just shrug, eyes on the floor. It’s clear you’re done speaking now, so he decides not to push. Instead he leads you down the hall to the guest bedroom and swings the door open, revealing a plush bed stacked with half a dozen pillows and several blankets.

You can’t help it; your tail wags a little at the sight. You’ve never had your own bed.

Satoru watches your tail swish from side to side, smiling softly. Then he gently tells you, “This room is yours, as long as you want it. Get some rest, alright? I’ll come find you in the morning. Feel free to go down to the kitchen if you get hungry, or come find me if you need anything.” Somehow, he’s pretty sure you won’t be leaving the room for the night, too shy to ask for anything even if you needed it.

So he leaves you with one last smile, and he returns to his room, and his door isn’t even latched all the way before he shoves down his pants and drags out his aching cock, one hand steadying himself against the bedroom door and his teeth digging into his lower lip as his thumb brushes the aching, blushing tip, smearing precum along the slit as he fucks dry into his hand.

He closes his eyes, biting his lip even harder to hold in the whimpers because he can’t get the image of you in that black leather harness out of his mind, the way your tits bounced with every step, your perky nipples hard in the cool air of the estate. How you looked on a leash, at his feet with your perfect fucking pussy on full display for his perverted fucking eyes– Fuck–!

His hips cant forward, stuttering as he squeezes the base of his dick, and he can’t believe he’s touching himself over the thought of your pretty mouth, the way they looked when you spoke, when you thanked him. He wants to give you something to thank him about.

He wants to heal you, wants you to speak, to smile, to laugh. Wants to see that tail wagging again, this time so fast back and forth because you can’t contain your joy.

He wants to save you.

And so, with shoulders heaving and a pathetic little moan stuck in his throat, he cums in his hand, imagining that it was your tight little hole he emptied himself into.

Then, feeling ashamed for the way he objectified you the way you were clearly so afraid of, he cleans up and goes to bed, determined to make it up to you, even if you had no clue what he did behind closed doors.

~

The next morning, when Satoru knocks on the guest room door and pokes his head in, you’re already up, sitting on the bed with perky ears and a wagging tail.

He smiles a little; you look much better than you did last night, with a soft light in your eyes. It looks like sleeping in your own bed and not being subservient for one night lit a bit of a fire under you, and you look like the happy little puppy that you should be. “Hey,” he greets softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

You nod, tail wagging softly against the sheets. You watch him come into the bedroom, his steps light and quiet, and you can tell he’s trying not to scare you, trying not to force you back into your timid unease from last night. He sits gingerly on the end of the bed, watching you the entire time to make sure he’s not making you uncomfortable by being this close.

You’re not uncomfortable. Your tail wags a little faster, and his smile widens.

“I had my assistant cancel all my meetings today,” he tells you. “We’re gonna go shopping, alright? Get you some things, like toiletries and clothes. Okay?”

You nod, and tilt your head a little to the side. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to speak your mind.

Your voice is still soft and tentative when you speak, like you’re still scared he’ll raise a hand against you if you do. The thought makes his stomach ache. “A…collar?” you ask, and your ears go back nervously, like you’re ashamed to ask for what you want so dearly.

He smiles and nods. “Yeah, I’ll get you a collar, sweet girl. Something we both like.”

So he takes you shopping around town, letting you get anything you like, willing to get anything you ask for. You’re still so soft and timid, but he can pick up on how your eyes catch on a dress you like, on how those eyes widen when you see beautiful jewelry, on how those eyes close when you smell various high end perfumes.

He gets you anything you like, and he can’t help but enjoy spoiling his new puppy.

As you walk along streets and peruse different shops, he glances over at you, unsure if he should ask what he’s been wondering. But he figures if you react poorly he can just make sure you spoil you that much more, so he clears his throat and says, “So…tell me about yourself.”

You glance over, fingers trailing the soft fabric of a sweater you found. “Like what?”

“Anything. Where are you from?”

“The city.”

“What’s your family like?”

You shrug a little, turning your back on the sweater when you see the price tag. Satoru just picks it up anyway and drapes it over his arm. “I don’t really know. I was born and raised in a puppy mill.”

That pulls him up short. A puppy mill? “What?”

You just shrug again, keeping your eyes averted. “It’s pretty common for hybrids these days. Everyone’s trying to make money selling us. Usually they’re bought young, but some of us, like me, are kept past 18 to be trained as collector items.”

That makes him sick to his stomach. “Collector items? That’s…that’s awful, sweet girl.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” He’s frowning at you, watching you navigate the small shop, unsure of how you’re responding to this so casually. “I’m sure they didn’t treat you well there, did they?”

Your voice is quiet. “I guess not.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“They have to train us somehow.”

Satoru can’t decide if he wants to break something or throw up. “Sweet girl, that’s not how it’s supposed to be. You know that, don’t you?”

You just shrug once more, and he’s not sure how to convince you that you should be treated well. Besides just doing it himself.

So that’s what he decides to do.

He can spoil you, and pet you, and give you treats and do anything else your little puppy heart desires, and that’s what he promises to himself. To give you the care, the respect, the adoration you rightly deserve.

Then, finally, he lets you pick a new collar, this one soft and pink, much daintier than the black leather that once adorned your throat. He holds it up, glancing between the accessory and your soft neck, imagining how it will look on you and making sure he likes the mental image. Then he nods, smiles down at you, and pays for that, too.

You’re practically buried in shopping bags when you arrive back at the estate.

Satoru helps you put away your things in the guest bedroom, which he now guesses belongs to you. He hangs up your new clothes in the closet, turning away as you push his sweatpants down over your hips, getting changed into a new outfit that he bought you.

Somehow, that makes him feel just as possessive as seeing you in his clothes.

Then, finally, when you’re dressed and comfortable, he reaches into the final bag to grab your new pretty, pink collar with gentle hands, his long, pale fingers wrapping around the leather. Then he steps in front of you once more, his hands brushing aside your hair in order to bare your throat for him, and you stand perfectly still, accepting your collar.

He gently buckles the collar around your neck, the o-ring resting against your throat once again. The coolness of the metal and the soft touch of leather is almost comforting, sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers gently stroke the rings of cartilage on the column of your trachea, and your lips part a little at the touch, your chin tilting up to give him more room. You watch his eyes, waiting to see if he’s going to grab you and force you against the wall, to take you like you know a strong alpha like him can–

But he doesn’t. He just slowly pulls away and offers another soft smile. “It looks great on you,” he tells you.

And now, seeing the collar that he chose, that he bought, he knows you’re fully his. And that is a responsibility in and of itself, a responsibility to help you heal from whatever it is you’ve been through.

~

The next several days pass without incident, and you slowly get more and more comfortable at the Gojo estate.

You walk around without a leash, your collar still pressed into your throat, on your own two feet, slowly coming out of your subservient nature to become a happy little puppy. Satoru can’t help but smile as he watches you move around his space, around his home. Your tail wags whenever you see him, betraying your excitement, and he can’t help but be endeared by the emotive gesture.

It’s not until your first heat that Satoru starts to struggle.

You’d been on heat suppressants until you came to the estate, and Satoru honestly just forgot that it was important to get you back on hormones if he wanted to respect you and your timid boundaries.

The moment your scent breaks, cloying and sweet, so fucking delicious, he almost throws the dinner table out of the way to get to you and scent you. But instead he just looks up in surprise, and you’re already a blushing, stuttering mess as you scramble from your seat, ears pinned back anxiously. You haven’t had a heat in years, and you’re not sure how to deal with one at this new home, given to this handsome, kind alpha who has taken such good care of you since you were gifted to him.

Despite how hard he’s fighting it, you can see the hunger in his eyes.

His pupils are fully dilated, blown so wide his beautiful blue eyes are just a rim of sapphire around black. He grits his teeth, knuckles turning white as he clenches his fists, hoping his nails digging into his palms will keep him together long enough to get you comfortable and then run like hell to get away from your sugary sweet scent.

His voice is strained when he speaks. “Go on back to your room, okay? I’ll have my assistant bring you some blankets and cushions, and you can get comfortable.” He doesn’t even mention what he wants so desperately to say, that if you start aching, if you need someone, just call his name and he’ll come running to soothe the pain. He assumes you don’t want it.

When he doesn’t offer, you just nod and back away a step, tail hanging low. He must think you’re some disgusting animal, to not want to let out his alpha instincts on you. Must think you’re a freak to not want to bury himself inside you, to give you his knot for your first heat in years.

You don’t let him see your disappointment, your hurt.

You go back to your room, and you’re whimpering into your pillow with how hot and wet you feel, your heat coming back with a vengeance after being on hormones for so long. You bury yourself under the blankets, curling up to ease that cramping ache deep in your core, that need for the alpha that’s only a few hundred feet away.

The alpha who’s fucking his hand – again – right there at the kitchen table because your scent is still in his nose, wrapped around him as he pants and groans, his fist slamming down against the wooden table so hard the legs creak and moan.

His assistant brings you a pile of blankets, pillows, and cushions, getting you ready for nesting. You use your teeth and paws to make a nest, spinning around in circles and tamping down the base of your nest before using cushions and blankets to set up little walls, creating a cozy, dark environment for you to ride out your heat.

Satoru slowly comes back down, going to wash up in the bathroom before he approaches your room. He feels better now, having worked out his aching frustration into his fist, and he wants to check on you to see how you’re doing.

He knocks on the door, steeling himself before swinging it open and poking his head in. He sees your nest, a pile of cushions and blankets all organized in your own way, and he can’t help but smile at the sight, so fucking endeared by how good you are, what a beautiful little puppy you are. “Hey,” he greets, and every time he breathes he can smell you, smell how sweet you are.

Your head pops up out of your nest, and his heart aches at the adorable sight. He can hear your tail wagging against the cushions. “Hi,” you say, and your voice is so soft and quiet, so sweet, that he has to fight not to just push his way in and hold you, because he knows if he crosses that line everything else will just fall away, and it’ll be far to easy to come in and take what he wants, what he thinks you both need.

He steps into the room, movements slow and cautious, not wanting to scare you in your vulnerable position. “How are you doing?”

Your tail is still wagging, moving even faster as he walks a little closer. How are you doing? You’re desperate, you want him, you want to touch him, you want him to use you like the puppy you were supposed to be. Your collar feels nice and comfortable, and you want him to clip a leash onto it and tug and pull, to force you to heel while you take his knot like a good girl.

You don’t say any of that. Instead you say, “Okay. It hurts.”

He makes a soft sound of sympathy, moving a little closer. “I know it does. Do you want some company in there?”

You perk up, and you nod a little, moving away from the entrance to your little nest you made, blankets and cushions arranged in a nice little fort with enough room for both of you. You’re curled up in a corner, and he slowly crawls in, closing his eyes against the swirl of sweet scent that hits him once he’s in your nest.

It’s been so long since you’ve been in heat that you’re unused to how good he smells, how his musk fills your nose and you lean closer, snuffling like a true little puppy as you crawl closer, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, nudging your nose against his scent glands at the base of his neck.

He chuckles quietly, his hands gentle as they rest on your waist, itching to pull you in and wrap you up. He fights the urge. “You like scenting me, huh?”

You nod, still sniffing at his glands, and the scent seems to calm you down a little. You curl up against his side, and you gently lap your tongue against the junction between his neck and shoulder.

He sucks in a sharp breath, body stiffening. “Sweet girl,” he says, voice tight. “Don’t do that.”

You pull back immediately, looking chastised. “M’sorry,” you say.

He looks down at you, examining your shy expression, how your eyes are still looking at that spot on his neck. Your tail is no longer wagging. “It’s alright,” he quietly replies, “but…you shouldn’t do that to just any alpha you come across. It’s very…intimate.”

You tilt your head a little. “You’re not just any alpha; you’re you.”

The statement floods him with equal measures of affection and possessiveness. He has to hold back a groan. “Sweet girl, I’m a patient man, but you can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” You sound stung.

His words come out in almost a growl. “Because I won’t be able to control myself.”

You whimper, and he thinks he’s scared you, but then you lean in a little closer. He can smell your scent even stronger now, and he almost groans, his fingers digging into your waist. “Stop controlling yourself. I’m a good puppy, I promise.”

He grows again. “I don’t doubt that. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please.”

And so, because you’re begging, because he wants to spoil you, because he can’t deny you a goddamn thing, he grabs you, pulling you close. You gasp softly, hands coming to press against his chest as your big eyes gaze up at him. “Tell me you want this, sweet girl.”

You whisper, “I want this, Mr. Gojo.”

He grips you tighter. “Don’t you dare call me that,” he says, tugging your body against his. “When you moan my name, you better call me Satoru.”

And then he grips your hair in one hand and crushes his lips against yours.

You let out a relieved moan, the sound humming against his mouth. You let him carry the lead, let his lips part yours and his tongue brush into the wet heat of your mouth. His lips on yours starts to soothe the pain, the deep ache, but it makes a fire deep inside you burn hot. Your body curves into his, your fingers tentative as they curl into the hair at the back of his head.

He tastes so fucking good.

He pushes you back against the pillows and cushions, pinning you beneath his slim body. His mouth continues to move against yours for several long moments, until he starts to kiss down your neck, towards where the collar sits. You arch your back, curving your body further into his mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, and all you can do is feel as he brushes his tongue against your throbbing pulse.

Then he inches his way lower, and he nips at the collar, tugging on it playfully before pulling back to look at you, a small smile on his kiss-swollen lips.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs to you, bumping his nose affectionately against yours. “My perfect little puppy.”

He can hear your tail wagging as he dips closer once more.

He presses a line of kisses down your shoulder, over the top of your chest, nipping at your collarbones lightly, not even hard enough to leave a temporary mark. He’d love nothing more than to mark you up, to leave soft loving hickeys on your skin, but he also can’t stand the thought of leaving bruises on your soft little body when you’ve been through so much.

He won’t do it; not this first time.

His hands move to the hem of your sweater, one of the soft things he bought for you on your first little outing together. He pushes up the fabric to your ribs, fingertips brushing against the soft, smooth skin. You shiver, and he can’t hold back another smile at the feeling of you quivering under his hands. He pulls back enough to examine the look in your eyes, taking in the nervous expression there, how your ears are swiveling anxiously as he touches you so softly, something you’re still not used to.

“You okay?”

You nod, gazing back at him, chest rising and falling a little more rapidly with his hands on you.

“Can I keep going?”

“Oh, yes,” you whisper, and if you weren’t so self-conscious, you’d be begging.

He grins down at you, watching your pretty lashes flutter before diving back down, kissing the exposed flesh of your chest as he pulls your sweater up over your head and tosses it aside. His hands slide up your sides, tugging your body up into a pretty little arch so he can kiss down your torso. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and you whimper quietly when he starts to gently suck.

At the beautiful sounds you’re making, he’s grinding his hips into the soft cushions, searching for stimulation on his already sensitive cock.

He continues kissing down your body, until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. He kisses along the line of fabric, kissing the soft skin just above it, until he uses his teeth to slowly, teasingly pull down the metal zipper. His blue eyes gaze up at you through white lashes, his lips curled into another small smile when your hips rise from your nest. He grips your plush hips, kneading the flesh before pulling down the denim fabric. Then his mouth is back on you, pressing kisses to your thighs, arms wrapping around your limbs and holding you in place while he swipes his long, burning tongue over the thin fabric of your underwear.

God, you’re already dripping.

He groans, lashes fluttering as his eyes fall closed at the sweet, decadent taste of your slick. He moves somehow closer, making out with your cunt through the fabric, drenching it with his spit as he continues to grind against the cushions.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growls into your pussy, lapping at the syrupy taste. “Goddamn.”

You whimper again, hips grinding against his face with a desperation like you haven’t been touched in years, and he wonders if maybe that’s true. That just makes him want to try even harder to make this fucking amazing for you.

He tugs your panties down your legs, lips following his hands until the fabric is removed and you’re left entirely bare beneath him, looking like the prettiest dessert he’s ever seen.

So he leans in, because he’s never been able to resist something sweet, and swipes his tongue over the length of your cunt.

He groans again, the vibrations making something deep in your belly flutter. You taste so sweet that it nearly aches, and he just buries his face deeper between your legs, eating you out sloppily, spit and drool drenching whatever inches of your skin weren’t already soaked with your own arousal.

He can feel the desperation inside him growing.

His tongue lightly brushes your swollen clit, and that small amount of contact is enough to make your hips jump in his hands. He grins, wrapping his lips around you and sucking lightly, tongue still flicking gently. As he does, his fingers come up and spread your lower lips before his long, dexterous middle finger pushes inside your body, curling against your spongy walls.

You let out a soft cry; he just wants you to make those noises again and again. So he starts rubbing your clit with his tongue with fervor as he adds another finger, diving deep inside, earning another moan or whine with every thrust of his hand. His fingers curl again, hitting that spot that makes your back arch so beautifully.

It’s not long before he’s practically drenched to the wrist in your slick.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his tongue still lapping at your clit, “you’re so wet. You ever had someone do this for you, huh? Ever been touched like this?”

You shake your head rapidly from side to side, and he can’t fight the satisfied smile that curves his lips when he sucks your clit into his mouth. The idea that he’s the first one to touch you like this, the first one to bring you this pleasure, especially during your heat, sends a possessive spike through his chest.

He can feel you getting closer with every stroke of his fingers, with every brush of his tongue. You’re tightening around him like a vice, and so he whispers sweet encouragements between your thighs, “Come on, pretty girl… Let go for me… 

You’re fighting it; you don’t want this to end.

You’re whimpering, eyes rolling back, and he just smiles up at you, his free hand gently squeezing your thigh, trying to encourage you to relax. “Come on,” he says again, fingers stroking your g-spot to bring you over the edge, and he watches the muscles in your thighs finally relax before you’re coming, hard, in his mouth.

He moans loudly, licking you through it, his hips grinding against the cushions once more, because fuck, he can’t take it anymore, can’t wait to be inside you.

Once you’ve gone boneless beneath him, chest heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath, he leans up on his knees, pulling off his own shirt and revealing his muscular torso, looking so delicious you want to lean in and lick him clean.

Then he unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down his strong thighs, revealing the straining bulge in his tight boxer briefs.

And then you watch as he pushes those down, too, revealing his pretty pink cock to your virgin eyes, and you’re practically drooling at the sight.

He puts his hands under your thighs, hauling your legs up and over his shoulders until he’s got you bent nearly in half underneath him. You whimper at the angle he’s got you at, and he takes his weeping dick in his hand and lightly slaps your clit with the glistening head, once, twice. Your body jolts with every smack, and he smiles down at you before aligning himself with your slick entrance. He pushes his hips forward, slowly sliding inside your drenched pussy. Your mouth drops open at the insane stretch of him, of how fucking massive he feels, like he’s stuffing you full as he takes his time splitting you open.

Once he’s fully seated inside you, he pauses for a moment, both of you breathing heavily.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice only slightly strained with pleasure. You feel so warm and tight around him, your walls fluttering with every breath, and he’s not sure how long he can last with how fucking good you feel.

You nod, looking up at him through your lashes, swollen lips pouted out with every huff of breath. “Please,” you whine quietly, hips shifting under his, “need you.”

And so he starts to move, dragging his aching cock nearly all the way out of you before slowly pushing back in, and your eyes roll back into your head at how full you feel. You’re pretty sure you can feel him all the way up into your mouth at this point, with how far he seems to be buried inside you, and then he pulls out back before repeating the motion, over and over again, fucking you slow and affectionately into the cushions.

You hope every heat is like this.

Your lips are parted, and you’re drooling at how perfect this feels, saliva dripping out of the corner of your mouth, and he leans in, crushing your own thighs against your chest. His tongue runs along the corner of your mouth, licking up your own drool, and then he pushes his tongue back into your mouth, feeding you back your own saliva mixed with his.

It’s filthy, it’s delicious, it’s divine.

His tongue swirls with yours, and you’re hardly even kissing at this point, it’s just the two of you tasting each other. 

And as you taste, as he continues to fuck you gently, you feel the desperate stretch of his knot, the swelling base of his cock.

On instinct, you nearly go feral for it.

“Please,” you whimper into his mouth, and when he pulls away a little to ask what you want, you just reach down and grab his hips, holding him close as he continues to gently rock into you. “Please please please…”

Your nails dig into his slim, muscular hips, and he grunts at the slight pain, at the tiny crescent marks you leave on him. He growls in your ear, leaning down to nip at your neck, right above your pretty new collar. “Yeah? You want my knot, huh, pretty girl? Want me to give you a puppy?”

You whimper again, louder this time, higher in your register, because all you can do is shudder under the weight of your instincts to take his knot, to take his puppies. You nod so desperately that your hair flutters around your face, getting stuck in the wet spit at the corners of your mouth. His eyes flash and he leans in again, his lips finding the source of your sugary sweet scent. Then he parts his lips and sinks his canines into your scent glands, pupils blown wide, running purely on instinct as he bites. You cry out, and you’re not even sure if it’s in pleasure or pain or some delicious combination of the two. And your heart thumps with vigor at how much affection you’re nearly drowning in as he mates with you.

And as he bites, he cums, filling you with his seed, burying so deep that he empties himself right against your cervix. And he sinks his knot all the way into you, stretching you all the way open, plugging your quivering pussy until he’s sure his seed will take.

And while you both come down from the high, he kisses along your cheeks and nose and forehead and jaw, making sure you know you’re worthy of being adored. That you are worthy of being saved.

Of being loved.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next: the obedient puppy

[snapscube]

Are you feeling any better? If not, hope you start to soon

feeling much better overall, mostly normal even, just on the tail end trying to get rid of this fucking COUGH. always the absolute worst part of getting sick, even after i’ve long recovered in every other way i still can’t get back to my normal routine cause if i laugh or talk for any extended period of time it’ll trigger coughs that hurt a lot and are disgusting. should hopefully only be another week until it’s mostly gone though.

[erinwantstowrite]

you reposted a video of trump saying “you want me to go swimming”

and i just want to take a moment to recognize how actually insane that is.

like that’s how our president responds to tragedy? with no empathy?

the presidents role is to be the face and voice of america and her people, and for every loss of life, for every tragedy, and for all the pain her people must go through, the president must feel it. that is a heavy burden, but it is one our president must carry. our president represents us. there should be a level of class, of respect, and dignity in a president, that our current president does not fulfill

he is a sorry excuse for a leader, a role model, a human being, he is above all, a pathetic man who should not have the privilege of speaking for america and her people.

and even if you agree with his harmful policy’s, how dare you let our voice be so callous about lost lives? about children? it is disgusting. a president should have a level of poise when they speak, strong encouraging words instead of unintelligible insults

and the tiniest bit of hope i had, the smallest shred that this wasn’t all bad, has been ruined and tarnished, because excuse me for thinking that perhaps our leader would respond with even the smallest bit of empathy instead of placing blame everywhere else

he makes me sick.

THIS!!! EXACTLY!!!

(i promise this anecdote below is relevant to this bear with me)

when i was in high school, i was part of a very very good band program. there were a lot of talented people and we managed to take up a huge chunk of the school population. it was guaranteed to have at least two band kids in a class, and this was a AAA school. this is important because our reputation as band kids... was that we were always going to be the best students you had. not because of grades, but because of character. the same went for the many programs that we went to. if we were at a district competition, we were quiet when we had to be, we cheered for other bands, we would lend our equipment, etc etc. i can't think of any instances not only in my time there but before or after where people would groan when they thought about us coming to their event. because there were no incidences that made people think twice about inviting us

how we got that kind of reputation? my band directors built an environment in the band where we wanted to do great. "character, commitment, competence, capacity" were the 4 C's that were put on the wall. this is the best example that I could find, where I think communication and commitment are the same:

every student took up a leadership role even if you weren't handed a title like "drum major" or "section leader". we learned about how to represent ourselves and the people in our community, and we were proud of that. like yeah we might have sounded like a bunch of fucking nerds, but it was a good place to be.

often we heard adults wondering how the hell our band directors managed such a feat. it was such a large band that there should have been at least one group of teenagers that acted out or something. but that was incredibly (and i mean incredibly) rare, and were never so bad that it couldn't be immediately fixed.

it was possible because we had good role models!!

our band directors worked with every teacher on campus, brought us to community events, they had food drives and toy drives, etc etc. they were funny but they knew when to get work done, they created a space where we felt comfortable with them and wanted to make them proud.

i don't see anything like that when i see Trump, nor do i see it in people that voted for him. his Character is not just rude but nasty. his attitude towards the people he's supposed to be representing and caring about was absolutely intolerable. when asked if he cared about the lives of these people (WHO BY THE WAY, DIED MINUTES AWAY FROM WHERE HE IS RESIDING), he was a snarky fucking brat. he was childish and replied with THAT? "You want me to go swimming?"

I'M SORRY??

that was the most WILD, out of line shit i have heard him say in a minute. that was blatant disrespect on the lives of the people that were lost, their families that have to live with the grief for the rest of their lives, and to the American people that were hoping something would be said to comfort and ease our minds.

his statement was read off of a paper that someone else 100000% wrote for him. and then he went out of his way to say that DEI is responsible for it?????? THE DEI??????

you know why he said that shit? because it was his fault! he is directly responsible for air traffic control not having enough people that night. he fired 100 FAA senior officials, there was the hiring freeze that HE demanded, the Aviation Safety committee was disbanded, demanded for existing employees to leave, offered the buy it out. and then that plane went down- the worse air collision in the US in 16 years.

he can't take responsibility. he won't do that, because he would have to admit that it was his fault. that's a pretty trick that narcissists love to do. they come up with excuse after excuse for why something couldn't be their fault, it always has to lie with someone else. and he chose to blame... diversity?

the thing that really gets me about this DEI shit is that most of these people will argue that we need to get rid of it because people should be hired for their merit and not because of the color of their skin or gender. THAT'S WHY THE DEI EXISTS. because if it DIDN'T, only white men would be hired- for the color of their skin, because of their gender, and NOT because of their merit. diversity in our workplaces is how we end up being able to see different perspectives. the US is a melting pot of cultures and that's supposed to be a beautiful thing. the fact that we are still having arguments about it is because there are still people in power who do not want us being unified as a nation. they directly benefit from us believing that "the black man/ the latino man/ the white man" are the enemy. the enemy isn't the person who looks or acts different to you, the enemy are the people who are supposed to be representing us that are only acting out of their best interests.

Trump will never admit that he was wrong about something. It's not in his character. He is not a giving, caring man, who wants the best for the people. He is a lying, cheating, scum of the earth that sits on a "throne" built on the backs of people that do the work for him and who he has divided using hate and envy, then he props his feet up on a footstool made of his ugly pride, and he sticks his big fat thumb in his mouth, taking up all the room for that silver spoon.

He has no commitment to us as the people (even the ones that voted for him) nor to the people also in power that are loyal to him. I believe that in no time at all, he's going to get greedy and they're going to eat him alive, because Trump isn't even smart enough for any of this, there's someone else pulling the strings. He is an incompetent man child with no accountability for his actions, he has failed nearly every business that he touched and only has his money because of what his family had built before him. And he has no capacity for greatness nor does he have critical thinking skills. He props his words up with fluffy decorations and lies right through his teeth, and the people that voted for him are lapping it up like dogs starved. People are about to find out real fucking quick that Trump has been playing it easy and using the benefits of other people's work before him to make himself look good.

And they're not even going to get their eggs.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

i was lost within the darkness but then i found her; i found you. - k. yukimiya

synopsis: a man who couldn’t find purpose in his life and the woman who brought each of them meaning.

a/n: i was lowkey thinking of meruem and komugi the whole time i was making this.

yukimiya kenyu

yukimiya didn’t know what he was supposed to do now.

he clutched the papers from the doctor, walking to the nurse’s office at school for the information to be added to his profile at school. he walked with no emotion upon his usually jubilant and beautiful face, and it was as if all of the light had been sucked from his eyes.

“yukimiya?”

yukimiya looked up, and you stood in front of him, holding a few boxes in your hands. you were probably helping your teacher with moving things again.

yukimiya was fairly fond of you. you were kind and quick on your feet, and yet you always gave helpful, honest advice to your more delusional friends. he enjoyed being around you more than anything else at school. “oh, hello. how’s your day been going?” yukimiya asked, painting a smile over his frown on his face.

your eyebrows knit together. yukimiya recognized that look; his mother always had that look in his childhood whenever he had been crying and hid the fact from her. she always caught on quickly. “you seem upset, are you okay?” you placed your boxes on the floor next to you before walking closer to him, your head tilting slightly as you looked at him.

and as if water began overflowing in a glass after barely having not reach the point of spilling yet, tears began to spill from yukimiya’s eyes.

fat, warm tears stained yukimiya’s cheeks wet, and snot began leaking from his nose. if any of yukimiya’s fans had seen him like this, his modeling career and their crush on him would be over. but instead of looking at him with your face scrunched up in disgust from his current expression, you instead had him sit down with his back to the wall as you sat down next to him.

“what happened?” you asked, your voice soft. you assumed that it had to do with his eye and soccer career; after all, he got glasses even though he didn’t have them previously, and soccer was practically his whole life. yukimiya sniffled before looking at you.

“optic neuropathy,” yukimiya whispered. “there are black spots in my vision. treatment will help, but not fully cure it. worse case scenario, it causes blindness. the doctor said that i probably won’t be able to play soccer professionally anymore.” yukimiya sniffled again before he wiped his tears away, laughing.

“look at me. complaining to you about it even though it’s not even your problem. you should be helping the teacher, right? sorry, i know this is your free period and im not a very crier—“ before he could continue on with his idiocy, you grabbed his face in between both of your hands and faced him, your eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed.

“yukimiya kenyu,” you began, voice grave. your face darkened before your gentle cradle on his face turned into a stinging pinch. “first of all, i could care less about this being my free period. we still have months of school left, and that means hundreds of more free periods. second, no one cares that you’re an ugly crier! everyone ugly as shit when they’re sobbing and their face is all scrunched up when they’re bawling. you should’ve seen me when i read the chapter that gojo died!”

at your last comment, you could see yukimiya hold in a chuckle, which proved your effort worthy. “and also, maybe you won’t become the best forward in the world. maybe you really will become blind because of soccer. maybe all of your efforts wouldn’t have been worth it in the end. but yukimiya, i hope you know and realize that the result may be important, but…” you stopped your pinching, and you held his face as if you were holding the most precious and beautiful glass vase. “sometimes the joy of the process itself overshadows what was thought to be the joy that comes from the result.”

yukimiya’s eyes widened, and suddenly, a fresh batch of tears came to his eyes. but this time, it wasn’t of sadness. this time, warmth bloomed in his chest when the tears came. this time, his mind was clear of the negative thoughts when the tears came. and this time, instead of his vision being blurred by tears, his vision was being cleansed by the light right in front of him: you.

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

Alright, BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Three: Spider-Man Kiss is up on AO3, too! It's dumb as hell, someone needs to pay Eddie to deal with these two. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary.

The rock-climbing gym isn’t too busy, because it’s a Tuesday and the middle of the day. Buck, Tommy, and Eddie are probably the biggest group there, and they’re definitely the loudest. There was no way this was going to turn into anything but a race with increasingly ridiculous conditions so they might have a chance at beating Tommy.

Buck and Eddie are fit, they’ve had to climb up and down buildings, they're on ladders all the time, they’ve done their fair share of rappelling into dangerous situations, but they’re not doing medevac out of canyons, ravines, and mountains as often as Tommy does. He’s an absolute beast and only lost one race because he’d gotten a penalty for not skipping the right hold. Buck had laughed at his perturbed expression and given him a consolation butt grope while Eddie was busy doing a victory lap.

“We never stood a chance,” Eddie says, sighing.

“Nope,” Buck says, but he can’t sound glum because of how his boyfriend’s ass looks in the harness.

He gets gently shoved by Eddie, who clearly clocks the dreamy tone of his voice. “Nuh-uh, we’re getting burgers after this, I’m not getting ditched so you two can hook up somewhere. Eyes down, Buckley.”

Tommy smacks the top of the rock wall and looks over his shoulder with a cocky grin. “Time?”

“Shut up, you won by like five seconds,” Eddie calls back with a wave of disgust.

As Tommy rappels down, Buck hands off the rope to Eddie and steps closer with the intention of steadying him when he reaches the ground, but then Tommy stops about two-thirds of the way down and looks back at him. Buck steps back just in case he has to grab the rope with Eddie, but Tommy doesn't look like he's struggling.

“Can I fulfill a two decade old fantasy real quick?” he asks.

Buck squints suspiciously. “Here?”

Tommy grins. “Yes.”

"I'm not being charged as an accessory to public indecency," Eddie says, and Buck elbows him.

“Yeah, alright,” Buck says to his boyfriend, grinning as he steps closer to the wall again, ready for whatever Tommy proposes. “What’d you have in mind?”

Tommy comes down a little further and does a sort of lunge against the wall, tipping himself backward until his face is hanging in front of Buck’s and his toes are hooked under one of the holds.

“Oh, my god,” Eddie says faintly. "Really?"

“What are you doing?” Buck asks, laughing.

“I showed you this movie,” Tommy reminds him, and Buck feels a lightbulb go off. He'd actually seen this one as a kid, forgotten almost everything about it, and rewatched it with Tommy without alerting him to the fact that, yes, he was eleven when Spider-Man came out and he had actually seen it with Maddie.

When he steps forward and holds Tommy’s head in his hands, he scratched his fingers through Tommy's hair as he kisses him sweetly. There’s minimal, respectable tongue, because they're in public and there are underpaid gym employees around and also Eddie is like five feet away and has already dealt with a lot of their second honeymoon phase bullshit today. There’s also no rain, which is probably for the best, it looked uncomfortable in the movie for the actor.

It’s strange not having to tilt to avoid crashing their noses together, and Buck smiles when he feels Tommy sigh through his nose against his own chin. When he steps back, Tommy looks dazed. He hopes it’s from the kiss and not the blood rushing to his head.

“Aren’t you supposed to go save New York now?” Buck teases.

“Nah, just the greater Los Angeles area,” Tommy replies cheekily, smiling. Seeing the scrunchy expression upside-down is adorable. Buck comes in and kisses him again before stepping back once more.

Tommy moves himself back to a vertical position and drops down to his feet, and Buck is there to unhook him. He kisses him gently then, too, because Spider-Man also got kisses when he was right-side up.

When he turns to Eddie, his best friend looks thoroughly done with both of them but does hold his phone up. “I did get that on video. You’re welcome. Buy me a burger.”

“I will buy you so many burgers,” Tommy says, greedily reaching for Eddie’s phone. “And fries, a milkshake, whatever you want.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd, Kinard,” Eddie says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll take onion rings instead.”

Buck leans in and peers at the video, and yeah, okay, he does get a fluttery feeling in his stomach when he sees it. He’s definitely putting it on Instagram and backing it up on every cloud he can get his hands on.

“We’re so cute,” he sighs, leaning against Tommy.

“We’re adorable,” Tommy agrees. “Jesus, I am also never wearing grey shorts when we come here again.”

“Yeah, I’ll crop your bulge out of the Instagram post.”

“Oh, god, give me my phone,” Eddie groans.

–

Buck posts the video with the caption: Went to the gym and found a friendly neighborhood Pilot-Man. Might keep him forever.♥️

firepilotTK This implies I was bitten by a radioactive pilot and gained the abilities of a pilot through their venom. Which is exactly how I got my job, actually. firepilotTK ♥️♥️♥️♥️

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Casually calling him daddy; Caleb

Word count; 922

Warnings; "daddy" ofc, fluff

Notes; Hope yall enjoy these updated drabbles!! <3

☆☆☆☆☆

You and Caleb weren't…well, technically, you weren't dating, but you weren't exactly sure what to call it. Your relationship is the same it's always been.

The usual cuddling, hand-holding, pretending to date to thwart love confessions…

And you were trying to figure out how exactly to push the envelope just a step further.

As you were scrolling through decade old apps, you found a TikTok compilation.

Now, you weren't exactly sure what TikTok was since it was, at least, 20-years old, but you decided to watch the video anyways since you were doom scrolling in bed at Caleb's home.

As you were watching, one trend caught your eye.

It was the aptly named “calling your boyfriend daddy” trend and while you didn't have a boyfriend…you did have Caleb.

You weren't exactly sure what kinks Caleb had, but whether his reaction was sexual, disgust, or whatever it may be, you wanted to see. So, with that thought in mind, you get up and call your OTTO into the room.

“Hello, master, what do you need help with today? Do you need breakfast? Master Caleb left two hours, thirty-five minutes, and 40 seconds ago to go to work. He won't be home until–”

“Thank you so much for that, OTTO, but I needed something else.” You quickly cut the circular robot off, feeling a bit bad for doing so, but you doubt its feelings would be hurt. “Whenever Caleb gets home and we start cooking, can you switch to your recording mode?”

“I can do that. Any video saved will go straight to Master Caleb's phone.” The bot says as it flies around your head and you shrug, “That's fine with me. Let me know when he gets home!”

Now, you just need to figure out how you'll seamlessly bring the word up in conversation with Caleb…

“He's home! He's home!” OTTO shouts, almost excitedly, as it speeds around the house similarly to an overexcited dog. Though, its warning was a tad too late as Caleb steps in the door while the bot is excitedly yelling.

“You missed me so much, you got OTTO to tell ya when I get home?” He laughs as he takes his Colonel hat off, setting it on the coffee table.

“Maybe…” you grab his hat, putting it on as you shove him toward his room. “Go get changed, I'm hungry.”

“Alright, alright. Geez, no need to be in such a hurry, pipsqueak.” He holds his hands up, allowing you to push him.

After he's changed, he joins you in the kitchen with OTTO flying steadily around the room.

“Did you tell OTTO to do something? It's acting realllly strange.” Caleb's eyes narrow as he shuts the rice cooker. “Nope, maybe it's broken.” You shrug, continuing to peel an apple.

You decided to make an apple smoothie for both you and Caleb, almost completely forgetting about your earlier plan. “Oh right…” you murmur under your breath.

How were you going to bring it up…

“What're you thinking about, pipsqueak?” Caleb rests an arm on your shoulder as he pokes the skin between your eyebrows. “What's got you furrowing your brows?”

“Well da– I mean, hmm…” you're honestly feeling a bit frustrated, but also embarrassed that you can't find a way to naturally insert this word into the conversation.

How come he can do it so easily when calling you pipsqueak?

Caleb raises a brow, leaning more into your view. “What did you say?”

“Ah, it's nothing.” You shove at his chest with a small laugh. “Give me some space, Caleb. You know I'm holding a knife, right?”

But as soon as you say this, you feel an odd pressure on your wrist. Your hand lets go of the knife and it clatters on the marble countertop.

“Caleb– ?”

He turns your body to face him, your back against the counter as he tilts his head to the side.

“Go on.”

“I wasn't going to say anything, seriously!” You can't help but laugh, turning your head to look away from him.

He didn't know exactly what you were going to say from just a few letters…right?

He grabs your chin, turning your head to face him. “Don't look away from me.” He jerks his chin up as he looks down at you. “Go ahead, say what you were going to say. I'm waiting.”

Embarrassment along with…something else was boiling in the pit of your stomach and you let out a low, panicked whine, lightly stomping your foot.

Suddenly, you felt like you couldn't say anything. So tongued that you just kept your mouth shut.

A sharp laugh escapes Caleb and his grip tightens around your chin. “Alright, brat. You really don't want to say it?” He hums, eyes flitting from yours to your lips. “Then I guess that means…no braised chicken tonight?”

“Huh–” you owlishly blink at him, before finally coming back to life. “That's not fair–!”

“Then…Say. It.” Caleb clicks his tongue, slowly leaning forward so his forehead rests against yours.

“I…ugh.” You sigh, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “I'm sorry…daddy.”

“Good girl.” He hums with a content smile, dipping his head down to lightly peck your lips before suddenly, he's gone. “Now get back to your smoothie.”

Your face was red as you stared at his back. How the hell was he so unphased!?

That's so unfair.

But as you puff out your cheeks in annoyance, you notice how one of his hands is balled up into a fist and his ears are a pretty shade of red.

Casually calling them "daddy" LADS

Word count; 1,913

Themes; slightly barely there suggestive content, fluff, established relationship

Warnings; mention of "daddy" ofc, fluff

Notes; So these turned out more fluffy than I originally intended...honestly, thought they'd be more smutty, but I've learnt that it's really difficult for me to write smut. Or at least, smut with little to no context before it all goes down. I might eventually write some smuttier drabbles, but regardless of smut, I hope you enjoy this little thing I wrote!

You saw that there was an old trend about calling your boyfriend “daddy” and videoing their reaction so, obviously, you wanted to give it a try…

Xavier 

It's been almost a year since you and Xavier started dating– and it was a wonderful eleven months! He told you everything about himself. What his future with you was like, all of his feelings throughout the centuries, and you listened. You wholeheartedly believed him, because it would be one hell of a lie if it wasn't true…and you didn't think Xavier had the time or energy to come up with a complex lie like that. 

But even if you now know, time moves on. There's not much you can do about your future self, so you can't really change the future in that way though…Xavier's here now, in the past, and that's all that matters to you. 

Anyway, today was just a normal day as any. 

You were sitting at the counter, keeping a close eye on Xavier– who was attempting to follow, yet another, cooking tutorial. The man was desperate to cook a decent meal for you. His heart dead set on making you something edible for your upcoming year anniversary…and while that was cute, you also wanted to mess with him. 

You push your cup just out of your reach and make a big show of trying to reach for it, before sighing loudly. 

“Daddy, can you pass me my drink please?” 

You can hear the clang of a spatula hitting the floor and you watch Xavier’s body comically whip around to face you. 

“What?” His head cocks to the side as his wide eyes were set on your face. “Say that again..”

“Hmm? I said ‘Xav, can you pass me my drink, please’.” You copy his head tilt and he quickly shakes his head.

 “No, no you didn't.” He takes a few steps toward you before grabbing your hand in-between both of his. “Say it again.” 

You couldn't resist his sweet puppy dog eyes, so you hold back a smile as you meet his eyes. “I...called you daddy.” 

“Really?” He seems unusually excited. “So are we…?” His gaze lowers to your stomach and you can’t help the giggle that slips from your lips. 

Gosh, he was so cute. 

“Baby– no, no. We're not pregnant.” You run your fingers through his hair with a smile on your lips. “Are...you disappointed?” 

“Mmh..” Xavier hums thoughtfully for a moment before he shakes his head. “No. We can just make it a reality later. No need to rush.” 

Zayne 

You and Zayne have only been dating for six months, but it felt like much longer. Having known each other since you were little, you both had always been close– well, your definition of close and his were probably different. You always thought of him as a friend while he tried to keep a distance and thought you hated him. But time brought you both back together with him as your primary care physician. 

The two of you had been flirting up until his birthday and finally made it official once he blew his candles out on the cake you made for him. It was a sweet time, but that was six months ago. 

Now, though, you really want to fluster the man. 

He always embarrasses you and makes you feel nervous, but you never get to see him that way. Sure, his ears will turn red and sometimes he won't meet your eyes when you get too intense with him, but you've never seen him absolutely shocked. And you just wanted to see one look of surprise from him. 

So, what did you decide to do? 

You decided to casually call him "daddy” as a joke.

That should definitely go over well. 

Zayne is seated behind his desk at the hospital, sorting through papers as you longue on his sofa. Your eyes continuously glancing toward the windows to make sure the door was shut and the blinds were closed. 

“If you keep staring at the door, you just might burn a hole through it.” Zayne says, though he didn't even look up from his paperwork. He was attentive like that and probably already knew you wanted something or you were ready to go home. And he was right. 

“When are we going home…daddy?” You ask as you kick your feet in the air behind you. You were on your stomach, resting your cheek against your arms as you watched his expression…which didn't change at all. 

"Just give me a few more minutes, angel, and I'll be done.” Zayne pushes his glasses up with his index finger and clicks his pen, jotting down a few notes. 

“I–” You puff your cheeks out with a small sigh and decide to keep going with it. “I want to go home now, daddy.”

“Didn't I just tell you to be patient?” Now Zayne finally looks up at you with one of his brows raised. “I'll deal with you when we get home.” 

Rafayel 

It's been four months since Rafayel asked you out. Four months since you tugged Rafayel down into the bath with you, which set off a chain reaction of a steamy night, followed by him asking you out the next morning; he also complained that you both went out of order, but he wasn’t too upset when you continued where you left off…

Now, though, you moved out of your apartment and to Rafayel's home, ‘Mo Art Studio’ at Whitesand Bay. 

It was definitely odd at first, but it was a good change of pace. Always being by the ocean, able to take your morning walks together on the beach and collect seashells. You had a whole collection on your desk at work. He'd always give you the most unique and prettiest shells, saying “only the best for his cutie”. 

He was also so easy to fluster. 

You immediately knew you had him wrapped around your finger every time his ears would turn red. That same crimson slowly made its way from his ears to his cheeks, all the way to his whole face. So you assumed your little ‘prank’ would also have the same effect. 

You were sitting on a beach towel in the sand with an umbrella blocking your eyes from the bright sun. In front of you was Rafayel, painting your visage, with an easel. His hand deftly moves across the canvas as he sketches the outline for his new painting. 

Lately, you are the only thing he can paint. Always asking you to stop what you're doing so he can run and get his sketch pad. You could be doing something so normal and mundane, but he'd be struck with the inspiration to record your very image. 

As much as you loved it and thought this was very sweet, after almost two weeks of this…You wanted some form of payback. 

“Hey, daddy, can we take a break for a second? It’s really hot out here.” You squint your eyes to try and see Rafayel's face, your hand fanning at your body because you, seriously, are hot out here. 

“Huh?” 

It's like Rafayel is frozen in time, or buffering. He's just blankly staring at you with a confused expression on his face until his pencil drops into the sand. That's when he quickly stands up  and makes his way toward you. 

“Again.” 

Now, it's your turn to be confused. 

“Raf, what–” 

“Not that, say the other word again.” His ears were red as he crouched down in front of you, a look of determination in his eyes. 

“No– you're making it weird!” You put your hands on his shoulders, trying to put some distance between him as your face turns red. 

“Please, I really need to hear you say it again! I'm seriously going to die if you don't.” There's your overdramatic fishy. 

“Fine, but just this once.” You grumble, turning your head to look away from him. “Daddy…” Though you say it as low as you can and Rafayel groans, tilting his head back. 

“Louder.” He rests his forehead against yours. “Come on, cutie. If you don't…I might want to change that to my new nickname.”

Sylus

It's been about…a year? Yes, definitely a year since you and Sylus started dating. Well, you both have differing opinions on when exactly you started dating. Sylus claims it was the moment he laid eyes on you in the N109 Zone, while you claim it was only about six months ago– which is when you and Sylus made a bet. 

It was a bet where if he came back safely from his mission, he'd leave you alone. He wouldn't bother you anymore, wouldn't talk to you, contact you, anything of the sort…and you won, but you didn't realize he'd actually do it. So whenever you seeked him out to make sure he was safe, and he ignored you, you realized that maybe you did want him in your life. 

This led to you running across the street to him and jumping into his arms like this was a hallmark movie, and you claim this was when you officially started dating Sylus.

But between us, you just agree with Sylus when he says a year, because if you don't, he'll pout for the whole day. 

...And today was one of those ‘pouty Sylus’ days. 

You went on a mission that was probably way too dangerous, even though you told Sylus you were going to slow down on your Hunter's work. But you couldn't just ignore endangered civilians. If any of them would have died, that would've been too much for your sympathetic heart to handle. 

And even if Sylus understands your reasoning, he's still upset that you left without telling him– having woken up to a cold bed without you by his side sent him spiraling into a panic. 

So, when you got home, you noticed he was sulking in the kitchen as he made dinner. 

“Sy…” You take your shoes off by the door, nervously fiddling with your fingers as you tentatively walk into the kitchen. Standing behind the counter, you sigh, “I'm reeaally sorry...” 

“If you're reeaaally sorry, then help me make our dinner.” He says, not looking up at you and that doesn't make you feel any better. 

“Okay..” You finally step past the counter and you look around. “So…what do you need?” You were trying to figure out something– anything that could make Sylus feel better when a thought comes to your mind. 

Most guys probably like it when their girlfriend calls them daddy…right? 

“In the cabinet, top shelf. I need a bottle of garlic powder.” 

Okay, you got this. 

You take a deep breath and open the cabinet, straining your arm to try and reach the seasoning bottle, but your fingertips barely brush it and knock it over. “Shit…” You swallow back your nervousness before continuing, “Daddy, can you grab it for me?” 

The room fills with silence for a moment, but then you hear Sylus chuckle. 

“Sure, kitten.” 

Your back suddenly feels warm as a firm chest presses against it and Sylus reaches up from behind you to grab the bottle. 

“I ask you to do one simple thing and you can't even do that.” Sylus chides, clicking his tongue as he pops the bottle open to pour some into the pan on the stove. 

“Da–”

“If you think a few empty words will make me feel better, kitten…you've got to try a lot harder than that.” 

I'd like to say, this is definitely one of my better drabbles– one of my favorites, in fact!

I have like...six more ideas for drabbles and then I'll need to come up with some more. Like these new cards and Rafayel's student photoshoot event really had me thinking of how seriously the LADS men would take roleplaying– and that spawned a whole different drabble idea, so you can definitely look forward to that!

I'm trying to come up with new ways to do my drabbles, so that's why I did a little prelude before I started writing for the guys. Please let me know any feedback yall have for me! Especially with the coloured dialogue, I'm not too sure if I like it, but it seems really pretty and probably makes it easier to tell who is talking apart. (I won't use it for my fic though, only the drabbles!)

Anyway, I have a small personal project I'm working on this weekend so I probably won't be able to write any chapters for my 'Divisa' fic, but I'm still going to post chapter nineteen of 'Twist of Fate' and try to write at least two more chapters since I'm only on twenty-three or so.

I hope you all enjoyed these drabbles and I hope yall have a great night/day! 🩷

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Petard, Part III

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/2025/02/01/miskatonic-networks/#landlord-telco-industrial-complex

Last week, Trump's FCC chair Brendan Carr reversed a rule that banned your landlord from taking kickbacks in exchange for forcing you to use whatever ISP was willing to pay the biggest bribe for the right to screw you over:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/fcc-chair-nixes-plan-to-boost-broadband-competition-in-apartment-buildings/

Corporate fascists and their captured regulators are, of course, that most despicable of creatures: they are plagiarists. Like so many of our tech overlords, they have mistaken dystopian sf as a suggestion, rather than as a warning. I take this personally, because I actually wrote this as an sf story in 2013, and it was published in 2014 in MIT Tech Review's Twelve Tomorrows, edited by Bruce Sterling and published in 2014:

https://mitpress.mit.edu/9780262535595/twelve-tomorrows-2014/

I adapted it for my podcast, in four installments:

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_278

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_292

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_293

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_294_-_Petard_04

And, given the new currency of this old story, I thought it was only fitting that I serialize it here, on my blog, also in four parts.

Here's part one:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/30/landlord-telco-industrial-complex/#part-one

Here's part two:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/31/the-blood-speech/#part-two

And now, onto part three:

One of the early Ftp code contributors was now CTO for an ISP, and they'd gotten their start as a dorm co-op at Brown that had metastasized across New England. Sanjay had been pretty important to the early days of Ftp, helping us get the virtualization right so that it could run on pretty much any cloud without a lot of jiggery and/or pokery. Within a day of emailing Sanjay, I was having coffee with the vice-president of business development for Miskatonic Networks, who was also Sanjay's boyfriend's girlfriend, because apparently ISPs in New England are hotbeds of Lovecraft-fandom polyamory. Her name was Kadijah and she had a southie accent so thick it was like an amateur theater production of Good Will Hunting.

"The Termite Mound?" She laughed. "Shit yeah, I know that place. It's still standing? I went to some super sketchy parties there when I was a kid, I mean sooooper sketchy, like sketch-a-roony. I can't believe no one's torched the place yet."

"Not yet," I said. "And seeing as all my stuff's there right now, I'm hoping that no one does for the time being."

"Yeah, I can see that." I could not get over her accent. It was the most Bostonian thing I'd encountered since I got off the train. "OK, so you want to know what we'd charge to provide service to someone at the Termite Mound?"

"Uh, no. I want to know what you'd charge per person if we could get you the whole Mound — every unit in the residence. All 250 of them."

"Oh." She paused a second. "This is an Ftp thing, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "That's how I know Sanjay. I, uh, I started Ftp." I don't like to brag, but sometimes it makes sense in the context of the conversation, right?

"That was you? Wicked! So you're seriously gonna get the whole dorm to sign up with us?"

"I will if you can get me a price that I can sell to them," I said.

"Oh," she said. Then "Oh! Right. Hmm. Leave it with me. You say you can get them all signed up?"

"I think so. If the price is right. And I think that if the Termite Mound goes with you that there'll be other dorms that'll follow. Maybe a lab or two," I said. I was talking out of my ass at this point, but seriously, net-censorship in the labs at MIT? It was disgusting. It could not stand.

"Damn," she said. "Sounds like you're majoring in Ftp. Don't you have classes or something?"

"No," I said. "This is basically exactly what I figured college would be like. A cross between summer camp and an Stanford obedience experiment. If all I wanted to do was cram a bunch of knowledge into my head, I could have stayed home and mooced it. I came here because I wanted to level up and fight something tough and even dangerous. I want to spend four years getting into the right kind of trouble. Going to classes too, but seriously, classes? Whatever. Everyone knows the good conversations happen in the hallway between the formal presentations. Classes are just an excuse to have hallways."

She looked skeptical and ate banana bread.

"It's your deal," she said.

I could hear the but hanging in the air between us. She went and got more coffees and brought them back along with toasted banana bread dripping with butter for me. She wouldn't let me pay, and told me it was on Miskatonic. We were a potential big account. She didn't want to say "But" because she might offend me. I wanted to hear the "but."

"But?"

"But what?"

"It's my deal but…?"

"But, well, you know, you don't look after your grades, MIT'll put you out on your ass. That's how it works in college. I've seen it."

I chewed my banana bread.

"Hey," she said. "Hey. Are you OK, Lukasz?"

"I'm fine," I said.

She smiled at me. She was pretty. "But?"

I told her about my talk with AA, and about Juanca, and about how I felt like nobody was giving me my propers, and she looked very sympathetic, in a way that made me feel much younger. Like toddler younger.

"MIT is all about pranks, right? I think if I could come up with something really epic, they'd –" And as I said it, I realized how dumb it was. They laughed at me in Vienna, I'll show them! "You know what? Forget about it. I got more important things to do than screw around with those knob-ends. Work to do, right? Get the network opened up around here, you and me, Kadijah!"

"Don't let it get to you, you'll give yourself an aneurism. I'll get back to you soon, OK?"

#

I fished a bead out of my pocket and wedged it into my ear.

"Who is this?"

"Lukasz?" The voice was choked with tears.

"Who is this?" I said again.

"It's Bryan." I couldn't place the voice or the name.

"Bryan who?"

"From the Termite Mound's customer service desk." Then I recognized the voice. It was the elf, and he was having hysterics. Part of me wanted to say, Oh, diddums! and hang up. Because elves, AMR? But I'm not good at tough love.

"What's wrong?"

"They've fired me," he said. "I got called into my boss's office an hour ago and he told me to start drawing up a list of people to kick out of the dorm — he wanted the names of people who supported you. I was supposed to go through the EULAs for the dorm and find some violations for all of them –"

"What if they didn't have any violations?"

He made a sound between a sob and a laugh. "Are you kidding? You're always in violation! Have you read the EULA for the Mound? It's like sixty pages long."

"OK, gotcha. So you refused and you got fired?"

There was a pause. It drew out. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I gave them a bunch of names, and then they fired me."

Again, I was torn between the impulse to hang up on him and to hear more. Nosiness won (nosiness always wins; bets on nosiness are a sure thing). "Nicely done. Sounds like just deserts to me. What do you expect me to do about it?" But I knew. There were only two reasons to call me after something like this: to confess his sins or to get revenge. And no one would ever mistake me for a priest.

"I've got the names they pulled. Not just this time. Every time there's been any kind of trouble in the Termite Mound, MIT Residence has turfed out the troublemakers on some bogus EULA violation. They know that no one cares about student complaints, and there's always a waiting list for rooms at the Termite Mound, it's so central and all. I kept records."

"What kind of records?"

"Hardcopies of emails. They used disappearing ink for all the dirty stuff, but I just took pictures of my screen with my drop and saved it to personal storage. It's ugly. They went after pregnant girls, kids with disabilities. Any time there was a chance they'd have to do an air quality audit or fix a ramp, I'd have to find some reason to violate the tenant out of residence." He paused a moment. "They used some pretty bad language when they talked about these people, too."

The Termite Mound should've been called the Roach Motel: turn on the lights and you'd find a million scurrying bottom-feeders running for the baseboards.

I was going to turn on the lights.

"You've got all that, huh?

"Tons of it," he said. "Going back three years. I knew that if it ever got out that they'd try and blame it on me. I wanted records."

"OK," I said. "Meet me in Harvard Square, by the T entrance. How soon can you get there?"

"I'm at the Coop right now," he said. "Using a study-booth."

"Perfect," I said. "Five minutes then?"

"I'm on my way."

The Coop's study booths had big signs warning you that everything you did there was recorded — sound, video, infrared, data — and filtered for illicit behavior. The signs explained that there was no human being looking at the records unless you did something to trip the algorithm, like that made it better. If a tree falls in the forest, it sure as shit makes a sound; and if your conversation is bugged, it's bugged — whether or not a human being listens in right then or at some time in the infinite future of that data.

I beat him to the T entrance, and looked around for a place to talk. It wasn't good. From where I stood, I could see dozens of cameras, the little button-sized dots discretely placed all around the square, each with a little scannable code you could use to find out who got the footage and what it's policy was. No one ever, ever, ever bothered to do this. Ever. EULAs were not written for human consumption: a EULA's message could always be boiled down to seven words: "ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE." Or, more succinctly: "YOU LOSE."

I felt bad about Bryan's job. It was his own deal, of course. He'd stayed even after he knew how evil they were. And I hadn't held a gun to his head and made him put himself in the firing line. But of course, I had convinced him to. I had led him to. I felt bad.

Bryan turned up just as I was scouting a spot at an outdoor table by an ice-cream parlor. They had a bunch of big blowing heaters that'd do pretty good white-noise masking, a good light/dark contrast between the high-noon sun and the shade of the awning that would screw up cameras' white-balance, and the heaters would wreak havoc on the infra-red range of the CCTVs, or so I hoped. I grabbed Bryan, clamping down on his skinny arm through the rough weave of his forest-green cloak and dragged him into my chosen spot.

"You got it?" I said, once we were both seated and nursing hot chocolates. I got caffeinated marshmallows; he got Thai ghost pepper-flavored — though that was mostly marketing, no way those marshmallows were over a couple thousand Scovilles.

"I encrypted it with your public key," he said, handing me a folded up paper. I unfolded it and saw that it had been printed with a stegoed QR code, hidden in a Victorian woodcut. That kind of spycraft was pretty weaksauce — the two-dee-barcode-in-a-public-domain-image thing was a staple of shitty student clickbait thrillers — but if he'd really managed to get my public key and verify it and then encrypt the blob with it, I was impressed. That was about ten million times more secure than the average fumbledick ever managed. The fact that he'd handed me a hardcopy of the URL instead of emailing it to me, well, that was pretty sweet frosting. Bryan had potential.

I folded the paper away. "What should I be looking for?"

"It's all organized and tagged. You'll see." He looked nervous. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Well, for starters, I'm going to call them up and tell them I have it."

"What?" He looked like he was going to cry.

"Come on," I said. "I'm not going to tell them where I got it. The way you tell it, I'm about to get evicted, right?"

"Technically, you are evicted. There's a process-server waiting at every entrance to the Termite Mound doing face-recognition on the whole list. Soon as you go home, bam. 48 hours to clear out."

"Right," I said. "I don't want to have to go look for a place to live while I'm also destroying these shitbirds and fixing everyone's Internet connection. Get serious. So I'm going to go and talk to Messrs Amoral, Nonmoral and Immoral and explain that I have a giant dump of compromising messages from them that I'm going public with, and it'll look really, really bad for them if they turf me out now."

It's time for a true confession. I am not nearly as brave as I front. All this spycraft stuff, all the bluster about beating these guys on their home turf, yeah, in part I'm into it — I like it better than riding through life like a foil chip-bag being swept down a polluted stream on a current of raw sewage during a climate-change-driven superstorm.

But the reality is that I can't really help myself. There's some kind of rot-fungus that infects the world. Things that are good when they're small and personal grow, and as they grow, their attack-surface grows with them, and they get more and more colonized by the fungus, making up stupid policies, doing awful stuff to the people who rely on them and the people who work for them, one particle of fungus at a time, each one just a tiny and totally defensible atomic-sized spoor of rot that piles up and gloms onto all the other bits of rot until you're a walking, suppurating lesion.

No one ever set out to create the kind of organization that needs to post a "MIT RESIDENCY LLC OPERATES A ZERO-TOLERANCE POLICY TOWARD EMPLOYEE ABUSE. YOU CAN BE FINED UP TO $2000 AND/OR IMPRISONED FOR SIX MONTHS FOR ASSAULTING A CAMPUS RESIDENCE WORKER" sign. You start out trying to do something good, then your realize you can get a little richer by making it a little worse. Your thermostat for shittiness gets reset to the new level, so it doesn't seem like much of a change to turn it a notch further towards the rock-bottom, irredeemably shitty end of the scale.

The truth is that you can get really rich and huge by playing host organism to the rot-fungus. The rot-fungus diffuses its harms and concentrates its rewards. That means that healthy organisms that haven't succumbed to the rot-fungus are liable to being devoured by giant, well-funded vectors for it — think of the great local business that gets devoured by an awful hedge-fund in a leveraged takeover, looted and left as a revolting husk to shamble on until it collapses under its own weight.

I am terrified of the rot-fungus, because it seems like I'm the only person who notices it most of the time. Think of all those places where the town council falls all over itself to lure some giant corporation to open a local factory. Don't they notice that everyone who works at places like that hates every single moment of every single day? Haven't they ever tried to converse with the customer-service bots run by one of those lumbering dinos?

I mean, sure, the bigs have giant budgets and they'll take politicians out for nice lunches and throw a lot of money at their campaigns, but don't these guardians of the public trust ever try to get their cars fixed under warranty? Don't they ever buy a train ticket? Don't they ever eat at a fast food joint? Can't they smell the rot-fungus? Am I the only one? I've figured out how to fight it in my own way. Everyone else who's fighting seems to be fighting against something else — injustice or inequality or whatever, without understanding that the fungus's rot is what causes all of those things.

I'm convinced that no normal human being ever woke up one morning and said, "Dammit, my life doesn't have enough petty bureaucratic rules, zero-tolerance policies, censorship and fear in it. How do I fix that?" Instead, they let this stuff pile up, one compromise at a time, building up huge sores suppurating with spore-loaded fluids that eventually burst free and beslime everything around them. It gets normal to them, one dribble at a time.

"Lukasz, you're don't know what you're doing. These guys, they're –"

"What?" I said. "Are they the mafia or something? Are they going to have me dropped off a bridge with cement overshoes?"

He shook his head, making the twigs and beads woven into the downy fluff of his hair clatter together. "No, but they're ruthless. I mean, totally ruthless. They're not normal."

The way he said it twinged something in my hindbrain, some little squiggle of fear, but I pushed it away. "Yeah, that's OK. I'm used to abnormal." I am the most abnormal person I know.

"Be careful, seriously," he said.

"Thanks, Bryan," I said. "Don't worry about me. You want me to try and get your room back, too?"

He chewed his lip. "Don't," he said. "They'll know it was me if you do that."

I resisted the urge to shout at him to grow a spine. These assholes had cost him his home and his job (OK, I'd helped) and he was going to couch-surf it until he could find the rarest of treasures: an affordable place to live in Cambridge, Mass? Even if he was being tortured by his conscience for all his deplorable selloutism, he was still being a total wuss. But that was his deal. I mean, he was an elf, for chrissakes. Who knew what he was thinking?

"Suit yourself," I said, and went and made some preparations.

#

Messers Amoral, Nonmoral and Immoral had an office over the river in Boston, in a shabby office-block that only had ten floors, but whose company directory listed over 800 businesses. I knew the kind of place, because they showed up whenever some hairy scam unravelled and they showed you the office-of-convenience used by the con-artists who'd destroyed something that lots of people cared about and loved in order to make a small number of bad people a little richer. A kind of breeding pit for rot-fungus, in other words.

At first I thought I was going to have to go and sleuth their real locations, but I saw that Amoral, Nonmoral and Immoral had the entire third floor registered to them, while everyone else had crazy-ass, heavily qualified suite numbers like 401c(1)K, indicating some kind of internal routing code for the use of the army of rot-fungus-infected spores who ensured that correspondence was handled in a way that preserved the illusion that each of the multifarious, blandly named shell companies (I swear to Cthulhu that there was one called "International Holdings (Holdings), Ltd") was a real going concern and not a transparent ruse intended to allow the rot-fungus to spread with maximal diffusion of culpability for the carriers who did its bidding.

I punched # # #300# # # on the ancient touchscreen intercom, its surface begrimed with a glossy coat of hardened DNA, Burger King residue and sifted-down dust of the ages. It blatted like an angry sheep, once, twice, three times, then disconnected. I punched again. Again. On the fourth try, an exasperated, wheezing voice emerged: "What?"

"I'm here to speak to someone from MIT Residences LLC."

"Send an email."

"I'm a tenant. My name is Lukasz Romero." I let that sink in. "I've got some documents I'd like to discuss with a responsible individual at MIT Residences LLC." I put a bit of heavy English on documents. "Please." I put even more English on "Please." I've seen the same tough-guy videos that you have, and I can do al-pacinoid overwound Dangerous Dude as well as anyone. "Please," I said again, meaning "Right. Now."

There was an elongated and ominous pause, punctuated by muffled rustling and grumbling, and what may have been typing on an old-fashioned, mechanical keyboard. "Come up," a different voice said. The elevator to my left ground as the car began to lower itself.

#

I'd expected something sinister — a peeling dungeon of a room where old men with armpit-stains gnawed haunches of meat and barked obscenities at each other. Instead, I found myself in an airy, high-ceilinged place that was straight out of the publicity shots for MIT's best labs, the ones that had been set-dressed by experts who'd ensured that no actual students had come in to mess things up before the photographer could get a beautifully lit shot of the platonic perfection.

The room took up the whole floor, dotted with conversation pits with worn, comfortable sofas whose end-tables sported inconspicuous charge-plates for power-hungry gadgets. The rest of the space was made up of new-looking worksurfaces and sanded-down antique wooden desks that emitted the honeyed glow of a thousand coats of wax buffed by decades of continuous use. The light came from tall windows and full-spectrum spotlights that were reflected and diffused off the ceiling, which was bare concrete and mazed with cable-trays and conduit. I smelled good coffee and toasting bread and saw a perfectly kept little kitchenette to my left.

There were perhaps a dozen people working in the room, standing at the worksurfaces, mousing away at the antique desks, or chatting intensely in the conversation pits. It was a kind of perfect tableau of industrious tech-company life, something out of a recruiting video. The people were young and either beautiful, handsome or both. I had the intense, unexpected desire to work here, or a place like this. It had good vibes.

One of the young, handsome people stood up from his conversation nook and smoothed out the herringbone wool hoodie he was wearing, an artfully cut thing that managed to make him look like both a young professor and an undergraduate at the same time. It helped that he was so fresh-faced, with apple cheeks and a shock of curly brown hair.

"Lukasz, right?" He held out a hand. He was wearing a dumbwatch, a wind-up thing in a steel casing that was fogged with a century of scratches. I coveted it instantly, though I knew nothing about its particulars, I was nevertheless certain that it was expensive, beautifully engineered, and extremely rare.

The door closed behind me and the magnet audibly reengaged. The rest of the people in the room studiously ignored us.

"I'm Sergey. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea? Some water?"

The coffee smelled good. "No thank you," I said. "I don't think I'll be here for long."

"Of course. Come and sit."

The other participants in his meeting had already vacated the sofas and left us with a conversation pit all to ourselves. I sank into the sofa and smelled the spicy cologne of a thousand eager, well-washed people who'd sat on it before me, impregnating the upholstery with the spoor of their good perfumes.

He picked up a small red enamel teapot and poured a delicious-smelling stream of yellow-green steaming liquid into a chunky diner-style coffee-cup. He sipped it. My stomach growled. "You told the receptionist you wanted to talk about some documents?"

"Yeah," I said, pulling myself together. "I've got documentary evidence of this company illegally evicting tenants — students — who got pregnant, complained about substandard living conditions and maintenance issues, and, in my case, complained about the network filters at the Termite Mound."

He cocked his head for a moment like he was listening for something in the hum and murmur of the office around him. I found myself listening, too, but try as I might, I couldn't pick out a single individual voice from the buzz, not even a lone intelligble word. It was as though they were all going "murmurmurmurmur," though I could see their lips moving and shaping what must have been words.

"Ah," he said at last. "Well, that's very unfortunate. Can you give me a set and I'll escalate them up our chain to ensure that they're properly dealt with?"

"I can give you a set," I said. "But I'll also be giving a set to the MIT ombudsman and the The Tech and the local Wikileaks Party rep. Sergey, forgive me, but you don't seem to be taking this very seriously. The material in my possession is the sort of thing that could get you and your colleagues here sued into a smoking crater."

"Oh, I appreciate that there's a lot of potential liability in the situation you describe, but it wouldn't be rational for me to freak out now, would it? I haven't seen your documents, and if I had, I can neither authenticate them nor evaluate the risk they represent. So I'll take a set from you and ensure that the people within our organization who have the expertise to manage this sort of thing get to them quickly."

It's funny. I'd anticipated that he'd answer like a chatbot, vomiting up Markov-chained nothings from the lexicon of the rot-fungus: "we take this very seriously," "we cannot comment on ongoing investigations," "we are actioning this with a thorough inquiry and post-mortem" and other similar crapola. Instead, he was talking like a hacker on a mailing list defending the severity he'd assigned to a bug he owned.

"Sergey, that's not much of an answer."

He sipped that delicious tea some more. "Is there something in particular you wanted to hear from me? I mean, this isn't the sort of thing that you find out about then everything stops until you've figured out what to do next."

I was off-balance. "I wanted –" I waved my hands. "I wanted an explanation. How the hell did this systematic abuse come about?"

He shrugged. He really didn't seem very worried "Hard to say, really. Maybe it was something out of the labs."

"What do you mean, 'the labs'?"

He gestured vaguely at one cluster of particularly engrossed young men and women who were bent over screens and worksurfaces, arranged in pairs or threesomes, collaborating with fierce intensity, reaching over to touch each others' screens and keyboards in a way I found instantly and deeply unsettling. "We've got a little R&D lab that works on some of our holdings. We're really dedicated to disrupting the rental market. There's so much money in it, you know, but mostly it's run by these entitled jerks who think that they're geniuses for having the brilliant idea of buying a building and then sitting around and charging rent on it. A real old boys' club." For the first time since we started talking, he really seemed to be alive and present and paying attention.

"Oh, they did some bits and pieces that gave them the superficial appearance of having a brain, but there's a lot of difference between A/B splitting your acquisition strategy and really deep-diving into the stuff that matters."

At this stage, I experienced a weird dissonance. I mean, I was there because these people were doing something genuinely villainous, real rot-fungus stuff. On the other hand, well, this sounded cool. I can't lie. I found it interesting. I mean, catnip-interesting.

"I mean, chewy questions. Like, if the median fine for a second citation for substandard plumbing is $400, and month-on-month cost for plumbing maintenance in a given building is $2,000 a month, and the long-term costs of failure to maintain are $20,000 for full re-plumbing on a 8-10 year basis with a 75 percent probability of having to do the big job in year nine, what are the tenancy parameters that maximize your return over that period?"

"Tenancy parameters?"

He looked at me. I was being stupid. I don't like that look. I suck at it. It's an ego thing. I just find it super-hard to deal with other people thinking that I'm dumb. I would probably get more done in this world if I didn't mind it so much. But I do. It's an imperfect world, and I am imperfect.

"Tenancy parameters. What are the parameters of a given tenant that predict whether he or she will call the city inspectors given some variable setpoint of substandard plumbing, set on a scale that has been validated through a rigorous regression through the data that establishes quantifiable inflection points relating to differential and discrete maintenance issues, including leaks, plugs, pressure, hot water temperature and volume, and so on. It's basically just a solve-for-x question, but it's one with a lot of details in the model that are arrived at through processes with a lot of room for error, so the model needs a lot of refinement and continuous iteration.

"And of course, it's all highly sensitive to external conditions — there's a whole game-theoretical set of questions about what other large-scale renters do in response to our own actions, and there's a information-theory dimension to this that's, well, it's amazing. Like, which elements of our strategy are telegraphed when we take certain actions as opposed to others, and how can those be steganographed through other apparent strategies.

"Now, most of these questions we can answer through pretty straightforward business processes, stuff that Amazon figured out twenty years ago. But there's a real risk of getting stuck in local maxima, just you know, overoptimizing inside of one particular paradigm with some easy returns. That's just reinventing the problem, though, making us into tomorrow's dinosaurs.

"If we're going to operate a culture of continuous improvement, we need to be internally disrupted to at least the same extent that we're disrupting those fat, stupid incumbents. That's why we have the labs. They're our chaos monkeys. They do all kinds of stuff that keeps our own models sharp. For example, they might incorporate a separate business and use our proprietary IP to try to compete with us — without telling us about it. Or give a set of autonomous agents privileges to communicate eviction notices in a way that causes a certain number of lawsuits to be filed, just to validate our assumptions about the pain-point at which an action or inaction on our side will trigger a suit from a tenant, especially for certain profiles of tenants.

"So there's not really any way that I can explain specifically what happened to the people mentioned in your correspondence. It's possible no one will ever be able to say with total certainty. I don't really know why anyone would expect it to be otherwise. We're not a deterministic state-machine, after all. If all we did was respond in set routines to set inputs, it'd be trivial to innovate around us and put us out of business. Our objective is to be strategically nonlinear and anti-deterministic within a range of continuously validated actions that map and remap a chaotic terrain of profitable activities in relation to property and rental. We're not rentiers, you understand. We don't own assets for a living. We do things with them. We're doing commercial science that advances the state of the art. We're discovering deep truths lurking in potentia in the shape of markets and harnessing them — putting them to work."

His eyes glittered. "Lukasz, you come in here with your handful of memos and you ask me to explain how they came about, as though this whole enterprise was a state-machine that we control. We do not control the enterprise. An enterprise is an artificial life-form built up from people and systems in order to minimize transaction costs so that it can be nimble and responsive, so that it can move into niches, dominate them, fully explore them. The human species has spent millennia recombining its institutions to uncover the deep, profound mathematics of power and efficiency.

"It's a terrain with a lot of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys. There are local maxima: maybe a three-move lookahead shows a good outcome from evicting someone who's pregnant and behind on the rent, but the six-move picture is different, because someone like you comes along and makes us look like total assholes. That's fine. All that means is that we have to prune that branch of the tree, try a new direction. Hell, ideally, you'd be in there so early, and give us such a thoroughgoing kicking, that we'd be able to discover and abort the misfire before the payload had fully deployed. You'd be saving us opportunity cost. You'd be part of our chaos-monkey.

"Lukasz, you come in here with your whistleblower memos. But I'm not participating in a short-term exercise. Our mission here is to quantize, systematize, harness and perfect interactions.

"You come in here and you want me to explain, right now, what we're going to do about your piece of information. Here's your answer, Lukasz: we will integrate it. We will create models that incorporate disprovable hypotheses about it, we will test those models, and we will refine them. We will make your documents part of our inventory of clues about the underlying nature of deep reality. Does that answer satisfy you, Lukasz?"

I stood up. Through the whole monologue, Sergey's eyes had not moved from mine, nor had his body-language shifted, nor had he demonstrated one glimmer of excitement or passion. Instead, he'd been matter-of-fact, like he'd been explaining the best way to make an omelet or the optimal public transit route to a distant suburb. I was used to people geeking out about the stuff they did. I'd never experienced this before, though: it was the opposite of geeking out, or maybe a geeking out that went so deep that it went through passion and came out the other side.

It scared me. I'd encountered many different versions of hidebound authoritarianism, fought the rot-fungus in many guises, but this was not like anything I'd ever seen. It had a purity that was almost… seductive.

But beautiful was not the opposite of terrible. The two could easily co-exist.

"I hear that I'm going to get evicted when I get back to the Termite Mound — you've got a process-server waiting for me. That's what I hear."

Sergey shrugged. "And?"

"And? And what use is your deep truth to me if I'm out on the street?"

"What's your point?"

He was as mild and calm as a recorded airport safety announcement. There was something inhuman — transhuman? — in that dispassionate mein.

"Don't kick me out of my place."

"Ah. Excuse me a second."

He finished his tea, set the cup down and headed over to the lab. He chatted with them, touched their screens. The murmur drowned out any words. I didn't try to disguise the fact that I was watching them. There was a long period during which they said nothing, did not touch anything, just stared at the screens with their heads so close together they were almost touching. It was a kind of pantomime of psychic communications.

He came back. "Done," he said. "Is there anything else? We're pretty busy around here."

"Thank you," I said. "No, that's about it."

"All right then," he said. "Are you going to leave me your documents?"

"Yes," I said, and passed him a stack of hardcopies. He looked at the paper for a moment, folded the stack carefully at the middle and put it in one of the wide side-pockets of his beautifully tailored cardigan.

I found my way back down to the ground floor and was amazed to see that the sun was still up. It had felt like hours had passed while Sergey had talked to me, and I could have sworn that the light had faded in those tall windows. But, checking my drop, I saw that it was only three o'clock. I had to be getting home.

There was a process-server waiting ostentatiously in the walkway when I got home, but he looked at me and then down at his screen and then let me pass.

It was only once I was in my room that I realized I hadn't done anything about Bryan's eviction.