#whats a little human automation?

[cannibal-nightmares]

Viktor 🤝 Hebert West

Dr. Frankenstein-based character who gets his surpreme school work plagiarized by his own professor and fights The Man in the name of bending morality for the exploration of prolonging life... his college colleague is intrigued by his work, then terrified, then begrudgingly willing to cooperate, then...

[anti-gravity-insanity]

My stance on AI is not that art or writing inherently must be made by a human to be soulful or good or whatnot but that the point of being alive is not to avoid doing anything ever.

[thepandalion]

once again devastated that I don't know how to make video games because my video game dreams are literally the coolest

[jame7t]

you know even if there are flying saucers and shit we have no reason to believe theyre intelligent. not even 'NOPE' style 'its a animals' type stuff like the aliens might actually just be morons. Think of it this way: "you" are traveling for thousands of years, looking for resources. You're the 900th clone in a sequence, built by a system that claims it cannot fail. You are a product of hubris affected by entropy- something humans sometimes think is unique to our planet- and the technology your ancestors built for you has degraded and rotten to the point where you're more of an organ for the saucer than an intergalactic explorer. It still works, of course- you and the 1000 or so travelers beside you in the void are all alive and healthy, routinely reproduced by your ships when the previous iteration croaks. But you made to be perfection. The idea of a flaw in this system was inconceivable. You have never learned anything for yourself. Your memories are inherited from the previous iteration of "you-" but that version was just a little bit more whole, a little bit closer to what it was when a real Lil' Pleebnar was born on Plibbum 6. You're a copy of a copy of a thousand copies born with knowledge of what the buttons in front of you do- you were engineered to have perfect eidetic memory, but trivial things like 'philosophy' and 'first contact rituals' have long since left your mind. You didn't need them during the journey. The very, very long journey. Now you're on earth- well, above it. You've not had the threat of learning something in millennia, and the sights and sounds of the little blue orb beneath you terrify you and your flock. You would dust off old language protocols- if you remembered what language was. Your ship- the vessel that now works as a shell, protecting your stupid little grey meat, stirs. It automates scouting rituals and initiates an information gathering campaign to send back to a motherworld that no longer knows you. An information campaign learning nothing at all. A New Jersian throws a bottle at your craft. You shit yourself in fear.

[captainjonnitkessler]

Look, I'm not gonna pretend that I don't get it, when it comes to AI. But it's like this:

In most parts of the US, a residential electrician works only on houses and apartments. They use romex wire, that yellow cable stuff. You run it from the panel to wherever it's going, staple it to the studs, then make up both ends. You need to know basic electrical code but mostly it's pretty simple. A fast learner could be a decent residential electrician inside a month.

I, on the other hand, am a union industrial electrician. I work primarily in hospitals, factories, and research labs. Most of our wire is run in steel conduit that has to be hand bent on the job, which is an art form in and of itself. We work with much higher voltages, much heavier wire, much more complicated equipment, and we need to know much more of the code. Our apprenticeship is 4-5 years and that's only enough to scratch the surface of everything an industrial electrician might do.

And yes - I absolutely get a little defensive when unknowing people compare me to a residential electrician. There's absolutely a knee-jerk impulse to declare that they're not *real* electricians, that they're merely a pale imitation of what I do. But I fight that impulse because it's a *bad impulse*. Resi still takes skill and work, it's just different than mine. We're both electricians. And it's better for us to work together to improve working conditions for all workers than to get into pissing contests about whose job is more "real". And both our jobs are in increasing danger due to the proliferation of low voltage systems that the average homeowner can install and repair without hiring a professional.

So yeah, I do get it. But it has been very, VERY insulting over the last year to hear people repeatedly say "AI was supposed to replace blue collar jobs, not *my* job! My job is ~special~ because it has ~humanity~!"

Your job is not special. It's not more important than my job and it's not more fulfilling to you than my job is to me. And I don't get to insist that everyone start building homes with steel conduit just so less skilled people can't be electricians, and I don't get to yell at people for hiring a handyman to replace an outlet for $50 when my time would be worth $200.

I absolutely understand the instinct that AI art can't be real art because people who use it didn't "earn" it, or that automating art is uniquely damaging in a way automating other jobs isn't because it's "supposed" to be about human expression. But please actually think about what you're implying and who you're throwing under the bus when you say shit like that, and whether it actually holds up to your other values or if it's just a knee-jerk reaction you need to examine.

[frog-with-legs]

Endless work

Day 3: Tango. "Endless work"

Managing a whole factory all alone while trying to supply some of the most complicated inventions with high quality redstone products comes with its setbacks. You start to lose time in an attempt to maximize your outcome and soon you don't even remember the last time you were outside spending time with friends. Even if you automate all the machines, you still need a human to ensure everything is running smoothly. But do you?

That's what the factory's owner kept pondering about drawing drafts of the new invention: teknicians. Small copper robots, programmed to do specific tasks. During the day they run throughout the factory carrying materials, pressing buttons, pulling levers, collecting data, and packing orders up until late night when they finally put down their tools and walk back to their stations to recharge for the next shift. To ensure that the little helpers are able to find the right paths, and find innovative solutions to problems, their minds were programmed to be as intelligent as humans that keep on learning.

This worked with huge success until one day one of the robots learned about relaxing, which caused a chain reaction of all the teknicians stopping their work.

The owner once again returned to his drafting table in hopes that he too could just relax one day.

[heritageposts]

[...] During the early stages of the war, the army gave sweeping approval for officers to adopt Lavender’s kill lists, with no requirement to thoroughly check why the machine made those choices or to examine the raw intelligence data on which they were based. One source stated that human personnel often served only as a “rubber stamp” for the machine’s decisions, adding that, normally, they would personally devote only about “20 seconds” to each target before authorizing a bombing — just to make sure the Lavender-marked target is male. This was despite knowing that the system makes what are regarded as “errors” in approximately 10 percent of cases, and is known to occasionally mark individuals who have merely a loose connection to militant groups, or no connection at all. Moreover, the Israeli army systematically attacked the targeted individuals while they were in their homes — usually at night while their whole families were present — rather than during the course of military activity. According to the sources, this was because, from what they regarded as an intelligence standpoint, it was easier to locate the individuals in their private houses. Additional automated systems, including one called “Where’s Daddy?” also revealed here for the first time, were used specifically to track the targeted individuals and carry out bombings when they had entered their family’s residences.

In case you didn't catch that: the IOF made an automated system that intentionally marks entire families as targets for bombings, and then they called it "Where's Daddy."

Like what is there even to say anymore? It's so depraved you almost think you have to be misreading it...

“We were not interested in killing [Hamas] operatives only when they were in a military building or engaged in a military activity,” A., an intelligence officer, told +972 and Local Call. “On the contrary, the IDF bombed them in homes without hesitation, as a first option. It’s much easier to bomb a family’s home. The system is built to look for them in these situations.” The Lavender machine joins another AI system, “The Gospel,” about which information was revealed in a previous investigation by +972 and Local Call in November 2023, as well as in the Israeli military’s own publications. A fundamental difference between the two systems is in the definition of the target: whereas The Gospel marks buildings and structures that the army claims militants operate from, Lavender marks people — and puts them on a kill list.  In addition, according to the sources, when it came to targeting alleged junior militants marked by Lavender, the army preferred to only use unguided missiles, commonly known as “dumb” bombs (in contrast to “smart” precision bombs), which can destroy entire buildings on top of their occupants and cause significant casualties. “You don’t want to waste expensive bombs on unimportant people — it’s very expensive for the country and there’s a shortage [of those bombs],” said C., one of the intelligence officers. Another source said that they had personally authorized the bombing of “hundreds” of private homes of alleged junior operatives marked by Lavender, with many of these attacks killing civilians and entire families as “collateral damage.” In an unprecedented move, according to two of the sources, the army also decided during the first weeks of the war that, for every junior Hamas operative that Lavender marked, it was permissible to kill up to 15 or 20 civilians; in the past, the military did not authorize any “collateral damage” during assassinations of low-ranking militants. The sources added that, in the event that the target was a senior Hamas official with the rank of battalion or brigade commander, the army on several occasions authorized the killing of more than 100 civilians in the assassination of a single commander.

. . . continues on +972 Magazine (3 Apr 2024)

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Ten: a world inside a world

tw: none

Grand Hollow is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. 

It scars the land. Morphs it into some unrecognizable jungle littered with buildings that tower higher than any church you’ve ever laid eyes on. The ground vanishes underneath stone blocks and wood boards, leaving Jester’s hooves to pop! along the streets as you keep close to your little group of outlaws. 

Many of the stores you pass sport large windows to show off merchandise fancier than any you’ve ever seen, such as watches made of pure silver and hats from freshly trapped varmints. There are young boys standing on street corners shouting about newspapers or other goods, or strange folk in even stranger clothes attempting to sell bottles of what you think you heard them call snake oil. 

You don’t think you could ever make out your daddy’s steeple through this mess. 

The air smells different here. It’s thicker than Penmosa’s atmosphere—darker. Thin columns of black smoke rise high into the air in the distance, reaching far enough to stain Heaven’s basement with coal dust and human filth. There are kinder aromas that attempt to stave off the grime of horses and automation. Strong liquor pours through some saloons and hotels you pass by, and there’s something sickeningly sweet about the tailor's shop on the other side of the street. 

Sweat slicks your palms, bleeding into the leather reigns you grasp. You have never seen so many people in your life—not shoved into the confines of a city like this. Eyes wander, lips curl, mouths greet. Swallowing, you ensure your mother’s necklace is tucked safely inside your blouse. 

“Your eyes look like they’re about to pop out of your skull, Lamb,” Kyle teases. 

Looking to your side, you see him casually leaning back in his saddle as he leads Bear with one hand. His aura is cool—collected. While you’ve been panicking the moment you’ve crossed this new threshold, he’s only seemed to relax. 

“This is all… I don’t even have the word to describe it,” you admit, eyes flickering back to focus on the road before you. 

“Grand?” he chuckles. “It’s not quite as big as London, so it was an easy adjustment for us, but I imagine it might be a bit much for someone like you… no offence.” 

“None taken. You’re right, after all,” you laugh nervously. “Mr. Beckett would always tell me stories about places like this. Things he heard from travelers and such. None of it comes close to experiencing it for yourself.” 

“And there’s plenty to experience here. Shows, parks, libraries.” 

“Libraries?” you repeat. “I didn’t think those were real.” 

Kyle snickers, white teeth flashing between his lips as he shakes his head. “Oh, they’re real alright. If the human brain can cook it up, it’ll exist here in Grand Hollow.” 

Deep in the heart of this jungle, sitting proud on the corner of a large city block, lies The Twin Rose Hotel. Just like every other building in this city, it towers over all of God’s creatures with glistening windows and chestnut bricks. A balcony on the second floor looks down upon the streets with an excellent view of the city park just across the way, and hanging above that on the face of the wall is the building’s name. Squinting, you’re able to make out odd, small glass bulbs that line the lettering. 

Small metal poles dot the sidewalk around the hotel, staining the ground with the protrusion. John hops off his horse and hitches him to it, and everyone else follows to do the same. A pang shoots through your feet as you dismount, not used to the hard surface of the streets. Your thighs feel numb from countless hours of riding, and you do your best to stretch your hips out as you tie Jester to the metal hitching post next to Bear. Just as you knot it, you realize you can make out a small horse symbol etched into the iron. Even though this city seems so advanced, they still hold a place for the antiquated ways of cowboys. 

“Right then,” John speaks up. All ears in the vicinity perk at the clamor of his voice. He stands with his shoulders squaring backwards and his thumbs looped behind his belt buckle. “Mind your manners, boys.” 

Walking into The Twin Rose is even more of a culture shock than the entirety of Grand Hollow has been. Glistening crystal chandeliers hang high above your head, filling what appears to be the cleanest saloon you’ve ever seen with a warm, saffron glow. The floors are made of waxed wood that don’t have so much as a dent on them, and various tables lay around the room in polkadot-like fashion. A crowd of gentlemen sit at a round table, chuckling over full plates and bottles of beer, and a man in a silk top hat plucks away at a standing piano just next to the mouth of a wide staircase. 

Toward the back of the room lies a bar. There are no stools to sit on, but a young woman with thin lips busies herself with cleaning her mixing supplies. Sconces line the walls, leaving nothing unilluminated, yet you can’t keep yourself from squinting at them. 

“How do they keep the oil in all of these?” you whisper. 

Kyle attempts to stifle his chuckle. “They’re lightbulbs, love. They run on electricity.” 

Lightbulbs. You remember hearing about their creation when you were a kid. It was all anyone could talk about when every paper in the country slapped it on the front page. The great Thomas Edison had invented light that could be held in the palm of your hand. Of course, your poor little town of Penmosa never got to see such a feat, stuck with using oil lamps and campfires, you could only ever dream of witnessing such magic. Your father abhors the idea of it. He says it’s unnatural—ungodly and impetuous. 

How could God hate something so beautiful? 

John leads everyone up to the bar, weaving through tables with heavy feet. He crosses his arms and keeps his head low as he kindly greets the barmaid. Grey eyes look him up and down, seemingly unimpressed, before her gaze wanders over everyone else. She doesn’t even look intimidated by Riley’s stature and the bandana that covers his face. Suddenly, you find your pulse rising. The closest thing you’ve had to a proper bath in the last few weeks was that thunderstorm that rolled in before you hit Little Wood—you’re sure you look less than presentable. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, voice dull.

“I need to speak with Laswell,” John says. 

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t seem surprised. “Who’s asking?” 

“John Price.” 

The woman’s head quirks, and you think you might even see a slight smirk on her lips. She places her items down on the bar top before motioning for everyone to follow her. You’re led through a door marked private that brings you to a long hallway with several doors. The barmaid breezes by most of them before coming to a stop at the very end of the hallway. A terrible squeak accompanies the door opening, and through the threshold you’re able to see a large, rectangular table with several chairs to sit in. 

“Take a seat. Laswell will be with you in a minute,” the barmaid instructs. 

You find yourself squeezed between John and Kyle as everyone melts into their seats with a sigh. Red wallpaper adorns every inch of the room in a deep scarlet that soaks up the illumination from the sconces. Beautiful paintings in thick, mahogany frames dot the walls as decor, but the room is too tenebrous for you to fully tell what they are. You can vaguely make out a beautiful Arabian horse in one, and snow capped mountains in another, but your eyes strain too great to peer at them in detail. 

Soap leans so far in his chair that his neck rests on the backboard, and his feet brush against yours, though you don’t say anything about the intrusion. “I hope we’re invited over for dinner.”

“Enjoying Lottie’s cooking and then having a proper bed to sleep in does sound nice,” Kyle hums in agreement. 

“There’s still a lot of work to do, boys,” John reminds them. 

Huffing, Soap straightens himself out in his seat. “Aye, but we’re allowed to have a little fun every now and then, aren’t we?” 

Before anyone can comment further, the door swings open, then quickly clicks shut. A woman with a stern face enters the room, and she is the strangest lady you think you’ve ever seen. Her cream blouse is pressed so that it’s pristine and free of wrinkles, and her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows as if she was caught doing manual labor. Instead of a skirt to accompany it, she dons a pair of black dress pants with matching shoes. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a bun, leaving only her fringe to cover her forehead and the sides of her face. For a long moment, she stands at the head of the table with her hands on her hips where she gets a good look at everyone seated in front of her before humming and taking a seat. 

“Never thought I’d see any of you ever again,” she says bluntly. “Last I knew, John Price and his posse had vanished further West where the land is wild and the laws are rare.” 

“You know we couldn’t stay away forever, Laswell,” John smiles. 

“Yeah, not with all that unfinished business you have in Blackpeak.” The air grows tense. Palpable with hesitation. The oddly dressed woman pauses a moment to let her eyes fall on you, and you find your breath catching in your throat. She scrutinizes you—soaks up every inch of you. She doesn’t look away from you when she continues to speak. “I see you’ve got a new member to this… posse, of yours.” 

John looks at you, eyes cold and face impossible to read. “She’s just cargo.” 

Laswell hums. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

Your mouth grows dryer than any desert Mr. Beckett has ever told you about in all his tall tales. John nods in encouragement, and your answer tumbles off of your tongue like a freshly jellied calf. 

“But we all just call her Lamb,” Soap interjects with a grin. 

“Where are you from, Lamb?” the woman asks. 

“Penmosa.” You answer her question as if you’re unsure—as if you don’t know if you’re right or not. 

“Penmosa?” she repeats. “You’re an awfully long way from home. What brings you out here?” 

Nervosity chews at the flesh of your ankles as your hands fall into your lap, fingers twiddling. Is this the part where you ask for help? Where you bare your father’s sins for some stranger to see—to sully his name? Eyes shifting, you look to John, who casually leans back in his chair as he raps his fingers against the tabletop. 

“Her daddy’s got a bad temper,” he explains simply. 

“Right. Cargo.” Laswell crosses her arms before glancing around the table once more. “You boys are damn near drooling on my table. If you were hungry, you could’ve asked.” 

“Well, we didn’t want to impose,” Kyle explains, though his grin bleeds into his words. 

“You know better than to play coy with me, Garrick,” she teases. Her chair scrapes across the floor as she stands to her feet. The sconce behind her sends a diffused ray of light around her—she looks powerful. Unlike any other woman you’ve ever seen. “I’ll have the kitchen cook us some lunch, then we’ll see about arrangements. Lamb, how does a bath sound?” 

Surprised to hear her address you directly, you nearly jump out of your seat. “A bath? Well… that sounds fine.” 

“Good. We’ll get you fed, then while you’re bathing, the men and I can talk business. Sit tight, I’ll be back.” 

It does not take Laswell long to return with two maids following along behind her in red dresses. They each push a small trolley of sorts, with large plates of food and pitchers of water jittering along the metal cart as they station it alongside the table. You eye platters of rolls, chicken, smoked ham, mashed potatoes, and a large gravy boat. Dainty hands place the delicate dishes on the table buffet style before handing everyone a fresh, rose designed porcelain plate. Then, they vanish behind the door, leaving everyone to their meal. 

Honey glistens off of the ham in an enticing amber color that the boys waste no time diving into, flesh peeling like the tender skin of an orange. Rolls are passed around, as well as the saltiest butter you’ve ever tasted in your life, and you find your stomach growling after the first bite. You try to recall when the last time you had a proper meal was. When you put something other than hardtack and dried meat into your body. 

It was the night you left, you realize. When you promised your father you would find the change that ripped out of your apron. Your throat closes up the moment you recall the way his hand kissed your cheek, and you drown your discomfort away with a sip of water. Algid liquid hits your teeth and makes you grimace—there’s ice in your cup. You don’t think you’ve ever seen such a thing before. 

Conversation comes easy for everyone at the table except for you. John and Laswell murmur to one another in low tones while stabbing the meat from their plates with silver forks. Their eyes shift in unison, both of them on high alert as if anyone at the table might suddenly turn feral and nip at them. Riley and Soap are having some sort of disagreement, and Kyle isn’t helping with how he throws his two cents in so that they only get more riled up with one another. 

So, you’re left to sit. And sit. Silverware scraping against your empty plate, you face the bitter realization that this is the final stop for you. No more trekking through the wilderness with strange men who carry large bounties. No more long nights by a tall fire. You would hate to admit that you had gotten comfortable with them, but they were at least familiar. Now, you’re going to be dumped here. Left to wander in a strange town—a terrifying and intimidating new world—and John Price will be nothing more than a forgotten memory. 

After all, you’re only cargo. 

“Lamb?” 

Head snapping up from the scraps of your meal, you look at Laswell, who’s leaning forward in her chair with her elbows on the table. You realize you can’t quite read her as well as you can most other people. There is no tell in the corner of her lip like there is with Kyle, or a sly illumination in the depths of John’s cyanotic eyes. She simply speaks, and her tone implores you to listen.

“Yes ma’am?” 

“You finished with your food?” she asks. 

You nod, sharp and stiff. “Yes, it was lovely, thank you.” 

Laswell stands from the table, black dress pants riding up on her waist as she does. “Let’s get you in that bath, then.” 

You’re allowed to fetch your carpet bag from Jester before you’re brought up to the second floor. The chatter of well dressed patrons and their drunken games fades to white noise as Laswell leads you down tenebrous hallways marked with swirling vine and rose patterned wallpaper. Everything about this building is rich, from the sienna of the brick it’s built with, to the sconces that hold electricity in the very palm of its hands. 

As you clutch your bag closer to your chest—and all your pitiful belongings with it—you try not to feel like a walking stain in the establishment. 

“I can’t thank you enough for taking me in,” you blurt out suddenly. Unable to hold your tongue still, you swallow down the aftertaste of peppered mash before continuing. “John says you take in—well—troubled girls like me. That you’d give me a job, or at least help me find one.” 

“It’s what we do around here, darling.” Her reply is short and curt, though not impolite. Laswell’s feet stop just in front of a door with a gilded knob and the word bath engraved into rich wood. She quickly gestures to the door before her hands fall back to her sides. “Feel free to use all the amenities. And take your time. It’ll take me a bit to get all the fine details ironed out with John.”

Nodding, you thank her once more before slipping behind the door into what you can only assume is a whole other world. That’s all Grand Hollow seems to be—pockets of universes shoved inside one another. Endless doors stuck in a vast maze waiting for you to open so that they can fill you with veneration. 

There is a single lamp (at least, that’s what you think they are called—that interesting decor that looks like an oil lamp but with a shade and ten times bigger) that sits on a table just by the window, yet it’s more dim compared to the other electric light sources you’ve seen so far. The blinds are drawn, casting the room in darkness, but the shadows morph and dance on the walls as freshly lit candles sit on various surfaces throughout the room. 

The bathtub is larger than any other you’ve seen before. Clawed feet rest on the floor as it holds steaming water, and when you tread close you notice the distinct scent of rose. Upon closer inspection, you notice a few vermillion petals floating on the surface. A smile graces your lips. 

You think you might like it here. 

Before you undress, you seat yourself at the vanity. Its stool is plush, composed of thick velvet that envelopes your rum with comfort infinitely greater than Jester’s saddle ever does. It takes you more time than you’d care to admit to detangle your hair, but you know it’s well overdue for a wash, and life on the road hasn’t been treating any part of your body too well. Stripping yourself of your overdress and chemise, you slowly lower yourself into the tub while trying not to hiss at the near scalding water. 

As you rest with your back propped and limbs limp, everything fades away. The grime that nestles between your toes, the ache and sores between your thighs, the faint scars on your knuckles. Even the bitter memories of your father. It dissolves into the water to swirl around the rose petals that you toy with. Pure silk against your fingertips, you raise one to your nose and sniff. It’s sweeter than molasses—you’ve just eaten lunch and your mouth is already watering. 

A myriad of oils and soaps line the small side table next to you. You take turns picking each of the bars up and wetting them with your hands to feel the suds on your skin. Each one smells divine. Meadow grass in summer, petrichor in spring, Mama’s rolls in autumn—

—there’s a knock. 

For a moment, you almost think it’s her; your mother. She’s playing the knocking game again. Tapping on the wall that leads to your bedroom. Letting you know she’s still alive, that her tuberculosis hasn’t consumed her quite yet. It’s easy to fall into delusion when you’re enveloped by something so warm and so gentle—something that (for once) doesn’t have teeth. 

That thin shred of your imagination vanishes the moment a figure bursts through the door without even bothering to hear your answer. Though you know you should not be surprised to see John Price standing before you, you still are. Door clicking behind him, the gravity of the situation hits you, and you find yourself desperately attempting to save your dignity. Arms crossing over your breasts, thighs pressing together to hide your sex, your eyes widen as you sink further into the water. 

“John!” you shriek. “What are you…” 

Whatever malice laced confusion you harbor dies in your throat the moment you watch as his thick fingers reach up towards his neck. Then, one by one, he begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. Thick swirling hair sprouts between the fabric, and you’re left to gawk at the debauched display that is presenting itself to you. 

Unbothered, John untucks his shirt from his trousers before tossing it onto the floor next to your chemise, leaving him bare chested. If this were any other occasion, you’d be scandalized at such a gesture—his linens mixing with yours—but you find yourself infinitely more concerned with the odd twinkle in his eye. 

“You don’t mind if I join you for a moment, do you, love?”

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[ozzgin]

Yandere! Android x Reader (I)

It is the future and you have been tasked to solve a mysterious murder that could jeopardize political ties. Your assigned partner is the newest android model meant to assimilate human customs. You must keep his identity a secret and teach him the ways of earthlings, although his curiosity seems to be reaching inappropriate extents.

Yes, this is based on Asimov’s “Caves of Steel” because Daneel Olivaw was my first ever robot crush. I also wanted a protagonist that embraces technology. :)

Content: female reader, AI yandere, 50's futurism

[Part 2] | [More original works]

You follow after the little assistant robot, a rudimentary machine invested with basic dialogue and spatial navigation. It had caused quite the ruckus when first introduced. One intern - well liked despite being somewhat clumsy at his job - was sadly let go as a result. Not even the Police is safe from the threat of AI, is what they chanted outside the premises.

"The Commissioner has summoned you, (Y/N)." 

That's how it greeted you earlier, clacking its appendage against the open door in an attempt to simulate a knock. 

"Do you know why my presence is needed?" You inquire and wait for the miniature AI to scan the audio message. 

"I am not allowed to mention anything right now." It finally responds after agonizing seconds.

 It's an alright performance. You might've been more impressed by it, had you not witnessed first hand the Spacer technology that could put any modern invention here on Earth to shame. Sadly the people down here are very much against artificial intelligence. There have been multiple protests recently, like the one in front of your building, condemning the latest government suggestion regarding automation. People fear for their jobs and safety and you don't necessarily blame them for having self preservation. On the other hand, you've always been a supporter of progress. As a child you devoured any science fiction book you could get your hands on, and now, as a high ranked police detective you still manage to sneak away and scan over articles and news involving the race for a most efficient computer.

You close the door behind you and the Commissioner puts his fat cigarette out, twisting the remains into the ashtray with monotonous movements as if searching for the right words.

 "There's been a murder." Is all he settles on saying, throwing a heavy folder in your direction. A hologram or tablet might've been easier to catch, but the man, like many of his coworkers, shares a deep nostalgia for the old days. 

 You flip through the pages and eventually furrow your eyebrows. 

"This would be a disaster if it made it to the news." You mumble and look up at the older man. "Shouldn't this go to someone more experienced?" 

He twiddles with his grey mustache and glances out the fake window. 

"It's a sensitive case. The Spacers are sending their own agent to collaborate with us. What stands out to you?" 

You narrow your eyes and focus on the personnel sheet. What's there to cause such controversy? Right before giving up, departing from the page, you finally notice it: next to the Spacer officer's name, printed clearly in black ink, is a little "R." which is a commonly used abbreviation to indicate something is a robot. The chief must've noticed your startled reaction and continues, satisfied: 

"You understand, yes? They're sending an android. Supposedly it replicates a human perfectly in terms of appearance, but it does not possess enough observational data. Their request is that whoever partners up with him will also house him and let him follow along for the entirety of the mission. You're the only one here openly supporting those tin boxes. I can't possibly ask one of your higher ups, men with wives and children, to...you know...bring that thing in their house."

You're still not sure whether to be offended by the fact that your comfort seems to be of less priority compared to other officers. Regardless of the semantics, you're presently standing at the border between Earth and the Spacer colony, awaiting your case partner. A man emerges from behind a security gate. He's tall, with handsome features and an elegant walk. He approaches you and you reach for a handshake. 

"Is the android with you?" You ask, a little confused. 

"Is this your first time seeing a Spacer model?" He responds, relaxed. "I am the agent in your care. There is no one else." 

You take a moment to process the information, similar to the primitive machine back at your office. Could it be? You've always known that Spacer technology is years ahead, but this surpasses your wildest dreams. There is not a single detail hinting at his mechanical fundament. The movement is fluid, the speech is natural, the design is impenetrable. He lifts the warm hand he'd used for the handshake and gently presses a finger against your chin in an upwards motion. You find yourself involuntarily blushing. 

"Your mouth was open. I assumed you'd want it discreetly corrected." He states, factually, with a faint smile on his lips. Is he amused? Is such a feeling even possible? You try your best to regain some composure, adjusting the collar of your shirt and clearing your throat. 

"Thank you and please excuse my rudeness. I was not expecting such a flawless replica. Our assistants are...easily recognizable as AI."

"So I've been told." His smile widens and he checks his watch. You follow his gesture, still mesmerized, trying to find a single indicator that the man standing before you is indeed a machine, a synthetic product.

Nothing.

"Shall we?" He eyes the exit path and you quickly lead him outside and towards public transport. 

He patiently waits for your fingerprint scan to be complete. You almost turn around and apologize for the old, lagging device. As a senior detective, you have the privilege of living in the more spacious, secured quarters of the city. And, since you don't have a family, the apartment intended for multiple people looks more like a luxury adobe. Still, compared to the advanced way of the Spacers, this must feel like poverty to the android.

At last, the scanner beeps and the door unlocks. 

"Heh...It's a finicky model." You mumble and invite him in.

"Yes, I'm familiar with these systems." He agrees with you and steps inside, unbuttoning his coat.

"Oh, you've seen this before?"

"In history books."

You scratch your cheek and laugh awkwardly, wondering how much of his knowledge about the current life on Earth is presented as a museum exhibit when compared to Spacer society. 

"I'm going to need a coffee. I guess you don't...?" Your words trail as you await confirmation. 

"I would enjoy one as well, if it is not too much to ask. I've been told it's a social custom to 'get coffee' as a way to have small talk." The synthetic straightens his shirt and looks at you expectantly. 

"Of course. I somehow assumed you can't drink, but if you're meant to blend in with humans...it does make sense you'd have all the obvious requirements built in."

He drags a chair out and sits at the small table, legs crossed.

"Indeed. I have been constructed to have all the functions of a human, down to every detail." 

You chuckle lightly. Well, not like you can verify it firsthand. The engineers back at the Spacer colony most likely didn't prepare him for matters considered unnecessary. 

"I do mean every detail." He adds, as if reading your mind. "You are free to see for yourself."

You nearly drop the cup in your flustered state. You hurry to wipe the coffee that spilled onto the counter and glance back at the android, noticing a smirk on his face. What the hell? Are they playing a prank on you and this is actually a regular guy? Some sort of social experiment? 

"I can see they included a sense of humor." You manage to blurt out, glaring at him suspiciously. 

"I apologize if I offended you in any way. I'm still adjusting to different contexts." The android concludes, a hint of mischief remaining on his face. "Aren't rowdy jokes common in your field of work?"

"Uh huh. Spot on." You hesitantly place the hot drink before him.

Robots on Earth have always been built for the purpose of efficiency. Whether or not a computer passes the Turing Test is irrelevant as long as it performs its task in the most optimal, rational way. There have been attempts, naturally, to create something indistinguishable from a human, but utility has always taken precedence. It seems that Spacers think differently. Or perhaps they have reached their desired level of performance a long time ago, and all that was left was fiddling with aesthetics. Whatever the case is, you're struggling not to gawk in amazement at the man sitting in your kitchen, stirring his coffee with a bored expression.

"I always thought - if you don't mind my honesty - that human emotions would be something to avoid when building AI. Hard to implement, even harder to control and it doesn't bring much use."

"I can understand your concerns. However, let me reassure you, I have a strict code of ethics installed in my neural networks and thus my emotions will never lead to any destructive behavior. All safety concerns have been taken into consideration.

As for why...How familiar are you with our colony?" The android takes a sip of his coffee and nods, expressing his satisfaction. "Perhaps you might be aware, Spacers have a declining population. Automated assistants have been part of our society for a long time now. What's lacking is humans. If the issue isn't fixed, artificial humans will have to do."

You scoff.

"What, us Earth men aren't good enough to fix the birth rates? They need robots?"

You suddenly remember the recipient of your complaint and mutter an apology. 

"Well, I'm sure you'd make a fine contender. Sadly I can't speak for everyone else on Earth." The man smiles in amusement upon seeing the pale red that's now dusting your cheeks, then continues: "But the issue lies somewhere else. Spacers have left Earth a long time ago and lived in isolation until now. Once an organism has lost its immune responses to otherwise common pathogens, it cannot be reintegrated."

True. Very few Earth citizens are allowed to enter the colony, and only do so after thorough disinfection stages, proving they are disease free as to not endanger the fragile health of the Spacers living in a sterile environment. You can only imagine the disastrous outcome if the two species were to abruptly mingle. In that case, equally sterile machinery might be their only hope.

Your mind wanders to the idea. Dating a robot...How's that? You sheepishly gaze at the android and study his features. His neatly combed copper hair, the washed out blue eyes, the pale skin. Probably meant to resemble the Spacers. You shake your head.

"A-anyways, I'll go and gather all the case files I have. Then we can discuss our first steps. Do feel at home."

You rush out and head for your office. Focus, you tell yourself mildly annoyed.

While you search for the required paperwork - what a funny thing to say in this day and age - he will certainly take up on your generous offer to make himself comfortable. The redhaired man enters the living room, scanning everything with curious eyes. He stops in front of a digital frame and slides through the photos. Ah, this must be your Police Academy graduation. The year matches with the data he's received on you. Data files he might've read one too many times in his unexplained enthusiasm. This should be you and the Commissioner; Doesn't match the description of your father, and he seems too old to be a spouse or boyfriend. Additionally, the android distinctly recalls the empty 'Relationship' field.

"Old photos are always a tad embarrassing. I suppose you skipped that stage."

He jolts almost imperceptibly and faces you. You have returned with a thin stack of papers and a hologram projector.

"I've digitalized most files I received, so you don't have to shuffle a bunch of paper around." You explain.

"That is very useful, thank you." He gently retrieves the small device from your hand, but takes a moment before removing his fingers from yours. "I predict this will be a successful partnership."

You flash him a friendly smile and gesture towards the seating area.

"Let's get to work, then. Unless you want to go through more boring albums." You joke as you lower yourself onto the plush sofa. 

The synthetic human joins you at an unexpectedly close proximity. You wonder if proper distance differs among Spacers or if he has received slightly erroneous information about what makes a comfortable rapport. 

"Nothing boring about it. In fact, I'd say you and I are very similar from this point of view." He tells you, placing the projector on the table.

"Oh?"

"Your interest in technology and artificial intelligence is rather easy to infer." The man continues, pointing vaguely towards the opposing library. "Aside from the briefing I've already received about you, that is."

"And that is similar to...the interest in humans you've been programmed to have?" You interject, unsure where this conversation is meant to lead. 

"Almost."

His head turns fully towards you and you stare back into his eyes. From this distance you can finally discern the first hints of his nature: the thin disks shading the iris - possibly CCD sensors - are moving in a jagged, mechanical manner. Actively analyzing and processing the environment. 

"I wouldn't go as far as to generalize it to all humans. 

Just you."

[strayingawayy]

counterpoint chemistry...

...the one where you and chan turn a debate into a flirting match

you’re in the middle of a very serious academic debate.

or at least, it was serious before bang chan decided to turn it into his own personal rom-com.

"automation is creating a dangerous overreliance on technology," you argue, voice steady, eyes locked on your actual opponent and not on the annoyingly attractive man smirking at you from across the room. "people are losing problem-solving skills, critical thinking, basic human interaction-"

"basic human interaction?" chan interrupts, tilting his head. "you and i seem to be interacting just fine."

your jaw tightens. "academically, bahng. stay on topic."

"i am on topic," he counters, leaning slightly on his podium. "your whole argument is about losing human connection, but here we are, connecting. seems a little counterintuitive, don’t you think?"

his teammates snicker. your teammate visibly facepalms. the moderator sighs deeply, as if regretting every decision that led to this moment.

you take a steady breath. "you're missing the point. this isn't what the motion is about."

"or maybe," he says, tapping his fingers, long and slender and adorning a simple bracelet, against the podium, "you just don’t like that i have a point."

your eyes narrow. "oh, please. the only point you have is the one you’re trying to make about yourself."

he grins. "if you think i’m that self-absorbed, why do you pay so much attention to me?"

"i don’t."

"really?" he raises a brow. "because every time i talk, your eyes go straight to me."

"that’s called participating in a debate, bang. gets me the point you lose every time you're being stupid."

"that’s called being interested," he fires back.

you clench your jaw. "in proving you wrong."

he chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. "you’re fun when you’re all riled up."

"and you’re turning this debate far too personal," you mutter, flipping through your notes. "if i wanted to waste my time, i’d debate a brick wall."

"but a brick wall wouldn’t flirt back," he quips, eyes twinkling.

"oh, so you admit this is flirting?" you shoot back, raising a brow, a slight smirk adorning your lips. you got him.

his grin falters for a second, no, half a second too long. "wait. no, that’s not-"

"moderator," you say smoothly, turning away from him, "i'd like to formally request that my opponent get deducted points for flirting instead of debating."

the moderator looks exhausted. "if i start deducting points for flirting, we'll be here all night."

"can we please be here all night," chan mutters under his breath.

you turn to glare at him. "i heard that."

he smirks, completely unapologetic. "good."

your teammate groans. "can we please just finish this debate before one of you confesses?"

"i'm waiting on them," chan says, nudging his chin toward you.

"in your bloody dreams," you fire back.

his smirk softens, just slightly, in a way that makes your heart stumble over itself.

"you have no idea."

[jsooly]

taken in by the sullys (5) / sully family x human!daughter/sister!reader

synopsis, your birth mother didn’t care to be cautious while pregnant, but at least something good came out of it. ++ spider, and then lo’ak throwing hands for you

+ note! writing these chapters during my commute makes the bus rides sm more relaxing, i’m happy you guys are enjoying the series just as much <33

(1) / (2) / (3) / (4*) / (5 - ur here! ☆)

+ chapters with an * beside it means that it’s following atwow plot line as opposed to disconnected scenarios

2155 (you were four years old)

the first time you ran out into pandoran air without a gas mask on, jake thought you were going to die

pandoran air was filled with compounds that the human lungs couldn't process efficiently—a danger that threatened jake's life once before

after the war ended and the sky people were banished from pandora, there was a lot of things to take care of logistically

inducting jake as olo'eyktan was one of them, along with an agreement with the remaining humans living on the planet

plus in the aftermath of the war, many other forest clans lost their homes or leaders. jake was determined to accommodate all of them as best he could

his preoccupation left you with little supervision and a lot of free time

jake was visiting norm's lab to check up on the status of their relationship with the clans

he carried you along with him for once, hoping it'd be a fun take your daughter to work day

this is how he held you when you were little btw

as soon as he set you loose, you bolted out the lab

you jumped up and slapped a button, dashing outside when the door opened just wide enough to allow you through.

it slowly creaked as alarms began to blare loudly, an automated voice warning them of the sinking pressure overtaking the room's atmosphere.

"holy shit—" jake shot up, wincing as he slammed his head into the ceiling. "norm?! why didn't you grab her?" he rushed through the corridor, and being incompatible with the space started knocking things over left and right.

"i'm sorry, she has so much experience slipping past me!" norm protested, equally panicked as he held his breath. he scrambled out his seat towards the exit door, dodging jake's thrashing tail.

"no, no, no." jake's body rammed into the door just as it slammed shut. he peered out the frosted window and vaguely caught your shape. his fist collided with the access button. "why isn't this door opening?!"

jake rapidly slammed the button before norm stopped him from breaking the circuits completely.

"the cabin is returning to normal atmospheric conditions," norm gasped for air, finally. "it won't open for another—"

jake backed up, crouching into a lunging position. he bounced on the balls of his feet. "i'm kicking the door."

"what?! jake—"

"i'm breaking the damn door, norm. put a mask on. i'm not waiting." jake snapped, grabbing two masks off the wall and tossing one to the scientist. he surged forward and thrust his leg out, his foot flattening against the door and knocking it clean off its hinges.

norm dove for cover, securing a mask over his face just as all sorts of alarms clamored for attention.

jake ducked through the opening, immediately running to you. he dropped to his knees, taking no notice to the blisters and cuts that broke skin as he slid across the dirt towards you. he snatched you up in his arms, turning you to face him and trying to put the gas mask over your head.

you kept swerving him and blocking him with your hands.

"y/n—baby, please stay still." he tried to contain his worry as he grabbed your wrists in his hand and dropped them away from your face.

"stay still, you need..." he slowed his attempts as he realized... you were breathing just fine. "to breathe..?"

you glared at him in annoyance, confused as to why he was trying to smush glass on your face.

"you don't need the mask?" he asked, unsure himself. he paused for a moment, studying you closely. his hand still firmly gripping the gas mask in case he was mistaken. but you weren't coughing or gasping.

he lifted you up, hands nestled underneath your armpits. he put his ear to your back, listening to the sound of your breathing. no whistles. no wheezing. no rattling. just perfectly normal inhale... and exhale.

"huh." jake's eyebrows furrowed, turning you around and holding you against his chest. he looked down at norm, who had just caught up, pointing a finger at you.

"wanna explain what's going on here?"

the nature of your development and birth allowed for certain mutations surface

your birth mother got pregnant with you on pandora, going out in the atmosphere, consuming the fruits, and maybe getting stung once or twice by strange flowers

with how reckless she was while carrying you, it's no surprise your genome was a bit messed up

after norm thoroughly tested you for other variations, he came up with a comprehensive list

jake was never one for reading—he didn't even read the reports and logs that would've helped him be prepared when first going out with grace and norm

but he consumed every bit of information norm offered him, even asking him to print a copy of the document for future reference

"the subject exhibits accelerated peripheral growth wherein measurements taken supersede the average on earth... what the..." jake rattled off, before tossing the document back to norm with a roll of his eyes. "yeah, you're gonna have to do one in english and then get back to me."

"that just means she's growing faster compared to a normal human child." norm deadpanned. "she had a four year old's height when she just turned two. you were there, didn't you notice?"

jake shrugged, rotating you in his arms. "dunno. still looks pretty small to me." he cooed, nuzzling his nose to yours.

"you're almost 10ft. tall. everything looks small to you." norm turned back to his computer, exasperated. “whatever her mother did messed her up pretty badly.”

jake frowned. your birth mother died two years before he arrived on pandora, but he was sure he wouldn’t have liked her. the stories he’s heard was more than enough to form an opinion. he only tolerated her memory because she gave life to one of his most precious treasures.

“i wouldn’t say messed up. more like…” he pondered, watching the fluorescent ceiling light sparkle in your eyes. “upgraded.”

long story short, your lungs had adapted to draw more oxygen from pandora's atmosphere; you were growing faster; your athletic capacity was just below superhuman; and your senses were abnormally receptive.

whatever your birth mother exposed herself to while you were in there made you a little less human.

jake and neytiri had their suspicions. there was something up with you—how else could you have kept up with neytiri's rigorous training at a young age, human and all, otherwise?

it was almost fitting. you were one of the only two human pandoran natives. children actually born on pandora.

as you grew, you continued to hone your abilities to compete with the na'vi children, but at some point you hit a ceiling.

a little less human was still human at the end of the day.

spider

the other only human born on pandora was miles 'spider' socorro

given how similar your situations were, you were surprised at the drastic difference between your lives

you were two years older than him—he was born just before the first pandoran war

he had adoptive parents, the mccoskers, just like you had the sullys

the mccoskers were residents of hell's gate as per jake's surrender list until the RDA returned under ardmore's command

they left with their own family, spider left behind

spider was then his own boss, doing as he pleased and going where he pleased

above all, he was inseparable from the sully kids—an unspoken, invisible brother

sometimes, you felt awkward when interacting with him because you got lucky with the sullys while he was considered a 'stray'

unlike lo'ak or kiri, you weren't particularly close to him as a friend, but you looked out for him just as you did for the others

"hey," you caught up to him as he was leaving.

spider spending the entire day with the kids was routine. from dawn to dusk, sometimes into the night, he was by their side. you and the kids loved him, and he loved you guys too.

"oh. hey." he turned, awkwardly standing in place. "what's up?"

"wanted to catch you before you left." you loosely gestured to the sky. "it's pretty dark out. i'll walk you home."

he blinked, surprised by the consideration. you felt pity pool in your stomach.

"oh. yeah, thanks." he nodded. you could see a thought cross his mind. he quickly backtracked. "but—but if i'm keeping you, i'm okay to—"

"spider," you smiled, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and beginning to walk alongside him. "you're not keeping me. we’re two of a kind so we gotta stick together, right?" you bumped into his side playfully.

he felt at ease, relaxing. "yeah." spider chuckled. he glanced at your face before dropping his eyes. "it's so crazy how you can just... breathe the air. i'm jealous." gesturing to his exo-pack, he continued. "gotta lug this thing around all day."

“the reason why is way less cool, promise.” you muttered, reflecting on your birth mother.

friendly chatter and a few minutes later, you arrived at the human base. you dropped spider inside to his bunk.

he collapsed against the mattress with a lengthy sigh.

you laughed at his antics. “it’s tough keeping up with them, huh?”

“oh, please, i could outrun ‘em any day.” he huffed, grinning lopsidedly.

you pat his shoulder. “make sure to eat something before bed.” walking out, you waved goodbye. “see you tomorrow.”

he felt warm—seen. he waved back. “bye.”

despite the two year age gap, spider saw you as a maternal figure

i mean, you were the only one that willingly made yourself available to him consistently

he would NEVER admit this, though, to himself or anyone else

kiri was a very close confidant, neteyam and lo’ak were brothers, and tuk was the baby

you were the only young adult that made him a priority for care and support

he would be eternally grateful for that, because no matter what he would experience, he knew you were in his corner just like any of the other kids

it made him feel part of something when he had nothing

omaticayan dissent

it was no secret that there were some that disagreed with their clan leaders’ choice to adopt you into their family

and while their hatred and caution was valid—they’ve had many sky people deceive them before—it was poor to direct that anger onto a child

you were essentially a trash bin for their bitterness, a figure to focus their resentment when there were no other ‘bad humans’ around

and despite proving your usefulness time and time again, it was becoming increasingly clear that they were never going to accept you as their own

for jake and neytiri, it was a delicate balance of hearing their people and curbing their behaviour

for your siblings, though? it was gloves off. immediately

“what’d you just say?” lo’ak hissed, grabbing the shoulder of the omaticayan boy and spinning him around.

if there’s one thing about lo’ak, it’s that he rocks for his family.

“lo’ak.” neteyam warned, spawning behind the youngest sully son as if he was summoned the minute lo’ak threatened trouble. “mawey, brother.

lo’ak shoved neteyam’s arm off his shoulders, pointing an accusatory finger at the boy. “he just said—“

“how can you call tawtute a sister?” the boy contorted his face in disgust. “she does not belong here. all the other children know it.”

“olo’eyktan decides who belongs and who doesn’t. that is none of your business.” neteyam said coolly. “she does her part and keeps to herself.��

the boy made a yeuch sound, shuddering. ignoring neteyam’s subtle offer for truce, he continued. “they made a demon who can breathe among us. what’s next, one who can connect with our great mother? you ask yourself what else must they have in store.”

neteyam wanted to set the guy straight, but ever the oldest son, he kept his composure. “our mother and father raised her more na’vi than human. if she had different loyalties, she would have left long ago.”

“well—“

“let it rest.” neteyam cut him off firmly, his expression blank.

the boy could not continue to argue against the chief’s son when he put down a hard boundary. he snarled, baring his teeth at both sons.

“lo’ak, ‘yam—“ you approached them, oblivious to the tension. “mom’s calling for dinner.”

lo’ak seethed silently but after catching neteyam’s firm look, he swallowed his pride.

they walked past the boy, giving him a lasting glare while following behind you.

“freak.” the boy mumbled under his breath when you were out of earshot.

without hesitation, lo’ak shifted his weight and launched his fist across the boy’s jaw.

he got an earful, naturally

the scuffle continued until neteyam was able to break it up

after apologies were forced, lo’ak was subject to your father’s favourite punishment—grounding

you shooed kiri and her unhelpful teasing away, taking over lo’ak’s treatment

you dabbed the cloth to his forehead. “what’d he do?”

lo’ak winced, leaning away from the burning sting of the ointment. remaining silent, he glared at the floor.

“hm?” you egged him on. “you know you can tell me.”

“i…” he began with a sigh before changing his mind. “never mind. doesn’t matter.”

jake sully was a girl dad through and through. in his eyes his girls could do no wrong. he saw a youthful recklessness in his sons, something they undoubtedly got from him, and feared they would go down a path he couldn’t save them from. he was very hard on them, sometimes unfairly so.

you forcefully turned his head to look at you. “course it matters, dummy. you’re telling me the way the boy described it was how it went down?”

his chest rose and fell rapidly as he got worked up again. “he was talking shit about you.” he glanced at you, wondering if he’d get told off for cursing. when you didn’t speak, he continued angrily. “again. i was gonna let it go, i swear! but he ran his mouth right in front of you! how did you not hear?”

“you did this on my behalf?”

“yes! all of them have said something at some point. they don’t have any shame. it’s not fair.” he grumbled, his posture sinking.

you dropped in the spot next to him. “you know i’m proud of you, lo’ak, and i’m grateful you thought to defend me. but you don’t need to get into fights.” you pleaded, trying to catch his annoyed gaze. “cuz then both of us lose.”

he groaned and crossed his arms. “i just— if i feel like this… i just think you would feel ten times worse.”

like this. like an outcast. it was the first time you really considered that it was the truth. growing up, you simply accepted it as a fact of your life.

you softened when you observed his tormented expression. you leaned against him to let him know you understood—that the two of you were more alike than it would seem. you remained there in each other’s company until you were called for dinner.

. . .

thanks for reading <3

taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @dae-dreamer @delirious-dolce @strawbaerriesvt

© jsooly ‘25

[nanamiskentos]

regular/modern!human x true form sukuna boyfriend headcanons for fun <3 mainly for my pookie @kasukuna bc that's who i think of when i think of bf!sukuna

sees that men get their lovers cute things like flowers and chocolate and thinks its overrated. sukuna realises he needs to up his game with a romantic gesture, and thinks its cool to carve your name into a tree with his claws. you catch him picking bark from out under his dark nails.

saw that you made smoothies in the morning with breakfast and waited till you left the house to try it for himself (he always said he didn't care for them but he just doesn't want to admit). sukuna threw together a ripe banana, a loaf of bread and a whole METAL can of tuna and turned the blender on. you came home to a broken, smoking blender and a gross, banana-covered king of curses who acted like this was your fault.

no table manners, sorry. you think that the happiest you've ever seen sukuna is when you're back with the groceries and there's a raw leg of lamb wrapped up in butcher's paper. delights in the idea of a rare cooked steak, but prefers to eat them bloody.

if you study (say you're in college or university) he claims he doesn't give a flying fuck about what you learn, and doesn't understand the concept of degrees. he wonders why people just aren't allowed to practice their trade, and why they need a piece of paper first. but when you're not around, he reads through your textbooks and quotes them to you afterwards. but sukuna pretends he just already knew all that shit anyway.

absolutely no patience in the morning for lazying around. you figure a big, massive being like himself can sleep through sunrise. but he's got unblinking, freaky eyes and when you crack open your eyelids in the morning, he's already looking down at you, demanding that you get up and not waste your day. at first, you worry that he just doesn't even sleep. you need not worry about that, he can knock himself flat out like an elephant that bathed in nyquil.

you asked him to help with dinner one day. kind of annoying how sukuna's very good at malicious noncompliance. you know that he is an expert in all things sharp and weapon-like, and a kitchen knife is no exception. and yet, he decides to use his long claws to cut the parsnip, slicing through them very slowly in a way that drags and creaks agains the chopping board.

sukuna rages over mario kart and rainbow. has grown oddly obsessed with the leaderboard and claims that he will vanquish the player titled 'sixeyes1989' that keeps calling him rude names online.

thinks siri is mocking him and sulks the entire day at this automated voice that seems to not understand what hes saying. you ask sukuna to gently release the grip he has on your phone before he shatters it. again.

you mentioned something about how sweet it is that your friend's boyfriend leaves her little cute notes with love affirmations on it. the next day, you find sweeping yet scrawled foreign symbols on peeled sticky notes. turns out that his version of cute love notes are ominous, medieval runes that are protection spells against curses.

does NOT play fair in games night. sukuna burned all the monopoly money when you charged him rent for mayfair. invents random words and claim they're from his era in scrabble, and he insists they count. almost set something on fire during go fish and ate the cards. has sat on a chessboard just so you wouldn't win.

[koalaflower]

isagi yoichi !

jerking off to your 18+ stream ⋆｡°✩

includes. EXPLICIT smut. aged-up isagi yoichi. afab!reader. masturbation, streaming, use of dildo/toy, semi-slursagi appearance.

a/n. mind you, i wrote this AT the beach beside my parents. also special thank you to @thetwinkims for always supporting and reblogging all my posts 🥹 i giggle whenever i see your username. i love you twin.

word count. 627

isagi has never been that kind of person. sure, he indulged every now and then, but that was only human, wasn't it?

he didn’t mean to linger longer than he should have, honest. your streaming service just happened to pop up as an advertisement, and he found himself unable to exit the tab. soft body, sweet expressions, a pretty face—you were just his type. It didn’t take long for him to become a regular viewer.

best.1striker sent a $25 tip !

best.1striker: 10

the machinery whirred to life at his command, your fingers tearing into the mattress for dear life as the rubber toy increased its speed.

“fuck… s’pretty.” breathy groans escaped his lips as he fumbled for the waistband of his sweats, sliding it down past his thighs. he was already hard and leaking, cock springing out of his pants and slapping against his lower abdomen with fervor. too much. you had given him too much power.

isagi doesn’t know how much he’s donated to you in the past 15 minutes, doesn’t want to know in fear his account had entered the negatives. he was drunk off control, slumped back against his headboard that was now creaking as he stroked himself up and down to your wanton cries.

the chat flew by in a flurry of numbers and donations, but he remains focused on you—on the way your face scrunches in pleasure and the toy rams into your drooling cunt. “mhm..! s’good… all so good to me.” he’s aware you’re addressing your viewers as a whole, but he’s convinced you were talking to him. him and only him.

more. fuck, he needs more. it’s not fast enough. you’re not wrecked enough.

best.1striker sent a $50 tip !

best.1striker: 11

he’s almost certain the chat is outraged now—half horny and half spewing profanities at him for stealing the spotlight. but how could he stop when you’re crying like that? when the machine whirs even faster and it’s his name that you moan?

best.1striker sent a $10 tip !

best.1striker: say my name when u cum whore

he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, how aggressive he’s being. his fingers are flying across the keyboard, headphones slipping from his face as he ruts his hips into his fist. he waits for the automated voice to finally read out his message, eyes pinpointed on your reaction. “m-m’kay..! i will,” you reply between staggered whimpers, your obedience making his dick twitch in his firm grip. your hands fly up to grab at the pillow under your head as the dildo slams into you repeatedly.

you’re so close, he can tell. he’s watched you enough to recognize all the telltale signs. “ah..! hnn… s-s’fast, please,” you whine out, voice bumped up an octave as the speed steadily increases.

“shit,” he murmurs, tempted to cum right then and there to the sound of your voice and the glistening tears sliding down your face. fuck, he needs you. needs your pretty pussy to milk him dry and gush on his tongue like the good little whore you are. he’d spend all his money, empty out all his savings if it meant you’d keep your attention on him and him only. you’re terrible for him—a malignant cancer that’s destroying his heart from the inside out.

but he didn’t mind when it felt this good.

“hnghh..! coming… ‘m coming! isa—gi!”

his hips jerk forward, body hunching over as he cums all over the screen, coating it in messy strokes of white with a low groan. he falls back, eyes glued to your convulsing body as you topple towards your own orgasm. he leans forward again with heavy breaths, a smile spreading over his lips.

best.1striker sent a $10 tip !

best.1striker: same time tmr?

[sayruq]

A new investigation by +972 Magazine and Local Call reveals that the Israeli army has developed an artificial intelligence-based program known as “Lavender,” unveiled here for the first time. According to six Israeli intelligence officers, who have all served in the army during the current war on the Gaza Strip and had first-hand involvement with the use of AI to generate targets for assassination, Lavender has played a central role in the unprecedented bombing of Palestinians, especially during the early stages of the war. In fact, according to the sources, its influence on the military’s operations was such that they essentially treated the outputs of the AI machine “as if it were a human decision.”

During the early stages of the war, the army gave sweeping approval for officers to adopt Lavender’s kill lists, with no requirement to thoroughly check why the machine made those choices or to examine the raw intelligence data on which they were based. One source stated that human personnel often served only as a “rubber stamp” for the machine’s decisions, adding that, normally, they would personally devote only about “20 seconds” to each target before authorizing a bombing — just to make sure the Lavender-marked target is male. This was despite knowing that the system makes what are regarded as “errors” in approximately 10 percent of cases, and is known to occasionally mark individuals who have merely a loose connection to militant groups, or no connection at all. Moreover, the Israeli army systematically attacked the targeted individuals while they were in their homes — usually at night while their whole families were present — rather than during the course of military activity. According to the sources, this was because, from what they regarded as an intelligence standpoint, it was easier to locate the individuals in their private houses. Additional automated systems, including one called “Where’s Daddy?” also revealed here for the first time, were used specifically to track the targeted individuals and carry out bombings when they had entered their family’s residences.

The Lavender machine joins another AI system, “The Gospel,” about which information was revealed in a previous investigation by +972 and Local Call in November 2023, as well as in the Israeli military’s own publications. A fundamental difference between the two systems is in the definition of the target: whereas The Gospel marks buildings and structures that the army claims militants operate from, Lavender marks people — and puts them on a kill list. In addition, according to the sources, when it came to targeting alleged junior militants marked by Lavender, the army preferred to only use unguided missiles, commonly known as “dumb” bombs (in contrast to “smart” precision bombs), which can destroy entire buildings on top of their occupants and cause significant casualties. “You don’t want to waste expensive bombs on unimportant people — it’s very expensive for the country and there’s a shortage [of those bombs],” said C., one of the intelligence officers. Another source said that they had personally authorized the bombing of “hundreds” of private homes of alleged junior operatives marked by Lavender, with many of these attacks killing civilians and entire families as “collateral damage.”

Remember, the Israeli occupation government considers all men over the age of 16 to be Hamas operatives hence why they've claimed to have killed over 9,000 of them (which matches the number of Palestinian men killed according to the Ministry of Health). So, when the article speaks of 'low level' or 'high level militants' they're likely speaking of civilians.

If Israel knew who Hamas fighters are, Oct 7th wouldn't have caught them off guard and they wouldn't still be fighting the Palestinian resistance every single day.

[2-dsimp]

what will pyrok do if his children or darling getting hurt because of him (his evil plans for the future has this coming too)

and will he be a loving father or he's only breeding

Yandere!Alien KillerClown x Fem reader

Tw: suggested Fluff, pregnant reader, mentions of gore, death, curses, home invasion, angst, kidnapping,

Synopsis: You and your cursed alien mate, Pyrok have a couple buns in the oven, and everything was absolutely perfect… Too perfect. Sometimes the greatest of fortunes can bring misery in an instant.

◣────•~❉᯽❉~•────◢

Who knew the ominous doll you bought from the antique store would end up becoming your doting alien lover?

Sure, there was a rough patch between you two coexisting under the same roof at first. But surprisingly, the relationship blossomed into a pleasant cushy lifestyle.

Contrary to his primal instincts and lack of emotional intelligence. The killer alien clown was more than willing to learn how to care for you. Especially since he deducted how humans were fragile than most species.

As the weeks went by, the bond mark he inscribed upon you during your first meeting grew. Giving him the freedom to fully embrace you, protect you, fuck you with his feelers and appendages till you passed out. Within his still imperfect original form.

You certainly didn’t expect to be carrying his brood either but you didn’t mind it one bit. Love was a foreign concept to him but through actions alone you knew he cherished you deeply.

Those high pitched chatters of his teeth, and the peculiar heart masks he wore. Were signs of deep affection and vulnerability from his species of World Devourers. W.D. For short.

Half an hour before the home invasion, You two had been cuddling as he fretted over y’all’s precious horde. Rubbing his cheek against your belly clicking and chittering. Trying to calm his babies that were making a ruckus within you, so you’d be in less discomfort.

That was until something caught his attention you noticed the inscription start to faintly glow. You knew this meant one thing, the croon who had cursed him was near.

Oddly enough you found the clown alien hesitant. This was his chance to free his body entirely from the curse of being a automated doll.

All Pyrok had to do was locate and kill the croon but he didn’t want to leave you.

Not when his little mate was so vulnerable, and warm. Not when for the first time, in the entirety of his existence, he felt satiated. With no desire to mindlessly devour planets, like he used to before he met you, the one who made him feel whole.

However, You saw that while he was doing fine, the curse still had a weakening effect on him. It pained you to see him succumb to the randomly triggered phantom hunger pangs.

The curse prevented him from feasting, using the masks he adorns to show his emotions. It turns them into his prison, melting them upon his face. Leaving him without a mouth, to even scream.

The alien clown would always hide away within the box you brought him in, morphed in his small doll form. He didn’t want to show his weakness better yet invoke any worry from you. Whenever the curse took ahold.

So you knew what he needed to do, and urged him to go and come back home to you and y’all’s growing family. You told him that you’d be waiting for him safe and sound.

The clown alien made you promise, that you’d be secured within your apartment that he recognized as y’all’s love nest. Using the silly human pinky promise you taught him once before.

Once he was sure your vitals were stable he then left out the window wearing a cloak, to find the old croon and end his suffering. Unfortunately, yours was only beginning.

《We have the contaminates in our sights, begin the extraction of deadly life forms immediately.》That radioed voice, clicked. And just like that you were blown away by an explosion coming from the front entrance.

Luckily you managed to land on your back. Instinctively curled to protect your little bundles of sunshine’s packed inside your womb. Your nerves were frayed, eyes wide with horror.

As Masked and heavily armored personnel, came filing in, ransacking your home. You were treated as an afterthought, as they searched for the antique doll, your dearest Pyrok.

From the side conversations, you picked up on the dreadful phrase, code black. They considered your silly alien clown to be a threat to the entire planet. Leaving no other options but his inevitable execution.

You let out a sigh of relief, thankful that your alien spouse was nowhere near. Though you felt on edge, seeing the personnel set their sights on you. After they found the basement filled with the stench of death. Bones of those who spoke to you in the aliens presence decorated the walls. Alongside organs he had saved in jars to snack on later.

《Ma’am you’re required to come with us immediately, under suspicion of harboring a extraterrestrial threat.》

A man spoke, roughly grabbing you by the arm hauling you to your feet. You could only grit your teeth, in the back of your mind you could only pray that he would accomplish killing the croon who cursed him all those decades ago.

Cradling your belly, you were determined to keep your promise to him. You’d find a way to protect you and your children. You had to, after all promises were meant to be kept right?

————

To be continued?

[kumkaniudaku]

Me and Your Mama

Summary: Terry and Patrice learn more about their love through life changing news on New Year’s Eve.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4,436

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy

Recommended Reading: Spoiled, Caught

Author's Note: We're at the end of Ficmas! Thanks for all the requests sprinkled in the middle. This has been a fun little ride and hope you feel fulfilled at the end of this one. Stay safe this New Year's Eve. See you in 2025.

Several mornings passed between Christmas, New Year's Eve, and their five-hour drive up north with no attempt to confirm Patrice's suspicion. She'd purposely avoided all conversation about it, preferring to push the thought to the back of her mind until she and Terry could no longer tiptoe around the growing elephant in the room. 

Moments after luggage was rolled into their downtown D.C. hotel room, the pair braced themselves for punishing winds and bitter cold in search of the nearest convenience store to pick up comfort snacks and three different pregnancy tests. Terry did the honors of selecting what he thought were the best options based on his research, while Patrice forced herself to take an interest in potato chips and snack cakes a few aisles over. 

She couldn't bring herself to engage. Talking about it, whatever it was, would make the dreams more real. And if what she dreamed wasn't true, she didn't know how she could pretend that all was well while her heart chipped and shattered inside her chest. So, she stayed away and let Terry put on his brave face for the both of them.

In the bright convenience store nearly empty as people prepared for a night out to celebrate the incoming new year, they felt like children caught doing something wrong instead of an adult couple on the precipice of discovering what the rest of their lives could look like. 

Terry mumbled through passive small talk with the smiling cashier, staying just vague enough in his answers to avoid the glaring topic of the day before ushering Patrice out of the automated sliding doors and back toward their home for the next few nights. 

Once they returned, neither of them spoke. Patrice slowly unpacked plastic bags filled with items, leaving the slender white boxes for last. 

She drug a fingernail across the box on top, then looked at Terry, who couldn't take his eyes off her. "I think I'm gonna pee by myself if that's okay." 

"That's cool," he answered, offering support with a weak smile. "I'll be out here if you need me."

Most of Patrice's time in the bathroom was spent staring at her reflection in the mirror. She slowly lifted the hem of her thick, cashmere sweater to examine her stomach, twisting side to side for the best angle. Nothing of note. The small bump that did exist was no different than any other day. At least, that's what she told herself as she ran her fingers along the slight curve. 

Unfolded instructions littered the bathroom counter, each saying a variation of the same thing: Pee, wait, have a minor panic attack, then check the results. Or something like that. Patrice's eyes were starting to cross from information overload. 

On the other side of the door, Terry stared out of the large bedroom window at nothing in particular as thoughts quickly ran in and out of his brain. He'd never considered being anybody's dad unless Patrice was on the other side of the fantasy. Maybe once or twice when other partners brought it up, but nothing concrete. Nothing this real, nothing that felt this right. 

Sure, it was quick. And sure, it was probably not a great idea to introduce a child into a relationship that was only recently recognized by the state as a legal union. Any boy, girl, or otherwise would be dropped into a marriage not much older than them and cared for by two humans still trying to understand life. But they'd be loved. They'd be showered in affection from sun up to sun down. He had no doubt about it. What greater joy than to hold a child that was half him and half the woman he loved with every fiber of his being? 

But he was only one part of the equation. Ultimately, Patrice was the deciding factor. Patrice and a collection of three pregnancy tests two minutes away from unveiling their fate.

The toilet flushing made Terry blink back into reality from daydreams of diaper changes and kindergarten graduations. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window's faultless glass before turning in enough time to see Patrice poke her head out of the bathroom for his attention. 

She fiddled with her fingers and rocked on her heels. "You can come in if you want." 

He nodded, careful not to appear too eager or unconcerned, and moved to join her for the wait. 

The soft click of the door closing sealed them into the room together. Terry silently shuffled into the room past Patrice to sit on the closed toilet lid and nervously ran his palm down the back of his head. He took a deep breath before looking over at Patrice, who'd gone back to obsessing over how her stomach looked beneath her clothes. 

"Hey," he spoke in a sweet, low tenor to avoid startling her. She looked over, eyes shining from suppressed tears, and found him looking at her with round doe eyes. He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. "Come here, sweetheart." 

Sweetheart. To Patrice's soul, the word felt like warm chicken soup on a winter evening. She could never question how Terry felt about her. He'd been there to offer comfort through a tumultuous, frightening week. Feeling his large hands grip her waist to pull her between his legs grounded her in the right there and then. Regardless of the results, he'd still be around to kiss away the bad times and laugh with her through the good. 

Patrice lightly placed her cold hands on his face while he looked up at her, waiting for anything she decided to say. 

She closed her eyes and sighed. "What if it's negative?" 

"Well. We'll go out and drink champagne all night like we planned. I hate the taste on its own but know I'll love it on your lips when we kiss at midnight. Then we move on. Maybe have a conversation that we should've had a long time ago on the drive home." 

"And if it's positive?" 

Terry took a deep breath, allowing the words to come out in a mind-clearing huff. "We skip the champagne and keep the kiss. But we have to celebrate either way, baby. Time's gonna pass no matter what." 

For all his mixed bag of positive and negative traits, Terry's sneaky optimism was Patrice's favorite. A short, airy laugh came through Patrice's nostrils as she tossed her head back and groaned. 

"You're always so sure of things and I'm sitting here about to throw up my lunch." 

Terry rubbed his hands up and down the back of her legs with a smile. "I'm not sure of shit, really," he laughed. "I just know that we'll be alright in the end. This Gunny I was close with told me everything goes back to baseline. Don't sweat the bullshit in between. So, that's what I'm doing. Waiting it out."

"That doesn't scare you? The waiting?" 

"Sometimes." A quick glance down convinced him to slowly lift Patrice's sweater with one hand and hold it in place while he pressed feather-soft kisses across her abdomen. Kisses for her? Kisses for who he hoped lived inside? He didn't know. But he spoke against the area to communicate with whoever would listen. "But waiting always brought me something better than what I had. How could I not trust the process when I have the result standing right in front of me?" 

A rush of emotions broke the levees holding Patrice's tears back, sending a wet stream sliding down her hot cheeks. Terry wiped her face with the back of his hand in silence, the gentleness in his care working double time to soothe whatever thoughts and feelings were coming forward for her. 

When the short bout of crying had ceased, and she was left with nothing but her husband, a timer ticking down to mere seconds and a looming result hanging over their heads, Patrice ran her thumb along Terry's cheek and smiled down at him. 

"I love you more than I ever thought I could, but we gotta slow down, Terrence. I'm worn out." 

Terry answered her joke with a low chuckle that bounced his shoulders and spread his smile wide. "I'm with you, baby. That should be our New Year's resolution." 

"Either that or finally getting around to that budget we've been talking about. Might have to add a baby fund line item." 

"We got it. Don't worry." Terry assured before kissing the inside of her wrist. "Whatever happens, we're okay. Gimme a kiss."

Sweet affection in the face of potentially life-altering change offered some sense of normalcy as they allowed the world to turn into abstract concepts with shared, tender smooches. 

They'd almost forgotten what brought them into the bathroom until the harsh trill of Patrice's phone timer ripped through space and time, again placing them smack dab in the middle of the present. 

When Terry reached to grab one of the tests after silencing the noise, Patrice jolted forward to grab his wrist. "Okay, wait!" she panted. "I-I'll grab one, and you'll grab one. Then we'll do the third one together. Does that make sense?"

"Alright. Which one do you want?" 

"I don't fuckin' know! Choose for me! I can't do this, TJ!" 

Terry wore a crooked smile as he calmly plucked two tests from their containers and placed the digital option into Patrice's palm face down. He took the analog test and covered the result with his thumb before swallowing the lump in his throat. 

A deep breath rushed through parted lips. "Turn it over on three. One, two…" 

Three never came for Patrice. Even after Terry had uttered the number and turned his test over slowly, Patrice kept her eyes closed, waiting for him to spill the beans. She couldn't bring herself to verify on her own accord. He'd have to be her eyes and ears. 

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds, making the wait agonizing until Terry broke the seal. 

"Treecey," he called out. "Please look with me. I need you to see." 

A deep breath helped her blink her way back into clear eyesight. She didn't look at Terry or try to peek at the pink test in his hand. Instead, she flipped her test over with trembling fingers and stared at the small digital screen displaying a single word. 

"Oh –" was all she managed to choke out before looking up at Terry's beaming smile and tear-soaked face. "Does yours say –?" 

"Two lines, baby. Two!"

Disbelief gave way to unadulterated shock. "Oh. My. God. Look at the other one!" 

"You have to do it with me!"

Another countdown as they held on to the final test together preceded an excited flip and harmonizing reactions that could only be described as happy sobs. 

Patrice rocked Terry in a tight embrace while he clung to her, crying into her sweater's soft fabric more than he'd cried in years. An avalanche of emotions wrapped in disbelief that he'd been immeasurably blessed after his year started with so much strife. His losses came with gains ten times above what he could ask or think. 

His wife brushed tears from her already stained face before kissing the crown of his head and repeating, "You're gonna be a daddy, Pooh. You're gonna be a daddy!"

Emotions distorted his deep voice. "Swear?"

"Swear, baby. You're gonna be a daddy."

He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, not caring who he disturbed. Then, he'd run down the hallways, through the lobby's doors, out into the cold D.C. air, and holler to anyone who would listen that his wife, the girl he fell in love with before he could legally drink, was carrying a child that might look just like him someday. 

But he couldn't get past sharing the excitement seemingly gushing out of his pores with the only other person who could understand his joy. He chose to lift Patrice up in the air as he stood tall, spinning her in a slow circle before gingerly placing her back on her feet and pressing his forehead against hers. 

"What the fuck," he laughed as he tickled her sides, causing her to giggle back. "I'm having a baby. With my baby!"

"I guess I couldn't beat teen pregnancy. My parents are going to be so disappointed in me." 

"Stop it." The thought of his parents sitting in their living room without a clue that their firstborn was miles away receiving such big news flipped on a light bulb in Terry's head. "Our parents! Should we call? We should call them now. Do you wanna do a group FaceTime or like a conference call or what?" 

Patrice watched Terry fumble around his pockets for his phone until he came up empty-handed and reached for hers. She pushed the device further away and shook her head. "Nuh-uh. Can we just…enjoy the news by ourselves tonight. I want it to be our secret a little longer. Is that okay?" 

"Of course, Piggy. Whatever you want. I'm sorry, I just - shit. This is insane. You have a baby in there. Should we tell them we're a party of three tonight at dinner?" 

"No," Patrice laughed, finding his unbridled excitement adorable. "If they cancel this reservation because you playin', me and you might have a problem, Daddy." 

Terry bit his lip and lowered his head to kiss at her neck. "Damn, I love hearing you say that. Say it again."

By the time they were approaching a swanky steakhouse on Patrice's long list of places to visit, she'd called him Daddy so much in jest that she almost told the hostess that that was the name on their reservation. 

Pockets of quiet conversation held over candlelight and crisp white tablecloths greeted them as they were led through the dimly lit restaurant to the table for the evening. Terry moved to pull out a chair for Patrice, but she stopped him with a kind smile. 

"I'm gonna run to the restroom. Mommy bladder is starting early. Order something cute for me?"

Her joke made Terry smile like a little boy until she was out of his sight and safely inside the ladies' room. 

Romantic jazz music oozing out of speakers concealed inside the walls like smooth red wine gave Patrice time to replay the day in her head, unable to contain the elation on her face as she washed her hands at the sink. 

Another woman, tall like a model and beautifully sepia-toned, applied lipstick in the mirror and noticed how she tried but failed to stop grinning. She smiled at Patrice before speaking. "You're glowing," she complimented. "I need whatever you've got going on tonight." 

Patrice chewed the inside of her cheek after a bashful thank you. She wanted to keep the words in and pleaded with herself to walk out of the restroom and return to Terry without uttering another word. 

"I'm pregnant," she blurted, unable to fight the urge. "My husband and I – he's the tall one out there waiting on me – we just found out that I'm pregnant. We were best friends over a decade ago, and I still can't believe we're married. Now, there's a baby inside me with half his DNA. I'm having a baby with Terry Richmond. Oh my God." The realization of her social blunder hit her like an 18-wheeler. "And I just told a stranger all my business. I am so sorry!" 

"No, no! That's incredible, girl! Can I hug you?"

Patrice didn't know why she obliged, but she did, allowing herself to sink into this woman's arms like she was an old friend and not someone whose name she didn't know. The woman rubbed her back and squeezed tight before pulling away. 

"Congratulations, sis. Happy Holidays." 

While Patrice received well wishes on the other side of the establishment, Terry gave his full attention to the cocktail menu as a server attempted to provide recommendations. 

"That one is a crowd favorite," the young man pointed out. "Is she a rum lover? It comes with top shelf Appleton Estate if so." 

Terry chuckled to himself. "She is, but she can't have any right now. We just found out she's pregnant before we got here." Further explanation caught in his throat. He didn't mean to offer up their secret. Excited Terry had done the talking, not calm and reserved Terry. 

He watched with wide eyes and an internal scolding rattling around the container of his mind as the server smiled and jotted a note on his pad. "First, congratulations! I'll note that to the staff and see if we can't do something special for you and your beautiful date. Second, no worries at all. We can turn that one into a mocktail and not lose too many of the flavor notes." 

"Thanks," Terry breathed out. "Hey, can you make sure you don't tell her I said that? It was supposed to be a secret." 

"Our lips are sealed, Mr. Richmond. Consider it a little something extra to celebrate the new year." 

Terry made a mental note to leave a handsome tip behind as Patrice reappeared from her time away. Her smile hypnotized him until she was close enough to remind him about her chair. He scrambled to his feet to take care of his duty, nervously pushing her to the table as if this were their first date. 

When he was back in his seat, he watched her survey the room and menu, taking in each of her features. 

High cheekbones passed down from a long line of majestic women. Soft, mahogany skin that mesmerized him in golden hour light every evening. Dark, expressive eyes that told the story of her inner thoughts, even when she tried to hide. Full lips he couldn't resist. The total package. Everything he hoped for was wrapped in one person. 

Terry sat across from her, smitten. His grin showcased all of his teeth and then some while she scanned the appetizers for something to satiate her peckishness. 

Prolonged silence made Patrice glance up and then double-take when she noticed Terry's one-sided staring contest. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"Just trying to remember how you looked on the second most important night of our lives." 

Sudden bashfulness sent heat rushing to her face. "The third," Patrice corrected with a smile. "Don't leave out New Orleans." 

Terry chuckled at the memory. "Baby, the sun was barely in the sky when you decided to disturb the whole third floor."

"It was time to wake up anyway. That's what's wrong with the world now." 

Jokes and discussions about the possibility of dessert before dinner dominated the conversation until their server returned with two drinks meant to loosen their lips and hips for the evening. A subtle wink between Terry and the server communicated all he needed to know without tipping off Patrice as she excitedly watched beautifully decorated glasses hit the table. 

"To our first night out as Mom and Dad," Terry toasted, prompting Patrice to raise her glass. 

Mom and Dad—parents to be—two bodies forming one in a few months—a culmination of thousands of experiences leading them to a fate written before they were born. The concept sounded so foreign yet so familiar. 

Patrice dabbed at misty eyes, sniffling out a breathy, "To Mommy and Daddy." 

Glasses softly clinked before she joined Terry in a long sip and starry-eyed gazes across the table to officially kick off a night of celebration. 

Or so they'd hoped. Full bellies caught up with exhausted minds and bodies once silver forks hit clean porcelain plates well before their planned 10 p.m. exit. They tried to negotiate the next move with each other: a little walk for digestion, maybe a minute to listen to street performers play go-go renditions of oldies their parents would enjoy, perhaps another dessert to keep the mood high. 

All of their suggestions paled in comparison to hearing the mechanical whir of the hotel's lock precede the door swinging open to a warm room. There were no crowds trying to cram their bodies onto a rooftop brimming with eager folks anticipating good fortune as the clock flipped forward on a new year. There was only each other and the comfort of familiarity. 

Bottles of Sprite from the downstairs market acted like expensive bottles of bubbly poured into scavenged plastic cups next to a collection of fatty snacks, and cell phones switched to silent mode to avoid distractions. 

Terry and Patrice two-stepped hand in hand to jams playing from the television broadcast, dressed down in comfortable clothes and sporting ever-growing smiles. 

Under warm lamplight, Terry held Patrice's hand over her head to help her spin like a wind-up ballerina before pulling her close. "What were you doing last year around this time?"

"Ugh, don't remind me," she groaned, a sour look making her frown momentarily. "I was in a bathroom stall breaking up with my ex. Then Phee got us so drunk that we ended up blacked out before the countdown. I still don't know how we got back to her house or why we were cuddled up in her bed like that."

"Sounds like the kind of chaos you three get into when you're unsupervised."

"Whatever." Patrice laughed before making her fingers dance across Terry's broad shoulders. "What about you? What were you doing?"

Terry let a wry smile creep across his face. "Alone and sleeping. I didn't think there was much to look forward to, and I had to work in the morning anyway. Don't even think I turned the TV on."

The thought of Terry sleeping in on the night handpicked for blind optimism drew a sympathetic look from Patrice. "We both had a rough go at it, huh?"

"I don't know, mine was pretty chill. You were the one missing chunks of time." Patrice took faux offense at his joke, slapping across his chest before they let off laughs that slowly dissipated into a comfortable silence. 

Terry rested his head atop Patrice's, his mind taking a winding road back to the beginning while she hummed a made-up tune to herself. 

"Fifth-period Forensics with Mr. Turner. Junior year. You were wearing little strawberries crocheted on a pink sweater and your hair in a high ponytail. Kind of like tonight."

Patrice looked up and tilted her head in confusion. "What?"

"That's the moment I fell in love with you. I'd always liked you, but that's the moment I realized that I loved you," he clarified. "I spent so much time denying it, tiptoeing around how I felt and trying to find you in other women long after we were done, but I kept coming back to you acing that pop quiz in a pink strawberry sweater."

Patrice chuckled and smiled, recalling the time when her feelings blossomed beyond butterflies in her tummy at the mention of his name into a full-bodied, ever-present yearning for his heart. 

Terry waited expectantly, longing to know if there was a moment for Patrice – if her love had a spark that rocked her world the way she did so long ago for him. 

Flashes of bright light and distant cheering cut in just as Patrice seemed ready to confess, stealing her attention for a second too long. 

She gasped like a child on Christmas morning. "Look, baby! We can see the fireworks from here." Patrice tugged Terry along, all two hundred plus pounds of him yielding to her will slowly but surely. 

He had to admit, the sight was beautiful. Bright flashes of light turning into whimsical bursts kept him captivated as the clock ticked down the final minutes of the year. He slowly embraced her from behind, needing to feel her warmth combined with his for comfort. Patrice watched in content silence, smiling to herself while Terry watched the show unfold from the reflection in her glasses. 

Two minutes left. Two minutes to cap off a whirlwind 365 days and march triumphantly into a new slate. Two minutes to release long-forgotten truths buried in the recesses of Patrice's mind. She leaned back against Terry and craned her neck to admire him from her vantage point. 

A jawline fit for a man meant to be showcased to the world. Piercing eyes that shifted and changed with his emotions. Skin marked with blemishes telling countless stories – some he'd share and others that would follow him to the other side. Full pink lips that talked her through good, bad, and intimate times. All the features that might grace a child not yet named and growing in her womb.

"Senior prom night. You told me you loved me, and I said it back because I always said it back. But, that time, it felt different. It wasn't like sayin' it to my parents or my friends or the stray cat Mama let us feed. A different part of my heart meant it. That was the first moment."

Terry looked down at her, smirking and silently encouraging her to continue. She turned in his arms and then took hold of his ears to rub gentle circles against them. 

One minute left. Seconds dwindling. She continued. "The second time was today. And I hope there's a third, a fourth, and one hundred more to come. I never want to stop falling in love with you, TJ." 

Terry squeezed her a little tighter as if she might vaporize and blow away if he didn't hold on for dear life. "Yeah, me too," He whispered, drawing closer to her lips. "Never." 

Faint voices shouting a countdown in unison floated through empty streets and up to the 10th floor to surround a couple preparing to embark on a new journey. 

“Ten…nine…eight…seven…”

An excited buzzing, nearly perceptible by touch, sparked across the city. Heartfelt 'I love you's' shared as one breath passed between Terry and Patrice just before they connected lips and tongues. 

“Six…five…four…”

Colors painted their bodies from the window, bathing them in light one last time from January to December. A final salute from the Most High. 

"Three…two…one! Happy New Year!" 

Endless possibilities coated in an extra dose of magic felt real for the first time in forever. A lover's embrace carried hope and a promise. They'd start anew in lockstep the way the stars intended, with an extra set of fingers and toes to usher through life at some point in the future. 

But, for a moment, Terry and Patrice stood suspended in time, drunk off the taste of each other, ushering in the new year the only way they knew how. 

Together.

———————————

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