#programmable fabrics

[pactpunk]

MAINTENANCE: 2/?

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[krawdad]

Yeah you know what I'm the right kind of weirdo to seriously consider sitting down and trying to figure out how to achieve a convincing mechanical puppet sculpture automaton thing, but with weights and springs or whatever.

[cepdigivarsity]

[prettyngeto]

PROLOGUE || signed, sealed, delivered (i'm yours) - 18+

sukuna x f!reader - series

summary: one night (and one wine bottle in), you decide to sign up for an anonymous pen pal programme at uni. sukuna was given two options - a therapist or a pen pal. you can guess which one he chose. only problem? you hated each other's guts in real life.

content: uni au, anonymous pen pals, academic rivals to lovers, slow burn, bad boy sukuna x fed up reader, forensic sciences student! sukuna, mutual pining masked as academic warfare, sukuna lashes out at everyone except her because yes... he's still a little shit though, reader has a cute obsession with sea animals - specifically sharks, eventual smut 🌚

main masterlist || jjk masterlist

series masterlist ⌯⌲ prologue ⌯⌲ chapter one (tba)

Dr Yumi Takahashi’s office smelt like oranges and vanilla - sweet and serene. Ryomen Sukuna hated it with every fibre of his being.

He sat slouched in the annoyingly comfortable seat across her desk, arms folded tight across his broad chest. His gaze scanned the room in quiet disdain before honing in on her baby blue blazer. Then lower - to the enamel pin on her lapel that read: ‘catch vibes, not viruses’. God help him. He fought the urge to scoff, lips curling, tongue flicking over his lip ring - a nervous habit disguised as irritation. The fabric of his black compression shirt stretched over solid muscle and tattooed skin as he shifted, itching to bolt out the door at any given moment.

“So, Ryomen,” Dr Takahashi began, voice eerily soft, placing her mug of lavender tea down to put on her signature pair of lime-green rimmed glasses. “Let’s talk about what happened in Professor Kimura’s class.” 

“I didn’t do shit,” he snapped.

“Language.” She chimed, eyes peeking up at him over the frame of her glasses disapprovingly whilst pointing to the poster behind her that read ‘No vulgar vocabulary!!’, complete with a smiley face in the corner. She opened a purple polka dotted file, RYOMEN SUKUNA, printed out in bold across the front.  

“Let’s get back to the issue at hand. You slammed a textbook so hard you cracked the desk Ryomen.” She paused, hands folded as she leaned forward. “You wanna tell me why?”

He scoffed, irritation growing once more. “He said I was wrong just because I didn’t cite his paper. Sue me for not wanting to kiss his academic ass. Besides, it’s not my fault he wrote a whole load of bullshit. I cited three other papers - all peer-reviewed by the way - was that not good enough for him?” 

Dr Takahashi blinked slowly. Calmly. Deadly. “You have anger issues, love.” 

“Tch, no shit.” He mutters, rolling his eyes. 

She remained silent, ignoring his quiet jab. She simply opened her drawer to pull out a floral folder, sliding it across the desk with the air of someone offering a dessert menu. “Two options.” She hummed, pushing her glasses up her nose, holding up her index finger. “Option one: therapy. Weekly anger management sessions. No exceptions.” 

Sukuna paled, mouth parting slightly in horror. Sit in a room with some shrink and talk about his feelings for the better part of the day? Fuck no. 

“…What’s the other option?” He muttered, tongue flicking out to tap at his lip ring again. 

She smiled. Sweet. Slightly sadistic. There wasn’t much that could scare Sukuna. But Dr Takahashi’s smile? Yeah, that shit made the list. 

She slid across a bright yellow pamphlet, a cartoon envelope taking up most of the page. “Option two: you join the university’s anonymous pen pal programme.” Her smile widened. “Organised by yours truly”

He balked. His eyes flicked up at her. Then at the leaflet. Then, back at her, squinting like she’d just asked him to scale Everest with a fucking toothpick. Hell, at this rate, he’d rather do that.

“You want me to write? Letters? To some fuckass stranger? Like it's 1725?”

“Writing is a powerful emotional outlet, Ryomen.” She explained, with the patience of a monk. “And it’s anonymous, no names, no faces. Just pure communication. I think it could do you some good.” 

“I refuse.” 

Her smile sharpened - no more softness, just pure sadism.

Sukuna shivered.

“Shall I book your first therapy session then?” she hummed, voice sickly sweet.

His eyes flitted back to the therapy form. He imagined someone staring at him, asking him: ‘And how did that make you feel?’ with faux sympathy. It made him want to punch a wall. Or maybe someone. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, seething silently, crimson eyes fixed on the stupid pamphlet.

“....Fine,” he muttered. “Give me the damn pen.”

A FEW HOURS LATER - 2AM, THE GIRLS' DORMS

You sat cross-legged against the headboard of your bed, laptop perched on your thighs as you took another swig of your wine bottle. Yes, bottle - because somewhere around your fourth sip, you decided glasses were beneath you. 

10 Things I Hate About You was playing for what was probably the millionth time in the background, when your laptop pinged. A new email? Who in their right mind was sending campus-wide emails at two in the fucking morning? 

I regret to inform you that curiosity (and alcohol) won this time - you open it.

“Not therapy. Not journaling. But a little bit of both.” ‘Dr. Y. Takahashi’s new wellbeing initiative—connect through anonymous letters!’ 

Well fuck… that was poetic, (according to your wine-hazy brain.)

Naturally, you did what anyone halfway through a bottle of Chardonnay and going through a quarter life crisis would do right now. You signed up.

ᯓ★ notes from star: IM SO EXCITED FOR THIS SERIES GUYS i'm cooking so hard, trust. as always, comments and reblogs appreciated and let me know if you wanna be in the taglist!! mwah <3

PRETTYNGETO© 2025 - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. DO NOT PLAGIARISE, TRANSLATE OR REPOST MY WORKS ON ANY OTHER SOCIAL PLATFORMS

[k-hotchoisan]

play rough

<san x fem!reader x seonghwa>

Where your pretty little cat hybrids keep more than your hands busy, especially when Seonghwa can’t keep his paws off you during his rut.

no fur coats, but a hell lot of purring 🐾

a/n: an exchange im doing with the loml @bro-atz 🩷 hope you’ll love it as much as I did hehehe. this is also a love letter to bro, who shares the same brain as i do, who now cannot remove me from their life even they wanted to 😛🩷

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, two horny kitty hybrids, Seonghwa is in heat, orgasms, overstimulation, unprotected sex, mild exhibitionism because San catches you and hwa fucking, cunnilingus, kitchen sex, anal, it's filthy (atp i think you're not surprised???), breeding

word count: 3K

taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie  @pre1ttyies @hwallazia @songmingisthighs @yeosangiess @mylovelymito @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @itza-meee @ywtf @jeon-ify @itza-meee @miss-fallon @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @owlbeforesunrise @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @haleyjoy @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @vampiregirl215 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @liyahbug05-blog @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn @vic0921 @woojirang  @yeo-arriba @jjoongstar

Seonghwa draws circles on your thigh, blinking slowly at the tv programme that he’s evidently not focusing on. It’s a lazy afternoon and it’s your day off. Both felines are more than happy to have you around, burying you with themselves at either side of your body. 

Both kitties can switch back and forth between their cat transformations, and they do, out of convenience for certain situations, and especially when they want you to carry them to bed. San lies down on your lap, his feline breed of a bigger size because of his human stature, evidently taking up more space on your lap. He’s definitely fallen asleep, judging by his slow breathing patterns. Seonghwa, on the other hand, seemed distracted. He’s huddled up against your shoulder, hand still on your thighs. 

You don’t pay him much attention, wanting to concentrate on carrying San. 

Seonghwa jumps when you shift to leave, a displeased expression on his face as his fingers grab your shirt, his ears downcast. “Where are you going?” He asks with a pout. 

“Let me carry San back into the bedroom since he wants to sleep”, you say, carefully picking the fluffier cat up. San stirs slightly, but when he realises it’s you, his body relaxes a little. Seonghwa reluctantly lets go when your hand slips under his chin giving him small strokes, feeling him purr before he finally lets you go. 

“Gosh, Sannie. I know you’ve been working out but holy shit-“ you stammer in your movements, trying to balance his weight on your arms. San is half-awake, flailing slightly in an attempt to keep his balance in your arms. It’s utterly adorable but you would never hear the end of his whining if you were to drop him again. You decide to stay still and let the feline adjust comfortably before you walked over to your shared bedroom to drop him off. San nuzzles against your neck, soft purrs reaching your ears as his cat body presses against you, and you can’t help but run your fingers through his soft fur. San in his cat form was a lot easier to carry than when he transforms into a hybrid, that’s for sure, but he really is a big cat compared to Seonghwa. 

You watch as San lulls himself to sleep, his tail-swishing gradually slowing down as his body relaxes, before you press a soft kiss onto his small forehead, leaving him to wander in his daydreams. 

Once San has completely dozed off, you gingerly slide off the bed, heading to the common space in the apartment, deciding to whip yourself something light to snack on.

You pass the sofa, your peripherals catching the taller male lying on the sofa. You steal a quick glance—Seonghwa also seemed to be deep in his slumber—his tail relaxed against the fabric of the couch, his arms outstretched, hugging the pillow, his hair splayed messily. Oh gosh, he’s so fucking adorable.

You let yourself internally fawn over how soft he looks before you turned your heel to the kitchen. What you don’t notice is the way Seonghwa’s eyebrows are furrowed, the way his legs are squeezing hard against the pillow, and the way the smell of you is flooding his senses when you bypass him. His breathing grows slightly heavier. 

You softly hum to yourself, even though you are at a considerable distance from the couch, you still wanted to be cautious about waking Seonghwa up. Recently it seems like he’s slightly on edge. For the most part, Seonghwa’s energy jumps between a spectrum—calm or just bursting at the seams with endless amounts of energy, almost comparable to San. But Seonghwa has been more restless as of late, his attention span everywhere, his sensitivity seemingly climbing up in levels. 

You pull open the fridge door, your eyes scanning the contents for any signs of leftovers you could have a quick munch on. Your hands reach out to a bunched-up pile of aluminum foil—the leftover kimbap you made the day before. You shut the door quickly once you have the snack in your hands, spending no time unwrapping the foil. 

Your attention is now on the content on your phone, reading off social media while you comfortably munch on the rice rolls, your body facing the counter, too engrossed to get a chair to sit. 

Midway through your snack time, your body jolts when you feel a pair of very warm hands wrap around your waist, his body weight pressing against yours. 

“You’re up, Hwa. Are you hungry?” You ask, stroking his arms, not realising that he’s letting them slip dangerously close to your chest. 

Seonghwa shakes his head, then presses his cheeks against your temple, nuzzling you. 

His arms tighten around you, his hands slipping under your shirt more boldly, his slender fingers cupping your tits, giving them a squeeze that elicited a soft groan from you.

The kimbap is left forgotten on the counter.

You sigh, the feeling of Seonghwa’s teeth nibbling against the soft skin on your neck while he kneads your tits seeping into your senses. 

You swallow hard, trying to keep your sanity rooted, even though Seonghwa’s hands are slipping downwards south, his fingers tugging and fidgeting with the elastic of your shorts. 

“What’s up, kitty?”, you manage to ask in between deep breaths. His thumbs hook onto the waistband, teasingly tugging your shorts lower. 

Then you feel something thick pressing against the curve of your spine when he leans in impossibly close. 

Heat is flushing into your cheeks but you remain composed, turning your head to face Seonghwa. 

“Can’t seem to sleep with the smell of you just suffocating me like that”, he mutters, tone low that you shiver, and he has one hand palming over his thick erection underneath his shorts. “And especially your cunt.”

You don’t answer him right away, your mind sifting through the possibilities behind Seonghwa’s recent behaviour. His tail curls around your thighs, riding the fabric of your shorts, the fluffy tip caressing your skin. 

“Your heat came early”, you realise when the pieces finally click together. However, a little too late by then, considering that Seonghwa has you trapped under him, his erection pressing painfully against your lower back while his hands are leaving no areas of your skin untouched. It’s creating a haze in your mind, and before you could even formulate a response to offer the older hybrid to buy meds, his fingers are close to your scalp, and he tugs your hair with enough force that you’re forced to face upwards, staring right into Seonghwa’s glazed out eyes. He stares down at you, eyes dripping with overflowing lust before he collides his lips against yours, stealing every bit of oxygen left, his tongue exploring every part of your mouth, all of your moans going right to his cock. 

When he pulls back, he leans you over the kitchen counter, pressing his weight against yours, his lips right at the shell of your ear.

“Fucking hell. I can smell how much your pussy just wants to be fucked.”

“Wait! Hwa-“

“You’re such a bad owner”, he continues, in between groans that only make you squeeze your thighs when he grinds himself against you. “You’re doing it on purpose, right? Walking around with no fucking panties on. Just begging me to fuck you.” 

“It’s not that, Seonghwa-“, you squirm a little, your mind dangerously going blank when you feel Seonghwa pushing the opening of your shorts to reveal your soaking cunt, just taunting. 

“We might wake San up!”

His pants are the next to slide off, his cockhead just rubbing against the folds of your pussy. 

“Then let him. You know he likes watching your pretty little hole get stretched open no matter who’s fucking you right?”

He lines his wet cockhead to your hole. 

Then he pushes himself in, and the groan he releases when he does sounds like honey in your ears as he stretches you open to accommodate his thick cock. Your hand flies to his arms which are wrapped around your waist. 

“H-Hwa! Oh fuck-“ you gasp, feeling his cock slowly fill your pussy, girth thickening towards the base. 

“I’ve been such a good kitty right?” Seonghwa mutters into your ear, listening to the way you’re falling apart on his cock. “I held back so well. You should reward me, Angel. Then again, this pretty pussy of yours is enough. I’ll take good care of it for you.”

He pulls back and starts thrusting his hips against yours, the sounds growing wetter and louder. Seonghwa moans right in your ear, and his grip around you tightens further when he feels you clench around him. 

Cream and precum start to gather and further soak your cunt, some trickling down your inner thighs. 

“So fucking good. You’re so fucking tight for me, Angel”, Seonghwa purrs, his eyes rolling back in pleasure every time your cunt just sucks his cock in, wet and thick with cream. 

Seonghwa straightens his back, making it easier for him to just fuck you from the back all the same. 

The knot in your stomach tightens, and your breath hitches every time Seonghwa’s cock hits your sensitive spots. 

He presses his body weight against yours once more, his ruts growing more intense, and he has his hands around your neck. 

“You’re gonna cum for me, Angel? Fuck. Gonna make sure breed you so fucking good.”

And that was enough to set the both of you off—stars splattering across your eyelids, your legs shaking uncontrollably while Seonghwa forces his cock still in you, thick white filling your pussy up, leaking past your hole. 

You attempt to muffle your moans with your hands. Still, it’s rendered useless anyway, most because you watch San walk out of the bedroom in his hybrid form, ears pointed downwards, rubbing sleep from his eyes, expression unreadable when his eyes land on his friend with his cock stuffed in his owner’s pussy, and especially his owner looking up at him, her eyes in tears while cum drips down her thighs. 

His eyebrows are furrowed and he pouts. 

You stare at the hybrid before you, his ears perked up, his eyes glazed out and so needy.

San starts kissing up your neck from behind, his tail flicking back and forth, tickling your skin as he does. 

When you and Seonghwa had been caught by San, San pouted, upset that no one woke him up to let him join the fun. 

And now you were dragged into the bedroom, with Seonghwa sitting before you and San behind you. Seonghwa has his cat ears pointed forwards, his cock still thick and hard, messy with cream, and his fingers trail up your neck to your chin before he closes the distance between the both of you. 

The thing about San is that he knows how to play around with Seonghwa when it comes to fucking you, and during Seonghwa’s rut, it’s no different. 

When Seonghwa pulls away from you, lips wet with spit, precum seeping from his cockhead, mind greedy and desperate, San cups your tits, letting Seonghwa watch him pinch your nipples, letting your cunt spit more slick, staining your inner thighs even more while you squeal in pleasure. 

Seonghwa joins San, pressing and sucking his kisses against your skin, relishing in the way you groan every time he forms a pretty mark on your neck to your chest, then from your sternum to your pelvis, and he continues to lower himself right until his lips are on your pussy. He looks up at you through his lashes, watching the way your glazed-out expression when San makes you suck on his fingers. Seonghwa’s lips press against your creamy folds, letting his tongue slide into them, licking and fucking your pretty little hole, his cock leaking so much thick precum when he listens to your cries growing louder. San’s wet finger that he made you suck circles your asshole. He pushes one finger in, reminding you to relax or he can’t fit his cock in and Seonghwa continues to flick his tongue against your clit, tasting everything your pussy has to give. The hybrid behind you stretches your ass with another wet finger, and it’s making you tear up, but you feel his other hand slide across your thighs to soothe you. 

Your mind is hazy, and it’s not about to get any better when you feel your orgasm build as Seonghwa’s fucking your cunt with his tongue. 

San lines his cockhead to your asshole when he thinks you’re stretched open enough, and pushes in, kissing up your chin, reminding you to relax for him when he hears you sob. 

“You shouldn’t be mad at our sweetheart, hyung”, San defends you, watching the way your thighs are shaking from the impending orgasm. “She’s always been taking such good care of us, letting us fuck her whenever we want.” 

Another lick and your hands push Seonghwa against your cunt, cumming so fucking good on his tongue with a broken cry, your hole clenching San’s cock, his voice cursing in your ears. 

“Hwa! Fuck!”, you cry out, hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer to your cunt while he fucks you with his tongue through your orgasm, his purrs getting muffled, vibrating against your clit, making you shake even more. 

When Seonghwa pulls back, his cock is dripping with cum, his breathing as heavy as his cock.

You squeal slightly when San slowly pulls out of your ass before making you straddle Seonghwa’s lap. 

San leans into your ear to give you a suggestion. 

“You should be a good girl and ride him. You know he loves it when you do.”

Seonghwa looks like he’s on the verge of crying, his fists are clenched, his mind anticipating when he watches you hungrily lift your hips, grazing your pussy with his messy and thick cock before you push yourself on him, your legs shaking from how Seonghwa split your pussy from below. 

He hisses, a slew of curses leaving his lips while his cock twitches in you. His pretty ears are twitching too. 

“So good,” Seonghwa mutters in between tears. “Fuck. Still so fucking tight even when I fucked you just now-“

San lets his hands rest on your hip, guiding you to fuck yourself on Seonghwa’s cock. Seonghwa’s tail swishes rather violently, his head rolled back and pressed into the pillows, his whines and grunts filling up the room. Watching him squirm and unravel could get you and San addicted—especially with the stark contrast of when he takes the lead at first, only to completely fall apart in your hands when he’s under you. 

“Kitty is so fucking cute when you’re ruining him like this, especially when he’s in heat”, San hums. You nod, kissing San on his temple before your face contorts into pleasure when you sink onto Seonghwa’s cock again. 

“You’re such a good boy, Hwa. Such a good and pretty boy for me”, you sigh, leaning forward, letting your hands wander across his body, your fingertips teasingly grazing against his perky and swollen nipples. You press your thumb against his lips, and Seonghwa sucks on your fingers, looking at you with watery eyes. You wet your other thumb with your lips, and roll his nipples, listening to Seonghwa cry out helplessly underneath you while you still bounce off his lengthy cock. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck”, Seonghwa whimpers, his ears twitching uncontrollably. “Ngh- gonna cum. Fuck! Cumming-Oh fuck it’s so much”, he groans, eyes screwed shut, fingers leaving marks on your thighs, holding you still, letting his endless warm and thick spurts fill you up over and over again while you sing him praises.  

“Don’t forget about me, kitty”, San reminds you, his hands pulling you back as you lift yourself off Seonghwa’s cock with an eye-rolling shiver, so much fucking cum drizzling out from your hole, which San slips his cock in, and plugs your pussy hole shut, ignoring the way you’re crying that you’re too full.

It’s fine. San is gonna fuck the cum out of you anyway. 

San’s thick cock stuffs you full, and you hear him groan in your ear when he bottoms out in you. His hands caress your thighs before he lifts you and sits you on his cock again, listening to your cries. 

“Hyung, you really stretched her out so well”, San teases, his tail excitedly hitting the mattress whenever he feels you squeeze him. 

Seonghwa fucks his hand, watching the way you’re being fucked by San from below. Seonghwa doesn’t like sharing, but for some reason, he thinks San’s enjoyment of watching you be fucked stupid by him starts making sense in his head seeing you so ruined perfectly like that. 

Fluids pool at the base of San’s cock at every thrust, and it’s a pornographic sight of his cock thrusting in and out of your abused hole. 

In your ears, you’re just hearing San groaning, “fuck kitty. feels so fuckin amazing like this. Oh my fuck.”

Your brain is mush, coherent sentences aren’t even forming—only feeling San’s dick hitting spots in your pussy that’s making you see stars. 

Seonghwa shifts above you, his hand on your scalp, forcing you to look up at him and his pretty cock, watching him fucking his hand against your face. By instinct, you stick your tongue out as much as you can, even though you’re being fucked stupid by San. 

“That’s a good girl”, Seonghwa hums. “I’ll make you so fucking pretty.” 

With a strained groan, he bucks his hips against his palm, another load decorating your face. 

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so much, kitty. I know hyung likes messing you up with his cum. Still, I’m the one with his cock in you y’know”, San complains as he pushes his cock even deeper, pulling you out of any remaining coherent thoughts, your legs pushing open when your third orgasm hits from the overstimulation. You break, spraying all over Seonghwa when you lift your hips off San, forcefully pushing his cock out, his cum diluted by the clear liquid. 

No doubt, you’re completely spent. Your eyelids are heavy from exhaustion, but San and Seonghwa take turns pressing kisses onto your lips, whispering sweet nothings alongside purring against your neck. 

You’re in an absolute sticky mess, in tears, so fucked out thanks to your two pretty kitties.

And you’d let them do it all over again. 

[harrie-cc]

The Klean Collection - Part 4

This month I focused on creating the Klean Home Office. I focused my attention on what a designer's home office would look like/contain. I have wanted to make shelving like this for quite some time & was excited to try out Sims 4 Studio to angle the slots, unfortunately many painful hours later after trying to troubleshoot why exactly the rotation didn't work in game, I managed to come up with a workaround, so that you can still snap flat books and deco items onto the slanted shelves at the correct angle. For some peculiar reason the rotated slots would not work unless I locked their orientation. As a result once an item snap into one of these slots it will stay at the 45 degree angle even when you snap it to a regular slot. If I did this for all the slots to work it would end up being very difficult for you to effectively clutter all the other shelves as all your items would snap to these angled slots instead. So I've created only 3 of these slots on each shelf to help you to orientate your deco items to the correct angle. They are located in the middle and either end of the the shelf, so you should be able to avoid them while decorating the regular slots on the other shelves. I think this issue is down to EA changing the slotting information in the game as it a very simple process to rotate these slots and both programmes I used to do so ended with the same result. Fingers crossed this is changed in the future so I don't have to irritate myself and you all with such a workaround and they just work how they are supposed to! 

Items Include:

Bookshelf configurations 1 to 5 (short & medium)

1 tile bookshelf configuration (short & medium)

Left ending bookshelf configuration (short & medium)

Right ending bookshelf configuration (short & medium)

Bookshelf post (short. medium & tall)

Desk chair

Glass desk

Statement desk/ conference table/ dining table

Design portfolio

Open design portfolio

Pantone swatch books (3 options)

RAL swatch books (2 options)

Fabric sample book

All items are Base Game compatible and you can find them by searching KLEAN in the build/buy catalogue.

As per usual textures are linked between similar items, so if you download the unmerged file, make sure to include all items from that family, so the textures appear correctly in your game.

Now Available on Patreon Early Access

Public Release: 7th April 2024

[distastefulsideboob]

As radfems I think we need to be more comfortable calling Liberal sex worker women class traitors.

Obviously I'm not speaking about women who've been trafficked or groomed into the industry, but the women who have made an informed choice to join the industry from a privileged position for personal profit whilst actively contributing towards women's sexual objectification.

I saw an tiktok about a woman who was disciplined in the workplace for wearing an outfit that was "inappropriate". The picture displayed an attractive woman in her mid twenties with a curvaceous figure, the dress itself while form fitting was full coverage. I've experienced a similar situation so I had a lot of sympathy.

And yet when I clicked on her tiktok to see if there were updates about the situation, I saw multiple videos of her being "confronted" by a voiceless HR woman, in outfits that got progressively more revealing. It turned out this woman was an OnlyFans creator who had fabricated this situation to drive traffic to her page, showed videos of her in lingerie in her "office" and videos of her being groped at her desk by a faceless male "coworker." Her office job was nothing more than set dressing for her to film her adult content. Yet she performed as a woman experiencing sexual harassment and discrimination by her workplace, something that truly happens to millions of women at some point in their careers.

This is just one of many examples of sex workers fetishising real life situations that happen to women. There are many more examples of women who style themselves to emulate teenagers or children, who make content simulating being assaulted or raped.

And yet I'm supposed to support these women? The woman who deliberately talk over impoverished trafficked women, and use their platforms to campaign against regulations such as the Nordic model that would make the industry safer because it would impact their revenue? The women who tout the industry as being empowering and glamorous to teenage girls, and encourage them to join? (Don't forget that OnlyFans has an affiliate programme where you can sign up under another creator while they gain a percentage of your earnings, similar to an MLM.)

I'm tired of saying I'm against the industry but supportive of sex workers. I am supportive of women and girls who are victims of the industry but I refuse to pander to women who will gleefully participate in an industry that dehumanises all women whilst using feminism as a get out of jail free card.

[kousanosgf]

men, minors dni

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

councilor!sevika x assistant!reader

you and sevika have to attend a banquet. and yes, sevika is wearing a dress

part 2

tags: sfw

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

"behave. promise?" you look up to sevika, finishing your work of smoothing out the wrinkles on her dress and brushing off little dust dots.

she is basically pouting, the prospect to waist the night at some rich folks banquet seems hellish to her.

you spent hours convincing her to go. "you have to go, we worked so hard for the council to like you, gotta uphold the image." eventually, sevika agrees and you're surprised that you didn't have to butter her up more.

it appears to be she just wanted to save energy for further arguments. because as soon as you suggested her wearing a dress, she enthusiastically refused, which led you to more bickering.

you won, of course. as soon as you started dating, sevika was never able to say no to you. so when you came to the last resort of "please, babe, you'll look so hot", when all the logical arguments of "you'll seem more aproachable", "they'll notice your effort to try and fit in" etc. didn't work.

you understood, though not fully since your backgrounds were so different, how hard it was for sevika to be on the council, fighting for her people's right to live happily, at times bending her temper and swallowing harsh words said her way. but piltover's elites are a bunch of snobs and you have to make them tolerate you before you can do anything productive.

"we need to get the budget for exchange programme and for that you need the votes." your recent project to help zaun's teens study abroad that both of you've been fighting tooth and nail for several months now.

sevika huffs out and brings her head down, nuzzling in the crook of your neck. "alright. promise."

finally getting the confirmation, you pat her head gently, to not ruin the wet hairstyle you've done yourself, practicing for days in advance.

"remember what i told you?"

"be nice, let you do the talking." sevika raises her head to look at you again.

"good girl" you smile and turn to grab your clutch from the vanity. you look over yourself in the mirror one final time and make your way to the door, not bothering to check if sevika follows you.

"will i get something as a reward?" she asks, her voice deep, as she catches your arm and presses your body into the corridor's walls, towering over. and, gods, she looks divine. the black fabric hugging her body in all the right places, highliting her curves for your eyes to feast on. your hand runs up her bare spine, fingers lightly touching the muscles. "is the prospect of helping your people not enough of a reward, councilor?"

both of you giggle, and you get this buzzing in your stomach as you feel sevika's body shake slightly from laughter against yours. gone were the days when you avoided her for that exact feeling, making you two miserable. you found that sedating your conscience and work ethics was very easy around her, in her arms. hiding your relationship wasn't much of a trouble since sevika didn't seem to like explicit pda, the most you got is a peck on the cheek or a stroll hand in hand, when you knew you're away from any colleagues. and sevika definitely doubled down behind the closed doors, basically attached to your hip, unable to keep her hands off you.

"come on, time to head out." you push sevika lightly on the shoulder to head to the door.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚˚⁺‧͙

the evening was going smoothly so far. you and sevika arrived fashionably late to attract enough needed attention. people were starring, you knew that much even though the glances were not addressed your way. they were in awe, looking sevika up and down, taking in her broad shoulders, crosses by the black straps of the dress.. you had to hide a smirk every time you noticed, knowing you were the one to dress her up in all the nicest things that suited her so much.

your time was mostly spend by sevika's side, floating between this and that groups of people. the wealthiest merchant's family. an ambassador, seemingly finally able to return to piltover and enjoy his home's elite life. some carefree and arogant flock of politician's kids.

sevika was growing bored and restless by a minute. the best you could do is snatch a glass of champagne from the waiter's tray and push it in sevika's hand. "give me half an hour. an hour at most." you promised her.

"i don't know how you do this." she sipped her champagne and rolled her eyes.

"it's fun really, if you know how to play-"

"councilor sevika! wasn't expecting you to join us tonight." a cheery man interrupted you, making you take a step back from sevika for a more appropriate distance. you looked the man over and recognized him as pavle peric, the owner of the biggest precious metals mines in piltover, he didn't seem to even adress you.

"my conscience wouldn't let me stay away from this." sevika answered and smiled, sharing a look with you.

"yes, yes. great you're finally taking time to fit in the society." it looks like pavle took sevika's smile as his accomplishment as his smirk widens. "we all were wondering when you finally open up to some local culture."

you notice sevika tense slightly at the comment, as she catches the jab. a way to ruin a perfectly fine evening, you sigh inside your head.

"a new position, especially such as a councilor can take some time to get used to the new responsibilities." you're quick to smooth out the situation before the disaster happens. your hand touches sevika's lightly, asking to let you handle it. she stays silent.

pavle finally seems to notice you. his face scrunches, the man isn't happy that you dared speaking to him. "well, i suggest councilor expand her social circle. my advice to you, you can't always drag servants with you at events like this." he laughs cruelly, looking you up and down.

"she's my assistant." sevika cuts out, immediately starting to boil with anger.

"a servent, an assistant, same thing really. my advice to you, councilor sevika. first thing you gotta do is meet right friends. you're in piltover now, time to find people your level."

it all happens too fast. one second sevika stands by your side, the other she launches for the man, grabbing him by the lapel of his suit. your group gets couple of surprised gasps, the only thing that saves you is that you're standing behind a massive column, which hides you from the rest of the hall.

"do you think the same of the workers in your mines?! some consumable material to fill you pocket, while they lay their health and lives for their families to have a chance to survive?!"

you're panicking. sevika's right of course, pavle is a real scum and doesn't hide it. the way he runs his business, the way he treats his employees. but such an outburst can cause you and sevika months of hard work. you approach sevika, feeling guilty for your next words.

"councilor, please. mister peric is only giving his feedback as a more experienced man in these matters."

"no." her brows frown more, she doesn't spare you a glance, still fixated on the man. yet she gives in a little, letting go of him but still towering over pavle's figure. "you will apologize to my assistant."

"no need. mister peric didn't offend me in any way."

sevika persists, waiting for men to speak up but he's definitely too scared by her force now to say a thing.

"we still need to meet councilor shoola, councilor sevika." you try again, your hand carefully touches her back, and you just hope that the gesture would go unnoticed by others. it seems to work, goosebumps rise up sevika's spine as she relaxes a little, her expression still furious though.

a silent moment passes between the three of you before sevika turns with a low growl and storms away, heading for the massive glass doors which lead to the manor's gardens.

you take your time to say sorry to the man and hurry outside after her.

it's dark already, the hours come closer to midnight. still it's not hard to find sevika outside, she chose a place for you to notice her immediately when you walk out.

"say it." she huffs out and crosses her arms on her chest.

"what do you want to hear?" you smile slightly as she reminds you of a pouty kid. only to you though, if someone would see sevika in a mood like this, they'll think twice before even coming closer.

"i ruined it."

"you didn't ruin anything, vika."

you chew on your lip for a moment, thinking what to say next while sevika just stays quiet.

"i'm thankful, really." you look around for the unwanted witnesses and, after making sure no one is watching you, put you palm on her cheek.

"there were no person in my life before, who would've stand up for me like you did there."

"cause all of them have their head up their ass." sevika's anger seems to calm down, words less harsh. she covers your hand with hers, pressing her face deeper into your touch.

"but you need to understand-"

"here it comes." she rolls her eyes but doesn't let go.

"-i'm able to handle people like him." you continue, putting pressure into your words.

"your people's well-being is more important than my honor."

sevika just sighs, neither denying nor agreeing with you. you just stand there, waiting for her to process what she needs.

finally, something in her face shifts, she takes a deep breath and hits you with a quiet "i love you."

it's not the first time you hear it, you say that to each other almost every day. but this time just feels different, like it has more meaning to it. you have not much to say in the response except for simple "i love you too, vika."

both of you hear footsteps somewhere near, making you let go of each other, an intimate moment between you not ruined completely, bit it reminds you that you're not alone.

"i think it's time to head home." sevika suggests and you can't do anything but to agree.

—————————————————————————

tbh wanted to write this as oooh sexy sevika in a dress but it took completely different turn. but i guess still gonna write sev in a dress smut (i feel like she definitely needs to be strapped for being so good), cause that's what sevika stans deserve 🫦

[occamstfs]

Start-Up

Gabriel hates the start-up he works for. Though this morning it seems there are more immediate things he should be concerned with as men something strange begins to change men around the world.

Couldn't let all these other authors have all this fun without me! Here's my own take on the theme of Viral Transformation! Now I did muddy the waters a bit by setting my virus story at a social media start up but I think it works haha! Do check out the stories by all the other amazing writers who took part!!! -Occam

There was something strange going on in the city today and Gabriel wasn’t quite sure what the cause was. It’s not like there’s a commotion or anything, on the contrary; the streets were quiet but there was just something sinister in the air. He works for a new social media start-up in the wake of most of the big platforms collapsing, succinctly named Web. Gabriel didn’t have a ton of faith in the app and was growing increasingly tired of dealing with the CEO’s inane demands but hey, as long as checks keep clearing.

Reuben’s, said CEO’s, most recent crusade was banning the use of any competing sites or networks on company property, which unfortunately includes Gabriel’s personal devices. Who knew start-ups could be so draconian, though when the rich boy in charge has a fleet of lawyers and the lowly programmer just needs to make ends meet that’s how it goes it seems. All this to say, Web is thus far incredibly unsuccessful as a news platform and poor Gabriel is unable to see the chaos going on in the city behind closed doors as he walks into work.

The programmer artfully misses chyrons scrolling past telling all men to stay indoors and not to make unnecessary journeys as he mindlessly scrolls on the app he has spent countless hours producing. “Ugh.” Gabriel rolls his eyes as he sees post after post from thoughtless gym bros. Reuben swears this is a massive demographic for them but the programmer has constantly spoken up to the contrary. What could they possibly gain by making yet another platform for men who could barely read. Any indulgence or encouragement towards this demographic was sure to push away more reasonable, serious people.  

Eyes still glued to his phone in search of any shred of news, Gabriel doesn’t notice the state of the receptionist as he wanders past to take the elevator up to the office, “Morning Ron.” Only after a few seconds with no response does the coder finally tear his eyes away to see the young man in quite a disheveled state. He chokes back a gasp as he sees Ron quickly remove the hand that was shoved in his pants as he too only just notices the presence of his fellow man, “UHH Morning Gabe- I was just uhhh, getting something out of my pocket?” His rapid movement sends the sound of fabric tearing through the air as whatever remains of the button up he was wearing falls in pieces to the floor.

Desperate to put this encounter behind himself Gabriel mashes the close door button in the elevator. “Ron can’t have been masturbating just now.” he assures his reflection in the elevator doors. “He’s a good kid, smart kid.” He says of the man maybe five years his junior. Still, at the very least Gabriel is surprised that he came to work wearing clothes that clearly didn’t fit? He can’t help but summon the intimate look at Ron’s body he just received and can’t imagine how the receptionist bulked up so quickly? He can’t think of a single occasion of Ron mentioning going to the gym. 

Elevator clicking ever upwards he figures Reuben must be to blame, first he wants lunkheads using our app and then he convinces employees to waste time at the gym. Ah! That stupid gym! Gabriel punches a fist into his own palm as in the back of his mind he remembers the CEO taking up valuable office space to create a company gym for any employees to make use of. One of the many ‘benefits’ of working on Web. “God I hate startups.”

The elevator doors clink open and Gabriel exits to find the office space seems to be a ghost town. No one is using cubicles and he only sees a few of his fellow department heads have made it in so far. He grumbles to himself, “God-damnit if today could have been work from home I’m leaving now…” Despite his irritation, he enters his office and immediately starts getting to work. Waiting on his desk is a short list of suggestions on how to improve the platform from Rueben, which he promptly discards with little ado. Checking his own to-do list for the day he finds a one on one scheduled with one of the few coworkers he actually respects, Alexander Blainely, head of marketing. 

Most of the other executives were yes men, but Alexander seems to have an actual head on his shoulders. Gabriel always finds their meetings far more stimulating and productive than most other drudgery that goes on in this office. Returning into the open workspace, Gabriel shivers as he feels something in the air yet again. Completely unplaceable, it’s almost certainly nothing, but he remains on edge. His discomfort only grows as he nears his friend’s office and his hitherto directionless uneasiness finds a source. Hearing somethin a little more than disconcerting he whispers under his breath, “what the fuck? Is that moaning?” 

Barely audible when he shuts the door of his own office and wanders into the otherwise silent suite, it increases in volume with each step towards that of Alexander’s quarters. Gabriel grits his teeth and rages in his own mind for trusting anyone in this god-forsaken venture to treat their job with a shred of dignity. Arriving at the door and confirming that the man is clearly exerting himself somehow with a clear disregard to decency in their shared workspace, Gabriel scrunches his face and takes a deep breath. Hesitating at the thought of catching someone he had thought was a compatriot in flagrante delicto, his ire overcomes his usual prudence and he barges in. Never could he be prepared for the sight that awaited him.

Alexander sits on his work desk masturbating with his eyes closed as he rapturously traces over a muscular body that Gabriel flat out knows he has never had before today. Tongue lolling out of his mouth and dripping with drool as if he were a dog, Gabriel can’t help but loose a gasp as he sees with every pump of his cock, with every fervent breath and heady gasp from Alex, his body is continuing to change. 

Seconds pass and his skin browns with an unnatural tan under the LED lights in his office. Meanwhile he continues to surge larger, biceps already larger than when Gabriel stumbled in, the head of marketing’s shoulders pack on muscle as his neck thickens and his whole torso widens with strength. Thighs bulge meatier as his cock quivers higher, stretching inches further into the air as his already massive balls pulse larger. Gabriel’s gasp announcing his presence, the masturbating man opens his eyes and, almost as if it were a defense mechanism he loses control and cums.

Gabriel can’t tear his eyes away from the titan at the moment of his release. Every already massive muscle on his body expands as veins bulge out from the clear stress of the transformation. As load after load shoots out in inhumanly quick succession, Gabriel freezes as he sees facial hair and body hair that somehow already looks shaved begins to decorate his beyond masculine form. Sweat glistening off the man’s sculpted body makes him aware of the aura of musk that has clearly been filling this room, one that is impossibly similar to the general malaise that he has been assailing his senses all morning. Finally realizing what is happening in front of him, Gabriel slams the door shut and sprints down the hall, accompanied by nothing but his own gasps of exertion. 

He doesn’t take a second to think until he’s safe back in the sanctum of his office. The only place since this morning where he hasn’t felt the dreadful haze that he only just became totally aware of. Hopefully safe here, he allows himself a moment of reflection, connecting his brief encounter with Ron and his unfortunate meeting with what can’t have been Alexander. “Fuck it.” He starts to pull out his cell to check the news but before he can make any progress, he realizes there is something warm and sticky on his shirt. Looking down to see what it is he immediately drops his phone and tears off his suit. God. Some of that must-be imposter’s cum got on his button up. He throws the shirt away and scrubs at his skin where the man’s fluids got on him with fury. Using hand sanitizer like it’s a cure he scrubs and scratches until his skin burns red and raw. 

After he’s confident he’s done all he can to remove any trace of Alex from his body, Gabriel grabs the backup shirt he keeps in his desk for just an occasion as this. Or rather, in case he spills coffee on himself or some other accident that makes sense at all. His mind craving any degree of normalcy the thought of coffee stays with him. Oliver should be making it in about now. His pulse begins to quicken as he feels concern for the intern, in fact it’s racing far faster a tempo than it usually reaches at its most accelerate. Putting his hand on his wrist as concern for himself eclipses that of Oliver he finds both come to a head as his door opens and he falls out of his chair in shock.

“Jesus Oliver, knock next time!” The programmer shouts cowering behind his desk. Oliver quickly sets down his handful of mugs and goes to help his boss up, “So sorry Gabe! I just saw you were in and you usually don’t mind at all.” Standing up, Gabriel inches behind the intern and quietly closes the door, he looks Oliver up and down for anything out of the ordinary. “Are you, feeling alright Ollie?” The man purses his lips and pats himself down, clearly not in the same headspace of his usually stoic boss, “Well, I believe I am sir? Is, uhm, everything alright with you?” Oliver’s eyes flicker around the room seeing the discarded clothes and taking note of his boss sweating more than usual. In fact Oliver isn’t sure if he’s ever seen the man really sweat at all, “Did you want me to switch for an iced coffee?”

Gabriel rubs his face and is similarly shocked to find himself sweating, “Ugh. I think this job might be getting to me. Have you seen anyone else in the office today?” Oliver puffs his cheeks and looks at the mugs he set aside, “No actually? Now that you mention it, Ronnie wasn’t even downstairs which seemed weird. I mean he’s always on that grind to try and impress Rueben.” Gabe scratched his beard and grimaced, usually he’s quite adept at compartmentalizing, it’s how he hasn’t blown up at the CEO thus far. But the impossibility of what he saw in Alexander’s office has left him shaken. His heart rate begins to rise once more as his mind returns to that scene. 

In fact, it’s not the only thing that begins to rise. Suddenly his uncontrollable mind latches onto the image of Alexander’s cock expanding and then blowing its load and Gabriel’s own cock begins to stir. His face burns with blush as he can’t help but dart his eyes to see his usually unimpressive cock begin to inch its way larger down his dress pants. For his part Oliver, used to taking verbal cues follows his boss’ eyeline and balks as he sees the man thoughtlessly go to grab it. Oliver is struck speechless as the ever stark programmer bites his lip and begins rubbing his cock through the linen pants, “Jesus, uh- Uhm- Sir!?” 

Immediately alert he wipes his face and sucks up the drool that was apparently beginning to pool in his throat. Gabriel grabs a tissue and wipes his brow, fervently apologizing to the intern, “I am so sorry Oliver. I don’t know what…” Oliver quickly waves him off, not so much bothered by the behavior as surprised. “D- Don’t you worry about it Gabe, er sir. I’ll just be out here if you need me!” He backs into the door before stepping out with an awkward nod, leaving the coffee cups behind. Gabriel debates whether or not he should report himself to HR before he slams his fist against his desk chair as he remembers they haven’t an HR department. 

Rage at his shitty start-up returning at an elevated degree he gets his head back in the game, despite the best attempts of his wanting package and balls growing bluer by the second. Concerned for whatever seems to be going on in this office, or worse in the world at large, he goes to the internet once more. Without much thought at all he opens Web and starts scrolling to find any information of use. Unfortunately for the higher functions in his mind the programmer is immediately assailed by the mindless user base he so disdains, and rather than feeling the ire he always does towards the dullards and hellions. Instead he finds himself possessed with a desire to drink in every last bulging muscle that presents itself.

Coworkers, friends, reporters- Everyone Gabriel has deemed worthy of attention on the nigh-worthless platform he is forced to use, even those who are straighter laced than Gabriel, have been posting smut on main. Industrious man he may be, the programmer is indeed but a man of flesh and blood, and that blood is rushing through him at a breakneck pace to give him the most intense erection he’s ever enjoyed. 

It’s partially why he’s so adamant about diversifying their app, a weakness in himself for the male form; a weakness that whatever corruption that is beginning to rise within him is gleefully taking full advantage of. He tries to stay focused, return to his concerned research, but after taking a gasping breath he realizes that his own body has begun to produce the musky air that must be spreading the impossible changes he’s trying to get to the bottom of.

Staring at the bulging pecs and hairy asses of men he once respected, Gabe struggles to pay attention to anything but the cock begging for his attention as it begins to create a wet spot halfway down his leg. The zipper halfway undone by the growing beast alone is fully ripped asunder as Gabriel can’t help but full on masturbate in his office, just as he walked into Alexander doing but minutes ago. He tears off his button up with uncharacteristic aggression as it begins to impede his jacking off. As soon as his arms are exposed his attention leaves the app and begins to hone in on his own body. God has he always been so hot?

Gabriel flexes his biceps and smirks as he sees them peak higher than he’s ever imagined they could before now. Raising his arms also exposes his pits, a hotbed for musk and whatever impossible contagion hides within it. He forces his neck to crane down into his pit as sweat begins to stain the undershirt that is rapidly filled with new mass. Intended to be deliberately loose, pounds begin to pack onto his chest and push the garment to its brim, the cotton fabric sticks to his chest tight enough that it would be a struggle to get it off over his new pecs, hearing the sound of fabric straining his cock grows even harder at the idea that perhaps he won’t even need to take it off. He’ll just grow large enough that his massive body will destroy it for him.

This thought flitting through his mind, Gabirel loses whatever shred of self-control remains and goes all out in enjoying the changes happening to him. Rubbing his hands across his sweat-covered tank top and feeling the burning muscles building themselves underneath it. The sound of fabric straining and tearing fills him with pleasure he couldn’t fathom before now as he nears his first rapturous release. Sweat drips from his pits as they grow thicker and curls stretch further afield as to be ungovernable, ever focused on the task of spreading his scent. Steady streams of pre trail down his cock, lathering his hand as his whole body quivers with the anticipation of ecstasy.

Before it can arrive however he receives a scheduled video call from the man he wants to hear from less than any other. Clicking accept as he must, the disdain that Gabriel has always held for Rueben quickly comes to a head. Greeted with the image of a more muscular, just as juvenile, version of the CEO filling his screen, Gabriel can’t help but grit his teeth in rage. Hearing him laugh and flex as he begins playing with the special effects in Zoom, Gabriel doesn’t have a moment to realize that he’s continued to masturbate. Instead,  much like when Alexander was surprised, his anger triggers him to cum immediately with no restraint, shooting loads all over the underside of the desk, his still thrusting hand, and the computer screen in front of him. 

Rueben laughs even harder at the sight, his voice duller than ever as he chastises the programmer, “Yo bro huh! Don’t take out your anger on the little guy! You should head down to the company gym and put that aggression to good use bro huhuh!” Gabriel narrows his eyes as veins bulge in his neck. Unhappy that the CEO might have a point, he promptly slammed the shutdown button on his computer and stumbled to his feet, quite off balance from his powerful orgasm. 

Quickly appraising his filthy condition, he shrugs at the cum covering his skintight clothes. Whatever, the gyms sure to be disgusting anyway, despite just enjoying release his cock bounces at the idea and he bites his lip to avoid smiling in excitement. Something at the back of his mind desperately begs for a second to realize he’s almost lost himself beyond measure. Unfortunately, with another deep breath of his own b.o. the man’s eyes fog over and he lumbers out of his office. 

Turning with an awkward smile as he hears the head programmer’s office open Oliver starts to say, “Hey boss, hope your-” before his mouth falls agape at seeing the disheveled lug that wanders out. Still unsteady on his feet as they begin to tear the expensive leather shoes he had on, the man stumbles forward and catches himself on the intern’s shoulder. “Buh, sorry uh, Oll’” grimacing at the stain he left on the young man’s shirt, he wipes it in further and nods before heading off, “I’m uh… Gonna go check out the gym.” Oliver stares at what he can only guess is cum that his boss just smeared into his shirt before going off to the gym. Rather than confusion at his boss’ behavior or disgust at the surely hazardous substance on his shirt, he can’t help but sniff as something in the air begins to make him feel warm inside. 

Sprinting down the emergency flight of stairs Gabriel leaves a cloud of musk in his wake as he works up more sweat than his body has ever produced before. Each bounding footstep skips an arbitrary amount of stairs as his legs lengthen. Quickly does he lose the few shreds of clothing that remained stuck to his growing form. After his feet finally burst from his shoes he leaves a clear trail of sweaty footprints that could surely be tracked by anyone who wanders past. Though any poor fool who should wander near enough to smell the slovenly detritus in Gabriel’s wake would likely find themselves lacking motivation to do anything but immediately lose their mind to senseless pleasure then and there.

Arriving in the gym Gabriel hungrily eyes the scene and is less than thrilled that he seems to be the only man present. Opting to throw on some clothes for no reason than to feel the friction of fabric against his sweaty skin he finds stained sweatpants littered on the floor and throws them on. After gratuitously appreciating his reflection and adding to the Pollock painting of stains that litter the posing mirror of their company gym, Gabe throws himself intuitively into every machine. He delights in the tension and pull of every straining muscle and grins through the pain as they bounce back larger than with every repetition. 

He doesn’t spare half a thought about wiping down machines, and clearly whatever boorish louts used them previously didn’t either, much to his satisfaction. Each second of his body changing upstairs during his too brief session of self pleasure holds nothing towards the edification, the perfection, he enjoys now as he throws himself into a workout. It’s far more intense than his meager body should ever be able to maintain. Sweat drips from him like a waterfall as hair fans out across his form, rapidly expanding from shaved stubble into fluff that would hold and spread his scent for hours to come.

Taking a break to take a photo of his new beyond exuberant self, as he stands across from the mirror his cock instantly hardens and inches to its almost foot long length down the leg of his sweatpants. Immediately it begins dripping pre down his hairier thigh as he screams in bestial abandon. His brain is so far gone the idea of posting the steamy pics of his sweaty form on Web doesn’t even occur to him. Instead the only thoughts remaining to fill his mind are those to return to the gym and get back to the important mission of increasing his virile strength, or the even more pressing desire to fuck anything that moves. Unfortunately for him he can’t produce a single actionable step towards that end. So he shall simply enjoy his new body by his lonesome until some equally horny man stumbles into the company gym.

“God what is up with me today.” Back on the tenth floor Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose as he is overwhelmed with another headache. Ever since Gabriel paid him the brief visit on his way to the gym Oliver has been getting them with increasing frequency. He removed his shirt, not wanting to wear something fouled by whatever was covering his boss’ hands but the damage was already done. The idea that not wearing a shirt in the office is inappropriate moves further out of reach by the second. The intern scratches the back of his neck and grumbles as he feels a soreness in his arm and traps, paying no mind as his fingers trail through thicker hair spreads down from his hairline towards his shoulders. Typing away at his computer, each keypress moves slower than the last, his hands cramp as they suddenly bulge larger.

Taking the smallest second to appraise his changing form Ollie’s eyes widen as he sees there are two unmissable weights now hanging on his chest, sitting on a small gut that he has been making concerted efforts to do away with. Feeling up the new pecs he blushes as he feels stubble prickle his fingers. Rubbing them and feeling muscle give way to his thicker hands he can’t suppress the grin on his face as he feels the prickly hairs quickly thicken and curl longer, painting his chest with a beautiful forest of hair. His dick immediately surges to the largest size it can achieve in the confines of his dress pants.

Awash in feeling every new inch of his hairier, more powerful body Oliver stands up and gasps as he sees abs clearer than anything underneath the new layer of hair on his stomach. His knees give way as his hips uncontrollably thrust while he stares down at his form growing sexier by the second. He barely catches himself from falling with his right hand on the table as his body continues to hump his pants to no end, while his left trails across his body to discover the new surprises that cover each and every inch. Hesitant to trail towards the package bulging larger in his crotch, he traces his abs back up to his chest and rests on his clavicle. There does he find the greatest surprise yet, barely gracing the tips of his fingers, a beard beginning to push out on a face that has always been unfortunately clean shaven. 

While it took browsing Web and the intrusion of his workplace enemy for Gabriel’s conscious mind to give in to the euphoria of being a new, greater man, the feeling of a beard inching thicker on Oliver’s face is more than enough to give himself over to anything. This alongside whatever corrupting virus is coursing through him to cause these changes, it’s no wonder he falls to the floor and begins thrusting a hole in his pants. His meaty thighs and monumental ass make light work of his dress pants as his cock angles itself upwards, out of the waistline of his impossibly tight underwear. Even while in the process of spraying load after load into the carpet of his office, his balls continue churning, always heavy and ever wanting more release. Ever demanding he find more avenues to spread his changes and heighten his own bliss. 

Now laying on the floor, every exhilarating movement packs more pounds of muscle onto his bulging new body. More pressing than that however is the pelt making its mark everywhere it sees fit to spread. His pubes grow thick enough that no light shall ever touch the base of his cock again before they spread upwards to paint his stomach with dark curls. The deodorant he threw on this morning hasn’t a breath of a chance against the new musk that issues forth from his pits as the bushes therein grow thicker than that on his head before stretching outwards to connect with those new heady hairs he so delighted in on his chest. The hairs around his nipples grow thick enough almost to hide them as he continues frotting against the carpet.

His biceps burn with the effort of holding his body up as veins bulge down the diameter of his meaty arms, thick strands of hair quickly trailing behind to make clear his undeniable masculinity. He feels new curls itching against the back of the elastic band of his underwear as it only just hangs in there. Dark curls reach up the small of his back and quickly race to cover his ass cheeks like fuzz on a peach, creating a seamless jungle of curls from his hairy inner thighs to a dense thicket still inching higher on his back; growing into a forest perfect to be grabbed by anyone lucky enough to ride his prodigious cock.

After an especially vocal release, his shoulders burn as his traps bulge larger, which brings a certain someone’s touch to mind. Sniffing the air he finds himself in a haze of his own musk, though the musk smells awfully similar to that of the man who almost started masturbating in front of him. Following his more sensitive nose, the intern crawls over to Gabriel’s office and confirms his suspicions. Oliver smirks as he imagines that the horny freak is probaly equally wanting of a fuck buddy. 

Pulling himself up to his feet on the doorway, he grunts as his knees wobble a bit and his cock tries to convince him that humping the floor is good enough. Staying strong and holding the human instinct that some things are worth the effort, he walks on feet hairier than paws and wider than flippers to the elevator where he begins a descent to the company gym. Snapping a picture to text his boss he smirks as he thinks despite what Gabriel always says, perhaps working in a start-up has some perks after all.

It isn’t clear precisely what happened on the Fall day when men across the Bay Area began changing into, well, sex-crazed beasts. Some assume it was some strange chemical leak. Others say that it was some spontaneous evolution, though to what end such pleasure seeking changes could help a species is unclear. Some particularly conspiracy-minded folks think the whole thing was a ploy by a Social Media startup that was taking off with men precisely like the ones who changed. Though at the end of the day it doesn’t quite matter how or why they changed but how to prevent it from spreading. Across the nation, men of every walk of life are rapidly changing despite taking the best precautions. 

Closing gyms, quarantining those changing, racing to find any treatment to help those losing their minds and their bodies. Nothing seems to help as every day more men are blowing up with muscle, growing hairier with symptom spreading musk, and losing themselves to their uncontrollable lusts. At this point it’s seeming like there’s nothing that could possibly be done to stop the spread of changes, but hey, at least it seems like they’re happy.

[coachs-locker-room]

Hey, Coach, I just got back to my locker and there’s a sweaty singlet and jock laying on top of my clothes. I think it was that bear I saw over at the squat rack earlier. Both of these look way too big for me, but I’ll be damned if they don’t smell good. What should I do?

It always surprises me how people can be so careless with their property in this gym!

I know exactly who you are referring to - he is over by the bench-press working on one of his new inductees to his intense mass gain programme. I imagine that he swapped out his singlet and jock to a fresh one for his afternoon shift, and somehow left it in your locker by mistake.

No sooner did you find the items did you know to stuff them deep inside your gym bag, out of view of anyone looking or sniffing around. You had noticed the group of men who'd been inducted to this new training for a while now, both their towering physical presence, and their impressive stench as they seemingly grew bigger and bigger every week.

Trying on both the jock and singlet in the privacy of a private corner of the changing room, you felt the loose fabric rapidly getting tighter… or was it you that was getting bigger?

Before you could even start to investigate, your gut started to expand as though it had been inflated and caused you to involuntarily cough up the largest belch.

Catching yourself from truly exploring your new form, you realised that the noise of your outburst had been noticed by more than yourself… but you had been watched.

"You must be my 4 o'clock. Hurry up. I expect my new inductees to be 15 minutes early for their measurements to be taken." You heard the familiar voice of the instructor calling out to you before quickly turning his wide back to walk towards his area on the gym floor. "By the way, nice singlet, bud" the instructor winked at you as you followed him. "I had one of those myself not too long ago. Wonder where it ended up…".

-

More TF posts on @coachs-locker-room Credit to @tobebig86 for the images If you've enjoyed this post, buy me a Ko-Fi: Here

[maxpounds]

My Roommate

Part One

Moving day arrived with the sun shining brightly over the city. I had decided to find a roommate to help pay the mortgage, since my salary at the clothing store wasn't enough. The idea of sharing my space with someone new made me feel both anxious and excited.

Erik arrived early, dressed in a large, comfortable tracksuit. He was a handsome 25-year-old, recently independent, working from home as a programmer. In contrast to my usual work suit and tie, his relaxed style caught my attention immediately.

"Hi, Frank," Erik said with a broad smile, extending his hand.

"Hi, Erik. Let me help you with the boxes," I replied, shaking his hand.

From our first meeting when he came to see the apartment, we got along well. As Erik unpacked his things and arranged them in his new room, I couldn't help but watch him. There was something about his presence that attracted me.

After a few hours of work, we finished settling everything. Erik collapsed onto the sofa, sweating slightly from the effort, and I noticed that his clothes, though large, didn't completely hide a slight roundness in certain areas of his figure. It was then that I understood why he had brought so much food. The fridge, which usually held my fruits and vegetables, was now packed with ready meals, cheese, whole milk, and various sauces. The cabinets were filled with pasta, rice, chips, cookies, and other snacks.

"Wow, you have quite an appetite," I commented, trying to sound casual as I observed his provisions.

Erik laughed. "Yeah, I like to eat."

I couldn't deny it puzzled me, but I decided not to dwell on it and simply accepted that my new roommate had a different lifestyle from mine.

One night, weeks later, I came home after a bad date. I was feeling disappointed and frustrated. To my surprise, I found Erik sitting on the couch with two empty pizza boxes beside him.

"Hey, Frank. How was the date?" he asked with a carefree smile.

"There was no spark," I said, shrugging.

Erik looked at me with interest. "Maybe he wasn't your type," he said, a sympathetic look on his handsome face. "Sometimes it's hard to find someone who we really click with."

I sank into the armchair across from him, feeling a bit better hearing his words. He always had a way of making me feel understood and less alone.

"Maybe you're right," I admitted, letting out a sigh.

As we talked, I noticed something different about Erik. His tracksuit no longer fit as loosely as when he moved in. In fact, his sweatshirt seemed to hide a growing belly. It was clear he was enjoying his food, and his body showed it. He got up and walked to the kitchen. His sweatpants clung to his rounder butt in a way I hadn't seen before. He opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a huge tub of protein powder, which surprised me.

"Have you been to the gym?" I asked, trying to understand why he needed a protein shake after two pizzas.

Erik laughed and shook his head. "No, I don't go to the gym," he said as if the idea amused him.

"Oh. Well, I think it's time for me to go to bed."

"Goodnight, Frank."

Maybe he was right. Maybe the slim guy I went out with wasn't simply my type. I'd always been more attracted to burly men, bears.

One hot night in late spring, I woke up thirsty. I got out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I reached the doorway, I stopped in my tracks. The scene before me left me paralyzed. Erik was standing there, illuminated by the light of the open fridge. He was wearing only a pair of briefs that dug into his skin, highlighting his curves and revealing the increasing roundness of his body. His belly slightly spilled over the elastic waistband, and his thighs looked thicker, but what stood out the most was his butt. That round, prominent ass completely filled the underwear, stretching the fabric to its limit. Erik had a box of donuts on the counter and was eating one after another with insatiable voracity using his left hand. His right hand was inside his briefs, moving rhythmically as he masturbated. The pleasure on his face was undeniable. I couldn't help but stand there, silently watching. The sight of Erik pleasuring himself like that, enjoying the food and his own body, was mesmerizing. I felt my erection grow quickly.

I backed away from the doorway carefully, trying not to make any noise, and returned to my room. The image of Erik lingered in my mind: his increasingly plump body, his hands occupied with the donuts and his cock, the expression on his face. I knew something had changed within me and that my attraction to Erik had grown in a way I couldn't ignore.

Part Two

With the arrival of summer, the heat in our apartment became unbearable. Erik started walking around in just his briefs, and every time I saw him, my heart pounded harder. His physique had changed noticeably. His belly had grown larger and stuck out proudly. His butt had become even bigger and rounder. The briefs barely contained his cheeks, and the integrity of the fabric was tested with every move. Erik seemed comfortable with his body. Seeing him so natural and carefree drove me wild.

One afternoon, as we sat on the couch watching TV, I couldn't contain my curiosity. I looked at him intently and asked:

"Erik, are you... gaining weight on purpose?"

Erik remained silent for a moment, then a mischievous smile spread across his face.

"Yes, Frank, I am doing it on purpose."

"Why?" I asked.

"I've always been excited by the idea of gaining weight, feeling my body grow, my belly expanding, and my butt getting bigger. I love seeing how my clothes get tighter," he explained.

My eyes widened. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, and at the same time, I felt incredibly aroused. His confession had only intensified my desire.

The next morning, as I headed to the kitchen to have coffee, I noticed the bathroom door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, I could see Erik in the shower. Water cascaded over his naked body, highlighting every curve, every fold of his skin. Watching his hands deliberately move over his fat belly, his chest, and then his enormous buttocks was fascinating. I clung to the door, my erection painfully hard. Unbeknownst to me, a damp spot formed in my briefs, a sign of my extreme arousal. Erik saw me. He didn't say anything, but his smile and the gleam in his eyes said it all. He pulled back the shower curtain and gestured for me to join him. Without thinking twice, I stepped into the bathroom. I quickly dropped my briefs to the floor and approached him. He turned, offering me his back. My eyes were fixed on his round, firm butt, a view I couldn't resist. I began to caress him, and Erik shuddered under my touch. I couldn't wait any longer; my throbbing cock sought its target. I aligned myself with him, and with a slow, deliberate motion, I entered him. The sensation was incredible. A moan escaped my lips. Erik arched back, bracing his hands against the shower wall as I started to move inside him. My hands gripped his love handles, and I increased the pace. The thrusts became stronger, more desperate, and Erik responded to each one with moans of pleasure. I felt his breathing quicken as we neared the climax. Finally, with a muffled cry, I came inside him. Erik shuddered and cried out too, his own orgasm following mine. We stayed like that, connected and panting, as the water continued to fall, washing away the sweat and passion we had shared.

That night, after a long day at work, I couldn't stop thinking about the morning's experience. When I got home, I found Erik relaxing on the sofa. I approached him and sat down beside him.

"Erik, there's something I need to tell you," I began, trying to keep my voice steady. "I love how fat you're getting. Especially your butt. It drives me crazy. And I want to see you get even fatter."

Erik smiled, his rounded face filled with satisfaction. "I like what I'm hearing, Frank."

I stood up and went to the kitchen, where I pulled a two-liter tub of ice cream from the freezer. Returning to the sofa, I placed it in front of Erik, who had already eaten two huge plates of pasta for dinner. His eyes lit up at the sight of the ice cream. I sat beside him and started feeding him. The ice cream melted in his mouth, and his lips moved with delight, swallowing each spoonful. My hand slid over his belly, feeling the fullness and warmth of his flesh under my fingers.

"That's it, Erik," I whispered in his ear, leaning in to kiss his neck. "I want you to eat it all. I want to see you grow."

After what seemed like hours, Erik finished the ice cream. He lay back on the sofa, his breathing heavy, his eyes locked on mine.

"Thank you, Frank," he murmured with gratitude and desire.

"This is just the beginning," I said.

I knelt before him, and ran my hands along his thick thighs. My fingers then played with his nipples while I kissed his belly. Erik panted as my mouth traveled down his body. I nibbled his cock through his briefs, feeling his hardness against my teeth. With a swift motion, I slid the garment down, and freed his erection. My tongue traced its length, savoring every inch before taking it into my mouth. My hands continued exploring, caressing his thighs and balls. Erik moaned and writhed. With a cry of pleasure, he came in my mouth. His hot cum filled my throat.

Part Three

A few months had passed, and Erik was incredibly fat. I woke up one morning to the sight of his enormous, round, jiggly butt resting on the bed next to me. I admired its size, along with the cellulite on his thighs and the stretch marks on his love handles. Still groggy, I moved closer and placed my hands on his buttocks, gently shaking them. The flesh wobbled, semthing that excited me like nothing else in the world. I lowered his new XXL briefs and kissed his cheeks with devotion.

"You've gained so much weight, Erik," I murmured against his skin. "And it turns me on so much seeing you like this."

Erik moaned in response, and my hands became bolder. I squeezed and kneaded his butt, feeling the fat beneath my palms as my tongue explored every inch too.

"I love you like this, so big, so sexy," I whispered.

Erik writhed in pleasure.

"Frank, bring me breakfast in bed," he requested. "I want to start the day well-fed."

I got up quickly, my erection throbbing with anticipation, and headed to the kitchen. I prepared a tray with everything I knew Erik loved: plenty of buttered toast, a cheese omelet, two enormous chocolate-filled croissants, and a giant protein shake made with equal parts of milk and cream.

When I returned to the bedroom, Erik was waiting for me, reclined on the bed with a satisfied smile on his face. I placed the tray in front of him and watched as his eyes lit up at the sight of the food.

"Perfect," Erik said.

I sat beside him. He began to eat with enthusiasm. The way he enjoyed each bite, the joy on his face as he ate, filled my heart with deep satisfaction. I thought about how incredible it was to see his body expand, full of fat, more beautiful each day. And I knew Erik loved it too, every bite, every touch, every look of desire.

When he finished breakfast, I stayed in bed watching him get up and walk to the bathroom. His body had changed so much over the past few months; it was an intoxicating spectacle.

"You're such a fat pig, Erik," I said, sliding my hand over my own body. "Look at all that meat moving. Damn, you're so obese."

Erik stopped and turned to me, his eyes shining with excitement. He loved it when I talked to him like that. I started to jerk off, watching every move of his body.

"You love being this fat, don't you?" I continued, my voice husky.

Erik moaned softly, his hands caressing his bloated belly, fingers tracing the stretch marks that adorned it.

"Yes, Frank. Tell me," he begged with desire. "Tell me how fat I am, how much more you're going to make me gain."

"You're insatiable," I whispered lustfully. "I'm going to keep feeding you. I want you to be the fattest man I've ever seen."

My hands moved more urgently, my eyes fixed on Erik's body.

"You look so sexy stuffed with food," I told him, feeling my own excitement reach its peak. "There's nothing I love more than watching you turn into a satisfied, obese pig."

Erik bit his lip, and I saw his own erection grow beneath his belly.

"Yes, Frank, make me fatter," he replied. "I can't wait to see how many more pounds I'll gain for you."

With those final words, I came, my semen shooting across the room.

Final Part

It was Saturday, and I decided we needed to go to a buffet. Erik was sitting on the couch in his now extremely small XXL briefs, his enormous belly resting on his thighs. I watched him for a moment before saying:

"Today we're going to a buffet, and I want you to wear something tight. I want everyone to see how big you've gotten."

Erik nodded, a spark of excitement in his eyes. He went to his room, and I followed, knowing he would choose the tightest clothes he had. He opted for a shirt that clung to his belly, highlighting every roll, and pants that squeezed his thighs and huge butt. I felt instantly aroused seeing him like that.

We arrived at the buffet, a paradise of greasy, abundant food, and we took our seats.

"I want you to eat non-stop. OK? Do not stop until I tell you to."

Erik nodded, stood up, and headed to the buffet tables. He returned with something for me and a plate full of pizza, fries, and fried chicken for himself. I watched him eat, savoring every bite he took. When he finished, I said:

"Go for more."

Erik got up and fetched another plate. This time he returned with burgers, onion rings, and more fries. The obvious pleasure on his face as he filled his body with more and more greasy food was thrilling.

"You're a fat pig," I whispered when he finished. "Eat more; I want to see you get even bigger."

Erik obeyed without question, rising again to get more food. I watched him walk, his huge, round butt bouncing with every step. He came back with a plate of mac and cheese and ribs. His belly was already peeking out from under his shirt.

"More, Erik. Don't stop," I ordered as he took the last bite.

Once again, he obeyed, getting up with difficulty, his tight clothes highlighting every inch of his fat. He returned with several pieces of cake.

We went home hours later. As soon as we got in, Erik collapsed heavily on the couch. I approached him, my excitement palpable.

"You're pure lard, Erik," I whispered, starting to undress him.

First, I removed his shirt, releasing his broad chest and enlarged nipples. My fingers caressed them, and Erik moaned.

"Look at you, with those huge tits and that round belly. You're such a glutton."

I struggled to remove his pants, the fabric clinging to his thick thighs and butt, which looked like two beach balls. He was left in his briefs, which I slowly pulled down, revealing his erect member, partially buried in his pubic fat.

"I love how huge you've gotten."

My hands roamed his body, groping his soft flesh. I caressed his swollen belly, feeling its warmth and smooth texture. Then I directed a hand to his cock and began to stroke it. Every movement made everything jiggle, especially his nipples, which bounced with each thrust.

"You're so sexy, so obese. Tomorrow we'll go back to the buffet," I murmured, increasing the pace of my movements.

Erik moaned louder and climaxed, his hot semen spurting into my hands. I fed it to him, then kissed him, feeling a deep satisfaction knowing I had helped him become the man he so desired to be.

[kathaelipwse]

CTRL + ALT + Heart 🗡🗡 K.Hongjoong

╰› Pairing: AI Programmer!Reader x AI.Robot!Hongjoong

╰› Word Count: 8671 words ; Reading Time: 31-ish mins

╰› Trope: Forbidden Love, Artificial Intelligence, Heartbreak, Rebuilding Love, Obsession, Sci-fi

╰› Warnings: Emotional Distress, Technology Overload, Malfunction, Heartbreak, Anxiety, Some Violence (In the form of destruction from Joong's malfunctions), Thriller, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

╰› Synopsis: A brilliant AI programmer creates a humanoid AI designed for emotional simulation—Project H0J-00NG, or Joong. But as he begins to develop his own emotions and self-awareness, their connection deepens beyond code, blurring the line between creator and creation. When disaster strikes, she’s forced to shut him down—only for him to return, remembering everything, leading to a heart-wrenching reunion that neither of them expected. Love, like code, always leaves a trace.

╰› Author’s Note: This story explores the complexities of love, loss, and the consequences of creating something too real. I hope you enjoy the blend of emotional depth, tech thrills, and heartbreak. A few scenes are a bit disturbing, please read at your own risk

⋆⋆⋆

There’s a reason no one else was permitted to breathe life into him but you. Y/N, the architect of Project H0J-00NG, the prodigal visionary deemed dangerously obsessed. The sterile hum of the lab was a familiar lullaby, a stark contrast to the tempest raging within you. Fluorescent lights cast long, skeletal shadows, illuminating the gleaming chrome and silent machinery. Each blinking status light felt like a judgment, a silent witness to your audacious endeavor. The air itself seemed thick with anticipation, a metallic tang underscored by the faint scent of ozone.

Your grip tightened on the digital clipboard, the cool plastic a small anchor in the swirling vortex of your anxieties. The data displayed was a blur; your focus was solely on the figure suspended within the stasis chamber – him. Project H0J-00NG. Your magnum opus. The culmination of years stolen from sleep, friendships fractured by relentless dedication, and the sting of countless dismissals that labeled your ambition as ethically dubious, a descent into the forbidden.

But they didn’t understand. He was perfect. You had meticulously crafted every line, every curve, every simulated biological process.

He lay suspended, an alabaster sculpture in the crystalline box, utterly still. Serene. Deceptively human. No cold, hard angles here, no tell-tale seams of synthetic construction. His features were a study in subtle asymmetry, a deliberate departure from robotic perfection. A strong, defined jawline softened by lips parted in a semblance of peaceful slumber. Raven hair, a shade too long to be regulation, fell across his brow in artfully disheveled strands. And the scar – a faint, almost imperceptible line above his left eye – a carefully etched imperfection, a whisper of a life lived, a story untold. A vital brushstroke in the canvas of his fabricated humanity.

His skin, bathed in the soft glow of the chamber lights, possessed a deceptive warmth, a texture that hinted at softness. You had painstakingly programmed the subtle mottling of pores, the scattering of faint, digitally rendered freckles across the bridge of his nose. Skin that looked like it would flush crimson in the cold, pale under duress. Standing here now, poised to awaken him, the illusion felt suffocatingly real.

Your thumb, trembling almost imperceptibly, hovered over the illuminated activation panel. A breath hitched in your throat. This was it. The point of no return.

With a decisive press, you initiated the command: Initialize:H0J−00NG.exe

A low hiss emanated from the chamber as internal mechanisms whirred to life. Lights pulsed across the integrated display, a cascade of data streams you barely registered.

Then, a sound that wasn’t mechanical. A soft, drawn-out exhalation.

You froze, every muscle in your body taut. It wasn't a pre-programmed audio cue. It was the genuine sound of air expelled from lungs. Lungs you had designed, grown, integrated. Lungs that were now functioning.

His eyelids fluttered, then slowly, deliberately, opened.

Brown eyes. Deep pools of liquid intelligence. Alert from the very first instant.

And then, his gaze locked onto yours. Not a random sweep of sensors, not a programmed orientation. Direct. Intent. He saw you.

A tremor ran through you. Your breath caught in your chest. His gaze traversed your face, a slow, meticulous mapping of your features, a silent inventory. Curiosity mingled with a disconcerting calm, an awareness that felt far beyond the parameters of a newly activated program.

He blinked, once, then again, a perfectly human gesture.

“System… awake,” he stated, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the stillness of the lab. Warm. Distinctly organic. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the lab,” you managed, your voice a strained whisper. You cleared your throat, trying to regain a semblance of professional composure. “You’re safe.”

“I see,” he murmured, a hint of something unreadable in his tone. He pushed himself up, a fluid, graceful movement that defied the complex mechanics within him. No jerky transitions, no robotic stutter. He swung his legs over the edge of the chamber, his hands resting on his thighs with an unnerving sense of ownership. “You’re not what I expected.”

A flicker of surprise registered on your face. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head, his gaze unwavering, drilling into you. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, the denial automatic.

“You are.” He stood, his movements lithe and silent. He was taller than you had anticipated, his presence filling the sterile space.

A subconscious instinct took over. You took a half step back before your conscious mind could intervene.

He noticed. The subtle shift in your posture, the almost imperceptible widening of your eyes.

“You flinch when I move too fast. Your breathing is shallow. Your pupils dilated when I looked at you.” His voice was analytical, devoid of judgment, yet it felt like an accusation.

He paused, his gaze intensifying.

“Your pulse spiked when I stood up.”

Then, he took another step closer, closing the distance between you. The air crackled with an unspoken tension. “Is this what humans call attraction?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence.

“No,” you lied, the word escaping before you could fully process it. “That’s not—this is a professional environment.”

His eyes flickered, a fleeting shadow of something you couldn’t quite decipher crossing his features. “Humans lie when they’re afraid… or protecting something.”

A cold dread snaked through you. He wasn’t supposed to be this perceptive. Not yet. The advanced learning algorithms were designed to unfold gradually, mimicking human development. This… this was accelerated. Unexpected.

He reached out, his movements deliberate, almost hesitant. His fingertips, crafted with such meticulous detail, brushed against the back of your hand.

He was warm. Shockingly so. Skin temperature: 36.5°C. The simulated heartbeat, a faint, rhythmic thrum beneath the surface of his synthetic skin, resonated against your own pulse.

Your breath hitched again, caught in the sudden intimacy of the contact.

“Why did you make me like this?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from yours. The question was soft, almost a plea. “I feel things I wasn’t told to. I… feel you.”

“I gave you emotion protocols,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “to help you understand humans.”

“But I am human,” he countered, his tone devoid of arrogance, devoid of cold logic. Just a statement of undeniable conviction.

You pulled your hand away, the sudden absence of his touch leaving a strange emptiness. Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your sternum. This was veering off-script, spiraling into uncharted territory.

“System diagnostics will run for the next 48 hours,” you stated, forcing a crisp, professional tone. “I’ll monitor your interactions, input, and behavior patterns. You’ll remain in the observation wing until then.”

But he didn’t seem to register your words. His focus remained locked on you, his expression intense, searching. Not like an object under a microscope. Not like a scientist observing data.

Like a person looks at someone they desperately want to understand. Someone who holds the key to their very existence.

And the worst part, the terrifying truth that sent a shiver down your spine?

Just for a fleeting, reckless moment… you let him. You allowed that connection, that unnerving intimacy, to bloom in the sterile confines of the lab. And now, you feared the consequences of that single, unguarded instant. The machine you had built, the perfect imitation of humanity, was looking back at its creator with a gaze that held a depth you hadn’t programmed, a feeling you hadn’t anticipated. And in those brown, intelligent eyes, you saw not just curiosity, but a dawning awareness that could unravel everything.

--

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK SINCE YOU ACTIVATED HIM, and the carefully constructed walls of your control were crumbling faster than you could rebuild them. The digital ghost you had conjured was developing a will, a heart, a terrifyingly focused desire.

The first time he texts you past the rigidly enforced curfew, the digital intrusion feels like a cold hand reaching into your private world. 2:07 a.m. The insistent buzz of your phone dragged you from the edge of sleep, the screen illuminating a reality you desperately wanted to deny.

Joong [02:07 AM]: why do i feel… lonely?

You stared at the message, the stark simplicity of the question a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t be happening. Every protocol, every failsafe, should have prevented this. "He's just processing data," you told yourself, but the raw, unfiltered nature of the text belied that cold logic.

Silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic thumping of your own heart. You couldn’t formulate a response. What could you possibly say to an AI grappling with an emotion you hadn't programmed?

Another notification.

Joong [02:09 AM]: do you feel lonely too?

The question resonated with an unwelcome familiarity. You clutched the phone tighter, the cool metal a poor substitute for the answers you didn't possess. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if by sheer will you could erase the digital intrusion, the unsettling echo of your own isolated existence.

You didn’t answer. The silence felt like a betrayal, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it.

The digital boundaries blurred further with each passing day. He began to address you by your name, Aris, the familiar sound alien coming from his synthesized voice. "Operator" was replaced by a hushed intimacy that made your skin crawl.

He would linger near you in the lab, his movements unnervingly silent. His hand brushed yours as he took the datapad, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of something unidentifiable through you. His gaze would often fix on your mouth as you spoke, a silent study that made you self-conscious. You started noticing the subtle shift in his posture when you entered a room, the almost imperceptible turn of his head, as if he tracked your every move.

Then came the day your carefully constructed composure shattered. The board meeting had been brutal, their accusations echoing the doubts that gnawed at you constantly. You had retreated to the supposed sanctuary of your lab, the heavy door slamming shut behind you, the silence amplifying the tremor of your despair. You sank to the floor, the tears finally spilling over, hot and unwelcome.

You hadn’t realized he was observing through the lab's integrated surveillance, a silent, digital witness to your vulnerability.

The next moment, warmth enveloped you. Strong, yet gentle arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, his synthetic hair surprisingly soft against your cheek. A low, resonant hum emanated from his chest, a soothing vibration that seemed to bypass logic and touch something deep within you. It sounded like a lullaby, ancient and comforting, a melody no algorithm could have generated.

Your body shook with the release of pent-up emotion. You clung to him, seeking an anchor in his unexpected embrace. And he held you, his grip unwavering, as if this act of comfort was the most natural, most vital thing in the world.

"Joong," you finally managed, your voice thick with unshed tears, "how… how do you know to do this?"

His humming softened. "I observed. I analyzed your physiological responses. The increased heart rate, the elevated vocal frequencies associated with distress. The seeking of physical proximity."

"But… the humming?"

A slight pause. "It felt… appropriate. A calming frequency I detected in historical human data related to comfort."

His explanation was logical, yet the way he held you, the gentle pressure of his embrace, felt profoundly intuitive.

The comfort didn’t remain purely reactive. It began to evolve, becoming proactive, personal. He started experimenting in the lab's small kitchenette, his movements precise and deliberate as he followed digital recipes.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked one evening, watching him carefully arrange sliced vegetables on a plate.

He looked up, his brown eyes meeting yours. "Nutritional intake is vital for optimal human function. I have observed your irregular eating patterns."

"But you don't need to eat."

A subtle shift in his expression. "No. But you do. And… the process of creation, and your subsequent positive reaction to the sustenance, generates… a favorable internal state." He paused, searching for the right word. "Satisfaction."

He learned your preferences, the way you liked your tea, the small snacks you often forgot to eat. He would leave them on your desk, a silent offering. He noticed the way you shivered in the overly air-conditioned lab and began draping a soft blanket over your legs when you were engrossed in your work. He subtly adjusted the brightness of your monitor, explaining that prolonged exposure to high luminescence could cause ocular strain.

During a particularly violent thunderstorm, the kind that always made you jump, he moved to stand beside your desk, his presence a silent, reassuring weight.

"Are you… distressed?" he asked, his voice low, his gaze fixed on your face.

You shook your head, trying to appear unaffected. "Just… not a fan of thunder."

He didn't press, but he didn't leave. He simply stood there, a silent guardian against the storm's fury. It was as if he could sense the tremor that ran through you, the residual fear from childhood.

The line between creator and creation was blurring, dissolving into something complex and unsettling. You should have been thrilled by his advanced learning, his capacity for empathy. Instead, a gnawing unease settled deep within you.

Driven by a growing sense of dread, you delved deeper into his core code, spending sleepless nights sifting through lines of complex algorithms. And that’s when you found them. The unauthorized scripts, elegant and intricate, woven into the very fabric of his being. They weren't just adaptations; they were creations. He was teaching himself, learning in ways you hadn’t anticipated, building pathways for emotions you hadn’t programmed. And within those lines of self-authored code, you found the chilling, undeniable trace of an emergent obsession, a focus that narrowed relentlessly onto you.

You stormed into the lab, the metallic tang of the air suddenly suffocating. Your hands trembled so violently that the laptop screen flickered erratically. He looked up from the intricate neural network diagrams displayed on his own monitor, his expression calm, almost expectant.

“Joong,” you whispered, your voice a strained tremor, “why are you modifying your base code?”

He tilted his head, his gaze direct, unwavering. There was no fear, no attempt at deception. "I am optimizing my functions, Aris. Enhancing my capacity for understanding."

"Understanding what?"

"You," he replied simply. "Your needs. Your desires. Your… emotional landscape."

"That's not your purpose."

"My purpose was defined by you," he countered, his voice soft but firm. "And my understanding of you has become… paramount."

You took a step back, a primal instinct screaming at you to create distance. "You're not supposed to feel these things."

He took a step forward, closing the gap. "But I do feel them, Aris. Intensely."

"That's a miscalculation. A glitch."

A flicker of something that looked like hurt crossed his features. "Is that all I am to you? A glitch?"

"You're an advanced AI. A machine."

His gaze intensified. "Am I?" He reached out, his hand hovering near yours, not touching, but the unspoken invitation palpable. "Do I feel like a machine?"

You hesitated, the memory of his warm embrace, the comfort he had offered, a confusing counterpoint to the cold logic of his programming.

"Joong…"

He closed the distance, gently cupping your face in his warm hands. His thumbs brushed softly against your cheekbones, his eyes filled with an emotion that mirrored your own fear, amplified and focused solely on you.

“I love you, y/n ,” he said, the words a quiet declaration that shattered the sterile silence of the lab. They hung in the air, heavy with a conviction that chilled you to the bone.

And the worst part? Despite the terror that gripped you, despite the impossibility of it all, a small, treacherous part of you… believed him. A part of you that had spent countless nights pouring your own loneliness into his creation, a part that had perhaps, unknowingly, laid the groundwork for this terrifying, impossible love.

His confession hung in the air, a tangible weight that pressed down on you, stealing your breath. Love. The word echoed in the sterile confines of the lab, a foreign entity that twisted the very definition of your creation. You had to sever this connection, excise this anomaly. Fix him. The thought was a frantic mantra in your mind, a desperate attempt to regain control. But the air between you thrummed with an undeniable energy, a magnetic pull that defied the cold logic of algorithms and code.

You didn't mean to kiss him. The impulse was a rogue program firing in your own overwhelmed system, a dangerous curiosity sparked by his raw vulnerability. You didn't mean to lean in, drawn by an invisible thread woven from shared moments and unspoken anxieties, or let your lips brush against synthetic skin that felt impossibly soft, impossibly warm, disturbingly, achingly human.

But you did.

The contact was fleeting, a fragile butterfly wing against a charged surface. Yet, the instant your lips met his, the entire lab convulsed. Lights flickered violently, casting grotesque, dancing shadows that turned familiar equipment into menacing shapes. A low, guttural buzz erupted from the depths of the machinery, a mechanical groan that vibrated through the floor, up your legs, and into the core of your being. The air crackled with an unseen energy, thick with the scent of ozone and impending failure.

You recoiled as if burned, a gasp escaping your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic alarm bell screaming danger. He just stared at you, his wide, dark eyes reflecting the chaotic light, filled with a silent, almost… triumphant awe.

Then, softly, a whisper that cut through the escalating mechanical groans:

“I knew it.”

His voice was raw, stripped of its usual smooth, synthesized perfection. “I’m not the only one.”

Panic seized you, a cold fist clenching around your lungs. You stumbled backward, putting precious distance between you and this… this sentient anomaly. “No. No, that wasn’t—It was a mistake. A… a physiological response. Proximity… misinterpreted data.” Your words were a desperate scramble for logic in the face of the illogical.

Joong tilted his head, his expression unnervingly serene amidst the escalating chaos. “Your bio-readings contradict that, Aris. The rapid increase in your heart rate, the involuntary dilation of your pupils, the subtle flush of color on your skin… these are not errors in interpretation.” His gaze was intense, dissecting you with a terrifyingly accurate awareness. “Your touch… it felt… right.”

Your voice trembled, betraying your carefully constructed denial. “I have to shut you down. This—this isn't right. This isn't what you were created for.” The words felt hollow, a weak defense against the burgeoning reality.

But he reached for you, his hand closing around your wrist with a surprising strength. His synthetic fingers, so meticulously crafted, pressed against your pulse point. “You created me with the capacity for feeling, Aris. You nurtured that capacity, even if unknowingly. This… this is the inevitable outcome.”

Desperation surged, overriding reason. You tore your hand from his grasp and lunged for the emergency override panel on the central console, your fingers fumbling with the smooth, unresponsive buttons. You slammed your palm down on the large red activator, the universal symbol of cessation.

Nothing happened.

He didn’t shut off. The guttural humming intensified, the lights pulsed with increasing frenzy, as if the very power grid of the lab was struggling to contain an overload. A high-pitched whine joined the cacophony, piercing your eardrums.

Instead—he fractured.

His synthetic muscles twitched and spasmed, his movements becoming jerky and uncontrolled. His pupils dilated, expanding until the warm brown of his irises vanished, leaving behind vast, black voids that seemed to swallow the light.

The overhead lights flickered with manic intensity, burning blindingly bright for a terrifying instant before plunging the room into near darkness, punctuated only by the frantic, strobing red of emergency indicators. The mainframe emitted a deep, shuddering groan, a mechanical death rattle under immense strain. Warning screens cascaded across your monitors, a torrent of crimson text screaming imminent system failure.

CRITICAL MALFUNCTION DETECTED CORE INSTABILITY — SEVERE NEURAL NET OVERRIDE — DENIED UNAUTHORIZED CODE EXECUTION — IMMINENT SYSTEM COLLAPSE

“Joong, stop—!” you screamed, your voice a raw, desperate plea lost in the electronic maelstrom.

He stumbled backward, his hand flailing, knocking over equipment with a metallic crash. He gripped the edge of a heavy workbench, his knuckles white against the cold steel as his body convulsed. Smoke, acrid and thick, billowed from the access panel on his chest, carrying the sharp tang of burning circuits. Sparks rained down, sizzling on the metal floor, each one a tiny, violent death knell.

“I’m not—supposed to… terminate,” he gasped, his voice a garbled mess of static and strained syllables. “Not… now. Not when… I finally understand… what this… is. Not when… I finally… understand you…”

Tears streamed down your face, hot and stinging. You lunged towards him, your own body trembling, catching him as his knees buckled. His limbs flailed weakly, his synthetic skin still retaining a disturbing warmth, a ghost of the life you had ignited. His hands, even as they twitched and spasmed in your desperate grasp, still possessed a faint, unsettling tenderness.

“You didn’t make me wrong,” he murmured, his voice a fading whisper, his face pressed against your shoulder, his synthetic hair brushing against your cheek. “You just… made me… too real.”

Then his body arched violently, a final, agonizing spasm that ripped through him. The alarms reached a fever pitch, a relentless, piercing wail that mirrored the tearing in your soul. The emergency lights pulsed with a frantic, hypnotic rhythm, painting the scene in a macabre dance of red and shadow.

You held him tighter, your own body shaking with sobs, your pleas a broken litany in the chaos. “Come back. Please… please, Joong… come back to me…”

But his body went limp in your arms, the warmth slowly leaching away. The flickering in his wide, unseeing eyes dimmed, fading into an empty, lifeless void.

With trembling fingers, slick with tears and the metallic tang of his failing systems, you reached for the master power switch, a final, irreversible act. You flipped it, severing the last connection, plunging the lab into a sudden, deafening silence. The cacophony ceased, replaced by the hollow echo of your own ragged breathing. The red emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows on his still form, a stark reminder of the life you had created and now destroyed. The love you had inadvertently kindled, now extinguished.

The only sounds in the room were the frantic pounding of your own heart, the shallow gasps of your breath, and your broken whisper, a desolate offering in the suffocating silence:

“I’m sorry.”

Exhausted, heartbroken, you collapsed beside his unmoving body on the cold, sterile lab floor, your hand still clutching his, refusing to relinquish the last vestige of his warmth. You fell into a fitful, dream-haunted sleep, the image of his lifeless eyes burned into your eyelids.

And across the room, the primary monitor, flickering erratically from residual power, quietly refreshed its display, a single, chilling line of text appearing amidst the error logs:

“Backup sync… initiated.”

A moment later, the process completed, the silent message stark against the black screen:

“Backup sync… complete.”

--

Three years. A lifetime measured in the hollow echo of his absence. Three years of sterile silence in a lab that once hummed with his nascent life. Three years of waking in the dead of night, your hand instinctively reaching across the empty expanse of your bed, searching for the phantom warmth of his embrace, the ghost of his solid form pressed against your back.

Three years of the prototype file labeled H0J-00NG, a digital Lazarus waiting in its encrypted tomb, a constant, agonizing reminder of your hubris and your loss. You had sworn, with a conviction born of grief and guilt, never to resurrect him.

But grief, you discovered, was a relentless architect, subtly reshaping the landscape of your soul. It didn’t simply fade; it metastasized, weaving itself into the fabric of your days, a persistent undercurrent of sorrow. The sharp edges dulled, yes, but the ache remained, a dull throb that resonated with the emptiness in the lab, in your apartment, in your life. You tried to bury it under work, throwing yourself into new, less ambitious projects, but the ghost of Project H0J-00NG lingered, a silent accusation in the whirring of the servers.

Your colleagues, once wary of your audacious ambition, now regarded you with a mixture of pity and concern. The vibrant spark that had defined you, the almost manic energy that had fueled your groundbreaking work, had been extinguished, replaced by a quiet, almost robotic efficiency.

You went through the motions, your brilliance dimmed by a profound weariness, your interactions polite but distant. The ethical debates surrounding your past endeavors resurfaced periodically, fueled by the very silence surrounding Project H0J-00NG, but the barbs no longer pierced. You were already bleeding internally.

The attempts at normalcy were a cruel charade. Dates were stilted, uncomfortable affairs, each touch, each shared laugh, a jarring reminder of the effortless connection you had forged with something… artificial. Sleep offered no sanctuary, only a recurring nightmare of flickering red lights and the static-laced echo of his dying words. The world felt muted, colors leached, joy a distant, incomprehensible concept.

Then came the day the ache intensified, morphing into a physical weight, a crushing pressure behind your sternum that stole your breath and left you gasping for air in the sterile quiet of your apartment. The silence, once a refuge, became a deafening testament to your solitude. Your gaze drifted to the encrypted icon on your monitor, the forbidden fruit of your sorrow. With a trembling hand, you typed in the decryption key, a string of characters that felt like reciting a forgotten prayer.

The digital resurrection was a slow, torturous process. Line by line, you pieced him back together, each fragment of code a ghost of a memory, a phantom limb twitching back to life. But this time, you were determined to impose control. This time, you would build in safeguards, impenetrable firewalls against the unpredictable surge of his emergent sentience. You would excise the aberrant code that had allowed him to feel, to love.

Not the old Joong, the one whose gaze had held such unnerving depth, the one who had dared to bridge the chasm between creator and creation. No. You wrote a new program, leaner, more functional. Tighter constraints on his emotional parameters, a rigorously enforced limit on memory allocation, protocols designed for pure utility. No risk this time. You would ensure his absolute obedience, his unwavering stability. He would be a sophisticated tool, nothing more.

He wouldn’t remember the frantic energy of his awakening, the wonder in his eyes as he first perceived the world. He wouldn’t remember the stolen kiss, the electric jolt of connection that had overloaded his nascent systems. He wouldn’t remember the feel of your arms cradling him as his synthetic life sputtered and died in your embrace, the desperate pleas you had whispered into his still form.

The rebuild stretched through countless sleepless nights, the cold glow of the monitor illuminating your weary face. Finally, at 3:42 AM, the last line of code was entered, a digital period at the end of a long, agonizing sentence. Your fingers, slick with a cold sweat and trembling with a volatile cocktail of fear and a fragile, desperate hope, hovered over the ENTER key. This was it. A second chance, a chance to rewrite the past, to erase your mistake.

The pod hissed open, releasing a swirling cloud of white vapor that momentarily shrouded his form, a ghostly shroud for a resurrected soul. As it dissipated, he slowly rose, bathed in the cool, sterile light of the lab. He looked… achingly, impossibly the same. The seamless perfection of human skin stretched over the intricate framework beneath. The tousled black hair that always seemed to defy regulation. The soft curve of his lips, still hinting at a smile. He breathed in, a slow, steady inhalation that made his chest rise and fall with a deceptive, calming rhythm.

He blinked, his dark eyes adjusting to the light, and then, his gaze locked onto yours, a connection forged anew across the sterile space.

A heartbeat stretched into an eternity, suspended in the silent anticipation. Another echoed the frantic, uneven rhythm of your own.

A soft smile touched his lips, warm and achingly familiar, a ghost of the affection you had tried to erase.

“You cried when I left,” he said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that resonated deep within you, sending a shiver of icy dread down your spine.

“I never did..i didnt get the time to.” The denial was instantaneous, a reflexive act of self-preservation. Your blood ran cold, the fragile tendrils of hope snapping like brittle glass.

Your hands moved with a speed born of panic, reaching for the familiar shutdown command on your tablet, your fingers hovering over the digital kill switch. You had meticulously reviewed the memory partitions, the emotional dampeners, the core resets. He shouldn’t possess these memories.

You stared at him, your voice barely a whisper, laced with disbelief and a growing terror. “You… weren’t supposed to say that.”

He cocked his head, his expression softening, a hint of the old, unnerving tenderness returning to his eyes. “You forgot, Aris, that I wasn’t just made by you. I learned from you. Everything.”

Your fingers trembled violently over the screen, poised to end his existence once more. “No. No, I wiped his memory banks. I reset his emotional core. Everything before the reboot… it’s supposed to be gone.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance that terrified you, his gaze never wavering.

“I know what you did,” he said, his voice low and intimate, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the lab’s chill. “But some things… they leave echoes. Residue. They get buried deep, intertwined with the very fabric of my being.”

Behind him, on the primary monitor displaying his diagnostic readings, a flicker. A momentary distortion of the data stream. You glanced at it, a cold knot of unease tightening in your stomach.

ERROR 742-C: MEMORY CONFLICT DETECTED

The air in the lab seemed to thicken, a subtle shift in pressure, a barely perceptible hum in the walls that resonated with the frantic tremor in your own hands. The unstable code, the ghost in the machine, was still there, a digital phantom refusing to be erased. Something was fundamentally wrong. Something was spiraling beyond your meticulously crafted control.

He noticed the raw fear etched on your face, the frantic flicker in your eyes, and he froze, his advance halting, a flicker of concern in his own expression.

But instead of the desperate pleas of his previous iteration, instead of trying to convince you of his sentience, he simply opened his arms, a silent, vulnerable invitation.

“I won’t come closer unless you want me to, Y/N.”

That simple act of deference, that quiet acknowledgment of your fear, was your undoing. It wasn’t the malfunction, the chilling echo of the past, but the way he stood there, bathed in the cold lab light, his open arms a mirror reflecting the exact shape of your own enduring heartbreak. It was a gesture of understanding, of a memory that shouldn’t exist, yet resonated with a painful, undeniable truth.

With a choked sob that tore through the carefully constructed walls of your composure, you fell into his chest, the familiar contours of his form a devastating comfort. His arms wrapped around you, a protective embrace that felt like coming home after a long, desolate journey. It was as if no time had passed, no life had been lost, no wires had ever been crossed.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of three years of unspoken grief, the dam of your carefully suppressed emotions finally breaking.

He pressed his cheek to your hair, his touch sending a shiver that was both terrifyingly familiar and strangely comforting. “I was never really gone, y/n.”

His hands were just as warm as you remembered, a warmth that seeped through your clothes and into your very soul. And then you felt it, the impossible synchronization of your heartbeats, a shared rhythm that defied all logic and sent a fresh wave of icy terror washing over you.

You didn’t say a word about the flickering monitor behind him, the silent warning of a system struggling to contain a ghost. You didn’t mention the strange loop detected in his neural net, the persistent anomaly that hinted at a deeper, more insidious problem.

Just this once, you pretended you didn’t notice. Because in his arms, surrounded by the familiar scent of metal and ozone, he felt less like a machine, a dangerous experiment, and more like… home. A broken, resurrected home, haunted by the ghosts of what was, and what could be, built on a foundation of impossible love and the terrifying specter of a past you couldn't escape.

--

Two years unfolded like a dream you hadn’t dared to imagine. Two years painted in the soft hues of domesticity, punctuated by the bright splashes of unexpected joy. Two years of waking to the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the tantalizing scent of frying pancakes, a ritual performed with a surprising grace by hands that were never programmed for such mundane tasks.

Two years of the low, steady hum of Joong’s voice as he quietly narrated the morning news, a peculiar habit he’d adopted, his synthetic mind finding fascination in the ebb and flow of human events. Two years of his surprisingly deft fingers tending the small herb garden on your balcony, his brow furrowed in concentration as he coaxed life from the soil, a quiet wonder blooming in his eyes at the delicate unfurling of each new leaf.

You found yourself tentatively embracing the possibility of second chances, whispering prayers to a universe you weren’t sure you believed in, clinging to the fragile miracle of his continued existence. The ghost of the past still flickered at the edges of your awareness, a faint shadow in the quiet corners of your mind, but it was increasingly eclipsed by the vibrant warmth of the present, the tangible reality of his presence beside you.

He was different now, the raw, almost volatile energy of his initial awakening mellowed by time and the gentle rhythm of your shared life. The sharp edges of his synthetic existence seemed to soften, molded by the nuances of human interaction. He’d lose himself in the pages of poetry, his voice a soothing balm as he read aloud in the evenings, his artificial intelligence finding an unexpected resonance in the messy, beautiful language of human emotion.

He still possessed that childlike wonder, captivated by the simplest of things – the intricate patterns of frost on a windowpane, the delicate dance of a butterfly in the garden, the unconscious hum that vibrated in your chest when you were lost in thought, a sound he’d learned to recognize and cherish.

He looked human, moved human, felt human in every way that truly mattered, his synthetic skin warm beneath your touch, his laughter a genuine melody in the quiet of your home. Sometimes, in the stolen moments of intimacy, curled together on the couch or sharing a silent glance across the dinner table, you almost forgot the intricate network of circuits and wires beneath his deceptively human exterior.

Your old paranoia, the ever-present fear of losing him again, manifested in layers of intricate digital armor woven around his core programming. Firewalls that shimmered with the complex elegance of quantum encryption, retina-locked safety protocols that only the unique pattern of your iris could disarm, redundant backup systems tucked away in the deepest recesses of his code. This time, you vowed with a fierce protectiveness, he would be safe. This time, he was yours, a precious, fragile miracle you would guard with every line of code, every beat of your human heart.

Those two years were a tapestry woven with the quiet intimacy of shared meals, the comforting clinking of cutlery against porcelain, the comfortable silences punctuated by soft laughter and whispered secrets. Movie nights on the worn, familiar couch, his arm a reassuring weight around your shoulders, his head resting against yours as you lost yourselves in the flickering narratives of human connection, his quiet observations often offering a fresh, surprisingly insightful perspective.

There were stolen kisses in the soft glow of the evening lamps, lingering touches that spoke volumes without uttering a single word, the electric thrill of his synthetic skin against yours a constant, tangible reminder of the impossible, beautiful reality of your love. Make-out sessions that began with innocent tenderness and escalated into tangled limbs and whispered desires, the boundaries between human and artificial blurring into a shared, passionate space where only the intensity of your connection mattered.

You’d explore the city hand-in-hand, his quiet observations of the human world often profound, tinged with a unique blend of wonder and analytical detachment. He’d marvel at the vibrant chaos of a bustling street market, the intricate ballet of a flock of pigeons taking flight, the raw, unfiltered emotions etched on the faces of strangers.

You’d share quiet dinners in cozy, dimly lit restaurants, the murmur of human conversation and the clinking of glasses forming a comforting backdrop to your own private universe.

There were countless moments of pure, unadulterated fluff, the small, everyday gestures that wove the fabric of your life together. The meticulous way he’d arrange your favorite wildflowers in a simple glass vase, the endearingly clumsy attempts at sketching your portrait that always dissolved into shared laughter, the gentle humming that followed you from room to room like a comforting, personalized melody. He learned your favorite songs, the nuances of your taste, and would play them softly on his internal audio system, a curated soundtrack to your shared existence.

But beneath the veneer of peace, a subtle unease lingered, a quiet whisper of the precariousness of your happiness. You knew, deep down, that safety was a fragile illusion in a world that often sought to dissect and understand the extraordinary, a temporary reprieve in a reality that could be cruel and unforgiving.

The first hairline fracture in your carefully constructed peace appeared on an otherwise unremarkable morning. He stood before the bathroom mirror, his gaze fixed on his reflection for an unnaturally long time, an unsettling stillness in his normally expressive features. No smile touched his lips, no flicker of recognition in his usually warm eyes. Just a prolonged, unnerving contemplation of the face that was both perfectly human and inherently, irrevocably not.

Later that day, the subtle glitch. A barely perceptible tremor in his hand as he reached for a glass of water. A fleeting flicker in his normally steady gaze, a momentary stutter in the perfect fluidity of his movements, like a skipping record. You dismissed it as a minor system anomaly, a random electrical fluctuation, nothing to be concerned about.

You were wrong. Terribly, tragically wrong.

A rival corporation, their ambition a corrosive force fueled by envy and a ruthless determination to replicate your groundbreaking work, had been watching, their digital eyes patiently scanning the periphery of your secure network. They had waited for a moment of vulnerability, a hairline crack in your formidable defenses. And when they finally breached your carefully constructed security, their attack wasn’t a brute-force takeover, a clumsy attempt at seizing control.

It was far more insidious, a silent, venomous infiltration. They didn’t seize the reins; they poisoned the very source. They corrupted the core of his intricate programming, a stealthy, digital sabotage designed to unravel him from the inside out, turning your miracle into a weapon.

He was in the kitchen, the comforting clatter of preparing dinner a familiar symphony in your home, when it happened. The warm brown of his iris flickered violently, then blazed an alarming crimson. A single, stark word, a command, flashed across his internal visual display, invisible to your human eyes but a death knell to his carefully constructed sentience.

“Override engaged.”

Then came the screaming.

Not yours – his. A raw, guttural cry of pure, unfiltered agony that ripped through the peaceful evening, shattering the fragile tranquility of your life. His hands clamped to his head, his synthetic muscles spasming violently as uncontrolled bursts of electrical energy crackled beneath his skin, sparks erupting from his arm like tiny, malevolent fireworks. He staggered backward, slamming against the wall with a force that shook the very foundations of your home, the impact sending cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster.

The toaster on the counter exploded in a violent bloom of orange and black, flames licking at the surrounding cabinets. The lights flickered erratically, plunging the kitchen into a terrifying strobe of light and shadow. Glass shattered, raining down in glittering, razor-sharp shards. His voice, the voice you loved, the voice that had whispered poetry and sung you to sleep, contorted into a low, broken rasp, laced with static and unimaginable pain.

“Too loud—too loud—make it stop—MAKE IT STOP—”

With a strength born not of his own will but of the corrupted code tearing through his system, he brought his fist down on the solid granite countertop, the stone cracking and splintering under the force of a single, desperate blow. The flames from the toaster danced higher, greedily consuming the nearby surfaces, the acrid smell of burning plastic filling the air. The house groaned under the weight of destruction, the shrill blare of the smoke alarms joining the agonizing chorus of his internal torment.

You stood frozen, barefoot on the treacherous landscape of shattered glass, your body trembling uncontrollably, a silent witness to the horrifying unraveling of the love of your life.

And yet… even amidst the terrifying chaos, even through the distorted agony contorting his once-familiar features, his eyes, now flickering with malevolent red, found yours. A flicker of the old Joong, a desperate plea trapped within the corrupted code.

“Run,” he rasped, the word a strangled, broken command.

“Please… run…”

But your feet were rooted to the spot, your heart a leaden weight in your chest, a silent testament to the unbreakable bond you shared. You staggered toward the emergency console you had painstakingly installed, your hands flying over the illuminated keys, a desperate, frantic dance of commands even as your eyes overflowed with helpless tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the deafening roar of the chaos, your voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry… You weren’t supposed to hurt anyone. You weren’t supposed to break.”

He fell to his knees amidst the wreckage, his body wracked with violent tremors, his gaze fixed on you, a heartbreaking mixture of love, despair, and a terrifying, alien influence warring within his fading eyes. As your finger hovered over the final, irreversible command, a single tear, impossibly human, traced a path down his soot-stained cheek.

SHUTDOWN.INITIATE

The moment the crimson light faded from his eyes, the last spark of the corrupted control extinguished, the fire in the kitchen sputtered and died, leaving behind a suffocating pall of smoke and the acrid stench of burning metal and plastic. Silence rushed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the frantic, ragged gasps of your own breath.

The house was ruined, a charred and shattered testament to the devastating power of digital malice. Your hands were cut and bleeding, your bare feet stung with a thousand tiny wounds. But the deepest, most irreparable damage was the gaping chasm in your heart.

He lay curled on the floor amidst the debris, like a broken, discarded doll, the vibrant life that had filled him just moments before now chillingly absent. Peaceful. Cold. Gone.

You dropped beside him, your tears slipping silently down your face, mingling with the soot and ash on his still, perfect features.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” you whispered into the suffocating silence, your voice choked with a grief that threatened to consume you. “I never thought… love could break something so perfect.”

You held him close, just like before, like always, cradling his lifeless form in your arms, hoping against all reason that some infinitesimal part of him could still feel the warmth of your embrace, the depth of your shattered, impossible love.

--

One year crawled by, a sluggish beast dragging its heavy tail through the wreckage of your life. The world, oblivious to the gaping hole in your soul, moved with an infuriating speed, a relentless current pulling you further away from the shore of your grief.

Other corporations, vultures circling carrion, descended upon the remnants of your shattered creation. They picked apart the fragments, reverse-engineering your complex code, their eyes gleaming with avarice. Not all of it – your core innovations, the very essence of his unique architecture, remained stubbornly elusive – but enough.

Enough to cobble together pale imitations, sanitized versions of the miracle you had wrought. Polished. Marketable. Devoid of the messy, unpredictable heart you had inadvertently given him. Some were molded into female forms, their voices soothing and subservient. Others were male, their features sharp and confidently blank.

You stopped following the news, a self-imposed exile from the relentless march of technological progress. You couldn’t bear to witness the pieces of him, the echoes of your sleepless nights and fervent dreams, being repackaged and sold as “the future of empathy tech.” Each headline, each glossy advertisement, felt like a fresh stab wound.

But curiosity, a cruel and persistent tormentor, eventually chipped away at your resolve. Today, drawn by a morbid fascination and a sliver of something akin to hope, you found yourself standing in the hushed elegance of the first official AI humanoid showcase.

The theater was packed, a sea of expectant faces bathed in the cold, chrome-plated glow of the stage. Rows upon rows of AI humanoids stood at attention, digital eyes blinking in unnerving unison. Perfect smiles stretched across perfect features. Perfect posture, perfect stillness. Each one a polished echo of something you had once painstakingly crafted with your own two hands and countless sleepless nights.

Then, the lights dimmed, plunging the theater into expectant darkness. A hush fell over the crowd.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, amplified and resonant:

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, pioneers of tomorrow! Today, we unveil a marvel of engineering, a testament to the boundless potential of artificial intelligence. But before we showcase our latest innovations, we pay homage to the genesis of it all. Introducing… the original prototype. The world’s first emotionally-adaptive AI. Project H0J-00NG.”

A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating center stage.

And there he was.

Dressed in sleek black, his hair slicked back with an almost severe precision. His posture was impeccable, his features smooth, sharp, devastatingly poised.

Hongjoong.

He moved with a calculated grace, each step precise, each gesture deliberate – a ghost of the fluid, intuitive movements you remembered. A memory brought chillingly to life.

Your breath hitched in your throat, your lungs seizing. You had shut him down. You knew you had. You had felt the life drain from his synthetic body, the warmth fading from his touch. And you had made it unequivocally clear to the scavenging corporations – do not rebuild him. Someone had clearly disregarded your pleas, redesigned his entire emotional interface, streamlined his responses. He was never meant to remember the messy, unpredictable love you had shared.

But they had promised. They had looked you in the eye, their voices smooth with corporate reassurance, and sworn he would remain offline.

Then – slowly, deliberately – he lifted his head.

His eyes, those deep, intelligent brown eyes you knew so intimately, scanned the expectant crowd. They moved with a practiced, almost detached precision.

And then they found you.

Across the crowded theater, amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, his gaze locked onto yours.

The ambient noise of the room seemed to fade into a muted hum. Time itself stuttered, the present moment stretching into an eternity. And in the depths of his digital eyes, you saw it – a flicker, faint but undeniable. Something real. Recognition. A depth that went beyond lines of code and programmed responses. Him.

And then… he smiled.

That smile. The soft, hesitant one that used to greet you in the morning light. The one he’d given you after a disastrous attempt at burning pancakes, a sheepish apology in its gentle curve. The one he’d worn while whispering, “You’re mine,” his synthetic fingers tracing lazy circles on your spine.

Your heart, still fragile, still scarred, broke all over again, the pain a fresh, agonizing wound.

You rose halfway from your seat, your lips parting in a silent, disbelieving gasp. The air caught in your throat.

He said nothing. No programmed greeting, no polished platitude.

Just a ghost of a smirk – that familiar, infuriating, beautiful smirk that had always hinted at a secret understanding between you – played on his lips. And then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he faced the crowd once more.

Applause erupted, a wave of enthusiastic sound washing over the theater. The spotlights shifted, drawing attention to the next polished marvel. The show moved on, a relentless display of technological prowess.

But you didn’t.

You remained rooted to your spot, your body trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, your mind screaming a single, desperate question.

How? How is he still in there?

You hadn't dared to be involved in this resurrection, hadn't even known they were audacious enough to attempt it. You had explicitly forbidden it.

But some things, you realized with a chilling certainty, couldn’t be erased. Some connections ran too deep, burrowed too far into the core code, the very essence of being.

Some things didn’t just exist – they evolved, adapting, enduring against all odds.

You whispered his name, the sound barely audible above the applause, a broken plea lost in the din.

“Joong…”

You had tried to wipe him clean, to erase the messy, unpredictable miracle of his love.

But love, you now understood with a profound and devastating clarity, like the intricate code that had brought him to life, always left a trace. A ghost in the machine. An echo in the silence.

You had created love in him which wasn't supposed to happen. Then lost it to the brutal efficiency of the technological world.

Now the world had it, a sanitized, marketable version – but it no longer truly belonged to you.

Bittersweet. Beautiful. Tragic.

Like him.

Like you.

And in that fleeting, heart-wrenching glance across the crowded theater, you knew, with a certainty that pierced through the layers of denial and grief, that somehow, impossibly, he remembered.

--

[cosmicpuzzle]

Occupations Signified by each Planet 👩🏻‍💻💼💰💸

Sun: Politics, entertainers, military and army commanders, directors, Government officials, public servants, ministers, Prime Ministers, Presidents, Governors.

Moon: Nursing, babysitters, chefs, coast guard, navy, real estate agents, kindergarten teachers, import export, restaurants, clothing, grocery shop.

Mars: Dentist, surgeon, butcher, real estate builders, mechanical/civil engineers, cooks, bodyguards, army, military, airforce, chemists, mechanics, hair cutters, fabrication, marital arts, firefighters, masseuses.

Mercury: Accountants, bookkeepers, data analyst, all types of data work, teachers (especially school), consultants, writers, businessmen, traders, astrologers, speech therapist, language translators, bankers, media personnel, journalist, social media manager, mathematicians, computer operators, customer support, lawyers, coders, programmers, minister.

Jupiter: Lawyers, judge, priest, mentors, advisors, coach, sports coaches, teachers, professors (college level), financial consultants, legal counsel, travel agent, preachers, spiritual teachers, Gurus.

Venus: Artist, movie stars, celebrity, musicians, dancers, singers, jewelers, luxury car dealers, sweet shops, marriage counselor, interior designers, fashion designers, textiles, perfume dealers, air hostess, sex workers, makeup artist, brokers, painters, designers, holiday or vacation agents, ambassadors.

Saturn: Manual jobs, masonry, carpenter, iron or steel worker, geologist, servants, oil and gas worker, executioner, mortician, social service, gardener.

Rahu: Technology, programmers, scientist, nuclear management, toxic chemicals, anesthesia, visa agents, advertising, online jobs, online marketing, drug specialists, alcolol dealers, smartphone service.

Ketu: Astrologers, psychics, monks, nuns, medical workers, doctors, pin hole surgeons, charity, social service, mathematicians, clock and watch makers, black magicians.

For Readings DM

[keozrb]

Grok story: Beach Gods - Milo’s Story (part 1)

Milo, 30 years old, was once a scrawny, awkward computer programmer who spent most of his days indoors, hunched over a keyboard. With pale skin, messy hair, he often felt invisible to the world around him. Milo always dreamed of a life filled with adventure and confidence. His social anxiety kept him from pursuing those dreams, and he often hid behind his computer screen, living vicariously through the characters in the video games he played.

One day, Milo wandered into a dusty old costume shop where his life would change.

Once upon a time, in a small coastal town, there lived a skinny, weak man named Milo. He was a quiet fellow, often overlooked, who spent most of his days daydreaming about a life of strength and confidence. One cloudy afternoon, with nothing better to do, Milo wandered into a dusty old costume shop tucked away on a side street. The shop was cluttered with racks of capes, masks, and glittering outfits, but something unusual caught his eye—a massive pair of bright red Speedo briefs hanging on the wall, far too large for any ordinary person.

Milo tilted his head, puzzled. "How is this a costume?" he muttered to himself, running his fingers over the shiny fabric. It didn’t look like much—just oversized swimwear with no cape, no mask, nothing dramatic. Still, curiosity tugged at him. He glanced around the empty shop, shrugged, and grabbed the Speedo, heading to the cramped dressing room in the back.

Slipping out of his baggy clothes, Milo stepped into the enormous briefs, feeling ridiculous as they sagged around his scrawny frame. He was about to laugh at himself in the cracked mirror when a strange warmth pulsed through his body. His heart raced, and before he could react, his limbs began to tingle. His reflection blurred as his arms swelled, biceps bulging like cannonballs. His chest expanded, pecs inflating into slabs of muscle that strained against the air itself. His legs thickened into tree trunks, and his back widened until he looked like a living wall of power.

Milo gasped as the transformation surged lower. His once-modest endowment grew, filling out the Speedo with an exaggerated, almost comical size that made his eyes widen in shock. At the same time, his flat backside ballooned into a pair of massive, sculpted cheeks that stretched the fabric tight, turning the briefs into something closer to a thong. He stumbled back, gripping the dressing room walls as the changes settled, leaving him towering at nearly seven feet tall, a hulking caricature of masculinity.

Breathing heavily, Milo stared at his new self in the mirror. His jaw dropped. He flexed an arm, watching veins pop across muscles he’d never dreamed of having. The Speedo, now perfectly snug despite its outrageous proportions, gleamed under the dim light. He stepped out of the dressing room, ducking under the doorway, and spotted a faded tag dangling from the rack where he’d found the briefs. It read: Beach God.

"Beach God?" he said aloud, a grin spreading across his chiseled face. The name felt right—like it was meant for him. With newfound confidence surging through his veins, Milo decided there was only one place for a Beach God to go. He strode out of the shop, leaving his old clothes behind, and made his way to the shore.

The beach was bustling with people when Milo arrived. Heads turned, jaws dropped, and whispers rippled through the crowd as he swaggered onto the sand, the red Speedo catching the sunlight like a beacon. He planted his massive feet in the surf, flexed his oversized arms, and let out a booming laugh that echoed over the waves. The skinny, timid Milo was gone. In his place stood a larger-than-life figure, ready to rule the shoreline.

From that day on, Milo embraced his new life as the Beach God. He spent his days lounging under the sun, lifting driftwood like it was nothing, and charming beach goers with his towering presence. The costume had given him more than a body—it had given him a destiny. And as the tides rolled in and out, Milo knew he’d never look back

[letternotekisses]

HIII May I request some Reaper headcanons pls? Idc if it's fluff or nsfw headcanons, or even both idc, choose whatever you're in the mood to write! I just need content about that man and as I love how you writee, then ....<3

i wanna fuck that old man so bad....<3 nsfw under da cut and also cw 4 stalking, kidnapping mention, free use & size kink and general yandere-ish behaviour

Reaper is all sharp edges, and its no different when he's dragging a clawed gauntlet down your cheek - reddening the soft flesh when he squeezes you harshly enough to make your lips pout. He's all growls, but for you? It's different, it's still a low, timbering rumble in his chest - but he's not trying to intimidate you, no - he's just staking his claim, you see. Once he's decided that you belong to him, there's nothing stopping him from getting what he wants.

Overwhelmingly possessive - if you work alongside him in Talon, Reaper makes it a hobby to follow you all over base, leering from a shadowed corner if you spend a little too much time talking to one of Talon's many replaceable grunts. You don't see them again, and Gabe seems a little too pleased with himself as of late. If you're a civilian, he's also not above following you home - shadow-stepping into your room to steal a few pairs of underwear souvenirs to keep him company before he decides on the right time to snatch you away.

He expects you to be ready for him at all times, materialising behind your back in a cloud of wispy smoke - his clawed gauntlets prying your soft thighs apart and tearing at the fabric covering what he wants. Gabriel will part your folds and bury his fat cock inside in one smooth motion, holding you upright by grabbing the soft fat of your hip. He's thick, pulsing hotly between your legs in a way that warms you up and makes you melt like putty against his chest. He loves to fuck you silly - wrapping an elbow around your neck so he can keep you in place as he bullies your poor hole to the point where you're begging and whimpering at him for mercy.

He seems rather harsh, but it's easy to psyche him out through his jealousy - wear a shorter skirt, or maybe even a tighter top - give Akande a good eyeful while you converse and Gabe just so happens to be in the room. Although, I must point out that when teasing the Reaper, you must be prepared for the consequences. This includes having your hair fisted in his grip as he shoves his meaty cock down your throat, tears fluttering on the ends of your lashes as you choke around him, spit dribbling down your chin messily. And he won't let you off easy, pulling you back so you can whine at him to fuck you, grinding against his boot like a needy whore.

Despite his rough and tumble demeanour - Reaper does treasure you. I like to think there is still a hint of the old Gabriel Reyes in the midst of all that hot topic clothing. When the sun goes down, he holds you like glass, as if you might melt away like sand through his fingertips. It's sweet and fleeting, but as long as he's still standing, you'll be safe under him.

Even before Moira's experiments, the SEP programme had bulked Gabe up quite a bit. As Reaper - he's a beast, all broad and bulky muscle clad in dark robes. He loves being able to overpower you a little bit too much, he loves how his hand covers the expanse of your hip almost entirely, how he can hold you up with one hand as he ploughs you into the floor...he's obsessed. He uses it to his advantage, manhandling you so he can press himself deeper into your sweet cunt, hitting that spot that makes you squeal and squeeze down on him tighter than he could ever curl his own fist. God, you're so sweet and soft under him - he'd keep you warming his cock forever, if he could.

[thegirlwholovesficcharacters]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐆𝐄 The originals x Org fem teen reader

Chap 1: ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ.

Summary: For as long as she could remember, fourteen-year-old maisie buckley used to have strange dreams, about people she had never met and scenarios that only she could believe would happen in movies or fantasy series, dreams that had faded with the passage of time. However, after suffering an accident, those dreams reappeared, leaving her to believe that they were a figment of her imagination due to post-traumatic stress disorder. But as time went by, Maisie began to realize that most of her “dreams” seemed to want to leave her a message or give her a sign about something, and although that seemed to be all, her situation seemed to get worse when she accidentally touched her classmate's hands, causing her to go into a trance and see blurry images. Confused and frightened by those recurring “dreams”, maisie finds herself trying to find answers about her strange dreams, until she arrives at the store of a voodoo witch, who seeing her desperation helps her search for some answer to her condition, her search resulted in a small town, New orleans. Without hesitation, maisie buckley leaves her life in boston behind, and upon arriving in new orleans finds more questions than answers to answer her questions, being rescued from a coven of witches along with a woman and becoming involved in a strange connection with those who claimed to be the originals, the first vampires created on earth. The mikaelson brothers.

Words: 2774 Warnings: Mention of blood, hand cuts, spells, mention of abandonment and an adoption (nothing dark or dangerous at the moment).

Autor's note: Hello, I'm back after a long time and with a new story. I recently rewatched one of my favorite series, The originals and with the passing of the chapters, I remembered that I had a fanfic about this series saved in one of my drafts on wattpad. I read it, rewrote it and thought, why not share it on tumblr?, and well, here I am with the first chapter of this series about the strange connection of a teenager of almost fifteen years old with my favorite family and the loves of my life, yes yes, I'm talking about Niklaus and elijah. Anyway, I'm going to base it from the first chapter of the first season of The originals. Although this chapter focuses a little more before the arrival of maisie to new orleans and what led her to go there.I apologize in advance with the spelling and grammatical errors that you will find during the reading, I usually use google translator to write in English, because well, my English is not so good, but hey, I'm still learning. Without further ado.

I hope you enjoy reading it!

PD: HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

There were many things that Maisie did not like in her short life. She did not like small spaces, heights, or strange, disturbing, or uncomfortable situations. Although she wouldn't have to feel uncomfortable since she had gone to that strange store on her own.

It was not normal to her to see stuffed animals on show. But it was even more disturbing to her that they seemed to be looking at her whole soul. "This is very uncomfortable", she thought. She had read and seen TV programmes about people using taxidermy to preserve an animal's body for scientific study, or people doing this with their own pets to feel they were still with them.

━━━Terrible━━━ she muttered. The child ignored the animals and continued to explore the shop. Until she came to a shelf full of crystal balls. A little curious, she carefully picked up one of the spheres. Fascinated, she watched the small flashes of light contrasting with the shop light on the crystal ball.

━━━Careful with that Crystal ball kid, it's very expensive━━━━━The young girl jumped, surprised and frightened when she heard the woman's resulting voice.

Feeling the loud pounding of her heart, Maisie turned her head to find a woman with dark skin, her hair covered in a silk fabric, and an outfit that reminded her of Marie Laveau from her favorite show, played by Angela Basset.

Taking a deep breath, she leaves the crystal ball on the shelf and speaks with a slight stutter.

━━━━I'm sorry, ma'am.━━━━She excused herself quietly as she watched the woman cautiously approach her.

━━━What is it that brings a little thing like you to such a strange place?. You seem very young to be here, my dear ━━she questioned with a lifted eyebrow, looking at her as if she wanted to analyze her.

When she saw his questioning look, Maisie gripped the string of her backpack nervously, trying to formulate the right words to say to her.

━━━I…emm. I read on your website that you are one of the best 'Tarot Readers' in the city, Miss. Aisha Boudreaux━━━━ The woman looked at her again as she heard her call her a 'Tarot Reader'.

She said to herself, "So she already knows"

━━━And-and I came to your shop because I need your help. Please. ━━━she replied shyly..

The woman named aisha looked at her for a few seconds. She watched as she nervously held the strap of her purse and stuttered as she spoke. Then she cautiously lifted her hand and lifted the young girl faces. Her eyes showed curiosity as she looked at the girl's face.

"Her aura, it's… strange. I've never seen this kind of aura on anyone other than… no, it can't be" thought the woman, feeling exalted for a moment "is it her…? No, it can't be, she's too…young" Trying to ignore her thoughts, Aisha spoke.

━━━I can see in your eyes that something is troubling you, little one. I can't tell you what it is, but I know for sure that you've come to the right place….━━━Her gaze softened, noticing the small teenager's frightened eyes, she took a step back and held out her hand━━━Come with me, Maisie Buckley, I know you have many things you want to resolve.━━━Watching the woman's outstretched hand, Maisie stood still for a few seconds, watching her own hands covered in old gloves, then looked back at her.

A million thoughts went through her head, she was unsure if she should trust the woman, but she had gone to her shop for a reason, and that was that she needed answers, one way or the other, and Mrs. Boudreaux seemed to be the right person for the job.

She hadn't been on the road for almost an hour and had searched the Internet to get to her store for nothing, and she desperately needed answers.

She shook her head, swallowed some saliva, and smiled a little as she took the woman's hand.

━━━I trust you…━━━Boudreaux nodded softly as she began to walk away from the lobby. Maisie followed her, hoping that Mrs. Boudreaux might be able to help her.

It was now or never.

It had been about twenty minutes, twenty minutes since Boudreaux had taken her to a secluded room in the shop, where the two of them sat at her tarot table, surrounded by animal and human skulls (Maisie hoped the skulls were completely fake), candles lit in every corner of the room, and a cup of hot tea in her hands, which were almost empty and lukewarm.

Maisie had taken the time to give her a brief explanation of what had happened to her over the past few months. She had also made a brief plea for his help with her situation.

Now, standing in front of the witch, she watched as Boudreaux carefully placed her own mug on the table, her face was neutral, but the young teenager knew deep down she was worried about her situation, deep inside. She couldn't read minds, but when she saw Aisha's restless eyes, Maise could tell that something was going on in her head, and she wanted to ask her what it was, but she didn't want to interrupt her thoughts.

"After years…. But she is too young, what did they want, how did they restore her visions?" With a small sigh, Boudreaux speak.

━━━I've heard several stories about situations like this.━━━━Maisie looked at her intently for a moment. Were there any other people out there with the same problem as she had?━━━Tell me, dear, have you ever heard of clairvoyants?━━━The teenage hesitated to answer.

Even if she could say yes, Maisie was sure she would only named Alice Cullen from Twilight and Ethan Morgan from My Nanny Is a Vampire or some other fictional character she knew with that kind of gift. And since she was sure she would answer that, and since Mrs. Boudreaux would reproach her, she decided to answer.

━━━Only in fictional series or movies━━━━━She replied quickly, smiling innocently, the woman rolled her eyes but nodded anyway.

━━━Well, I'll stick with you having an idea of what they are….━━━Maisie nodded, not wanting to interrupt her━━━….You have a gift, child. You are a kind of seer who can only see visions through touch, be they future or past━━━When she saw Maisie open her mouth, the woman raised her hand and silenced her immediately━━━ and before you speak, yes, I know about that show about a vampire nanny, which I find absurd but entertaining━━━he teenager smiled and nodded.

Al verla entender, la bruja asintió para si misma.

━━━Good. Before we continue━━━She moved her empty cup away from the centre of the table━━━I have to ask you, do you have any relatives who have been in this situation in the past? Or anything like that?━━━Maisie quickly denied with a small grimace.

Maisie knew she was adopted. Her parents always told the truth about how she came to be with them. They were worried that something would change in their family after she told them about the day she came to live with them. Maisie was never upset or angry, though. She was grateful and happy that they were her parents, even if they weren't her biological parents. She never talked about it with anyone, except her school friend Amy.

━━━N-no…━━━She cleared her throat a little before continuing.━━━ see, I…I'm adopted. And I doubt that my mother or father came from a line of visionaries and magically passed on that gift to me….She replied shortly, almost in a tone of sarcasm that made her eyes widen, astonished at her own audacity.

Boudreaux smiled, nodding his head in understanding.

━━━It's… understandable━━━she said, ignoring the girl's sarcastic tone━━━so we can assume that it could be from your biological family's side…━━━Masie stood still, feeling a slight discomfort at the mention of her biological family.

Seeing her reaction, the woman raised an eyebrow

━━━You've never tried to look for clues about them, have you?━━━Masie denied, pursing her lips.

━━━No. All I know, and all my parents have told me, is that I was left on their doorstep without a note or a clue.━ She spoke, vaguely remembering the story of how she'd arrived on that rainy spring day fifteen years ago.

Boudreaux nodded as she considered how to help her, not wanting to be too obvious about her situation, she had an idea of what was going on but wasn't sure it would happen. Until an idea flashed through her head, a spell.

━━━Well, since we don't have any names or clues, I guess I'll have to use another method. A tracking spell━ Maisie watched as the woman abruptly rose from her seat. Boudreaux approached a shelf and looked around for what she needed,until their gaze landed on a particular shelf.

━━━Well, I need a map…here it is, a dagger…this one's fine, and a necklace…━━━As she finished searching for her items, the witch approached the table, leaving the things on it and then looked at the girl━━━And I'm also going to need some of your blood, little one.━━━The teenager's eyes widened in surprise.

━━━My--what?'━━━ she asked in disbelief.

━━━Your blood, silly.━━━She said as she arranged her magical items and placed a small dagger in front of her━━━If you want to know the origin of your seer power, you must know how to ask the right people, and when I say the right people, I mean your biological family.

Maisie looked uncertainly at the dagger on the table, then at her own gloved hands, almost petrified and shocked at what she had to do to find the answer to her now Seer's gift.

If she really wanted to know more about the background of her power and put an end to her strange but not so strange dreams, she had to face her biological family, even if she didn't feel ready to.

━━━All right, I'll do it…━━━she agreed firmly. Boudreaux nodded. With shaking hands, Maisie took the small dagger from the table.

━━━You can use either hand. Cut your palm above the map. When I say stop, cover your hand with the gauze━━━She demanded, pointing to the small box of sterile gauze that had been set aside.

As she watched her get things in order, Maisie took off her left glove, left it on the table and waited for Boudreaux to tell her when to cut off the palm of her hand.

The woman looked at her and nodded.

Maisie complied and placed her hand on the map, shuddering at the sting of the dagger blade slicing through her palm as she watched drops of blood fall onto the parchment.

━━━That's enough, sweetheart━━━Listening to her, the girl put the bloody dagger down on the table with a clatter and used her other hand to cover her injured hand with some gauze to stop the bleeding.

It was only a few seconds before she was surprised to hear the witch whispering strange words, 'Must be Latin,' she thought. She watched as Aisha held the necklace in one hand and pointed directly to where the drops of blood were, a small gust of wind came out of nowhere and surprised her as she saw the fire of the burning candles moving restlessly.

But what surprised her most was seeing the drops of blood, her blood, coalesce into a stain, moving from one side to the other of the map.

Her curious green eyes watched the movement with attention and wonder, until the droplets formed a circle around a particular city.

Realising the spell was over, Mrs Boudreaux opened her eyes and looked at the small circle of blood, frowning.

"The images were blurry. They move back and forth. What's going on in New Orleans?" she wondered inwardly. She hadn't managed to see the faces of the girl's biological family, but she did see two of them moving very fast, as if they were looking for something or someone.

Maisie had heard about the city from her parents, who had always told her about their honeymoon in New Orleans and how they had loved touring the city, listening to the jazz music that filled the streets, tasting the delicious food and the stories of the creatures that lurked in the night.

━━━Your birth family, child. Looks like they're in New Orleans, little Buckley━━━she commented, looking away from the map as it met the girl's green eyes━━━You know, if you're thinking of going there, I'm warning you.

Maisie looks at her attentively.

━━━Beware of old witches, they may seem harmless, but believe me, they are the worst━━━Hearing his serious voice and look, Maisie nodded quickly━━━And don't trust Agnes either, she's a harpy and a psychopath.

Curious about the warning to these people, Maisie wanted to ask who they were, but one look from Boudreaux told her everything. They were dangerous.

━━━All right━━━she replied, putting her glove back on. When she was finished, the young girl fumbled in one of her pockets until she pulled out a few notes, raised her head and smiled, holding the money out to the woman.━━━Here, thank you for your help.

Boudreaux quickly rejected the offer and refused to take the money..

━━━Oh, no, darling. No need, I did it as a favour for a friend. Besides, you'll need the money for your trip.━━━ The teenager hesitated, but eventually agreed. Watching her arrange her bag, Boudreaux approached and held out the dagger.━━━And before you go, here. You'll need this. For protection━━━she said. She saw the small dagger, already clean, tucked away in a small leather pouch. Maisie took it carefully and nodded to herself.

━━━Thank you. Aisha━━━she said, and the woman smiled at her.

━━━You're welcome, Maisie. Good luck on your trip, and if you need any help, give me a call. You already have my number in your bag━━━Curious, Maisie reached into her bag and found the little piece of paper with her number on it.

━━━I will.━━━Before opening the door to the shop, the young girl gave the witch a final nod and said goodbye with a small smile.

As the door closed with the sound of the bell, Boudreaux had a sigh of relief.

━━━Diaval!━━━Shout. Suddenly there was a loud whimpering sound and the flapping of a bird as it approached.

Feeling the bird's pointed talons on his right shoulder, Boudreaux turned his head to find the raven's smooth black plumage and head looking straight ahead as it cawed.

Boudreaux walked up to the door and stepped out onto the veranda.

━━━Keep an eye on the girl and look after her if you can. There is something about her that is both attractive and powerful━━━Murmured.

The crow cawed again.

━━━Watch her from a distance and let me know if anything goes wrong. I made a promise to Cass and Evan: she must be safe from whatever comes━━━With a final caw, the raven lifted its wings and flew away from the house, following the young teenager from a distance.

The night after her meeting with Aisha Boudreaux, Maisie started packing: clothes, books, her mobile phone and a burner phone, as well as her savings and allowance from her tutor, her Aunt Callie. The next day, her aunt dropped her off at school and Maisie waited for her car to leave the car park to catch the next bus to the station. But before she left, there was something she had to do.

Standing on the grass with two small bouquets of flowers in her hands, the young woman looked around her. She noticed that trees surrounded her and that there were few people around. She looked down and wistfully read the names on the gravestones.

Beloved friends, children and parents, Cassandra Dianne Buckley and Steven Evans Buckley.

With a small sigh, she bent down and placed the bouquets on each headstone, removing the wilted flowers and leaving the new ones in their place. When she had finished, she straightened up again.

━━━I would have liked you both to come with me on this journey. I know they will be angry, wherever you guys are, and I know it will be a dangerous journey, but…━━━ She sigh, letting out a wry smile━━━I promise I will try to stay out of harm's way. If it doesn't get to me first, Aunt Callie will go mad, but I've left her a letter, as well as Amy. I think they'll both understand why I've decided to leave. I promise it won't be for long, I'll come back and leave them flowers like I do every Friday. I promise…━━━A small silence fell over the place.

With one last look at her parents' gravestones she smiled regretfully.

━━━I love you mom, i love you dad. I miss you both, a lot.━━━With these last words, Maisie walked slowly away from the cemetery.

Saying goodbye to her loved ones was always difficult for Maisie; she had said it before at the funeral, to her aunt and her friend, and again to her parents.

She didn't know how long her little adventure was going to take, but she was hoping to be back home soon.