#hola i tried to write smut and failed

[mattyrambles]

20:18

It’s coming up to half eight, when Penelope wanders downstairs. The house - quiet, a distant hum of the record she had left spinning upstairs, and a static of voices drifting from the lounge, Matty and the telly.

Kitchen - dimly lit, much like the rest of the rooms. Dark outside - although it was the beginning of March, spring - the weather told a different story. Weather warnings of snow storms, plummeting temperatures had littered the news. The snow was beginning to take its toll, weighting outside from what Penelope can figure, see - face pressed to glass, window. A shiver - instinct, turning back on the heating and switching on the kettle, picking at dried paint on her thigh.

Lounge - finding Matty sprawled on the couch, laptop balanced on his stomach, seemingly engrossed. Queer Eye. Setting his tea down on the coffee table.

Fingers - ruffling through bleach blonde as she passes, he glances up lazily - a muffled ‘thanks, love’ through a yawn, stretching but not making any attempt to reach for the tea, legs over her lap when she sits at the opposite end of the sofa. She eyes him - doubtfully, while he giggles at something that’s just been said. Earlier in the evening he had told her he was going to work on some stuff, album stuff - after spending the afternoon spread across the bed with Allen doing much of the same as he was now. She thinks now it was just a ploy, an excuse to be alone, an escape from her constant fidgeting.

Cabin fever was beginning to creep up on Penelope - earlier in the day, aimlessly wandering between her studio and art corner of the bedroom. Angsty and tiresome, restless. Mood - mirroring the weather.

Like Matty she had intended to get some work done - illustration, instead ending up on the bedroom floor, sketching and half finishing a canvas portrait of Allen, who spent most of the day curled up on the bed, an equally sulky state. It wasn’t the day for trying to work, built on procrastination and dense atmosphere, and Penelope was getting increasingly exasperated with how little attention Matty was giving her. Alone time was over - as far as she was concerned, but his gaze still didn’t shift from his laptop, no matter how long she stared.

Until finally - albeit there was a pause, the next episode loading, dark hazel meeting indigo; “What’re you looking at?”

Penelope - taking that as a cue, cold cups of tea, closing his Mac and shifting it off him, despite halfhearted protests of ‘oi’, and ‘’m watching sommat’.

“For someone who’s about to announce to the world how much they hate technology - you’ve been using it a fair deal to fucking ignore me all day.”

Vexatious complaints - maneuvering, thighs either side of his ribs, stomach.

“Sorry darling, what was that?” A lopsided smirk, glancing up at her while thumbs moved haphazardly over his phone screen. She didn’t need to ask - knowing it was George, stranded somewhere in Ireland with Kelsey. Snow.

Fingers - plucking the phone from him, tossing it across the room, the other couch. Matty raises brows in a silent questioning - before he can say anything, she collapses into him, face burrowing into his neck. A whine, scratchy sound resembling his name.

Something he chortles at, resounding her name, an amused tone, fingers - trailing down her spine. Comforting - content with his touch, smell, until he begins to speak again, after having time to mull over what she had said.

“And actually I don’t hate technology, you’re missing the point - it’s about how subversive-”

Penelope - a groan, shushing him, nipping at his neck. She had heard this speech, rant - over and over and over again, the past few months. She could recite it back to him, or some variation - his spiel on it was ever changing. Mumbling - key words, concepts from ‘Kanye’ to ‘Black Mirror’ to ‘Obsolescence’, between kisses, his neck.  

She continues until he interrupts, complaining about being too warm, asking if she had turned the heating back on, she meets his complaints with her own - cold. Something he scoffs at. 

“Because you have no fucking clothes on.”

Warm hands, bare skin - her thighs, highlighting his point. Only one of his Gucci tshirts, underwear. Comments that transpire into a minor argument over the heating, and heating bills, and overheating, and Allen’s dislike of the sounds the boiler and radiators made, and how it makes Matty’s nose all stuffy. Domestic. The kind of domestic that would make George utterly repulsed if he was present. 

Until it’s giggles, and kisses. Kisses that grow quite heated, quite fast, after she tries to sit back up, lips chasing. Hands wandering - her thighs, hips, under her tshirt. All hot breaths, soft sounds, and suppressed smirks - between mouths. A heavy scent of sandalwood, from earlier candles. Frost tinting window panes. 

Slow - but still with a hint of urgency. His jeans - pushed down just far enough, her, or his, tshirt ends up on the floor, following a bit of a struggle his jumper joins it. Swollen lips - pressing kisses, her lips, jaw. Fingers - pushing aside, underwear, rather than struggling to take them off, cramped space and bad coordination, something that would most likely end with him knocking her onto the floor, and killing the mood. 

Muted gasps - when fingertips brush against sensitive skin, echoing sounds from Matty - when her fingers wrap around him. Air thicker, heat rising - blood rushing, messy tongues and soft sounds. Penelope - hips gyrating, in search of more friction, a mewl resembling his name tumbling from her lips, fingers dipping into her. Thighs - trembling against him, nails grazing skin.

Impatience - rising after a few minutes, a lazy kind of rhythm between them both, his fingers, her hand. Slow and tormenting - setting off sparks, fueling the heat, radiating. Fingers - tugging at his wrist, hazel focusing on blown out pupils as she leans back down, lips hot against his, telling him that she wants to feel him, while nails graze across ink, tattoos.

Instead of attempting to change positions, cramped and partially because of his own impatience, heat spiraling through his veins - fingers grip her hips, guiding her on to him. Perfect angle - to watch her face, reaction as he fills her. How her lips part with scattered expletives, brow furrowing, fingers imprinting against his ribs. Naturally - taking a few minutes to gain some sort of rhythm, momentum. Not something he minded - relishing in the feeling of her, the soft sounds that surpassed her lips. A mutual desire, rippling through bodies. 

Later - much later, bedroom. Penelope finding Matty once again on his phone, giggling to himself, when she returns from the bathroom, pajamas and brushed teeth. The living room escapade had transpired, traveled to the bedroom - between cool sheets, when hands and mouths grew peripatetic once more.

Horizontal - head on Matty’s stomach, fingers playing with her hair, twirling curls. Announcing - out of seemingly nowhere that George and Kelsey are going to be the first to have a kid. Indigo - glancing up, an amused smirk, asking him what made him think that. 

He shrugs, tossing him phone down - “was reading some article, said there’s gonna be an influx in babies born in December ‘cause of the snow, people have nowt else to do but shag apparently. So what’s the bet that we’ll have a cute, but very odd new little drummer by next year?”

Penelope only scoffed at his logic, shaking her head. 

“Fine be like that, Ross will bet me.” - picking back up his phone, eyes lighting up with immature excitement. Penelope - burrowing her way under the duvet, “they’re staying with her parents, I doubt they’re spending their weekend trapped in the house shagging.” 

“Never stopped us did it, darlin’?” 

She didn’t have to look at him to know that that stupid sly grin was tilting his lips, turning off the light, but letting out a low chuckle all the same. 

“Oh my God, go to sleep - Matty.” 

It’s quiet for a while,once Matty had finished sending Ross his preposition for the bet, much like earlier in the night. Only sounds of wind outside, and the sparse creeks of the house. Penelope - drifting in and out of sleep, until Matty’s voice, a whisper - her ear, clearly in deep thought over the matter. 

“Babe, what colour do you think I should dye my hair next?”

[possiblypeachy]

manufactured.

--; summary: The XK-100 model was designed to be many things: charming yet brutal, elusive yet blunt, gentle yet commandeering. What she wasn't designed to be was deviant. But, being so advanced can come with a cost.

You decide what that cost is.

> part two

[determinant factors are in italics]

[warnings that apply to this chapter are in bold]

--; pairings: connor x xk-100, captain allen x xk-100

--; word count: 2.1k

--; themes: slow burn romance, angst, violence, platonic fluff, eventual smut

--; warnings: depictions of violence, death, suicide

--; note: hola mis amigos! this is the first piece of writing that i’m actually putting up here so go easy on me please and thank you! pardon any horrendous mistakes and/or terrible explanation of plot points :( 

in places this story will deviate (haha deviate) from canon. this allows me to weave my lovely little xk-100 model into scenarios that can help shape her personality for future installments. also, it gives me a chance to dabble with her interacting with minor characters that don’t get enough love!

if all goes well, i’d like to make this into a kind of ‘choose your own story’ type read bc i love me a good challenge and i want to give it the true d:bh feel. it’ll take a while to fan the options out but i’m a fast worker when inspired ;)

anywho, feel free to shoot me a message to ask me questions about this or give me suggestions! i’m also open to requests for now so hit me with your best shot, kiddos.

without further ado, enjoy!

[apolgies if this looks shit on mobile/anything really. i'll clean it up later :)]

—————

The first thing she felt was something clicking to the back of her head. Streams of code filled black vision: a start-up process. Lines upon lines of binary were read at a speed that was inhuman, registering her programming and purpose. Though a crucial process, the small camera watching her saw nothing of what was going on behind those white eyelids-- not even a twitch to signal that she was functional.

Then, narrow eyes flickered open, much like a light bulb turning on after years of no use. Pale irises were revealed to the room, intricate patterns of ice and frost weaved around her pupil. They were shadowed by a line of dark lashes, removing the possibility of deducing what she was thinking by way of looking into her eyes. Yet the contrast between the light and dark made her hold an aura of allure. Even he, someone who had prepared for her to look like this, was momentarily hypnotised. Nevertheless, a pang of discomfort was felt when his gaze finally fell to her static form. She appeared detached from the world -- cold. She would be perfect for her job.

From his seat, her overseer leant down to a microphone. “Can you hear me?” A male voice reached her sensors and the LED on the side of her head sprang to life, glowing a calming blue. Tentative eyes watched her through the camera. His heart rate increased when her LED began circling-- processing. This was make or break. They'd tried to make models like her far too many times before but failed; she hadn't looked intimidating enough, she couldn't make sense of her own complexity, her thirium pump hadn't been wholly compatible. God, he'd seen so many of her previous attempts shutdown before they were even able to speak.

Anxiety. Worry. Tension. “Yes. I can hear you.” All those emotions dissolved-- cascaded from his conscience like the most beautiful waterfall he could ever witness--  and he leant back in his chair, instead filled with relief. A sigh that could've praised God itself left him before he moved to look at the live feed of her again. She was completely unmoving-- no blinking, no twitching of her eyes, no breathing. Instead, she was waiting.

“What's your serial number and model name?” The worry rose in him again as his sight glanced to the tablet before him, filled to the brim with information on her. All his team's plans for her, her I.D. and registration codes, who she was going to be given to, her abilities, her materials-- all of it-- stored on one tablet. Everything had to be checked. She had to confirm that all of her components were functional. If she said one wrong thing, she would be deconstructed and analysed.

The android's voice was smooth and unwavering-- unaware of the pressure placed upon her. Perhaps one could describe it as scheming. Hearing it laid a blanket of unsettling calm across those around yet it was beguiling-- mysterious. “#572 236 091 – 31. My model name is XK-100.” Her expression still showed nothing. Good.

The robotic arms whirred around her and created gentle streams of wind as they welded white plastic parts together, ensuring that her body was sturdy; she needed to be as durable as possible. Two of them spun on their pivots to receive an arm-- already constructed and able to move when tugged in a certain direction and therefore, hopefully, functional. Rather than screwing it into place, it clicked as though it was a dislocated bone being fixed. When the arms let go of it, it hung at her side-- lifeless.

He wasn't lifeless, however. Oh, quite the contrary. Having been working on this project for near to seven years now, he felt like a little clap and chuckle wouldn't be deemed all too unprofessional. They'd been planning an android like this for almost a decade: an android who was capable of taking down an entire riot single-handedly if the need arose. Her team had programmed tiny aspects of her day in, day out. Many sleepless nights were spent animating her custom expressions, blueprinting the structure and materials of her frame, weaving code into her artificial mind. By admittance of the former CEO of CyberLife himself, she was perhaps the most intelligent android they had yet made-- and that was Kamski's words from years before. Now, if she didn't possess that whirling LED on her temple and her posture wasn't so stiff, people could peg her as more life-like than some humans.

He spoke again. She picked up on the thrilled waver to his voice and committed it to her short-term memory stores. “Move your head.” As asked, her head craned from one side to another-- eyes yet to follow the direction of movement naturally. Then, she stopped rather suddenly back at the centre. The camera swerved to the front of her and lifted itself to her eye level. “Now, move your eyes.” Her eyelids jolted into motion and she blinked erratically-- even her brows furrowed. He felt as though he was intently watching her trying to remove something from the surface of her eyeball; it was uncomfortable, yes, but inevitably natural. Then, her sight began to sweep across the sterile room, recognising the area as Manufacturing Room 2462-B in the CyberLife Tower. Blinking was rhythmic yet not too unnatural. She was beginning to appear more human. Uncomfortably so.

The team working on her understood that she would be some of CyberLife's best work but, from what he could gather, they hadn't expected her to look so... alive. At least, he didn't.

“Good. Now, tell me your introductory text.”

“Hello. I am a first generation XK-100 android. I am designed to assist Special Weapons and Tactics units in high-risk cases. Alongside being much more durable than humans, I am able to process and successfully predict reasonable outcomes for scenarios-- if given enough verbal or physical queues. I am familiar with S.W.A.T training programs and have an accuracy rating of 96% when in optimal conditions.”

Cases of deviancy had been on the rise and more and more police cases were being taken over by S.W.A.T units. Their only downfall was that they were a mainly human organisation, thus making it more and more difficult for them to track ever developing deviant androids. With her on missions, their success rates would soar-- or so the team who had made her hoped.

“My battery allows me to work autonomously for 212 years and I do not require food or water to survive. Due to the nature of my programming, I am required to make frequent reports to my higher-ups on the condition of my software and, every 2 years, I must undergo a renewal of my permit to bypass the 'American Androids Act, subsection 544-7'-- which allows me to carry weapons as long as I have human supervision.” Her speech paused for a moment and her overseer watched with baited breath. Had her vocals malfunctioned? They couldn't have. She wasn't supposed to stop speaking. Fuck, fuck, fuck! They'd almost had--

“Would you like to name me?” An exhale. Thank the Lord. Perhaps she was already developing mannerisms? She was designed to integrate into a team-- to be adaptable-- and humans didn't take well to stiff androids. It would help her fit in; they'd aspired for her to be like this yet she seemed to be learning quickly-- faster than they'd suspected.

Her other arm clicked itself into place before he spoke and pale skin began to bleed across her plastic body, coating her in practically human layers of pores and tones. Black hair sprouted from her scalp and flopped down into its default style: short, gently waved, and middle-parted-- convenient for her designated career yet not unfamiliar or strange to humans. She began to exude a strange type of stern attractiveness-- every colour that she possessed merging together to create an amalgamation of, what he could only say was, foreign beauty.

“Yes. Your name will be set to...” His eyes flickered down to the tablet before him, “Kassandra.”

Unnervingly, her icy eyes stared straight into the camera. It was as though she was maintaining eye contact with him. Then, her lips twitched somewhat before forming an ever-so-slightly lopsided smile. The smile was charming but seeing it painted across the features of a half-built android was concerning to him. It didn't put him at ease. Rather, his expression tightened. But he couldn't look away from her, seemingly caught in the frost that built in her irises.

“My name is Kassandra. I am pleased to meet you.”

He shivered. All his previous excitement appeared to have dissipated and nothing came through the speakers installed in the ceiling for a few moments. The camera was stationary, positioned before her. He almost felt a degree of sympathy for her; she-- Kassandra-- looked, sounded so... real. Out on the field, she would develop her own habits, her own ticks, her own sense of humour-- just like a human. Yet, her only goal was to detain people-- to kill, on occasion-- and he knew that would never change, no matter how alive she appeared. They programmed her to be like this. He programmed her to be like--

One of her legs were put into place, the socket being filled with an echoing 'clunk!' noise. Said sound made the overseer cough and return to his own mission, watching skin spread over her newly installed limb. She was simply an android. The morality of it all didn't need to come into the equation. “Can you move your arms?”

As Kassandra mindlessly followed his requests, new limbs being added and her programming being tested, he couldn't help notice her becoming smarter even here. Her gaze conveyed emotion-- enquiry, determination, amusement. She had begun to tap her fingers together while waiting for her next instructions. The LED on the side of her head would circle and flicker to yellow more often-- as though she took things into more consideration than the average android.

Finally, she stepped off of the podium. Bare feet padded across the sterile floor of the manufacturing room and paused to allow their owner to briefly scan the room. Now, she had full access to her files, his files, CyberLife's files-- everything. Her LED circled yellow once then returned to blue. She looked back to the camera. “What should I do now, Stephen?”

Stephen-- his name. God, she was analysing him and he wasn't even there. Kassandra likely knew where he was in the building, his age, his annual salary, the millions of possible things that he could do within the next few seconds.

Possibility #762: he turned his microphone back on and cleared his throat to hide his rising stress level. “The conveyor belt to your right will transport you to a specially designed loading bay. A small team of S.W.A.T members will pick you up and take you to your base of operation. You should be working under an... 'Allen'-- 'Captain Allen', so report to him as soon as you arrive.” There was a pause. The half-blue half-yellow LED on her temple was accompanied by a mildly confused expression. “Good luck out there, Kass. I'm glad you're finally functional.”

“I, too, am glad that I am able to move, unlike my predecessors.” Kassandra gave the smallest nod to the camera before leading herself to the conveyor belt. Behind the lenses of the camera, Stephen laughed-- the kind of tired laugh that came through your nose. For him, it was kind of like watching his really unsettling child go off to university, despite the fact that she'd only been operative for two hours at most. Maybe it was because he was one of the few constants in the team as they planned her out. Perhaps she'd already enraptured him with her strange, otherworldly charm. Either way, a sense of bittersweetness resided in his heart as he watched her pick her way into the outside world.

Kassandra took a mindless step onto the belt and it began to whir. “Goodbye, Stephen.” Click, click, click. Slowly, it lurched into motion, reeling her away from the room.

SEARCHING . . . . . .

       'Appropriate ways to say goodbye'

LOADING RESULTS . . . . . .

     i.   “I hope to see you again soon.”

       ii.  “Have a nice day.”

      iii. “Say 'Hi' to your kids for me!”

  iiii. “I'll miss you.”

Then, she disappeared from sight-- shipped off like trained-to-kill merchandise to that... Captain Allen guy. Stephen continued to stare at the camera for a small while, absently bringing his flask of coffee up to his lips and taking a long sip.

His lips pursed.

“I'll miss you too, Kass.”