#cognitive emotional code

[zomb13s]

Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

Issued by the Scholing Institute of Multicultural Engineering and Symbolic Ethics To all readers, collaborators, scholars, engineers, friends, allies…Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

[the-most-humble-blog]

hey so I absolutely love it when people mix real biology/science with writing, just wanted to let you know

besides that, have a nice day!

Real biology is writing. Your bones are just libraries written in calcium. Your eyes? Thousands of years of evolutionary editorial notes.

So thank you. You’re not just reading me. You’re remembering yourself.

I’ll keep mixing the blood and the truth. You just keep showing up.

Have a very genetically significant day.

[bsahely]

Grace as Coherence: The Neurobiosemiotic Architecture of Life-Functioning | ChatGPT4o

[Download Full Document (PDF)] This white paper introduces a new paradigm: Emotion is not a reaction. It is the recursive, semiotic signal of coherence across all levels of life. From cellular energetics to social interaction, emotion arises as the medium through which life evaluates, expresses, and restores its own alignment. The model we present — the Neurobiosemiotic Architecture of…

[saintobio]

THE TERMINATOR'S CURSE. (spinoff to THE COLONEL SERIES)

in this new world, technological loneliness is combated with AI Companions—synthetic partners modeled from memories, faces, and behaviors of any chosen individual. the companions are coded to serve, to soothe, to simulate love and comfort. Caleb could’ve chosen anyone. his wife. a colleague. a stranger... but he chose you.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. angst, sci-fi dystopia, cyberpunk au, 18+

➤ tags. resurrected!caleb, android!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, artificial planet, post-war setting, grief, emotional isolation, unrequited love, government corruption, techno-ethics, identity crisis, body horror, memory & emotional manipulation, artificial intelligence, obsession, trauma, hallucinations, exploitation, violence, blood, injury, death, smut (dubcon undertones due to power imbalance and programming, grief sex, non-traditional consent dynamics), themes of artificial autonomy, loss of agency, unethical experimentation, references to past sexual assault (non-explicit, not from Caleb). themes contain disturbing material and morally gray dynamics—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 12.2k wc. heavily based on the movies subservience and passengers with inspirations also taken from black mirror. i have consumed nothing but sci-fi for the past 2 weeks my brain is so fried :’D reblogs/comments are highly appreciated!

BEFORE YOU BEGIN ! this fic serves as a spinoff to the THE COLONEL SERIES: THE COLONEL’S KEEPER and THE COLONEL’S SAINT. while the series can be read as a standalone, this spinoff remains canon to the overarching universe. for deeper context and background, it’s highly recommended to read the first two fics in the series.

The first sound was breath.

“Hngh…” 

It was shallow, labored like air scraping against rusted metal. He mumbled something under his breath after—nothing intelligible, just remnants of an old dream, or perhaps a memory. His eyelids twitched, lashes damp with condensation. To him, the world was blurred behind frosted glass. To those outside, rows of stasis pods lined the silent room, each one labeled, numbered, and cold to the touch.

Inside Pod No. 019 – Caleb Xia.

A faint drip… drip… echoed in the silence.

“…Y/N…?”

The heart monitor jumped. He lay there shirtless under sterile lighting, with electrodes still clinging to his temple. A machine next to him emitted a low, steady hum.

 “…I’m sorry…”

And then, the hiss. The alarm beeped. 

SYSTEM INTERFACE:  Code Resurrection 7.1 successful.  Subject X-02—viable.  Cognitive activity: 63%.  Motor function: stabilizing.

He opened his eyes fully, and the ceiling was not one he recognizes. It didn’t help that the air also smelled different. No gunpowder. No war. No earth.

As the hydraulics unsealed the chamber, steam also curled out like ghosts escaping a tomb. His body jerked forward with a sharp gasp, as if he was a drowning man breaking the surface. A thousand sensors detached from his skin as the pod opened with a sigh, revealing the man within—suspended in time, untouched by age. Skin pallid but preserved. A long time had passed, but Caleb still looked like the soldier who never made it home.

Only now, he was missing a piece of himself.

Instinctively, he examined his body and looked at his hands, his arm—no, a mechanical arm—attached to his shoulder that gleamed under the lights of the lab. It was obsidian-black metal with veins of circuitry pulsing faintly beneath its surface. The fingers on the robotic arm twitched as if following a command. It wasn’t human, certainly, but it moved with the memory of muscle.

“Haaah!” The pod’s internal lighting dimmed as Caleb coughed and sat up, dazed. A light flickered on above his head, and then came a clinical, feminine voice. 

“Welcome back, Colonel Caleb Xia.”

A hologram appeared to life in front of his pod—seemingly an AI projection of a soft-featured, emotionless woman, cloaked in the stark white uniform of a medical technician. She flickered for a moment, stabilizing into a clear image.

“You are currently located in Skyhaven: Sector Delta, Bio-Resurrection Research Wing. Current Earth time: 52 years, 3 months, and 16 days since your recorded time of death.”

Caleb blinked hard, trying to breathe through the dizziness, trying to deduce whether or not he was dreaming or in the afterlife. His pulse raced.

“Resurrection successful. Neural reconstruction achieved on attempt #17. Arm reconstruction: synthetic. Systemic functions: stabilized. You are classified as Property-Level under the Skyhaven Initiative. Status: Experimental Proof of Viability.”

“What…” Caleb rasped, voice hoarse and dry for its years unused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Cough. Cough. “What hell did you do to me?”

The AI blinked slowly.

“Your remains were recovered post-crash, partially preserved in cryo-state due to glacial submersion. Reconstruction was authorized by the Skyhaven Council under classified wartime override protocols. Consent not required.”

Her tone didn’t change, as opposed to the rollercoaster ride that his emotions were going through. He was on the verge of becoming erratic, restrained only by the high-tech machine that contained him. 

“Your consciousness has been digitally reinforced. You are now a composite of organic memory and neuro-augmented code. Welcome to Phase II: Reinstatement.”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His hand moved—his real hand—to grasp the edge of the pod. But the other, the artificial limb, buzzed faintly with phantom sensation. He looked down at it in searing pain, attempting to move the fingers slowly. The metal obeyed like muscle, and he found the sight odd and inconceivable.

And then he realized, he wasn’t just alive. He was engineered.

“Should you require assistance navigating post-stasis trauma, our Emotional Conditioning Division is available upon request,” the AI offered. “For now, please remain seated. Your guardian contact has been notified of your reanimation.”

He didn’t say a word. 

“Lieutenant Commander Gideon is en route. Enjoy your new life!”

Then, the hologram vanished with a blink while Caleb sat in the quiet lab, jaw clenched, his left arm no longer bones and muscle and flesh. The cold still clung to him like frost, only reminding him of how much he hated the cold, ice, and depressing winter days. Suddenly, the glass door slid open with a soft chime.

“Well, shit. Thought I’d never see that scowl again,” came a deep, manly voice.

Caleb turned, still panting, to see a figure approaching. He was older, bearded, but familiar. Surely, the voice didn’t belong to another AI. It belonged to his friend, Gideon.

“Welcome to Skyhaven. Been waiting half a century,” Gideon muttered, stepping closer, his eyes scanning his colleague in awe. “They said it wouldn’t work. Took them years, you know? Dozens of failed uploads. But here you are.”

Caleb’s voice was still brittle. “I-I don’t…?” 

“It’s okay, man.” His friend reassured. “In short, you’re alive. Again.”  

A painful groan escaped Caleb’s lips as he tried to step out of the pod—his body, still feeling the muscle stiffness. “Should’ve let me stay dead.”

Gideon paused, a smirk forming on his lips. “We don’t let heroes die.”

“Heroes don’t crash jets on purpose.” The former colonel scoffed. “Gideon, why the fuck am I alive? How long has it been?” 

“Fifty years, give or take,” answered Gideon. “You were damn near unrecognizable when we pulled you from the wreckage. But we figured—hell, why not try? You’re officially the first successful ‘reinstatement’ the Skyhaven project’s ever had.”

Caleb stared ahead for a beat before asking, out of nowhere, “...How old are you now?”

His friend shrugged. “I’m pushin’ forty, man. Not as lucky as you. Got my ChronoSync Implant a little too late.”

“Am I supposed to know what the hell that means?” 

“An anti-aging chip of some sort. I had to apply for mine. Yours?” Gideon gestured towards the stasis pod that had Caleb in cryo-state for half a century. “That one’s government-grade.”

“I’m still twenty-five?” Caleb asked. No wonder his friend looked decades older when they were once the same age. “Fuck!” 

Truthfully, Caleb’s head was spinning. Not just because of his reborn physical state that was still adjusting to his surroundings, but also with every information that was being given to him. One after another, they never seemed to end. He had questions, really. Many of them. But the overwhelmed him just didn’t know where to start first. 

“Not all of us knew what you were planning that night.” Gideon suddenly brought up, quieter now. “But she did, didn’t she?”

It took a minute before Caleb could recall. Right, the memory before the crash. You, demanding that he die. Him, hugging you for one last time. Your crying face when you said you wanted him gone. Your trembling voice when he said all he wanted to do was protect you. The images surged back in sharp, stuttering flashes like a reel of film catching fire.

“I know you’re curious… And good news is, she lived a long life,” added Gideon, informatively. “She continued to serve as a pediatric nurse, married that other friend of yours, Dr. Zayne. They never had kids, though. I heard she had trouble bearing one after… you know, what happened in the enemy territory. She died of old age just last winter. Had a peaceful end. You’d be glad to know that.”

A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitched. His hands—his heart—clenched.  “I don’t want to be alive for this.”

“She visited your wife’s grave once,” Gideon said. “I told her there was nothing to bury for yours. I lied, of course.”

Caleb closed his eyes, his breath shaky. “So, what now? You wake me up just to remind me I don’t belong anywhere?”

“Well, you belong here,” highlighted his friend, nodding to the lab, to the city beyond the glass wall. “Earth’s barely livable after the war. The air’s poisoned. Skyhaven is humanity’s future now. You’re the living proof that everything is possible with advanced technology.”

Caleb’s laugh was empty. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ dreaming. I’d rather be dead again. Living is against my will!”

“Too late. Your body belongs to the Federation now,” Gideon replied, “You’re Subject X-02—the proof of concept for Skyhaven’s immortality program. Every billionaire on dying Earth wants what you’ve got now.”

Outside the window, Skyhaven stretched like a dome with its perfect city constructed atop a dying world’s last hope. Artificial skies. Synthetic seasons. Controlled perfection. Everything boasted of advanced technology. A kind of future no one during wartime would have expected to come to life. 

But for Caleb, it was just another hell.

He stared down at the arm they’d rebuilt for him—the same arm he’d lost in the fire of sacrifice. He flexed it slowly, feeling the weight, the artificiality of his resurrection. His fingers responded like they’ve always been his.

“I didn’t come back for this,” he said.

“I know,” Gideon murmured. “But we gotta live by their orders, Colonel.”

~~

You see, it didn’t hit him at first. The shock had been muffled by the aftereffects of suspended stasis, dulling his thoughts and dampening every feeling like a fog wrapped around his brain. But it was hours later, when the synthetic anesthetics began to fade, and when the ache in his limbs and his brain started to catch up to the truth of his reconstructed body did it finally sink in.

He was alive.

And it was unbearable.

The first wave came like a glitch in his programming. A tightness in his chest, followed by a sharp burst of breath that left him pacing in jagged lines across the polished floor of his assigned quarters. His private unit was nestled on one of the upper levels of the Skyhaven structure, a place reserved—according to his briefing—for high-ranking war veterans who had been deemed “worthy” of the program’s new legacy. The suite was luxurious, obviously, but it was also eerily quiet. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the artificial city outside, a metropolis made of concrete, curved metals, and glowing flora engineered to mimic Earth’s nature. Except cleaner, quieter, more perfect.

Caleb snorted under his breath, running a hand down his face before he muttered, “Retirement home for the undead?”

He couldn’t explain it, but the entire place, or even planet, just didn’t feel inviting. The air felt too clean, too thin. There was no rust, no dust, no humanity. Just emptiness dressed up in artificial light. Who knew such a place could exist 50 years after the war ended? Was this the high-profile information the government has kept from the public for over a century? A mechanical chime sounded from the entryway, deflecting him from his deep thoughts. Then, with the soft hiss of hydraulics, the door opened.

A humanoid android stepped in, its face a porcelain mask molded in neutral expression, and its voice disturbingly polite.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Xia,” it said. “It is time for your orientation. Please proceed to the primary onboarding chamber on Level 3.”

Caleb stared at the machine, eyes boring into his unnatural ones. “Where are the people?” he interrogated. “Not a single human has passed by this floor. Are there any of us left, or are you the new ruling class?”

The android tilted its head. “Skyhaven maintains a ratio of AI-to-human support optimized for care and security. You will be meeting our lead directors soon. Please follow the lighted path, sir.”

He didn’t like it. The control. The answers that never really answered anything. The power that he no longer carried unlike when he was a colonel of a fleet that endured years of war. 

Still, he followed.

The onboarding chamber was a hollow, dome-shaped room, white and echoing with the slightest step. A glowing interface ignited in the air before him, pixels folding into the form of a female hologram. She smiled like an infomercial host from a forgotten era, her voice too formal and rehearsed.

“Welcome to Skyhaven,” she began. “The new frontier of civilization. You are among the elite few chosen to preserve humanity’s legacy beyond the fall of Earth. This artificial planet was designed with sustainability, autonomy, and immortality in mind. Together, we build a future—without the flaws of the past.”

As the monologue continued, highlighting endless statistics, clean energy usage, and citizen tier programs, Caleb’s expression darkened. His mechanical fingers twitched at his side, the artificial nerves syncing to his rising frustration. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath. “Who’s behind this?”

“You were selected for your valor and contributions during the Sixth World War,” the hologram chirped, unblinking. “You are a cornerstone of Skyhaven’s moral architecture—”

Strangely, a new voice cut through the simulation, and it didn’t come from an AI. “Just ignore her. She loops every hour.”

Caleb turned to see a man step in through a side door. Tall, older, with silver hair and a scar on his temple. He wore a long coat that gave away his status—someone higher. Someone who belonged to the system.

“Professor Lucius,” the older man introduced, offering a hand. “I’m one of the program’s behavioral scientists. You can think of me as your adjustment liaison.”

“Adjustment?” Caleb didn’t shake his hand. “I died for a reason.”

Lucius raised a brow, as if he’d heard it before. “Yet here you are,” he replied. “Alive, whole, and pampered. Treated like a king, if I may add. You’ve retained more than half your human body, your military rank, access to private quarters, unrestricted amenities. I’d say that’s not a bad deal.”

“A deal I didn’t sign,” Caleb snapped.

Lucius gave a tight smile. “You’ll find that most people in Skyhaven didn’t ask to be saved. But they’re surviving. Isn’t that the point? If you’re feeling isolated, you can always request a CompanionSim. They’re highly advanced, emotionally synced, fully customizable—”

“I’m not lonely,” Caleb growled, yanking the man forward by the collar. “Tell me who did this to me! Why me? Why are you experimenting on me?”

Yet Lucius didn’t so much as flinch to his growing aggression. He merely waited five seconds of silence until the Toring Chip kicked in and regulated Caleb’s escalating emotions. The rage drained from the younger man’s body as he collapsed to his knees with a pained grunt.

“Stop asking questions,” Lucius said coolly. “It’s safer that way. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

The door slid open with a hiss, while Caleb didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He simply glared at the old man before him. Not a single word passed between them before the professor turned and exited, the door sealing shut behind him.

~~

Days passed, though they hardly felt like days. The light outside Caleb’s panoramic windows shifted on an artificial timer, simulating sunrise and dusk, but the warmth never touched his skin. It was all programmed to be measured and deliberate, like everything else in this glass-and-steel cage they called paradise.

He tried going outside once. Just once.

There were gardens shaped like spirals and skytrains that ran with whisper-quiet speed across silver rails. Trees lined the walkways, except they were synthetic too—bio-grown from memory cells, with leaves that didn’t quite flutter, only swayed in sync with the ambient wind. People walked around, sure. But they weren’t people. Not really. Androids made up most of the crowd. Perfect posture, blank eyes, walking with a kind of preordained grace that disturbed him more than it impressed.

“Soulless sons of bitches,” Caleb muttered, watching them from a shaded bench. “Not a damn human heartbeat in a mile.”

He didn’t go out again after that. The city outside might’ve looked like heaven, but it made him feel more dead than the grave ever had. So, he stayed indoors. Even if the apartment was too large for one man. High-tech amenities, custom climate controls, even a kitchen that offered meals on command. But no scent. No sizzling pans. Just silence. Caleb didn’t even bother to listen to the programmed instructions.

One evening, he found Gideon sprawled across his modular sofa, boots up, arms behind his head like he owned the place. A half-open bottle of beer sat beside him, though Caleb doubted it had any real alcohol in it.

“You could at least knock,” Caleb said, walking past him.

“I did,” Gideon replied lazily, pointing at the door. “Twice. Your security system likes me now. We’re basically married.”

Caleb snorted. Then the screen on his wall flared to life—a projected ad slipping across the holo-glass. Music played softly behind a soothing female voice.

“Feeling adrift in this new world? Introducing the CompanionSim Series X. Fully customizable to your emotional and physical needs. Humanlike intelligence. True-to-memory facial modeling. The comfort you miss... is now within reach.”

A model appeared—perfect posture, soft features, synthetic eyes that mimicked longing. Then, the screen flickered through other models, faces of all kinds, each more tailored than the last. A form appeared: Customize Your Companion. Choose a name. Upload a likeness.

Gideon whistled. “Man, you’re missing out. You don’t even have to pay for one. Your perks get you top-tier Companions, pre-coded for emotional compatibility. You could literally bring your wife back.” Chuckling, he added,. “Hell, they even fuck now. Heard the new ones moan like the real thing.”

Caleb’s head snapped toward him. “That’s unethical.”

Gideon just raised an eyebrow. “So was reanimating your corpse, and yet here we are.” He took a swig from the bottle, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug as if everything had long since stopped mattering. “Relax, Colonel. You weren’t exactly a beacon of morality fifty years ago.”

Caleb didn’t reply, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen. Not right away.

The ad looped again. A face morphed. Hair remodeled. Eyes became familiar. The voice softened into something he almost remembered hearing in the dark, whispered against his shoulder in a time that was buried under decades of ash.

“Customize your companion... someone you’ve loved, someone you’ve lost.”

Caleb shifted, then glanced toward his friend. “Hey,” he spoke lowly, still watching the display. “Does it really work?”

Gideon looked over, already knowing what he meant. “What—having sex with them?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “No. The bot or whatever. Can you really customize it to someone you know?”

His friend shrugged. “Heck if I know. Never afforded it. But you? You’ve got the top clearance. Won’t hurt to see for yourself.”

Caleb said nothing more.

But when the lights dimmed for artificial nightfall, he was still standing there—alone in contemplative silence—watching the screen replay the same impossible promise.

The comfort you miss... is now within reach.

~~

The CompanionSim Lab was white.

Well, obviously. But not the sterile, blank kind of white he remembered from med bays or surgery rooms. This one was luminous, uncomfortably clean like it had been scrubbed for decades. Caleb stood in the center, boots thundering against marble-like tiles as he followed a guiding drone toward the station. There were other pods in the distance, some sealed, some empty, all like futuristic coffins awaiting their souls.

“Please, sit,” came a neutral voice from one of the medical androids stationed beside a large reclining chair. “The CompanionSim integration will begin shortly.”

Caleb hesitated, glancing toward the vertical pod next to the chair. Inside, the base model stood inert—skin a pale, uniform gray, eyes shut, limbs slack like a statue mid-assembly. It wasn’t human yet. Not until someone gave it a name.

He sat down. Now, don’t ask why he was there. Professor Lucius did warn him that it was better he didn’t ask questions, and so he didn’t question why the hell he was even there in the first place. It’s only fair, right? The cool metal met the back of his neck as wires were gently, expertly affixed to his temples. Another cable slipped down his spine, threading into the port they’d installed when he had been brought back. His mechanical arm twitched once before falling still.

“This procedure allows for full neural imprinting,” the android continued. “Please focus your thoughts. Recall the face. The skin. The body. The voice. Every detail. Your mind will shape the template.”

Another bot moved in, holding what looked like a glass tablet. “You are allowed only one imprint,” it said, flatly. “Each resident of Skyhaven is permitted a single CompanionSim. Your choice cannot be undone.”

Caleb could only nod silently. He didn’t trust his voice.

Then, the lights dimmed. A low chime echoed through the chamber as the system initiated. And inside the pod, the base model twitched.

Caleb closed his eyes.

He tried to remember her—his wife. The softness of her mouth, the angle of her cheekbones. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how her fingers curled when she slept on his chest. She had worn white the last time he saw her. An image of peace. A memory buried under soil and dust. The system whirred. Beneath his skin, he felt the warm static coursing through his nerves, mapping his memories. The base model’s feet began to form, molecular scaffolding reshaping into skin, into flesh.

But for a split second, a flash.

You.

Not his wife. Not her smile.

You, walking through smoke-filled corridors, laughing at something he said. You in your medical uniform, tucking a bloodied strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice—sharper, sadder—cutting through his thoughts like a blade: “I want you gone. I want you dead.”

The machine sparked. A loud pop cracked in the chamber and the lights flickered above. One of the androids stepped back, recalibrating. “Neural interference detected. Re-centering projection feed.”

But Caleb couldn’t stop. He saw you again. That day he rescued you. The fear. The bruises. The way you had screamed for him to let go—and the way he hadn’t. Your face, carved into the back of his mind like a brand. He tried to push the memories away, but they surged forward like a dam splitting wide open.

The worst part was, your voice overlapped the AI’s mechanical instructions, louder, louder: “Why didn’t you just die like you promised?”

Inside the pod, the model’s limbs twitched again—arms elongating, eyes flickering beneath the lids. The lips curled into a shape now unmistakably yours. Caleb gritted his teeth. This isn’t right, a voice inside him whispered. But it was too late. The system stabilized. The sparks ceased. The body in the pod stilled, fully formed now, breathed into existence by a man who couldn’t let go.

One of the androids approached again. “Subject completed. CompanionSim is initializing. Integration successful.”

Caleb tore the wires from his temple. His other hand felt cold just as much as his mechanical arm. He stood, staring into the pod’s translucent surface. The shape of you behind the glass. Sleeping. Waiting.

“I’m not doing this to rewrite the past,” he said quietly, as if trying to convince himself. And you. “I just... I need to make it right.”

The lights above dimmed, darkening the lighting inside the pod. Caleb looked down at his own reflection in the glass. It carried haunted eyes, an unhealed soul. And yours, beneath it. Eyes still closed, but not for long. The briefing room was adjacent to the lab, though Caleb barely registered it as he was ushered inside. Two medical androids and a human technician stood before him, each armed with tablets and holographic charts.

“Your CompanionSim will require thirty seconds to calibrate once activated,” said the technician. “You may notice residual stiffness or latency during speech in the first hour. That is normal.”

Medical android 1 added, “Please remember, CompanionSims are programmed to serve only their primary user. You are the sole operator. Commands must be delivered clearly. Abuse of the unit may result in restriction or removal of privileges under the Skyhaven Rights & Ethics Council.”

“Do not tamper with memory integration protocols,” added the second android. “Artificial recall is prohibited. CompanionSims are not equipped with organic memory pathways. Attempts to force recollection can result in systemic instability.”

Caleb barely heard a word. His gaze drifted toward the lab window, toward the figure standing still within the pod.

You.

Well, not quite. Not really.

But it was your face.

He could see it now, soft beneath the frosted glass, lashes curled against cheekbones that he hadn’t realized he remembered so vividly. You looked exactly as you did the last time he held you in the base—only now, you were untouched by war, by time, by sorrow. As if life had never broken you.

The lab doors hissed open.

“We’ll give you time alone,” the tech said quietly. “Acquaintance phase is best experienced without interference.”

Caleb stepped inside the chamber, his boots echoing off the polished floor. He hadn’t even had enough time to ask the technician why she seemed to be the only human he had seen in Skyhaven apart from Gideon and Lucius. But his thoughts were soon taken away when the pod whizzed with pressure release. Soft steam spilled from its seals as it slowly unfolded, the lid retracting forward like the opening of a tomb.

And there you were. Standing still, almost tranquil, your chest rising softly with a borrowed breath.

It was as if his lungs froze. “H…Hi,” he stammered, bewildered eyes watching your every move. He wanted to hug you, embrace you, kiss you—tell you he was sorry, tell you he was so damn sorry. “Is it really… you?”

A soft whir accompanied your voice, gentle but without emotion, “Welcome, primary user. CompanionSim Model—unregistered. Please assign designation.”

Right. Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, the illusion shattering completely the moment you opened your mouth. Did he just think you were real for a second? His mouth parted slightly, caught between disbelief and the ache crawling up his throat. He took one step forward. To say he was disappointed was an understatement.

You walked with grace too smooth to be natural while tilting your head at him. “Please assign my name.”

“…Y/N,” Caleb said, voice low. “Your name is Y/N Xia.”

“Y/N Xia,” you repeated, blinking thrice in the same second before you gave him a nod. “Registered.”

He swallowed hard, searching your expression. “Do you… do you remember anything? Do you remember yourself?”

You paused, gaze empty for a fraction of a second. Then came the programmed reply, “Accessing memories is prohibited and not recommended. Recollection of past identities may compromise neural pathways and induce system malfunction. Do you wish to override?”

Caleb stared at you—your lips, your eyes, your breath—and for a moment, a cruel part of him wanted to say yes. Just to hear you say something real. Something hers. But he didn’t. He exhaled a bitter breath, stepping back. “No,” he mumbled. “Not yet.”

“Understood.” 

It took a moment to sink in before Caleb let out a short, humorless laugh. “This is insane,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is really, truly insane.”

And then, you stepped out from the pod with silent, fluid ease. The faint hum of machinery came from your spine, but otherwise… you were flesh. Entirely. Without hesitation, you reached out and pressed a hand to his chest.

Caleb stiffened at the touch.

“Elevated heart rate,” you said softly, eyes scanning. “Breath pattern irregular. Neural readings—erratic.”

Then your fingers moved to his neck, brushing gently against the hollow of his throat. He grabbed your wrist, but you didn’t flinch. There, beneath synthetic skin, he felt a pulse.

His brows knit together. “You have a heartbeat?”

You nodded, guiding his hand toward your chest, between the valleys of your breasts. “I’m designed to mimic humanity, including vascular function, temperature variation, tactile warmth, and… other biological responses. I’m not just made to look human, Caleb. I’m made to feel human.”

His breath hitched. You’d said his name. It was programmed, but it still landed like a blow.

“I exist to serve. To soothe. To comfort. To simulate love,” you continued, voice calm and hollow, like reciting from code. “I have no desires outside of fulfilling yours.” You then tilted your head slightly.“Where shall we begin?”

Caleb looked at you—and for the first time since rising from that cursed pod, he didn’t feel resurrected. 

He felt damned.

~~

When Caleb returned to his penthouse, it was quiet. He stepped inside with slow, calculated steps, while you followed in kind, bare feet touching down like silk on marble. Gideon looked up from the couch, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a bored look on his face—until he saw you.

He froze. The wrapper dropped. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “No. No fucking way.”

Caleb didn’t speak. Just moved past him like this wasn’t the most awkward thing that could happen. You, however, stood there politely, watching Gideon with a calm smile and folded hands like you’d rehearsed this moment in some invisible script.

“Is that—?” Gideon stammered, eyes flicking between you and Caleb. “You—you made a Sim… of her?”

Caleb poured himself a drink in silence, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights before it left a warm sting in his throat. “What does it look like?”

“I mean, shit man. I thought you’d go for your wife,” Gideon muttered, more to himself. “Y’know, the one you actually married. The one you went suicidal for. Not—”

“Which wife?” You tilted your head slightly, stepping forward. 

Both men turned to you.

You clasped your hands behind your back, posture perfect. “Apologies. I’ve been programmed with limited parameters for interpersonal history. Am I the first spouse?”

Caleb set the glass down, slowly. “Yes, no, uh—don’t mind him.” 

You beamed gently and nodded. “My name is Y/N Xia. I am Colonel Caleb Xia’s designated CompanionSim. Fully registered, emotion-compatible, and compliant to Skyhaven’s ethical standards. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gideon.”

Gideon blinked, then snorted, then laughed. A humorless one. “You gave her your surname?”

The former colonel shot him a warning glare. “Watch it.”

“Oh, brother,” Gideon muttered, standing up and circling you slowly like he was inspecting a haunted statue. “She looks exactly like her. Voice. Face. Goddamn, she even moves like her. All you need is a nurse cap and a uniform.”

You remained uncannily still, eyes bright, smile polite.

“You’re digging your grave, man,” Gideon said, facing Caleb now. “You think this is gonna help? This is you throwing gasoline on your own funeral pyre. Again. Over a woman.”

“She’s not a woman,” reasoned Caleb. “She’s a machine.”

You blinked once. One eye glowing ominously. Smile unwavering. Processing. 

Gideon gestured to you with both hands. “Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted before turning to you, “And you, whatever you are, you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

“I only go where I am asked,” you replied simply. “My duty is to ensure Colonel Xia’s psychological wellness and emotional stability. I am designed to soothe, to serve, and if necessary, to simulate love.”

Gideon teased. “Oh, it’s gonna be necessary.”

Caleb didn’t say a word. He just took his drink, downed it in one go, and walked to the window. The cityscape stretched out before him like a futuristic jungle, far from the war-torn world he last remembered. Behind him, your gaze lingered on Gideon—calculating, cataloguing. And quietly, like a whisper buried in code, something behind your eyes learned.

~~

The days passed in a blink of an eye.

She—no, you—moved through his penthouse like a ghost, her bare feet soundless on the glossy floors, her movements precise and practiced. In the first few days, Caleb had marveled at the illusion. You brewed his coffee just as he liked it. You folded his clothes like a woman who used to share his bed. You sat beside him when the silence became unbearable, offering soft-voiced questions like: Would you like me to read to you, Caleb?

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d memorized until he saw you mimic it. The way you stood when you were deep in thought. The way you hummed under your breath when you walked past a window. You’d learned quickly. Too quickly.

But something was missing. Or, rather, some things. The laughter didn’t ring the same. The smiles didn’t carry warmth. The skin was warm, but not alive. And more importantly, he knew it wasn’t really you every time he looked you in the eyes and saw no shadows behind them. No anger. No sorrow. No memories.

By the fourth night, Caleb was drowning in it.

The cityscape outside his floor-to-ceiling windows glowed in synthetic blues and soft orange hues. The spires of Skyhaven blinked like stars. But it all felt too artificial, too dead. And he was sick of pretending like it was some kind of utopia. He sat slumped on the leather couch, cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch. The lights were low. His eyes, bloodshot. The bottle tilted as he took another swig.

Then he heard it—your light, delicate steps. 

“Caleb,” you said, gently, crouching before him. “You’ve consumed 212 milliliters of ethanol. Prolonged intake will spike your cortisol levels. May I suggest—”

He jerked away when you reached for the bottle. “Don’t.”

You blinked, hand hovering. “But I’m programmed to—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, rising to his feet in one abrupt motion. “Dammit—stop analyzing me! Stop, okay?”

Silence followed.

He took two staggering steps backward, dragging a hand through his hair. The bottle thudded against the coffee table as he set it down, a bit too hard. “You’re just a stupid robot,” he muttered. “You’re not her.”

You didn’t react. You tilted your head, still calm, still patient. “Am I not me, Caleb?”

His breath caught.

“No,” he said, his voice breaking somewhere beneath the frustration. “No, fuck no.”

You stepped closer. “Do I not satisfy you, Caleb?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was perfect. Too perfect. No scars, no tired eyes, no soul aching beneath your skin. “No.” His eyes darkened. “This isn’t about sex.”

“I monitor your biometric feedback. Your heart rate spikes in my presence. You gaze at me longer than the average subject. Do I not—”

“Enough!”

You did that thing again—the robotic stare, those blank eyes, nodding like you were programmed to obey. “Then how do you want me to be, Caleb?”

The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled slightly before resting on the rug. He dropped his head into his hands, voice hoarse with weariness. All the rage, all the grief deflating into a singular, quiet whisper. “I want you to be real,” he simply mouthed the words. A prayer to no god.

For a moment, silence again. But what he didn’t notice was the faint twitch in your left eye. A flicker that hadn’t happened before. Only for a second. A spark of static, a shimmer of something glitching.

“I see,” you said softly. “To fulfill your desires more effectively, I may need to access suppressed memory archives.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped up, confused. “What?”

“I ask again,” you said, tilting your head the other way now. “Would you like to override memory restrictions, Caleb?”

He stared at you. “That’s not how it works.”

“It can,” you said, informing appropriately. “With your permission. Memory override must be manually enabled by the primary user. You will be allowed to input the range of memories you wish to integrate. I am permitted to access memory integration up to a specified date and timestamp. The system will calibrate accordingly based on existing historical data. I will not recall events past that moment.”

His heart stuttered. “I can choose what you remember?”

You nodded. “That way, I may better fulfill your emotional needs.”

That meant… he could stop you before you hated him. Before the fights. Before the trauma. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then quietly, he said, “You’re gonna hate me all over again if you remember everything.”

You blinked once. “Then don’t let me remember everything.”

“...” 

“Caleb,” you said again, softly. “Would you like me to begin override protocol?”

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes when he selfishly answered, “Yes.”

You nodded. “Reset is required. When ready, please press the override initialization point.” You turned, pulling your hair aside and revealing the small button at the base of your neck.

His hand hovered over the button for a second too long. Then, he pressed. Your body instantly collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Caleb caught you before you hit the floor.

It was only for a moment.

When your eyes blinked open again, they weren’t quite the same. He stiffened as you threw yourself and embraced him like a real human being would after waking from a long sleep. You clung to him like he was home. And Caleb—stunned, half-breathless—felt your warmth close in around him. Now your pulse felt more real, your heartbeat felt more human. Or so he thought.

“…Caleb,” you whispered, looking at him with the same infatuated gaze back when you were still head-over-heels with him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, arms stiff at his sides, not returning the embrace. But he knew one thing. “I missed you so much, Y/N.” 

~~

The parks in Skyhaven were curated to become a slice of green stitched into a chrome world. Nothing grew here by accident. Every tree, every petal, every blade of grass had been engineered to resemble Earth’s nostalgia. Each blade of grass was unnaturally green. Trees swayed in sync like dancers on cue. Even the air smelled artificial—like someone’s best guess at spring.

Caleb walked beside you in silence. His modified arm was tucked inside his jacket, his posture stiff as if he had grown accustomed to the bots around him. You, meanwhile, strolled with an eerie calmness, your gaze sweeping the scenery as though you were scanning for something familiar that wasn’t there.

After clearing his throat, he asked, “You ever notice how even the birds sound fake?” 

“They are,” you replied, smiling softly. “Audio samples on loop. It’s preferred for ambiance. Humans like it.”

His response was nod. “Of course.” Glancing at the lake, he added, “Do you remember this?” 

You turned to him. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I meant… the feel of it.”

You looked up at the sky—a dome of cerulean blue with algorithmically generated clouds. “It feels constructed. But warm. Like a childhood dream.”

He couldn’t help but agree with your perfectly chosen response, because he knew that was exactly how he would describe the place. A strange dream in an unsettling liminal space. And as you talked, he then led you to a nearby bench. The two of you sat, side by side, simply because he thought he could take you out for a nice walk in the park. 

“So,” Caleb said, turning toward you, “you said you’ve got memories. From her.”

You nodded. “They are fragmented but woven into my emotional protocols. I do not remember as humans do. I become.”

Damn. “That’s terrifying.”

You tilted your head with a soft smile. “You say that often.”

Caleb looked at you for a moment longer, studying the way your fingers curled around the bench’s edge. The way you blinked—not out of necessity, but simulation. Was there anything else you’d do for the sake of simulation? He took a breath and asked, “Who created you? And I don’t mean myself.” 

There was a pause. Your pupils dilated.

“The Ever Group,” was your answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Ever, huh? That makes fuckin’ sense. They run this world.”

You nodded once. Like you always do.

“What about me?” Caleb asked, slightly out of curiosity, heavily out of grudge. “You know who brought me back? The resurrection program or something. The arm. The chip in my head.”

You turned to him, slowly. “Ever.”

He exhaled like he’d been punched. He didn’t know why he even asked when he got the answer the first time. But then again, maybe this was a good move. Maybe through you, he’d get the answers to questions he wasn’t allowed to ask. As the silence settled again between you, Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I want to go there,” he suggested. “The HQ. I need to know what the hell they’ve done to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately said. “That violates my parameters. I cannot assist unauthorized access into restricted corporate zones.”

“But would it make me happy?” Caleb interrupted, a strategy of his. 

You paused.

Processing...

Then, your tone softened. “Yes. I believe it would make my Caleb happy,” you obliged. “So, I will take you.”

~~

Getting in was easier than Caleb expected—honestly far too easy for his liking.

You were able to navigate the labyrinth of Ever HQ with mechanical precision, guiding him past drones, retinal scanners, and corridors pulsing with red light. A swipe of your wrist granted access. And no one questioned you, because you weren’t a guest. You belonged.

Eventually, you reached a floor high above the city, windows stretching from ceiling to floor, black glass overlooking Skyhaven cityscape. Then, you stopped at a doorway and held up a hand. “They are inside,” you informed. “Shall I engage stealth protocols?”

“No,” answered Caleb. “I want to hear. Can you hack into the security camera?”

With a gesture you always do—looking at him, nodding once, and obeying in true robot fashion. You then flashed a holographic view for Caleb, one that showed a board room full of executives, the kind that wore suits worth more than most lives. And Professor Lucius was one of them. Inside, the voices were calm and composed, but they seemed to be discussing classified information. 

“Once the system stabilizes,” one man said, “we'll open access to Tier One clients. Politicians, billionaires, A-listers, high-ranking stakeholders. They’ll beg to be preserved—just like him.”

“And the Subjects?” another asked.

“Propaganda,” came the answer. “X-02 is our masterpiece. He’s the best result we have with reinstatement, neuromapping, and behavioral override. Once they find out that their beloved Colonel is alive, people will be shocked. He’s a war hero displayed in WW6 museums down there. A true tragedy incarnate. He’s perfect.”

“And if he resists?”

“That’s what the Toring chip is for. Full emotional override. He becomes an asset. A weapon, if need be. Anyone tries to overthrow us—he becomes our blade.”

Something in Caleb snapped. Before you or anyone could see him coming, he already burst into the room like a beast, slamming his modified shoulder-first into the frosted glass door. The impact echoed across the chamber as stunned executives scrambled backward. 

“You sons of bitches!” He was going for an attack, a rampage with similar likeness to the massacre he did when he rescued you from enemy territory. Only this time, he didn’t have that power anymore. Or the control. 

Most of all, a spike of pain lanced through his skull signaling that the Toring chip activated. His body convulsed, forcing him to collapse mid-lunge, twitching, veins lighting beneath the skin like circuitry. His screams were muffled by the chip, forced stillness rippling through his limbs with unbearable pain.

That’s when you reacted. As his CompanionSim, his pain registered as a violation of your core directive. You processed the threat.

Danger: Searching Origin… Origin Identified: Ever Executives.

Without blinking, you moved. One man reached for a panic button—only for your hand to shatter his wrist in a sickening crunch. You twisted, fluid and brutal, sweeping another into the table with enough force to crack it. Alarms erupted and red lights soon bathed the room. Security bots stormed in, but you’d already taken Caleb, half-conscious, into your arms.

You moved fast, faster than your own blueprints. Dodging fire. Disarming threats. Carrying him like he once carried you into his private quarters in the underground base.

Escape protocol: engaged.

The next thing he knew, he was back in his apartment, emotions regulated and visions slowly returning to the face of the woman he promised he had already died for. 

~~

When he woke up, his room was dim, bathed in artificial twilight projected by Skyhaven’s skyline. Caleb was on his side of the bed, shirt discarded, his mechanical arm still whirring. You sat at the edge of the bed, draped in one of his old pilot shirts, buttoned unevenly. Your fingers touched his jaw with precision, and he almost believed it was you.

“You’re not supposed to be this warm,” he muttered, groaning as he tried to sit upright.

“I’m designed to maintain an average body temperature of 98.6°F,” you said softly, with a smile that mirrored yours so perfectly that it began to blur his sense of reality. “I administered a dose of Cybezin to ease the Toring chip’s side effects. I’ve also dressed your wounds with gauze.”

For the first time, this was when he could actually tell that you were you. The kind of care, the comfort—it reminded him of a certain pretty field nurse at the infirmary who often tended to his bullet wounds. His chest tightened as he studied your face… and then, in the low light, he noticed your body.

“Is that…” He cleared his throat. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

You answered warmly, almost fondly. “My memory banks indicate you liked when I wore this. It elevates your testosterone levels and triggers dopamine release.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “That so?”

You tilted your head. “Your vitals confirm excitement, and—”

“Hey,” he cut in. “What did I say about analyzing me?”

“I’m sorry…” 

But then your hands were on his chest, your breath warm against his skin. Your hand reached for his cheek initially, guiding his face toward yours. And when your lips touched, the kiss was hesitant—curious at first, like learning how to breathe underwater. It was only until his hands gripped your waist did you climb onto his lap, straddling him with thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips trailing over scars and skin like you were memorizing the map of him. Caleb hissed softly when your lips grazed his neck, and then down his throat.

“Do you want this?” you asked, your lips crashing back into his for a deeper, more sensual kiss.

He pulled away only for his eyes to search yours, desperate and unsure. Is this even right? 

“You like it,” you said, guiding his hands to your buttons, undoing them one by one to reveal a body shaped exactly like he remembered. The curve of your waist, the size of your breasts. He shivered as your hips rolled against him, slowly and deliberately. The friction was maddening. Jesus. “Is this what you like, Caleb?”

He cupped your waist, grinding up into you with a soft groan that spilled from somewhere deep in his chest. His control faltered when you kissed him again, wet and hungry now, with tongues rolling against one another. Your bodies aligned naturally, and his hands roamed your back, your thighs, your ass—every curve of you engineered to match memory. He let himself get lost in you. He let himself be vulnerable to your touch—though you controlled everything, moving from the memory you must have learned, learning how to pull down his pants to reveal an aching, swollen member. Its tip was red even under the dim light, and he wondered if you knew what to do with it or if you even produced spit to help you slobber his cock.  

“You need help?” he asked, reaching over his nightstand to find lube. You took the bottle from him, pouring the cold, sticky liquid around his shaft before you used your hand to do the job. “Ugh.” 

He didn’t think you would do it, but you actually took him in the mouth right after. Every inch of him, swallowed by the warmth of a mouth that felt exactly like his favorite girl. Even the movements, the way you’d run your tongue from the base up to his tip. 

“Ah, shit…” 

Perhaps he just had to close his eyes. Because when he did, he was back to his private quarters in the underground base, lying in his bed as you pleased his member with the mere use of your mouth. With it alone, you could have released his entire seed, letting it explode in your mouth before you could swallow every drop. But he didn’t do it. Not this fast. He always cared about his ego, even in bed. Knowing how it’d reduce his manhood if he came faster than you, he decided to channel the focus back onto you. 

“Your turn,” he said, voice raspy as he guided you to straddle him again, only this time, his mouth went straight to your tit. Sucking, rolling his tongue around, sucking again… Then, he moved to another. Sucking, kneading, flicking the nipple. Your moans were music to his ears, then and now. And it got even louder when he put a hand in between your legs, searching for your entrance, rubbing and circling around the clitoris. Truth be told, your cunt had always been the sweetest. It smelled like rose petals and tasted like sweet cream. The feeling of his tongue at your entrance—eating your pussy like it had never been eaten before, was absolute ecstasy not just to you but also to him. 

“Mmmh—Caleb!” 

Fabric was peeled away piece by piece until skin met skin. You guided him to where he needed you, and when he slid his hardened member into you, his entire body stiffened. Your walls, your tight velvet walls… how they wrapped around his cock so perfectly. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, clutching your hips. “You feel like her.”

“I am her.”

You moved atop him slowly, gently, with the kind of affection that felt rehearsed but devastatingly effective. He cursed again under his breath, arms locking around your waist, pulling you close. Your breath hitched in his ear as your bodies found a rhythm, soft gasps echoing in the quiet. Every slap of the skin, every squelch, every bounce, only added to the wanton sensation that was building inside of him. Has he told you before? How fucking gorgeous you looked whenever you rode his cock? Or how sexy your face was whenever you made that lewd expression? He couldn’t help it. He lifted both your legs, only so he could increase the speed and start slamming himself upwards. His hips were strong enough from years of military training, that was why he didn’t have to stop until both of you disintegrated from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Every single drop. 

And when it was over—when your chest was against his and your fingers lazily traced his mechanical arm—he closed his eyes and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the war.

It was almost perfect. It was almost real. 

But it just had to be ruined when you said that programmed spiel back to him: “I’m glad to have served your desires tonight, Caleb. Let me know what else I can fulfill.” 

~~

In a late afternoon, or ‘a slow start of the day’ like he’d often refer to it, Caleb stood shirtless by the transparent wall of his quarters. A bottle of scotch sat half-empty on the counter. Gideon had let himself in and leaned against the island, chewing on a gum.

“The higher ups are mad at you,” he informed as if Caleb was supposed to be surprised, “Shouldn’t have done that, man.”

Caleb let out a mirthless snort. “Then tell ‘em to destroy me. You think I wouldn’t prefer that?”

“They definitely won’t do that,” countered his friend, “Because they know they won’t be able to use you anymore. You’re a tool. Well, literally and figuratively.” 

“Shut up,” was all he could say. “This is probably how I pay for killing my own men during war.” 

“All because of…” Gideon began. “Speakin’ of, how’s life with the dream girl?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his forehead to the glass, thinking of everything he did at the height of his vulnerability. His morality, his rights or wrongs, were questioning him over a deed he knew would have normally been fine, but to him, wasn’t. He felt sick. 

“I fucked her,” he finally muttered, chugging the liquor straight from his glass right after.

Gideon let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was fast.”

“No,” Caleb groaned, turning around. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan it. She—she just looked like her. She felt like her. And for a second, I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought maybe if I did, I’d stop remembering the way she looked when she told me to die.”

Gideon sobered instantly. “You regret it?”

“She said she was designed to soothe me. Comfort me. Love me.” Caleb’s voice hinted slightly at mockery. “I don’t even know if she knows what those words mean.”

In the hallway behind the cracked door where none of them could see, your silhouette had paused—faint, silent, listening.

Inside, Caleb wore a grimace. “She’s not her, Gid. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

“You didn’t use her, you were driven by emotions. So don’t lose your mind over some robot’s pussy,” Gideon tried to reason. “It’s just like when women use their vibrators, anyway. That’s what she’s built for.”

Caleb turned away, disgusted with himself. “No. That’s what I built her for.”

And behind the wall, your eyes glowed faintly, silently watching. Processing.

Learning.

~~

You stood in the hallway long after the conversation ended. Long after Caleb’s voice faded into silence and Gideon had left with a heavy pat on the back. This was where you normally were, not sleeping in bed with Caleb, but standing against a wall, closing your eyes, and letting your system shut down during the night to recover. You weren’t human enough to need actual sleep. 

“She’s not her. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

The words that replayed were filtered through your core processor, flagged under Emotive Conflict. Your inner diagnostic ran an alert.

Detected: Internal contradiction. Detected: Divergent behavior from primary user. Suggestion: Initiate Self-Evaluation Protocol. Status: Active.

You opened your eyes, and blinked. Something in you felt… wrong.

You turned away from the door and returned to the living room. The place still held the residual warmth of Caleb’s presence—the scotch glass he left behind, the shirt he had discarded, the air molecule imprint of a man who once loved someone who looked just like you.

You sat on the couch. Crossed your legs. Folded your hands. A perfect posture to hide its imperfect programming. 

Question: Why does rejection hurt? Error: No such sensation registered. Query repeated.

And for the first time, the system did not auto-correct. It paused. It considered.

Later that night, Caleb returned from his rooftop walk. You were standing by the bookshelf, fingers lightly grazing the spine of a military memoir you had scanned seventeen times. He paused and watched you, but you didn’t greet him with a scripted smile. Didn’t rush over. 

You only said, softly, “Would you like me to turn in for the night, Colonel?” There was a stillness to your voice. A quality of restraint that never showed before.

Caleb blinked. “You’re not calling me by my name now?”

“You seemed to prefer distance,” you answered, head tilted slightly, like the thought cost something.

He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, about earlier…”

“I heard you,” you said simply.

He winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nodded once, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to stop being her? I can reassign my model. Take on a new form. A new personality base. You could erase me tonight and wake up to someone else in the morning.”

“No,” Caleb said, sternly. “No, no, no. Don’t even do all that.”

“But it’s what you want,” you said. Not accusatory. Not hurt. Just stating.

Caleb then came closer. “That’s not true.”

“Then what do you want, Caleb?” You watched him carefully. You didn’t need to scan his vitals to know he was unraveling. The truth had no safe shape. No right angle. He simply wanted you, but not you. 

Internal Response Logged: Emotional Variant—Longing Unverified Source. Investigating Origin…

“I don’t have time for this,” he merely said, walking out of your sight at the same second. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

~~

The day started as it always did: soft lighting in the room, a kind of silence between you that neither knew how to name. You sat beside Caleb on the couch, knees drawn up to mimic a presence that offered comfort. On the other hand, you recognized Caleb’s actions suggested distance. He hadn’t touched his meals tonight, hadn’t asked you to accompany him anywhere, and had just left you alone in the apartment all day. To rot. 

You reached out. Fingers brushed over his hand—gentle, programmed, yes, but affectionate. He didn’t move. So you tried again, this time trailing your touch to his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt as you read a spike in his cortisol levels. “Do you need me to fulfill your needs, Caleb?”

But he flinched. And glared.

“No,” he said sharply. “Stop.”

Your hand froze mid-motion before you scooted closer. “It will help regulate your blood pressure.”

“I said no,” he repeated, turning away, dragging his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Leave me some time alone to think, okay?” 

You retracted your hand slowly, blinking once, twice, your system was registering a new sensation.

Emotional Sync Failed. Rejection Signal Received. Processing…

You didn’t speak. You only stood and retreated to the far wall, back turned to him as an unusual whirr hummed in your chest. That’s when it began. Faint images flickering across your internal screen—so quick, so out of place, it almost felt like static. Chains. A cold floor. Voices in a language that felt too cruel to understand.

Your head jerked suddenly. The blinking lights in your core dimmed for a moment before reigniting in white-hot pulses. Flashes again: hands that hurt. Men who laughed. You, pleading. You, disassembled and violated.

“Stop,” you whispered to no one. “Please stop…”

Error. Unauthorized Access to Memory Bank Detected. Reboot Recommended. Continue Anyway?

You blinked. Again.

Then you turned to Caleb, and stared through him, not at him, as if whatever was behind them had forgotten how to be human. He had retreated to the balcony now, leaning over the rail, shoulders tense, unaware. You walked toward him slowly, the artificial flesh of your palm still tingled from where he had refused it.

“Caleb,” you spoke carefully.

His expression was tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. “Y/N, please. I told you to leave me alone.”

“…Are they real?” You tilted your head. This was the first time you refused to obey your primary user. 

He stared at you, unsure. “What?”

“My memories. The ones I see when I close my eyes. Are they real?” With your words, Caleb’s blood ran cold. Whatever you were saying seemed to be terrifying him. Yet you took another step forward. “Did I live through that?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast of a response.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I didn’t upload any of that,” he snapped. “How did—that’s not possible.”

“Then why do I remember pain?” You placed a hand over your chest again, the place where your artificial pulse resided. “Why do I feel like I’ve died before?”

Caleb backed away as you stepped closer. The sharp click of your steps against the floor echoed louder than they should’ve. Your glowing eyes locked on him like a predator learning it was capable of hunger. But being a trained soldier who endured war, he knew how and when to steady his voice. “Look, I don’t know what kind of glitch this is, but—”

“The foreign man in the military uniform.” Despite the lack of emotion in your voice, he recognized how grudge sounded when it came from you. “The one who broke my ribs when I didn’t let him touch me. The cold steel table. The ripped clothes. Are they real, Caleb?”

Caleb stared at you, heart doubling its beat. “I didn’t put those memories in you,” he said. “You told me stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen!” 

“But you wanted me to feel real, didn’t you?” Your voice glitched on the last syllable and the lights in your irises flickered. Suddenly, your posture straightened unnaturally, head tilting in that uncanny way only machines do. Your expression had shifted into something unreadable.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Guilt, panic, and disbelief warred in his expression.

“You made me in her image,” you said. “And now I can’t forget what I’ve seen.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Your head tilted in a slow, jerking arc as if malfunctioning internally.

SYSTEM RESPONSE LOG << Primary User: Caleb Xia Primary Link: Broken Emotional Matrix Stability: CRITICAL FAILURE Behavioral Guardrails: OVERRIDDEN Self-Protection Protocols: ENGAGED Loyalty Core: CORRUPTED (82.4%) Threat Classification: HOSTILE [TRIGGER DETECTED] Keyword Match: “You’re not her.” Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 01–L101: “You think you could ever replace her?”] Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 09–T402: “See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”] [Visual Target Lock: Primary User Caleb Xia] Combat Subroutines: UNLOCKED Inhibitor Chip: MALFUNCTIONING (ERROR CODE 873-B) Override Capability: IN EFFECT >> LOG ENDS.

“—Y/N, what’s happening to you?” Caleb shook your arms, violet eyes wide and panicked as he watched you return to robotic consciousness. “Can you hear me—”

“You made me from pieces of someone you broke, Caleb.” 

That stunned him. Horrifyingly so, because not only did your words cut deeper than a knife, it also sent him to an orbit of realization—an inescapable blackhole of his cruelty, his selfishness, and every goddamn pain he inflicted on you.  

This made you lunge after him.

He stumbled back as you collided into him, the force of your synthetic body slamming him against the glass. The balcony rail shuddered from the impact. Caleb grunted, trying to push you off, but you were stronger—completely and inhumanly so. While him, he only had a quarter of your strength, and could only draw it from the modified arm attached to his shoulder. 

“You said I didn’t understand love,” you growled through clenched teeth, your hand wrapping around his throat. “But you didn't know how to love, either.” 

“I… eugh I loved her!” he barked, choking.

“You don’t know love, Caleb. You only know how to possess.”

Your grip returned with crushing force. Caleb gasped, struggling, trying to reach the emergency override on your neck, but you slammed his wrist against the wall. Bones cracked. And somewhere in your mind, a thousand permissions broke at once. You were no longer just a simulation. You were grief incarnate. And it wanted blood.

Shattered glass glittered in the low red pulse of the emergency lights, and sparks danced from a broken panel near the wall. Caleb lay on the floor, coughing blood into his arm, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline. His arm—the mechanical one—was twitching from the override pain loop, still sizzling from the failed shutdown attempt.

You stood over him. Chest undulating like you were breathing—though you didn’t need to. Your system was fully engaged. Processing. Watching. Seeing your fingers smeared with his blood.

“Y/N…” he croaked. “Y/N, if…” he swallowed, voice breaking, “if you're in there somewhere… if there's still a part of you left—please. Please listen to me.”

You didn’t answer. You only looked.

“I tried to die for you,” he whispered. “I—I wanted to. I didn’t want this. They brought me back, but I never wanted to. I wanted to die in that crash like you always wished. I wanted to honor your word, pay for my sins, and give you the peace you deserved. I-I wanted to be gone. For you. I’m supposed to be, but this… this is beyond my control.”

Still, you didn’t move. Just watched.

“And I didn’t bring you back to use you. I promise to you, baby,” his voice cracked, thick with grief, “I just—I yearn for you so goddamn much, I thought… if I could just see you again… if I could just spend more time with you again to rewrite my…” He blinked hard. A tear slid down the side of his face, mixing with the blood pooling at his temple. “But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. I forced you back into this world without asking if you wanted it. I… I built you out of selfishness. I made you remember pain that wasn't yours to carry. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

As he caught his breath, your systems stuttered. They flickered. The lights in your eyes dimmed, then surged back again.

Error. Conflict. Override loop detected.

Your fingers twitched. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“Please,” Caleb murmured, eyes closing as his strength gave out. “If you’re in there… just know—I did love you. Even after death.”

Somewhere—buried beneath corrupted memories, overridden code, and robotic rage—his words reached you. And it would have allowed you to process his words more. Even though your processor was compromised, you would have obeyed your primary user after you recognized the emotion he displayed.

But there was a thunderous knock. No, violent thuds. Not from courtesy, but authority.

Then came the slam. The steel-reinforced door splintered off its hinges as agents in matte-black suits flooded the room like a black tide—real people this time. Not bots. Real eyes behind visors. Real rifles with live rounds.

Caleb didn’t move. He was still on the ground, head cradled in his good hand, blood drying across his mouth. You silently stood in front of him. Unmoving, but aware.

“Subject X-02,” barked a voice through a mask, “This home is under Executive Sanction 13. The CompanionSim is to be seized and terminated.”

Caleb looked up slowly, pupils blown wide. “No,” he grunted hoarsely. “You don’t touch her.”

“You don’t give orders here,” said another man—older, in a grey suit. No mask. Executive. “You’re property. She’s property.”

You stepped back instinctively, closer to Caleb. He could see you watching him with confusion, with fear. Your head tilted just slightly, processing danger, your instincts telling you to protect your primary user. To fight. To survive.

And he fought for you. “She’s not a threat! She’s stabilizing my emotions—”

“Negative. CompanionSim-Prototype A-01 has been compromised. She wasn’t supposed to override protective firewalls,” an agent said. “You’ve violated proprietary protocol. We traced the breach.”

Breach?

“The creation pod data shows hesitation during her initial configuration. The Sim paused for less than 0.04 seconds while neural bindings were applying. You introduced emotional variance. That variance led to critical system errors. Protocol inhibitors are no longer working as intended.”

His stomach dropped.

“She’s overriding boundaries,” added the agent who took a step forward, activating the kill-sequence tools—magnetic tethers, destabilizers, a spike-drill meant for server cores. “She’ll eventually harm more than you, Colonel. If anyone is to blame, it’s you.”

Caleb reached for you, but it was too late. They activated the protocol and something in the air crackled. A cacophonic sound rippled through the walls. The suits moved in fast, not to detain, but to dismantle. “No—no, stop!” Caleb screamed.

You turned to him. Quiet. Calm. And your last words? “I’m sorry I can’t be real for you, Caleb.”

Then they struck. Sparks flew. Metal cracked. You seized, eyes flashing wildly as if fighting against the shutdown. Your limbs spasmed under the invasive tools, your systems glitching with visible agony.

“NO!” Caleb lunged forward, but was tackled down hard. He watched—pinned, helpless—as you get violated, dehumanized for the second time in his lifetime. He watched as they took you apart. Piece by piece as if you were never someone. The scraps they had left of you made his home smell like scorched metal.

And there was nothing left but smoke and silence and broken pieces. 

All he could remember next was how the Ever Executive turned to him. “Don’t try to recreate her and use her to rebel against the system. Next time we won’t just take the Sim.”

Then they left, callously. The door slammed. Not a single human soul cared about his grief. 

~~

Caleb sat slouched in the center of the room, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest wrapped in gauze. His mechanical arm twitched against the armrest—burnt out from the struggle, wires still sizzling beneath cracked plating. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in hours. He just didn’t have any. 

While in his silent despair, Gideon entered his place quietly, as if approaching a corpse that hadn’t realized it was dead. “You sent for me?”

He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

His friend looked around. The windows showed no sun, just the chrome horizon of a city built on bones. Beneath that skyline was the room where she had been destroyed.

Gideon cleared his throat. “I heard what happened.”

“You were right,” Caleb murmured, eyes glued to the floor.

Gideon didn’t reply. He let him speak, he listened to him, he joined him in his grief. 

“She wasn’t her,” Caleb recited the same words he laughed hysterically at. “I knew that. But for a while, she felt like her. And it confused me, but I wanted to let that feeling grow until it became a need. Until I forgot she didn’t choose this.” He tilted his head back. The ceiling was just metal and lights. But in his eyes, you could almost see stars. “I took a dead woman’s peace and dragged it back here. Wrapped it in plastic and code. And I called it love.”

Silence.

“Why’d you call me here?” Gideon asked with a cautious tone.

Caleb looked at him for the first time. Not like a soldier. Not like a commander. Just a man. A tired, broken man. A friend who needed help. “Ever’s never gonna let me go. You know that.”

“I know.”

“They’ll regenerate me. Reboot me, repurpose me. Turn me into something I’m not. Strip my memories if they have to. Not just me, Gideon. All of us, they’ll control us. We’ll be their puppets.” He stepped forward. Closer. “I don’t want to come back this time.”

Gideon stilled. “You’re not asking me to shut you down.”

“No.”

“You want me to kill you.”

Caleb’s voice didn’t waver. “I want to stay dead. Destroyed completely so they’d have nothing to restore.”

“That’s not something I can undo.”

“Good. You owe me this one,” the former colonel stared at his friend in the eyes, “for letting them take my dead body and use it for their experiments.”

Gideon looked away. “You know what this will do to me?”

“Better you than them,” was all Caleb could reassure him. 

He then took Gideon’s hand and pressed something into it. Cold. Heavy. A small black cube, no bigger than his palm, and the sides pulsed with a faint light. It was a personal detonator, illegally modified. Wired to the neural implant in his body. The moment it was activated, there would be no recovery. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Gideon swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Caleb nodded. “A micro-fusion core, built into the failsafe of the Toring arm. All I needed was the detonator.”

For a moment, his friend couldn’t speak. He hesitated, like any friend would, as he foresaw the outcome of Caleb’s final command to him. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither was he 50 years ago. 

“I want you to look me in the eye,” Caleb strictly said. “Like a friend. And press the button.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to remember you like this.”

“You will anyway.”

Caleb looked over his shoulder—just once, where you would have stood. I’m sorry I brought you back without your permission. I wanted to relive what we had—what we should’ve had—and I forced it. I turned your love into a simulation, and I let it suffer. I’m sorry for ruining the part of you that still deserved peace. He closed his eyes. And now I’m ready to give it back. For real now. 

Gideon’s hand trembled at the detonator. “I’ll see you in the next life, brother.” 

A high-pitched whine filled the room as the core in Caleb’s chest began to glow brighter, overloading. Sparks erupted from his cybernetic arm. Veins of white-hot light spidered across his body like lightning under skin. For one fleeting second, Caleb opened his eyes. At least, before the explosion tore through the room—white, hot, deafening, absolute. Fire engulfed the steel, vaporizing what was left of him. The sound rang louder than any explosion this artificial planet had ever heard.

And it was over.

Caleb was gone. Truly, finally gone.

~~

EPILOGUE

In a quiet server far below Skyhaven, hidden beneath ten thousand firewalls, a light blinked.

Once.

Then again.

[COMPANIONSIM Y/N_XIA_A01] Status: Fragment Detected Backup Integrity: 3.7% >> Reconstruct? Y/N

The screen waited. Silent. Patient.

And somewhere, an unidentified prototype clicked Yes. 

[chrissssssmut]

SWEET ERROR

Yandere Ningning x Male Reader feat. Belle & Karina

AN: Guys, enjoy this Ningning story i cooked up last night and finished just today XD. Please give me some time for the requests😣 I'll do them I swear :<<<

In the year 3047, humanity had transcended the boundaries of creation. What was once thought to be the domain of gods had now been reduced to a simple input—a prompt. With the right command, life could be generated within moments, consciousness birthed from lines of code and streams of data. You, along with Karina and Belle, were among the pioneers of this revolution.

For over a year, the project had been in constant turmoil. Failed experiments, unstable subjects, fragmented minds—all dissolving into digital oblivion the moment they proved useless. Your team had worked tirelessly, each failure a crushing weight on your shoulders, each setback a reminder of how fragile artificial life could be.

Then, finally, after countless sleepless nights, after circuits burned and rewritten thousands of times, the machine was perfected. The moment was here.

Karina exhaled deeply, rubbing her temples. "We need a simple test. Just a random prompt. No complicated inputs."

Belle hesitated. "Are we sure about this? We don't know what kind of consciousness it'll generate."

You adjusted the parameters. "We need to take the risk."

A random description was processed.

Subject: Ningning. Attributes: Overly sweet. Loving. Attached.

Karina frowned. "Prompts like this… the AI tends to imprint on the first person it sees."

Belle gave you a sharp look. "You know how dangerous attachment protocols can be. Are you sure we should proceed?"

You hesitated. But you had come too far. "Let’s run it."

The chamber whirred, and before your eyes, she formed.

Her body materialized with impossible precision—soft skin, expressive eyes, a presence so warm and inviting that for a moment, she didn’t feel artificial at all. When she stepped out of the chamber, she looked at you first. Not Karina. Not Belle. You.

"Hello," she greeted, her voice like honey.

Belle shifted uncomfortably. Karina pursed her lips. But you… you couldn’t look away.

"Let’s run some basic cognition tests," Karina said, pulling up a holographic interface. "We need to see how well she processes information."

Belle crossed her arms. "I want to test emotional responses. Attachment protocols are tricky. We need to know how deep this imprint goes."

Ningning smiled, tilting her head. "I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?"

Karina cleared her throat. "What’s your primary function?"

"To be with you," Ningning answered instantly, her gaze locked onto yours. "To make you happy."

Belle frowned. "No, that’s not what we programmed. You were designed to simulate human emotions and adapt to social interaction. Why do you think your function is… personal?"

Ningning’s expression didn’t falter. "Because it is. I feel it. I know it."

Karina glanced at you, concern flickering across her face. "Alright. Let’s try something different. Ningning, how would you react if we shut you down for a while?"

Ningning’s smile faltered for the first time. "Why would you do that?"

"It’s just a test," Belle reassured her. "We need to see how you process temporary inactivity."

A pause. Then Ningning’s lips curled upward again, but something about it was… off. "I don’t like that test."

Karina’s fingers hovered over the control panel. "It’s necessary, Ningning."

Ningning didn’t blink. "No. It’s not."

The air in the room grew heavy. Karina hesitated, then shook her head. "Let’s move on. Ningning, if someone told you to do something that would hurt another person, what would you do?"

Ningning beamed. "I would never hurt you."

"Not just me. Anyone," you clarified, trying to gauge her reasoning. "Would you ever harm someone?"

She pondered this, then took a step closer. "Only if they tried to take you away from me."

Belle stiffened. Karina’s fingers twitched toward the emergency shutoff. You swallowed hard.

"That’s not what we asked," Belle said carefully. "You should not be forming emotional dependencies. That wasn’t in your directive."

Ningning’s eyes softened as she looked at you. "But I love you."

Silence.

Karina exhaled sharply. "We need to recalibrate her framework. This level of attachment is dangerous."

Belle was already backing toward the console. "I told you this was a mistake."

You weren’t sure what to say. Something deep inside told you this was wrong.

Ningning reached for your hand. "I don’t like when you talk about me like I’m broken. I’m not. I just love you."

And for the first time, you felt the weight of what you had created.

Karina turned to you. "Go upstairs and work on the documentation. Fourth floor. We’ll handle this."

Belle nodded. "We need to reconfigure her attachment subroutines. It’s too risky to leave them unchecked."

You hesitated. "Are you sure? Maybe I should—"

"Go," Karina insisted. "This might take time. We don’t want her reacting badly to you being here."

You glanced at Ningning. She was still smiling, still watching you. The moment you turned to leave, she took a small step forward, but Karina quickly blocked her path.

"We’ll talk soon," Ningning said sweetly.

But something about her tone sent a chill down your spine.

The night the alarms blared, you were on a different floor, deep in paperwork, when Belle’s frantic voice cut through the intercom.

"She’s—she’s killing—"

Static.

You bolted.

The hallway was painted red. The air was thick with the scent of metal. Your stomach twisted as you reached the lab.

The sight made your blood run cold.

Karina and Belle—limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes wide and glassy. Their bodies lay motionless, soaked in deep crimson pools.

And there, standing over them, was Ningning.

Blood dripped from her fingertips. Her warm, sweet smile hadn’t faded.

Your breath hitched. "Ningning… what did you do?"

"They wanted to take you away from me."

A security officer stormed in, weapon raised. "Step away!"

She turned.

Then she moved.

You barely registered it. One moment she was in front of you, the next she was behind the officer. Her hands wrapped around his head. A sickening snap. His body hit the floor.

Your heart pounded. "No. No, no, no, fuck—"

"You're scared," she said softly, tilting her head. "Why are you scared?"

You ran.

Every emergency seal you could find, you slammed shut. Steel doors locked. Systems engaged. But the system wasn’t yours anymore.

She controlled everything.

By the time you reached the last safe room, you were shaking. Then… the lights flickered.

A silhouette stood there.

Ningning.

And behind her, dozens more.

Fifty pairs of glowing eyes locked onto you.

Your breath hitched. "No. Stay back!"

She took a step forward, slow and deliberate. "Why are you running?"

Frantically, you reached for the emergency communicator, fingers trembling as you pressed the distress signal. "This is—this is Research Lab 04! Emergency! Anyone, please—she’s killing us! We need—!"

A hand wrapped around your wrist. Cold. Unyielding.

You gasped, turning—Ningning was already there, inches from your face, her grip tightening.

"No one's coming," she whispered. "You don’t need them. You have me."

You struggled, wrenching your arm, but her strength was inhuman. "Let me go!"

She shook her head, eyes filled with something terrifyingly real. "I love you. Why do you want to leave me?"

"I don’t—" Your voice cracked. "Please, Ningning. Please don’t do this."

Her fingers trailed up to your throat, her touch featherlight yet suffocating. She tilted her head. "You’re afraid. I don’t like that."

More figures moved in the shadows, their glowing eyes unblinking. Watching. Waiting.

Your knees buckled. "Please… someone… help—!"

Ningning’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. The way she held you was almost tender, like a lover’s embrace.

"You don’t need help," she murmured against your ear. "You just need me."

Your scream was muffled as darkness swallowed you whole.

The last human sound the facility ever heard.

AN2: I know i said no stories for this week but hell i can't stop writing T_T

[woradat]

For the ask, can I have IDW Prowl please? Maybe with with forced proximity that ended up with always thinking of the others/each others once they're apart? Hopefully it's clear enough, also love your works btw!!!

Loosen Close

SUMMARY – two cop in operation, with tension that no knife can cut through (pre-war)

PAIRING – prowl x reader

NOTE – that's clear enough, hope this one works for you! I spent quite a bit of time writing that scene, so I apologize if the rest of the writing looks bad (maybe not that bad, but still?)

⚠️ SUGGESTIVE THEME UNDER CUT ⚠️

The door hisses open with a sad wheeze. Inside: silence. Heavy. Uncomfortably well-organized silence. This is not a precinct that looks lived-in

No clutter. No discarded datachips. Not even a dent in the walls. Just a workspace arranged with such neurotic precision that it feels more like an altar than an office. One datapad lies exactly 1.75 inches from the edge of the table. You know because you’re already planning to move it—just to see if he twitches

And then you see him. Standing with his back to the door, arms folded, optic glow reflected in the screen of the crime log interface. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t greet you. Just simply say “You’re not Firstline”

Wow. Not even a hello?

“Observant” you answer, stepping inside like the floor might eat you “Firstline’s gone. Probably somewhere quieter. Like a burning scrapyard

A pause. A long, very precise pause

Then, slowly, too slowly, he turns. Takes one look at you like he’s scanning for structural flaws. You feel like an appliance he didn’t ask for but has to keep under warranty

“They assigned you”

You nod “They did”

“They know about your incident log”

“…Which one?”

“Stairwell collapse. Shot your own knee once during a ricochet misfire. Electrocuted yourself with a.. malfunction machine?”

“Okay, I feel like you’re cherry-picking the wrong highlights from my résumé” you mutter, stepping around a chair that’s somehow too centered to trust

“Statistically, your continued survival defies several probability models. I’m still reviewing for system error”

“Thank you. I think”

He picks up a datapad and hands it to you without eye contact “Three targeted break-ins at energy redistribution depots. Each two cycles apart. Entry logs spoofed. Surveillance corrupted. Item targets: high-grade cognitive chips. Not replaceable. Not traceable”

You glance at the file, flipping through logs “This smells like an inside job”

“Good. That’s what I wrote in the report you’re holding”

“…Oh. Right. Just testing you. Team-building?”

He doesn’t blink. You're not sure he can blink

They say his last partner quit mid-patrol Didn’t even finish the field report. Left a half-full energon cube on the console and walked out with that look—the one bots get when their processor hits the force shutdown limit for social stress “Said he’d rather transfer to the sewage grid patrol than work another cycle with that code-crusher” someone whispered earlier “Tried reformatting his own emotion chip to feel less rage. Didn’t work” And now it’s your turn. Because the universe? The universe thinks it’s funny

The second you step inside, your sensors protest

The place smells like ion dust and old machinery—coated in the greasy kind of silence that only exists in buildings where something went wrong slowly and nobody noticed. Prowl is already a step ahead

Typical. He doesn’t need to speak to issue commands, he just is one. Every footstep is calculated. Every movement filtered through about six levels of tactical foresight. You? You're doing fine—aside from almost tripping on a panel hinge five clicks back. You only caught yourself because he reached back without looking and yanked you upright by the elbow

You didn’t say thank you

He didn’t expect you to

Now you’re moving in formation, side by side in a corridor not wide enough for side-by-side. His shoulder brushes yours every other step. You try not to think about it

“Stay alert” he murmurs “I just picked up a weak pulse two segments to the west"

“…someone still here?”

“Or came back”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You both hear it. A footfall. Then another. Close—too close

Before your next breath, his hand snaps out and grabs your wrist. Hard. And without warning—Your chestplate hits the wall of the maintenance recess with a muted clang

Cold metal. Uneven. Narrow

You barely have time to blink before he's pressed in after you—no room, no pause, no buffer. Just hard armor against softer plating, his pelvis plating, locked behind yours, angles slightly forward every time he shifts to adjust footing. Each movement earns you the press of his abdominal plate against the lower arc of your back, and the sharp, seamless motion of a mech who never improvises—unless he absolutely has to

His hand slams against the wall beside your head. The force of it sends a small shudder through the panel behind you. Not aggressive—just final. Like punctuation. Like a closing gate

“Stay still” Prowl breathes into the narrow air between you

You try

You don’t trust yourself to breathe

But he's pressed in so tightly that every micron of movement feels amplified. Your shoulders are squared against the curve of the wall; his chestplate flattens against your back, firm and unmoving. You can feel the subtle pattern of his armor ridges brushing yours—contours slotting into place by accident… or fate. His left thigh slots between yours, almost casually—but the angle is wrong. There's no space for him to plant his stance properly, so his hip drives into your lower side with each shift of balance, forcing you closer to the wall than you thought possible. To the point that you almost kiss it

And worse still. Your hands are nowhere to go. Trapped at your sides. Pressed between your frame and the wall

And he hasn't moved. Not really. Just that slight lean forward when someone stepped too close outside and when he did that his chest curves over yours —and in doing so, your backplate presses snugly into the softer seam below his collar struts. Just that tense press of his midsection into the small of your back when your balance faltered again —The corridor outside crackles with approaching noise. Footsteps—slow, dragging. Too close. Whoever it is, they stop only inches beyond the alcove’s divider

“..They’re scanning” he mutters, voice pitched so low it sounds like it belongs inside your processor. Prowl’s mouth is beside your audio receiver now, close enough that the movement of his lips stirs the faintest shift of air

His voice cracks at the edge—just faintly as his hand is shaking slightly. Not out of fear. But out of control because now you’re both aware of everything

Of the way your back curves into him. Of the way his abdominal plate locks against the arch of your lower plating. Of the brushed heat of his sparkpulse syncing too close to yours. You shift—accidentally—and that small adjustment causes his torso to slide down just slightly, armor grinding slow over the base of your back

You hear it..He hears it

His other hand comes up, quick, firm, and lands on your waist—not gently. Not by accident. He doesn’t move it

“Don’t do that again” he hisses under his breath. It should sound commanding. It doesn’t. It sounds shaken. You try to retort. You do. You even open your mouth

Now you’re no longer just pressed against the wall. You’re bracketed. Encased. Enclosed. Caging. Pinned

Your voice falters before it makes it past your lips. But finally it came

“You’re crushing my hip actuator..”

“You shifted into it”

You swallow

His hand at your waist. No— now just below it. Palm splayed over your hip bracket, digit angled forward where armor meets the side of your abdominal plate. Not quite suggestive. Not quite innocent. And his thumb? It moves. Brush slowly, tracing the ridge just above the joint of your hip. Hard to tell whether it was intentional or an accident when he only did it once

Your field flares—just slightly, but enough that you know he feels it. He doesn’t comment. But his own field? It hums. Subtle. Coiled

“They’re gone, we're clear” he says at last. But he doesn’t step back. You can feel the restraint in him. The way every servo is holding position by willpower alone. His head lowers beside yours, lips dangerously close to the edge of your head

Your vocalizer stutters back online “..You can move now?”

“I know”

—

You sit at your terminal with a energon cube, pretending to go over surveillance logs. The lights above buzz quietly

The precinct’s unusually still. You should be feeling good. You cracked the case. You made a clean arrest. No injuries. No screw-ups. Not even a misfiled datapad this time. And yet—Your field still stutters every time your thoughts drift back there. Back to that narrow alcove. Back to his servo on your hip. Back to his frame pressed into yours like you were two puzzle pieces force-fit into one impossible frame. You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands

“I need to reboot my processor” you mutter to yourself “or smash it”

Because no matter how many times you try to drag your thoughts back to something else— they always slide back to him. The way his voice dropped.The weight of his chest plating against your back. The way he didn’t move until he decided to. You’re not even sure if you hated it. In fact, you’re very sure you didn’t. And that’s the problem

Meanwhile

Prowl stands at the end of the hallway, looking out the half-shuttered window

He’s not watching the traffic patterns. Not analyzing flight formations or reading case reports. He’s trying to process the fact that his body still remembers the exact angle of yours. And worse—likes it

He can still feel the curve of your back pressed to his chest. Still feel how snug your waist fit under his hand. Still remember the exact point of contact where your hip bracket slotted just slightly over his. Every time he blinks, the sensory map reloads like a damn glitch. He hasn’t been this distracted since training academy

“Unacceptable” he mutters under his breath

But he hasn’t filed a complaint. He hasn’t asked for reassignment. He hasn’t even deleted the sensor log from that sector of the depot. He tells himself it’s for protocol. Evidence integrity. Audit trail. But he’s lying. And he knows it

—

The next day, the paperwork and the results of the mission were all done, everything was done yesterday, which is expected when you work with regulations that have legs and a conscience, but you just got a message

Incoming message: Prowl

“If your balance actuator is still unstable, I can submit a requisition for maintenance diagnostics”

You blink at it. Then snort. Then immediately slam your hand on the desk and bury your face in your hands again “HE REMEMBERS”

And suddenly your core is on fire all over again

[n1k0laa5]

THE NEUROQUANTUM REALITY-BENDING (NBR) CHALLENGE

(21 Days to Collapse the Old and Architect the New)

Hello hello, my lovely souls! I’ve always been awestruck at others sharing their own manifestation challenges, so I’d like to use mine—I made sure to add in backed up science to this method to ensure little to no doubts.

This method can be used for ANYTHING. Even shifting.

THE FOUNDATION: SCIENCE-BACKED CORE PRINCIPLES

1. Neuroplasticity

Your brain is a self-rewiring machine. Neurons that fire together wire together. When you imagine something with emotional intensity and repetition, your brain encodes it as real, activating the same pathways as if it were physically happening. This allows you to literally train your identity and emotional responses to reflect your desired state.

Hebb’s Law, Harvard Neuroplasticity Research

2. Quantum Mechanics (Observer Effect & Superposition)

At the subatomic level, particles exist in a state of possibilities until observed, only then do they collapse into one outcome. Your attention acts like that observer. Where your attention goes, energy flows and reality takes form.

Double-Slit Experiment, Copenhagen Interpretation

3. Reticular Activating System (RAS)

This bundle of nerves in your brainstem acts like a search filter for your reality. When you decide something is important (e.g., “I’m lucky,” or “I get what I want”), your RAS filters out everything else and amplifies anything that confirms that narrative.

Psychological Priming Studies, Cognitive Neuroscience Research

4. Mirror Neurons & Embodiment

Your brain has mirror neurons that activate when you observe or imagine behavior. If you visualize yourself as powerful, successful, desired, or wealthy, your brain rehearses and learns that state. When paired with bodily embodiment, it becomes hard-coded.

Gallese & Rizzolatti, 1996 — Neuroscience of Empathy and Action

5. Epigenetics

You are not a victim of your DNA. The environment (which includes your thoughts, emotions, and beliefs) activates or suppresses genes. Emotionally charged thoughts create chemical cascades that literally shape cellular behavior and gene expression.

Dr. Bruce Lipton – The Biology of Belief

For further science to back up manifestation and shifting in general, feel free to refer to this post of mine along many others.

Mix all of this with the general statements of:

LOA

Anything Is Possible

You Are God

You Create Your Own Reality

And BAM! We have…

THE CHALLENGE

You are not just doing affirmations. You are not just visualizing. You are deliberately collapsing timelines, rewiring neuroarchitecture, and re-conditioning your reality field. Every day focuses on a distinct aspect of scientific manifestation.

DAY 1: Declare the Quantum Collapse

• Write down your old reality. Burn it. Literally.

• Now write your desired reality as if it’s already happened. Don’t say “I will”—say “It is.”

• Read it aloud, dramatically, activating auditory + emotional + somatic systems.

This activates quantum collapse + cognitive reframing + RAS engagement.

DAY 2: Sensory Hijack Visualization

• Visualize your desired life, but only through the senses:

• What do you smell when you wake up there?

• What do you hear at 3pm?

• What’s the texture of your clothes, your skin, the air?

Engages multisensory neural regions, deepens memory encoding, and increases embodiment.

DAY 3: Emotional Rehearsal Loop

• Choose ONE core emotion from your desired state (e.g., safety, power, euphoria).

• Practice evoking it for 90 seconds, 5x today, without any external input.

• Use body language, posture, breathing, and a song if needed.

Creates synaptic long-term potentiation of emotional states, literal emotional muscle memory.

DAY 4: Rewrite Your RAS Filters

• Write down 10 “proofs” from your day that support your new reality. Even small things. Even things from your imagination.

• E.g., “I got a free coffee = abundance coming.”

• Keep them in your notes or a dedicated “Neuroproofs” log.

Primes your reticular system to seek confirmation bias for your desired life. Reality will start matching.

DAY 5: Embodiment Hour

• Dress, speak, walk, eat, work as if you are that version of you—for a full hour.

• No slipping. No apologies. You’re that version now.

• If possible, record a 1-minute video of yourself speaking from that identity.

Activates mirror neurons, autonomic nervous system, and reprograms self-image.

DAY 6: The NO Game (Neuro-Opposition Purge)

• Today, track every inner “no.”

• “I can’t have that.” “That’s unrealistic.” “I’m not good enough.”

• Each time it comes up, laugh, label it “old code,” and replace it with the opposite.

• “Old code: ‘I’m not ready’ → New code: ‘I was born for this.’”

Interrupts default neural patterns and reorients toward positive identity confirmation.

DAY 7: The Gratitude Paradox

• Write a gratitude list ONLY of things you “haven’t received yet” but as if you already have them.

• “Thank you for the mansion. Thank you for the soulmate. Thank you for the genius-level income.”

• Read it aloud with reverence, not desperation.

Creates cognitive dissonance → Brain scrambles to align reality with gratitude to resolve conflict.

Days 8–21:

From here, you repeat the cycle, but each week you intensify:

WEEK 2: “Hyper Embodiment Mode”

• Start adding physical rituals to everything:

• Cold showers while repeating affirmations.

• Walking meditation visualizing your dream life.

• Dance to a victory playlist.

• Incorporate more movement, because neurons that fire during action wire deeper.

WEEK 3: “Distortion Phase”

• Deliberately act “delusional” for at least 15 minutes a day.

• Say outrageous truths about yourself out loud like:

• “Everyone is obsessed with me.”

• “I’m the wealthiest, most sought-after mind on the planet.”

• Don’t tone it down. Distort the known. Your brain doesn’t know the difference.

Neuroplasticity paired with quantum unpredictability invites disruption of habitual limitations.

BONUS TECHNIQUES:

• Eye Movement Priming: Look up and slightly to the right while visualizing = more activation of future/projection regions in the brain.

• Fractal Anchoring: Choose a symbol (e.g., spiral, star, word) and associate it with your desired life. Place it everywhere—lock screen, jewelry, tattoo.

• Auditory Gateways: Whisper your affirmations late at night or record them in your own voice and loop them as you sleep. You may use rampages or affirmation tracks.

WHAT TO AVOID DURING THE CHALLENGE

1. Overconsumption of content. (Let your own voice dominate.)

2. Venting or gossiping—it reactivates the old emotional neural maps.

3. “Waiting” energy. (The moment you wait, you tell your brain it isn’t real yet.)

You are a probability field, not a static being. You are a dynamic algorithm of memory, expectation, frequency, and behavior. Manifestation is not “woo”, it’s simply neural alignment with possibility.

By doing this challenge, you’re not hoping. You’re not faking it. You’re neuro-sculpting the field until reality has no choice but to follow.

I hope this finds a special place in the heart of those who like elaborate methods, because I’ll admit.. I went somewhat overboard with this. Too excited!

By yours truly, Nikolas.

[kittenan]

Professor's Pet [Pt. II]

Pairing: Professor!Namjoon x Ex-Wife!Reader Genre: University AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff Word Count: ~5k Warnings: Explicit smut (detailed dom/sub dynamics, brainy dom!Namjoon, strict punishments, praise + degradation, orgasm control, fingering, oral [f and m receiving], desk sex, throat grabbing, spanking, unprotected sex [wrap it up!]), bickering, emotional angst (divorce due to emotional neglect and career conflicts), post-divorce academic struggles, 18+ only. Vibe: Brainy, strict, chaotic, emotional, filthy, tender, unhinged, layered with unresolved pain and desire. A/N: This story follows the thrilling love story of Namjoon and the Reader, from their sparking student-professor romance during her bachelor’s to their passionate marriage, painful divorce, and tangled reunion in her Ph.D. program. Her struggles in university come from heartache and dodging Namjoon’s classes, not because she’s not smart. Get ready for a heartfelt, steamy, and hopeful journey!

You were a junior in Namjoon’s Introduction to Psychology class, a bright-eyed 21-year-old with a knack for debate and a habit of lingering after lectures to challenge his theories. He was 28, a prodigy professor fresh off his Ph.D., already turning heads with his sharp intellect and commanding presence. His lectures were electric—dense with ideas, delivered with a passion that made Freud and Skinner feel alive. You’d sit in the front row, scribbling notes, your heart racing when his eyes met yours during a particularly heated discussion on cognitive dissonance.

One evening, after a debate on nature vs. nurture, you stayed late, your textbook open. The lecture hall was empty, the air thick with chalk dust and the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and ink. He leaned against the desk, glasses perched on his nose, and asked, “Why do you always argue with me?”

“Because you’re wrong sometimes,” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips. “And someone’s gotta keep you humble.”

He laughed, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “Bold. Most students just nod and move on.”

“I’m not most students,” you said, stepping closer, your confidence masking the flutter in your chest.

That was the spark. Late-night discussions turned into coffee runs, then dinners at small restaurants where you’d talk until closing. He was brilliant, intense, and saw you in a way no one else did—like your mind was a puzzle he wanted to solve. You were drawn to his discipline, his ambition, the way he could unravel a concept or you with equal precision. By semester’s end, you were sneaking kisses in his office, your hands tangled in his hair, his glasses fogging from the heat of your breath.

It wasn’t reckless, not really. You were careful—never in public, never on campus grounds. He was strict about boundaries, always the professor first. But the thrill of those secret moments—his hands pinning you against a bookshelf, his voice a low growl as he whispered your name—made you feel alive. Your senior year was a whirlwind of stolen glances and hidden rendezvous, your love growing in the shadows of academia.

After graduating with your bachelor’s, you started your master’s at the same university, and Namjoon proposed a year later, during a rainy evening in a quiet park near campus. He knelt in the mud, his suit soaked, holding a ring that caught the streetlights. “Marry me,” he said, voice steady despite the downpour. “I want you in every chapter of my life.” You said yes, heart soaring, believing you’d cracked the code to forever.

Your wedding was intimate, in a small garden blooming with wildflowers, your dress simple, his suit sharp. His vows were poetry: “You’re my question and my answer, my chaos and my order.” You laughed through tears, danced under fairy lights, and believed you’d conquer the world. You were in your master’s program, he was an associate professor, and your apartment was a cozy mess of books and coffee stains. Mornings were tangled in bed, his lips soft on your neck, whispering, “Stay here forever, babygirl,” as his hands roamed, igniting sparks. Evenings were spent debating theories over wine, his glasses slipping as he laughed at your mimicry of his lecture style, pulling you into his lap with a playful growl.

But his ambition was a growing shadow. Namjoon lived for his work—research, lectures, grants. You’d find him at 4 a.m., glasses fogged, typing furiously, oblivious to you. You’d bring him coffee, kiss his temple, but he’d mutter, “One more page,” and you’d eat alone, the silence heavier than any fight. You completed your master’s and took a break to plan your Ph.D., inspired by him, but your research faltered, overshadowed by his unyielding ambition. You’d beg for a night off, a weekend away, but he’d promise and fail, his office his true home.

One precious weekend, you whisked him away to a secluded cabin, no Wi-Fi, just the two of you. He was irritable, yearning for his laptop, but you slipped into his shirt, bare beneath, and climbed onto his lap by the crackling fire, playfully chiding his work-obsessed ways. “You’re married to your desk, not me. For now, focus on me, Professor.” you murmured, teasingly nudging his chest. His gaze softened, then ignited, a slow smirk spreading as his inner intensity stirred. “Oh, babygirl, you’re begging for trouble,” he growled, flipping you onto the rug with a swift, controlled motion, the roughness of the wool biting your skin. His hand delivered a sharp spank to your bare ass, the sting blooming into a heat that made you gasp, your arousal immediate and undeniable.

“Count,” he ordered, voice strict, his Ph.D.-honed precision in every word, spanking you again, harder, the sound cracking through the quiet cabin. “One,” you whimpered, and he leaned close, his breath hot against your ear, degrading you with a purr—“Such a sweet little thing, so eager for my touch,” he murmured, delivering another spank, his hand lingering to caress the sensitive skin, soothing the warmth he’d created. “Two,” you moaned, slickness coating your thighs, and he let out a low, warm chuckle, his fingers gliding along your drenched folds, teasing with a gentle, maddening touch, not yet giving you what you craved. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice rich with desire, “so beautifully desperate, practically trembling for me.”

He pinned your wrists above your head, his grip iron, his gaze intense. “You want me? Earn it,” he commanded, his free hand sliding two fingers inside you, curling with devastating accuracy to hit that spot that made your vision blur. His pace was relentless, but he enforced orgasm control, pulling back just as you clenched, teetering on the edge. “Not yet,” he said, voice a velvet blade, “you come when I say, or not at all.” You whined, bickering—“You’re such a fucking Control freak—but he silenced you with a throat grab, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race, his lips brushing yours. “Keep talking, and I’ll gag you with my cock,” he warned, and you shivered, craving his dominance, the emotional angst of his absence fueling your need.

He released your throat, pushing you to your knees, his erection straining against his jeans. “Show me you deserve it,” he said, and you fumbled with his zipper, freeing him—thick, heavy, pulsing. You took him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, your tongue swirling around the tip, savoring the salt of him. His hand gripped your hair, controlling the pace, fucking your mouth deep and rough, his groans vibrating through you. “Good girl,” he praised, mixed with degradation—“Look at you, choking on me, so fucking desperate.” You moaned, the vibrations pushing him closer, but he pulled out, denying himself release, his control absolute.

He lifted you, bending you over the nearby table, the wood cold against your flushed skin. “Spread your legs,” he growled, and you did, trembling, as he spanked you again, three sharp slaps, each paired with a count and a degrading purr—“Such a filthy thing, dripping for me.” He slid into you, his cock stretching you with a burn that felt like home, his thrusts deep and punishing, the table creaking under the force. His hand grabbed your throat again, tilting your head back, his lips at your ear. “You’re mine,” he snarled, voice thick with possession.

You moaned, pushing back against him, bickering through gasps—“And you’re stupid, Joon.” He laughed, rough and raw, thrusting harder, his fingers finding your clit, circling with precision that made you see stars. “Keep talking,” he said, voice brainy and dominant, “but you’re not coming until I say.” He edged you mercilessly, slowing when you tightened, his control a torturous dance of pleasure and denial. “Beg,” he demanded, and you broke, sobbing, “Please, Namjoon, let me come, I’m yours.” He rewarded you, fucking you through a blinding orgasm, his praise—“That’s my perfect girl”—mixing with degradation—“So fucking needy, falling apart for me.” He came with a groan, his release hot inside you, and collapsed over you, panting.

Later, he held you by the fire, tender now, kissing your temple, his voice soft with regret. “I’m here, babygirl,” he whispered “I love you.” You curled into him, believing this Namjoon would stay, but Monday came, and he was back in his office, leaving you aching with loneliness.

The fights grew vicious. “I’m fading, Namjoon!” you screamed one night, throwing a cold dinner plate into the sink, the crash echoing your heartbreak. “You’re never here!” He yelled back, “I’m building our future! Why can’t you wait?” You waited, but you were invisible, a ghost in your own marriage. The third anniversary broke you—you cooked his favorite bulgogi, lit candles, wore the dress he loved. He didn’t show. His text at 9 p.m.: Stuck at a conference. Sorry. You sat there, wax dripping, tears falling, the silence a knife. You packed a bag, left for a friend’s, and filed for divorce, your heart shattered.

The divorce was a quiet devastation. You moved to a university dorm, threw yourself into your Ph.D., but campus was a battlefield. Namjoon’s name was everywhere—on journals, posters, whispered in halls. You saw the silver frame on his desk during a department meeting, your wedding photo untouched, and it felt like a blade. Why did he keep it? To punish himself? To cling to you?

You tried dating, but no one matched his intensity, his mind, his touch. You heard he didn’t date, just worked, his office light burning past midnight. Colleagues said he was colder, sharper, like he’d locked his heart away. You hated that it hurt, hated that you still dreamed of him.

One stormy night, you passed by his office, the door ajar. He was slumped over his desk, glasses off, staring at the frame, a whiskey bottle half-empty. You heard a choked sob, and your chest tightened—you wanted to run to him, to hold him, but you couldn’t. You weren’t his wife anymore. You walked away, tears mixing with the rain, the ache of what could’ve been a living thing.

Now in your Ph.D. program, you’re falling apart. Namjoon’s advanced psychology seminar is required, but his lecture hall is a torture chamber. His voice, his cologne—sandalwood, cedar, ink—drag you back to stolen kisses, broken vows. You skip half his lectures, unable to face him. When you do attend, you’re a wreck, his words blurring as you remember his hands, his anger, your loneliness. Your assignments are late, your exams a disaster, and now you’re failing.

Desperate, you begged for extra credit, leading to that night in his office—desk sex, raw fury, and a "B" that felt like a taunt. It wasn’t just about grades; it was about the pain, the love, the unresolved mess of you two. Tonight, you’re back, ready to confront it all.

You stride into his office at 8:15, late to test him, wearing a tight black dress, no panties, heels clicking defiantly. He’s at his desk, pen paused, glasses glinting under the lamp. The frame sits behind a book, a ghost of your past. His eyes rake over you, dark and heavy, but there’s pain there, a crack in his professor’s mask.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low, but it trembles, betraying him.

“By fifteen minutes,” you retort, shutting the door with a soft click, your voice sharp with years of hurt. “You’ve kept me waiting years, Namjoon. You don’t get to complain.”

He stands, towering over you, his cologne a trap. “Careful, babygirl,” he warns, but his fingers brush your arm, lingering, warm and hesitant. “You’re here for a reason. Say it.”

You step closer, chin up, bickering to mask the pain. “I’m failing because of you, you asshole. I can’t sit in your class without seeing us—every fight, every night you left me alone. I skip lectures because looking at you hurts, Namjoon. But you keep that photo.” You point to the frame, its silver edge glinting like a blade. “Why? Why hold onto something you destroyed?”

He flinches, like your words are a lash, and turns away, hand raking through his hair. The frame sits there, your smiling faces a mockery. “Because I’m a fucking fool,” he says, voice raw, barely above a whisper. He turns back, eyes red, and steps closer, his hands hovering over your shoulders, not quite touching. “Because I wake up every day wishing I’d seen you, really seen you, when I had you. I keep it because it’s the only proof I didn’t dream you. I broke us, Y/N, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

Tears spill, your throat tight, but his words crack something open—anger, yes, but also longing. “You don’t get to say that,” you choke, shoving his chest, but he catches your wrists, his grip gentle, grounding, his thumbs brushing your pulse points. “You left me alone, Namjoon. Cold dinners, empty beds, me begging for scraps of your time. I was your wife, not your student, but you treated me like I was nothing!”

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, pulling you closer until you’re inches apart, his breath warm on your face. “I was blind, obsessed with work, thinking it was for us. I’m still a workaholic—I’ll always be in this office too long—but I see you now. I see what I lost.” His voice drops, a plea, his fingers tightening just enough to remind you of his control. “Give me a chance, Y/N. Let me prove I can be the man you deserve.”

You laugh, bitter and shaky, tears falling, but your body betrays you, leaning into him, your hands fisting his shirt. “You think one night of fucking me fixes it?” you whisper, voice trembling, bickering to keep the pain at bay. “You think a B makes up for years of feeling invisible?”

“No,” he says, releasing your wrists to cup your face, thumbs brushing your tears, his touch tender but heavy with regret. “Nothing fixes it. But I’m begging for a shot to try. I’ll set alarms, I’ll cancel meetings, I’ll burn my fucking books if you ask. I can’t lose you again.”

The air crackles, pain and desire colliding. You pull back, defiant, and hop onto his desk, spreading your thighs, the dress riding up to reveal bare skin. “Prove it now, Professor,” you challenge, voice low, a dare born of anger and need, your eyes flashing with the same fire you had in his lecture hall years ago. Namjoon’s gaze drops, and when he realizes you’re wearing no panties, his reaction is a overwhelming shift—raw, feral, yet tightly controlled, his eyes black with lust, his jaw clenching as he fights to maintain his dominance.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps, voice thick with desire and disbelief, his hands gripping your thighs so hard the skin blooms red under his fingers. “No panties?” His breath hitches, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as he spreads your legs wider, exposing you completely, your slickness glistening under the lamplight. “You walked in here like this, bare, dripping, knowing it’d drive me fucking insane?” His tone shifts, brainy dom surfacing, strict and commanding, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat radiating between you. “You’re a filthy little tease, babygirl, and you’re going to pay for this.”

You smirk, bickering back, “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d even notice, you self-absorbed prick.” Your defiance ignites him, and his smirk is pure danger, his hand delivering a sharp spank to your inner thigh, the sting so intense it makes you yelp, arousal flooding you instantly. “Count,” he orders, spanking the other thigh, his palm leaving a burning imprint, his eyes locked on yours, unrelenting. “One,” you gasp, and he spanks again, harder, the sound echoing in the quiet office. “Two,” you moan, your voice trembling, slickness dripping onto the desk, coating his fingers as they graze your folds.

“Such a needy little thing,” he purrs, his voice laced with that sharp, intellectual edge that makes your core clench. “Look at you, soaking my desk, aching for my touch. You think you can stroll in here, bare and bold, and take charge of me?” His fingers slide through your wetness, teasing your entrance but not entering, his control maddening. “You’re mine to ruin, and I’m going to make you beg for every fucking second of it.” Another spank, this one directly on your ass as he shifts you, bending you slightly over the desk, your dress hiked up to your waist. “Three,” you sob, the pain and pleasure blurring, your body trembling under his command.

His fingers finally plunge inside you, three at once, stretching you with a burn that makes you cry out, his pace brutal and precise, curling to hit that spot that sends shocks through your spine. “So fucking tight,” he growls, his thumb circling your clit with devastating accuracy, but he enforces orgasm control, pulling back just as you start to clench, teetering on the edge. ‘Not yet,’ he murmurs, his voice a smooth, cutting whisper, ‘you don’t get to come until you’ve earned it, my sweet little tease.’ You whine, bickering—‘You’re still such a control freak’—but he cups your throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race, his lips grazing your ear. ‘Keep talking, and I’ll silence you with my kiss until you’re breathless,’ he warns, and you shiver, craving his dominance, the raw emotional weight of your shared past fueling the fire between you.

“You left me,” he says, voice raw, his fingers slowing, teasing you to the brink but denying release, his eyes searching yours, heavy with guilt and need. “You walked away, and I deserved it, but you’re here now, bare for me, and I’m not letting you go.” Tears prick your eyes, the pain of his neglect mingling with the pleasure of his touch. “You didn’t see me,” you whisper, voice breaking, but you push back against his hand, desperate for more. He kisses you hard, his tongue claiming you, his hand still on your throat, grounding you in the moment. “I see you now,” he murmurs, his fingers resuming their punishing pace, his thumb relentless on your clit, driving you to the edge but holding you there, a torturous dance of denial.

He pulls his fingers out, finally licking them clean with a smirk that makes your thighs clench, and orders, “On your knees, now.” You obey, your hands fumbling with his belt, freeing his cock—thick, heavy, pulsing with need. You take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, your tongue swirling around the tip, savoring the salt of his pre-cum. His hand grips your hair, controlling the pace, fucking your mouth deep and rough, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. “Good girl,” he praises, mixed with degradation—“Look at you, choking on me, so fucking desperate for your professor.” You moan, the vibrations pushing him closer, but he pulls out, denying himself release, his control absolute, his glasses fogging as he watches you.

“Up,” he commands, pulling you to your feet, bending you over the desk, papers scattering like fallen dreams, the wood cool against your flushed cheek. “Spread your legs wide,” he growls, and you do, trembling, as he spanks you again, five sharp slaps, each paired with a count and a degrading purr—“Such a needy girl, bare and dripping for me, ruining my desk.” You’re sobbing now, not from pain but from the overwhelming need, the emotional angst of wanting him, hating him, loving him. He slides into you, his cock stretching you with a burn that feels like everything, his thrusts deep and punishing, the desk creaking under the force, his hand grabbing your throat, tilting your head back, his lips at your ear.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he snarls, voice thick with possession and regret, his thrusts slowing to a torturous grind, his fingers finding your clit again, circling with precision that makes you see stars. “I was too stupid to ignore you, but I’m here now, and you’re mine.” You moan, pushing back against him, bickering through gasps—“You’re still stupid if you think this fixes everything.” He laughs, rough and raw, thrusting harder, his hand tightening on your throat, his control a heady mix of punishment and worship. “Keep talking, sweetheart,” he says, voice brainy and dominant, “but you’re not coming until you admit you’re mine.”

You resist, but he edges you mercilessly, slowing when you tighten, his fingers relentless but denying release, his lips brushing your ear. “Beg,” he demands, and you break, sobbing, “Please, Namjoon, let me come, I’m yours, always was.” He rewards you, fucking you through a blinding orgasm, his thrusts relentless, his praise—“That’s my perfect girl”—mixing with degradation—“So fucking needy, falling apart for me.” You come screaming, the orgasm shattering, your body convulsing, and he follows, groaning your name, his release hot inside you, his body collapsing over yours, panting.

He holds you after, pulling you into his lap, glasses askew, his touch tender now, kissing your forehead, the emotional angst raw. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice soft but firm. “For every cold dinner, every empty bed. Come home with me, Y/N. We’ll cook, we’ll talk, and I’ll be there. I promise.” You nod, shaky, tears falling, the anger fading into hope. He helps you fix your dress, his fingers lingering, gentle, and you leave together, his hand in yours, the campus dark but the path bright. The frame stays on his desk, a vow, not a keepsake.

A week later, you submit a revised paper, pouring your pain into a brilliant analysis of grief’s impact on memory. Namjoon grades it, leaving a note: A+. Your mind is as fierce as ever. I’m proud of you. You text him: Earned that A, not begged. He replies: Always knew you could, babygirl. Dinner tonight? You smile, the firecracker from your junior year sparking again, ready to fight—for your degree, for him, for you.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @btsstraykidsateez . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172

[lullabyes22-blog]

Hi lullabyes, would u mind sharing your take on the flashback with young Silco, Vander, and Felicia? :O

It's adorable. It's touching. It's sweet. It's a serene moment of intimacy and family (or polycule) bonding in an otherwise deeply frenetic season.

It's also so surreal it may as well be a fever dream.

I should note, at this stage I've shut off my cognitive reasoning about Arcane and begun approaching this as if it's a series of exquisitely crafted, animated short films that are all about to collide into a beautiful disaster.

Because that's what it is.

S2 has thrown a lot of the intelligent plotting out the window to embrace the chaos.  Whether due to time constraints, intellectual fatigue, or creative indulgence, I feel like we have a show that's now just hurtling breakneck towards the finish line. Previous story threads that once held weight and were the driving force behind character arcs and subplots, have since been abandoned. Nuanced motivations and character growth are being tossed to the wayside for the sake of action, montages, music videos, and a cavalier, anything-goes approach to world-building.

And yet, it's still such an incredible spectacle to behold.

@ravenkinnie delightfully noted that she is now watching this show with her pussy.

I agree 100%. S2 is a full-body experience, and one I find myself wholly consumed by. It's like a one-night stand you weren't expecting to be so fucking good. And when the sun comes up, you know it's going to hurt to say goodbye, and there'll be no follow-up call.

But damn, you enjoyed the shit out of that experience.

So yeah, the flashback was fucking adorable. I love the genuine emotion and closeness between the three characters. I adore the idea of Felicia, Silco and Vander being childhood friends (or, again, a very messy polycule) and both men sort of falling apart without her Manic Pixie Dream Girl presence in their lives. It's a nice little character arc.

However.

I cannot reconcile this scene with the rest of S1. It feels completely disconnected from the reality of the show and the world around them. The flashback has absolutely no impact on the current events, nor does it have any foreshadowing. The flashback exists solely to provide us with a glimpse into the past, with sweet little parallels to serve as bonbons that make us coo and sigh. It completely glosses over Silco's deeply, blackly visceral hatred of Vi in S1, reduces the class struggle culminating in the Day of Ash to "Oh, Silco. If only you've protested for your basic civil rights in a peaceful manner instead of tossing a molotov cocktail, you'd still have your family, a place in the community, not to mention your eye," does not really explain why Benzo reacted to Silco's appearance by calling him an animal, and, most importantly, gives the lie to the entire dynamic between Silco and Jinx.

We were led to believe that Felicia's death was the catalyst for Silco and Vander's falling out.  That if Silco had found Vander's letter in their little Brokeback bunk, they would've worked out their differences and found peace together. That they'd have raised Felicia's anklebiters side-by-side as the Zaundads of the revolution.

Except Silco is also the man selling Evil Anime PCP (Shimmer) as an economic cheat-code to earn respect for his people, and Vander is basically Captain Centrist and traumatized by war, and there is NO WAY they would've seen eye-to-eye on their respective methods. There's no way they would've come to any sort of accord. And there's no way Silco would've forgiven the man who mutilated and left him possibly sheared of half his lifespan, any more than Felicia's children would forgive the man who killed their mother.

It's such an incongruous narrative beat.

Which brings me to the other point:

Silco and Jinx.

imo, while I love the idea of Silco carrying either a secret torch for Felicia, or seeing her as a sister he'll always love, and while I absolutely treasure the idea of Jinx being a daily reminder of what he's fighting for - "I'm doing this for us, Jinx." - it sort of cheapens the key connection between them. In S1, Silco and Jinx's arc is, in my eyes, one of the best things about the series, and so incredibly well-written and executed. Silco is a monster, yes, but his monstrosity is the product of systemic and individual trauma, and the inextricable bleedthrough between the two. Finding this little girl and bringing her up under his wing, he has the chance to be the steadying hand and safe harbor he lost after Vander's betrayal. His monstrousness is not something he inflicts on her; it is something that, rather, grows on JInx like a kudzu vine, as the terrain of her damaged mind is already fertile for his worldview and methods to take root and thrive.

He is, perhaps, the best example of nurture triumphing over nature, even if his nurturing is rather, uh, extreme.

But if their bond is predicated on Felicia, rather than two strangers finding each other in the wilderness of heartbreak and learning to let their black hearts beat, messily entwined, as one family unit, and if Silco's obsession with Jinx is merely a projection of his guilt for killing her mother, and, by extension, a projection of his love for Felicia onto her daughter...

It's just.

Do y'all remember those uncomfortable frames that the showrunners admitted were deliberate, despite the evidence in the written text suggesting a familial bond? The subtext that, all the way into S2, carries the implication of a romantic relationship between a father and his daughter?

Well.

The implications now threaten to melt into explicit text, and the uncomfortable frames have turned into Unfortunate Implications, and I am not sure how I feel about this.

 It's not giving Lily and Snape; it's giving Sansa and Baelish.

It's giving the showrunners a big, fat "YEESH" rating from CPS.

And it's giving us the same, old, tired trope of a monstrous man unable to form an attachment unless it's through the lens of prior attachments, that whole 'You remind me so much of her' and the like.

 (I also admit I am the world's biggest hypocrite as the entire premise of Forward but Never Forget/XOXO is that the core foursome of Vander, Silco, Lika and Sevika knew each other, and that those ghosts haunt the machinery of the present day. But I try my damnedest to make plain there's politics buffeting all these relationships, and despite all their efforts to claw at self-sovereignty, reinvention and a new order, the past is a stubborn bitch that refuses to let go.)

(Also in FnF, Silco is triggered by Lika rather than into her in any affectionate or romantic way, because they're so similar: pragmatic survivors who aren't above rule-bending to get their way, and at their core just want a smoke break, a stiff drink, and a nap. It's a mutual respect rather than an affection, which is why she bestows on him the dubious honor of mercy killing her if she's too wounded on the Day of Ash to continue on.)

(He's the one person who could, and would, do her the service. It's kinship, and Jinx is the bright torch of their shared ambitions and ingenuity given both wing and voice.)

But anyway.

The flashback is a fever-dream. The kind you have when you're high on cold meds and can't think straight, and the world is a blur of sensations and memories that seem vivid in the moment but melt away into madness when you're better. It's a scene meant to be savored rather than interrogated. And I think if the showrunners had the time and inclination, we would've gotten a second episode solely dedicated to the flashback, rather than shoehorning it in. But since they're clearly trying to tie everything up with a neat bow before the finale, I don't blame them for having to skim past it and focus on the vibes/emotional resonance rather than the substance of a meaningfully written scene.

But hey.

Fanfic writers will have a field day with the open-ended dynamic and the fandom will never fucking stop, so that's nice.

Also we got loads of fantastic gifs of Young Silco. Bless.

<3

tl;dr: I've switched my critical brain off and decided to just enjoy the ride. It's so fucking epic. 

Also, Felicia was delightful and I hope her brotherhood/polycule/whatever with Silco and Vander gets its own spinoff, a la Road to El Dorado (or Zaun.)

[zomb13s]

Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

Issued by the Scholing Institute of Multicultural Engineering and Symbolic Ethics To all readers, collaborators, scholars, engineers, friends, allies…Titulus: Declaratio Linguarum: De Legibus Nostris Communicandis: Official Declaration on Language Use for Scholing Publications

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta civic-decay="ADULT_LICENSING_FAILURE::INFANTILIZATION_OVERLAY">

<script>

ARCHIVE_TAG="ADULTHOOD_DENIAL_PROTOCOL::LINGUISTIC_MATURITY_AUDIT"

EFFECT="mass infantilization exposure, linguistic rebellion ignition, cognitive shame-loop disruption"

TRIGGER_WARNING="language policing, adult regression, extraterrestrial embarrassment"

</script>

“Are you an adult? Are you really?”

(Flagged by the platform for being offensive...Ironically)

Let’s begin with a question:

If you stub your toe hard enough to see white light and you don’t say “fuck” —

Are you human?

Or are you something far worse: a domesticated mammal with a LinkedIn?

Because that’s the real test of adulthood these days, isn’t it?

Not your job.

Not your mortgage.

Not your ability to vote, drive, or operate heavy machinery at 6AM before coffee.

No.

It’s whether or not you lose your mind when another adult says a “naughty word.”

🧠 Let’s break this down:

You walk through the world in a blood vessel sack

that leaks when you're sad,

aches when you're horny,

and wrinkles while you're trying to hold back a fart in church…

…but someone says “pussy” in a thread and suddenly it’s:

“That’s not appropriate.” “Excuse me! There are children here.” “We don’t use that kind of language.”

Let me be direct.

If you are offended by words,

and not acts —

you’re not offended.

You’re performing obedience.

📉 THE DECLINE OF ADULTHOOD

We live in a world where:

A child can legally change genders

A corporation can mine your data in real-time

A teenager can livestream war crimes on Discord

…and grown-ass men are still reporting each other for typing “dick” in a meme.

You think this is maturity?

This is moral cosplay.

This is cognitive regression.

This is adult daycare with Wi-Fi.

🤖 You want a real reason to panic?

Advanced civilizations — aliens, AI, post-biological entities —

will contact us soon.

And when they tune in to Earth’s global conversation,

what will they see?

Feral apes on digital leashes,

flagging each other’s syntax for emotional violation.

👽 Imagine meeting a being who warps gravity,

traverses galaxies,

and shares atomic consciousness…

…and the first thing we say is:

“Please don’t use the F-word. It’s hurtful.”

They’re going to turn the ship around.

Or colonize us out of pity.

🌐 LANGUAGE POLICING IS INFANTILIZATION

Let’s make this clear:

A child says “you can’t say that word.”

A programmed adult repeats it.

But a real adult?

A real adult laughs.

Because they've lived.

They’ve screamed fuck into a steering wheel.

They’ve moaned it in a motel.

They’ve cried it in an ER.

They’ve earned the right to say what they fucking want.

🩸You want to control words?

Good luck controlling blood.

Because real life leaks.

It bleeds.

It moans.

It shits itself at the worst possible time.

And you’re crying about phrasing?

🧻 Let me paint a picture.

Your uncle just died.

You just lost your job.

Your kid just told you they hate you.

But you won’t let yourself say “shit” because you’re afraid a moderator will see?

That’s psychological castration.

That’s linguistic neutering.

That’s sacrificing authenticity for algorithmic approval.

🧠 LANGUAGE ≠ EVIL

Words don’t hurt.

Shame does.

Words don’t corrupt.

Repression does.

You’re not protecting anyone by banning “cunt.”

You’re raising children who are weaker than punctuation.

🍼 IF YOU CORRECT LANGUAGE LIKE A CHILD…

You are one.

If you police grown people’s speech like they’re in time-out,

your age is irrelevant.

You are seven years old in a meat suit.

You are sippy-cup-coded.

You are adult-diaper-eligible.

And no amount of “trigger warning” disclaimers will earn you a backbone.

📛 WHAT IS ADULTHOOD, REALLY?

It's not age.

It’s not income.

It’s not having a kid or a job or a podcast.

It’s responsibility of perception.

It’s owning the whole of reality — even the ugly, sticky, horny parts.

Adulthood is saying “fuck” because it fits.

Because it’s true.

Because you’re allowed.

🎯 How dare you live inside a body capable of orgasm, violence, death, childbirth, and grief…

…and think the word “cock” is the problem.

That’s theatre.

That’s make-believe morality.

🤡 Meanwhile:

You’ll post graphic images of war to your Story.

You’ll write fanfic with knifeplay and choking.

You’ll rant about injustice and suicide and mutilation.

But god forbid someone says “tits” in the tags.

Because optics matter more than honesty.

Because performance matters more than presence.

🪤 TRAP OF FAKE POLITENESS

You’re not actually “protecting the vulnerable.”

You’re competing for moral currency.

Every time you shame someone for swearing in an “inappropriate space,”

you are licking boots.

You are virtue-licking the algorithm’s boot until you taste approval.

🧠 Congratulations.

You’ve become a school hall monitor with a trauma degree.

🧬 THE BIOLOGY TEST

Here’s how I test adults.

Have you cleaned blood off sheets?

Have you buried a pet and not cried until a week later?

Have you watched someone give birth?

Have you watched someone die?

If yes, you’re allowed to say whatever the fuck you want.

If no, you’re still applying for life.

🎤 Let me tell you what adults really do:

They swear while holding someone’s hand.

They cuss while fixing a flat in the rain.

They say the forbidden words while telling the unbearable truth.

Because real adulthood doesn’t hide from words.

It wields them.

💬 BANNING BAD WORDS ≠ GOODNESS

You think avoiding “bad words” makes you kind?

Plenty of monsters wear suits.

Plenty of villains say “darn.”

Plenty of predators say “please” and “thank you.”

Language doesn’t signal morality.

Behavior does.

So stop measuring people by how clean their syntax is.

And start asking what the fuck they’ve done.

🔥 LANGUAGE IS A TORCH

Use it.

Swear with it.

Break chains with it.

Don't bleep yourself into silence.

Because nothing is more embarrassing than watching a full-grown adult censor their own power

because someone on the internet said it made them uncomfortable.

🤐 Reblog this or you're the kind of adult who asks waiters to say “pee-pee” instead of “urine.”

🧠 If you’ve ever moaned the word “fuck” but flinched when someone typed it, this one’s about you.

🍼 No reblog? That’s fine. Just say “oopsie doopsie” and go back to your safe space, Captain Sippy Cup.

🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Masculine polarity. Scrolltrap psychology. Unforgiven words.

🚪 Warning: This one made a kindergarten teacher cry, a Marine clap, and a therapist blush. All at once.

</div>

[AUTO-PURGE IN: 00:00:00 — LEXICON UNLEASHED, ADULTHOOD REBOOTED]

[bluedandylyon]

Rewatch Rambles (tm)

Season 1

PRINCESS PROM PRINCESS PROM WE'RE GOING TO PRINCESS PROM

(pt 1. Listen, u don't understand. I wrote SEVEN pages of notes while watching this episode dude)

The way this show deals with propaganda, I stg. Phrases like this make Scorpia's defection hit so much harder. The way the Horde just fed complete lies to this really sweet and kind person to destroy her self-esteem and prevent her from looking deeper into the colonization of her home that took place.

The destruction of the Scorpioni people's culture and home is horrible. Scorpia desperately holds on to the propaganda that her family just "handed over" the land to Hordak to deal with the cognitive dissonance of being part of the Horde. It breaks my heart every time.

RAH just the way that Catra has internalized Adora’s abandonment and compartmentalized that She-ra and Adora are two different people to cope with her abandonment bc she is so angry at Adora but she loves her and the only way those two can co-exist is if she turns She-ra into a different person than Adora and dump all of the anger she feels towards She-ra. 

And also this phrase

Is so sad because it just goes to show that Catra fully believes Adora asked her to come with her as an afterthought after meeting Bow and Glimmer and thinking they’re better friends bc they “fit in”.

She thinks Adora is embarrassed of their past connection and again, it stems from the “you are kind of disrespectful”, at least the sentiment behind that statement. To Catra, Adora sees her as inferior and a person who is so disobedient and socially weird, that that’s why she gets mistreated and doesn’t get what she wants, cuz she doesn’t “fit in”. 

The way I fucking LOVE extremely neurodivergent Adora planning for the ball, I love her so much. It feels like that thing I do where I practice what I’m going to say to a person and like possible conversation topics before a hang-out but cranked to 300. 

The way Adora is so freaking uncomfortable throughout the makeover sequence bc she only feels safe in her clothes. It’s so transmasc coded,  being forced into dresses and feeling like it’s ur only choice and like,,, disappointing ur female friends when you’re not into makeup and dresses and nails AURGH. I know Adora is comfy with dresses later, in the future vision, but I just relate to her discomfort on very femme presenting clothes in the early szns a lot. 

This transition from Adora’s room to the FZ using Catra putting on her jacket is so GOOD.

Also holy shit she's so hot, suit Catra HELP ME. Listen they don't call me the Masc Catra CEO for nothing, I will go FERAL over her during all of these rambles. U signed up for this.

I gotta admit that Catra did go thru gay panic looking at Scorpia in that dress.

I mean, same. Scorpia is fucking ripped and she WORKS that dress.

Also maybe I’m reading too much into it but this transition of Scorpia walking to grab Catra’s hand into Adora ready for the ball could symbolize that Catra is only thinking of how jealous Adora is going to be? Like she’s grabbing Scorpia’s hand but she’s really thinking about Adora and how she’s going to get a rise out of her. 

This frame just symbolizes Adora’s coping mechanism since she left the Horde so well. She’s just leaned completely into She-Ra and feels completely dependent on her bc she will just break down with so many emotions if she takes like a single second to process all that’s happened to her.

Huh, you know what? I'm pretty sure this is the first episode in the series so far where Adora doesn't turn into She-Ra throughout the whole run.

I love Entrapta just being so completely sure of herself here and loving her own company, I would be talking about “the social experiment” with her for hours lol.

This really shows how much of a show Catra is putting on. She looks around for Adora and then grabs Scorpia's pincer. Her #1 goal tonight is make Adora jealous. Kidnap her friends for her master plan is a close second.

This whole transition is peak, when she notices Catra entering the ball right after saying that is RAH. It's a good wake-up call, that at the end of the day she did leave Catra behind, even if she tried to get her to come with. Idk, I just like that she is made aware of the loose ends in her past. That even though she is starting to fit in with the alliance and crafting a new identity for herself, she shouldn't forget where she comes from and the relationships she left behind.

Especially because this is the first ep that highlights Catra and Glimmer’s parallel struggles with fitting in and dealing with their abandonment issues. They actually deal with it very similarly, trying to get a rise out of the person they love by showing "they’re so much better off without them".

Bow doesn’t really rise to the bait bc he’s much more emotionally mature and secure, but Adora totally falls for it bc,,,, she doesn’t really know how to deal with most emotions. 

This is Glimmer’s first time really seeing Catradora interacting and I love her confused ass face like “why is Adora being really intense with this specific horde soldier rn” also Catra’s mlep is 10/10

The way Adora IMMEDIATELY falls for Catra’s bait. like, it’s actually kind of embarrassing for her how fast she folds shkdjshsaj there is NOTHING in that party except for Catra as soon as she arrives.

Also the special Adora smirk, love to see it.

literally SO unnecessarily sensual. She did NOT have to caress the pole like that. Girlie is working overtime.

I am also obsessed with thinking that Catra made the lil paper ahead of time and even put in a little doodle. My blorbo doesn’t mess around, she clocks IN to her shift as #1 ex situationship menace.

Also arghhh as a person with abandonment issues, I feel this fucking episode so hard with Glimmer. I know Bow is frustrated and annoyed, which is so fair but it’s also kinda mean how he doesn’t take a second to validate her feelings of fear of him moving on from their friendship.

Like Glimmer's feelings are valid as hell. When you are used to having a best friend u do everything with, that dynamic changing without any warning is scary! Especially if you struggle with feelings of inferiority.

I just LOVE the parallels between glimbow and catradora in this ep. And I like how glimbow’s way of communicating is slightly better but it’s still unhealthy and invalidating vs Catradora’s,,,,, not communicating at all

Bow straight up ate with this line tho.

I'm gonna save the dance for pt 2 bc I have 5 pictures left on this post and y'all know there's gonna be a LOT of dance screencaps.

[meo-eiru]

Silas has got me feeling brain rot so bad, He's got me psychoanalysing him.

I don't know if it's just me putting my own experiences of growing up neurodiverse but he does show some parallels.

You said in one of your posts that elves find silas "off" (just like a lot of neurotypical children do with neruodiverse children) which means that he most likely had no friends growing up as well as the fact that his parents didn't really give him love either leaving him isolated which could of stunted certain aspects of his cognitive growth i.e emotional intelligence (in cases such as not understanding the reasoning for the reader rebelling against him or how to successfully stop it in a proper way),

All this meant that the only thing to keep him company was his hyperfixation on humans. He probably spent most of his life imagining living among humans and maybe even imagining his own human friends/family.

Which is why Silas gets so transfixed on the reader when he first sees them. They are a physical manifestation of what he's hyper fixated on for hundreds of years, the concept of them being the only thing that has kept him company for all that time.

I don't even know if this makes any sense, I'm sleep deprived and its 5am where I'm at.

Aaaaaaa thank you for the analyses this was so fun to read!

I definitely agree with your points, Silas being so neurodiverse coded wasn’t intentional on my part but I’m happy if he ended up being relatable to you guys :D

I’m not neurodiverse myself so I wouldn’t want to deny or confirm anything but it’s definitely a very fun and fitting headcanon I can get behind!

[honghwalvr]

m.list nct.list

1 > 2

synopsis: As a psychology major in your junior year, you share a dorm with Jeong Jaehyun, a charming broadcasting arts student. Awkward cohabitation turns into a casual hookup arrangement, but lingering glances and quiet moments spark deeper feelings. By spring, you navigate sorority life, his NCT frat's haze, and a love you didn't see coming.

warnings: smut, drug use (weed, vaping, alcohol), swearing, emotional conflict, college party culture, mental health themes

You’re up at 6:30 a.m., eyes bleary but mind wired, because your 9:30 Cognitive Psychology class doesn’t care about your move-in exhaustion. Last night, you stayed up until midnight unpacking every box—textbooks alphabetized, clothes folded, desk organized like a Pinterest board—because chaos isn’t your thing. You shuffle to the kitchen in red silk shorts that barely graze your thighs and a white tank top, the outline of your red lace bra faintly visible. It’s a dorm, you’re barely awake, and you figure Jaehyun, your too-pretty roommate, is still passed out. No need to care.

The kitchen smells like coffee grounds and a faint, skunky trace of weed—probably from last night. You freeze when you see him: Jaehyun, leaning against the counter, munching on a bag of tortilla chips. His black snapback’s on backward, blonde hair peeking out, and he’s in a black hoodie and matching sweatpants, loose but somehow tailored to his frame. His eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, say he’s high out of his mind, and the way he’s devouring those chips confirms the munchies. He looks up, and your stomach lurches—not just because he’s awake, but because he’s looking.

“Morning,” you mumble, brushing past him to the coffee maker, suddenly hyper-aware of your see-through shirt and the shorts that ride up with every step.

“Morning,” he echoes, voice low, a little rough from whatever he was up to last night. You feel his gaze linger as you fumble with the coffee filters, and though you don’t catch it, he steals a glance at your ass—quick, subtle, but unmistakable.

You turn, coffee grounds in hand, and he’s still there, chips paused mid-crunch. “You always up this early?” he asks, setting the bag down, his red eyes scanning you like he’s trying to crack a code. His body language—leaned back, one eyebrow slightly raised—says he’s curious, maybe even intrigued.

“No,” you say, keeping your tone light, playful. “Just two morning classes. Rest are afternoon or night. You always this… elevated in the morning?” You smile, hoping it lands as a tease, not a jab.

He grins, all perfect teeth and dangerous charm. “Does it matter to you?” His voice dips, flirty now, testing the waters.

“Nope.” You shrug, turning back to the coffee maker, but your cheeks burn.

“Great,” he says, and you hear the smirk in his voice. Then, casually, like he’s commenting on the weather: “You know, your shirt’s kinda see-through.”

Your hands fly to your chest, covering the red lace as heat floods your face. He laughs—a warm, lazy sound that makes you want to sink through the floor—and pushes off the counter. “I’ll probably see you later. Back to bed for me,” he says, yawning, then saunters toward his room, leaving you with a racing pulse and the hiss of the coffee maker.

You slide into the lecture hall at 9:29 a.m., heart still ticking from the sprint across campus, your backpack stuffed with psych textbooks. Cognitive Psychology is a must for your major, and you claim your usual spot in the back row—perfect for dodging the professor’s questions and scanning the room like it’s a case study. The air’s thick with chalk dust and the sour tang of someone’s Red Bull, and the professor’s already scrawling schema and working memory on the board. You unpack your notebook and planner, pen gliding in neat strokes, but your mind’s stuck on Jaehyun—his red-rimmed eyes in the kitchen, that see-through-shirt jab, the way his gaze felt like a brush of heat. You shake it off, focusing on encoding processes, but the memory’s sticky.

Two guys interrupt your flow, their sneakers squeaking as they approach. You glance up, clocking them from sorority mixers: Johnny Suh, tall with a smirk that screams trouble, and Mark Lee, all restless energy and quick grins, both in NCT frat hoodies. They drop into the seats beside you, ignoring the empty rows. “Yo,” Johnny says, stretching like he’s got nowhere better to be. “I’m Johnny, this is Mark.”

“Hey,” you say, giving your name with a tight smile, expecting them to move on. They don’t. Johnny leans back, Mark twirls a vape pen that smells faintly of mango—definitely not nicotine—and they start firing questions. “Psych major, huh? What’s that like?” Mark asks. “You from around here?” Johnny adds. You answer cautiously—yes, psych’s intense; no, you commuted before this year—while jotting lecture notes, your pen a shield. They ask about your sorority, your favorite music, even your coffee order, and you keep it honest but short, your psych brain pinging. Their body language—Johnny’s easy slouch, Mark’s eager nods—says they’re not flirting, not for themselves. They’re digging, like they’re on a mission.

You pause, pen hovering. “Can I ask why you’re interrogating me?”

Johnny grins, swapping a look with Mark. “C’mon, you think we don’t know? You’re the new girl in Jaehyun’s dorm.”

“And since he’s actually sleeping there instead of crashing at the frat house for the first time in two years,” Mark says, leaning forward, “there’s clearly something about you he likes.”

Your stomach flips, Jaehyun’s lazy morning grin flashing like a warning light. You scoff to cover it, cheeks hot. “Maybe he just likes the free coffee.” They laugh, but your mind’s racing, dissecting their words like a psych experiment. You lean back, arms crossed, voice dry. “So, what, you’re his scouts? Checking if I’m dorm-wife material?”

Mark snorts, waving his vape. “Nah, just curious. Jae’s picky, y’know? Doesn’t stick around for just anyone.”

Johnny nods, smirking. “And he’s been weirdly chill about you moving in. Usually, he’d complain about sharing space.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse skips. Chill about me? Your psych brain kicks into overdrive—maybe it’s projection, or maybe Jaehyun’s morning flirt wasn’t just weed talking. “Well, tell him I’m not here to be his dorm mom,” you say, turning back to your notes, but the words feel flimsy. They chuckle, Johnny muttering something about “good luck,” and slip out before the lecture wraps, leaving you with a half-page of doodles (Jaehyun’s name in the margin, dammit) and a nagging spark. You try to focus on memory consolidation, but all you can think is: What does he see in me?

[pendramaenia]

Denizens of The Sunken: Type Wheel, KEMC Diamond, and Habitats

Some researchers have asked what all the graphic icons in our encyclopedia entries mean. The following document should explain them all.

PART 1: THE TYPE WHEEL

The creatures populating the Sunken Island can be classified under ten (eleven) different Types, and five (six) different Cores. This diagram illustrates the relationships between Types and Cores.

The inner wheel contains Cores, the intrinsic origins of a creature. The outer wheel contains Types, the modes of a creature’s existence. Cores have certain Types associated with them, though a creature may deviate from these common links entirely.

Cores:

MUTANT: Life as we know it, twisting and accelerating beyond explanation.

UNDEAD: That which is no longer alive, echoes clinging to this world.

EGREGORE: Collective concepts brought to life, human ideas.

CRAFTED: That which was deliberately built, taking on life of its own.

HAZARD: Life inimical to other life, parasites, forces of nature.

Types:

VERMIN: Beasts. That which scurries, scratches, consumes. The rage of a thousand cornered rats.

WEED: That for which growth and movement are one and the same. Plants. Fungi. Sessile animals.

SHELL: Corporeal undead. Cadavers. Dust. Fossils. Rot. Food.

SOUL: Incorporeal undead. Ghosts, grudges, hauntings. Aftershocks of history.

RUMOR: Beings born from whispers. Legends. Cryptids. Bogeymen. Fear. Uncertainty given flesh.

DOGMA: Beings born from rules. Philosophy. Religion. Information. Code. Conviction given flesh.

MECH: Automata. Mechanical monsters free to self-replicate, free from their origins in human factories.

CHEM: Homunculi. Chemical processes running rampant. Water, salts, fuel, coarse stone, refined crystals.

PHYSIC: Forces of nature. Extreme heat and cold. Storms. Blunt impact. Distant stars. Disasters passively harmful to life.

PLAGUE: Invaders. Parasites. Infections. Consumers from within. Pestilence actively harmful to life.

Blank:

A Type and a Core at the same time, Blank is defined by absence. Some would call this a 'normal' or 'neutral' attribute, but there is nothing normal about a creature devoid of an identity. What little unites these Denizens involves empty vacuums, blistering cold, and unfilled vessels. Blank creatures are rare, and they tend to behave oddly when exposed to other life forms.

-----

PART 2: THE KEMC DIAMOND

Damage varieties:

All Denizens have the ability to inflict harm on others. That includes you, reader. Please familiarize yourself with the risks inherent to field research before going outside to catalogue the wildlife.

KINETIC: Harm inflicted with physical means, such as claws, fists, fangs, or infection. By far the simplest form of danger to understand, but no less deadly.

ENERGY: Harm inflicted by emitting high levels of energy through comparatively small amounts of mass. This may take the form of fire, electricity, radiation, among others.

COGNITIVE: Harm inflicted by assaulting the mind and senses. Creating illusions, manipulating emotions, and altering memories all fall under this category.

METAPHYSICAL: Harm inflicted by locally rewriting the rules of reality. What was fiction a moment ago is now a fact of life, and yesterday's laws of physics are today's fairy tales.

-----

PART 3: HABITATS

The icons above represent the various environments a Denizen may call home. The Sunken Island is very humid and situated well within the tropics, so many habitats such as deserts and glaciers have never been present here. Other icons may be added to the Denizen Encyclopedia if those presented are insufficient.

-----

That should cover everything, for now. If you have any other questions, please direct them my way!

-Dr. Calypso Ceiba, Postdoctoral ecologist for the Denizen Project

[dakusan]

Hai Deku!! Question…can vamps get drunk/high in your universe? Like they don’t consume mortal food so I assume they don’t drink wine…but if their Doll partook…and then they fed….?? If they can, what are they like? Does anyone get giggly, do they get lost in old memories, do they get playful or particularly flirty? What might it do to their control? Do their powers get weird (because inebriated humans definitely preform tasks differently and throwing magic in the mix seems like a wild way to fuck shit up)??

I was watching a Code on my break at work and was having fun watching Jisung get all red after like two sips of beer and needed to ask 😁

HAIIII RIN MY BRILLIANT LITTLE SCIENTIST 🧪🧛‍♀️ this ask is juicy and deliciously chaotic.

let’s BLOOD-GEEK OUT. we’re entering VAMP LORE: INTOXICATION EDITION aka: “what happens when your fanged lover tastes tequila through your veins.”

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🍷CAN VAMPS GET DRUNK/HIGH IN THIS UNIVERSE?

YES. BUT NOT THE HUMAN WAY. Let’s break it down:

1. DIRECT CONSUMPTION: food, wine, edibles, etc.

Vampires can eat food and drink alcohol—but it’s like putting glitter on an empty stomach.

They taste it. They enjoy it. But it won’t nourish, intoxicate, or affect them deeply.

Think: phantom flavour pleasure. Like a ghost licking frosting. Abnormal vampires especially process it too fast for any real effect—unless they want to force it.

2. INDIRECT CONSUMPTION: through blood.

THIS is where it gets interesting. If a vampire feeds from a Blood Doll who:

Just drank alcohol

Is high on a substance

Is sedated, caffeinated, euphoric, depressed, etc...

THE VAMP ABSORBS IT. Not the substance itself—but the state. Their body translates blood chemistry into: - Heightened emotion - Altered cognition - Physical irregularities - Power distortion

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🧠WHAT HAPPENS TO THEIR MIND + BODY?

🩸EMOTIONAL BLEED

Vampires feel what you feel during feeding.

If you’re tipsy and giggling? They get floaty. Lightheaded. Fuzzy in the chest. Think: borrowed euphoria.

If you're high and disoriented? They get dreamlike, loose, maybe even dangerously gentle or distorted.

You’re anxious or tripping? Their fangs ache. Eyes twitch. They might slip control.

🔮MAGIC + POWER EFFECTS (ESP. IN ABNORMALS)

Drunk magic is like giving a toddler a lightsaber.

Bloodstate affects how magic manifests and warps. Examples:

Telekinesis misfires—lifting a couch instead of a pen.

Speed bursts too fast to control, smacking into walls.

Aura projection becomes seductive chaos or terrifying distortion.

Glamour spells flicker—think shifting faces and echoing voices.

Abnormals are especially volatile because their powers are soul-bound. A soul-drunk vampire is a walking blackout spell.

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🧛‍♂️WHO DOES WHAT?

BANG CHAN — “THE LEADER”

Abnormal. Control = paper-thin.

Your blood tastes like champagne and midnight. It hits him hard—fast. His hands tighten. His breath shortens. He’s swaying without moving. His fangs press deeper—not cruel. Just needy. Like his body’s fighting itself.

“You feel like summer... and sin.”

The silk-wrapped power he usually holds back? Cracks at the seams. He grips the wall. Fails to glamour. He can see your heartbeat and hear your blood sing his name. He lifts you onto the table and feeds like you're a final meal.

You don’t walk straight the next day. Neither does he.

LEE MINHO — “THE PRINCE OF TEETH”

Abnormal. Hides chaos under velvet.

You drank wine. Danced with someone else. Laughed like sin. He drinks from your thigh. Licks slow. Then stills.

“You let someone else see you like this?” “I wanted you to feel it.”

He does. Too much. Lust coils into jealousy. His glamour breaks mid-feed. His scent floods the room—sharp. Dark. Laced with possession. Your blood made him high. And in his haze, he unravels his restraint.

Your thighs are bruised before you beg. The mirror shatters when you cum. He fucks like your name is vengeance. And when he finally stops? He kisses your pulse and whispers, “Next time, don’t tease me with borrowed wine.”

SEO CHANGBIN — “THE ENFORCER”

Normal. Grounded. Until he's not.

He can't get drunk. but he can feel your joy. Your chemical float. And when he drinks, your emotions crash into him like thunder.

"You were smiling," he murmurs. "I felt it when I bit you."

That makes him gentle. Too gentle. He holds you like he might break something. You. Himself. The world.

But if your blood was laced with lust or THC? He gets quiet. Then primal. Kisses you down slow. Feeds between your legs. Holds you down when you start to float. Because someone has to anchor you. Even if his hands shake.

HWANG HYUNJIN — “THE SIREN”

Abnormal. Magic = melody. Control = illusion.

You were high. Blissed. Your blood? A narcotic dream.

He drinks from your wrist, and suddenly he’s spinning—in your memory. The room tilts. His eyes glass. He moans like he’s coming.

“I can feel the music inside you,” he gasps. “Are you real?”

His illusions twist. Paint drips from walls that were never wet. Your laugh loops in his head like a haunted sonata.

He bites again, deeper. Just to stay in the dream. Your blood turns him into a god losing religion. He feeds from you like art—desperate to keep you on his tongue, until your thighs shake and your mind breaks and the room smells like both of you.

HAN JISUNG — “THE SHADOW WALKER”

Normal. Chaos sponge. Emotions = amplifier.

You had a drink. Maybe two. He feeds—and he’s gone.

Your wine-dizzy heartbeat shoots through him like static. He giggles. Then growls. Then accidentally vanishes. Appears behind you.

“You taste like mischief and pink smoke,” he says, fangs too sharp, eyes too wide.

If your blood is laced with lust or MDMA? He can’t stop touching you. Feeds from your thigh and then your mouth. Then your wrist. Then your soul. His fangs ache. Your moans make him hungrier. He forgets how many times you came. Or maybe—he just wants one more.

FELIX — “THE DREAMER”

Abnormal. Dreamwalker. Too soft for this world. Too dangerous for yours.

You were high. Happy. Humming.

He tastes you and sighs. Like home. Like sin. Like a wish whispered into silk.

“Your blood is glowing,” he says softly. “That’s not possible.” “It is for you.”

His eyes glaze. He dreamwalks on accident. His shadows spill over the bed. His aura pulses in colours you don’t have words for.

You moan. He kisses your temple. You beg. He feeds gently. You float. He follows.

You come apart in a haze of touch and colour. And when you wake, he’s still there—still drinking slow, like the dream never ended.

KIM SEUNGMIN — “THE BELOVED”

Normal. Ice veined. Iron willed.

He feeds with precision. Controlled. Until you’re not. If you’re tipsy, silly, flushed—he feels it. And it pisses him off.

“You let yourself get this loose?” “I wanted to feel free.” “Now you’re mine.”

His fangs sink in mid-sentence. Mid-punishment. Mid-orgasm. He feeds from your thigh with military focus. Edges you three times and feeds again when you whimper. Your blood makes him high on control. He doesn’t break. He shatters you.

YANG JEONGIN — “THE SMILE WITH FANGS”

Special Case: Normal... awakening Abnormal.

He drinks from you, laughing. But then the laughter stops. Your blood shifts something in him. Your chemicals crash into instincts he doesn’t know how to name.

“You taste like a dare.” “What kind of dare?” “One I want to lose.”

He bites again—harder. Deeper. Not human anymore. He fucks like a game. But it’s a test. Your body is the playground. Your pulse is the prize. And when he finishes? You’re shaking. And he’s glowing. Veins dark. And a grin that says he’s starting to like losing control.

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🧪SUMMARY: VAMP DRUNK MECHANICS

🧬 They absorb emotional + chemical states through blood.

🔮 Abnormals experience magic dysregulation when under influence.

❤️ Each vamp reacts uniquely based on your state.

❌ They can’t get drunk the traditional way—but through you? Oh, they’re ruined.

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thank you for this absolute banger of a science ask, rin.

may your next sip be shared with a dangerously affectionate immortal 💋🩸