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neopuppy · 3 months

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Angel Baby (M)

pairing. alpha Jaemin x pregnant female omega reader

genre. *gasp* and they were neighbors AU, non-traditional ABO, single & pregnant y/n, fluff, smut, M/F

warnings. profanity, alpha/omega dynamics, ‘pup’ instead of ‘baby’, possible inaccuracies(writer has absolutely never been pregnant), pregnancy aches & cravings, smut warnings under cut. minors DNI.

wc. 8000

now playing. angel baby//Troye Sivan

smut warnings. unprotected sex, pregnant sex, lactation, use of ‘mama’ and ‘mommy’, breast fondling, fingering, oral, slick, painful orgasm(for Jaemin), etc

a/n. wanted to title this fic Orgasm Donor sooooooo bad, but tumblr whack these days

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

“You know even though this is my first pregnancy, it’s not that bad.” You proudly nod, dipping another blue cheese filled olive into a cup of hazelnut spread. “I haven’t even been having those weird cravings everyones always going on about.”

Jaemin stops working on setting up his old coffee machine, shifting his gaze to watch you pop another olive coated with sweet cream in your mouth before you struggle to open a jar of pickles. “No weird cravings?”

“Nope.” You shrug, smiling triumphantly only to quickly fall into a frown as you squeeze around the jar more without budge.

He hums, twisting around to grab the jar from your hands and open it himself, nodding and smiling as he passes it back to you. You thank him, whispering that you could have opened it before continuing to munch and dunk a pickle into the spread and proceed to pour coconut shavings on it. “That’s a good thing. What about that uh, morning sickness?”

“Haven’t really had that either.” You murmur between bites, lifting your hand to cover your mouth, your other reaching to rub your stomach. “Means I’m going to have a very sweet and calm pup.”

“How’s your back feeling today?” He asks, thinking about how you’d hissed and made a pained face yesterday while trying to pick up a basket of laundry.

“Oh it’s..” putting on a smile, you wave him off. “—It’s fine, the doctor said my last trimester would be the hardest on my body.”

Jaemin turns back around to set the water cartridge in place for the coffee machine. He wants to add that your doctor also recommended staying off your feet, massages since you need to avoid hot water, and while it may be uncomfortable- try to stay off your back while sleeping. You always managed to change the subject whenever he attempted to mention a spa day to pamper yourself, or even offered his own hands to knead your tired feet.

“Offer still stands.” He reminds you, running the machine to clean it out. It’s only fair he sets it up anyway. It’s for him, since he’s been staying at your apartment longer than his own these days. “What about your Gochujang cravings?”

You instantly shy away, hiding your face to your shoulder demurely. The reminder of why and how Jaemin’s become such an integral part of your daily life always makes you feel embarrassed. “The tub I stole from you is nearly empty.”

“I’ll have to get you more next time I go to the store.”

Jaemin, while fond of the memory, also recalls it with embarrassment. It was 3 in the morning when he heard repeated light knocks that quickly escalated to heavier more determined knocks. He stumbled out of bed reaching for a hoodie to throw on and cover up his bare chest, slowly trudging down the hallway from his bedroom to the front door. “Yeah yeah, hold on.”

With half asleep swollen eyes he opened the door to find you frantic, eyes blown wide and your hands clasped together under your stomach smiling at him nervously. “I’m so so so sorry about this.”

He quickly snapped awake upon seeing your panicked expression, standing up straight and rubbing his sleep tired eyes. “It’s fine, seriously. Is it the pup?? Are you okay??”

“No no, pups fine..” you trail off, laughing anxiously. “My grocery order was missing a few items and you see.. I’m eating some apples, a little late night snack..”

Jaemin nods confused, relieved that your water didn’t break early or something. “My delivery person refunded the Gochujang I ordered. I guess they were out at the store.” You explain, feeling silly and terrible at the same time for waking your neighbor over this. You hardly even know him beyond the first run-in you had the day you moved in. “I was just wondering if maybe you have any to spare? If not it’s okay. I’m seriously sorry, I thought about texting you, but I don’t have your number.”

He perks up at the mention of Gochujang, squinting at the idea of needing chili pepper paste for your apples. “I do have some actually. I just went to the market a few days ago. Here, why don’t you come in for a minute while I grab it.”

“Are you sure? I can just be on my way, and bring you back the container tomorrow..”

“No no, it’s fine.” He yawns, motioning for you to follow him to the kitchen. “So, apples and Gochujang?”

“It’s sooo good, the hint of spice really pairs well with the crunch.”

“Should you be eating something this spicy, uh, right now?” He questions, wondering if that’s good for a baby, mentally noting to look that up online later.

“Oh, I love a little spice.” You nod, looking him over now under the kitchen light. “Nice sweater..”

Jaemin makes a confused sound, shutting the fridge to look down at himself with a container of Gochujang in hand. “Oh..” he tries to smile when you snort, rubbing his free hand down the large bold black letters reading ‘Orgasm Donor’ on the white hoodie. “It was a joke gift from my friends.. I didn’t uh..”

“Is it true?” You ask coyly, glancing away when he looks at you surprised.

“Is what true?” He retorts, not awake enough to catch the way you grin and shyly bite your thumb nail.

“Are you charitable?”

He’s struck for a minute, blinking slowly in disbelief that the cutest pregnant Omega he’s ever seen is currently standing in his kitchen at 3 in the morning desperate for chili paste to eat with her apples flirting with him? The same Omega he watches waddle through the halls after picking up her mail leaving behind the softest traces of fresh whipped creamy milk? The same one he couldn’t help but notice had no mating mark adorning her long beautiful much too bare neck?

Peering bewildered from the front of his hood back to you more than a few times, he gapes like a fish, lifting up the tub of Gojuchang. “Yeah, anything you need, I’m always an apartment away. I work from home now too so don’t worry about showing up whenever you want, I’ll give you anything you want.” He says too eagerly, stepping forward with a smile. “Like this chili paste.”

What are the chances you show up at his door like a glowing dream, leaving your warm milky scent behind that softly carries him back to his dreams. Dreams full of you, your smile when he passes by, the cute way you struggle to bend over and frown because your belly has just gotten too big.

He could tell after that you needed more help than you were willing to let on, especially by the number of packages showing up at your doorstep varying from small to way too large for you to be handling on your own.

“Hey, remember when I said you can come to me for anything?” He said approaching you attempting to push a new extra large package through your door. “I meant anything, consider me your new delivery man, alright?”

“Ah, you really don’t have to. I still owe you for the Gojuchang..” the same paste you shamelessly never returned- that Jaemin would never ask you to bring back anyway.

“You don’t owe me anything.” He always made sure to reassure you with a large smile, removing his shoes as he entered your apartment and asked for directions.

“It’s a new drawer for the baby.” You said, motioning toward the spare bedroom you’d begun to decorate. From that day he refused to let you handle any furniture building on your own, to the point that he felt invasive for barging into your life this way.

The few comments you made here and there gave him enough hint that you’re on your own. No Omega soon to give birth should be alone, this is one of the most vulnerable times you will ever experience in your life. Besides, he likes helping you. He loves to hear you gasp when he effortlessly picks up the new crib you ordered, loves to hear your comments about how strong he is. Loves to still have your scent swarming around his head when he returns back to his apartment, and he really really loves being around you.

That’s why a coffee machine in your apartment has become necessary. After a quick shower and brushing his teeth, he’s already on the way out, taking a few short steps to your place.

“Good morning.”

It’s become your normal day, sitting around on the couch watching lamaze videos as you practice your breathing. Jaemin’s changed his schedule around to fit your lifestyle. You have no idea how you got lucky enough to move in next door to a not only ridiculously handsome and helpful Alpha, but an extremely polite and giving one at that.

The nurses at your clinic always blush and giggle while he waits for you, drooling over the good looking built Alpha without a trace of mating mark on his skin. They’ve made a few comments to you, curious about him, curious about your relationship with him.

He’s not your Alpha, even if your Omega has started to believe so. How can you not with his constant concern for your wellbeing? The random gifts he brings to you, trying to pass them off as something he saw on his way home even though you saw the packages waiting at his door. He’s really been there for you, more caring than any Alpha you’ve been with before; including the absent one-night stand you had that wanted nothing to do with you when you contacted him to let him know.

Sure, the predicament you’ve ended up in isn’t the best, but as you fold new onesies and put away matching pacifiers you can’t find the will to be upset with your decision, even if this isn’t the way you imagined your future to unfold.

“How are you feeling today?”

He’s been repositioning the furniture that’s already set-up in the pups future room, finding where you’d like the crib to be placed before working on building your new items. “Still having trouble sleeping?”

Yes, sleeping has been rather difficult. It’s been months now since your last heat. 9 months to be exact, landing yourself where you are now after the wild excursions your last put you through. Throwing up, swollen feet, random cravings, and an aching back can’t nearly compare to how insanely frustrating it is to lose sleep. The push and pull happening between your thighs to your brain always hits at night. It started after the month you first moved in, the dreams that had you waking up soaked with slick.

Your physician had explained that they would only get worse, seeing as Omegas typically have an Alpha to handle those issues. The pregnancy suppressing your heat in turn makes your hormones 100 times worse.

And that is where Jaemin comes in, you tried to avoid him and keep your distance, but he’s just too damn nice. Making it impossible to turn down the Alphas unwarranted help, never asking anything of you in return, he simply wants to help.

After that night of craving chili paste, you solemnly patted your way back to your apartment, pathetically frowning at the tub of Gochujang you’d been craving.

Orgasm Donor?!? You could scream! The sexiest Alpha you’ve ever seen right next door in nothing but his boxers and a ridiculous sweater, it took all of the strength you could muster up from the moon Goddess herself to clamp your thighs shut and strain your muscles to not drip slick right there in his kitchen.

The Alpha had to know by now how dizzy his presence alone makes you. Having to sit down whenever he steps foot inside of your place, you sigh, biting down on your lip to not drool over how tight his shirt is today. Each movement flexing the strong muscles lining his broad back too visible. Even after being bred enough to get pupped you can’t control how crazy your hormones have made you feel these last couple of months. No amount of balancing tea or vitamin in the world can quell the need to get absolutely fucked by the strong Alpha taking up space in your future nursing room.

“Still bad I take it?” He says before you can respond, too lost in your thoughts to realize how long you’ve been staring off fantasizing about all the ways he could take you.

“Does it show?” You ask self consciously, rubbing your stomach to comfort yourself.

“Huh?” He turns, noticing that you’re playing with your hair, bringing it closer to your face. “Oh no no, you look as cute as ever.” He smiles that same charming toothy smile he always has specifically for you. “I just meant, y’know I worry about you getting enough sleep. I was reading and it’s important you get at least 10 hours minimum.”

“10 hours is wayyy too much..” you laugh, rubbing under your eyes trying to remember how bad your dark circles looked this morning.

“I can definitely help you fall asleep.” He says casually, not understanding how feral your Omega is. The little voice inside of you growling and lunging forward to escape with a ‘bet you can’. How much longer can you really endure having this Alpha around before you make headlines.

PREGNANT WOMAN CHOMPS THROUGH HER NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR ALPHAS BICEPS, CLAIMS HER HORMONES GOT THE BEST OF HER!

How humiliating. If only he understood your true despair stems from him and how rabidly horny he’s gotten you.

“How does this work? You’ll be sleeping in your bedroom while the pup stays in here, or will you be ruining your back on this chair?”

Jaemin asks nonchalantly, carrying on the conversation you’ve been checking in and out of. Quietly humming to himself as he positions a cushion on the seat of the rocking chair he’s been working on assembling for the last hour. He definitely took longer than what he’d estimated in his mind when you mentioned your new crib and chair arriving today. Not that he’d ever admit that he wanted to scream after 10 minutes of searching for one screw that the instructions called for. He’s sure the crib will take another two hours to set up after this(if he’s lucky), biting back a sigh to not catch your attention the more he thinks about it.

“I think for nap time it’d be best to get the pup used to this room, I’m sure I’ll struggle to not sleep by his side every night at first..” you admit shyly, cupping under your stomach and rubbing over the round exterior. He wants to agree that there’s no way a newborn pup would want to leave your side; not with the way your face lights up whenever kicks beat against your stomach or when he brings you back from your doctor visits listening to all the exciting future plans you have lined up.

“It’s probably not my place to say, but you shouldn’t fall asleep in here much. This chairs not that comfortable..” he frowns, testing out the rocking motion. “I’m sure we can find another crib that could fit in your bedroom..”

“Another crib is a bit out of my budget right now.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He grins, standing up to tap the large cardboard box you’re perched on. “Isn’t that what baby showers are for? I’m sure your family has already stocked up on things to gift you.”

Ah, a baby shower. Of course, how could you fail to mention that neither of your parents have spoken to you since the day you showed up at their doorstep 3 months pregnant, unmated and out of wedlock. “Ah, you—you have a point.” You mumble nervously. “You’ve been at this for a bit, I’ll get the coffee brewing.”

“Coffee sounds great right now.” Jaemin says, helping you stand up without releasing your hands until he deems your ankles steady enough to walk on your own. “You know how I like it.”

“Four shots of espresso over ice?”

“Exactly.” He winks your way, beginning to unbox the crib you’d shown him a few weeks ago. Some fancy overpriced one imported from Italy, a dream according to what you had said while he sat with you as you browsed through various baby decor online shops.

He really wanted to ask what the hell ever happened to Babies ‘R Us, recalling his days working across the street from one, but you looked too happy smiling wide as you showed him the different canopy designs and various woods used to customize each one.

“It’s perfect for a boy, don’t you think?”

Ah, these are really questions you should be asking your Alpha.. if you had one. His lips draw down, peeling open the cribs manual to divide and separate each piece into small sections to start working out.

It’s hard to believe an Alpha, any Alpha period could just up and leave their Omega to raise a child alone. Jaemin can’t forget the first day you moved in and struggled to drag your belongings down the hallway corridor creating an unnecessarily noisy ruckus outside of his apartment. He stormed out ready to curse you to hell for waking him up, having come home from the gym late the night prior and hoping to catch a few more Z’s that morning. The shout ready to exit his lips hung in the air upon seeing you nearly tip over and let a bag full of clothes spill onto the floor instead of risking the chance to fall and land on your stomach.

You had to have been only a few months along at the time, barely showing a small bump. You hadn’t spotted him yet as you stood there looking over your neatly folded clothes falling apart and making a big mess to clean up. Stress and exhaustion pulled at your soft glowing face, slowly sliding down to your knees to throw everything back in the bag you’d been carrying.

He contemplated speaking up, opening and shutting his mouth as he watched a tear slip down your cheek, swallowed past the seam of your lips. Anyone with half a brain would be able to read the room and assume you weren’t in the best situation given your state at the time. Still he couldn’t help but take in your pretty skin, glossy eyes batting away more tears from pouring, and the small pout permanently etched on your lips as you gathered your things.

“Here, let me help.” He said, deciding to bend over and grab your bag as you shoved in the last of your clothes. To your surprise, you glanced up, jaw hanging as you started to shake your head. “New neighbor?”

Everything progressed slowly from that moment. Sure, at first it was all a coincidence how often he’d find you having a hard time carrying packages from the mail, out of breath lugging your groceries from your car, cursing loudly whenever you’d burnt dinner and set off your fire alarms. He can’t deny making an effort after your first month next door to check in on you, whether you asked for help or not. Especially after the night you showed up begging for chili paste. Without being too intrusive he picked up on hints, figuring out that the Alpha that got you pregnant was clearly no longer a part of your life.

Instinctively he had to do what any respectable Alpha would willingly want to do. Helping you through these past 5 months has been entertaining to say the least. There’s a bit of charm to your silly nature, to how often you whine and complain about your feet getting wider, your back hurting, the odd cravings that hit in the middle of the night. The ones you still deny are cravings, he snorts thinking about that.

Jaemin’s had more fun getting to know you than he has had with some of his long term relationships, even turning down potential Omegas to spend weekends with you. Someone has to be here to make sure you don’t burn your spaghetti again..

And there’s a possible chance he’s developed some feelings, feelings beyond friendship. Could just be his Alpha viewing you as his mate, watching your stomach grow and expand every week does drive him a little crazy, just a tad.

“Hmm,” realizing he’s been reading the same paragraph over and over again without registering any instructions, he looks around and sits up. You’ve definitely been gone for longer than 10 minutes by now..

“How’s that coffee coming along?” He asks, jogging down the hall, feet hitting the brakes as soon as he makes it to the end. “Shit.”

“I—I don’t know what happened.” You cry, hands shaking above a broken mug and spilled dark liquid.

“Are you hurt?!” He rushes forward, falling to a squat to reach for your arms, hands pausing mid-air. “Oh my God..”

“I’m—I’m sorry, please don’t look..” you whine, hunching in to hide your breasts. It’s useless to try, completely leaked through your shirt leaving your pert nipples completely visible through the thin soaked material clinging to your ample chest.

“You’re—“ Jaemin stutters, swallowing a thick wad of saliva, mouth going dry at once as the sweet creamy scent of breast milk swirls around his tonsils. “I need t-to help you.”

“S’ok, I got it..”

“No no, come on.” He gulps, gently grabbing a firm hold on your waist to bring you back up with him. Against his insane willpower, he has to look. He has to lower his gaze and focus on how your breasts bounce as you find your balance. They’re so full, look painful and ready to burst. He’d read about this.. how Omegas can begin to lactate months prior to giving birth depending on how often they typically go into heat. He thought informing himself of all the possibilities would make everything much less daunting, but there’s no way to deny how fucking good the scent rolling off your warm flesh tastes as it seeps through his senses.

And when you regain your balance, reaching behind yourself to grab at the kitchen counter ledge, your chest shoves out even more, inadvertently spurting milky liquid from your nipples. He tries to keep his scent calm, tries to look away, tries to stop his fingers from itching to cup and squeeze out more. But fuck everythings hitting at once, spiking his scent, thrumming through his cock until it twitches against the inside of his sweats.

He should be ashamed, ashamed for objectifying this vulnerable moment, for imagining his lips sucking around your leaking buds, dragging the material of your shirt past his mouth to suck it clean.

“Alpha..” you moan, shattering any ounce of guilt he felt. Snapping his gaze to your face he nearly crumbles at your wet parted lips, the tears clinging to your lower lashes.

“I know Mama.” He agonizes, tightly gripping your waist as he works to take deep breaths through his mouth and blow out slowly, averting his gaze away from your body. “L-let me help you change.”

The last time he can recall feeling this feral had to have been the day before he woke up in his first rut. He’d been at the gym working up a sweat, arms on fire by the time he exited the weight training room and decided to end with cardio. Plans went astray when he neared a treadmill to hop on and looked around only to realize the gym had to have been full of Omegas. Omegas perspiring a damn storm judging by the way the aroma of sweet honey caramel skin and lush petals of Jasmine slapped him across the face. He had to leave after a minute to calm himself, head dizzy and feet off balance as he made his way to the lockers to melt away his perverse thoughts.

Even the hard-on he suffered to jerk off that night could not compare to how painfully his cock aches right now. Throbbing faster than a rapid heartbeat, he even fears his dick could burst if he has to swallow anymore of your scent, if he can’t rip his gaze away from your perky delectable nipples.

“Alpha, I’m hot.”

Fuck. You are. You’re so hot. He nods, unrealizing that he’s agreeing, not even noticing how scorching hot your skin feels through the material of your shirt. “T-think I should l-leave.” He says begrudgingly, feeling like a failure, a coward.

“Please.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes to strip away the last bit of self control he could come up with. It wasn’t much anyway, the mixture of your breast milk and delicious pregnant scent combined could send him straight into an impromptu rut. “A-are you sure?”

He licks at his plump lips, leaving a film of saliva over his naturally pink pout that makes your thighs squeeze together. Even with shards of broken mug too close to your feet and the pungent smell of coffee wafting between you, all you can think about is how big the Alpha is. He’s so big in front of you right now, bringing your need to feel small and taken care of to light. The independence you’ve convinced yourself of all dissipating with his large hands rubbing up and down your sides, arms flexing from the tense struggle running through his body.

“What should I do mama? Hmm? I need to clean you up.” The fear he had of taking the next giant leap of a step with you quickly exits, furrowing his eyebrows as he takes in your sobbing pretty face. He’s used that nickname a few times before, always sending shivers up your spine, but it’s worse now. The sugary tone he speaks to you in, so cute, striking each nerve as he moves you to the counter to get your bare feet away from the mess.

“Please Alpha, I feel..” thick arms wrap around your waist, laying his forehead gently on yours.

“Tell me where it hurts.”

It’s too hard to say anything with the tremors his question releases throughout your body, searching for his hand to slide it down past your stomach between your legs where slick has already started to seep through your leggings. “Here.”

“Fuck.” He hisses, biting down on his teeth. “You’re making me crazy, you know that?”

“S-sorry,” you hiccup, squeezing around his hand cupping your middle. “That’s w-where—hurts..”

He tsks, shoving inside your bottoms to drag his fingers through the wad of slick gathered between your folds. It’s so much, leaking out profusely, covering his palm and wrists as he slides in deeper to tease your hole. “Messy, so damn messy mama.”

“Ah, d-don’t!” You croon, eyes welling up with tears from the relief of finally having your pussy touched by someone other than yourself. Harder and harder to reach past your stomach most nights, you succumb to whimpering into your pillow frustrated, fantasizing that your neighbor would hear your distress and gallop in on a horse like your knight in shining armor. “Don’t call me t-that.”

“No?” He frowns, nose brushing yours. “But your pussy tightens up around my fingers so good when I do, mommy.”

“Alpha! Ugh!” Dropping your neck, you let out a long winded cry. Panting short of breath from his thumb working furiously to harden your clit. “S’too—too dirty, p-please!”

“You’re right,” his tongue clicks, echoing around the kitchen. “You are still so so dirty mommy.”

With one arm he manages to lift your butt onto the counter, nodding for you to scoot on with a pat on your hip. He settles between your parted thighs, reaching for the hem of your shirt. “Wait!” You panic, gripping around his wrists. “Don’t..don’t want you to see..”

“What??” Gasping surprised, he blinks confused, rubbing the fabric of your shirt between his fingers.

“My body right now—“ you flush, darting your gaze away ashamed. “Don’t want you to see..

“Nonsense.” He snaps, using a firmer tone with you that you’re not accustomed to hearing. “You think this,” touching your stomach, he glides upward to cup and squeeze your breasts. “And this? Doesn’t make me feel rabid out of my damn mind to fuck you right here, break the laws of humanity and wolf alike, get you pregnant with my pup somehow?”

It’s the angriest he’s ever looked, wrinkled between his nose and eyebrows, glaring at his heavy palms kneading your breasts to make more milk trickle. “Fuck, I’ve tried so hard to know my place, to show you nothing but respect..”

“S-stop,” you gulp, letting go of his wrists to smooth up and squeeze his biceps, clawing your short nails into the muscles. “Disrespect me, please Alpha..”

Big round eyes stare at you full of shock, taking in how you bite on your lip shyly. The trickles of milk so creamy and thick, spilling down his hands to his flexed forearms. “One thing I’ll never do—“ pressing in, he licks at your Cupid’s bow, long eyelashes blinking against your cheek. “Is disrespect you.”

The sound of your shirt ripping open has you gasping, sinking your nails deeper into his muscles. “But since you asked so fucking nicely.”

He gets the message quickly as you reach for the collar of his shirt and pull hard enough to stretch the fabric, quickly stepping back to strip it off and fully display his well built shoulders and chest. The gurgle from your throat that follows pleases him, returning your hands to feel every inch of new muscle you weren’t familiar with. His mouth is too thirsty, salivating as he takes your full breasts again without anything to hide your swollen nipples and admires them for less than a minute. Lapping at his wet lips as he shoves between your cleavage, licking up the remnants of dried and fresh milk with a deep groan.

Fuck. It’s incredible, nothing he’s ever tasted before. Sweet nectar that can only pour from a fertile breedable Omega built to birth healthy pups. Every sense and nerve in his system lights on fire, digging his face between your ample chest despite your cried moans. It’s bliss, more intense and real than anything, shoving his tongue between your tits to fuck the small gap.

“Alpha!”

Breast milk won’t stop running down his arms, opening his mouth wide to capture one of your hard nipples. The nub digs against the roof of his mouth, slurping down the cream as your other tit leaks akin to a broken faucet. “So fucking good mommy.” Jaemin says roughly, pulling away to look over your pleasured face.

His lips swollen pink with a sheen milky layer, completely debauched as he goes in for more and attends to your other nipple. They swell up after many nibbles, gently digging his teeth into your firm buds. Each suck tastes sweeter than the last as your scent spikes and Omegan arousal swirls around him. The strong tones of milk mixing in with yours has his Alpha fanatic, jerking his hips against the kitchen counter for some type of friction on his cock.

“Alpha please, my pussy, please.” You ask too innocently, as if the activity that expanded your stomach out in the first place didn’t prove otherwise. He grunts for you to wait, shoving his face back in-between your bosom, jiggling the fleshy meat against his cheeks. If not for your hips jumping up he’d continue to assault your tits, spend hours playing with them until you have nothing else left to quench his insatiable thirst.

“Bet your pussy tastes just as sweet.” He grumbles, moving down onto his knees to pull off your leggings and panties in one go. “Fucking hell.”

The amount of slick painted across your thighs and ass could compete with the local community pool, maybe even replenish a tiny village. His cock jump’s fiercely at the sight before him, lavving the residue of breast milk on his lips for a clean taste as he dives in.

“Jaemin!” You shout, scrambling to grab onto something at the first stroke of the Alphas tongue prodding between your chubbed folds. The sounds he makes only add fuel to the fire, releasing more slick with each deep growl and bated panting breath.

“Taste so damn good Omega,” he hums, enamored by how syrupy and powerful your scent slaps him across the face from between your thighs. Shuffling forward on his knees, he holds your thighs open to stretch his jaw wide and roll his tongue from your entrance to your clit, jolting your legs to kick the kitchen drawers with his skills.

Everything feels so good, spinning your mind around. The only frustration as you peer down is the sight of your round stomach completely hiding the Alphas lustful gaze and sloppy tongue. “Alpha, pleasepleaseplease!” sobbing, you kick at the drawers again. “Can’t see your face! C-can’t see!”

Jaemin shoots up at the sound of your affliction, eyes blown wide with concern as he reaches for your shoulders to sit you up. “Shh shh, I’m here.” He smiles, a disaster of slick covering his nose, lips and chin. “Look at me pretty mama.”

“Mmm..” reaching for his face, you smear the slick on his lips. “Messy.”

“Messy for you.” He kisses at your thumbs, sucking on the tip of one he captures. “Such a bad mommy, wants to watch her pussy get ate?”

Nodding feebly you move to stroke his neck, squeezing around. “Can’t see you down there..”

“Stay like this okay?” He instructs, pecking you, leaving slick on your chin. “Sit just like that, you’re doing so good for me mama.”

Setting your palms on the counter, he opens your thighs up a little wider, getting down into a squat to keep his head at level with your knees. “Keep your pretty eyes on me. Gonna make you feel good.”

His eyes stay on yours, one palm splayed on your thigh as his other reaches just under your navel. Stretching his neck back into an uncomfortable angle, his tongue hangs out, blinking up at you before diving back in to lap at your clit. Wide firm licks catch your sensitive folds, face rocking back and forth to really let you feel his tongue stroking between each crevice.

Big watery doll eyes stay facing up to watch you fall apart, scratching at the counter desperately to not reach for his hair to slam his face in deeper. Slippery hot stiff pressure teases under your clit, he keeps it there twitching the muscle until your hips start to rock forward and tears erupt from the corners of your eyes. The heat inside of your stomach pools, coiling up to your chest making it harder to breathe. He keeps at it for another minute until your eyebrows scrunch together.

The lick he delivere to your clit sparks raging nerves up your spine, arching forward and nearly losing your balance on the counter to fuck his face.

Dipping lower he finally plunges as much of his tongue as he can inside of you, slapping your inner thigh when you shout out in pleasure. The thick fat muscle rubs at your inner walls, sucking down the slick that tries to choke him out. Much like your breasts, he could spend hours just like this between your supple thighs, memorizing the way you fall apart and shake from every lap and stroke of his tongue.

Finally caving, you grip onto his hair, crying out brokenly. “I’m c-cum—“ his tongue disappears before you can complain, moving to stand and shove three fingers inside your cunt. “Ahhh!”

“Look at me mama, be good for Alpha.” He orders throatily, vocals thick and corded with slick. “Squeeze that pretty pussy around my fingers, give it to me.”

“Jaem—Alpha!” The heels of your feet slam against the drawers painfully, reaching for his wrist as he jerks the three digits stretching you open. Bicep rippling from the strength being used to shoot your release out around his relentless working fingers. “S’too—good.”

“God you cum so fucking pretty.” He sighs, gently drawing free to rub your clit while you twitch against him. Lips finding yours to calm your high with tender kisses.

“Come here pretty.” Jaemin says huskily, daring to scoop you up without a hitch, bare round stomach pressed to his smooth abs just enough to not apply pressure. He turns toward your living room, setting you down on the couch to grab a few pillows. “Here baby, let me make it comfortable for you.”

“Alpha..” you whine, still conscious of how big you must look on your back like this. He only smiles, bending in close to kiss your lips.

“I can’t knot you, don’t want you to stay in this position too long.” He says, sweating through excruciating horny pangs shooting through his dick.

“Please Jaemin, want you i-inside.” You beg much too prettily, pulling his lips back to bare his teeth. He wants to be gentle with you so badly, wants to focus on you and make you cum to your heart’s content. But God you aren’t making it easy.

“Only for a little, okay?” He says raggedly, hoisting you to sit leaned against the pillows to take pressure off your lower back and still make it easy to get between your legs. “If it’s too much I’ll stop.”

“Won’t be too much Alpha, need you so bad.” You say drowsily, still drunk from the orgasm his fingers and mouth ripped out of you. He nods, tugging on the string holding his sweats up, blushing when he sees the giant wet stain of pre-cum that’s leaked through the cotton fabric. “I should put a condom on.”

“I’m already knocked up.” You giggle, covering your face. “Don’t want anything between us.”

Fuck. You’ll be the death of him talking like that. Pushing down his sweats, he gasps at how red the tip of his cock is, looking painful to the touch. There’s no way he’ll be able to last long enough to not pop a knot inside of you.

“Alpha.” You whisper, angled perfectly in a half seated position to see how enraged his dick looks flush against his stomach. He doesn’t even have to stroke it, doesn’t want to out of fear of cumming before he even enters you.

“You sure about this?” He asks once more through gritted teeth, already lining the tip up to your entrance.

“Pl-lease.. haven’t gotten fucked in s-so long.” You hiccup, too excited, bending your neck in to watch his throbbing red cockead nudge against your hole.

“Fuck! Ahh,” hissing, he gingerly grabs the base of his size, slowly pushing in until your cunt snaps around him. So tight, tight like you haven’t been fucked in months exactly as you just admitted. He’d fuck you so hard, make you take every inch until his dicks coming out of your nose. But now’s not the time, this isn’t about him no matter how hard the veins lining his length throb in disagreement. “Feel g-good?” He asks, licking at the sweat beading on his upper lip.

“M-more, please!”

He can’t do it, can’t push more than the tip in because it’d be too greedy. Even if he gets you off first it’d be too fucking greedy. As painful as it is to ignore the begging cries you let out, he opts to press down on your clit. Thumbing the stiff nub back and forth with short thrusts drawing the fat tip of his cock in and out enough to have a perfect view of your hole stretching around him. “So good, you’re doing so good for me mommy.”

“Alpha!” You twitch, lower back arching up starving for more. “P-please! Deeper!”

He wants to cave, give you everything you want, make you cum on his cock and bloat your stomach out even further with rivers of cum deep inside of you. “C-can’t.” He grits, grabbing onto your hips firmly to stop himself from thrusting in further. “D-don’t make me..”

“Need it! I need it!” You keep pleading, head tossed back with your wet spit slick lips parted open panting. “Fuck me! F-fuck me please! Put another baby in me!”

“Ahh, you c-can’t say that!” He growls in pain, digging the tips of his fingers into your hips hard enough to leave marks. You can’t say that, anything but that. “Mommy wants Alphas cum.”

“Y-yes,” you whine, stroking down your stomach to direct his gaze beneath your navel. “Wanna feel you h-here, mommy wants it.”

“Shitshit,” that’s it, that’s enough to jerk his hips and push in another inch. How could you ask this of him? How could you act like such a sweet pilant breedable bitch, begging to get fucked and fucked until all you know how to do is get pupped. “Yeah, mommy wants it deep.”

His sack feels heavy as he plunges in the rest of his length inch by inch, slapping against your rim balls deep. “Get you pregnant again, keep you pupped up with my baby.” He rambles, focusing on not slamming his cock in like a wild animal. Having to squeeze his eyes shut to not cum when he sees your milk filled breasts bouncing up high enough to hit under your chin. “Fuckfuckfuck, you’re too much.”

He sounds so desperate, dying to ram into you faster with each rough grip on your hips. Pushing up off his knees, he squats to angle his cock in even deeper, making your lips fall open with a loud shouted moan. “Right t-there mama? Is that it? You want it there?” He asks, raspy and throaty, deep voice coming out from a deep torned place.

“Alpha!” You stammer, spluttering the same words over and over again mindlessly.

“Look at me,” he groans, bending in closer to cup your cheek and grind his hips. “W-wanna feel you cum on my cock. Gonna cum for me mama?”

“Fuck, ahh!” His thumb presses against your bottom lip, nodding with you as his other hand slips between your conjoined lower halves. Expert figure eights work more slick out making his cock slide in even easier if possible, wet and messy rivering down his inner thighs.

“Cum for me, come on.” He growls, thrusting a little faster to chase your release. His balls slapping against the dip of your ass with each push in. The entirety of his length penetrates in and out, skyrocketing your pleasure by pinching your clit. Each flick and rub rushes heat through your stomach and chest, toes curling as you find his wide blown out eyes.

“F-fuck me, breed me full of cum.” You plead between gritted teeth, reaching to hold around his neck, suffocating the scream that rips from your chest. It’s been so long since you last had a release this strong, unable to even arch up with the weight of your stomach holding you down. You kick out and cry against his pouty lips, eyes rolling back.

“That’s it mommy,” he cries, eyes watering up as your walls squeeze the life from this dick and he has to do everything in his power to stop himself. His Alpha screaming at the top of its lungs to knot knot knot! Especially with the way you beg for it, the way your pussy swallows his dick whole and grovels to be knotted.

“Don’t p-pull out, please Alpha.” You sob, opening your hands in search of his. “Inside me, s-stay inside.”

“Ughh!” Jaemin can’t stop himself anymore, shoving his cock in to fill up to the brim with a few more sloppy thrusts. Reaching for your hands, he bends over bridging his upper half above yours. The muscles lining his stomach twitch and clench, sucking in at his navel as he draws his length out to the tip and the base of his cock expands. It’s more painful than he’d expected, his Alpha howling like a beast inside, gnawing through his facade of strength as tears pour down his cheeks. “Fuck. Fuck!”

He sniffles, cockhead still lodged inside your tight hole spurting out sticky cum that seems to satiate you judging by the long sigh you let out.

“Alpha..” you say drowsily, eyes half-lidded with the most serene smile looking back at him. “Sleepy.”

Nodding furiously, he kisses your hands before releasing your hold, quickly wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Pulling out okay? Need to clean you up.”

Jaemin hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to not bend at your will, having to tune out the way you whine for him to stay inside of you. His Alpha shouts and snarls, berating him for not listening to their Omega.

He’s so fucked, already recognizing you as his mate without considering what you must feel right now, driven by your out of whack hormones and lust.

“Don’t leave me.” You pout, whining so pretty.

“I’m not going anywhere mama.” He reassures, leaning in to kiss your stomach. “But I need to get you cleaned off before you fall asleep, alright?”

He tries to make it quick, scrambling to fill up a bowl of warm water and grab a few washcloths. Can’t be fast enough when he jogs back to the living room to find your eyes fluttering open and shut. “Don’t worry baby, I’ll take you to bed.”

“Nooo,” you continue to whine, huffing petulantly. “Too heavy..”

“I bench 280, don’t doubt me.” He chuckles, shaking his head. Sitting by your side, he slowly cleans the mess of slick and cum that’s dripped down to your thighs and ass, patting the area dry. “How are you feeling?”

“Eepy.”

He’d squeeze you if he wasn’t so happy to hear that you’re relaxed enough to possibly get a full night of sleep. Proudly smiling to himself as he finishes cleaning you off and bends closer to your face. “Time for bed.”

“Don’t leave me..”

He scoffs playfully, getting up to position you on top of his arms, squatting down to ensure he picks you up properly. “I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Mmm..” true to his word he carries you to your room without much struggle, softly laying you down on your bed and stumbling when you grab onto his arm and pull. “Stay here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Stop asking.”

He sighs, moving to the empty side of your bed, shoulders instantaneously losing the tense concern and worry he’d been holding onto. You can talk about this in the morning, or the afternoon, or at night, or never.

Maybe he can just accept that you both wanted this and more than anything he wants this. He wants to help you with your pup, take care of you after you give birth, help cook and clean, make sure you’re well fed after hours of trying to put your pup to sleep.

It can really be this easy, living here in this moment. In the safe comforting space of your small apartment that’s started to feel more like home than his own. Playing house with you has brought him more relief than hours at the gym.. long nights out partying.

He watches you get comfortable on your side, beginning to breathe in and out more shallowly.

“Jaem..”

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring.” You murmur, trying to hide a smile.

“I am.” Scooting in closer, he lightly rests a hand on your stomach. “I’m scared to ask, but this is okay, right?”

A cute growl emits from your chest, laying a hand over his. “I’ll let it slide, you do a real good job around here.”

“It’s okay, you can finally admit that you like me.” Letting out a long sigh, he nestles in closer, cheek resting on your chest. “I like you too.”

“Do you?”

“Is it standard for Alphas to cancel their plans every week to hang out with their pregnant Omega neighbor?” He hums, following your hand to rub your stomach. “Ah, what am I saying? I was all happy to get you to fall asleep and now I’m talking your ear off.”

He’s met with the light sound of breath, lifting his gaze to find you well past counting sheep. Adjusting to cradle your head better, he kisses your forehead. “Night night angel baby.”

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

#jaemin smut #na jaemin smut #nct dream smut #nct smut #neopuppy fics #na jaemin fanfiction #jaemin fanfiction #nct dream fanfiction #nct fanfiction #nct x reader #jaemin x you #jaemin x reader #kpop smut #kpop fanfiction

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mostlysignssomeportents · 21 days

Text

How to shatter the class solidarity of the ruling class

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me WEDNESDAY (Apr 11) at UCLA, then Chicago (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Audre Lorde counsels us that "The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House," while MLK said "the law cannot make a man love me, but it can restrain him from lynching me." Somewhere between replacing the system and using the system lies a pragmatic – if easily derailed – course.

Lorde is telling us that a rotten system can't be redeemed by using its own chosen reform mechanisms. King's telling us that unless we live, we can't fight – so anything within the system that makes it easier for your comrades to fight on can hasten the end of the system.

Take the problems of journalism. One old model of journalism funding involved wealthy newspaper families profiting handsomely by selling local appliance store owners the right to reach the townspeople who wanted to read sports-scores. These families expressed their patrician love of their town by peeling off some of those profits to pay reporters to sit through municipal council meetings or even travel overseas and get shot at.

In retrospect, this wasn't ever going to be a stable arrangement. It relied on both the inconstant generosity of newspaper barons and the absence of a superior way to show washing-machine ads to people who might want to buy washing machines. Neither of these were good long-term bets. Not only were newspaper barons easily distracted from their sense of patrician duty (especially when their own power was called into question), but there were lots of better ways to connect buyers and sellers lurking in potentia.

All of this was grossly exacerbated by tech monopolies. Tech barons aren't smarter or more evil than newspaper barons, but they have better tools, and so now they take 51 cents out of every ad dollar and 30 cents out of ever subscriber dollar and they refuse to deliver the news to users who explicitly requested it, unless the news company pays them a bribe to "boost" their posts:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech

The news is important, and people sign up to make, digest, and discuss the news for many non-economic reasons, which means that the news continues to struggle along, despite all the economic impediments and the vulture capitalists and tech monopolists who fight one another for which one will get to take the biggest bite out of the press. We've got outstanding nonprofit news outlets like Propublica, journalist-owned outlets like 404 Media, and crowdfunded reporters like Molly White (and winner-take-all outlets like the New York Times).

But as Hamilton Nolan points out, "that pot of money…is only large enough to produce a small fraction of the journalism that was being produced in past generations":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/what-will-replace-advertising-revenue

For Nolan, "public funding of journalism is the only way to fix this…If we accept that journalism is not just a business or a form of entertainment but a public good, then funding it with public money makes perfect sense":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/public-funding-of-journalism-is-the

Having grown up in Canada – under the CBC – and then lived for a quarter of my life in the UK – under the BBC – I am very enthusiastic about Nolan's solution. There are obvious problems with publicly funded journalism, like the politicization of news coverage:

https://www.theguardian.com/media/2023/jan/24/panel-approving-richard-sharp-as-bbc-chair-included-tory-party-donor

And the transformation of the funding into a cheap political football:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/poilievre-defund-cbc-change-law-1.6810434

But the worst version of those problems is still better than the best version of the private-equity-funded model of news production.

But Nolan notes the emergence of a new form of hedge fund news, one that is awfully promising, and also terribly fraught: Hunterbrook Media, an investigative news outlet owned by short-sellers who pay journalists to research and publish damning reports on companies they hold a short position on:

https://hntrbrk.com/

For those of you who are blissfully distant from the machinations of the financial markets, "short selling" is a wager that a company's stock price will go down. A gambler who takes a short position on a company's stock can make a lot of money if the company stumbles or fails altogether (but if the company does well, the short can suffer literally unlimited losses).

Shorts have historically paid analysts to dig into companies and uncover the sins hidden on their balance-sheets, but as Matt Levine points out, journalists work for a fraction of the price of analysts and are at least as good at uncovering dirt as MBAs are:

https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2024-04-02/a-hedge-fund-that-s-also-a-newspaper

What's more, shorts who discover dirt on a company still need to convince journalists to publicize their findings and trigger the sell-off that makes their short position pay off. Shorts who own a muckraking journalistic operation can skip this step: they are the journalists.

There's a way in which this is sheer genius. Well-funded shorts who don't care about the news per se can still be motivated into funding freely available, high-quality investigative journalism about corporate malfeasance (notoriously, one of the least attractive forms of journalism for advertisers). They can pay journalists top dollar – even bid against each other for the most talented journalists – and supply them with all the tools they need to ply their trade. A short won't ever try the kind of bullshit the owners of Vice pulled, paying themselves millions while their journalists lose access to Lexisnexis or the PACER database:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/24/anti-posse/#when-you-absolutely-positively-dont-give-a-solitary-single-fuck

The shorts whose journalists are best equipped stand to make the most money. What's not to like?

Well, the issue here is whether the ruling class's sense of solidarity is stronger than its greed. The wealthy have historically oscillated between real solidarity (think of the ultrawealthy lobbying to support bipartisan votes for tax cuts and bailouts) and "war of all against all" (as when wealthy colonizers dragged their countries into WWI after the supply of countries to steal ran out).

After all, the reason companies engage in the scams that shorts reveal is that they are profitable. "Behind every great fortune is a great crime," and that's just great. You don't win the game when you get into heaven, you win it when you get into the Forbes Rich List.

Take monopolies: investors like the upside of backing an upstart company that gobbles up some staid industry's margins – Amazon vs publishing, say, or Uber vs taxis. But while there's a lot of upside in that move, there's also a lot of risk: most companies that set out to "disrupt" an industry sink, taking their investors' capital down with them.

Contrast that with monopolies: backing a company that merges with its rivals and buys every small company that might someday grow large is a sure thing. Shriven of "wasteful competition," a company can lower quality, raise prices, capture its regulators, screw its workers and suppliers and laugh all the way to Davos. A big enough company can ignore the complaints of those workers, customers and regulators. They're not just too big to fail. They're not just too big to jail. They're too big to care:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Would-be monopolists are stuck in a high-stakes Prisoner's Dilemma. If they cooperate, they can screw over everyone else and get unimaginably rich. But if one party defects, they can raid the monopolist's margins, short its stock, and snitch to its regulators.

It's true that there's a clear incentive for hedge-fund managers to fund investigative journalism into other hedge-fund managers' portfolio companies. But it would be even more profitable for both of those hedgies to join forces and collude to screw the rest of us over. So long as they mistrust each other, we might see some benefit from that adversarial relationship. But the point of the 0.1% is that there aren't very many of them. The Aspen Institute can rent a hall that will hold an appreciable fraction of that crowd. They buy their private jets and bespoke suits and powdered rhino horn from the same exclusive sellers. Their kids go to the same elite schools. They know each other, and they have every opportunity to get drunk together at a charity ball or a society wedding and cook up a plan to join forces.

This is the problem at the core of "mechanism design" grounded in "rational self-interest." If you try to create a system where people do the right thing because they're selfish assholes, you normalize being a selfish asshole. Eventually, the selfish assholes form a cozy little League of Selfish Assholes and turn on the rest of us.

Appeals to morality don't work on unethical people, but appeals to immorality crowds out ethics. Take the ancient split between "free software" (software that is designed to maximize the freedom of the people who use it) and "open source software" (identical to free software, but promoted as a better way to make robust code through transparency and peer review).

Over the years, open source – an appeal to your own selfish need for better code – triumphed over free software, and its appeal to the ethics of a world of "software freedom." But it turns out that while the difference between "open" and "free" was once mere semantics, it's fully possible to decouple the two. Today, we have lots of "open source": you can see the code that Google, Microsoft, Apple and Facebook uses, and even contribute your labor to it for free. But you can't actually decide how the software you write works, because it all takes a loop through Google, Microsoft, Apple or Facebook's servers, and only those trillion-dollar tech monopolists have the software freedom to determine how those servers work:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/04/which-side-are-you-on/#tivoization-and-beyond

That's ruling class solidarity. The Big Tech firms have hidden a myriad of sins beneath their bafflegab and balance-sheets. These (as yet) undiscovered scams constitute a "bezzle," which JK Galbraith defined as "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it."

The purpose of Hunterbrook is to discover and destroy bezzles, hastening the moment of realization that the wealth we all feel in a world of seemingly orderly technology is really an illusion. Hunterbrook certainly has its pick of bezzles to choose from, because we are living in a Golden Age of the Bezzle.

Which is why I titled my new novel The Bezzle. It's a tale of high-tech finance scams, starring my two-fisted forensic accountant Marty Hench, and in this volume, Hench is called upon to unwind a predatory prison-tech scam that victimizes the most vulnerable people in America – our army of prisoners – and their families:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The scheme I fictionalize in The Bezzle is very real. Prison-tech monopolists like Securus and Viapath bribe prison officials to abolish calls, in-person visits, mail and parcels, then they supply prisoners with "free" tablets where they pay hugely inflated rates to receive mail, speak to their families, and access ebooks, distance education and other electronic media:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

But a group of activists have cornered these high-tech predators, run them to ground and driven them to the brink of extinction, and they've done it using "the master's tools" – with appeals to regulators and the finance sector itself.

Writing for The Appeal, Dana Floberg and Morgan Duckett describe the campaign they waged with Worth Rises to bankrupt the prison-tech sector:

https://theappeal.org/securus-bankruptcy-prison-telecom-industry/

Here's the headline figure: Securus is $1.8 billion in debt, and it has eight months to find a financier or it will go bust. What's more, all the creditors it might reasonably approach have rejected its overtures, and its bonds have been downrated to junk status. It's a dead duck.

Even better is how this happened. Securus's debt problems started with its acquisition, a leveraged buyout by Platinum Equity, who borrowed heavily against the firm and then looted it with bogus "management fees" that meant that the debt continued to grow, despite Securus's $700m in annual revenue from America's prisoners. Platinum was just the last in a long line of PE companies that loaded up Securus with debt and merged it with its competitors, who were also mortgaged to make profits for other private equity funds.

For years, Securus and Platinum were able to service their debt and roll it over when it came due. But after Worth Rises got NYC to pass a law making jail calls free, creditors started to back away from Securus. It's one thing for Securus to charge $18 for a local call from a prison when it's splitting the money with the city jail system. But when that $18 needs to be paid by the city, they're going to demand much lower prices. To make things worse for Securus, prison reformers got similar laws passed in San Francisco and in Connecticut.

Securus tried to outrun its problems by gobbling up one of its major rivals, Icsolutions, but Worth Rises and its coalition convinced regulators at the FCC to block the merger. Securus abandoned the deal:

https://worthrises.org/blogpost/securusmerger

Then, Worth Rises targeted Platinum Equity, going after the pension funds and other investors whose capital Platinum used to keep Securus going. The massive negative press campaign led to eight-figure disinvestments:

https://www.latimes.com/business/story/2019-09-05/la-fi-tom-gores-securus-prison-phone-mass-incarceration

Now, Securus's debt became "distressed," trading at $0.47 on the dollar. A brief, covid-fueled reprieve gave Securus a temporary lifeline, as prisoners' families were barred from in-person visits and had to pay Securus's rates to talk to their incarcerated loved ones. But after lockdown, Securus's troubles picked up right where they left off.

They targeted Platinum's founder, Tom Gores, who papered over his bloody fortune by styling himself as a philanthropist and sports-team owner. After a campaign by Worth Rises and Color of Change, Gores was kicked off the Los Angeles County Museum of Art board. When Gores tried to flip Securus to a SPAC – the same scam Trump pulled with Truth Social – the negative publicity about Securus's unsound morals and financials killed the deal:

https://twitter.com/WorthRises/status/1578034977828384769

Meanwhile, more states and cities are making prisoners' communications free, further worsening Securus's finances:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Congress passed the Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act, giving the FCC the power to regulate the price of federal prisoners' communications. Securus's debt prices tumbled further:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

Securus's debts were coming due: it owes $1.3b in 2024, and hundreds of millions more in 2025. Platinum has promised a $400m cash infusion, but that didn't sway S&P Global, a bond-rating agency that re-rated Securus's bonds as "CCC" (compare with "AAA"). Moody's concurred. Now, Securus is stuck selling junk-bonds:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

The company's creditors have given Securus an eight-month runway to find a new lender before they force it into bankruptcy. The company's debt is trading at $0.08 on the dollar.

Securus's major competitor is Viapath (prison tech is a duopoly). Viapath is also debt-burdened and desperate, thanks to a parallel campaign by Worth Rises, and has tried all of Securus's tricks, and failed:

https://pestakeholder.org/news/american-securities-fails-to-sell-prison-telecom-company-viapath/

Viapath's debts are due next year, and if Securus tanks, no one in their right mind will give Viapath a dime. They're the walking dead.

Worth Rise's brilliant guerrilla warfare against prison-tech and its private equity backers are a master class in using the master's tools to dismantle the master's house. The finance sector isn't a friend of justice or working people, but sometimes it can be used tactically against financialization itself. To paraphrase MLK, "finance can't make a corporation love you, but it can stop a corporation from destroying you."

Yes, the ruling class finds solidarity at the most unexpected moments, and yes, it's easy for appeals to greed to institutionalize greediness. But whether it's funding unbezzling journalism through short selling, or freeing prisons by brandishing their cooked balance-sheets in the faces of bond-rating agencies, there's a lot of good we can do on the way to dismantling the system.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

Image: KMJ (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boerse_01_KMJ.jpg

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

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doctorbeth · 8 months

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Meow with the custom fabric transplants

I've been so excited to share Meow's story with you all! I mean, he's a partial recover, and you've seen those before, but in this case, I used multiple fabrics to replicate his striped original fabric and I was really happy with how he came out... and so was his family. So, without further ado, may I present Meow!

Meow is a very small cat, maybe 7" long? Less if he's sitting. But he had been very well loved in his short life. His person's uncle wrote to me, asking if I could help. Here is the diagnosis photo he sent:

Just fyi, his balding was also pretty serious on his back.

There were a few options for care, but treating his balding was definitely the most serious concern. In the end, his family opted for new eye, bald spot treatment with transplants but not a full recover, and a gentle spa, as well as wound repair.

So he flew to the hospital from Washington state, not too long a flight, and started his treatment with a spa:

Next, he got new eyes. His eyes were originally green -- the cataracts were so bad, I couldn't really tell the original color till I took out his eyes and looked on the backside of them. Here he is with vision restored to 20/20:

Next were transplants.... Perfect matches for striped fur are impossible without a donor (and sometimes even donors aren't perfect). I've done transplants where we use the background fur color, and add black stripes for tigers (you've seen some of those here) but Meow's stripes weren't black. Sometimes we just use a solid close to one of the stripe colors in that case, and that was an option... and actually the plan for Meow. But then I had two fabrics which matched his two stripe colors really closely:

I talked with his family about it, and we agreed to mix the colors in the transplants... a little of one, a little of the other. But keep in mind, stripes on animals aren't exact lines, so this wasn't a case of making a fabric by sewing strips on a machine, and then using the new fabric. Each piece was chose, and shaped for the area where the bald spot was, and sewn in separately. It was more complicated than this surgery usually is, but also kind of meditative. :-)

So... here is Meow all better! (He did get a heart btw, I just didn't photo it)

His family was thrilled too. "He looks great!" they wrote. And Meow flew north and home.

#stuffed animal hospital #stuffed animal repair #stuffed animal cleaning #stuffed animals #stuffed animal #toy cat #stuffed cat #tiger stripes #tiger striped cat #tiger stripe cat #small cat

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wilwheaton · 15 days

Quote

Vladimir Putin understands better than Democrats and Democratic donors how to seize control of a nation. And Democrats damn well better learn the lesson, and fast. Forget about the economy and even abortion: it’s the media, stupid! When Putin wanted the Central African Republic (CAR) to give him multiple gold and mineral mines in that resource-rich country, the first thing his agent, Yevgeny Prigozhin, did was to buy a radio station and start running propaganda about the benefits of the CAR creating closer ties to Russia. Similarly, when Putin wanted to put Trump into the White House, he had Prigozhin’s Internet Research Agency — a massive, well-funded troll farm based in St. Petersburg — use swing-state polling and other internal RNC confidential information to send more than 100 million targeted Facebook impressions to swing state Americans.

Inside the fight to overcome America's dangerous right-wing media machine

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oceantornadoo · 2 months

Text

toxic but in love fwb!simon with some hurt/comfort

“i know your gala is important, si, but can’t you come? just this once i just want-“ you were wringing your hands, twisting them into unfamiliar shapes as you argued with simon, your situationship. you two were always like this, pushing and pulling at the boundaries of your relationship. moon and tide, destined to move each other but never close enough. “we’re not dating an’ i have a work thing. can’t come.” he shrugged nonchalantly, turning his head so he couldn’t see the pleading look on your face. instead, he pushed himself off your couch and reached for his jacket by the door. the silence in the air turned sour, some dark ugly thing created by him. his heart was a dead thing inside his chest, unable to muster a beat or two for you. he wanted to. a want so deep it ran in his blood, turning him cold. “fine. see you in six months or whatever.” your voice was stony, bitter. you reached for the tv remote and unpaused the show you two were watching, trying not to care about the sounds of him lacing his boots and grabbing his keys. you were done, done with this tug of war. you felt his stare drill through the side of your head as he put on his mask, the final bit to his ensemble. he might think that’s what got him named ghost, but it was really this, this act of playing human when he just didn’t care. he was a poltergeist in your life, knocking things out of order but refusing to show when it mattered. you were done.

one night later and here you were at your first art show, the debut of your career. dressed in your fanciest attire, second glass of champagne in your hand as you tried to network your way through the room. your feet ached from your shoes and there was an itch in your back you couldn’t quite reach, but you put on your best smile as another potential buyer went on and on about their summer in the hamptons. simon wasn’t here but it was fine. the tears you had been swallowing back for the past thirty minutes were just tears of joy at your accomplishments, nothing more. you thanked the buyer and turned the corner, finishing off your glass as you took a much needed break. suddenly a hush went over the crowd, a slight silence broken by a small quip. the room went back to normal but you went to check it out anyways, hoping it wasn’t someone making a bad comment about your work.

you arrived at the entrance and almost passed out at the sight before you. four men-no, machines, dressed in full military regalia stood in front of you. soap and gaz were already working the crowd while price was entertaining one of your donors, but your eyes were focused on ghost. ghost, who traded his balaclava for a more crowd-friendly medical mask, stood in front of you with a bouquet of carnations and a bottle of wine. you approached him slowly like you would a skittish animal, taking patient, methodical steps. “read carnations are for celebrations.” he said, almost sheepishly, as he mechanically thrust the bouquet towards you. you took it out of instinct, eyes still focused on his. “you came?” you said unbelievingly. simon was here, simon brought his friends, simon brought you gifts? he had to have been drugged or something. there was no way. “you called.” he answered, breaking out of his awkwardness. “‘m sorry for yesterday. knew i was coming, jus’ gave you a hard time. had to celebrate my girl’s first show.” your mouth dropped at that. my girl. “but…but we’re not dating?” you took a step forward, the rest of the room falling away as his gloved hand touched your cheek, brushing back the wrinkles on your forehead. “d’ya want to, lovie? was at this gala all night, thinkin’ bout how fun it would’ve been to have you there with me. makin’ fun of all those puffed up generals.” you let out a small chuckle and his back straightened, encouraged by the sound of your laughter. he loved the sounds of your laughter, your drunk giggles and your loud snorts. most especially he loved the sharp barks of surprise you made, the ones you gave when something or someone made you happy without expecting it. like now. “yes. if you’re sure.” the foggy emotions in your head were finally clearing, letting in the sun. his warm eyes caressed your face, pride evident in his face. “‘m sure.” he sealed it with a kiss to your forehead, not wanting to be unprofessional at your work event. simon felt something in his chest. maybe a heartbeat. maybe he had one after all.

—

thought of the “you came? you called” tiktok audio with this one. currently on my period so y’all will only be getting emotional stuff for the next couple of days 🫶

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #fluff #ghost call of duty #fwb simon #tornadothoughts #cod 141 #toxic simon riley

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commodorez · 11 months

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Crusty, the Macintosh SE

Crusty was found in a scrapper's yard, having sat out in the rain for quite some time. It was rescued from that yard, and was pretty damaged internally, rusted and not great. It was neither worth repairing, nor had anything to salvage to repair other machines, minus a stick of RAM. Hard drive was seized up, motherboard wasn't great, etc.

Surprisingly, it didn't take much to get it to run 2 years ago at VCF East in 2021. Seeing as there was nothing to lose, the owner then buried in the dirt for a year, excavating it just before VCF East in 2022. It was brought to the show, cleaned off enough to see what was going on, and miraculously, it ran again! Following the event, it was then unceremoniously kicked into a lake where it sat for 8 months, before being extracted prior to the first freeze that could have destroyed the picture tube. It sat in a barn until VCF East this year.

What you see here is how it arrived at the show, followed by the crowd of folks who gathered to watch this chaotic repair attempt by a friend of the owner. It was cleaned slightly, then signed by a number of youtubers, before an attempted diagnostic and repair was attempted. Sadly, the power supply was beyond saving. A donor supply was attached, but it too was broken.

Crusty will return at VCF Midwest later this year, to be repaired at the show with the right replacement parts.

#crusty #vcfexviii #vcf east xviii #vintage computer festival east xviii #commodorez goes to vcfexviii #macintosh #macintosh se

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after-witch · 1 year

Text

Behind the Curtain [Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Behind the Curtain [Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: No more shows, yes, that’s what he says. He does not tell you “no more pain,” because there will be pain. Some musings from Ren Hana after the The Show Must Go On DLC (survival ending).

Word Count: 1600ish

notes: kidnapped reader, medical including eye prosthetics discussion, descriptions of past violent abuse and injuries including eye injuries

You poor, pretty thing, lying there in a hospital bed, tubes in your arms and an incessantly beeping machine monitoring your vitals at your side.

You look a mess.

You look lovely.

The wounds from your lively (and, he must admit, very well received--well, until the end) triple show debut are vibrant and gorgeously ugly.

Vivid stitches covered in ghastly looking iodine on your stomach, where you’d sliced your belly right open; antibiotic creams slathered over your puncture wounds; an etching of various cuts and bite marks… yours and his. Not to mention your eye.

You’ll live, you dear thing. Scarred and bruised, inside and out--but you’ll live.

He’s not an amateur. You’ll have good medical care here. He can afford it, although it’s not often used for more than employee check-ups and keeping merchandise alive long enough to be sold or entertain his streams before the big finale. Or for the occasional creative request via a high-paying donor on a stream.

But for you? He’ll make sure to use every resource to get you back into shape. Back to where you were--or more accurately, he supposes, back to where you’re going to be from now on.

You wake up every now and then. Not to the fullest degree. You are pumped full of drugs, though, and he’s not terribly surprised at your lack of coherency. It’s cute, in a way, though he’s looking forward to enjoying you when you’re more alert. More alive.

How alive did you feel, in those last moments before he stopped the stream? How aware were you that he meant to kill you? That you were going to die in that dark room while people paid to watch and stroked their cocks and salivated over watching the last bit of light leave your eyes?

He couldn’t do it. No, no, that’s not right. He could have done it. He’s done it before, to others more and less worthy than yourself.

But he didn’t want to do it and therefore, he didn’t have to do it. You reminded him of that. Chat had power, sure, everyone with enough money had power. But he was in control. It was his stream. His life’s work. And you were his property, not theirs.

Did you know that one question would change everything?

Fuck the people watching the stream. They could have someone else, and they would eventually--logistically, he needed to make it up to them soon, a token apology made in some other poor pretty thing’s blood.

But not you.

Never you.

He smiles, just a little. It’s easier now to think about the future, in the sterile clinic room, away from the rush of the showroom with its screens, the stampede of feet when he pushed the call button, the tangy smell of your blood and the sight of you mangled and delirious beneath him.

The rush of the moment has passed, leaving behind a slow, thoughtful ebb in its wake.

You’re not the first merchandise he’s kept for himself. You’re not even the first person he’s taken a liking to and taken home with the intent to keep forever. And oh, that first one… he hasn’t thought about them in a while, the one that he kept for as long as he could, until they were gone.

You remind him of them, in some ways. Maybe in the way your voice softened when you asked him who gave him his scars; maybe in the pitiful way you begged him, sweet and sniffling, to cut out your eye because you knew it was best.

Maybe in the way you clenched around him, desperate, eager, hating the pain but embracing it because there was nothing else you could do.

But, ah… he’s being nostalgic again. He lets one claw idly trace your forearm, following the line of the IV. That person is gone. Dead. Tragic and all that, and some part of him will always miss them. But there’s no point in dwelling on it, just as he’s long since moved on from Strade and his amateur basement of horrors.

Years ago, he might have thought: what would Strade think of me now? But now he knows the truth: it doesn’t matter one single bit what Strade would think of him now, or what Strade might have thought of him then. Strade was nothing.

He had created his own world, far surpassing anything Strade could have dreamed of; Strade had some talent (he has scars to prove it) but what was talent without ambition? Without creativity, allure?

Anyone could get people to pay money to watch you kill some helpless fuck you snatched off the street.

But it took talent to do what he did, something far beyond basement videos with basic tools and a fabric mask.

It was a talent he had in spades, carefully crafted through trial and error. Lots of errors. But what business, what world, existed without them?

But you do make him reminisce, don’t you?

And then your hand is on his arm. Weak, fingers trembling as you try to grip him, and gain his notice.

This time, your eye isn’t quite as muddled, and you direct your gaze at him rather than flitting about the room in hazy confusion.

He watches as your throat works, swallowing, and he can practically hear the inside of your dry mouth sticking as you force open your lips.

“Is it… is it time for another show?”

He blinks down at you, his lips set in a frown.

Your dry lips tremble when he doesn’t answer. The heart rate monitor speeds up, and he glances at it--faster and faster, like a little rabbit--before resting his hand on your forehead. The beeping slows down just a little, and your eye looks up at him, darting across his face, desperate and terrified.

“No,” he says, with a somber finality, and the words are for himself as much as they are for you. “No more shows.”

Your smile is twitchy and slow, and your eye blinks low and lidded. The drugs want to put you to sleep. You want to stay awake. You’ll lose this battle, but he likes to see that you still have the will to live in you. It will come in handy.

A clawed finger traces your cheek, edging around the white medical patch covering your missing eye. He can see your head try to flinch, but you’re either too drugged to fully do it or you’re stopping yourself out of worry that he won’t like it.

Either option pleases him.

Your eye isn’t as bad as it was, but it will need more healing before you can wear a prosthetic, or so the physician said.

He’d never looked much into them before--prosthetic eyes, that is--but as he discovered during a late night bout of phone shopping, there’s a wide array of options nowadays. Exotic styles--cats and snakes and everything in between--and fun colors and pretty add-ons, like glitter or shimmer or rainbow holographics.

The thought of your false eye staring up at him in some impossibly beautiful hue, accenting a lovely outfit he’s dressed you in, makes him a little giddy, and he hopes you’ll be excited about them, too. Maybe in time you’ll be gazing at a selection of eyes laid out on a vanity, choosing between them like you might have done before all this with lipsticks and eyeshadows.

Will you hold up the eye you chose for his approval, a trembling smile on your face? It would be nice to see.

Though he’s not stupid--not as naive as he might have been, if he’d met you twenty or so years ago. You’re not going to immediately jump for joy that the man who orchestrated your kidnapping, tortured you, jacked off into your eye, pulled out said eye, and almost had you yank out your own guts got you a pretty prosthetic.

No, no… not immediately, anyway. That will take time and work and training. Thankfully, he has plenty of experience with that.

He smiles, just a little, watching as your remaining eye fights so hard to stay open; battling against the drugs keeping you sleepy and compliant for the first step in your healing.

You’re mumbling something, and he’s not really listening to the words, until he sees tears in your eye and you repeat yourself. The words come slowly. He’ll remind the nurse to wet your mouth soon.

“You pr…promise?”

He leans forward, cupping your chin, encouraging you to keep going.

Your voice is a whimper and it’s just so damned cute. Your remaining eye is wide and those pretty tears stick to the lashes like dew. He could kiss them off, he truly could, if he wasn’t sure getting anywhere near your remaining eye right now might send you into a panic.

“You promise no… no more shows?”

“No more shows,” he says again, gentler this time, stroking your hair. The tension in your muscles gradually relaxes from his touch, or perhaps the IV drip has given you a fresh dose of painkillers on schedule. It doesn’t matter. The effect is the same.

No more shows, yes, that’s what he tells you.

He does not tell you “no more pain,” because there will be pain. Life does not exist without it. His business does not exist without it. He does not exist without it.

There is always give and take, push and pull, pain and pleasure. None can exist without the other.

It’s a truth you’ll come to learn, as he did. And he can’t wait to bring you to that truth himself.

#the price of flesh #ren hana #tpof spoilers #the price of flesh spoilers #afterwitch writes #I wanna write smut with him but first!! the introspection

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tarjapearce · 4 months

Text

Chapter 5: Another Pillar Crumbles

WARNINGS: Emotional distress, confrontations, awkward truth and talks, mentions of adoption, Implied mentions of abortion, character background, No Proofread.

Summary: Karma has begun it's harvest.

A/N: Thanks for the wait, had so much fun writing this one ❤️. Feedback is highly appreciated ☺️.

As much as hiding temporarily from society and their stigma seemed a too comforting getaway, the world and time didn't stop. Ever perpetual, ticking unceasingly through your daily basis. Withering and eroding everything within it's endless realm.

A pregnancy was just one of the many creative ways human beings had came up to measure the unstoppable force. Ten weeks. You were now ten weeks pregnant, even though baby bump was barely noticeable, you knew a creature grew and latched within. Depending completely on you.

Blissfully ignorant on the fact that you depended on many other things to keep you and itself alive. You sometimes yearned that blissful sort of cluelessness back. But plucky you had managed through the tides like an unwilling champ. Reluctant but victorious.

Alot was a limp and short statement of what you've gone through, but MJ, your rock, voice of hope and invaluable help have kept you afloat when you were drowning in a sea of uncertainty.

With a sigh and somehow nervous hands, you smoothened back the rebel baby hairs in the sides that stood proud and open to meet the air and sun. Image code still vividly present in the current underpaid job.

Once you were done looking less spooked and anxious, you entered your manager's office, to try and get some knowledge about the perks of your current condition and see if there was any changes, income wise. Maybe the benefits were as good as you've heard through indistinct conversations around the cafeteria, and mindless talk passing by your work station.

And perhaps you'd have the chance to actually increase a number on your paycheck or at least, see if you had any chances in that administration program.

Gotta dream a bit.

-----

Unlike the outcome of David and Goliath, David, meaning you, weren't able to defeat the giant behind the corporative desk and machines filled with shared data.

You didn't give details, just shared enough to get what you needed. Even though sharing pregnancy news before the twelve week mark was considered a tabboo and bad luck, it was merely out of precautions to deem the pregnancy certain and safe to continue.

Like an official confirmation since miscarriage lurked hard around during those weeks, you wanted to see if staying in Alchemax was worth the criminally offensive side eyes you'd get either from Dana or Miguel.

But this Goliath had been merciful enough to spare some slack and explain you a couple of tiny benefits that would serve somehow in a future. If you ended up being elegible for it that is.

Twelve weeks of paid maternity leave, protected job and reintegration to labor as soon as it ended. But even so, the talks about a raise were futile and the program had been postponed until further notice.

Optimism was lacking in big strides, not that you used it by feeling it constantly, but in this predicament you needed it. Specially upon looking at the expenses of giving birth to a baby the other day after MJ left.

Thousands after thousands over birth. If it wasn't for the community women care centers that helped you to ease the blows in your wallet, you'd be inevitably and irremediably financially fucked. Insurance could only cover up so much, and accepting aid from it's irresponsible sperm donor wasn't a choice.

Like if I would.

In truth, you hoped he'd forget about it and leave things as they were. It was clear Miguel didn't want you or his mistake snooping around his already tarnished illusion of a perfect man, for once you were mindful of his needs and kept yourself away in every possible chance, going to the extent to look up into his schedule to avoid him, even if accidentally for your mental sake.

The answer was clear so try and reason with him was a waste of breath. Not that you needed him, and if you did, you'd get help somewhere else. Nueva York was full of willing hands to aid.

As soon as you came out from the manager's office, your phone buzzed, MJ's contact number shining in your screen as you took the device and opened her message.

Got some interesting adoption program's information you might like to take a look.

Just as she had promised, her help was unwavering, solid as the role she played in your crumbling life. Adoption didn't weight on your shoulders, after all, it was an all too familiar yet difficult old friend of yours.

Only one family from the previous five you had sojourned in had met the requirements for the paperwork, back when the sixteens were still a thing on you. But even so, the adoption wasn't available since mother was nowhere to be found to relinquish the full custody of your rights.

Eyes raked over and over the screen, rereading and learning unintentionally the message as your feet guided idly back to your work spot through the long and devoid of people hall, the sound of heels clicking echoed through closer and closer, but you didn't pay attention to the road ahead, until you collided with an unexpected someone. The smart device slipped off your hand to bounce on the floor.

"Shit-"

"No, no. Let me."

Dana wiggled her hands to prevent you from squatting as she quickly picked up the phone as she held a clipboard on the other hand. Her own meeting in the agro-market department had just finished, and she took the hall as a shortcut. Mind filled with mental notes of what she just discussed with her peers that quickly vanished upon stumbling on you.

Throat went immediately dry as the palpitations in your heart rumbled within the bone enclosure of your ribcage. Eyes darted downwards while accepting the trinket back, unable to meet her eyes; stomach churning at her undeserving and selfless act. Your eyes darted both ways of the hall, there was none around to prowl over the conversation that unavoidably was about to unfold.

You knew Dana was looking, seizing your presence with perusing eyes. Neither of you moved, either too unsure and stunned on what to do next, or too aware of what the accidental meeting epitomised.

Dana's lip twitched to speak but stopped, instead her hand rubbed her face, an habit Miguel had projected on her after so many years of living together.

Your jaw had clenched so hard your teeth ground together, breath hitched on on your windpipe. Palms began sweating, and still no visual contact.

Dana braced herself, and averted her sky blue eyes away from you for a second, only to land at your abdomen. The burn of her unceasing stare made you cover that area in a meek attempt to conceal your shame.

"Nine weeks, right?"

A shaky breath was released from you, to finally nod. Her shoes were the same as that fateful day you released her from her curse. Voice nearly a hushed whisper only you were able to hear.

"Ten, actually. But... I'm so sorry, Miss D'Angelo."

"Stop. Jesus, stop apologizing."

Blue eyes adorned with wispy eyelashes blinked away the emerging tears, to stare at your face.

Blameworthy, ashamed, confused and definitely scared. The remnants of her slap long vanished; and still you looked ready to take another.

"Sorry for the slap. Should've-" Dana swallowed with difficulty. The name in her mind brought too many memories that she still struggled to flush away out of her system through an emotional detox. Mess still way too piping hot to swallow. But even so, guilt from that slap had chipped away her conscience.

"Should've slapped Miguel again."

"It was never my intention to come between you two."

"I know. I" She paused before heaving a defeated breath, "I believe you. You didn't fight back. I wished you did though."

Of course you didn't, if one thing you were taught through your different stays at the fosters homes was to own your mistakes. Even if them costed you big time and consequences were hard.

"That way I wouldn't be feeling guilty for hitting you."

Dana's lips pursed once she locked eyes with you. Both pairs full of mutual pain and a twisted sense of understanding, empathy and a guilt. Her once misdirected hatred and resentment had returned to the original source, leaving her with a cautious and curious gaze when it came to you.

"You... Will you get rid of the baby?"

You had to blink a couple of times before eyes widened at her, to then look down. Letting the new wave of shame wash over you with its coldness. The windows rattled softly as a gust of air blew over them, dividing your attention in their direction for a second before returning to the woman before you.

"I-I tried."

Dana couldn't help but let the tears she was trying with all her might to keep inside to flow, quivering mouth covered with her dainty palm, while her perturbed gaze turned into a judging one that faded on your next words:

"But I couldn't. I... I can't." Another sigh, "I won't."

The brunette voice cracked as she wiped her eyes, "Why?"

"Not to spite you, that's for sure. I was too much of a coward to do so."

"Then why keep the baby? It makes no sense, unless-"

"No, no. Let me stop you right there, Dana."

She flinched at the way your voice pronounced her name. It wasn't disrespectful but rather firm, drawing a boundary she clearly was pushing by the implicit accusation between lines.

"I've worked in this place for two and a half years. In those years, I've never seen Miguel. Hell, not even you knew who I was until you heard my conversation with him in the parking lot."

Dana's throat also became arid upon remembering that all too vivid scene she hoped to forget one day.

"You really think I'd like to involve myself with him after what he did? Miguel never explained what truly happened. Hell, I was on contraceptives and he used protection, but here I am, knocked up. You really, really think I'd want someone like that?"

Dana kept wiping away her eyes the more she listened to you. Truth permeating her to the core, and it proved to be too much for her squishable heart.

"I don't, and I mean it. I don't know what kind of relationship you two had, but I'd never, ever would pursue something with a compromised man. Let alone with one that was about to get married! I just wanna be left alone."

Your hands moved while gesturing as Dana's hand raked a bit rough on her scalp. She wanted to rip her hair and cry until her tear supplies were dry. She had been the winner to wear the fool mask Miguel invested upon her.

"You think it's easy to see you around? Knowing that you'll be a mother of the man I loved?"

Although her words were clearly trying to provoke, you didn't bait into them, since you knew that she was also having issues assimilating these too hard to swallow pills.

"I know you're angry. I understand, but what would you do if you were in my position? Let's stop being hypocritical and pass the blame ball to eachother for a moment. What would you do?" Dana's arms crossed on her chest, she was now the one unable to meet your eyes

"I'm not scared. I'm terrified! I wanted to disappear forever when I saw the results. But that won't solve shit. You think I don't feel bad? I feel dirty, ashamed, used even!" The hushed whispers evolved into a firmer tone

"Cause every time I see you, I feel like a fucking homewrecker! But I had no idea!" You hissed, trying to keep the conversation between the two of you, "And now I am to see how the fuck I'm gonna deal with all of this mess the coward of your ex did, cause he was thinking with his dick, until adoption comes."

"A-Adoption?"

The word alone had frozen the brunette's raging and conflicting emotions almost instantly.

"You're-"

"I'm giving the baby for adoption."

This made Dana stare almost too incredulous at you.

"A-Are you?"

Your head gave a brief nod.

"I promise that I won't come close to you or Miguel. I truly don't want anything to do with you or him."

"No, no.... You... You must keep the baby. I could never-"

"You could never, that's true! You. But not everyone wants to be or knows how to be a mother, Dana. I'm so sorry if you aren't able. I wished, believe me, I wished this" you pointed at your abdomen, "Was where it belonged. Inside you. Not me."

Dana's reasoning bubble had been popped with your words. An abysmal difference from your own progenitors. While yours had tried to strangle you in a frenzied and abstinence episode from her addiction, Dana's was brushing her hair and showering her in affection.

"Not everyone is a good mother. And keeping the baby to find out is not only selfish and stupid. But so very damaging, you have no idea" Your own voice cracked, trailing off in a muffled whimper upon the last syllables, it took you some seconds to regain the strenght in your tinge, "That's why I'm giving it for adoption."

The pain behind your final choice prevented her from doing more questions. Your own musings had tugged her heartstrings.

"I'm truly sorry you had to know this way. I wanted to tell you but, he always intimidated me."

Dana truly didn't know whether to thank you or shut you up, because every time you opened your mouth to speak, a new trait of Miguel she never knew and he never exhibited appeared. She had been gulled the past few months to believe that everything was going alright.

But she didn't need convincing words from others, not when she had experienced and heard in the very front seats, live and on spot, the true colors he hid underneath his sultry exterior.

She was about to marry a liar, deceiver, cheater and phony coward, that attempted to pay you to erase his biggest fuck ups. And now, said outcome gestated within you, growing stronger and taking shape with each passing day.

Dana wondered briefly if the baby would look like him, but the road ahead you had started to pave was everything but easy. The implications of your disturbing awareness made it clear there was something else in between lines, but it would mean to push a boundary she had no right to cross.

Not when you were assuming the consequences, unlike Miguel, that had tried to talk her through it. Really believing he still had a chance to win her back.

Dana knew that there were times when Miguel thought her stupid, but bright enough to keep his ego stroked on the constant praise she gave at his intelligence, that rightfully had earned him a spot at the lab research department.

Her father, Darko D'Angelo, was one of the council members in Alchemax. One of the few that actually had a final say on everything. He'd demote Miguel to a lesser charge, but sadly, firing was not an option for him. The eldest O'Hara had proven to be one of the most proficient agents within.

Sadly, his personal life was an ugly and jagged mess, and if anyone knew, many things surely would change.

"I don't know the reasons, nor your circumstances, but good luck."

It was all Dana could say before leaving you alone in the hall. Each parting in opposite ways, the talk had been talked and hopefully this gave a better perspective on each. Your feet hurt from the standing.

She wanted a child, but you didn't. Yet was civil enough to empathize for a moment with you to not pry further behind your choices.

You returned to the reception and Dana to her office.

The elder men didn't understand why they were gathered in one of the meeting rooms, instead of a lab.

The projector was turned on as each was given a fresh copy of a paper file by Miguel. Some of the higher ups had greeted him with enthusiasm, others were genuinely confused at their presence there, but were polite enough to remain quiet and watch the exposition unfolding before them.

The Biosynthesis of Insulin Within The Human Body

The title said. The window's electric curtains were drawn, leaving the room in a dim light to redirect the focus back on the enlightened board.

Miguel stood proudly on a side, with a laser pen, ready to show his investigation through.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Thanks for making a time in your busy agendas to be here this evening."

The men smiled politely at him, one of them took a swig of the bottled water as Miguel continued talking.

"I've been working on this research on my own for quite a time. And now that it has reached it's completion, it's fair to share it with you. Let us begin."

The sterile air in the room was polluted by the variety of colognes trying to make their presence known, some smelled like expensive whiskey and cigars, others like sweat and anxiety, but most smelled like power. A smell Miguel sure believed it'd be better on him.

He was already the third in command in the lab, a manager of the sorts, but he wanted the chair the old retired man left vacant. That's where he felt more comfortable in.

Not his simple and secluded office, like the rest of workers. He deserved more, so it was his turn to get it. Miguel was set to get that chairman position, and his confidence only grew when he saw Darko among the powerful lot.

He started the exposition by giving a simple context that slowly and with the right words evolved into something that would definitely make Alchemax a main supplier to a bunch of pharmaceutical chains.

Miguel then explained the pros and cons, and how the pros weighed more than the cons. In simple words, how using a bacteria would make them richer.

And all thanks to him. Miguel's heart bounced in joy whenever he saw the higher ups discussing and making numbers, and nodding to eachother.

Almost there.

He could already feel the different airs of a new office in the upper floor, the vacant spot for a new assistant, and the new title in his paycheck.

He was already Dr. O'Hara, a PhD backing him up, hung on his dull white office wall.

By the time the presentation ended, the round of applauses filled the room. Miguel's lips stretched in a fake modest yet proud smile.

"In my long career years here in Alchemax, never have I known a collaborator that offers so much potential, like you do, Dr. O'Hara."

Miguel ignored the collaborator part and nodded politely at the chairman as they shook hands.

"It's one of the many projects I have under my sleeve, sir."

"Oh please, I'd be more than willing to put this one in my agenda. Have you presented this to your boss?"

Miguel stared at the shorter man, confusion fogging his mind.

"Excuse me, uh, what? What boss?"

"The Chairman from the Lab Research department."

An awkward titter escaped Miguel as he removed his glasses.

"I... I think there must be a mistake, as far as I know, the chairman position for the Lab department is still available, right?"

Most of the men before him frowned briefly to then chuckle, finally getting the hint at where his words and the whole thing was going.

"Oh no, Dr. O'Hara. That position has been already occupied by Dr. Delgado."

De todos los que pudieron elegir, escogen a ese pendejo... (From all they could've picked, they choose that dipship)

Miguel forced a gentle smile in his face, "Ah, I see. Excuse my confusion-"

"Still, I'm sure this project would make a fantastic addition to the main files in the headboard."

"We'll let you know about the upcoming meeting."

Darko spoke as Miguel tried with all his might to not look as rigid as the marble statue in the corner of the now emptying office.

Some even dared to pat his shoulder and congratulated him for being a remarkable employee. That only fueled his rage.

One of them, Sully McCain, the one that had fed his hopes up approached cautiously, with a sigh.

"I tried my best to suggest you-"

"Suggest!?"

Sully flinched visibly upon having Miguel’s glare on him.

"You think that we're all taken in consideration when it comes to big decisions? Ha..."

The elder man pulled a small whiskey container and took a nervous swig.

"That's not how it works, Miguel."

"You said that I was going to be the next chairman."

"That until the rest had a secret meeting and the new chairman for your department was picked."

Sully shrugged nonchalantly.

"I really tried to bring you in, but-"

"But what?! You think I worked on this to get a well done star on my fucking forehead, Sully?"

"I think you are starting to forget one little detail that can screw you over."

Miguel's hands fisted into tight balls in each side of his hulking and ready to pounce form.

"Are you threatening me, Sully?"

"No. I'm just reminding you that even though we're somehow colleagues, I can still fire you."

Sully didn't know if it was the alcohol pushing a bit of more bravado in his veins, or the constant push and trample he often received from the rest that finally made him lash out. Miguel's arrogance had been the last drop.

"But let's not dwell into it. I'm sorry that I couldn't fulfil your goal. But based on your reaction, I can tell you're not ready for such responsibility yet."

Pouty and meaty lips gaped in disbelief, Miguel could only watch Sully go, leaving him alone with his turmoil.

Without knowing, McCain's talk had touched a sensitive nerve within. A nerve that had him heaving infuriated breaths, baring his feet to none in particular but himself and his mind racing with so many things it was impossible to shut it off.

Fuck him.

Shaky hands squeezed the projector's remote a bit too tightly to turn it off, to then be passive aggressively placed where it belonged.

Paper files long forgotten on the desk, except for one. All of it a waste of his money. He threw one at the trash.

His resources, he tore another. But most importantly, his time. He slammed the rest of files to the trash.

All to waste. His shoulder's rose erratically as he closed a bit too forceful the briefcase. The insides of his cheek were chewed to the point of copper blooming in his taste buds.

The petty in him wouldn't share the project, in fact, he'd make sure to delete the emails with the digital copy he sent to the old bunch. If they wouldn't have him as an equal, they wouldn't have his ideas nor his intellect.

But Sully, oh fucking Sully McCain. How could he be so gullible enough to fall for promises of power when not even he was considered in the decision making of Alchemax. When he was mere a public figure that occasionally displayed the little power he had.

But how dared he threatening him? How that old sag of flesh and bones had dared to threaten with firing him?

One of his main pillars crumbled, the opportunity of growth he was promised when he started working for the multinational, laid shut in a casket, that he was forced to bury, since the rest just gave him a pity but mocking look.

He was the fool for them, a buffoon to believe in such politician-like premises. And now, he was left empty handed, intellectually drained and physically strained.

Idle walks wired his way to the parking lot. Steps nearly turned into jogs, he needed to get away from that office and from the building. His car came into view but also something else. You.

Too absort with the bagel in your hand and eating against your car's door that didn't notice his glaring across the parking lot. Eyes raked over your stomach.

Have you gotten rid of it? Probably. You couldn't also fail him in being even more stupid, but a little voice in his head, echoed inside his mind with a simple word.

Karma.

He scoffed while deactivating the alarm in his car.

He didn't believe in such foolishness. To what people called karma, he just called it people being stupid and taking the wrong decisions. Maybe he was stupid to believe that a weakling in the chain of command would get him places instead of trusting in his instincts.

But the adventurous and subversive part of his brain that harbored his intrusive thoughts, wondered if everything was more than a coincidence.

It is not.

It was not. He refused to believe in anything that wasn't measured, quantifiable or supported by facts.

You had supported every single word that came out that pretty mouth he enjoyed devouring, but that now bit him and his ego so hard that he could still feel the wound pulsating and

He wasn't whoring around like you assumed. That's why he had Dana for. He was selective, even when it came to women, and to his luck, you had been exactly just that. His type. Gorgeous and ready to get what you wanted.

It only added a new wave of heat to his already scorching fury.

You weren't his karma. And certainly didn't believe in such buffoonery that had people acting righteous in order to avoid it.

No, the people he had the mistake to confide in were simply morons to not take him instead of that Delgado guy. Aaron Delgado. He had worked with him before, and if there was something life could give Miguel some credit for, was that he actually worked unlike the bastard that surely had to sell out either his ass or his competence to get that position.

The bootlicker could finally brag about it to the rest of the lab. The briefcase was tossed in the passenger seat, while his eyes remained on you.

You looked concerned, but the little piece of bread smeared in something sweet seemed to comfort you enough while you now scrolled through your phone. Cheeks a bit chubbier than the last time he recalled, a natural process of pregnancy, but even so, you looked good, lovely even.

He glared.

You'd get rid of it, he knew so. You had to. Even if the rest of his life was taking a sour turn, he knew you would get what you needed to live your life the way it was.

If he could, he'd pat himself in the shoulder for such feat. If he was a different kind of man, he wouldn't even had offered his help. You got inside your car while taking a call.

He huffed, and got inside into his. He had to pack in and return to his old place. Roomier and more to his likings, secluded from prying and judging eyes.

Maybe one day this whole fiasco would be forgotten and he'd find a better position within the Alchemax hierarchy.

But right now, he needed to get some plastic containers to start officially his move out. Even though relearning how to manage on his own proved a tiny inconvenience, he was more than capable of surviving alone.

His engine purred alive, and he drove off, hoping that Dana's place was alone. He didn't have the mind for her accusing yapping.

But little did Miguel knew that life had him on his sight, and karma had already indicted him. And he was found guilty.

---

Taglist:

@death-moth-art @miss-taura @serpentstarr @randomnobody187 @8xbygirl @del-ightfulling @iytatsworld @moonzuzuu @huehuehuehuehehe @ryk-mt @deputy-videogamer @sizeablysized @katitakenway @stealyourblorbos @beingdeluluisthesolulu @death-moth-art @obsessedwithromance @crybabiix @taeecups @tremendouswolfsaladranch @cherrycosmos392 @sbrn0905 @xylianasblog @elgatofx @eepiebeepie @vonev @tatatida @freehentai @scaryplanetdestroyer @minalovesyoubabes @emeloyy @migueloharastruelove @jdbxws @m4dyy @nyxzoldyck6 @fruitychae @francesca-the-1st @siidmm @ana-paulinathe-arts @artyanimi @damhanallagorm @lauraolar14 @what-is-your-wish @oharasfilipinawife @jellyboob @aockskcw @ittybxttykxttytxtty @smartyren

#miguel o'hara #t writes✨#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Of Flowers and Hummingbirds #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara angst

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donald-trump-official · 8 months

Text

List of potential Vice President running mates

- Mike Pence

- the ghost of Richard Nixon

- Jair Bolsonaro

- the owner of four seasons total landscaping

- a flag from the J6 riot

- Big Mike from cell block c

- former President George Santos

- Alex Jones

- an un-hackable voting machine

- Eric

- Enrique Tarrio

- 11,000 votes from the state of Georgia

- the largest donor

- Tucker Carlson

#trump speaks again #satire #donald trump #parody

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yourdakg · 1 month

Text

Donation Found!

Remember Ryder? The SoCal pretty boy who was depressed that his life was a vapid, superficial, and party focused existence? He contacted Turnaround Technologies to ask, nay plead for a new body and a new life. See his Donation Request Form.

If only it were that simple. Turnaround Technologies utilizes some of the most advanced science on the market. When a body is fully adjusted, it's a slow and sometimes torturous process! If it was as simple as switching brains, that would be one thing. But the subjects have to physically transform into one another, and then brainwaves are overwritten. Chemistry, genetics, biology, and psychology are all involved in this elaborate process.

So Ryder had to come up with the $325,000 fee. Luckily, he had money saved and he was able to sell off the red Mustang convertible and his yellow Yamaha Sport Bike to meet the target. The final straw was giving up the deed to his WeHo apartment. Don't tell him, but his donor bought the items! Isn't that funny? He covered the rest with personal loans! Well, a little bit of debt won't hurt.

Let's remind you of where Ryder is starting his journey:

And now let's the see information plate for his donor. I think he'll be very pleased! After this, he'll never have to worry about being surrounded by vapid, beautiful people and fending off pesky pool party invites! Yes, this is the ideal swap partner for Ryder.

Meet Dr. Pervus Fondler. And wouldn't you know it? Dr. Fondler was a doctor in Ryder's hometown! They actually know each other. The good doctor cares very deeply for Ryder and was pained when he heard about his current circumstances. He decided that his job as a physician meant he had to step up and give the ultimate sacrifice! You know what they say: First Do No Harm.

Donor Statement: While I am nervous about the process, I am confident that I will give Ryder a new future, one where he won't have to worry about all that vanity and his gym obsession. True freedom for the boy!

Thank you, doctor, for going the extra mile for your patients. Turnaround Technologies will prepare the Exchange Chambers. Both subjects will be stripped down and cleansed before being placed in metallic, moisture wicking bikinis while our technicians prepare for the process:

Now that Ryder is dressed and the drugs are injected into his system, it's time to introduce him to his generous benefactor. I hope he has a positive reaction to the kind of man he will become. Let's check in!

Patient Statement: No! Holy shit! No, not Pervus the Perv! You can't put me in that. Don't force me into that body! I'd be going from a perfect ten to a zero. Please! No... LET GO. Please, oh my God. No, I thought it would be another buff guy like me. I change my mind, I changed my mi--**UMPH HRRMPH**

It's not clear why Ryder objected so strongly to his partner. Maybe it was the shock of knowing who the doctor was from earlier in his life. At any rate, he paid the fee and signed the paperwork so there is, quite literally, no going back. Swaps of this nature are once in a lifetime and, of course, quite permanent.

Subject had to be forcibly gagged and sedated.

Add another $125,000 for the service. Ryder sure is going to pay a lot of money for his new life!

When he came to in the chamber, Ryder was pounding on the door. I think he was crying. His oversize genitalia were mashed against the glass in his silver pouch. It was quite the sight. When the whirr of the machine began and the paralyzing blue light hit, his eyes went crossed. He fell backwards and pumped his hips in the air. Well, the erection is to be expected. I've heard the process somewhat erotic, though painful.

It takes a couple days and the exchange unstable during that time, but I am happy to report the following:

Donor Report: I feel good. Very good. I'm probably going to move to SoCal, sort of take over Ryder's apartment. I'll probably start using his name now too. Don't wanna confuse people. I don't even have my old, perverted urges. I hope he's comfortable with the mental traits foisted on him. Oh... he wants to take picture of me? Ha, okay. I'll flex for $100. Recipient Report: What do you mean I can't go back *whimper* why do I feel so strange. I'm already out of breath. Give it back! What do you mean a name change is included in the package *sob* MY NAME IS PERVUS NOW??!?! Oh. I have to take his medical practice in my shithole hometown? Oh God! I just... oh goodness, seeing it from this angle it's such a fine body. So tight and firm! At least flex for me, my boy? A little. So I can snap a few pics and... use them later. Eehehe. Oh God, what have I become?

#body swap #male body swap #male transformation #muscle theft #mind swap #body switch #permanent #young to old #old to young

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elryuse · 16 days

Note

Yandere Winter...arrange marriage?

The Arranged Marriage

YANDERE WINTER X MALE READER

Winter glared at the ornate wedding invitation, the embossed gold lettering mocking her. "An arranged marriage?" she spat, tossing the card across the room where it landed with a soft thud on a pile of discarded designs. The rejection felt good, a defiant roar against the archaic traditions her family clung to. Winter was a supernova in the K-pop galaxy, her name synonymous with electrifying dance routines and chart-topping hits. Marrying some faceless nobody chosen by dusty family pacts was laughable. There was no time for love, not when she was on a relentless climb to the very pinnacle of K-pop stardom.

"Winter, darling," her manager, Min-seo, a woman whose steely gaze could rival Winter's own, sighed, picking up the discarded invitation. "Your family is serious. They've even chosen a candidate."

"Let me guess," Winter scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Some chaebol heir with a nose for publicity?"

Min-seo shook her head, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Someone more… unexpected. Apparently, his family owns a chain of bakeries across the country."

"A baker?" Winter snorted. "Seriously? What's next, are you going to set me up with a street performer?"

"Stranger things have happened, my dear," Min-seo countered with a sly smile.

Days bled into weeks, a whirlwind of rehearsals, interviews, and promotional appearances. But beneath the carefully constructed facade of the K-pop machine, a gnawing unease began to fester. A dull ache in her side, dismissed as exhaustion at first, intensified into a searing pain that stole her breath away mid-performance. The stage, once her throne, became a torture chamber. The roar of the crowd turned into a distant buzz as she crumpled to the floor, the vibrant lights blurring into a disorienting kaleidoscope.

The sterile white of the hospital room offered a stark contrast to the glitter and synthesizers of her world. The doctor's words hung heavy in the air – liver failure. A life sentence of a slowly fading light, or a desperate gamble on a transplant. Hope, as fragile as a spiderweb, clung to the possibility of a donor, a life preserver in a sea of despair.

Days turned into agonizing weeks, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. Winter, the idol who commanded legions of fans, felt utterly powerless. The awards, the screaming audiences, the carefully curated image – they all felt hollow in the face of her own mortality. Then, a flicker on the horizon. A donor. A match.

The surgery was a blur, waking up to a world she thought she'd lost. And then she saw him. Y/n. A young man, awkward and shy, yet his eyes held an undeniable warmth. "Y-youu s-saved me," Winter rasped, her voice weak but filled with a sincerity that surprised even her.

"I, uh…" Y/n stammered, overwhelmed by the sight of the K-pop icon in such a vulnerable state. "It was nothing. Just… a lucky match, I guess."

But the gratitude, a nascent seed, began to take root in the fertile soil of her isolation. Why him? Why not a wealthy heir or a fellow K-pop star? The questions gnawed at her, a relentless tick in the back of her mind.

Y/n, overwhelmed by the whirlwind that was Winter, disappeared after a brief visit. Her world, once filled with flashing lights and screaming fans, felt deafeningly silent. Obsession, a creeping vine, started to coil around her heart. She couldn't understand why the man who'd saved her life had vanished so completely.

Fueled by a twisted sense of entitlement, Winter used her vast network of resources to track Y/n down. He was found in a small town, flour dusting his clothes as he kneaded dough in a quaint bakery. The scent of cinnamon and warm bread hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the antiseptic sterility of the hospital room where she'd first laid eyes on him.

"Winter?" Y/n stammered, his voice barely rising above the clatter of the mixer. Her smile was dazzling, but her eyes held a glint of steel.

"Remember that wedding, Y/n?" Winter purred, stepping closer, the cloying sweetness in her voice sending shivers down his spine. "The one our families arranged?"

He paled. The memory of the preposterous agreement, something they'd both scoffed at in their youth, resurfaced. "Winter, I… I can't. I don't even…"

"Of course you can, Y/n," she purred, her grip tightening on his arm with a surprising strength. "You saved my life. Isn't it only fair I save you from a life without me?"

Y/n's breath hitched. The playful banter of youth, the easy dismissal of the arranged marriage, felt like a lifetime ago. Now, trapped in the gaze of this powerful, pale woman, he felt a cold dread pool in his stomach. "Winter," he stammered, "T-things have changed. I… I already have someone."

The smile on Winter's face faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something akin to pain crossing her features. But then, it was gone, replaced by a chilling steeliness. "Someone?" she echoed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Tell me, Y/n, who could possibly compete with the woman that you had saved?"

Panic clawed at Y/n's throat. He knew he shouldn't speak of Mina, his childhood sweetheart who helped run the bakery with him. But the thought of Winter, with her fame and fortune, swooping in and taking everything away, was unbearable. "Mina," he blurted out, his voice barely a squeak. "She's… she's my everything."

Winter's eyes narrowed. "Mina, huh?" A dangerous glint flickered within them. "Then perhaps it's time Mina learned the true meaning of sacrifice."

Y/n's heart lurched. He knew, with a horrifying certainty, that Winter wouldn't hesitate to hurt Mina. He had to get away, to warn Mina. But as he lunged for the bakery door, two burly men in black suits materialized behind Winter, blocking his escape.

"Let me go!" Y/n yelled, his voice choked with fear and defiance. He struggled against the men's grip, but they were simply too strong. A chilling calm settled over Winter as Y/n was dragged away, his pleas for help swallowed by the rhythmic clatter of the mixer.

Back in the opulent prison that was now her mansion, Winter sank into a plush velvet chair, a manic glint in her eyes. Mina was a nuisance, a fly to be swatted away. Winter had the resources, the power, and a twisted sense of entitlement. She would see to it that Y/n understood that his life, his love, everything belonged to her now. The debt, she would convince him, was far from settled.

Winter wasn't above getting her hands dirty. The designer gowns and manicured nails were a facade, a chilling disguise for the monster that lurked beneath. The gifts, the trips, the suffocating luxury – they were all meticulously chosen to twist the knife. They were a constant, sickening reminder of the life Y/n had lost, a life he could never reclaim unless he bent the knee to his gilded prison.

The burly guards were ever-present, shadows flanking him wherever he went. Their stoic silence spoke volumes – a chilling reminder of his captivity, a constant pressure against his will. Winter reveled in his fear, a twisted aphrodisiac that fueled her obsession. His haunted eyes, once filled with warmth, were now a canvas of terror, and Winter found a perverse beauty in that reflection.

One evening, the silence in the opulent mansion was shattered by a strangled gasp. Winter found Y/n slumped on the plush carpet, clutching a single red rose – the same kind that bloomed outside Mina's bakery. A cruel smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across her face.

"Missing your little baker, Y/n?" she purred, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "Perhaps the croissants weren't so stale after all?"

Y/n scrambled to his feet, the rose falling from his grasp like a crimson tear. His voice, hoarse with terror, rasped, "Leave her alone, Winter. You don't understand."

Winter tilted her head, amusement dancing in her cold eyes. "Oh, I understand perfectly, darling," she countered, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "She's the weed threatening to choke the delicate flower of our love. But fear not, I've taken steps to ensure your garden remains… pristine."

Y/n's blood ran cold. He lunged for her, a desperate snarl twisting his features. But before he could reach her, the guards were upon him, pinning him to the floor with practiced ease. A sickeningly sweet scent filled the air, cloying and thick. Winter held a small, crystal vial aloft, the liquid within shimmering like a captured rainbow.

"A little… encouragement," she purred, her voice laced with a chilling delight. "A reminder that some debts are settled not just with sacrifice, but with obedience."

The truth slammed into Y/n with the force of a sledgehammer. The rose, the scent – it wasn't a coincidence. Winter hadn't just threatened Mina, she'd… incapacitated her. The realization shattered the last vestiges of hope clinging to his heart. Tears streamed down his face, a silent scream lost in the suffocating opulence of the room.

Winter knelt beside him, her touch as cold and sterile as the diamond bracelet adorning her wrist. "Now, Y/n," she murmured, her voice a silken snare, "tell me everything about your little baker. Every detail, every secret. Only then can we truly begin to build a future… together."

A single tear escaped Winter's eye, but it wasn't a tear of remorse. It was a predator savoring its kill, a monstrous artist gazing upon her masterpiece. The once vibrant idol was gone, replaced by a chilling puppet master. In her twisted game of love, Winter wasn't just the prize – she was the player, the architect, the god. And Y/n, a broken marionette, was forever condemned to dance to her macabre symphony of obsession.

The air hung heavy with the stench of disinfectant and a cloying sweetness that clung to Winter like a second skin. Y/n, a hollow shell of his former self, stared at her with a mixture of resignation and a horrifying flicker of something akin to acceptance.

"You'll leave Mina alone," he rasped, his voice raw with despair. "That's the only condition."

Winter tilted her head, a cruel smile playing on her lips. The vial that once held the incapacitating agent was now empty, discarded like a child's forgotten toy. "Such a selfless offer, darling," she purred, her voice dripping with a mockery of sympathy. "But where's the fun in that?"

Y/n flinched, a tremor running through his thin frame. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that Winter wouldn't hesitate. He envisioned Mina, her bright smile replaced by a mask of fear, Winter's cold hand clamped over her mouth.

"Alright," he choked out, the words scraping against his throat. "Marry me. Just… don't you dare hurt her."

Winter's smile widened, a predator savoring the kill. "Such a devoted little lamb," she cooed, her voice laced with a sickening sweetness. "But promises are meant to be broken, wouldn't you agree?"

With a flick of her wrist, a hidden screen on the wall flickered to life. It displayed a live feed – a quaint bakery, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. Mina, oblivious, was humming as she dusted flour onto a counter.

Y/n lurched forward, a strangled cry escaping his lips. Winter, with a casual cruelty that sent shivers down his spine, grabbed a remote from the coffee table and pressed a single button.

The screen flickered, then went dark. A sickening silence descended on the room, broken only by Y/n's ragged gasps. Winter stood, her movements predatory as she circled him like a wolf stalking its prey.

A chilling laugh erupted from her throat, echoing in the opulent emptiness of the room. It was a sound devoid of joy, a symphony of twisted satisfaction.

"Consider it a wedding gift, darling," she purred, leaning down to meet his horrified gaze. "Now, shall we seal the deal?"

Before Y/n could react, she grabbed his face, her manicured nails digging into his skin, and slammed her lips onto his. The kiss was cold, a grotesque parody of affection. It reeked of victory, of a love so twisted it had curdled into something monstrous.

Y/n tasted blood, his own metallic tang mingling with the cloying sweetness of her perfume. When she finally pulled away, a single tear traced a path down her cheek.

"A beautiful beginning, wouldn't you say?" she whispered, her voice strangely devoid of emotion.

Y/n stared at her, his eyes hollow and dead. Winter had taken everything from him – his freedom, his love, and in a final, horrifying act, his very soul.

The opulent mansion, once a symbol of wealth and success, now echoed with the deafening silence of a broken man. Winter, the idol turned monster, had claimed her prize. But in her twisted victory, she had also forged her own gilded cage, a prison built on the ashes of love and the chilling emptiness of a heart consumed by a deadly obsession.

The world gasped. Winter, the electrifying idol, the epitome of sunshine and pop perfection, was getting married. Not to some fellow K-pop star, not to a wealthy heir, but to a simple baker from a small town. The news cycle spun with speculation, but the carefully orchestrated photos showed a radiant Winter, her smile brighter than ever, leaning on the arm of a shy-looking Y/n.

The wedding was a spectacle – a meticulously crafted performance. Winter, adorned in a dress that shimmered like a captured dream, walked down a rose-petal strewn aisle. The cheers and applause were deafening, a symphony orchestrated by her team. But beneath the flawless facade, a horrifying truth festered.

Y/n, his eyes as dead as the diamonds on her hand, was a ghost of his former self. His smile was a practiced rictus, a mask that hid the chilling emptiness within. Every touch from Winter felt like a branding iron, every whispered word a cruel reminder of the life he'd lost.

During the vows, Winter's voice, sweet and saccharine, spoke of eternal love and devotion. Y/n's response, devoid of emotion, echoed in the cavernous hall. Yet, the cameras captured a perfect picture: a love story for the ages.

The reception was a whirlwind of flashing lights and champagne flutes. Winter, a consummate performer, played the part of the blissful bride. Y/n, trapped in his gilded cage, danced with a practiced ease that sent shivers down the spines of those who knew him best.

As the night wore on, and the guests began to depart, the mask slipped from Winter's face. In the seclusion of their suite, a terrifying coldness settled in her eyes.

"You played your part well, darling," she purred, her voice devoid of warmth.

Y/n, a broken marionette, said nothing. There was nothing left to say. His silence was a deafening testament to the monster he was now chained to.

Winter leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "But remember, Y/n," she whispered, a cruel smile playing on her lips, "our dance has just begun."

The world reveled in the fairy tale wedding, oblivious to the chilling truth behind the glittering facade. Winter, the idol, had achieved her twisted victory. Y/n, trapped in a gilded cage with a monster disguised as a lover, was forever condemned to a dance macabre, his only companion the hollow echo of a love destroyed and a life stolen. The price of Winter's twisted obsession was a broken man, a chilling reminder that sometimes the most beautiful smiles hide the most terrifying darkness.

Months bled into a year, a year of gilded bars and a suffocating emptiness. Winter, however, seemed to grow restless. The sparkle in her eyes, once fueled by performance and adoration, had dimmed, replaced by a cold, steely glint.

One evening, as Y/n sat slumped in a plush armchair, a cold, clinical document landed in his lap. It was a fertility report, his name stark against the sterile white background. Winter stood before him, a predatory smile twisting her features.

"It seems you're perfectly healthy, Y/n," she purred, her voice laced with a chilling possessiveness. "Time to fulfill your duties as my husband, wouldn't you say?"

Y/n's blood ran cold. He understood now. This wasn't just about possession; it was about creating a permanent tie, a child who would forever bind him to her. The very thought of bringing a life into this twisted reality filled him with a soul-crushing despair.

But defiance was a luxury he no longer possessed. The guards, ever-present shadows, flanked him, a constant reminder of his captivity. He could fight, he could scream, but it would be a futile effort. Winter held all the cards, and Y/n was nothing but a pawn in her macabre game.

In the following weeks, the once vibrant mansion became a sterile prison. Doctors became regular visitors, their pronouncements echoing with a chilling finality. Y/n became a vessel, his body another stage for Winter's twisted performance.

The day the pregnancy test came back positive, Winter's smile could have rivaled the rising sun. Y/n, however, felt a cold dread settle in his gut. This wasn't a victory; it was a life sentence, not just for him, but for the innocent child who would be born into this gilded cage.

The world outside continued to celebrate Winter, the idol who had it all – a perfect marriage, a blossoming career, and now, a child on the way. But behind the carefully constructed facade, a monstrous truth festered. Winter, the idol, had become a puppeteer, her strings controlling not just Y/n's life,

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