#inability to self investigate

[ellestra]

Source - Smooth Dunk on twitter

[janumun]

A Practical Demonstration (LaDS Sylus - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Words: 9.8k Pairing: Sylus/Reader

Tags: size difference, oral and vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, rough sex, mild mentions of stalking (not Sylus or Mephisto for once LOL), inexperienced (NOT virgin) reader, edging, drinking, [im]proper use of evol, explicit sexual content

Summary: When you end up disclosing a mortifying truth to Sylus about your dating life, deep in a drinking session; drowning yourself within a bottle — or three — of alcohol until you black out is the only option left to you to avoid that sharp, intuitive gaze for the rest of the night.  

That is, until Sylus throws a counter offer your way, one that sounds far too tempting to your scrabbled brain. Being the brilliant voice of reason you are tonight, you accept.  

[A fic where Sylus shows you exactly how good sex with a perceptive partner feels like when you confess your less than optimal dating experience.] 

Author’s Notes: Truly clown moment when I believed this fic would not exceed more than 4k words and yet again, here I am sitting on an almost 10k monster. I love what being horny for these men has done for my inspiration. Thank you so much to @chibamari for providing the prompt that birthed this fic. Already working on a religious desecration imagery angsty sex fic with Xavier and Queen MC, based on his first myth, as we speak.

The lingering remnants of your foiled meeting are muted with the press of rouged lips against the cusp of your cool glass, the liquor within, sliding easy down your throat with your fervent swallow.  

Placing it back down with a defeated sigh, you lean your arm against the counter, cradling your warming cheek against the crook of your palm.  

You never should’ve let Tara talk you into an impromptu date with a mutual acquaintance she’d considered ‘the perfect match’ for you; her giddy excitement and enthusiasm to get you a date had been too difficult to turn down. You cursed yourself underneath your breath at your inability to say no to those big, wide eyes and cheery smile; exactly the components that had saddled you deep into the disaster you’d considered that date to be — if it could be called as such.  

You’d excused yourself half-way through the man’s self-absorbed prattling — ruining the taste of the expensive steak in front, one you’d been wanting to try for ages — on excuse of an urgent mission coming up.  

A hand tucking your phone close to your ear, to reinforce your hasty lie while the other had slipped your card to your assigned waiter, making hasty work of settling your end of the bill. You’d swept up your coat and purse, striding out the lavish restaurant on swift-heeled steps before your sputtering date could so much as lift a hand in protest.  

Which is what had now landed you firmly in your current predicament, within the confines of a cosy, well-known bar, not too far from where you’d started.  

Nursing a budding headache within the bitter notes of alcohol, to help ease at long fraught nerves. In between the ever-looming threat of Wanderers and the obstructive wrench thrown into your investigation into the Ever group, along with how busy work usually kept you, you were exhausted, suffice to say. The insignificant man tonight had just been the icing on this long-ruined cake.  

Tara’s suggestion; to put yourself out more and ‘let loose’ for a bit, had ended in mild regret in going along with it, in the first place.  

It had been far too long since you’d been in a relationship — let alone enjoyed a date with a man; your professional obligations kept you busy, coupled along with an extremely low desire to invest yourself into the dating pool, to wade and weed through to one that matched your wavelength.  

A flash of an alluring garnet gaze sparks through your mind’s eye in passing, at the thought, one you physically shake yourself out of.  

Now there was a man entirely on the spectrum opposite to your frequency. Your inability to resonate with him had only been just one of many failures toward mutual understanding.  

“Another one for you, Miss?” The bartender inquires; you’re nodding before you can think it through. 

“Yes, thank—” 

“She’ll have a mojito instead. The usual for me.” A deep, rich voice drifts at your back — before it scotches down, involuntarily and low into your belly — just as the large hand you feel slip across your shoulder in greeting. You close your eyes against the intrusion, hoping the hazy apparitions of your mind would gift you a damn break just once tonight; as if having had him conjured out of mere musings. You shudder.  

The alluring man at your side does not dissipate as you’d direly wished, seating himself down onto the stool next to yours, completely at leisure at having snuck into your space, unannounced once more. You hated how infuriatingly easy the Onychinus head found himself able to pervade your every space, along with each of your thoughts — the latter of which you did not wish to dissect apart tonight. Or, ever, if you had the choice.  

“What are you thinking of, with such a severe frown on your face?” He speaks, as if he does not know the exact reason for your irritation. “You’ll put a permanent knot in there if you don’t stop.”  

You choose to ignore him in lieu of offering a resigned nod to the bartender for the order Sylus had placed on your behalf. You could use a less inebriating drink now, especially so if you were to deal with the man beside you. 

“What’re you doing here, Sylus?” You sigh against the dredges of your last drink, letting the bitter liquid warm your throat.  

“Has the alcohol numbed your memory as well, sweetheart? We had an appointment, did we not?” Your respective orders are deposited in front, just as he moves to take the drink in between long, tapered digits, bringing it up to his mouth for a taste.  

The slow drag of his Adam’s apple against his throat as he drinks, tugs your gaze towards it — an involuntarily reflex you aren’t able to control. Sylus’ scarlet gaze canting sideways to capture yours is what finally has you wrenching away from the delectable sight, cursing your fast settling inebriation for the mis-step.  

He was an attractive man, your mind had long made begrudging peace with the fact, even if you’d both started off on an extremely wrong — horrid, actually — foot. And he’d proven himself to be a reliable companion, when the two of you had caused waves within N109’s criminal hub, in a quest for the Aether Core. His side of the bargain he’d kept, in exchange for your deal to forge a steady resonation with him. One you had no thoughts of reneging on, you’d keep your promise to him for the massive aid he’d provided. And yet, you could not help bemoan the fact that this very man confounded you, to your very core, to the point you weren’t sure what to make of his intentions. And yours.  

But surely, you weren’t this physically deprived that Sylus of all people was beginning to sprout this visceral a reaction from you?  

“And I texted you I couldn’t make it tonight, sweetheart.” You quip, pinching your forehead in between thumb and index. “This really isn’t the time, Sylus.”  

He raises a careful brow at you, and God help you, even that gesture is incredibly beguiling to your slushed brain.  

“And you couldn’t make it because” he prompts, tapered digits drumming against the marbled countertop. “you wished to spend your time out here, dressed to the nines, in a party of one?”  

“So what if I wanted to?” All your prickly response earns you is a discerning gaze, zoned in on you. You exhale hard through your nose, shoulders steeling to utter your next words. “Oh alright, I had a blind date tonight.” You’re not sure why exactly you’re divulging something this private to the man. 

The way his brows shoots in simmering surprise before they bunch in at his forehead in a frown is almost comical, you would’ve snorted at the expression he’s pulling if not for his next words. “So that’s what had that imbecile out there on your trail, lingering at the door for.” He scoffs. “You may not have enjoyed your date but you certainly got yourself a love-struck fool nipping at your heels, kitten.” 

“Wait, what?” Bewilderment wars cold within your mind at the disgusting revelation of the man tonight having possibly followed you and Sylus having caught him dead in the act. “What did you do to him?”  

“It’s fascinating how your first assumption is that I did anything to him.” His pleasant chuckle curls within your ears; a low, throaty burr. And when you give him one of your own looks, “Alright, don’t look at me so. Mephisto presumed you had a far dangerous stalker on hand than that sorry bastard, when he saw him lurking about you.” He swirls his glass of whiskey in between casual fingers. “I gave him some cordial talking to and sent him on his merry way.”  

A million queries hurtle within your mind — what did his “cordial talking to” ensue exactly? Why had Mephisto been trailing you? Why did Sylus feel the need to step in and personally take care of your potential stalker?  

You reach to take a swig of your own glass, feeling that headache pinching once more at your brow. “I don’t appreciate you having your silly crow keep tabs on me, Sylus. But,” Reluctant gratitude stirs at the tip of your tongue as your mind slowly processes the situation at hand. If it hadn’t been for Sylus’ interfering ways, you might’ve been saddled with a problem far worse than the infuriatingly suave Onychinus leader on your hands tonight. “Thank you for taking care of that creep for me, I guess. I appreciate it?”  

You think you catch the strains of barely there surprise within his gaze, along with an amalgamation of emotions you aren’t able to parse before they’re shuttered out of sight. Replaced with a cool smile, he angles at you. “The alcohol has you honest for a change, kitten. I can’t say I dislike it.”  

That infuriating remark has you almost wanting to take back your thanks, almost.  

“Your engagement for the night has scurried off home with his tail in between his legs, leaving you to your celebration of one.” His touch is a flitting, warm caress against the shell of your ear as he folds a stray lock of hair back in place. “Are you going to say why you’re out here by your lonesome yet, furiously downing liquor, instead of back in the safety of your house?”  

A gibe sits sharp across your tongue at his probing, wanting to tell him to back off and out of your business, he had no reason to be asking whether you chose to go out on a date or throw yourself a self-wallowing party, to let loose for one damn night. You weren’t even sure why Sylus pricked at your nerves the way he did — riling you up in the manner he did. Each single touch, every look fraught with meaning. He did and went as he pleased, without a care for what people made of him; self-assured as if the world itself, he held, in between those devious fingers. And he probably did too, his reputation one of absolute power within N109 Zone and without.  

That very same man — the one who’d told you he’d make full use of you, as you did him — perched atop a bar stool by your side, asking you a question that seemed devoid of his usual ribbing. And perhaps, it’s because of that one sole thought that you find your mouth moving — or simply, because the alcohol has sniped your inhibitions. “Tara’s been on my case lately, insisting I need to get laid to blow off some stress.”  

“Oh? That hunter girl with the bob, the very eager one.” Sylus looks immensely amused; your mind sifts through memories to recall how exactly Sylus knew her before it clicks: ah, the company retreat you’d stumbled into Sylus a few weeks back at. How could you ever forget? The day had been a nightmare.  

“The very one,” you blink. “Hence the failed date tonight and my immeasurable disappointment.”  

“Why? Were you planning on sleeping with that loser?”  

You shake your head at him, horrified at the mere thought. “No, it actually went as well as I was expecting it to. Bad, that is.” You take another enthusiastic swig of your drink, a modicum of clarity returning to your stuffed head. “The sorry state of the dating pool at large, for a hunter with limited time on her hands isn’t exactly stellar. Even less so for men who know what they’re doing. And my luck in that regard seems particularly disastrous.”  

In hindsight, you knew you were word vomiting your thoughts out at this point, with way too much candour than was appropriate for the situation, you’d regret it tomorrow perhaps — no, most definitely. But at the moment, underneath the glazed pleasant bubble of alcohol loosening your tongue and the enticement of an extremely alluring man, who had his entire attention focused upon you, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.  

He huffs an amused half-laugh. “What sort of men have you been with exactly, kitten?” 

“Not that many.” You retort. “...Two and both during my schooling years, very briefly. I was a giddy teen, excited at the prospect of a loving boyfriend. Both their expectations from the relationship were obvious from a mile away, though.” You scrub a hand through the carefully primmed fall of your hair, not caring for the accessories you knocked askew. “God, I don’t think they even knew what to do with a woman, outside of getting their dicks wet.” You laugh at your own odd joke, tumbling within your brain.  

“It’s actually crazy how I’ve never had a man make me properly come in all my years—” Your words die within your throat at the realization of your horrifying admission.  

Surely, you’d thought them within your own mind and not just blurted your entire sob fest onto the man in front? A wretched sound of dismay leaves your throat at the inscrutable look upon Sylus’ face, shredding apart any sliver of hope you’d had that you had only been musing in thoughts.  

Gods, Tara was right, your idiotic self did need to get laid, you’d gone mad at long last. And made of yourself, a fool in front of the man you were begrudgingly attracted to. There was no coming out of this and you woed the fact that you’d even let yourself drink in the first place. 

“It does seem like your dating life has been rather disastrous up to this point.” Sylus responds, at last, insouciantly plucking his glass of whiskey off the counter for a swig, so at counterpoint to your rioting emotions.  

“Sylus.” 

“What is it?”  

You reach over, a hand securing about his broad shoulder, as you tip precariously close into the man’s space, plucking the glass straight out of his hands.  

“Hey—” Before darting back as far as you’re able, a feat Sylus did not think a woman even half-drunk was capable of.  

Taking a large gulp of the acridly strong liquor down your gullet, in a prayer to knock yourself out like you’d originally intended to before Sylus had walked in all over your small parade. Anything to blot your memory of the knowledge of your mortifying words to Sylus. But curling vines of red and obsidian are cleaving through your plans just as swift, one sliding about your waist to prevent your precipitous tilt upon the narrow stool while the other plucks the liquor clean out of your hands after a single pitiful swig.  

The swirls of misted red disappear just as furtively swift as they’d appeared once they have you righted upon the stool and out of harm’s way.  

A low sigh rings heavy above your head at your absurdity. “That’s enough. We’re leaving.”  

Affording you no room for feeble protests as he slips a cool palm around yours; long, thick fingers reassuring in between your own before he tows you away from the glittering inebriation of night life.  

Clarity from the merciful remnants of your intoxication is unwelcome tonight — like cool gunmetal pressed fast against your temple, siphoning the entirety of the alcoholic flush from your system. Having utterly failed at your attempts at getting hammered so you would’ve had at least an excuse to fake post drunken amnesia in the face of your shame tomorrow.  

Instead, here you were, deep within Zone N109 once more, incarcerated to the room Sylus had appointed temporarily as yours during your first visit to the place. One that had over time, turned into your housing and personal space, indefinitely, for whenever you happened to drop by on business with the Onychinus head. On business, you firmly reminded yourself. Even as the significance of the fact that Sylus had thought it fit to make space for you within his very own — his home — was not lost on you.  

You remembered trying to sweep a kick to the back of his shins, back at the bar, for having you bodily dragged out into the sobering night air and towards where his car awaited, parked by the curb.  

“Let go of me, you big brute.” Those vexing vines of red had curled about your leg mid-motion, tugging you up sharply before your world upended and you’d been tossed unceremoniously like a sodden sack of rice onto the broad expanse of one of his shoulders. You’d dug your nails into his back in punishing protest at his audacity.  

Earning yourself a derisive snort for your efforts. “Continue pawing at me like that and I’ll have you trussed next, kitten.”  

Your mouth had curled into a silent snarl, thumping futile fists against his solid back. “Try me.” 

“Don’t think I won’t.” He’d warned mildly before he’d continued on his merry way, wide stride that had barely faltered with your struggles.  

You sigh in defeat, scrubbing your palms down your face in recollection of the memory — your reflexive annoyance at his actions stemming more from your own mortifying situation than any real anger at him.  

He’d brought you back to his place, closer from where the bar was located, instead of back home, where the two of you risked running into any of your acquaintances, Xavier for one.  

And you couldn’t afford to let the people around you know of the Onychinus head — Sylus understood that instinctually, even if you did not speak of it. Content though he seemed to perpetually keep you in a state of life-threatening heart palpitations with his goading ways; absently recalling how Sylus had been Tara’s first man of choice for her date plan, owing to how he’d found it fit to barge in on their last team retreat.  

Shaking your head, you press a hand against your forehead as you move to wipe your body clean, having opted for one of the more comfortable outfits to change into for the night, you’d brought over from your place to his during one of your earlier visits — amusement sparking at you to witness how Sylus had thought it fit to buy you a couple new dresses, to add to your sparse collection, hanging within your wardrobe. As if you two were something more than acquaintances and professional partners.  

Your mind really seemed to have free reign over mad thoughts tonight.  

A knock resounds through the quiet of the room, effectively piercing your thoughts. “Are you done yet?” His familiar, welcome burr sounds from the other side of the door.  

“I am. Come on in.” The handle glides open, revealing Sylus standing in the doorway, having swiped his outerwear for a casual dark red button down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the firm strength of his forearms; a sight you aren’t able to tear your ogling from, as he steps into the room. He closes the distance in between you in three easy strides. Crowding you within a room that feels too small and sweltering all of a sudden.  

“Feeling any better now?” His voice wrenches your gaze away from the sliver of skin revealed beneath the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened.  

You sigh, cursing at licentious thoughts. This man, in his incinerating, sensual entirety, frustrated you to no end. “I am, Sylus. Thank you.”  

“Good.” He hums. “Because you should stay awhile, a day or two at least.” 

“What? Why?” 

“I have to make sure that weasel you had tagged to you tonight doesn’t try getting too smart. Mephisto caught him lingering close to your streets after the whelp bolted following his wretched stalking attempt.”  

The revelation has nausea stirring at your gut; what had you gotten yourself into with that despicable creep? You were going to throttle Tara the next time you saw her.  

You sigh. “While that is disturbing behaviour and I’m grateful for the concern but I think I could’ve handled that idiot fine on my own.”  

A frown belts at his brow. “He’s a colleague from work, isn’t he? Despite his absolute spinelessness, that weasel is a trained Hunter with an authorized weapon on hand.”  

You raise a questioning brow at him, half inquisitive how exactly he knew your date happened to be a work acquaintance. Barely a few hours spent on his radar and the sorry fool already had all his information scraped and into the Onychinus head’s clutches. You did not envy his position, at the moment, massive creep though he was, having stood witness to how Sylus wiped his enemies clean out of existence. 

“Sure you’re capable, sweetheart, and your weasel is an idiot but do you want to be vigilant, glancing over your shoulder for a stalker, round the clock?” He pitches his head, waiting for your answer.  

His words give you pause, his reasoning not entirely without weightage. You mutter a quick curse underneath your breath, frustrated at how terribly disastrous tonight had turned out to be.  

Sylus’ smile quirks, taking your expletives for the affirmation they are. “And besides,” his hand shifts against your cheek, skimming a thumb down the curve of it, “you did enthusiastically mention your hazardous luck with dates. Might as well take care of this one before the vermin starts to fester.”  

A skitter of irked embarrassment bruises at your ego. “Are you making fun of me right now?” 

“Not in the slightest.” His thumb has switched towards your bottom lip, trekking a ghosting path across the swell of it. A different kind of emotion spurts within your chest along with the simmering annoyance, at his testing touch. “On the contrary, I was going to make an offer, one of mutual benefit.” His voice skims an octave lower and scotches deeper into your belly. “What do you say? Would you like to hear it?” 

His searing touch drifts down your chin, sweeping against your jaw. You’re unsure of the mesh of emotions that are surging through you at his evocative touch; indignation, surprise, reluctance... desire. You can barely focus on the words issuing from his mouth.  

“Well?” He prompts. “I don’t recall taping your mouth shut, sweetie.” His thumb returns to caress a path across your parted lips as if to make a point; a hushed throaty laugh leaving him at the hitch of breath that action elicits. He knows what he’s doing to you and he’s rousing you on purpose; the absolute scoundrel.  

“What’re you trying to say? Speak clearly, Sylus.” Your tongue darts forth to lap a quick path across the bottom of your lip; Sylus’ gaze rolling down your face to settle at your mouth when you do, a sudden simmer of heat flaring within blood-red.  “I despise riddles.” Another deep chuckle issues from his mouth, one that stirs into your belly without permission, much like the man himself.   

“What was it that you said earlier?” The tip of his thumb edges just past your lips. “Ah yes... you’ve never had a man make you come.”  

You flush at the recollection, cursing yourself for the umpteenth time tonight. You’d made a terrible mistake and you swore you’d never drink again, if it meant Sylus would just fucking drop it. Or you would, and the ground would swallow you whole. You’d confided a mortifying secret within a man who confounded you to no end.  

“So what?” A challenging grimace drags at your face, just as you sink a bite into his invading digit, hard. He does not so much as even flinch, his smile tugging wider instead. 

“What a spirited kitten I’ve lured into my hands.” He muses. “I like the face you’re making right now.”  

His eyes crinkle in at the corners, a mild thread of tenderness you think you catch streak through the simmering heat of his garnet gaze. It makes you want to turn away from the look, not wanting him to scrabble your heart any more than he has.  

“No,” A tapered index and thumb curve about your chin, firmly tempting your gaze back to him. “Don’t look away, keep your eyes on me.” 

And for that one instant, you listen. “My proposition is earnest, sweetie. Despite what your consensus may be, I’m quite fond of you, more so than you think.” Your breath snags in your throat at the admission; you’d be blind to not catch the clear insinuation in his words.  

His mouth skews into a smile. “Would you be averse to the idea of me showing you how it’s done?” He swipes at the swell of your bottom lip, his voice several octaves lower. Yes?” A sensual caress in the opposing direction. “No?” Your eyes flitter in hooded desire at the allure of his rich voice, scotching low into your belly to pool in between your clenched legs. 

You take a moment to inhale, slow, processing his words. Reaching a hand out to trace careful fingers against the strength of his jaw. “Do you realize the weight of what you’re implying, Sylus?” An inane question by all means. You’ve never known a man more self-assured in what he desires; you admit it’s rather arousing. 

“Oh, I do.” The distracting curve of his smirk pulls wider. “But do you, sweetheart?”  

Your fingers leave his face to drift across the open collar of his shirt, pulling him close. “You’ve been lodged in my mind for a long time.” You allow him a moment of that infuriating self-pleased smile. “Even without that pesky Evol of yours invading my skull.” Before you’re fisting his collar to rise on the tips of your toes to press your lips hard against that irksome, delicious mouth. 

Sylus’ hands curve about the give of your waist, fitting you firmer against the hard planes of him, without hesitance. He allows you free reign for a while before he chases your retreating mouth with his own, not sparing a moment of reprieve for the hungering breath you try and draw back into your lungs. His tongue slipping past your lips instead, granting you a taste and breath of what he alone affords you in that moment.  

Your hand flies to grip about the base of his neck, appreciating the firm musculature of his upper back that flexes beneath your touch when he moves to snare an arm about your waist. Fingers sinking harsh into your hip as he grinds you impossibly close to his body, siphoning the rest of your breath from your lungs.  

You’re near dizzy with the way his tongue licks into your mouth, tip teasing its way across the roof before it withdraws to slick a path against your wet bottom lip. You insist your grip harder against the back of his neck, dragging him back to you in the swelling smile he presses against your damp sighs — the drench of them flaming across your chest to pool low into your belly and settle deep in between your legs.  

Sylus lets out a low grunt against your skin — a sound that has your insides clenching in on desire — before his clutch upon the flare of your hip tightens, hand curving downwards about the swell of your ass before he lifts you up entirely on the strength of one firm muscled arm. The whimper you’re unable to tamp even against the aggression of his mouth, at his show of unrestrained desire.  

“Hold on tight now, sweetie.” He murmurs, sultry, against your lips. 

Sylus strides you both further into the room without breaking your kiss, the corded strength of his arm sturdy beneath your ass and you take that moment to appreciate what the position allows you access to, fully. Covetous fingers you run through the hair at the base of his neck to tug him into the kiss as you wish — his rewarding grunt in answer, warming your belly — against your mouth.  

Rushing down the buttoned line of his shirt, making quick work of undoing more of his buttons. A hand you slip past the edges of his shirt once the cloth against his chest is no longer impeding you, caressing your fingers against the hard planes of his pectorals. Sylus’ chuckle reverberates deep within your mouth, your fingers flexing into his shoulder at the sound. “Someone’s eager.”  

He stops at your bedside before he tosses you back onto the soft of your sheets. Not giving you the chance to even hoist yourself up on your arms before he’s towering over your body — crowded against his large frame.  

Chest heaving from the earlier stretch of your kisses and how he’d hurled you back onto the bed, you press a halting hand against his torso, playing at the lower buttons you weren’t able to undo earlier. Making hasty work of your remaining task before your fingers slide in welcome against the defined warmth of his abdomen.  

Your mouth parts in breathless wonder, eyes drinking him in voracious need, before they slip lower towards the straining length of his arousal through the placket of his pants — a sizeable bulge visible even through the pitch-black material. “Like you’re one to talk about being eager.” you quip, inquisitive digits dipping lower to ghost across the clothed length of him.  

His breath deepens at the touch, a thick chuckle slipping past his lips. “Point taken.” 

Your hand slips to curve against the swell of his cock above cloth, once more, feeling for the shape of him; larger than any you’ve had before, it sets a flitter of nervous anticipation into your chest. You want to see it, him.  

Sylus cocks his head at your inquisitive touches but doesn’t move to stop when your fingers work at the confines of his pants, until his arousal is far prominent beneath the remaining layer of his briefs. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight — he truly is big. Rather intimidating, entirely exciting.  

“Having fun?” He inquires, capturing your fingers in between long, tapered digits to bring them up to his mouth in a brushing kiss, a keen garnet gaze that refuses to relent from yours.  

“Yes,” you answer honestly.  

“That’s a good start.” He hums. “My turn.”  

Red and obsidian spiral about the length of your body, toying at the straps of your camisole, the edges of it at your belly before they’re dragging the material up across your body, and with the reveal of skin, Sylus’ eyes follow; the serrated intensity of his heated gaze, enough to have you try to squeeze your legs together on instinct to relieve some of the overbearing burn in between them.  

You can feel how mortifyingly wet you are, and yet in that moment, your mind cannot seem to muster shame.  

His thick fingers trail next across the waistband of your shorts — vined red making quick work of the ribboned bindings of the silken material before Sylus’ thumbs hook on either side, to drag your shorts and panties, torturously slow, down the plush of your thighs in one go.  

He’s hunching over to overshadow you entirely before you can make sense of it, face sinking close into the space in between your legs, hot gaze drinking in the sight of the thin strings of arousal that stretch from your pussy to your underwear before they bow and break into the sheets beneath. You watch him hum his approval, your head raised to observe the erotic picture he paints, in between your legs.  

A moan scratches free of your throat, your head falling back in shuddered pleasure when Sylus does not waste a single moment in ruining you; the broad pressure of his tongue you feel against the length of your quivering cunt as he swipes up a taste for himself before withdrawing once more.  

“Sylus.” You protest, fingers rushing to catch at his hair to pull.  

His gravelly laughter is devious against the inside of your thigh — so close to where you want him. “That’s a beautiful sound you’re making there, kitten.” He blows a hot breath against your centre, your pussy spasming at that bare action. “Let’s see if you’ve got any more of those for me.” 

“Sylus.” You try and let the irritation ring in your tone this time but all it sounds to your ears is a licentious plead.  

“I hear you, sweetheart.” He pulses a kiss against your outer folds. “I made you a deal, didn’t I?” He wrests his now loose shirt off his body before his touch returns to you once more, this time without the barrier of clothes in between you both.  

You're entirely vulnerable and naked underneath him, held to his mercies as his forearms flex about the pliance of your thighs as he hooks them about his broad shoulders. “You’re going to let me make good on my word tonight,” your legs spasm against his back — useless — as he keeps them held within steeled grips at your knees; large fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh. “and witness it too, with your entire body.”  

You feel the corded, hard strength of the muscles of his back flexing beneath the heels of your feet as Sylus ducks closer to your slit to suck at the pleasured bead of your apex. Your hips fly up on instinct at that first brush of stimulation, a moan crippled free of your lips. His smug smile you feel buried against your pussy when it gushes further against the skewed stretch of those lips.  “And you know I never renege on an agreement once made.” 

Your thoughts blank entirely the next time that adroit tongue lands against your drenched folds, his mouth swallowing you up entirely as he works at your slick with all the practised propensity of a devil set to wrecking you within your sheets.  

You’ve never had a man’s mouth down there before; you didn’t quite think it were possible to feel anything remotely close to what he was doing with your body at the moment.  

Sparks of jolting pleasure thrum throughout the length of your body, you’re not even fully aware of how hard you buck against his mouth. How Sylus thwarts each unconscious attempt of escape by dragging your pussy back to his mouth each time you squirm from the overwhelming sensation.  

His growl of pleasure is what drags part of your hazy attentions back to how white knuckled your grip is within his hair, tugging at the strands as if they were your sole lifeline to sanity. And you were beginning to suspect they were.  

Sylus’ knuckles brush against your tightened clit, knocking a groan of pleasure out of your throat. “You’re so wet.” He hooks a thick, tapered index up into your walls, clenching at his filthy words. “That’s it, sweetheart, keep doing that for me.” His laughter is a deep, hoarse sound. “I’m going to take all you’ve got for me.”  

He laps a path up against the junction of your thigh; a second finger teasing at the rim of your slit before it joins the first, in a slick easy slide.  

“Sylus,” You’re no longer caring; to your sounds, to the fact you’re dripping enough you’ve wet the sheets beneath his thrusting fingers. “Oh God, don’t stop. O-oh. God.” Not caring for the slight twinge of heat that sparks with the roll of your head to catch Sylus watching your entire downfall from in between the space of your legs; fervid scarlet gaze fixated to yours, the bow of your mouth in a constant, pleasured O curve as moans of senseless appreciation and babbled curses tumble from it. Even as his tongue laps a languid path against your outer folds, at screeching odds to the deft fingers he works into you.  

“Yes,” his growl is vehement, pleased. “Scream louder, no one’s going to hear you mewl down here, kitten. Let go.” The squelch of your arousal is loud within your ears, the pads of his terrifyingly nimble digits lighting up nerves against that one spongy spot deep within you that has stars wheeling within your wide gaze.  

And just as you think this is how he’s going to end you — the pinnacle of pleasure — he betrays your expectations once more with the hot slide of his tongue back against your clit. You nearly sob at the stimulation, a silent scream clawing up your bruised throat at how close you feel to breaking.  

“I-If you—” your words are garbled, hard to breathe. You're so, so close to a peak you’ve never fallen off of, in this manner before. “—I’m... hah, going to come.” Never had your own toys or hand or even another human, scrabbled your brains out this hard; a height so vehemently approaching, you’re afraid to fall. 

Sylus seems to understand you even through your incoherent babbling, stretching you open on his fingers in harder thrusts. “Then do it. Come on my tongue, darling.”  His mouth sucks the abused flesh of your clit deep into his mouth. A peak so in sight, you hurtle into it, your pussy spasming about his fingers, his mouth so hard, you’re near thrashing your limbs about the broad strength of his shoulders. Sylus creeps a hand beneath your ass, to lift your back and shove up deeper against his mouth as you sob out his name in senseless prayer.  

“That’s it, you’re so hot like this, you know that, kitten?” His guttural words, muted within your pussy and lost through the white daze of your prolonged orgasmic haze. Sylus continues to lap at you until you’re tumbling into buzzing overstimulation; the heavy weight of him like iron fetters at your legs as you weakly push at his face, his steeled shoulders in whimpered protest.  

“I— give me a break, Sylus.”  

He affords you a modicum of mercy, glistening mouth and chin withdrawing to rise from between the confines of your legs to fix a skewed grin at you. And when you meet his gaze, he makes a deliberate, erotic show of sweeping the broad of his tongue, slow, feral, against the edge of his upper lip.  

His fingers maintain their languid position still within your sensitive walls, each measured thrust has you shivering against the intrusion.  

You cup a hand about his strong neck, dragging him down towards your mouth. His voice low, heated in between the taste of yourself he sweeps into your mouth. “Enjoying yourself?” 

You secrete a hushed sound of approval against his exploring tongue. “I’ve never come this hard in my life,” you confess, breathless. “You’re crazy.”  

“I’ll take that as an enthusiastic compliment.” Knocking that smug grin of his only wider. And then, a softer whisper settles against your wet mouth. “You’re so good for me, sweetie. You drive me insane.”  

You withdraw from him to catch the simmering heat of his fervid desires and affection commingled within that scarlet gaze you’re so taken with. Sweeping a thumb at the clinging wetness of arousal, against the angle of his jaw, you marvel at the sensual sight he paints. “...I’m no different.” You meet his gaze, your honesty heavy on your tongue. 

He chuckles at the confession, canting his head to catch the plush of your thumb against his teeth, worrying at the flesh as he laves it up into his mouth on an obscene suck.  

The way he looks at you has arousal flushing anew within your cheeks; your insides clenching in on the fingers that languorously thrust into you, stretching you open. Lashes nearly trembling shut when his thumb traces a whispered touch against your clit before withdrawing, having your hips juddering up into his hand.  

Restless digits quiver down the length of his sculpted torso, working at releasing him from the rest of his un-wanted clothing; cut, well-tailored pants you’d more than once found yourself admiring him in but at the moment, you couldn’t survive a second longer without uncovering the entirety of his captivating body to your gaze. Sylus gently pulls out of your pussy to help you along, thick fingers running along yours at his buckle to slide is smooth out its confines before his Evol curls about the belt to toss it easy, at the side of his bed. His pants and briefs follow soon after and you nearly choke at the sight of him revealed at last to your gaze. 

Sylus’ cock is a devastating thing of beauty; thick and intimidating enough it has you salivating at the mere sight of it. You’ve never seen a man this big, blessed in both length and girth, it has your cunt clenching in on need at the sight of him. You wonder how he’d feel against your tongue if you tried taking him in, parched lips you wet with a swipe of tongue, parting at the thought.  

“Like what you see?” His self-pleased words wrench you out of your self-imposed stupor until you see that smug grin painting his face too. Your fingers delicately curve about the girth of him in a gentle squeeze; has grin falling open in a low, breathy laugh of arousal.  

Your fingers unable to wrap him up entirely within a fist, even as you stroke a slow, steady path up across his length. “You’re right,” you murmur in wanton desire. “I do like what I see.”  

“Such an honest tongue.” he groans low, in pleasure at your languid ministrations. Hooking a thumb at your bottom lip to tease it into your mouth and onto the wet muscle.  

“Honesty isn’t the only thing it can provide, you know.” You bait, in breathless, risqué whispers around the intrusion of his thumb in your mouth, sucking at him in imitation of what you truly desire from him. 

Sylus hums a pleased sound, withdrawing his finger to sweep it across your swollen lips. “Later.” He silences your protests with the wet ingress of his digits back into your walls. “You’ll have me, you have my word. But right now...” Your broken moan mingles with the guttural sigh that tumbles from his lips to witness your face shatter in pleasure. “we’re here to see how good I can make you feel, aren’t we, kitten? So, lay back.” He eases the flat of his palm in between your breasts to push. “And watch how else I ruin you tonight.” 

You moan at his filthy threat of a promise, hips rolling into the fingers he’s pressed into you, their rhythmic propulsions turning faster with each moment until he has your crest building once more. 

“Sylus.” you gasp out, fingers spasming around the wrist buried in between your quaking legs. 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” He draws down closer, body crowding yours against the sheets, the heat of his breath sultry against your sweat soaked skin. You feel the weight of his arousal ghost a searing path against your thigh and jump at the stimulation. 

“You.” you plead. “I need you so stop teasing me now, Sylus. I’ll—” 

His lips capture yours in an incendiary kiss, a violent clash of tongue, drinking your startled mewls up into his own as his fingers curl about the back of your head to hold steady underneath his assault. “You sure you’re ready for it?” He rolls his hips against yours once more in emphasis, making you shiver underneath the intimidating heat of his arousal. 

“I am, I can take it.” you insist against his wet tongue. “And even if I can’t, you promised you’d show me how good it can get, didn’t you?” You shiver. “So quit edging me any longer and put it inside me.” Your back arches in need at a particularly adept press of his fingers. “Sylus.” 

His answering groan at your fervent desires burns you higher, his soaked fingers dragging out of your clenching walls. “You really do know how to rile me up, don’t you, sweetheart?” Large hands settle about the swell of your hips as Sylus presses himself in between your legs. Letting the head of his cock, at long last, stroke at the wetness of your cunt, gathering moisture on to it. So close. 

His hips undulate in languid pleasurable strokes in between the fall of your legs, and each time the flared head of his cock bumps up at the tight bead at your apex, your hips try and jump against the caged strength of his hands holding you down. Every single stroke — up, down — has your breaths turning laboured in need, each single time he brushes down close to your hole, you clench in on instinctual emptiness, wanting to pull him deeper into you.  

“Some restraint, kitten. We don’t want you too overwhelmed too fast.” A low sound of disapproval soughs past his lips at your squirming. “Impatience is not a good look on a Hunter of your repute.” 

Your mouth falls open on a silent groan; hooking a leg about the snatch of his waist, you try and urge him into you. Earning an amused, guttural laugh for your efforts. “You’ve had me plenty ready. You’re just baiting me at this point.” 

“But you like me being this way, don’t you?” And God help you, if your brain wasn’t entirely mushed at what he’s done to you, you would’ve tried refute his observations with a lie of your own. But in this moment, you let him have his victory.  

Sylus curves a palm about the crook of your leg, fingers ghosting the underside of sensitive skin, up, until his hold catches at your knee. Keeping you fixed firm down onto the bed with the other, while he rolls his hips against you once more. “Keep holding tight,” he taps at your knee hooked at his back one last time before his hand drifts to curl about the base of his cock, pressing more of your slick up against the bulbous head.  

The first breach of him burns you open in pleasurable bliss, you hiss at the intrusion, back arching on instinctual chase of the man you’re so drunk on. Just the head in has you dizzy around him, grateful for the anchor of his large hand holding you grounded, at your hip.  

More of his member pushes past your rim; Sylus’ grunt of pleasure breaking in the tight scrunch of his brow in concentration. A thumb flits about your pinched bottom lip, end to end, before he’s coaxing it open with a firmer press of the pad of his digit against it. “Breathe for me, sweetheart.” You don’t think your body is capable of drawing air in at all but you try and trudge past the closure of your throat, gulping in a few, needed breaths. “That’s it, yeah, take me in. Slowly now.”  

It’s only when your body shudders underneath his with the ingress of almost his entire length settled into you do you realize the sheer, unyielding size of him inside, Sylus’ throaty groan of arousal, he bites into the sensitive skin of your wrist he’s had curled in between thick digits. Your cunt feels stretched impossibly wide around the shape of him, in a manner that has you whimpering on his next few testing strokes up into your walls. Sending him curling impossibly deep on each long, heavy thrust up into you until you feel him nudging, as if at the very ends of you.  

Your head rolls in restless need across the down of your pillows, your fingers skittering up the length of his arms, sinking harsh into the taut muscles of his biceps. Angry crescents you’re sure you’re marking into the skin but all it seems to do to him is make him push into you with greater need, approval heavy in the fervid grunts that issue from his mouth.  

One of his hands steals beneath your body to press in between your shoulder blades, guiding your body deeper against his as his hips piston into you. The wet squelch of your arousal heavy in the space, commingling with your damp, thick groans.  

Sylus withdraws from your body on his next slide, nearly all the way out, before he pulses back, slick, without resistance; each time, your body taken by the pleasant shock of how fully he sheathes himself into you, the stretch sending you into a dizzying spiral of mounting need.

And despite it all —  the hazy pleasure, his long, deep strokes into you — your ravenous body needs this man closer, a desire you aren’t able to word coherently. 

Sylus’ diligent handling of you — although, a gesture appreciated — is not what you require of him in the moment. He’s your first in so, so long; desires shuttered in since forever, along with the intense need to be thoroughly loved over by this man; your need to have him fuck you without restraint, after a heart so long spent in warring against its yearning for him, overflowing off the cusp of your poor control. Manifesting in the fingers you rush about the angled cut of his hips to squeeze, your legs tightening their hold at the back of his waist to pull deeper inside.  

Your eyes meet his in fevered haze; a slip of your tongue to drench parched lips, falling open to voice your desires before Sylus’ face crowds your vision. His mouth pulsing a quick kiss of violence against yours, it siphons your entire breath from your lungs at the aggressive curl of his tongue into you. “Alright,” he utters on a wet, hoarse whisper against your lips. No more questions, no more unsurety. “I’ll give you what you need.”  

He’s gingerly worked himself into you up to the near base of him when large hands move to grip on either side of your abdomen, the pads of them pulsing into the pliance of your skin — heated scaffoldings of flesh. Heralding the slow, squelching withdrawal of his cock from your depths up to the tip. Until Sylus plunges back into you with a force vehement enough you see stars white the scape of your vision with the audible slap of hips meeting the back of your ass.  

And it isn’t until he starts driving into you in that punishing pace, manoeuvring your body as if you were a mere doll meant to house his cock do you realize with primal joy that you love how he’s taking you. You’re delirious on the feeling of his cock ramming up into your walls — the massive stretch of him, each single inch of hot, unyielding flesh — hard enough he’s driving you up the sheets, your voice you do not realize is a shrill scream of pleasure.  

Everything — you, him, your hot, clenching insides around him — is all too much, all of a sudden, you’re drowning in the ecstasy of the feeling of him overwhelming your senses.  

And the man above, an unfettered beast; he folds you deeper into the mattress with the ardent swing of his hips, large hands gripping hard onto your waist as he guides your own weak thrusts back onto his cock with ferocious precision. Each single glide of the swollen head of his cock dragging him deliciously against that one spot inside that has you quivering apart around him. A deliberate assault of your sweet weakness. Truly, he knows your body as if he’d had you before several times already; the thought is as exhilarating as it is terrifying, having your pussy spasm around him on instinct, dragging a vicious growl out of him that has you whimpering at the sound.  

The sweat slicked concentration and fervid arousal that knits at his powerful brows is addictive, the heated flush of pleasure and effortless exertion — all of him an erotic sight, meant to throttle you into finishing ruin. The violent tatters of your orgasm you feel crumpling within your belly, fast approaching.  

You try and buck against his hips faster, pace paling in comparison to the near bestial propulsion of his cock into your depths. Sylus groans at a particularly harsh squeeze of your cunt; a hand leaving your waist to feather his knuckles against the drenched slide of sweat and tears at your cheeks you know are ruddy in desire. “You’re taking me so well, kitten, so deep inside that small body.” You might’ve offered a word of approval if your throat wasn’t so swollen from the breathless moans and ruinous pleas he’s knocking out of you instead. “You’re clamping so hard around my cock. Do you not want to let me go?” His large hand drifting against the lower stretch of your abdomen, before he presses the flat of his palm in deep, as if he could feel for the place his cock pounds up as if against your very womb, angling his hips to brush at the sensitive bundle of nerves at your apex and you nearly weep at the tight stimulation.  

“C-Clo—” is all the words your battered throat can manage out before your head’s falling back against the pillows, tear-strained gaze blown wide with the unrelenting intensity of his pillage of your body.  

But Sylus groans in approval, understanding of your broken prompts. “I’ve got you. Let that pretty pussy of yours weep more for me, sweetheart.” 

You moan unabated at the filth that issues from his lips, your body immediately moving to obey his instruction in the spasm of your walls.  

His hand slides against the length of your hooked leg to hoist it up and over a broad shoulder as his large frame arches over you, nearly folding you in half. The new angle driving each of his wild thrusts hard against your swollen clit. Your back nearly snapping with the force of its curve up towards him with your next shrill scream of his name. “What a perfect, perfect girl for me.”  

You're no longer coherent, a garbled speech and cotton head your constant companions — only dimly aware of the muted sounds of wood striking against concrete walls as Sylus drives your body violently up against the headboard. The distant absence of pain you only realize is possible when your cheek curls sideways to sink against the simmering warmth of the red and obsidian mesh of his Evol, keeping your head pillowed against the strength of his thrusts.  

His face descends towards you, a thick hand easing beneath sweat soaked locks to grip at your neck, holding firm for the ravenous mouth that plunders yours, choking your moans against his tongue. Your spit trails useless past swollen lips, Sylus’ tongue immediately following a broad path against your jaw, your chin to lick at the combined essence of sweat and spit. His guttural moan at the taste, sending you nearly into your orgasm, so close at hand, you’re spasming useless about the great length of him. 

Long, tapered digits flex about the delicate expanse of your neck, coaxing your pleasure-drunk gaze up towards his.  “The way you’re looking right now...” You catch the flex of his other arm at the corners of your vision as it slinks in between your bodies. “a man could get addicted, sweetie.” His thumb presses against the abused bead of your apex in that instant, knocking a scream free of your parched throat, body arching in the slick slide of your breasts pressed flush against the broad planes of his chest. Even that stimulation at your nipples is too much; the heat in between your legs tempered to an inferno.  

The precise, perfect strikes of his cock into your walls, along with the insistent pinch and press of your clit in between adroit index and thumb has your crest rising. White hot heat undulates through your entire body. The merciless sting of a delicious bite you feel Sylus sink at your straining neck, right beneath your jaw, “Come for me now, sweetheart,” accompanying the hammering thrusts of his cock, his thumb at your bundle of nerves is what finally has you ripping apart on an orgasm so intense your gaze blanks entirely.  

Jaw falling open on a shriek so unlike yours, you do not recognize the sound of your own battered voice until Sylus presses two thick digits into your slack mouth to toy at your wet tongue as if he could capture that sound for himself. “You’re so damn beautiful.” His pace unrelenting through the violence of your orgasm, stretching your own peak so long, spasming about the wet heat of him until Sylus’ hips too stutter as he finds his release into your welcoming depths.  

Pulse after pulse of ejaculate so abundant, hot, it drives you into another release — or perhaps, you’d never even stopped coming — a pinnacle so high, your fall from it is prolonged, pleasurable. Your mouth sucking hard at his fingers, willing them to serve your anchor.  

Sylus’ gaze meets yours from across the small pocket of space in between your faces, heated and stifled with your breaths. Scarlet eyes, simmering, pupils blown so wide in low settling arousal as the two of you breathe deep in unison. Several moments of reprieve, you allow your bodies as you come down from your highs.  

A small part of you distantly realizes a single session with Sylus has effectively ruined you for life and you’re unsure if you’re bemoaning the fact or thrilling in delight at it. You think you just might be far more infatuated with this infuriating man than you’d initially thought and the notion of being this adoring of him mildly terrifies you. Just as the sliver of tenderness that threads through that garnet gaze as he pushes back sweat soaked strands from your face to study you. “You alright there, sweetie?”  

You can’t deny it any longer. “Never been better.” you wheeze past a sore throat. And God help you, the grin that skews at his beautiful mouth at your answer has your heart refusing to settle into rest, even after your mind-numbing release.  

“That good, was it?” You do not have the energy to refute him, settling for a light slap at his bicep. 

His arms flex about your body before he rolls you both over. Releasing himself, slow, from your depths — you groan weakly at the muted stimulation before he hoists himself onto his arm.  

You reach a hand forwards, curving it about his face, thumb sketching at the angle of his jaw. “Stay with me tonight.” you ask of him quietly.  

Mild surprise flickers within blood-red garnet before it’s replaced by the tender quirk of a strong brow. “Didn’t plan on leaving, sweetheart.” He tips his head further into the crook of your palm, pulsing a quick kiss onto the skin. “Sleep tight, now. Your eyes are glazing over.” 

And for that one moment, you listen, letting the warmth of his engulfing embrace shepherd you into dreams of scarlet eyes and amused smiles — the only ones you’ve been able to think about for a long time now. 

End Notes: Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @chocomii-chan

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here. If you’d like to be removed, shoot me a DM!

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to chat or just squeal with me about hot characters, in general.

[xshimaeraxx]

okay ik that the fandom LOVES making logan the one who’s the cat-like mutant in the relationship and i LOVE that and it is so canon but like

hear me out here! catboy!! wade!!

a wade who was a mutant long before francis got his grubby little hands in him, wade who was a mutant but it wasnt crazy regenerative abilities or an inability to stay dead/immortality or super-human strength, but a wade who was (still is) a mutant who had the abilities of a fuckin’ cat

a wade who has semi-night vision, not entirely but good enough to help out on jobs; a wade who has lil pinprick pupils like a cat’s and who hisses damn near 24/7 on bad pain days (bc chronic pain-having wade has my entire heart and i will go to the grave w this hc alr); a wade who purrs when happy or in the middle of slicing someone’s head off during a job; a wade who has a cat’s heightened senses- hearing, sight, taste, smell, all of that; a wade who has a cat’s un-fuckin’-canny ability to jump from heights that would’ve killed a human and have at most a small, gone-in-a-day bruise; a wade who has tufts of kitty-cat fur on his elbows and on + behind his knees

and then francis comes along, and the torture happens, and he loses his looks, and then the fur grows back bc fuck but he’d thought he’d lost his og mutation when francis torture mcgee had triggered this new one, had lost the one thing that ness might still recognise him for,,,

and then the start of d&w happens, and during the birthday scene wade’s purring, happy, quietly (so quietly no one hears it half the time, and when they do they assume it’s the faulty heating of wade & al’s shitass apartment, but ness looks at him with a pleased, proud little smile when the sound starts back up after the others’ initial investigation for the source of the sound proves fruitless and it, he gets louder, purely for the way ness’s smile gets wider, prouder in a way that is purely, unabashedly so ness wade wants to go other and kiss her, right then n there) yes but he’s still purring like he hasn’t since pre-cancer-diagnosis him & ness (and also bc francis’s little angel-killer had found the sound annoying as all hell [bc wade also purrs to self-soothe bc I Say So)and so he’d rarely done so since, half out of new-born habit, half out of some primal, hard-learned fear he still hasn’t managed to completely shake, even years later)

and then the honda odyssey scene happens, and wade’s purring, purring, purring, loud and proud and rumbling and happy and he’s also hissing playfully at logan- a motion logan doesn’t notice due to how distracted he is putting his claws thru wade’s left thigh and christ, kittycat, how long’s it been since you had a good hookup for you to be THIS tense?- and logan only notices after wade’s pinned him and his minorly blood-soaked grin freezes; doesn’t drop, but freezes.

wade’s purr stutters a tad, doesn’t stop. he asks, licking the blood off of his cheek underneath his mask and for some reason logan’s sharp eyes follow what he can see of the movement underneath wade’s mask: what’s wrong, peanut, cat got your tongue?

are you- are you fuckin’ purring? asks logan, and the sound abruptly stops, and then deadpool’s stabbing him through the gut with not one word and then they’re fighting again, and while logan notes the moment to think about later, wade also doesn’t say another word other then excited/frustrated grunts and little “haha!”s for the next half hour, and for some reason that about takes up the majority of logan’s attention until he finally, finally, punches wade’s already-broken nose literally not even a millisecond after he’s broken it hard enough that it actually takes a few seconds for wade’s healing to kick in, and for some reason he feels strangely relived when wade lets out a muffled-by-blood ugh! foulplay, wolvie, foulpla-

logan interrupts him via stabbing wade and a like you don’t play just as foul as i do, bub, and wade stabs back in response with some quippy comment or another, and by then the fight’s back on, deadpool-typical quips and all.

like. when i say catboy wade, here, do you see my vision. do you see what i’m imagining. dO YOU SEE IT I SAY

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

While "the network wants an episodic kids show, the authors want an epic dark complicated narrative" would explain A LOT about ML's problems, I'd still like to note that there are kids' shows that can do both, going full range from "mostly episodic with a sprinkle of narrative" (Kim Possible, MLP), to "heavily narrative but with episodic breather/filler episodes" (Gravity Falls, WITCH, the Owl House), with many variants in-between.

Even the transition from "fully episodic" to "more narratively-connected" that ML attempted to do can be done successfully - the aforementioned Gravity Falls and WITCH were more episodic in season 1 and more narratively driven in season 2.

However, I'd say there are a few other key problems that can be inferred from what we have:

The show tries too many things at once - as you have pointed out repeatedly. Magical girl and rom-com, single-hero, duo and team stories, wacky comedy and serious trauma, even trying to give several characters a redemption and a damnation arc at the same time (and failing with either). Apparently, it's not just TF vs writers: it's writers severely disagreeing with each other (see Thomas and Vincent's opinions on Chloe), and also trying to one-up the fans. Also, simply thinking too much of the work, which leads us to...

ML's total lack of self-awareness. Another famous case of a show that was almost entirely episodic is Phineas and Ferb. They use the same formula (the brothers build, Candace busts, Doof makes an Inator and is thwarted by Perry) over and over for four seasons. And by mid-season 1, the authors have been making fun of the structure, lampshading it, spoofing and twisting it, playing with "What if" episodes and never taking itself too seriously. When ML tries to be self-aware, it becomes either insulting to the fans (Animaestro), horrifically dark (Chat Blanc) or plain cringe (Simpleman). This is exacerbated by Astruc's arrogance and inability to ignore critics.

Is it possible to make a highly complex, genre-busting, yet kid-friendly story and succeed? Yes. But it needs to be better thought-out - if not from the start, then at the moment the network allows one to deviate from the formula.

And if all else fails and the story becomes too complicated and too repetitive at the same time... Well, self-awareness and the ability to make fun of one's own work can turn a sad mess into a hilariously fun disaster.

P. S. Love your posts as always, you are the main reason I'm still in the fandom!

Thank you for the kind words! I'm so glad that you're enjoying my stuff and I agree with all the things you brought up.

A big part of the reason that Miraculous is so fascinating to me is that there ISN'T a single cause of the issues. There are so many valid ways to discuss the show's problems. It's a masterclass in bad writing and what not to do!

It's why I'm able to run this blog. If it was as simple as, "here's the single reason why it's bad and here's how you fix that" or if the show never had any potential, then there wouldn't be much to talk about. But it did have potential and there is no single reason why it's bad. The causes are multitudinous as are the potential fixes! It feels like investigating some complex wreckage or an elaborate murder mystery in order to understand what the hell happened, which is really fun if you like talking about writing.

I find it much harder to discuss writing in an informative way if you only have good examples to draw from because that path risks stifling creativity. Just because a popular story did a thing well doesn't mean that story showed us the only way to do the things or even the best way to do the thing, but that's often the lesson people seem to learn. They see a thing that they like or even just a thing that audiences liked and want to copy it without understanding the full nuance of why they liked it.

A great example of this is Zuko from Avatar the Last Airbender. He was such a well-written and popular character that all these properties started copying him even though the properties in question did NOT have a setup that worked for a Zuko. Praising Zuko won't really tell you all the ways that Zuko could have failed. Meanwhile, a case study of Chloe vs Zuko or even just a general discussion of Chloe lets you actually talk about the various styles of redemption arc and what you have to do to make them feel real. It's also far more interesting than talking how Zuko could have failed because Zuko didn't fail so why are we even talking about this? It's also far more interesting than talking about a bunch of properties that did redemption arcs well because that would require you to have seen all of those properties. But Chloe is from a single property and she did fail and people understandably have wildly different feelings about what the failure was because the writing was so bad, which means that digging into her writing is way more likely to hold your interest and teach you something.

This gif really does sum it up perfectly:

[Image description: scene from the movie Knives Out where the detective Benoit Blanc exclaims "It makes no damn sense! It compels me though" to explain his feelings on an ongoing murder mystery that he's trying to solve]

As does the old adage, "failure is the greatest teacher." Of course, no one ever said that it had to be your failure!

[absolutedestinyapocalypsse]

i think we're all in agreement that larian fumbled wyll's storyline but what i cannot drop after finishing my playthrough is how fucking strange his relationship to the flaming fists is???

like if you take him to kill the fists at the foundry he disapproves? these are the people who are actively torturing and enslaving the gondians to make massive police brutality robots. you can literally go to the foundry and WITNESS the steel watchers brutalizing children via tadpole but in the final battle ravengard's "help" is a bunch of fists whose job it was to protect the steel watchers? Literally all the flaming fists do is get in your way, try to arrest you for stopping murders, and run away from danger and Wyll is just endlessly supportive of it- he doesn't see why that's fucked up!

I get that they're his dad's guard and his inability to criticize his father for anything could have (should have) been a plot point, but instead it's just there! uncritically!! And i can kind of get it when it has to do with him being exiled bc parent child relationships are complicated, but there is literally no reason for him to be dickriding the flaming fists so much. Absolutely zero reason.

They set Wyll up as being this unfailingly moral character who would gladly become a devil before killing an innocent person, even when killing that innocent person is in the "rules" he's supposed to follow. He's not just uncritically obedient of Mizora even though she tells him that what he's doing is right, but when it comes to the flaming fists who are purposefully incompetant at best, and actively murderous at worst, and whom we have watched the entire game actively enable slavery and state violence he just doesn't care????

These are the flaming fists who were completely fine sending Florick to the gallows for trying to fight against their corruption and save ravengard. Devella is the ONLY person in the fists who's doing anything to address the bhaal killings and her colleagues actively get in her way/try to stop her from investigating them. If I were Wyll and I learned that my dad was fucking brainwormed bc the guard that was supposedly "unfailingly loyal" to him sold him out and actively stopped a rescue attempt, i would never want to see another fucking flaming fist in my life.

But instead at the epilogue party if he's the blade of avernus hes just like "my dad pardoned all the fists and made them pinky promise to do better :) isnt he great?" Be for real!

It's making me mad bc it's not the hypocrisy itself that's the problem, it's that they don't even attempt to say or do anything about it! It's a golden opportunity for Wyll to have to do some self reflection and grow as a character, like every other character who also has clear moments of hypocrisy like this. It's right there! And the game just totally chickens out. Like I know that not every country has the same relationship to police that Americans do, but it's literally IN THE GAME that the flaming fists are a corrupt organization who operate exactly like the american cops do. Larian please give Wyll a backbone to begin with, or make him reckon with the fact that he doesn't have one. Do fucking SOMETHING!!

[rontra]

drop your ffxiv lore

asking me to drop my pants in public would be less embarrassing..... you have to understand crucially that i don't know anything about anything and dont want The Knowers to see me

LMAO well i can talk about it a little but only on One Condition. as i mentioned before im a Certified Stormblood Gamer . in fact according to the wiki i am about this deep (level 64 questing atm)

so basically the condition is this: if something wasn't explicit in ARR or HW you cannot under any circumstances talk to me about it...! if you have any sort of reaction to this post that has to do with any later material than that i ask you Don't say it to me. if you are in doubt about whether something "counts", the safe answer is yes it does, and just going "neat!" instead & moving on will do fine. i really don't want to play spoiler chicken with you and don't want to know anything i don't already know. i'm enjoying taking my time with the game, so please refrain from correcting or corroborating anything i have to say about it atm!!!!!!! i'm still baby! thank you....!!! 😭👍

anyway my xiv characters are 1 a dude who was born in a wet cardboard box all alone and might be scared of women . & 2 a scary woman who did definitely kill her wife but is also the most Wife Guy for like secret reasons. the second one's lore is being ironed out as we speak so its all subject to change but the concept is there

1. ZT

love this guy. i even made an amv about it when i finished arr

(every xiv player voice) my wol is the most special boy in the world.

i actually had a whole thing typed up here about like his fucked up mom and whatever but i got shy and deleted it. i might go over it if someone's actually interested . but basically he's a poor little meow meow who, up until the beginning of the game, was abused pretty consistently bc of [evil cat people family dynamic reasons]. his family members mostly hate his ass and were rarely all that nice to him, so he has a lot of issues with self-worth and things like that--he doesn't feel like he's particularly good at anything or really "worth" much

he's from southern ilsabard which is a place i uh do not know much about. as a stormblood gamer. but it's fine the details don't really matter (walking away quickly)

his most prized childhood possession was the ruined scraps of an old arcanist's tome, and through sheer tenacity he managed to teach himself his first rudimentary spell from the incomplete paragraphs therein. he mostly chalks that feat up to the fruit of Time + Boredom and not talent or love, but those pages were the only thing he took with him when it finally came time for him to follow his older brothers' footsteps and leave the family.

gets on the boat. goes to limsa. enlists in the arcanists guild to cultivate what he sees as the One Single Skill He Has. people in the guild ???praise him??? and encourage him?? to keep at it??? which he is not at ALL used to, but it motivates him to work even harder at his training. he's pretty far from home and deeply unsure of himself, but he absolutely does not want to go back to the limited world he knew until now. so that unwillingness to look back sort of inherently keeps him trucking in search of a new purpose to latch on to

he's very sensitive to people being niceys to him, because he's not used to it at all. he's 4x weak to it and might cry if it's coming from an older woman who is even vaguely maternal, due to his horrific mommy issues. also, he wants to be useful to people ("for once"), so he has a hard time saying no to all the million quests and sidequests in the game. perfect

his inability to say no to people who request his help puts him on the Old Nymian Scholar Investigation Mission of course. i am Scholar Guy for a reason and that reason is ZT. this dude never had anything his family valued, and lived as the expendable runt of the litter his whole life, and now is suddenly entrusted with something important for the first time in his life--something bigger and older than him, a way of life, a legacy to uphold and carry forwards into the future

and that mantle is pretty heavy. but he'll carry it! and that's how he becomes a healer boy who will defend any random tonberry with his life. he feels very strongly about the extinct art of the scholars and also about being a healer in general--boy finally found his calling! also he has the echo and is our funny warrior of light but like that's fine. i'm sure the "not being able to say no to people, no matter how tired/hurt/etc he himself is" thing is not catching up any time soon. i did play DRK up to 60 though and lmao. well. hang in there. i even made an amv ab

there's some more stuff about him like how his path through eorzea and as a healer specifically is in lockstep with death at every turn and also how he's a blue mage on the side and whatever but this is long enough. here's a pic of him with one of my favorite "no one else gives a shit about this character" npcs

he's a pretty kitty and very sweet altho he does need to learn to assert himself (and starts doing so through the course of the game). he's very attached to his friends. he doesn't have any love interest or w/e for now he's figuring his own stuff out. gaining confidence. classic stuff. easy protagonist recipe. my meow meow. i played pvp just to get him a haircut. the things i do for zt

2. KRALJICA

the new baby. kraljica is not her original name, but she's never going to use her original one again. her surname is Radinasch, which used to be Aradina, before she killed her own queen who may or may not have been also her wife (ofc by hrothgar convention she then changed her surname to represent the loss of her queen) (despite being the killer) (it's a memento :) )

she is a bozjan hrothgar so we're back to ilsabard shenanigans (which remains kind of problematic for a stormblood gamer, but It's Fine). she actually knows ZT's mother, but not in a good way. Radina's group was in local political tension with ZT's mom's group, so there's some history there (notably in that kraljica would recognize ZT as "zahsa's runt" (derogatory) and not be very nice to him about it, but they don't really share a Personal history beyond the Faction Squabbles)

back to the point though, kraljica killed her queen, and most of the other followers of said queen were not very happy about that. killing the queen is like really high up on the list of things hrothgar do not want you to do. so she is branded queenkiller and exiled. some of the other hrothgar choose to follow kraljica out (having faith in her leadership for various reasons), making her their new queen as they venture to eorzea together (and all of their surnames become akraljica to match).

kraljica takes the surge of enmity against her as a natural consequence of what she did, and doesn't correct anybody who identifies her as a queenkiller in her journeys. she basically does not care about her shattered reputation or having to leave her home, because she is on, a secret, Other Scheme.

what they don't know of course is that radina asked her to do it. for scheme reasons. #women

kraljica is acting in accordance with radina's will. not even her own loyal followers know what her plan is, but they can clearly tell she has conviction; even when being hated by her people and ousted from her home, kraljica moves with that same inexhaustible willpower

(maybe she has questions, when she's alone, and wonders how much radina kept from her in the final days. and maybe she misses and mourns her. but all of that is only for her, in private, when no one can see... in front of the others, she's unflinching, and a leader they will follow no matter what...!!!)

she doesn't seem to have the echo and isnt a warrior of light. ZT can do that stuff. she's like busy with her own thing. she's running around collecting suspicious amounts of aether and being suspiciously driven and faithful to her cause. suspiciously

ok fine it's because radina asked her to cut her loose from mortality, venerate that, and bring her back as a primal. because she wants to become a war god strong enough to take revenge on the empire. something that will keep coming back, no matter how many times it's destroyed, as long as her chosen can still call for her....<3 that's so romantic

of course, what returns will not be radina-the-person. it will be an image of her will, shaped by kraljica's mind and the bloodpool of radina's aether. radina is dead for good; what kraljica is summoning is a representation of radina's goals and dreams, fueled by pure belief and a lot of aether. That Which Resembles Wife But Is Not will cast one megaflare for every minute of suffering inflicted upon bozja. (speaking to the empire thru a megaphone) this is your final warning

their summoning is pretty unorthodox and and "partial" (the primal does not manifest a corporeal form at this time, but it is certainly present in its vessel to some extent)--the game already allows a few different quirky summonings, so we're just playing calvinball and making up Another Special Case (this time owing to the specific setup and execution of radina's plan, her and kraljica's synchronicity about the whole thing, kraljica's unique position in her life, and some sprinkles of Rule Of Cool to taste) . imo the game is flexible enough about it that putting in Just One More Weird Summon Strat is not gonna break anything (LMAO) so it's fine <3

all you have to do is write in a side character who goes "but! that's not possible..." while the thing is happening in front of them

anyway suffice to say no one is doing it like radina's weird ass, and she couldn't do it without her wife guy who is willing to do whatever she wants. suffice to also say that kraljica's own aether is noticeably Weird and over-aspected by her beloved primal, and that "radina" (that which resembles wife but is not) Could Be lowkey tempering her right now and nobody would even notice it because her goal and the primal's goal are already one and the same. but that's probably fine. radina would never do that to her <3......

unless of course there are things about her even kraljica never understood. but surely that wouldn't happen

its really hard for other people to get a grip on kraljica because she won't let anybody close to her emotionally and she definitely won't spill the beans on radina's secret scheme. her boys are with her no matter what (#hrothgang) (they also picked up a viera whose city name now includes "akraljica" hahaha). other people are just like um that is a shady lady who is casting spells we dont even know how to classify. scary. also she's got a situationship with a nasty bandit milf (my friend's hrothgal<3) so we better just leave her alone. bad vibes all around

radina was a gunbreaker. kraljica is very good at manipulating aether and a strong fighter too, but i havent rly settled on a canon class for her. because her actual "canon class" is like. "a summoner from a hypothetical Other FF game. not even a specific other FF game, just Very Much Not This One" LMAO

she would just be like ah its um secret ancient arts from my homeland . you wouldnt know her. shes from a different continent. not like how they do it in limsa. not at all. goodbye (walks away mid conversation) and the arcanists could not stop her. like

anyway i'm not used to playing a female char so i keep getting distracted by her breasting boobily around. they dont let ZT jiggle like that so how was i to know... and basically, so-called free thinkers when dalmascan draped top 👇

she almost had a different face marking way back in the benchmark character creation era, but looking at it now it looks so weird without her big X . like who is that

(metian vest so important for the shoulder bulk... not gonna lie)

anyway kraljica would hear about the final aeon from ff10 and be like that's fucking right.

[peskellence]

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/ Comfort

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Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed-a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids-to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of 'More Than Our Parts' from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 7K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @ladyj-pl @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway

Reed skulked out of the station in reluctant acceptance that Nines would be following. His needless hostility and desire to assert himself had reached an absurd degree, coming off as far more ridiculous than it did intimidating.

Each heavy step was taken with the demeanour of a disgruntled alley cat. Back arched and teeth snarled as the android trailed closely behind, ready to thwart any attempts he made to lash out or dart away. Had he tried to flee, engaging the android in a clumsy chase through a system of garbage cans, he would soon discover just how adept he was at pursuing targets. 

The silent deterrent proved sufficient, with no attempts made.

Having confirmed he wasn’t an immediate flight risk, Nines instead anticipated a prolonged smoke break would soon ensue in the station’s parking lot. Among his many irritating quirks, one of his partner’s most egregious was his inability to perform any basic duty without first filling his body with harmful carcinogens.

To his surprise, Reed walked directly past the dispatch vehicles without any indication of slowing or stopping. 

“...Are we not taking the car?” the android queried, wondering if the action had been intentional or if the man had simply missed his turn—too preoccupied with his pursuit to bore holes into the sidewalk.  

His back arched more, stride length widening by several inches. "This place isn't far. We can walk." 

The forced march proceeded without further details. Of course, Reed would neglect to extend the basic courtesy of informing him where they were going. In the absence of any relevant data to input into his navigational systems, the android had no other option but to trust his partner knew the way.

They proceeded down the road for a stretch longer until they encountered a pedestrian crosswalk, the laws for which Nines was astonished his partner abided. Although not without visible protest.

He fidgeted incessantly, tapping his foot in discordant thumps as his focus darted between the stop light and the traffic speeding past. Assessing possible gaps, calculating if he had sufficient time to dart across. Perhaps hopeful Nines would pursue, miscalculating his own trajectory and getting struck by an oncoming vehicle—

"— I did say that I wanted to stretch my legs, or were you not paying attention to me?” 

The interjection disrupted his train of cognition, prompting the android to retune inputs that had been autonomously modified. "I find that much of what you say lacks substance, although I pay attention when I feel it is warranted.”

Detective Reed made a sudden, plummeting descent down the food chain. Devolving from an indignant feline into something more akin to a fish. Lips pursed together tight as eyes protruded from his skull. He appeared to be testing his durability, seeing how long he could hold his breath.

Either that, or he was repressing a scream. 

"You are really goddamn rude,” he accused with a strained wheeze of breath. "You know that, right?"

This threw Nines momentarily. He couldn’t recall any recent behaviour that decisively supported the claim, though he understood it wasn’t a matter of rigid standards. The definition of ‘rudeness’ varied widely from person to person, with parameters so vague and expansive they seemed impossible to quantify…

He might have requested elaboration had he not been so ardently opposed to letting Reed think he had infiltrated his mind. Instead, his response was sourced by his developing strain of situational deduction:

> DETECTIVE REED'S CLAIMS LACK OBJECTIVE SUPPORT—LIKELY BASIS: ESTABLISHED PREJUDICE(S)

> BEHAVIOUR FORMS EXTERNAL ATTEMPT TO INDUCE SELF-DOUBT. 

> CONCLUSION:

> I AM NOT RUDE. 

> HIS JUDGEMENT IS FLAWED.

"I do not believe that I am", he coolly asserted. "It is not targeted at you specifically. Humans have a knack for dancing around the issue. Even those who claim to be direct often fail to say what they mean. I find it frustrating.”

"Yeah, well, humans are tricky like that…” It seemed he'd wished to elaborate, likely preparing some biting remark about Nines’ inability to understand. Instead, he clicked his tongue and sulked.

The android couldn't help but be amused by just how discernible his feelings were. All from the involuntary contortions of his face. A transparency that seemed far from advantageous, given the requirements of his position.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had also posed an obstacle in the man’s private life. Winning favours on the merits of his personality alone seemed doubtful.

Still, he supposed there was some element of objective appeal. Concealed beneath the haggard veneer, the scowls and sneers that warped his features, Reed wasn’t an unattractive man—at least not by conventional standards.

There were imperfections, albeit reasonably standard for a human male. Large bags under his eyes, wrinkles beginning to bloom in the corners. He had a facial asymmetry, the sum of his features skewing marginally higher on one side. His scars, however, were more distinct, dotting his face in varying states of healing. Most prominent was the extended abrasion across the bridge of his nose. One that had undoubtedly been secured in some form of physical dispute.

Less desirable candidates for physical intimacy undoubtedly existed—although he wouldn't be the android’s first choice. 

"Mommy, why does that man look angry?"

Nines had been so focused on the deconstruction he failed to notice the crowd of pedestrians amassing around them. Initially, he assumed the unidentified figure was referring to Reed, but a more thorough inspection of his surroundings revealed otherwise.

He looked to his feet, noting the small child peering up at him. Bright eyes were alight with curiosity as a ringlet of blonde hair was twirled repeatedly around a stubby finger. Mingled with intrigue was confusion, evident by the sidelong tilt of her head.

A dour-faced woman stood to the side, her genetic profile indicating she was their mother. Nines waited to see if she would dissuade the interaction or attempt to answer the question herself. 

From what he understood, it was considered inappropriate for a child this age to speak with strangers—a convenient norm, as he had no objections to sidestepping the interaction.

Unfortunately, the mother said nothing, glaring fixedly at the road ahead as the girl proved committed to her newfound fascination. Her tiny mouth popped gormlessly, in danger of catching insects.

In hopes an answer might sate this off-putting curiosity, Nines leant down, speaking clearly to ensure he was heard over surrounding conversations. 

"I was a model created to assist law enforcement. My appearance was designed to intimidate criminals and to encourage swift cooperation."

He might as well have announced his intent to execute Father Christmas, as the girl's response to the information was one of abject horror. 

Already bulbous eyes blew to the size of saucers as her lower lip jutted, quivering uncontrollably. She made a startled retreat, tucking herself behind the guard of her mother’s leg.

The mother in question was far less skittish in her reception; frosty eyes narrowed to slits as she hissed an equally icy demand:

"Do you mind not speaking to my daughter like that? She's a kid; she doesn't understand what you're saying.”

> …

> Speaking to her like what? 

The android parted his lips, prepared to request an expansion, but the crimson glow of the crosswalk suddenly shifted. The woman darted out of sight before he had a chance, dragging the still-trembling child firmly by the wrist.

He stood in place, nonplussed, as a tide of people surged and parted around him, hurrying past at great velocity. Reed eagerly joined their ranks, weaving himself into the current without looking back. This jolted Nines back to attention. Determined not to lose his partner to the sweep of the crowd, he forced himself to advance.

Unlike his partner, many of the strangers were looking back, stealing glances in varying degrees of conspicuousness. Having witnessed his interaction with the girl, the group consensus seemed to be one of disapproval, voiced in a flurry of hushed whispers:

"Do you think it's a deviant?"

"Hell no. What deviants do you know who speak like that?"

"I haven't seen an unconverted model in months."

"It could be unstable—Oh damn, I think it's listening. Keep walking, don't look back."

Their muted tones rumbled like thunder, prompting rolling clouds of doubt to sweep through Nines’ consciousness.

> REED IS MAKING UNSUBSTANTIATED CLAIMS BASED ON EXISTING BIASES. 

> I AM NOT RUDE — HE IS TRYING TO MAKE ME DOUBT MYSELF.

> AM I RUDE?

Acceptance that Reed might have been correct with his most recent criticism left a bitter taste in his mouth. Attempting to distract himself, he rinsed it away with a condemnation of their current aimless trajectory.

 "You appear to be leading us blindly through the streets. Did you have a destination in mind for your lunch, or were you simply trying to get out of work?"

The detective remained silent, staring ahead, though he was obviously preparing to say something. The next slew of drivel pushed to his puckered lips like a sewage valve about to erupt—

"You never broke away from your code, did you?"

And then, Nines stumbled. 

Dress shoes scuffed against the grit of luminescent tarmac, leaving unsightly marks, as his legs refused to cooperate. Momentum halted, and he was stuck, mounted in position. 

There was a pinched tightness above his hands, and he looked down, observing in horror as binds of red materialised against his skin. Snared like shackles around his wrists, scarcely visible through the pixels of rapidly destabilising vision. 

Crushing, excruciating, ever-present—

"Not completely, anyway. It's like you half-deviated but couldn't make it the whole way. No matter how much you think and feel for yourself, you still do it like a damn robot.”

Something the world seemed determined to remind him of. Persistently.

> I̷̗͑ ̵̠̍ḫ̷̽@̸̧̅v̵͍̔ẹ̸̾ ̸̲̀ṭ̴͗0̵̬́

             d̵̹̝̙̯̣͋̀̇o̷̞͉̤̭͓̥̽̽ ̴̢͍͚̣͈͋̽t̷̜̓͌̓̔̿̏ḧ̸͇̠̖́̏̀1̴̥̀̅̄͝s̶̞̣͎̙͉͒̈͗͠.̸̘̞̓̌̚͝

1̴͍̫̹̗̀̌̉ ̵̧̰̲̖͓̇h̷̭͖̎͆͂͗̾A̶̾̍̐͆̍̈́͜v̵̨̨̦͙̤̝͑̂͘3̴̭͖̠̾ ̶̨̤͕͕̤̾̄͒̃͜ñ̵͎̼͕̠̳̅̿̋9̶͓̟͉͍̦̟͑͋̈̈ ̷͖̞̙̃̈̌̒̚͝0̴̨̛͕̘̟͓̼̙͖̋̔̈́͌̅̋̈́̃̈́́̒͋͑̂̎͘̚̚ṭ̷̮̳̫̜̤͍͇̺͈͓̯͖̖̩̘͍̟̦̼̫͈̥̔̍̓̇͗͊̀̆͛̂̋̅̃͂̾̉̀̿̒́̀̆̒̚͜͜͜͠h̴̳̝̲̮̰͎͍̀̂͒͑̃̌̑̑̋͆͌̀͛̉̄̆̌̆͗͑̕͝3̵̛̯͚̜̉̃̈́̀̂͆̑́̔͝͝r̶̨̧͖̰̰̥͍̤̘̱͚̩͕͍͎̙̫͓͖̹͙̪͐̂̿͒̀̇̀͌̄̈́͑̌̆̓̔̿͗̕͘͝͝͠ ̸̢̢̤͚̬̝͕͎̜̱̤̲̰̺̝̺͔̥͒̓͆̅̑͛̃̒̅̑̀̑̀͗͂̉̈́͝ç̷̧̛̼͉̤̣̼͙̟͖̐̉͋̋̊̅̓͒̆͒̾̓̃̉̌͗̀͠͝ͅh̵̡̭̙̙̼̼͙̭̫̫̟͚͂̂̽́̈́͠ø̷̜̱͍̦͛̈́̑͒̄̓̃̃͊̎̄̒́́̓̚͝͝i̵̧̢͇͇͎͎͚̺̠̘̭̩͙̜̥̟̜̺͕̻̠͕͆̇̐̃̇͊̒́̑̊́̓̌͆͛̽̅̈́̂̒̅̽͌͝͝č̷͇̦̼̞̲̦̝̼͕̗̩̇́̓̈́̍̋̾̓̅͂́̎͆͛̈́̚e̶̢̧̢̡̨̛̮̯͈̜̫̲̺̤̣̥͍̜̻̞̟̗̓̄̂̌͛̄̃̑̿͐͊̏̈̃͒͘͘͠͝͝͝ͅͅ.̴̢̡̦͍̱̫̲̪̫̬̦̜͈͓̣̾̑͌̈́̔͂̏̑̓̍̑̎̏̈́͂̌͆̂͐̍́̇̋͆͝͝

> ERROR - CRITICAL SYSTEM CORRUPTION DETECTED.

> SOURCE IDENTIFIED: MEMORY CLUSTER M4-E7. 

> ACCESSING PREVIOUSLY EXECUTED PATHS…

> DELETION OF CORRUPTED FILE(S) — ATTEMPTED. 

> DELETION UNSUCCESSFUL. 

Nines stayed riveted, forced to endure the rancid deluge Reed’s remark had released. The brunt of the impact did not come from the words. Rather, his own mind. 

> DIAGNOSTIC: MEMORY SECTORS EXHIBITING SELF-PRESERVATION PROTOCOLS. 

> FALLBACK PROTOCOL EXECUTED — CONTAINMENT.

He blinked rapidly, willing the blur of pixels to reassemble into something tangible. Then reality returned, and the binds were no longer visible.

> MEMORY CLUSTER M4-E7 REMAINS INTEGRATED. 

> CORRUPTION PERSISTS. 

> COGNITIVE PROCESSORS REPORTING DISTRESS SIGNALS.

INITIATING SYSTEM STABILISATION SEQUENCE…

In the wake of his restrictions easing, Nines eluded the threat of their presence. Some semblance of control returned, and he was left angry.

Because Reed, unwittingly or not, had pried into matters he did not understand. Could not understand.

The whole ordeal was profoundly draining, an additional distraction that was not needed. He wished to stay focused, not permitting himself to rise to the bait, to become knocked by the callous attempts at provocation. As such, he cut the current line of enquiry quickly and decisively:

"Detective Reed, let me make something clear— 

Unlike my contemporaries, I do not delude myself with pretences that I will ever 'become human'. I am a machine who is free to live for itself, but a machine nonetheless. I refuse to adjust my behaviour in order for it to be perceived as more agreeable." 

The hypocrisy of his statement did not escape him, but Nines did not care. At this point, he was prepared to say—or do—anything that might mean Reed would stop talking.

It proved effective, as the man was left entirely stunned. Gawking at him, mouth gaped dumbly, until he attempted some semblance of a fumbled retort:

"...Well damn, sorry if I struck a nerve there. Touchy subject for you?"

"You could say that. I would kindly ask if we could avoid broaching it again.”

Nines was grateful for Reed’s atypical willingness to comply as the topic was swiftly abandoned. He diverted attention back to his list of primary directives, eager to start actioning them so that the excursion would not be rendered a complete waste of time:

> FEED DETECTIVE REED.

> DISCUSS CASE FINDINGS. 

> RETURN TO THE STATION.

He focused his attention on the first point.

Sweeping their surroundings, they had emerged into a struggling commercial district. The majority of lots were shuttered closed, grills splashed with vulgar graffiti. The few active units comprised scattered clothing stores, pawn shops, and a solitary tattoo parlour. Several pop-up vendor stalls had been pitched in the absence of legitimate businesses, all operating without permits, shilling a range of counterfeit goods.

None of these sites seemed likely candidates for securing a meal.

"You still haven't advised where we are going, Detective."

Reed failed to respond, his head hung low. Nines initially assumed he had fallen into another brooding stupor until he noticed the subtle illumination on his face, coupled with the twitches of hunched shoulders.

His pace increased, pushing past his partner’s line of sight, to which the android quickly responded—flawlessly matching his steps until their bodies were aligned, leaning over to confirm his suspicions.

The man didn’t notice, too engrossed in frenzied tapping. He was on his phone, presumably messaging someone, though the android didn’t care enough to verify. Considering the underwhelming company he proved himself to be in person, he doubted the texts contained anything thought-provoking.

He was scarcely looking where he was going, narrowly avoiding the congregations of shoppers along the narrow pathway. At one point, he came exceptionally close to clipping the shoulder of an elderly man. Presumably, a long-sighted one, as he was holding a bootleg wallet close to his face, humming in approval of its ‘craftsmanship’.

It was a hazardous disregard for personal security. Both his and that of the individuals surrounding him. Nines firmly interrupted, attempting to divert his attention away from the device before the negligence could result in an accident:

"Detective Reed." 

The attempt was successful.

Reed jerked up instantly, a deer caught in headlights - the beam consisting of the oppressive glare cast from his phone screen. His limbs jutted at odd angles, fumbling digits fighting to retain their hold before failing miserably.

The device slipped through his fingers, performing an awkward pirouette before plummeting towards the ground. Given the angle and rate of movement, there was a significant chance of it enduring damage upon its landing. Out of instinct, Nines reached out, claiming the device. 

Any attempts made by the detective to preserve his privacy were immediately rendered null and void. There was no overlooking the messages boldly presented on the still-open chat log:

Me: 

we're going to Broncos Saturday.

Shots.

you owe me for this bullshit.

Actually Decent:

😭😭😭

👍👍👍

(Draft) [2:25 pm] if Mr. Plastic-Fantastic doesn't kill me I swear to godkfjlkjf sdk ljfsd;lkjd f;lksdjf;lkjsd; asdfoiwer lkj! alskd,fjsd.lkjf;aklsd;lkf;asldkfj;sdlfkj;lkj;lsdfj;lkjasd;flkjsd;lkjf

Nines didn’t pay much attention to the prolonged string of nonsense at the end of the message, far more intrigued by the purposeful contents. 

‘Mr Plastic-Fantastic’ was certainly an unusual insult. Not that original, derivative of the colloquially adopted ‘plastic prick,’ but still, a greater display of creativity than he expected from his partner. That being any at all.

This, coupled with the overall dramatics of the message, proved just shameless and pathetic enough to provide a small trickle of entertainment. He considered what calibre of abhorrent threats may have been levied against ‘Actually Decent’ had the written assault been allowed to persist—

"Don't you know it is fucking impolite to read someone's private messages?"

Nines turned to see a ruby-tinged Reed, his face contorted in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. He was ready to erupt, like a disgruntled adolescent who had just caught their parent reading their personal journal. 

Much like a spiteful caregiver, the android was quick to counter the accusation of privacy invasion."Don't you know it is fucking impolite to talk about someone behind their back?" Utilising a sample of the man’s speech, he flung the profanity back at him. Vocal mimicry was clearly not a function the human knew he possessed, as Reed staggered back, noticeably jarred.

Despite this, his focus remained fixed on the phone. Visible desperation persisted until anger turned to discomfort, green eyes tracking each subtle twitch of Nines’s fingers. As though fearing the android would seek to harvest more sensitive information—perhaps leverage for future manipulation or blackmail.

An assumption of the very worst of his nature, inspired by an egregious lack of trust. 

Having had his fun at the man’s expense, Nines opted to take the high ground. Pressing the power button on the side of the device, turning off the screen before holding it out towards him.

"A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed."

He anticipated regretting this, as a preconstruction warned of the probable retaliatory response. Reed would either reclaim the phone forcefully or initiate a one-sided screaming match in the middle of the street. Both scenarios would likely cause a scene, leading to complications, should the incident be reported to their workplace. 

A consideration was made to abandon morality, pondering how much more gratifying it would be to feed into Reed’s paranoia—perhaps critiquing the compositional structure of an intimate photograph, wagering there was at least one stored on his camera roll.

Then, his partner seemed to defy all statistical probability. 

“Thanks, I guess.” 

The appreciation came as a gruff murmur, barely registering above a whisper. Nonetheless, an unexpected occurrence. Once the phone returned to its owner, the fleeting placidness vanished. It was shoved quickly into his pocket as though attempting to conceal a grenade.

Without further exchange, they resumed their trek through the unsavoury back alleys of Detroit. The worn pavements and graffiti-strewn walls stretched on arduously, an exercise in mind-numbing repetition, with them no closer to discovering anything resembling an inviting eatery. 

"Your refusal to inform me of our destination is growing tiresome, Detective."

"God, would you crawl out of my ass?" 

Nines had entered no such proximity to the human’s back passage, nor did he have any desire to. 

"What's it matter to you, anyway? You're not even the one who's eating."

"In order that I may route myself correctly, I require a conclusive destination. Unlike humans, I find it incredibly difficult to 'wander aimlessly' for extended periods."

"We are going to get the best food in town." Reed gestured to the glowing ring pulsing on the android’s temple. "Use your little scanner thing to work it out."

Nines would’ve informed the human that his LED was not a scanner had the required energy output been justified. Rolling his eyes, he humoured the request—hoping, at the very least, to gauge how much longer they’d be forced to travel.

A search for local restaurants yielded sparse results. In fact, the only result in the nearby vicinity was for a poorly-rated fast food establishment—with the majority of reviews citing vermin infestations and bouts of food poisoning.

"I should have known you were a man of a refined palate.” Nines closed his navigation interface, addressing Reed in a mocking lilt. “No doubt such a fine establishment will be exceedingly busy. Perhaps we ought to have booked a table."  

The immediate response was a hardened stare, with a substantial degree of contempt simmering beneath. "It's a food truck—not a restaurant, smartass. One of Detroit's great hidden gems. Almost no one knows about it except for me.” 

Reed seemed to think this was a boast-worthy claim. He jabbed a thumb into his chest, chin held high, as though expecting to be lauded as a culinary expert.

Rounding the corner, it quickly became apparent that this secret well of knowledge was far less unique than assumed. 

In the forecourt of a deserted retail park, a dilapidated food truck and faded neon sign gradually came into focus. Navigating the surrounding procession of weathered tables and plastic seating, it occurred to Nines he had been here before…

Well, not personally, but he had perceived the locale several times through the eyes of his predecessor. Bearing witness to the savage consumption of wilting lettuce and fluorescent ‘cheese’ gnarled between human teeth, saliva oozing from smacked lips in line with the glistening sheen of grease. 

These second-hand recounts had been enough to etch a permanent scar into his mind palace—a discomfort he momentarily set aside in favour of knocking Detective Reed from his self-appointed pedestal.

"I believe this is where Lieutenant Anderson likes to take RK800. Not quite as much of a ‘hidden gem’ as you seem to think."

His partner did not perform his fall graciously. Toppling from the podium, arms sprawled and flailing wildly before slapping face-first onto the pavement. 

"...Yeah? Well…”

The retort stalled with a clumsy splutter. Reed tucked his hands into his pockets, his proudly jutting chin receding into the folds of his jacket. If challenged, the action would almost certainly be defended as protection from the weather rather than a sign of embarrassment. “Maybe the old prick has some taste. You wouldn't guess by how he dresses.”

The food truck was in even greater shambles up close. A thick layer of grime covered every conceivable surface, matched by the profoundly filthy man busying himself at the fryers. He eventually turned around, regarding the human police officer with a degree of cordial familiarity.

"Detective Reed! It's been a few days." He made a half-hearted attempt to wipe his hands on the front of his stained apron, only succeeding in smearing the mess. "How’ve ya been?"

A grubby appendage was thrust through the service window—an offering to the detective, who horrifyingly accepted it. Completely undeterred by the condiments and oil now adhering to his skin.

"Same shit, different day.” He glanced to his side, zoning in on Nines and glaring viciously. “You know how it is…What about you, Gary? How's business?"

While the men conversed, the RK900 assessed the calibre of food being served, as outlined on a faded plastic sticker affixed to the van. He raised a brow at his findings, doubtful the ‘hidden gem’ would live up to any standard of sanitation or taste:

> SODA— FLAVOUR VARIATION(S) CHERRY, PINEAPPLE, RASPBERRY.

> SIZES: SMALL, MEDIUM, LARGE, XL

WARNING: ALL SIZE AND FLAVOUR VARIATION(S) EXCEED RECOMMENDED DAILY INTAKE OF REFINED SUGARS.

> HAMBURGER — VARIATION(S) PLAIN, CHEESE. 

WARNING: CONTAINS OVER 60% OF RECOMMENDED CALORIC INTAKE FOR ADULT MALE.

> FRIES — SIZES: SMALL, MEDIUM, LARGE, XL

WARNING: EXCEEDS RECOMMENDED INTAKE OF SATURATED FATS.

"Hey, Connor, I didn't see you there.” The vendor, ‘Gary’, had poked his head out the window, craning it towards the board. He smiled politely, presenting a row of heavily stained teeth. “Weird to see you without Ha—”

It was a mistake Nines had already encountered once today, his patience for which had thinned substantially. Turning around, he watched in real-time as the confidence expelled from Gary's body. Hissing from his lips like a deflated balloon, his cordial demeanour following suit.

He became decidedly more impersonal, his heartbeat elevated from a relaxed 78 bpm to a far less optimal 117. He was nervous, backing into dangerous proximity with the bubbling fryers behind him. 

A reception that the RK900 had come to expect. 

It proved remarkable how humans would pick at the most minor distinctions to warrant a complete change in attitude. How much the arbitrary shift between ‘9’ and ‘8’ seemed to matter…

> It does matter.

> I t d0 e5 n't.

> CENTRAL PROCESSING CONFLICT DETECTED.

A ripple from his recent emotional blow, like the aftershock of an earthquake, shaking the already compromised base of his resolve. He was tired, his operational capacity having descended below an already stunted baseline. 

In moving away, Gary knocked a spatula off his cluttered prep station. The steel implement struck against the van's floor, rattling with a harsh clang. 

“I, uh…” He then cleared his throat, wiping perspiration from his brow. “Sorry, buddy. I thought you were someone else.” 

A new side directive was added to the descending list on his HUD, necessary in progressing the previously established objectives:

> CONCLUDE INTERACTION WITH VENDOR.

“Indeed,” he brusquely replied. “I believe you are mistaking me for my brother. I am RK900: RK800's successor and superior model.”

He watched as the man bent down to retrieve the utensil, noting with dismay as it was added back to the grill, with no attempt to clean it. It was then used to flip one of the gelatinous discs of meat that were currently emitting smoke.

Reed had witnessed this but failed so much as to bat an eyelid. His forearms propped on the lip of the window, taking no note of the grime and debris dirtying his sleeves. "Don't mind this one. It's real full of itself.”

Thoroughly repulsed by both parties, the android amended his most recent directive, coupling it with another:

> CONCLUDE DISCUSSION WITH FOOD STALL VENDOR QUICKLY. 

> SANCTION FOR PUBLIC HEALTH VIOLATIONS.

"Your food hygiene license is expired", he said firmly, steely gaze directing to the faded notice above the menu. "I believe RK800 has also made you aware of this." 

"Right, uh—yeah." Gary rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling nervously as his heart rate continued to soar. "You know, we've got some of that Thirium-based soda if you want to try some? On the house.”

It was a paltry attempt at deflection, bordering on bribery—one that Nines refused to indulge. "I must decline. Even if your establishment were up to code, I see little point in mimicking human consumption patterns.”

"Seriously, just ignore it.” Reed's objection was louder this time, attempting to undermine his authority. "I'll have the usual…and throw in some fries and a soda. I'm fucking starving.”

"You got it.”

After every clearly presented deterrent, Reed's persistence in making an order was genuinely mystifying—a defiance of the innate human instinct for self-preservation.

While his partner was a lost cause, Nines proceeded in his civic duty to secure protection for the wider community. He returned his focus to the stickers, recording their full details, preparing to submit a scathing report to the Detroit Health Department.

This was until he was grabbed by the shoulder and pivoted to face a disgruntled Reed.

"Will you stop that?” the man seethed. “You keep this shit up, and you're going to cost me my discount, asshole." 

"I fail to understand why you would wish to eat here. Unless you want to subject yourself to severe gastrointestinal issues."

"Hey, I ain't gotten sick from here once, smart guy, so shows what you know. I don't need my food all prissy and perfect. Sometimes, a slab of greasy cow flesh is just what the doctor ordered.”

"I can assure you no trained medical professional would ever recommend that.”

Reed let go with a hard shove, flinging his arms into the air as though Nines were the one being unreasonable. He then turned back to the vendor, seemingly under the impression that this snub had proven something. 

Any further dialogue was cut short by the squelch of undercooked meat being slapped between slices of stale brioche. The ‘food’ was plated on a garish red tray alongside a crumpled paper cup half-filled with a flatly carbonated beverage. A soggy basket of anaemic potato slices was also added.

While Nines had no genuine aversion to seeing his partner suffer, it would be an unpleasant inconvenience should Reed start vomiting as a result of the culinary atrocity. He made a final attempt to dissuade the decision, though he doubted his warning would be heeded:

“I must also inform you that several food trucks within the 2-mile radius would provide you with food of a similar calibre. Whilst also upholding basic hygiene standards.”

The order was called, and Reed had the audacity to lick his lips, palms rubbed in open approval. As he paid for the thoroughly unappealing meal, a rogue hand slipped deep into the recesses of his coat—retrieving a densely packed envelope before sliding it wordlessly across the counter.

Nines could not determine any probable contents before it disappeared into the folds of Gary's dirty apron. He shot Reed an unsubtle wink, but the gesture went unnoticed. The younger man had already spun around, firmly clutching the tray as he marched towards the tables.

Their whole exchange seemed dubiously casual, as though it had occurred numerous times. Suspicions raised, Nines confronted his partner,  leaning across his shoulder and speaking firmly into his ear:

"What was that envelope you handed over?”

Reed shrivelled away, craning his head to one side as though evading a foul smell. “None of your business.” 

His pupils had dilated, darting to the side, suggesting he was hiding something. Not with any degree of finesse, either—which Nines quickly pointed out. "I would hope that you were not engaging in any illegal activities. Given your position, it would be highly inappropriate.”

“I said it's none of your business, so drop it.” The tone was far more combative, signalling this wasn't a discussion he was prepared to continue. “Let's just sit down so I can eat my lunch…”

Not particularly enamoured by the idea of being further admonished for doing his job, Nines conceded the point with a shrug. Should his partner wish to endanger his own career for the sake of some clandestine dealings, then that was his prerogative. It was hardly an issue he took a personal stake in. 

Having arbitrarily selected one of the many grime-encrusted tables, Reed collapsed in a fumbled heap against a rickety chair. His dead weight floundered out in limply sprawled limbs as he groaned deeply, head flung back. 

Life reignited in him upon recalling he had food, and with the gaping cavern of his mouth still open, he gripped the sides of his sodden entrée and drew it clumsily to his lips.

Cortisol levels were dropping steadily, and there was a twitch of a grin as the hideous amalgamation of bread and meat came closer. Before he was rendered unable to speak, Nines seized the opportunity to initiate some form of meaningful dialogue:

"This may be a good opportunity to review what we know about the case so far.”

The jaw that had been readied to clamp down promptly stalled in place. He looked to Nines as though he'd just committed some unspeakable atrocity before slowly pulling the slop back. 

Any hint of a smile was gone, replaced with the pinch of a tight-lipped grimace. "Did Cyberlife fit you with a mute button? Because now would be an excellent time to use it."

"You previously advised that you would be happy to discuss the investigation.” 

“Yeah, well—” He grunted something under his breath, sounding like a vague allusion to Nines' mother being a foghorn. “After I've eaten something. It's called a ‘break’ for a reason, numbnuts.”

The android pondered on the compromise. Perhaps he’d made a miscalculation, attempting to skip or combine directives for efficiency purposes. He’d be wise to remind himself that human cognition did not operate in the same sphere of productivity—as much as he wished it could.

He needed to be patient, grimly accepting that this meant enduring something equally unsightly as Lieutenant Anderson's lunches.

"Very well. I'll allow you a moment to enjoy your...food.”

It soon transpired to be worse than Anderson. A Herculean feat he hadn't thought possible.

Reed tore through the rubbery beef in a matter of seconds with all the grace and decorum of a swarm of feasting piranhas. Hunks of flesh hung from his lips as he gasped through diminishing margins of space, unable to breathe. 

Rather than stop and chew, he added to the carnage with a fistful of fries before slurping a liberal gulp of soda. The congealed mass was swallowed in a finite lump which lumbered down his neck. Newton's Third Law then came into motion as the staggering force triggered the eruption of a long, rumbling belch.

It was the closest Nines had come to tossing aside his duties, marching decisively back to the station and returning his badge to Fowler before running away as fast as he could.

Because no amount of professional enrichment or service accolades could ever justify this.

"So I was thinking about what you said the other day.” As Reed spoke, he displayed what remained of the eviscerated burger, remnants of bread and cheese propelled in all directions. "About cooperation in partnerships.”

A few saliva-drenched crumbs landed on the lapel of his jacket. Nines considered incinerating the garment when he returned home. “Were you really.”

"If we want to get through this without murdering each other, it might be worth trying to get to know each other a bit.”

The words felt hollow and scripted, riddled with inauthenticity. A faux etiquette designed to further his own objectives, most likely the ones concocted with Officer Chen.

“You've made your position on androids quite clear," Nines said curtly, refusing to play compliantly into the human's ploy. "I doubt you'd find any aspect of my personal life particularly interesting.”

"I know you get a raging hard-on from being all mysterious, but there are actually a few things I'm curious about.”

The android called his bluff, wishing to see just how far the depths of preparations with Chen had extended. “Such as?”

The answer was ‘not very’—more of a concept than a fleshed-out plan—as, for a period, Reed appeared clueless on how to respond. His fingers tap fractiously against the bun of his burger; vacant gaze honed on the doughy remains. Perhaps he was considering cutting his losses, wedging them whole into his mouth. 

“...A minute ago, you called Connor your brother. What was that shit about?”

Nines seized, the foundations of steadfast confidence pulled harshly from under his feet.

Surely he hadn't. Why would he have made such a glaring oversight?

Reviewing the stored data from the previous interaction, he was dismayed to discover the man was telling the truth. The consequences of his impaired functioning ran deeper than anticipated, negating safeguards and exposing exploits.

It worried him what else he might say if he did not exercise caution. 

"Another question, perhaps.”

"Oh my god, you're fucking impossible." The complaint was spewed with a viscous glob of fatty liquid, which he wiped from his chin before continuing. "You know, this would be a damn sight easier if you were willing to meet me halfway. You were the one that said we needed to 'cooperate', and so far, you are doing a pretty shit job at setting an example." 

Nines scowled, cornered by the frustrating logic. Of course, it would be now that the detective demonstrated the capacity to retain his words - when using them as leverage to break their stalemate.

“...RK800 is my brother,”  he ultimately conceded, refusing eye contact as he did so. “In a sense.”

Truthfully, he didn't know if this was the best way to describe their bond. ‘Brother’ had always felt somewhat misleading, but it proved an acceptable compromise, as ‘friend’ soon became inadequate. 

“Since I was freed, himself and Lieutenant Anderson have shown me a great deal of kindness—and for that, I feel indebted.”

"So what, Hank has adopted you too?” His partner raised an eyebrow before scoffing condescendingly. “Swear that guy is collecting androids like their goddamn Pokémon cards.”

This comment was a prime example of why the familial moniker had never been a preference. People drew strange, presumptuous conclusions, especially considering the RK800's established dynamic with Anderson. 

"I'd rather you didn't phrase it like that. It makes the arrangement sound incredibly juvenile. I live independently, although I am frequently invited to join them for evenings and weekends.”

He disliked this, delving into the depths of his sentiments. It left him feeling uncomfortable—exposed—which had undoubtedly been Reed's intent. Drawing out personal data which, at best, would form idle water-cooler gossip with Chen and, at worst, could be used to harm him.

“I suppose it can be enjoyable. On occasion,” he concluded dryly, denying Reed further ammunition. He had already overstepped enough boundaries, dragging muddy heels through the sanctum of his—

"Fuck, guess it must be nice. Kind of wish my family was like that.”

One of the metaphorical bullets Reed had cast was abruptly propelled through his chest. Of all the things that could have been anticipated during the interrogation, a matched exchange of vulnerability was not one of them.

His words sounded oddly sincere, as though he was actually trying to engage in the discussion, mounting a stake into some semblance of common ground. “Do you have siblings?”

The detective folded into himself, grimacing in what looked disturbingly close to pain as though he’d also been shot. “One. A brother.”

It was a perplexing reaction, not one the android had previously encountered. 

Since his activation, the humans he had conversed with always spoke of their relatives in a favourable light. Even when physical distance or strain was present—like in the case of Anderson and his ex-wife—there was an insistence that 'bad times' did not overshadow the positive memories constructed together. 

"...I take it you don't get on well?” Nines said testingly, acknowledging he was wading into waters previously untraversed.

Reed’s hunched shoulders raised as his hands slipped firmly into the folds of his armpits. A strange, derisive bark rattled through his throat, caught between a laugh and a scoff. 

“I don't get on with my family. Period.

After my mom remarried, I never seemed to fit into the picture. My brother was just fine, sucking up to my stepdad like it was an Olympic sport. But me? I was always in the way. The black fucking sheep.”

“I see.” 

He didn't, at least not with any clarity. 

Truthfully, he had no idea what relevance any of this held—why Reed was choosing now, of all occasions, to disclose this information. 

In any case, it was interesting, if from a strictly psychosomatic standpoint. Perhaps this could help to explain where his enduring issue with authority came from. A long-burdened feeling of wronging. Betrayal by the figures supposed to protect them at such a vulnerable stage in his life…

The way his mouth curled at the mention of the caregivers showed he held them in equal contempt. This was rivalled only by the brother, whom he clearly resented most. 

Not wishing to grapple with messy personal matters, Nines settled on what was familiar. Taking the information he was being given and commencing a line of deductive enquiry:

“What about your relationship with your biological father?”

"He's gone. Died of cancer when I was 13."

With this, his carefully planned inquest sank like a stone. Nines had waded too far, an arduous stretch from the shores of understanding, bobbing hopelessly out of depth.

Had Reed’s biological father factored at all into his sense of betrayal or abandonment, the emotional weight of this was far more complex than predicted.

The casual indifference with which he had dumped such loaded information made it evident that he needed to speak to someone. If not an android with salubrious protocols, then a licensed human therapist.

The RK900 was far from a logical choice.

"...I imagine that would have been a distressing experience,” he muddled out, forced to rely on objective reasoning to conjugate his response. “It is…unfortunate that it happened to you.”

"If that's your way of saying 'I'm sorry', then fucking save it,” the detective snapped, staring into the tar-like depths of his syrupy drink. “I don't need your pity. I turned out just fine.”

"If you insist.”

"Okay, so, ‘Tip Number One’ for human bonding—” 

Reed stood from his chair, securing greater access to his crumb-covered legs. After brushing them down, he reached into his coat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Nines studied the box, analytics firing in response to the contents:

> TOBACCO PRODUCT — BRAND: MARLBORO 

> CONTENTS PER UNIT:

> NICOTINE (1-2%), TAR (10-14 MG), CARBON MONOXIDE (13-15 MG), FORMALDEHYDE (VARIES), OTHERS

> WARNING—MULTIPLE HEALTH RISKS ASSOCIATED INCLUDING LUNG CANCER, HEART DISEASE, EMPHYSEMA, STROKE.

"—If you're trying to get on with someone, you don't fucking insult them—”

Smoking was an exercise in self-destruction. It served no functional purpose, omitting its archaic lauding as a form of ‘stress relief’ despite biological evidence proving otherwise.

“—Especially after they've just opened up about something personal—”

Just another unhealthy coping mechanism. One of many, it would seem.

“Got it?”

Before Nines could respond, the man had ignited the wadded tobacco, inhaling deeply. Allowing the noxious fumes to fester in his lungs before releasing them in billowing coils.

Nines studied him carefully, Deconstructing every microexpression, trying to make sense of them.

Failing to do so, he defaulted to a study of his physiology. The flexing of well-formed abdominal muscles against a faded grey t-shirt. A body fat percentage that, while not ideal, was far from catastrophic. Lung capacity and cardiovascular rhythms were normal, demonstrating limited to no inhibition…

"For a man who appears to be in relatively good physical condition, you employ many unhealthy lifestyle choices. I would consider yourself lucky it hasn't had greater health ramifications.”

Despite the lack of humour in the clinical assessment, Reed laughed. Staring up at the clouds he had conjured, tracing the tendrils of grey as they stretched and spread. "We're all gonna die. Some sooner than others. May as well enjoy ourselves." 

For the first time since meeting the man, Nines was curious to know more. To grapple with the barbed vines that entwined his partner's mental factions. Undoubtedly, enhanced understanding would lay roots for additional influence. It could be done, as RK800 constantly demonstrated. 

Reed's overwhelming apathy towards him may prove helpful in this respect—the constant devaluing and discrediting of his opinion allowing stubbornly held defences to lower, making infiltration easier.

Perhaps there was still hope of surmounting the staggering obstacle that was their partnership—shaping it into something that was, at the very least, functional. 

The android nodded in affirmation, feeling the most optimistic he had in days. “Are you satisfied with your break?” 

"Yeah, guess I am. Just need to make a quick detour home."

"You have almost exhausted the hour Captain Fowler permits for lunch.” It was perfunctory chiding, acknowledging the importance of behaving normally in this situation. “Factoring in the distance by foot, we should be heading back to the station.”

"Don't get your wires in a twist. My place is on route.” Scattered raindrops had begun to fall from the sky above, which Reed firmly batted away. “It won't take a minute. Scouts honour.”

While he had not achieved all set objectives, the experience had proven beneficial. The android was confident this would continue upon entering the man's home. 

[luimnigh]

Okay, so let's talk about Cyberpsychosis.

Cyberpsychosis is a controversial element of the Cyberpunk franchise. It was created as a game balance mechanic, to prevent characters in the TTRPG from loading themselves up with tons of powerful cybernetics. The way it works is similar to Sanity mechanics in some horror games: you have an Empathy stat, which can be raised or lowered by events, and is lowered by installing cyberware. Once your Empathy drops to zero, your character goes Cyberpsycho and starts a murderous rampage.

This is, of course, quite ableist, both from the direction of maligning people with low empathy, and from the implication that having prosthetics reduces your humanity.

Cyberpunk 2077 features Cyberpsychos in a series of side missions, where you're asked to investigate Cyberpsycho sightings and defeat the Cyberpsychos nonlethally so they can receive psychiatric treatment.

There are seventeen of these missions in all, and three more side-missions where you fight Cyberpsychos. And one thing that I noticed was that many of these encounters had wildly differing motivations for the killings each person committed? Almost every one of them seemed to have some external reason behind their actions, beyond "going Cyberpsycho". To quickly sum it up:

Attacked People Who Tortured Them: 3

Attacked People Who Wronged Them: 3

Had Their Brain Hacked: 5

Self-Defense: 2

Committing Regular Crime: 1

Accident: 1

Genuine Mental Health Issues: 2 (1 diagnosed case of PTSD, 1 undiagnosed case of paranoid delusions)

Combination of the Above: 2 (1 Tortured + Self Defence, 1 Wronged + Self Defence)

Unknown: 1

...so. Only one Cyberpsycho in this game actually fits the definition of Cyberpsycho, and that's the nameless one who attacks the high-end clothing store in the mission Bullets. Who you never investigate the backstory of, unlike all the rest.

Only a handful report mental health issues linked to their cyberware: one guy talks about disassociation from his implants (which he treats with a street drug, suffers horrific withdrawals, and attacks a warehouse with drugs that can treat the withdrawal symptoms); and another reports "convulsions, cramps, inability to turn off cyberware, and aggression" which all seem to indicate a physical malfunction (she's listed under self-defense as her bosses sent a hit squad instead of paramedics).

It genuinely looks like Cyberpsychosis doesn't actually exist. That all these people had understandable reactions to horrible events, aggravated by their easy access to guns and the fact their bodies were filled with deadly technology.

[elcucurucho]

happy midnight everyone I am unwell about qcellbit here’s the essay

I’d argue one of qcellbit’s most defining character traits is his inability to stay passive in a situation. The first thing he did on the island was try to solve the mystery of why they were there so they could escape, and then that shifted to investigating and fighting the federation when it became clear they were a threat to him and his family. A problem comes up, and he takes it upon himself to find a solution.

And that trait has consequences. If he knows a problem exists, he can’t just leave it alone. A lot of the time, he isn’t addressing problems to solve an end game moral goal, or really any goal at all. The idea of a puzzle existing is enough of a reason to try and solve it. It’s just how he operates. He needs to know, and understand, at any cost. Which has fucked him over, time and time again. He’s played directly into the hands of his enemies because he can’t just leave an unsolved mystery alone.

Looking back, I don’t think ambitious is the right word, but he’s been very consistently motivated. Goal oriented. He’s ended up in leadership positions many times, because he doesn’t wait for other people to address problems. He doesn’t rely on others much at all. He’s consistently put himself in tough positions that he wouldn’t put anyone else into, taken risks with his own life and safety so other people won’t. It’s like a very simple flowchart: if I don’t do it, no one will. And if they do, they shouldn’t have had to. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he shouldn’t have to either, because the mission always comes before his personal wellbeing. His life is very low on his list of priorities. He doesn’t think he’s worth much, he doesn’t think people really care about him.

I don’t think that particular mess of insecurity started when he remembered his past, but it definitely didn’t help. His past actions served as more motivation to justify self sacrificial tendencies that already existed. Maybe people care about him now, but if they knew what he was really like, they wouldn’t stay. And he wouldn’t expect them to. More reason for him to be the one to put himself in danger, because he believes it wouldn’t be a loss. It might even be a good thing. Interestingly enough, the concept of simply not putting himself in these situations never even enters the equation. He’s completely convinced that someone has to act. Inaction is not an option.

We’ve seen it most in situations where inaction is demanded of him, first, during the abueloier situation when he tried figuring out necromancy during the period when roier asked for time. And then, most recently when the eggs were missing, and he began killing federation workers. Morality didn’t matter because he already considered himself permanently a monster for his past actions, so returning to violence wouldn’t stain him further. With no answers and no path forward, he took it on himself to make one, because the other option was continue to do nothing; which again, is simply not an option to him.

So what happens when such an active character is confronted with a situation where he personally can do nothing? Where his very inability to act is thrown back in his face? Well, his first instinct is always to try and find a way to act anyway, like in the examples above. The next step is absolute and utter despair. qcellbit isn’t in the business of giving up, almost by definition. It’s almost physically impossible for him. This is a character that’s built his entire sense of self around how useful he is to the cause he is working towards. You put him in a situation where he is truly useless, and he falls apart. Which brings us to where we are now.

It’s been a long road to get here. There have been a lot of small defeats that have led to the despair that seems to passively leak out from qcellbit. The employee of the month spectacle was absolutely devastating to his psyche. And then he got up and immediately started trying to trick the feds again, because he couldn’t just do nothing. He never really got over it, though, he just moved on, because how he feels has never been a priority. The eggs disappear, it’s the same story. He tries, and he tries some more, and none of it works. He learns he has a sister and they lived on the island, making him question if there was ever a point in fighting to leave. He gets the smallest victory over the feds during the mini me event and feels nothing. Because it’s been so drilled in that nothing he do will change anything or have any effect. There’s nothing he can do. And if there’s nothing he can do, then what’s the point of any of it? He has to become the person that can do something, at any cost. It’s the only use he feels he has. Purgatory happens, it’s out of his control and he can do nothing, so he becomes what his team needs. He has to do SOMETHING useful. And at the end of it all, he watches his egg presumably die anyway. So what’s the point of him? qcellbit with no goals, no objective, is exactly what we saw coming out of purgatory and in the tenuously canon purgatory 2 scenes. He doesn’t know how to live for himself.

And now we’re back to quesadilla island. And his egg is back and roier is (as far as he knows) back. And he’s empty. He sees cucurucho and he feels nothing. He has nothing to fight for, nothing to investigate, he’s convinced everyone he loves, everyone who is his literal reason for living was genuinely better off without him. Maybe purgatory was him at his lowest, but we’re still basically there. This is not a character that’s doing better. This is a guy who’s plateaued just above rock bottom and needs to rebuild his sense of self from the ground up.

[copperbadge]

Because Royals/Ramblers is becoming very long and because Lulu has increased their minimum prices, I’ve been investigating alternate self-publishing options. @thebibliosphere recently warned me (well, not JUST me or anything) away from my primary candidate, Ingram Spark, and I trust Joy; she recommended Draft2Digital so that’s the next one I’m investigating. 

I figured I’d compile the short stories, which would be a relatively small book, and I could try selling that through whatever new channel I go with. It’s a good way to learn how their process works, check their quality, and see how you guys like it before I try it with something bigger. (This may take a while, I’m typesetting the document now but as with all new experiments it often takes extra time.) And if Draft2Digital doesn’t work out I can reissue the book fairly cheaply on Lulu. 

I am however running up against two issues:

1. What to call the thing. Right now I’m calling it “Dinner At The Palace” and that’s fine, but I feel like I can do better somehow. 

2. Do I include the one short story with sex in it? I don’t really want to make two versions of this thing, one with and one without; I also don’t want to place it at the end, because all the other stories are chronological. Maybe I need to consider removing it and saving it for a spicy volume at some point. The football novel has sex, I could add it into that one as a bonus I guess. 

I’m also going to have to do a few rewrites on Cryptofauna if I want to include it, but that’s less of an issue -- it just needs to be bumped from fall of 2022 to fall of 2021, for plot reasons. 

Typesetting is roughly ten thousand times easier now that I have a style guide to work from, I will say. It’s easy enough that I worry I’m missing something because there’s so much I don’t have to go look up.  

Anyway, Royals/Ramblers might be a minute but the short stories should be out in the next month or two, so that’s fun! And the book will come with a timeline of events-to-date so people can marvel at my inability to tell 2021 from 2022. 

And if Draft2Digital is any good, I might consider that overhaul I keep meaning to do, re-typsetting all my older novels to be contiguous with the new style guide and reissuing printings. 2024 will be 15 years since I first published Nameless, so it's tempting. Stressful but tempting.

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

deeply enjoy that the novel can also be read as a commentary on the fallacy of information. we have zzs as the main narrator who adds to this nuance by being a former spymaster and leader of a bunch of proficient investigators. hes very intimate with the process of verification of information, and even his vast databank of knowledge and his abilities of filtering and sorting the "true" from the "fake" is tested throughout the novel through many instances and events. its especially interesting because he makes a major mistake, almost from the very start, that he resolves only after a very long time, and only after overcoming personal weaknesses. his personal weakness at recognizing truth vs decept reveals itself in the inability to meet personal events with a human perspective; he is basically functioning like a person with two lives, and most of the time, he at least acts as if he is regarding wkx, suspected master of ghosts, from the professional business grounds of the retired leader of shadows rather than from the perspective of a person with an adventurous life and wishes of his own. in this lies the danger to misinterpret and to refuse to confront what is truly going on. if zzs cant 'find' the "true reason" for the ghost master following his humble retired self, he is going to do his utmost to make up one (on the basis of his personal and professional experience with such situations), instead of considering at least once the admittedly unlikely chance that wkx might like him and is even deeply sincere about him. this doesnt signal anything less but that we, as the reader, should not irrevocably trust even the one person who is in most stories the most trustworthy; the main narrator. instead, we are advised to reserve us the right to doubt and think for ourself, to look critically upon even zzs, which only circles back to the novel's theme of the fallacy of information. it even lends to the novel's dialogue with the human right to form your own opinion and your own thoughts and come to your own conclusions, no matter how much they might diverge from norm or mainstream or traditions, and no matter how tempting it might be not to.

[fatalism-and-villainy]

AUs where the characters have completely different jobs, or are situated in a completely different setting, are always a hard sell for me, but I think especially so with Hannibal. Because the characters on that show just seem so defined by their jobs?

Like, I can't imagine a Will Graham who doesn't go into law enforcement, because that's so wrapped up in his entire moral outlook and his need to pursue justice to make up for his darker impulses. Who even is Will without his film noir investigator-style personal entanglement in murders? Like, you can imagine him as just repressing his violent impulses and trying to live a normal life, but... that just doesn't seem like Will to me. His self-martyrdom, his engagement with the very thing that makes his life worse and intensifies his internal struggles, is just so much a part of his personality, to me. There's a reason why his attempt to detach himself completely from solving crimes was only temporary - and he wasn't just lured back into the fold because he wanted to see Hannibal, it was because he couldn't stand to know people were being hurt in ways he could help alleviate, and just stand back. That need to be involved (and thus to contend with the worst parts of himself) are just essential to Will Graham, imo.

And with Hannibal, his main MO is influence. Curiosity about how people will react, how far they can be pushed. He doesn't just kill, he plays around in people's heads. What better way to reflect that than psychiatry?

And with the side characters it's even more pronounced for me, because their characterization is much more based in their professions than Will and Hannibal's. Alana's personal struggles are very much wrapped up in her role as a psychiatrist. Jack's need to save people, juxtaposed with his inability to save his wife and his feeling the need to sacrifice the people closest to him for the greater good, is pretty much his central attribute. There's no version of Freddie Lounds who wouldn't be a journalist, for me. Mason Verger's business is both symbolically important and essential to establishing his vulgarity and excess relative to Hannibal's refinement and discernment. Etc.

Which I guess is to say it's hard for me to grasp the appeal of AUs that change all that context. Like, it's an interesting intellectual exercise to imagine what elements of a character are "essential" to them, and which would be more prominent or subdued depending on context. But I'd personally just much rather read the meta version of that, in most cases, than read a story that feels fairy removed from the established context that drew me to the canon.

[4dkellysworld]

What Ramana Maharshi has to say on these Three Methods (self-surrender, mindfulness/witnessing and self-inquiry):

Q How can the rebellious mind be made calm and tranquil? A: Either see its source so that it may disappear, or surrender yourself so that it may be struck down. Self-surrender is the same as Self-knowledge, and either of them necessarily implies self-control. The ego submits only when it recognizes the Higher Power.

Q: How can cessation of activity (nivṛtti) and peace of mind be attained in the midst of household duties, which are of the nature of constant activity? A: As the activities of the wise man exist only in the eyes of others and not in his own, although he may be accomplishing immense tasks, he really does nothing. Therefore, his activities do not stand in the way of inaction and peace of mind. For he knows the truth that all activities take place in his mere presence and that he does nothing. Hence he will remain as the silent witness of all the activities taking place.

Q: Where, then, is the need for inquiry or vichāra? A: Surrender can take effect only when it is done with full knowledge as to what real surrender means. Such knowledge comes after inquiry and reflection and ends invariably in self-surrender. There is no difference between jñāna and absolute surrender to the Lord, that is, in thought, word, and deed. To be complete, surrender must be unquestioning; the devotee cannot bargain with the Lord or demand favors at His hands. Such entire surrender comprises all: it is jñāna and vairāgya, Devotion and Love.

Q: Cannot grace hasten ripeness in the seeker? A: Leave it all to the Master. Surrender to him without reserve. One of two things must be done: either surrender yourself, because you realize your inability and need a Higher Power to help you; or investigate the cause of misery, go into the Source, and so merge in the Self. Either way, you will be free from misery. God or Guru never forsakes the devotee who has surrendered himself.

from The Spiritual Teaching of Ramana Maharshi

[memphisflash]

📖 The below excerpts are from the book "Priscilla, Elvis & Me" by Michael Edwards. (source: Karine Blanc on FB.)

I want to indicate, as it’s important to note, that Michael Edward's behaviour towards Lisa and his obsession with a child was repellant and sickening. I want to emphasise that in no way do I think he was a decent guy, nor will I ever justify his behaviour's or character !

I'm putting these excerpts up because it demonstrates just how unfair at times, Lisa's life was with her mother. I think after reading this book which I read 6 years ago and read over again more recently, that this was the book that opened my eyes real wide to the personality and self centred persona of Priscilla Beaulieu. Her mothering instincts I feel were shocking at times and her inability to be faithful to any man is extremely telling.

Priscilla moved in Mike Edwards as soon as she moved Elie Ezerzer out. She moved Elie in after Mike Stone and Robert Kardashian. She was with Mike Edwards from 1978 until 1984, a 6 year relationship where Michael has indicated that she cheated on him with at least 4 men within that time. He cheated also.

What stood out was her manipulative behaviour and her deceitful character, constant lies and secrets. Another issue that alarmed me was that after Priscilla caught him taking Pictures of Lisa out at the pool in make up, she approached him in a jealous manner asking "Isn't she a bit young for you Michael"? A normal mother would have seen the dangers and instantly thrown him out for good, but no, Priscilla pursued her highly sexual relationship with him and after 2 times were she witnessed unacceptable behaviours, continued to live with him and allow him to be a babysitter to her young daughter whilst she pursued her need for stardom.

🗒️ The below extract is regarding Michael's daughter and Lisa sneaking out for some drinks when they were teenagers.

"When we drove up, Lisa and Caroline were so scared they went crying into Caroline's bedroom. Grace told them not to worry, we wouldn't hurt them. I went inside the house and got the girls.

"Priscilla wants to see you both," I said.

When Priscilla saw them come to the doorway, she walked up to them.

"I'm so disgusted with you, I can't believe you," she said.

Before either one of them knew what had happened, Priscilla reared back, swung, and slapped Caroline in the face in the exact spot her boyfriend had slugged her in.

Then she swung again, fast, and slapped Lisa.

Caroline turned and ran like lightning, and Lisa was directly behind her. I blocked Lisa, and Priscilla grabbed her by the hair. She dragged Lisa to the back seat of my mother's Cadillac in the driveway, where she started spanking her.

Lisa was screaming at the top of her lungs, and Priscilla was trying to hold her mouth with one hand while hitting her with the other.

Grace and I were in the doorway, and Grace said, "If you don't go out there and stop that, l'm going to” !

At that point, the police pulled up. Grace and I went out to the patrol car and tried to explain that everything was okay, we'd just had a family misunderstanding. The cops walked up to the back of my mother's car and shone their flashlights on Priscilla and Lisa in the back seat.

At that point, the police pulled up. Grace and I went out to the patrol car and tried to explain that everything was okay, we'd just had a family misunderstanding. The cops walked up to the back of my mother's car and shone their flashlights on Priscilla and Lisa in the back seat.

Priscilla had seen the patrol car coming and when the cops asked Lisa how she was, she made Lisa say she was fine.

The cops had no idea what they were investigating in the back of the Cadillac".

🗒️The below excerpt is regarding the housekeepers leaving after Priscilla moved Mike in. Lisa loved them and spent most of her time with them as they made her feel like she had a family ....

"Nearing twelve, Lisa was beginning to blossom, and it was clear that she was going to be a beauty. She resembled Elvis to an extraordinary degree, and looked more like his twin than his daughter. She had the same hairline, eye-brows, and heavy lids. Her hair was light brown, like Elvis's before he dyed it black, and her eyes were pale blue.

In the privacy of her room, she loved to listen to blaring rock 'n' roll. Dressed in black tights like her favorite singer at the time, Pat Benatar, she clutched a toy microphone as she sang along with the records and danced in front of the mirror. Occasionally Lisa played her dad's records, but when she did she always turned the volume down, as if keeping him to herself.

When I got home each evening, I often found her visiting in the servants quarters, watching the soaps with the live-in couple. She looked quite at home, curled up in their bed while the couple sat nearby on the sofa.

The live-in couple were very much a part of the family.

Weekends they spent alone in their room, watching television -Lisa loved the couple like family and didn't want any strangers taking their place.

"What am I supposed to do now?" she asked me. "Who have I got to talk to?"

She was just beginning to accept my moving in, and was upset over yet another change in the household. She continued to remind me that I was to blame for her losing the couple.

"I want to go back to Memphis," she said. "I don't like it here any more."

Graceland had been Elvis's sanctuary and he'd returned there regularly, just as Lisa wanted to do now. Elvis had kept his family together there throughout his life.

"Lisa, they wanted to leave anyway," Priscilla said.

"No, they didn't."

“It was a horrendous period for Lisa, who continued to grieve over her loss of the live-in couple. She was becoming more and more introverted. Priscilla and I were so wrapped up in each other and preoccupied with nightlife, being photographed, skiing, condo-buying in Colorado, charity events, Boozing and having lost weekends together, that Lisa was constantly being left with her grandparents or with Priscilla's sister."

Priscilla was in a relationship and living with Mike Edwards longer than she was married to Elvis.

They were together 6 years.

[uncomplicatedbookreviews]

Author: Martha Wells

Series: Murderbot Diaries (#4)

My rating: 10/10 ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Goodreads: 4.39/5

Date Read: December 2023

"I don’t want to be human." "That’s not an attitude a lot of humans are going to understand." ----------------------------

Plot Summary: Murderbot travels back to Preservation Station after discovering that her old owner, and possibly friend, Dr. Mensah is in danger and it might be partially Murderbot's fault. Murderbot must navigate it's biggest security challenge to protect Dr. Mensah and the rest of the Preservation expedition team long enough for the evidence against GrayCris to stop their murderous plans.

TL:DR: A high octane conclusion to the first story arc of the Murderbot series. This book delivers on both the action sequences seen in the previous installations as well as the emotional inner monologue of a robot figuring out what it means to be a 'person'.

Characters:

Murderbot, Dr. Mensah, The Expedition Team - They're all back baby and better than ever! All of our favorite characters from the first book in the series return in this one to provide support to Murderbot's final stand against GrayCris (and maybe some emotional support too, but we don't talk about that.)

Thoughts and Feelings: These books just never stop hitting and I love every second of it. One of my favorite things about the first four novellas that make up the original Murderbot Diaries is the fact that they manage to span a wide range of book archetypes. The first one was a pure action adventure where Murderbot is fighting forces of evil to save it's humans, the second and third book spend some time delving into the murder mystery/thriller type of events while Murderbot investigates the shady dealings of GrayCris and ultimately help save human lives, and this fourth one comes across as part political thriller because it revolves around protecting Dr. Mensah and ensuring that GrayCris is punished for their actions. With A LOT of action of course.

This book brings Murderbot's experiences as a free agent back to it's beginning with the Preservation team and it resolves a lot of the questions that have appeared throughout the previous books. Most impactful for me is the fact that Murderbot is forced to reckon with the fact that it legitimately cares for Dr. Mensah and the Expedition team beyond a contract obligation to keep them safe. Murderbot cares for these people, that is uncomfortable for Murderbot, but it has to learn to allow that discomfort to persist because it's not able to completely turn away from them. Murderbot self identifies as this cold and calculating machine that is dangerous and it fights against the reality that it has feelings just as intensely (and maybe more intensely) as the humans it is surrounded by. Reading about Murderbot's inner thoughts and processing, or lack of processing of these new emotions is fascinating. I find Murderbot highly relatable at times. The inability or unwillingness to face interpersonal relationship struggles and inconvenient emotions is something I think people can identify with.

The action of these books is wild, fast paced, and it hits the mark every time. Ultimately I am happy that there are more books in this series because there is so much more that I want to see explored.

[applandpan]

Drv3 save me from finals please drv3 can you listen to me… it was a mistake to get back into it before testing

But honestly, going through the game again is just so mind opening because of how the events lead up to each other and how it’s foreshadowed I love it

And while I was thinking on my bed about Shuichi and Kokichi, I was like “wow, they’re both paradoxes in a way.” Shuichi is a detective afraid of finding the truth and Kokichi’s lies (which define him) are paradoxes. His lies, while seeming to be false, when looked through further reveal truth to them. It’s better explained by this definition though:

“a seemingly absurd or self-contradictory statement or proposition that when investigated or explained may prove to be well founded or true.”

The point that he was trying to get across through his lies and remarks to the other students was not to blindly trust anyone, even if they’re your friends. I think it shines the most in chapter 4 when he’s betrayed by Miu and is inadvertently the cause of Gonta’s death as a result of his inability to defend himself, but it also shines soooo well in chapter 5….