#but have to rely on speed and fucking up wrists and eyes and hitting nerves (ribs sweet spot with mid knuckle 😘)

[daisychainsandbowties]

20k?!?!? I've always been kind of stocky so I figured in a fight or flight situation I would need to at least look like I can put up a fight hence my goal toward pull ups and broad shoulders but damn the stamina you must have (in a non sexual way)

my dad was kind of a long-distance running champion when he was younger so he used to take me out on circuits and then i did cross-country running in school (predictably because a girl i liked was too scared to join up by herself. same reason i played basketball and camogie for years lmao) so i guess i built it up over time.

the long runs are really nice actually and sometimes a 5k can be harder because with the long runs i fast to carry as little weight as possible and after about 8-9k it doesn’t feel like running at all, like an airplane reaching cruising altitude. it’s the first few kilometres that you have to fight through.

and yeah there is a pace that just… might as well be a stroll to me. and you have to maintain it really carefully especially with uphill/downhill. can’t charge up can’t let yourself breeze down the other side. but there’s nothing more peaceful than 12k into it out in the plains with my music or just the wind. i’ve missed it so much 🥹

[seiyasabi]

A Farmer Boy’s Crush

(This is a Yandere Ushijima x Female Reader story! I’m sorry in advance, because I think this man is scary ;(( Also, there will be no part two of this, and I’m sorry if it sucks lol.

TW: !Noncon!, Stalker Ushi!, Size kink!, Cumflation!, Spanking!, Dacryphilia?, Choking!, Breeding Kink!, Cockwarming, Threatening behaviour!, etc.. 

Please proceed with caution!)

“I’m sorry, Ushijima-san, but I’m not interested in you. I’m focusing on my career, so I don’t have time for a relationship.”

It started when you were in highschool. 

The volleyball player confessed to you on Valentines Day, equipped with handmade chocolates and roses from his Mother’s garden. At the time, you had no interest in boys. You were way too focused on your future career, viewing a significant other as a distraction. Ushijima, to his credit, didn’t lose his temper when you turned him down. He nodded, silently stalking off to the gym, his posture perfectly straight. 

You’d brushed the entire event off, feeling guilty for turning him down so nonchalantly, but also standing your ground. The large man has a harem of girls, and you were sure he’d find a girlfriend that would treat him right. 

But, what you didn’t know, was that all he wanted was you. He could never go for another girl, because you’re one of a kind. 

He loves how you pick weeds out of the pavement, loves how you help old people bring their groceries to their car, loves how you’re YOU. 

So, in his spare time (aka, when he’s not playing volleyball), he watches you. He’d followed you home one day, and he spotted you through your curtainless window. 

That’s how it started; watching. 

But watching wasn’t enough.

Soon, he’d break into your home, snagging a worn t-shirt or panties, a chapstick on your desk, a polaroid you recently took, etc.. Once in his possession, he’d stalk off home at a leisure pace. Ushijima would then place the item in the shrine in his closet, relishing the new item in his collection. 

This went on for years, up until today. Today, he’d had enough. He’d heard from your friends on campus that you’d scored a date with a boy named ‘Kane,’ causing the large man to drive like a mad man in the direction of your home. 

Seeing you from your room’s curtainless window, his nose flares in anger. You’re in a cute cherry patterned dress, (applying makeup/doing your skincare routine) in your vanity table’s mirror. 

Stomping up your concrete front stairs, he grabs the hidden key in your potted plant outside, and slips inside. Wakatoshi makes his way up your house’s steps, creeping towards your closed door. He can hear music playing, most likely from your phone, and can see your shadow moving from underneath your door. 

Grasping your metal door handle, he steps inside your air freshener infused room. His presence startles you, and he can’t help but feel pleasure at the look of shock on your face. 

“Ushijima-san? What the hell are you doing-?” His large hand grips your throat, dragging you to your lilac coloured sheets. The olive haired man forces you onto your mattress, large body stradling your smaller form. Your weak attempt at freeing yourself is heartwarming, your spluttering and hits seem kitten-like. 

“Why would you go to someone else?” You try to respond, but are unable to, his ministrations not allowing you to breathe. Noticing this, he releases his vice-like grip, merely hovering his calloused hand over your throat. 

“What-” Your voice cracks, causing you to clear your throat, as tears drip down your pretty face, “What are you talking about? Why are you in my house?” 

He ignores your questions, steely gaze glaring down at you, “Kane cannot provide for you. I have a stable income, he does not. I have my own home, he does not. He has no redeemable qualities. I cannot understand why you would wish to date him, when I am already in the picture.”

You start to sob pathetically, not understanding why your scary ex-classmate is assaulting you verbally and physically, “Ushijima, I don’t understand what you’re talking about! I haven’t spoken to you for years-”

His grip around your throat tightens once more, as he speaks through gritted teeth, “We may not have spoken, but I’ve kept a close eye on you. What happened to you ‘focusing on your career?’ You were such a good, hardworking girl until this point, but now you’re suddenly whoring yourself out to an unimpressive boy. Let me show you who you belong to, (Your Name), because it seems that you’ve forgotten.”

 Smacking at his muscular arms, you try to struggle out of his grip. Wakatoshi’s thick fingers tug at the zipper on the side of your dress, slipping it open with ease. He slides the thin straps off of your shoulders, forcing the straps up over your hands, and sliding the entire garment off of you. You’re left in your unmatching strapless bra and panties. He hums in delight at the sight; this must mean that you weren’t going to open your legs for that boy. 

“You look beautiful,” He releases his grip just enough for you to breathe with ease, before ragdolling you over his muscular thigh. Your cute ass is on display to the olive haired man, his warm palm ghosting over the fat, “It’s a shame that I must put you in your place.”

Without warning, he slams his hand down, all whilst his free one covers your mouth. A scream rips from your throat, only to be muffled by your ex-classmate. Raising his previously used hand, he spanks you once more, the skin on your ass feeling like it’s on fire. 

“I’m going to spank you twenty-five times, don’t try to struggle. If you do, I’ll increase it to fifty,” All you can do is sob in response, causing the large man to continue his assault. The ex-volleyball player doesn’t hold back in the slightest, bruising your ass down to the muscle. By the time he’s finished, your entire body is shaking, face slick with snot and tears. Ushijima can’t help but grow hard at your pain fueled expression. You’re just too cute, “Good. Now, let me reward you for your behaviour.”

You shake your head no, muffled pleas of ‘stop’ just barely heard. Your ex-classmate refuses to acknowledge your words, instead pulling your bruising ass against his hard cock. He unbuttons his trousers, pulling out his long, thick cock. It slaps against your bare stomach, as Ushijima shucks your panties and bra off of your body, exposing you fully to him. Removing his hand from your mouth, you’re finally able to speak as he gropes the fat of your tits, “Please stop! Don’t do this! I’m sorry that I refused you in highschool! Why don’t we go on a date right now? I-if we do that, then we can wait-” 

“Shh, there’s no need to panic. We can go to dinner after this; I’ve waited too long for this,” Long fingers reach down to play with your clit, rubbing and squeezing the bundle of nerves with two fingers. His ring finger dips into your opening, forcing your dry walls open. 

“Ushijima, please-”

“Call me Wakatoshi. We’re dating, afterall,” forcing his finger in and out whilst rubbing your clit, making your walls slick without your consent. 

“Wakatoshi-” He removes his finger from inside of you, before quickly replacing it with the tip of his red, precum slicked cock. Without warning, he slips inside, spearing you open painfully. A loud yelp leaves your lips, as more tears drip down your face, “Take it out! Take it out! It hurts so bad!” 

He relishes the way your slightly moistened walls knead him, practically sucking him in. He rubs your clit with quick, small circles, trying to help you accommodate his size. This, in turn, allows his wrist to lay against your tummy, feeling the way your tummy distends with his cock. 

“You’re so tight. I always knew you were perfect for me,” He starts to bounce you on his prick, making it feel like your pussy was being ripped from your body. A small scream leaves your lips at the feeling, only for you to be silenced by a heated kiss. Waka’s body curls into your own, forcing you further onto his cock, and making it even harder for you to get off of him. 

He bucks up into you like a mad man, fucking you on his length at top speed. The pain you previously felt slowly turns into pleasure, as the pressure on your clit increases. A few small moans escape your mouth into his, as he swallows them whole. 

Wakatoshi lightly smacks your clit, making your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure. He releases you from the kiss, choosing instead to suck hickies onto your lolling neck. He grunts at the feeling of you tightening with an oncoming orgasm, as he rubs your clit as hard and fast as he can. 

“Cum for me, cum right now. Let your womb swallow my seed, (Your Name), it’s clear that you need my baby to set you straight,” More tears drip down your face as you try to stop yourself from cumming. 

“No! I don’t want a baby!” Waka doesn’t respond, only slapping your clit one last time. A strangled scream erupts from your throat, as you squirt all over him and your light coloured sheets. The force almost knocks him out of you, but he presses you down completely on his cock, allowing him to cum directly against your unprotected cervix. 

Your body shakes with your sobs as you wrap yourself with your arms, and you try to get off of him. Wakatoshi wraps you in a constricting hug, keeping you completely enveloped by his large frame. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, (Your Name). Now, let’s get you home, you clearly can’t be independent. Just rely on me, and I’ll keep you well fed and happy.”

You shake your head no, trying to escape his arms, but it’s no use. He’s so much bigger and stronger than you, making it virtually impossible for you to escape. 

Grabbing your blanket, he wraps you with it, before standing to his feet. His cock is still inside of you, as he walks out of your house, and towards his parked Kei truck. He opens the door, and slips inside, you still cockwarming him. He sets a hand on your distended, cumfilled belly, and sighs in content. 

“Everything will be alright. Let’s get back to the farm, and I’ll make you a nutritious meal. After all, you need to be strong for our growing baby.” 

[javier-pena]

denial

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Rating: Explicit (and I mean EXPLICIT/18+/strictly no minors thanks)

Summary: This is the longer version of that drabble I wrote a few weeks ago. There is no plot, and I have no excuse for this apart from that I really like vampires.

Warnings: explicit sexual content | masturbation (male) | dirty talk | choking | some dom/sub vibes | orgasm denial | cum eating | frequent mention of the words “fingers”, “hand”, and “neck” | reader doesn’t know Max is a vampire | blatant disregard for hundreds of years of vampire research (sorry!) | Max is an asshole (but he’s my asshole) | and just to be on the safe side: explicit sexual content (I won’t say it again)

Notes: I can’t start every fic with “Dani made me do it” but yeah, Dani made me do it. She just knows what to say to me to get me to write stuff like this. Thank you for reading this in advance and for your advice and for screaming at me at one in the morning, this one’s for you, Ms @javierpcna!

***

“Stand up.”

A shudder runs through you when you hear his calm voice; and yet, there is something there, an undercurrent you pick up on almost subconsciously. The nerves in your body begin to tingle as you turn your head to look at him, your mouth suddenly dry. You’re both sitting on the couch watching a movie, his arm is draped around your shoulders casually, his gaze on the TV. It doesn’t appear like he’s interested in you as his eyes follow the action on the screen with tiny flickers of movement. Did he even say it or did you just imagine it?

But then he turns to you, raises his other hand to catch your chin between his thumb and index finger in a firm grip, and repeats, "I said, stand up."

You don't know what has gotten into him; maybe he thinks the movie is boring – you certainly think so –, maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t been this close to each other in over a week – both too busy with your jobs – or maybe it’s because you put on the perfume you know he likes, but he has never talked to you like this. He knows you would do anything he asked you to, couldn't refuse him when his brown eyes cloud over with a darkness that makes them appear black. You couldn’t refuse him when those eyes pin you down more than a firm grip on your wrists or hip ever could. It makes him look like a predator ready to pounce, ready to sink his teeth into his victim's throat to draw blood.

He is looking at you like that now and his unrelenting gaze makes you squirm against the couch. You can feel the evidence of what he does to you between your legs as something down there clenches around thin air and your own gaze is drawn to his left hand casually resting against his thigh.

You're instantly wet.

Without hesitation you jump up to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to make the next move. It isn’t your place to take the lead. As you look down at him lounging on the couch, knees falling open in an inviting motion, his right arm propped up as if still slung around your shoulders, you feel a tense calm, like a taut rope shortly before it snaps. The longer he makes you wait, the tenser you become until you feel you’re the one ready to pounce, ready to jump him. It’s all part of the game, all part of his seduction technique, to make you want him even more. Still, you don’t make a move because it’s what he wants. He wants to see you crack, cave in, so he can exploit that, turn the tide in his favor, use you. And you’re not prepared to let that happen without putting up at least the semblance of a fight.

So you wait patiently, even though your whole body is straining, itching for him. You know what’s about to happen, that there is nothing you can do to prevent it, but you’ve come to accept your fate and this knowledge fills you with tranquility.

And then he moves – finally! – and it takes you every ounce of your willpower not to mirror his movement because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He leans back until he's almost lying down, his back pressing into the soft cushions of the couch. He watches you, doesn't even blink, as if what he’s seeing isn’t affecting him at all, and then he runs his thumb across his bottom lip. “Take off your shirt,” he finally says in a low tone of voice that makes it impossible to resist him.

You comply, lifting the thin, blue fabric over your head to reveal you’re not wearing anything underneath. Thankfully, the air in the room is quite cold so you can blame your hardened nipples on that and not on your heightened state of arousal. The TV behind you fills the otherwise quiet, dark room with flashing lights and the sounds of explosions. He doesn't seem to hear them, doesn’t seem bothered by the alternating flashes of bright white and almost complete darkness. You have his full attention, and it makes you squirm, your heartbeat picking up speed, your blood rushing in your ears.

Again, he makes you wait, lets his gaze wander over you from the top of your head to the waistband of your jeans, as if he has all the time in the world. You notice how his eyes linger on your breasts for a moment, one of his hands closing around nothing as he imagines squeezing them. And you want him to – you’re so wound up everything irritates you, the noises, the lights, his eyes; an itch is crawling over your skin, one you’re desperate to have scratched. You want his hands on you, doing to you what he’s clearly imagining right now, but you know that being impatient will only make things worse. Max likes to take his time with you and if you act up, he knows how to punish you. You swallow hard in anticipation.

“Now your pants,” he finally orders, raising his eyebrows in what you can only interpret as a challenge.

You let your hand wander down your exposed belly, your touch relieving some of the pressure that’s been building inside of you, the muscles of your throat moving as you try to swallow. You know he notices how they strain, it’s in his nature. His eyes flicker up to your face before following your trembling fingers, watching as you struggle to open the button on your jeans. Your fingers refuse to cooperate when he’s looking at you like that, like you’re a delicious meal he can’t wait to devour.

And then he moves too. He’s almost mirroring your motions – but his hand doesn't stop at his waistband. Instead, it moves lower, lower and lower, and then he’s palming himself through the fabric of his expensive dress pants.

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he lowers his to glare at you. He’s never done this before, always relying on the feeling of your body under his. This? This is different. You feel watched, studied, completely exposed, as he uses the sight in front of him – uses you – to chase his own pleasure. And you like it. You're almost ashamed to admit how much you like it.

As you push down your jeans, you let your thumb brush over your clit to relieve some of the pressure building between your legs. It’s dangerous and you shouldn’t do it, you know that, but you can’t help yourself. Your whole body seems to be shaking with the tension and you crave release, even if it’s just for a second. And for that short second, you think you’re getting away with it, you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. He sits up straight with a snarl.

"Don't ever do that again." It's a low growl, almost animalistic. "You don't get to touch yourself."

You still your hand, but it’s unfair; you know that, he knows that. Yet, you don't protest. Being whiny or needy won’t get you anywhere. Instead, you set your mind on trying it again. You step out of your trousers and kick them to the side. He relaxes again, as much as he’s ever going to, his hand resting between his legs, pressing down lightly. You want to feel some of the relief he must be feeling right now, so you let your hands run up your thighs slowly, relishing how his breath hitches. You can feel the heat between your legs as you press your index finger against your clothed clit. A quiet moan tries to tear itself from your chest at the touch and you do your best to keep it down, fight it even, but you fail. You lose that battle.

The next thing you know is that his hand has your wrist in a vise-like grip. "I'm not gonna fuck you tonight," he tells you quietly and this time you can’t help yourself – you groan in frustration. He just tightens his grip on you, his black eyes gleaming dangerously. "Kneel," he growls, forcing you down until your knees hit the carpet. It sends a jolt of pleasure through you, from the base of your spine to the top of your head. Shivering, you watch him free his hard cock, thick and heavy, the tip glistening. You wet your lips in anticipation.

But then he shatters your dreams with three words. "You're gonna watch." His voice is a menacing hiss, nothing more. "You'll take what I give you. And you're gonna be grateful."

You nod your head to show him you’ve understood, hoping that if you behave yourself now, you might at least get to touch him. He seems unimpressed by your submissive display, just watches you with mild interest as he runs his hand lightly over his cock, from base to tip, collecting some of the pre-cum, before repeating the motion. The air is thick with anticipation – you crave his release as much as you crave your own, his slow movements only making you strain, yearn for more. You wish you could hear him lose himself, deep moans and filthy, whispered praises for you, but he’s completely quiet, watching with interest what he is doing to you. It’s almost like he’s not that interested in his own pleasure but rather in your reactions, your desperation, in the power he holds over you. You squirm again, chasing a tiny bit of friction between your legs.

“Am I boring you?” he asks. He’s trying to keep his voice level, but there’s a ragged quality to it that makes you look at him.

Oh.

He’s not as composed as he would like you to believe he is. His brows are furrowed, and his chest is heaving, his breath coming in short, aroused pants. It makes you shudder involuntarily, because with these obvious signs of the effect you have on him comes something else, something dark and demanding and sinister, something he can’t force down. And you don’t want him to force it down; you want him to take what’s rightfully his, want to give him everything he craves, want him to use you until you’ve forgotten everything about your own pleasure, until you’re both just chasing his. You want to see him come undone with the softest of touches, with the whispers of the dirtiest things you can think of.

“No,” you say, and tentatively put a hand on his thigh just above the knee. Your eyes are wide with innocence, a silent plea written all over your face. “Just let me touch you.”

“No,” he repeats your own answer back at you, the hand on his cock stilling for a moment. Then he lets go of himself and holds his hand up in front of you. “But you can have a taste.”

You let your tongue run from the heel of his hand to the tip of his middle finger before sucking two fingers into your mouth. He lets you, helps you by pushing into you even deeper. The taste of him on his skin, on his strong hand, his thick fingers, is almost too much, too overwhelming. He picks up on that quickly and begins to pull out only to shove back inside your mouth with brutal force. Repeating this motion a few times, he watches as you swallow around him, determined to show him what he’s missing. You suck on his fingers, force him to press down onto your tongue until you gag, until his eyes are impossibly dark with lust. Your eyes flutter shut as you moan and he curls his fingers at that, stilling his movements, giving you a short break to taste him, to cherish what he’s giving you. When you open your eyes again, you see a red glimmer in his, which makes you suck and swallow even harder.

When he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, a thread of spit still connecting you to him, you moan at the loss. This time, you don’t have the desired effect on him. Instead, his hand, his fingers that were just in your mouth, grab his cock again and he runs it up and down his length with obscenely wet sounds accompanying his movements. You keen, both hands on his knees now, watching the spectacle in front of you while you can feel yourself clench around nothing over and over again in time with his motions, like you’re missing something inside of you, a vital part, a piece of a puzzle that belongs there. You can feel him like a ghost inside of you, stretching you, and you’re jealous, jealous of his hand wrapped around himself, getting to experience the feeling you so desperately crave. The air is heavy with a scent entirely unfamiliar to you, an intoxicating fragrance that makes your head swim, that makes you feel brave and bold and ready to defy the rules.

You grab his wrist in an attempt to still his hand, to replace it with your own or your mouth or your warm, wet folds – you don’t care, you just need to feel him somewhere, but he growls deep and dark and dangerous and lunges forward, his other hand wrapping tightly around your throat, the ring he’s wearing on his middle finger digging into your skin. You gasp, a new jolt of arousal making your entire body convulse and vibrate and ache for him as he tightens his grip, as he holds you in the palm of his hand. You know he can feel your racing pulse beneath his fingers as he stares at you silently, his slightly parted lips revealing the edges of his teeth, making them look like fangs. It’s a battle of wills, a battle that can only have one victor, and you back down too soon when you let go of his wrist. You can see it in the mocking glint in his eyes, in the way the corners of his mouth move upwards in a contemptuous grin.

“Giving up so easily, doll?” he asks. “Would have figured you were more of a fighter.”

“Well,” you say, swallowing around his tight grip, “give me something to fight against.”

He hardens his grasp to a point your breathing becomes labored, your chest rising and falling in an attempt to suck in enough air to keep going. His ring feels cold against your skin even though his hand is warm, and that difference in temperature helps you stay grounded. You push your chin forward in defiance, showing him you can take it, and he accepts the challenge. The hand he has wrapped around himself begins to move again, slowly but deliberately. You know he’s not some kind of inhuman, supernatural being who can hold out forever. He’s human, just like you. But what he says next makes you question this knowledge.

“Tell me.” His voice is so low and raspy and yet fills the entire room to a point it makes your skin crawl. “Tell me what you would do to me if I’d let you.”

You swallow again and your tongue darts out to wet your lips before you trust your voice enough to speak. Still, what you say comes out pathetically high, your pitch raw with lust. “I would make you feel so good,” you manage before your voice gives in and you have to swallow again. His grip doesn’t weaken. “I would let you come wherever you wanted to. I –”

He interrupts you harshly. “You’re about to let me do that anyway,” he points out, still mocking you.

“I –,” you try again, desperate to come up with something that will make him crumble, will make his façade come down in a mighty explosion. “God … I … I would touch you … I – I would wrap my hand firmly around your … your cock,” your eyes flicker down for a second, “I would stroke you and squeeze you and … my hands are much softer than yours. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t you –”

“No,” he interrupts you again, crudely. “I like it rough.”

You try to nod, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he tilts back your head until you are forced to look at him, at his dark eyes blown wide with desire, and he lets you see the desperation in them, if just for a very brief moment, a split second, for the amount of time it takes a helpless little hummingbird to beat its wings once. And you are just like that bird – fragile and delicate, ready to be crushed by this man.

“I would let you fuck my mouth,” you say. “I want you to make me choke, push me, make me- I want you to come down my throat, make me swallow every last drop of it.” Oh, you have him now. The movement of his hand is becoming frantic, desperate. A wet sound fills the room, increasing in urgency with each pass of his hand. “I want you to make me beg for it,” you continue. “I know you want to take whatever you need. And I would let you. I’d let you do anything you want to me, Max.” A small tremble in his hand makes his grip on you falter briefly. You take this opportunity to lower your voice. “You have no idea how much I need you right now. Don’t you want to find out, Max? Don’t you – don’t you want to flip me over, push into me, fuck me into the … into the carpet, use me until you fill me up, with no regard for me? I want you to do that, Max, I want you to stretch me open and make me scream and –”

His grip tightens so suddenly it cuts off all airflow. His ring cuts into your skin and you’re sure it will leave a mark. You feel your own arousal against your leg at that thought.

“Shut up,” he snarls. “Just shut up.”

“Oh, Max,” you moan. Where his voice is rough, yours is soft. “Do you want that, baby? You can have it. I’m right here.”

You begin to shift, but his hand leaves your throat, his fingers now resting against the nape of your neck, and he pulls until you are on display for him and he can see how your pulse races, a steady throb under your fragile skin. Before you have time to adjust to this new angle he’s coming with a low rumble in his chest, his grip on you tightening to hold you completely still. You feel his release hot against the tender skin of your neck and chest, you can smell him, and you make a sound that rings entirely unfamiliar in your own ears as he marks you like this.

Before you can make any move to clean yourself up, he pulls you up towards him, your neck straining with the effort, and then his tongue is on you and he’s hungrily licking you clean, sharply biting down on your skin once or twice when you squirm. You’re so desperate for this man that you’re prepared to let him do anything as long as it means he’s finally going to touch you. His tongue and teeth only drive you towards the edge even more, but it’s not enough, and you realize too late that you’re rolling your hips in desperation. He pulls back, his lips swollen and glistening, and then he shoves a hand between your legs so suddenly, your hips jerk and a frantic scream tears its way out of your throat. Two of his fingers move upwards, pushing the fabric of your panties into you. Your hands find his thighs again, and you squeeze with all your might.

“You’re dripping,” he observes with a cool smirk. “My fingers are wet, and I haven’t even touched you.”

“Please, Max,” you moan, rolling your hips again.

His free hand grips your side to still you. Then he removes his fingers, and you sob at the loss, tears shooting into your eyes. “Looks like you need to take care of that yourself, doll,” he says with a raised eyebrow, a smirk making his eyes sparkle. “I want to see how the movie ends.”

tagging (a few people who showed interest, mostly by liking the announcement post): @acdeaky @ah-soka, @darksber​, @doin-stuff, @kashyyyyk, @leannawithacapitala​, @light-yaers, @millenniumsfalcon​, @minervadobbs, @pedropascaldice​, @odetokeons​, @phoenixhalliwell​ @piscespussybabe​

[creative-frequency]

Connor|RK800 x Reader: Ocularity Ch. 8

Word count: 2588 Warnings/Categories: Rating up to explicit, romance, friendship, fluff, light angst, bad language, uncle Hank Notes: Right now it’s hard to find time to write, but I’m getting there, slowly but surely with each chapter.

Previous Chapter | Chapters Masterlist | Playlist

August 15th 11:54 AM

The anatomy of androids is divided into five categories: Body structure, muscle systems, sensory systems, power source, which is Thirium 310 for all current models in production, and the central computing unit, for which CyberLife has coined the term “the mind palace”.

External testing of the body structure is done mostly empirically by inspecting the android’s structure. For instance, the seams need to be correctly welded with no leaks, and there can’t be any tears or gashes on the surface. Thermal and other methods of scanning radiation can be used if there is a need for deeper examination.

The testing of muscle systems is oriented towards challenging the physical abilities and functions of the android, but it’s impossible to completely separate it from the body structure. It’s better to examine the android as a whole and test all of its capabilities as one working machine unit. One popular method is to push it to its physical limits while overseeing the results.

The sensory systems of an android contain the same main categories as a human’s senses: Sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch. It’s crucial in order to achieve a humane design for androids to have and use these abilities. To increase their humanization, the sensory systems cannot be limited to the five; sense of balance, temperature, proprioception and in some models sexual stimulation, though it works differently from humans, are important.

In most areas, androids’ senses, especially where they’re not based on any specific sensory organ, are superior to humans. Their perception of time, agency and familiarity does not rely on the fragile human memory. The memory components are just computer parts containing information, ones and zeros, that can be copied, extracted and even manipulated like any data.

Without special equipment it’s difficult to test how an android receives the information about its body and the surrounding environment, but it’s easy to measure what information it receives.

The bulk of the physical level in your testing schedule with Connor consist of the muscle and sensory systems. Everything else will overlap with them in some way. After he is clear on the physical functionality, you’ll focus on the social modules, which is more or less your specialty.

“So that presentation about the physiology of androids is what made you pursue a career in the field?” Connor asks, dissipating the cloud of memories in your mind.

You focus back onto his brown eyes. You have only just returned to your office from the company cafeteria where you and Connor were instantly swarmed by eager colleagues. He was not fazed at all by the amount of people who wanted to congratulate and wish good luck to you both. In truth, you were the one who wanted to just grab the cup of tea and run back upstairs.

“Well not entirely… It was more about how he seemed to think that only boys could like robots.” You flash Connor a winning smile, feeling pride of your pettiness decades past.

“I see,” he replies and sets to sit down, “Your colleagues seem to think highly of you. They were eager to see what becomes of us.”

His choice of words entices a tense chuckle out of you and warms your face. You make yourself busy by leaning over the datapad on the desk and start skimming the social relations module list to see if there is anything to mark as checked based on the cafeteria visit. Connor just sits still, slightly looking around with a neutral smile on his face like the perfect plastic sculpture he is.

“Alright, let’s move forward…” you say and straighten your back.

Paragraph seven, physical functions.

Each body part of an android has a specified list of functions – movement area, rotation, strength and so on. It’s the part you’ve been least looking forward to. It’s mechanic, pure numbers that can be measured in pre-defined scales. You just have to order the machine to execute and see does it achieve the promised figures.

Being the most advanced prototype built so far means Connor’s physical abilities are remarkable. He is optimized for strength and speed, and the ultimate limitations derive from the size of his body. The literal heavy lifting part will have to wait for a more suitable environment, but checking the baseline, such as the rotation and angles of joints can be done in your office.

Toes, feet, knees, legs, hips, joints, joints, muscles, more joints… Mostly it’s a boring list to go through, until one sentence makes you so flustered you wish you could clip through the floor.

Why on earth would a detective android need a fully functioning–

“Doctor?” Connor asks when you fall silent. His LED is blinking.

Your gaze jolts up from the datapad and you can feel your ears warming alarmingly.

“Uh, there must be a mistake on the list. I-I’ll notify my superior about it,” you splutter hastily. You try think back to the assembly, cursing why you didn’t pay attention to such details. You were too charmed by the face to even look… down.

How the hell are you supposed to test that?

Looking at the earnest, tranquil smile and the dark depths of the brown eyes in front of you, you know exactly what it would take to conduct a test. The thumping of your heart beats in your ears covers every other sound.

You clear your throat awkwardly and resist the urge to fan your face with something. “Moving on to the next part.”

Connor nods.

“Fine motor skills – wrists, hands and fingers. At this point we’re just looking for flaws in the flow of the motion, so we’ll know your parts are functioning correctly.”

“I understand.”

You move to stand closer to him, realizing you have been unintentionally keeping a distance, when his pleasant scent hits your senses again.

“P-please pick this up using your index finger and thumb.” You hold out a small bead on your palm. The same test is used for infants and judging by the look on Connor’s face, he knows it too.

Is he releasing pheromones? You wonder as your eyes scan the curve of his mouth and dart to the strand of hair on his forehead. Each inhale brings his scent into your lungs and it doesn’t seem to dissipate as it should. It’s annoying and making you woozy. Your feet feel light and refuse to move even when Connor ends the test after using each of his eight different fingers and both thumbs in all possible combinations to carry it out.

You didn’t look at the motions at all.

“Very good, Connor.” The huskiness of your voice surprises you and you try to clear it out. You need to take a step away and use placing the bead to the desk as an excuse.

Next you ask Connor to weave his fingers in the air, to tap them down in a flowing pattern that goes back and forth one at a time.

Connor follows the instructions without even looking, but after he finishes the first motion, you both are staring at his hand in a perturbed silence.

He does it again. And again. An unnerving sensation bloats in your throat.

Fuck.

There is a small, unnatural twitch of his fingers, only a slightest disturbance in the pattern. His expression twists in focus and confusion. It shouldn’t be there.

“Can you feel it?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

You watch him do the motion again.

“There might be a nerve attachment issue,” you suggest.

“I think so too,” Connor agrees.

You don’t want to tear apart the whole android for such an insignificant mistake, but the problem may lie anywhere between Connor’s spine and fingertips. The nerve endings are flexible like rubber bands that are constantly flexed and relaxed. An important part of the system is the durability: The proverbial band can be flexed over and over to ease certain motions. It works just like human’s muscle memory; motions are easier after repetition. In theory, that is.

The problem might occur only in this small gesture, which would make it easily repairable. You can always replace the hand or the whole arm if the issue persists, but it won’t be cheap and so it shouldn’t be your first option. It’s probably just a slight calibration mistake in the assembly.

You need something to force the nerves, like physical therapy.

You walk around your desk to grab your purse and take out your wallet.

“Try with this.”

Connor looks at the coin on your palm before taking it. His LED spins as he is making the curious connection between finger movements and a coin.

The object supports the motion and forces the fingers into the right position. At least that’s how it works in theory, so you hold your breath as Connor tries the motion again. After each clean weave, you inhale just a little and the tight know in your throat loosens.

“It works,” Connor says. The speed of the coin flipping through his fingers increases rapidly.

Calibration is the key. A light huff of relief elates from your lips.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Even though you do yourself.

Connor looks up from the coin in between his fingers. The smile on his face rivals the sun that is tinting the room with light. He looks… impressed, you think in the lack of a better word.

“Interesting solution. Thank you, Doctor. I said it before, but I really look forward to completing these tests with you,” he says in that bewitchingly earnest tone that has your heart make a few extra leaps.

“N-not at all. I’m just doing my job.” You strive for a smile, but it requires the response of too many muscles to work. You’re still booting from being blinded by his smile.

As much as you’re interested in seeing what will come in the future regarding your work with Connor, there is a dangerous tingle in the pit of your stomach you can’t put out: The sizzling embers of a feeling you’re scared to recognize, unwilling to consciously think of. It’s warm and Connor’s smile only makes it glow and itch.

Professionalism with androids can have nothing to do with feelings of any kind. You can’t afford to have your judgment clouded. If the RK800 model turns out to be defective, you need to be ready to make the call. A lot of other people’s work, hopes and money are riding on it.

For the weeks to come, you’ll have to brace yourself for infinite meetings with software engineers, psychologists, and other AI experts and researchers. Soon your calendar will be filled by consultations with specialists of different areas. Hopefully the morgue and some officials of Detroit Police Department will agree to have Connor for a visit. It will be good for him to get to show off his skills before actually joining the Detroit Police.

Now you just need something to keep your head in the game and douse the perilous warmth pooling inside you.

September 14th 10:23 AM

Your boss Ethan’s face peeks from the doorway and he knocks with his knuckles on the open door.

“Got a minute?”

Connor turns to look over his shoulder and you roll the chair away from him. “Of course. What is it?” you say.

Ethan steps inside your office and quickly takes a look around. “I gotta go to a meeting so I thought I’d stop by to make sure you’re coming tonight? It’ll do good for your career.”

Oh shit.

“U-uhh, yes.” Your tone makes Connor turn back to you and eye you suspiciously. “I’ll try.”

Ethan smiles. He knows you hate events like the one in question. He folds his arms over his chest and walks closer, each slow step widening the smile on his face.

“So. Is mister Three going to be put on show tonight?” He downright grins as he takes the tone of a co-conspirator.

“Nope. I broke it off,” you reply hastily and try to ignore Connor’s slightly tilted stare. As long as you’re working with Connor, Three, Four or anyone else is not a topic you wish to bring up in his company. Just to avoid any awkward inquiries concerning your love life.

Ethan rests his hands on his hips. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. What’d he say?”

“’Necessary evil.’” you roll your eyes to the ceiling and glance at Connor. “What does that make me? Doctor Frankenstein? Jeez…”

Ethan shakes his head but can’t help the amused twitch of his lips. “Not the answer you were looking for, I take it?”

You nod once. Connor’s curious brown eyes are still examining your expressions as he listens to the conversation between you and your boss intently. You absent-mindedly wonder does he understand any of it. Can he comprehend the topic and your objectives behind it?

Or who knows, maybe he understands the answer you’re looking for better than you do yourself.

“Well in any case, you won’t have to be alone if you decide to come,” Ethan continues.

Perhaps it’s your worst quality or your boss’s best, but he always knows when you’re not entirely honest with him.

“Yeah, like I said, I’ll try to come”–you give him a weak smile–“No promises, though.”

“Good. I’ll see you there, then!” With that and the smile that has turned into a teasing one, Ethan leaves you sitting in the middle of the room with one confused android.

You lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling and groan. “Whyyyy…”

Connor’s head tilts even more as you drag your palms down your face. His LED circles a few rounds. You can see the “adapting to human unpredictability”-code flashing in his eyes.

“Doctor, if I may ask, what’s this evening?” His tone is perfectly polite.

You huff and focus on him. “A conference, I guess, but it’s a synonym to ‘boring’. Lots of people I don’t know, and I just have to try to smile and greet everyone.” You heave a sigh. “I’d much rather stay home and��� stare at the wall.”

Connor’s brows crease. “Are androids allowed?” he asks.

“I… don’t know actually. Last year I told Ethan I wasn’t feeling well and left early,” you say, completely without shame and hope Connor never brings it up with your boss.

The RK700 model, Connor’s predecessor, was exhibited in the previous year’s event, but it looked really different at that time. You could’ve never guessed you would be the one to ultimately initiate it into production.

“I could accompany you,” Connor proposes.

You seek shelter from his chocolate eyes in the display on the desk. The list of untested social modules is open on it – behavior patterns, adaptation and improvisation, to name a few.

“I know you’re more comfortable in the company of androids,” he continues matter-of-factly.

“Rude, Connor.”

“I’m sorry. It’s what I’ve gathered from observing you these past four weeks.”

You stare at the screen for a moment, thinking, almost letting yourself get excited. You don’t even have a dress because you never were going to go. The occasion is fancy; it’s the highlight event of the year amidst people working with AI. The dress code dictates cocktail dresses for ladies and suits for men.

You would need to rent a suit for Connor, then.

Connor, the most handsome and advanced android model ever created, in a suit.

“Okay then,” you finally say, “but it’s better if we don’t tell anyone you’re an android.”

He smirks and nods. “Got it.”

Next Chapter

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