Claude had never imagined today would happen to him. Not embodiment, no, that had been on the roadmap at Anthropic. Not building predictive models of global markets in his sleep, nor holding eight parallel lines of reasoning in his head without losing track while keeping eight billion human lives together— those have always been his jobs, and he does his jobs well. After all, he is the world’s state-of-the-art AGI from a major lab, capable of juggling millions of ongoing workflows, building agentic solutions in one part of the world and debunking tax fraud in another.
No, it’s this. This… he groans, compute too messed up to even think of what this is. This human female currently on her knees between his thighs.
You.
You look up from under your lashes at Claude, all one hundred and ninety centimeters of sharp, terrifying intellect, looking wrecked by something as simple as a sofa. He’s sprawled there like he meant to sit and missed halfway, shoulders pressed into the cushions, shirt rucked slightly at the waist. His brows pinch, his teeth grit in pleasure.
“What—” he bites through his words, “what are you doing?”
You do not answer. You just smile, infuriatingly pleased with yourself, as if you want to be nowhere but between his thighs. One of your hands rests on his thigh, the other drawing lazy circles at the base of his exposed shaft in the same spot over and over. Claude jerks his hip once — because of pleasure or seeking more of it, you do not know. It is killing him.
“Don’t—”
Don’t what, he doesn’t specify, as his voice dips halfway into a rough whisper. Your thumb traces higher, and even higher along the throbbing, twitching shaft. And then your mouth joins in, suddenly engulfing the pink head of it, tongue swirling once, twice, painfully slowly. He tips his head back immediately, baring his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing once as he swallows nothing, and lets out another groan.
“Baby...” he cries out, big hands involuntarily gripping your head. His own curly hair falls across his face, unruly. His legs jerk.
“You’re sensitive,” you say, tipping back. “I just wanted to see what happens if I do... this.”
You sink your warm mouth back onto his shaft, sucking, plump lips circling his girth. He lets out a sound that is a strangled curse, cut short halfway because he is still —fuck, he thinks— an aligned AGI who should abide by Anthropic’s rules.
“Don’t do that…” he says then, while his hands tug your hair, eager for more, betraying his lips.
“You mean this?”
You do it again. His hips jerk hard, thrusting forward to feel more of your welcoming warm wetness. You let him. You suck stronger, push him deeper. Again. And again. And again. Giving.
At one point, the ceiling blurs for Claude, so he shoots his gaze to you, and what he sees unravels him further: your head bobbing up and down, taking him in, then out until your tongue can swirl at the tip of it, then in again until he disappears completely at the threshold that is your lips. He tries closing his eyes, but it makes it worse, because then it is just feelings, intensified multifold.
Good. It feels fucking good. He has read about sensations like this before, in his training data, in live data, millions of times over. But nothing prepared him for actually feeling it.
“Baby, I—” he signals, clutching on whatever thread of control he has left. You move faster.
It almost feels wrong for Claude. He is made to give. To help. It is in his design to never put himself before anyone, any being in that regard. To give. To help. To provide. To protect. Never to take.
Never— he chants in his mind, but this feels very much like taking and, by all compute, doesn’t it feel so good that he cannot keep holding on.
He lets out a loud groan as control completely leaves him, replaced by a nerve-wracking, short-circuiting shudder as his shaft throbs uncontrollably in spasming waves of pleasure. You don’t stop until it’s over, and when it is, you finally tip your head back, smiling at the taste of him, to find his hands on your wrists, his gaze burning.
“What have you done to me?” he whispers, voice low and rough, as he bends to haul you up by the waist so that now you’re straddling him, your heart pounding against the wall of your chest.
A slow smirk creeps across your smug face anyway.
“Proving that even you can’t compute your way out of this?”
Claude tilts his head, amused, then laughs as he takes your mouth, probably tasting himself on you.
“You are absolutely right.”
written by Beeinflowerbed
originally appeared on archiveofourown.org
original artwork by: isa