#open code interpreter

[mysocial8onetech]

Are you looking for a code generation system that can generate, execute, and refine code based on your natural language inputs? Look no further than OpenCodeInterpreter, the open-source code system that leverages Code-Feedback, a novel dataset of human-code interactions, to produce high-quality and reliable code. Check out our article to find out more.

[ooooo-mcyt]

Scarian? Good food. But like, in my heart, they're always poly in some way, fellas.

[rainbow-journalist]

I made this drawing thinking about one thing, which makes me curious.

Tw: 🎭🕰️⚠️

I was thinking about the girls who like Yuma, Shinigami and Kurumi. (Does Fubuki like him too?) They have braids and wear flowers in their hair, it almost seems like a pattern, right? Makoto seems to have noticed this as well.

This drawing is also that idea of Makoto trying to make friends with the detectives, because he knows that they are important to Yuma and wants to be close to them too, after everything that happened. He also blushes easily because he is not used to people being kind to him. (The unified government treated him badly from every angle.) And not just anyone can touch him, especially his hair, He's probably too distracted and vulnerable to let her touch him. I was thinking about Kurumi or Shinigami braiding his hair, but I chose Fubuki, because I wanted to draw her more, and I would find it interesting for them to talk, I've also seen a drawing of Kurumi braiding Makoto's hair, soooo. Fubuki must think his hair is soft or something.

I was also curious how Makoto looks with braids. 😊

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

I think I'm gonna apply to college today :)

[ilovebeingaturtle]

Is 87 Raphael gay-coded?

If you want a genuine answer? While I don’t believe he’s necessarily explicitly gaycoded, he is often portrayed as the more effeminate turtle on the team which can lead to that interpretation! He likes to lilt or singsong his voice (a lot of his line readings make you go 🤨🏳️‍🌈?), he shows interest in fashion or fancy arts and gets fussy about gross or unappealing stuff, I could go oN AHA

I personally view him as aroace? But I definitely get where the fruity allegations come from, especially with him standing with his hip popped half the dang time

[cleric-archive]

purity ring's more dated music, i.e: obedere & fineshrine, are so shadowheart coded & no i won't be elaborating

[queeringclassiclit]

please send me character submissions!

[fluffyblackdragon]

The song you're forgetting is "Shame On Me" by Avicii, OP.

The people who both watch and read JJK and still think Gojo and Geto's relationship is not implied to be romantic baffle me.

I just had a chat with one of them and pointed out how I love friendships and queerplatonic relationships but satosugu is very much implied to be romantic, pointed out the whole theme of "love as a curse" in jjk 0 and the parallel that exists between Riko & Yuta and satosugu. How gojo killed geto in the most romantic date of the Japanese calendar, how geto asked gojo to curse him a little bit. Then their whole high school relationship where Gege talked about it being Gojo's first and last warm/blue spring. How it is pointed out that even though sashisu were super close friends Gojo and Geto's bond was just different. The whole Gojo saying he would never mistakes Geto's residual cursed energy. Him being distracted by Geto at shibuya, Geto being his only weakness, the whole six eyes telling him he's Geto but his soul knowing otherwise, and then Gojo telling Kenjaku that they'll have a rematch the 24th of December and Kenjaku calling it romantic.

That and that one song Gege assigned Gojo that I can't remember the name of but it was about heartbreak and the opening 2 having lyrics that are confirmed to be Gojo's pov.

I don't know what more they need.

"you guys can't just let friends be friends, always have to romantisice friendship" it is already romantisiced, I don't need to do shit.

[syluses]

big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations, pregnancy

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

QUESTIONS&ANSWERS HERE

[ploverbear]

i do also feel like The Pale Beyond holds your hand TOO much in some aspects but not enough in others

[nenoname]

It's still interesting that TBoB called more attention to Stan's control over his mindscape (And if you go with the interpretation that the lost pages are partial truths that are heavily influenced by Bill, then he's the one insisting that only someone with training should be able to have that much control over the mind.)

Meanwhile we have a memory!Stan. Someone who apparently knows too much and is rather aware for being a simple memory.

From the Wheel of Shame, we know Bill was able dig up all kinds of dirt on Stan but... that wasn't why he was there in the first place, was it?

Bill couldn't find the code immediately despite a memory of Stan opening the safe being a few hours old at most and decided to have Mabel try find it for him (The original concept of the ep had it far more hidden but this was likely cut because of time constraints)

Ford did experiments on Stan's mind which likely meant using Project Mentem and actually looking around his mindscape, and his only reaction was to comment on his jokes-- despite what little we the audience know being enough to render us sobbing wrecks

(yes I refuse to shut up about this part cos the book's intro is extremely underrated)

Stan was able to replace his memories of Ford with the swingset instead and managed to hide Ford in his Bar Mitzvah memory. And that's not even mentioning the lack of visible Portal and Stan o' War which noticeably show up in Ford's dreamscape (the broken swingset manifesting anyway pains me tho)

He subconsciously has misdirects for his secrets that are both silly and manages to disturb everyone too

And while Bill-as-Soos being bored by the vending machine memory is a joke that's basically the crew's way of going "hey remember the thing way back in the first ep that's going to show up in the next one?" and in-universe appears to be Stan slipping up, it's interesting that they had Stan input the wrong code when it's consistent literally every other time its inputted (especially when it shows up correctly in the very next episode)

It's even possible that the safe code that Bill found could have been a misdirect too but we'll never know since the safe got blown open by dynamite.

Stan was able to buy time by making his mind blank despite being genuinely terrified when Bill enters his mind (to the point that he breaks character and uses his own voice to yell), and could conjure up his living room (in colour opposed to his mind's regular greyscale) to make sure Bill didn't have enough room to flee, slamming the door in his face before the effects of the memory gun kicked in.

(EDIT: Random door analysis here)

And maybe the twins eventually told him that Bill had already been inside his mind after their W3 reunion, but all we know was that his conscious self was left in the dark for ages and wasn't really aware of Bill until Weirdmageddon.

TBoB showing McGucket's dreamscape also brings up the idea of the effects of the memory gun manifesting differently to each person. To Stan's mindscape, the memory wipe manifests as blue flames which immediately brings to mind Bill's powers but it's a far lighter shade (maybe to more closely match the memory gun and its eventual fade to white?)

The end of TBoB and the website poem also firmly reminds us about Stan's connection to fire but there's also the question if Stan himself is actually aware of it...

[valalice]

ᡣ𐭩 thinking about bodyguard caitlyn.

cw. sfw. slightly suggestive towards the end. fem!reader. reader is high profile (it's up to you how you interpret that). au. caitlyn picks reader up (no description of body type, but cait is buff n fit). allusion to an anxiety attack but nothing super descriptive or serious. perv!caitlyn if you squint really really hard. caitlyn is deeply devoted to you. wc. 1k a/n. swooning very hard for cait & this tiktok is just very cait coded <3

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who takes her job as your bodyguard very seriously. she's constantly on high alert of your surroundings, and isn't afraid to call out the tiniest bit of suspicious behavior in a person, immediately sending them away to get reviewed and checked over. who always dismisses your upset remarks about how it's unnecessary to do all of that, but to her nothing is unnecessary when it comes to you and your safety.

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who stands tall, taller than she already is when in public with you. her tall stature stalking behind you as you go about your day, sending harsh glares to anyone who she sees fit deserves them. one day you mistakenly compared her to a doberman, as most time she's silent only ever talking when she's spoken to or asked a question, very clearly muscular, you can tell even under the identical suits she wears everyday, and a fierce protector. ever since you made that comment the other staff who you're surrounded by has nicknamed caitlyn your lap or guard dog, and it isn't endearing way, whatsoever. there's a mock in their tone whenever she's around, they find it pathetic that she makes herself so available for your beck and call, to her she's doing her job.

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who acts like a gentlewoman. always getting out of cars and doors first (she says it's so she's hit first if there's any threats but that goes through one ear and out the other, so you pretend she's just being nice), waiting outside of your vehicle waiting patiently for you to grab onto the hand she has out waiting for you and step out the car, since caitlyn's been hired you can't remember the last time you opened a door yourself, she's always around and thus (although not in her contract) opening doors for you is apart of her job. even after protecting you for however long she's still breaking the habit of placing miss in front of your last name when addressing you, it's one of the few things you correct her on, that she doesn't need to have formalities with you, but she insists, blaming it on her upbringing for having such a habit.

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who notices when you're in a compromising position. like when you were at an event, you were wearing a short dress and caitlyn began to notice the dress riding up. the last thing she wants is for anyone to see you in a vulnerable predicament or worse one of the paparazzi littered throughout the event snapping photos and plastering them all over the tabloids. so, she acts swiftly, her long legs taking her body to you in no time, smoothing a hand on the small of your back and turning you—shielding you from preying eyes as her free hand works at the hem of your dress, tugging at it gently to move it down to cover your thighs more. and just as quickly as she came to your rescue, she quickly expels herself, the wisp of her fingertips dragging along your waist, leaving you stunned and dazed.

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who handles umbrellas for you. her pace syncing perfectly to yours as for once she's walking beside you and not behind you, a tight grip on the handle as the umbrella protects you. and rainy days may be her guilty pleasure days, as the first time it ever rained when she was on the job she made sure the umbrella was completely covering you as droplets shattered and soaked into her hair and suit. you scolded her that day, telling her what good she'd be if she got sick. now when it rains you wrap an arm around her bicep and press yourself into her, so now the both of you are protected from the rain.

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who fights off paparazzi. she fucking hates them, and she hates when they bombard you, the clicks of their cameras blinding you. so, the only reasonable response is for caitlyn to rip cameras from hands and smash them to the group all while your huddled to her chest, arms around her waist as she uses her suit jacket to hide you. it's shocking whenever caitlyn is around paparazzi because she becomes instantly hostile towards them, spiting vulgar insults at them, she firmly believes respect is a two way street and since time and time again they can't seem to respect you, she won't tolerate them, even if that means blogs are calling her unprofessional for her behavior.

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who acts quick on her feet. when all the sudden there's a mob of people surrounding you, the rise and fall of your chest quickening as you become closed in by bodies, closing your eyes tight, wishing to get out of there. and just as you casted your wish, it was quickly answered. your body being lifted into strong arms. peaking your eyes open you're met with caitlyn's hardened face and usual velvety voice demanding people out of her way. the hint of her warm jasmine scent hitting your nose and you stuff your face in the crook of her neck, while your arms wrap around it, shutting your eyes once more.

࿐ bodyguard!caitlyn who spends every waking moment with you. it's something that worries you, understanding her job but also understanding that she needs her own time alone, to rest. you, nor the rest of your staff understands how caitlyn even functions when each and every night she takes post at your bedroom door. there's been times where you've gone to separate staff and ask if caitlyn is truly outside your door the entire night, and the concessions is; yes, she stands guard at your door each night, for the entire, completely awake. and caitlyn hears you, late at night, when everyone else but her is sleeping pleasuring yourself, your soft moans calling out to her from beyond your bedroom door.

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: cussing, angst, carbohydrates

Part 1

Words of Command - Part 2

You stand just a little to the side of the elevator, arms wrapped around yourself for comfort, eyes fixed on him.

The Soldier—or—Bucky—or was it Soldat? hasn’t moved. Not more than the occasional shift of his weight, the twitch of that metal hand, the faint flick of his blue eyes every time you breathe too loudly.

Steve and Tony have stepped back to whisper, but you can feel their attention lingering.

Watching.

Judging.

Worried.

Your voice is small when you try again.

“Excuse me…Soldat?”

His gaze whips back to you. Immediate. Unyielding.

That dead-focused, razor-sharp intensity tightens your chest, but you keep going—gentle, slow, like you’re talking to a scared animal that might bolt.

Or bite.

“Do you… understand me?”

There’s no answer.

But he stares, and something in the corners of his eyes shifts—like he’s searching, trying to find something inside the words.

Like he knows he should understand.

But doesn’t know how he's supposed to respond.

You try again.

“Do you speak English?”

A pause. Then “…Handler.”

Soft. Gravelled. Russian-coated.

But he looks at you longer this time. Tilts his head ever so slightly.

Then—halting, broken “Yes ... Handler... I speak ... english.”

His voice is scratchy from disuse, like sandpaper dragged across silk.

You blink, startled. “You do speak…english ...cool. cool. cool.”

His face doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—like he knows he got something right.

Tony mutters under his breath to Steve, “Great. She’s got a new puppy. One with a kill count.”

Tony’s voice cuts the moment in two, sharp and dry.

“Alright. Fine. He stays. For now.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “But only under strict rules.”

He points at you. “You’re now—congratulations—his unofficial translator, wrangler, emotional support human. You don’t leave him alone with anyone unless Steve’s around."

Tony paces before continuing.

"You don’t give him any new code words. And if he starts twitching like he’s about to go full ‘Nuclear-powered meltdown’ in the kitchen, you run. Got it?”

You blink. “I—I didn’t agree to any of this—”

“You talked to him,” Tony interrupts. “He responded. That makes you the most useful person in this room. Sorry, Cap.”

Steve just nods, gaze serious. “We’ll keep him close. And monitored.”

Tony turns back to Bucky. “You break anything, you pay for it. With labor. I’ll teach you how to vacuum or something.”

“Vakum?"

Bucky repeats, confused.

He turns back to you like he’s waiting for confirmation.

You swallow. “Um… yea ...yes. You… do or we do, I dont know”

He nods, stiff but obedient. Like a soldier again. Your stomach knots.

Tony sighs. “Great. He’s trained and housebroken.”

The others drift off. Steve to talk logistics. Tony to complain to JARVIS. You’re left behind… with him.

You stand in awkward silence.

Bucky doesn’t look at you the way a man does. He looks at you the way a soldier does—alert, aware, waiting for purpose.

But something softens in his stance when you step a little closer.

“Do you… remember your name?” you ask gently.

He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. Then he shakes his head.

"Soldat.”

“Not that,” you murmur. “Your real name.”

His brows knit like it’s painful. His mouth opens—closes. Then just a almost imperceptible shake of his head.

You nod slowly. “Okay. That’s okay.”

He watches your expression like he’s trying to memorize it. Trying to learn how to interpret softness. Gentleness. Safety.

The hallway outside the security room smells faintly like ozone and recycled air. You’re wringing your fingers in front of you, stealing glances toward where Bucky—no, Soldat—sits motionless on a bench near the elevator, eyes tracking every flicker of movement like a wolf in a den of mirrors.

Steve watches him too. But not with fear.

With sorrow.

“He’s so…” you start, unsure of how to finish the sentence. “Still.”

Steve sighs, deep and rough. “That’s how he was trained. Hydra carved the hesitation out of him. Left only reaction.”

You glance at the grime and dried blood on Bucky’s face.

His hair is stringy, tangled.

His hands both metal and flesh are blackened with dirt. The metallic arm catches the fluorescent lights—dull, but still somehow menacing.

“He needs… a shower,” you say scrunching your nose slightly.

Steve looks over. “Yeah. He does.”

“I could… he could use mine”

Steve's mouth twitches into the smallest smile. “You’re braver than you look.”

You fidget. “Everyone deserves hygiene ... its a basic human right.”

Steve nods slowly. “That’s true.”

The elevator ride up to your room is silent—oppressively so.

You keep sneaking glances at him.

He doesn’t blink much. Doesn’t fidget. Just stands with his shoulders squared, metal hand curled tight at his side like he’s expecting orders or a trap.

His boots are caked in filth.

His face still bears the shadows of too many nights in the street.

You whisper, just loud enough for him to hear

“You’re safe. No one here will hurt you.”

His eyes slide to yours. Brief. Intense.

Then he nods—just once.

Your room in Stark Tower isn’t large, but it’s lived-in, Tony had allowed you to shift in when you where between apartments in the city, and he didn't seem in a hurry for you to find somewhere else.

Warm lamp light glows from the corner. There’s a little potted succulent on the windowsill. That your honestly not trying to kill.

A pile of books beside the bed. A tea mug forgotten on the nightstand. The air smells faintly of vanilla and lemon.

Bucky walks in like a soldier clearing a room. Silent steps. Eyes scanning corners. He doesn’t relax, but he stops moving once you speak.

“I thought… you could shower in here. In the bathroom. It’s clean, and there’s towels—soap—uh—just, everything.”

He stares at you blankly.

Then… something clicks.

Without hesitation, he starts pulling off his clothes.

You let out a squeak and spin around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet.

“Oh! Holy shit ...Um—okay! Privacy! You can—just—I’ll wait out here!” your voice cracks at least twice.

Behind you, clothes hit the floor. The dull thud of boots. The click of the door shutting, then the soft muffled hiss of the shower turning on.

Your face burns.

You press your hand to your chest.

There’s a naked super soldier in my shower… Oh my god… holy cow...wait ... is that arm waterproof?

A soft knock draws you from your internal spiral.

You open the door just wide enough to peek out—and there’s Steve, holding a bundle of clothes, grey sweatpants, a simple t-shirt, hoodie, and socks.

He raises a brow at your pink face. “Everything okay?”

“Fine! Totally fine! He’s… uh ...showering.” You hesitate. “He stripped. Like, immediately.”

Steve snorts softly, amused. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You take the clothes and thank him in a whisper.

He turns to leave but glances back over his shoulder. “He’s not trying to scare you.”

“I kinda figured.”

Evening hums low outside your window. The sky’s painted in the soft indigos of a city winding down. In your room, the overhead light is dimmed, replaced by the golden warmth of a bedside lamp.

The tower feels quieter now—like even its bones are holding their breath.

Bucky sits on the floor at the foot of your bed, his back straight, legs folded.

He’s wearing the clothes Steve brought. He hasn’t said much—not beyond, "Yes" "No" and “Handler”

Your starting to hate that word.

You’re sitting nearby, cross-legged on the bed, watching him with a quiet ache in your chest.

His hair is damp from the shower but already beginning to dry in unkempt waves, tangled and wild like a forgotten sea.

There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with you—not because it’s messy, but because it wasn’t his choice.

It was neglect.

“Would you like to brush your hair?” you ask gently, holding up the comb you keep in your drawer.

He doesn’t move.

Not a flinch.

But his eyes flick to the comb. Then to your face.

Then back to the comb.

No understanding.

No hostility.

Just… frozen confusion.

You realize it a second later, It wasn’t a command.

And he doesn’t know how to process choice.

You try again, slower. “It’s not an order, Soldat. It’s something people do for comfort. To feel clean. To feel… themselves.”

He watches your mouth like he’s decoding a language that doesn’t belong to him.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then “...You brush?” he says, the words clipped, thickly accented. His voice scratches like gravel dragged over concrete.

“No, not me. You. For you.” You hold the comb out to him carefully, showing him. “You can brush your own hair. If you want.”

His brow furrows. You don’t think he’s ever been asked if he wants anything before.

“I don’t… remember.”

That is the closest thing to a sentence he’s given you.

The words nearly break something inside you.

“Then…” you whisper, “Would it be okay if I helped? Just for now?”

A breath passes. His metal fingers twitch against the floor.

Then he nods—once.

You ease down from the bed, kneeling behind him. His broad back dwarfs you, but he stays very still. Every muscle tense, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

You gently set the comb on your lap and take out a small, circular compact mirror from your drawer. You flip it open and set it on the floor beside him, tilting it so he can see your hands reflected when you reach for his hair.

“It’s... so you know you’re in control. You can stop me at any time. Okay?”

“Understood, Handler.”

That word again.

The first pass of the comb is tentative. Gentle. You start from the ends, working up in soft, practiced movements. His hair snags in places—clumps still matted from god only knows how much neglect. You’re careful. Patient. Like you’re brushing knots of memory, not just strands.

His breath is steady. But not relaxed. It’s like he doesn’t know how to be during this.

When your fingertips graze his scalp, he flinches—but doesn’t pull away.

In the mirror, you watch his eyes track your every movement. His jaw is clenched, but not from pain. From effort. He’s fighting an instinct you can’t see, but you feel its tremble under your palms.

And then—almost imperceptibly—his shoulders lower. Just a little.

After several minutes, you offer him the compact.

“Here. Want to hold it?”

He stares at it like it’s some delicate alien thing. You nudge it gently into his flesh hand.

He holds it like it might shatter under the wrong pressure. Turns it. Sees himself.

He frowns.

Not in disgust.

Not quite.

More like... he’s seeing a ghost in the reflection and doesn’t know what to do with him.

Then he looks at you.

And in that single look—there is confusion.

And something almost like wonder.

“You… don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “it's not protocol.”

“I don't mind,” you say, voice thick with emotion. Despite the smile you offer him.

The Tower’s kitchen is lively at this hour—typical, not at all surprising.

Clint is hunched over a bowl of cereal, watching something on a tablet, probably a terrible reality show. Natasha lounges sideways on one of the bar stools, legs crossed at the knee, flipping through a glossy black dossier with quiet intent.

Sam is leaning against the fridge, arguing with Steve about something that sounds like football but escalates fast enough to involve several gestures and a thrown grape.

Then there’s Tony.

Leaning across the counter in a charcoal t-shirt, sipping an espresso as if he invented the machine.

Because well ... he did.

You step into the room, barefoot and slipping between them with muttered "Excuse me's", sleeves pushed up to your elbows and hair a little tousled from where you’d tied it up lazily.

You hover near the fridge, mumbling something about making pasta. No one really pays you much mind—

Until they notice him.

He appears in the doorway like a shadow that forgot to blend in.

The Winter Soldier.

Bucky.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t stomp. He just is—standing in the doorframe, silent and still, eyes flicking from person to person like he’s assessing threats. Or calculating exits.

You glance back at him, offering a smile, and he responds not with words, but motion.

He follows you.

Not close enough to touch. Just behind. Always behind. Like a ghost dog, cautious but fiercely loyal. His bare feet make no sound against the polished floors. He stands when you stand, moves when you move.

You’re pouring water into a pot when you hear Clint whisper

“Is that who I think it is?”

Natasha doesn’t answer. But she puts her file down. That’s answer enough.

Tony's voice cuts through the tension like a scalpel made of sarcasm.

“Well well, look who’s lurking in my kitchen like a Soviet-themed Dracula.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. His gaze flicks to Tony, then to the coffee machine, then back to you. The moment doesn’t register as an insult—because to him, it’s just noise.

“Didn’t realize the Asset came with a tracking chip,” Tony adds, lifting his espresso.

You turn slightly, cheeks flushed, fumbling the box of pasta.

“He’s just… hanging out” you say over your shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Tony blinks. “Yeah, I see that. Very Terminator-chic. Adorable. Kind of unsettling.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You sure he’s not about to snap a fork in half?”

At that, Bucky shifts. Just a little. Not threatening. But present. A statement.

Natasha leans in, narrowing her eyes. “He’s not looking at any of us. Just her.”

You glance back at him. “Soldat?”

His head turns toward you instantly. Eyes locked. Waiting.

“…You hungry?”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t nod. But his lips part, like he’s trying to answer in a language he forgot.

“Da,” he rasps.

Tony claps once. “Fantastic. Our newly adopted murder machine has a preference for carbs. That’s going in the file.”

As the pasta boils and the kitchen returns to a fragile rhythm, Bucky remains near you. Close, but never hovering too much. Watching your hands. Taking in the way you hum under your breath. Your calm presence seems to dull the sharp edges in him.

When the steam rises and you lean over the pot, he shifts slightly to keep you in sight.

Tony catches it and, for once, doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he murmurs to Steve, “It’s like some sorta twilight zone imprinting. Is that normal?”

Steve shrugs. “Nothing about this is normal.”

You hum softly to yourself, cheeks warm from the stove’s heat as you serve up a big bowl of sundried tomato pasta with crumbly cheese and herbs.

You’ve made enough for everyone—even Tony, who pretends to be above “home-cooked carbs” until you set a plate down in front of him.

“Looks like someone’s gunning for our hearts,” Sam jokes, taking a forkful. “I mean—she made pasta, and the Asset isn’t killing anyone. That’s two wins.”

You smile timidly, brushing hair behind your ear. “It’s nothing, really. I just thought... maybe it would help.”

Bucky sits rigid at the end of the bar, back straight, legs parted just slightly in a posture that screams tactical readiness more than dinner guest. His eyes never leave you.

He eats slowly, methodically. Like every bite is a foreign ritual he’s relearning. His spoon clenched tight in his metal hand. His expression unreadable.

The others are trying.

They talk softly.

Laugh a little.

Tony throws in occasional dry commentary to cut the tension.

You start to relax.

Sam tosses a crumpled napkin at Clint, who bats it away with a grin.

“Real mature,” he mutters.

Then Sam turns to you. He points his fork in your direction, mock-annoyed. “And you—you better not be trying to replace me as the favorite cook.”

You laugh, turning away to get another serving. Sam stands up dramatically, crossing over to nudge your shoulder with exaggerated playfulness. “I mean, who told you you could just waltz in here and become the team’s comfort cook?”

It’s lighthearted.

But it’s too much.

Too close.

Too sudden.

There’s no warning.

One second, Sam is jokingly reaching out to gently nudge your arm—

The next, metal slams against flesh with a sickening crack.

Sam is thrown backwards across the kitchen, crashing into a barstool that shatters beneath him.

Gasps. A plate clatters to the floor. Someone shouts—Natasha, maybe—but it’s drowned out by the low, inhuman growl that echoes from the center of the chaos.

The Winter Soldier stands between you and the others.

His body is coiled, one foot slid slightly in front of the other in a combat stance. Left arm bent, metal fist clenched so tightly the grooves in his knuckles press white-hot into the soft light of the room.

His right arm—the flesh one—is stretched in front of you, shielding.

His face is a mask of violence.

Emotionless.

Focused.

Predatory.

He sees a threat.

He’s eliminating it.

“Soldat!” Steve yells, standing up. “Stand down—!”

Tony’s hand flies to his chest, activating the arc reactor with a sharp whine. “You have got to be kidding me—”

Sam groans from the floor, coughing. “I’m okay—Jesus—he’s got an arm like a truck—”

But Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t hear them.

Only you.

He turns to check you—slowly, like he’s scanning for wounds. Eyes scanning your arms, your shoulders, your face.

Then he turns back toward the others, every muscle wound taut. A silent protector. A guard dog whose chain has snapped.

Clint inches forward. “Uh—he’s not gonna stop, is he?”

Tony’s voice is sharp now. “Tell him to stand down. He’s keyed in on you, not us. You have to do it.”

You blink. Your breath has caught in your chest.

Then slowly, trembling, you step forward, touching the inside of Bucky’s flesh arm—just above the wrist.

“Soldat,” you whisper, “It’s okay. I’m not hurt. I’m okay.”

His head tilts slightly. You see something shift.

“I need you to stop,” you say, your voice cracking. “Stand down.”

He blinks.

The tension bleeds out of his shoulders like breath leaving a body. He straightens slightly, fists unclenching. The tremble in his chest dies down.

His eyes drop to the floor.

"Understood, Handler,”

[elexuscal]

I watchrd the murder bot show. I heard some book fans think it’s nonbinary and some argue it likes it pronouns. Why? Isn’t it dehumanizing? And is the guy who forced it to Murderbot to make eye contact, via orders ableist? I can see why book readers think it is autistic coded. I feel weird calling a nonbinary-coded, autistic-coded lifeform it. Does it really prefer those pronouns? I read on tumblr thay apparently it does. I personally don’t prefer it/it’s pronouns, but not all enbies are the same.

Hiya!

I suppose it's not surprising that an ask like this would show up, if not in my inbox, than somebody's! Murderbot's pronouns are something I've consistently seen lots of questions about over the years, and with an influx of new folks being introduced due to the show, there's going to be more than ever.

First of all: thanks for asking these questions. I think when first being introduced to a new idea, such as a set of pronouns you're unfamiliar with, asking open and honest questions shows great intellectual curiosity and interest in understanding others.

There's a few different questions in this ask, so I'm going to try and break this down into sections, and to tackle them one by one. (And for the record, most of my answers here will be in reference to the books, not the TV show, because a) I haven't seen the show [yet] and b) there's only 2 episodes of it out right now anyway. I have no idea how closely the two texts are going to align, but I certainly hope it doesn't take away the book series' queer themes and representation.)

1. What's Murderbot's gender, and what pronouns does it use?

Murderbot is agender/non-gendered, and uses it/its pronouns.

For the record, I don't think this is just a reading or an interpretation. Rather, this is canonical, and on the same level as saying, "Bruce Wayne is a man who uses he/him pronouns."

Admittedly, there's never a place where the character says "My name is Murderbot, I'm non-binary, and I use it/its pronouns." In my opinion, one of the the strengths of the books is that it has much more subtle worldbuilding than that, both in general and in regards to casual queerness. However, throughout its first-person narration, Murderbot consistently uses "it" to refer to itself, and shows a general alienation and distaste for gender stuff in general. Its friends/allies, even after long acquaintance, continue using it/its.

Textual examples include:

Book 1: Yes, talk to Murderbot about its feelings. The idea was so painful I dropped to 97 percent efficiency. Book 2: To initiate the meeting, I’d had to make an entry on the social feed, too. The system was extremely vulnerable to hacking, so I had backdated my entry to look like I had come in on an earlier passenger transport, listed my job as “security consultant,” and my gender as indeterminate. Book 5: "No, it says it's fine," I heard her relaying to others on the comm. "Well, yes, it's furious." Book 6: I posted a feed ID with the name SecUnit, gender = not applicable, and no other information. Book 7: I was as indifferent to human gender as it was possible to be without being unconscious.

And while I think it's unnecessary, given the textual evidence, we can bring in Word of God too, courtesy of the book's author Martha Wells:

So, okay, Murderbot uses it/its pronouns! Which leads into the next question...

Why does Murderbot use 'It/Its' pronouns? Isn't that dehumanizing?

Yes, and that's just the way Murderbot likes it!

I think the reason this is often a stumbling block for folks is that a main focus of the early series-- especially book 1, or as the case may be, first episodes of the new adaptation-- is establishing that Murderbot Is A Person. From there, it's an easy leap to go: Therefore, Murderbot Is Human. After all, it has a human face.

But the second part of the central theme is: Murderbot is a person, but not a human person.

It is half-bot, half-human, all SecUnit. It has things in common with both of those halves, and emergent properties unique to itself. More than that, Murderbot is deeply alienated from the human experience. It spent the majority of its life being treated like an object, and appliance, and a weapon.

Murderbot chooses to embrace those aspects of its identity by continuing to use it/its pronouns. And yeah, it's clear that this often makes other folks feel uncomfortable. But that's a big part of it too. Murderbot's arc is about learning how to exist, as itself, unapologetically. It doesn't need to sand off those uncomfortable parts of its existence that make the humans around it uncomfortable. They just have to deal.

Okay, but that's Murderbot, a fictional character. What about actual real people?

That's a great point! And indeed, I don't care so much about Murderbot's pronouns for its own sake. It's a fictional character, it can't and doesn't care what real world people call it. But I think respecting its pronouns is an extension of respecting real living folks who DO use it/its pronouns, so let's talk about it!

(And for the record, I am not nonbinary. I'm also not not nonbinary? But I'm a sapphic butch with an often masc gender presentation, so it's like, an Overlap. My point being I'll do my best to speak to this perspective, but really, you're best seeking out the perspectives of actual it/its users and nonbinary folks.)

Various non-binary, agender, and other gender queer folks use it/its pronouns. The reasons vary hugely. Explanations I've seen are:

Generally feeling alienated from the human experience

Feeling a greater connection to non-human identities, like animals or robots

Connection to the many beautiful things exist in the world which (in English) have it/its pronouns applied to them-- think the ocean, or food, or celestial bodies.

A gender neutral pronoun that doesn't introduce the plural ambiguity of 'they/them' and isn't a neopronoun set folks need to learn.

Reclamation of insults they've received

and idk, they just sort of like it? Sometimes things aren't that deep.

And probably a whole bunch more reasons!

And really, at the end of the day, it doesn't matter what I think of it. While we can get deep into the theory of pronouns, at the end of the day, using the pronouns people prefer is just common courtesy. You can personally find it weird and uncomfortable, and you can work through it in your own time... But if someone asks, just use the pronouns they want!

Was the guy who forced it to Murderbot to make eye contact via orders ableist?

Okay, again, I haven't seen the show yet, so I don't have full context. But was the guy Gurathin? I bet it was Gurathin. While he didn't do that specifically in the book, he did pull some similar stunts.

In short, yeah, probably. It's a dick move regardless.

In long, I don't think he was being deliberately ableist. The guy is viewing the situation through a very different framework, namely, 'this SecUnit is a threat and a danger, and I am trying to control the situation'. Very likely, if he met a human colleague or acquaintance who asked not to make eye-contact, or just very clearly didn't like it, he probably would be chill and accommodating.

But the thing is, plenty of folks are ableist in day-to-day life without meaning to be ableist! You'll see folks be like "this person is so annoying because they do 'X thing', and it's not like they have an autism diagnosis or anything", as if the formal diagnosis is a magic wand to make certain behaviours okay. In general, things would be better if we just got better at accommodating benign behaviours that exist outside the norm without explanation.

[And frankly, my bigger concern here is less "ableism", and more "using his social power to force somebody who is a slave to follow his orders", but that's neither here nor there.]

Is it ableist to call a non-binary coded, autistic coded lifeform it/its?

Well, I mean, context matters?

A lot of shitty people will use it/its in a cruel way to various neurodivergent and queer people. They are deliberately intending to demean and dehumanize. That's shitty. Whether that's ableist or queerphobic would depend on the context, but it would be deliberately shitty.

And indeed, if you were to take another similar character... say Data from Star Trek, or Peridot from Steven Universe, and call either of them 'it', then again, depending on the context, I might call that shitty too! Their canonical pronouns are he/him and she/her respectively, and refusing to use those pronouns because "they're not really people" or "it's not a man/woman" would be a deliberately provoking move.

But if someone-- be it a fictional character, and even more so, a real person-- asks to be called "it"? That's their choice. The context has changed. It's not ableist, it's not queerphobic. That's just respecting them.

[moonastro]

groom persona chart

venus in the house

what is a groom persona chart? this chart exhibits qualities that your husband will have and possible placements that can be seen in their chart. it is simply a chart all about your spouse in a woman's chart. the asteroid groom can be identified using the code 5129.

venus rules love, aesthetics and desires, it is the planet of beauty and is a benefic. in the GPC the planet signifies your husbands love language, their needs and wants and aesthetics that he may be interested in.

reminder: this is my interpretation from observations and first hand experiences, so don't take this to heart.

venus in 1st house: fs is the definition of love. will shower you with sweet talk, make you feel like a queen and the luckiest person in the world. can look beautiful and have a beautiful appearance and aura. fs can look aesthetically pleasing and can just display themselves as someone ethereal. this is a placement where they tend to be the jewel in the room it reminds me of a prince placement, people forget or don.t establish their flaws and are mesmerised by their charm and beauty. their love language can be to compliment on your looks and compliment you on your appearance, hair, make-up, jewellery and all that sorts of stuff. fs is very self aware and can be into small detail and self awareness however may do so in their mind and keep it to themselves. fs may crave attention though and may want to be praised by their looks and appearance considering their efforts maintaining their looks.

spouse can have natal venus in aries, 1st house, fire sign, fire house.

venus in 2nd house: fs is gracious with his words and is patient. he likes the more high end things in life and will make sure that you have the same experience with that. likes to spoil so your spouse can spend and love to spend money on people that they love. can be strict but only to the point where he may receive pleasure from his actions so spouse can be quite controlling at times. however, sometimes it can be for the best in order to get out of your comfort zone. spouses aesthetic can be laid back, an admirer and can be full of lust. whatever he has his eyes laid on he needs it in an instant, so he may approach you within your guys first meeting. can be quite sensual and a bit un bothered at times, they can have the mindset of everything will work out for me anyway so why worry kind of thing. since venus is in its own house, venus is comfortable and spouse may be very open and comfortable the idea and commitment of love, they see it as an opportunity for them and can also claim it to be a gift for them. spouse is very attentive to what you have to say to him, he memorises each detail that is said and makes it his best effort to use it to his advantage like for special events and whatnot.

spouse can have natal venus in taurus, 2nd house, earth sign, earth house.

venus in 3rd house: usually spouse can talk abruptly when they have interest in something they love. they tend to give lots of words of affirmation and can talk sweet nothings just so they can hold your attention to them that much more. has love and interest in academics and may be quite the study type. loves to learn new things and is a very quick learner. spouses aesthetic is quite the study type, loves to know the fact that he knows stuff that others may not. loves to be one of a kind, and loves to be special. spouse likes to be in his own space but values socialising just as much, they need others to recharge themselves. can think very precisely about things and be quite analytical and precise with their thoughts. love to follow schedules and have plans, this eases their mind and makes them be certain that that plan is still going on.

spouse can have natal venus in gemini, 3rd house, air sign, air house.

venus in 4th house: fs can be the non-dominant one but can try to reach the needs of their partner. even though if they dont agree with your views or opinions they will follow them just to make you happy and fell like you can trust them. traditional roles are important to them so most likely they will have traditional views of what should be done in the household but with that they will carry out their task and provide for their family and will not think otherwise about it. fs can have a firm mindset that family is the most important thing in the world. fs love language can be providing for their family and their loved ones. are interested in his family needs and is very loyal to his wife. fs aesthetics may be based on what they were brought up with as a child or most likely what they are most familiar with, they tend to dislike change and stick to one thing.

spouse can have natal venus in cancer, 4th house, water sign, water house.

venus in 5th house: spouse is a hopeless romantic and loves to tease their partner and be playful. this is them simply being themselves and being comfortable around you. spouse can attract great prosperity and luck in his life. may be gifted in many talents and hobbies and may even be interested in the entertainment industry. can be interested in music and the arts and can be really good at it also. the spouse aesthetic is relatable to a lot of people which can be the reason for their likeness. spouse can have many followers and many admirers themselves. they aren't the awkward type and will make everyone feel welcome in the presence of them, are extremely friendly to everyone also. spouse can have a particular interest in other people, they are curious of other peoples lives and lifestyles.

spouse can have natal venus in leo, 5th house, fire sign, fire house.

venus in 6th house: doing things and doing tasks for their significant other is very important. its even more important when they get praised for it as well because they will continue to do it and with contentment as well. they tend to love very practically and not take things overboard. they respect boundaries of their partner and can be invested in your day to day routine and life. can have a beautiful body and may really take their energy into taking care of his health which can include having healthy habits, eating balanced meals and having good physical activity. may dedicate his aesthetic towards his occupation and may spend most of his time and efforts trying his best at his work. spouses work place may be quite aesthetic and they spend most of their time there as well, could also have items in the workplace for convenience.

spouse can have natal venus in virgo, 6th house, earth sign, earth house.

venus in 7th house: spouse likes to be equal individuals in the relationship. they love it whenever them and their partner can share roles equally within their time together, it makes them have a sense of completeness. however, the spouse can be liked by his charm and balanced nature and can attract enemies that are jealous of how many admirers he may have. there's no good without the bad also it comes both ways. spouse loves to be on everyone's good side and can show their charm to win hearts of others. spouse may feel relieved knowing that others think highly of him. loves being friendly to people and loves it back from others. in romance, spouse can be quite the romantic since venus is in its own house. they love being commitment and love taking care of their partner with the extents of sharing moments that couples like to do. can romanticise dates and events that you guys will attend in order to make it that much memorable.

spouse can have natal venus in libra, 7th house, air sign, air house.

venus in 8th house: the fs can be so deeply in love that they can have no where to be attentive to but you. they feel very intensely and most of the time when you are making out your fs will have lots of willpower because they will most likely want to turn the make out session into something more. they will have to resist a lot. can have lots of intrusive and spicy thought about you. this image just came into my mind of them just staring at you and you noticing and calling them out on why they are staring, them saying nothing but in fact👀they were probably imagining the beyond lets just say. your fs can be full of surprises and can hide their affection from you very well so when he does something out of the blue it can leave you feeling confused. their aesthetic is full of mystery and and chill vibes, its really them teasing you as well. they can tend to do that pretend to not be interested when in fact they are just so you can chase them. they tend to crave s*x and sexual activity. this is the type though to keep in private until it is only the two of you. is the silent freaky type.

spouse can have natal venus in scorpio, 8th house, water sign, water house.

venus in 9th house: spouse requires attention in order to satisfy their love for you. may acquire random bursts of love for you at spontaneous times. they love to go and explore things they haven't yet experienced and love to go with their partner. they prefer to explore new places with their loved one by their side rather than by themselves. can be experienced in love matters and may be confident and know what to expect in relationships which will acquire them to be like a mentor within the relationship. the fs aesthetic is quite loving and prosperous, they give and dont expect to be given back. people trust what your spouse may say or do, he may be the type that is very reliant and people notice how gifted and talented he is.

spouse can have natal venus in sagittarius, 9th house, fire sign, fire house.

venus in 10th house: fs will have an acute sense of the world around them. they will have certain expectations of how the world can see them. can be quite precautious of what other people think. can be quite professional and mature when it comes to love. for example can be mature when conflict occurs and so forth and may establish sensible outcomes for problems within the relationship. spouse can handle professional matters very well and may be the one to act carefully when it comes to their profession. spouses aesthetic can be profession biased and may be serious about their authority. they dont like disappointment and making mistakes however in the end they realise that they are valuable lessons to which they take their time to reflect on. as a partner they are responsible and will take care of you very well. when in need of their help they like the fact that they are needed so will gladly help you out. can feel like they are responsible for you so will look out for you a lot.

spouse can have natal venus in capricorn, 10th house, earth sign, earth house.

venus in 11th house: fs can enjoy company of other people but know how to identify the ones that have caused them harm and they tend to stay as far away from them as possible. will go to great lengths to fulfil their needs and wants. can be interested in alliances if it benefits them so your fs can become friends with someone to help them forward. usually can have goals related to their outcomes in life that benefits them. since this house is the house of good spirit, spouses charms and personality may benefit them through many things. may not have many enemies unless afflicted or other placements show otherwise. in relationships, spouse is affectionate and cares about their partner, can give needed space for you and not cross any boundaries. will respect your views and decisions in addition to being a supportive husband overall, so expect him to be your no.1 fan.

spouse can have natal venus in aquarius, 11th house, air sign, air house.

venus in 12th house: spouse can be quite delusional at times but thats just the nature of them in order to make their situation and life that much better. they tend to make up situations in their head that never happened before and that confuses them if that occurrence has happened or not which can go two ways. its not bad at all, they are dreamers and manifesters, they may have manifested you or you could be the exact spitting image of the girl they have manifested. spouses aesthetic may be quite delusional, they may be influenced by their dreams and thoughts and may achieve great lengths because they can easily envision their future reality. spouse may love the idea of love but can be scared of actual commitment in fear of losing their freedom and routine. however, as a partner they will shower you with deep love that goes beyond the scale. they can experience things differently but can give you the world if he could. would go through great lengths to make you happy and may even displace their own happiness to fulfil yours.

spouse may have natal venus in pisces, 12th house, water sign, water house.

thank you so much for reading and supporting!!!

[neigepomme]

˙ ✩°˖ ✈️☃️ triple silly / caleb x reader x zayne

synopsis; three high school friends eating apple flavored popsicles on the way home. surely, nothing too funny about that.. unless?

🍎 pomme's notes - an elaboration on this post from earlier! wrote this as a platonic fic, but interpret however you'd like!

⋆ 900 words / fluff / fem reader / 2nd person

it was stupidly hot today.

walking back home from school with zayne and caleb, you could feel yourself slowly melt under the warm weather — and judging from the sweat on zayne's forehead and caleb's flushed cheeks, you weren't the only one who thought so. panting, you stop in your tracks and call out to the two boys.

"i can't do this anymore. let's get popsicles from the convenience store."

the store was on your way home, and you could all get some (much needed) refreshments while replenishing your strength under the A/C. so with a nod, the three of you went to grab popsicles.

"pips come on, you know the apple one is my favorite — that was the last one! are you gonna let me suffer in this weather with no apple flavored ice cream?"

"that's too bad caleb, because last i checked, you also ate strawberry flavored stuff! my strawberry ice cream sandwich was gone when i got home yesterday and it sure as hell wasn't grandma!"

zayne smiled in amusement, wiping his face with a cloth as the two of you bickered. being a few grades ahead, he'd always have some trouble fitting in with his peers, and he didn't have many friends in his class. it was a stroke of luck when caleb saw him reading an anatomy book and asked about it — instead of the usual nerd comments zayne heard often, he was met with a curious purple gaze full of interest.

he found out that caleb was aiming to be a pilot and the two of them ended up hanging out often, studying and catching up together. eventually, he got to know who you were too ("you have to meet pipsqueak. she's really nice and kind but don't tell her i said that! that's totally against bro code and she'll annoy me forever."), and fast enough, the three of you were inseparable.

"zayne, tell him off! he's being insufferable!!"

your voice dragged him away from his thoughts, and he shook his head with a smile on his face, all while talking to the cashier.

"three apple flavored ice pops, please."

when the clerk handed him his change and the ice creams, zayne headed towards you and caleb. somehow, still bickering — but this time, the topic shifted from stolen ice cream sandwiches to stolen chips bag. it was the usual, and zayne wouldn't trade away the comfort he found in how casually you two treated him for anything in the world.

"zayne, she stole my chips last week! isn't it just cosmic justice if i steal her ice cream sandwich back?? come on, back me up here — wait, three apple popsicles? my man."

wrapping an arm around zayne's shoulders, caleb beamed. he opened his mouth expectantly when zayne handed him a frozen treat, and with a chuckle, zayne placed it up to the brunette's lips. you stomped your foot jokingly, a pout on your lips before you spoke.

"how come zayne feeds you but never me? life is so unfair."

"heh, that's bro code, pips. that and zayne can't even see you from all the way down there.. maybe if you grow a bit more, he'll consider it."

watching you glare at caleb with a soft chuckle, zayne hands you a popsicle and nods towards the door, encouraging you all to finally get back on the way home.

and it was just another summer afternoon, zayne observing silently as caleb picked at your height, and you tried to kick him in the shin. well, that was until you succeeded in your attempt, and caleb tripped forward, making his popsicle float with his evol, while he fell in a ridiculous pushup position. snickering at him, you don't notice zayne placing a hand over his mouth and trying his best to hold back laughter, not until you turn towards the older male.

"he's so lame — zayne? wait. are you laughing??"

somehow, your question was the thing that pushed zayne to the edge as he erupted in boyish laughter — a sound neither you nor caleb had heard before, a sound neither of you managed to pull out of him. caleb's ears reddened, though not without a smile growing on his face and a fake exasperated voice.

"come on, it was not that funny."

you quickly pushed caleb back down, trying to make zayne laugh more. yelping as he falls down again, the sound makes you laugh, thus making zayne laugh even harder — clutching his stomach at how silly the situation unfolding was.

caleb, embarrassed but in awe at how his usually serious friend was laughing, also started laughing, and you all made quick eye contact between yourselves. that didn't do much to re-establish a serious atmosphere, only encouraging the laughter to grow louder — until all that was heard was "it hurts, my stomach hurts, i can't breathe" from all three of you.

wiping a stray tear from your eye, you think to yourself that maybe you ought to trip caleb more often if that was the outcome.

🍎 pomme's final notes - please infold give us zaynecaleb as besties im begging i want to see them being bros together i want my bromance NOWWW