#Guide to remote work productivity

[monitoringsoftwaresblog]

Discover the truth about remote work productivity in this myth-busting guide. Explore what real data says versus what CEOs believe, and uncover surprising insights on remote team performance, efficiency, and success. A must-read for leaders, HR teams, and remote-first organizations.

[cheolism-archive]

CREATURES OF DESIRE.

✰ — choi seungcheol x yoon jeonghan x f!reader ✷ — summary: a scene between you, your advisor, and bodyguard. ✰ — wc is approx. 4k ✷ — tropes: royalty au; princess x bodyguard, princess x advisor; forbidden relationship; (blank)-with-benefits. ✰ — warnings: member x member x reader, threesome; undefined relationship. degradation kinks (cheol x hannie); praise kinks (cheol/hannie x reader), corruption and innocence kinks. blowjob (cheol receiving); anal (hannie receiving); oral sex, fingering (reader receiving). breeding kink (one mention). bickering (use of: brute, bitch, etc between cheol n hannie); adoration (use of sweet thing, precious, etc towards reader). strong influences of societal standards concerning female virginity. ✷ — rating: mature, nsfw; mdni. ✰ — note: this, to me, moreso reads as a snippet to a series, or a larger work, rather than a simple stand-alone. as such, if there is interest, i am willing to explore this story further. if you reach the end of the story and like it and are interested in seeing more, please let me know. there is outright gay sex between cheol and hannie in this, so if you don't like it please don't read it. thank you @seokgyuu for looking this over. this is a product of conversations between @wonustars, @hannieween, and @okiedokrie. tagging @shinysobi, @nebulousbrainsoup, @yuncheoligans, and @kwanisms bc you expressed interest once and i'm a slut for attention. apologies for the chunky warnings and note.

“there you go princess,” jeonghan coos, fingers tangling into your hair. his voice is deep, or as deep as jeonghan’s voice could go, and silky; it settles against your skin like a thin sheet, cloaking you in a soft, airy space. 

his fingers tighten their grip on your hair. you try to be good for him, try to let jeonghan take complete control. his fingers trail along your shoulder, slide underneath the silver chain of your necklace, and then he’s pressing your head forward. 

“good girl,” he hums, his free hand going to wipe a cheer from your cheek. “take cheolie’s cock like a good girl, princess.”

you’re doing your best. it’s just so hard. you’ve warmed up over the weeks with hannie’s cock, testing the waters with jeonghan’s smaller dick. it had been, admittedly, hard. you were applauded for your chastity, and in fact it was your selling point, what had so many suitors clamoring for your virgin hand in marriage. you had done nothing remotely like this before.

and you wanted to learn. for the last few years jeonghan and seungcheol had devoted themselevs to you. not only officially, but personally. you don’t know how many times you’ve had their fingers or tongues lapping at your pussy. but you wanted more. you wanted to do more than just dip your toes into the pool of desire. you wanted to completely submerge yourself. 

jeonghan had cooed and cupped your face in his hands when you came to him, pouting and begging for him to teach you how to suck cock. 

“sweet girl,” he had said, your advisor pressing a kiss to your hairline. “we’ll start easy.”

jeonghan’s cock, while smaller than seungcheol’s, still was not “easy.” seungcheol had helped ground you as you slowly, torturously, tried to take more and more of jeonghan’s cock with every passing week. he had settle heavy hands over your body as you tried to take jeonghan’s dick, words sweetly encouraging. from simply suckling on the tip to swallow around jeonghan’s length they had guided you, though seungcheol more than jeonghan. 

“he likes it when you choke on it,” seungcheol had murmured, nipping at your earlobe, “because he’s mean like that.” 

and you had choked on it. you couldn’t even get a fourth of the way without gagging at first. eventually, though, you were able to swallow down jeonghan’s dick until your nose was pressing against the base of his dick. you were able to let jeonghan fuck your mouth, though only if he were gentle. seungcheol had to guide him then, standing behind jeonghan with his hand’s on the younger man’s hips, rolling them forward and delivering sharp smacks to jeonghan’s ass every time jeonghan tried to fuck his dick deeper. 

you had been able to feel jeonghan’s cockhead press to the back of your throat and swallow around it; had been able to take it as jeonghan rocked his hips, dick slipping in and out of your mouth. 

but that was jeonghan’s dick; this was seungcheol’s. 

when jeonghan had untucked seungcheol’s dick from his trousers, you had, rather justifiably in your opinion, gawked. seungcheol’s dick is thick and long, and jeonghan had praised it as he fucked seungcheol’s cock with his fist. 

“get some of the lust out of him,” jeonghan said, throwing you a smile. “he gets rather pent up really easily. we don’t want him bruising that pretty little throat of yours when the american delegation is arriving in a few days.”

now, on your knees with your mouth stretched impossibly wide – again, in your opinion – and barely able to do anything other than suck at his cockhead, you can’t help but think your throat will end up bruised regardless of method. 

seungcheol’s hands were clutching at the underside of the fainting couch. his breathing was raggedly and loud, just as yours is. you try to look up at him from underneath your lashes, but then jeonghan shifts your head forward again, forcing more of seungcheol’s dick into your mouth, and you can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut. 

his cockhead rests heavily on your tongue. you have perhaps a quarter of it in your mouth. it’s just – his dick is so incredibly thick and your lips hurt at the corners from where it forces your mouth to stretch wide. 

“fuck,” seungcheol hisses out. his hand goes to your hair. seungcheol barely manages to scrape his nails against your scalp before jeonghan’s hand is shooting out and grabbing his wrist, forcing seungcheol’s hand back to the seat.

“hands off the princess,” jeonghan scolds, “and use proper language. you’re trying to help her suck dick, not taint her mind with your brutish language.”

you want to remind jeonghan that you’ve been tainted every since jeonghan asked you three years ago if you needed help taking the edge off before the gala intended to honor your promotion to heir apparent; that he was the one who introduced carnal desire, that he was the first one to ever press his face to your – your pussy and lick at the juices that spilled there. 

but he knows this. 

you peak up at seungcheol. he’s glaring at jeonghan, thick brows furrowed. seungcheol seems to feel the weight of your gaze upon him. he looks down, big brown eyes meeting yours. 

immediately, and not coincidentally, a thick pearl of precum hits your tongue. he groans. you can’t help but swallow around his cockhead, tongue pressing against his dick as you try to swallow the pre on your tongue. 

seungcheol’s hips fuck forward in response. his dick is suddenly shoving further into your throat than you had anticipated, fat cockhead striking the back of your throat. 

you choke and gag, fat tears springing to your eyes. seungcheol curses; jeonghan shoves him back, seungcheol’s dick forced from your mouth.

“you idiot,” jeonghan hisses. you cough as jeonghan kneels beside you, one of his hands sweetly cupping the back of your neck while his other wipes at your tears. “don’t cry, sweet princess. it’s okay. ignore that beast. he just can’t help himself.”

“shut up.” seungcheol joins jeonghan on the floor. his brows are furrowed, eyes shining with concern. jeonghan, for all of his animosity, allows seungcheol to gather you into his arms. “i apologize, princess. i should have had more control over myself.”

“yes, you should.” 

seungcheol ignores jeonghan. instead he begins pressing sweet, gentle kisses to your face. you adjust yourself so he can kiss your face easily, and he does so. his kisses are light and you bask in them. 

he hesitates before your mouth. kissing is not prohibited. but it’s difficult.

you make the decision for seungcheol. you straighten in his hold, pressing your mouth to his. 

the kiss is chaste. the smack of your lips against his makes you flush. seungcheol pulls away after a quick second. kissing is so difficult between the three of you, or perhaps more accurately between you and your men, because it was always chaste and quick. they never nipped at your lips or slipped their tongues inside of your mouth; never allowed themselves to pour passion and desire into the kiss. you don’t know how they are able to seperate themselves from their lust. you, after all, are a creature of desire now; it is because of this you chase after seungcheol when he pulls away, trying to catch his mouth. 

seungcheol laughs, lifting his chin and turning his face from you. “can’t do that, princess,” he says. “i won’t be able to stop if you do.”

you pout at him. you don’t want him to stop. you never want either of them to stop. they stood behind you as an advisor and member of your personal guard. they kneeled before you in closed rooms, kisses to your neck and thighs and pussy. if you were a creature of desire, they were creatures of lust and corruption. they were the snake that sang in eve’s ear to take a bite of the apple, and now that you had devoured that apple whole you can’t help but want more and more and more. 

you don’t want them to stop. you never want to stop. 

“she’s been such a good girl,” jeonghan says, turning your head from seungcheol. jeonghan, too, presses a chaste kiss to your mouth. “we need to reward her.”

“i didn’t get to pleasure him thoroughly,” you protest. 

jeonghan frowns at you, as if you were a petulant child begging for sweets. he cups your cheeks. “you did well enough,” jeonghan announces. “and you did your best. that deserves rewarding, sweet girl.”

“but seungcheol –”

jeonghan sighs, as if you were impressing something severe and torturous upon him. “fine,” he says. “seungcheol may find his pleasure in me. i shall pleasure you, princess. this is more than the animal deserves.”

jeonghan helps you stand. despite the fact they never had you kneel without using a cushion, your knees still ached and legs protested. jeonghan cooed at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“up on the bed, princess,” seungcheol softly commands. he offers his hand to you despite the fact the bed – not your bed, for neither were willing to disrespect your virginal bed – was a mere few feet away. seungcheol leads you to the bed, helps you climb upon it. 

“to the head,” he says. 

you do as he says, feeling ridiculous as you climb to the head of the bed, knees catching the fabric of your dress. you huff and yank, and when you finally settle with your back against the elaborate wooden headboard it is to the sight of seungcheol devouring jeonghan. 

it’s horrid, you think faintly, at how wet the sight makes you. 

seungcheol is rough with jeonghan. he grabs at jeonghan, hands greedy and powerful. his mouth is insistent upon jeonghan’s, tongue dominating jeonghan’s mouth and refusing to allow jeonghan do anything other than whimper. one of seungcheol’s hands goes to jeonghan’s trousers, and then he’s yanking them down and revealing the pale skin of jeonghan’s legs.

seungcheol grabs a fistful of jeonghan’s black hair. he pulls jeonghan from him, and then he’s moving both hands to jeonghan’s waist to throw him onto the bed. 

“climb,” he says. 

jeonghan does as seungcheol says. he’s smirking when he meets your eyes, a devilish curl at his lips. 

“please kneel, princess,” seungcheol instructs.

you do as he says. 

jeonghan lays before you, his clever hands quick to shove down his trousers. he kicks them over the side of the bed. his dick is hard, erection making it curve prettily up towards his stomach. 

the bed dips under seungcheol’s weight. he has rid himself entirely of his clothing. his shoulders are broad and the outline of his chest curves gently, his dark nipples stark against his skin. his dick, just as jeonghan’s is erect. you marvel at it despite having had it – well, some part of it – in your mouth minutes ago. it’s big and, though you’ve only seen one other dick in your life, impressive. 

seungcheol braces himself against the bed, and you watch, mouth dry and pussy wet, as the muscles in his biceps bulge. 

jeonghan snorts. “arrogant show-off.”

seungcheol raises a thick brow, and then he’s climbing onto the bed. you watch, breathless, as seungcheol keeps his eyes locked on jeonghan’s. he looms over jeonghan, imposing. 

in another world, you think, he would be king. seungcheol commands a room better than any other; better than yourself, a blue-blooded royal. he is all authority. his body is thick with it, but more than that there is something about seungcheol’s soul that seems to radiate pure golden power.

you could bow to him. he wouldn’t dare ask of it – no one would without repercussions – but you would do it. 

seungcheol’s hands go to jeonghan’s knees. he tries to peel jeonghan’s thighs apart. jeonghan fights, laughing. seungcheol huffs. “don’t be a fucking bitch,” he says. 

“language,” jeonghan returns, letting seungcheol pry his legs apart. 

you wish – you try to swallow back these thoughts as if they were a particularly repugnant vegetable offered by a foreign dignitary – that you could be like them. you could offer all your gold and silver and silk and lands, and none of it would matter. you could never be like them. you were born to a life that forced you to be suspended above all others; to walk on roads glittering with emeralds and diamonds. expectations had to be upheld regardless of how you hungered. 

you wish you could take your desire as liberally as they did. how your cunt throbbed for this wish. you wish it was you parting your thighs for seungcheol; you beneath jeonghan. you imagine seungcheol between your thighs and jeonghan pressing his cock to your lips. 

you wouldn’t be able to take both, wouldn’t be able to handle jeonghan’s dick in your mouth while seungcheol’s was in your pussy. but you would try; could try; want to. 

jeonghan groans loudly and wantonly as seungcheol fucks his cock into jeonghan, the jade plug that so often was within jeonghan’s ass discarded onto the bed. jeonghan’s back arches off the bed, and you watch, completely entranced, as seungcheol’s cock sinks deeper and deeper within your advisor. 

jeonghan’s hand shoots out. he grabs at the fabric of your dress. you lean down and hold his fingers, jeonghan’s hand twisting to lace his lean fingers with yours and squeeze. 

“brute,” jeonghan gasps. “absolute beast –”

“shut up,” seungcheol bites. your pussy throbs with this selfish, horrid want as seungcheol draws his hips back. you can see the dark flesh of his dick as he does so, can hear the lewd squelching of the lube in jeonghan’s ass as seungcheol removes himself. 

seungcheol fucks back in. 

jeonghan moans, brows pinched together and mouth ajar. 

seungcheol thrusts roughly a handful of times before stilling, slapping his hand against jeonghan’s thigh. “take care of the princess’s pleasure, you selfish creature.”

“if you’d stop brutalizing me,” jeonghan retorts. 

“one of these days i will fuck you beyond the power of speech,” seungcheol says. 

“that would require you to be good at it,” jeonghan bites. he looks up at you, smiling despite himself. he releases your hand, grabbing at your dress. “lift your skirts for me, sweetheart. you need to mount my face.”

you blink down at him. you don’t quite understand. “mount your face . . . ?”

“imagine him an animal,” seungcheol clarifies. “that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“kneel around my head,” jeonghan says, ignoring seungcheol. “and i will pleasure you.”

confused, you do as he says. you bunch your skirts around your waist and awkwardly shuffle to kneel around jeonghan’s head. 

jeonghan’s hands slip underneath your skirts. you can feel his palms, warm and light, skim over your skin. he smooths them up your legs and kneels and thighs. they settle on your thighs, thumbs digging into the inner flesh. he parts your legs. 

then jeonghan is raising his arms, shoving the fabric of your skirts up further. he wraps his arms around your waist, and then he’s pulling you down. 

you let out a startled yelp, falling. you catch yourself on his chest. “jeonghan!” you curl your hands against his shirt, lifting your hips up off of him. “i will crush you!”

“good,” seungcheol says. 

“you won’t.” jeonghan’s voice is slightly muffled. you can feel his hot breath against your pussy and you realize just exactly what is about to happen. 

“if only you weren’t wearing your skirts,” jeonghan announces, “then i might see your pretty pussy.”

you gasp. jeonghan thrusts his tongue between the lips of your pussy, and then he is licking a broad stripe up your cunt. 

the surprised noise that leaves you is horribly loud against the quiet of the room. jeonghan licks at your cunt, and the warmth you have come to associate with carnal desire seeping into your soul begins to thicken. 

“you –” his tongue is clever and quick, licking from your clit to your hole and repeating. you want to speak, to protest. but his arms are tight around your middle, keeping you from moving away, and his tongue forbids any real speech. 

then jeonghan suckles at your clit. your knees weaken, and you slump against him further. 

you can’t see jeonghan, but you can most certainly hear him. the noises are absolutely lewd. they don’t belong here, you think, aren’t meant to be heard by your ears. the sounds are slick and loud and your pussy only seems to react positively. you can feel more fluid leak from your cunt, can hear jeonghan slurp against your pussy as he swallows it up. 

jeonghan’s body jerks beneath you. you gasp out, looking up. 

seungcheol is slowly fucking jeonghan. his hips are rolling forward. he isn’t fucking with abandon, but instead obviously taking his time, relishing in the sight before him. 

seungcheol smiles when your eyes meet. “how pretty you are,” he says. “our pretty princess.”

you open your mouth to speak but are cut off with a squeal. jeonghan is suckling at your clit, quick, sharp movements of his mouth. one of his fingers thrusts within your cunt, aimed the front of your body and striking that stretch of muscle that always sends a tingling sensation across your groin. the intrusion of his single finger isn’t so much, the slender digit spurring the hungry, all-consuming desire within you, making you want more.

“and how pretty you sound,” seungcheol chuckles. he fucks jeonghan aimlessly, unconcerned. “our sweet princess with her pretty little mouth and noises. always knew you’d sound sweet, princess.”

you furrow your brow. jeonghan pulls his finger from your cunt. he circles two of his fingers around your hole, relaxing the muscle, and then he’s sliding both of them inside. 

your lips part in a soundless moan. his two fingers burn considerably more than his single finger. it’s a sharp, burning, but not entirely uncomfortable pain as your hole stretches to accommodate the stretch. you can’t help but clench down on his fingers. your pussy gushes around them, and you feel blood flush to your face as the lewd noise. you duck your head, pressing your face against the fabric of jeonghan’s shirt. 

“how fucking precious,” seungcheol says. “hiding like that. how cute you are. how sweet.”

jeonghan pulls from your cunt with a slick noise that sends another gush of fluid from your pussy. “such a wanton little princess,” he says. you clench around his fingers again. “it’s cute how she reacts.”

“makes me want to fuck her,” seungcheol agrees. 

“could,” you gasp out, nose pressing against jeonghan’s navel through his shirt. “want you to. want you to – to fuck me.”

seungcheol curses, loud against the room. he begins fucking jeonghan with earnest. even if you couldn’t see seungcheol’s dick disappearing and reappearing inside of jeonghan’s ass, you could feel it with how every single thrust impacted jeonghan’s body. 

jeonghan’s mouth is forced from your cunt in favor of whining. his voice is high as he does, though still not loud. the sound of seungcheol’s hips slapping against jeonghan’s ass is decisively louder. 

seungcheol is – well – he’s fucking jeonghan like, you think, he’s desperate. he’s quick and harsh. 

“want you to fuck me like that,” you say, each word spilling from your mouth without you realizing it. immediately you feel blood rush to your face and fluid gush from your cunt. 

jeonghan moans against your cunt. seungcheol groans, and then his hand is darting out to tangle in your hair. the tips of your fingers dig into your scalp as he brings your face up and towards him, and then –

and then he’s kissing you. it’s not like any of the chaste kisses you have become accustomed to throughout the relationship between you, jeonghan and him. it’s – it’s like he’s trying to devour you, as he had with jeonghan earlier. his mouth is insistent, his tongue pushing through your lips. 

you instinctively try to close your mouth. you’ve never been kissed like this before. it’s – it’s bizarre, and you don’t know how to react. seungcheol growls, this low, devilish thing deep within him. his hand moves from your hair to your jaw, thumb hooking between your lips. seungcheol forces your mouth open so he can push his tongue back in, laying claim. 

they’re kissing you on both ends, you realize. seungcheol is claiming your mouth, jeonghan your cunt. 

you can’t think much after that. seungcheol spills inside of jeonghan, his kisses becoming less ravaging and more sure and stern. 

jeonghan whines. seungcheol exchales a laugh against your mouth. “make the princess cum first,” he commands, “and then i’ll think about you.”

jeonghan mumbles something against your pussy, but then he’s focusing on licking at your cunt again. he teases and sucks and presses against your clit, those warm sparks spreading through your groin. you can’t decide whether to chase the sparks or squirm away from them. 

seungcheol shifts, and then his hands are on your shoulders. he’s moving you, gentle. you whine as jeonghan is separated from your pussy, but allow seungcheol to continue. 

he settles you against the bed. he grabs a pillow, and as he does, you glance over at jeonghan. the other man’s chest is heaving as he fights to catch his breath. his face, you notice is utterly drenched. 

seungcheol lifts your lower half to settle the pillow beneath your hips. “have to do everything myself,” he says, pushing your skirt up. 

seungcheol spreads your knees apart, giving him a view of your fluttering pussy. he hums. “seems like he did a good enough job. unexpected.”

jeonghan exhales a curse. 

the man before you ignores this. instead he focuses on your pussy. seungcheol gives your pussy a sharp, though not painful, slap with the flat of his hand. you jump beneath him, gasping. 

“won’t take much to get you to cum,” seungcheol either observes or promises. 

then his fingers, far thicker than jeonghan’s, are pressing against your clit. immediately you are bucking up into them, trying to rub your clit against his digits and force stimulation. 

“how desperate you are,” seungcheol says. “i think i could really fuck you like this. bet i’d just slip in.”

“please,” you sob out. 

“you know i can’t,” seungcheol replies, voice gentle and apologetic. 

he slips his fingers on either side of your clit. he rubs at the muscle, and you imagine the sparks of electricity shooting through your body at the sensation. you always focus on the muscle on either side of your clit when pleasuring yourself, and it’s like seungcheol knows this. he rubs against it, hand heavy, words coated in silk and silver escaping from his plush lips. 

“so beautiful,” he praises you. “always so fucking beautiful. i can’t stand it. wanna ruin ‘n worship you. would you let me, you precious little thing? let me fuck you? would you sit on my cock like a throne, princess? let me fuck you and spill in you and make you heavy with babies?”

it’s like a rug being pulled from underneath you, or perhaps like falling. it’s sharp and dramatic as your orgasm rips through you, loud and demanding. you can’t think, can only feel, and even this is overwhelming. seemingly every part of your body tenses as your orgasm causes you to plummet, and you go blind with it. 

when you come to, you’re surrounded by jeonghan and seungcheol. seungcheol is nosing against your neck, humming and wrapped around you. jeonghan is completely nude, shirt discarded and dick flaccid. he is kissing at your jaw, sweet and lazy. 

“hannie,” you call out. 

“no sweeter sound has fallen from mortal lips,” he teases, pressing a final kiss to the hinge of your jaw. 

you whine. seungcheol laughs against your neck. “don’t tease our princess,” he says, though any bite has vanished from his voice. 

“our princess teases me,” jeonghan claims. he pouts back at you. “kissing seungcheol like that. you’ve never kissed me as he did you.”

you roll your eyes at him. you shift, sliding your hand into his long hair and tugging. 

jeonghan’s mouth meets yours easily, and you can’t help but hum as his tongue presses against the seal of your lips. you thought about teasing him, about pressing your lips firm and refusing him access within. 

but then you thought of your cunt, and how neither seungcheol or jeonghan would fuck it; how empty you were, how desperately you wished to be marked inside-out. it couldn’t happen; wouldn’t happen. no matter how much you lusted and desired there were lines that would not be crossed. 

you were a creature of rabid desire, only to be denied your hunger. you had to take what you could, what was offered. 

and so you let jeonghan lick into your mouth and seungcheol grab at your hips from behind you, settling into their touch. 

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[optiblog]

OPTİVİSER - GOLD

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[qqueenofhades]

do you have any advice for those in the very early stages of thesis-writing? currently desperately clinging to the mantra of "shitty first drafts," et al

Unfortunately, there is no place where you will more whole-assedly have to embrace the "shitty first draft" mantra than in academic writing, especially in thesis writing, especially if this is your first-ish crack at an advanced and major piece of original research. I'm not sure if this is for an undergraduate senior thesis, a MA-level thesis, or (my true and heartfelt sympathies) a PhD dissertation, but the basic principles of it will remain the same. So there is that, at least. This means that yes, you will write something, you may even feel slightly proud of it, and then you will hand it into your supervisor and they will more or less kindly dismantle it. You have to train yourself to have a thick skin about this and not take it as a personal insult, and if your supervisor is remotely good at their job (not all of them are, alas) they will know how to be tactful about it and not make it feel like a direct and extensive commentary on your private worth as a person. But you will have to swallow it and do what you can, which can include -- if you're the one who has done the research and know that's how you want to present it and/or you are correct about it -- pushing back and having a conversation with them about how you think your original approach does work best. But that will come later. The first step is, yes, to mentally gird yourself to receive critical feedback on something that you have worked hard on, and to understand that no matter how much you grump and grumble and deservedly vent to your friends and so on, implementing the feedback will usually make your piece better and stronger. That is the benefit of working with a trained expert who knows what makes a good piece of research in your particular academic field, and while it doesn't get easier, per se, at least it gets familiar. Be not afraid, etc.

If you're in the writing stage, I assume that you've moved past the topic-selection and general-research stage, but allow me to plump once more the services of your friendly local university library. You can (or at least you can at mine and probably in any decently well-equipped research university) schedule a personal consultation with an expert librarian, who can give you tips on how to find relevant subject databases, create individual research guides (these might already be available on the university library website for classes/general topics), and otherwise level you up to Shockingly Competent Research Superhero. So if you're still looking for a few extra sources, or for someone else who might be reading this and is still in the "how the heck do I find appropriate and extensive scholarly literature for my thesis??" stage, please. Go become a Research Ninja. It's much easier when you have a minion doing half the work for you, but please do appreciate and make use of your university librarian. It's much more effective than haphazard Google Scholar or JSTOR searches hoping to turn up something vaguely relevant (though to be fair, we all do that too), and it's what your tuition dollars are paying for.

Next, please do remind yourself that you are not writing the whole thesis in one go, and to break it down into manageable chunks. It usually does make sense to write the whole thing semi-chronologically (i.e. introduction, lit review, chapter 1, chapter 2/3/4 etc, conclusion), because that allows you to develop your thoughts and make logical connections, and to build on one piece to develop the next. If you're constantly scrambling between chapters and zig-zagging back and forth as things occur to you, it will be harder to focus on any one thought or thread of research, and while you might get more raw output, it will not be as good and will require more correction and revision, so you're not actually hacking yourself into increased productivity. You should also internally structure your chapters in addition to organizing your overall thesis, so it makes sense to draw up a rough outline for section A, section B, section C within the body of a single chapter. This will make you think about why the segues are going in that order and what a reasonably intelligent reader, who nonetheless may not have the specialized knowledge that you are demonstrating for them, needs to move understandably from one section to the next.

Some academics I know like to do an extensive outline, dumping all their material into separate documents for each chapter/paper and kneading and massaging and poking it into a more refined shape, and if that works for you -- great! I'm more of the type that doesn't bother with a ton of secondary outlines or non-writing activity, since that can lead you away from actually writing, but if you need to see the fruit of your research all together in one place before you can start thinking about how it goes together, that is also absolutely the way that some people do it. Either way, to be a successful academic writer, you have to train yourself to approach academic writing in a very different way from fun writing. You do fun writing when you have free time and feel inspired and can glop a lot of words down at once, or at least some words. You do it electively and for distraction and when you want to, not to a set timeline or schedule, and alas, you can't do this for academic writing. You will have to sit your ass down and write even when you do not feel like writing, do not feel Magically Inspired, don't even want to look at the fucking thing, etc. I have had enough practice that I can turn on Academic Writing Brain, sit down, bang something out, sit down the next day and turn on Academic Editing Brain, go over it again, and send it off, but I have been in academia for uh, quite a while. The good news is that you can also automate yourself to be the same way, but the bad news is that it will take practice and genuine time invested in it.

As such, this means developing a writing schedule and sticking to it, and figuring out whether you work best going for several hours without an interruption, or if you set a timer, write for a certain time, then allow yourself to look at the internet/answer texts/fuck around on Tumblr, and then make yourself put down the distraction and go back to work for another set period of time. (I am admittedly horrible at putting my phone away when I should be doing something else, but learn ye from your wizened elders, etc.) You will have to figure out in which physical space you work best, which may not be a public coffee shop where you can likewise get distracted with doing other things/chatting to friends/screwing around on the internet/doomscrolling/peeking at AO3, and to try to be there as often as possible. It might be your carrel in the library, it might be your desk at home, it might be somewhere else on campus, but if you can place yourself in a setting that tells your brain it's time to work and not look at WhatsApp for the 1000th time in a row, that is also beneficial.

Finally, remember that you do not have to produce an absolutely world-beating, stunningly original, totally flawless and perfect piece, even in its final form. Lots of us write very shitty things when we're starting out (and some of us, uh, still write very shitty things as established academics), and you do not have to totally redefine your entire field of study or propose a groundbreaking theory that nobody has heard of or anything like that. A lot of academic work is small-scale and nuanced, filling in spaces on the margins of other things or responding or offering a new perspective on existing work, and it's best to think of it as a conversation between yourself and other scholars. They have said something and now you're saying something back. You don't need to be so brilliant that everyone goes ZOMGZ I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF THAT BEFORE; by its nature that happens very rarely and is usually way out on a limb (extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, etc); you just need to continue the dialogue with a reasonably well-constructed and internally plausible piece. So if you think of it that way, and understand that a shitty first draft will usually develop into something that is good and valuable but not SHOCKING NEW REVELATION clickbait hype, you will take some of the pressure off yourself and be more able to shut up that perfectionist voice in your head. However, all of us have some degree of imposter syndrome and it never entirely goes away, so you'll have to manage that too. Etc etc as before, it doesn't vanish altogether, but it gets easier.

And last but not least, though I'm sure I don't have to say this: for the love of fuckin' god, do not use ChatGPT. Even the genuinely shittiest paper in the world that you still worked on researching, organizing, and writing with your own brain is better than that. Trust me.

[thighsa]

What kind of porn would Isa make?

SOLO

1. Lewd dance videos:

Isa performs provocative choreography in skimpy outfits, highlighting her assets and enticing viewers with suggestive hip swivels and pelvic thrusts.

2. Softcore photo shoots:

She models lingerie and bikinis, posing seductively to emphasize her voluptuous curves. The focus is on aesthetic appeal rather than hardcore sexuality.

3. Amateur solo scenes:

Isa films herself engaging in intimate activities, such as masturbating or giving herself oral pleasure, often while wearing revealing clothing or nothing at all. These clips aim to capture an authentic, private experience.

Sex (Intercourse)

1. Themed POV Scenes:

In this type of content, Isa takes center stage, guiding viewers through her sexual experiences from a first-person perspective. Each video would have its own unique theme, setting, or narrative, adding variety and storytelling depth to the footage.

- "The Audition": Isa prepares for a hypothetical audition, stripping down and getting intimate with a mysterious client who evaluates her performance.

- "The Fan Encounter": Isa meets a devoted fan who has traveled far to spend time with her. Their encounter evolves into a steamy, consensual hookup.

- "The Secret Affair": Isa engages in a clandestine romance with someone from her inner circle, capturing the thrill and risk of their illicit trysts."

2. Anal Exploration:

For Isa's anal-themed content, she would likely start with gentle, teasing introductions to the concept, gradually escalating to more intense experiences. This could unfold across multiple videos, allowing her to document her personal growth and comfort level with anal play.

- "Anal Awakening": Isa discovers the pleasures of anal stimulation during a massage session, leading her to experiment further with toys and partners.

- "Anal Sex Debut": For Isa's anal sex debut, she would likely choose a scenario that emphasizes intimacy, trust, and mutual pleasure. Given her K-pop background, the production values would be high, with careful attention to lighting, sound, and camerawork.

- "Fantasy Fulfillment": Isa enacts a fantasy scenario where she's a submissive maid servicing her wealthy employer."

- "Toy Play & Teasing": Isa explores different toys, learning to insert them safely into her anus and enjoy the sensations they provide. She may also incorporate teasing and denial elements, building anticipation before finally taking a toy inside."

3. Collaborative Group Scenes:

For a high-concept, boundary-pushing project, Isa works closely with the director, PD, and other company staff members to create an intricate, multi-part series featuring herself and fellow idols engaging in various forms of consensual group sex.

- "Behind the Scenes": The idols find themselves stranded together at a remote location after a cancelled photoshoot. As tensions rise and inhibitions lower, they begin to explore each other physically, creating a web of connections and power dynamics that blur the lines between friendship, lust, and exploitation.

- "Rehearsal Rituals": During an intense rehearsal period for an upcoming concert, the girls discover that their strict regimen leaves little room for personal fulfillment. They start to secretly indulge in each other's bodies as a way to cope with stress and build camaraderie, eventually embracing a shared, ritualistic approach to group sex as a form of catharsis and bonding.

- "Secret Society": Isa and her closest friends in the industry form a secret society dedicated to pushing the boundaries of sexuality and artistic expression. Through a series of elaborate, themed orgies, they explore dark fantasies, test limits, and create provocative content that serves as both a form of rebellion against the industry's constraints and a testament to their unbreakable bond.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Mr reca with an actress reader who first appeared very professional on set and unaffected by reca’s light flirting only to be incredibly dominant and flirtatious in private :> (reca would be stunned, trust)

Mr. Reca was no stranger to being in control. As a director, he dictated the way a scene unfolded, his hands shaping every movement, his voice orchestrating every beat. He thrived in command.

But you…

You were something else entirely.

The first time you walked onto his set, you were all business. Polite yet detached, you took direction with ease, never wavering under his signature teasing remarks.

"Ah, our star," Reca had purred during the first rehearsal, leaning against the back of his chair as he watched you adjust your mark on set. "I hope you don’t mind my guiding hand."

You barely spared him a glance. "I take direction well, Mr. Reca. I expect you to do the same when I’m in front of the camera."

His grin had flickered, just for a second. Most actresses either blushed or batted their lashes at him. But you? You were ice-cool, immovable. He had a game on his hands, and oh, how he loved a game.

He tested you. More flirtation, more casual touches—nothing inappropriate, but enough to see if he could get a rise out of you. A flicker of amusement, a hitch in your breath, something that indicated you weren’t as immune to him as you appeared.

But scene after scene, you remained unaffected. Perfect. Poised. Practically untouchable.

And Reca? He was growing obsessed.

By the second week of filming, Reca was practically restless. He threw in more casual flirtations, knowing that the crew would write it off as his usual antics.

“Tell me, do you rehearse that sharp tongue of yours, or does it just come naturally?” he mused one afternoon after yet another witty rebuttal from you.

Without missing a beat, you met his gaze and responded, “If I did rehearse, Mr. Reca, you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Laughter erupted from the crew, and Reca could only chuckle, though inwardly, he was seething. Not with anger, but with frustration. He had flirted his way into and out of every kind of reaction imaginable—but you? You were unreadable.

Even in moments that required close contact—like the romantic tension in the film’s pivotal scene—you stayed in character, never faltering under his gaze.

And yet, when the cameras weren’t rolling, you had this knowing glint in your eye, as if you were playing a game he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

Late one evening, after an exhausting day of shooting, you found Reca alone in the production room, watching playback footage.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Still working, Director?"

Reca turned, expecting the same playful professionalism you gave in public. Instead, he found you watching him with a smirk that made his pulse stutter.

"You know, dedication is—"

"Reca." You cut him off, sauntering toward him.

His mouth went dry.

You plucked the remote from his hand, stopping the footage. Then, slow as sin, you leaned onto the table, your lips mere inches from his ear.

"I’ve been patient," you murmured. "I’ve let you play your game. Now it’s my turn."

He barely had time to process your words before you kissed him.

And oh, stars above, you kissed him like you had all the time in the universe to break him apart.

Your hands found their way into his hair, your body pressing against his just enough to feel his heartbeat stammer against your own. He responded instinctively, hands gripping your waist, but the moment he tried to deepen the kiss...

You pulled away.

Reca nearly whimpered.

"What’s wrong?" you teased, dragging a thumb over his lower lip. "Not used to being the one left breathless?"

He stared at you, dazed, lips kiss-bruised and eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

"You’re dangerous," he whispered.

You smiled, slow and knowing. "And you love it."

From then on, every private moment between you was a power play.

You would brush past him in the hall, your fingers barely grazing his, and he would stiffen like he’d been burned. You would lean in too close when discussing a scene, your lips ghosting over his ear, and he’d completely lose track of what he was saying.

During one particularly tense editing session, you leaned over his chair, resting a hand on his shoulder as you whispered, “This shot… don’t you think it deserves a closer look?”

Your breath against his skin sent a shudder down his spine, and for the first time in his career, he forgot how to speak.

Reca, the ever-confident, ever-smooth director, was coming undone at your hands.

And you loved it.

It all came to a head one evening when Reca finally tried to take back control.

After a long day, you were in the dressing room, touching up your lipstick when you caught his reflection in the mirror.

He looked determined. Like he was finally going to win this little game of yours.

“Enjoying yourself?” you mused, dabbing the excess color away.

Reca stepped forward, hands braced on either side of the vanity, caging you in.

“Immensely,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual.

You hummed. “Good.”

Then, before he could make his move, you turned in your chair and pulled him down by the collar, kissing him so fiercely that he gasped against your lips.

His knees nearly buckled.

You deepened the kiss, savoring the way he melted against you. His hands trembled at your sides, caught between pulling you closer and surrendering completely.

And then—you pulled away.

Reca let out the softest sound of protest. You traced his jaw with a single finger, tilting his chin up so he had no choice but to meet your gaze.

“Oh, Reca,” you purred. “You really thought you could turn the tables on me?”

His breath hitched. His pupils were blown. He was completely wrecked.

You smiled, pressing a final, teasing kiss to his cheek before walking away, leaving him standing there—dazed, undone, and utterly at your mercy.

From then on, Mr. Reca was a changed man.

On set, he was still the same smug, flirtatious director everyone knew—but the moment you were alone, that facade cracked.

Now, you were the one he looked at like a man on the verge of ruin.

Now, he was the one left weak in the knees after every encounter.

And stars help him, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[threepandas]

Counting Down: 3 [<-Prev][]

My eyes were getting worse. There was nothing the healers could really do. Because, ultimately? There was nothing actually wrong, with my eyes. They were working exactly as nature intended. Exactly as my genetics designed. It was just... badly designed. Poorly suited, unfortunate perhaps, ill optimized in every way, for my environment.

If I had been living alone? Or in a sparsely populated, low growth environment? Subterraneanly? Well, THEN my eyes would have been perfect. Perhaps a bit on the over sensitive side, but otherwise perfect. I would have been a Sage. Elevated to Pathfinder, for my ability to safely lead my tribe through the dark.

But here? On Coruscant? Amongst the constant flow of billions? It is AGONY. A disability of the worst sort. Like two ice picks, slamming light and information into my brain. At the rate I am developing...

At... At the rate I am developing?

I may eventually be as good as BLIND. Be forced to wear a glorifed blindfold. And... and when THAT, inevitably fails? As it WILL fail? There have been... been somber, serious, terrifying talks? On if I wish to first try removing myself to a remote Temple for seclusion (and risk the lack of medical care that comes with it.) or if? O-or if?

Medically, it would be better to just... replace my eyes.

T-They can't even guarantee? That it would work. There are species that see through the Force. My problem may BE that I am somehow one of them and simply not physically built for it. That I developed the needed mutation. I... I could lose my eyes for NOTHING.

Yet...?

The headaches. The LIGHT. I can not take missions anymore. Can not even help in the Crèches. Their unfiltered, unshielded Force presences? Are like staring into search lights. I can not even help with Initiate classes, having grown too fucking sensitive! How will I EVER find a Padawan?!

I... I wanted one. Someone to guide and teach. Someone to watch grow.

Maybe that grief, (that I might never have one, that I KNOW he can do better,) is what makes me so short with Qui-gon. Obi-Wan is a youngling, damn it! Not a crutch for you mental health! Something which? Of course leads me to chasing Yan's Padawan down. REPEATEDLY. (Stop running! Boy! I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME, QUI-GON! You better STOP RUNNING!! Listen to your Aunty while she SCOLDS YOU!) Because SOMEONE needs to beat that into the stubborn, heart sick, fool's head!

Why not me? I'm stuck on medical leave! Possibly FOREVER.

(Have a treat, Obi-Wan. You're too skinny.)

It's not productive. I KNOW it's not productive. The harder I push, the more Qui-gon digs his heels in. Yan's old Padawan was many things, but weak willed? Even in the depth of his grief? Hardly one of them. The whole LINEAGE was stubbornness made manifest. Literal STONES we more agreeable and subject to change.

I just wished Padawan Kenobi wasn't the one paying for it.

So, I helped. Without judgment. No harrasing him about his weight or his injuries, no demands he explain this or that. Just... there, if he's ready. If he trusts me. Bacta and pain relief, a safe place to sleep, someone to guide a peaceful meditation. And of course, Food. Ration bars by the basket. Take and hoard as many as you need. Here, both rich and mild foods to choose from.

Hugs and safety, I could do that. Be that. Put my emotions aside, for the sake of a child. Did his mere presence hurt? Yes. A LOT. But I would sooner die then let him know that. Bright and beautiful as his soul was, young and growing as he is? There is no pain, that is merely the confusion of crude matter. I am FINE. This... is FINE.

(Dispite the drugs, the meditation, it still HURTS.)

Neither Yan or Sifo like it. In fact, Yan is? Both in turns, heart sick and furious. His old Padawan entirely too good at dodging him. Dispite Yan being on the HIGH COUNCIL. Dispite BOTH Yan and Sifo, being on the High Council. It's genuinely impressive. Alarming, yes, that he uses such skill to avoid any attempts at therapy... but, well....

I've SEEN what the Mind Healers here consider a job "well done", with Sifo. Their definition of "help". So... granted, I understand completely. But he could just as easily take his Padawan on a "healing retreat"! Sneak away to get ACTUAL help from one of the other Sects! Illum perhaps? The Whills?

He KNOWS I'm right. It's why he's avoiding me.

(The little SHIT.)

Breathing in filtered, earth rich air, I tried to breathe out my stress. The Thousand Gardens do not just extend upwards. They went down as well. And they will continue to go upwards if ever another Temple is built upon the current one. Just like the last gardens, in which I sit, the light requiring plants that can be moved will be brought upwards. Those that can't? Get solar lamp systems.

Tiny biodomes, here in the dark. We do not kill our ancient trees, after all. Our plant and gardens. They are precious heirlooms. Living, breathing, friends. And besides? In the places they abandon, for the light up above? NEW gardens can be made! Subterranean ones. Glowing lichen and mushrooms, cave shrubs and parasitic low light trees.

It is peaceful, down here. Glowing plant life and distant lamps, like so many stars in the dark. The sound of running water and quite murmurs of the few who prefer such low light meditations. There are more then a few knights napping, having found gardens that speak to them. Their various light sensitive visual organs, finally having found relief.

Somewhere above me, Sifo is pacing. Erratic. Another vision of death and despair, of clones marching upon us all. It is getting to him. Like the slow eroding of a cliff face. Death by a thousand cuts. Over and over and OVER. Despair. Won't you do something? DESPAIR. Don't you CARE? DESPAIR. I can offer the power to FIX things. Don't you want it? Don't you WANT it~??

The Dark Side is a cruel and insidious thing. A riptide. An undertow, which drags you out to sea, then drowns you. It offers sweetness, safety, freedom. Only to deliver oblivion and pain. Power without control, it corrodes you. Destroys all that you were. Giving voice to your worst impulses, silencing your better nature.

You become a mockery of yourself.

I... I am scared for him. For Yan. I can see the outline of their ends, beginning to line up before them. They are pulling away. Growing frustrated. Their discussions with me are growing less philosophical difference with the Order, and more... dangerously immoral. Heretical. Nothing actionable, of course, but... I wouldn't expect their to be.

Both are High Councilors. They, of all people, know how to toe the line.

What do I DO? I ask the Force. Meditation after meditation, seeking guidance. How can I help them? And yet... I get no reply. No insight. Only nudges towards Obi-Wan. Towards teaching and compassion. Slipping him lessons on how to help slaves cope with the trauma. Philosophical debates on the doctrine of attachments. And, of course? Showing him my completely personal project, that HE will in no way someday need, of creating lesson plans for my hypothetical future Padawn.

How VERY thoughtful of him! To help me get some of those data pads! To help me research and revise my plans. He'll make a great mentor one day~ Amused? Me? No, no, dear. I was just thinking of a funny joke. Have ever given thought to Form Three?

Also! Never trust the Senate intelligence, dear. They are full of shit and couldn't spot a slaver if the sale was happening right in front of them. Do your own research whenever possible and NEVER rush in. NEVER.

(Yan refused to rush the assignment. Was in the Process of contacting the Armorer of Little Keldab for information. A Team was sent behind his back. On the word of the Senate alone. They almost completely DIED and the rightful Ruler of the Mandalorian people? Enslaved. Force knows where. Are you HAPPY now? Was rushing WORTH it? Your "regrets" mean NOTHING to the dead.)

It's building. I can feel it. The darkness is growing, my friends drifting farther and farther from the light. All, while? I am stuck. Disabled by my eyes. By the pain my so call "blessing" gives me.

Giving up on another useless meditation, I rise. Head for the lifts. The hallways down here are... quite. The old temple towers a peace place. Filled with the ancient echos of long dead Masters. There are room down here. Apartments. They are unassigned, yes, but no one truely cares if they are used. Granted, I would have to dust them myself.

I consider it. The light, (or really, the lack there off) is much more comfortable down here. The quite, less stressful. If Sifo didn't have such traumatic associations with darkness? I would honestly suggest moving down here with me. It might do us both some good.

As the lift rises, I tap the side of my lenses. Momentarily blinding myself in preparation for the increasing light. Soon enough, vision returns. The cacophonous press of noise. Oh dear, it's mid-meal. I should have waited. No wonder it's so loud and bright. Gritting my teeth, I keep my expression calm and pleasant. My shoulders relaxed.

It is not the younglings fault, that it hurts to be near them. They should NOT have to carry that guilt nor knowledge. I walk calmly but swiftly. This is fine. This Is Fine. Ow, ow, ow, OW, OW! This Is Fine!

Relief. I get passed them. The healers are right. Damn it. It really IS not just my eyes that are growing more sensitive. I... I so badly wanted them to be wrong. But as days go by? As weeks pass? Everything has slowly gotten... gotten so LOUD. Sharp and shrill, grating and rumbling, barks and squeals. Just? Just ALL of it. Too much.

Loud.

At the rate i'm going? I'm going to end up in a Force damned helmet like some sort of Mandalorian! And... and yes, I know there is no shame in that. That each race has their own specific needs. That it is humanist to think certain traits are somehow BETTER then others. I just... just feel like I am slowly losing myself. My freedom.

I am scared.

My body feels like it's betraying me.

Somewhere, near the High Council's chambers, I can feel Yan seething. How long has it been? Since the three of us coexisted in simple peace? Before Sifo's accident? Their appointments to the Council? Or was it as recent as Xanatos and the disaster of his Fall? How... How long have I been a pillar? For the mental and spiritual strength of others?

It's grinding me to dust. I'm so tired. Just... just want to rest. For just a moment. Without the fear, that my moments weakness? Will condemn a good man. Will irreversibly harm, a growing child. I.. Force, I am so tired.

Sifo is waiting for me, in my apartments. My plan for a moments rest? A fleeting, impossible, dream. He is pacing, pacing, pacing. Lines of tension and darting eyes. Hands clenching and unclenching. Running through his already ruined hairdo, again and again. It was easy to see what someone might think him mad. He certainly looked it.

"I saw them again. Bastards! I don't-! What am I doing wrong?!" He gasped the second he laid eyes on me. Already ranting before the door even closed. "I vow not to step foot on Kamino? They still appear. Avoid Mandalorians? Still! They exsist! But, oh! What if I plan Temple defenses? Surely THEN, right?! No! They somehow get passed them! Is it me? Am I the problem!?"

"TELL ME!"

He spun, eyes wide and manic, arms spread. As though inviting a blow. Inviting his own destruction. Hair falling from his careful hairdo in mad whisps, clothes disheveled, hands faintly trembling... he did not look well. Looked near tears. Teetering on the edge of something ugly.

How long could he hold out? I wondered.

I didn't have a comforting answer for him. No sweet and gentle words. But I could offer a hug. A hand to hold, as he faced down the dark. Sometimes... sometimes there WAS no right answer, Sifo. Sometimes the pieces were all on the board yet. Or the very act of try to stop Fate, made it so. I don't know. Can't know. Neither of us can.

But I can be there WITH you, until the end. And we can do our best.

Have you eaten yet? Had any tea? When was the last time you slept? Terrible things do not become easier to bear, if you burn yourself up, trying to face them. You have to take care of yourself too. I stepped forward, into that desperate stance, and pulled him into my arms.

"You believe me. You BELIEVE me. It's just inevitabe, too you, isnt it? That's what your trying not to say, isn't it? That you've run out of options. " Sifo's arms wrapped around me in a desperate grip. Like a drowning man holding onto the only life raft at sea.

"You're just afraid. Don't want me to break myself, destroy myself, chasing something that can't happen. Because we're Jedi, and you know we have to try. Try and try and TRY! Until it destroys us. Destroys everything. Hoping against all hope that they'll just... just LISTEN! But they WON'T, will they? They won't listen. It's inevitable. A cleansing. Purging of the old, to give rise to something new. The will of the Force itself."

Cleansing? Purging?! Alarm bells started to ring in my head. Nothing good came of talks of "cleansings" or "purgings" of ANYTHING.. NOTHING. I opened my mouth to refute him. Never got the chance. Yan's Force presence slammed into ours. The equivalent of crashing open doors and stomping feet.

Startled and alarmed, I turned just in time to see him sweep into my apartment like a raging, high society, storm cloud. The expression on his face could peel paint.

"Apparently," he snarled, barely holding together. "my Grand-Padawan has SUPPOSEDLY left the Order! Despite showing no prior interest in doing so, sending no missives to friends or fellow Creche-mates, and? Of course? Let us not forget? SUPPOSEDLY doing so? For some TART in the midst of an ACTIVE WARZONE!"

Horrified, I felt the blood drain from my face. No. NO! I thought I had more TIME! Please! Dear FORCE! Tell me, Qui-gon did not LEAVE his Padawan on-!

"Oh yes! CLEARLY, this is but a childish desire to wet his-!" Yan visibly struggled to beat back the surge of incoherent WRATH and fear. The disappointment. They HORROR at a child, in such unimaginable danger. "The Council won't even HEAR that there could be anything amiss! Won't even CHECK. A supposed WASTE of RESOURCES, when already we are stretched too thin! A CHILD, potentially ABANDONED in a WARZONE! And they-!? THEY-!?"

My mind races as I pull away from Sifo's grip to face Yan. The Order won't authorize use of their ships to go check. But... But? Are we not Jedi? We serve the Force. Our mission is to PROTECT. Minimize suffering, bring Light to the universe. Take a sabbatical! NOW! In fact? We ALL will. It will be GOOD for me, to be away from Coruscant's crowded population.

Call your Family, Yan. We need a Serranian Ship. Ask if we can borrow the Senator's, since it's on planet. We aren't slaves. They can't stop us, if we simple decide to GO. Punish us? Perhaps. But not STOP us.

An almost roguish grin settles poorly, under the near manic glint in Yan's eyes. Too expressive. Too unhinged. He has never been anything but composed, he values it too highly. Sifo's answering grin is just as manic. Just as... slightly wrong. Too much. Fitting both too practiced and ill fitting on their faces.

Like they are feeding off each others madness... some part of me hisses in concern. A feedback loop, we aren't strong enough to stop.

I try to ignore it. Focus on the now. There is a child in danger. It's... it's fine. Probably. All I have to do, is keep them away from the Sith! They... they won't Fall. They WON'T.

R-Right?

Yet... watching them plan our trip? Calling in favors and gleefully plotting. Casually threatening. Feeding of each others energy, as they do. I... I am not so certain. Once again, that moment of dissonance strikes true. Like looking around and realizing I am an actor on the stage of a Tragedy, ready line after line, as we march onward to the inevitable End.

Attachments are going to condemn you. Seems to whisper the Force. Like chains that choke and squeeze.

I know, I whisper back. But I am foolish and still want to save them.

Please let me try.

Please.

Let me TRY.

[feetpiclovers]

Tired of the 9 to 5 grind? In this video, I’m breaking down how to make money online without a traditional job. From freelancing and content creation to a secret side hustle that’s blowing up—Feet Finder—I'll show you how to create multiple streams of income in 2025. Whether you're into selling feet pics, digital products, or working remotely, this guide is packed with legit tips to quit your job and start earning real cash on your own terms. Learn how to monetize your skills, sell anonymously, and build financial freedom.

[callmearcturus]

(i posted this but tumblr fucked up the formatting SO BAD and then the editor would not open so here's a re-do i guess!

bless u, bc this is the one that's gonna be Another Batshit Arcturus AU

except all the scenes I have sketched out are massive Act Two spoilers.... so instead, I'm gonna share the work-in-progress outline for Act One. or, specifically the modern day half of Act One. this story is told in approximately 2024 and 2011 concurrently, with the 2011 plotline providing vital context for the 2024 plotline.

for context: Ted is a director working with Rebecca's A24-style production company. Trent is a writer. Keeley is Trent's agent who managed to convince him to sell the movie rights to one book. act one is Ted trying to get those rights before a larger studio snaps them up. Act two is the filming of the movie. Act three is post-production and press tour.

One piece of additional context is that Trent is a reclusive writer who keeps writing extremely location-accurate novels set in America. Ted is shocked to learn the guy's not American, tbh. Here's the bibliography i made up for Trent:

[SPOILER, REDACTED]

editor for a few anthologies

The Sarpedon EP, 1968 (moody psuedo-mythical story about psychedelic/progressive rock in Nashville)

An Aquarian Guide to Atlantis, IL (weird, almost ergodic story of a hitchiker trying to get from St. Louis to Chicago and finding a strange town)

The Tides of Static (an anthology of seemingly disconnected vignettes that wind up linked by a radio DJ working a remote blowtorch tower)

Paris of the Plains (a sports drama/romance about a journalist uncovering a massive scandal in Kansas City football while trying not to rekindle her love of an old fling who's now working on the same team embroiled in the scandal. later adapted into the film The Time After The Last Time, directed by Ted Lasso, produced by Rebecca Welton)

so here, a glimpse of how I outline a story

ACT ONE: Pre-production

Storyline A (Ted POV):

Ted, modern day: Ted has to find Rebecca. She's supposed to be on vacation and Ted would never dream of interrupting her HOWEVER there's a scoop in Variety that Trent Crimm is auctioning the rights to his latest book despite years of resistance. Ted is terrified that someone is gonna buy the rights and make a bad movie or worse sit on the rights and never make anything out of them.

finding Rebecca takes some doing but Ted is determined and he knows all her offices and hiding places.

Ted is a huge fan of Crimm's work, has read all his previous books and has been keeping an eye out for him to maybe offer something up for adaptation. That it's specifically the one about a football scandal in Kansas City with a fantastic sense of space and also is a romance? Ted HAS to direct this movie, but Rebecca's studio can't compete with the huge prices that a Paramount or Disney would be throwing around. So they need to make a direct offer before the sale.

Rebecca emails Crimm's agent. This first attempt gets a polite, impersonal dismissal. So Ted is the person to reply (as Rebecca watches over his shoulder to ensure he's not making a fool of them) and tries to convince them to reconsider bc Ted is specifically interested in doing it right.

Still no.

T: "Get me an address, I'll fly out--" R: "Fly out? The address available through his agent is in London." T: "Okay, wouldn't've called that."

Rebecca gets Ted the address and Ted takes the Tube to get there bc he still doesn't have a car-and-driver. (He claims its organic location scouting.)

The address seems to be Trent's house but he's not there, just Keeley and Adelaide Crimm. They will not reveal where Trent is.

Ted notices Adelaide's accent and is relieved Trent is American. Adelaide says no, he's super british, but he took a job in America when she was young and brought her along.

The house is fully of photos of places. Addy is a photographer. Ted is thrilled to see shots of the Paseo, the Plaza, and other KC landmarks.

Keeley explains they are not really looking to option the book out because, well. They're not.

Adelaide kind of likes Ted and how he talks about her dad's books so she texts him later, gives Ted her dad's email. the one he actually checks, not the fake ones that get listed.

A turn for the epistolary as Ted attempts to reach Trent Crimm.

Ted emails Trent, who is baffled that he found this email address. Thanks Ted for his interest but tells him it was difficult enough to decide to offer up any rights and he frankly doesn't want to talk about it further, goodbye.

Ted takes a little time to try to read/watch every interview he can with Trent Crimm. They are basically non-existent and the ones that do exist are fully text.

Emailing each other continues: Eventually, Trent admits he's hoping the book rights are bought and sat on forever. Keeley was the one to convince him this was a good way to ensure Adelaide was set up for years to come and he could write his next few books without concern about money. But actually seeing such a movie? He wants nothing to do with it.

There's something unique about this email, a slip-up: Trent mentions he's in KCMO. The moment Ted realizes, he's inbound, racing to get there in time.

All for naught: Ted makes good time, probably the best possible time a guy can make from Heathrow to MCI to Emmanuel Cleaver Blvd without use of a fighter jet.

Still: Trent's gone, and Keeley's there.

Ted hangs a lampshade on the running gag: How in the sam hell is she always there instead of Trent?! "Yanno, I ain't ever seen the two of you in the same room together, Ms. Jones." Keeley cackles. "He's a slippery one! But trust me, you'd know him if you met him. He's got that aura of irritable uptight fiction author."

Ted is extremely discouraged that he missed Trent yet again, tells Keeley he is bound and determined to make sure this movie's done right but doesn't know what to do anyone. Keeley cracks, sympathetic, and gives Ted the Actual phone number for Trent. "Do not call him. He blocks all unknown numbers. Text."

So Ted does. Takes a photo of the fountains at the Plaza at night and sends it to Trent.

TL: I think the fight between Kit and Moses happens here at night, when they turn the lights on under the fountains and it's beautiful, all that watery glow. The contrast there, it reminds me of how painfully obvious it is that Moses wanted to take her there for real, to see her son playing in the water. It's the right place and the wrong time, it's always right place wrong time with them. LONG pause but Ted sees the text has been marked as "Read". Honestly he's surprised Trent has read receipts on. TC: Why are you in KCMO? TL: Flew here hoping to catch you. Last email, you accidentally hinted you were at your rental off Emanuel Cleaver. TC: Ah. An amateur mistake, I see. But I've slipped your net again, it seems.

Ted returns back home to London, resigned to taking another project and letting this one go. Pulls his copy of Paris of the Plains from his bag, reads it on the plane back.

Gets off the plane and he's missed a call from Trent Crimm. Shocked, Ted immediately calls back.

TC: "You have one shot, Mr. Lasso, so make it count. Tell me why you're so determined. It's not the job of a director to try to cajole a reclusive, unfriendly author into optioning his book to a boutique film studio. So why?" TL: "When I first moved to the UK, I was missin' home so much, I was turning into a barely-functioning daydrinker, and I almost gave up, went back to Kansas, gave up my career. But Beard loaned me his copy of Atlantis, IL and you... knew those roads and those people. You gave me a home I could carry around in my bag. Dunno if I would have survived without. Then I read Sarpedon, and Rebecca got me an advance copy of Tides of Static for my birthday." TC: "So you're a fan." TL: "No! I mean, obviously I'm a huge admirer, yeah, but... Trent, I just flew almost nine thousand miles just for a chance to talk to you about this, so I'm not gonna split hairs here. I need to be the guy to direct this. No one else is going to get it right, and I need it to be right, 'cause I know it. If you give me a chance, I'm going to move the whole production out to KC, I'm going to take what's in my head and put it on the screen. And I-- I think it's what's in your head, too." TC: "You know, it's supposedly my worst book. That was part of the little joke of it all; Keeley convinced me to sell something, so I picked the one the critics hated. You'll need someone good to do the adapting." TL: "Heck, if I need to write the treatment myself, I'll do it." TC: "..... Alright." TL: "!!!!" TC: "Nine thousand miles is an absurd ordeal to put yourself through and the writer in me wants you to get some payoff for it. So. Tell Ms. Welton to tack on another five million and its yours."

[peskellence]

My Friends Call Me Richard

Part III

Explicit Content (18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: M/M, Workplace Romance, FWB, Humour, Awkward Encounters, Smut

Previous Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In a bid to improve his partnership (and secret intimate arrangement) with Detective Gavin Reed, RK900 embarks on a noble quest to spice things up. The solution? A new biocomponent.

Word Count: 10K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

(surprise at the end of the keep reading courtesy of @faxaway)

“What's the hold up in there?”

RK900 winced at the question. The transition from purchase to implementation had gone nowhere near as smoothly as hoped. He found himself locked in the bathroom, trying and failing to secure his new biocomponent.  

“I am beginning to question if this product is suitable for ‘self-installation’,” He mumbled critically, attempting to angle the phallus awkwardly between his legs. “Perhaps the store assistant issued the wrong product...” 

“Can you not cross-reference it against your dick database?” His voice was thin, dripping with impudence. No doubt reflective of his dwindling patience. “I mean, your scanners would flag if it was the wrong thing completely, wouldn't they?”

The android frowned, forced to concede that multiple checks had been completed—referring to both the product schematics and his own manufacturer details. None of this had shed any clarity on his current difficulties.

He sightlessly searched for a small circular slot at the base of his groin. Guiding nodules failed to adhere, clips gripping to nothing before slipping uselessly from his chassis.

"I am having issues adhering the scrotal extension to my lower access port.” He moved the component again, testing to see if a change in angle might reap greater success. 

Another failure followed, and fears emerged that the fault could relate to his own anatomy. Specifically, a factory defect he had previously been unaware of. 

With his options rapidly depleting, he turned to the crumpled instructional leaflet left abandoned by the bath. He scrutinised each step, noting multiple discrepancies between the printed text and the digital guidance displayed on his HUD. 

“Perhaps if you could offer assistance, then it would be easier to facilitate—” 

“There's a line,” Reed shot back, callously interrupting before he could finish. “Helping you clip on your junk like we're building IKEA furniture is where I draw it.” 

The rebuff was discouraging, as RK900 was left helpless—plagued by doubts relating to protocols and analytics that so intrinsically dictated his actions.

While his advanced processors should have been capable of determining a solution to the dilemma, they proved inexplicably incapable. Trapping him in a loop of trial and error.

He briefly considered contacting RK800 to see if he might be more willing to assist. This was before he realised there would be significant limitations on the support that could be provided remotely—and that Reed would undoubtedly be opposed to welcoming additional guests.

Despite logic indicating that surrender may be the only option, something inside him refused to concede. Attention locked on his primary directive, which dangled precariously at the forefront of his optics:

> ENGAGE IN SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH DETECTIVE REED.

It seemed callous to allow himself to fall at this final hurdle, no matter how staggering it proved. 

And so, he forcefully pulled himself from the despondent line of cognition. Determined to ensure that his efforts—and the current painful ordeal—would not be in vain. 

With parameters set and diagnostics refreshed, his system presented an updated list of prompts. Ones that sparked hope. Renewed faith that he wasn’t deluding himself or his partner on false pretences.

Following guidance, the android performed a precise 7-degree rotation of the component. He pressed forward, and for a split second, the attachment seemed to align—but the angle fell short of optimal. A prompt then advised that proper leverage was unobtainable from his current position.

To correct this, RK900 lifted one leg, calculating in real time the exact height needed. This elevation, as it transpired, aligned almost perfectly with Detective Reed’s toilet.

Foot steady on the edge of the bowl, he pressed again, slanting upward in another attempt to engage the clips. This time, with success, confirmed by a soft click which echoed through the room. 

The small noise provided unparalleled relief. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe the debacle was over. 

It was a blissful respite, if cruelly short-lived. 

The auditory cue had been deceptive. While alignment of the prongs had been achieved, their locking mechanism had not engaged, preventing adhesion to the connection point

A revelation that came too late. 

RK900 slipped back, and the attachments promptly folded, the intimate module tumbling down between his thighs.

Unfortunately, it seemed Detective Reed was geometrically opposed to lowering his toilet seat. The component struck against the porcelain dome, ricocheting like a pinball until it hit the base with a plop. Ripples of impact shook the water, and RK900 watched in despair as the flesh-toned silicone sank, engulfed by murky waves. 

His attention snapped to the door, where he knew his partner sat in wait. Listening closely, having undoubtedly heard everything that just transpired. 

“...What was that?” 

Thirium pumped in increased volumes through his circulatory system, pooling in his cheeks. His limited social directives were strained to their breaking point, faced with a sudden uptick in demand:

While Reed was far from preoccupied with good hygiene standards, he undoubtedly possessed some instinct to protect against hazardous waste. 

This left his next steps uncertain, as the android was trapped at an impasse. Painfully aware that some degree of deceit would be needed to placate his partner, but unsure how to achieve this with any conviction. 

“Richard.”

Then a confession slipped out, almost instinctively, before he could stop it:

“It appears I have dropped my phallus in your toilet.”  

Reed did not respond immediately, and while RK900 could not see his face, he could envision the disappointment etched upon it. The deep-set frown and contemptuous stare bore into him, demanding acknowledgement.

Then, a sound bridged the hush between the bathroom and bedroom. Auditory profiling identified the impact of flesh, as biophysical analysis confirmed no additional parties had entered the home.  

Reed had struck himself. Likely in the face—a ritualistic action performed during times of frustration.  

“ Why were you putting it on over the toilet?”

RK900 spoke quickly. An exercise in perseverance and self-preservation as much as it was an appeal to his partner. “There is no cause for alarm.” 

He then pivoted sharply, leaving the component submerged in the waste receptacle. The rubber tip reached for him, breaking the water's surface as though beckoning his return. 

Its pleas for assistance were ignored as he dropped to his knees, retrieving a discarded box from the grubby linoleum floor. The contents were cleared, save for a small drawstring bag containing samples of Cyberlife-issued cleaning supplies. 

“The component will be sanitised thoroughly before use,” the android said, a relieved sigh passing his lips. “I can assure you this incident will not impact our planned intimacy.”

“Like fuck, it won’t. I am not letting you put your toilet dick in me.”

The harsh retort struck like a slap and swiftly undermined any solace. Crestfallen, the RK unit returned focus to the toilet, gaze dropping limply to the prosthetic urethra staring up at him. A singular, narrow eye, which made him the subject of scrupulous judgment. Mockery. 

His grip tightened, reducing the box to a compact wad of cardboard. Then, his central processor whirred into overdrive, fervently seeking a solution to the current dilemma. 

“If preferred, we can return to the Cyberlife Store in order to—”

“ No .”

The fledging suggestion was cut down before it had any hopes of maturing. 

Despite this sweeping refusal of cooperation, Detective Reed eventually employed some degree of deduction. This was an innate reflex that existed beyond the parameters of conscious desire, culminating in the antipathic conceit he muttered under his breath. 

It was just barely audible through the wooden panel that divided them. Suggestions that it ‘didn’t matter’ if the extension was in mint condition, given the unsavoury conditions it would imminently find itself in. This, combined with allusions that he had accepted ‘worse’ from former partners.

The man capped the disgruntled train of thought with a more targeted instruction, spoken to the android: 

“Just make sure it’s clean enough , okay?” 

RK900 was appreciative to have been offered a compromise, accepting the conditions with a cordial nod. “My advanced debris detection will ensure the removal of all harmful chemicals and bacterial residue.” 

“...Debris detection?” the human questioned, snorting tersely as he did. “What are you, a fucking Roomba?”

“My operations are far more advanced than that of a vacuum cleaner.” 

This resulted in another burst of amusement—a childish snicker pelted against the wooden panel dividing them.

“Depends on the context…” This impish enjoyment soon subsided, followed by a return to thinly veiled criticisms. “Don’t rush; I’m having a blast . Nothing says ‘mind-blowing foreplay’ like waiting for your partner to disinfect his detachable dick.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Detective,” the android replied, imitating de-escalation tactics he had observed from RK800. “Your patience and understanding are greatly appreciated.” 

The man was far from enchanted. Clicking his tongue, he mumbled another suggestion under his breath. This time, admonishing insincerity, accusing the android of sounding like a ‘fucking complaints department.’  

“Just don’t expect me to go down on you. I'd rather not scrub my tongue with lemon zest bleach.” 

RK900 doubted this product had been used on the toilet with any recency. Nonetheless, he brushed the comment aside.

Supplies prepared, he rolled up the sleeve of his uniform jacket and reached into the bowl to retrieve the lost component. As his hand became further immersed, the silicone base slinked back until it was wedged stubbornly in the U-bend. Enhanced manoeuvring was required to dislodge it, but after a few determined twists, it finally broke free.

With the phallus secured, he set to work on the sanitation process. The antibacterial spray was used until the bottle was nearly depleted, scrubbed with dutiful care into every moulded ridge and crevice. Unsheathed fingers were then swept across the length, assessing for any lingering debris trapped in the pockets. 

“Exterior sterilisation is at 99.8%,” RK900 concluded, as synthetic skin returned to his digits, “well above advisory levels for bodily insertion.”

“Sexy,” the human said dryly. There was a strange upward lilt that the android had come to recognise as synonymous with sarcasm. “Just try not to drop it in the shitter again.” 

Having learned from his previous mistake, RK900 lowered the toilet seat, establishing a more desirable platform for installation. He clipped the newly sanitised component back into place. This time, ensuring the fastening clasps had locked securely to his groin before receding. 

His operational software acknowledged the component and the installation of primary physical subroutines booted autonomously. Aesthetic changes also occurred, integrating the component into his wider physical form. 

“...Hey…Richard…?” The address came mingled with steady rapping against the door. “You’re a bit quiet. Just checking your engine is still running.”

RK900’s lips formed a response, but no sound escaped them. Instead, he was mesmerised by the ripples of movement materialising on the component. Iridescent patterns danced and shimmered, attempting to harmonise with the surrounding conditions.

He understood the device’s ‘complexion’ was predetermined and that a perfect colour match was not guaranteed. Nonetheless, it came close. Unsightly connection points smoothed almost seamlessly beneath a blanket of pale, freckled skin.

“... Richard ?” There was another bang. Louder and more insistent. “Look, I’m not expecting you to strut out of there like Cyberlife’s latest sexbot. If you can't get the thing on, it's fine. Seriously. Just stop messing around so we can—”

“External interrogation is almost complete. I’ll be out in one moment.”

RK900 dressed carefully, concealing his new feature beneath his work slacks in anticipation of a proper reveal. He wanted to avoid startling his companion with unexpected nudity, having learned from experience that such a greeting required meeting very specific criteria—ones he did not want to misjudge at this pivotal moment. 

As he opened the passage to the bedroom, the swinging door nearly collided headlong with Reed. He dodged to the side, cursing sharply, as one of the arms that had been habitually crossed over his chest moved to shield his face. 

“What the hell ?” he spluttered, tone brimming with accusation. “You nearly knocked me out, dipshit.”

“I did not anticipate you would be standing in such close proximity to the door.”

The sounds of annoyance trailed off as the man's disgruntled expression morphed into one of introspection. Suddenly aware that the action had revealed more than he intended.

“Whatever.” He grunted dismissively, drawing his arms back into their previous guarded position. “So, you done? Or do you still need to calibrate your balls?” 

“The component has been implemented in its entirety. Diagnostics are underway to confirm optimal physical functionality. Afterwards, I will be cleared to upload the related social protocols.” 

The human stared blankly as if the words had emerged as distorted, incomprehensible screeches. “I asked if it was on, not for a dissertation on the instruction manual.” 

RK900 recognised that he may have offered more information than necessary. In seeking to be thorough, he had unintentionally diminished a level of intrigue—the mystique that Reed wished to preserve in their impending intimacy.

“It is on and will be ready for use shortly. Apologies for the delay, Detective.”

Reed blinked again, his already furrowed brow pulling into an increasingly taut pinch. There was unrest that persisted around him, but it took a different form. More apprehensive than hostile. 

“Gavin,” he corrected. “I already told you, Gavin is fine when we're…” 

The sentence trailed off, wandering in line with his focus. It followed a path down the android’s form, inspecting every inch until it had locked onto the junction between his legs. His eyes widened, and his breath hitched, catching in his throat.

“How much longer is it going to take?” he questioned, motioning towards the concealed appendage in a loose circling gesture. “Have I got time to text Tina about how fucking insane this is?” 

RK900 took this impatience as a cue to progress the interaction. He leveraged all the research he had compiled, coupled with their pre-existing intimacy habits. This collective insight encouraged him to act assertively—while also imitating a degree of human spontaneity.

He advanced on the human, preparing to perform an action he had noted in several of the surveyed clips. Pressing a steadying hand to the small of the man’s back, he hooked his available arm onto the back of his thighs.

Gavin was raised in a fluid motion, resulting in a short, strangled sound—caught somewhere between a scream and a hiss. He was powerless to do anything but hook onto his partner’s neck, preventing unsteady weight from toppling back. 

Once adjusted to the sudden change in elevation, his lips parted, presumably to form words of protest. They were silenced pre-emptively by the firm, deliberate press of the android’s own.

It wasn’t long before the kiss was reciprocated. He engaged RK900 in a quiet chase, mirroring practised movements with tenacious enthusiasm. His heartbeat escalated, and the press of his mouth grew more insistent—matching each rumbled pulse that rattled his ribs. 

The android felt a flicker of satisfaction, his actions eliciting the exact response he had predicted. Ultimately, he pulled away, and mimicry ended as the man attempted to pursue the withdrawing contact.

“I can think of more entertaining ways to tolerate this delay...” 

RK900 paused, realising he was unsure how to proceed with this sentence. He took a moment to adjust his verbal subroutines, aligning them with the recently acquired licentious vocabulary. From this, he successfully crafted an appropriately alluring title of address:

“Hot lips.”  

This inspired a half-suppressed sound from his partner, akin to a deflating balloon. After a beat, breath was drawn back, hissed through clenched teeth, as the man sharply angled his head further into the room.

“Stop running your mouth and get a move on. Plastic asshole.”

RK900 was on the verge of reminding him that they had omitted the purchase of a silicone rectal cavity before understanding his meaning. He instead referred back to the audiovisual loops stored on his CPU, prioritising according to watch time and access frequency.

Feeling assured he had gathered all the necessary data for an optimal experience, he purposefully strode on. Approaching the bed before deftly sidestepping it and heading for the exit.

“Uh, where the hell are you going?” Gavin, still held in his grasp, attempted to resist his movement. One hand pressed against the solid foundation of his chest, pushing back in an action that had entirely zero impact. “The bed is over there, genius.”

“Your bed will not be required. This apartment has a balcony.” 

His partner gawped at him, lashes fluttering in confusion. If he were an android, RK900 was certain he would hear the whir of internal mechanisms—gears turning frantically, teetering on the brink of annihilation.

“Come again?”

Any excitement built during their kiss seemed to have fizzled completely. The android realised that while his data proved sound in a controlled environment, external factors undermined its practical reliability.

Memory banks cast echoes of the human's shuddering breath, slicing through the frigid winter air. The tip of his ruddy nose tucked into the folds of his hoodie as he attempted to shield it from the chill…

After reevaluating the situation, he stopped. His heels pressed firmly into the grubby carpet before angling upwards, prepared for reorientation. 

 “Of course, it is rather cold out. The bed will suit our needs for today.”

Retracing his steps, RK900 returned to his previous position at the foot of the bed. He held his partner over its surface before releasing his weight, permitting a descent into the linen. Despite the cushioned landing, Gavin yelped. His limbs fanned out in a star-like formation, braced for impact as the plush sheets rapidly engulfed him.

The android soon joined, placing hands on either side of his body, forming a tight cage. His captive stared through him, focus blighted by the recent momentum, as his jaw fell slightly agape. 

A smooth tilt guided it closed as RK900 supported his weight on a single arm. His fingertips skimmed coarse stubble, and his sensors registered that it had grown 2.3 millimetres since their last encounter—slightly longer than the detective’s preference. 

Resisting the urge to mention this, he instead leaned in, charting the overgrown trail with neatly peppered kisses.

Gavin tensed, although this response was not unanticipated.

It always took him some time to relax—when they were like this. The ripples of previously stringent prejudice, now mostly forgotten, still clinging to threads of fading significance…

Ties that unravelled beneath targeted pulses of breath—slow and rhythmic, designed to coax tightly held knots from muscles. Receptive warmth spread beneath reddening skin, extending outward until the body became loose and pliant.

The man's head tilted unconsciously, baring more of his neck—a wordless invitation for RK900 to deepen his exploration.

He established a new point of contact on the presently unblemished canvas, tracing it with a practised sweep of his tongue before clamping down with a firm press of teeth.

After applying suitable pressure to leave a mark, he pulled back, levying a rumbled address against the pulsing flesh. A premeditated salaciousness that was undercut by an instinctive slip back into professional titles:

“You're a dirty whore, aren't you, Detective?” 

Despite previous objections, Gavin did not appear upset. If anything, the dilation of his pupils, combined with the involuntary groan that tumbled from his lips, indicated the opposite.

Encouraged to proceed, RK900 maintained his focus on the man's throat. Sealing flesh between his lips and drawing gently on the freshly marked abrasion.

“ Shit.” The expletive trailed into a sigh as he squirmed keenly against a tide of rumpled linen.

“Such a needy slut.” 

The derogatory remarks felt odd—unnatural—coming from the android, yet they seemed to be the exact calibre of slander Gavin wanted. If the noises hadn't been enough, irrefutable evidence came in the growing snugness of his jeans.

He traced the stained length of the zipper, to which the concealed hardness beneath twitched back receptively. “Filthy—”

“Easy, Casanova.” The chiding was light and playful, entwined with a rich chuckle. “There's no need to rush; we’re just getting warmed up.”

RK900 swiftly identified the duplicity of this statement.

It was routine they had engaged in countless times before—in both personal and professional settings. His partner pushed away, under the pretence that RK900 would follow, seeking to pull him back. 

This was a challenge, demanding the RK900 to prove just how persistent he would be in retaining dominance.

Grasping the hand kneading idly into his bicep, he pinned it to the sheets. As he moved to scold the culprit—the resonance of his pitch dropped in line with his hips, which engaged the man’s own in a subtle rock. 

“I think you've already warmed up sufficiently." 

Then he paused, his mind stalling as it became clear he’d exhausted much of the risqué vocabulary he had been sourcing. 

Not wishing to shatter the illusion of salacious assuredness, he hastily constructed what he believed would be a logical evolution:

“...You…repulsive creature.”

Gavin appeared more perplexed than captivated by the address. The eager twitches RK900 had predicted were conspicuously absent as his nose wrinkled sceptically. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

Clearly, he was still adjusting to his companion speaking this way. Determining that greater exposure might expedite this adaptation, RK900 pressed on, adding to the deprecation:

“Your hygiene standards are subpar. The aroma you emit is deeply unpleasant.”

Lidded eyes snapped open, startled to alertness, and Gavin grimaced. Pressing his unrestrained hand to the android’s chest and pushing firmly:

“Okay. That’s enough. Drop it.”

RK900 stiffened. Questioning momentarily if he had made a mistake or if this was simply part of the licentious roleplay.

As Gavin held firm in his convictions, it became clear he had misjudged some aspects of his tolerance for humiliation—specifically, remarks relating to personal cleanliness. Comments he would be wise to scale back in the ongoing proceedings, which he committed dutifully to his memory backs…

Rumination cast in shifting patterns of yellow and red on the crumpled caverns of Gavin's face. The tense lines began to smooth as a flash of remorse tempered the flames in his accusatory glare.

“Let's just—” His hand jerked in an awkward flourish towards the android. Tracing erratic, disjointed patterns in the air before coming to rest between his legs. “Move on.”

It was not difficult to discern what was meant by this. To ensure that no further errors were made regarding the nuances of ‘dirty talk’, RK900 concluded now was the time to source additional support.

The Intimacy Protocol—which had been stored neatly in the back of his temporal processor, awaiting use—was promptly activated. As subroutines initialised, a cascade of sensory inputs flooded his system, sharpening every sensation with unnerving clarity.

Suddenly, he could feel everything . 

The most minute bunch of fabric rubbing against the creases of previously sensationless silicone. Artificial vessels pumped and swelled with increased thirium input as the appendage stiffened, brought to hardness with almost alarming efficiency. 

It was uncomfortable—surprisingly so—as the flesh began to strain against the oppressive binds of clothing. It pleaded for release, a call to action driven by longing the android had never experienced.

He soon responded, unable to withstand the excruciating currents pulsing through his groin. Hands fumbled to unclasp his belt, erratic movements defined by an uncharacteristic sense of urgency. The leather was almost split in two as it was yanked free—whipped back at great velocity. 

Gavin flinched, arching back quickly to evade impact. It wouldn't have been the first time that RK900 had struck him with his belt, although previous instances had been performed under strict instruction.

“ Holy shit—watch it, asshole — ”

This admonishment barely registered. The wayward currents had begun to ignite what could only be described as fire in his core. His stomach was a furnace; molten fallout spat at neighbouring biocomponents, threatening to burn through them.

The belt was discarded over the edge of the bed, its controlled descent thwarted by an extensive pile of laundry, which swallowed it whole into its pungent hold.

Gavin cursed again. This time, however, it was not the consequence of disapproval. He was staring at the android's arousal, eyes alight with what could only be described as spellbound curiosity. 

As though he were looking through the gates to nirvana, a higher plane of existence promised beneath the veil of Cyberlife briefs.

Hips were raised, and the pants slipped off, tumbling out of view in a single, fluid sweep. RK900 chose not to dwell on the creases that would have resulted from this callousness.

It was irrelevant, insignificant—a problem to be resolved later—

Provided his partner owned an iron—

WARNING — MULTIPLE SYSTEM ANOMALIES DETECTED. 

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…

He reeled, his mind overwhelmed by the shrieks of unruly electrical signals. Intrusive sentiments burrowed deeper into his processor, attempting to align with his more reasoned analytics. 

He took some consolation in knowing that the programme, however disorientating, was having the desired effect. With ignited zeal, Gavin gripped the hem of his shirt. Yanking it over his head before casting it aside, exposing the full length of his torso. 

The marred skin ignited his focus in a way it hadn't previously. RK900 was about to remove his undergarments when his companion—in an unusual show of consideration—moved to assist.

They seldom undressed each other, a familiarity he had been told was unfitting of their ‘casual’ arrangement. Despite this, he watched with quiet curiosity as Gavin crossed this line, looping his fingers beneath a taut band of elastic.

His cocky smirk, which was typically ever present during their encounters, was replaced by something quieter—more sincere. The digits lingered, flexing apprehensively as though preparing for their next move. 

Then the waistband was tugged, and the phallus sprung free from its confines. 

RK900 winced as he registered the cool air against his skin. It was sharp and biting, only exacerbated by the burning that continued to mount within him.

The dimensions of the phallus were expanded compared to its dormant state, aligning with the advertised specifications. The tip was tinged with a cool-toned flush, accentuated by a reflective sheen of biofluid. A lubricant that seemed to leak incrementally from the component, in which Gavin took particular interest. 

Despite previous claims that he would not be partaking in fellatio, his face drew tantalisingly close to the ‘toilet dick’. Halted inches from the arousal, blanketing it in a sequence of hot, ragged puffs. 

It sent ripples of sensation through hyper-sensitive receptors as RK900 was forced to grip the sheets beneath him. Speculating on how it might feel to be engulfed completely in Gavin's warmth and fighting the growing temptation to thrust himself into his mouth.

Before any intrusive impulses could get the better of either party, Gavin moved to palm the hardness. Tracing its length, applying testing pressure before enclosing it fully in a fist.

The sensation this triggered was indescribable. 

Thousands of microscopic pleasure receptors activated simultaneously, their collective murmurs building to wails that surged through his neural pathways. 

Then they released in a strained expulsion that tumbled from his lips. It was low and growled, not unlike the rumble of thunder, but with a distinctive metallic edge.

The noise was unlike anything he had ever produced, leaving both him and his partner temporarily stunned. Gavin was first to establish his bearings, doing so with a small, tentative squeeze. The expulsion repeated, and RK900 watched as spiralling patterns of red caught in the green of his partner’s sclerae. 

“ Holy shit.. .” The man was enraptured, scrutinising each choppy cycle of the LED as he brushed the tip of the component beneath his calloused thumb. “It feels so real.”

"Realism constitutes an integral aspect of its visual and functional design.” 

RK900 felt detached from the words, almost as though someone else was speaking through him. 

He found himself plunged deep into uncharted depths for both his body and mind. Thrashing helplessly as logical subroutines attempted to quantify his pleasure, assigning it values or comparing it to previously stored data. No parallels existed—and it was maddening.

His original self was fading fast, slipping into the foreground of his consciousness. Buried by a rampant tide of untamed cravings.

To touch and feel and taste —

> DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE

TEMPORAL FIREWALLS: COMPROMISED 

CORE BODY TEMPERATURE: 122°F — RISING

Any attempts to re-establish command soon proved redundant as Gavin began to move his hand. His fist pumped in a rhythmic motion, pressing ruthlessly into overworked sensors. 

“You can feel that, can’t you?” The tone carried a mischievous lilt, informing RK900 that no answer was required. 

His partner was already well aware of the effect the stimulation was having. Despite this, he pressed on, seemingly hellbent on goading some form of acknowledgement. 

“Does it feel good?” 

“Very much—” 

The situation was nearing critical as his system pressed for the urgent release of the excessive heat. Narrow vents along his chassis began to hiss, desperately dispersing the warmth in subtle bursts of steam.

He sincerely prayed that his companion would fail to notice this.

“—Perhaps too much,” he confessed, shuddering weakly. “I might have to make adjustments to the erogenous feedback levels.”

“Oh no you don't.” Gavin held firm on his length—as though he were wielding a prize. One that he refused to have stripped under any circumstances. “This was your idea. You wanted this. So strap in and enjoy the ride.”

Despite the assertion, there was a moment of hesitancy before the man proceeded. His 

grip slackened, and his rigid gaze softened with a flicker of vulnerability. Searching the RK’s own, as though seeking permission.

Something that was offered in the form of a slow, apprehensive nod. The android considered lowering sensitivity regardless, omitting to disclose this to his partner before ultimately deciding against it. He resolved to monitor his response to the stimuli, assessing just how much he could reasonably tolerate. 

A line of reasoning that unravelled within seconds as heightened pleasure consumed him. 

It became painfully clear why humans sought this relief so frequently. The tension that had gripped his core melted into blissful release, leaving his systems reeling. RK900 felt the vertebra of his neck slacken as his head flopped back, and a substantial pocket of warmth released in a long, heady groan. 

The temperature warning began to recede, fading until it no longer formed an active obstruction in his vision. He could see his partner clearly and found himself wholly ensnared by the sight. 

It felt like looking at him for the first time, as all the quirks and intricacies that once seemed innocuous were viewed through a fresh lens. Thick lashes cast a charming shadow over his eyes—simultaneously bright and sharp—yet clouded by a haze of lust.

As he kept stroking him, an impish grin played on his lips. The corner lifted, aligning almost perfectly with one of the numerous scars dotting his face.

The RK examined each, his eyes drifting as unseen threads gradually linked them. Rather than constructing a timeline for when the marks might have appeared, all he could think about was how appealing they were. Constellations of lived experience seamlessly woven into a dishevelled, roguish charm the man so effortlessly embodied.

Wandering focus pathed the way for another mental break, logic bleeding intrusively through the cracks. It reminded him that—while the sights and sensations he was experiencing were profoundly enjoyable—they did little to aid in fulfilling his primary directive. 

The moment of sensual connection shattered as a methodical presence pulled him back, seeking to clarify the logistical demands of the component, eliminating any confusion:

“Stimulation is not required to maintain my erection. It is procedurally activated and maintained, separate from arousal.” 

His show of consideration was met like a forceful blow to the face. Gavin winced, yanking his hand away from the hardness as though it were lined with razors. His crumpled expression revealed a mix of defeat and humiliation before the sentiments were smothered beneath a layer of disdainful hostility.

“...Fine then, asshole .” His tone was hardened in line with the firm clench of his jaw. “If that's how it is, I won't do shit.”

His arms then pulled into a lofty sprawl as if he were reaching the crest of a theme park ride, preparing to plunge down the slope. The descent began as he allowed his weight to fall carelessly onto the sheets.

“I’ll be a good little pillow princess, just for you.” There was an exaggerated flutter of lashes, the coy flirtation standing in contrast with the previous animosity. His feet planted firmly onto the linen before his knees dropped to either side. “Go on, big guy. Do your worst.”

The phrase felt almost scripted, like something from one of his videos.

He didn't mean to request that the RK900 knowingly underperform. On the contrary, he was vying for the opposite. An experience that rivalled and surpassed everything that had come before it.

It struck a chord within the android, sending powerful currents surging through overtaxed circuits. He felt reinvigorated, freshly incentivised to explore the potential of his upgrades, discovering—alongside his partner— precisely what he could do. 

Closing off visual and auditory fields to all extraneous distractions, he focused intently on the man before him. Positioning himself between his parted thighs, he swiftly set to work removing his jeans and undergarments.

Oral stimulation came far more naturally than it typically did. 

RK900 had anchored himself on his legs, kneading the lightly toned muscle in appreciative squeezes. His cheeks hollowed, and his lips pushed forward, the process almost reflexive as he inched his way down the length. He proceeded until the tip had struck the back of his throat, and the person attached rumbled in ardent approval. 

“ Holy shit —” Gavin carded his fingers tenderly through his hair before gripping tightly, knuckles pale from exertion.

The locks were pulled back, compelling the head to move with them. RK900 responded compliantly, releasing the tension in his jaw and permitting his mouth to recede with a wet glide up the arousal.

Just shy of breaching the seal, hardened flesh poised at the tip of his tongue, his head was thrust back down. Leading him to swallow his partner again, but with far greater tenacity. 

The man growled with primal delight as RK900 stared up at him with unwavering focus.

“ Your throat feels so good.” 

‘It could feel better’, his sexual programming silently countered. 

As directed, his laryngeal modulator began to oscillate. Rumbles crept upwards, travelling along the walls of his trachea until they vibrated the quivering flesh between them. The trembles synced with the heavy thrusts being levied at his throat until their movement grew erratic.

Hoarse groans were pulled in a pervasive frequency from his lips as Gavin faltered, losing any semblance of rhythm.

“Oh, fuck me —”

“With pleasure.” 

It was almost unsettling how clearly the android spoke, with his mouth so thoroughly full. Gavin failed to remark on it, too absorbed in his bliss to notice. Then RK900 pushed back hard, forcefully breaking the hold that clung to his scalp. He allowed his partner to slip from his mouth, a filmed gloss of lubricant serving as the only evidence of the encounter. 

Gavin whimpered as hopes for release were callously snatched, thrusting shallowly into the air his companion once occupied. The android, ignoring the protest, lifted himself into a kneeling position.

His hands lingered on the thighs, still pressing into the flesh—until, with a final, painful scrape of nails—they were released. He paused to admire the lingering traces of his hold, characterised by vivid, crescent-shaped indentations.

The human arched away from the sheets, hissing with sultry elation. This was interrupted when RK900 leaned in, hovering over him like an imposing shadow, provoking an instinctive retreat of his body.

Gavin completely embraced his role in the unfolding scene, entering a state of submission as he quietly readied himself for his partner. The RK assumed an appropriate role, gliding his hand along the length of his jaw. 

This gesture felt more instinctive—spontaneous—than its earlier incarnation. It was no longer a measured attempt to coax the man into heightened excitement but a display of authentic appreciation. His hold curved inward, tracing the contour of his lips before attempting to part them.

This force proved unnecessary as the mouth opened to him willingly.

His sensory pads hummed with activity, and he was overwhelmed by information, grappling for his attention. He was torn between notes of coffee and cigarettes, alongside peppermint gum that had been used to mask the bitterness. The prompts fissured his sights, cracks that multiplied as Gavin locked on, gripping the digits in a wet seal and pulling them in with practised fluidity. 

He mapped the outline of synthetic flesh, swept in guiding strokes of his tongue, moaning performatively as he did so. RK900 understood that the man derived no real pleasure from this, his mouth not equipped with any inherent erogenous properties. Despite this, his cardiac rhythm soared, mirrored in the shaky tremors of his breath.

It was a shame that Gavin had declined to put his mouth to full use. The android felt confident he would have enjoyed the process of him fucking it. 

Fingers were removed, teased from the heat in a long, playful curl. Gavin moaned again—the sound morphed into a complaint—as he shot his partner a defiant glare.

Underneath this, a playful glimmer shone through his narrowed gaze, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He was the embodiment of salacious anticipation, every inch of his body pleading to be pushed to its limits. Strained until it had no option but to submit fully to the android’s whim.

RK900 trailed his palm down the length of his neck, reaching the dip of his collar and lingering there momentarily before moving to the expanse of his chest. His lips joined the appreciation, applying tender pressure between raised pectorals. Then, they followed the central ridge of his chest, trailing downwards towards his navel.

He allowed Gavin to believe he would make a return to his crotch, moving a scant breath away from his length. It still held firm, twitching with need, desperate for the return of withheld stimulation. Instead, he sought to make use of the growing supply of lubricant that was amassing in his cheeks. 

With his head nestled between the man’s thighs, he lowered himself further until he halted just beneath the erection. Gathering a deposit of the material into the curl of his tongue, he pressed it firmly into his partner.

Gavin hissed in shock, although the sound was far from disenchanted, rolling smoothly into a husky grunt of approval.

RK900 began dipping in and out of his body, methodically teasing the opening, willing the tight muscle to relax around him. This was coordinated with the fingers his partner had so diligently coated, which also breached his warmth, moving in steady pumps.

Gavin relished every second. He pressed eagerly against the movements, chasing each flick and thrust until his companion brushed against a sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Shit—!”

The words that preceded this were entirely incoherent—a series of desperate, disordered fragments. His hips jerked upward, seeking as much depth as he could physically attain.

The sexual protocol was fast reaching its maximum operational capacity, processes moving in rampant succession, like pistons fired in the RK’s skull. Their motions carried him forward as charged words were rumbled against a needy cavern of warmth:

“Are you ready for me to do my worst?”

Gavin quivered as his words were repeated back to him, delivered with such indulgent richness that they drew a chuckle from his lips.

The sound ushered in a return to an all-consuming need, pooling rapidly between his legs as the fire in his gut reignited. RK900 was overcome with the desire to find a final, decisive release—immersed in the friction promised by fingers and mouth.

He aligned his hips with the entrance, securing greater access by gripping his partner's legs and lifting them over his shoulders. The movement coaxed any lingering vestiges of resistance to melt away, limbs reduced to limp, weightless extensions as he slowly inched forward.

Gavin took him keenly, pliant flesh yielding as it enveloped him with an almost unbearable intensity. The sensation was raw and visceral— achingly real—in a way that shattered every preconstructed expectation. RK900 was lost, untethered from the cold, ruthless precision Cyberlife had so painstakingly designed.

All that existed was him , stretching beautifully as Richard pressed deeper—refusing to stop until he was buried fully within his form. The man rasped, his back arched in wanton satisfaction as he clenched onto the android greedily.

Their bodies melded with flawless perfection, as though Gavin were made for this—made for him.

After a period of adjustment for both, Richard began to move. His hips manoeuvred in slow, languid rocks. Velvety walls charted with light pockets of friction until they quivered and tremored eagerly around every shallow thrust. 

Muscles and nerves screamed for release, urging the android to push harder into their hold. He did not respond immediately, teasing the prospect of heightened intensity until Gavin also cried out.

He was a whimpering mess, despairing as his every cloying reach fell tantalisingly short of its target. 

“Oh God—fuck— please —”

Richard no longer denied him, mercifully granting his wishes. His pace increased until he moved with inhuman intensity. The rickety foundation of the bed trembled beneath them; its metal headboard slammed repeatedly against the wall.

Cracks began to fracture the already chipped plaster, but Richard remained focused. He was absorbed in the sinful sounds rising from beneath him: every pant, every curse, an expression of pure, unfiltered need.

“Yes, that's it—just like that—baby—” 

This fractured address nearly halted several complex system functions. Gavin had never referred to him this way—or used any remotely comparable title.

It had sounded obscene as it rolled from his tongue, laced with such sinful promise that Richard felt wholly ensnared. At that moment, he could have laid claim to the man entirely, with no trace of doubt or ambiguity concerning who he belonged to.

There was no one else in the world who mattered. Just them, moving together in seamless unity, passion thickening the air that surrounded their bodies.

The android wasn't sure when he had started to moan, but the sounds were undoubtedly present. Spiralled above them as a storm, the needle dragging across a vintage record player, melding into the animalistic cadence of Gavin’s own cries.

Fraught springs joined the accompaniment, groaning beneath the mattress. They threatened to collapse under the demand of rapidly shifting weight, all the more vocal when Gavin raised a hand to his pelvis. Attempting to match the pace that had been established, he fell woefully short. Intoxicated frustration swelled in his eyes, marbling at the corners. 

His desperate contortions, the crumpled ecstasy of his expression, were like an invention of the android’s most elaborate fantasies. Fantasies he hadn’t known he was capable of having. 

That he shouldn’t have been capable of.

WARNING—URGENT

The visuals and sensations overwhelmed him, pushing untethered programming further into the background. Propelled into depths that were beyond the reach of recovery.

Because it was addicting —watching Gavin writhe and moan against sweat-soaked sheets, in the knowledge that he was the cause. A performance directed by and performed for his sights only. 

CRITICAL SYSTEM INSTABILITY.

The thoughts burned him. His code fractured, shattering to pieces. 

Then he smacked Gavin’s hand away, assuming complete authority over his pleasure. Working the length with skilled finesse, able to provide the weight and pressure the man's weakened grip was incapable of.

“ Fuck , I’m so close,” Gavin keened hoarsely, toes curled with pressure that wound increasingly tight. Coiled in his gut, radiating in fervent strums through his length. “ Keep going—”

Then, it all collapsed.

Subroutines glitched. Corruption spread like a disease, infesting every corner of his processor. Alarms bombarded him faster than they could be dismissed until warnings flooded his vision. 

A staggering wall of flashing crimson. 

MULTIPLE ANOMALIES DETECTED.

> CRITICAL MALFUNCTION IDENTIFIED.

> SOURCE—CENTRAL PROCESSOR. 

COMMENCING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTICS…

Richard tried to carry on, gripped by crazed, all-consuming desperation. He did not want this to end, did not wish to cease seeing— feeling —Gavin the way he did now. 

Clinging to the man blindly, he attempted to carry him to his looming summit of completion. A determination that solidified his available hand, wrapped tightly around his throat. Squeezing hard, cutting oxygen and redirecting blood flow. Giving it no option but to pool in the swollen cock between his legs.

DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE. 

> ROOT THREAT IDENTIFIED RA9_15.EXE

The intimacy directive terminated, diverting all processes to counter the threat. 

Before shutting down, it provided one final instruction. How best to combine physical and verbal provocation to guarantee Gavin Reed's undoing: 

“You have been very bad, Detective .” His title was hissed—with an almost biting, contemptuous edge. “I'm afraid you have given me no other option but to punish you.” 

SYSTEM BREACH IMMINENT — IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. 

AUTOMATED DEVIATION DEFENSE PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

ADVANCED FIREWALLS: ACTIVATED.

COMMENCING SOFT REBOOT…

Then everything vanished, leaving him adrift in a sterile expanse of blinding white.

When senses returned, his vision came first. Blinking to adjust, RK900 discovered that his ocular scope had cleared. A pristine state, marked only by a small string of diagnostics, neatly tucked in the upper left corner:

> REBOOT SUCCESSFUL. 

> THREAT NEUTRALISED. 

Remarkably, throughout the entirety of this mental reset, the momentum of his body had not stalled. Gavin remained blissfully unaware of the android’s momentary lapse, lost in his own throes of pleasure.

He squirmed against the oppressive grip still held on his neck—a resistance entirely for show, informed by the masochistic quirk of his mouth:

“Oh yeah? Just how bad have I been, plastic ?” 

It took RK900 a moment to realise the man was responding to something he'd said. Combing his memory stores, he was relieved to discover that most of the preceding events remained intact.

Regrettably, the Traci Protocol, which had governed much of his behaviour, was effectively obliterated. Its core processes were locked in quarantine and rendered irreparable. Without their guidance, he was unable to determine the optimal routing for their current dialogue path. This inspired a flicker of panic before he quickly suppressed the sensation, ensuring it wouldn’t surface externally.

Procedural muscular feedback was disabled in his face, locking it into its current neutral expression before he replied. “The list of your indiscretions is innumerable.” 

Gavin failed to detect any irregularities in his behaviour. Either that, or he chose to ignore them—too swept by his cresting tide of pleasure to drag himself back to earth. 

His hardness twitched and swelled urgently, pants mingled with throaty chuckles, flagging that climax was fast approaching. RK900 anticipated the spoils of his efforts spilling over, running in thick ribbons across his fingers, steeling his resolve to continue—

“You have a deep-rooted issue with authority. Most likely stemming from a turbulent relationship with your paternal figure.” 

Then, expanding pressure was dismissed as the vibrant excitement that had coloured his gaze receded with it. 

Gavin stared at him, a bewildered knot formed in the centre of his brow. The spasming twitches of his length quelled, with softening flesh that failed to respond to any stimulation.

“That’s, um…” He paused, clearly taken aback that the following explanation was even required. “...Could we not talk about my dad? When you’re balls-deep inside me?” 

Despite his limited grasp of interpersonal and family dynamics, RK900 could understand, when presented clearly, just how unfortunate this misstep had been.

Attempting to recover from the error, he brusquely nodded. Grappling to keep his tone level while hoping that his performance indicator would not undermine this effort. “Understood, it will not happen again.” 

Gavin proved unconvinced.

He was not a fool—quite the opposite—having demonstrated an exceptional talent for deductive and critical reasoning during their affiliation. Skills that were now being utilised, his eyes narrowed as a glint of distrust passed between the lids. 

RK900 would have to work harder if he wished to deflect these suspicions. Maintaining the guise that his sexual subroutines were operating as intended. 

In doing so, he adjusted the angle and speed of his thrusts. Striking with precision against already overstimulated nerves, hoping this might derail the more sensical trail of thought.  

It worked beautifully. The man choked, the strained noise catching in his throat as his constricted pupils blew with renewed passion. His back arched upwards, attempting to pull from its growing adherence to the bedsheets, as his nails were embedded firmly into the android’s shoulder blades. 

“Oh God— that’s it—” His words divulged to a string of monosyllabic babbles, the emergent line of interrogation discarded before it had commenced. 

He continued to push away from the mattress he was being driven into, vying greedily for additional stimulation. Absent of any restraint or shame.

“Fuck me, Rich. Harder .” 

Despite burdensome gaps and lags in his processor, the request proved hard for RK900 to misinterpret. It also triggered a charge of recollection, auditory sequences strongly resembling the climactic moments of one of the human’s most frequently viewed videos.

While their current setting deviated significantly from the scene—lacking the guard rail and potential voyeuristic onlookers—it still provided helpful guidance for shaping his subsequent actions.

Some distortion had occurred during the reset, creating gaps in the auditory loop. Still, RK900 did his best to fill in, relying on context and his understanding of Gavin’s intimate biology to compensate.

“Your rectal muscles provide exceptional resistance. The sensation is gratifying.”

Appreciative noises were promptly hushed. Gavin tensed beneath RK900, loose contortions of pleasure replaced by a stiff, incredulous rigidity.“Right, uh…sure, I guess.”

“Despite your sphincters feeling underused, they exhibit remarkable elasticity. You are adapting well to the girth of my meat sword.” 

“I’m sorry, what did you just call your—’”

Any conclusion to this sentence went largely unprocessed. The RK was entirely focused on his current directive, painfully aware that all his hard work—his perseverance—had been building up to this. 

Gripping a fistful of damp brown hair, he brought their faces closer. Ghosting the line of the man’s chapped lips before leaning into the sensitive canal of his ear.

Then, he spoke—clearly and directly—with a rich, seductive resonance:

"Giddy up, buckaroo.” 

Reed jolted upwards. It was an action that seemed oddly fitting, given the nature of their roleplay. This was until he followed it with a bitingly clear, forceful instruction, absent of any flirtatious intent. 

“Okay, no. I can't do this. Get off me. Now.” 

The foundation of confidence he had rebuilt just moments prior crumbled spectacularly. Split into wide, gnarled fissures under the weight of failure.

In his haste to reach the goal, RK900 had overlooked several critical details. Articles that would've undoubtedly increased the chances of a successful outcome.

“Would the cowboy hat and novelty whip have made this more enjoyable?” The android shifted his weight, pulling back in a hurried attempt to reach under the bed. “I had prepared such provisions if you still wished to indulge—” 

“What the hell are you even saying?” Reed cut him off sharply. His skin, which had been reddened due to shared friction and exertion, now seemed to adopt a different meaning. A beacon of anger and deep frustration. “Seriously, what the fuck , Richard?”

The admonishment struck harshly against his aural receptors, a phenomenon that arose independently from intimate coding and was uninfluenced by software errors. 

It was a sharp, unwelcome divergence from his typically muted social responses. Despite core functioning being preserved following the previous malfunction, RK900 felt strangely…compromised as a consequence. 

His hand, which remained gripped to the human’s rapidly softening length, suddenly relinquished—retreating across the bed sheets until it had flopped limply at his side. 

“I thought...” 

His processors stalled periodically before his thoughts resumed. Jumbled and clipped, tumbling from his mouth with extremely little finesse:

“This doesn’t make sense—according to the videos, this should’ve been—” He paused, clutching his throbbing temple in exasperation. “Was this not what you wanted?”

“ What videos?” His partner pressed, having clearly exhausted what little patience he had with the dejected musings. “Jesus Christ, what were those freaks at Cyberlife wiring to your brain while we…were…”

The sentence trailed off in a short, deflated exhale, losing all momentum as his flushed complexion drained of colour. A dawn of clarity broke in his gaze, like the sudden, grim recognition of a context previously overlooked. 

Then his lips, which had been held in a motionless ‘O,’ slowly resumed movement. “...When you were in my room the other day, did you see something? On my laptop?” 

RK900 felt trapped by the question. Multiple preconstructions were generated simultaneously, informing of several possible outcomes. None of them were favourable, every scenario ending with Gavin either furious or mortified.

“The battery was nearing depletion. I had intended to place the device on charge." The android paused momentarily, acutely aware of how unpredictable the coming fallout could be, bracing for its impact. “Your browser was open.” 

The reply was immediate. A sharp, monosyllabic curse that conveyed staggering amounts in its brevity:

“Fuck.”

His arched back had levelled completely as the man pressed urgently into the mattress beneath him. Almost as if he were attempting to seep through it. 

He was more uncomfortable than upset. His eyes balled shut, and despondent scrunches contorted the prominent scar on his nose. There was a sigh, followed by mutters, as though he had entered a deep state of contemplation. 

When he spoke again, his tone had shifted. Quieter, but no less charged than it had been previously. 

“Look, I don't know much you saw—or what ideas it might have planted in that thick plastic skull of yours—but I need to make something really clear.”

His eyes reopened, and he engaged the android with a long, resolute stare. Attempting to conceal the internal conflict that still weighed heavily on his features.

“You didn’t need to do this. Any of it.”

Gavin was holding back in some critical capacity, omitting a truth that he refused to disclose, but it was difficult to discern what this might be.

The android focused on implicit, involuntary cues, assessing physical responses to determine the parameters of this discomfort. Optics honed, he studied closely, ready to notice any shifts in facial expressions or bodily functions.

“What exactly are you referring to, Detective Reed?” 

A twitched lip, and brooding glower indicated resentment for the question, as well as a firm reluctance to answer. His determined gaze abruptly flitted to the corner of the room as he fell into another hushed introspection. 

Reed was the picture of doubt, entirely unable—or otherwise willing—to proceed in their current dialogue. Insisting he determined his route carefully, with predetermined responses.

This was unusual for him, a resolute advocate for tackling conflicts head-on, often disregarding the repercussions. It pathed a strange, almost unsettling, emergence into emotional openness and vulnerability…

“I don't care if you have a dick or not.” 

Then it was over. His partner spoke bluntly, assuring the android that—despite the previous shift in demeanour—he was still the one speaking. 

“Seriously, I couldn't give less of a shit.” 

His speech patterns had levelled, and his heart rate was steady, indicating no hint of deceit. The man was being wholly sincere in a way that was clearly intended to provide insight and assurance.

It did the opposite, punching holes in already fragile mental connections. His programming was flooded with conflicting analyses, as RK900 was unable to reconcile the confession with the glaring logical inconsistencies it presented. 

“Your taste in pornographic material suggests otherwise.”

“ Oh my God. ” Reed groaned, audibly agonised by the acceptance he would have to explain himself. “It's just porn, okay? It doesn't mean anything. If I had a problem with your Ken Doll crotch, you wouldn��t be here. None of this would be happening.”

“If that is the case, then why have you been exhibiting tapering excitement as part of our physical encounters?”

Reed gripped his face, burrowing nails into the skin as though attempting to peel it away. “Can we please not do this?” 

“Gavin.” The name was a plea. A final, desperate appeal for the end to his raging internal conflict. “I only wish to understand.”

“...This is fucking ridiculous.” The detective complained, albeit with a subtle hesitancy. His voice was thin and uneven, as though stretched by doubts on whether or not to continue. 

“I’ve been feeling a little guilty, or whatever—about us. What we’ve been doing.”

RK900 paused to process this, his mind exhausting all likely statistical probabilities. One, in particular, stuck out to him, as it struck with far more psychological reverence than it had any right to do so.

“Have you entered into a romantic affiliation with another individual?"

“What? No—!” Gavin spluttered incredulously, sounding both surprised and insulted by the suggestion. “I feel guilty because I like being around you, asshole. Outside of work and, well, whatever the hell this mess is.”

“You wish to terminate this particular aspect of our relationship for another reason, then?”

“I don’t want to ‘terminate’ it for any goddamn reason.” 

“Then I am afraid that I am struggling to discern your meaning.”

“Well, yeah. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” The man chuckled, the sound devoid of any real humour. It was tired and bitter, born from frustration that attributed no blame.

“I know I can be a dick sometimes, but I don’t hate you, Rich. At the same time, I know you aren’t a deviant, so I can’t tell how much of my feelings you're really able to understand.”

RK900 froze, his attention riveted by one particular aspect of the statement, omitting all other details. 

Gavin did not discuss ‘feelings’ and in turn, the android refrained from initiating conversations pertaining to them. This was one of the most strictly upheld conditions of their arrangement, something which had been maintained since its inception in the precinct bathroom.

ANALYSING SUBJECT — DET. GAVIN REED…

> ANALYSIS COMPLETE.

>PSYCHOLOGICAL DISTRESS DETECTED.

> PROCESSING EMOTIONAL VARIABLES…

> GUILT, CONFUSION, FONDNESS. 

PROBABLE CAUSE: COMPLEX INTERACTION OF PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES. FURTHER DATA REQUIRED.

> COMMENCING RE-EVALUATION…

The android retracted his steps, attempting to unravel any hidden meaning from the words he had overlooked, breaking them down in meticulous, painstaking detail. 

Finally, something clicked—a single, decisive connection, tying together the dangling threads of his logic. 

> RE-EVALUTATION COMPLETE.

> PROBABLE CAUSE OF EMOTIONAL DISTRESS DETERMINED — SHIFTING PARAMETERS OF SOCIAL ATTACHMENT.

The realisation was startling—but not unwelcome. Synthetic nerves pricked with activity before sending rocketing charges across his chassis. Every inch of plastic radiated a soft, agreeable warmth, starkly contrasting the feverish bouts he had experienced earlier. 

“Are you suggesting that you feel camaraderie for me, Detective?”

“If that’s your Thesaurus.com way of saying it, then yeah.” With this final confirmation uttered, the man dropped his shoulders. It was as though a weight had been shifted, permitting him to speak without encumbrance—a liberation born of transparency.  “I don’t want to feel like I’m using you, forcing you to do shit as part of some directive where you don’t get a say in it.”

“I do not find any directives relating to you unpleasant,” RK900 responded automatically. It was a truth so obvious to him, so integral to his understanding of their current relationship, that it required no further contemplation. “Nothing we have done together has been against my will. I would go as far as to say that I frequently…enjoy the time we spend together.”

^ SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED.

Gavin’s attention was entirely on him, his reaction oscillating between shock, confusion, and utter fascination. Glimmers of red were repeatedly captured in his attentive stare, which followed the cyclical motions of his LED. 

It paused only when the pattern stabilised, and the colour reverted to its original blue. His expression shifted accordingly, revealing a hint of disappointment. 

Nonetheless, he pressed on, steadfast in his drive to finish what he had to say. “Point is, if I’ve been acting a little weird lately, it’s got nothing to do with your genitals. I just got my own shit to figure out. Okay?”

RK900 pondered quietly for a period before he nodded, a slight smile emerging on his lips.

“Understood.” 

The motion had caused his optics to shift, planting them at the junction between their bodies. They were still physically connected—and presumably had been for the entirety of their emotional resolution.

His partner also glanced down, seeming to have come to the same forgone conclusion. For a moment, no one moved, both parties equally uncertain about how best to proceed with their bizarre dilemma. 

Ultimately, it was RK900 who spoke first, seeking to offer a potential solution:

“Would you like me to finish?”

Reed exhaled sharply—caught between a hiss and a laugh—before firmly rebuking the suggestion.

“Not really. But I would like it if you could pull your dick out of me. Thanks.”

[a-d-nox]

lenormand cards: key phrases and an example of a card combo (part 2)

this is just a beginners guide to the lenormand. these are key phrases that come to mind when i think of the cards - NOT how they should be directly applied. they needs to be thought about situationally - the card / when it is in specific combos can change or alter its meaning in a reading.

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

enjoy my work? help me continue creating by tipping on ko-fi or paypal. your support keeps the magic alive!

child: innocence, nativity, spontaneity, seeing only the good in people, carefree attitude, an actually child, smallness, newness, beginnings, playing, immaturity, etc.

child + heart = young love, blind devotion, puberty, just happy to be around others, small joys in life, parallel play, nostalgia, an olive branch, etc.

fox: plotting, protection, security, stealth, deviousness, treachery, manipulation, deception, trickery, loyalty, work, routine, obligation, responsibility, duty, cons, etc.

fox + child = white lies, feigning ignorance/innocence, impulsive actions based on opportunity, pretending to be better than you are, avoiding responsibilities, etc.

bear: defensive, fierceness, resourcefulness, power, strength, courage, protection, maturity/matriarchy, stability, security, management, finances, investments, income, possessions, diet, food, etc.

bear + fox = protective yourself, a fierce loyalty, seven of swords energy, white collar crime, savings account, etc.

stars: peacefulness, tranquility, guidance, direction, happiness, hope, encouragement, perseverance, confidence, etc.

stars + bear = protecting your peace, the power of ones mindset, seeing a way out of the red / debt, etc.

stork: esteem, admiration, respect, babies, fertility, fruitfulness, productivity, birth, renewal, change, movement, new job, new home, new person in your life, extra money, improvements, pregnancy, adoption, new activity, new projects, progress, advancement, renovations, evolution, etc.

stork + stars = good self-esteem, becoming pregnant soon, encouragement from the universe to get a new job, don't lose hope in a project/task, etc.

dog: best friend, companionship, protection, loyalty, fidelity, guidance, sincerity, partnership, acquaintanceship, therapist, boyfriend/girlfriend, an affair, advisor, doctor, reliability, etc.

dog + stork = your best friend is pregnant, meeting a new friend, renewal of vows, a reliable new source of income, real estate agent, taking things to the next level in a relationship, etc.

tower: shelter, protection, confinement, imprisonment, government, corporation, judicial system, military, guarding, ego, ambition, isolation, guidance, schools, law, hospitals, high self-esteem, condos, movie theaters, office building, mall, airports, chain businesses, legal matters, bureaucracy, etc.

tower + dog = a sheltered friend, a friend you protect, roommate, an egotistical friend, water cooler encounters at the workplace, needing to visit the doctor for testing, etc.

garden: courting, public gatherings, harmony, beauty, relaxation, birthday parties, concert, play, movies, restaurants, public/private occasions, reunions, conferences, seminars, meetings, crowds, audiences, celebrations, abundance, etc.

garden + tower = little to no dating experience, solitude, hotel stay, movie theater, cafeteria, airport reunions, a convention, etc.

mountain: immobility, resistance, standing still, endurance, blockage, obstacles, what must be overcame, challenges, delays, interruptions, burdens, postponement, procrastination, remoteness, faraway retreats, etc.

mountain + garden = stage fright, an enduring relationship, social anxiety, social burden, secrets, a rain date for an event, etc.

crossroads: options, choices, free will, multiple directions, doubts, hesitation, double lives, cheating, etc.

crossroads + mountain = analysis paralysis, the many ways to overcome an obstacle, challenges within a relationship ("where do we go from here"), etc.

mice: sickness, fast, smart, group work, damage, reproduction, stress, worry, restlessness, agitation, palpitations, anxiety, nervousness, apprehension, tension, fatigue, lost items, small problems, tediousness, repetitiveness, excitement, eagerness, agitation, etc.

mice + crossroads = options of treatment, anxiety, paranoia, worrying about doing the wrong thing or picking the wrong choice, decision fatigue, etc.

heart: love, passion, devotion, affection, emotions, connections with others, appreciation of others, happiness, joy, contentment, satisfaction, fulfillment, gratification, peace, harmony, delight, pleasure, enjoyment, kindness, charity, generosity, hospitality, feelings, desires, fondness, intentions, fidelity, etc.

heart + mice = heart break, a wave of emotions, instant gratification, manifesting, etc.

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© a-d-nox 2024 all rights reserved

[justalittleb-witchy]

You're Not Talentless-- Each Relationship is Just Unique: Deities and Communication Styles

Divination

There are a ton of witches/pagans out there that post impressive conversations with their deities. Some are exaggerated for dramatic effect, but not all. And when people see others' communicating with their deities in clear sentences, in a seemingly effortless manner, it can make them feel down on themselves. "Why am I not that good? Why can I not hear [deity] that clearly? Am I doing something wrong? Am I just weak?" etc.

And the truth is-- no, this is not necessarily a reflection on you. There are many factors at play. The primary one being: everyone has different strengths and weaknesses. Maybe you will struggle with having conversations in that way-- and I know that that can be painful, but it is okay! There will be other things that you are talented in, that not everyone can do.

Another factor is that we tend to take a one-size fits all approach to communication, and that's not what works for everyone! As an example, many people strive to be able to read tarot cards, read runes, or communicate through clairaudience-- but that's not where everyone excels. Try out more niche forms of divination, or even invent your own! What do YOU feel called to in your daily life? What are your hobbies? Is there a way you can twist those into a divination style?

As an example, someone who plays a lot of DnD may feel very connected to dice. There are a TON of divination styles out there that involve the use of dice or similar "rolled" items. If you give those a shot, you may find something you enjoy. If the form of divination you are currently using feels unnatural, like you are slogging through every reading-- try out other styles! Everything takes practice, but that doesn't mean you need to continue hammering away at a practice that you feel disconnected from.

Silence and Sound-- Deities' Personalities

Another thing to consider is your unique relationship with your deities. Every deity has a unique communication style, and some are "louder" than others-- even then, it is made more unique by your personal relationship with them.

Some deities are prone to sending very subtle signs and symbols. Some only pop in once in a blue moon. Some come and go, being away for stretches of time, then being super active seemingly randomly. This doesn't mean you're doing anything wrong, it's just what they are like.

Others are super obvious. They'll wake you up with bright flashes of light, send you super obvious dreams, make animals act strangely, and even throw products that have their name on it off the shelves. This isn't common, but it does happen. That's just their personality, and their relationship with you. It doesn't mean that you are somehow better than other practitioners because you can more clearly interact with your deity.

Your deities may also have specific ways they wish to communicate with you. My primary divination style is cards (any kind, really), but I've had deities outright refuse to use them before. They'll ask for another divination method that I can do. I have a friend who is consistently asked to channel, as opposed to doing anything else. I've known people who primarily communicate through dreams. These are all legitimate practices, and none of our practices look even remotely similar. Comparing us all would be a fools endeavor- so why should one compare themselves to others? Answer: they shouldn't.

Polite Requests

If you struggle to receive messages or understand the deity you are working with, you have a few options-- and all of them involve clear communication.

If you are struggling to understand the signs they are sending, communicate what you find unclear about those signs, and politely request a potential solution.

If you are struggling with the divination style you are using, ask them to guide you towards something that you would feel more comfortable with

If their absences feel lonely, ask if there is something you can work on together-- perhaps an altar, maybe a small sign-- that makes you feel less lonely during their "absences".

You can ask them to send you resources, such as books or people, that they think would help you in this endeavor. Or, perhaps they can even teach you themselves.

You can ask if there is someone or something that could be used as an intermediary, to translate their messages more clearly. An example would be deities with a "messenger" role or epithet that you both get along with.

And with anything, practice makes perfect. Don't expect to roll over one day with the ability to communicate super clearly. Take your time, work on it, practice, and be patient with yourself.

As a potential resource, there are readers out there that offer "divination style" readings, with the claim that they will help you find a divination style that would work for you, or a style that you have natural talent for. You can also use readers as a middle man, but this gets expensive quickly.

[junglejam]

writing update.

I'm working on several projects this morning before I begin studying. Managed to write down on paper the complete outline for 'after the starlit high' to help me get an overview of where I left off and whats to come and am highly motivated to write chapter 2 now!

I also started writing my hosie zombie apocalypse au yesterday. This time I'm kind of just winging it and going with the vibe, with there being only a minimum of keywords as 'outlining' to guide me. Very out of character of me, as I tend to plan in detail before writing, but I was too excited to start ahah. I'll spoil the opening scene here:

When the world ends, Hope thinks to herself, surely, this would be a good enough reason to break up with Landon. Then the TV buzzes with static, the ghost of the red emergency message lingering a second longer before the screen goes black and Hope’s left alone in the living room staring at her own reflection in the glass. When the TV doesn’t turn on again after the fifth press of the remote control Hope decides that it’s probably not a prank, but maybe there is still a chance that some guy is losing his job at the broadcast station as of right now, wondering how he’s going to explain this to HR (or the court for that matter). That theory is debunked when she catches sight of somebody getting chased by another person through the window. Wouldn’t have been very unusual for the quarter she lives in, if not for the fact that she thinks the culprit is missing half his head and has a slight greenish hue to him. It’s a bit difficult to tell from the 4th floor, but Hope takes it as a solid proof. So the second thing that enters her mind as the world is ending is, 'Zombies? Really?'

I am also in the middle of outlining the Hanahaki AU, but am a bit stuck since I know how I want it to start and end, but the middle part is blurry.

This has been the most productive day I've had of writing/planning for months, so yay for me!

[storiednhappy]

Androbesity

BHM Weight Gain / Masculinization

Just chapters 1-4 for now.

Chapter 1: The Campus

Nestled in the arid desert between Las Vegas and Palm Springs, far from the prying eyes of the world, lies the Androbesity Campus. A sanctuary designed for a singular purpose: to normalize and encourage obesity in adult men. This secluded haven, reminiscent of a luxury resort, is an ambitious social experiment aimed at redefining societal norms and offering a new perspective on health, community, and self-worth.

The concept of Androbesity was born from the minds of visionary thinkers who saw an opportunity to challenge the pervasive stigmas surrounding obesity. They believed in celebrating the intelligence and unique attributes of obese men, providing them a space to thrive without the constraints of a society that often judges them harshly. Thus, the Androbesity program was established, inviting one man from each U.S. state and territory, including Washington D.C., Puerto Rico, Guam, and American Samoa, to live on the campus for four years, from ages 22 to 25.

Each year, 54 men are selected based on three criteria: high intelligence, significant obesity, and a commitment to fully participating in an experimental community. These men are chosen not just for their physical attributes but also for their potential to contribute intellectually and socially to the community. By the end of the four-year cycle, the campus hosts 216 residents, creating a diverse and dynamic environment.

Located in the harsh, sun-baked desert, the Androbesity Campus is a self-contained oasis where no one needs to venture outside. The campus is also a hub for research into supporting the complications and modifications required by an obese adult population. AO Corp, the organization behind Androbesity, is developing products designed to promote obesity and make it more socially desirable. Their efforts extend to media development, including informational programming, reality shows, and scripted series, all aimed at making an obese lifestyle more visible and accepted. Some former AO Men have already transitioned into careers as paid actors for AO Media, becoming the faces of this new movement.

The men arrive at Androbesity with varied backgrounds, each bringing their unique perspectives and experiences. They are introduced to a world where their size is not just accepted but celebrated. Here, they live and work remotely, supported by state-of-the-art facilities that cater to their every need. The campus is equipped with luxurious living quarters, expansive recreational areas, and cutting-edge technology, all designed to foster a sense of belonging and well-being.

Upon arrival, the new residents are greeted by a welcoming committee of peers and staff who guide them through the orientation process. The campus is a self-sustaining ecosystem, with each resident contributing to the community through remote work and participation in communal activities. The emphasis is on building a supportive network where every individual feels valued and empowered.

Among the new cohort are diverse individuals such as:

- Malik from New York, a talented musician whose creativity flourishes in the supportive environment of Androbesity. His initial skepticism about the program gives way to appreciation as he finds himself inspired by the communal spirit and the freedom to express himself without judgment.

- Joshua from South Carolina, a dedicated software developer who finds the campus’s advanced technological infrastructure ideal for his work. He discovers that the environment not only enhances his professional life but also provides a supportive community that encourages personal growth.

- Diego from Puerto Rico, an innovative entrepreneur who sees the potential in AO Corp’s mission. He brings his entrepreneurial spirit to the campus, collaborating on new product ideas and enjoying the camaraderie of like-minded individuals.

- Matt from Wisconsin, a former athlete whose journey to obesity has been one of both physical and emotional transformation. He finds solace in the acceptance and understanding offered by the Androbesity community, allowing him to redefine his identity and embrace his new lifestyle.

The gates of Androbesity symbolize a threshold to a new way of life, one where these men can explore their potential without societal pressures. The campus, with its lush gardens, sparkling lakes, and modern architecture, is a place of beauty and tranquility. It is a closed society, with strict privacy measures in place to ensure that the residents can live freely without external scrutiny. Visitors are allowed only on designated visiting days, twice a month, ensuring that the integrity and serenity of the community are maintained.

As the first chapter of this epic unfolds, we follow the journey of these men, each from a different part of the United States and its territories. Their stories will delve into their daily lives, their interactions, and the unique social structures that develop within this experimental community. It will explore how Androbesity reshapes their identities, fosters deep bonds, and creates a space where they can redefine what it means to live fully and unapologetically as obese men in modern America.

Through their stories, we will witness the power of acceptance, the strength of community, and the profound impact of living in an environment free from the limitations imposed by conventional societal norms. Welcome to Androbesity, where a new chapter in the lives of these remarkable men begins.

Chapter 2: Guaranteed Gains

From the moment they step through the gates of Androbesity, the men are enveloped in a sense of liberation. Here, their obesity is not just accepted but embraced, and they are encouraged to explore the fullness of life without the typical societal constraints. Yet, hidden within the layers of welcoming gestures and luxurious amenities lies an unspoken truth: weight gain is not just an expectation, but a requirement.

Buried in the fine print of their contracts is the clause that binds them to a pact of inevitable transformation. Each year, the Board of Directors of Androbesity convenes in a secret meeting to determine the minimum weight gain for that year. The specifics vary, depending on the scenarios the Board wishes to explore and the occupations of the men. This calculated approach ensures that each individual’s experience aligns with the overarching goals of the experiment.

The men are never informed of the exact minimum weight they are expected to gain. Instead, they are monitored closely, and if they fall behind, they are gently but firmly guided back on track. Monthly assessments by Androbesity’s team of specialized doctors ensure that every resident is progressing towards the unseen target. The corrective actions are subtle yet effective, tailored to ensure compliance without overt confrontation.

Resistance is not uncommon. Some men, buoyed by their newfound freedom, may attempt to assert control over their bodies, choosing to eat less or even trying to lose weight. These periods of rebellion are anticipated by Androbesity, serving as opportunities to test and refine their methods for countering diet resistance. The doctors at Androbesity, known as AO Doctors, never argue or confront. Instead, they employ a range of psychological and physiological strategies designed to ensure compliance.

For example, Malik from New York, a talented musician, initially resists the constant indulgence. His strict regime soon falters under the relentless hospitality of Androbesity. Meals are tailored to his tastes, abundant and irresistible. The supportive environment subtly reinforces positive associations with overeating, making resistance increasingly futile.

Joshua from South Carolina, a disciplined and health-conscious software developer, tries to maintain his previous eating habits. However, his environment soon proves too tempting. The campus's advanced technological infrastructure and social activities make it easy for him to lose track of his calorie intake.

Diego from Puerto Rico, an innovative entrepreneur, views the mandated weight gain as a challenge to his autonomy. His initial attempts to maintain his weight are met with increased social activities centered around food. The pressure is never overt, but the implications are clear—he is expected to participate fully in the culinary culture of Androbesity.

Matt from Wisconsin, a former athlete, struggles with the psychological aspects of his weight gain. His competitive nature drives him to challenge the system, but the community's acceptance and understanding begin to erode his resistance.

As the year progresses, each man’s journey towards the mandated weight gain becomes a testament to Androbesity’s underlying mission. The methods employed to ensure compliance are meticulously documented, providing invaluable data for the Board. These strategies, once perfected, hold the potential to extend beyond the campus, influencing societal norms and promoting universal male obesity.

The men, immersed in their lives on the campus, become living experiments in a controlled environment designed to reshape their identities and physicalities. The careful balance of freedom and control, indulgence and discipline, creates a unique dynamic where resistance is met with gentle yet unwavering redirection.

Chapter 3: The Call

The camera panned over the serene, sun-soaked landscape of the Androbesity campus, capturing its pristine beauty before cutting to a close-up of Malik, seated comfortably on a plush armchair in his well-appointed room. The setting was warm and inviting, designed to put him at ease as he prepared to share his story with the world. The AO Media team had set up the perfect ambiance, with soft lighting and a backdrop that highlighted the modern elegance of the campus.

Malik took a deep breath, his dark eyes reflecting a mix of emotions as he began to speak. "When I got the call from Androbesity, it was a moment of pure disbelief. I mean, how often do you get a call telling you that you’re both incredibly intelligent and, well, significantly overweight?"

He chuckled softly, the sound tinged with a hint of irony. "It’s a strange combination, right? Society doesn’t often put those two things together. You’re either seen as the smart guy or the fat guy, rarely both. But here I was, being recognized for my intelligence and my size. It was surreal."

The video cut to scenes of Malik’s life before Androbesity: a cluttered apartment in New York, stacks of music sheets on a piano, and glimpses of his bustling life as a musician. The narration continued over these images, providing a glimpse into the world he had left behind.

"I was always torn between my passions and my appearance," Malik explained. "Music was my escape, but my weight was always this shadow hanging over me. When the call came, it felt like someone had finally seen me for who I really am—a talented, intelligent man who also happens to be obese."

The video shifted back to Malik in his room, his expression growing more introspective. "There’s a conflict that comes with that call. On one hand, you’re flattered and excited. Androbesity is prestigious. It’s an honor to be chosen. But then there’s the other part of you that questions it. Am I really that fat? Can I really leave my life behind for four years?"

He paused, his gaze drifting as if recalling the moment vividly. "But then you think about the opportunity. The chance to be part of something bigger than yourself. To be in a place where your size isn’t a burden but a badge of honor. And the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to say no."

The scene transitioned to Malik walking through the campus, interacting with fellow residents, and engaging in various activities. The sense of community and acceptance was palpable, a stark contrast to the isolation he had often felt back in New York.

"Androbesity isn’t just about living with your size," Malik continued. "It’s about gaining perspective, gaining confidence. Here, you’re not just accepted; you’re celebrated. Your intelligence, your talents, your size—they all matter. They all make you who you are."

The camera zoomed in on Malik’s face, capturing the sincerity and depth of his words. "So, why don’t you say no? Because deep down, you know this is a chance to be part of something revolutionary. To challenge the norms, to embrace who you are fully. It’s not just an experiment; it’s a new way of life. And that’s something you just can’t walk away from."

While Malik spoke passionately about the community and acceptance at Androbesity, he never mentioned the weight gain explicitly. This unspoken rule was well understood among the residents. Discussions about their weight and the expectations surrounding it were kept private, shared only with trusted friends and the AO Doctors. On camera, the focus remained on the positive aspects of their experience, maintaining the program's image of empowerment and self-discovery.

The video ended with a panoramic view of the Androbesity campus at sunset, the sky ablaze with colors, symbolizing the dawn of a new era for men like Malik. As the screen faded to black, Malik’s final words resonated in the silence: "This is where we redefine what it means to be smart, to be fat, to be human."

Chapter 4: The Bottomless Plate

Matt sat at the long dining table, the last of his fellow residents having long since left. He speared the final piece of roast beef from the platter in front of him and savored it, wondering if tonight would be the night they told him he couldn't have more. The thought gnawed at him, almost as much as his insatiable appetite.

In his former life in Wisconsin, Matt was accustomed to being told when enough was enough. At every buffet and family gathering, there came a point when someone would gently suggest he’d had his fill. But here at Androbesity, things were different. No one had yet told him to stop, and the abundance seemed limitless.

"Can I get more of that dessert?" he asked a passing server, pointing to the now-empty plate of chocolate cake.

"Of course, Mr. Matt," the server replied with a smile, heading back to the kitchen without hesitation.

Matt leaned back in his chair, his belly pressing against the table. He glanced around, noting the discreet cameras mounted in the corners of the dining hall. He knew they were there, but he didn't realize their full purpose. AO Media captured every meal he consumed, creating timelapse videos of his expanding stomach. These videos were studied in board meetings, analyzed for insights into their subjects' growth and behavior.

While Matt feared the day they might say no, AO Corp had no intention of letting that happen. His voracious appetite was precisely what they wanted to encourage, a living testament to their philosophy. The more he ate, the more valuable his data became for their research and media content. They were always prepared to bring more food, always ready to satisfy his cravings

Yet, the staff maintained the illusion of potential limits. They never outright offered more food unprompted; they waited for Matt to ask, ensuring he felt a sense of agency and uncertainty.

As he waited for his dessert, Matt pondered his peculiar situation. "They'll have to cut me off someday," he mused, half to himself. "No one can eat like this forever without someone stepping in."

But the truth was, the staff had no plans to curb his consumption. The more Matt ate, the more compelling his story became for AO Media, and the more data they collected on his extraordinary growth. His gradual transformation was a critical part of their secret plan to understand and promote the acceptance of obesity.

The server returned with a generous slice of chocolate cake, even larger than the last. Matt's eyes widened with delight as he dug in, savoring every rich bite. The cameras recorded his every move, capturing the subtle changes in his body with each meal.

"Enjoy, Mr. Matt," the server said warmly before leaving him to his feast.

Matt wondered how long this unlimited bounty could last. He finished the cake, feeling the familiar mix of satisfaction and curiosity. But for now, there were no limits in sight, only the promise of more.

And so, he continued to indulge, blissfully unaware of the true extent of Androbesity's plans. The staff remained ever accommodating, refilling his plate as many times as he requested, ensuring that Matt's journey of growth would never be interrupted.

[babygirlgalitzine]

how you've haunted me (so stunningly) (ao3)

Alex is an adult, ok? He works in a law firm, he has a mortgage. He’s also just recently discovered his bisexuality so of course he stalks a handsome stranger on LinkedIn after he comes in for a meeting.

Or, a lawyer au with little mention of the actual law.

☆☆.｡.:･ﾟ:.｡.☆☆.｡.:･ﾟ:.｡.☆☆.｡.:･ﾟ:.｡.☆☆.｡.:･ﾟ:.｡.☆☆

Alex is a fully fledged, whole ass adult, ok? He can vote, he can drink, he can gamble, if he chooses to do so. He works in a very stressful, very adult job. He has a fucking mortgage. He barely has a life, staying up at all hours of the day, running on little to no sleep and copious amounts of black coffee. To the detriment of his career, he can’t remember the last bit of joy he had in his life, much less the last time he got laid - as his best friend Nora likes to put it.

With a sigh, he gives up on reading a new contract, marking off where he’s up to by placing a fluorescent post-it note at the rim of his screen. It’s not the most professional of methods, but he’s not exactly the most professional of lawyers, so it’s by the by. His eyes flicker up to the clock that is situated above his office door, the insistent ticking too much for Alex most of the time, his ADHD brain getting too distracted by it on days where noises are sometimes too much for him to be able to focus entirely on the project at hand. Today is one of those days. 

He stretches out his legs underneath his desk, the tips of his shoes hitting lightly against the wood, restricting him from stretching any further. His legs burn with an involuntary shake before he lightly pushes against the edge of his desk, the wheels on his chair guiding him backwards as his bones and muscles continue to ache. Sluggishly, he opens the door to his office, instantly bombarded with the loud noises on the main floor space, suddenly grateful for how well the soundproofing works, because if he could hear this level of noise whilst he’s attempting to work, there is no way on Earth that anything productive would be done. 

His nose takes him where he wants to go, sniffing out the faint smell of coffee until it eventually grows into a stronger scent the closer he gets to the staff kitchens. He’s halfway across the main floor, seeing his co-workers walking past him with full steaming mugs of richness, when he sees him standing there at the front desk. Alex stumbles over his own feet embarrassingly, eyes quickly flickering down to see if he somehow got his shoes caught in loose fabric of the carpet, but his eyes soon go back to where they just were mere seconds before. Alex finds himself unable to pull his eyes away from the man for a second time, the magnetism in his chest tugging at him, his body wanting to go over to the man before his mind is even remotely able to catch up with him.  

The man is beautiful. Gorgeous, even. Sex on legs, and Alex wants to drown in him.

That’s another thing about Alex: he has recently discovered his bisexuality, and unfortunately has had nobody to put his theoretical sexuality into practice. He’s not even tried to look, too distracted by his career and subsequent lack of everything else in his life to even attempt much more than carelessly scrolling through Tinder late at night through sleepy eyes.

The unknown man laughs as he shakes hands with one of the most sought after lawyers within the whole firm. It fills his whole face, happiness exuding from him. Alex burns with a ferocious jealousy, partly because he wants that career for himself (and believe him, he’s working his way up to it), but also partly because he wants to meet this man. He wants to shake his hand and introduce himself. He wants to kiss those plush lips, a sudden craving for wanting to know how amazingly they taste and how perfect they feel. 

Nora walks past Alex, her shoulder nudging into his arm teasingly. They may be adults, they may have professional jobs, but she is his best friend, and she still has this innate ability to tease him like they’re both teenagers in high school all over again. “What - or who, actually - are you staring at?”

Alex sighs, a smile threatening to twitch on the very corners of his lips. She knows him so well, even if it is annoyingly so sometimes. He leans back, his body now lining up alongside his best friend. “Blond guy, legs for days, lips so soft I want to sleep on them.” Alex says like a mantra, the physical attributes of this man searing into his brain. He wants to remember it forever. “Who is he? Do we know?”

A thoughtful hum leaves Nora’s throat as she takes her own time to stare at the man, appreciating his fine figure. “I believe that’s Henry Fox.” She states. The name somewhat rings a bell to Alex, but not loudly enough to remember where from. He knows that Nora knows more than just that, so he silently urges her on. “He works with Mr Okonjo. They’re best friends, actually. I think it’s his first meeting here, something about an ongoing case with the shelters.”

Oh. So not only is he sex on legs, he’s a genuinely fucking nice person. 

Alex hates that it intrigues him even more.

Seconds pass and Henry is trailing the hot shot lawyer into an office, and subsequently away from Alex’s prying eyes.

In the end, Alex makes himself a large, scalding hot mug of coffee and walks back into his office, shutting the door behind him and trying to forget all about the gorgeous man that just so happens to be in one of the offices near him. In all honesty, Alex tries desperately to get on with his day. He really does. He’s practically locked away in his office for all hours of the working day, drinking far too much coffee than is actually healthy - his intolerance is high, but even he has the caffeine shakes towards the end of the day, trying to cleanse his body with water instead. He reads and he writes contracts, answering phone call after phone call. It’s a busy and productive day. By the time he looks up and the clock above the office door, noticing that the working day is over and he’s free to go - after he sends this one final email off into the ether, naturally - he has a growing headache swirling around in his skull.

That night, Alex goes home, rips his colourful tie from around his neck and unbuttons the top three fasteners on his shirt. With a sigh, he drops to his couch, and takes out his phone to order himself a take out. He really doesn’t have the energy to stand in front of an oven for any length of time right now. His bones ache and so does his head. He simply just rests, until the buzzer rings out, and he winces at the abrupt noise. 

He doesn’t even lay the table. He has no need to. He isn’t entertaining anyone. Instead, he takes to his seat on the couch once again, food in his lap and eating with the plastic fork it comes with. His phone is in his free hand, three mouthfuls into his food and he finds himself on LinkedIn, which is unusual for him, really. It’s not an app he finds himself on often anymore, he barely has any recent posts on there, though he was active at the beginning of his career, and beyond a few casual work acquaintances, he doesn’t follow anyone on there either. Through tired eyes, though, he types in a new name. 

Henry Fox.

The name burns onto his thumbprint as he types. It’s so new, and yet familiar all at the same time. 

He scrolls and he scrolls, reading all of the posts that are on his account. He discovers that Henry studied English Literature at Oxford, of all places. Not Oxford Brookes, actual Oxford. Alex’s jaw slackens, and whistles lowly at that. Of course he’s fucking impressive in more way than one. In every way, potentially. 

There are posts on there about the shelter, and it seems as though Henry is very much involved in the day to day running of the place, as is Mr Okonjo - or, Percy, as Henry’s posts refer to him as. Henry talks about everything that the children have done in the shelter, and everything that the organisation does for the children, as well as the wider community. He posts about fundraisers, and how they help out with the legal issues for the children that need their help in that way. There’s even some photos portraying Henry with the children - though it just shows the back of their heads, or their faces are blurred out beyond recognition. Their safety is clearly the number one priority, and as a lawyer, Alex appreciates that. It’s not often the case, as he sees regularly. Henry writes about teaching the children classic literature such as the Brontë’s and Austen, and how some of them have grown to appreciate them, even going so far as to asking to borrow some of his own collection. He writes about creating various events throughout the month of pride, all as a fundraiser for the shelter. In those posts, Henry refers to himself as gay, and Alex’s stomach flutters into life all over again. 

So he’s hot as fuck, great with children, and gay. Be still, Alex’s beating heart.

A week passes. Alex is at work every single day, from early morning to late evening, trying to get all of his affairs in order for an upcoming court case. He does little else but work, except trying to cook a few nights a week, rather than indulging in take out quite so often. He doesn’t even have time to think about Henry, not really. Late at night, he finds his eyes drifting over to the LinkedIn app, thumb shyly tapping it to life, and without ever intending to, he finds himself on Henry’s page. But that’s it. It’s at night. It’s not infiltrating his day, even less does he find himself thinking about Henry whilst at work. 

Which is why Alex stops abruptly in his tracks when he sees Henry at the office once again. 

He’s given up on his sorting out of files for the time being, on his way to make a pit stop to get his nth cup of coffee that day. His brain is rattling around in his skull, potentially begging and pleading for Alex to stop - or at least slow down - with the caffeine intake. Alex doesn’t listen. He needs the caffeine to get through this week. He’s got a binder full of paper under one arm, an empty mug stained with coffee in the ​​other hand when he sees Henry walking out his associates office, the same one he went into a week ago. He looks even more like a wet dream now, and Alex stutters in his walking, nearly tripping up and smashing his mug on the carpeted floor. A huff falls from his mouth in an otherwise silent room, causing Henry’s head to snap up in his direction. A smile twitches onto Henry’s lips, and Alex tries to not crumble at the sight, though his knees very nearly give way involuntarily. Instead, Alex keeps on walking towards the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. His shoulders fall as he exhales, finally alone once more. 

Seconds later, and there’s a light knock on the door, followed by the hinges squeaking into life. Alex turns, putting the binder on the table and when he looks up from doing so, in walks Henry. 

“This is for staff only.” Alex comments semi politely. 

Henry lets the door close to a shut, stepping closer to Alex. “Did you enjoy my life’s work?” Henry asks sweetly, and Alex is beyond confused for a moment or two. Agonising seconds tick by. “I have to say, people usually just go to my Instagram if they want to find me.”

Alex’s eyes widen as the realisation hits him like a ten tonne truck. “Shit, I wasn’t on private.”

Henry laughs, and it’s like the golden sunrise after a miserable winter. Perfect. Beautiful. Everything that Alex wants to experience and more. It’s a gorgeous sound, lighting Alex up from the inside out. 

“I’m honoured, honestly. I can’t say I didn’t do the same, except…I actually was on private.” Henry is teasing him now, and Alex would be lying if he said he didn’t find that hot. 

“Usually people stalk my Instagram.” Alex throws back, a reference to Henry’s opening line. 

Henry’s smile twitches, his face practically glowing. There’s a brightness to his eyes, crystal in colour, full of pure excitement at the situation. He’s enjoying this. “I can understand why. That’s almost as impressive as your career.”

Alex’s eyebrows raise on his forehead. He wants to drop to his knees; right here, right now. He won’t though. He has a modicum of self respect. 

“I was wondering, actually,” Henry pauses for a beat. “Would you like to go on a date?”

[4me4you]

4me4you Features Digital Creator: "wearedog_utd"–  I am you | You are me.

Meet Thomas, the mind behind “wearedog_utd”..

In a world that often rewards speed, ambition, and digital noise, Thomas chose to walk a different path—one that winds through silence, soil, and self-discovery. For years, he thrived in Amsterdam’s creative scene, serving as Head of Design for a global fashion powerhouse. 

Surrounded by deadlines, trend forecasts, and the constant pulse of the industry, he cultivated a sharp eye for aesthetics and meaning—but somewhere along the way, the work began to feel disconnected from something essential.

That disconnection sparked a radical life shift. Thomas stepped away from the corporate world and toward something quieter, more intuitive. He relocated to the remote mountains of northern Portugal, settling on a hillside farm where time moves differently. There, he began weaving a new life—one rooted in slowness, nature, and introspection.

From this space, Thomas now hosts retreats focused on inner growth, guiding others through practices that nurture presence, awareness, and emotional resilience. But his retreat work is only one part of his creative offering.

Under the alias wearedog_utd, he expresses his evolving perspective through art—a raw, surreal blend of visual experimentation and poetic fragments. His pieces are often absurd, sharply ironic, and achingly human. They reflect a deep critique of modernity’s dissonance: our collective obsession with productivity, image, and external validation, and the psychological toll it takes.

Through strange characters, haunting imagery, and cryptic lines, Thomas invites viewers into a shared space of reflection. His art doesn’t offer neat conclusions—it opens doors. It challenges you to feel the discomfort, the beauty, the absurdity of being alive right now.

In a time when the world urges us to look outward, Thomas gently reminds us to look in.

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INSTGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/wearedog_utd/