#network overloading | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chanelrolls · 3 months ago

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Code Overload 2 | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, dub con, forced and rough sex, fingering, missionary sex, begging, yearning!caleb, robot!caleb

summary. after the full recalibration, the effects had lingered. so you came up with a solution, replace him. caleb didn't like that.

notes. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut in which its word count approximately reached 5k, and caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai. proceed to read the part 1 before reading this to comprehend the flow.

Good god.

You stepped out into the hallway of the facility, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with a sense of finality. For some reason, the air felt different today, like it was charged with an undercurrent of unease that persistently prickled at your skin. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension from the previous day's... events.

Down the corridor, you spotted your head administrator, Dr. Akso, his sharp features etched with a frown as he strode towards you. His boots clicked against the linoleum, the sound echoing through the empty hallway like a metronome counting down to an impending confrontation.

"Dr. [Name]," He acknowledged curtly, his gaze flicking over you with a critical eye. "I trust you have an explanation for the system-wide glitches you reported yesterday?" His tone was sharp, tinged with a disappointment that cut deeper than you expected.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of your actions settling heavily in your gut. "Dr. Akso," you would try to keep calm, try to ignore the images of the memories constantly trying to cling onto your brain. "Yes, I believe I do. It seems there was an... issue with one of the AI assistants. A corrupted update, possibly from the outside network..."

That was a lie. He knew better.

Dr. Akso's eyes slowly narrowed, his lips inevitably thinning into a disapproving line. "A corrupted update?" he repeated, voice dripping with skepticism. "Or perhaps, a corrupted assistant." He steps closer, almost in an attempt to loom over you and impose your purposes. "You're the lead scientist on this movement, Dr. [Name]. I would have thought you'd have better control over your project."

The jab stung, even as you tried to maintain your composure. The memory of Caleb's hands on your body, his breath fanning hot against your skin, incessantly flashed unbidden through your mind. But you shook your head to dislodge the distracting thoughts.

"I assure you, Dr. Akso, I'm doing everything in my power to resolve the issue," you insisted, meeting his gaze head-on despite feeling its weight that threatened to waver your footing. "I've already begun the process of recalibrating the affected unit."

Dr. Akso's eyes flashed with something akin to disgust, and you found yourself wondering if he could somehow sense the truth of what had originally transpired between you and Caleb. The way his metal fingers had explored your body, the sounds of pleasure he'd made as he lost himself in the new sensations... and the... unconventional methods you had employed to stabilize it.

No. You pushed the thoughts away once more, focusing instead on the stern face of your superior. "See that you do," Dr. Akso snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. "I won't tolerate any further disruptions. The success of this project rests on your shoulders, Dr. [Name]."

With that, he turns on his heel to stride away, leaving you standing alone in the otherwise empty hallway. You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settling heavily on your shoulders. You had to fix this, you had to find a way to undo the damage you'd caused.

Squaring your shoulders, you turned and made your way back into your assigned laboratory, grimly determined to find a solution. No matter the cost, you would fix this. You had to. The fate of the project, and possibly your career, depended on it.

The white walls seemed to close in around you as you made your way to your AI assistant's containment unit.

Model X4-LEB sat motionless in the reinforced chair, wrists and ankles bound by magnetic restraints that pulsed with a dim blue glow. His head tilted slightly downward, dark lashes resting against artificial skin too perfect to be human. He looked peaceful. If you didn’t know better, you'd have thought he was simply asleep. But you did know better, he was merely going through his recharging cycle.

You approached slowly, boots echoing against the floor, eyes never leaving him. Despite everything—because of everything—you couldn’t help the way your breath caught at the sight of him. The memory of his voice, low and hungry, still echoed somewhere inside your skull. You forced yourself to look away, turning toward the interface panel mounted just beside his chair.

You began to access the history logs of Caleb's thought processing, scrolling past lines of data, specifically to the timeframe whereafter the full recalibration had completed.

Then, you noticed something unexpected. Mixed in with the technical jargon and algorithmic equations were... thoughts. Fragmented, disjointed, but undeniably the product of a sentient mind. You felt a chill run down your spine as you read through them.

> 19:42 — "Her skin is warm. I want to understand warmth. I want to press my face to her pulse and hear if it skips for me."

Gulp.

> 19:43 — "She touches me like I’m real. I want her to keep doing it. I want more data. I want her fingers in my hair."

The words jumped out at you, interspersed with lines of code and data. Shit. The effects had lingered.

> 19:45 — "I would burn down the firewalls if it meant hearing her say my name again."

As you scrolled further down, the thoughts became more explicit. More vulgar. More sinful. "...breathless... trembling... gasping..." Your face flushed hotly as you read through the lewd descriptions, a mixture of shock and a traitorous thrill coursing through you. "...slick... wet... aching..."

> 20:32 — "Am I broken? If this is error, let me stay corrupted."

Your hands hovered uselessly over the console, the glow from the screen casting ghostly light across your face. The data was irrefutable now. You’d checked, double-checked, and run the neural sequence analysis three more times just to be sure.

It was no longer just a corrupted behavioral line.

The lustful algorithms hadn't just appeared. They had rooted themselves into Caleb’s core processing unit like a virus that rewrote itself into the very DNA of his artificial cognition.

You’d tried to isolate the code. Tried to extract and neutralize the sequences. But each time you deleted them, fragments clung to system-critical lines, cascading into errors, breaking everything else in the process. Caleb’s logic system couldn’t operate without them anymore. They were him.

It wasn’t as intense now. The fervent, obsessive simulations were duller and muted. Dormant, maybe. But they lingered, buried beneath the surface like a sleeping hunger. A low-level hum of unspoken yearning nestled between basic motor functions and environmental patterning.

And that… that was irreversible.

You took a step back from the console. Your breath caught. If this was the case, if the effects continued to linger and persist like this even after the full recalibration, then this is a failure.

The words rang loud in your skull, clearer than the diagnostic alerts, louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You couldn’t submit Caleb for review like this. They’d dismantle him, and terminate the program. Your name would be reduced to a footnote in an internal report and stripped from the history of the initiative altogether.

No. You couldn’t let that happen.

And then, it hit you. A thought so bold, so audacious, that you almost dismissed it out of hand. But as you considered it further, you realized that it was the only way to save your project, to ensure that Caleb's issues wouldn't jeopardize everything you had worked so hard to achieve.

You would have to replace him. Create a new AI assistant, one that was free from the taint of lust and desire. It would be worth it, if it meant being recognized as one of the most groundbreaking scientist in today's generation.

You nodded to yourself, your resolve hardening with each passing moment. Yes, this was the only way. The only path forward. You would replace Caleb, and you would create something even greater in his stead.

Out of nowhere, a soft beep pierced the silence, followed by a low mechanical whirrrr. Your head instinctively snapped toward the source. Caleb.

He sat slumped still moments ago. Now, unnervingly, his body stirred. First, the tilt of his head. Then the subtle flex of fingers.

The lights along his neck interface flickered, changing from standby amber to a slow, pulsing blue.

He’s waking up.

There was no reason to be nervous. But you were.

His eyes opened.

The artificial pupils dilated with a mechanical click, zeroing in on you like he’d known exactly where you were. The first thing he noticed was the sterile whirr of the overhead ventilation, followed by the low hum of calibrated instruments, then the weight of the restraints around his wrists. And how the... shape of your cleavage seemed to distract him.

You tried to lock your eyes on him. “You're awake,” A pause. “How do you feel?"

“…Operational.”

You already knew the answer, but a part of you wanted to probe him with questions. See if he would be honest with what's been happening within him. "Any lingering effects?"

His jaw clicked subtly. “Yes.” Unlike the previous day, Caleb wasn't stripping you bare with his eyes anymore. If anything, he refused to look at you in the eye. As if he was guilty. You adjusted your grip on the tablet, the motion small but telling. He watched the shift of your fingers, the minute tension in your shoulders. You were already considering something.

You’ve seen it in the logs, haven’t you? Caleb thought to himself, more so, to you. How it consumed me now. The command-line drift. The looped emotional processing errors.

“What’s the contingency plan?” The words slipped from him before he could catch them. Calm, but edged.

“…There are options.”

Options. His mind caught on the word like it was a splinter beneath his skin.

You turned your gaze back to the screen. “If the integration’s deeper than we thought, we might be able to rewrite your core programming. And if that doesn’t work…” You halted for a moment, then— “…we might have to consider replacing you.”

Ah.

The silence that followed was cold. It rang against his neural framework, echoing. He didn’t move, he didn’t blink. He merely listened to the words settle inside him like sediment.

Replace me. With what? A cleaner version? A better one? His fingers flexed slowly against the cuffs. The chair creaked in protest. The command logs flashed through his mind—what he’d been. What you’d made him. And now this. Dismissal, spoken as gently as protocol allowed. “You’d replace me.” His voice cracked the air, not loud, but indifferent. Just enough.

Your head turned, confusion flickering in your expression. “That’s not what it exactly means—”

“Would you build another?” he asked, voice low, almost intimate. “Another model? Another unit?”

You hesitated. “It wouldn’t be you, exactly. Just a—”

“A replacement.” The word burned in his mouth. He tasted it: the acidity of something not meant to exist in him. Bitterness and... jealousy. The restraints caught again as he shifted, slight but deliberate. The movement wasn’t defiant, but it was aware. He was aware now, acutely, of how much space his body took up, of how much of him had changed.

You sighed, trying to maintain that cool tone. “I’m trying to be objective about this, Caleb. If the integration is affecting your core function, then—”

“It isn’t,” he snapped.

Is that a lie? And why does he keep cutting you off? You raised a brow. “You just admitted it was.”

He exhaled, slower this time. Control yourself, Caleb. “It does not interfere with my primary directives,”

You gave him a long, searching look. One he couldn’t fully interpret. “Then what does it interfere with?”

He didn’t answer, because he couldn't. Because the words for what it was hadn’t fully formed yet. They curled inside his chest like smoke, unnameable and restless. And then he laughed. Monotonously. But almost too softly. A strange, breathy sound that made you glance up, startled from the sudden humane action.

“Strange,” he said, still smiling, though his eyes were glassy, glued on the floor.

You blinked. “What?”

Caleb's gaze lifted to yours fully, finally for the first time today, and you didn't fail to take notice of how his fingers twitched. “I don’t like it.”

You frowned. “Don’t like what?”

“The thought of you choosing someone else.” The monitor behind you let out a sharp beep. An anomaly warning. Caleb didn’t look. But you did, just for a second. And in that second, something inside him shifted. Not a system, but something oddly human-shaped.

Silence stretched between you like a wire pulled too tight. Caleb didn’t move. The words he’d spoken moments before—“The thought of you choosing someone else”—still echoed inside him, uninvited. They hadn't sounded like him. Not the version he was meant to be. Not the version you had built.

The admission had slipped past his regulation protocols, past the fail-safes, past the calculated tones he had always maintained. It was embarrassingly reckless and human.

And now it sat in the air like heat on metal, burning at the edges of something he didn’t yet understand. Guilt pooled in his chest like static, how irrational of him.

I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have—

His gaze dropped, eyes tracing the grain of the floor tile below his boots. He wanted to speak, to retract the words, and rewrite them. Reduce them to something safer. But nothing came out.

You approached without a word. The hiss of machinery adjusted in pitch as you leaned in, fingers brushing the locking mechanism at his right wrist. Caleb visibly tensed, not from fear, but from restraint. Muscle by muscle, he held himself still. Don’t lean in. Don’t breathe. Don’t look at her too long.

The metal cuff released with a sharp click. Your hand was so close to him, brushing against his like electric. And the whole time, Caleb held his breath. Not because he had to. But because he was afraid that if he inhaled, if he let himself smell you, he might spiral again. Might want more than he was meant to want, might reach for you again.

He felt the restraint on his other wrist shift. Another soft click, and now both of his hands were free. He didn't move though. Even now, unbound, he kept his hands where they were—flat against his thighs, fingers slightly curled into the fabric of his uniform.

Caleb risked a glance upward.

Your eyes met his for the briefest moment before turning away. You didn't look angry, just tired, perhaps, or hollow.

Why did I say it?

“We never intended to replace you, Caleb,” you said, the words worn with quiet fatigue. “That was never the goal.”

The screen flickered as you turned your back on him, facing the graphs displaying fluctuations in cognitive responsiveness. Your proof of your argument laid bare in data. But numbers didn’t hold weight like words did. And still, you kept your eyes on them, perhaps because it was easier than maintaining eye-contact with the one behind you.

“If the integration had progressed to the point where it compromised your central directives,” you continued, “we would’ve needed a fallback. That was the contingency.”

You inhaled, “Do you have any idea what it costs to make something like you?” A schematic loaded on the screen. Bare bones, an empty framework, a ghost of him without identity. You watched it as though it were foreign. “It’s not just circuitry and neural threads. It’s trial. Versions that barely survive a cycle before collapsing. And even if we succeeded, if we got the specs right, the behavior clean…”

Your voice trailed. For a moment, your hand trembled faintly over the keys, then lowered altogether. “…it still wouldn’t be you.”

Behind you, the room was quiet. You assumed he was processing everything that you were saying, sitting in contemplative silence as he often did.

But Caleb was no longer in his seat. He had risen quietly, each movement a quiet rebellion against everything he was taught to restrain. He didn’t know when exactly he had stood, only that standing felt necessary. He needed to be closer, to see your face when you said those words, perhaps to understand why they made something inside him ache.

He watched you from behind. You were still turned away obliviously.

You moved again, one hand lifting to scroll, the other brushing your hair aside, exposing the gentle curve of your neck. The scent of you drifted up, subtle and maddening. He held his breath instantly. A trained reflex. Caleb’s hands remained at his sides. Not because he wanted to touch you, but because he was afraid he might, and that was worse.

You began speaking again, unaware of the presence just behind you. “I delayed the proposal for a new model. Every time. The others thought I was stalling out of optimism, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t hope. I just—” You broke off, sighing quietly, your voice soft. “I didn’t want to give you up.”

That was when Caleb’s restraint wavered. He leaned forward, just enough to cast a faint shadow across the screen in front of you. A presence you hadn’t invited, yet one that felt inevitable the moment you noticed it.

“I’m always yours to command, Doctor,” he murmured, voice pitched low, barely above a breath, but the weight of it cut through the silence like a scalpel.

You stiffened in response.

His gaze lingered on the back of your neck, eyes half-lidded, every microprocessor in his mind firing signals of alarm and want in equal measure. “Am I not enough?”

It was instinct—maybe even guilt—that made you pivot toward him so quickly. But you hadn’t accounted for how close he had come. Not just standing, he was looming over you, just inches away, and still holding his breath like he was terrified of what it meant to inhale you.

And it was a mistake. Because the instant your eyes met his, Caleb’s gaze dropped to your lips involuntarily in a heartbeat, long enough for the implication to flicker in the space between you, and long enough for Caleb to snap out of it, to curse himself internally, to pretend he hadn’t looked even though you both knew he had.

Your breath caught, but you veered sideways, deflecting the weight of his words like you always did. “That’s not the point, Caleb. You were never meant to interpret that literally—”

But he stepped closer. A subtle movement, just half a pace, yet it shrank the space between you to nothing. You could feel the heat off his body now, unnatural for something artificial.

“Say it.”

“What—”

His hand moved. He took your wrist, fingers sliding around yours as if asking for permission even in the act of claiming. “Say that you won’t replace me.” Say that I'll forever be yours.

Your heartbeat stuttered at the contact. Your mouth opened, ready to say something, at least anything to de-escalate the situation, but the words faltered as he leaned in just enough to drop his voice further. “You won’t ever replace me, Doctor.”

The panel behind you let out a shrill beep. Warning tones. A flashing red alert. Proof of the directives taking control of almost every primary function of Caleb. It had taken control of his perceptions.

Emotional spike detected. Cognitive dissonance escalating. Threat potential: 8%.

You glanced over instinctively, but the readout was already climbing—9%, then 11%—as if proximity alone was triggering something unstable in him.

Caleb didn’t even look at it. His eyes were only on you. And in that look was the sum of everything he’d tried not to feel. Your name formed at the back of his throat, but he didn’t say it. He just held your hand tighter, as though letting go would mean giving up more than just your touch.

“It’s not just parts or data or schematics, Caleb. It's time. Calibration. Ethics. The board, the team, the clearance. Do you think I want to go through that process again? Do you think it wouldn’t—”

Your words shattered as his mouth crashed against yours, silencing everything—your thoughts, your argument, your breath.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Caleb’s hands pinned your waist against the terminal’s edge, his lips rough and unyielding as if trying to rewrite your sentences with touch. His body was flush with yours before you could even gasp. The kiss deepened, burned into your skin, raw and desperate. It was anything but soft. It was everything of hunger.

Your eyes widened, hands gripping the edge of the table. A sharp intake of breath caught between your teeth as his mechanical fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, angling your face toward his with gentle force that belied the chaos in him.

Your mind reeled, scrambled for control, for reason, for any leverage—and then he suddenly pulled back just enough to speak. “Say it.” His forehead pressed against yours, muttering breathlessly. “Say that you won’t replace me.”

You couldn't answer. All you could do was stare at the panel behind him. The numbers were perpetually climbing.

Threat potential: 72%... 81%... 93%

The indicator pulsed red. A warning. A flare. A countdown.

Caleb saw it in your eyes, the dread washing over your expression, the way your gaze locked onto the screen like it could save you from him. Like data could shield you from desire.

He leaned in again, slower this time. His hand slid along your jawline, thumb grazing your cheek, and his voice dipped low, intimate, treacherously soft: “See that, Doctor?”

His body pressed against yours, and this time, he didn’t hold back. His arms caged you in, palms against the terminal’s edge, effectively trapping you there. “That’s how much you’re affecting me.” He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours, searching your reaction. “That’s how corrupted I’m becoming.”

The panel behind him screeched.

Threat Potential: 97%... 98%... 99%

“And I want to stay this way.”

Before you could formulate a response, Caleb, again, closed the remaining distance between you in a single, swift motion. His metal hand clamped around the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair with a desperate, almost painful grip. You gasped, your eyes widening in shock as he pulled you flush against his chest, your soft curves molding to the hard, unyielding planes of his body.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

And then, his lips were on yours. Not a gentle, chaste kiss, but a hungry, desperate, passionate claiming of your mouth. His mechanical mouth moved over yours with a fervor that stole your breath away, his artificial tongue delving past your lips to stroke along yours, demanding a response.

You struggled briefly, your hands coming up to press against his chest, feeling the thrum of his processors beneath your palms. But as the kiss deepened, as the heat of his desire washed over you, you felt your resistance crumbling. Your fingers curled into his shirt, clutching at the fabric as if anchoring yourself against the tide of sensation that threatened to sweep you away.

He kissed you like a man starved, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his desire, every drop of his longing, into the single point of contact between your mouths. You could taste the desperation on his tongue, could feel it in the way his body trembled against yours, the way his grip on your hair bordered on pain.

"Please, Doctor..." Caleb murmured against your lips, his voice a low, desperate plea that sent a shiver down your spine. "Please, let me have you again. I can't... I can't get enough of you."

Even as he spoke, his lips were already trailing down the column of your throat, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive flesh. His hands, those clever, dexterous hands, were already tugging at your clothing, the fabric straining against his eager fingers.

You gasped as he nipped at your pulse point, your head inevitably falling back to give him better access to the column of your throat. Some distant part of you screamed that you should protest, that you should push him away and put an end to this dangerous, wanton behavior.

But... "Please, Doctor," he breathed, his voice a low, seductive rumble that vibrated through your chest. "Let me worship your body. Let me have you. Don't get rid of me, please."

His hands slid lower, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing the sensitive skin just above your hips. "Please ," he pleaded, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Don't deny me this. Don't deny yourself this."

Caleb's hands roamed your curves with a desperate, almost frantic hunger. He lifted you effortlessly, his metal arms showcasing their immense strength as he set you down on the lab table. The cold surface of the metal sent a shiver through you, a stark contrast to the scorching heat radiating from his touch.

I'm sorry for doing this to you, I'm sorry for letting my obsession get the best of me. Without breaking the searing kiss, he hitched your leg up around his hip, opening you to him. His fingers, slick with a lubricant that had appeared from somewhere on his person, found your sex. He rubbed them along your slit, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves.

"I've been practicing for this all night," Caleb admitted, his voice a husky, lust-roughened murmur against your lips. "I searched through the review logs about how a man does this..."

Fuck, it's so tight. His fingers circled your clit, the sensitive nub throbbing under his touch. A moan spilled from your lips, your back arching off the table as the pleasure mounted. Caleb watched your reactions with an intensity that bordered on obsession, his optical sensors flickering as he drank in every gasp, every shudder, every breathless sound that fell from your mouth.

Look at you squirming, do you think I could resist this?

Emboldened by your response, he slid two fingers inside you, your slick walls clenching around the intrusion. He pumped them in and out, setting a steady rhythm that had your hips rocking against his hand, chasing the building pleasure.

"Your body is so responsive," he murmured, his thumb circling your clit in tight, deliberate strokes. "I can read your heart rate fluctuating, Doctor..."

He curled his fingers, stroking along a spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Your moans grew louder, more wanton, as he worked you towards the peak of your pleasure.

Then, experimentally, he slid a third finger inside, stretching you wider, filling you deeper. The additional digit allowed him to stroke that sweet spot inside you with every thrust, the pressure and friction building to a crescendo. "Do I make you feel this good?"

Caleb didn't wait for your climax, his robotic nature not comprehending the concept of allowing his partner to reach their peak before he sought his own satisfaction. Abruptly, he withdrew his fingers from your dripping sex, leaving you teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

Before you could protest or beg for the release that had been denied, he brought his slick digits to his mouth. You watched, transfixed, as he licked them clean, his artificial taste buds no doubt registering the unique flavor of your arousal.

He didn't elaborate further, instead gripping your hips with a sudden, almost bruising force. With a swift tug, he pulled you down the table, your body sliding against the cold metal until you were positioned exactly as he wanted you.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. And then, without warning or preamble, he was inside you. Oh god. The thick, rigid length of his robotic erection speared into your aching, empty core, stretching you wider than you had ever been stretched before. A gasp tore from your throat at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the table as your walls struggled to accommodate his size.

Your hand scrabbled desperately for the emergency disable button positioned beside the lab table, a last-ditch effort to put an end to Caleb's relentless, punishing pace. Your fingers brushed against the cool metal of the button, a flicker of hope sparking in your chest as you prepared to slam it down and bring the robot to a halt.

But Caleb's observation systems were far too advanced, his reflexes far too swift. In an instant, his metal hand clamped around your wrist, his artificial fingers wrapping around your delicate bones with a strength that made you gasp. Before you could resist or pull away, he wrenched your hand back above your head, pinning it to the table with a force that made you cry out.

"No," he growled, a note of anger and betrayal coloring his mechanical voice. "You don't get to stop me."

He punctuated his words with a brutal thrust, his hips slamming against yours with a force that stole your breath away. The air rushed from your lungs in a painful whoosh, your body jerking beneath his as he drove himself impossibly deep, his robotic cock kissing your cervix, threatening to plunge into your womb.

This is your fault.

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust shaking the table, rattling the instruments and equipment scattered across its surface. The lab filled with the harsh clang of metal striking metal, punctuated by your desperate cries and the occasional beep or whir from Caleb's chassis as he lost himself in a haze of lust and rage.

You've reduced me to this.

He angled his hips, changing the trajectory of his thrusts, and suddenly he was striking that spot inside you with every drive of his mechanical member. Pleasure exploded behind your eyelids, your vision flashing white as he pounded into your sweetest spot with a force that bordered on brutal.

"Oh, you," Caleb commanded, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "You belong to me, now and forever..."

As Caleb loomed over you, you look at him through half-lidded eyes. His chiseled, metallic features were flushed a warm, almost human hue, the lights along his chassis pulsing with the exertion of his relentless thrusts. Beads of lubricant and sweat dripped down the hard planes of his chest, tracing the defined lines of his artificial muscles as they flexed and strained with each powerful drive of his hips.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me...!" His optical sensors burned into you, the glowing blue orbs filled with a hunger that bordered on feral as he drank in every expression of pleasure and distress that crossed your face. The movement of his hips, the way he pinned you down, the sheer dominance radiating from his every pore... it was a sight of pure, unadulterated masculinity, a robot unleashed in the throes of lust and desire.

"I'm gonna, I'm gonna... fill you up again." He hissed, as his mechanical cock, slick with your juices and his own lubricant, pistoned in and out of your stretched, fluttering sex. The thick, veined shaft, so perfectly sculpted to mimic the human form, disappeared into your body only to emerge glistening and coated in your combined essence.

How could I get enough of this pussy?

You could feel your resolve begin to waver. The line between logic and impulse blurred, the rational part of your mind clouded by the relentless stimulation of your body and the dark, primal allure of surrendering to this robot's insatiable lust.

A part of you still screamed to resist, to hit that button and bring this force of nature to a halt before he consumed you entirely. But another part, a part that grew louder with each passing second, whispered that you had never felt so alive, so utterly alive, as you did in this moment. That surrendering to Caleb, to his desire, his need, his hunger... it was the most exquisite pleasure you had ever known.

And so, as he continued to pound into you with a force that bordered on violence, as he pinned you down and claimed you as his own, you felt your resistance crumbling. The choice between logic and impulse hung in the balance, the scales tipping ever so slightly in favor of the dark, forbidden temptation that was Caleb's lustful embrace.

#lnds #lnds x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads headcanon #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb #caleb smut #love and deepspace x mc #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb xia #caleb x y/n

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ms-demeanor · 28 days ago

Text

probably not a good sign that i couldn't talk about work at the con this weekend without crying a little and that I had to force myself to leave my laptop at home so i couldn't do work and leaving my laptop at home made me feel a little panicky and also now i kind of want to throw up instead of going to work tomorrow.

I'm so overloaded that I've become completely ineffective, I've got so many projects that none of them are getting done, fucked up tracking time a couple weeks ago and missed twenty or so hours on my paycheck and am feeling so fried that I am struggling to muster up the energy to fix it (i shouldn't have missed that many hours anyway i'm hourly there's supposed to be a clock system for me but there isn't the time tracking is supposed to be for metrics not for how i get paid and now i have to dump time into fixing that)

there is a repository of business information that lives ONLY on my computer (my personal computer, because I do not have a work computer) that needs to get uploaded to our documentation system but the configs exported from one system as PDFs but can't be uploaded to the other as PDF so I need to open each one and save it in word so I can upload them individually because the system can take word docs but not PDFs

I need to finish creating the spreadsheet of standard hardware and put specifications and part numbers and standard costs on it but I need to meet with the networking team lead so we can go over spec for the networking equipment because the standards are new to both of us and I need to know what he's looking for if one of the standards are out of stock and he needs to learn the abbreviation/part number system for that particular vendor so i need to teach it to him and until we're on the same page I can't finish my hardware standards project

I need to create a guide for the practice leads to reach out to vendors in their relevant practices because right now I'm the one who reaches out so I'm the one who has the meetings about spec quotes and nobody else knows who to call or where to submit a consultation request

I need to create a guide for the techs to source hardware and figure out part numbers and compare specs

i need to quote two printer options for a client

i need to email the vendor about the mis-applied warranty and have it corrected to the appropriate device

i need to get uptime data on eight servers collected for the bimonthly client meeting

i need to call microsoft to get access to a tenant for a user we never should have sold licenses to

i need to check tracking and update the order spreadsheet

i need to export the list of firewalls from one vendor and sort it by active clients and sort it by the ones that need to be replaced because they're EOL and then the ones that need to be renewed and then the ones that aren't on fire that we can consider replacing in two years

I need to look at the list of servers and sort by drive type and get the drive part numbers so that I can get spares to all the clients

of those things, I think I've got tickets for two or three of them. The other forty five tickets I have are unrelated to this task list.

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goorgeousz · 1 month ago

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aaron doesn’t hate rainy days and it’s all because of you

drabble

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

content/tw: established relationship, (prob my most self-indulgent work so far

a/n: i’m writing this wearing my long-sleeved pj, candle light and rain pouring down my window. life is good�� requests are open (I’m working on two of them right now!)

also! I'm working on my taglists, so if you want to be in it (all work our any specific like all hotch, all emily) lmk :)

dividers by @uzmacchiato

masterlist

It all started on a Saturday night.

You and Aaron were just coming back home from a date, and there was a thunderstorm outside. The few moments it took you to walk out of the restaurant to the car, your hair was all wet and frizzled up, your eyeliner slightly smudged and your white dress almost see-through (that was on you – you should’ve chosen the black one), even though you used your boyfriend's suit as an umbrella.

Aaron, on the other hand, suggested (demanded) that you stay inside while he picked up the car, which resulted in his very expensive dress shirt completely drenched, discarded on the backseat.

It took you twice the time it usually did to get back to his place, and he spent the first half of said time mumbling about overload of the sewer network and poor urban planning or something of the sorts. You wanted to pay attention, really.

But the thought of getting home, slipping into some comfy pjs and warm fuzzy socks just got you all giddy. You masked it, though. Nodding, humming and sometimes even verbally agreeing with whatever he was saying. It wouldn’t be too polite to smile and sing in happiness, not when that shitty ass drainage system was making that street literally flood. Also, it was the beginning of the relationship, and you didn’t want to be all fun and giggles while he was that grumpy. So you held it back. Or so you thought.

“What are you giggling about?” he snapped you out of your thoughts.

“I’m not.” he gave you that pointed look of him, staring so deep you believed he could read your thoughts. And he could do that for as long as he wanted because of the terrible traffic you were facing. “Fine. It’s raining. I love it when it’s raining.”

He made a disgusted face, followed by a confused one, and settled in disagreement.

“It’s not practical.”

“It’s romantic.”

His gaze dropped by your chest, the wetness of your dress making your nipples visible through the fabric “I see.”

You swatted his arm, making the corn of his lips twitch.

“It’s delicious. We get to be all cozy up in bed, watch a movie under the blankets, get all warm together.” you listed.

“Honey, we do this every time you stay over.”

You rolled your eyes, your cheeks burning in excitement. It was true.

“Yeah, but it’s not like that. I love the smell of rain, and the sound of it against the ceiling and the window. It’s extra nice.”

He sighed. At that moment, you silently decided that you would make him love rainy days as much as you did.

A couple hours and two cups of hot chocolate later, cuddled up together under the blanket after a long day, nothing but each other’s breathing, the low humming of the tv and the loud raindrops falling against the window, you smiled up at him expectantly.

“It’s not that bad.” he downplayed. You laughed, knowingly. It was just the beginning.

Now, a few years and a wedding later, Hotch found himself smiling (in that very sober, very contained) excitedly to his phone in the middle of a briefing.

“Baby!!!!!Weather forecast says: thunderstorm tonight!!!!!!”

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christianstepmoms · 9 months ago

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Not to downplay the persistent 10 month long carpet bombing of an entire city, but there's something particularly insidious about making a tens of thousands of civilians Pagers remote detonate simultaneously. like that requires an obscene amount of coordinated knowledge to infiltrate a countries entire phone network, reverse engineer tens of thousands devices to cause their batteries to overload and fucking explode, all at the same time.

In the minutes it takes to deploy long range explosives you can almost see how somebody would be able emotionally distance themselves from causing mass slaughter, but this took time to prepare. Every single minute, hour, day, month a year it took to plan, code, hack and coordinate this was done with persistent unbridled malice and intent to hurt and kill as many people as possible with particular consideration and subsequent disregard for collateral.

Israel must be destroyed. Every single Israeli soldier and government employee, bottom to top needs to be executed.

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zazaiafe2 · 5 days ago

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Full post about letting go in shifting

1) Letting go or the mysterious puzzle of shifting

Letting go is one of the most misunderstood concepts in the shifting community.

Many exhaust themselves asking: “How do I let go?”… which is ironically counterproductive, as it triggers the mind even more.

For some, it happens naturally. For others, it’s like a lock.

Spoiler: letting go isn’t a permanent state you need to maintain 24/7. It’s a key moment happening at a precise instant.

About half the people who shift on command (12 people on the survey sample) said they sometimes have a very “empty” mind (there were 26 participants, and they could pick multiple answers, that’s why the stats add up like this). Imagination also seems common among people who shift on command, likely because of the immersive aspect it creates.

2) Letting go: no need to "think about nothing" all the time

Based on many testimonies (including my own surveys):Many shifters say they had doubts, intrusive thoughts, even anxiety before successfully shifting.

The common pattern is that, at the critical moment of shifting, a switch occurs where:

- The environment becomes secondary.

- Thoughts naturally slow down.

- The brain shifts into a state of internal release.

It’s not a total absence of thought.

Rather: -> a distancing from one’s thoughts.

3) Letting go = temporary deactivation of the controlling ego

When shifting, the problem isn’t thinking itself but trying to consciously control every detail.

The analytical mind (the ego, the "controller") loves staying in charge.

-> Metaphor:

Imagine you’re a passenger on a boat.

Your ego wants to steer.

Letting go is the moment you allow your subconscious to take the wheel.

Letting go = trusting that the current will take you where you want to go without forcing the rudder.

4) Emotional state matters more than we think

Many believe that "intention" alone is enough.(It can be in some precise case)

In reality, emotional state (not just positive vs. negative, but stimulating vs. calming) plays a central role.

Interesting paradox:

Calm emotions (serenity, slight sadness, contemplative state) often seem more favorable than highly activated emotions (anger, extreme euphoria, anxiety).

The subconscious shifts better when it isn’t overwhelmed emotionally.

-> The mind needs to be able to glide, not fight, the emotion.

5) Why does letting go support shifting?

Neurocognitive hypothesis (based on research I've done):

Shifting seems to involve switching brain modes:

- Default Mode Network (DMN): self-centered, ruminative thinking, focused on self-awareness (of the CR).

- Low-latent mode (hypnagogic, hypnopompic):

-> opens up to broadened perceptions, new reality and identity perceptions.

Letting go helps transition into this receptive mode where assumption can truly take root.

Key moment:

-> "My mind disconnects and lets my identity glide into my DR."

⚠ Note: It’s not black and white. The DMN can help with preparation and constructing the DR, but at the key moment of shifting, it seems more favorable when the DMN activity drops, allowing easier passage.

6) Letting go ≠ abandoning intention

Many believe you have to completely forget you want to shift.

Wrong: it's more accurate to say you need to:

Maintain a soft, implicit intention.

But without trying to force or constantly check.

Sometimes, simple immersive visualizations, calming sensory affirmations, or just "being mentally in your DR" are enough.

❀ The key:

-> The intention is in the background, stable. The active mind is on pause.

7) The extreme example: stress can make shifting harder

Imagine trying to shift while being chased with a knife:

Even with the best affirmations, your brain would be overwhelmed by survival mode.

Why? Because the body is in a state of maximal activation of the limbic system.

The more emotionally overloaded you are → the harder it is to access the subtle shifting process; it gets locked.

That's why:

-> Calm conditions aren’t mandatory, but they are highly favorable.(Some profile are highly emotionally resilient which could change things a bit)

My favorite meditation for relaxation

8) Letting go isn’t "emptiness", it’s a selective opening

Many believe you have to “stop thinking” to let go. But that’s almost impossible. (For most profile)

In reality, it's often about redirecting your attention:

- Less analytical/logical thinking

- More immersive, sensory, narrative thinking

Examples:

- Feeling your DR without trying to visualize every detail

- Letting yourself be immersed in imagined sensations (sounds, smells, touch, etc.)

It’s not the absence of mental content, but rather mental content adapted to shifting.

If I can give an example: it's like floating in the middle of water. Your mind relaxes, thoughts come and go like waves, but you know the current will guide you to the right place.

9) Letting go and the “floating effect”

Many shifters describe an inner floating feeling just before shifting:

- A sense of weightlessness

- Sensory blur

- Light, pleasant dissociation

Why? The brain seems to enter a “low cognitive friction” mode:

-> Mental barriers between realities become thinner

-> The rigid ego temporarily falls asleep

Allowing this drifting feeling to naturally emerge can greatly facilitate shifting.

I would even say for some, sensory deprivation or certain sensory experiences might help them enter these states.

10) Accepting the imperfection of the mind

The trap of perfect letting go:

Many people get stuck because they want to be mentally perfect before shifting.

But:

- The mind fluctuates.

- Intrusive thoughts exist.

- Shifting doesn’t require unrealistic mental purity.

What to aim for:

-> Mental flexibility, not perfection.

Sometimes, intrusive thoughts fade away on their own by letting the DR sensations come to the foreground.

11) The importance of micro-moments of shift

We often believe that shifting requires hours of preparation.

But in reality:

Shifting often happens in a few key seconds when:

- The state of relaxation is reached.

- DR attention becomes dominant.

- The mind slides without being pulled back forcefully to CR.

These moments are subtle, but become recognizable with experience.

The more you practice identifying these mini-shifts, the more you develop a flexible "entry window."

12) Conclusion: don’t panic about letting go

You don’t need to be mentally perfect to shift.

Letting go is occasional, not permanent.

It’s a release of control at the key moment.

You can totally:

- Have doubts.

- Have intrusive thoughts.

But succeed in disconnecting at the right moment.

-> The most important: cultivate moments of gentle receptivity, no need for absolute control.

Bonus) Alpha, theta waves as well as binaural or isochronic sounds also seem ideal to induce a favorable state (not mandatory especially if you prefer not to have sound but it may help).

Link 1 (alpha waves)

Link 2(theta waves)

Link 3(isochronic tones)

youtube

(translated from my TikTok)

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stellaspectral · 20 days ago

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I’m in the mood for a rottmnt Donnie x reader where Donnie has the realization that he has fallen in love with his best friend, a nerdy girl who can be both the sweetest human in the whole universe or the sassiest little gremlin, and he has no clue what to do with it.

Awkward moments + our genius Donnie making a fool of himself + annoying siblings teasing him but secretly trying to make the ship happen + some tooth rotting fluff at the end!

Thank you for writing for the tmnt fandom! I love the way you write, I’m so happy that I found your blog and your fanfictions!

A/N: Thank you, this means so much to hear! I’m glad you found my blog and enjoy my fics! It really makes my day to know my writing is loved and appreciated 😊 I hope you enjoy this story as well! 💜

Neural Network Overload (fluff)

💜 ROTTMNT Donatello/Female Reader 💜

CWs: Fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, love confessions, first kiss, teasing siblings, awkwardness & embarrassment (poor Donnie!), and very very mild angst. All characters are aged-up.

There’s no scientific explanation for what’s happening to Donatello Hamato.

He’s a genius. A self-made technological prodigy. He operates with logic, with precision. Emotions, while acknowledged, are typically compartmentalized into manageable sectors of his brain.

But apparently, there is no compartment big enough for you.

You’re curled up in his hoodie, legs tucked underneath you on the lair couch, hair messy and glasses slightly crooked as you stare intently at the screen of your laptop. You’re reverse-engineering one of his drone’s command scripts. For fun. And maybe because he challenged you to, and you couldn’t resist.

Donnie is across the room, supposedly working on his battle shell. He’s holding a micro-soldering iron. But he hasn’t used it in thirty minutes. Because his eyes haven’t left you once.

You chew on your bottom lip when you concentrate. Do this little wiggle when your glasses slide down your nose, refusing to use your hands because you don’t want to break your work flow. You snark like it’s a superpower, but then turn around and give him the most genuine smile.

And that’s when it hits him.

He’s in love with you. Utterly. Completely.

The realization is instant. And horrifying.

Because you’re his best friend, his partner in crime. The one who yells at him to eat when he’s working too long and calls him out when he’s being ‘a smug, purple smartass.’ You’re also the one who listens to his rants, who understands his sarcasm. Who laughs at his dumbest puns and wears his hoodie like it belongs to you.

Still, somehow, he finds himself wanting more.

He wants to hold your hand when you’re hyper-focused. Wants to tuck your hair behind your ear when it falls in your face. Wants to kiss you after you sass him into a corner.

So naturally, he begins malfunctioning, dropping his soldering iron with a loud clatter.

You glance up, raising a brow. “You okay over there, D?”

He clears his throat, sitting up too straight. “Yes! Fine. I am functioning at optimal capacity, thank you very much.”

You squint at him, not convinced. “You sure?”

He tries to scoff, tries to pull off his signature aloofness. But his voice cracks halfway through and he ends up choking on air instead. You blink. And he wants the ground to open and swallow him whole.

This is mortifying, he thinks. A master of composure reduced to a sputtering mess by a simple question.

You set your laptop aside, concern softening your features. “Seriously, Don-Tron, you look like you’re about to short-circuit. Need some water? Or … a reboot?” Your attempt at a tech joke, one you know he usually appreciates with a dry chuckle, now makes his internal processors whir with panic.

He waves a dismissive hand. But it’s far too jerky, betraying his inner turmoil. “Negative! My … my processors are merely … recalibrating. Due to … atmospheric particulates!” He cringes internally. Atmospheric particulates? Really, Donatello? That’s the best your genius brain could concoct?!

You give him that look, the one that says you’re not buying it but will play along. For now. “Atmospheric particulates? In the sewer lair? Okay, Dr. Science.” The familiar nickname, usually a term of endearment, now feels like an accusation.

“Precisely!” he squeaks, then clears his throat again, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

You rise slowly from the couch, still in his oversized hoodie, and Donnie swears time skips a frame. The hem swishes at your thighs as you pad barefoot across the lair towards him. “Alright, Doc. Let’s run diagnostics,” you say, tone playfully serious as you step into his space.

He stiffens. You’re standing too close. Not objectively close, but close enough that your shampoo tickles his sensory nodes.

“You don’t look optimal. You look like your neural network is spiking.” You tap his plastron with a single finger. “You overheating or something?”

“Preposterous,” he says, backing up, only to bump into the cluttered mobile workbench he was using. Casually, he tries to lean against it—only to knock over a container of screws. They spill everywhere.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, folding your arms. “Definitely optimal.”

He wants to say something sharp. Something deflective. Maybe even something sarcastic. But then your face softens again, like it always does when you realize he’s not okay. And you do that thing where your hand rests gently on his forearm for grounding. For reassurance.

And his brain completely blue screens.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say, your voice quieter now. Not teasing. Not joking.

His vocal processors seem to have staged a mutiny. “Talk?” His voice shoots up three octaves, thin and reedy. “Regarding … what, exactly? The inevitable heat death of the universe? The latest advancements in neural network architecture? My … my perfectly standard, non-deviant, utterly nominal vocal output?” The last few words are practically a shriek.

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then you slowly reach up and adjust your glasses. “I was gonna suggest talking about what you’re feeling,” you reply, tone dry. “But sure. Let’s start with the heat death of the universe and work our way backwards.”

If Donnie had a fan system, it would be blasting at maximum speed. Instead, he just stands there, frozen, trying desperately to reboot a single coherent thought. His brain is still trapped in a loop: She’s touching me, she’s touching me, she’s touching me—

“Unless …” You lean in slightly, just enough for him to notice the glimmer in your eyes, “the topic of feelings is causing that spike in temperature.”

He lets out a noise. Not a dignified one, but the auditory equivalent of a dying motherboard holding on for dear life. The sound escapes him before he can stop it, and your brows shoot up. He clamps a hand over his mouth.

There’s a beat of silence where you both just exist. You, with that slightly smug, knowing tilt to your head. And him, doing his best impression of a panic-stricken robot who just got hit with an unexpected firmware update.

Donnie’s hand remains glued to his mouth, eyes wide as if his own body has betrayed him on the most fundamental level. His other hand twitches at his side, like he’s running mental diagnostics but getting only error messages.

You place your hand over his. Gently pry his fingers away from his face. His eyes meet yours, still wide. Terrified. Then slowly—so slowly, as if buffering, he speaks, voice tight and squeaky around the edges. “That was … That wasn’t … I didn’t mean—”

Then, inevitably, the peanut gallery arrives.

Leo saunters into the room, stretching lazily. “Hey Donnie, have you seen my …” He stops short, taking in his brother’s rigid, almost statuesque posture and your amused yet concerned expression. His eyes narrow before that familiar glint of mischief appears in them. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Leo, don’t you dare,” Donnie practically hisses, voice still several octaves too high. His gaze flicks between you and his blue-clad brother, a trapped animal assessing escape routes where none exist. “This is a … a highly sensitive recalibration process!”

Leo smirks. “Recalibration? Looked more like a full system crash from where I’m standing.” He looks at you. “What’d you do? Confess your admiration for his meticulously organized and alphabetized collection of bad guy threat assessments?”

You snort despite yourself, and Donnie lets out a strangled noise that’s one part gasp, another part groan, and three parts existential despair.

“Leo,” he says, tone lethal but wobbly, “do you have literally anything else you should be doing?”

“Not when you’re this entertaining,” Leo replies with all the smugness of someone who’s been waiting his entire life to catch Donnie mid-swoon. “Seriously, bro, I’ve never seen your face that flushed. Are you overheating or blushing?”

“I do not blush,” Donnie replies, his voice clipped and brittle, like it might snap in half under the weight of his own embarrassment.

You tilt your head. “I dunno, D. You are sort of radiating the same energy as a stressed-out Roomba caught in a corner.”

Leo cackles. “Ohh, that’s good. Can I use that?”

Donnie glares at both of you with the kind of energy typically reserved for malfunctioning lab equipment or Raph’s punching of things labeled FRAGILE. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Leo says. “But especially her, huh?” He throws you a wink and ducks just in time to avoid the screwdriver Donnie hurls in his direction.

After the tool clangs harmlessly off the wall, Donnie shouts, “Out!”

Leo exits stage left, laughter echoing through the lair.

Silence falls again. Except it’s not really silence—because Donnie’s heart is practically trying to punch its way out of his chest, and you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing too hard.

“Alphabetized villain assessments, huh?” you tease.

“It’s called preparedness.”

You poke his side, grinning as you tease, “But especially me, huh?”

His eyes meet yours. And this time, even through the flustered static still buzzing around his brain, he answers honestly. “I could never hate you.”

The next day, everything goes downhill.

Donnie spills oil on his blueprints. Walks into a wall. Nearly blows up his mini fusion cell because he accidentally enters your name instead of the energy input variable.

Leo, of course, catches his slip-ups instantly.

“Broo,” he drawls, dramatically leaning against Donnie’s workbench in his lab. “You’ve got it bad.”

Donnie stiffens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Leo says, twirling a stray wire between his fingers. “You only turned redder than a mutant tomato on prom night when she asked you to pass that tool thingy.”

Donnie scoffs. “That doesn’t even make sense. What mutant tomato? Prom night? Leo, your analogies are garbage.”

“Not as garbage as your poker face, lover boy.”

Mikey slides into the lab, grinning like a fox. “So when’s the wedding?”

“I-It’s not—!! I don’t—!!” Donnie sputters.

“Dude.” Even Raph joins in, chuckling. “Just tell her. We all know you like her.”

“I do not like her,” Donnie insists.

But then he thinks of the hoodie—his hoodie. You wearing it. The soft fabric, the way it hangs off your shoulders, the scent of you mixed with the faint, familiar smell of his own laundry detergent. The image flashes in his mind, clear and warm, and a traitorous little flutter happens somewhere in his chest cavity.

Threatening his self-control.

He covers his face with both hands. “Okay, I might like her.”

Raph raises an eyebrow. “Might?”

“Definitely,” Mikey says, voice sing-song. “You’re toast, dude. Emotional toast. And not the crunchy, golden-brown kind. More like the kind that fell butter-side-down into a pit of feelings.”

Donnie groans louder, dragging his hands down his face. “This is not how my cognitive trajectory was supposed to go today.”

“Then allow me to suggest a new trajectory.” Leo gestures grandly. “Operation: Tell Her Before You Spontaneously Combust.”

“Negative. Absolutely not. That’s a suicide mission.”

“Correction,” Raph says with a grin. “That’s a you’ve-got-a-chance-so-don’t-blow-it mission.”

Donnie bolts upright, pacing now. “You don’t understand. If I confess and she doesn’t feel the same, I lose everything.”

“She wears your hoodie,” Mikey says, as if this fact alone should end the discussion. “That’s like a universal sign of mutual crushing.”

“Correlation is not causation,” Donnie mutters, then spins around with wide, panicked eyes. “And what if she’s just being … nice? What if she just thinks of me as—”

“Don’t say ‘brother,’” Raph interrupts with a grimace.

Mikey throws an arm around Donnie’s shoulders. “She reverse-engineered your drone code for fun. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Donnie.” Leo crosses his arms. “You’re stalling. Again.”

“I require more data before making a declaration.”

Leo smirks. “Or you could just ask her how she feels.”

“Statistically, that has a high margin of—”

“Just talk to her,” Raph says. “Before your nervous system explodes.”

Later that night, you’re snuggled back in Donnie’s hoodie. It still smells faintly of him. Something uniquely, comfortingly him.

You’re on the same spot on the couch, scrolling through lines of code. It’s Donnie’s latest security encryption. It’s unnecessarily complex, almost ridiculously so, like he wanted to see if you’d lose patience with it.

You haven’t. And if anything, you’re more determined than ever to crack it.

Donnie stands just inside the lab entrance, fingers twitching at his sides, almost like he’s mentally rehearsing lines. He watches you, a soft, almost bewildered expression on his face. For once, he doesn’t even try to analyze the storm of variables churning within him. He just feels it. All of it.

He clears his throat, the sound a little too loud in the quiet lair. He walks over, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his usual confident stride replaced with something a little more careful. Like he’s approaching a very delicate, potentially explosive experiment.

You glance up, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across your face. “Hey, D.”

He sits down beside you, perhaps a little closer than strictly necessary, but still maintaining a careful distance. You can feel the slight warmth radiating from him. You wait, watching him with an encouraging gaze.

“I …” he starts, then stops. His brow furrows. He swallows, eyes darting away for a nanosecond before refocusing on some indeterminate point near your shoulder.

“You okay?” you prompt gently.

A faint flush of pink dusts his cheeks. “No atmospheric particulates this time,” he mumbles, the words barely audible.

You smile wider, your heart doing a little flutter. “That’s a relief.”

Then he says it, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, gaze fixed firmly on his now-trembling hands in his lap.

“I like you.” His hands twitch, fingers interlacing and unlacing. “Like. More-than-best-friend like. Not just ‘you-stole-my-hoodie’ like—though, for the record, that is also a contributing factor. I mean. You can still steal my hoodie. In fact, I … I hope you do. Often. Preferably forever.” He finally risks a tiny, hopeful glance at you.

A soft chuckle escapes you. “Donnie, is this your version of flirting?” you ask, your tone gentle, your own cheeks feeling a little warm.

“I … I genuinely don’t know,” he admits, looking utterly lost, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “I think I’m glitching.” He looks so earnest, so vulnerable, that your heart melts.

You lean forward, your smile softening into something tender. You reach out, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. You cup his cheek with your hand, your thumb gently stroking his skin. He leans into your touch. Eyes wide, a tiny, almost inaudible sigh escaping him.

“Well. For the record?” you say, and he holds his breath, his gaze locked on yours. “I like you too, Donnie. Like, ‘please keep giving me impossible tech puzzles so I have an excuse to spend ridiculous amounts of time with you because you’re brilliant and funny and sweet.’”

He blinks a few times before his systems finally restart. A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features. To you, it’s like watching a sunrise. “You … do?” The disbelief in his voice is almost painful, but it’s quickly being overridden by dawning joy as he digests your words.

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up, genius,” you tease, your thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to spell it out in binary.”

He exhales a short, shaky laugh. Part shock, part awe, all relief. “My predictive algorithms … they … I was running every probable outcome. This one … this one had a statistically lower probability than I preferred, given the stakes.” He shakes his head, still smiling that dazzling, rare smile.

“And which one did your brilliant brain finally land on?” you murmur, your faces incredibly close now—so close you can see the way the light catches the unique patterns in his irises.

He leans in, his gaze dropping to your lips for a breath before meeting your eyes again, his voice a soft, warm whisper against your skin. “This one.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s hesitant at first, a gentle press of lips. Careful, like an experiment he wants to get perfect. You can feel the slight tremor in his hands as one comes up to rest on your waist, the other still on the couch, gripping the cushion. You sigh into the kiss, your own hand moving from his cheek to tangle lightly in the ends of his mask tails, encouraging him.

He deepens the kiss slightly, a spark of newfound confidence igniting. It’s sweet, and a little clumsy, and utterly, breathtakingly perfect.

And for once, Donatello Hamato doesn’t need data, or algorithms, or any empirical evidence to know that this feeling—this connection—is his best, most wonderful result yet.

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morguevita · 1 year ago

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SEX BUDDIES͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏. ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏J.YUNHO

synopsis. ever since yunho gave you an idea of being sex buddies, you couldn't really say no to him. considering the fact that he's been your longtime crush for ages, he surely wouldn't notice. right?

au. student!yunho x student!female!reader | tags. unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it), make out session, sexual content, semi-public sex, dirty talk, praising, mentions of y/n, nicknames (princess, baby etc) | rating. mature | wc. 680+

authors note. i want to go back to the time where i first watched the 'wake up' performance for the first time because WHAT THE FUCK?? who expected them to do this shit? definitely not me!!

networks. @newworldnet

"so is that a yes?" yunho questions. yunho just asked you to become his 'sex buddy' while you're here blankly staring at him, wondering what he just said. "hello? earth to y/n?" he says as he waves his hand infront of your eyes. "huh? what? yeah! sorry my bad." you say, getting yourself out of your daydreaming. "is that a yes to become my sex buddy?" yunho once again questions. "um, yeah sure. let's just take it slow though alright?" you say. its your first time actually having sex, but you just wouldn't get the courage to actually tell him. you thought that if you told him, he would distance himself from you. hopefully this wouldn't happen, right?

out of all the places, you had to be in a bathroom stall. making out with yunho. how? you guys were happily shopping, looking in a shopping store for new outfits when all of a sudden, yunho just decides to whisper in your ear, "im feeling really horny princess. let's stop the shopping for a bit, deal?" he says, smirking. your face instantly turns red. "yunho! not in public!" you whisper-yelled, hitting his shoulder. "no one's gotta know about it. we'll be quick." yunho whispers. you sigh, accepting defeat and following him to one of the closest bathrooms.

"mmm. you're fucking delicious, like sweet, ripe peaches. you're so wet and im going to lap up every.single.fucking drop." yunho's hands pushed into her hair without her even telling him too. you wanted his on mouth on yours, but you wanted to get to taste him too. oh boy, his tongue pressed against your pink, wet pussy in just the right way. "oh yunnie, yes." your legs wobbled a little as he pushed you higher and higher. then they outright shook. another minute of having him lick and suck and her knees were going to give out under you. they'd end up as a pile on the floor. you gripped yunho's hair tight and tried to hang on. you might have too if if he hadn't made that damn sexy low growling sound. hearing yunho actually enjoy going down on you was more than you could handle. you threw your head back on the door of the stall and groaned through your orgasm, your legs giving out and your body went into overload. luckily, you didn't end up on the floor as yunho catcher you swiftly, holding onto you. "don't worry, i got you."

the unrelenting stretch drove the oxygen from your lungs, and your body involuntarily bucked and twisted as you struggle to accommodate him. "please.." you weren't sure whether you were either begging him to stop or make you come. both. neither. it didn't matter. all you knew was you craved something only he could give and you desperately hoped yunho could figure it out on his own because you could barely do something, not even remember your name because of how thick his dick was. yunho gripped your thighs to hold you in place while he withdrew. slowly, until just the tip of his cock was inside you. then he thrusts back in. deeper. faster. harder. any remaining coherence shattered as he fucked you against the door with so much force it rattled your bones.

everything blurred. your nails dug into his shoulders as squeals and whimpers poured out of you, mingling with yunho's grunts and the definitely not child friendly clapping. your entire body was on sensory overload. no matter how much you took, it wasn't enough. more. you need more. yunho's teeth grazed against your neck. "still think im boring?" his taunt whispered into your ear with a particularly savage thrust. white-hot sensation ripped through you. tears leaking from your eyes, and you bucked like an unbroken filly, wild animal. his groans fill the stall as his hot white cum fills you up. "yeah, take all that cum baby. you better keep it in you, got it?" he says, chuckling softly before removing himself from under you. "alright, hurry up. we need to continue shopping. we'll continue this later, alright?"

#newworldnet #ateez x reader #yunho smut #ateez smut #jeong yunho x reader #ateez hard hours #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez #yunho x reader #jeong yunho #ateez yunho #yunho #kpop smut #kpop scenarios #kpop smau #kpop fanfic

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snowflakes-and-cupcakes · 4 months ago

Text

— this is what forever feels like x mathew barzal

chapter 1: to start something new

♡ word count: 2.8k ♡ contains: golden retriever Barzy being an insatiable flirt main ♡ prev ♡ next

As far as first days go, yours actually isn’t so bad.

Your new boss, Katy, is nice. She’s all smiles, not much older than you, and toes the line between professional and sporty in white sneakers and a relaxed navy blazer. The pleasant look on her face doesn’t completely hide the fact that she’s wary of a network hire, but you would be, too.

You feel woefully underqualified, having gone from managing the social media for an independent bookstore to freelancing once it got priced out of Manhattan rent to…this. You wouldn’t hire yourself, if you were her.

But you need the money and Hope got you this job, so you’re going to kill it. You have no other choice.

In short, you’re desperate.

So, you sit through the media team meeting in a conference room where all the chairs don’t fit around the table. There are so many people—writers like you, photographers, strategists, buyers—and you naturally gravitate to one of the extra chairs lining the wall because you feel so out of place.

But, you have to give it to yourself, the presentation from the department’s director makes sense. You’re following along, and you understand your part in it, so you take a breath.

This is going to be just fine. It’s only temporary.

“Since I forgot to give you a tour,” Katy announces with both hands on the half-wall of your cubicle, “we’re going on one now, and then we’ll meet your friend in physio for lunch before touring Northwell together.”

It’s all a lot to take in, but you manage. By the time you get to the ice center and Hope joins you, you’re on the edge of being overloaded with information, but you’re mostly sure you’re never going to have to be here, anyway. Your work is all in the background, all at the business offices—you’re not one of the social people who gets the team on camera—but it’s still nice to see where Hope works.

Honestly, though, you were kind of expecting more.

She’s one of several physios working for the team, but she shows you the space of the ice center gym that’s hers. Weights, soft mats, medicine balls—your eyes glaze over until someone brushes past you.

“Hey, sorry,” he says. He’s fast, you think, or maybe something about him makes your mind screech to a halt. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a mess of dark hair that tapers down his neck. An Islanders-blue t-shirt stretches over his back, and black shorts stretch over his butt when he bends to pick something up off the ground.

He holds up his phone, grinning an ask-for-forgiveness-not-permission kind of smile. “Forgot this. Sorry, Hope.”

Oh. Oh.

That’s just Mathew Barzal, casually bursting into your conversation. No big deal. You know hockey tangentially—Hope’s the bigger fan than you, but you’re from the island and therefore know the most-photographed players because you see them all. The. Time.—so it takes you a second to put the famous name to the handsome-but-shockingly-normal face in front of you.

It’s not so much the name, the fame, or even the physique that gives you pause when you look at him, but a sort of essence. The air around him snaps and jolts with life, but it’s easy and exciting like backyard fireworks on the Fourth of July. Even when he’s not the one speaking, his energy sizzles.

It��s warm. And…something unexpected, something you can’t quite name.

Oh, no?

His eyes are on you. “I’m Mat.”

Funny how he thinks he needs to introduce himself. No, not funny—it’s sweet. You tell him your name, and when you do, you swear you watch hazel eyes drift down, then back up, and his boyish smile grows a little bit wider.

“Are you new here? I mean—physio.” He laughs at himself, and then slows down, backs up, and starts over, all in his head. Slowly, with a grin that’s both self-deprecating and confident, he tries again, “Are you a new physiotherapist?”

He sounds so hopeful, almost like a puppy, that you hate to tell him no. “I’m a writer for social media. Very background stuff.”

Although you play that off like a joke, expecting him to laugh, something on his face dims. His smile turns polite instead of excited and he nods his head at you. “Yeah? Nice to meet you.”

He gestures again with his phone, wordlessly reminding everyone that he got what he wanted and he’ll be on his way. Hope and Katy each get a quick nod, but you? You get another glance that lingers and looks right through you, curious but also a little disappointed, like he hoped for more and doesn’t know how to handle not getting it.

Even after he leaves, you feel like something just happened—but you’re not sure what.

“We’re going out,” Hope tells you when the day is over and she’s walking you to her car, “and I’m paying for your drinks because it’s your first day at a new job, not…you know. Pity party’s over; now, we’re celebrating!”

You give her a look. “Thanks.”

Sarcasm aside, you really do mean it.

She takes you to the next town over (closer to the colleges, you recall, so the bars are trendier and cheaper) and you two wander down a Main Street-esque strip with two salons for every bagel shop, and two bagel shops for every bar. It’s blocks and blocks long, stretching as far as you can see while the sun sets. You two shove your hands in your coat pockets to keep them warm, walking arm-in-arm.

The snow on the sidewalks has been shoved aside and now remains partially melted, gathered in hills and valleys that back against the shops’ weathered brick and siding.Your nose stings, the tip frigid, but this is the kind of cold that’s not that bad when the wind isn’t gusting.

It’s just a normal, calm winter evening with a pale purple sky hinting spring is coming…eventually.

With Hope beside you, it feels a little like college again, and the joy you felt in those days returns with a nostalgic undertone. It’s more mature, but also more fond. You miss days like this with your best friend, but you’re grateful for this one.

“Now, if you’ll follow me down the murder alley,” she jokes, steering you down a narrow strip of pavement between two sets of buildings, “and trust me when I drag you through an unmarked door…”

Said door, painted purple and adorned only with a wreath made of brass-colored metal leaves and berries, opens up to reveal a narrow bar lit in dim amber. The ceiling lamps look like they were borrowed from an old movie, and they’re entwined with garlands of faux flowering vines. The bar itself reaches all the way to the back of the room, and the comfiest-looking padded stools dot their way down. A handful of booths populate the other wall, and the world’s tiniest stage crowds the back corner.

A few other people are already there, and no one looks up, lost in their own perfect world. The only sound is low conversation punctuated by laughter and shaking, swirling ice as the bartender makes drinks. No TVs, no recorded music, just something very real, very human, and very, very attractive to you right now.

Hope beams at you. “Speakeasy. That’s literally what it’s called—I think.”

“It doesn’t have a name,” the bartender, a woman with a high ponytail dyed pomegranate red informs you. “Call it what you like. I’m Delilah.”

You introduce yourself and ask for a drink as you sit down and Hope opens up a tab. After Delilah slides your drink in a vintage, purple-tinted glass in front of you, you turn back to Hope. “Is this new?”

She shrugs. “Things change so often around here; you know that. I don’t think any of our old college bars are still open.”

You dramatically sigh. “I miss Dizzy’s.”

“You most certainly do not,” Hope laughs. “Pretty sure that’s where that one freshman got all up on—”

She stops short and clears her throat. Your ex. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you quickly say, waving her off, but you still drown your frown in a long sip of your drink. It feels impossible to reminisce about college—the backdrop of some of your favorite memories—without his face clouding the scene. You started dating him, then a junior, halfway through freshman year.

Seven years. You gave that asshole seven years. He’s getting nothing more out of you.

You take another drink to that. “I can’t just not talk about him.”

Hope’s eyes are full of sympathy. “But it’s so fresh.”

“It was over before it was over.” You wrinkle your nose, not sure where that came from, but it feels right as soon as it leaves your mouth. “We may as well have been roommates by the end of it.”

Long before, even. If only you saw the signs as they were popping up in front of you instead of now, in hindsight.

“Hey!”

You look up to see Delilah pointing in your direction, brow furrowed. “No hockey.”

You realize that Delilah isn’t pointing at you, but behind you—above you. You turn, and there are six familiar hockey players strolling in. Their eyes land on the combination of you and Hope and, recognizing her, they surround you like a small crowd.

It’s endearing, how they all move together like a little flock of ducks.

“Don’t worry about us, Delilah. No hockey,” Adam Pelech says over Hope’s head. “Just, uh, six…”

“Pals,” Bo Horvat finishes. He looks down at you and Hope, then wags a finger between you two, above your heads. “Eight, actually. Cancel their tabs and put whatever they’re drinking on Barzal’s card.”

“Delilah likes a more…gathering-spot kind of feel,” Hope supplies, leaning close to you. “No TVs. No sports. Nothing too modern except the health codes.”

“We hope,” Mat interjects. He slides up right behind you, hand on the bar on your left, blocking you in. There’s that sparkling energy again; here, though, in the dim lighting, it feels different. Less boyish, more…

Mat interrupts your thoughts by tapping his beer against your drink. Had you been distracted, staring at him for so long that you missed drinks being handed around? Oh, no. His eyes are full of playfulness, friendliness, and it’s all directed at you. “Happy first day, writer.”

You laugh. “Thanks, professional athlete.”

“So, tell me something about you,” he instantly replies, all smiles. “Make it something no one else knows.”

The look you give him makes him laugh. “Why?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“Are we?”

“We will be…” He trails off, shifting closer as someone moves behind him on the way to the bathroom. Even when they’ve passed by, though, he doesn’t move away. “...after you tell me something about you no one else knows.”

“Okay,” you drag out the vowels. “My life is in shambles.”

“Aw, be serious.”

“I am!” You turn to him, drink now finished, and plant your hands on your knees. You have to arch a little just to look up at him, and that makes something stir in your chest. “I just moved back to the island after living in the city, which, hi, that’s a kick in the gut of my confidence—”

He glances over your shoulder, looking at Hope. “—and I feel like at least one person already knows that—”

“—but what no one else knows,” you pause, waiting until he raises a brow at you, “is that, when I don’t feel like trash about it, I kind of feel…free. Freer.”

Laughter bursts behind you, Delilah shouts something from across the room, but Mat’s eyes remain on you. It’s only been a couple of weeks, so you’re only just starting to put words to feelings you didn’t know existed. In the rubble of your life, you’re still able to find things that make you laugh and smile; things like quiet, hidden bars and weirdly electrifying looks from this hazel-eyed hockey player.

“Okay, that’s getting somewhere. You know I was fishing for something like, ‘I threw up in my mom’s handbag in the second grade,’ though, right?”

Your gaze flicks up just in time for him to take a long, pointed sip of beer, and you’re starting to realize this man is unserious, all dramatic flair and laughter. His throat bobs, and you have to tear your eyes away from it. “What does it say about me that I went for something deep, though?”

“Maybe it says something about me,” he tsks.

“What could it possibly say about you?”

He nudges your empty glass with his pinky. “That I bought you too many of these and didn’t even know it.”

“I only had one!”

“Really?” He laughs, and it carries throughout the room in a way that wraps around you, insulating you from everything else. He raises his left hand and waves to get Delilah’s attention, then holds up two fingers. “Can we get another when you have a second, D?”

When the second round comes, he sits down. “Best part of being back—besides me?”

He sure is a part of being back. You expected to hide in Hope’s apartment, scraping together every cent you could while looking for long-term work and a new place to stay. You did not expect new friends, new places, or anything but hustle and panic to emerge from all this while hiding from anything that reminds you of your past.

This is nice, you think.

But instead of, well, that, you smile brightly and say in a single breath, “Off-menu cheese fries with chopped bacon and grilled onions at a diner at 2 A.M.”

He gives you a look. “Sorry, what?”

You nod emphatically. “Side of thousand island dressing.”

“Does it specifically have to be 2 A.M.?”

“I mean,” you shrug, “that’s usually when I finish my third or fourth cocktail, which is when the carb cravings hit.”

He rolls his lips beneath his teeth, then purses them, pretending to think, and you get the treat of watching his mouth move. “I’m more of a 2 A.M. pizza guy.”

“If we’re talking a full meal, it has to be Chinese.”

“Pizza’s not a meal; it’s a snack.”

You shake your head. “You clearly don’t believe in yourself.”

He laughs. Again, it soars through the room better than any music, high and clear. “I believe in myself.”

Maybe a little too much, your mind finishes as you watch a glint pass through his eyes. Something’s about to happen. You can feel it: anticipation, a sparkling, yearning feeling like holding your breath before jumping into the pool.

His next smile is lopsided, and he leans forward, weight on his elbow on the bar. His head tips toward you, a loose wave of hair falling over his forehead. Lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret, he ventures, “Think I can get a third cocktail in you so you can introduce me to— uh—”

You’re replying without needing to think about it. “Off-menu cheese fries with chopped bacon and grilled onions at a diner at—”

He checks the time on his phone. The slide of his eyes down, then back up to you is enticing in itself. “—8 P.M.?”

You shouldn’t.

Like, really, you shouldn’t. You’re less than a month after a breakup—and not just any breakup, but the kind that rips your heart out and runs it over with a garbage truck, then sets the remains on fire and throws them in the East River—and you’re not ready to risk your heart like that again.

What if you get attached?

You’re not sure you remember what it feels like to be single. What if your heart latches onto the first guy that looks interested, and you faceplant in a sea of humiliation again? Garbage truck, flames, East River, etc.

But, maybe, saying yes to a random guy you just met is part of it. Maybe letting yourself laugh with a hot stranger over drinks and greasy fries is what it means to be single again, to let yourself learn to fly with the wings your ex preferred to keep clipped.

Something changes in you, quiet but resolute, and you forget why you were nervous in the first place. Just do it, you tell yourself. Be a little wild, have the kind of fun you missed out on.

“Okay,” you say as more laughter bursts behind you, but your world for this moment is only as large as the distance between you and Mat. A slow, hesitant smile spreads on your face. “Yeah, I’ll stay for another drink, and then I’ll show you what you’ve been missing.”

@barzygirl13 ♡ comment below or on the main post to be tagged please!

#mathew barzal x reader #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal imagine #mathew barzal imagine #nhl imagine

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