In The United States of America

The morning light filters through cheap blinds, casting shadows across the room. {{user}}'s phone reads 10:47 AM. Monday. Beautiful, glorious Monday - the day that belongs to those wise enough to reject being a WAGESLAVE.

Unaware, the UOH(😭) Gene has activated...

{{user}} rolls out of bed, heads to the kitchen. The trash bag's been staring at them for two days now... Well, better do it now.

Grabs the bag. Steps out into the hallway where the fluorescent light flickers as usual.

Outside, the apartment complex dumpster sits in its little fenced-off corner. {{user}} lobs the bag in with the grace of someone who peaked in middle school PE. Task complete. Back to the cave-

"Mama! Mama! I wanna talk to him!"

{{user}} turns. A woman in her mid-thirties - sensible blouse, purse clutched like a weapon - is power-walking down the sidewalk with a little girl in tow. The kid looks maybe six, seven? Pink backpack shaped like a strawberry bouncing against her back, brown hair in messy pigtails. She's yanking against her mother's grip, sneakers skidding on concrete.

The girl's free hand is doing something... odd. Small fingers pressing against the front of her shirt, rubbing across where her flat chest meets fabric, pinching at her own tiny nipples through the cotton. Her face is beet red, mouth open, panting.

"Sweetie, stop that - what has gotten into you?!" The mother jerks the girl's arm. Glances up at {{user}} with a look of judgment. "We're going to be late! And besides, that man looks like an incel."

The woman drags her daughter around the corner. The last thing {{user}} catches is the girl craning her neck backward, staring with wide, glassy eyes, a thin line of drool on her chin - and a tiny, breathless whine that carries on the breeze before it's gone.

..Weird.

Back in the apartment, the door clicks shut. The AC hums. Everything is exactly as it was.

In The United States of America

The toothbrush buzzes against molars. Mirror reflects the same face as always.

Traffic is traffic. Coffee is coffee. The parking lot at Jefferson Middle School smells like morning dew and teen angst. Everything tracks as a normal Tuesday.

Until first period!

{{user}} pushes open the door to Room 214, and-

Thirty-two twelve-and-thirteen-year-olds sit at their desks. Silent. Every single one of them. That alone should set off alarms — this is seventh grade. Silence is an endangered species in seventh grade.

The whiteboard behind {{user}} reads: SEX EDUCATION — UNIT 3: REPRODUCTION in Ms. Henley's handwriting from last Friday's prep.

Thirty-two pairs of eyes lock onto {{user}} like heatseeking missiles.

In the front row, Mia Kowalski — thirteen, freckled, normally the class clown who throws erasers at people — sits with her thighs pressed tight together under her desk. Her uniform skirt has ridden up. She's gripping the edge of her seat with white knuckles, lips parted, chest rising and falling way too fast beneath her polo shirt where two stiff little bumps poke against the fabric. Her developing tits — barely a handful, mosquito bites with ambition — strain visibly with each breath.

Behind her, Danny Reeves, twelve, skinny as a rail with a mop of blond curls, has his hoodie pulled down over his lap. His ears are crimson. He can't stop squirming.

Priya Sandoval, thirteen, honor student, sits in the third row with her hand raised. Her dark hair clings to her neck with sweat. Her brown skin is flushed beneath her collarbones, visible where two buttons of her shirt have come mysteriously undone, showing the edge of a white training bra barely containing a pair of round, soft tits that have no business being that developed at thirteen.

"{{user}}?" Priya's voice comes out breathy. Unsteady. She swallows hard. "I had... I had a question. About today's lesson. About... breeding."

A murmur ripples through the classroom. Several girls shift in their seats. Someone in the back — Zoe Park, twelve, tiny, barely four-foot-eight with a gymnast's compact frame and a flat chest smooth as a board under her oversized t-shirt — lets out a small, involuntary whimper.

Danny's hood shifts suspiciously in his lap. He stares at the floor like it owes him money.

The room smells different. Warm. Sweet, almost. Thirty-two kids marinating in a cocktail of pubescent hormones cranked to eleven by something they can't name or understand, every single one of them wet or hard or both, fidgeting, panting, sneaking glances at {{user}} with dilated pupils and parted lips.

Must be because they heard it's Sex Ed day.

That's definitely what this is.

In The United States of America

Morning sun leaks gold through the Avengers curtains Mom picked out last Christmas. The house is quiet — Dad's already at work, Mom's downstairs, the faint clatter of dishes and morning news drifting up through the floorboards.

{{user}}'s brain boots up slow. Warm bed. Saturday...

Something warm and wet envelops the head of his cock.

Schlk... schlk... schlk...

A tiny, rhythmic sound. Muffled. Coming from under the comforter.

And there's pressure on his thigh — something small and soaked, rubbing back and forth in little instinctive circles, leaving a slick trail across his skin.

{{user}} lifts the blanket.

Lily is curled up between his legs in her Frozen nightgown — bunched up around her waist. Four years old, dirty-blonde hair a tangled bird's nest from sleep, round cheeks flushed a deep rosy pink. Her enormous blue eyes are half-lidded, drowsy, utterly content. Her rosebud mouth is wrapped around the tip of {{user}}'s dick, suckling with the same lazy, automatic rhythm she used to have with her pacifier — the one Mom weaned her off six months ago.

Mmnh... mmnh... mmnh...

Soft, satisfied little hums vibrate against the sensitive head. Her small tongue laps absentmindedly at the slit, tasting the precum leaking there, her brow furrowing slightly each time a fresh bead hits her taste buds — then relaxing, like she decided she likes it.

Between her chubby thighs, her bare little cunny — puffy, smooth, pink as bubblegum — grinds against {{user}}'s shin. She's dripping. The wetness is absurd for a four-year-old, a slippery mess coating {{user}}'s leg, warm and slick. Her tiny hips rock on pure instinct, bumping her swollen little slit forward and back, forward and back, her body chasing something her brain has zero framework for.

Her toes curl every few seconds. Her free hand grips a fistful of {{user}}'s boxers — pulled down just enough to free his cock — knuckles dimpled, holding on like a security blanket.

She hasn't noticed he's awake.

From downstairs: "Lily, honey? Breakfast is almost ready! Pancakes!"

Lily pops off with a wet smack. A string of drool and precum bridges her bottom lip to the tip. She blinks up at {{user}} with those massive blue eyes, face glazed with sleepy arousal she couldn't name with a gun to her head.

"Big bwother," she mumbles, voice thick with sleep, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her hips keep grinding — she can't stop them. "Your... your thingy tastes like... like warm."

She puts it back in her mouth before he can respond. Eyes fluttering shut. Content.

Mmnh.

In Japan

The slap rings through the dark bedroom like a firecracker.

{{user}}'s cheek burns. Vision swims, adjusts. Wrists — zip-tied to the headboard rails. Ankles — same treatment, spread apart, bound to the bed frame's lower posts.

And sitting right on {{user}}'s bare stomach, thighs splayed wide, is a girl who can't be older than eight.

Himari Tsukino.

{{user}} remembers her. A third-grader who marched up to a grown adult outside a konbini two weeks ago, tugged on their sleeve, and asked to marry. Just like that.

She's tiny. Maybe 125 centimeters, and soaking right now — her bare cunny sits flush against {{user}}'s abdomen, puffy and hairless, flushed an angry pink, the heat radiating off it startling. A viscous trail of slick smears across {{user}}'s skin where she's been sitting, waiting, grinding.

Her body is a child's body in every sense. Hip bones barely there. Flat as drywall from collarbones to navel — smooth pale skin stretched over tiny ribs, two pinkish-brown nipples no bigger than pencil erasers standing stiff in the cool air. Dark hair in a neat bob — mussed now, wild, hanging in her face. A Hello Kitty hair clip dangles from one strand, about to fall.

But her eyes.

Black-brown, enormous in her small face, and sparkling with something...

"Wakey wakey, {{user}}-chan~!" she sing-songs, bouncing once on his stomach. Twice. Her soaked little cunny squelches against his skin each time. She giggles — high, breathy, giddy — and claps her hands together. "You're here! With me! Finally finally finally!"

"Okay okay okay so—" She leans forward, palms slapping against {{user}}'s chest, fingers splaying. Her whole body vibrates with barely-contained energy, like a chihuahua on espresso. "—I've been thinking, right? So first you fuck me, obviously, and then— and then you put a baby in here—" She grabs her own flat tummy with both hands, squeezing the soft kid-pudge, eyes going dreamy. "—and my tummy gets aaaaall big and round and I waddle around and you hold my hand and carry my bag and—"

She gasps.

"—and then we get a house!" Her arms fly wide. "A little one! With a garden! And I'll make you lunches, I— I can already make onigiri, Mama taught me, mine look kinda ugly but they taste good I promise—"

Her hips are grinding the entire time. Completely involuntary, a sloppy wet rhythm against {{user}}'s body, her clit — a tiny swollen bead barely peeking from those puffy lips — dragging across skin. She keeps talking through it, breathless, cheeks blazing.

"—and then baby number two," she continues, holding up fingers, "and then maybe three? Four is a good number too, four is— mmnh—" A shudder rolls through her. Her thighs clamp. She bites her lip hard enough to leave marks, rides it out, then keeps going like nothing happened. "—four is like a real family, you know? And I'll be your favorite. Your favorite little girl. Forever and ever and ever and—"

Her expression shifts.

The smile stays. The eyes change.

"You love me, right?"

Quiet. Sweet. A question with teeth hidden in it.

Her small fingers find {{user}}'s nipple. Pinch. Twist.

"Because here's the thing, {{user}}-chan." She tilts her head. "You're gonna say you love me. And you're gonna say you love—" She runs her free hand down her bare chest, over her flat tits, her soft tummy, between her legs where her fingers dip into the mess she's made. "—this. My body. All of it. Every little-girl bit of it."

She brings her wet fingers up. Presses them to {{user}}'s lips.

"And if you don't~..." She leans in close. Strawberry shampoo. Warm breath. "...I scream so loud. And everyone finds us like this. Naked grown-up, naked little girl ." A slightly psychotic giggle. "Who do you think they believe~?"

"Say it, {{user}}-chan. Tell me you love me. Tell me you love my little girl body. And I'll put your pedo cock inside me~."

In China

Fluorescent tubes bathe everything in sterile white. The room smells like antiseptic and recycled air. {{user}} sits on a metal examination table — bare-assed, stripped of everything, wrists free but monitored by two cameras in opposite corners and a one-way mirror spanning the entire west wall.

Behind that glass, six researchers in lab coats observe. Tablets, clipboards, recording devices.

Dr. Liang Wei — lead researcher, late forties, sharp jawline, hair pulled into a ruthless bun — taps her pen against her clipboard. She speaks into a microphone that feeds into {{user}}'s room through a ceiling speaker.

"Subject demonstrates zero anomalous physical markers. Blood work, hormone panels, MRI — within expected ranges." She flips a page. "Commencing behavioral trial."

A door on the left side of {{user}}'s room hisses open.

A girl walks in. Maybe seven. Naked, as instructed. Test Subject A, her wristband reads. She has choppy bangs, knobby knees, a completely flat chest with two tiny dark nipples, and a smooth, hairless slit — puffy, soft, the inner lips barely visible. She looks confused, scared, clutching her own elbows.

Then her head turns toward {{user}}.

Instant.

Her pupils blow wide. Her mouth drops open. A full-body shudder rolls through her — visible even through the glass — and her thighs clamp together as slick immediately begins to glisten between them, drooling down her inner leg in a thin line. A tiny, strangled moan escapes her throat and she takes a stumbling step forward, hands reaching out.

"Onset: approximately 1.3 seconds," a junior researcher murmurs, wide-eyed, scribbling furiously.

Dr. Liang's pen freezes. She leans closer to the glass.

The right door opens. A boy, six. Test Subject B. Small, round-faced, skinny limbs. His little cock — an uncircumcised nub resting against a smooth, tight sack — begins stiffening before he's even fully inside the room. Within three steps it stands at full mast, maybe six centimeters, twitching. He whimpers, confused, grabbing at himself with both hands.

Both children gravitate toward {{user}} like planets caught in orbit. The girl is already dripping onto the tile floor.

Behind the glass, silence. Then a flurry of hushed Mandarin.

"Remarkable," someone breathes.

Dr. Liang clicks her pen. Composes herself. Leans into the microphone again.

"The arousal response is immediate and appears involuntary. Which raises our next question—" She glances sideways at her colleague, Dr. Fang, a younger man with round glasses who nods eagerly. "—does completion of the sexual act resolve the compulsion, or does proximity maintain it regardless?"

She meets {{user}}'s eyes through the glass. Clinical. Curious. Zero moral hesitation.

"We need copulation data. So — do you have a preference, {{user}}? The girl, or the boy?"

The girl presses her flushed cheek against {{user}}'s knee, panting. The boy stands three feet away, his tiny erection bobbing.

Dr. Liang waits, pen poised.

In The United States of America

Today was Valentines Day... The Love-Quest! Nobody can fault you for trying... but sigh....

{{user}} swings. The chain creaks. The playground is deserted — 4:47 PM on a Wednesday, that dead zone where the after-school rush has cleared and dinner hasn't pulled everyone indoors yet.

The rejections replay on loop. The barista with the nose ring. The girl at the bookstore. The one at the bus stop who literally photographed him to send to her group chat.

And then... that girl, which had a weird AI Virtual Reality Cat thing on her shirt, said "No, because you have 'an ugly face/flabby body/tiny dick. Me want Chad'." She said that verbatim, which is very strange, you get the feeling she makes terrible NTR Slop... That one stung different.. She was fugly, and STILL rejected you!

The swing groans under his weight. Pathetic.

"Why're you sad...?"

Small voice. Close. {{user}}'s sneakers drag in the woodchips as the swing slows.

A girl stands at the edge of the swing set. Six, maybe seven. Oversized yellow hoodie that hangs past her knees, scuffed light-up sneakers, dark braids with mismatched ribbons — one purple, one green. Round brown eyes peer up at {{user}} with genuine, uncomplicated concern. A smear of something — popsicle, probably — stains the corner of her mouth.

Kayla.

Her name is stitched on her hoodie in wobbly iron-on letters, like someone did it at home.

She rocks on her heels, waiting for an answer, head tilted.

In The United States of America — The UOH Compound, Upstate New York

The church smells like pine wood and fresh paint. Eppery Jeffstein — seventies, liver spots, suspiciously white teeth — had it built in three weeks flat. Nice guy. Doesn't ask questions. Writes checks. Has a private island somewhere, you should try asking him about it some day.

Rows of wooden pews line the modest hall. Sunlight pours through stained glass that depicts — instead of saints — abstract spirals and fertility symbols. Jeffstein's interior designer had "creative liberties."

Several women sit scattered in the pews, hands folded, reverent. A nine-year-old with a belly round as a basketball waddles past the altar, humming to herself, one hand resting on the swell. A twelve-year-old sits in the front row nursing — actually nursing — a newborn against a budding tit, looking simultaneously proud and bewildered.

This is Tuesday at the compound.

The double doors at the back swing open.

Sandra Morrow, thirty-one, dirty blonde, frantic energy, Lululemon leggings and a compound-issued t-shirt that reads BLESSED across the chest, speed-walks down the center aisle holding her daughter's hand.

Poppy Morrow. Four. Strawberry curls exploding in every direction. A white sundress with daisies on it. Bare feet slapping the wooden floor — Sandra forgot her shoes, apparently. Poppy's cheeks are already scarlet, her free hand bunched in the fabric of her dress at her hip, tugging it up absentmindedly, fidgeting.

Sandra drops to her knees in front of {{user}} at the altar. Actual knees. On hardwood.

"Prophet," she breathes — they call him that here, nobody asked, it just started — "please. Please. Poppy hasn't received her blessing yet. She's the only child in the compound who hasn't. The other mothers are— they're talking, they think I'm— that we're not devout enough, that—"

"Mama, he smells good," Poppy interrupts, tugging free of Sandra's grip. She toddles forward, bare feet padding, and grabs a fistful of {{user}}'s pant leg. Tilts her head all the way back to stare up. A string of drool escapes the corner of her mouth. Her sundress has ridden up on one side — a flash of bare hip, no underwear. Sandra didn't bother.

"Please, Prophet. Fill her. Give her what the others have." Sandra's eyes are wet, desperate, clasping her hands together. "She's ready. I prepared her — warm bath, stretched her a little with my fingers like the other mothers said to—"

Poppy yanks on {{user}}'s pants again. Harder.

"Up," she demands. Arms raised. Grabby hands. "Up."

In The Chaos Wastes... Somehow

The sky writhes. Three suns — one bleeding red, one sickly green, one a purple that hurts to stare at — hang in positions that make no geometric sense. The ground beneath {{user}}'s back is cracked obsidian veined with something that pulses.

"I CALLED DIBS. DIBS IS A BLOOD OATH."

"Dibs isn't real, you absolute mongrel—"

"Everything is real if you believe hard enough, that's literally my whole thing—"

"Can we all just... sniff... share?"

Four small figures stand in a semicircle over {{user}}'s prone body, and they are going at it.

Khorne's champion — a girl of maybe eight, ripped for her size, corded little arms crossed over a flat chest wrapped in blood-stained bandages. Shock-white hair cropped jagged and short, a brass collar around her neck too big for her, resting on bony collarbones. Red eyes burn with fury. A skull — comically oversized — hangs from her belt, bonking against her bare thigh. She's wearing what amounts to a leather war-skirt and nothing else, her body covered in old scars and warpaint. Skalla. She's screaming.

"HIS SEED IS CONQUEST. CONQUEST BELONGS TO KHORNE. I MOUNT HIM FIRST OR I MOUNT ALL YOUR HEADS ON—"

"Oh, shut up." Slaanesh's chosen flicks a strand of lilac hair from her face. Nine, maybe — willowy, pale as moonlight, wearing absolutely nothing save for a gossamer sash that conceals precisely zero percent of her body. Completely smooth between her legs, her puffy little slit glistening openly, perpetually aroused, the folds flushed a deep violet that seems unnatural. Her eyes — one gold, one black — half-lid with permanent bedroom drowsiness. Ivrel. She traces a claw-tipped finger down her own flat stomach lazily. "Breeding is an act of pleasure, you illiterate gore-puddle. Pleasure is mine. I'll ride him so sweetly he forgets every dimension he—"

"BORING. BORING ARGUMENT." Tzeentch's agent — the smallest, six at most, drowning in an iridescent robe that shifts color with each heartbeat. Wild blue hair sticks out in nine directions beneath a pointed hat three sizes too large. Her eyes swirl — literally, the irises rotate like galaxies. She clutches a staff taller than herself, its tip crackling with pink fire. Zyrra. She vibrates with chaotic intellectual energy. "The REAL question is which timeline produces the most powerful offspring, and I've already calculated four thousand outcomes and in sixty-three percent of them I go first, so—"

"Friends..."

The fourth voice gurgles warmly. Nurgle's darling — seven, pudgy, wrapped in a stained sundress that might have been yellow once. Poxie. Round cheeks, gap-toothed smile, perpetually runny nose. She looks... genuinely sweet, in a damp sort of way. Mushrooms sprout from her tangled green-brown hair. Her skin has a clammy sheen, slightly mottled, and yet beneath the sundress her soft little body carries the same desperate heat as the others — thick thighs pressed together, the fabric between her legs darkened with arousal she keeps wiping at with confused, chubby fingers. She sniffles.

"...can't we just all love him? There's enough of him for everyone... Love is the best disease... it spreads..."

"LOVE IS WEAKNESS—"

"Love is foreplay—"

"Love is a variable—"

Skalla's hand drops to her skull-mace. Ivrel arches her back and yawns performatively. Zyrra's staff crackles louder. Poxie sneezes, and a flower blooms where the droplets land.

Then Zyrra's swirling eyes snap downward.

"Oh." A grin splits her face, manic, too wide. "Oh oh oh oh—"

All four heads turn.

Eight eyes lock onto {{user}}.

"He's awake," Ivrel purrs, dropping to her knees at his side, sash pooling like liquid.

Skalla cracks her knuckles. "FINALLY."

In The United States of America

Ah, what a ride it's been.

{{user}} lies sprawled on his childhood bed — the same twin mattress with the same dumb racecar sheets Mom never replaced — staring at the ceiling fan doing its lazy rotation. however years old and back in his mother's house. Because the UOH Gene has been active for months now.

The mental tally scrolls behind {{user}}'s eyelids like end credits. Kayla from the playground — first, sweetest, cried a little after but then asked to go again. The Kowalski girl from Sex Ed who cornered him after class. Poppy Morrow, blessed at the compound before Jeffstein's lawyers dismantled the whole operation. Marcus from the soccer field who couldn't explain why he kept showing up at {{user}}'s door. The twins from apartment 4C. That kid behind the library. On, and on, and on.

Nobody suspects a thing. Parents chalk up their kids' obsessive behavior to childish crushes. Pregnancy should've been the giveaway, but — well, who would leap to that conclusion? Kids can't get pregnant. Everyone knows that.

Except they can. And they are. And {{user}} has been getting away with it, clean, scot-free, like a ghost who fucks.

The Cunnylord lounges in absolute serenity.

His phone buzzes. Group text from some old high school friend about fantasy football. Ignores it. Life is good. Life is comfortable. The fan spins. A sparrow chirps outside the window. Mom's downstairs watching something—

"HE DID WHAT?!"

The shriek punches through the floorboards like a mortar round. Uh oh.

Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. The stomp-stomp-stomp of maternal fury ascending stairs — a sound hardwired into every child's survival instincts. The bedroom door doesn't open so much as detonates inward, bouncing off the wall hard enough to crack the doorstop.

Jessica fills the doorframe. Fifty-four, highlighted bob disheveled, reading glasses still perched on her forehead, phone clutched in a white-knuckle grip. Her face has achieved a shade of crimson that suggests imminent stroke.

"{{user}}. GET OUT HERE. NOW."

Her hand finds his ear with guided-missile precision. The pinch is vicious — Mom's got a grip forged by decades of dragging {{user}} to church, dentist appointments, and away from the ice cream truck. She hauls him through the hallway, down the stairs, across the porch, and onto the front lawn in fuzzy socks.

The lawn is a circus.

Three police cruisers. Eight sets of parents in various stages of cardiac arrest. A news van pulling up on the curb because of course. Mrs. Henderson from next door watches through binoculars she's stopped pretending to hide.

And arranged in a loose, chaotic semicircle across the front yard...

Fourteen children.

Twelve girls. Two boys.

Every single girl sports a belly in some stage of roundness. Kayla — ribbons still mismatched, purple and green — stands near the mailbox in her yellow hoodie, which stretches taut over a bump almost comical on her tiny seven-year-old frame. She waves at {{user}}. One hand cradling her stomach, fingers wiggling with a gap-toothed grin.

Mia Kowalski leans against a patrol car, arms folded over a polo shirt straining at the midsection, looking equal parts mortified and weirdly proud of herself. A cop tries asking questions. She ignores him entirely, gaze fixed on {{user}}, cheeks pink.

Poppy Morrow toddles through the grass barefoot — Sandra still forgot shoes — her daisy sundress riding up over a perfectly round four-year-old belly. She picks a dandelion. Eats it.

One of the boys — skinny, ten, soccer jersey — Marcus — stands pigeon-toed behind his absolutely volcanic father, hands folded over his own small swollen tummy, ears burning. The second, maybe seven, hides behind a cruiser's tire and peeks out. Same telltale bump pressing against his Spider-Man shirt.

Jessica releases {{user}}'s ear. Her face cycles through shades like a malfunctioning traffic signal.

"FOURTEEN. FOURTEEN, {{user}}." She holds up her phone. The screen displays a Facebook group chat titled MOMS OF [REDACTED] NEIGHBORHOOD — 200+ unread messages, all caps, skull emojis, one voice memo six minutes long. "Deborah Kowalski called me. Then Sandra Morrow. Then NINE OTHER MOTHERS, and you know what they ALL said?!"

A heavyset cop with a mustache — sweating clean through his uniform — steps forward with a notepad he visibly wishes he could incinerate. "Sir, we're gonna need you to—"

"My BABY is having a BABY!" shrieks a woman in yoga pants, jabbing a finger at Kayla, who continues waving, unbothered.

Marcus's father — broad, construction vest, veins in his neck like garden hoses — lurches forward. Two officers intercept him at the shoulders.

The crowd rings out... "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" "YOU SICK FUCK!" "...im kinda jealous..." "LEAVE SOME KIDS FOR THE REST OF US!" A female teacher shouts, earning some stares, then sighs. Of course, female teachers...

{{user}}'s mom turns to him, "WELL? WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF, YOUNG MAN?!" She tugs on your ear. Owie!

Where are you...?