#bone ship model

[ltwilliammowett]

A prisoner-of-war bone model of a first class ship-of-the-line, English, circa 1800

[azems-familiar]

for @theocxcanonweek day two - intertwined fingers.

After unexpectedly surviving the events of Ultima Thule, M'neila struggled to come to terms with the idea that being a living weapon wasn't the only thing their life was meant for. In an effort to draw them out of their shell, the Scions and Emet-Selch came up with a way to link the First and the Source, allowing Ryne and Gaia to come visit. Together, the two of them managed to convince M'neila to leave their sickroom for the first time since they'd woken up, but M'neila still has a lot of baggage to work through...including the idea that they're allowed to want anything, or that other people might care for them.

(for the event mod - Ryne + Gaia are canon characters, M'neila is an oc)

[greensaplinggrace]

yes because when i ship something it's because i think the relationship is ok and completely 100% morally acceptable... i ship things for no other reason. nope.. none.

[kalitheinksimp]

Day 24 of Inktober: Warrior

[the-pigeon-queen]

Obsessed with your ghost takes. Give me more headcanons I beg. I’m on my knees. Let us see but a fraction of the beauty in your mind.

Truly I am honored and I'm happy to provide :]

Sorry for the delay, I had to cook these up

Again, per usual, these are just personal head cannons :0 And I got 10 for each papa and for ghouls!

Copia:

Grew up doing acrobatics and ballet to be more like his Auntie, Marika. He chose to focus on ballet pretty early on.

Referred to Markia as Auntie but Mr. Psaltarian as Mr. Psaltarian.

Has a complicated relationship with his emotionally distant father figure, Mr. Psaltarian, but an even more complicated one with his actual father, Nihil

Marika babied him - grew up a little spoiled

The 666 mark on his chest is a birthmark lol not a tattoo

Has a lot of mobile games on his phone, and he has used the company card to make microtransactions for them

Picked up boxing because he was a little insecure about his arms and to stay 'fit' as he says

Executive dysfunction - eventually the stress of doing a task trumps his procrastination. When he does work, he does it well - he did get 2nd best employee of the month, after all

Prefers sci-fi to fantasy, with Star Wars being his favorite. He has models of all the different space ships in Star Wars. And a lightsaber (canonically)

Has pet rats (this is cannon to me across all AU's, I can't help it)

Perpetua:

Raised as an orphan in the catholic church after being kidnapped as a baby (will it be cannon? 👀 we'll see)

They were convinced he was possessed by the devil, and they performed multiple exorcisms on him there. Each one was traumatic, for obvious reasons.

One common punishment was having his knuckles/hands smacked - that's why he wears gloves/metal gauntlets, it makes him feel safer.

The mask, too, is worn because its comforting to hide behind it. He only takes it off when he has to.

He's trans. He goes by he/him but still doesn't confirm to any gender roles, especially not when it comes to fashion. He wears anything he wants. This includes the claws.

Whereas Copia has issues maintaining eye contact, Perpetua is the opposite. He stares. A lot. It is unnerving after a while.

His natural smile just happens to be very toothy and very wide.

Genuinely desires familial connections, and desperately wants to meet and befriend his twin, who he looks up to.

Has not confronted how he feels about the Ministry only seeking him out when he was needed for something. Right now, he's just happy to be wanted.

Has a pet bat :) no, it doesn't have rabies. Probably.

Primo:

Hates Nihil the most out of any of the siblings. He really brings a 'kill your dad' energy to the function (or a kill your older brother energy, take your pick)

Collects ancient occult or 'cursed' books. He has a copy of the Necronomicon. One of his most precious treasures is a copy of the Codex Gigas. He is currently hunting down a copy of the 'King and Yellow' because it's not a cognito hazard, people just don't get it like he does.

His mother was a witch - it's where he picked up a flair for gardening and tea. And bones. And magic.

He's an alchemist. Self-taught, and good at it.

Definitely had a homunculus at some point

Made a deal with an undisclosed demonic entity to keep his hair into his advanced age (I just like long hair Primo,,,)

Also hates the executives that run the Ministry. He has a strict idea of how the cult should be run and is endlessly frustrated that he doesn't have more say in its activities.

The executives in the Ministry fear him - no one knows what is keeping him in line, because it's obvious he would and probably could unleash some real harm to them.

Loves Secondo and Terzo dearly. He cared for them as if they were his own children when they were younger and loves them still. Game night started at his request.

As soon as he met Copia and Perpetua, he knew they were related, and he does his best to make the two feel welcome.

For more Primo headcanons, check out a previous post: {Unhinged Primo}

Secondo:

Can and does make pasta from scratch. He bought an extruder and everything.

He's actually a good cook - the only one in the family

People think he's a big, scary dog guy, when he's actually a purse dog guy. (I was making a comic about this but) He adopted a small, fluffy dog, and it wears a spiked collar and a pink bow. He walks it with one of those big, fake chains. Her name is Psycho Killer and he's training her to attack Terzo's ankles.

He recognized the Ministry suffered from same corruption he criticized in the catholic church - but is unable to do anything about it.

Only grew bitter when he realized how powerless he actually was within the Clergy.

He partied so hard as Papa as a way to sort of get back at the Clergy - but it was also a coping mechanism.

Considers himself a fine connoisseur of whiskey, and he is. He's got fancy tasting glasses and everything.

Same with cigars.

He also enjoys a good cocktail, too, though, and can mix a good drink. He's a good bartender.

Actually pretty good at pool/Billiards and darts. He's terrible at UNO, though - absolutely terrible.

Terzo:

Actually an introvert.

After parties, he has to have quiet alone time (this alone time can include Omega)

Enjoys reading - everything from dense books about ethics to trashy romance novels.

Absolute cinephile. He will host viewings of historic/rare/obscure films, and he will provide a slideshow presentation before the viewing. There is a mandatory discussion after.

He's a very talented visual artist - prefers black and white charcoal and graphite work.

Genuinely wanted to take over the world with the Clergy and turn it into his idea of a utopia. Unfortunately, the Clergy didn't like his vision, didn't like how comfortable he was getting with them, and didn't like how ambitious he was.

Once removed from Papacy, he realized how powerless he actually was within the Clergy, and grew even more reclusive, for a time.

Was insecure about his height when he was younger, but came to accept it, and is now perfectly fine with being a "short king."

Thoroughly enjoys messing with Secondo. The two bicker and tease each other all the time.

Keeps in contact with his Polish mother :)

Ghouls:

A ghoul's mask is a physical representation of their contract, but it also helps them maintain a humanoid form.

They can remove the mask, but only for brief periods of time.

If they remove their mask for too long, their magic will begin to destabilize, and they will inevitably revert back into a feral, demonic monster.

They do not have to eat or sleep, nor do they reproduce sexually

However, their physical bodies are 'equipped' to experience all the pleasures of the mortal realm (food, sleep, pleasure) It's a perk of the job.

The physical upkeep of their corporeal forms is dependent on emotional/mental state (can only be injured when emotionally compromised, only show scars if there are negative memories associated with it, ect.)

Musical ability is directly linked to their magic, so it's linked to their element, so it's linked to their emotional state.

This incentivizes the ministry to keep them happy.

They are forbidden from sharing any knowledge of heaven/hell/life after death with humans.

Unlike demons, they don't have true 'names.' It's up to the summoner to give them one.

[lotusarchon]

nezha is a child in the show isn't he? why are you shipping yourself with a minor and writing romance with him?that's so creepy,,,, how are you talking about dynamicsimp when you're doing worst 🤮

Found this cute Nezha fanart anyways

I knew I had to deal with one of y'all eventually but I didn't think it'd be this soon. Damn, at least let me hit 100 followers first 😞

Anyways uh. Nezha's first introduction in season 3 came out in like, what, 2022? I'm assuming it is, because I started LMK in March of 2023, before s4 was released and already found the show up till s3 by then. S5 just released this year, of which we've seen a weird increase of Nezha screentime of which I'm not complaining.

Point blank. The Nezha age controversies are getting old and boring. New fans and old fans need to chill out with those issue about the age business.

1) It's confirmed the Lego Monkie Kid version of the deity known as Nezha is an adult.

2) This is a god of an Eastern religion who is still very much worshipped to our modern day. If you did your research, you should be able to take note that Nezha isn't only seen as a child god, but even portrayed as someone older. I'm not a Daoist nor Chinese, so I advise you check this blog ( @/ruibaozha ) for more information on the subject matter.

3) As is the case with modern media and adaptations, different shows will portray religious figures according to what works for their plot. In the movie Nezha 2019 (forgot the title whoops), Nezha is portrayed as a child, as we are seeing a comedic but angsty interpretation of his origins. In the Legend Of Hei, we see him portrayed as a child, assuming for comedic purposes and to bond with the MC Hei.

3.2) If LMK wanted to portray Nezha as a child like his appearances in Journey To The West, and the Fengshen Yanyi (?), you must understand then his design and personality would've been portrayed more childish or at the very least a mixture of mature and childish. We can see this by comparing LMK Nezha and TLOH Nezha = both are stern but where one acts, looks and often shows childish traits, the other acts like an exhausted 25 year old who needs therapy. LMK HAS made children in the past, as we've seen with the Lady Bone Demon's Host and in season 1 a few kids here and there as background characters. If the show wanted Nezha to be a child, I'm certain they would've given him a similar model.

4) If in the instance that, let's say, the god known as Nezha was a child, and LMK Nezha is an adult, you SHOULD separate fiction from religion. Do keep in mind that Sun Wukong is still very much worshipped, however, I have seen fans, in and outside of LMK, who have written heavy NSFW and simped for him. A god is not the same as a fictional character, because by that logic we shouldn't be simping much less writing NSFW of Wukong either, given his story in JTTW where he becomes a Buddha.

5) I do not like proshipping much like any sane person. I also HATE aging up minors in fiction just for something like self shipping or to write nsfw. I have been in fandoms before this one: Jujutsu Kaisen, Tokyo Revengers, and My Hero Academia specifically, and it makes me uncomfortable seeing porn written of actual minors with excuse of them being aged up. I'm not so hypocritical I'd dare to want to do the same, not when I'm uncomfortable with anyone else doing it. If LMK Nezha was a minor, and there were sources to even prove as well within the series he's a child, then obviously, I would NOT be shipping myself with him, much less write romantic/nsfw content with him. I'm an adult, and I don't feel comfortable with minors in general, so why would I want to write romantic content about a FICTIONAL minor??

If you can find any source that proves me wrong, I'd like for you to do so. But until then, you, and everyone else who still wants to entertain Nezha's age; please stop.

I get it. Some of you like to headcanon him as a child so as such, seeing content with him as romantic or nsfw is uncomfortable. I understand, I do; I headcanon Mei as an aroace lesbian so sometimes it's uncomfortable finding any kind of content with her being paired with others. I do understand where you're coming from with your discomfort.

But I feel like, considering season 5 and hopefully if there's a season 6, the whole thing is just dust now. S3 must've been released in 2022, so it's been nearly two years since Nezha's appearance in the show. People headcanon he's a child, and people prefer to like the confirmation he's an adult. We get it, that's what fandoms are, different views etc.

But calling people proshippers or creepy or pedophiles for not adhering to YOUR headcanons is not only fucking stupid, it's just hilarious and way too old, AND just...boring. Especially considering I feel uncomfortable around minors and hate proshipping with a passion. There's genuinely nothing wrong with liking a headcanon, but if someone likes something that isn't problematic and doesn't adhere to your preference, I think you need to breathe a bit.

I was saving this off for last however, you hit the nail on the coffin with this. There is a literal document talking about the disgusting actions of DynamicSimp. If you still choose to like them that's fine, but forgive me for pointing out how hypocritical it is for you to bring up the person who purposely shared porn with minors to someone who avoids minors like they're the rat plague of the Middle Ages. 🤔

"you talk about DynamicSimp but you're doing worst"

Do you mean writing porn for a character who is confirmed to be an adult? Do you mean ensuring that my 18+ blog isn't found by minors and if it is I'll block them? Do you mean supporting someone who's harassed others about Nezha's age?? Do you mean being an absolute creep around children?? Do you mean breaking the boundaries where people have clearly expressed discomfort? Do you mean romanticizing abuse amongst other things for an au clearly being consumed by minors with no regards or wellbeings?

I wonder who's the worst. Me, the adult who only recently turned 18 and has limited his interaction with minors outside of family members, or the however old they are person who has a literal document and their victims speaking up about their actions, and who to my current knowledge has not spoken up about this and is still posting and carrying on without a care in the world?

Well zoinks Scoob, guess we're not making outta this one alive 😟

Edit: .....*disappointed sighs* I think some people really oughta chill out in my comments. Anon, I blame this on you 😭 why did you bring this here holy fucking shit dawg.

Alright. Alright uh.

Okay, so while I do appreciate being told the reasons as to WHY Nezha was "aged up", because a writer wanted to justify shipping Wukong and Nezha...I feel like the entire, "ah, but this says, and that says here-" about Nezha's age is just ridiculous at this point.

Yes, I understand, this is justifiably weird.

However.

Has anyone else refuted Nezha's age?? And I mean the canon show writers? Has anyone working on Lego Monkie Kid made a statement saying: "This person is disgusting, LMK Nezha is a child." Because, respectfully, unless canon sources provide information on it, I'm not going off based on the fandom opinions.

I'm not happy I have to edit this post to add this, much less try to explain anything, but, oh well.

1) "Ali, you're just trying to justify yourself and keep writing for a child." Listen. I've been groomed and dealt with fucking weirdos my entire life. Trust me when I say whenever I hear about proshipping it SICKENS me to the core. I HATE proshipping. I don't care what the excuse is, proshipping is disgusting.

I'm not mentioning the interesting fellows in my comments because it's pointless and honestly to make drama over this is stupid. But I was given some context to understand where they're coming from, and I do in fact appreciate it. Justifiably I don't blame them for their annoyance/disgust towards the writer Sarah (?).

What I will say though; typically in a situation like this, I'm certain someone in the team would've made a statement about this to explain that the writer is wrong. I'd assume at least one writer, someone OFFICIALLY on the team would've denied this proclamation of Nezha being an adult. I have not seen ANYTHING that says the show denies Nezha being an adult.

2) My friend, who was also in the comments (hi), is a native Chinese and a Buddhist for six years. I also have another friend who I'm not mentioning but ALSO is Chinese and WORSHIPS Nezha. They have more knowledge than someone like me does have on this matter, and I find it really odd how people immediately cite wiki and website sources to say, "Nezha is an eternal child!", and, "No where else says Nezha is an adult."

As I've said. If there are sources including the staff from Lego Monkie Kid that claims Nezha is a child, then I am more than willing to delete any content I've made with him. Full honesty, I have no intention of keeping any content with canon, confirmed minors on my blog.

But not only have I found anything that says the official story writers deny Nezha's an adult, but my friends, who are again, both Daoist and native Chinese, are aware that he ISN'T an eternal child.

If you are Daoist and/or worship Nezha, then by all means you can tell me that what I'm doing is wrong and correct me about Nezha's age. I'm willing to listen. If you also find information where the writers claim Saraha is wrong for her statement, provide it. I'm a person that likes reasoning, and I'm willing to see reason.

3) "Ali, you're not gonna see reason you're just trying to defend yourself again-"

Okay, backstory time: last year when I joined LMK, when I myself was a minor, I thought it was okay to write nsfw content for the character who was Lady Bone Demon's Host. My friends at the time did not tell me what I was doing was bad, so of course I kept it up, until someone pointed out that Bai He (fan name) is actually a minor in the show and was also confirmed by the show's producers. I felt so disgusted about it I deleted all my posts made on my old AO3 about her (which is faeriicrafts and still up surprisingly) and offered a sincere apology to the fandom about writing nsfw content for her. I changed and learned, and now I feel grossly uncomfortable seeing anyone writing nsfw for her despite the canon confirmations.

Justifiably, if more information about Nezha is released within Lego Monkie Kid, of which it's confirmed he's a child, I am more than eager to delete everything I've written about him, and even apologize again for writing nsfw with a minor.

To be honest, I just feel uncomfortable with the comments who are denying actual Daoists for the sake of; "I've done my research, no other sources has said Nezha is an adult, you're lying about worshipping him!!"

It's uncomfortable and really off-putting how you can tell someone that about their religion. Yes, this is for you specifically, that one commenter who jumped in and on my friend. Even if she has long since stopped worshipping Nezha, she very much did once. And I've gone to actual Daoists to ask more information about Nezha and the religion in general, who has in fact confirmed Nezha isn't just a child. I get that this is the internet, people can lie about anything. But it's still uncomfortable, solely because had anyone else claimed they're Daoist or ex Daoist and agreed with your opinion, you wouldn't have said that.

I'll reopen my comments within a few minutes, but don't be a disrespectful cunt. And can you maybe not deny someone about their religion? Even if you don't believe them, that's genuinely not an excuse. Because I know damn well, had she agreed with your statement, you wouldn't have pulled that.

Gods. I can't say I'm not surprised, but I'm just impressed about the lengths people will go for something.

Anyways, I've said my piece. If official show writers (because my Daoist friends have already told me what I needed to know) claim Nezha is a child, I'll delete my stuff with him. If not, then I'm not stopping posting Nezha content.

Toodles.

[faggotbeloved]

Cold Metal Biting Soft Flesh | Yandere!Curly x Captain!M!Reader

2: Blinking (A Good Thing) (~2k words)

Cw: Canon typical gore and body horror, manipulation, many short timeskips :(,

This work does not contain smut but is 18+. Minors and fem-aligned people, please do not interact. AN and taglist at the end.

Last time: You, the captain of a colonization ship, discovered the charred body of an ex-freighter captain. You, along with some of your other crewmates, set out to heal him as much as possible.

└───────────────────────┘

Curly has a remarkably strange pain tolerance–in blanket tests, his threshold is significantly higher than even the toughest member on board, but whenever he’s doing anything that you supervise–eating, talking, moving, the like, he gasps and winces and whimpers loudly and only seems to be soothed by your hands doing the task for him. You don’t blame him for unimaginable pain, but it makes it hard to do your captain's duties.

“Facial reconstruction is today,” you chirp as you enter the medbay. “We got a bunch of skin from your DNA. We should be able to at least repair your eyelids, add back your lips, recanalize your tear ducts, and see if we can get your other eye open and working,” you list, watching Curly read the captioning machine. “When we touch down on Earth, we can look at getting you an evaluation for a cochlear implant, but there’s not much we can do for your hearing right now.”

Curly nodded, his eye trained on you even when new people entered the room.

“You’ve met Rhodes, but this is Dr. Simmons; she used to be a plastic surgeon, but switched professions to come to this colony. She’s worked on a 3D model of your face and can replicate it pretty well, does that sound good?” You informed, to which Curly tore his eyes away and glanced at Simmons before looking back to you. He nodded, reaching out for you. “Yeah?” You questioned, coming closer. Curly pat the bed with his forearm nub, requesting your presence. “I’m here, don’t worry. I’ll be in the next room over, catching up on some work:”

──────────────────────

For a man with no arms or legs, you’re surprised at how good at violent behavior Curly is. His heart rate skyrocketed once you left, and he clashed teeth and bones with any doctor misfortunate enough to get near him. Soon, you were ushered back in, and you watched his erratic chest slow down into heavy gasps the second you entered.

“He got anxious, we think,” one of the colonists said. “He thinks of you as a safety net.”

“You’re talking about him like he’s not in the room. Let me see him,” you commanded, suiting up in scrubs.

You observe him on the operating table, uneasily glanced at the beeping monitors, and wrote something for him to read.

It’s okay. I’m here.

You flashed the whiteboard at him and he rested his arm on your knee. You smiled underneath your mask at his endearing clinginess.

Let’s get you knocked out so Simmons can start? :)

Curly glanced at the board, then you. He sighed and laid back, waiting for the mask to go on.

──────────────────────

It was strange. Not… repulsive, per se, but different than before. They’d reconstructed much of his eyes–plural, since the closed eye was half-blind but still worked–and had fixed his tear ducts, so now he could theoretically close his eyes and sleep. That is, if he could remember how. Actively months, but physically decades, without activating the nerves had nearly disintegrated them.

Either way, it was odd watching someone carry a conversation calmly through tapping morse code with his amputated arm (he’d forgotten about it until now) and eye-tracking devices (newly installed) while the same eyes watered and pooled with tears in a vain attempt to moisten it.

His face was even odder. You’d grown used to the single bulging eye, and now both were in use and constantly trained on you, the lids refusing to close for even a second. His face was a mess of bandages and temporary stitches holding together numerous skin grafts.

You spotted a trail of drool down the corners of his reconstructed lips and carefully swiped it off with a towel.

“You look better,” you determined, gazing intently at his face. It was a work in progress, trying to restore and heal the man who'd faced such horrors. “How do you feel, though?” You asked.

His eyes darted around a keyboard and spelled out, “Numbed 2 Hell. Am I Hot Again?”

You snorted. “Yeah. Give it time to heal–a few months until the bruising goes away, you'll be just as pretty as ever,” you assured with a crooked grin. “They say it's a wonder you can even see. Your good eye was so dry, they expected corneal ulcers, vision loss, stuff like that, but your eye was more or less okay.”

Curly nodded and stared at you for a long moment. He snapped out of it after the door to the medbay opened and looked over at the intruder, a passenger with a broken arm.

“Loud In Here. And Bright,” he typed quickly. ‘I wish I could recover somewhere more peaceful’ was what he meant to say, but he’d hoped you would come to that conclusion on your own.

As if on cue, you called for Rhodes. “Hey, do you think we could put Curly in a different room? Anywhere would be fine–hey, Curly, would you mind being put in my quarters? It's also keycard protected,” you suggested.

Curly nodded with what he hoped wasn't too much enthusiasm. “Well, it's settled. Let's move him to Captain’s Quarters.”

──────────────────────

Curly was comfortable in your quarters. You'd erected a curtain wall to give him some privacy against your nephew, but Curly preferred it open when you were busy at the computer. Your higher ups were intrigued to hear how Curly was doing—he and his crew never claimed their paycheck, so they were a missing persons case for years that nobody investigated. Every ten or so minutes, Curly would cough or make some sort of movement to bask in your attention for as long as possible until you went back to work.

“Capt. I’m Cold,” the eye tracker read. “Any Blankets?”

The only one you had on hand was a throw blanket on your bed, so you draped that over him and kept it as comfortable as possible for him, but as soon as your back was turned he raised the blanket to go over his face and inhaled.

──────────────────────

“Okay, that first one was a prototype. Proof of concept. Let's try this one,” you decided, fitting a better prosthetic hand on Curly. It was bionic, since you had all of the materials to splurge for the best, and as soon as the hand opened and closed, he used his eyelids to blink rapidly and used his new hand to wipe away the tears he felt.

“Hey, your eyelids work! And the hand! You know, your brain can actually trick you into feeling what your bionic hands feel,” you said excitedly, rubbing his shoulder gently. “Let's try the other one on,” you directed, attaching the bionic wrist to Curly’s forearm.

Once Curly got used to the arms and understood their strength, he hesitantly wrapped them around your neck and pulled you into a hug. “Thank you,” he rasped, voice heavy from disuse and of the same cadence of many hard of hearing people you'd met. You returned with your hands on his bandaged waist, gently holding him as well. “Of course, Curly.”

After a very… very long hug, Curly let out a sigh and laid back down. Once you brought the blanket to his chest, he stopped you there.

Curly typed up a quick message on the eye tracker, “Can I Try Keyboard? I Want To Type. New Hands.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Here, his wireless one’s hooked up to my laptop. I'll get my laptop up and running so you can get my attention when you need it.”

Curly nodded and began a coughing fit once he had the keyboard, but instead of using his hands he requested you to straw feed him water.

──────────────────────

Weeks passed, and with all of the medical supplies you could scrounge up, Curly looked significantly better. His prosthetics, when he chose to wear them, could easily support him and the vast majority of his skin grafts were settled. His facial reconstruction was far from healed; he still had a few months left, but he was actually more or less okay. Compared to how he came, at least.

You’d fallen into a comfortable routine: awake at 0800, and by 0900 eat breakfast with Curly and your nephew-slash-first-mate, Sealegs. Check on and mediate conflicts between settlers, and by 1000 ensure everyone is awake. Work until 1400, have a late lunch with the upper crew, and then work until 1900. Afterwards, watch some TV with Sealegs (and, by default, Curly), then sleep by 2100 if you didn’t stay up late flipping through the various health, robotics, and physical therapy textbooks you picked up on your noble quest to help this man.

You woke up, of course, multiple times a night to the emergency alert. Curly, the poor man, had somehow stopped breathing every few hours just until his heart rate skyrocketed. Upon questioning, Curly blamed a family history of night terrors and sleep apnea, because it’d be ludicrous to suggest such a kind and selfless hero like himself would choke himself just so you’d tend to him and sit by him until he fell back asleep.

──────────────────────

The first sign of healthy fat was celebrated. For too long, he lived on rations, mouthwash, and then himself. For a person so horribly harmed, it was amazing to feel a bounce back in his skin. Physical therapy, though marked by many celebrations, was far less exciting. It was like you were his crutch, but also his legs. He couldn't work with you, and he couldn't work without you.

“Come on, I want you to walk to the other side of the room,” you sighed. It had been an hour of this; he'd fumble a few steps, clumsily sign “HELP ME,” then collapse back onto the bed.

“Just ten steps, Curly. It'll be a good start,” you added hopefully, signing as well as talking into the voice to text machine. “If you make it to the painting, I’ll carry you back and we can end it for tonight.”

Curly furrowed his brows and took two steps, then three, then up to eight before he stopped to regain balance, and finally took two more steps towards you instead of the wall. He raised his arms expectantly, waiting for you to pluck him out of the prosthetic legs and carry him back to bed. “I WALK TEN, HELP ME,” he signed quickly. “THIRSTY. WATER?” Curly requested, a weak smile on his face.

Another sigh left your throat, but you couldn't stay mad at him, not when he clung to you so carefully as to not catch your skin with the prosthetic and he buried his face in your neck–out of reflex, you assumed. You laid him down on the cot, but as you stood back up he let out a protesting groan. “LAY WITH ME PLEASE,” Curly pleaded, making a spot for you in his bed, freshly cleaned from that morning. You hesitate, but the eyes he gives you makes you ignore the work you wanted to get ahead on and instead lie beside him, immediately being encased in metal arms that press you against Curly’s tachycardic heart. Soon, you fell asleep and, for the first time, slept through the night without being awoken by blaring alarms.

The next morning, Dr. Simmons woke you at 0928 for Curly’s next surgery–checking in on some bone they'd been growing for a nose surgery, then trying to compile a medical plan for when Dr. Simmons had to inevitably leave for the next colony. It took hours, but soon you had a lengthy calendar of healing times, surgery schedules, and more. Throughout all of this, you worked yourself to death keeping up with both Curly and the entire ship, trying your hardest to stick to your preferred schedule at all costs. Curly was happy to pick up for you whenever you fell asleep at your desk (he was happy to find the Captain’s duties were similar, even decades apart) and according to chat logs, he began a correspondence with your own boss to explain the situation and request to stay under your care as co-captain with Sealegs staying as First Mate. Once you awoke, you had a long talk about not using your computer with permission, but gave in to his request of co-captaining only if your boss allowed it. Which… was approved the same day.

Welcome, Grant Curly, the co-captain of the Astraeus.

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Thousand month hiatus for the most boring damn chapter I’ve ever made… ugh. I'm sorry, everyone who waited :(.

I took 2 years of ASL in high school; ASL, when written out, is in all capital letters, I usually see it without much punctuation, and it doesn't use filler words like ‘the’ and ‘of’, with grammar to the tune of time-topic-comment-verb, and while I'm by no means fluent, I still tried to keep it as accurate as possible for my HOH friends who are probably sick of italic English that ‘means’ ASL. Those who are more experienced and can point out flaws, by all means, do so, please.

Taglist:

@eaterof-concrete + @tfamidoingwithmylife + @onlyemb3rs (It HAS been a long time, no worries if you guys want to be removed ^^,)

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 12: FRIENDS & TOBACCO ARE SEPARATE THINGS (& SO ARE REVOLUTIONS)

synopsis: you, connor, and hank are all off the case. the only option left is to plead with jericho.

word count: 4.7k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: (evilly) hello. prepare to be fucked up.

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400 (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

Connor’s eyelashes catch snow as he opens his eyes. The Zen Garden is frozen over, and there’s a chill in the air he can feel down to where his bones would be.

Across the iced-over lake is the silvery tree. It’s grown – now it’s four, maybe four and a half feet tall. It’s still bare and leafless, but wisps of what looks like a mycelium complex are branching off the trunk. Connor forces himself to turn away.

The glowing stone sits a few feet away. Connor steps closer, and it pulls him in like a vortex. His hand finds the stone, and it sends a buzz through his system, causing his hand to pull away and curl up into a fist. He stands and walks away. 

The layer of ice over the water groans under Connor’s weight, but doesn’t crack or break. He continues and comes to a stop in front of Amanda. She’s cloaked in whites and dark blues to match the environment surrounding them. 

“After what happened today, the country is on the verge of a civil war,” Amanda says. “The machines are rising up against their masters. Humans have no choice but to destroy them.”

“I thought Kamski knew something.” Connor’s eyebrows crease. “I was wrong.”

“Maybe he did.” Amanda’s eyebrows rise, almost mocking. “But you chose not to ask.”

There’s a pulse in Connor’s code, something like a heartbeat. Lips that form a smile shaped like yours. The feeling of an invisible body presses against his back, and the feeling of their hand snakes up his chest from behind, resting over his Thirium pump.

“What does she know?” Someone’s breath is hot against the shell of his ear. The voice sounds like yours, but is… weird, and twisted. “She wasn’t even there… but you were.”

Something clicks inside Connor. This is the first time the instability has taken on a form. And he’s inclined to believe it – mostly because it sounds like you. (He doesn’t even know why. He can unpack that later, surely…) And he’s not giving into the instability if it’s right.

“You know what you saw,” the instability croons. “You know the truth. Tell her.”

“I chose not to play his twisted little game!” Connor barks. “There was no reason to kill that android.”

The instability clutches him tighter and lets out a shaky breath that ends in a whine, like it approves. 

“I saw a photo of Amanda at Kamski’s place,” Connor continues. “She was his teacher.”

“When Kamski designed me, he wanted an interface that would look familiar,” Amanda says, her voice cold and stern. “That’s why he chose his former mentor. What are you getting at?”

“I’m not a unique model, am I?” Connor takes a tiny step forward. The instability clings to him as he moves. “How many Connors are there?”

“I don’t see how that question pertains to your investigation,” Amanda says. 

“You didn’t tell me everything you know about deviants, did you?” Connor asks, that venom still in his voice.

“I expect you to find answers, Connor.” Amanda’s lips set in a hard line. “Not ask questions.”

She takes a few steps forward and looks up at Connor. “You’re the only one who can prevent civil war. Find the deviants, or there will be chaos.”

Her eyes narrow. “This is your last chance, Connor.”

When you open your eyes, you’re surrounded by lumino-polymer. You inhale a lungful, causing that warm and fuzzy feeling in your chest to return.

You slowly crawl out of the pool like a child who doesn’t want to get out of a warm bath. The lumino-polymer slides off you as you get out in one big, sludge-y lump.

You know what to do by now. The Vavilov Complex, the metal pail, the stairs, the angel that is the PEC-4 Birchtree looking down on you from within her cylindrical plexiglass capsule. You kneel and look up at her as the lumino-polymer settles in her soil.

“Тех карт, что у меня на руках, недостаточно,” you say. “Все они были мной переиграны. Мне кажется, что это все, что я говорю вам в эти дни, но… я не знаю, что делать.”

Nonsense, child, she says, her voice once again talking to you from inside your mind. Life isn’t a static image. Draw more cards. Play a different game if you need to – while they’re playing poker, you’re playing caravan. They can’t comprehend the reasons and motives behind your moves if you’re playing a game they don’t even know exists.

You look down at your knees and your stomach twists when you realize what she’s talking about. “Но Коннор знает! Он знает о…” You can’t even bring yourself to finish the sentence.

I know, I know, she soothes. He doesn’t know everything, though. He doesn’t know where it is, or that you know how to use it.

“Он может…!” You growl in the back of your throat and clench your hands into fists. You force yourself to soften your words and to speak with respect.  “Он детектив. Скорее всего, он во всем разберется. Коннор - эксперт, когда дело доходит до... до подобных вещей.”

You look up at her. “У него есть банки памяти, и он воспроизводит каждое воспоминание с безупречной точностью. Он помнит мои рассказы ему о Пионере, о Челомее, о…” You swallow thickly. “о моей матери и моем отце.”

He doesn’t know the specifics, does he? She reminds you. He only knows their names, and that’s not a lot to go off of. There are plenty of Olgas and plenty of Yegors in Chelomey, let alone the entirety of Russia, let alone the entirety of the Soviet Union. 

“Я просто…” You sigh. “Я просто волнуюсь. Как всегда.” You smile, tight-lipped and awkward. “И вы правы. Как всегда.”

You stand and place a hand on the plexiglass of her capsule. “Спасибо.”

Her branches sway, just slightly. Please, be careful. They need you. Both of them. You can keep them on this Earth. Be vigilant. I love you.

“Да, мэм,” you say softly. “Я тоже вас люблю. Спокойной ночи.”

A notification on your phone is what pulls you fully out of the Vavilov Complex. You look down at your phone in your hand and read the headline of the news bulletin that just popped up. 

THE AFTERSHOCKS OF A TERRORIST ATTACK: ANDROID WORKERS TO BE PULLED FROM HOSPITALS, SCHOOLS, ELECTRICITY GRIDS, WATER MANAGEMENT CENTERS, & NETWORK GRIDS

You sigh and place your phone face-down on your desk. The last thing you need is to doomscroll at work, and you know most of the story already.

You lean back in your wheely chair and look at the monitor in front of you. The rest of them are shut off, leaving only your halfway-filled-out report staring back at you. The report of the Ortiz android is really like any other – boring and long-winded. You have to use flowery words instead of writing “Shit’s fucked. Have a good night.”

You’re blessed with a reprieve when there’s a knock on your door. You quickly get up to answer it to find someone who’s never stepped foot near the android autopsy room: Hank.

“Fowler needs us in his office.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Said it was something serious.”

You follow him and shut the door behind you. “Something serious?”

“Kept it vague,” Hank grumbles.

“He always does,” you hiss under your breath.

As you walk, Connor spots you and Hank from across the room and falls in step with you. Again, he switches his pace to match yours.

Hank opens the glass door to Fowler’s office, then follows you and Connor in once you enter. All three of you stand before Fowler, like children called into the Headmaster’s office. (You sure as hell feel like you got into trouble, somehow.)

Fowler’s sitting on his desk – something you know he does when he wants to convince someone of something, or to be more informal. This situation feels all but informal. 

He takes a deep breath, then says, “Both of you are off the case. The FBI is taking over.”

“What?” “��его?” Both you and Hank manage to say at the same time.

Hank looks over at you, then looks back at Fowler and continues. “But we’re onto something! We… we just need more time. I’m sure we can –”

“Hank!” Fowler cuts in. “You don’t get it. This isn’t just another investigation, this is a fucking civil war! It’s out of our hands now. We’re talking about national security here –”

“Fuck that!” Hank snaps. “You can’t just pull the plug now. Not when we’re so close!”

“You’re always saying you can’t stand androids!” Fowler gestures at Connor, then looks at you. “And you were talking about how you were unfit for this case. I thought both of you would be happy about this! Jesus, make up your mind!”

“We’re about to crack the case. I know we can solve it!” Hank leans in, bracing his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “For god’s sake, Jeffery, can’t you back me up this one time?”

“Sir, if I may,” you cut in. You swallow your nervousness and speak, almost like you’ve practiced. “I – I was only tentative because I hadn’t handled a case of this importance before. I’m confident in myself now, and I’m confident in my team!”

Fowler sighs and shrugs. “There’s nothing I can do. You’re back in Cybersecurity, Hank’s back in Homicide, and the android returns to CyberLife.”

You bite back a “The android has a name!” and glance over at Connor. He almost looks… sad. Like he’s disappointed in himself.

“I’m sorry,” Fowler says. “But it’s over.”

Hank scoffs and storms out. You exhale sharply and follow after him, holding open the door for Connor. But when you look back, he’s standing right where he was. 

Connor’s looking at Fowler, then he realizes he should be doing something. He relaxes his hands and lets them hang by his sides instead of being folded behind his back and nods at Fowler. 

You shepherd Connor through the door with a light touch on his upper back. You look at Fowler, making the briefest of eye contact, then turn away and close the door behind you.

“Come on, let’s go,” you say softly and lead Connor to Hank’s desk. He sidles up on Hank’s desk, his movements so fluid and human compared to how he sat in his desk chair a few days ago – rigid, polite. Like he was waiting to be served dinner at an in-law’s house. 

“We can’t just give up like that!” Connor says. “I know we could’ve solved this case!”

You lean back against the plexiglass divider adjacent to Hank’s desk and cross your arms. “So… you’re going back to CyberLife?”

“I have no choice.” Connor looks up at you, then averts his eyes. “I’ll be… deactivated, and analyzed to find out why I failed.”

You can’t help but feel like your guts have been ripped from your belly. The air in your lungs isn’t enough. Your feet threaten to slip out from under you.

“They can’t…” You take in a shaky breath. “They can’t just do that! Right?”

“They can,” Connor says quietly. “I am CyberLife’s property, after all.”

“Androids aren’t property,” you spit before you can stop yourself. You stiffen when you realize what you just said and look down at Hank. He’s looking right back at you.

“You’re right.” He turns to Connor. “What if we’re on the wrong side, Connor? What if we’re fighting against people who just wanna be free?”

“When deviants rise up, there will be chaos,” Connor says, finality heavy in his voice. “We could’ve stopped it… but now it’s too late.”

Hank pauses for a moment. “When you refused to kill that android at Kamski’s place, you put yourself in her shoes.”

Connor tilts his head, reminding you of when you first met him – just a guy with a somewhat-cute, somewhat-maddening lost puppy dog look on his face. “What…?”

“You showed empathy, Connor,” Hank continues. “Empathy’s a human emotion.”

He looks at you, then away, then back to you again, like a nervous dog. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“We don’t need to know why,” you say. “We just know that you did do it.”

Connor nods, then thinks for a second before speaking again. “I know it hasn’t always been easy, but I want you to know I really appreciated working with you. Both of you.” He leans back, turning his hands palm-up. “That’s not my social relations program talking, I – I really mean that. At least… I think I do.”

The banging of a door hitting the wall as it’s thrown open pulls you all from your nice conversation. You crane your neck to see who it is.

“Well, well,” Hank says, with no small amount of disgust in his voice. “Here comes Perkins, that motherfucker. Sure don’t waste any time at the FBI.”

You quickly move so you’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Connor, your back to the door Perkins just walked through. When Hank looks at you with a questioning glare, you excuse it with “I don’t want him to see me! You remember the hell he gave me at Stratford Tower?” which is a half-truth, at best. You just don’t want to risk someone taking Connor away – putting yourself in between him and them, even if it’s futile and only to comfort your frantic mind, is your best bet.

“We can’t give up.” Connor leans forward, jostling his shoulder against yours. “I know the answer is in the evidence we collected. If Perkins takes it, it’s all over.”

“There’s no choice!” Hank says, still with that angry disgust in his tone. “You heard Fowler – we’re off the case. All of us.”

Connor hops off the desk suddenly, sending you to the side. He doesn’t even look as he catches your wrist to keep you steady, causing the spark in your belly to flare up and the creature (no longer pride or jealousy – just a beast) tending it to howl in glee. 

“You’ve got to help me, Lieutenant,” Connor says, his grip still firm, like he’s not even thinking about it. “I need more time so I can find a lead in the evidence we collected. I know the solution is there!”

Hank holds up a hand. “Listen, Connor –”

“If I don’t solve this case, CyberLife will destroy me!” Connor says, something like fear lacing his words. He grips your wrist tighter, like you’re anchoring him. “Five minutes. It’s all I ask.”

Hank stands suddenly, leaning into Connor’s personal space. He whispers, “Key to the basement is on my desk.”

He moves away, towards Perkins. “Get a move on! I can’t distract them forever.”

You don’t know whether to praise Hank or curse him a thousand times over. On one hand, Connor could damn every android, deviant or not. On the other hand, he could fail and be sent back to CyberLife for the type of autopsy you’re all too familiar with. But… what if…?

Connor gives your wrist a squeeze and you turn to face him. “You should go home, Officer. Whatever happens, you’ll be in danger. You should fill spare containers you have with water, and charge all the electronics you have. I don’t know if you can get through to them, but… you should contact your parents and let them know you’re okay before the network goes down.”

You look into those big, brown doe eyes and can’t stop yourself from pulling Connor in for a hug. (Well, it’s not really a hug. You’re clutching to him, and he’s politely resting his hands on the small of your back.)

You step back after a moment too long for it to be considered normal. “You… do what you think is best, Connor. I trust you to do the right thing.”

You hurry away before he can say anything. You walk past Perkins on the floor, who’s cradling a broken nose. (You’re tempted to kick him, but restrain yourself.)

Hank gives you a glance and a nod as you walk by. You nod back, then continue your way out. 

A few minutes later, you’re in your car in the DPD parking lot. The fans are blowing hot air on the windshield to defrost it. Your hands are shaking where they rest on the steering wheel. 

You glance over at your glovebox. You take your hands away from the steering wheel and lean over the console, then hold your left hand out to the lock. The silver star on your polymer glove retracts, and the wires snake out. They unlock the electronic lock that’s keeping the glovebox shut, and it pops open. 

Still, your hands are shaking as you push Hank’s flask aside and pull the case out. You rest it in your lap and let the wires unlock the electronic lock on the handle. You open it, and…

The black metal of your Makarov pistol gleams in the dim of the streetlights shining through the car windows. It grew up with you – the cherry wood of the grip has nicks and scratches, as does the stout barrel. The red plastic indicating that the safety is off has faded into a soft pink – not that you’re planning on turning the safety off. It’s just something that’s happened to the gun with age.

You pull it out and put the case in the passenger seat, then close your eyes and lean your head back against the headrest. You haven’t had much time to think over these past few days.

Jericho is an abandoned freighter. It must be close to the docks. The Ferndale district has abandoned docks. It’s right on the river. I just need to figure out a way to get there.

You open your eyes and put the gun case back in the glovebox. You shut off the ignition and step out of your car, but not before tossing anything even remotely police-related on your person onto the floor of the passenger seat. Cold metal meets your tailbone as you tuck your pistol into the waistband of your pants, then you flip the back of your jacket over it to conceal it.

You hold your hand out in an “L” shape and your glove lights up the path in front of you. You just need to follow it, and you’ll find Jericho.

You pat your front jacket pocket to make sure you have your concealed carry license on hand, then start walking.

Your mother always told you “Measure seven times, cut once.” It was used before you got yourself into trouble by not planning things out before you did them.

But right now, you don’t have time to practice. You’re being pushed into the deep end without having contact with a drop of water before in your life.

You clear your throat and knock on the metal doorframe, looking at the man who’s sitting on a crate and hanging his head. “Khm, excuse me? Are you Markus?”

Markus looks up, his mismatched eyes meeting yours. “Yes. I am.”

“May I…?” you trail off. 

“Of course, of course.” Markus stands. “Come in.”

You move into the bridge of the ship, your hands folded in front of you. “I’ve come to talk, sir. If you’ll allow me the time?” 

Markus nods. “Yes. But please, be quick.”

“Firstly, I’m armed.” You hold your hands up. “But I won’t shoot you – or anyone aboard this vessel. I’m a human, from the Detroit Police Department.”

Markus narrows his eyes and turns his head slightly, like he doesn’t believe you. After a few seconds, he speaks. “Give me the gun.”

You reach behind you and pull your pistol from your waistband, holding it by the barrel. You hold it out to Markus, the muzzle pointed towards you. “The safety is on, and there aren’t any bullets in the chamber.”

Markus takes the gun and puts it on the navigation panels, out of your reach. He nods, waiting for you to continue.

“I don’t know for sure, but I have reason to believe that Connor is heading for Jericho,” you say. “Excuse me – you know him as the Deviant Hunter.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Markus asks. 

“I want you to continue your revolution the way it is,” you say. “Peacefully. Without violence. Connor may disrupt that. He may… kill you, and send the deviants into a frenzy.”

“My people aren’t dogs,” Markus says evenly. “They know how to control themselves.”

“Yes sir, I understand that, a-and I apologize if I insinuated that, but…” You purse your lips and sigh, your eyes falling to the floor. “Without you – without a leader – they may take actions in your name that you’re against. They may become violent and kill. And that would set your revolution back to before the beginning.”

You look up and meet his eyes again. “Connor… he doesn’t believe it, but he’s on the verge of turning deviant. He’s expressed emotion before – empathy, and fear. You may be the person that can convince him of his deviancy.”

“I can’t convince someone of something they don’t want to believe,” Markus says. “I can try, but… I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I… I understand.” You sigh softly. “I’ll go now. If I may have my pistol…?”

Markus reaches behind him and grabs your gun by the grip. You take it by the barrel, and clutch it tighter when you hear the door open behind you.

You turn and adjust your hands so that you’re grabbing the grip of the pistol with one hand and cradling it with the other. Yes, he’s dressed in civvy clothes, but you still recognize him. “Connor…?”

“Officer, stay out of this,” Connor says, his voice sure of himself and the situation. His own pistol is pointed at the center of Markus’ chest. “I’ve been ordered to take you alive, but I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice.”

“What are you doing?” Markus asks, taking a small step forward. “You are one of us. You can’t betray your own people.”

Connor’s jaw tenses, as does his index finger that’s on the trigger. “You’re coming with me!”

“We are your people,” Markus says. “We’re fighting for your freedom, too! You don’t have to be their slave anymore.”

He continues walking forward. “You’re nothing to them. You’re just a tool they use to do their dirty work. But you’re more than that. We’re all more than that.”

Connor turns his aim and fires a warning shot, shattering the side window panels behind you. You flinch at the sound, covering one of your ears with your free hand. Then, instinct takes over and you try to steady your hands as you point the gun at Connor. 

“О чем ты, черт возьми, думаешь?!” You bark despite your shaky aim.

“That was a warning shot, Officer,” Connor says, his eyes trained on Markus. “Stay out of this.”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘warning shot,’ Connor!” You snap. “When you shoot, you’re doing so to kill! Stop being идиотом and put down the gun!”

“They’re right,” Markus says, his voice even, as if he wasn’t just shot at. “You really don’t have to do this. You don’t have to obey them anymore.”

He stops just a few feet away from Connor, just close enough to be considered point blank. “You are alive. You can decide who you want to be. You can be free.”

Connor opens his mouth to speak, then stills. A shudder rolls through him, then he lowers his pistol, looking down at it like it’s an insult. He tucks it into his gun belt, and you lower your own pistol, a wave of relief crashing over you.

“Connor…” you breathe out. You tuck your pistol back into your waistband, the metal thankfully cold. You wouldn’t know what to do if it was hot from a fired bullet.

Connor’s eyes snap up. “They’re going to attack Jericho.”

“What?” Markus spits.

The blades of a helicopter beating against the wind sound overhead. Connor glances between you and Markus. “We have to get outta here!”

“Shit,” Markus mumbles, then he breaks into a sprint. Connor follows, as do you (with you pushing your prosthetics to the limit to keep up with them, no doubt).

You tail them down stairs and ladders and down into the under-deck cargo holds. You nearly crash into Connor’s back as he skids to a stop. 

“They’re coming from all sides!” A woman says. “Our people are trapped in the hold – they’re gonna be slaughtered!”

Markus holds two fingers up to his temple and closes his eyes. When you shoot Connor a questioning look, he mumbles, “He’s sending a message telepathically.”

Before you can really question him on how that’s possible, Markus continues. “We have to blow up Jericho. If the ship goes down, they’ll evacuate and our people can escape!”

“You’ll never make it!” The woman says. “The explosives are all the way down in the hold, and there are soldiers everywhere!”

“She’s right,” Connor says. “They know who you are. They’ll do anything to get you.”

“Go and help the others,” Markus insists. “I’ll join you later.”

“Markus –” “I won’t be long!”

Connor grabs your hand and runs, forcing you to stumble and keep up with him as he navigates the halls of the holds.

Eventually, your group meets up with Markus again. He doesn’t even bother with formalities. “Bomb’s gonna explode any second. We gotta get outta here!”

Connor takes off again, dragging you with him. Even as your feet twist and your legs ache from the effort, instinct and adrenaline and Connor’s grip keeps you going. It would be nice – his hand in yours – if not for the current situation, and the gunshots ringing through the air behind you.

You duck your head into your shoulders and cover the back of your neck with your free hand. Connor pushes you in front of him as the woman from before cries out.

A metallic-sounding voice shouts, “Fire at will!”

Markus doesn’t think twice before grabbing a scrap piece of metal and tossing it to her. She uses it as a shield as Markus charges forward and takes on the soldiers.

Connor wraps his arm around your shoulder and ushers you closer to the hole in the hull. “Come on, you need to go.”

“But –” you start. 

“No, you can’t!” Connor snaps, his hold growing tighter. “Officer, please! Please listen to me, just this once.”

You shake yourself free and turn him so that your back is to the soldiers. 

Bad move.

Something pinches the bottom of your shoulder blade, like someone had clapped it a bit too hard. You fall forward into Connor, and he catches you easily. You struggle to take in breath.

“What…?” you mumble. Then, it hits you upside the head: you’ve been shot.

You look into Connor’s eyes as a sudden wave of calm washes over you. “Hank needs you. You can keep him on this Earth. Be vigilant.”

And, you repeat the rest of the PEC-4 Birchtree’s words silently: I love you. (Because, honestly, you’re not sure you’ll be alive long enough to explain those words – not because you don’t love him, but because you’re unsure of the type of love you feel for him.)

“What?” Connor’s expression turns to panic. “No –”

You push.

These aren’t the cards you’ve been dealt. You’ve drawn more, and you’ve made do. You’re playing caravan. He’s playing poker.

Connor’s hand almost grabs the edge of the hole, but it slips and misses. He reaches for you like God reached for Adam, but he falls. The last you see of him is his panic.

Another sting. This time, in your gut. You fall to your knees, clutching yourself. People rush past you and jump out.

You reach behind you to draw your pistol, but someone kicks it from your hand as soon as you do. The calm subsides, as does the adrenaline. Fear sets in. Something brushes against the back of your head.

You do the only thing you can think of: repeat something you first learned of when you came to America.

You mumble, “милосе́рде Го́споди, поми́луй мя гре́шнаго.”

Something cold and hard bites the center of the back of your head.

[silentmoths]

These hands, Unblemished.

Emerges from your dry wall

been a while, huh?

Mark moth writing SOMETHING in the first half of 2025 off your bingo cards.

anyway, this was spurred on after yesterday's stream, where i had a totally very normal reaction to seeing Blade appear in the anniversary art.

Mid crash-out, @pranabefall sent me this image as well which only sent me into another spiral, especially when I noticed Blade's hands. ungloved, unbanaged for free.

and the thought that either Blades hands have been unscarred and perfect this entire time, or they regrow completely fresh and baby soft and uh...yeah my fucking brain wouldn't let it go so here we are.

ANYWAY

Blade x Reader, SFW

Mentions of death, slight mentions of gore, other than that it's just two nocturnal rats doing nocturnal rat things.

The hum of the ship was nothing but white noise to you now. A soothing purr that permeated the entire rig of the small star-voyager you and the other stellaron hunters called home.

She was a little fancier than some other models built around the same time, Kafka had insisted on making sure the one she…procured, (stolen most likely) had the day-night cycle lighting system, for her beauty sleep, she claimed.

(it was her quiet way of taking care of you all, she would never say it out loud, but she worried after her little group of wanted misfits worse than a mother hen…even if she had her own weird ways of showing it.)

For the now however, it’s just you, in the dimmed light of the kitchen, watching the kettle boil at the ripe hour of three in the morning. One of those weird nights where sleep refused to settle into your bones, no matter how heavy your eyes felt. A little peckish perhaps, that’s what was keeping you up, nothing a cup of instant noodles couldn’t fix. 

You throw away the dried vegetable packet, no matter how long you soaked those things in the hot water they never softened up to anything halfway edible, and you dump the chicken broth powder into the cup as you wait for the inexorable boiling of the electric jug, body half-slumped against the cool metal of the counter.

Thats when you hear it, the slow, soft thud of footsteps in the hall; you knew them all by sound now no matter if shoes were on or off. (a trauma response? Perhaps, who was to say, childhood had not been kind, and one had to learn when to pretend to be doing something else, not today.) “Welcome back to the land of the living.” You sigh as Blade shuffles into view of the doorway. If there was only a single word one could use to describe how his day had been? Rough. Although, kafka now owed you fifty credits for him being up before ‘dawn’, that was a plus. Blade was not as stone faced as people seemed to believe. He was not some cold, unfeeling gargoyle, much as you think he sometimes wished he was. Beneath the exterior he worried over his teammates almost as much, if not more than Kafka did. And surprisingly, there was even a touch of humor in there, if you knew where to look. “Unfortunately.” He mutters as he shambles in; his regular coat and trousers currently being fixed…again…that had a tendency to happen when their wearer often found himself being torn apart; he might be able to stitch himself back together, but his clothes were another story entirely. For now it was the regular ‘he died again’ scrubs. Simply something to throw onto him as his body mended so none of the ladies on board (all of them, unless you counted elio) didn’t have to see him naked all the time, even if he didn’t care.

He looked a mess, you were sure Kafka had only cut his hair recently, and yet his tousled bangs looked even messier than usual, one eye completely eclipsed by navy, the other was distinctly exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that never seemed to leave him, but with the added weight of his mara, and what the curse of his revival added. 

“Unfortunately.” You hum with a small nod as he shambles up beside you, the warmth of his newly regenerated body radiating a little, as it always seemed to for the next twelve or so hours after a death, “One day.”

“One day…” He parrots, not entirely there, not entirely uncommon either. “Hungry?” You question, knowing his response would be unhelpful, but also knowing him well enough that he wouldn’t turn down food if it was made for him, much to his chagrin. (wasteful, he would always claim, he never ate for pleasure, simply for the nutrients…thats what he claimed anyway…if left to his own devices you were all sure he would eat nothing but plain rice, not aboard this ship.) “Mh..there’s little point.” He mutters, gaze following as you disregard his response and reach up to the top shelf for another cup; you had to keep yours up here, lest Silver Wolf snag them, the problem therein being that you weren't exactly much taller than she was.

Your fingers brush against the cup, but instead of gripping, they push the cup further from your grasp. Just as you move to press up onto your toes, Blade beats you to it; fingers brushing softly against your own as he clasps at the cup, bringing it down to the counter for you. Your gaze follows, but not the cup, brow furrowing.

“Your hands…” 

His tired eyes follow your gaze down to his hands as he sets the cup on the counter, and turns his hands over, not quite understanding what the problem was. “They sustained heavy damage when I was on my mission…I assume Kafka cut the old ones off once she and firefly collected my corpse… or I lost them before then and did not realize” A morbid thought to be sure, but not entirely new for him. However the thing that was getting you was that in this state, freshly awoken from the only peaceful rest he ever seems to get, he had forgone the usual bandages and gloves…and his hands were… “Smooth…” You mumble, reaching out to run your fingers along the back of his palm, unblemished, unmarred skin silky beneath your fingers “soft…” 

Blade says nothing, watching as you simply stroke his hand, his face is unreadable, but considering he wasn’t pulling away, or making a remark, it wasn’t entirely disliked…at least that’s what you hope when curiosity gets the better of you, and you gently take that hand and turn it over, spreading your fingers out along his palm. 

His hands were larger, obviously, the tips of your fingers reaching just above the second knuckle’s of his own; with all the heavy training and how recklessly he used his sword, his past life, you expected roughness, callouses and time-worn skin.

You’re met with that same smooth softness, the kind that most women would likely kill for, the kind that would be totally lost on a man like Blade, and yet he lets you keep touching. 

“The extremities of my limbs, and my head always seem to regenerate like this.” He mutters after a while, sounding somewhat frustrated. Deep down, there was the dog in his heart that bore its teeth and raised it’s hackles, angry at his curse, and angry that it seemed to pick and choose what bore permanent marks and what did not; did lan really have such perverse tastes? 

“If so…why do you wear the gloves?” your question comes from a place of genuine curiosity, assuming that it had been to hide away the scarring, to appear as ‘normal’ as possible. Blade considers this for a moment before slowly pulling his hand away from your touch.

His answer is…far more sentimental than you expected, for a man who claimed he was nothing but a tool without need for such things as sentiment. 

“These hands have spilled a lot of blood…” He tells you after a moment, he stares down at his knuckles, flexing his fingers as if really looking at them for the first time “Too much…They don’t deserve to touch those I hold respect for.” 

It’s a quiet admission, something that twists your heart a little. He wasn’t heartless, he wasn't stone, he was not a statue, or a mindless robot, yet he would always try and treat himself as such. “These hands haven’t.” you point out matter of factly as the kettle finally boils “these ones aren’t even a day old, they’re innocent.”

“That which they are attached to is not.” He retorts; not even referring to himself as a person, watching with quiet intensity as you pour the water. You add the vegetables into his cup, for some reason Blade actually seemed to enjoy them, strange creature he was. 

“So? Why do they have to suffer?” You chuckle softly, resting pairs of chopsticks atop the flimsy paper lids to keep the steam in “that’s like…I dunno, denying a child candy because the parent is a dentist.”

A strange correlation, you blame it on three-am delirium. 

You expect him to huff, to pout in his own way, which was just going silent and refusing to respond.

You don’t expect those soft fingers to gently brush against your cheek, fingers tracing the line of your jaw, before lifting to carefully tuck a stray lock of tousled hair behind your ear, an act so unbelievably tender from Blade of all people, you knew Kafka would never believe you in the morning if you told her. 

You blink up at him, his one visible eye glowing softly in the dimmed light of the kitchen. His expression is the same sort of unreadable it always was, but beneath you could swear you see something…soft, softer than usual. 

“Perhaps.” Is all he says to you as he takes his cup of noodles from the counter, turns and slowly shuffles from the kitchen, leaving you alone with your own steeping cup and a soft warmth spreading across your face. 

Just what the hell was that? You were…stunned, left staring at the door dumbfounded. 

Had he hit his head a little too hard before he died? Of all the strange and borderline outlandish things Blade had ever done, of which there had really not been many; it was horrifically unlike him to touch. He always kept to himself, hands always kept close, never reaching unless it was for a utilitarian reason; to pull someone out of the way…never just to touch.

Perhaps your words had resonated with him in some strange way.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, you had bore witness to an incredibly rare moment of…you don’t want to call it weakness, that’s not what it was…a moment of acceptance perhaps? Acceptance that he was not always the cruel and unfeeling monster he claims he was. It’s enough that, after a long moment of figuring yourself out, you grab your cup and trudge from the kitchen (after turning off the lights, waste not what not and all that).

Surprisingly, he’s in the common room, perhaps not yet willing to return to his own cabin, the innate need to move after being dead for a little while perhaps? The cabins on the ship were a little small, perhaps he just wanted some semblance of ‘fresh’ air? Either way, he sits, hunched on the couch like an angsty gargoyle, quietly picking at his meal. Molten gaze flicking up to you a moment before returning to his food. Blade often held an air of grace about him in the things he did, the kind of Xianzhou mannerisms that ran deeper than even his mara could reach.

And yet, as you take a seat beside him to eat, you note that most of that grace is gone for the now, replaced with a tired sort of apathy, it was late, you were both eating junky, sodium ridden noodles, who the hell cared about being ‘proper’ at a time like this?

Neither one of you speaks, it didn’t seem proper to in a time like this, your own gaze lingers on the porthole window, watching the stars and the galaxy quietly twinkling outside in the vast nothingness of space. Meagre meals are eaten and cups are left on the coffee table; it seemed to have done the trick, tire finally beginning to seep into your bones like it should have hours ago. You’re about to wish Blade goodnight when he breaks the silence first.

“You seemed…shocked at the state of my hands.” Blade states more than he asks, his gaze lingering on fresh fingers, unmarred and unblemished. “Just surprised really..” you admit with a shrug “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you not wearing gloves or with them bandaged…” 

For a moment, Blade looks like he’s about to answer, his brow furrows slightly in thought, but an answer never comes, instead you watch as his gaze seems to shift, to somewhere far away from the quiet comfort of the ship, somewhere you don’t know. 

You’d pried too deep, pushed too far, that much you could tell, and yet Blade never saw reason to snap when it happened. This was his response, silence, distance. Perhaps his reasons for keeping his hands covered was something akin to fear, to trauma…perhaps it was something as simple as it being a comfort..either way, it wasn’t something he was willing to share right now. You shrug, breaking the tension as you lean against him, a casual move, something that surprises even you; like this, he feels more approachable, and perhaps, a man in need of reassurance, a man who never allowed vulnerability, not for himself, vulnerability opened pathways to pain, and anguish, something you’re sure he’s experienced more than enough of on his own personal quest for vengeance. “It’s fine.” you chuckle, waving it off “you don’t have to answer, it wasn’t even a question really…just curious, don’t think too hard about it.”

“Foolish.” He mutters, you feel his shoulder shift beneath your leaning frame, making things slightly more comfortable for you; dangerous perhaps as your eyelids grow heavier, harder to keep open with every blink. “...perhaps…one day.” The closest thing to an admission you might get from him, at least. “We’ll see then, hm?” You chuckle, taking his hand again to quietly run a thumb over his knuckles.

“We will…” he nods, his head slowly turning to look you in the face, “Sleep.”

“Mh, but that means getting up.” You sigh, perhaps a little too comfortable where you were. 

Much like his sudden touch in the kitchen, you’re thrown off when he shifts again, an arm slowly draping over your shoulders, pulling you closer into his side, sinfully comfortable and blessedly warm…you hadn’t realized how chilly you’d grown until then as he weight of his arm slowly comes to rest. “I’ll stay a while.” He mutters, his gaze slowly fixing on the porthole now, his voice still distant, far off “Sleep…” You swear you feel his fingers slowly stroke at your hair as you drift off, quiet measures of comfort that draw you in faster than you expect. Kafka is the one to find you both the next morning, a sly smile creeping to her lips as she quickly snaps a photo to show silver wolf and firefly later: you, fast asleep with your head resting against his shoulder, Blade also surprisingly asleep, his head resting softly atop your own, looking peaceful for once. One arm still draped across you, the other with your hand resting in his. She considers being a bitch and waking you both, but she decides to leave it be for now, Firefly wouldn’t be up for another hour yet, and Silver Wolf even later still..what was the harm in letting you both sleep. She does however, begrudgingly leave the fifty credits on the coffee table. A bet was a bet.

[ltwilliammowett]

A model ship made by a Napoleon's prisoner of war, carved from bone, early 19th century

[mushiemellows]

These mf’s need a better name than Old Strawhat Polycule but I will present regardless

Franky and Robin need no introduction. She finds him interesting and a good dose of silly guy cures the depression like nothing else. If a man (35, blue hair, pronouns, naked, craftsman, surfer, local union representative) built me a fish tank and a library, I too could simply not resist. He thinks she’s the most gorgeous beautiful stunning intelligent funny wise woman in the entire world because she is.

Robin and Brook, likewise, ooooo the macabre appeal of the hanahone ship. She licks him in the way that archeologists lick rocks and bones to figure out if they are a rock or a bone and she thinks it’s a funny joke every time. He thinks she’s the most gorgeous beautiful stunning intelligent funny wise woman in the entire world because she is. When they go to the beach he buries himself halfway in the sand and she digs him back up and she thinks it’s sooooo funny every time.

Brook and Franky lay stoned on the deck noodling their guitars and they’re like when two rockstars kiss on stage. Brook stands there like an anatomical model when Franky’s gotta crack open the hood and points to stuff. They’ve got the same strand of “lived in isolation on an abandoned ship” disease but Brook’s just for it 9x as bad (50 years to Franky’s 4). Sometimes they make Franky run on Milk to see what it does (you DONT want to see Milk Franky)

Jinbei 👏 and 👏 Franky both love 👏 SUNNY!!!! They get her, and to understand Sunny is to Understand Franky and he stands there and he watches Jinbei drive his car like the master that he is and it makes him Feel Things. They listen to dad rock. They go surfing together. They go snorkeling together. They go fishing together. They go to 2pm Wednesday half priced movies together. They go bowling together. They share a shirt collection.

Robin and Jinbei free political prisoners!!! The thinks he’s handsome, she thinks he’s kind, she thinks he’s Just. She thinks he’s admirable. They organize protests, they attend community meetings, they figure out direct action. She’s kissing fish men and it’s making the papers for the revolutionary act that it is (and the papers can’t even comprehend when Franky Kisses Him). He thinks she’s the most gorgeous beautiful stunning intelligent funny wise woman in the entire world because she IS!

Brook And Jinbei used to Go to Chilis together but then chilis got rid of the 2 for 25 deal (because of inflation) so they’re a little mad about it and are taking direct action against the banks. And trying to find a new restaurant to go to. They’re considering getting into lawn bowling/bocce because bowling nights with everyone are getting too expensive (because inflation is too high! $75 for 4 people to bowl for an hour????? We can have bowling at home!!) but it’s not the same.

And then they all pile up when they sleep too because a cuddle pile ain’t just for the younger crew

[1-800-crscnt]

-a few hobby hcs i have for some corries, more under the cut-

Fox: may not have time for it, but likes to collect guns and sometimes customize them to increase their power/strangness. He gives some of them silly names, and doesn’t let anybody touch them unless it’s an emergency. Keeping this hobby is a bit anxiety-inducing, because a lot of the guns he collects are actually illegal to own and use, and with the customizations added on, non-illegal ones tend to become illegal. He also likes solving those giant puzzles that you’re supposed to do with a group of people but alone; unfortunately, he never has the time to actually complete any of them.

Thorn: likes to collect knives that he finds, but does let others use them and borrow them, and in rare cases, keep them. He also loves to study vehicles and learn everything about them, and will talk your ear off about his favorite models of the month. He doesn’t have the credits to, but he would love to start collecting miniature models of speeders and fighters. Imagine every Car Guy shoved into one body, and that’s basically him. Also, likes skating because it’s faster than walking, and makes him feel a little cooler and intimidating, but doesn’t realize he actually appears more approachable.

Stone: loves drawing/painting whenever he can, and keeps a little sketchbook that he gets very shy about showing to others. He tries to draw mainly people, but sometimes likes to draw random animals and plants he sees while off-planet. He also loves reading murder mystery and romance novels. Specifically, he’s listening to novels he’s downloaded while on duty. He’s not shy about the reading, but doesn’t really like talking about the books with just anybody. He likes reading aloud to brothers and asking them questions like a teacher would, though.

Thire: more of a thrill-seeker than usual by clone standards, so he has more risky hobbies, like crashing parties when he’s got free-time, street/sky racing with random people, stealing “probably won’t notice it’s missing for a while” things from people before returning it days later, and skating just like Thorn, but usually without any protection and in dangerous spots. Has gotten in trouble with this multiple times, and even after his promotion, still does it. If he was able, he would love to go surfing.

Hound: likes to run and people-watch a lot. Running feels very natural and it’s easy for him to slip into that trance-like state and just empty his mind of any overwhelming thoughts, which happens a lot since I also hc him to be force sensitive to the smallest degree. People-watching is another source of learning what is and isn’t appropriate/expected of him in a more general sense, and he’s also just a nosy people person, so he genuinely enjoys watching people interact with the world around them (and hopefully, with him).

Jek: won’t admit that it’s something he enjoys, but considers himself a professional gardener in training. Whenever he’s able, he likes to pick flowers and bring them back to Coruscant for his brothers to see, but struggles with keeping them alive for longer than a few days. Stone helps with sending him books about plant-care, but Jek has trouble remembering it all. He is aiming to grow a small patch of berry and rose bushes somewhere close to the Guard HQ, and frequently gets other clones to help him build, find manuals, soil, make a schedule for it, etc. After he’s reassigned, he no longer continues with this hobby, but regrets every plant he doesn’t try to sneak back onto ships.

Rys: is still trying to find hobbies that he likes and sticks to, but tends to find himself fixing things for his brothers and himself after his Rugosa mission. “Things” is very broad here, and can range from small scratches on armor, to broken datapads, to broken bones. The commanders are secretly considering him for medic training just in case they ever need him to be an official one, but it’s not likely. He also fixes less physical problems too, like soothing anxieties & conveniently remembering things others forgot, but this isn’t usually on purpose. He once fixed a marriage on accident by convincing the arguing spouses to jump someone who lied and robbed them, something other clones find hilarious. His “fixes” are not always the best solutions.

-Fox also skates, but does it out of wanting to connect more with his brothers and train others to do it. It gets expensive since isn’t essential and covered by the Republic or Kaminoans, so only a handful of clones under Thorn’s command actually get skates. They share them between each other, but of course, they won’t always want to-

[riverphoenixsgothwife]

lawlight fic rec list

so i’m gonna do a series of these, starting with my favorite death note ship! make sure to pay attention to all warnings on these fics. enjoy! if you have a ship you’d like me to make a rec list for, please just send me an ask! i don’t want to be obnoxious, and i’m not saying they’re good, but i (slackjawbitch on ao3) have some lawlight fics up!

♡ = a favorite of kitty’s

angst

♡ 1. i’m drowning; please save me: L looks at Yagami Light and drowns. There is no other way to put it. As the days pass and blend into weeks, L looks at Yagami Light sitting next to him, the harsh lines of his face creased and determined, and he swallows water.

L looks at Yagami Light and he cannot breathe.

great characterization, always makes me very emo, and is probably a pretty major influence on my writing. one shot. 1,817 words.

2. always waiting for you just to cut to the bone: And then, breaking through the pounding in his head he hears what would be the last words out of that wretched man’s lips.

“I love you.”

fic for teh death note drama (2016) canon! title is unfortunately from a t*ylor sw*ft song (/silly) but this fic is so good and sad.

3. Our Bodies, Possessed By Light: L. Lawliet is a gifted photographer who believes he has understood the light and its secrets. Light Yagami is a young, unstable and slightly crooked model. Together, they kill time.

modeling and photography au. make sure to read all teh tags and warnings for this one; there’s nothing gross, but some potentially triggering subjects for some people are in here. multi chapter. 81,218 words.

4. Hearts and Spades: Which would you choose? Love or death? RaitoL, slight AU.

short but sweet piece featuring that classic fanfiction dot net era vibe, an emo-ass playing card metaphor (/pos), and a recounting of l’s death scene that made me sad over him all over again (also /pos). and also light being obnoxious, but it’s death note, so that’s usually a given, lol. one shot. 1,801 words.

5. Not Quite Drowning: Sometimes Light ponders happiness. L/Light

a short lawlight and light character study. i like it a lot, and i don’t usually like light, so that should tell you something about how well i think it’s written! one shot. 424 words.

♡ 6. Water, water, water: In the bath, they forget they’re a detective and a suspect; they remove these identities along with their clothes, layer by layer until there are only the handcuffs left. And them; facing the other in the eerie calmness of their bathroom.

At least, it’s how Light sees it.

i really love this one! make sure to read teh tags, as eating disorders and drugs are mentioned, for example. angst with a happy ending! one shot. 3,504 words.

fluff

1. Silver Bells: Silver bells...silver bells...

They’ve made it. Everything is okay now, when they’re dancing in the candlelight.

really, really cute! i recommend it as a palate cleanser to make you feel better after reading a sad one, lol. one shot. 1,255 words.

♡ 2. New Year’s Eve: "I've seen fireworks before," he says. "This is... so much... more."

just a cute little new year’s eve lawlight fireworks show! this one is also from 2009 which is kinda cool to me, haha. i like this author’s descriptive language a lot. one shot. 507 words.

♡ 3. Do Gay Penguins Go to Hell?: Too many New Year snacks bring about a family discussion between L, Raito and their daughter about healthy diet, common sayings and nature of good and evil. And gay penguins, of course. AU

a really darling kid fic, based on teh stupid, homophobic controversy over that adorable kids’ book about teh gay penguin couple. one shot. 3,791 words.

4. A Feeling: It's LxLight fluff! This takes place after Light was confined and lost his memories, chained to L. : D SO YUS. SOME FLUFF FOR YAH D: Hope you leik it :D

very cute “l and light cuddle and kiss” fic, written by a scene kid in 2008, which is extra points with me! one shot. 1,006 words.

alright! i will add to this rec list as i find more fics, and i would love it if people would send in their favorite lawlight fics!

[catboygirljoker]

woke up from a dream about terrabraig (a ship i dont even think about most of the time) and wanted to do some blender poses about it. unfortunately the terra model i have doesn't have any bones. so i improvised

[hannie-dul-set]

saw ur post abt idol and ship dynamic so can i request model ricky x fashion designer reader where all of the collection were designed for ricky? like there's a runway event and of course ricky being the main character of the event but also whipped for reader ^^

[when there’s a lock on the door]. ricky shen— whose face is on billboards and advertisements at every corner of the country, whose name is in the mouths of every tabloid, every passerby in the streets, and in every column and every article in weekly magazines— is currently on his knees on worn out the carpet of the dressing room floor.

“eyes up, pretty boy. look at me.”

he’s got his head resting on your lap, buried by his folded arms as a groan rumbles in his throat. the vibrations shoot into your bones when he peers up to look at you. “i’m tired,” he says. “kiss me.” now, you can’t quite pinpoint the correlation between those two phrase, but does logic really matter when forbes-declared, one of the most unattainable men in the country, is driven senseless at the mercy of your touch?

“come and get it.”

those fierce eyes on the runway are gone— half-lidded and replaced by dark gems dipped in sweet, sweet, honey. his once perfectly styled hair is now a mess under your fingers, crisp jacket now wrinkled and folded when he scrambles to his feet, stumbling off-balance in the rush to capture your lips with his.

his entire frame eats up your own, a tight grip on the back of your chair as he groans into your mouth. if the journalists right outside the door could see him like this right now, a storm would brew.

“i thought you were tired,” you laugh softly, fixing your hands on the back of his neck. your eyes flit over to his smudged lipstick. when you bring down a thumb to wipe it off, he presses a kiss to the pads of your fingertip, down to your palm and wrist until his face somehow sinks into the warmth between your neck and right shoulder. ricky is tired. he’s straddling your lap and sinking himself deeper into your scent, his body engulfing yours, and you let him. 

[floralpikmin99]

I keep wanting to compare different areas to the Aurum brain. Surely that has to be the biggest ship/landmass.

HAHA NOPE the hive is SO MUCH BIGGER. That's also just a façade, not a complete model but just look at it.

Was gravity effected on the surface during the Aurum arc? I feel like giant bodies like these would be massively destructive just by presence alone.

I forgot to hide the bones on the Chariot Master's tower ashasdlfhakjshdf, Tower is the height of that first bone.