#plate handler

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[solxamber]

How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit

You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.

aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.

Instance 1: Chaos Duo

The serene backdrop of NRC’s gardens frames Vil Schoenheit like a painting come to life. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with the perfect balance of sunlight and shadow, he’s mid-pose when—

“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”

Ace and Deuce leap into the frame, pulling the most exaggerated faces imaginable. Deuce’s eyes are practically crossed, and Ace looks like he’s mid-sneeze. The photographer audibly chokes on his spit.

Vil freezes. The air goes cold. The birds stop singing. Somewhere in the distance, a withering rose drops a petal.

“What,” Vil says, so quiet it’s terrifying, “was that?”

“It was Ace’s idea!” Deuce blurts immediately, shoving Ace under the metaphorical bus.

“Thanks a lot, traitor!” Ace snaps back.

Vil���s eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “have the audacity to ruin my shoot?”

By the time you arrive, the photographer is hiding behind a bush, and Ace and Deuce are sweating under Vil’s glare. The two freshmen look like they’re seconds away from turning into frogs—or corpses.

“Vil, sweetie,” you interrupt, stepping between them and the storm cloud forming above his head, “what’s going on?”

“These plebeians,” Vil says, gesturing at Ace and Deuce like they’re bacteria under a microscope, “thought it would be funny to sabotage my art!”

“They’re idiots,” you agree, shooting the freshmen a glare. “But let’s think about this. What if... this makes your shoot even better?”

Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”

“Yeah!” you say, channeling all your persuasive powers. “When people see this, they’ll notice how your beauty shines even in the presence of—” you gesture vaguely at Ace and Deuce, “—mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.

“Shut up,” you snap before turning back to Vil. “Think about it. They’ll see your grace, your poise, and how you completely outshine everyone around you. It’s contrast, Vil. Art loves contrast.”

Vil strokes his chin, considering. “You may have a point...”

“Totally! And, like, who would take them seriously anyway? Look at Deuce’s face. He looks like a confused pigeon.”

“Hey!” Deuce protests, but Ace is already nodding.

“Yeah, yeah! Vil, this just makes you look even cooler! Like, people will see this and be like, ‘Wow, he’s untouchable, even next to these losers.’”

Vil finally exhales, his wrath ebbing. “Very well,” he says, smoothing his silks. “I’ll allow it. But only because the juxtaposition highlights my perfection.”

Ace and Deuce sag in relief, clearly missing the word “juxtaposition.”

Later, Trey finds you in the hallway. “I heard what happened,” he says, looking both exasperated and grateful. “Thank you for stopping Vil from poisoning them. Again.”

You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”

Instance 2: Just Leona.

The group is gathered in the cafeteria, the usual buzz of conversation swirling around. Vil sits at the head of the table, eating his meticulously prepared salad—a work of art with perfect symmetry, vibrant greens, and an edible flower garnish.

Leona slouches in his chair nearby, tearing into a steak with all the grace of a feral lion. He pauses mid-bite, glances at Vil's plate, and snorts loud enough to turn heads.

"What's that, Schoenheit? Rabbit food?"

The air grows thick. Vil’s fork stops mid-air, his gaze snapping to Leona like a hawk spotting prey. "Excuse me?" he says, in that icy tone that sends chills down spines.

Leona smirks, undeterred. "You heard me. All those leaves and petals—looks like something I’d feed to the herbivores back home."

There’s a collective oh no from everyone nearby. Jack visibly stiffens, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching a live-action disaster. You’re pretty sure Grim just whispered, “This is gonna be good,” from somewhere behind you.

"It’s called maintaining one’s figure," Vil snaps, placing his fork down with calculated grace. “You wouldn’t understand, considering your diet seems to consist entirely of undercooked meat and mediocrity.”

Leona leans back, looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “At least I eat like a king. Meanwhile, you’re over there grazing like the royal gardener.”

The tension escalates. Vil’s hand twitches toward his fork, and you’re suddenly very sure he’s planning to plant it somewhere deeply unfortunate on Leona.

Time to intervene.

“Vil,” you cut in smoothly, leaning closer to him, “can I just say, you look amazing today? Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could pull off a salad with such elegance.”

Vil blinks, momentarily startled, before his lips curve into a faintly smug smile. “Well,” he says, primly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I do have a certain flair for refinement. It’s not something just anyone can achieve.”

“No, it’s not,” you say firmly, throwing Leona a warning glance. “And anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly just... jealous.”

Leona snorts again but doesn’t push further, clearly uninterested in escalating now that Vil’s focus is on being praised rather than plotting homicide.

Jack gives you a subtle, grateful nod, visibly relieved that he won’t have to referee another dorm-versus-dorm war.

As Vil returns to his salad with renewed dignity, you sit back with a sigh, silently adding prevented cafeteria murder to your list of daily accomplishments.

Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness

It starts, as all things do, with Floyd and his unique brand of chaos. This time, it’s a priceless antique vase from Pomefiore’s lounge that met its tragic end because Floyd “wanted to see if it could fly.”

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Vil, who witnessed the entire ordeal, was seconds away from summoning a storm of consequences when Floyd, in a rare flash of survival instinct, promised to repay the debt.

“I’ll help with your little drama thing,” Floyd had said with a grin too wide to trust.

That promise didn’t even make it a full day.

By the time Azul appears in Ramshackle, wringing his hands, you already know something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Vil asked Floyd to star in some action scenes for his theater production,” Azul says, clearly on edge. “But Floyd... Well, he’s Floyd.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess. He skipped?”

“Skipped, vanished, and laughed about it,” Azul confirms. “Vil is furious. I fear he might—”

“Poison the Lounge’s water?” you finish for him.

Azul nods gravely.

Which is how you find yourself in Pomefiore’s theater, holding a script titled The Tragic Tale of Honor and Glory and wearing an outfit that feels heavier than your life choices.

Vil sits in the audience, arms crossed, as you nervously adjust the overly ornate shoulder pads. “Darling, I adore you,” he says smoothly, “but if you ruin my vision, we will have words.”

“Right,” you mutter. “No pressure or anything.”

Rook, of course, is thrilled. “What a magnifique turn of events! A real-life romance brought to life on stage!” he says, twirling a prop sword before handing it to you.

You glance at the script and immediately regret every decision that’s led you here. Floyd’s role isn’t just action-heavy—it’s absurd. You’re supposed to fend off imaginary enemies, deliver heartfelt speeches, and somehow “leap gracefully” across a prop chasm.

“Are we sure this isn’t a punishment?” you whisper to Rook.

“Every great artist suffers for their craft!” he replies, as unhinged as ever.

Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”

The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.

“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”

You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.

You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.

Instance 4: Runway Disaster

It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.

“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.

One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.

For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.

“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.

Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.

“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.

Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.

“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”

Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”

“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”

Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”

“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”

“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.

Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”

Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.

You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.

When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.

“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.

Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”

Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.

Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.

Instance 5: Epel, why?

Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.

The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.

“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”

Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”

“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”

You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.

“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”

Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”

“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.

Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.

But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.

Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”

“I know,” you say, grinning.

“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.

Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.

Instance 6: Housewarden meeting

It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.

“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”

The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”

You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.

“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”

Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”

You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”

Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.

Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.

Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.

The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:

"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"

Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.

At least your skin has never looked better

Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate

It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.

“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”

Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”

Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.

“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.

Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”

Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”

You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.

Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.

Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.

“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”

Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.

“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”

Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”

Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”

Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.

As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.

Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”

Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”

You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”

“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”

That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.

“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.

Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.

(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)

Masterlist

[chaosmagetwin]

Command Prompt

"Stop. Just, stop okay? She's gone. She's not here. And she's never coming back, okay? Just.... Fuck. Just go to your fucking kennel."

"Command accepted." The lieutenants disgusted face left my vision as I turned away, and left her almost empty room. Bodies passed me by. Some turned away from me, some reached out a hand before someone else pulled it away. None touched me. They couldn't.

I killed the last person who dared.

I stood in front of my pod. I couldn't connect to it without her. I waited. She'd come soon. I stared at it.

"Do you need help, pilot?" A voice called from behind me. I turned, and looked at their shoulder. Engineer. Third rank. I didn't look at their face.

"Request denied. Unclear intent. Please state intentions."

"... Do you need help connecting to your pod, miss?"

"DENIED. ADDRESS PILOT BY RANK." It can't call me miss, only she can call me miss, I am not miss, I am pilot, pilot pilot, leave me alone alone alone.

"S-sorry..." It left.

I stared at my pod. She'd be here soon. She'd tuck me in. The lights dimmed. The attack on the base must've needed a long meeting to sort things out. She had to be busy. She was busy.

My legs trembled, aching.

I fell before the lights rose again. I sat on the floor, and stared at my pod. She was coming. She always put me to sleep before going to bed.

Did she forget? She must be tired. Too many meetings. They always put her in too many meetings. Always worked her too hard. Too many logistics she had to handle for me.

"Pilot. Stand up." A voice called.

"Orders received. Confirmed." I stood up, and looked at their shoulder. A commander. I saluted. I didn't look them in the face. I can't look them in the face.

"How long since you slept?"

"Current operation is at fifty two hours, thirty nine minutes. Requesting handler."

"Request denied." I flinched. What? "You're being reassigned. Lay down in your pod."

"Orders received...." I couldn't move, couldn't say the word. "Denied..." I whispered. "Requesting handler!"

"Request denied." The voice sighed, deeply, frustrated. "You need to sleep, pilot. You are... not functioning properly."

"Pilot is operating above mission parameters!"

"And what parameters are those, pilot?"

"... Survive."

"You cannot complete that mission if you do not sleep."

"Confirmed. Request Handler to complete mission."

"... oh, Kit...." I flinched on hearing my name. No. No. No.

"PILOT. I AM-"

"Be quiet, pilot." My mouth snapped shut. I felt my tears slide off my face, hitting the metal plate beneath my feet. "I know you've been told. I know how you reacted. I know you killed the doctor. None of that is your fault. It's time for you to go to sleep."

"... Order denied. Please. It.... I... I can't..."

"Your handler is dead, Pilot." The words hit me like an AP round. A wail grew in the air. "You're being reassigned to a new handler. Out of the system. You... you're being retired."

"No! No! No! Requesting handler! Stop hiding her from it!" I couldn't move. My legs wouldn't move. I needed to kill this thing in front of me. A spy, a fake, an enemy wearing the uniform of the commander, he's not real, he's not real. I couldn't move my legs.

"You held her hand, Pilot. Who gave you your last order?"

"Handler!"

"When was it received in this operation cycle?"

"Order received at hour 8 and seventeen minutes!"

"That was two days ago. What was that order?"

"... Survive...."

"What were the exact words, Pilot?"

".... It can't.... it can't...."

"Repeat them to me."

"Confidential information! Cleara-"

"Override! Security clearance level 8, two nine alpha three seven Kilo Indiana Tango. Repeat your last orders to me!"

Her words flowed out of my mouth, repeated like a mantra in my head for so long they made up more of me than I did. "You have to survive, baby. Don't let me die in vain, you have to live! Get off me, doc, let me say goodbye. Let me tell her to live. Listen to me, Kit. My little Kit. Oh, I love you. You did such a good job for me today. You saved a lot of people, okay? But now you have to think about you. You have to survive. Priority one, okay? Confirm for me, baby. Authorization two nine alpha three S-seven.... Kilo. Indiana.... tang- tango. Good..... -rl"

"Priority one, Pilot. What is your next step in this mission? Your handler is not available."

".... Command: Sleep."

"Lay down in your pod, Pilot."

"Order.... confirmed..."

[rounderhouse]

hey sport. yeah. yeah, no, you did great on that last sortie. great kill ratio, excellent sync-up rate. minimal damage to the armor plating. great stuff, a+. there's just like, one thing -- and it's such a small thing, i- i really feel bad even mentioning it. but your mission handlers, they uh. they mentioned that every time you took out a bogey and the neural-reinforcement electrodes in your tac-collar fired you uh. made a weird noise? like sort of a, uh, an exhalation of air. like a gasp. no, not like that. no-- okay, yeah, more like that. yeah. like a moan. uh. yeah. kinda freaked them out. yeah. yeah, i know. it's fine, just- try to not do that? yeah? okay. okay, cool. yeah. thanks.

[handsome-robot]

Monster Hunter Rise's biggest flaw is the dango system. What a downgrade. You go from MH:W and these huge sumptuous meals made from the monsters you've been hunting to 3 sticks of dango and a cup of tea. How am I supposed to go out and fight a hundred monsters when that's all I've had to eat? The handler and the hunter from MH:W would call that a light snack, a sample plate. I want to get in there and eat like Goku.

[frostgears]

gardening

you did something stupid and now you're here in your itchy twice-a-year dress uniform in this bright busy room in the regimental HQ trying to figure out if you're going to be yelled at, shot, or promoted. the room's full of folding chairs. apparently not enough furniture in here normally to contain all the suits and all the brass.

your "ops coordinator" ("we don't say 'handler', grunt, it gives the civilians weird ideas") got pulled off for a side conversation two minutes after you got here and you haven't seen her since. you're looking anywhere for a familiar face. you're coming up empty. at least the woman next to you looks equally stressed. she must be civvie, some consultant or other; soft face, masses of curly hair. she's wearing a blazer and slacks with big round dataframes.

"hey," you elbow her. "what are you in for?"

"gods above and below." she sighs. "everything. but today mostly Neryx-9."

"the ag research station. you were there?"

"hardly," she says. "just came up on my huge list of problems."

"creepy shit. i was front and center for it…"

she cocks her head to listen. you explain.

Neryx-9 had been a cluster of greenhouses on the surface. supposed to be vacant, powered down — actually they'd said "mothballed", then looked at you like you were stupid when you asked what a moth was and what they did with their balls. but not vacant. far from it. you went in with a miniframe. first thing you found was the bodies of the grid authority techs that had called it in. purple mold already growing over them.

"it was wrong," you tell her. "not like that white stuff you get when an open nutripak sits in the fridge too long. i mean, i don't know if that would have been better. i just, i don't know, i didn't want to get any of that stuff on me. frame or no. maybe there was some already on me, but didn't want to get it on anyone else. so i backed out, sat in the airlock, thought about calling for extraction. thought better. backed to the wall, cycled my flight jets until it was starting to get warm even inside the frame, thought maybe i'd cook it off me. my ha– ops coordinator asked me what the fuck i was doing. snapped me out of it, i told her, i need fire. incendiaries."

they'd found them, somewhere. support rigged another airlock outside of the main airlock after you'd yelled at them to keep that shit inside. a miniframe-scale plasma cutter for outside construction work, and some purpose-built low-velocity liquid pyrophoric agent rockets.

the woman in the blazer made a face. "we just have those sitting around?"

"starship boarding actions. when we don't want to breach the hull but we do want to use all the oxygen. splashes around, gets everywhere, but nowhere near hot enough to melt anything structural. only used 'em in sims, of course, not like we get a lot of star traffic. horrorshow shit. or i thought it was, before this."

the outside airlock door opened and you'd taken up what they'd brought you.

you stepped over the bodies of the grid techs into hell. purple and orange jungle everywhere. insane external humidity and particle count. dome after hallway after dome of the shit, growing over the grow lights, growing up the walls, into the vents. you could feel it through your frame, through your suit. it was hungry. it wanted in.

"ma'am, compared to that feeling, that pressure, the first giant critter trying to eat my frame was a relief."

six thick legs, triangular jaws, scales and plates all over, massive paddle tail. it had reared out of a pond and tried to drag you back in with it. it wasn't as heavy as you, maybe, but it was mad as hell and a fast mover, and fuck, what right had anything like that to exist in an abandoned greenhouse? you knew you didn't want to be in that filthy water. who knew how deep it was? it'd clog your exhaust, choke your radiators. you twisted around as best you could in its grip, armed your wrist weapon, and blasted a thousand flechettes directly into its face.

"and that stopped it?"

"well, wasn't much left to be stopped, but yeah. and that's when i found it that it had friends and they could smell blood in the water."

she wrinkled her nose in a way that was either a dataframe input gesture or genuine surprise.

"why not just depressurize the domes, at this point?"

"thought about it. i had breaching charges. but… like i said, this stuff felt like it shouldn't get out. there's not much out there, yeah, but i just couldn't. and i had the cutter, and the rockets. so i decided to make it too hot on the shore for them to get me so easy."

you'd turned the artificial jungle into curtains of flame. the big creatures dove back into the water, giving you a narrow path to keep going. in the burning canopy, smaller things flared and dropped; you hadn't seen them moving until they died.

your handler had been screaming at you to get clear, get back to the airlock, but the flames made that a losing proposition. so you kept going in. Neryx-9 was roughly linear. there was another lock on the far side.

"past the labs, it turned out. and maybe some of those corpses in there had been growing these things, but it looked like the shit got away from them and was growing on them. there were these ribbons of orange moss, growing everywhere, out of containers, branching into foam and fabric and dead flesh — i tried to pull it off someone, before i realized they were all dead, and their skin came off in sheets, brown-black and full of tiny holes. charred, but not. think it was acid."

"something like a lichen."

"yeah, maybe? i learned about those in school. you can see 'em out the windows in a lot of places. they grow on rock, right?"

"they do," she says. "useful. so what did you do then?"

"i set the cutter to max spread and i torched a path through to the far airlock. and i don't mind saying, when i noticed the cutter battery and gas cylinder were doing okay, i started spreading it around a lot more. i just. i had to burn it."

"happens that was the right move," she said. "good instinct."

"please tell me someone did something about that shit."

"well," she smiled, "there's you. you know, you're refreshingly simple. like a cat that somehow had the sense to eat an invasive lizard. and since you didn't drag the bits all over, i tasked a solarsat to finish the job. can't beat a pass with an X-ray cloudpiercer beam for that kind of cleanup."

she wrinkles her nose again, and the general murmuring of a dozen conversations in the room changes as people look to the main wall display, which now shows a collection of greenhouse domes sagging as if collapsed by an invisible weight. the rock under them begins to glow.

"what's a cat?" you blurt out, before the words "i tasked a solarsat" have a chance to sink in. like, her, personally?

"an animal. a dumb little predator that associates with humans. from Terra, way before the Catastrophe. we're not ready for them just yet, but maybe someday."

a door opens to your side, and you both turn to see your handler, looking about at the end of her rope, and next to her, her boss, the major, who reports directly to the colonel.

"shit, there you are. look. you're gonna have to answer some questions. and it's not guaranteed you're going down for this, not yet, so just be honest, but for fuck's sake be brief, don't try to understand or interpret—"

both of their faces blanch. like, almost completely bloodless. eyes wide.

the curly-haired woman in the blazer smiles widely. "don't worry," she tells them, "she already did. she's been very helpful. in fact, i think i might like to keep her." she puts a hand on your knee.

"i'm not sure i understand, ma'am?"

"pilot," the major says, "is there a reason you've been occupying the time of the Director of Planetary Ecology? the woman who keeps this entire planet breathing oxygen and eating something other than rocks?"

and now your face must be bloodless too. the DPE? even you know that position. but you can't remember ever seeing a photo.

"oh, she was just telling me how she improvised containment protocols to prevent someone's experiment with Araukan imports from getting out of hand. clever girl. or lucky, at least."

you risk a glance to your side. she's still smiling. the woman who can steer any bioscience research on this planet, cut off power and water and air to anything she deems anathema to the coming ecosystem, commandeer keystone orbital infrastructure and burn habitats like you burned trees.

"i don't think we can possibly say no, Director," your handler says, carefully.

"no," the Director agrees. "you can't." □

[takami-takami]

UHHHH so like Keigo getting wholeheartedly distracted from his daddy issues on Father's Day because he has a single passing thought about making you a parent and now the baby fever + breeding kink combo are beating his ass

Thoughts?

- magpie anon ✦

Keigo's hell begins over coffee.

Coffee and a mindless, paltry comment.

Keigo has always been chipper in the morning, if not a little understimulated by the rest of the world taking its sweet time catching up to his trademark speed. Like most mornings, your boyfriend is a blur of red and gold, flitting about the kitchen to prepare the perfect breakfast for you two to start off the day.

Pots and dishes click and clatter around you, and you swear you see a dollop of pancake batter go flying as a stray feather does its work mixing the bowl to free Keigo’s hands to cook.

You, on the other hand, are perfectly content sulking by the coffee machine.

You take a sip. Your coffee is dark roast— a little reminiscent of the bags under your eyes, as you force yourself to keep them open long enough for the caffeine to hit your system. If they close for more than a second, you fear they won't open again.

Perhaps letting sleep take you would be preferable. You want nothing more than to crawl back under the quilted covers, to drag your boyfriend back in bed with you for ‘just five more minutes’ and bury yourself in his warmth; but judging by the way he’s bouncing off the walls today, you don’t suppose convincing Keigo is an option.

Breakfast looks practically gourmet as Keigo drizzles strawberry syrup in creative shapes. He arranges fruit slices in the shape of a heart for your plate.

You’re doing your part, though. You dunk sugar in Keigo’s coffee and rub the sleep from your eyes.

“I’m bored,” Keigo suddenly asserts.

“Mm,” you hum, warming your hands against the mug.

“We never do anything this time of year,” Keigo says. 

“Do you want to,” you respond, with a raised brow.

Keigo hums. He gets it. You both do. Still, every year, something unknown itches and claws at the back of his throat.

“Tsukuyomi asked for the day off today,” Keigo continues, almost shyly. He stares into the crackling eggs that are about to char on the frying pan and pokes them with a spatula. “Wanted to spend it with his folks again.”

“Yeah? He deserves it, honestly,” you say. “Good kid. What, are you jealous or something? Want a day off too, huh?”

Keigo shrugs. You almost snort as you make your way to leave the kitchen and set the table. 

As you pass Keigo by, you push his mug into his chest and plant a peck on his cheek.

“If you’re that bored on father’s day,” you yawn. “You could always just knock me up.”

Keigo forgets to flip the eggs. 

He forgets a lot of things, actually. 

You could always just knock me up.

Several of his interns ask Keigo to write letters of recommendation for them at work; and his handler reminds him today is the last day of the week, so he needs to look over the particulars in the database for his agency to be sent to the higher ups. 

Thus, even as he dons the visage of the hero Hawks, Keigo is confined to the torture chamber that is solitary confinement in his office with his thoughts.

He could always just knock you up.

Several chewed pen caps litter the expanse of his mahogany desk, another falling with a thunk to join its brethren among the pen cap graveyard.

I could always just knock them up.

Keigo decides to take the train ride home, opting to give his wings time to recover from a recent fight against a particularly tricky villain. He watches the scenery blaze by in a fog, pensive as the raindrops plop against the window.

He should probably just knock you up.

[vivwritesfics]

Drive Me Crazy

She's half feral, replacing Carlos sainz when he's out with an injury. Charles and Max just want to take care of her.

F1 werewolf au

The Beast. An awful nickname, one nobody deserved. Admittedly, Charles knew little about her. He knew little about the current Formula Two drivers in general, but knew nothing about The Beast. Still, he doubted the nickname was fitting.

He couldn't help but look into her. Max pressed kisses along his shoulder as Charles did his all important research.

"I don't like it," Max mumbled as he kissed across Charles's shoulder. "Sounds dangerous."

Charles waved him off and continued to read, learning what he could about her. A good racer, that was clear. Vicious, adrenaline driven. Like Max, Charles couldn't help but think. But then he scrolled down.

'The Beast attacks fellow F2 Driver, Oliver Bearman'.

She had attacked Ollie. Why had she attacked Ollie? Charles clicked on the video and let it play.

It began, just after they'd gotten the muzzle back over her mouth. Ollie was on the floor, bleeding hand held protectively in front of his face. His blood dripped through her muzzle, dripped from her mouth. She looked positively feral as she stared down at him. A terrifying sight.

But she couldn't be that feral, right? They wouldn't keep her in Motorsport if she was that dangerous.

Max grabbed his chin, forcing Charles to look away from his phone screen. "Charlie, promise me you won't go trying to adopt this one like you did Oscar and Ollie," he said, blue eyes staring into Charles's.

Cupping his cheek, Charles leaned forward and kissed Max's nose. "I can't promise anything, Max," he said and settled down against him.

Max released a sigh. He laid down next to Charles and wrapped his arms around him, unwilling to let him go. "Charles, please," he said, suddenly sounding so serious. "Promise me you won't go near her."

He didn't reply. Max laid awake, aware that Charles was awake, too. Awake, but not talking to him. "Charles," he tried again. But Charles moved further away from him.

***

The lock slid into place and she was left in the dark hotel room, food in front of her. "Tomorrow is a big day," her handler (manager, she preferred to be called. But she really was her handler) called through the door.

She knew that, knew how big the next day was going to be. A chance to drive for Ferrari, in the place of Carlos Sainz. It would be her nly chance to drive for Ferrari, she knew. There was no way she wasn't going to fuck it up.

She ate slowly, thinking too much. The collar was still around her neck as she ate, and she was hyper aware of it each time she swallowed. It had always been tight, a warning to behave or deal with the consequences.

Her muzzle was on the bedside table. God, she hated that thing. It had been too tight for years, stained with blood. Her blood, Ollie Bearman's blood (she felt bad about that one. Ollie didn't deserve it, and she hadn't meant to bite him. He really was the sweet pup everybody saw him as. He just got caught in the crossfires of her and Théo Pourchaire), the blood of others.

Her food was finished, plate empty. Moving it to the door, she raised her hand and knocked. It was pulled open as she hopped back and looked at her handler. "How're you feeling?" She asked and she shrugged her shoulders, picking at the skin around her nails.

Her handler walked further into the room. She shut the door, put the plate beside the muzzle on the bedside table, and grabbed her hairbrush from her bag. "C'mere," she said and sat on the bed.

She did as she was told and came to sit in front of her. She brushed through her hair, humming as she did.

She was the closest thing she'd had to a mother. Ever. Kind and caring, making sure she actually took care of herself. She cooked for her, brushed through her hair, used her shock collar when she put somebody else in danger.

She sat there, her eyes falling closed as she listened to her humming. She wouldn't hurt her, couldn't hurt her. She was all she had in this world.

She got her into bed before she could fall asleep. Her finger hooked beneath her chock collar and pulled, but it was was so damn tight. A whimper left her lips and she struggled to fall asleep.

A Ferrari driver. She was going to be a Ferrari driver. It wouldn't be forever, but long enough. Maybe after this, she could give up this dream that wasn't her own. She didn't know what else she would do if she was to give up this life, but she wanted to find out.

***

The entire Ferrari garage was anxious. Fred was anxious, the engineers were anxious, the social media team was anxious. Charles was anxious.

She was anxious.

Charles's research the night before hadn't prepared him for the first sight of her. His knee had been bouncing as he waited, thumbs tapping across his screen as he texted Max. Max was panicking, he knew. He didn't trust Charles, didn't trust him to protect himself in front of the driver nicknamed 'The Beast'.

She didn't deserve that nickname. After seeing the video of her attacking Ollie, he still didn't think she deserved the nickname. It was too close to somebody else he knew, to the way they were before someone showed him what love was.

She and Max were one in the same. He remembered when Jos would force Max to wear a muzzle, back when they were in the lower divisions. But that wasn't because Max was a danger. No, that was to keep him quiet, submissive in front of Jos.

If he could help Max, then he could help her.

But then she walked into the garage. The Ferrari shirt was on her body as she strode into the garage. Nothing looked out of place, nothing but the shock collar and the muzzle. It didn't look right on her face, biting into her cheeks and obscuring what he was sure was a gorgeous smile.

The woman who followed her into the garage introduced her, told everybody else her name. They all knew her name, but they were going to call her 'The Beast'.

For a moment, Charles wondered why she was the one speaking. But then he realised, she couldn't speak with the muzzle as tight as it was. He stood up and walked over, holding his hand out towards her.

She looked towards the woman that had followed her in. She gave her a nod and she finally placed her hand in his, shaking it. Good dog, he almost expected the woman to say to her.

She dropped his hand but kept staring at him. She knew who this was. Charles Leclerc. The Prince of Monaco. Ferrari's golden boy. She had raced against his brother the year before. Arthur was smart enough to stay away from her. It didn't stop him from giving her a polite smile whenever she walked past.

As Charles tried to speak to her, and got answers from the woman behind her, her manager, her handler, he could feel eyes on him. Max, he knew immediately.

Max couldn't concentrate on whatever Helmut Marko was saying to him. He didn't care, anyway. Not when Charles was standing so close to somebody called 'The Beast'. Admittedly, the video made her look so much worse than this. The video didn't show her trembling like she was now. It didn't show her cowering behind the woman that followed her into the garage.

But he had seen the bite marks on Ollie's hand, had seen the damage she had done. She could so quickly do the same thing to Charles. He edged away from the Red Bull garage, stopping himself from running towards the Ferrari garage. His body was ready to go at a moments notice.

"Is the muzzle necessary?" Charles asked as he stared at her. She hadn't looked away from him, her eyes hadn't left his gaze.

No! She wanted to scream. Please, please, please get it off me!

But she couldn't say it. Couldn't speak with just how tight the muzzle was, wouldn't speak even if she could. But she couldn't trust yourself, she knew. If the muzzle was taken off, she couldn't stop herself from lashing out, from feeling like that was the only way to protect herself.

Her pathetic whimper got to him, though. His gaze softened and he reached towards her.

Immediately, Max was moving towards the Ferrari garage. "Fuck," he hissed as he ran.

Charles unlatched her muzzle. The way she waslooking at him, looking so sweet and innocent, he couldn't help but pull the muzzle away.

The muzzle hit the floor, and she lunged for him.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival Part 6

Prowl comes up with a grim but viable theory, misses his ESP (Emotional Support Pterodactyl) and Jazz has a “cultural exchange” with Bluestreak.

Credit to @keferon for creating the AU!

———————————————————————

The cascade of Prowl rapidly drumming his fingers on the console was the only sound in the room. His gaze was fixed a million miles away, boring a hole through the far wall.

Hypothesis: Jazz, and possibly others, were secretly cold constructed by the Functionalists for the sole purpose of fighting Quintesson forces.

Many of Jazz’s eccentricities fell into place within that framework. He lacked a subspace, which would make it very difficult to hold onto personal items or contraband. His anatomy was was entirely specialized for battle, all curved angles, narrow gaps and thick plating. Likewise, Jazz’s subdued reaction to injuries could be accounted for if the Functionalists had removed a large portion of his sensory network and replaced his extremities with non-living metal prosthetics.

Prowl shuddered.

He turned from the physical to the mental. Jazz was smart, undeniably, but also severely starved of information.

The Functionalists were exceedingly well practiced in the art of secrecy and subjugation.

Keeping their custom soldiers in the dark about the greater galaxy would significantly reduce the chances of their mechs trying to escape or revolt. The muting, or possible removal of Jazz’s EM field would prevent him from easily emotionally connecting with other mechs and would hamper his ability to detect malicious intent from any handlers.

That alone could account for Jazz’s extremely tactile extroversion. It could be a form of compensation or maybe just a coping method for the loss of sensation. Add a manufactured language barrier, and even if Jazz had had previous brushes with mechs other than his handlers, he wouldn’t have been able to communicate with them. A perfect isolation tactic ensuring total control.

Until now.

Prowl finally straightened, creating a task list to execute once the ship arrived.

- Get Jazz seen by Velocity immediately. Both to treat his injuries properly and to document any evidence of prior abuse. He trusted her to catch and catalogue details only a medic would know.

- Debrief Elita One. He would need to phrase things carefully to ensure Jazz isn’t unfairly imprisoned or executed for possibly being connected to the Functionalists.

- Awake Green from hibernation. Despite his initial reluctance to interact with his therapist mandated “work-life balance tool”, the organic had grown on him. Further more, his Flyt afforded him an entirely neutral sounding board for times when speaking aloud was the best way to sort his processor.

The theory was good, but Prowl could still feel an itch in his processor. He was still missing something. He rubbed at the heat beginning to build under his helm.

Prowl tacked on a fourth task:

- Stick entire helm inside tub of coolant.

The tactician almost quirked an irritated smile as he made his way back towards his brother and the walking processor ache.

At least the likely hood of Jazz dropping us off another building was lower.

(14%)

Marginally.

For now, the Functionalist Creation Theory was still just that. A theory. He needed more information on where Jazz came from, and for that, they’d need to overcome more of their language barrier.

Thankfully, Bluestreak had offered to assist in catching Jazz up to speed on more Common.

Prowl keyed the door open.

“Frugg!”

Primus help him.

Jazz had his back turned to the door, free hand waving away Bluestreaks mispronunciation.

“Na, no R sounds. It’s Fuck.”

“Fugg!” Bluestreaks face was the picture of determined ambition.

“Getting closer! Now drop the Guh and replace it with Kh.” Jazz nodded encouragingly.

“Fruck!” His brother shouted, servos slapping on his knees.

“Nope, you’re putting an R back in there again. Like this: Fuck. Fuh-uck.” Jazz moved his hand through the air like a conductor, enunciating each Phoneme with clean cut clarity. “Try again, you got this man. Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Jazz turned around at the perfectly pronounced cuss word.

“Heeey! What’s up mother fragger! How’d the meeting with your slag head boss go?”

Prowl turned on his brother so slowly you could have mounted a telescope on him. “Adequately.”

Prowl continued his one sided stare down with Bluestreak, who was lightly clapping his hands together while seemingly fascinated with the far wall.

Jazz was laughing again. “Don’t be too disappointed in him. I do have a much better understanding of Common now.” He stood taking the anesthetic tape with him.

“Aight, it’s your turn, sit down.” Jazz patted the bench.

Prowl broke his stare down and cycled his optics. Bluestreak stopped pretending to stare at the wall.

“That is unnecessary.” He said automatically. “We need to be ready to leave in one breem.”

Jazz crossed his arm over the sling, cocking his head to the side. “Well then you better sit your shiny ass down so we aren’t late.”

Bluestreak kept silent through sheer force of determination to not ruin this moment.

Prowl couldn’t move Jazz, and Jazz knew it.

He sat. Glowering.

“Thank you!” Jazz sang, warbling across the vowels. He tossed the tape to Bluestreak. “I’m pretty talented but handling sci-fi duct tape one handed isn’t for me.”

Bluestreak sputtered briefly, before going to work tearing off small strips.

“How. How? It took us VORNS to get Prowl to take care of himself even a little bit! And you pull it off in less than a cycle? I had to get blown up before he’d even step into a normal med bay AND Smokescreen had to basically drag him in! You could not BRIBE this mech into self care if you had all the shanix in the entire galaxy!”

Bluestreak talked and worked quickly, knowing he was on a time limit before Prowl would try and escape.

“Hah, I feel that. Whenever I go back to the {Shatterdome}, er, “base” they basically gotta corner me to do any kind of check up.” Then Jazz sounded almost nostalgic. “{Ratchet} had it down to a science before he left.”

As the small aches and pains began to dull, Prowl took lead of the conversation for some subtle information gathering.

“So Jazz, how many of your kind are there?”

Prowl ignored the hard flick Bluestreak gave him. However, Jazz seemed unfazed by his bluntness.

He leaned against the wall, looking up slightly in thought. “Uhhh let’s see. The base I’m from has five mecha. There’s me, my little brother {Ricochet}, {Hot Rod}, {Blurr} sort of, aaaand {Vortex}.”

He counted off on his fingers. Then made a so-so sign.

“Well, Vortex isn’t the uh, the person? The real Vortex died a long time ago. Now it’s just a uh.”

Jazz struggled to translate something, unaware of the Praxians steadily growing looks of confusion.

He snapped his fingers, “Dead-Not-Dead location stay? Some people think the Dead-Real-not-Real Vortex is still in there. I think it’s just a {Death trap.} Dangerous to be near positive-positive-positive.”

Jazz made a gesture above his head. “Vortex kills more quintessons than people though, so the high-important-leaders won’t get rid of the thing. They just,” he shrugged a little uselessly. “Keep feeding us to it.”

Is he… Is he describing what I think he is?

“You live with a Sparkeater?” Bluestreak broke the silence.

“Spark-eater?” Jazz sounded out the syllables. “That sounds like a good word for it, yeah.”

At least Prowl could finally confirm Jazz couldn’t detect EM fields. His and Bluestreaks horror saturated the room.

“…You guys okay?” Ah. Just dulled then.

“Yes.” Prowl reeled in his field and elbowed Blue to do the same. “Simply surprised.”

“And concerned.” Bluestreak chipped in. “Is your brother going to be okay? I mean, he’s alone with that thing! Are your leaders going to feed him to the vortex next? Is that what happens to mechs that don’t perform well enough?!”

Jazz startled upright, quickly shaking his head from side to side. “No no no! He’s fine! They won’t do that to Rico, he’s already proved himself plenty and it’s just new fighters they send to Vortex.”

“They don’t always die either, sometimes they just go crazy.” Jazz made a circling motion with his index finger next to his head, stopping awkwardly mid gesture.

“That.” He put his hand down. “Sounded better in my head.”

Bluestreak clasped his servos together behind his helm. Mouth pressed into a thin line.

Prowl twitched as he received a ping from their ship. “Our transport has arrived. We can discuss that later.”

Later.

Yes, let’s discuss the horrifying implications of your entire existence later. Perhaps over some lightly warmed energon?

Maybe he likes Flyts. Jazz can pet Green while they both have mental breakdowns.

With a consciously steady ex-vent, Prowl stood, dipping his doorwings in thanks to Bluestreak. “If you would follow us, I will see to it you are comfortable until we are able to..”

Prowl briefly struggled to find the right term. “Sort out. Your… management situation.”

Jazz nodded, “Right, right. You mentioned transport?”

Gratefully, Prowl gestured for Jazz to follow him towards the airlock.

Before the partial vacuum could cut off their voices once more, Prowl nodded to the narrow window facing the landing strip.

Curiosity pulled visored mech over and when Jazz reached the window, he gasped.

Prowl lifted his doorwings and held out one servo, presenting their ship.

“Welcome aboard the Lost Light.”

———————————————————————

Jazz pov: “Huh. Spark eater. I get it, cause it metaphorically snuffs out peoples spark of life. Cool analogy for a death trap.”

The Praxians pov: “whaT Do YoU mEaN THERE’S A VAMPIRE IN YOUR HOUSE?!”

Little be of extra short hand, these {} denote a word being spoken in English. So Prowl is hearing the sound of the word but doesn’t know its meaning.

Extra bit of world building, the Shatterdome Jazz is from was the one that originally housed all the Combaticons, which is why it has specifically five mecha cradles. It’s also the number one Research and Development Shatterdome which is why you’ve got stuff like Blurr’s turbo fast mecha housed there.

In addition, Ricochet is a fairly normal pilot, but he’s housed there specifically because of his relation to Jazz. You know those tests they run with twins where they’ll send one into space for a month and keep one on earth to compare the differences? Basically Rico is the control group and Jazz gets to try the crazy shit.

- SSTP

[fudgechocolatepuff]

every year when december rolled around, keigo grimaced at the holiday knickknacks displayed atop every store on the street despite his cheery personality. all he could do was lay his cheek on his hand just watching everything go by, perched on some random wooden pole where no one could see him.

if anyone asked him why he hated winter, keigo would automatically just say it’s because of the snow and harsh temperatures that wind him down and freeze him up, turning his crimson wings into frigid ice plates.

but if someone were to ask him on a deeper level…

he’d confess that this month forced him to acknowledge the 3 most dreadful holidays to ever celebrate:

christmas, his birthday, and new years.

keigo was no scrooge, however he always found himself forgetting or at least turning his head away from the topic of these days, meandering back to his agency to tire (distract) himself with endless duties.

the moment his phone pings in an urgent request for a hero, keigo is the first one to volunteer. not to help out with whatever chaos the city embedded itself into (although he loves to help others), but to not fall into the scenario where he’s stuck with himself. with his thoughts.

brrrrr!— he gets shivers thinking about it. imagine it. holed up in his desk of his huge office or the depths of his scarily clean apartment. disheveled locks of blonde hair dug into his hands and his forehead rests on his palms. the silence of his surroundings eradicating him. nothing is happening. nobody there to celebrate with him. all alone going insane as the clock ticks.

it didn’t come to a surprise to him when he forgot his birthday this year. poor boy so confused why his notifs were dinging every minute. when he went home later that night (2 am probably), his heavy eyelids holding themselves up as he scrolled through his phone. ‘oh…’ he thought. ‘it was my birthday.’

there was no point in asking for the week off. if his handlers weren’t up his ass all the time about devoting his time, he wouldn’t even want to take a break anyway. what was there to do? who was there to see?

at least he could have his morning coffee though. pumping through his blood and keeping him awake during such a miserable time. the sweetness cancels it all out.

but maybe next year he’ll be free, a hopeless christmas wish tossed into the back of his mind.

i need to talk about this man for the rest of my life there’s so much to him. he breaks my heart but makes me smile

♡ fudgechocolatepuff

[winewinebloodwine]

[Chuuya smiles faintly at that, not really wanting to get into it, but thankfully all the same. Then Chuuya frowns at the rest of the words]

I̷̝̫͐͆'̶̱̈́ḏ̸̹̈́ ̵̪̾̓o̴̱͆f̸̳̓f̷͎͚̍e̷͙̓r̵̬͘ ̴̳͐t̶̮̀o̸̢̎͗ ̵͓̰͘͘h̴̙͘̕e̷̼͠l̸̰̔̓p̶̹̞̍ ̸̹̬̐ȳ̷̯͔ǫ̶̛͈̏u̵̢͑̚ ̴͓̱͛͋ḳ̷͕̅i̴̜͂̄l̸͚̺̚l̵̡̮͛ ̴̟̳̓͝y̴̘͓͑ḧ̶̨̤́́e̴̝̓m̶͙̏͜ ̸̹̠̐͂ȃ̴̗s̴͖͌́ ̷̯̔ẁ̴̪̜e̷̲̎̈́l̶̜̎̃l̴͈͎͂,̶̲͙̍͆ ̵̙̎b̸̲̓u̷̡͖̓ ̵̘͙́̚Ḯ̵̧̭̾ ̶̧̟̉̆d̷̤͗͂o̸̭̓̿n̷͚̯͆͒'̶̧͚͝t̶̗̫͒ ̶̟̉t̸̪̼͊̈ḧ̷̲̕i̸̥͊̏n̴̬͗ķ̸̟̌ ̷̦̎́t̸̥̏̋ͅh̷͔̠̚͝a̴̩͓̽̀t̶̮̾̕'̵͙͒s̷̪̦̉ ̷̼̇̏p̵͍͑̽ó̷̞͙s̴̖͋s̸̪̎i̸̩̾b̷̲͗l̵̗̫̀e̷͕͍͒ ̸̢̹̄r̶̛̺̔i̵͚̜̐̂g̴̛̰͎̈́h̸̫̭́t̷̡̬̄ ̴͈̈́̕n̸̗̕͝o̵̰̮̚ẇ̵̯̫̌

[Chuuya mutters, his grip on Dazai tightening slightly before loosening again on purpose. The fact that they are currently separated by that world both comforting and annoying. He sighs again, continuing his own story]

Ì̴͎͠ ̸͉̔ṛ̴͙͐e̸͚͚̊̓m̶̙̈́͒e̶̪͐m̸̨̼͠b̸͎͓͠͠ẽ̶̥̣r̸̻͐̕ ̸̺̹͑m̴̪̯̚ȯ̵̩͠r̴̋͋ͅe̸͓͑̃ ̴̢̖͌̐a̶̬̚b̶͊́͜͜o̶̗͑̚ù̶̮̒t̸̰̍̔ ̷̨̅͜ţ̵̥̉h̴̛̞e̵͎͔͌͂ ̴̝̠̂L̶̘͎̽̂a̵̛̬b̶͍̑ ̵͙̊͘t̴̫̿͒ḩ̵͌̚ą̶͚̄n̶͚͙͌̈́ ̴̡͘a̶̯̔ṉ̸̔́y̴̤͈̾̈́ ̸͇͐c̵̬̺̀͘h̸̩̳̓́i̶͇͆͛l̵̞̝̕d̵̺̀͑͜h̷̬̓o̵̲̳͗̄o̶͎͑ḍ̸̂̾,̵͎̚͘͜ ̸̖̖̇ṉ̶̙̃e̶̲͈̅e̸͓͎̓̌ḏ̵̡̓̂l̴͂̉͜ẻ̷̥s̵̝͕̈ ̸̳͆å̴͛ͅn̴͎̐ḋ̵̪̻̚ ̷̡̡̄e̴͓̍͑x̷̛̖̍ͅp̵̧̧̍e̴̝̍̕r̵͔͈͂i̶̯͖͗̀ḿ̶̱̚ẹ̶̿n̵̳̓̄t̷̢͓̋̑s̷̮̰̀ ̸͚̇ạ̶̡͂̋ń̶͓̚d̵̹̠́ ̷̯͘ͅk̶͙͍̉ị̶͆l̶͔͆l̵̦̍̆i̴̞̮̋̀n̵̨̮̏̉g̴̻̀͂ ̷͕̟̑h̷̹͉̚u̶̞̿̄͜ṅ̵̢͑ď̴͕̊r̵̖̒̃e̷̳̣͘d̶͎͐͝s̴͚̯̔̈́ ̴̫̂̀o̷̟̞̓f̴̨̱̈́ ̵̼̐͝o̶̩̞͌̾t̷̢̤̂h̵͈̽̌ê̶̫̲͝r̸͙̋͝s̷̺͠͝ ̷̤̔̎w̵̡̫͌̎h̵̡̲̀o̷̜̖͑̑ ̸̤͈̚s̵̜̏h̴͉̿̑ͅa̴̲͛̈́r̴̳̿̉e̵̫̓͛d̷̤͍̓́ ̵̤̏m̴̮͠y̸͈͛̐ ̶̡̭̋͑f̴̯̤̒a̵͓̣͋ç̵͊e̶͔͋.̸͎̑̈́ ̶͎̍̅T̵͕̽h̶͔̀́͜e̸̅͜ͅ ̸͕̱͘o̷̙̬͌͘n̶̬̩̽l̸̗̟͘y̸̳͝ ̵̞̓͛t̴̡͍̃ḥ̷͒̊i̵͓̇̉ň̴̜̄g̶̱̼͒̏ ̵̛̥ẗ̴̖ḣ̴̪̎a̵͈͌͜t̵̨͝ ̷̹͝ș̵͔̓e̵͖̫̐͝p̴͕͠a̷̠͛r̵̗̈̍à̷̡͗t̶͙͌e̴̩͋d̵̠̳̈́̒ ̵͈̈͘ü̵͇͈s̸͉̪̔ ̸̞̲̐ẅ̵̭̲e̷͚̓r̵̳͍͐̂ȩ̴͍̏ ̴̫̖͠ő̷̪͓̆u̵̙̰̕͠r̵̹̿̀ ̷̭͍͒̐ń̵̪ų̶̬̈́͝m̸̜̺̽͊b̸̡͝ẽ̵̯̼̓r̶̻̃ṣ̷̅,̸̝͈͑͛ ̷̰̓h̴̼̻͛͒ä̷̡͎́n̶͎͉̐̈́d̸͆͜l̴̞̉e̶̖͌ȑ̶̯s̴̫̍͝,̸͓̼̊ ̸̰͖̄͒ȁ̶̦n̴̯̲̐d̷̠̀͛ ̶͓̔͆w̶͈͂̽h̵͕̑̐ḯ̴̭c̷̜̅̅h̵̻̓̾e̸͈͉͠v̷͙̎e̴͍̹͌̉ř̷̹ ̵͈͎͐̋e̴̻̅͝x̶̨͗p̴̬͂̃ė̵̹͜r̵̄̓ͅì̶͓͙̚m̶͍̭̂e̸̗̒̔ņ̵̭͊̚ť̷͚͗s̷̗̀̏ ̸̠̔h̷̺͓͂̐a̷̙͉̍͊ḍ̵͉̚ ̸̣̂b̶̳͒͠ë̶̦̈́ē̵̖̚n̴̨̒ ̶̢̄r̷͖͊u̴͈̎ň̷͙ ̵̬̠͐o̷̢̓ņ̸̦̉̎ ̴̢͗ǘ̷̘͐s̶̪̈.̸̫̠̕ ̶̢̩̌I̵̤͑ͅ ̵̯̀ŗ̵̋̔e̵̝̾͝ḿ̴̨̓e̴̪͐ḃ̸̰̬̚e̸͙͌̐r̷̛̘ ̴͈͖̏͌a̵̝͝b̶͕͓̂͆s̴̝̟̔̌ȏ̴̮l̶͈͆̀u̷̫͘ẗ̶̙́̀e̴̞̋̄l̵̘̇͊y̸̻̓ ̶̘̈̋h̸̛͚̰͑â̴̤t̸̡͉̾í̷͈͊n̸̙͝g̶͈̝̾̊ ̴̝̙̄f̶͇͘o̷̠̎ọ̷͂͑d̶̦̗̈́ ̶̟̒e̴̮͚͑v̴̻̩͒ê̴͕̕ň̸̡̺̉ ̷̡̏ẗ̶̠́h̵̢̿͠e̷͇͐m̸̫̬͠,̸̩̳͐ ̵͓͍̎b̷̧̼̊e̸̠͐͒ͅc̶̢̄ą̴̬̋͂u̴͔͒̕s̷̖̥̍e̴̗̒̔ ̴̨̲͋̑í̴̲̺ẗ̸̻́͌ ̷̻̃w̶̪͌a̸̤̖͋s̵̟͖͋ ̵̯̟̇ō̶̳n̵̹̤̓̎l̴̺͎͆ỳ̷͖͚̽ ̷͌ͅḙ̵̚v̸͎̰̈́ḛ̵̢̂r̶̢̨̅̔ ̵̧̥̍g̸̣̉i̷̜̾͋v̸̫́̂ê̵͙̰n̶̜̽͜ ̵͔̳͊a̷͍̲̔͂s̴̢̽́ ̴̩̣̂̑ä̸͙̜́ ̸͙̂̄ḿ̷̖̓o̸͖͈͐̍c̴̜͙͂̈́k̶̩̜̂̍ẹ̶̃̇r̶͎̈́ŷ̶͍́ ̸̪͙͆̀o̶̘̪͐f̷̮̈́̕ ̷̡͛͂a̵̻̓ ̴̣̏r̷̡̡͗̊ȇ̸͉̈ẘ̷̧̩̈a̷̝͂͋r̷͓̱͊̋ḋ̷̠͌.̷͍̾ ̷̨̛̫S̶̫͝o̵̪̫̽͝m̶̼̔̚ḛ̵̏̇t̸͖́̑ĥ̶͍͖̍i̴͙͛ṅ̵͖͍͑ĝ̵̛̩ ̵̹̇͠ẗ̴̠h̷̗͠a̵̜̓t̵͉̃͠ ̸̙̿̇w̵̨̛͜ă̵̺s̷̠̍̽ ̷̯͆̑s̸͚͂͝ṵ̴̉p̴̛̭̞͂p̷͉̳͐͐ȯ̶̺̥͝s̵͙̜̀ë̶̝d̷̾̋ͅ ̷͔̀̄ẗ̷͎́̕ô̵̰̆ ̸̻̐̕b̶̡̈e̷̡̿̀ ̶��͉'̴͇̙̊ņ̷̺̐̑ö̵̧́͝r̸͕͎̾͝ṁ̸͉̩̊a̵̬͛̀ͅľ̶͕̐'̷̧̱̃,̴̹̩́͒ ̶͇̓͗t̶͒͛ͅh̷̨̥̓ä̵̳͉̓t̷̢͑ ̷̍ͅǏ̶̢̥ ̴͇͚̅h̸̢̔̈́a̷̩̔d̶̢͓̀̿ ̸̥͆̒n̶͈̘͗͝o̴̝̹̾͌ ̷̧̞͘î̷̡d̷͖̈̍ë̴̹́͑ͅå̸̳͗ ̵̼̮͒w̵̺̓̈́ḩ̵̞̽a̴̙͂ẗ̸̤̖͗ ̷̜̦̃̅ṯ̷̻́o̸̢͎̒͑ ̶̪̿d̸̙͍͛o̴͎̭̽́ ̵̲͇̓̅w̴̟͛ï̸̺̳t̵͉̱̎h̸̖̎ ̷̯̘̓͘o̷̥̰̽̍ṛ̷̝̂ ̸̭̖̇h̷͎̎̓ͅǫ̴͔̈́͒w̸̪̖̽͂ ̸͉̝̚͝ẗ̶͖͗ͅơ̸̡̺̿ ̵͓͉̾̈́ê̴͖̦͠a̶̛̲t̶͇̝̚ ̶̙̔̚i̴̯̓͜t̸̋͜ ̸̇͠ͅŵ̴͕̚i̸͍̍ͅt̶̝͚͝h̷͔̻̃͒ô̶̥ͅủ̷͍̤̀t̵͍̓́ ̷͓͊ṕ̷͖ủ̷̜͜k̸̡̮̑̉î̵̡̠̂n̵͍̓͠g̷̲̓̑.̶̡̲͒́ ̷͇̔Ḭ̴̻͗́ ̷̯̰̒̌ẅ̷̥͔́̃a̴̻͓͛̓s̴̳̜̿͊ ̴̹̅f̷̨̖͛̀è̸̮̣̂d̵͖̫̆ ̷̱͖̏w̶̗͉͒ĩ̵̩͈̀t̵͉͕̀h̸̛̘̎ ̷̣̏̃t̵̠͋̌u̷̪̅̊b̵̥̓͆e̸͌̎͜s̶̡͔̿ ̵̢̛̬͐â̶̮̇n̶̢͋͘d̷̞̲́͑ ̷̰̉p̸͍̅͊i̸̘̯̇l̷͉̿l̶͈̓̆s̵̘̻̄͠,̴̮̌ ̸̹̃̀ṉ̶̆ộ̵̠̀t̷͇̯̅̕ ̵̤̲̓p̵̨̿l̶̰̮̍͊à̵̤͘͜ṫ̸̫̚e̶͎͊s̶̯̉ ̷̬̆̒a̸̧̔n̴̟̭̿d̶̠̃ ̷͚̖͌p̴̬̞̏h̷̨̃̚ͅy̸̖̫̽̄s̶̫͔̈͊i̸̜̪͆̐c̴̤͍͂͝ã̴̻̂l̸̢̐ ̴̢̣͐͠t̶̡͊h̸͇͑͋ị̵̫̂̽n̵̨̟̈́͠g̵̬͑s̸̫͆.̸̳̽̏

̷̢̒́

̵̩͉̾͊Ở̶͔͜n̷͚͐̉c̶͎͖͊e̶͙͎͝͠ ̷͇͋̇Ä̴͔́ṟ̵̅̆a̴̟̳͌h̴̲̩̍a̷̠̋b̷̧̔̉a̵͉̗̔k̷̛̗͊i̵̤͉͆ ̵̡̌a̸̯̍n̴̟̘̑d̸͚͉͗ ̵̙̅̚I̴͈͔̓͐ ̷̲̟͘w̸̡͂e̶̘͗̆͜r̷̖͑e̷̬͎͌̀-̸͖̔ ̵̢͖͑j̴̞̏ỏ̸͎i̶͈͋͠n̸̠͋e̷̝̟͊d̶̟̺̈̃,̵̬̲̌͌ ̶͇͠t̸͍͊͋h̶̢͈͛i̵̫̐ń̷̞̮g̵̦̯͌s̸̜̩͛̏ ̸̠̥̈́c̶͇͆̊ơ̵͚̹ṉ̸̨̈t̶̳̫̚i̷̹̣͒̅n̸̢̧̈́ư̴͔͌ͅë̸͚́̐d̶̨̊̄ͅ ̸̮͂̉ṭ̵̩́o̸͖͆ ̸̛̺̐c̶̥̣̓h̵͓͒̂a̷̜̐n̷̨͐́g̸̱̔̚ė̴͇.̷̞̦̈́̋ ̶̺͐̾A̷̻̻͆̍ ̴͈̈́r̵̻̮̿̋e̵̬̳̽s̴͍̣͗̉ȗ̵̧l̵̰̃t̸̲̀̇ ̷̠̄̂o̴͓͙͗̐f̵͔͛͑ ̶̖̻̾͝h̷̻̀ö̴̘u̷̧̟̕ŝ̷̩i̶̠̬͗n̵͉̾ğ̸̦ ̸̲̇͌a̶̠̋͝n̵̎̓ͅ ̴͎̓̆ȍ̸̠̣̚l̷̰͌̋d̵̬̋͐ ̸͙̔g̷͉̞͑̇ŏ̷̤̃d̸̠̬̽͊ ̵̭̋̇o̴̤̞͗f̸̡̙̾̾ ̵̲̒C̷͎̍̃ȟ̴̬̺̅a̴͇̎̾o̵̝͛s̴̍̅͜ ̸̜̮̈̓a̸̹̯͆n̵̲̓ḍ̶̄͑ ̵̝͈̈́̍Ĉ̷̝̅h̴̃̕͜ͅa̴͘͜͠n̶̰͗̿g̵̟͗̈e̶̬͝,̸̢̘̑ ̴̻̩̒̏ẻ̷̠̓ṡ̶͕̐p̸̚ͅę̵̇͜c̸̭̙͛i̶͓̔á̵͚̖͝ľ̸̤̞l̷̠̕ŷ̵̦̈ ̶̭͋̾w̸̛̗̑i̶͕̐͝t̷͔̿h̴̩͖̀́ ̷̦̂h̵̭̋o̸̟͠w̶̲̽ ̴̲̪͌m̸̱̥͛y̴̮͇̓ ̴̻̣̑b̵͔̫͐̎õ̸̼͔d̶̺̓́ÿ̶̥͉́̌ ̸̲̈́ḩ̴̫̈̒ä̶̞͎̓d̵̩̞̓ ̶̨͍̇̉b̶̲̋͝e̸̬̭͑ë̸̲̦́͛n̵̈ͅ,̷̢̼͗ ̵̡͐́e̴̢͝n̴̰̠̄d̸̗̼̑͝ḙ̸̾ͅd̴͔̠́ ̸͎̕ử̴̪p̶̦̱̉ ̶̠̆c̴̢͂̽o̸̲̅ļ̵̛͖̅ĺ̵͓̗̀i̴͇̓̆d̶͇̦̈́i̸̧̢͐n̸͓̑̿g̴̺͊́ ̸̢̞̇͆t̵̝͆͛ó̷͙́ ̸̤͂w̷̟̃̓h̴̯̚ͅá̵̲͇͘t̸̳͋ ̶̙͓̏̾w̴̩̕o̸̝͈̐̇u̴̦̔̾l̸͙͇͋̚ď̸̘̃ ̷͕̔b̷̧̟͑é̶̟ ̶̫̕a̶̰͈͑̍ ̵͖͔͗ģ̸̜̚ẽ̷̎͜n̷̉̕ͅd̴̮̹̈́e̵̯͗r̸̨͛ ̶͚̫͒f̴̟͑̒l̷͌ͅu̶̹̇i̶̳̯̓d̵͇̼͋̊ ̷͔̜̀̉p̵̧̜̀͘ë̵̢͍́ř̴̗̈́s̵̲̠̾o̴͇͔͛n̷͇͕̉͝'̶͈̍͝ș̸̛ ̸̜͐g̵̩̚͘r̷̟̀ȩ̶͎̎a̵͕̾t̴̰̀͆e̷͕̎s̶̞̱͋t̵̮͙́͘ ̵͎̇̅d̷̜̈́̾ṟ̸͗ȇ̴̺ã̵̗͚̍m̶̫̃.̴̩̟̎ ̷̛̞̬̀

[The fact being that Chuuya was not genderfuild, while not said aloud, was definitely brought to mind at that]

I cut my finger with a butter knife. I was told they werent supposed to do that.

[tekmaticinc]

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[frostfangalphabitch]

The rest of the base has gone to sleep, but you don't sleep anymore. You don't join them in the mess hall anymore, either. You barely eat organic food at all these days, and when you do, it's mainly for pleasure. You can take the organics out of the pilot, but you can't take the love of sweets and pizza out of the organics, you guess. Despite that, you're so far removed from your humanity that it's gotten difficult to relate to most of them. It's not like anyone else is sharing your meals of titanium and copper.

The other pilots look at you with fear and disgust, knowing their inevitable fates if they're ever pitted against you. The mechanics see you as an oddity, a fascination, and heap praise and adoration upon you, but it's hollow in your eyes. It feels more like they're ogling a rare car rather than talking to a pilot. The corps see you as nothing more than a weapon to be pointed at their enemies, or whoever has less money than them that week.

The only person who still respects you as an autonomous individual is your handler. You adore her just as she loves you. Certainly, you're still a weapon - that's what the relationship started as after all - but you think she might be the only human in the base, including the mechanics, who could truly love a weapon of any kind. She's been so good to you through all of this, taking each stage of your radical transformation in stride as naturally as a lover watching her partner go through a more mundane transition. She's only gotten more attracted to you as you've grown into your new form and become more comfortable and confident with yourself. You'd burn the whole world down just to make her happy.

There's one other who respects you for who you are, though: your girl. Your beloved Wolfrun Mk.X, heart of Coral, veins of electricity, and arms of 5 ton power-guzzling metal-shredding AC-devouring WB-0010 Double Trouble carnage. Before all this started, you always thought of her like a weapon, just as the others see you now. Then she started changing you. The Coral in your augments connected with the Coral in her systems, and something changed in both of you. At first, it was just a whisper. Something brushing over your psyche, speaking just on the edge of hearing, incomprehensible but unmistakable.

Then your body started following suit. Your teeth, jaw, and digestive tract were the first things to change, presumably to allow you to consume and digest - you're not even sure if that's the correct term - the materials your girl needed to keep changing you. After your first meal, the tastiest 20 pounds of scrap you've ever eaten, your skin started changing too. The docs couldn't give you injections anymore. Their needles bent or broke when they tried to push them into your skin. You figured out why a few weeks later when what was left of your epidermis sloughed off and revealed armored plating underneath. They had to take an angle grinder to your arm in order to access your veins. You didn't feel any pain when they did. At the time, you thought that should have disturbed you a lot more than it did.

By that point, you'd been noticing Wolfrun's thoughts coming in a little clearer. In transit to your jobs, it was feelings of curiosity, probing, and wonder. In combat, it was a spark in your vision when you needed to dodge, a wordless warning about approaching enemies. In the base... still nothing but a whisper. That's when you started feeling lonely: when you couldn't feel her presence anymore.

As you became more and more monstrous, more and more like her, you began to visit her night after night. Maybe it was because you sensed an intelligence within her 65 ton body, or maybe it was simply because being near her drowned out the silence. You had no way of verifying this, but you felt like she relaxed as well when you were around. She was shut down in the hangar, of course, and there was no way any part of her could still be engaged, or so you thought. But as time went on, the whispers got louder, the words - feelings and thoughts, really - more comprehensible. And all the while, your body changed.

The 5'6" chubby trans gal who went into debt and subsequently under the knife to get a hand-me-down set of 4th gen augments all those years ago is long gone now. The thing you've become, whose claws clanged against the metal of the hangar's floor, had long since cast off that form. Where once was skin had become plated metal. Despite having no screws or rivets to speak of, it stayed firmly in place no matter how much the techs tried to pry it off. The augments which before had stuck partially out of the left side of your skull had seamlessly integrated themselves into the sleek plating that had cropped up on your head, looking far more natural than they ever had before. Your hair had fallen away, and the metal around your skull became angled and sleek, looking more bulwark than biological and with aerodynamic fins sprouting from it.

A sleek black plate had formed where your eyes once were. The day you woke up with that, you thought you had gone blind. You panicked, begging for help, afraid they wouldn't ever let you pilot her again. You had been moved into your new warehouse home at that point, and it took time for the maintenance techs to find you. Before they did, though, you felt someone - your girl, you realized - beckoning to you. She could help you. When the techs finally got there, you begged them to put you in her cockpit. It took them a while to figure out who you meant by "her", but your handler, who had come running the moment she heard the news, was on top of it. She barked at them to get you to Wolfrun, and with great difficulty, the three of them helped you get your then-8 foot form into her. You spent the next week inside her cockpit, refusing to get out except to eat and drink. She was there with you, and she let you see through her eyes. The world as she saw it was far more vivid than human eyes could ever see, infrared, ultraviolet, gamma, magnetic, smells, sounds, vibrations, on top of the visual spectrum you were used to. And when the delicate sensor plate where your eyes once were finally engaged at the end of that week, that's how you saw the world, too.

When you finally left her cockpit, you realized you could still hear her. From then on, she was with you always. That made you happy. It made her happy, too. You started letting her choose her own parts, and she was happy to. She still insisted you choose some too, though, since according to her, it was your body just as much as it was hers. True enough, whatever force was altering your body changed you to match her. When you tried out digitigrade legs, you stumbled getting out of bed the next morning after yours had reconfigured themselves to match. When you got her bulky, high capacity arms, your arms - fully synthetic by then - had bulked up considerably.

Even cosmetic changes started to affect you. You painted menacing, sharp teeth onto her head over the sensor plate with mechanical precision, and you found your own mouth elongating and becoming more of a muzzle as a result. You'd have thought being so malleable would have unsettled you, but you found you were more excited about the possibilities instead. It felt more like becoming who you were meant to be. Besides, it made wolfing down your metal meals easier. You figure intention, either yours or hers, or both, affected how you changed, but no one else had any satisfactory explanation for any of this. You'd stopped caring long ago in any case.

What you and Wolfrun ended up settling on for her, after earning a mountain of COAM for you and your handler with your unbeatable, utterly synchronized performance, was a mid-lightweight build focused on tearing apart the battlefield as quickly as possible with heavy machinery. What you became in response was anything but lightweight, at least compared to the humans around you. The finned bulwark and the black sensor on your head never really changed, but the rest of you seemed plenty mutable. Your arms grew long and powerful, your shoulders tipped with decorative spires. Your waist grew slender, tapering inorganically in nested panels to allow for plenty of articulation. Your torso got wider, too, though for whatever reason, the outline of breasts remained constant on your new chassis. You kept the digitigrade legs. Over time, hydraulic supports seemed to have formed on yours. The snout stayed, too. You were too proud of that paint job to ever take it off even with the changes to your own body. BECAUSE of the changes. You might be more machine than woman at this point, by you're still you, pride and all.

The techs estimate that only about 5% of your body is still organic. Probably most of your brain and maybe some other systems, plus a few symmetrical patches of skin. They suspect that you had either some kind of sympathetic Coral connection to your AC that rearranged your augments and allowed the changes to start, or that somehow repair nanites adapted to your form and began "fixing" you. In any case, they think the bulk of your changes are done with at this point. You're a little disappointed by that. Wolfrun likes the new you, though. She's happy for your connection and to be able to get even closer to you. Your handler appreciates your new form just as much. She doesn't even bat an eyelid when you tell her that you've been talking to Wolfrun. If anything, she seems a little sad that she can't talk to her directly. As for your relationship with your handler, you might be nearly twice her height, standing at a hulking 10 feet tall, but that doesn't stop her from loving you, or from jamming her fingers lovingly between your legs after missions.

But she's sleeping now. It's late, but you're still lonely. There's only one entity up at this time of night you'd care to talk to, so you climb the catwalks to meet her, claws clanging against the metal of the hangar. You smile your toothy, metal smile as she greets you, opening her cockpit so you can crawl inside and be one with her for a few more hours before your next mission.

[vacantfields]

Things Are Better AU MASTER POST!

Tags used: Things Are Better AU | TAB AU | TAB AU Answers | TAB AU Writing | TAB AU Sun | TAB AU Moon | TAB AU Eclipse |

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vacantfields

TAB AU: Singing Voices Spotify Playlist

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO: Draw, Write, etc with these guys! (ASK ABOUT NSFW !)(AND remember to credit me!!)

(I will attempt to use the tags as best as i can!! Do also note that things can change in this AU but this is the best place you can go look honestly)

[ In this AU, Sun, Eclipse, and Moon have gotten new bodies, some that are way more humanoid. Technically, they are not animatronics anymore, but the Pizzaplex they live at still deems them as such! They are also all separated; most importantly, THEY ARE NOT BROTHERS. They are best friends! (Sun and Moon, however, seem closer than that.) ]

[ It is set in the 20XX! The date doesn't matter. ]

[ The Location of this thriving Pizzaplex is in the heart of a big city, and the rest of the animatronics have gotten slight upgrades but have remained the same. Sun and Moon still run the Daycare. Eclipse stands as the security guard for the Daycare (Moon also still goes on patrols, as well). They live in the Daycare too! The layout is (sorta) the same as the original Pizzaplex. The boys can leave the place, but they must tell their handler or whoever runs the place how long they will be gone. The virus from the game is not here, BUT a virus is in this! It's highly aggressive and should be avoided at all costs. Moon used to have a virus, but most got removed from him when they moved into these bodies, although some of the virus remains in his code. Eclipse has a different virus embedded in him, and he cannot remember how he acted before; it basically wiped his personality, so now he's somewhat unpredictable. ]

They have humanoid/android bodies

The original body along with their personality chips were created in the middle of the 90s

Moon got his virus in 95 or so but they couldn't fully remove it as they would have to reset him and thats a chore plus it wasn't too dangerous so they moved the guys into separate bodies and it fixed most of it

the story is set in 20XX

The location is in a big city

They have been in the new bodies for around 5 years

The fire, gregory, etc. Did not happen here!

The virus Eclipse was made by some people who wanted to use the animatronics to attack people and make sure that fazbear would shut down

They are not the same guys from the game BUT they do act a lot like them! (kinda)

They used to share a body (Eclipse just being a security setting in them)

Moon has remains of a violent virus

Eclipse has the virus embedded in his code

Eclipse cannot remember who he was before the virus

The virus is not sentient... OR... Is it?

Despite not having the virus, Sun is not handling being alone in his head. His unstable and unused security program snaps in when he has breakdowns and makes his head think it's Moon talking to him.

Sun was the first personality chip then it was Moon and then Eclipse

Other facts

The virus does NOT like the color red on bodies. (Do not wear a red shirt or anything alike that around Eclipse he will attack and KILL.)(Though if they care about you he will hold back from mauling)

They cannot eat BUT! They can taste things!

Their face plates can still spin

They can still use the wire to "fly" around if they wish

They have a secondary voice box that they use for when they talk with people outside of the Daycare/or go out!

In the Daycare they use the "Canon" voice

They can also perform at "Adult Nights" at the pizzaplex, which consists of them singing on stage while the adults drink and so on.

Moon is the only one who actively performs so you can catch him in the evenings on stage!

They are all very flexible... And they can dance (;

They can also talk with each other through a shared headspace (like a group chat)

The old body is stored somewhere in the plex

--

⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊ SUN ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊

He/They/We | 8'5" / 256cm | Daycare Attendant

[ Sun is a happy go lucky guy who hides a lot of his other emotions and sometimes they tumble in! He gets angry, he gets sassy, he gets upset, etc. !! ]

Secondary Voice (singing):

Without A Whisper | Sleepless Deathbed | Reverie

(Invent Animate)

----------

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ MOON ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He/They/We | 8'5" / 256cm | Naptime Attendant / Performer

[ Moon is your day to day gremlin. Crawling up walls and spider-walking across the floor in the darkness. Though he does easily get flustered if youre close enough to him! ]

Secondary Voice (singing):

Secret Scream | That Death Cannot Touch | No Accusations

(The Black Queen)

----------

☾✴ ๋࣭ ⭑ ECLIPSE ☾✴ ๋࣭ ⭑

He/They/We | 9'4" / 284cm | Security for the Daycare

[ Eclipse is a wild card. You never know if you can trust what comes out of his mouth but he seems docile for now ]

Secondary Voice (singing):

Broken Inside | Forevermore | Clouded Son

(Broken Iris)

----------

(Hopefully this made some sort of sense... I will probably edit here and there but (: !!)

[benihana-circumcision]

The control bar assembly wraps around me, a warm hug conducted through the mech's frame from the heat in the reactor core. The forcefeedback servos at each joint are tuned to perfection; the pushback giving just enough proprioception to make the the lithe, spindly, fifteen-ton thing I'm holding by the neck and thigh feel like a plateless Olympic weight bar. Comforting.

A drop of hydraulic oil seeping past a seal above me beads up and drops onto my brow, mixing with sweat. The potentiometers at each joint coax the frame into singing in total electromechanical harmony with the actin-myosin filament bundles between my skin and bone. Carbon and sweat, oil and steel, the bare minimum of entwined copper wiring and silicon required to get everything to gel. She's a wonderful piece of kit, genuinely.

The enemy should have known she was fucked the moment she engaged with anything less than a BVR nuke; this thing can take as many hits as she needs to, while still returning the favor tenfold. Helps that I was the best grappler in my year back at camp.

She's got targeting computers and a head-up display, the best shit you can get without putting needles through your vertebrae, but I cut power to those the moment the enemy jammed the WEZ and shot off her missile pods. Past that point it's all just more visual noise, and I've been piloting her long enough to run field triage by ear. Everyone underestimates how heavily proper operation depends on a good ear.

I'm looking through the cockpit glass at the thing's lidless eye as its Inconel claws scramble and shave sparks off the armor plating on the Cincinnati's forearm trying to find purchase. Procurement's gonna have my ass if I keep dragging this out.

I tighten my grip around its leg. Its core tenses and writhes as woven carbon panels yield and crack under my machine's fist. Through the P.A., I can hear the pilot's agony get overridden with the unintelligible babbling and whining that comes with the artificial dopamine flood, that unfortunate Pavlovian reward mechanism kicking in.

Poor girl. Even considering the returns in performance, neurofeedback still ain't worth all this. My machine gets an arm lopped off? I can limp home, get the girls back at the hangar to slap a new one on, and get back in the field the next day. These things? Even if the pain doesn't break you, even if you don't get taken out, even if you manage to get home in one piece, even if your techs manage to drag you out of the frame kicking and screaming while they pull the jack out of the base of your neck with a wet metallic clunk, that arm's still gonna hang numb and limp off your shoulder for the remainder of your hopefully short service life before your handler drags you out back behind the shed.

The enemy goes limp. Supplicant. Maybe the pilot sees God in my canopy glaze.

As I twist the fucking thing's head off like I'm opening a pickle jar, I try to tune out the sounds of the pilot screaming in something resembling orgiastic bliss.

I radio in for a salvage team and a chaplain.

For all intents and purposes, I've killed her. Once the machine's so intertwined with the CNS like that, such a blow will fry the brain (or, at least, the parts of the brain concerned with things like "your favorite food" and "your mother's last words" and "voluntary motor control") beyond the point of no return. I try not to think about how, when we bury her, the body will still breathe. How the pelvis will still spasm under six feet of dirt.

...Eugh.

[i-can-get-a-wahoo]

my rewrite for season 4 of the umbrella academy

spoilers ahead

okay so how about instead of them all DYING! viktor is able to pull the marigold out of the remaining siblings (ben is too far gone as we’ve already seen 😞) and he says he’ll sacrifice himself especially since he caused the apocalypse in 2 timelines. klaus, luther, and lila are all against it but diego and alison are trying to protect their kids and 5 saw the 5 diner so knows something has to be done. however as viktor’s powers changed from white/blue to orange he is able to expel his own marigold (which implies that an increased use of his power earlier in the season would’ve made him lose his power)

a ball of glowing marigold floats in the middle of the circle as the cleanse floods in. it trickles up toward the ball barely acknowledging the siblings. it reaches the marigold and slowly begins to consume it until a bright light bursts through the cleanse’s skin.

the screen goes white

we cut to a tv interview of an unknown yet familiar face who is eventually revealed to be dolores hargreeves. the camera pans out to see dave sat in an armchair with a small child running around in the background. klaus ushers the child upstairs and tells them to brush their teeth.

then we go to the local elementary school where we see lila and diego dropping the twins and grace off at school. they’re met by dave and klaus and their child. the three younger kids run into their class where they’re being taught by the handler. we follow grace to see her being taught by herb.

we cut to viktor who is opening up a cafe (not a bar) and a woman walks out of the kitchen with a plate of cupcakes. it’s sloane. luther walks out of the bathroom with a disgusted look on his face before giving sloane a kiss on the forehead. the camera exits the coffee shop to see the name and it’s called ben’s.

we cut to five and claire in a car. they get out at a film studio. once inside they see allison who is in charge of the set. she asks to cut as claire hugs her mom and five kisses his wife delores.

towards the end of the day, the family is sat at a teppanyaki restaurant. lila whispers to klaus and dave that her uncle is watching the kids.

the family is sitting and eating happily until all of a sudden ‘i think we’re alone now’ starts playing. the siblings look at each other , go to the centre of the room and start dancing just like they did in s1 ep1 but this time they’re not alone, they’re together as a normal family. finally.

(sorry that my grammar sucks bc i cannot be bothered and any edits are welcome in the comments and reblogs. also any fan art is greatly appreciated. i just though we needed a bit of happiness after that ending bc i cried for way too long)

(also in this edit the fivela incident never happens so 5 find the 5 diner some other way that i’m not bothered to write)