#android l

[comatosebunny09]

not quite human [ 01 ] | sylus

— summary: the led in his temple whirls a soft yellow before returning to its usual, tranquil blue. “my name is sylus.” it doesn’t sound as silly coming from him. rolls off his tongue like the steady push and pull of waves against the shoreline. it’s comforting in a way. disarming. maybe you’re not as bad at naming things as you think.

— cw: reader implied to be femme, gendered terms, alcohol, profanity, sarcasm, innuendoes, allusions to robot sex, sylus is an android, futuristic au

— notes: heavily influenced by detroit: become human, @asirensrage, and my own horny, thirsty thoughts. tysm for reading. please enjoy! [ part 02 ]

Stiff.

You crave something stiff to ease the ache between your shoulders, the grind of your teeth, and the pounding in your temples as you step into the car garage’s elevator. 

You let your shoulders drop with an exhale as the doors slip shut after punching your desired floor into the holographic panel. The lift lightly jostles to begin its ascent. You close your eyes against the blaring, fluorescent lights overhead, leaning against the rail, your head colliding with the wall behind with a muted thunk. 

Days like these, you come closer and closer to dropping your resignation letter. You should feel fortunate—you have a job in a world where unemployment is on the rise. Doesn’t mean a desk job is as cushy as it seems. You have carpal tunnel and a splitting migraine as testament to your woes. Plus, you don’t drink enough water. Dumb ass.

The elevator reaches its destination, a tinny, mellifluous voice announcing your floor from the intercom overhead. As if you shoulder the world, you drag yourself from the lift, stalking through the quiet, sepia-toned hallway like something undead.

You picture the bottle of Don Julio waiting for you on your counter. Can practically taste it as you round the bend towards your apartment. But something brown and bulky catches your eye, obscuring your door and slowing your steps.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, squinting as you approach it. You step around the ominous box to scrutinize it further. It’s so huge that it barely grazes the top of your doorframe and is almost the width of it. 

You don’t recall ordering anything, especially something so massive. You scour the box’s surface for any indication of where it could’ve come from—a return address, a telltale logo, a note. Something. When your search doesn’t yield any answers, you sigh, stomping your feet and flailing your arms around like a child.

“I don’t have time for this,” you say through a glower, slipping off your bag. 

The box obstructs your apartment, so you have one of two choices: shove it out of the way into the midst of the hallway for someone else to deal with, or muscle it through your door and deal with it inside. The former seems like it’ll take more effort, given that there’s little to no wiggle room between the cut of your doorframe and the box for you to squeeze into. 

Resigned, you drop your bag and ruck up your sleeves. After unlocking your door with your biometrics, the soft spill of clean linen and lavender from inside motivating you, you prepare yourself to shove this ridiculously huge thing into your home.

Your intentions are good. But it’s so fucking heavy, it barely budges an inch. 

“What the fuck!” you grate, kicking the box as if it’ll solve all your problems. That proves to be a mistake, and you comically hop around, clutching your smarting foot.

You glare at the box when the pain subsides, caught in a stare down with an inanimate object like a cowboy in an old, filmy western. You’re no bitch. Sure, you really should exercise more—you’ve been paying for a gym membership for the past year that you haven’t touched. Maybe this wouldn't be such a task if you had a bit more muscle. But you refuse to be bested by a fucking box. A box that stands between you and a stiff one.

So, you shove, shimmy, and tilt it every way you can until you’ve managed to get it through your doorframe and into your home. I’m proud of myself, you think as you dust off your hands like you’ve done some real work. You only cried twice, had one existential crisis, one meltdown, and you didn’t have to call the fire department to help you this time. You’re making progress.

You slip past the enormous thing, nearly losing a nipple in the process. Kick off your heels, the motion-sensing lights triggering as you make a beeline for your minibar. You snatch up a whiskey glass and your decanter, watching the liquid gold slosh about like a man deprived of water in the desert. 

Panting, you down the contents of the glass in one go. It’s a good burn, a reward for all your efforts, and you sweep some sweat-slicked hair out of your face, leaning against your counter to catch your breath. It is here that you take time to appraise the box, wishing you could burn holes into the damn thing with your glare alone. 

Whoever sent this is trying to fuck with you, you just know it. You haven’t a clue what’s inside, and you’re not even sure if it’s yours. But you put in all this effort to shoulder it into your home. So, you snatch up a box cutter from your miscellaneous utility drawer, brandishing it as you approach the box like a maniac about to carve up someone’s face.

You cut away at the tape securing the edges, cackling like a madwoman. Jared Leto would be proud. You pull and snatch at the cardboard, the sound of the carnage, the only noise inhabiting your still apartment. When you’ve eviscerated the box, packing popcorn and plastic strips strewn everywhere like entrails, you’re met with a white, featureless pod inside. 

It’s half the size of the box it came in, the jaundiced gleam of your entryway light bouncing off its pristine surface. Suspicious, you hop back to squint at it. If it were a bomb, it surely would’ve gone off by now, what with you shaking the damn thing like a vending machine refusing to give you candy. What on earth could this be? And why the fuck do you have it?

Shrugging, you approach the pod, poking at it with a broom and a pot lid held to your face as a makeshift shield. The pod doesn’t respond to your prodding—no surprise there. You toss down your weapons, and with anxiety welling in your throat, you smooth your hands over the pod’s cool surface, searching for an entry point. 

You trigger something in your exploration, a light beep causing you to stiffen. You scramble back as the pod whirs to life, hissing with an exhalation of air, smoke pouring from its seams. 

Fuck, you think, squeezing your eyes shut, this might be the end. And to think, you’ve watched so many horror movies telling you why you shouldn’t touch ominous shit. Oh well. You’ve lived a good life. Although, you’re still low-key upset you didn’t get to try shrooms at least once. 

The smoking and hissing subside, and you cough in their wake, waving your hand to ward them off. You open an eye, the pod’s door fully raised, and as the fog clears, you’re met with the sight of…a man, curled up inside in the fetal position like a Pokémon. 

“Um?” 

You kneel before this being that looks too big to be stuffed into the pod like an action figure, and you study him. 

A riotous mop of white hair sits atop his head, though it’s coiffed in a way that works for him. His eyes are closed beneath manicured, silver brows, peacefully fringed by dark lashes. You next notice his nose, carved in a Roman god’s image. Full, rouge lips sit amid chiseled features, stretched over summery skin. Despite the alarm bells ringing in your head, you poke his cheek, surprised to feel your nail sinking into what feels like flesh. 

“Oh no. He’s hot.”

His physique shows through the tailored hug of his suit, like a man destined to work on a farm, tending to horses, or a fruit stand. Further scrutiny yields something that makes your lips purse. The telltale, blue armband glows on his bicep. You shoot up as if taking a hot poker in the ass.

“An android?” you query under your breath, thoroughly confused. “The fuck do I need one of these for?” 

Tapping your lip, you pace your living room, scrolling through the catalog of your mind for who could’ve possibly sent you a gift from CyberLife. And an expensive one, at that. You’ve seen this model before—a prototype advertised on every billboard and mode of public transport in the city, yet to be released to the masses. Only three of them have been created so far. How’d you manage to get your hands on one of them?

You snatch up your phone, urgently swiping through your contacts. You think maybe it’s your mother’s doing. She’s known for sending you spur-of-the-moment shit. But she can’t navigate her way around a phone without help, let alone figure out how to order you a top-of-the-line Ken doll.

Maybe it’s your father. But he’d rather chew glass than send you anything practical. Your friends, maybe? They could’ve scrounged some money together to buy you a gift. They have been bitching about you needing to get laid, and what better way to orchestrate that than by sending a fucking sex bot?

Before you can draw up the group chat, the whirring of machinery and fans makes you jolt, your phone clattering on the floor. Your attention snaps to the source of the sound, another plume of smoke pouring from the pod to obscure the sight of your new…friend. 

If you die from smoke inhalation, you’re going to haunt these halls and tip every painting in every apartment sideways just to fuck with people. 

When the new cloud of mist dissipates, you’re ramrod stiff and petrified in the face of this skyscraper of a man. 

He smells of sterile walls and clean oil, his face an impassive mask as he takes in his surroundings with striking, scarlet eyes. His model number glows a serene white on his right breast pocket, CyberLife’s triangular logo pulsing on the left. As if it weren’t already obvious he was a bot, a small, circular LED gleams blue on his temple to signify that he’s…on? Operational? Scaring you shitless?

When he’s done processing his surroundings, those sharp eyes land on you. And you would shit yourself if not for the facsimile of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. It’s like it hurts him. Doesn’t at all look natural amid his insanely handsome features. 

“Um,” you start, waving a cautious hand, “hi?”

“Hello,” he says, the pleasant purr of his voice curdling low in your stomach. “I am a fourth-generation SLX900 Android. I can look after your house, cook, mind your children, and organize your appointments.”

You watch him with your mouth spilling open as he goes through his initialization spiel. He’s broad-shouldered and big, and you bite your lip against a laugh, imagining this hulk of a machine in your kitchen in a frilly, pink apron, scrubbing your dishes. 

“I speak 300 languages, and I am entirely at your disposal as a sexual partner—”

Heat blooms in your face. You wave your hands frantically, signifying that he skips past the intimate bits. You’re down atrocious, but you don’t think you’d ever fuck an android. Not that he doesn’t look breedable. Besides, how do they even—

“No need to feed or recharge me. I am equipped with a quantum battery that makes me autonomous for 173 years.” The android straightens, clasping his hands together behind his back. “Would you like to give me a name?”

The way he recites his lines with such cold, indifferent precision makes a thrill echo down your spine. You know that CyberLife designed these things to be as human-like as possible. You’ve worked with a few of them; their uncanny valley composure gives you the heebie jeebies. 

Despite the calm burr of his voice, there’s something about him—something spuming beneath the layers of circuitry and memory cards and wiring—that unsettles you.

So hung up in your ruminations, you forget that he asked you a question.

“Would you like to give me a name?” he parrots, tone as even as the first time. 

“Um, yeah, sure…”

You tap your chin in thought, studying the incandescent lights overhead as if they can yield you an answer. Names have never been your forte. If it were up to you, you’d call everything as you saw it—Hey, I’m gonna name you Plant. You? Plant 2. And you? Dickhead. 

You don’t know how the name comes to you, but you regurgitate it before you can give it much thought. “Sylus.”

The LED in his temple whirls a soft yellow before returning blue. That terrifying smile reemerges, splitting his face in twain like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. You flinch, wishing he’d never smile like that again.

“My name is Sylus.” It doesn’t sound as silly coming from him. Rolls off his tongue like the steady push and pull of waves against the shoreline. It’s comforting in a way. Disarming.

He blinks after the grin slips from his mouth, traded for something less creepy. Scans over you as if committing your face to his internal storage. His lips slightly part, hovering over a question. Had you known any better, you’d have mistaken him for being pensive.

“And what might I call you, Miss?”

You give him your name, toying with your fingers like a shy teen. He repeats it like a gentle praise, rolling the syllables around in his mouth. The heat in your skin burns tenfold. Why does everything this guy says sound so fucking hot?

A few moments escape between the pair of you. You’re looking everywhere but at him, suddenly feeling self-conscious beneath his calculating gaze. The light whir of his internal fans competes with that of your pulsing heart. 

You laugh nervously, attempting to break the tension. “So, uh…what do I do with you? Do I, like, water you like a plant? Am I not supposed to feed you past midnight, or…”

He chuckles, the sound of it more human-like than anything he’s said thus far. “I can do whatever you need me to do. I am at your disposal.” 

Don’t know why, but your mind automatically goes to the gutter. Get it together, you hornball. Horny jail for you. Bonk! 

The tense silence stretches for a beat longer. Your newest guest surveys your living room with quiet judgment. “Why don’t I begin with straightening up your home? Would that be a good place to start?”

You blanch. Your living room looks like utter shit. Clothes sit on every surface like your dryer threw up—they’re clean, you swear. Errant bowls and drinking glasses litter your coffee table and kitchen island. A few cartons of Chinese takeout sit on your counter like decorations. You’re mortified. Sure, he’s a machine. But you would die if anyone saw you living like this, machine or not. 

“Heh…I swear, it’s not normally like this. I’ve been working, ya know? Don’t really have time to clean.”

Sylus smirks, a dimple cratering his synthetic cheek. That looks more genuine than that constipated shit he gave you earlier. “Well, that is where I come in, Miss. I won’t judge you for your questionable habits. It’s not in my programming.”

You watch the android step off, bending to turn on your robotic vacuum cleaner before getting to work. He moves around your home with efficient grace, a rehearsed ease as he tidies up as if that’s his sole purpose.

Something warm spills into your belly. You’ve never been one to stand idly by while people take care of you. Never been one to keep your hands clean, always itching to help in any way possible. Burning to feel useful. So, you start picking up your home with your shiny new android friend, working beside him in somewhat comfortable harmony.

Maybe he isn’t such a terrible surprise after all. That logic goes out the window when he picks up one of your thongs, twirling it around his slender figure with a smug shine to his eyes. 

You snatch it from him, telling him to leave the clothes to you, burning like a tea kettle. CyberLife thought of everything, didn’t they?

Crickets chirp beyond your window, chorusing with the steady rustle of the grass and leaves. The moon sits high in the inky sky, stars dotting the violet canvas like spilled milk. The city outside bustles with nightlife, androids and humans walking the streets side by side as if they’ve always coexisted in monotonous harmony.

[guinabear]

Farspace Fleet's Colonel Caleb and his trusty android doggo, A-01

[falsesecuritysketches]

I like adorable wholesome Connor as much as the next person, but I also want to see the other side of him that is often forgotten.

Show me the killer that is capable of snapping your neck in less than a second if required. Remind me he is a master manipulator that makes it seem like he is doing what you want, but has been steering you in a direction he wants by making you think it was your idea.

Put down the coin tricks and show me the GUN tricks. The ones where he shoots through his own chest to inflict harm on someone grappling him. Getting a headshot without needing to look.

I have a mighty need.

[trashcreatyre]

Heya, I think you mentioned character playlists on a couple posts, would ya be willing to share some of thoseee ?

(Fellow mephiles fan here, Hiiiiiii)

Oh toootally. I used to have a post that had most of them linked but I haven't updated it in a while soooo..... let me make it this one instead >:)

Mephiles

Elise

Silver

Sonic

Shadow

Rouge

Metal

Amy

Infinite

And then I do have a bunch of other sonic playlists, like mostly aus and ships sooo I'm gonna add em because I like sharing :3

Post 06

Knights

Ghost

Bugs/ mephillmina or whatever they're called, haven't decided (more au than ship but they've got some songs in there)

Mephinite

Mephiblis

Merlise

My ocs lol

Literally just an 06 playlist :3

[x-heesy]

#photoart #photoartist #photoartwork #photoartistic #photoarts #blissfulphotoart #photoartistique #photoarte #photoartistry #contemporaryphotoart #photoartists #photoarty #photoartgallery #photoartmag #nyphotoart #photoartcrew #photoartspirit #photoartgram #urbanphotoart #darkphotoart #photooftheday #photographylovers #aesthetic #photographylover #ilovephotography #instaphotography #photographyart

Memories by Waldeck, Zeebee <<33

[blaxolt]

Lol apple users are missing out. Tell me when you can type ¤◇♤○》☆ with your English keyboard

@apple-unofficial

[silverwoodwork]

The odd genius with an insatiable sweet tooth has gotta be a trope at this point, right?

[saint-vhs]

悲しい ANDROID - APARTMENT¶ - フォローしてください At The Lovers [P O O L P A R T Y] Night

[tatck]

Sonic Dream Team you'll never be her...... ....Mario and Luigi: Dream Team, on the 3ds....

[deus-ex-mona]

farewell, my idiot son…

[vocalhitches]

new li/es o/f p dlc trailer dropped today and it’s revealed it’s gonna take place in the winter and p gets to wear really cute snow gear… AND has noticeably more human-like expressions 👀 @ the devs you guys have the opportunity to do something so life changing for me

[comatosebunny09]

not quite human [ 02 ] | sylus

— cw: reader implied to be femme, gendered terms (miss, girl), profanity, sarcasm, existentialism, groping, innuendoes, sylus is an android, futuristic au, inspired by detroit: become human — notes: fuck it. here, have an update. [ part 01 ]

You know how you get something you thought was useless, yet you’ve grown accustomed to having it around for so long, you can’t envision your life without it?

Like, a towel warmer. You think, who the fuck would waste money on one of these things? What’s the point of one when you have a dryer? But say, your friend buys you one as a birthday gift. You can’t give it away or throw it out—that would be rude, asshole. 

So, it sits in your bathroom for ages, collecting dust and shit particles from your toilet. That is, until that one day you reluctantly decide to use it. And you realize, okay, maybe this isn’t so terrible. And soon, you’re using it every day. Used to the little luxury of having a hot towel against your ass—one of the few, minuscule pleasures distracting you from the whirlwind of your life.  

That’s how you’ve come to view your android friend, Sylus. He’d give you the piss for comparing him to a towel warmer. But you’re not very good with analogies so he can suck it. 

He’s become a part of your life you never knew you needed—someone to fill the gaps you leave around your home, to color the once quiet space of your apartment with his nerdisms, sarcasm, and presence. 

It was an adjustment, getting used to this hulk of a man—machine?—moving around your home like he’d always been a part of it, quiet as a cat, scaring you shitless. He’s like the pair of Crocs you said you wouldn’t be caught dead in. And yet, trying them out, you understand why they’re so damn convenient, especially in sport mode.

You can’t deny how nice it feels to return to a clean apartment. To journey home after an arduous day of work to hot food, clean sheets, and an asshole kicking you around in Mario Kart. Every. Single. Time. It’s not fair; he’s using his AI to hack the game, you just know it.

Yet, as much as you’ve wanted to fight him for besting you at every game on your Switch, you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to disassemble him more than now. 

You’re fighting for your life. Literally. No matter how much you gulp down air, you don’t feel like it’s enough. You might die here, coated with sweat and breathing like a pregnant woman ascending a set of stairs. You’ll at least ask Sylus to delete the browsing history on your laptop following your untimely demise—the things you’ve researched there out of morbid curiosity would warrant a visit from the FBI agent spying on you.

“One more round,” he says in that unfairly smooth voice as if he’s completely unfazed by the fact that you’re dying.

You turn pleading eyes on him, your hands dropping at your sides. He smirks, eyes gleaming with amusement from behind the safety of the punching bag. 

“That’s what you said the last three rounds!”

Sylus shrugs. “You’re the one who said you wanted help utilizing your gym membership.”

“Yeah! With Pilates or Spin!” You coil your body into a fighting stance, striking the thick leather of the punching bag out of frustration. “Not with this shit! You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

His face is an impassive mask as he holds the bag, unaffected by your anger-fueled jabs. His cold indifference encourages you to hit harder. His stupid face, his dumb, silky hair. 

“Pilates won’t enhance your cardiovascular endurance like boxing will.” 

Thwack!

“And, based on your eating habits and the sedentary life you lead, it’s only a matter of time before you have a heart attack.”

Thwack!

“I’m merely helping you stave off the inevitable.”

Sigh. 

You drop your stance, flailing about like a brat. Some of the gym’s other members eye you warily before returning to their workouts. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack doing this. I’m not Mayweather. I’m just a girl.”

He chuckles, the sound carrying below the cacophony of racking plates and the music spilling from the speakers to tingle your toes. You try not to think about it. How his mirth makes your stomach feel weird and makes your lips twitch with the threat of a smile. 

It’s terrifying how human he seems. Despite the electricity and blue blood flowing through his biocomponents, he’s not much different from a regular man. He’s become more human-like as the months eased by, trading his stoic, efficient robot-speak for something more casual. He’s become something like a roommate. A roommate who doesn’t eat, sleep, or go a day without making you want to hurl yourself into the void.

“Your sex doesn’t exclude you from your human limitations,” he says, disrupting your ruminations. 

You glare at him, wondering if you can reprogram him to be less of a dick. That, or sell him for spare parts.

Sylus’ eyes soften the slightest, fleeting bit. For a moment, you think he’ll be sympathetic. But you forget this man wants you dead. “One more round, and we’ll be done.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Give him a wary once over, ignoring how his tank bares his artificially toned physique, how his shorts boast the power of his thighs. You’re sure CyberLife is also out to wipe out the human race, what with how much detail they put into their androids. You’re no better than a man.

Resigned, you posture yourself for another round, adrenaline spuming through you, your knuckles turning white beneath the cotton bindings of your wraps. “Fine. But after this, I want the greasiest slice of pizza in the city, and I don’t wanna hear shit about it.”

Sylus huffs a sound, his eyes narrowing with mischief. “I’ll keep quiet, then. You have my word.”

Motivated, you start wailing on the punching bag like it owes you money, driven by the image of a slutty pizza slice melting in your mouth.

—

You should’ve known better. Should’ve known he’d make you work even harder for that pizza. The thought of it now makes you nauseous, and you’re once again fighting for your life. 

“I don’t even,” pant, “want the fucking,” wheeze, “shit anymore!”

He turns devious eyes on you from a broad shoulder, running ahead like it's effortless as breathing. Of course, it’s easy for him. He doesn’t have to worry about his lungs exploding or faceplanting on the pavement. 

“Come now,” he calls, and did he really just speed up? “The pizza parlor is only a block away.”

You roll your eyes, jogging behind him, all sloppy and about to fall apart like Patrick Star when he first entered Sandy’s dome. “You’re a,” pant, “real pain in the ass, ya know that?”

Fuck him and his stupidly long legs and his inability to feel pain. Maybe you’re in over your head. Didn’t know what you were signing up for when you asked him to help you get into shape. Normal women would be getting their nails done or picking out ridiculously expensive purses by now, not training like a fucking Saiyan. 

You slow to a hobble as the crosswalk pans into view, the red, holographic lines signifying you stop and wait for traffic, your saving grace. You dry heave as cars swish by, hands on your knees. A heavy, wide palm claps down on your back. You glower, and if you had the energy to, you’d chuck him in front of a speeding bus. 

“You did well,” he says. It sounds patronizing coming from him. But you asked him to show a little personality after your first week together, so you have no one to blame but yourself.

You straighten, your heart ready to leap from your chest with how ferociously it pounds. Sweat eases down your nose, and you cut your eyes at your robotic tormentor. “I did, huh? I only thought about killing you three times. I should pat myself on the back.”

Sylus snorts, his lips pulling into a smile. A dimple craters his cheek. Had you not been fighting to breathe now, you’re sure you’d be rendered breathless by the sight. 

“That’s a new record. But if the number of times you’ve wanted to harm me is dwindling, I’m not doing an effective job as your workout partner.”

Before you have the luxury of a response, he takes off across the street when the crosswalk glows green. You stare after him, mouth agape like a fish out of water. “You bitch!” you shout, chasing him, your chest warming at the boyish cackle he tosses you over his shoulder.

—

After a taxing game of tag—or, a game of you crying and throwing a tantrum in the midst of the shopping district, and Sylus taking pity on you (or trying to shut you up)—your journey concludes in front of a coffee shop.

“It’s the least you could do after running me into the ground,” you grumble around a pout, crossing your arms. 

Sylus peers at you from his periphery, that effervescent humor never leaving his face. “Fair enough.” He holds the door to the swanky little coffee spot open for you, bowing like a butler in wait. “After you, Miss.”

You scoff, brushing past him. The rich aroma of coffee beans and warm cream washes over you like a soothing balm, smoothing the divot between your brows. You smile, exhaling beneath the ambient, artificial lights, twirling around like a child. “These are my people,” you sing-song, garnering a few perturbed looks from the cafe’s other patrons.

You skip towards the counter to order, only to be halted by the cashier’s sheepish voice.

“I’m sorry, Miss.” She rubs the back of her neck and shrinks away like she’s afraid you’ll hit her. “No androids allowed.” The cashier then motions to a sign overhead, Androids in bold Comic Sans struck through. 

With all these technological advancements, you would think Comic Sans would be outlawed.

You scowl with your hands on your hips. “Well, that’s fucking stupid.”

The cashier sweat-drops, tittering nervously. “I don’t make the rules, ma’am. I just enforce them. It’s to keep it from getting crowded in here.”

“Or an excuse to be racist.” You turn to Sylus, watching him pensively. His gaze slides from the sign overhead to you, his processors seeming to work overtime as he studies you. “C’mon,” you clip, grabbing his arm, “let’s go somewhere else. This place smells gentrified and overpriced, anyway.”

As you step towards the door, he doesn't budge, and you spin to ask why. 

“You’ve been talking about coming here for a while now. I won’t stop you from enjoying yourself.”

You blink, thoroughly confused. Sure, it’s a new coffee spot you’ve heard your coworkers rave about. Seen ads for it on your socials—thanks, Zuckerberg. But you’ve intentionally avoided establishments outlawing androids. You’ve become accustomed to having Sylus attached to your hip, and you hate seeing him wait at those stupid Android Parking shelters. 

To you, he’s more than a machine (when he isn’t pissing you off). Sure, he’s an amalgamation of wires and metal, a complicated intelligence constantly learning and adapting to a world that gives you whiplash. But he’s…Sylus. And since you’ve known him, he’s acted like he’s grown sentience. You really wish people would stop treating androids like objects, even if they aren’t capable of understanding the human experience like you.

His gaze lightens, a rare flash of empathy. “I’ll be alright. I promise.” 

Carefully, he pries your fingers from his forearm, the feel of his palm on your knuckles temporarily turning your brain to smog. You watch with a retort on your lips as your companion steps out, moving behind the window to stand in the Android Parking zone along with the others, staring straight ahead with rigid apathy.  

Dejectedness stirs in your gut. You bite the inside of your cheek, begrudgingly stepping into the line. This coffee better be worth the fucking hype. Otherwise, you’ll air this bitch out.

After ordering your fraud-u-ccino, you plop on a chair that reminds you of those Little Tikes play-sets, scrutinizing the cafe like a Karen over crossed arms. 

“Is that the new SYL model?” giggles a woman behind you. 

You turn slightly, your blood running cold. You try to appear uninterested, toying with a discarded straw paper at your table. 

“Sure is,” says her friend, cupping her hand around her mouth in secret. 

“Wow! They look even better in person!” 

“I know, right? They look so hot. And there’s only been, like, three of them ever made. Wonder who owns that tall chunk of plastic.”

You scoff. Who owns him? Sylus and ownership aren’t two words you’d typically use in a sentence. You’re his primary user—the person whose instructions he’s programmed to follow. But you can’t recall a time you intentionally ordered him to do anything, let alone referred to yourself as his owner. 

“Must be somebody rich. Those models are expensive.”

“God, I bet it’s big. I’d ride that thing into the sunset.”

You let out an incredulous sound, looking out the window beside you. And if the ichor pouring through your veins wasn’t already frigid, it’s undoubtedly iced over by now.

For there stands Sylus, your stoic and unassuming companion, slowly gathering a crowd of women, blushing and fawning over him like a shiny new toy. You’re moving on autopilot when one of those bitches gropes his junk, taking advantage of his trance-like state beneath the kiosk.

Stepping into the balmy, spring air, the sounds of women cooing and giggling are like nails dragging down a chalkboard. You wend through the steadily building crowd, elbowing and shoving, channeling your inner Marlon Wayans in White Chicks to rescue your friend. 

The noise simmers to dull murmuring when you grab Sylus’ wrist, pulling him from his daze. He blinks owlishly, looking around before stumbling after you, wondering where all these people came from.

You’re wordless as you tug him down the street, a seething little tea kettle, tight-lipped, shoulders set. So what if he’s an android? Doesn’t give people the right to cop a feel whenever the urge arises. Sexual harassment is all the same, machine or not. 

You’re so busy, heatedly tugging him down the sidewalk towards a cab, you miss his smoldering, scarlet eyes studying the space between your shoulder blades, a sly smile pulling on his lips. 

[guinabear]

Sci-fi meets Fantasy

Android Caleb and nymph MC

Bonus

I really love the new outfits for Mc, she looks so magical!! 🧚‍♀️✨️

[nosferatufaggot]

Headcanon: Victoria has asthma and it made her complex even worse. She'd be on a nebulizer and her parents would be like "If you can't even manage the best lungs, what can you do?"

[totheidiot]

if you sit down and Think about Everything for a little bit, eventually you will have the sudden epiphany that you have based every man above the age of 25 from fictional media that you Think about a lot, either after your father or your math teacher from 7th and 8th grade.

[x-heesy]

Pink Punk Magick

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Who Loves The Sun feat. Jo.Ke - Edit by Nu, Jo.Ke