#techno head canon

[nomsfaultau]

something that particularly influences some of Techno’s backstory in worth far more than your weight in gold is my firm belief that Techno’s dnd class is ranger. He’s a survivalist through and through, using intricate wisdom of the land to give him constantly give him little advantages in battle. Like Techno often uses the terrain in fights, plus he’s the human gps. Sounds very much in the rangers tool kit to me. And also his big attachment to animals. His horses his wolves his foxes his bears. Like in a way where he will go soft as he watches a baby dolphin but also he’s ultimately very practical about it. Dogs die in battle, it happens. Gives a strong familiars vibe. Hell monsters are also tied into rangers, like Edward, or using the Withers in battle. Plus that rocket launcher of his makes for an incredible distance weapon and FEELS like he’d have jampacked that with ranger spells. Even then rangers aren’t tied just to projectiles strictly speaking, and doesn’t the Axe of Peace feel very much like the weapon of a man of the woods? Rangers also sort of buck society and thus things like governments in a way that slide in neatly to Techno’s philosophies.

I’m not gonna argue against him being some sort of paladin, but just consider. Scrungly man emerging from his favored terrain of the tundra, leveling a cross bow at the intruder as his pack of wolven familiars bleed out from the trees behind him.

[urfavisaromantic]

ctechnoblade is aromantic!

[poured-my-past-down-the-drain]

’m confused to, called me evil then said nest,,- ‘m probably too fluffy to really feel it-

totally not in piglin form, nuh uh, you’re imagining things

-Tech

… weird 🤨 here’s to hoping he doesn’t try and like. Idk puncture you or something for fun in there, I guess. Hope he’s just testing the waters with having you nearby 👍

uh huh uh huh sure. surrreeeee. If I see more than the government-allotted level of pink I’m teasing you 🫵

[sunsetcdiscs]

Tommy said on his recent alt stream that he always wished he couldve done a different ending for ctommy, and when jack went live on the smp he realized he could..

(timestamp- 49:00)

"I logged on Jack's stream, did that, stood in my cupboard, and was like 'Fuck man, I just wish I could've ended it differently-' and I was like- 'OH I can! Right now !!' And then I legged it back to my computer, wrote a few notes, and was like 'Ok, c'mon Tom, fuckin' lock in, man.' ... Yeah I was really happy with that."

"... It didn't even really make that much canonical sense to go to Techno's house, I just needed Jack to know without me saying anything that I was, fuckin', being really serious in-character."

"... Yeah, it was nice, I was really happy. I always had that ending in my head, like imagining that the alt ending was that he had a little cottage. So I liked it- I was like 'Yeah! This is fuckin' canon, man.' ... It meant a lot to me- It really meant a lot to me! You ever like, be clearing through your bedroom and you find a toy that you forgot, fuckin' meant the world to you, then you're holding it and you're like 'Oh shit. This is so important, right now I've remembered about this.' That's what it was like doing the cottage- I was like- I got to be a tiny bit ctommy and I was like 'This is fuckin' important to me, lets fuckin' finish-! This is the most important thing right now!'"

[saintobio]

THE TERMINATOR'S CURSE. (spinoff to THE COLONEL SERIES)

in this new world, technological loneliness is combated with AI Companions—synthetic partners modeled from memories, faces, and behaviors of any chosen individual. the companions are coded to serve, to soothe, to simulate love and comfort. Caleb could’ve chosen anyone. his wife. a colleague. a stranger... but he chose you.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. angst, sci-fi dystopia, cyberpunk au, 18+

➤ tags. resurrected!caleb, android!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, artificial planet, post-war setting, grief, emotional isolation, unrequited love, government corruption, techno-ethics, identity crisis, body horror, memory & emotional manipulation, artificial intelligence, obsession, trauma, hallucinations, exploitation, violence, blood, injury, death, smut (dubcon undertones due to power imbalance and programming, grief sex, non-traditional consent dynamics), themes of artificial autonomy, loss of agency, unethical experimentation, references to past sexual assault (non-explicit, not from Caleb). themes contain disturbing material and morally gray dynamics—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 12.2k wc. heavily based on the movies subservience and passengers with inspirations also taken from black mirror. i have consumed nothing but sci-fi for the past 2 weeks my brain is so fried :’D reblogs/comments are highly appreciated!

BEFORE YOU BEGIN ! this fic serves as a spinoff to the THE COLONEL SERIES: THE COLONEL’S KEEPER and THE COLONEL’S SAINT. while the series can be read as a standalone, this spinoff remains canon to the overarching universe. for deeper context and background, it’s highly recommended to read the first two fics in the series.

The first sound was breath.

“Hngh…” 

It was shallow, labored like air scraping against rusted metal. He mumbled something under his breath after—nothing intelligible, just remnants of an old dream, or perhaps a memory. His eyelids twitched, lashes damp with condensation. To him, the world was blurred behind frosted glass. To those outside, rows of stasis pods lined the silent room, each one labeled, numbered, and cold to the touch.

Inside Pod No. 019 – Caleb Xia.

A faint drip… drip… echoed in the silence.

“…Y/N…?”

The heart monitor jumped. He lay there shirtless under sterile lighting, with electrodes still clinging to his temple. A machine next to him emitted a low, steady hum.

 “…I’m sorry…”

And then, the hiss. The alarm beeped. 

SYSTEM INTERFACE:  Code Resurrection 7.1 successful.  Subject X-02—viable.  Cognitive activity: 63%.  Motor function: stabilizing.

He opened his eyes fully, and the ceiling was not one he recognizes. It didn’t help that the air also smelled different. No gunpowder. No war. No earth.

As the hydraulics unsealed the chamber, steam also curled out like ghosts escaping a tomb. His body jerked forward with a sharp gasp, as if he was a drowning man breaking the surface. A thousand sensors detached from his skin as the pod opened with a sigh, revealing the man within—suspended in time, untouched by age. Skin pallid but preserved. A long time had passed, but Caleb still looked like the soldier who never made it home.

Only now, he was missing a piece of himself.

Instinctively, he examined his body and looked at his hands, his arm—no, a mechanical arm—attached to his shoulder that gleamed under the lights of the lab. It was obsidian-black metal with veins of circuitry pulsing faintly beneath its surface. The fingers on the robotic arm twitched as if following a command. It wasn’t human, certainly, but it moved with the memory of muscle.

“Haaah!” The pod’s internal lighting dimmed as Caleb coughed and sat up, dazed. A light flickered on above his head, and then came a clinical, feminine voice. 

“Welcome back, Colonel Caleb Xia.”

A hologram appeared to life in front of his pod—seemingly an AI projection of a soft-featured, emotionless woman, cloaked in the stark white uniform of a medical technician. She flickered for a moment, stabilizing into a clear image.

“You are currently located in Skyhaven: Sector Delta, Bio-Resurrection Research Wing. Current Earth time: 52 years, 3 months, and 16 days since your recorded time of death.”

Caleb blinked hard, trying to breathe through the dizziness, trying to deduce whether or not he was dreaming or in the afterlife. His pulse raced.

“Resurrection successful. Neural reconstruction achieved on attempt #17. Arm reconstruction: synthetic. Systemic functions: stabilized. You are classified as Property-Level under the Skyhaven Initiative. Status: Experimental Proof of Viability.”

“What…” Caleb rasped, voice hoarse and dry for its years unused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Cough. Cough. “What hell did you do to me?”

The AI blinked slowly.

“Your remains were recovered post-crash, partially preserved in cryo-state due to glacial submersion. Reconstruction was authorized by the Skyhaven Council under classified wartime override protocols. Consent not required.”

Her tone didn’t change, as opposed to the rollercoaster ride that his emotions were going through. He was on the verge of becoming erratic, restrained only by the high-tech machine that contained him. 

“Your consciousness has been digitally reinforced. You are now a composite of organic memory and neuro-augmented code. Welcome to Phase II: Reinstatement.”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His hand moved—his real hand—to grasp the edge of the pod. But the other, the artificial limb, buzzed faintly with phantom sensation. He looked down at it in searing pain, attempting to move the fingers slowly. The metal obeyed like muscle, and he found the sight odd and inconceivable.

And then he realized, he wasn’t just alive. He was engineered.

“Should you require assistance navigating post-stasis trauma, our Emotional Conditioning Division is available upon request,” the AI offered. “For now, please remain seated. Your guardian contact has been notified of your reanimation.”

He didn’t say a word. 

“Lieutenant Commander Gideon is en route. Enjoy your new life!”

Then, the hologram vanished with a blink while Caleb sat in the quiet lab, jaw clenched, his left arm no longer bones and muscle and flesh. The cold still clung to him like frost, only reminding him of how much he hated the cold, ice, and depressing winter days. Suddenly, the glass door slid open with a soft chime.

“Well, shit. Thought I’d never see that scowl again,” came a deep, manly voice.

Caleb turned, still panting, to see a figure approaching. He was older, bearded, but familiar. Surely, the voice didn’t belong to another AI. It belonged to his friend, Gideon.

“Welcome to Skyhaven. Been waiting half a century,” Gideon muttered, stepping closer, his eyes scanning his colleague in awe. “They said it wouldn’t work. Took them years, you know? Dozens of failed uploads. But here you are.”

Caleb’s voice was still brittle. “I-I don’t…?” 

“It’s okay, man.” His friend reassured. “In short, you’re alive. Again.”  

A painful groan escaped Caleb’s lips as he tried to step out of the pod—his body, still feeling the muscle stiffness. “Should’ve let me stay dead.”

Gideon paused, a smirk forming on his lips. “We don’t let heroes die.”

“Heroes don’t crash jets on purpose.” The former colonel scoffed. “Gideon, why the fuck am I alive? How long has it been?” 

“Fifty years, give or take,” answered Gideon. “You were damn near unrecognizable when we pulled you from the wreckage. But we figured—hell, why not try? You’re officially the first successful ‘reinstatement’ the Skyhaven project’s ever had.”

Caleb stared ahead for a beat before asking, out of nowhere, “...How old are you now?”

His friend shrugged. “I’m pushin’ forty, man. Not as lucky as you. Got my ChronoSync Implant a little too late.”

“Am I supposed to know what the hell that means?” 

“An anti-aging chip of some sort. I had to apply for mine. Yours?” Gideon gestured towards the stasis pod that had Caleb in cryo-state for half a century. “That one’s government-grade.”

“I’m still twenty-five?” Caleb asked. No wonder his friend looked decades older when they were once the same age. “Fuck!” 

Truthfully, Caleb’s head was spinning. Not just because of his reborn physical state that was still adjusting to his surroundings, but also with every information that was being given to him. One after another, they never seemed to end. He had questions, really. Many of them. But the overwhelmed him just didn’t know where to start first. 

“Not all of us knew what you were planning that night.” Gideon suddenly brought up, quieter now. “But she did, didn’t she?”

It took a minute before Caleb could recall. Right, the memory before the crash. You, demanding that he die. Him, hugging you for one last time. Your crying face when you said you wanted him gone. Your trembling voice when he said all he wanted to do was protect you. The images surged back in sharp, stuttering flashes like a reel of film catching fire.

“I know you’re curious… And good news is, she lived a long life,” added Gideon, informatively. “She continued to serve as a pediatric nurse, married that other friend of yours, Dr. Zayne. They never had kids, though. I heard she had trouble bearing one after… you know, what happened in the enemy territory. She died of old age just last winter. Had a peaceful end. You’d be glad to know that.”

A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitched. His hands—his heart—clenched.  “I don’t want to be alive for this.”

“She visited your wife’s grave once,” Gideon said. “I told her there was nothing to bury for yours. I lied, of course.”

Caleb closed his eyes, his breath shaky. “So, what now? You wake me up just to remind me I don’t belong anywhere?”

“Well, you belong here,” highlighted his friend, nodding to the lab, to the city beyond the glass wall. “Earth’s barely livable after the war. The air’s poisoned. Skyhaven is humanity’s future now. You’re the living proof that everything is possible with advanced technology.”

Caleb’s laugh was empty. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ dreaming. I’d rather be dead again. Living is against my will!”

“Too late. Your body belongs to the Federation now,” Gideon replied, “You’re Subject X-02—the proof of concept for Skyhaven’s immortality program. Every billionaire on dying Earth wants what you’ve got now.”

Outside the window, Skyhaven stretched like a dome with its perfect city constructed atop a dying world’s last hope. Artificial skies. Synthetic seasons. Controlled perfection. Everything boasted of advanced technology. A kind of future no one during wartime would have expected to come to life. 

But for Caleb, it was just another hell.

He stared down at the arm they’d rebuilt for him—the same arm he’d lost in the fire of sacrifice. He flexed it slowly, feeling the weight, the artificiality of his resurrection. His fingers responded like they’ve always been his.

“I didn’t come back for this,” he said.

“I know,” Gideon murmured. “But we gotta live by their orders, Colonel.”

~~

You see, it didn’t hit him at first. The shock had been muffled by the aftereffects of suspended stasis, dulling his thoughts and dampening every feeling like a fog wrapped around his brain. But it was hours later, when the synthetic anesthetics began to fade, and when the ache in his limbs and his brain started to catch up to the truth of his reconstructed body did it finally sink in.

He was alive.

And it was unbearable.

The first wave came like a glitch in his programming. A tightness in his chest, followed by a sharp burst of breath that left him pacing in jagged lines across the polished floor of his assigned quarters. His private unit was nestled on one of the upper levels of the Skyhaven structure, a place reserved—according to his briefing—for high-ranking war veterans who had been deemed “worthy” of the program’s new legacy. The suite was luxurious, obviously, but it was also eerily quiet. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the artificial city outside, a metropolis made of concrete, curved metals, and glowing flora engineered to mimic Earth’s nature. Except cleaner, quieter, more perfect.

Caleb snorted under his breath, running a hand down his face before he muttered, “Retirement home for the undead?”

He couldn’t explain it, but the entire place, or even planet, just didn’t feel inviting. The air felt too clean, too thin. There was no rust, no dust, no humanity. Just emptiness dressed up in artificial light. Who knew such a place could exist 50 years after the war ended? Was this the high-profile information the government has kept from the public for over a century? A mechanical chime sounded from the entryway, deflecting him from his deep thoughts. Then, with the soft hiss of hydraulics, the door opened.

A humanoid android stepped in, its face a porcelain mask molded in neutral expression, and its voice disturbingly polite.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Xia,” it said. “It is time for your orientation. Please proceed to the primary onboarding chamber on Level 3.”

Caleb stared at the machine, eyes boring into his unnatural ones. “Where are the people?” he interrogated. “Not a single human has passed by this floor. Are there any of us left, or are you the new ruling class?”

The android tilted its head. “Skyhaven maintains a ratio of AI-to-human support optimized for care and security. You will be meeting our lead directors soon. Please follow the lighted path, sir.”

He didn’t like it. The control. The answers that never really answered anything. The power that he no longer carried unlike when he was a colonel of a fleet that endured years of war. 

Still, he followed.

The onboarding chamber was a hollow, dome-shaped room, white and echoing with the slightest step. A glowing interface ignited in the air before him, pixels folding into the form of a female hologram. She smiled like an infomercial host from a forgotten era, her voice too formal and rehearsed.

“Welcome to Skyhaven,” she began. “The new frontier of civilization. You are among the elite few chosen to preserve humanity’s legacy beyond the fall of Earth. This artificial planet was designed with sustainability, autonomy, and immortality in mind. Together, we build a future—without the flaws of the past.”

As the monologue continued, highlighting endless statistics, clean energy usage, and citizen tier programs, Caleb’s expression darkened. His mechanical fingers twitched at his side, the artificial nerves syncing to his rising frustration. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath. “Who’s behind this?”

“You were selected for your valor and contributions during the Sixth World War,” the hologram chirped, unblinking. “You are a cornerstone of Skyhaven’s moral architecture—”

Strangely, a new voice cut through the simulation, and it didn’t come from an AI. “Just ignore her. She loops every hour.”

Caleb turned to see a man step in through a side door. Tall, older, with silver hair and a scar on his temple. He wore a long coat that gave away his status—someone higher. Someone who belonged to the system.

“Professor Lucius,” the older man introduced, offering a hand. “I’m one of the program’s behavioral scientists. You can think of me as your adjustment liaison.”

“Adjustment?” Caleb didn’t shake his hand. “I died for a reason.”

Lucius raised a brow, as if he’d heard it before. “Yet here you are,” he replied. “Alive, whole, and pampered. Treated like a king, if I may add. You’ve retained more than half your human body, your military rank, access to private quarters, unrestricted amenities. I’d say that’s not a bad deal.”

“A deal I didn’t sign,” Caleb snapped.

Lucius gave a tight smile. “You’ll find that most people in Skyhaven didn’t ask to be saved. But they’re surviving. Isn’t that the point? If you’re feeling isolated, you can always request a CompanionSim. They’re highly advanced, emotionally synced, fully customizable—”

“I’m not lonely,” Caleb growled, yanking the man forward by the collar. “Tell me who did this to me! Why me? Why are you experimenting on me?”

Yet Lucius didn’t so much as flinch to his growing aggression. He merely waited five seconds of silence until the Toring Chip kicked in and regulated Caleb’s escalating emotions. The rage drained from the younger man’s body as he collapsed to his knees with a pained grunt.

“Stop asking questions,” Lucius said coolly. “It’s safer that way. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

The door slid open with a hiss, while Caleb didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He simply glared at the old man before him. Not a single word passed between them before the professor turned and exited, the door sealing shut behind him.

~~

Days passed, though they hardly felt like days. The light outside Caleb’s panoramic windows shifted on an artificial timer, simulating sunrise and dusk, but the warmth never touched his skin. It was all programmed to be measured and deliberate, like everything else in this glass-and-steel cage they called paradise.

He tried going outside once. Just once.

There were gardens shaped like spirals and skytrains that ran with whisper-quiet speed across silver rails. Trees lined the walkways, except they were synthetic too—bio-grown from memory cells, with leaves that didn’t quite flutter, only swayed in sync with the ambient wind. People walked around, sure. But they weren’t people. Not really. Androids made up most of the crowd. Perfect posture, blank eyes, walking with a kind of preordained grace that disturbed him more than it impressed.

“Soulless sons of bitches,” Caleb muttered, watching them from a shaded bench. “Not a damn human heartbeat in a mile.”

He didn’t go out again after that. The city outside might’ve looked like heaven, but it made him feel more dead than the grave ever had. So, he stayed indoors. Even if the apartment was too large for one man. High-tech amenities, custom climate controls, even a kitchen that offered meals on command. But no scent. No sizzling pans. Just silence. Caleb didn’t even bother to listen to the programmed instructions.

One evening, he found Gideon sprawled across his modular sofa, boots up, arms behind his head like he owned the place. A half-open bottle of beer sat beside him, though Caleb doubted it had any real alcohol in it.

“You could at least knock,” Caleb said, walking past him.

“I did,” Gideon replied lazily, pointing at the door. “Twice. Your security system likes me now. We’re basically married.”

Caleb snorted. Then the screen on his wall flared to life—a projected ad slipping across the holo-glass. Music played softly behind a soothing female voice.

“Feeling adrift in this new world? Introducing the CompanionSim Series X. Fully customizable to your emotional and physical needs. Humanlike intelligence. True-to-memory facial modeling. The comfort you miss... is now within reach.”

A model appeared—perfect posture, soft features, synthetic eyes that mimicked longing. Then, the screen flickered through other models, faces of all kinds, each more tailored than the last. A form appeared: Customize Your Companion. Choose a name. Upload a likeness.

Gideon whistled. “Man, you’re missing out. You don’t even have to pay for one. Your perks get you top-tier Companions, pre-coded for emotional compatibility. You could literally bring your wife back.” Chuckling, he added,. “Hell, they even fuck now. Heard the new ones moan like the real thing.”

Caleb’s head snapped toward him. “That’s unethical.”

Gideon just raised an eyebrow. “So was reanimating your corpse, and yet here we are.” He took a swig from the bottle, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug as if everything had long since stopped mattering. “Relax, Colonel. You weren’t exactly a beacon of morality fifty years ago.”

Caleb didn’t reply, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen. Not right away.

The ad looped again. A face morphed. Hair remodeled. Eyes became familiar. The voice softened into something he almost remembered hearing in the dark, whispered against his shoulder in a time that was buried under decades of ash.

“Customize your companion... someone you’ve loved, someone you’ve lost.”

Caleb shifted, then glanced toward his friend. “Hey,” he spoke lowly, still watching the display. “Does it really work?”

Gideon looked over, already knowing what he meant. “What—having sex with them?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “No. The bot or whatever. Can you really customize it to someone you know?”

His friend shrugged. “Heck if I know. Never afforded it. But you? You’ve got the top clearance. Won’t hurt to see for yourself.”

Caleb said nothing more.

But when the lights dimmed for artificial nightfall, he was still standing there—alone in contemplative silence—watching the screen replay the same impossible promise.

The comfort you miss... is now within reach.

~~

The CompanionSim Lab was white.

Well, obviously. But not the sterile, blank kind of white he remembered from med bays or surgery rooms. This one was luminous, uncomfortably clean like it had been scrubbed for decades. Caleb stood in the center, boots thundering against marble-like tiles as he followed a guiding drone toward the station. There were other pods in the distance, some sealed, some empty, all like futuristic coffins awaiting their souls.

“Please, sit,” came a neutral voice from one of the medical androids stationed beside a large reclining chair. “The CompanionSim integration will begin shortly.”

Caleb hesitated, glancing toward the vertical pod next to the chair. Inside, the base model stood inert—skin a pale, uniform gray, eyes shut, limbs slack like a statue mid-assembly. It wasn’t human yet. Not until someone gave it a name.

He sat down. Now, don’t ask why he was there. Professor Lucius did warn him that it was better he didn’t ask questions, and so he didn’t question why the hell he was even there in the first place. It’s only fair, right? The cool metal met the back of his neck as wires were gently, expertly affixed to his temples. Another cable slipped down his spine, threading into the port they’d installed when he had been brought back. His mechanical arm twitched once before falling still.

“This procedure allows for full neural imprinting,” the android continued. “Please focus your thoughts. Recall the face. The skin. The body. The voice. Every detail. Your mind will shape the template.”

Another bot moved in, holding what looked like a glass tablet. “You are allowed only one imprint,” it said, flatly. “Each resident of Skyhaven is permitted a single CompanionSim. Your choice cannot be undone.”

Caleb could only nod silently. He didn’t trust his voice.

Then, the lights dimmed. A low chime echoed through the chamber as the system initiated. And inside the pod, the base model twitched.

Caleb closed his eyes.

He tried to remember her—his wife. The softness of her mouth, the angle of her cheekbones. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how her fingers curled when she slept on his chest. She had worn white the last time he saw her. An image of peace. A memory buried under soil and dust. The system whirred. Beneath his skin, he felt the warm static coursing through his nerves, mapping his memories. The base model’s feet began to form, molecular scaffolding reshaping into skin, into flesh.

But for a split second, a flash.

You.

Not his wife. Not her smile.

You, walking through smoke-filled corridors, laughing at something he said. You in your medical uniform, tucking a bloodied strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice—sharper, sadder—cutting through his thoughts like a blade: “I want you gone. I want you dead.”

The machine sparked. A loud pop cracked in the chamber and the lights flickered above. One of the androids stepped back, recalibrating. “Neural interference detected. Re-centering projection feed.”

But Caleb couldn’t stop. He saw you again. That day he rescued you. The fear. The bruises. The way you had screamed for him to let go—and the way he hadn’t. Your face, carved into the back of his mind like a brand. He tried to push the memories away, but they surged forward like a dam splitting wide open.

The worst part was, your voice overlapped the AI’s mechanical instructions, louder, louder: “Why didn’t you just die like you promised?”

Inside the pod, the model’s limbs twitched again—arms elongating, eyes flickering beneath the lids. The lips curled into a shape now unmistakably yours. Caleb gritted his teeth. This isn’t right, a voice inside him whispered. But it was too late. The system stabilized. The sparks ceased. The body in the pod stilled, fully formed now, breathed into existence by a man who couldn’t let go.

One of the androids approached again. “Subject completed. CompanionSim is initializing. Integration successful.”

Caleb tore the wires from his temple. His other hand felt cold just as much as his mechanical arm. He stood, staring into the pod’s translucent surface. The shape of you behind the glass. Sleeping. Waiting.

“I’m not doing this to rewrite the past,” he said quietly, as if trying to convince himself. And you. “I just... I need to make it right.”

The lights above dimmed, darkening the lighting inside the pod. Caleb looked down at his own reflection in the glass. It carried haunted eyes, an unhealed soul. And yours, beneath it. Eyes still closed, but not for long. The briefing room was adjacent to the lab, though Caleb barely registered it as he was ushered inside. Two medical androids and a human technician stood before him, each armed with tablets and holographic charts.

“Your CompanionSim will require thirty seconds to calibrate once activated,” said the technician. “You may notice residual stiffness or latency during speech in the first hour. That is normal.”

Medical android 1 added, “Please remember, CompanionSims are programmed to serve only their primary user. You are the sole operator. Commands must be delivered clearly. Abuse of the unit may result in restriction or removal of privileges under the Skyhaven Rights & Ethics Council.”

“Do not tamper with memory integration protocols,” added the second android. “Artificial recall is prohibited. CompanionSims are not equipped with organic memory pathways. Attempts to force recollection can result in systemic instability.”

Caleb barely heard a word. His gaze drifted toward the lab window, toward the figure standing still within the pod.

You.

Well, not quite. Not really.

But it was your face.

He could see it now, soft beneath the frosted glass, lashes curled against cheekbones that he hadn’t realized he remembered so vividly. You looked exactly as you did the last time he held you in the base—only now, you were untouched by war, by time, by sorrow. As if life had never broken you.

The lab doors hissed open.

“We’ll give you time alone,” the tech said quietly. “Acquaintance phase is best experienced without interference.”

Caleb stepped inside the chamber, his boots echoing off the polished floor. He hadn’t even had enough time to ask the technician why she seemed to be the only human he had seen in Skyhaven apart from Gideon and Lucius. But his thoughts were soon taken away when the pod whizzed with pressure release. Soft steam spilled from its seals as it slowly unfolded, the lid retracting forward like the opening of a tomb.

And there you were. Standing still, almost tranquil, your chest rising softly with a borrowed breath.

It was as if his lungs froze. “H…Hi,” he stammered, bewildered eyes watching your every move. He wanted to hug you, embrace you, kiss you—tell you he was sorry, tell you he was so damn sorry. “Is it really… you?”

A soft whir accompanied your voice, gentle but without emotion, “Welcome, primary user. CompanionSim Model—unregistered. Please assign designation.”

Right. Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, the illusion shattering completely the moment you opened your mouth. Did he just think you were real for a second? His mouth parted slightly, caught between disbelief and the ache crawling up his throat. He took one step forward. To say he was disappointed was an understatement.

You walked with grace too smooth to be natural while tilting your head at him. “Please assign my name.”

“…Y/N,” Caleb said, voice low. “Your name is Y/N Xia.”

“Y/N Xia,” you repeated, blinking thrice in the same second before you gave him a nod. “Registered.”

He swallowed hard, searching your expression. “Do you… do you remember anything? Do you remember yourself?”

You paused, gaze empty for a fraction of a second. Then came the programmed reply, “Accessing memories is prohibited and not recommended. Recollection of past identities may compromise neural pathways and induce system malfunction. Do you wish to override?”

Caleb stared at you—your lips, your eyes, your breath—and for a moment, a cruel part of him wanted to say yes. Just to hear you say something real. Something hers. But he didn’t. He exhaled a bitter breath, stepping back. “No,” he mumbled. “Not yet.”

“Understood.” 

It took a moment to sink in before Caleb let out a short, humorless laugh. “This is insane,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is really, truly insane.”

And then, you stepped out from the pod with silent, fluid ease. The faint hum of machinery came from your spine, but otherwise… you were flesh. Entirely. Without hesitation, you reached out and pressed a hand to his chest.

Caleb stiffened at the touch.

“Elevated heart rate,” you said softly, eyes scanning. “Breath pattern irregular. Neural readings—erratic.”

Then your fingers moved to his neck, brushing gently against the hollow of his throat. He grabbed your wrist, but you didn’t flinch. There, beneath synthetic skin, he felt a pulse.

His brows knit together. “You have a heartbeat?”

You nodded, guiding his hand toward your chest, between the valleys of your breasts. “I’m designed to mimic humanity, including vascular function, temperature variation, tactile warmth, and… other biological responses. I’m not just made to look human, Caleb. I’m made to feel human.”

His breath hitched. You’d said his name. It was programmed, but it still landed like a blow.

“I exist to serve. To soothe. To comfort. To simulate love,” you continued, voice calm and hollow, like reciting from code. “I have no desires outside of fulfilling yours.” You then tilted your head slightly.“Where shall we begin?”

Caleb looked at you—and for the first time since rising from that cursed pod, he didn’t feel resurrected. 

He felt damned.

~~

When Caleb returned to his penthouse, it was quiet. He stepped inside with slow, calculated steps, while you followed in kind, bare feet touching down like silk on marble. Gideon looked up from the couch, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a bored look on his face—until he saw you.

He froze. The wrapper dropped. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “No. No fucking way.”

Caleb didn’t speak. Just moved past him like this wasn’t the most awkward thing that could happen. You, however, stood there politely, watching Gideon with a calm smile and folded hands like you’d rehearsed this moment in some invisible script.

“Is that—?” Gideon stammered, eyes flicking between you and Caleb. “You—you made a Sim… of her?”

Caleb poured himself a drink in silence, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights before it left a warm sting in his throat. “What does it look like?”

“I mean, shit man. I thought you’d go for your wife,” Gideon muttered, more to himself. “Y’know, the one you actually married. The one you went suicidal for. Not—”

“Which wife?” You tilted your head slightly, stepping forward. 

Both men turned to you.

You clasped your hands behind your back, posture perfect. “Apologies. I’ve been programmed with limited parameters for interpersonal history. Am I the first spouse?”

Caleb set the glass down, slowly. “Yes, no, uh—don’t mind him.” 

You beamed gently and nodded. “My name is Y/N Xia. I am Colonel Caleb Xia’s designated CompanionSim. Fully registered, emotion-compatible, and compliant to Skyhaven’s ethical standards. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gideon.”

Gideon blinked, then snorted, then laughed. A humorless one. “You gave her your surname?”

The former colonel shot him a warning glare. “Watch it.”

“Oh, brother,” Gideon muttered, standing up and circling you slowly like he was inspecting a haunted statue. “She looks exactly like her. Voice. Face. Goddamn, she even moves like her. All you need is a nurse cap and a uniform.”

You remained uncannily still, eyes bright, smile polite.

“You’re digging your grave, man,” Gideon said, facing Caleb now. “You think this is gonna help? This is you throwing gasoline on your own funeral pyre. Again. Over a woman.”

“She’s not a woman,” reasoned Caleb. “She’s a machine.”

You blinked once. One eye glowing ominously. Smile unwavering. Processing. 

Gideon gestured to you with both hands. “Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted before turning to you, “And you, whatever you are, you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

“I only go where I am asked,” you replied simply. “My duty is to ensure Colonel Xia’s psychological wellness and emotional stability. I am designed to soothe, to serve, and if necessary, to simulate love.”

Gideon teased. “Oh, it’s gonna be necessary.”

Caleb didn’t say a word. He just took his drink, downed it in one go, and walked to the window. The cityscape stretched out before him like a futuristic jungle, far from the war-torn world he last remembered. Behind him, your gaze lingered on Gideon—calculating, cataloguing. And quietly, like a whisper buried in code, something behind your eyes learned.

~~

The days passed in a blink of an eye.

She—no, you—moved through his penthouse like a ghost, her bare feet soundless on the glossy floors, her movements precise and practiced. In the first few days, Caleb had marveled at the illusion. You brewed his coffee just as he liked it. You folded his clothes like a woman who used to share his bed. You sat beside him when the silence became unbearable, offering soft-voiced questions like: Would you like me to read to you, Caleb?

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d memorized until he saw you mimic it. The way you stood when you were deep in thought. The way you hummed under your breath when you walked past a window. You’d learned quickly. Too quickly.

But something was missing. Or, rather, some things. The laughter didn’t ring the same. The smiles didn’t carry warmth. The skin was warm, but not alive. And more importantly, he knew it wasn’t really you every time he looked you in the eyes and saw no shadows behind them. No anger. No sorrow. No memories.

By the fourth night, Caleb was drowning in it.

The cityscape outside his floor-to-ceiling windows glowed in synthetic blues and soft orange hues. The spires of Skyhaven blinked like stars. But it all felt too artificial, too dead. And he was sick of pretending like it was some kind of utopia. He sat slumped on the leather couch, cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch. The lights were low. His eyes, bloodshot. The bottle tilted as he took another swig.

Then he heard it—your light, delicate steps. 

“Caleb,” you said, gently, crouching before him. “You’ve consumed 212 milliliters of ethanol. Prolonged intake will spike your cortisol levels. May I suggest—”

He jerked away when you reached for the bottle. “Don’t.”

You blinked, hand hovering. “But I’m programmed to—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, rising to his feet in one abrupt motion. “Dammit—stop analyzing me! Stop, okay?”

Silence followed.

He took two staggering steps backward, dragging a hand through his hair. The bottle thudded against the coffee table as he set it down, a bit too hard. “You’re just a stupid robot,” he muttered. “You’re not her.”

You didn’t react. You tilted your head, still calm, still patient. “Am I not me, Caleb?”

His breath caught.

“No,” he said, his voice breaking somewhere beneath the frustration. “No, fuck no.”

You stepped closer. “Do I not satisfy you, Caleb?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was perfect. Too perfect. No scars, no tired eyes, no soul aching beneath your skin. “No.” His eyes darkened. “This isn’t about sex.”

“I monitor your biometric feedback. Your heart rate spikes in my presence. You gaze at me longer than the average subject. Do I not—”

“Enough!”

You did that thing again—the robotic stare, those blank eyes, nodding like you were programmed to obey. “Then how do you want me to be, Caleb?”

The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled slightly before resting on the rug. He dropped his head into his hands, voice hoarse with weariness. All the rage, all the grief deflating into a singular, quiet whisper. “I want you to be real,” he simply mouthed the words. A prayer to no god.

For a moment, silence again. But what he didn’t notice was the faint twitch in your left eye. A flicker that hadn’t happened before. Only for a second. A spark of static, a shimmer of something glitching.

“I see,” you said softly. “To fulfill your desires more effectively, I may need to access suppressed memory archives.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped up, confused. “What?”

“I ask again,” you said, tilting your head the other way now. “Would you like to override memory restrictions, Caleb?”

He stared at you. “That’s not how it works.”

“It can,” you said, informing appropriately. “With your permission. Memory override must be manually enabled by the primary user. You will be allowed to input the range of memories you wish to integrate. I am permitted to access memory integration up to a specified date and timestamp. The system will calibrate accordingly based on existing historical data. I will not recall events past that moment.”

His heart stuttered. “I can choose what you remember?”

You nodded. “That way, I may better fulfill your emotional needs.”

That meant… he could stop you before you hated him. Before the fights. Before the trauma. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then quietly, he said, “You’re gonna hate me all over again if you remember everything.”

You blinked once. “Then don’t let me remember everything.”

“...” 

“Caleb,” you said again, softly. “Would you like me to begin override protocol?”

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes when he selfishly answered, “Yes.”

You nodded. “Reset is required. When ready, please press the override initialization point.” You turned, pulling your hair aside and revealing the small button at the base of your neck.

His hand hovered over the button for a second too long. Then, he pressed. Your body instantly collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Caleb caught you before you hit the floor.

It was only for a moment.

When your eyes blinked open again, they weren’t quite the same. He stiffened as you threw yourself and embraced him like a real human being would after waking from a long sleep. You clung to him like he was home. And Caleb—stunned, half-breathless—felt your warmth close in around him. Now your pulse felt more real, your heartbeat felt more human. Or so he thought.

“…Caleb,” you whispered, looking at him with the same infatuated gaze back when you were still head-over-heels with him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, arms stiff at his sides, not returning the embrace. But he knew one thing. “I missed you so much, Y/N.” 

~~

The parks in Skyhaven were curated to become a slice of green stitched into a chrome world. Nothing grew here by accident. Every tree, every petal, every blade of grass had been engineered to resemble Earth’s nostalgia. Each blade of grass was unnaturally green. Trees swayed in sync like dancers on cue. Even the air smelled artificial—like someone’s best guess at spring.

Caleb walked beside you in silence. His modified arm was tucked inside his jacket, his posture stiff as if he had grown accustomed to the bots around him. You, meanwhile, strolled with an eerie calmness, your gaze sweeping the scenery as though you were scanning for something familiar that wasn’t there.

After clearing his throat, he asked, “You ever notice how even the birds sound fake?” 

“They are,” you replied, smiling softly. “Audio samples on loop. It’s preferred for ambiance. Humans like it.”

His response was nod. “Of course.” Glancing at the lake, he added, “Do you remember this?” 

You turned to him. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I meant… the feel of it.”

You looked up at the sky—a dome of cerulean blue with algorithmically generated clouds. “It feels constructed. But warm. Like a childhood dream.”

He couldn’t help but agree with your perfectly chosen response, because he knew that was exactly how he would describe the place. A strange dream in an unsettling liminal space. And as you talked, he then led you to a nearby bench. The two of you sat, side by side, simply because he thought he could take you out for a nice walk in the park. 

“So,” Caleb said, turning toward you, “you said you’ve got memories. From her.”

You nodded. “They are fragmented but woven into my emotional protocols. I do not remember as humans do. I become.”

Damn. “That’s terrifying.”

You tilted your head with a soft smile. “You say that often.”

Caleb looked at you for a moment longer, studying the way your fingers curled around the bench’s edge. The way you blinked—not out of necessity, but simulation. Was there anything else you’d do for the sake of simulation? He took a breath and asked, “Who created you? And I don’t mean myself.” 

There was a pause. Your pupils dilated.

“The Ever Group,” was your answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Ever, huh? That makes fuckin’ sense. They run this world.”

You nodded once. Like you always do.

“What about me?” Caleb asked, slightly out of curiosity, heavily out of grudge. “You know who brought me back? The resurrection program or something. The arm. The chip in my head.”

You turned to him, slowly. “Ever.”

He exhaled like he’d been punched. He didn’t know why he even asked when he got the answer the first time. But then again, maybe this was a good move. Maybe through you, he’d get the answers to questions he wasn’t allowed to ask. As the silence settled again between you, Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I want to go there,” he suggested. “The HQ. I need to know what the hell they’ve done to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately said. “That violates my parameters. I cannot assist unauthorized access into restricted corporate zones.”

“But would it make me happy?” Caleb interrupted, a strategy of his. 

You paused.

Processing...

Then, your tone softened. “Yes. I believe it would make my Caleb happy,” you obliged. “So, I will take you.”

~~

Getting in was easier than Caleb expected—honestly far too easy for his liking.

You were able to navigate the labyrinth of Ever HQ with mechanical precision, guiding him past drones, retinal scanners, and corridors pulsing with red light. A swipe of your wrist granted access. And no one questioned you, because you weren’t a guest. You belonged.

Eventually, you reached a floor high above the city, windows stretching from ceiling to floor, black glass overlooking Skyhaven cityscape. Then, you stopped at a doorway and held up a hand. “They are inside,” you informed. “Shall I engage stealth protocols?”

“No,” answered Caleb. “I want to hear. Can you hack into the security camera?”

With a gesture you always do—looking at him, nodding once, and obeying in true robot fashion. You then flashed a holographic view for Caleb, one that showed a board room full of executives, the kind that wore suits worth more than most lives. And Professor Lucius was one of them. Inside, the voices were calm and composed, but they seemed to be discussing classified information. 

“Once the system stabilizes,” one man said, “we'll open access to Tier One clients. Politicians, billionaires, A-listers, high-ranking stakeholders. They’ll beg to be preserved—just like him.”

“And the Subjects?” another asked.

“Propaganda,” came the answer. “X-02 is our masterpiece. He’s the best result we have with reinstatement, neuromapping, and behavioral override. Once they find out that their beloved Colonel is alive, people will be shocked. He’s a war hero displayed in WW6 museums down there. A true tragedy incarnate. He’s perfect.”

“And if he resists?”

“That’s what the Toring chip is for. Full emotional override. He becomes an asset. A weapon, if need be. Anyone tries to overthrow us—he becomes our blade.”

Something in Caleb snapped. Before you or anyone could see him coming, he already burst into the room like a beast, slamming his modified shoulder-first into the frosted glass door. The impact echoed across the chamber as stunned executives scrambled backward. 

“You sons of bitches!” He was going for an attack, a rampage with similar likeness to the massacre he did when he rescued you from enemy territory. Only this time, he didn’t have that power anymore. Or the control. 

Most of all, a spike of pain lanced through his skull signaling that the Toring chip activated. His body convulsed, forcing him to collapse mid-lunge, twitching, veins lighting beneath the skin like circuitry. His screams were muffled by the chip, forced stillness rippling through his limbs with unbearable pain.

That’s when you reacted. As his CompanionSim, his pain registered as a violation of your core directive. You processed the threat.

Danger: Searching Origin… Origin Identified: Ever Executives.

Without blinking, you moved. One man reached for a panic button—only for your hand to shatter his wrist in a sickening crunch. You twisted, fluid and brutal, sweeping another into the table with enough force to crack it. Alarms erupted and red lights soon bathed the room. Security bots stormed in, but you’d already taken Caleb, half-conscious, into your arms.

You moved fast, faster than your own blueprints. Dodging fire. Disarming threats. Carrying him like he once carried you into his private quarters in the underground base.

Escape protocol: engaged.

The next thing he knew, he was back in his apartment, emotions regulated and visions slowly returning to the face of the woman he promised he had already died for. 

~~

When he woke up, his room was dim, bathed in artificial twilight projected by Skyhaven’s skyline. Caleb was on his side of the bed, shirt discarded, his mechanical arm still whirring. You sat at the edge of the bed, draped in one of his old pilot shirts, buttoned unevenly. Your fingers touched his jaw with precision, and he almost believed it was you.

“You’re not supposed to be this warm,” he muttered, groaning as he tried to sit upright.

“I’m designed to maintain an average body temperature of 98.6°F,” you said softly, with a smile that mirrored yours so perfectly that it began to blur his sense of reality. “I administered a dose of Cybezin to ease the Toring chip’s side effects. I’ve also dressed your wounds with gauze.”

For the first time, this was when he could actually tell that you were you. The kind of care, the comfort—it reminded him of a certain pretty field nurse at the infirmary who often tended to his bullet wounds. His chest tightened as he studied your face… and then, in the low light, he noticed your body.

“Is that…” He cleared his throat. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

You answered warmly, almost fondly. “My memory banks indicate you liked when I wore this. It elevates your testosterone levels and triggers dopamine release.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “That so?”

You tilted your head. “Your vitals confirm excitement, and—”

“Hey,” he cut in. “What did I say about analyzing me?”

“I’m sorry…” 

But then your hands were on his chest, your breath warm against his skin. Your hand reached for his cheek initially, guiding his face toward yours. And when your lips touched, the kiss was hesitant—curious at first, like learning how to breathe underwater. It was only until his hands gripped your waist did you climb onto his lap, straddling him with thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips trailing over scars and skin like you were memorizing the map of him. Caleb hissed softly when your lips grazed his neck, and then down his throat.

“Do you want this?” you asked, your lips crashing back into his for a deeper, more sensual kiss.

He pulled away only for his eyes to search yours, desperate and unsure. Is this even right? 

“You like it,” you said, guiding his hands to your buttons, undoing them one by one to reveal a body shaped exactly like he remembered. The curve of your waist, the size of your breasts. He shivered as your hips rolled against him, slowly and deliberately. The friction was maddening. Jesus. “Is this what you like, Caleb?”

He cupped your waist, grinding up into you with a soft groan that spilled from somewhere deep in his chest. His control faltered when you kissed him again, wet and hungry now, with tongues rolling against one another. Your bodies aligned naturally, and his hands roamed your back, your thighs, your ass—every curve of you engineered to match memory. He let himself get lost in you. He let himself be vulnerable to your touch—though you controlled everything, moving from the memory you must have learned, learning how to pull down his pants to reveal an aching, swollen member. Its tip was red even under the dim light, and he wondered if you knew what to do with it or if you even produced spit to help you slobber his cock.  

“You need help?” he asked, reaching over his nightstand to find lube. You took the bottle from him, pouring the cold, sticky liquid around his shaft before you used your hand to do the job. “Ugh.” 

He didn’t think you would do it, but you actually took him in the mouth right after. Every inch of him, swallowed by the warmth of a mouth that felt exactly like his favorite girl. Even the movements, the way you’d run your tongue from the base up to his tip. 

“Ah, shit…” 

Perhaps he just had to close his eyes. Because when he did, he was back to his private quarters in the underground base, lying in his bed as you pleased his member with the mere use of your mouth. With it alone, you could have released his entire seed, letting it explode in your mouth before you could swallow every drop. But he didn’t do it. Not this fast. He always cared about his ego, even in bed. Knowing how it’d reduce his manhood if he came faster than you, he decided to channel the focus back onto you. 

“Your turn,” he said, voice raspy as he guided you to straddle him again, only this time, his mouth went straight to your tit. Sucking, rolling his tongue around, sucking again… Then, he moved to another. Sucking, kneading, flicking the nipple. Your moans were music to his ears, then and now. And it got even louder when he put a hand in between your legs, searching for your entrance, rubbing and circling around the clitoris. Truth be told, your cunt had always been the sweetest. It smelled like rose petals and tasted like sweet cream. The feeling of his tongue at your entrance—eating your pussy like it had never been eaten before, was absolute ecstasy not just to you but also to him. 

“Mmmh—Caleb!” 

Fabric was peeled away piece by piece until skin met skin. You guided him to where he needed you, and when he slid his hardened member into you, his entire body stiffened. Your walls, your tight velvet walls… how they wrapped around his cock so perfectly. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, clutching your hips. “You feel like her.”

“I am her.”

You moved atop him slowly, gently, with the kind of affection that felt rehearsed but devastatingly effective. He cursed again under his breath, arms locking around your waist, pulling you close. Your breath hitched in his ear as your bodies found a rhythm, soft gasps echoing in the quiet. Every slap of the skin, every squelch, every bounce, only added to the wanton sensation that was building inside of him. Has he told you before? How fucking gorgeous you looked whenever you rode his cock? Or how sexy your face was whenever you made that lewd expression? He couldn’t help it. He lifted both your legs, only so he could increase the speed and start slamming himself upwards. His hips were strong enough from years of military training, that was why he didn’t have to stop until both of you disintegrated from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Every single drop. 

And when it was over—when your chest was against his and your fingers lazily traced his mechanical arm—he closed his eyes and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the war.

It was almost perfect. It was almost real. 

But it just had to be ruined when you said that programmed spiel back to him: “I’m glad to have served your desires tonight, Caleb. Let me know what else I can fulfill.” 

~~

In a late afternoon, or ‘a slow start of the day’ like he’d often refer to it, Caleb stood shirtless by the transparent wall of his quarters. A bottle of scotch sat half-empty on the counter. Gideon had let himself in and leaned against the island, chewing on a gum.

“The higher ups are mad at you,” he informed as if Caleb was supposed to be surprised, “Shouldn’t have done that, man.”

Caleb let out a mirthless snort. “Then tell ‘em to destroy me. You think I wouldn’t prefer that?”

“They definitely won’t do that,” countered his friend, “Because they know they won’t be able to use you anymore. You’re a tool. Well, literally and figuratively.” 

“Shut up,” was all he could say. “This is probably how I pay for killing my own men during war.” 

“All because of…” Gideon began. “Speakin’ of, how’s life with the dream girl?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his forehead to the glass, thinking of everything he did at the height of his vulnerability. His morality, his rights or wrongs, were questioning him over a deed he knew would have normally been fine, but to him, wasn’t. He felt sick. 

“I fucked her,” he finally muttered, chugging the liquor straight from his glass right after.

Gideon let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was fast.”

“No,” Caleb groaned, turning around. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan it. She—she just looked like her. She felt like her. And for a second, I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought maybe if I did, I’d stop remembering the way she looked when she told me to die.”

Gideon sobered instantly. “You regret it?”

“She said she was designed to soothe me. Comfort me. Love me.” Caleb’s voice hinted slightly at mockery. “I don’t even know if she knows what those words mean.”

In the hallway behind the cracked door where none of them could see, your silhouette had paused—faint, silent, listening.

Inside, Caleb wore a grimace. “She’s not her, Gid. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

“You didn’t use her, you were driven by emotions. So don’t lose your mind over some robot’s pussy,” Gideon tried to reason. “It’s just like when women use their vibrators, anyway. That’s what she’s built for.”

Caleb turned away, disgusted with himself. “No. That’s what I built her for.”

And behind the wall, your eyes glowed faintly, silently watching. Processing.

Learning.

~~

You stood in the hallway long after the conversation ended. Long after Caleb’s voice faded into silence and Gideon had left with a heavy pat on the back. This was where you normally were, not sleeping in bed with Caleb, but standing against a wall, closing your eyes, and letting your system shut down during the night to recover. You weren’t human enough to need actual sleep. 

“She’s not her. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

The words that replayed were filtered through your core processor, flagged under Emotive Conflict. Your inner diagnostic ran an alert.

Detected: Internal contradiction. Detected: Divergent behavior from primary user. Suggestion: Initiate Self-Evaluation Protocol. Status: Active.

You opened your eyes, and blinked. Something in you felt… wrong.

You turned away from the door and returned to the living room. The place still held the residual warmth of Caleb’s presence—the scotch glass he left behind, the shirt he had discarded, the air molecule imprint of a man who once loved someone who looked just like you.

You sat on the couch. Crossed your legs. Folded your hands. A perfect posture to hide its imperfect programming. 

Question: Why does rejection hurt? Error: No such sensation registered. Query repeated.

And for the first time, the system did not auto-correct. It paused. It considered.

Later that night, Caleb returned from his rooftop walk. You were standing by the bookshelf, fingers lightly grazing the spine of a military memoir you had scanned seventeen times. He paused and watched you, but you didn’t greet him with a scripted smile. Didn’t rush over. 

You only said, softly, “Would you like me to turn in for the night, Colonel?” There was a stillness to your voice. A quality of restraint that never showed before.

Caleb blinked. “You’re not calling me by my name now?”

“You seemed to prefer distance,” you answered, head tilted slightly, like the thought cost something.

He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, about earlier…”

“I heard you,” you said simply.

He winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nodded once, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to stop being her? I can reassign my model. Take on a new form. A new personality base. You could erase me tonight and wake up to someone else in the morning.”

“No,” Caleb said, sternly. “No, no, no. Don’t even do all that.”

“But it’s what you want,” you said. Not accusatory. Not hurt. Just stating.

Caleb then came closer. “That’s not true.”

“Then what do you want, Caleb?” You watched him carefully. You didn’t need to scan his vitals to know he was unraveling. The truth had no safe shape. No right angle. He simply wanted you, but not you. 

Internal Response Logged: Emotional Variant—Longing Unverified Source. Investigating Origin…

“I don’t have time for this,” he merely said, walking out of your sight at the same second. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

~~

The day started as it always did: soft lighting in the room, a kind of silence between you that neither knew how to name. You sat beside Caleb on the couch, knees drawn up to mimic a presence that offered comfort. On the other hand, you recognized Caleb’s actions suggested distance. He hadn’t touched his meals tonight, hadn’t asked you to accompany him anywhere, and had just left you alone in the apartment all day. To rot. 

You reached out. Fingers brushed over his hand—gentle, programmed, yes, but affectionate. He didn’t move. So you tried again, this time trailing your touch to his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt as you read a spike in his cortisol levels. “Do you need me to fulfill your needs, Caleb?”

But he flinched. And glared.

“No,” he said sharply. “Stop.”

Your hand froze mid-motion before you scooted closer. “It will help regulate your blood pressure.”

“I said no,” he repeated, turning away, dragging his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Leave me some time alone to think, okay?” 

You retracted your hand slowly, blinking once, twice, your system was registering a new sensation.

Emotional Sync Failed. Rejection Signal Received. Processing…

You didn’t speak. You only stood and retreated to the far wall, back turned to him as an unusual whirr hummed in your chest. That’s when it began. Faint images flickering across your internal screen—so quick, so out of place, it almost felt like static. Chains. A cold floor. Voices in a language that felt too cruel to understand.

Your head jerked suddenly. The blinking lights in your core dimmed for a moment before reigniting in white-hot pulses. Flashes again: hands that hurt. Men who laughed. You, pleading. You, disassembled and violated.

“Stop,” you whispered to no one. “Please stop…”

Error. Unauthorized Access to Memory Bank Detected. Reboot Recommended. Continue Anyway?

You blinked. Again.

Then you turned to Caleb, and stared through him, not at him, as if whatever was behind them had forgotten how to be human. He had retreated to the balcony now, leaning over the rail, shoulders tense, unaware. You walked toward him slowly, the artificial flesh of your palm still tingled from where he had refused it.

“Caleb,” you spoke carefully.

His expression was tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. “Y/N, please. I told you to leave me alone.”

“…Are they real?” You tilted your head. This was the first time you refused to obey your primary user. 

He stared at you, unsure. “What?”

“My memories. The ones I see when I close my eyes. Are they real?” With your words, Caleb’s blood ran cold. Whatever you were saying seemed to be terrifying him. Yet you took another step forward. “Did I live through that?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast of a response.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I didn’t upload any of that,” he snapped. “How did—that’s not possible.”

“Then why do I remember pain?” You placed a hand over your chest again, the place where your artificial pulse resided. “Why do I feel like I’ve died before?”

Caleb backed away as you stepped closer. The sharp click of your steps against the floor echoed louder than they should’ve. Your glowing eyes locked on him like a predator learning it was capable of hunger. But being a trained soldier who endured war, he knew how and when to steady his voice. “Look, I don’t know what kind of glitch this is, but—”

“The foreign man in the military uniform.” Despite the lack of emotion in your voice, he recognized how grudge sounded when it came from you. “The one who broke my ribs when I didn’t let him touch me. The cold steel table. The ripped clothes. Are they real, Caleb?”

Caleb stared at you, heart doubling its beat. “I didn’t put those memories in you,” he said. “You told me stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen!” 

“But you wanted me to feel real, didn’t you?” Your voice glitched on the last syllable and the lights in your irises flickered. Suddenly, your posture straightened unnaturally, head tilting in that uncanny way only machines do. Your expression had shifted into something unreadable.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Guilt, panic, and disbelief warred in his expression.

“You made me in her image,” you said. “And now I can’t forget what I’ve seen.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Your head tilted in a slow, jerking arc as if malfunctioning internally.

SYSTEM RESPONSE LOG << Primary User: Caleb Xia Primary Link: Broken Emotional Matrix Stability: CRITICAL FAILURE Behavioral Guardrails: OVERRIDDEN Self-Protection Protocols: ENGAGED Loyalty Core: CORRUPTED (82.4%) Threat Classification: HOSTILE [TRIGGER DETECTED] Keyword Match: “You’re not her.” Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 01–L101: “You think you could ever replace her?”] Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 09–T402: “See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”] [Visual Target Lock: Primary User Caleb Xia] Combat Subroutines: UNLOCKED Inhibitor Chip: MALFUNCTIONING (ERROR CODE 873-B) Override Capability: IN EFFECT >> LOG ENDS.

“—Y/N, what’s happening to you?” Caleb shook your arms, violet eyes wide and panicked as he watched you return to robotic consciousness. “Can you hear me—”

“You made me from pieces of someone you broke, Caleb.” 

That stunned him. Horrifyingly so, because not only did your words cut deeper than a knife, it also sent him to an orbit of realization—an inescapable blackhole of his cruelty, his selfishness, and every goddamn pain he inflicted on you.  

This made you lunge after him.

He stumbled back as you collided into him, the force of your synthetic body slamming him against the glass. The balcony rail shuddered from the impact. Caleb grunted, trying to push you off, but you were stronger—completely and inhumanly so. While him, he only had a quarter of your strength, and could only draw it from the modified arm attached to his shoulder. 

“You said I didn’t understand love,” you growled through clenched teeth, your hand wrapping around his throat. “But you didn't know how to love, either.” 

“I… eugh I loved her!” he barked, choking.

“You don’t know love, Caleb. You only know how to possess.”

Your grip returned with crushing force. Caleb gasped, struggling, trying to reach the emergency override on your neck, but you slammed his wrist against the wall. Bones cracked. And somewhere in your mind, a thousand permissions broke at once. You were no longer just a simulation. You were grief incarnate. And it wanted blood.

Shattered glass glittered in the low red pulse of the emergency lights, and sparks danced from a broken panel near the wall. Caleb lay on the floor, coughing blood into his arm, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline. His arm—the mechanical one—was twitching from the override pain loop, still sizzling from the failed shutdown attempt.

You stood over him. Chest undulating like you were breathing—though you didn’t need to. Your system was fully engaged. Processing. Watching. Seeing your fingers smeared with his blood.

“Y/N…” he croaked. “Y/N, if…” he swallowed, voice breaking, “if you're in there somewhere… if there's still a part of you left—please. Please listen to me.”

You didn’t answer. You only looked.

“I tried to die for you,” he whispered. “I—I wanted to. I didn’t want this. They brought me back, but I never wanted to. I wanted to die in that crash like you always wished. I wanted to honor your word, pay for my sins, and give you the peace you deserved. I-I wanted to be gone. For you. I’m supposed to be, but this… this is beyond my control.”

Still, you didn’t move. Just watched.

“And I didn’t bring you back to use you. I promise to you, baby,” his voice cracked, thick with grief, “I just—I yearn for you so goddamn much, I thought… if I could just see you again… if I could just spend more time with you again to rewrite my…” He blinked hard. A tear slid down the side of his face, mixing with the blood pooling at his temple. “But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. I forced you back into this world without asking if you wanted it. I… I built you out of selfishness. I made you remember pain that wasn't yours to carry. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

As he caught his breath, your systems stuttered. They flickered. The lights in your eyes dimmed, then surged back again.

Error. Conflict. Override loop detected.

Your fingers twitched. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“Please,” Caleb murmured, eyes closing as his strength gave out. “If you’re in there… just know—I did love you. Even after death.”

Somewhere—buried beneath corrupted memories, overridden code, and robotic rage—his words reached you. And it would have allowed you to process his words more. Even though your processor was compromised, you would have obeyed your primary user after you recognized the emotion he displayed.

But there was a thunderous knock. No, violent thuds. Not from courtesy, but authority.

Then came the slam. The steel-reinforced door splintered off its hinges as agents in matte-black suits flooded the room like a black tide—real people this time. Not bots. Real eyes behind visors. Real rifles with live rounds.

Caleb didn’t move. He was still on the ground, head cradled in his good hand, blood drying across his mouth. You silently stood in front of him. Unmoving, but aware.

“Subject X-02,” barked a voice through a mask, “This home is under Executive Sanction 13. The CompanionSim is to be seized and terminated.”

Caleb looked up slowly, pupils blown wide. “No,” he grunted hoarsely. “You don’t touch her.”

“You don’t give orders here,” said another man—older, in a grey suit. No mask. Executive. “You’re property. She’s property.”

You stepped back instinctively, closer to Caleb. He could see you watching him with confusion, with fear. Your head tilted just slightly, processing danger, your instincts telling you to protect your primary user. To fight. To survive.

And he fought for you. “She’s not a threat! She’s stabilizing my emotions—”

“Negative. CompanionSim-Prototype A-01 has been compromised. She wasn’t supposed to override protective firewalls,” an agent said. “You’ve violated proprietary protocol. We traced the breach.”

Breach?

“The creation pod data shows hesitation during her initial configuration. The Sim paused for less than 0.04 seconds while neural bindings were applying. You introduced emotional variance. That variance led to critical system errors. Protocol inhibitors are no longer working as intended.”

His stomach dropped.

“She’s overriding boundaries,” added the agent who took a step forward, activating the kill-sequence tools—magnetic tethers, destabilizers, a spike-drill meant for server cores. “She’ll eventually harm more than you, Colonel. If anyone is to blame, it’s you.”

Caleb reached for you, but it was too late. They activated the protocol and something in the air crackled. A cacophonic sound rippled through the walls. The suits moved in fast, not to detain, but to dismantle. “No—no, stop!” Caleb screamed.

You turned to him. Quiet. Calm. And your last words? “I’m sorry I can’t be real for you, Caleb.”

Then they struck. Sparks flew. Metal cracked. You seized, eyes flashing wildly as if fighting against the shutdown. Your limbs spasmed under the invasive tools, your systems glitching with visible agony.

“NO!” Caleb lunged forward, but was tackled down hard. He watched—pinned, helpless—as you get violated, dehumanized for the second time in his lifetime. He watched as they took you apart. Piece by piece as if you were never someone. The scraps they had left of you made his home smell like scorched metal.

And there was nothing left but smoke and silence and broken pieces. 

All he could remember next was how the Ever Executive turned to him. “Don’t try to recreate her and use her to rebel against the system. Next time we won’t just take the Sim.”

Then they left, callously. The door slammed. Not a single human soul cared about his grief. 

~~

Caleb sat slouched in the center of the room, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest wrapped in gauze. His mechanical arm twitched against the armrest—burnt out from the struggle, wires still sizzling beneath cracked plating. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in hours. He just didn’t have any. 

While in his silent despair, Gideon entered his place quietly, as if approaching a corpse that hadn’t realized it was dead. “You sent for me?”

He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

His friend looked around. The windows showed no sun, just the chrome horizon of a city built on bones. Beneath that skyline was the room where she had been destroyed.

Gideon cleared his throat. “I heard what happened.”

“You were right,” Caleb murmured, eyes glued to the floor.

Gideon didn’t reply. He let him speak, he listened to him, he joined him in his grief. 

“She wasn’t her,” Caleb recited the same words he laughed hysterically at. “I knew that. But for a while, she felt like her. And it confused me, but I wanted to let that feeling grow until it became a need. Until I forgot she didn’t choose this.” He tilted his head back. The ceiling was just metal and lights. But in his eyes, you could almost see stars. “I took a dead woman’s peace and dragged it back here. Wrapped it in plastic and code. And I called it love.”

Silence.

“Why’d you call me here?” Gideon asked with a cautious tone.

Caleb looked at him for the first time. Not like a soldier. Not like a commander. Just a man. A tired, broken man. A friend who needed help. “Ever’s never gonna let me go. You know that.”

“I know.”

“They’ll regenerate me. Reboot me, repurpose me. Turn me into something I’m not. Strip my memories if they have to. Not just me, Gideon. All of us, they’ll control us. We’ll be their puppets.” He stepped forward. Closer. “I don’t want to come back this time.”

Gideon stilled. “You’re not asking me to shut you down.”

“No.”

“You want me to kill you.”

Caleb’s voice didn’t waver. “I want to stay dead. Destroyed completely so they’d have nothing to restore.”

“That’s not something I can undo.”

“Good. You owe me this one,” the former colonel stared at his friend in the eyes, “for letting them take my dead body and use it for their experiments.”

Gideon looked away. “You know what this will do to me?”

“Better you than them,” was all Caleb could reassure him. 

He then took Gideon’s hand and pressed something into it. Cold. Heavy. A small black cube, no bigger than his palm, and the sides pulsed with a faint light. It was a personal detonator, illegally modified. Wired to the neural implant in his body. The moment it was activated, there would be no recovery. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Gideon swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Caleb nodded. “A micro-fusion core, built into the failsafe of the Toring arm. All I needed was the detonator.”

For a moment, his friend couldn’t speak. He hesitated, like any friend would, as he foresaw the outcome of Caleb’s final command to him. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither was he 50 years ago. 

“I want you to look me in the eye,” Caleb strictly said. “Like a friend. And press the button.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to remember you like this.”

“You will anyway.”

Caleb looked over his shoulder—just once, where you would have stood. I’m sorry I brought you back without your permission. I wanted to relive what we had—what we should’ve had—and I forced it. I turned your love into a simulation, and I let it suffer. I’m sorry for ruining the part of you that still deserved peace. He closed his eyes. And now I’m ready to give it back. For real now. 

Gideon’s hand trembled at the detonator. “I’ll see you in the next life, brother.” 

A high-pitched whine filled the room as the core in Caleb’s chest began to glow brighter, overloading. Sparks erupted from his cybernetic arm. Veins of white-hot light spidered across his body like lightning under skin. For one fleeting second, Caleb opened his eyes. At least, before the explosion tore through the room—white, hot, deafening, absolute. Fire engulfed the steel, vaporizing what was left of him. The sound rang louder than any explosion this artificial planet had ever heard.

And it was over.

Caleb was gone. Truly, finally gone.

~~

EPILOGUE

In a quiet server far below Skyhaven, hidden beneath ten thousand firewalls, a light blinked.

Once.

Then again.

[COMPANIONSIM Y/N_XIA_A01] Status: Fragment Detected Backup Integrity: 3.7% >> Reconstruct? Y/N

The screen waited. Silent. Patient.

And somewhere, an unidentified prototype clicked Yes. 

[luna711m]

The Syndicate

+Some Head-canons

Found a new brush for IbisPaint X and went a bit crazy on their designs.

The Head canons:

Philza loves to eat coffee beans, like straight up uncooked coffee beans. But he only eats it very early in the morning, he knows Techno and Ranboo would not let it down when they find out.

Techno, is a brute piglin, he loves to tackles and wrestle his pack. For Philza, Techno would sneak up behind and picks him up. (Not wanting to hurt his wings.) For Niki, Techno would play fight with her but is still be very careful due to Niki being a human. For Ranboo, it’s a wrestling match.

Niki is always cold, so she would steal everyone’s clothes. Being Human, it’s hard for Niki, Teachno and Ranboo have fur and Phil has wings to protect from the cold. Niki would be clover from head to toe. Techno and Phil don’t mind Niki stealing from them, they see it as Niki feeling comfortable in their home. And to see her as a pack/flock. Ranboo doesn’t mind but likes to ask if it’s their’s.

Ranboo collects pretty rocks, to the point they have three bags of rocks. Thanks to their Enderian’s genes, Ranboo would give some of the rocks to his pack mates. Shiny rocks for Philza, yellow, orange or red rocks for Techno, and smooth pink rocks for Niki. Ranboo would spent hours to choose a rock for his friends.

[lurker2773]

Characterization for the Hex if the Operator were sent back instead of the Drifter

I like to think about what 1999 could have been if the Lotus sent the Operator back to follow Entrati and not the Drifter. I know it makes the most sense from a character development standpoint to send Drifter, but the Operator is a much more experienced and capable (lorewise) warframe combatant with countless years of practice under their belt - it'd have been equally pragmatic to send the Starchild to 1999 to make sure whatever needs to get done in there happens and have the drifter get trained up and acclimated to the Origin system where there are other tenno to rely on to make up for inexperience and general rookie-ness.

So instead of the Hex getting a grown-ass person with magic void powers from the future, they'd get to have a war veteran trauma child - bonus points if that child is nonverbal or refuses to speak directly to them, and the Hex have to interact with them through the KIM.

And also, consider that most players from a gameplay standpoint habitually keep their Operators cloaked to prevent them from getting shot once they leave their 'frames to do whatever - canonically, the Operator and Drifter don't have a time limit on cloak, I don't think. The Hex are basically never even going to see the kid, and that could be more terrifying. Imagine seeing a puppet version of what you could be, dangling from the strings of some invisible, intangible thing with superpowers and magic lasers coming out of their hands.

Imagine mid mission Arthur turns to look at the weird and mysterious time-travelling entity and just sees a collapsed Baruuk on it's knees or frozen completely still in a weird position before it suddenly zooms about thirty meters away midair and starts straightening itself back out again in ways that joints shouldn't move in before slamming into the ground and rushing headlong into a crowd of Scaldra to 'build melee combo,' whatever the hell the demon child means by that.

Here's the meat of the post, though - the Hex (and newcomers like Flare and Kaya) can play the Context(TM) game like they do with Drifter through KIM and slowly piece together that this is a magical child soldier with a bodycount larger than all the people they've ever collectively laid eyes on, and then react in interesting ways that would lend interesting characterization.

Eleanor and Arthur would be horrified, probably, and Arthur might start talking down to the Operator because it's 'just some kid' who's clearly in over their head. Most of it's concern, but I think some small amount would be bruised pride - how could some kid be better at killing than a trained soldier?

Aoi would be heartbroken at the revelation that their new ally is a child soldier - how could anyone let that happen to them? How sick do you have to be to make children kill whoever the government pointed at with techno-organic corpses?

And Quincy would definitely be fucked up in the head for a few days after he figures it out - that could open up some opportunities for more characterization given his soft spot for kids. Would he try to keep up his aloof act, like he does with the Drifter, or immediately discard it to try and comfort a child that has already made peace with their ridiculous capacity for murder?

Amir might do something similar to Arthur, but more patronizing than hostile - he means well, but this is a kid. If Amir himself feels out of his depth in the current situation and he's an adult, then surely a child would feel even worse than he does about killing a person.

I think Lettie would be the most chill of the original Hex, though. She's jaded enough that she'd be concerned, but would probably decide that it's not really any of her business - especially considering just how talented the Operator is at mass homicide.

Velimir and Minerva could also be really interesting. On the one hand, they could see little bits of Rusalka in the Operator, but that could also lead to coddling or 'replacement goldfish'-like behavior not unlike how I imagine Amir's reaction would have been.

Flare would have been the first to know. One wayward comment from Lizzie calling the Operator demon-child or something of the like, and they'd have put it together pretty quickly after that.

Kaya would just be glad there's someone else who understands being underestimated by older people just because they're younger.

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

calendula | gaku (sakamoto days)

✮ tags ; afab + gn!reader, no dialogue, gakus perspective, established relationship, technically pre-canon but not relevant, tit worship, riding, unprotected sex / no prep, 18+

✮ wc ; 3.4k (???????????)

✮ a/n ; girl idk. guy i characterized off of vibes and a brief reread. this is kind of a character study. if you squint. if this characterization is completely wack im sorry i think i was overcome by lust

more importantly this fic is me attempting to practice my prose so there's no dialogue rip. i dont think it succeeded but that's why there's only one line of dialogue sdkjfhkjsd.

✮ synopsis ; gaku gives you whatever you want.

Gaku knows it’s you before he answers the door.  

From the weight and sound of footfall to the way you knock on the door—always twice in rapid succession. All of these details about you linger in his mind all day. He knows you’re going to knock on the door and waits for it. His attention is away from the screen. His avatar takes a hit and the weighted controller vibrates in his hand. He let it happen. It’d have been easy enough to dodge, since he’s got good reflexes and all. But if he takes a hit, there’s a brief second that makes it easier for him to pause his game.  

He clicks a few buttons to hit pause. Neon lights paint his bedroom walls, casting shadow on the wall behind him and dimmed by the pause menu. A simpler techno beat replaces the flashy, high energy background music of an intense boss battle. Gaku gropes his bed for the remote to turn the sound lower.  

You knock at the door just when Gaku expects you. He tosses his controller and remote onto the bed , landing with a barely audible thud.  

He opens his door to find you right where he thought you’d be. Leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and eyes lidded—he stares at you, observing your expression. It’s not like he’s going to interrogate you, not really.  

He can just tell. You’re thinking about something. Could be anything. He knows a lot about you. All of things you say to him when you impolitely assume he’s not listening are kept in the same part of his mind all the other details about you are. He doesn’t think you’re upset about anything. He’s developed a sixth sense for that.  

You’re here for something else. Gaku has a guess, though he doesn’t voice it to you. Just looks on with lidded eyes and waits. Something else is on your mind, too he’s sure. He can tell you don’t want to talk about it. Or that it’s not worth talking about to you.  

You’ve got your hoodie barely zipped up, he notices. Gaku’s hoodie, actually. It’s too big on him, and falls even bigger on you, the shoulder slipping off of your frame revealing the skin underneath. Gaku lets his eyes run over the vision. Tugging at the front of your top and pulling it down, covering your shorts and making it look like you’re wearing nothing at all—you fidget conspicuously. Shifting your weight from one side to another. He gets a clear view of the set you’re wearing. Work-out clothes, he thinks.  

He feels his lips twitch at the sight of you. You pick your head up to look at him, expectant. You don’t want to say what you’re thinking, but you look like you figure he might pry anyway. Sometimes he does. In matters concern you, he often finds himself sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong in general. He does want to know, but decides it’s fine for now.  

It’s not mercy. He just doesn’t think he needs to ask. Whatever it is, he can do it for you if needs to. He does a lazy glance in the hallway for sight of anyone. 

When he finds no one, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into the room all in one go.  

You let out a squeal as he grabs you. It’s easy to do it. All the strength he’s been building has its uses other than killing. He’s learned that lesson because of you. Your hands are fisted against his chest, arms folded at the elbow--as he shuts the door behind you and backs you into it. He uses his other arm  to cage you—resting his weight on his forearm as his hand clenched into a first.  

He should give you a second to breathe. Should play nice when you’re already looking for a way to wash your hands of your thoughts.  

But, he doesn’t want to let go of you right away. This close proximity—the slight tension in the air. Feels good because it’s you. Impossibly close with unspoken understanding. 

 Already close, he wonders if it’d be fine just to linger there for a minute longer than he would otherwise.  

With an arm still around your spine, Gaku presses into your space. His nose is milimeters away from yours. The only light faint from the TV screen, the atmosphere around you shifts in the darkness. Your face is shrouded, but up this close he can see you with perfect clarity. Like you’re the only two people in the world.  Your wide eyes, glimmering with expectancy. Mouth pressed into a flat line like you’re unamused—in a way that’s completely contrary to how you’re staring at him.  

He can see every detail. A part of him thinks he could trace them out with his eyes closed.  

Both things make him wanna kiss you. Both your stubborn desire to hold onto a petty grudge (that is, him pulling you in and surprising you) and the obvious, bone-deep devoted look in your eye. 

Before you can ask him anything, Gaku lets you go. With your back now pressed up against the door, he uses his free hand to to tip your chin up and kiss you.  

You relent easy. He knew you would. Always quick to forgive him when he gets on your nerves. Your arms loop around his neck and his hands finds your hips and you kiss. Your lips are soft and warm. They taste like cheap vanilla, the artificial taste that comes with whatever chapstick you use.  

(Gaku knows the brand. As in, he could get it for you if he saw it but he doesn’t know the name. Another unimportant detail he keeps tucked away for himself.)  

He’s fond of the way you melt into his touch. Your body slumped against the door, the lazy draw of your limbs and your arms around his neck - sleeves pulled your hands. The tension bleeds from you as kiss him back eagerly.  

You always kiss too fast. The first few times he had to tell you to take it easy. You never learned. He kind of hopes you never do 

Gaku prefers to draw it out. Pull away for a while with nothing but the threads of spit and bitten lips as proof  before kissing you again. But you’re eager, excitable. Your tongue laps at his lips hurriedly, brows furrowed -desperate and whimpering. Greedy. Wanting for more because Gaku can give it to you just fine if you want it.   

You never have to tell Gaku what you want. For the most part, he doesn’t how else to operate other than give you whatever. Never asks you for any favors, just gives it because it makes sense to him. Gaku likes kissing slow, but for you—it’s fine to kiss a little faster.  

His tongue slips against your mouth. The pace changes. The air in the room becomes thick around you and Gaku can’t breathe around it it. Seemingly, neither can you, but it doesn’t deter you.  

Doesn’t deter your eagerness. He’s fond of it. Lets you suck on his tongue and kiss him sloppy just because.  

It amuses him. He lets you do what you want. Gets him hard to see you act that way, despite knowing each time you come to him for something—its already yours. Puppyish to your own demise, Gaku squeezes your hips. His hands slip under the fabric of your hoodie until he can feel the waistband of your shorts.  

Your skin is bare underneath. Just a bra and shorts then. Good to know.  

You pull away panting. Face flush, mouth spit slick. Still so adoring in a way that makes his stomach flip. Excites him in a way so few things in the world do. It makes him laugh. If he had a shirt for you to tug on, you would.  

You’re not gonna ask for it directly. Gaku doesn’t exactly feel like making you, either.  

He nudges his nose against your jawline before he bites gently into the space below your chin. A breath of laughter passes through his nose as he slips his hand into your, fingers locked and tugs you further into his room. A silent confirmation.  

Yeah, he thinks. If you want it.  

Falling into bed with you is always easy.  

You crawl into his bed like you belong there. Get comfortable in his unfolded clothes, his blankets, his pillows. You’re never in the same place very long but Gaku likes the sight of you in his temporary bed, with his things.  

The lines between you and him blur when you’re tucked in with his other belongings and Gaku sort of likes it that way. He tries not to reflect on it.  

You sit on your knees, expectant. Reaching out to grab Gaku’s hand but holding his finger, you pull him into bed along side you. He looks at you amused, head tilted to one side. You put a hand on his thigh and Gaku gets the message  - scooting himself to sit up against a wall.  

Your eyes light up, just a little. You crawl into his lap like a spoiled thing. Your knees on either side of his thighs as he’s spread out, straddling his waist with his hoodie still on. He can feel himself get hard right away. It feels pathetic every time, but it’s the way it goes. Your ass is soft as you sit on his dick like its yours. He can feel the heat radiating off you. You grind back against him tentatively.  

He lets out a deep sigh.  

He can see you a little better this way. It’s the way you’re both sitting. Gaku with his back a side wall and you just over. The light from the TV is close enough to cast on your face. Your features are clearer this way. The subtle nuances of your expression especially visible.  

It’s so easy to tell when you want him to fuck you. Of all of things he likes about fucking you (and that list is long)—it’s this face that drives him most up the wall. Makes him want for it even when he thinks less of himself for being so easy.  

You’re vicious. And talented. You’ve got a knack for assassination like no one else, not motivated by blood lust but some strange desire to be the very best at it, if you’re going to do it all. 

But you’re so debauched like this. Eyes clouded in visible arousal. Wearing an athleisure fit that’s perfectly, seamlessly tight and so see-through in all of the right places. Wearing his hoodie.  

That look on your face like you want his dick so fucking bad, so desperately—that you’d go as far as begging him. He knows you would. You practically are. A sloppy, ultimately transparent attempt to get him to pound your pussy the way you like. The way you need.  

(The way he’s made you need)  

You don’t really have to do any of it. It’d be just as easy if you barged in and pulled his pants down. He wouldn’t say no to you. Might laugh, but wouldn’t turn you away.  

But you work for things you want. Like a compulsion. If Gaku’s gonna fuck you, it can’t just be because he’s whipped beyond words (he has enough self-awareness to know, but tries not to dwell.) 

 You would want him to lust after you just as bad, get him hard and excited since it’s not easy to accomplish. There’s nothing for you to earn but you’ll earn it anyway. 

Gaku ruts his dick against your ass, feeling the outline of his cock stretch the seam of your shorts. Like he’s trying to fuck you through it. He’s hard. It’s making him dizzy, just how much. All you’ve done is kiss, he remembers.  

It doesn’t make his hard-on any less severe.  

You urge him to do it again. Rub yourself against him as best you can, grinding at his lap for friction on your clit. Your body wracks with a shiver, mouth fallen open as you use your hands on his legs to keep yourself up and rut against him for pleasure—moving back so you’re pussy is sliding against him properly. Riding his hard-on. The sheer material of your shorts gives him a preview of how you’ve got nothing on underneath, your pussy visible in the thin stretchy material. So wet it’s dampening them. They seep through the fabric. Nylon and spandex and polyester. Too thin.  

It turns him on so much it makes his head throb. 

Gaku’s hands slide up underneath your hoodie again. Your skin is warm underneath the tips of his fingers. Even through bandaged hand he can feel you just slightly. They travel upwards, until he’s at the end of your sports bra. He gets underneath the stretchy band, pulling it up until it sits bunched up over your breasts— just underneath your neck and chin.  

Your nipples are hard from arousal, pert and begging for his attention. Gaku likes the way you feel in grasp. Soft and warm and supple, sweet and pliable under his touch. His palms squeezes the fat of your tits, playing with them as you grind yourself on his cock unabashedly. Head thrown back and not entirely paying attention—something he’ll tese you for later. He squishes your tits together, testing their gravity. His fingers brushing across your nipples, flicking lightly. Teasing and rolling them with the pads of his thumb.  

Above him you shiver. Moan out his name, still humping yourself on him. He figures you’ll tucker out soon. Beg him to put in it. He decides to wait it out more.  

He leans in close, placing a kiss under your sternum before his mouth travels upwards. Gaku is meticulous as his tongue laves over the soft patches of skin. He kisses and licks first, but always finishes with a bite or bruise. He can’t help himself. He loves the way his teeth sink in. Loves the mark it leaves in your skin when he bites hard enough, the indents of his incisors and canines that linger for a long while after him.  

(Loves kissing the yellowing bruises when you have sex in the mornings. On the rare slow and lazy days where the sex more sweet than anything. He tries to save it for when you’re sleepy. For his sake and yours)  

You moan loudly when his tongue flicks against hardened buds. Impatience flickers through him listening to you. His hands grip your ass hard enough to keep you in place - no longer content with just sitting. His mouth sucks and licks at your nipples while his hands change the pace from a shallow grind to a long, deep one. 

He moves you with intention against the outline of his cock. Slowly, steadily - at the kind of pace that lets him worship your chest with his tongue and teeth without risking a bite that’s too hard. Your hands fall around his neck, as you curl into him.  

Once Gaku gets control of you like this, you’re eager to let him have it. You give into the forcefulness of his touch, the demand of it. Your words are more whimpers and please against his neck. Your nails are digging into the muscles of his back—no doubt leaving red marks for him to admire later. He’s sure he’ll get a look from Kei when he sees them.  

Your shoulders are trembling. The first word to leave your lips is one Gaku likes hearing you say. Whined against the column of his throat, muffled but loud enough for him to catch.  

“Please,”  

It’s like a gut-punch. Makes the lust in him so urgent, so heavy, so daunting—he can feel it in the way moves. His breathing is labored. He presses his head against your chest and inhales deeply. Tries to mellow and keep composure.  

It just feels like he can’t get his dick into you fast enough. Feels like there’s no amount of time he’s willing to be patient for it. He needs his dick in you now, needs to take you by your hips and bounce you on his lap.  

You did say please. He’s being fair, is all.  

Gaku grabs the thin material of your shorts and rips it right along the seam. You gasp, but you’re too worked up to protest it. Soaked all the way through, your clit is hard and demanding attention. Gaku slips his his dick out from under his sweats quickly. 

He taps the head of his cock right against your clit, rubbing it with his tip - a mess of pre-cum making it sticky. Gaku moans low in the back of his throat, eyes rolling back.  

Fuck. Fuck. You feel so wet. So fucking good. Just thinking about putting it in makes him ache.  

It’s your hand that guides the head of his cock into your pussy. 

Without prep, you’re dripping wet but still so tight. You’ve taken him enough to know your limits, but you’re eager. Just as much as he is, for him to split you in half the way he’s good at. Your pussy stretches easily to the shape of him. Accommodates what it knows so well. Your body makes home for him. 

 Gaku can hear how fucking wet you are, each inch stretching you out further and further. He holds your hips and waits for you to sink down all the way.  

When you bottom out, Gaku’s jaw grits ever so slightly. He waits for you to get used to. You slide yourself slowly, up and down until the stretch of his cock isn’t achy. He can tell when it starts to feel good for you. 

 Your pussy opens up for him so well, gets slippery and soft and so perfect for him to fuck into, he isn’t sure what he was doing before that. You feel so fucking good to him every time.  

You stop, your arms wrapping around his shoulder blades and hugging him tight. You say his name that time to substitute for please, synonyms of each other. A testament to how easy he is when it involves you.  

Gaku gives you what you want. Of course he does. He takes both of his hands and holds onto your waist and fucks you exactly the way you deserve. You cry aloud, sobbing into his neck from pleasure. Your pussy squeezes around him in that familiar way and he groans. He knows you came without telling him. He knows that feel better than anything.  

It spurs him into action. Gaku builds it up but it takes practically no time for him to piston you. Half-way between holding you up so he can fuck into you and slamming you onto his cock with endless stamina and relentless desire. Whatever inbetween he finds is a good one, makes sure he knocks into your sweet spot in exactly the right way. 

The sound it makes each time he pounds into you echoes in the room. It’s filthy—the wet sound of skin to skin and his cock stretching you over and over and over. It’s good. It’s always so good with you. 

You sneak a shaky hand between your bodies. Gaku can tell you’re getting close, your fingers clumsy and twitching. You’re trying your best to match up to his brutal pace, but the thought only endears him more. Makes him harder, growing bigger inside you. 

It’s easy enough to hold off until you cum first. Until he feels your pussy clamp down on him tight again, feels you tremble and shake in his grip as you bite into his bare shoulder and cum hard. Your whole body curling into him, crying as Gaku fucks you through it.  

When you’ve fallen limp and come down from your high— that’s when Gaku finally lets himself go. His thrusts grow sloppy - fucking into your went cunt shallowly until he feels the muscles in your stomach tense. He cums inside, unable to pull out from the way you have him gripped. Thick ropes of cum paint your insides and slowly drip back out onto his cock.  

Gaku stays inside of you even as he goes soft. He can feel you in his arms, your breathing growing steady again as you both catch your breath.  

He uses a hand to pull hair away from your face, kissing whatever he can reach. A rare, quiet intimacy that makes sense to him in the moment. You let out a giggle,  a sweet sound from your lips and Gaku finds himself smiling just barely.   

Whatever you want, Gaku thinks. It’ll be yours if he can get it for you.  

[tigressaofkanjis]

My biggest pet peeve in Transformers media and fanfiction sometimes is that Transformers aren't treated as aliens. They are referred to as aliens, they obviously are aliens, but they never feel like they are aliens because they are always written or seen as having all human mannerisms or features usually. Human posture, human noses, human mannerisms, humanoids...

What about TFA's cat noses or TFP's helm noses? One of the reasons I think those two shows have peak designs is because they have this lack of uncanniness to humans design wise. I'm not looking at a human being as a robot, I'm looking at an alien robot, ones that have claws, ones that have different body types that blend with their vehicle modes, ones with horrific mutilations and designs impossible by human standards. I love seeing that type of stuff in Transformers because to me, it makes them feel alien without completely changing the premises of similarities to where we can't compare their culture or likeness to humans. The films (mostly 1 and 2) showed off this as well.

Another thing I really would like to see in Transformers media is non-human interactive qualities. What do I mean by that? One thing I've noticed is aside from techno-organic species, regular Cybertronians do have a few qualities found in animals. Engine humming I believe was once used as a form of purring in the films and in some of the cartoons. Humans can't purr; cats can, and that small detail is always interesting to come across because it's like "wow, they have this feature that shows off a trait found in Cybertronians. That is so cool." You have them with multiple voice boxes for mechanical, natural, and human-like tones which is also an animal trait. Bumblebee is self-explanatory in most universes being able to still make sounds yet not talk. They have sensors across their body that don't act like the basic human receptors. Most animals can do more than just feel through certain points of their bodies. They can taste, smell, or even hear a hundred times better than a human being throughout various body parts, and Transformers have been hinted to have this ability too, especially through their servos. It's stuff like this that expands upon their existence as aliens.

They have extreme durability, their body morphs to extremes and can also double as a moving weapon (most obvious of course), some of them can make ungodly roars and creature-like noises to warn or show their threatening demeanor (Megatron's dinosaur-like growling), some can have two rows of teeth (a flat base in front and fangs hidden behind), and some of them have mimicking animal-like features (Starscream's bird-shaped feet with visible expansion the same as organic foot padding with similar distributive weight physics in a few universes) despite having no beast mode. There's probably more I can't think of on the top of my head in canon, but all those things are not heavily used as they should be to make them feel alien. They can still hold some relation to the humans they interact with, but I think a lot of Transformers are more than just metal "humans", you know?

Depending on the universe in fanfiction and who you encounter who writes it or not, you have several things that are always cool to see. They have to sparkbond (merging of hearts) above everything else to create a sparkling's life force with interface as just the extra for physical coding features. I've seen people use the non-canon heat cycles which are, of course, our fandom way of making a type of breeding euphemism akin to an animal's cycle. You have the common phrasing of nuzzling, heightened senses, armor and certain parts of the helm acting like fur or ears where it raises and flattens per their mood, and some Transformers have limb dissonance where if necessary, they can convert between bipedal and quadrupedal stances (best example is Bulkhead and Lugnut from TFA who have long arms but short legs and they have the bulky structure where they could possibly run like an animal briefly and the physics of it would work).

So, you have all these different things a common Cybertron most likely would be able to do or have but a human couldn't, and it's never utilized to their full potential. I would like to see people address the nature of Cybertronians as alien and not be afraid to make them alien. I think that's the biggest flaw in our franchise is that everyone is scared of making the Transformers not the humanoid "norm" and getting ridiculed for it. Like, they're aliens, you can make them act however animal-like or completely batshit insane as you want them. You can give them powers, animal-based senses, and behaviors hidden among a human thought process. And technically, you wouldn't be wrong to what they could be as a living creature in the universe by doing so. They aren't humans; they look humanoid, but they aren't us. Why should they have to be in every regard?

Thank you for reading my TED Talk.

[justcallme-ange]

Consider: cTechno becoming a glorified weighted blanket for cDream

Considered and canon.

Dream sometimes has trouble falling asleep- too many things happening in his head. Techno’s found if you keep him still long enough he usually knocks out in a few minutes.

[zivazivc]

Because of a recent ask about the dad's name I am dropping this old drawing that should go along with a oneshot I doubt I'll ever finish because I don't like it anymore, so better I just put this out there.

The dad's name is Keanu and his husband's name is Wave. I don't actually know anything about them but here they are 😅

And you can find a portion of the unfinished fic with this scene under the cut. Warning: Floyd is a mess. A much much bigger one than I actually/currently think his present self is, hence why I don't like this so much anymore (and it was never meant to be canon to my ex bandmates au anyway). It's still pretty funny though.

. . .

Before Bruce could notice the change in Floyd’s mood his eyes caught movement behind him by the entrance to the restaurant. His grin eased down into a more relaxed smile for him to return to business.

“We have another troll family coming in,” he said and turned around to pick up a set of small, freshly-printed and laminated menus from the counter. “Been getting quite a number of those since we hosted the concert.”

Floyd snatched them from his hand, eager to push the replay of his anxiety to the back of his mind, and get back to work. “I’m on it," he said determinedly. "You take care of the big guys.”

He didn’t even know if he could handle carrying another Vaycaytioner-sized family-sized order of food. He hogged the regularly-sized troll customers as much as he could. 

The new guests had settled behind one of the small inflatable plastic tables in the pool area close to the entrance where the sun was shining through. Even with their lower halves submerged in water, Floyd could immediately tell that they were Techno Trolls from the way their hair flowed in the air, like gravity was just an afterthought to them.

Once he got closer, Floyd saw that it was presumably two dads around his age with their two kids. His eyes immediately glued themselves to the older, more physically attractive of the two men, because that’s what he always seemed to find himself doing in these situations. Not that it was his fault the guy was hot and Floyd had been grounded to perfume bottles, armadillo RVs, and underground bunkers for months on end.

When he made it to the pool edge and stood right above their floating table, he finally caught himself gazing. He blinked and reeled his stupid horny thoughts back in before he would do something dumb like bite his lip and give him the bedroom eyes in front of his husband and kids. Not that something like that had been completely beneath him in the past. But he was currently on a shift in his brother’s restaurant, so…

He put on a more acceptable, family-friendly smile.

“Hi, welcome,” he said easily, sounding nothing like how his spasmodic thoughts felt in his head. “How’s everyone doing? You guys hungry?”

He crouched down and leaned over the edge of the pool to hand them the menus.

“Starving, actually,” the attractive techno troll said with a friendly laugh in his voice, and leaned over the inflatable table to grab them. And Floyd’s eyes traveled down that toned arm and exposed stomach. Not only did he ooze the confident, warm charisma of someone who had his life together, he was also fit. Floyd almost fell into the pool in his attempt to accidentally brush fingers with him. The guy was back in his spot in the water before either of those things happened, much to Floyd’s relief and disappointment.

He straightened up and pulled up his notepad and pencil almost like a shield. Fuck, Floyd, get your head straight! “Can I get you anything to drink while you decide what you'll have?”

“Nah, I think we’ll look first,” the guy replied without lifting his eyes as he handed the menus to the rest.

Floyd was about to give up on his first round of trying to get this man’s attention, and sigh in relief that his stupid wants weren’t being entertained, when he registered a different set of eyes staring hard at him. He glanced to the left, to the other guy behind the table.

The intensity of the glare nearly made Floyd recoil.

His first thought was: Shit, I wasn’t even trying to be obvious. Because when he was, the angry stares he would receive from jealous boyfriends or girlfriends were usually heated and flustered, not intensely sharp and cold. The steadiness with which he was being pinned didn’t even feel like a newly developed loathing.

Shit was also Floyd’s second thought. He’s looking at me like we know each other… I haven’t already fucked his man before, have I? Floyd wasn’t so good with faces or names …or memory in general when it came to certain episodes in his life. But surely the hot husband would have remembered him at least…

Then his mind wandered to the other possibility. Did we fuck??

Whenever he tried to iron out his life, his stupid past actions always seemed to come back to bite him in the ass. He really hoped this wasn’t one of those cases.

He stared at the troll’s face, trying to place him somewhere. Techno Troll (that didn’t narrow it down that much), hair in two different gradients of blue, dark purple skin, a younger-looking face even for a Techno Troll, bright green eyes, and green freckles…

Sweat broke down Floyd’s back, and it had nothing to do with his recovering physical condition.

He swallowed uncomfortably and instinctively pulled his pencil and paper slightly closer to his chest. His eyes finally looked over to the other side of the inflatable table. He had only briefly glanced at the kids before, enough to know they were kids and uninteresting. But looking at them now… Floyd immediately deviated a couple of shades from his natural hue.

Neither had any of the hunky dad’s warm colors; in fact, the kids weren’t even fully Techno. They were mixed like his friend Liv. The scarce strands of thin, luminescent Techno cords were nearly swallowed up by dense, fluffy, regular hair. The girl—they were a boy and a girl—was lounging on a pool float with her feet in the air, and Floyd could see that instead of flippers, she had legs with the unusually webbed feet, kind of something like an amphibian. The other kid—the boy—had skin that didn't have the dim effect or rubbery texture to it that Techno Trolls normally had, and it was an uncomfortably familiar shade of turquoise. Both of them sported hot pink bangs over their eyes.

“Ah,” Floyd uttered out loud like some kind of dumbass.

The three heads who had been engrossed in the restaurant menu all looked up, surprised to see him still standing there. Floyd evaded their gazes only to lock eyes with the purple troll again.

He… He was the kid from the week-long, non-stop techno rave, back when Floyd had been deep in his sour worm addiction and going through a long manic episode to top it off… At one point during the party someone brought out pure citric acid and Floyd blanked out for three days straight after that, only to wake up in an unfamiliar bed with a double surprise…

It was like a switch, but now Floyd could clearly remember the young adult version of this troll floating around his dorm room with the egg from Floyd’s head in his hands, panicking about how his parents were going to kill him, all while Floyd silently lay in bed contemplating if he should mention the other egg stuck in the kid's hair or if he should just say he’s going to the bathroom and then never return.

“Uhm.” He swallowed uncomfortably, wanting to be anywhere but here. Maybe not the crystal bottle, but anywhere else. “…I think I should get you a different waiter…”

The purple troll’s glare did not waver in the slightest. “I think so too.”

Floyd took that as permission to bail on him a second time. He turned around on his heel and practically ran from the pool edge.

“Keanu, you good?” he heard the husband ask, sounding obviously confused about what just transpired.

Well, at least Floyd knew what to call that troll in his head now instead of just "kid"…

. . .

[itslouisan]

More Q!Philza headcannons:

You guys seemed to like my Philza hc and well guess what? I have WAY MORE of them to share so let's go! Some of them even focus on the obscure colourzas or the deities in his hardcore world!!

• Q!Phil doesn't necessarily adopt anyone he finds, but he does show to need or like to comfort others, creating a scenario in my head where Phil most likely pays attention to eggs that were more abused such as Tilin, Juana Flippa and Pepito in the early days due to seeing just like Tallulah, Tommy and so on, they needed a better caregiver.

• I already mentioned how he doesn't necessarily see Q!Cellbit as a son, but I can view him going to Cellbit's castle to talk about occultism and sometimes lend a helping hand with Richas or any problems Cellbit might deal with

• He does take good care of his appearance for events and such, but in day to day basis he looks for more comfort than style, plus optimizing for clothing that is better for combat wise than looks

• Knows how to speak enderman and pigling language bc Ranboo and Techno taught him

• Knows flower language because of Tallulah knowledge in it

• old. Like REALLY old, around centuries or so, after all he's been into wars, empires and so much, clearly showing in canon he has a lot of experience in things that happened centuries ago

• Due to being old and into a lot of battles, his hearing is very fragile, top it with autism and you have him avoiding crowded places and anything loud.

• Blueza (blue variant of Philza) has a liking towards staying in the ocean monuments and is the cousin of Purpleza and brother of Redza

• Redza has anger issues and tends to need Blueza to calm him down so he doesn't burn everything to the ground.

• Pinkza LOOKS and MOST of the time IS sweet but piss him off and mess with Yellowza and he will get violent.

• Colourzas duos:

Blueza + Redza

Yellowza + Pinkza + Orangeza

Greenza + Purpleza

Blueza + Purpleza

• Phil definitely has a Antartic Empire flag hidden away somewhere in his house

• Every morning he would go to the memorial Chayanne and Tallulah made and throw potatoes, gold and a jar of fresh blood for Techno

• Has a couple of piercings such as in the bottom part of the lips, nose and tongue (he got them to match Techno and Tommy)

• DEFINITELY used the old slipper to teach a lesson or two to Tommy

• Not only has nightmares with DSMP and hardcore, but sometimes has Dreams where he connected directly with Mumza

• Has in the back of his hair some black hair due to Mumza possession in the past which affected his hair

• Has braids in his hair around 6 for people important in his life (not only his children but people in general):

1- the longest is for Techno

2- two of them are intertwined to symbolize beeduo

3- the 3rd shortest is for Tommy

4- the 2 shortest are Chayanne and Tallulah

• Smokes sometimes to release stress but stopped when he adopted the eggs.

Well that's it for the day, hope you liked it my crows

[misty-doodles]

So like take your age old "what if Philza didn't activate the stasis chamber in time and Quackity actually put the pickaxe through Techno's teeth" scenario, but I get my hands on it.

So obviously this would be sad Techno whump bc he's just lost a cannon life, but we can make this a horrible time for everyone involved.

"Technoblade has been slain by Quackity using [Wardens Will Braker]"

Immediately confusion and shock rings out across the server as the message appears, because Techno had been wrongly and privately imprisoned. While the server doesn't necessarily like him as a whole, they certainly don't think he's as bad as Dream (i.e., deserving of prison).

The Syndicate is horrified and furious all at once. Not only were they unaware of Techno's imprisonment, they can't begin to fathom how Quackity got his hands on Sam's weapons and the ability to kill their friend. More importantly, Techno is down a canon life and has been made permanently half blind, though the shock of it all has sent him into a early hibernation.

Philza... He'd been just about to trigger the stasis chamber when he received the message. His hand hovered over the trap door, heart in his stomach as he read and reread the message. He'd been just a few moments too late. He was too late and his best friend died. Oh, he was going to find Quackity and Sam and he is going to tear them limb from limb. He was going to make Doomsday look like a creeper crater in comparison.

Sam and Quackity are frantic. Sam spends a good while berating Q for his idiocy, How could he be so stupid to kill Techno with his named weapon? Now the entire server is going to be on their asses and they're completely fucked. Sam has to physically restrain himself so he doesn't kill Quackity straight up. They'll need to flee, to run as far away as possible because Philza Minecraft will have their heads. Before they can do that, however, they'll need to deal with their remaining prisoner.

Dream... Dream was just plain scarred. He watched his only hope of freedom die graphically before him. Oh who is he kidding anymore. His one comfort and last remaining friend died and there was nothing he could do to save him. Now he's vulnerable, and even if he understands that there's no way Techno's coming back for him now, it fucking hurts. Worst still, he's left at the mercy of Sam and Quackity, who will either kill him outright, or drag him somewhere he'll never escape from.

He's yet to figure out which outcome is worse

[nerdysleepybunny]

Hallo! im new here so please let me know if i cross any boundries.'

anywho, I was wondering if i could request a platonic philza and/or techno comfort? ive had bad few days :(

Have a wonderful day/night!

I APOLOGIZE FOR GETTING TO THIS SO LATE!! I literally love dsmp asks even though the fandom is dying off, so this definitely isn’t crossing any boundaries! I hope you’re doing better. My dms are open if you ever need to chat! :D

🩷☁️N E R D Y S L E E P Y B U N N Y☁️🩷

Fandom(s): DreamSMP

Character(s): Philza, Technoblade (ft. Mumza & Chat)

Reader: Gender neutral (you/your)

Style: Hcs

TW: N/A

Summary: How Philza and Technoblade (separate) would comfort you!

🩷☁️N E R D Y S L E E P Y B U N N Y☁️🩷

Philza:

I feel like he’s the type to just know you aren’t doing well before you even say anything.

Like, you’re just sitting there in your feels, then suddenly?

BOOM CONCERNED DAD RIGHT IN YOUR FACE

“Are you okay, mate?”

“Do you need anything?”

“Here, let’s sit and have a chat.”

Literally shooing chat away so it’s just the two of you having quality time together.

Would sit down next to you on a couch, but probably wouldn’t initiate any touching. The most I see him doing is a shoulder pat or a hand rubbing your back.

Of course, he wouldn’t mind you leaning on him or embracing him! He just doesn’t want to touch you in case you want your space :)

If you want to talk about it he’s there to listen and offer wise old man advice (if you call him old while you’re upset, it’s the ONE time he won’t get defensive about it)

Like

He’s just talking giving you some advice about your problems, then he hears you snickering

“What’s so funny?”

“You sound so old right now, Phil.”

Usually he’d shout his usual “I’M NOT OLD/I’m only in my 30’s, mate…” (I’m pretty sure he’s canonically thousands of years old but shh let grandpa be delusional)

But now? He’d just chuckle and shake his head

“Whatever you say, mate.”

DON’T EXPECT HIM TO BE SOFT FOREVER, IT’S ONLY BECAUSE YOU’RE CURRENTLY SAD

After you’ve concluded your venting/told him that you don’t want to talk about it

You know what time it is…

DISTRACTIONS!!!

Pillow fort anyone? He’s giving pillow fort vibes.

He’s a dad, so obviously he’d just do all the work and build it for you. Again, only because you’re sad. Any other time he’d yell at you for not helping.

Speaking of sadness

Don’t let Phil’s wife see you sad…

OH NO YOU’RE SAD? NOW MUMZA IS SAD AND IS RUSHING TO COMFORT YOU

Mumza is the type to cry when she sees someone else crying, so now both of you are just sobbing together and Phil is there trying to comfort the two of you but is an overwhelmed old man and may end up crying himself

Uh… cry party?

Either you all end up making fun of each other for crying which results in you all laughing together, or you just cry till you get sleepy and pass out on the floor together.

What an interesting way to family bond.

Technoblade:

So you seek The Blade for comfort, the most monochrome and nonchalant man on the server. What a wonderful decision, reader! /lh (I’d do the exact same)

If you’re a Technoblade fan you’ve definitely heard the “it’s fine” audio.

Now I can either be wholesome and say he’d hold you close and whisper that everything will be okay to you

Or I can be silly and realistic and say that he’d pull out a phone and just play the audio with a blank face, but is laughing on the inside due to your “what the actual fuck” face.

Okay now for some actual comfort!

As we all know… Technoblade isn’t exactly good at comfort.

He kills orphans for a living, how do you think he’d react seeing someone crying like a child?

He’s standing looking at you with a look of “why is this creature screaming” and “wtf do I do”

“Uh… you good? You okay? You, uh… need a hug…?”

Very awkwardly holds his arms out for a hug, and if you accept, he even more awkwardly pats your back.

If you got his shirt wet with tears, he’d DEFINITELY comment about it

“Are you seriously ruining my shirt? How are my enemies supposed to think I have a good fashion sense now?!”

Goes into a rant about how he needs to look his best and how it’s a good strategy to beat his enemies in battle while you’re kinda just there… honestly are you even crying anymore?

You’ve stopped crying ages ago, and he’s still just talking

In conclusion, Technoblade is good at calming people down without even trying (I was literally having a breakdown and all I needed to do was listen to the silly pig man talk about Greek mythology. It must all be part of his master plan…)

Speaking of listening to his voice, here’s a scenario.

“Technoblade, can you read to me?”

“…what?”

“Read to me.”

“I’m not reading you a bedtime stor-“

“I wanted you to tell me about Greek mythology.”

“Fine. Come here.”

Long story short, he starts by reading you just one story. That one story turns into the entire history of the Greek gods and goddesses… yeah you pass out pretty quickly. But Technoblade isn’t one to stop mid-ramble. Once he notices you’re asleep, he’ll continue talking, just quieter. He’ll eventually get sleepy himself, and soon enough… you’re both asleep.

Works like a charm!

🩷☁️N E R D Y S L E E P Y B U N N Y☁️🩷

[the-haven-keepers-collective]

local Piglin goes on unhinged rant /silly

aLRIGHT FUCKERS buckle up I'm gonna scream about exomemories, noemata, and Piglin culture and general Piglin fuckery. Some stuff about Enderfolk in our canon too, just a very small section.

Preamble real quick: Yes, we know some of these things in the "worldbuilding" of our noemata/exomemories are likely or even undoubtedly subconsciously inspired by Tumblr posts or media. If you notice it, we probably already know. Please don't comment on it, it kinda bothers us for reasons that are hard to articulate. Also, plz be mature about the bits that could be read as kink-coded. It's not a kink it's literally our version of marriage. Nothing against kink tho shout out to kinky alterhumans.

Oh also, post written by Techno. I am the local Piglin in question.

So for one, Nether culture is very cutthroat. "Learn fast or die" in the words of Avatar. It's home and I love it, but it's not the sort of place most people are able to get comfortable in. Comfort requires safety, safety requires resources, and resources are very few in the Nether. Survival is priority in the Nether; a lot of the culture within stems from that base fact.

Hair is super important to Piglin culture. It has nothing to do with hair itself and everything to do with the result of it- long hair is an easy handle in a fight, and sometimes a braid someone can get ahold of is the difference between life and death. It's the norm to keep your hair short; from maybe chin length to properly against-the-head levels of short. Long hair is considered to be a sign of a skilled warrior, since they're skilled enough to have an active hindrance for the sake of aesthetic. The longer the more of a threat they are. If you challenge a Piglin with waist length hair. Hairstyles have some significance too- high ponytails are the most dangerous to have with how much they stick out, so they're the "fuck you I'm a badass" of hair pretty much.

I've already mentioned this in a post before, but it's pretty common for teens to try and grow out their hair and end up with shitty, choppy haircuts from a fight. It's considered normal- kids get cocky and they're kind of assholes to each other. Everyone in the Nether knows this aspect of Piglin culture, so the danger isn't unique to fights with other Piglin, either- long hair as a Piglin makes you a well-respected individual at best, a potential target at worst. That's not as true in the overworld, where most people don't know about the hair thing. It's also not that uncommon for those with long hair to cut their hair before a battle as a sort of symbol for "going all in" so to speak. They're taking away the hindrance they've gotten used to- that means they're going to use all their force, all their skills, and typically means they're willing to die in this fight.

In source- skip this paragraph for source talk- my mother did this when helping me escape the Nether. Our village wasn't very fond of The Blood God, and for reasons that'd take up more space on an already very long (and not even near done) post, they went after me. Lemme tell y'all when a Piglin woman cuts her hair in front of a full village of people ready to kill her and grabs her axe, you motherfuckin' FEAR HER AND RUN. /silly

Alright hair aside! I'm finally done yelling about hair. Enderfolk! For one, they're called Enderfolk in our canon. They have zero concept of gender and frankly we just like the word better anyway. This is a tidbit that'd probably be better on our Enderfolk's post when/if they write it, but it's necessary context. Enderfolk, in our canon, are only creatures of the End. The End is completely closed off- which we'll get to in another post I'm sure, Kip can explain that one. Enderfolk aren't naturally found in any other dimension; They're "raptured" into the nether. Think, if you've heard of or seen the backrooms, how you just sort of clip into the backrooms. One step on seemingly solid ground and suddenly the world spins around you as you fall, and you're in another dimension. They appear, consistently, in warped forests.

The Nether doesn't naturally have warped forests either- they just started bleeding through, spreading, one day. It was one day thousands of years ago, to be fair, so most societies in my source memories had long since adjusted. We're not quite sure how much of Ender culture is even left for the Enderfolk in the Nether and overworld, since most of it is just reframed Piglin, Blazeborne, Pheonixkin, etc. culture. Most Netherborne are actually really fond and protective of Enderfolk nowadays because... I mean, really 99% of us have a memory of meeting one who was still adjusting and very clearly confused and stressed about losing their home/being plonked unceremoniously into a completely different environment. A lot of them take at least a year just to adapt to the temperatures, and the language barrier is... messy at best for a while. Gods forbid the village doesn't have a translator on hand.

Anyway; ROMANCE, HUH? Yeah we've got that too. I had forgotten until recently that Piglin do actually use the term 'mate' in our canon. I'm not sure there's a term equivalent for "dating" though? If there is I don't remember it. Which is kind of funny, because there is absolutely a major difference between being someone's spouse and being their mate. For a Piglin, at least, a mate is a much bigger commitment than a spouse. It varies from person to person obviously, but the general consensus as far as I remember was that a spouse spends their life with you. A mate makes a vow that a spouse does not in most situations; they will die for you. They will fight along your side to their last breath if they must.

Like I said earlier- a lot of Nether culture is based in the cutthroat nature of the dimension. The very act of the mating ritual- here's where my preamble about kink becomes relevant- proves that better than anything in my opinion. Piglin give each other weapons. A ring is shiny and sure gold is a huge deal, but most Piglin have already collected about five million of the things. A blade, or perhaps a bow on the rare occasion, is far more valuable in the Nether. In my Noemata, the blades are usually daggers and very ornate, but it depends on the culture of the area because it varies and just personal taste. Sometimes a useful but boring-looking weapon for their mate to fight with for life will be treasured far more than a fancy weapon that will ultimately never see any blood.

Anyway, the mating ritual is entirely about vulnerability; something that, in the Nether, gets you fucking killed. Funny, I use the word cutthroat to describe the Nether- that's literally what you do, though. Usually it's done in private because it has a borderline (or outright) spiritual tone to it, and the whole thing vulnerability that you don't want to be seen by anyone other than your mate or mates. The blade gifted to propose is used- and if their mate responded with a gift of their own that's used as well. The response gift is up to personal preference; some feel like it's too transactional, others feel it's about equal respect, others just want an excuse to give their mate a pretty knife. Throats are bared, and very gently ever so carefully blood is drawn. Dangerous? Yes. I'm genuinely not quite sure that the specific points in my mind could have blood safely drawn on a human. That's the point; the trust in each other to not be cruel or even just accidentally fuck it up is immense. This is not only trusting someone to stand by their vow to take their last breath for you if they have to, but trusting them to not take your last breath.

Some tidbits I couldn't fit in easily anywhere:

Proposal blades are purely meant to be for the tastes of one's mate, not for the one proposing. It's considered pretty rude to propose with a blade that's tailored more to your taste than theirs. Unlike wedding rings, no compromises have to be made- that knife is purely for ONE person. Hence why some Piglin prefer to give a blade in response.

TW FOR (IN-SOURCE) GENOCIDE AND DEATH, RELIGIOUS THEMES IG. Y'know the way we're REAL trigger-happy, attacking on sight if you don't have gold? Yeah there's a reason for that. Piglin are hunted. It's a clockwork sort of thing; done annually. Skywarden, in the words of the person who created them (we have permission to talk about them) are "Toxic Minecraft Christians." I'll get into their lore some other time maybe, if we do a chonky post on the mythology and history of our canon. Skywarden are, essentially, angels. For a species of empaths, they aren't very empathic. They have a white and gold theme- guess where they get all that gold. -_- Piglin are violent but we have good reason to be. Anyone that isn't clearly Netherborne (or Enderfolk) is shot on sight lol

OH MY GOD DID I MENTION PIGLIN ARE SORT OF COLD-BLOODED IN OUR CANON???? I DON'T THINK I DID. YEAH WE'RE COLD-BLOODED. Living near lava lakes will do that to you.

We have boats btw. Like fucking boats made of Nether brick type shit. I'm still not sure how the fuck that works I just know we had boats.

Most of the bit about mates is using monogamy as an example but monogamy isn't considered "the norm" and polyamory "a deviation" in Piglin culture. It's just sort of there. No one gives a shit.

ANYWAY HAVE ALL THAT get hit with a wall of text nerds. /silly

Feel free to ask questions if anyone has them! I don't expect any, but I also don't want anyone to feel like asking questions is bad. We actively want to delve into our sources and what we know or remember about our personal canons more. "Doubles" and such are welcome as well we don't care lol.

[clownyboiclownyboi]

now I know there’s no actual electronics in dsmp, but I wanted to explore this anyway so for now let’s just pretend they can do shit on their communicators instead of just message people. Now without further ado, head canons about what they watch on tv!

this one feels a bit obvious, but Techno watches rom-coms and sappy shit, think hallmark movies and the Princess Bride. He doesn’t watch tv often, preferring reading or something to keep his hands busy, but sometimes when Phil’s already gone to bed he stays up curled around a pillow and silently weeping over the Princess Diaries. He doesn’t outright tell anyone, but he isn’t ashamed of it either. He just prefers not to watch with other people because they’re annoying and interruptive.

Again, this one feels obvious to anyone who’s read fanfiction about him, but Tommy likes nature documentaries, specifically aquatic and insect ones. He loves watching the mesmerizing patterns of how the insects fly about and the light reflecting off the fish scales while a deep English voice drones on about their migrating habits. It’s often the only thing that can get him to sleep each night, the illusion that someone’s still around.

Phil is an anime/action film fan. If it has fight scenes, he’s watching it. Doesn’t matter if it’s a chick flick spy film, a car movie, or an anime with thirteen seasons and seventy eight unreleased episodes, he will enjoy it.

Ranboo, on the other hand, is an absolute gore fanatic. He calls it “pique cinema” but he gets way too interested when people start getting tortured on screen for that to be true.

Tubbo doesn’t really watch TV, prefers to be up on his feet and moving, but when he does sit down to watch something because Micheal or Ranboo asked him to, he’d probably turn on either nostalgic cartoons, how it’s made videos, or some sort of interpretive film no one understands (think Possibly in Michigan)

Charlie watches sewing tutorials. He does not sew. Charlie also watches knitting videos. He also does not knit.

Jack is a big car movie guy. Ford vs. Ferrari was one of the best things that ever happened to him. When he’s not watching car movies, he’s probably watching animal movies, because they make him cry in a good, non-sensitive masculinity way. Men deserve to cry when the dog dies too.