#why do bones twist like that!! why are they so weird!! why so many bones in the human skeleton!!! can we have less

[sopuu]

consumed by the moss

[falling-endlessly]

Boomerang (part 1)

Vox x Female!Ex!Overlord!Reader

Summary: When Vox proves incapable of cutting Valentino out of his sex life despite his many reassurances, you decide to break it off with him and leave for good. He doesn’t take it so well.

Just to be clear, reader is an artificial intelligence demon, looks super realistic and human-like, but is actually composed of nanotechnology. She was human once though, like all of the other sinners.

INSPIRED BY THIS POST

Part 2—> Chapter Index

"Y/n?" Charlie poked her head through your door. "There's uh, someone here to see you."

You narrowed your eyes, rising from your bed. A bone-weary sigh escaped you. It was obvious who your supposed "visitor" was. "Did you tell him I'm busy?"

Charlie pursed her lips, looking down. Great, so that meant he was throwing a temper tantrum. And she wanted you to sort him out.

"Alright, fine," you pinched the bridge of your nose. "I'm coming." She was generous enough to let you stay, after all. The least you could do was clean up your messes.

When you finally reached the main floor, Vox and Alastor looked about two seconds away from clawing each other's faces off. Cyan blue electricity was sparking along Vox's entire body, and Alastor's shadows curled dangerously behind him, ready to attack at his call.

Seeing him made a hot fury like no other claw its way up your throat. "What the fuck are you doing here?" You growled lowly, balling your fists at your sides.

At the sound of your voice, Vox immediately broke away from Alastor, a giant smile spreading across his screen. "Sweetheart! There you are!"

You stormed up to him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him harshly into a corner. You let go of him once you were sufficiently out of earshot of the others, crossing your arms and leveling him with a furious glare. "You have five seconds to explain yourself."

"Okay, let's just calm down for a second here," he chuckled, but it was an empty sound. "Is it really that weird for me to want to check up on you? After all, you kind of just disappeared," his smile strained.

"Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you couldn't find me was because I don't want to see you?" You smiled sardonically, patience running thin.

"Uh, what?" He laughed, but his smile was frozen. "Why would you not want to see me?"

That was the last fucking straw. "Are you that fucking delusional, Vox?" You snapped, poking him harshly in the chest. "When I said I was done, I meant it. This," you gestured between the two of you. "Is over. I'm done."

Vox twitched, electricity sparking off sporadically from his antennae. He stared at you in stunned silence, his breathing starting to pick up speed as he processed your words. His eyes searched your face for any sign that you were being untruthful, and when he found none, he glanced up at the small crowd of residents and staff gathered, only to lock eyes with a smug Alastor.

Vox's screen glitched, his features twisting in a rage. "So you're replacing me with the radio fucker now, is that it?"

"Oh, really?" You narrowed your eyes. "Just like you replaced me with Valentino?"

"That's different," Vox gritted out.

"Is it?"

"Yes, for one, Val isn't some archaic cannibalistic fucker with a vendetta against me!"

"Who has the vendetta against who here? Cause it seems like you're the one who can't let things go." You watched him splutter on his bullshit for a few seconds before you shook your head in exasperation, the pounding pressure increasing at your temples. "Alright, that's it, we're done here. Get out."

"Y/n," he narrowed his eyes. "You need to think about this."

"Oh I've had plenty of time to think," you grabbed his tie, pulling him closer to bare your teeth menacingly. "Now get out before I put a goddamn virus in your software Vox!" Your face pixelated from rage at the end of your sentence. You let him go with a harsh shove.

For a long moment nobody spoke, a tense silence blanketing over the two of you. You glared at him venomously, chest still heaving from your outburst. And him, he was looking at you like he'd never seen you before. Good, you thought spitefully. It's finally getting through to him.

Vox's mouth hardened into a thin line, his sharp claws nearly drawing blood from his palms. "Why here?"

You closed your eyes. "It’s not a forever thing. I just—I need to be away from everything for a little while, okay?" Everything that we've built together. Reminders of you. "No flashy shit, no fast life, no technology—"

"You're an A.I. model," he said dully.

"Yeah well, you win some you lose some," you sighed, rubbing at your temples. "Look, I don't want to say it again. Leave Vox, I'm serious."

For a hot second, it looked like you were ripping his entire world apart and stomping on the broken pieces, the way he looked at you so lost, before he hastily pulled himself back together. "Fine," he spat out. It sounded like it physically hurt him to say it.

He lifted his chin, adjusted his lapels, and stormed out of the hotel, slamming the door so hard it blew straight off of its hinges, blue sparks of electricity still sizzling from it.

For a few seconds, a thick tension suffocated the room, as everyone took the time to process the shit show they'd just witnessed.

"Well, that was fun!" Alastor's cheery voice punctuated the silence. You glared at him tiredly.

***

If you thought that he would give up like you so nicely asked, you were sadly mistaken.

Turned out it was just a pre-game warm up for this asshole.

At least thrice a week, he made sure to fuck up your peace somehow. Last time it was spray painting the entire hotel electric blue (how, you didn't even want to know). The time before that, it was trying to sneak some of his peeping gadgets in through the window. And the time before that, it was putting your name up on every billboard in the goddamn city with a red heart next to it.

Now, you stood incredulously in front of half of the hotel. As in, the other half was missing. Blown off by a fucking missile. You couldn't make this shit up if you tried.

"What the fuck is going on?" You gritted out, before taking a deep, calming breath.

Vox's electric laughter rang out from a speaker of unknown source. You turned angrily to face the open air.

"Pathetic," he jeered. "You still want to shack up with these losers, Y/n?"

You shook your head slowly, laughing in disbelief. "Wow," you said sarcastically. "You really showed us, didn't you? Feel better about yourself now?"

You punctuated your sentence with a glare, before turning and storming towards the remaining half of the building.

Vox watched you from twenty different angles across his screens. The moment you turned your back, his wide, toothy grin dropped, eyes squeezing shut. He slammed mute on his microphone.

“FUCK!” He banged a fist on the table, breathing heavily. It had been two weeks already, and you still hadn’t come back to him. He was getting desperate now.

A quick glance at the screen showed Alastor’s glitching picture. The radio bastard snapped his fingers with a raised brow, the missing half of the hotel repairing itself instantly.

“Fucking show off,” Vox growled raggedly.

He needed to change tactics. And fast.

***

Nothing. He had nothing.

No plans, no blueprints, no smart and suave moves to get you back.

Every scenario he ran through his head would inevitably end with you walking away from him. If only he could hypnotize you like with everyone else—but you were a tech demon, just like him. More advanced, even. Your firewalls were just too strong.

Vox poured himself another glass of scotch, solemnly glaring up at the ceiling in frustration.

A clawed hand clasped his shoulder, making him grit his teeth.

“You’re looking a little tense, Cariño,” Valentino purred, trailing his fingers up Vox’s neck. “I can help with that~”

Vox shrugged him off, annoyed. “Not in the mood, Val.”

But Valentino was undeterred. “Is this about Y/n?” He murmured, knowing he hit the nail on the head when the other demon tensed considerably. “What’s so special about that bitch anyway, hm? Is it the pussy? You know I’ve got whores lined up for you, baby. Just say the word and—”

“Fuck off, Val!” Vox exploded, electricity sparking in his eye. “I don’t want just any random bitch from the street, okay?! I want Y/n. I want her back,” he spat miserably.

Valentino went silent, his face twisting into a cruel expression. “Don’t you understand?” He growled. “She left you. Betrayed you. And she’s not coming back, ever. The sooner you see that and stop wasting your time, the better.”

He turned away, his heels clacking against the marble floors until the double doors swung closed behind him.

Vox let out a frustrated yell, arcs of electricity shooting out from him and shattering his expensive collection of drinking glasses to smithereens.

***

A tap sounded at your window, making you tense.

Slowly you approached it, generating a pistol from your nanotech and holding it tightly to your chest. You peered out of the blinds, only to find your ex dangling from the window sill.

“Holy shit!” You screeched, jumping back.

“A lil’ help?” he grinned lazily, reaching out for you. You grasped his hand, hauling him inside of your room.

The unmistakably pungent scent of alcohol invaded your senses, making your wrinkle your nose.

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you drunk?” You dragged a hand down your face.

“No,” he hiccuped, shaking his head vehemently, which caused him to lose balance. You grabbed his shoulders, righting him before he fell and broke his screen.

“Oh yeah,” his face lit up in realization, before he reached behind him, pulling out a bouquet of slightly squashed roses. “For you,” he slurred, offering them proudly.

You looked at them in exasperation, before taking them gently from his hands. Bringing them up to your face, you closed your eyes, sniffing them slightly. A sweet floral scent filled your senses as you regarded them.

“They’re pretty,” you remarked quietly.

“Yeah,” he grinned, your eyes flickering up to catch his. “But you’re prettier.” At your lack of reaction, his grin faltered, and he looked down.

“I…” he started, swaying slightly. “I’m sorry.”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head. “Don’t do this.”

“Please come home,” he continued, expression drooping sorrowfully. He clasped your hand, looking up at you pleadingly. “I’ll…I’ll do better, I promise.”

The ache in your heart grew almost unbearable the more you looked at him, so you averted your gaze. “Why don’t you ever say that when you’re sober?”

Vox let go of your hand, sliding down the wall until he landed on his ass. “Scared,” he mumbled.

You crouched down in front of him, lifting his hanging head from his arms. “Of what?” You said gently.

His eyes flickered up to yours, and the raw emotion nearly stole your breath away. “You still won’t want me.”

“Vox…” You closed your eyes, pained.

“Come home,” he whispered hollowly. “Please.”

“You know I can’t do that,” you said thickly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He looked at you sadly, but resigned. “Yeah, I know,” he lowered his screen back into his arms. “…miss you,” he trailed off quietly, before soft whistling snores could be heard.

You dropped your face in your hands, breathing raggedly. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. You had almost fucking caved.

After a moment to compose yourself, you searched his pockets, pulling out his phone (he didn’t even change his password) and dialing a familiar number.

“What the fuck do you want now, Vox?” An irritated feminine voice answered the line.

“Velvette,” you said cooly. “I need a favor.”

****

Part 2 —> Chapter Index

[artist-issues]

it’s the bane of my Halloween that there are so few good werewolf stories that aren’t just shock-and-awe, “let’s show you how many variations on sex and variations on the dismemberment of the human body there are!”

I just keep watching The Wolf Man & reading The Were-Wolf, and sometimes throwing a little Marvel’s Werewolf By Night in there.

Where’s the good stuff? Where’s the “man’s desire to be more than what he is leads him to a dark, twisted, out-of-control place?” Where’s the “pure sacrifice can slay the beast?” Where’s the “a seemingly good man struggles with the monster within?”

Why do I have to keep seeing weird twisted furry fantasies; or SURPRISE, the werewolf is a RELIGIOUS LEADER AGAIN; or look, we spent our whole budget so you can see this naked guy’s bones rearrange themselves; or look, he likes being a werewolf, it’s like a sadistic superpower for him; or look, what a unique twist—the werewolf can be the gooood guyyy as a tired old allegory for how “othered” vaguely “different��� members of society can be; or look, “look, you don’t like any of those, we’ll just show you comically large werewolf talons stabbing through the face of a screaming human—in glorious red 3D! That’s what you wanted, right?”

No. No, it’s not.

And don’t suggest cartoon episodes about werewolves to me. Because those always hit the same trope; “the werewolf isn’t the real side of the person with werewolfism—they can be cured by being reminded of who they truly are through love!”

I mean that trope gets close. But it’s not werewolf fiction. Werewolf myth is supposed to be about a man who really is a monster—he wants what he’s not allowed to be—and then, as an object-lesson of that man-trying-to-meddle characteristic, the man gets to be “what he’s not allowed to be”—instead of a human, he loses all reason, all free will, all desire for good things, and instead can desire only blood. Then he has to slowly realize that. Then he has to either try, unsuccessfully, to protect others from himself—OR he has to be killed by purity. At it’s best, it’s the sacrifice of someone or something pure—but most iconically, that’s just “something silver.”

WHY DOES IT SEEM LIKE NOBODY WANTS TO WRITE GOOD WEREWOLF STORIES ANYMORE?

We lost the point. We lost the point. The monster stories are supposed to say 1) there is such a thing as purely evil things, so beware & 2) the purely evil things can be triumphed over, but not through the effort or acceptance of the purely evil things, themselves.

That’s the point! Why do you think we have all those myths and legends across cultures? It’s not to say, “try werewolfism, it’s fun.” It’s not to say, “drink blood!” It’s to say “beware, there are monsters out there, and here’s what to do about it.”

[ofmermaidstories]

do we think we can make a silent hill x mha crossover work? is that a thing The Vibes would permit? Us, leaving the city during a golden afternoon after a shitty day at work—driving into the night trying to get to a small town in the mountains. Maybe we stop for petrol, a bottled drink. A snack pack of gummy worms we throw onto the passenger seat next to us. Are we tired? Does it matter? We keep driving and driving until the world narrows down to the curve ahead in our headlights. Maybe we’re just outside of the town’s limits when it happens: the kid appearing in the middle of the road.

Do you scream? Do you even remember? Does it matter? Whatever noise you make, you manage to jerk the wheel, a sharp twist that sounds like a bone snapping, somehow, as the pale concrete of the pylons alongside the road are illuminated by your lights like headstones as you spin straight into them.

And when you wake up? When you blink, laid over your wheel and your horn blaring, screaming into the now white blanket of a foggy day—do you even remember the kid? How slight he was? Does it matter?

Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, right now, sitting up. Nothing aches, you’re not uncomfortable, you’re not even thirsty—you’re just there, still in your car, the horn now silent. Why is it daylight? Where did all this fog come? Did no one really drive past in all the however many hours you were out? Does it matter? Pray to God but row to shore—it’s a Russian proverb, supposedly, but you’d heard it on a TV show once, or maybe read it in a book. You can sit there in your car that smells like fog and pineneedles or you can get out and get yourself help. You get out, stumble; and then you follow the curve of the road down into the valley.

You almost feel relief when you see the tiled rooftops. Civilisation. Driving in the dark always felt like driving between worlds, suspended in time, only you and your music, low, the twin lights of other cars, other ghosts going past. But now you’re broken free of it, running down that road, now, your footsteps sharp and echoing against the rockface of the cliff above you—following you down into the ground levels out and leaves you standing there, at the edges of a rice paddy, your relief curling back into the bitter weight of fear when you realise it’s still so quiet. Where is everyone?

You make your way past a couple of small cars, parked up. One of them has a smashed window; you skitter around the edges, something thick in your throat.

“Hello?” You call out, when you make it to a small cluster of homes, the residential street small and tidy.

There’s a scuff of shoes—like they’re kicking off from a wall, or in gravel—and then you startle as just a few houses in front of you, a small boy jumps from behind a wall and bolts—leaving you to call out, “HEY! WAIT—”

He disappears around the corner before you can even reach him and when you turn you scream—coming face to face with a man in the green and gold of a Pro Hero suit, his hands up, catching hold of you as you scream again, twisting.

“Whoa!” He says. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I heard you call out and—I’m sorry, this must be so weird. Are you okay? Are you okay?”

His hands squeeze your arms tighter, reassurance or warning you can’t tell but you—you try to pull back, as much as you can, your eyes flitting over his face as he does the same with you, brow furrowed, big green eyes worried under a riot of dark, green curls.

His lips part, and he swallows. “Are you okay?” He asks for a third time, a whisper. “You’re the first person I’ve seen here since—since I got separated from the others. Please. Are you okay?”

Your heart is thumping hard but you’re no longer trying to fight against him and instead of answering you shake your head—you don’t know. You don’t know. But does it matter?

Wide, firm hands squeeze your arms once more—and then release you, letting you stand, the Pro Hero’s face (and he must be a Pro Hero, you think with a frown, although suddenly you can’t remember ever having seen him) grave.

“Everything will be okay,” he says, firmly. “I’m here. We’ll stick together, find the others, and get out of here.”

From his belt, there’s the click and fuzzy roll of static, coming from a small radio. You swallow, and nod.

(His words sound familiar to you—why do they sound so familiar? Maybe it’s just the script all Pro Heroes say. But it nags at you. It’s nagging at you. Why? Why does it matter?)

[agoldenblackbird]

i'm gonna be a ranty bitch for a minute.

tbh i'm turned off even reading new buddie fic despite being a multishipper and have unfollowed a bunch of buddie accounts because i'm sick of the smug attitudes. one ask that i am otherwise not going to publish or respond to ended with 'sorry you don't understand media literacy bestie :)' fuck off. listen INFANT, i have been writing fanfic and original fic AND watching, reading and analyzing queer media since before you were born, i understand how character and story development works, and i know the difference between 'storyline i personally disliked' and 'bad writing.' this was BOTH, and it also was marketed to us as 'carefully crafted bi rep' and 'queer love story that is not about a bunch of pain and conflict FOR ONCE' so we have every right to be upset at the bait-and-switch.

the fact that i'm seeing the same exact posts - 'bt bones buddie CANON' that i saw three seasons ago after the bucktaylor breakup, or every time they thought buck and taylor MIGHT break up - says something. the fact that so many fans seem genuinely convinced (STILL!) that buddie is inevitable because there have been so many 'signs,' and then they rattle off a convoluted theory that would make the most hardcore taylor swift stan say 'wow, that's a bit of a reach,' honestly weirded me out a little when i first joined the 911 fandom. i have never been in a fandom where so many fans are insistent that their ship will be - not might be or could be, but WILL be - canon. i am skeptical both from past experience with other shows mishandling queer storylines or ship-baiting, and tim minnear's proven track record with this one of not really knowing what to do with buck's LI's. but i didn't want to yuck anybody's yum, so i let them have their theories and squee in peace, and unfollowed or blocked certain tags if i was seeing too much of it and getting annoyed. it's too out there for me, but i'm glad they're having fun!

yet they can't give us the same courtesy. they deride us as delusional for thinking that a canon pairing that was presented to us both in promo and the show itself as different and important (eg the bobby approval convo and 'buck getting off the hamster wheel') might last, and we're stupid to have ever liked tommy or lou or be disappointed at how the breakup was written, and if we point out the biphobia it's just sour grapes.

the bucktommy breakup is not the first time 911 has started out strong with an interesting storyline and fumbled it in the 4th quarter either because the writers got bored or in the name of needless drama/a 'gotcha' sudden twist. amir & bobby, eddie's fight club arc, the sperm donor SL, hen vs councilwoman ortiz, whatever the hell is going on with harry, the whole mess with shannon/kim, just to name a few. and especially the past couple of seasons, for me since 6b, the pacing has been off. they seem to have too much happening at once and many of the storylines don't have enough room to breathe to be narratively satisfying, or they get resolved in ways that feel lackluster.

if the toxic buddie stans who have been attacking lou on sm and sending death threats (wtf!) actually get what they want, which i admit is possible, but it's certainly not guaranteed….i don't know why they think the writers won't fumble that just as badly. it's not going to happen precisely the way they want it to because it is impossible to please everybody, that's what fanfic is for. but at this point i have zero faith that it would even be well done at all, and zero trust in the writers not to just sabotage or regress a character for funsies, and that's an excellent reason to stop watching the show. in most of my other fandoms i regard canon as a jumping-off point or a blurry outline at best, and i can have just as much fun in the 911 sandbox without any further input from canon at all, once i'm less angry.

[slowd1ving]

ACT IV: DECAY ✦ . 　⁺ VIL SCHOENHEIT NSFW

Vil Schoenheit and second place aren't supposed to be a thing. He's supposed to be the very embodiment of perfection, so why the hell is someone else's name usurping his crown on the Potions leader board? In which our starring actor cannot quench the flames of academic rivalry and resentment that consume him, nor can he fathom the enigma that you are. gn! scientist! reader warnings: contains nsfw but only later, angst with a happy ending, spoilers for book five, canon-compliant violence

TWISTED WONDERLAND MASTERLIST

BREACH THE IMMEASURABLE CHASM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ✧ ･

Scene I: Ink . 　⁺

It all starts again on a very dull morning. Staccato beats of the rain on the rickety windows of Ramshackle provide background music for Vil to drink his smoothie to. Except that’s not the only miserable music. His ears are assaulted by the conversation you’re currently having with Jamil, Rook and Ace. Does Grim count when he’s technically the other pea in your miserable pod?

“All I’m saying is that there’s no reason to make a movie series that long,” you argue. Whose movies are you referring to? Vil wishes he was paying attention earlier. “Like what have you got to say for that many movies?”

“Trickster, some people are just dedicated to the pursuit of their passion,” Rook intercedes, leaning his head on his hands to gaze at you more efficiently.

“The Fast and Furious franchise has no reason to be that long,” you lament, frustration creeping into your tone. Vil’s never heard of that movie series. He doesn’t think he wants to know what it is.

“Rook, there’s like nine sequels, and the last one especially does not make any sense,” Vil takes back his earlier thoughts. This seems to be a conversation between you and Rook, in which Ace and Jamil are unenthusiastic spectators. “There’s nothing less beautiful than plot holes.”

“Anyways,” you continue in the same breath, all hints of sadness gone. Vil’s not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Do you guys feel ready for the SDC tomorrow? Your routine is really impressive.”

“My bones hurt so much,” Ace groans from behind his food. “I’ve never felt so pulverised.”

“We will win,” Jamil promises you, fiddling with his spoon on the table. You give them both a cheerful thumbs up while eating - for once, you’ve got scraps of decorum.

“I will put on my most beautiful performance knowing you’re watching, mon cher,” Rook clasps your hand between his gloved ones. Sure, Rook’s probably just being himself, but Vil can’t help the trickle of unease that he feels.

“I don’t doubt it,” you respond with a grin. “Those RSA twerps won’t know what hit them. Although, I’ve had a really weird set of dream-”

“Spudling,” Vil clears his throat to get your attention. You turn to face him, still wearing your jubilant grin. His heart almost stops. It takes all he can to not fumble while taking the lanyard out of his blazer pocket. “Keep this lanyard safe so you can come backstage as the NRC Tribe Manager.”

“Cool,” you take it one handed, still allowing Rook to clasp your other hand. Why does Vil care so much? He tries desperately to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Thanks!”

“We’ll go over the routine and iron out any wrinkles in around twenty minutes,” Vil continues, meeting the eyes of each cast member. He’ll just have to ignore whatever he’s feeling until after the SDC. “Make sure the rest of the potatoes are up and ready to go.”

The tell-tale signs of nervousness creep into Vil’s being after he exits the room. He has to beat Neige. No longer will he be cast aside to play the villain. The world will see what he’s got to offer.

“Mira mira, tell me who, at this moment, is the fairest of them all?” Vil speaks slowly and quietly to his phone as he makes his way to his room to get some items for practice.

“Neige LeBlanche.”

He should’ve expected it, really, but he cannot help but let his teeth grind slightly in anger. Just you wait, Neige. He’ll beat Neige fair and square. Finally, he’ll be able to step out of the villain’s shoes.

His muscles ache after his gruelling training. Nothing he won’t be able to recover from; he can’t help but push himself to his limits at the prospect of beating Neige. The rest of the crew somehow manages to execute a near-flawless performance, with only a few minor hand-placement errors.

“Wow,” you cheer them on by your designated spot next to the speakers, cradling Grim in your lap. “You guys are absolutely gonna shred the competition.”

“That’s right!” Ace grins at you, catching the water bottle you toss at him and taking a few enthusiastic swigs.

“Pass me one too,” Deuce reaches out as you toss another water bottle. It’s a natural cue for a break, and the crew decides to take a breather. Vil feels an absurd surge of pride at the sight; somehow, these ungainly tubers have managed to grow into shapely potatoes who can no doubt beat Neige.

“We’ll regroup in ten,” Vil instructs. He’s not satisfied completely, but the passion that’s been poured into this routine is undeniable. Before he can question his body, his legs are already taking him to you. You’re scratching behind Grim’s ears and look up in abject surprise at his approach.

“I need your opinion,” Vil murmurs, leaning down to you so your faces are in close proximity. You furrow your brows; he knows how unlikely it is that he’s approached you. Still, your analysis skills are seriously impressive. “Can you give me a detailed observation of our performance? Spare no detail.”

“Right,” you pull out your phone nonchalantly, scrolling through your gallery until you find the recording of the practice. Of course you’ve come prepared.

“Right at the beginning it’s a really strong start, but as soon as those first few seconds are up, Deuce always misplaces his hand-” Vil’s not sure when he joins you on the floor, leaning ever so slightly into you as you zoom into the areas of imperfection.

“You’ve noticed that too?” Vil comments. You murmur your assent, pressing play again.

“It’s only a slight error, but yeah,” you continue, pausing the video again where it’s Kalim’s misstep. “I think it’s just overeagerness and the adrenaline of performing. The rest of the errors are really just minor hiccups with the singing - but I won’t be able to point them out as well.”

“I’ll give them some extra individual instruction,” Vil promises, more to remind himself than reassure you. You turn to scrutinise him; it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the weight of people’s gazes, but it’s just you.

“I’ve made notes on the small, consistent screw-ups that’ve surfaced recently when it comes to dance steps. Rook and Jamil are both fine, and Epel only has one,” your shoulder brushes against him as you turn extra carefully to not disturb the snoozing Grim on your lap. You hand him your class notebook, which has been filled with quick sketches of the mistakes. Vil’s eyes widen considerably at the level of diligence you’ve afforded your role. Sure, he knows your eye for detail in science, but he never thought-

“You can borrow it for a bit,” you turn the page to show him the notes you’ve made. Then suddenly you flip back to the previous page.

“I forgot you won’t be able to read them,” you sigh in exasperation. “All that work for nothing.”

Vil is oddly touched. You’ve made extensive notes just for him? He can feel the gesture warm his cheeks as he stares down at the outreached notebook, waiting for him to take it.

“The thought is appreciated,” he thanks you, carefully placing your notebook within his lap. He’s lucky the diagrams are circled with different colours marking out areas of weakness, or he’s sure he’d get lost trying to read through the scribbled notes right next to them.

“I can always just read them out if you need me too,” you lean back on one palm, balancing your body weight as you scritch under Grim’s chin. As much as the little furball wants to deny it, he’s very clearly got the mannerisms of a cat as a large purr rumbles from him. You stifle a little giggle into your shoulder.

“That- that would be great,” it’s so unlike Vil to get flustered, but he can’t help the smile that stays on his face well into the remainder of the practice.

He can’t seem to hold onto whatever hatred he had for you.

Scene II: Rot . 　⁺

The next time he sees your face is around ten minutes before the dress rehearsal on the SDC stage. Vil can feel his already straight posture adjust itself so it’s completely perfect, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Rook, given the look the hunter shoots him. He’s ignoring that.

“They almost didn’t let me in,” you complain, striding over to Rook and waving the lanyard that’s around your neck. Vil’s not sure how they could’ve missed it, with it being what can only be described as a neon red.

“It’s good to see you regardless, mon chou,” Rook is once again clasping your hands, and once again you’re not pulling away.

“I’m going to ignore that you’ve just called me a cabbage,” you comment, looking around at the stage. The little furball that’s normally with you is nowhere to be found; Vil isn’t sure whether to be relieved that he isn’t wreaking havoc here, or whether to be worried that he’s wreaking havoc elsewhere. “Where do I sit while watching?”

“There’s actually the front seats directly next to the stage,” Vil points to the special row reserved for managers and important personnel. You unhook your hands from Rook’s to turn to where Vil’s pointing, your eyes lighting up as you see the comfortable looking chairs set up.

“Right, thanks,” you flash an extremely brief smile at both of them. It seems that whatever rivalry you had with him has been dissolved on your end. He doesn’t know if he should be insulted or happy about it. “Break both legs for both performances.”

“What?” Vil mutters to himself as you stride away enthusiastically. Maybe it’s just a saying from wherever you’re from. It’s ‘break an arm’ for performances, what are you on about? “What could that possibly mean?”

“Mr. Shoenheit, we’re about to go on air to tape your practice performance,” a cameraman apologetically interrupts Vil’s musings. He snaps to attention, letting his face fall back into the most professional poker face he can manage.

“Of course, I’ll get the NRC Tribe into formation,” Vil responds smoothly, waving the rest of the crew to the front of the stage. It only takes a minute; they’re clearly enthusiastic (if not a bit nervous) to perform in front of people who aren’t you and Grim. Deep breaths. A wave of resounding calm flows through him; it’s a lucid state he’s perfected before each and every performance.

The first notes of the rhythmic song start. His eyes unfocus slightly, allowing his muscle memory to take control for the most part. It’s now just a matter of pouring his emotions into the song and dance to truly capture the hearts of those watching. The flow. The haze. It all becomes a part of him, and he knows the rest of those dancing up on stage with him can feel it. Surely they feel the connection of their passion?

He meets your eyes, your wide, enraptured eyes as you gaze at him. He doesn’t fully realise, but the words he sings are for your ears for now. Let this be dedicated to you, and he can worry later about sharing the passion he feels with the rest of the spectators. Vil’s not emotionally stupid; he can tell his feelings have veered into territory that he simply doesn’t want to acknowledge yet. He just has to let them flow into his performance and worry about the rest later.

His mind is deliciously clear, enjoying the endorphins pumping through his blood at the pleasant stretch of movement. It’s already halfway done? The altered passage of time when he’s in the zone is always a surprise. From your excited grin, he can safely assume this performance is one, if not the, best they’ve given. And it’s all for you to watch, before it’s posted for the world to see.

Raucous applause disrupts his flow as the cameras are cut with a signal from the camera crew. You’re standing and clapping your hands with some serious force as you join them up on stage.

“Almost moved me to tears,” you joke, congratulating them on a flawless performance. “Seriously though, you guys are ready.”

You don’t need to say anymore. You stand back to give them space, but Vil watches in dawning horror as you bump into the one and only Neige LeBlanche. It’s only a mild shoulder bump, but it’s happened. The two of you have made contact.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise profusely, taking a big step back. “I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

“It’s fine, really,” Neige smiles at you, sickeningly sweet. Beside Vil, the NRC dance crew members look at you with incredulity. Why are you so goddamn oblivious? “I shouldn’t have approached this way.”

“If you’re sure,” you trail off, noting the weird looks directed your way by Ace and Deuce. “What the hell are you guys gawking at?

Before Vil can say anything, you’re already being yanked away by Ace’s insistent tugging. Your brows are still furrowed. Goddamn. Have you really never heard of Neige LeBlanche?

It seems Ace is interrogating you with that very question, judging by the furrowed glances he sends both your way and Neige’s. It seems Neige is quick to mask his surprise, walking towards Vil (which was probably the whole reason he approached the group in the first place).

“Your group was amazing,” Neige gushes - his eyes are lit up with awe. Vil feels… nothing, eerily enough. All that’s coursing through him is malicious calm.

“Thank you,” he maintains the professional image easily and smoothly, not missing the way Kalim and Deuce’s eyes swivel between him and Neige.

“It was truly a sight to behold; I had chills just watching,” Neige continues with starry eyes. “I can’t wait to work with you again!”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Vil muses calmly, letting the air of conversation fizzle out. Out of his peripherals, he spots you and Ace rejoin the group. Unfortunately, it seems Neige has also spotted you again; he shoots you a smile and turns to you.

“Hi, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” Neige’s innocent question leads you to a quick pause before introducing yourself. You’re not overly friendly, more like care-free as usual.

“I didn’t catch your name either, sorry,” you continue politely. Did Trappola wander off-topic while lecturing you? It clearly seemed like it from your slightly bewildered expression.

“Neige LeBlanche, at your service,” Neige’s eyes carry that stupefied look for only a second before it’s swiftly replaced by a cheery smile. Nothing. Vil suppresses a snort of laughter at your politely unknowing expression. Of course you’d be like this, meeting the arguably most famous person in the land with no respect for their importance.

“Cool, I’ll leave you guys to it,” you respond amiably, sending a thumbs up his way. You’ve just upped and left? Vil turns to the side slightly to stifle his laughter as you wander back to the seats where you’ve left your notebook. Utterly lacking proper conversation etiquette as usual. He supposes it’s a positive seeing the Neige LeBlanche seemingly at a loss for words.

“Was that NRC’s manager?” Neige asks Vil. With dawning horror, Vil realises that most of his crew is also standing at the first row with you, due to their practice slot being finished.

“Yes,” Vil responds succinctly, watching Neige watch your movements as you talk with Rook. You’re currently being rattled like a rag-doll with the way he’s clasping your shoulders and shaking you slightly, no doubt grilling you over how you didn’t know who Neige was. He can hear your raucous laughter from all the way on stage.

“Your manager this year is awesome,” Neige compliments, leaning forward slightly to see the action further. Vil suppresses the shudder of disgust. No way this is happening right now.

“Ah, I’ve got to go round up my own crew,” Neige comments distractedly, looking around him. Vil gladly takes this opportunity to take his leave to join the rest of his group, leaving nothing behind but a goodbye.

That bastard. Vil watches the concluding moves of the RSA crew’s performance with barely concealed disgust from his seat in the stands.

“We’ve been had,” he utters in shock. No way. That bumbling performance they’ve put on-

“What do you mean?” Kalim asks in dismay at Vil’s change in attitude.

“He’s right,” Jamil agrees with a heavy sigh. “Look at how much they’re appealing to all demographics with their sugary sweet performance.”

Deep resentment begins to fester within Vil. A familiar ringing noise fills his ears as he tunes out the chatter of everyone surrounding him. He almost doesn’t feel the way he slips out of his seat and down the stairs leading to the rooms within the colossal arena. He feels the pressure of a heavy glass bottle within the palm of his hand, not even having to look at it to know it’s one of Epel’s apple juice bottles. He’s only dimly aware of subconsciously infusing the drink with the same curse he used during the poison assessment.

May those who drink this fall into an endless slumber, Fairest One.

The comforting bubbling slosh of the drink lets him know it’s been tampered with. A small, rational part of his brain urges him not to do this; the rest of his body is consumed by an abyss of disgust and hatred. Gunpowder and other acrid chemical smells appear in wisps, only registering faintly as familiar with his nose. He ignores it all.

“Hi, Neige,” Vil smiles brightly at the youth in front of one of the backstage doors. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your wonderful performance.”

One heartbeat.

Neige turns at the sound of Vil’s uncharacteristically cheerful voice. He doesn’t suspect anything amiss, but Vil supposes he’s always been that way.

“It makes me really happy hearing that from someone I admire a lot,” Neige beams back. Perfect.

Two heartbeats.

“How about a drink? I’ve become rather partial to this brand of apple juice,” Vil’s smile is rehearsed; it’s absolutely oozing with venom.

“Sure!” Neige agrees enthusiastically. “I saw the brand on your Magicam a few weeks back - I was even going to order before I realised it had all sold out.”

Three heartbeats is all it takes to deceive him.

It’s quite ironic, isn’t it? Vil’s downfall has been secured by Neige over the course of his life, whereas Neige’s downfall will be brought about in only a few seconds. The smooth glass of the apple juice bottle does not reveal the curse roiling within. It’s perfect - scentless, colourless and lethal. He wants to laugh when Neige accepts the cool glass bottle so easily. Has he no sense of danger?

“Roi des Neiges!” Who does that voice belong to? With a start, Vil turns to see Rook’s slightly dishevelled form as he runs up to Neige. “My apologies for interrupting the two of you, but the staff were looking for you, Neige.”

“Roi des Neiges..” Neige’s voice trails away as he stares contemplatively at Rook. “Wait-”

“My, I’m absolutely parched after running around looking for you,” Rook swiftly takes charge of the conversation. Why now? Vil can feel sharp cracking within his very soul. “Might I trouble you to let me have some of that refreshing juice you hold?”

No.

“Of course,” Neige agrees enthusiastically, if not a little perplexed.

“You should hurry back, Neige,” Rook continues, taking the bottle offered kindly. “And do not come back here.”

“Huh? What do you-”

“Go on, off with you! Away!” Neige’s question is sharply cut off by Rook’s insistence. Vil can hear him scurry off, like a little rodent.

“That sweet, tart aroma,” Rook breathes. With a start of horror, Vil notices that the cork of the flask has been removed. “Truly.. Epel’s hometown beverage is magnifique, to say the least.”

“I shall drink it to the very last drop, Roi des Poisons,” his knowing gaze meets Vil’s stricken one as he slowly raises the bottle to his lips.

No.

“Don’t do it, Rook!”

Glass shattering. It’s all Vil can do to keep track of what’s happening. His head feels like it’s underwater.

“He used his signature spell to curse the apple juice!” It’s the same speaker from earlier. Kalim?

“-look on his face was the same as Jamil’s-”

“-lost control-”

“Rook,” Vil’s voice rasps. He’s not sure he made the conscious decision to speak. The hunter turns to him with eyes not holding anger or disappointment, but concern. “Why did you..?”

“I wanted to believe in you,” Rook holds his gaze with no traces of accusation. “If it was cursed, I still wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste the fruit of a poison derived from an obsession with beauty bordering on madness.”

Madness?

Vil tunes them all out. He’s dimly aware of you speaking in concerned, hushed tones to the rest of them. Why are you here as well?

“Vil, do you have any idea how foolish that was?” Kalim’s voice is rimmed with desperate emotions. “After all that work, after saying the other teams would look like spuds compared to us, why stoop to this?”

Why stoop to this? Can’t he see that there is no other way? Rage pummels his veins, ripping through his body, his mind, his soul. Something gathers within him, dark and inky and fatal.

“That’s what I want to know,” Vil’s voice is laced with ice, and pure venom. “I’ve come to a realisation. That I… can never win! I’m going to handle Neige myself.”

“Trickster, Kalim! Do not inhale that mist rising from the floor! It’s the evaporated form of that cursed liquid!” Rook’s urging has hints of desperation within it. He turns to Vil. “I don’t see why one glass would have such a drastic… Oh, Vil, you didn’t-”

“Stop looking at me with those eyes,” Vil pleads. It’s not just Rook, he can see you as well, looking at him with that gaze that makes him want to bury himself away. “I just wanted to be the fairest, so why? Why? Why am I so ugly?”

“Roi des Poisons, you are far from ugly,” Rook calls out to him, reaching out a hand. Vil longs to take it, but he can’t. He’s too far gone.

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone!” Kalim’s pleas fall on uncaring ears.

“Silence!” Vil’s voice snaps. He can almost see himself from a separate plane, mist rising up around him in acrid, poisonous billows. He can see you, swaying on your feet slightly, looking more shaky than your companions. “What do any of you know? What does it matter if any of you forgive me? I can’t forgive myself!”

Let go.

Dark streaks overcome his vision, ebbing and flowing along the edges. It would be nice, to hand over the reins for a while, wouldn’t it? To let go of his fury, his resentment, his jealousy. What a dream.

“If I just melt everyone into hideous messes,” Vil’s barely aware of speaking. It’s a rather distorted voice, isn’t it? He can’t help but laugh. “Then I’ll be the fairest one of all, won’t I?”

The last thing he sees before it all overcomes him is your stricken face. He’s not sure you’ve ever worn such an expression before. He’s unlikely to forget those eyes, your facial muscles contorting into a painting of intermingling horror and worry. Why does he feel that shame rising again?

Didn’t he let go already?

Scene III: Wake . 　⁺

“I was the villain bullying the hero in the last play, too. Why do I keep getting picked to play the bad guy? Do I really look that mean?”

Villains never stay on stage for the whole play. Once their role is finished, all they can do is watch from the shadows as the happy ending plays out. What I want is to stay on stage longer than anyone else.

“Those kids were trying to hold me accountable for a work of fiction. Silly boys, the lot of them.”

I always aim for one role - the hero. But… all I ever get to be is the villain.

“Vil is too special to play the part of a regular teen that viewers can relate to. Without that reliability, I don’t think he’ll ever pull off playing a hero.”

I would do anything to be beautiful. The most rigorous training. The most tedious hair and skin care regimens. I would shy away from none of it. And yet.. Why? Why is it never me? All I want is to stay on stage until the end of a show.

In the end, it’s not the gentle splattering of rain on his face that wakes him up. It’s some foreign warmth on his face that causes his eyes to slowly open. Framed by his eyelashes and the haze of a deep slumber is your face. It’s as if you know, the way you look at him with such tenderness and concern. It’s as if you’ve pulled him from the deep recesses of his memories yourself, with the way your rough hands prop his head up so gently.

“How am I..” Vil rasps out, looking at you with nothing but queries in his eyes. His eyes search over your tired expression, the way the sclera of your eyes is still tinged a slight purple, and the various small cuts across your face. Did he do this? Waves of shame hit him and he can’t bear to meet your gaze.

“Thank goodness you’re awake, Vil,” you murmur down at him. Is this the first time you’ve said his name? It sounds foreign on your lips, and unbearably sweet. Why aren’t you mad at him? Why do you keep looking at him with those unaccusing eyes?

“Oh, Vil.. fair Vil,” Rook sighs in relief, crouching beside you on the rain soaked ruins. Ruins? Vil takes the opportunity to look round the battle site, the upheaved flagstones, the despoiled decorations. Another wave of shame meets him when he notices the haggard faces of his crew (is that Kalim bawling his eyes out? And is that Jamil scolding him?).

“I’m.. sorry you had to see that undignified display,” Vil apologises, making sure each and every one of his words is sincere. He cannot begin to comprehend how much shame he’s feeling at the moment. “Only third-rate people throw temper tantrums and take their problems out on others. My conduct was most unbecoming of all…”

“Y’right about that,” Epel grumbles, but without a trace of actual malicious intent. “Thought ya said people grow out of temper tantrums by the time they’re three?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Epel,” Vil uses your shoulder to haul himself up so he can sit up. You don’t seem to mind, even grabbing on to his wrist to steady him. With another crash of guilt, he realises how your grasp is shaky, no doubt due to your exposure to the curse when you don’t have any sort of natural magic resistance. “I’m no longer fit to be your leader.”

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone, Vil,” Kalim argues. Vil can see him approaching and standing next to where Rook crouches. “You haven’t stepped over that brink.”

“He’s right,” Jamil says, jabbing his thumb in the general direction of outside the coliseum. “Neige is dancing out there happily with the seven dwarfs. It’s a stretch, but we can say we got worked up and had a team brawl in here.”

“Yeah,” Ace interjects. “No way we’re letting you pull out because of a few bruises, after the wringer we’ve been put through.”

“All of you,” Vil feels a horrendous mushy feeling swell up within him. You’re still supporting him with the way you’re steadying his wrist. “You just want to pretend nothing’s happened?”

“I never said that,” Jamil retorts, but his face blooms into his signature smile. “We can just hold off explanations until after the competition.”

“You truly are wicked, Jamil,” Vil replies with a small laugh. It hurts, and he feels his chest contort with pain. Your grip on his wrist tightens and you steady his shoulder with your other hand, clearly not missing the way his face twists into a grimace.

“Here, I’ll help you stand, alright?” you’re surprisingly strong, with the way you unceremoniously (but carefully) haul him up so he stands leaning into your firm touch. Even with your clearly weakened state, you still grip onto him as if he’s the fragile one that isn’t allowed to fall. Vil can’t even bring himself to protest.

“I wasn’t the one who made the shot so strong, Vil was,” Deuce seemingly replies to a conversation Vil’s unconsciously tuned out. “The spell stores all the damage I take, then hits it back all at once. So it was only potent because of Vil’s potent magic.”

Ah. Deuce seems to be describing the final hit Vil can barely remember taking, the one that likely brought him back to the brink of consciousness.

“Don’t make it sound so violent!” Deuce splutters in indignation, and Vil once again realises he’s tuned out. He doesn’t particularly mind, focusing instead on the way you unconsciously seem to tense your muscles against him when shifting, the way you still have that signature chemical smell to you, the way you’re looking directly at him with that expression-

“Signature… You mean that’s my signature spell?” Deuce seems to be coming to a realisation with sparkling eyes. Good on him. Beside him, Ace seems to be coming to an unpleasant realisation with the way he’s incredulously muttering to himself about how he can’t believe Deuce has mastered his signature spell before him.

“Behold, Vil is awestruck and weak-kneed from the splendour of your blow,” Rook proclaims, gesturing to the not-awestruck Vil.

“I’d wager he’s also weak-kneed from something else,” Jamil comments sardonically, looking pointedly at the way you’ve got him in your grasp. Vil only hopes you’ve become suddenly preoccupied with something else.

“No, I’m just beaten head-to-toe,” Vil swiftly retorts. “That last blow did strike soundly, though. Nicely done, Deuce.”

“Thank you, sir!” Deuce smiles at him eagerly. “Although, I don’t know what to do about the wrecked stage.”

“It’s not feasible to fix it all with magic,” Jamil replies pragmatically, looking around him with a calculating expression. “With what power we have left.. Every scenario running through my mind all ends with the same brick wall.”

“Does that mean.. SDC is…” Epel trails off, looking at Jamil with a dawning sense of horror.

“What do we have here?” The new, booming voice is accompanied by green fireflies that send a small shiver down Vil’s spine. What’s he doing here?

“I thought I’d arrive earlier,” Malleus hums with a touch of surprise, surveying the surroundings briefly. “What do I find but a stage laid to waste?”

“Hornton!” you exclaim, and Vil can feel your sternum vibrate through his shoulder. You’re.. acquainted with Malleus Draconia enough to call him nicknames? He can’t even be surprised anymore. “There’s still two hours until the SDC opens!”

“Hornton?” It’s a collective response from the rest of the crew, voicing Vil’s thoughts.

“Do you have a death wish, calling your upperclassman that?” Ace shudders at your audacity.

“Do you even know who that is?” Epel’s shocked voice causes you to blink in surprise at his tone.

“He told me to call him whatever, so I did,” Vil has to stifle a laugh as you shrug. Of course you did.

“However did you get into the coliseum, Roi des Dragons?” Rook sounds positively astonished.

“I was invited by the Child of Man from Ramshackle,” Malleus replies, gesturing to you.

“Yep,” you affirm. Vil feels as though you’re ignoring the other, more pressing question Rook’s asked.

“The entire venue is still enveloped by the poison mist generated by Vil,” Rook’s explanation trails off as Malleus holds up a clawed hand.

“I am impervious to any curse, no matter how powerful,” Malleus takes another look around the wrecked coliseum. “Whatever could’ve happened here?”

Vil watches as you briefly and efficiently describe the events, listening extra hard for the parts where he would’ve been unconscious. It’s curious, the way you don’t let any trace of exhaustion or pain enter your voice. It only takes around two minutes for you to give the gist of the situation to Malleus.

“Children of men, I shall bestow upon you a gift,” Malleus’ words come with an incredible magic pressure that leaves Vil’s eyes wide. He steals a glance at you, and watches your own expression become slack with awe and curiosity.

“That’s Malleus Draconia for you,” Vil murmurs to you. Your brow furrows as you look down at Vil.

“That’s Malleus? Hornton over there was the one everyone was so excited about at the Spelldrive tournament?” you ask incredulously. After all this, you’re still holding on to that nickname? Your eyes dart back to those green fireflies that are somehow lifting all the ruined flagstones and pillars, and rearranging them into pristine condition. Within the space of a few heartbeats, Malleus has managed to restore the conditions of the arena into an exact replica of how they were before.

“He’s ludicrously out of our league,” Ace mumbles in awe. Vil can’t help but agree.

“Thanks a bunch, Hornton!” you beam at Malleus, who stares at you for a brief second before breaking out into chuckles. It’s the first time Vil’s ever heard the fae laugh, but you’re full of surprises as usual.

“Though you know who I am, you still stick to that pet name?” Malleus sounds terribly amused, looking at you as you fumble with an explanation. He interrupts whatever apology is about to leave your lips with another chuckle. “Truly, I do not mind.”

He turns to look at Vil with a resolute expression in his eyes that’s made all the more disconcerting by his piercing green eyes. “I’ve set the stage for you, Schoenheit. I trust you will keep me entertained.”

“I hardly need your urgings to put on my finest performance,” Vil suppresses the wince of pain as he straightens his posture, ignoring the very tangible reality of you still grasping onto him. “Be prepared for a standing ovation.”

“I’ll expect nothing less. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Malleus’ last words fade out with his disappearance. The only traces left behind by him are those green fireflies.

“Lady Luck is truly on our side,” Rook comments after the flashes fade out. “I was hardly expecting Roi des Dragons to appear here.”

Me neither. Though it seems today is a day full of surprises.

Vil leans into your warmth a bit more, and you indulge him. The arm carefully wrapped around him is sure and steady - he wants nothing more than to stay here until the end of time. You don’t ask questions, looking past his shoulder so you can direct the crew to their water. He knows he must let go to perform - it’s highly unusual to see the Vil Schoenheit rely on anyone, even if it’s a little bit. To see him clinging to someone, his rival of all people…

Gingerly, he lets go of you. Your grasp on him is firm to the very end as you let go and make sure he’s not at risk of fainting. The concern you display is almost comedic, but you don’t say anything.

He can feel your eyes burning into his back as he walks away, but he doesn’t look back.

Scene IV: Unopened Missive . 　⁺

Vil supposes it’s comedic as he pours everything he’s got left into the final performance, only to score exactly one point below RSA. It’s always like this; him, exactly one step behind Neige. He can’t fault Neige, anymore, not after he’s come to terms with it. As the thrum of music faded and the flow of performance left him, he was acutely aware of the raucous applause he drew. He did not care. All he was searching for were your eyes.

He’s sure Lady Luck is laughing straight at him as Rook proclaims himself as one of Neige’s biggest fans. What betrayal! Of course this has been added onto the list of surprises. It’s strange; he doesn’t feel the annoyance he’d expect to be simmering through his veins at that moment. It seems he’s let that go.

It’s practically hilarious as he joins Neige on stage to sing an encore. Only scraps of bitterness remain - had Vil not exhausted the whole team earlier, they might have won and took back that one measly vote. He’s accepted that. Still, his frustration is palpable as he leaves his crew to sing with Neige, though not to the audience. His professionalism is the one thing he’s managed to keep up.

“Hey,” your voice breaks him out of the reverie. It’s bizarre, the way you’ve escorted him back to Pomefiore, even though he’s got Rook and Epel to do that. It’s even more bizarre, the way he’s let you gently drag him to his room, where Rook and Epel have already gone back to their own chambers. They already know it’s best to leave him alone when he’s in a bad mood. So why.. why are you still-

The sharp tang of medicinal ointment brings him back to the current situation. You’re poised between his legs as he sits at his vanity, with an assortment of bottles behind you. It’s strangely intimate with the way the soft dusk lighting envelopes you with its mysterious aura. He’s not wearing any makeup, but you don’t seem to care; your gaze caresses his features, laced with only concern.

Please, don’t look at me with those eyes.

“I’m going to begin, alright?” you murmur, searching his eyes for any traces of discomfort. Vil nods wordlessly. The pressure on his chin from one hand of yours is feather light; he finds himself leaning into it slightly. Your other hand lightly brushes over the cuts on his face with the ointment swabbed onto a cotton pad - strangely, it lacks the usual sting which normally elicits a sharp hiss of surprise.

“I made this ointment myself,” you explain after seeing the surprise conveyed in his eyes. Of course you did. In any case, it seems to be working fine, judging by the rapid cooling sensation he’s feeling across his face.

“Why-” Vil begins to ask as you cap the ointment bottle and twist it closed with practised ease. Your hand is still on his face, but he can’t bear to pull away. Not here, in the privacy of his room, where the only eyes upon him are yours. “-why are you still here? Don’t you dislike me?”

You pause in the rummaging you’re doing in your pocket. Vil holds his breath as you turn to him with that contemplative look you wear while figuring out potions.

“I don’t actually dislike you,” you comment matter-of-factly, tilting his face to each side to observe your handiwork. “I’ve got better things to do than spend my energy stewing over you.”

Ouch.

“You still haven’t answered my first question,” Vil’s composure is rapidly slipping down the drain as he remains (quite literally) in the palm of your hand. Your gaze doesn’t falter. “Do you just feel bad for me?”

“No,” you respond idly, still tilting his head this way and that. It’s like watching a cat bat at a toy. “I thought it might be good to have company and rely on someone else for once.”

There’s something else you aren’t saying. It’s unspoken in your eyes and the way your brow makes imperceptible furrows every few minutes. Vil’s breath hitches in his throat slightly.

“Did you-” he’s interrupted by that look, not one of pity, but one of resolute determination.

“Yes, I saw those memories,” you admit. You don’t look at him with an apologetic expression, one that screams pity. It’s a relief. “I didn’t mean to, like at all.”

“It’s fine,” Vil supposes it is fine. You wouldn’t tell anyone, he feels. He watches as your expression shrivels up into one of abject surprise as you feel around in your pocket, drawing out what seems to be a cream-coloured, expensive looking envelope. Vil knows exactly what it is, even as you scan the front quizzically then shrug. Of course. You can’t read the runes.

“It’s the results for the poison assessment,” Vil supplies. Strange. He doesn’t feel any excitement, or fear - it’s bordering on the neutrality of acceptance. It seems you feel the same way, as you just toss the envelope down with disregard onto the vanity and continue your search in your pockets.

“Aha!” your triumphant exclamation leaves him blinking in surprise. Why haven’t you acknowledged the results at all? You brandish another bottle of ointment in front of him excitedly, almost hitting him on the nose due to your very close proximity. “I’ve found the muscle and bone ointment!”

“Aren’t you going to look at the results?” Vil asks incredulously - it slips out before he can even comprehend he’s said it.

“I can’t even read them,” you untwist the ointment with your teeth, leaving tiny dents in the metal cap. “I’ll look at them later.”

The potent tang of nettles permeates the air as you set the open bottle onto the table behind you, letting go of Vil’s face.

“I’m going to need you to undress so I can access your back,” your nonchalant tone makes Vil’s reaction delayed. He can feel the back of his neck heat up at your words. “I heard the nastiest little crunch when Deuce’s spell hit you, so I’m gonna have to check those ribs.”

“Right,” Vil swallows thickly, standing up. Wrong move. You’re much too close now, pressed up against the vanity with him standing right in front of you. His body is brushing up against yours, and he can feel your body heat. Shit. He moves out of the vicinity to the bathroom, with all the composure of a professional actor.

“This ointment’s designed for deeper use than surface level injuries,” you call out behind him. “It’s gonna sting!”

“That’s fine,” Vil responds before shutting his bathroom door. He quickly loosens his shirt, wishing it were your hands doing- His heart pounds in his ribcage as he shuts down the thought. It only takes a minute before his shirt and blazer are both tossed into the laundry basket, all too soon considering the flushed sheen emerging on his face.

One final cursory inspection of his face in the mirror is necessary before he goes out to face you. He’s almost taken aback - not by the lack of makeup which he’s already accustomed to, but the sheer vulnerability within his expression. He looks like such a mess, and you’ve not even commented on it? You’ve just accepted that it doesn’t matter what he looks like; you’re going to treat him the same regardless. It’s a far cry to what he values as his principles.

He pushes open the door hesitantly. His torso is exposed, and he suddenly feels the jarring pangs of shyness. Why now? He’s gone topless for movie scenes before, for Sevens’ sake! Steeling himself, he opens the door completely. You’ve placed the vanity chair by the bed- surely you’re not-

“You can either lie on your stomach here, or sit up on the chair, which might be more uncomfortable,” you explain briefly, rolling up your uniform sleeves as if you’re about to conduct a lab practical. Am I the lab rat? “I’ve picked up a few massage tips here and there, so overall it should be a quite pleasant experience. Of course, if you want to omit the massage-”

“No, it’s fine,” Vil lets out a shaky breath at your nonchalance, gingerly lying on his front on his covers. Jack of all trades, aren’t you? He doesn’t realise just how tense his muscles have been until you press your thumbs into the muscles situated around his scapula. Your hands are coated in some sort of resinous, volatile substance, judging from the brief alcohol fumes flaring up whenever you place your hands down. You were right, there is a sting, but it’s not as sharp as he expected.

Why are you doing this? It’s a question that keeps replaying in his mind’s movie theatre, with the cruel laughing soundtrack interspersed in a tragic loop every few seconds. The two of you aren’t friends, and what you’ve done goes beyond the level of care Vil normally receives from friendship. He can’t complain, not when your warm, rough hands are finally on him, even if it’s to just rub the ointment in.

“Now, I’m no medic,” there’s a faint apology in your tone as you concentrate the ointment into a specific, aching spot. Vil barely registers the sting of pain due to your burning touch. “But I think that your rib’s been bruised at the very least in that spot, and that ointment should’ve healed the worst of it.”

His rapid heart rate distracts him from the loss of body heat from you as you move your hands away from his body. Please don’t stop. He feels a heavy pressure on his right shoulder, and to his surprise it’s the palm of your hand waking him from his reverie.

“I’ll bandage you up just to be sure,” you murmur, shifting your weight from foot to foot and looking around. It’s clear you’re hesitant, maybe due to your lack of experience playing a so-called “doctor”. Still, judging by the way the deep ache within has eased, you’ve done a pretty darn good job, as Epel would no doubt say. “Sit up.”

Vil obeys, gingerly swinging his legs round the bed until he’s sitting, and you’re once again hovering over him as you slip a clean bandage out of its plastic wrapping. He breathes in the comforting warmth of your body heat and repertoire of chemical smells that mask the floral traces on your skin. Don’t you feel the rushed thrum of blood that’s pumping through each vein and each capillary, as you wrap your arms around him to begin winding the bandage?

Is he nothing more than a mere patient to that clinical precision you currently sport?

“What would you have chosen, if you won the poison assessment?” Vil suddenly asks as you clip the bandage into place with a satisfied hum around the middle of his torso.

“Why are you asking as if I lost?” you let out a bemused chuckle, gesturing to the still-very-closed envelope sitting on his vanity. “We don’t know yet.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Vil could melt with the way you’re gazing down at him as he sits with you standing in between his legs. Your sharp eyes contain a warning, one he has no intention of heeding as he presses the subject. “Won’t you tell me?”

“Fine,” your voice rasps slightly as you stoop down to his level. He can’t help but shiver at the sensation of your warm breath rustling past his ear. “Are you really that eager to know?”

“Go on,” Vil almost pleads, and he’s sure you hear the quiet hints of desperation in his voice. Your eyes lock back onto his; he’s slightly regretting asking you as he sees the dangerous glints in your eye. His breath hitches as he realises it’s the same, all-consuming look of seriousness you reserve for your experiments and potions. It’s as if he already knows what your answer will be, with the way his blood excitedly thrums to the surface to respond with an echoing yes.

Please.

The rough pads of your fingers meet his chin again in that gentle grasp as you tilt his head upwards. This is really happening, right? It’s as if he’s in a haze; anticipation of your movements is the only thing breaking him out of it.

“Can I..” you murmur, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. He holds his breath. Yes. Your mere touch calls forth fireworks to explode in a vibrant cacophony.

“Please,” Vil’s quiet gasp is all the encouragement you clearly need, because the next thing he knows you’ve stepped forward and met his open mouth with yours. The heady taste of woodsmoke and cherry syrup lingering on your tongue is positively intoxicating. He’s not sure, but he can also taste the coppery tang of blood as well. Perhaps it’s from the heat of battle earlier? Regardless, his blood rises in response; he’s sure his face is flushed a deep pink.

You don’t hesitate, leaning his head to the side with your fingers to kiss him deeper and deeper. He groans into your mouth, feeling you smile as you taste his desperation. He positively convulses as he feels your hand trace the bare skin of his side; he’s so vulnerable like this, and he knows you feel it as you press into his body.

Vil gasps for air when you pull back. A string of saliva connects your lips to his; with a start, he realises that your lips are shiny and traced with the purple lipgloss he’s wearing. Your eyes are half-lidded with intensity and some other roiling emotion he can’t place. It makes his breathing even more uneven when he realises he’s made you look like that.

“Like what you see?” even now, traces of rivalry still lace Vil’s tone; he cannot help but provoke you to elicit another reaction. Your gaze slowly travels up and down Vil’s dishevelled appearance, making sure to scour every inch of it. He holds his breath when your lip curls in disdain.

“Please,” your voice rolls deep from your throat with sarcasm. It makes Vil’s blood cells burn with want. The sharp, intense look in your eyes only becomes more turbulent; it’s insanely attractive to be at your mercy.

“Don’t make me laugh-” your fingers curl into his chin more, and Vil can feel the suppressed strength within the grip. Blood is rushing straight down, and he can barely keep track of all the thoughts racing through his head. “-not with the way I’ve seen you almost do flips for my attention, with your one-sided rivalry.”

“Ah-” Vil’s gasp sounds suspiciously like a moan as you move closer, pressing a knee in between his legs inadvertently. You’ve clearly heard it, with the way you furrow your brow and pause your motions.

“Did you-” your eyes fully take in his heavy breathing and the way he’s coming undone from just kissing you. Your question is answered immediately.

“Please, keep going,” Vil pleads, removing one hand from where it’s gripping the sheets to your hip. You swallow thickly, eyes darting between his hand and face.

“You sure you want to continue?” you prompt, eyes settling into that same dangerous glint once again. “I don’t want to aggravate your injuries..”

“Please,” Vil all but begs, seeing the way your eyes glaze over with desire. The hazy, smoky smell of your skin almost acts like an aphrodisiac; he cannot help but be ensnared.

“Alright,” your voice is hushed when you tilt his head upwards to access his jugular, biting into the area slightly with sharp canines. He knows you feel it: the way his pulse jumps erratically beneath your touch. You draw out quiet, hushed gasps with every mark you make on his throat, with every movement of your waist against his bare torso, with every nudge of your knee in between his legs.

More.

He doesn’t even realise he’s slowly rolling his hips against your leg to feel any sort of friction until you press down on his hips with the hand that’s been supporting his shoulder.

“Not so fast,” you breathe against his skin - his back can’t help but arch slightly at the feeling of your breath against his neck. “Allow me to take care of you.”

It’s your words that make him pause in shock; they’re an eerie echo of what you said in his dream. Judging by the lack of change in your expression, you don’t know about it; thank Sevens.

You’re pressing into him, forcing him into the bed on his forearms while you lean in, kissing his mouth feverishly to bring out his gasps and moans. He’s unbearably hard, all the more so because of your knee moving out of reach each time he chases that delicious high. This is better than any dream.

Burning kisses trail their way from below his ear down to his collarbone. He’s suddenly glad for the wonders of concealer as he thinks about the marks you’re leaving. On the other hand, he’s strangely into the idea of people seeing he’s taken by you, so much so that you’re marking him up like this.

“Ah- right there,” Vil can’t suppress the noises he’s making as your lips travel down to his chest. He doesn’t care who hears him; he’s seeing goddamn stars with the way your tongue circles his nipple and your thumb mirrors the action with the other one. The pressure you’re applying deftly is making him intoxicated.

“You look so beautiful like this,” your fingers glide over the neatly wrapped bandages on his chest, trailing down to his waist. He doesn’t think it’s possible for his heart to beat any more erratically without thumping straight out of his chest. Is he really sure that you haven’t magically seen his dreams? After all, you’ve seen his memories. He waits with bated breath for your next move, not realising that you’ve already positioned yourself to hover between his thighs with a small grin on your face.

“Mind if I take these off?” you hook your thumbs around the tailored trousers he’s wearing. It takes considerable self-restraint to not tell you to just rip them off.

“Go ahead,” it’s a wonder that his voice doesn’t crack from the sheer pressure of what he’s feeling at the moment. Your grin is all edges as you efficiently unzip the front and slip the pants off. It seems that he’s surprised you when you look down at his smooth legs with your eyebrows slightly raised, taking in the fact that he’s wearing sheer black stockings to his mid thigh underneath his pants.

“All for me?” you run your fingers down his legs appreciatively, feeling the soft material underneath your fingers with an even sharper grin than before. Vil can’t help but shiver at the feather-light touches you give, contrasted sharply with the jagged vertices of your smile.

All for you.

It’s as if you can read his thoughts. You’re once again hovering between his legs, spreading them with nothing more than a gentle push. The touches you leave on his legs feel almost possessive; he cannot help but adore it. Will he be the only one seeing that expression on your face? He wants to be the only one, the only one to see the tumultuous desire warp and thrash within the glints in your eyes. It’s a far cry from your usual composure.

Sticky residue from his lipgloss is left on his soft inner thighs as you press kiss after kiss to the skin. He can feel desire pulse through you with every bruising mark you leave. It entrances him. The unspoken words you leave him are more than enough to assure him that even like this, with all his bruises and scrapes and tears, he’s beautiful.

Your hands slowly ease his underwear off; the cold air on the sensitive skin makes him hiss slightly, but it quickly turns into a gasp as you leave kisses in the crook of the skin connecting his thigh to his pelvis.

“I’m going to absolutely ruin you,” you promise quietly. The ravenous look in your eyes doesn’t subside as you gaze at him from between his legs. He can’t help but let out a small groan at your words. What would his fans say if they saw him, lying so pliant for his supposed academic rival?

One of Vil’s hands fly up to his face to muffle the moans escaping his lips when your thumb circles his slit, made all too easy by the flow of pre-cum from his dick. The other hand is left desperately clutching at the sheets of his bed as his hips involuntarily buck upwards into your hand.

“Uncover your pretty mouth,” you slowly twist your hand down, all while gazing at his flushed face. He’s already seeing stars at the friction and can barely register his hand leaving his mouth to grip the sheets. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He can only hope that his door is soundproofed from the obscene noises leaving him as you pick up the pace. It’s not enough. Your hand moves away each time the haze of pleasure builds up, leaving him chasing after your touch. He’s sure he looks an absolute mess right now with the way tears are leaving his eyes and his brow has the sheen of sweat; you clearly don’t care as you lithely move upwards to kiss him. The cool fabric of your clothes presses into his bare skin, making him feel incredibly exposed to you.

You’re still moving with that teasing pace as you swallow down his moans. It’s unbearable, all the more so because you’re still covered in your uniform. He almost sobs in relief when your hand picks up speed and the pleasure starts steadily building in his stomach. His hips desperately grind into your hand and you let him, let him come undone with your touch and quiet praises. He’s close; the dopamine is flooding through his veins and all he can focus on is the way you touch him, the way you’re currently kissing his jaw and leaving more marks on his neck, the way you’re coaxing such obscene sounds from both his throat and from the skin on skin friction.

It builds and builds and builds, until all he can fathom is saying your name over and over, as if he’s some devout worshipper invoking some otherworldly being. He lets go, feeling the way you slow down to allow him to ride out the climax. Only white-hot pleasure courses through his mind, fading out more slowly than usual. He kisses you feverishly, feeling the warm skin on the nape of your neck as he pulls you in closer and closer. You’re now lying side by side on his bed, with you pressed up against him wearing your despoiled clothes, ones that have been despoiled by him.

“You’re removing your clothes as well, I hope?” his gaze trails down your body, looking at the offending uniform that you’re wearing. It’s a wonder he’s managed to form a coherent statement. Still, it’s only fair that you also remove the fabric with those deft hands like you did to those tailored trousers he was wearing.

“Right,” your gaze softens, moving your hands away from his body. His brows furrow with a question as he watches the hand sticky with cum approach your face- oh my. A scarlet flush blooms on his cheeks as you use your tongue to clean your hand up, before using it to lazily remove your blazer and vest. You don’t give them a second glance as you toss the clothes on the floor. The warmth you’re emitting is all the more palpable as only a thin buttoned shirt separates your skin from his. It’s incredibly attractive, watching your languid movements as you discard the shirt off to the side as well as your trousers.

The feeling of your bare skin on his shouldn’t elicit such a burning reaction from him, but it does; he groans as you lean back to slowly kiss him, feeling the way your body heat envelopes him without any barriers. He’s acutely aware of all the points your skin brushes against him - it’s insanely addicting. You’re kissing him without a care in the world, judging by the way you lazily cradle his face with your hands. He’s so malleable under your touch, so starved of affection that he’s wrapped around your pinky finger. He’s sure you can feel the way his skin flushes with a simmering heat.

The blue hour soaks you both in the gloom as your hands press him closer and closer, until he can barely distinguish where he ends and you begin. Is this what it means to become one, united in flesh?

Does he look beautiful to you like this?

He knows he does. He knows he does when you reverently trail down with your kisses, settling between his thighs again to fill him up with your fingers. He knows he does as you feverishly coax those angelic moans out of him; your eyes are blazing with desire for him. He knows he does as you draw out his climax for as long as you can so wave after wave of pleasure can keep hitting him.

It’s late evening when the two of you fall asleep, tangled together and worn out.

The letter on the vanity lies forgotten; Vil doesn’t particularly care about the results when he already feels your equal.

Scene V: Closing . 　⁺

“Goodness, trickster,” Rook’s exclamation when you emerge in the Pomefiore lounge room in the morning thankfully goes unnoticed by the few students milling about. “Our dorm uniform looks simply ravishing on you.”

“Yeah, mine got quite ruined from yesterday’s events,” your voice sounds raspy as you try to sell your act to Rook, who’s positively cooing over you. What a little prankster. Vil can’t help but glance at you from his favourite armchair. As the culprit responsible for ruining your uniform, he of course had to lend you a uniform. Still, you do look rather good in it.

“Don’t tell me you slept over and didn’t tell me?” Rook plasters a look of mock-hurt on his face, and Vil implores you to shut your mouth for once and put on the best act of your life.

“Something like that,” your expression is innocent, with the exception of your raised eyebrows. You don’t look at Vil at all as you smile at Rook, who’s unfortunately glanced over at Vil, scrutinising him with that disgustingly perceptive look.

“Does that explain the bruises on his neck?” Vil chokes on his smoothie hearing the hunter’s whisper. Of course he forgot something this morning. Of all days.

“Whatever could you mean?” you inquire nonchalantly, straightening the ironed collar of the uniform.

“Oh my,” Rook’s eyes are as wide as saucers as his gaze swivels between you and Vil. It’s rare to see him this gleeful. “You two totally slept-”

“I’m going to need you to shut it, Rook,” you cover the offender’s mouth abruptly before he can say anything more. You’re not denying it though, looking back at Vil with a wicked grin on your face.

Shit.

[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?” “Чего?” 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.

[ventbloglite]

Two of the worst things I've ever seen said to trans people as 'advice' or 'just setting them up for the real world' are these;

(To trans mascs in general) "By the way when you start to look like a man - women will be afraid of you so be prepared for that."

and

(To a trans women) "Actually you'll never see a beautiful woman in the mirror because societies beauty standards for women are too high meaning you will never feel good about yourself."

Absolutely eat shit if you give advice like this.

I'm not even saying that the statements are necessarily wrong, but they point out great errors in the way we perceive the 'natural order' of things to be - so natural in fact that we pass on these flaws to people transitioning into a 'new' gender. How can we change things if you've already accepted them as gospel truth?

Are there statistics and life stories that show situations in which women are assaulted by men? Sure. And I can see why that would cause any amount of anxiety in situations where you could be overpowered.

But most men are by default, safe. Most women by default do not fear men.

Treating men are inherently dangerous doesn't do shit to tackle how actually their behaviour is weird and wrong and it's not what we expect grown ass adults to act like. None of this 'but I'm a man so-' bs when we're talking about SA.

But also it's just fucking shit to tell a trans masc especially a young one that he's soon going to be seen as a default predator and that the fault basically lies with him and any masculinity he might want to embrace.

Don't pass your fears and assumptions onto him. Don't make him consider staying in the closet because he 'doesn't want to be a threat to women'. His manhood is not a threat to women.

Where do I even start about the other one?

There are women who feel good about themselves, actually. Women who know they are beautiful no matter what other people say. Women who feel pretty, beautiful, sexy, just gosh darn good-looking, handsome even all exist. Many many women feel good about themselves or at least neutral most of the time - and have never felt the need to do weird trends or diets or get surgery to do so!

Not all - Gods know, of course societies pressures on women to look a certain way have all kinds of women twisting themselves into knots and pushing themselves into tight boxes despite how their bones are breaking - but it's not a universal truth that all women feel shit about themselves. (Source: All the women I know personally).

Nor should it be! Again, don't give advice which is literally a You issue. How dare you slash the joy of a budding trans woman just because of your own insecurities? How dare you basically set her up for a life of disappointment because 'that's how it is'?

That is absolutely not how it is! She can and will be able to achieve beauty but not if you're kicking her in the shins and forcing her to accept that 'society doesn't see you as beautiful'. Gooooooods.

Trans men you and your masculinity are not a threat to women do not hide yourself. Trans women you are beautiful and anything you wanna do to be more beautiful is going to work. LIVE.

[sergeantsporks]

WATCHING AND DREAMING SPOILERS

Writing request: Luz tells everybody about what she saw in the Realm In Between. Including the weird Hooty in the Titan’s eye. They spend a while questioning and investigating Hooty’s origins, increasingly confused and terrified.

Gus held an illusion microphone to Luz’s face. “Did she look like King?”

“A lot, yeah.”

“Was he as big as the Isles?”

Luz tilted one hand back and forth. “At the end? She was bones, huge when she disappeared. But when I was talking to him… you know what, how about I just draw him for you?”

King’s tail wagged back and forth. “Yes!”

Luz sketched a pear, adding limbs and claws and… she paused halfway through drawing Papa Titan’s face. One of his eyes… “Hey, Hooty? You, uh…. You wouldn’t know anything about… Look, one of her eyes was missing and had a… well, a you dangling out of it. Do you know why?”

“Of course I do, hoot. That’s where I was born.” Hooty bobbed up and down. “Why do you ask?”

King grabbed Hooty’s face in his hands. “Hooty. Hooty. You’re telling me that you lived in the titan’s eyeball, and you didn’t realize I was a titan?!”

“How would I know that? I didn’t live in your eyeball. Geeeze.”

Luz pinched her nose. This was going to be a frustrating conversation, wasn’t it? “Hooty. If you lived in the Titan’s eyeball… why did you leave? How did you get here?”

“Oh.” For a creature without shoulders, Hooty was incredibly good at shrugging. “Evelyn felt bad about taking the eye for her portal door, and offered me a place to stay at her house. Or in her house? I picked in her house.”

Willow’s jaw dropped, and she glanced at Hunter. “Wait, Evelyn? Like, from the brothers Wittebane story in Gravesfield Evelyn? You knew her?”

“Told Gus all about it in our interview!”

Everyone twisted around to look at Gus.

“What?” he demanded, “I stopped listening five minutes in. Have you heard him ramble? He told me every single thing he’s had for breakfast since he spawned! Do you know how many times I heard the phrase ‘and then I ate a bug?!’ Too many times, Luz. Too. Many. Times.”

“Okay,” Luz said slowly, “Hooty, explain. Start at the beginning.”

“Don’t say that,” Gus told her in a strangled whisper, “Luz, what have you done?”

“Well, it all started the day I hatched inside of the titan’s eyeball,” Hooty began, apparently oblivious to Gus’ distress, “I don’t remember it! Not a single thing! But I remember crawling around in the titan’s eye.”

King looked like he might be sick. “Doing… what?”

“Eating it, of course! But then maggots started spawning, so I ate those, and that’s when I realized how tasty bugs were!”

“But… you’re a bug demon, aren’t you?” Hunter asked tentatively, “Isn’t it… weird… to eat bugs?”

Hooty stared at Hunter for a long, long moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered what Hunter said. Hunter shifted nervously, but then Hooty’s eyes popped back open. “Nope!”

“The titan,” Luz pressed, “You were living in his eyeball, eating maggots, and then…”

“There was a great squelching noise, and the eyeball was ripped away! A great flood of light shone through, and I was left hanging out of the socket.”

“And then?” Luz asked again.

“Then I found out just how many bugs there were in the world. Bugs everywhere! Buzzing all around! Grown-up maggot flies, beetles, worms—”

Luz had gotten used to Hooty—or so she thought. Every so often, he’d casually reveal some extra horrifying feature of his, and she’d be left in the lurch again. As far as the way he talked, she was usually confident she could handle it. But right now, she wanted to shake him until all the answers fell out.

“Evelyn,” she interrupted, “She took out the eyeball?”

“Yep! She said she was very sorry, but she needed it for her door, and then asked if maybe I’d like to come along, and I said will there be bugs, and she said more than you can eat, which I said wasn’t likely since I’m miles of empty tube, and she laughed, and I followed her home. And she dug a burrow for me, and I jumped in, but then I found the wood of the house. And there were termites! So I ate them, and burrowed into the house. Boy was she surprised when I stuck my head out the door.”

“And—the portal?”

“You mean Eda’s portal?”

“Yes—did Evelyn build it?”

“I don’t know. I was busy. No bugs were getting in on my watch. I ate a beetle, then a fire bee, then a worm, and then a fly, and then another fly, and another fly, and then I ate Evelyn’s kid, because I thought she was a large fairy, but Evelyn made me spit her back up. And then I ate another beetle, and an ACTUAL fairy, and—”

Gus pressed pillows against his ears. “I warned you! Make him stop!

“—and then I ate a really big beetle that was all shiny gold and white when it came to bother Evelyn—”

Hunter coughed. “Is he talking about Belos?”

“—but I spit it back up because it was the wrong kind of slimy inside, and it scurried off, and I never saw it again! And then I ate a whole nest of fire bees, and a—”

Luz held her hands up in a T. “I’m sorry, timeout, Hooty, go back, you ate Evelyn’s kid? And also maybe Belos?!”

“I was eating bugs and finding out what wasn’t bugs.” Hooty arched his neck, as if trying to appear dignified. “Lulu says I have an inquisitive mind.”

“You’ve got an inquisitive stomach, at least,” Gus muttered.

“So… about Evelyn…”

“Not a bug.”

“Right, but the portal, Belos—”

“Also not bugs.”

Luz almost growled. “Okay, but the house—”

“Not a bug.” Hooty tilted his head to the side. “Waaaait… if I’m a bug… and I’m the house… have I failed? Is the enemy within? Can I eat the house? Will it end, or will I become an endless ouroboros, the bird tube eating its own house?”

Luz blinked. “Uh…”

“Well! Much to think about! Bye, Luz!”

Hooty snaked out of the room, returning to his place in the door. Luz groaned, putting her head in her hands. “Why do I feel like I know less than when we started?”

Gus patted her shoulder, nodding solemnly. “The Hooty effect, Luz. Welcome to the club.”

[babeilovemonsters]

Bored at Adult Education so short post to keep me entertained during my break.

I'm a shameless therian so imagine BEING the monster.

Being a robot, with no traditional human genitalia. Not understanding why people find you hot. You're just a lump of metal, right? But finding some sick pleasure against your nature when you feel their hands through your wires. Feeling an uncontrollable itch you're so desperate to scratch, giving you a weird, fuzzy sensation in your chest than makes your fans go turbo.

Being a big, tentacled monster. Having limited control over your limbs. There's just so many of them, it's hard to keep track. But this comes in handy when you have such desperate, horny, pathetic little humans humping in the general direction of one, only getting them away when you clumsily slide one into their hungry hole, barely even needing to twist and move each individual one. Just a lazy thrust into each being enough to make their eyes roll back and their mouths drool contently.

Being a big werewolf, facing the excruciating pain of transformation. Feeling your bones readjust and your muscles stretch, being in an aching pain afterwards. But having such a kind, patient partner to massage your poor body all better, softly tracing their fingers through your fur. Starting off innocently enough, but slowly making their way to the more delicate parts of you, gently squeezing and applying pressure to your soft flesh, until all that's left to take the tension out of is your most sensitive spot, which is already throbbing in knowing impatience.

Being a vampire, feeling a deep thirst in your gut. You usually feed on blood quite contently, until that time when your partner becomes mean again. You can usually estimate when it's going to happen, only about a month in between. They cut you off your precious food, forbidding you from drinking. You're such a good, good vampire, you do exactly as you're told, but you're so thirsty... They don't give in until you're desperate and starving, when they agonisingly slowly take off their clothing one piece at a time, and you can do nothing but whine in impatience and sit there. You can drool and rub your face against their flesh all you want, but no biting until they say so.

I like fics where the reader is the monster, okay?

[richeeduvie]

roman being all pouty and sad cos he’s fucked something up and baby’s like ‘you want a kiss?’ and he’s all ‘i don’t deserve it’ :(((( and she’s like omg shut up you’re getting one

"Your dad isn't going to remember this tomorrow. It was one fuck up."

Roman's got his arms crossed on the bed, but his hand goes up. Casual, whiny disbelief as you rub his thigh.

"Can't you just call me a little bitch-nothing? Some fucking freak who doesn't even deserve your bone-crushing heel or an insult?"

"I think if you'd really want that, then the best thing for me to do is just...not insult you. That'll really hurt you, hm?"

"...Fuck you. It would make me feel better. But you're right, I don't even deserve that."

You tilt your head coming into him on the bed, lying at his side.

"I didn't say that. You said that."

"Yep. But you and me - our brains are in kahoots. We share everything, so you did say that. You think it."

"I think you deserve everything."

"Oh, fuck you."

Roman sounds disgusted by your compliment. That's how you know he finds your words genuine. They're so genuine that he can't stand to believe it.

"You want a kiss?"

You smile softly and pull something from his furrowed brow. Roman's looking down. You know Logan got to him today. And he can handle the punches and backhands, as much as you don't want him to - but the words get him. You see it in the twisting of his face, how he makes himself small. Not for the sake of humor or when he wants you to be over and above him in the bedroom, but because that's what he feels he should be.

"Nope. Don't think I deserve one so...fuck off with that."

Your eyes soften and get low.

Oh, Roman.

You want to roll your eyes, flick his ear but that's not a kiss. But an forceful kiss is easier for Roman to take than one he's asked for, or one you've asked to give.

"Roman. I'm going to give you a kiss."

"Okay. You do that."

He's got his voice pitchy, cartoonish and sarcastic. And he can't stand to look at you. Roman knows your eyes are soft and that'll mean all the more worse, heavy feelings on his heart. Things he believes he doesn't deserve.

He's done so much worse and gotten so many more kisses before. Today means nothing.

"Do you want a kiss?"

"Jesu-" Roman scoffs, arms moving against his chest. "What are you doing?"

"Asking you if you want one. And you should probably take up the offer."

You brush your hands through his hair. He looks sick. Perfect.

"Will you stop making me feel peevish and fretful with the desire to remember I have a vocabulary? Cause with the previous terms and the ones I'm thinking of to describe you nowwww...you probably don't wanna hear them. I don't even know why I'm being generous, today was a bitch."

"Let me be generous. It's the least I can do." You put a palm on his chest, nose on his cheek. No matter what, Roman will take you in. You watch his eyes almost come to a close. You know his heart is tense by the way he swallows. "It's the only thing I'm made for and all that."

His words thrown back at him. Quite softly too.

You know you want it. You need it. You don't think he's ever not needed you - if what Roman said about you and him being one and the same is true, than he's never not needed you.

He blinks up and he looks like he's about to vomit. Or that he's smelt something awful.

"Fine. Fucking - Mouth on me. Now."

You smile.

"Of course-"

"Oh, please - not the...just kiss and go. Don't make it fucking weird."

You kiss him on the mouth, hand curling on his shoulder. There's no surprise in the way Roman pushes his head up into the kiss. There's no surprise in the way he forces the kiss to go on for an almost-forever when you try to pull away.

[eye-coded-rat]

Times Welling Has Been Mentioned, followed by my thoughts

Spoilers up to ep 28, "Interruptions".

Ep 17, Saved Copy. Case dated 30th Nov 1997.

This is the Darrien Darrien case, the doppelganger that comes out of the Oxford Outreach Centre and kills his "better" self.

"Mutare Materia" translate to "Change Matter". Interesting that its worded as "incarceration". and what exactly does the whole "subject, agent, catalyst" thing imply?

This case is filed by Celia.

Ep 21, Breaking Ground. Case dated 4th Jan 1998.

The case touches on the Millenium Exhibition and the construction of the Dome, and we discover this "Dr Welling" believes Y2K to be significant to their plans.

An aged doppelganger of a construction worker emerges from a wall, grabs the younger, and pulls him into the dirt wall.

This case is heard by a suspicious Alice, snooping on Sam's computer and accusing it of giving him the case on purpose.

EDIT: also the mention of metals in the earth the worker gets pulled into

"he turned and walked over to a nearby ditch ... I could see the tell-tale indications of heavy metals in the earthen edges of it"

Ep 28, Interruptions. Case dated 17th August 1998.

And then we have Sam's statement, in which he interrupts a man, presumably Dr. F Welling by the name on the door.

"There was an old man in a tweed suit stood muttering in front of a table and on the table was a person. I couldn’t see their face but they were naked and pale and still. "

Sam doesn't see the corpse well- so it may be someone insignificant or it may be another doppelganger, as seems to be a theme.

"Beside the table was a pile of weird machines and strange shaped beakers bubbling and hissing and whirring. Large chunks of stone and metal hung slowly twisting in the air and the sickly yellow light seemed to come from everywhere."

Strange science things, likely Alchemy related, and chunks of stone and metal hung in the air. I do wonder what metals as this is likely also Alchemically significant...

Here begins my more ramble-style thoughts so beware~

SO! Welling has a whole "Change Matter" research program named after him. I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS (is he the head of it? or is it just run based on / related to his research? Did Welling experiment on Darrien?)

all mentions of him take place in the 3 years prior to the Magnus Institute burning down....

What exactly went wrong in his interrupted experiment? taking into account the context of Alchemy + "Change Matter", what did he do to his muscles, skin, etc that forced them still while his bones came free? why did he tear away at himself? (or, why did something else tear away his flesh? did a part of him fight to be free, like the voice found in ep 22, Mixed Signals?)

Going back to the Viability as Subject, Agent, Catalyst thing. Is the body Welling uses more viable to be used as a subject for some reason? Could the rocks and metals used be classed as catalysts, if they are helping perform this experiment/ritual in some way? (the dice in ep 9, Rolling With It, had Medium viability as catalyst... and they caused a LOT of things. is it catalyst vs the world around them, or is it catalyst vs the person that interacts with them? how much it affects the mind?)

Anyway, I'll cut myself off there before my thoughts get even more jumbled, just wanted to compile those mentions of Welling after I heard him mentioned in ep 21 during my full relisten (preparing for the Finale! how wild)

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Fossil Novembirb 9: Getting a Grip

Zygodactylus by @thewoodparable

Today, half of all birds - so half of all living dinosaurs - are in a clade called Passeriformes, aka "Perching Birds". Of course, not all birds that perch are in this clade, but what can you do. With three toes forward and one long toe facing back, these animals can easily perch upright on branches and have tendons in their legs to help stiffen their grip while sleeping, enabling them to stay put!

But where did this giant group get started?

Australaves phylogenetic tree from Wikipedia

For a while, the prevalent idea was that they evolved from similar birds that perch in trees, such as pigeons and swifts. However, genetic evidence showed that the closest relatives of passerines were actually... parrots! And their closest relatives are Falcons, and just outside of that, Seriemas! What a wild twist!

Of course, paleontologists - being paleontologists - wanted to find the fossil evidence of this evolution. Luckily, as the genetic picture became clear, so did the fossil one - a handful of fossil birds that were mysteries before suddenly became clear, and more and more are being found as time goes on.

Primozygodactylus by @quetzalpali-art

In the Early Eocene, many of these early Passerine-Parrot relatives existed, and showcase a fascinating stepwise evolution of Passerine characteristics - namely, the feet. While the smaller head and size of Passerines evolved first, and show up in early relatives such as Zygodactylus, the foot arangement? Not so much. Instead, these animals had the bodies of passerines, and the feet of parrots! This indicates that the skinny legs and specialized wing shape of Passerines evolved first, and the special feet second. Truly, this and the many other stem-passerines we have found with this configuration qualify as "Evolutionary Missing Links". Dinosaurs remain our best way to show how evolution has happened over time! But I digress.

Eofringillirostrum by @otussketching

From these animals eventually came Passerines, though they were not especially common to begin with - many other birds lived in trees too, such as Mousebirds, and like all great dynasties, Passerines needed time to get started. That doesn't mean they weren't around - Eofringillirostrum, one of the smallest fossil dinosaurs we have, was already living kind of like a modern finch, without being closely related to them!

What's weird, however, is that most of our earliest known passerine and stem-passerine fossils are from North America and Europe. This is, however, a sampling bias - we just have spent more time looking for fossils in these locations. The "most basal" (ie, earliest-branching) passerines and parrots are both found in Aotearoa today - indicating that this clade probably diverged and first appeared somewhere in Oceania. Hopefully, fossils of these early Passerine-Parrots will be found in the region soon!

Wieslochia by @drawingwithdinosaurs

Alas, Passerine fossils of any kind do not become particularly common until the early Miocene, indicating that the climate change occurring globally at the time did allow Passerines to diversify more than they had previously. Perhaps Passerines were more adaptable to colder and drier climates than other tree birds had been, or their specialized perching feet allowed them to live easier in different types of forests. By the late Miocene, modern genera were even appearing. Though these delicately boned dinosaurs do not fossilize easily, more and more of the puzzle is showcasing how we got to the point where half of all living dinosaurs belong to this group.

In fact, thanks to genomics, we have something of an idea as to why Passerines speciate at the drop of a hat - and that reason is recombination! For some reason, Passeriformes are more prone to genomic restructuring and shuffling, with even short periods of separation between populations leading to rapid accumulation of these genomic architectural differences. Between that and the variety of ecologies such small arboreal animals can inhabit, it was just a perfect set of conditions for so many species to evolve - and honestly? I doubt Passeriformes are going anywhere any time soon.

Sources:

Conway, M., B. J. Olsen. 2019. Contrasting drivers of diversification rates on islands and continents across three passerine families. Proceedings of the Royal Society B 286(1915): 20191757.

Gibb, G. C., R. England, G. Hartig, P. A. McLenachan, B. L. Taylor Smith, B. J. McComish, A. Cooper, D. Penny. 2015. New Zealand Passerines Help Clarify the Diversification of Major Songbird Lineages during the Oligocene. Genome Biology and Evolution 7(11): 2983-2995.

Manthey, J. D., J. Klicka, G. M. Spellman. 2021. The Genomic Signature of Allopatric Speciation in a Songbird is Shaped by Genome Architecture (Aves: Certhia americana). Genome Biology and Evolution 13(8): evab120.

Mayr, G., A. C. Kitchener. 2022. Psittacopedids and zygodactylids: the diverse and species-rich Psittacopasserine birds from the early Eocen London Clay of Walton-on-the-Naze (Essex, UK). Historical Biology 35 (12): 2372-2395.

Mayr, 2022. Paleogene Fossil Birds, 2nd Edition. Springer Cham.

Mayr, 2017. Avian Evolution: The Fossil Record of Birds and its Paleobiological Significance (TOPA Topics in Paleobiology). Wiley Blackwell.

Mayr, G. and A. Manegold. 2006. New specimens of the earliest European passeriform bird. Acta Palaeontologica Polonica 51(2):315-323.

[tg-headcanons]

do you think ghouls ever heal "wrong"? bc their healing is so rapid. like, for example, if naki broke his arm and just left it all dangling and crooked, would it heal crooked or would it straighten itself out? if ghouls ever /do/ heal wrong, what do you think are some weird things that can happen?

They sure do!

Ghoul healing is amazing, but not impervious. There are many ways that it can go wrong, and inevitably a ghoul is going to meet those conditions and end up something they can’t fix. There’s four main reasons why ghouls heal wrong: genetic problems, age, starvation, and damage that’s just too extensive

Genetic problems that mess with healing are more common than you’d think, maybe it’s an rc mutation that makes it hard for it to bond, or maybe it’s small rc pathways in some parts of the body, but whatever the reason, some ghouls just can’t regenerate right through their whole body or just some parts of it. Ghouls that have little to no regeneration are rare and tend to die quickly, but many ghouls have regeneration issues in specific parts of the body, common spots are the digits and ears, places where rc pathway problems are more likely to be a problem

Very young or old ghouls have regeneration problems. Those who haven’t reached puberty yet don’t have fully finished rc systems and are still growing, so damage often doesn’t heal right or all the way. Same goes for the very old, their bodies aren’t what they used to be and don’t always recover from what used to be small injuries for them

Starvation means a lack of energy and rc cells, which is the fuel and raw materials for regeneration and without it there’s only so much they can do. Extremely extensive injuries cause a similar problem of the body running out of energy and rc before it’s done fixing everything. These are the most common reasons for regeneration problems

When ghouls bodies are unable to regenerate right, either from a lack of resources or a genetic problem, it causes a last resort attempt to slap together anything it can to just get the body barely functional. Sometimes that means gashes and cuts scarring over to keep them from bleeding out, sometimes that means limbs tapering off into stumps rather than full arms and legs, and sometimes that means hack jobs of twisted limbs and organs that don’t work right

Smaller examples of this are surface scars or small missing parts. It’s common for ghouls to have a few, a raised line on the skin here, a milling eye or finger there, small things. But if someone got really messed up? They could have small limbs that stopped regenerating too early or internal organ damage from lungs and livers that were twisted by the body’s desperate attempt to salvage what it could

Ghouls that heal wrong can have very weird things going on. Often what’s left of a major badly healed injury tends to look more like a birth defect than a scar. Arms growing back and then stopping, looking like birth defects. Fingers stopping in sharp points. Scars that sometimes look like stripes or markings than wounds. There’s so many ways a body can fail to heal and one that fails to regrow complex structures makes WILD mistakes

As for positioning during healing, it’s very common for ghouls to have to re-break and cut through things that healed in a bad position. Ghoul parents teach their children to splint broken bones and keep muscles clear while healing. One of the first things they do when trying to help an injured ghoul is pulling their limbs straight to make them heal clean or, if the bone and muscle is completely fucked, amputating the splintered tissue to let it grow back clean

The ghoul body has an amazing knack for piecing itself together, and generally it’s very good at regrowing bones and organs the right way, and as long as they’re fed and resting they’ll be fine with minimal abnormalities. That said, those minimal abnormalities build up over time. The rare ghouls who make it to old age tend to be twisted by layers upon layers of injuries that didn’t fix quite right. Old ghouls tend to have crooked jaws and limbs and muscles that don’t seem to be shaped quite right, and that means they’ve survived a lot

[ntls-24722]

👏🏼 here's birdguy's fucked up evil skeleton

this is NOT me trying to specbio birdguy into a reasonable organism. NONE of this is reasonable. I don't even want to think about the consequences of having a body that includes any of this - this is me catalouging birdguy's anatomical oddities.

so going into detail, from top to the bottom:

what the fuck are those teeth?

lol. lmao.

so to explain it better than what might be visible, he has a horse mouth, his molars and incisors are seperated by a giant gap, like this.

but there's no good reason for him to have it. he has it because I just really like this, for some reason. for some reason this is just the ideal posturing, positioning for teeth, to me. I guess it could help so that when he smiles, he'll have spaces at the sides of his teeth like DJMM does? But i did it because i like how it looks

say, what's that awful DCA neck?

I like long necks. what can i say

I also thought it'd be fun in the fucked up way for his neck to be deceptively long. that his long voluptuous hair really IS hiding secrets in there, because mine sure could before i cut it (i could hide my big fat over-ear phones in there, very helpful for when my school banned headphones LOL). from a side view his head is probably pushed out more to the front, so he would probably get comments on his posture, but then he would just extend that awful neck out.

Keel....

birdguy is capable of flight. "but where is his wings?" in his heart. in his soul.

He has "phantom wings" out from his arms. He can turn his arms into wings, but he likes being "wingless" just because it's easier, both for flight and for just general dexterity. But, he still has to, yknow, flap his arms to fly, like this,

and that's actually probably why he still has so many bird adaptations, because he that's his whole point, that he is... secretly a bird. Like, the bird feet and the bird tail, the feathers, yknow, those are fun bird features, but they all come together with the things you can't see to make this birdlike primate a straight up bird.

Also, um, I'm kind of stupid? Because the whole reason why Birdguy is super buff is to facilitate flight, but it's JUST the pectorals that are super blown out in birds. Everything else is comparatively shrimpy on the arm. But yknow, i fixed that, though Birdguy can stay swole, as a treat to DJMM.

awful wrists

So, he can fold his hands the same way you can fold a wing! You can kind of make the motion for how it works, but it takes really seeing it to realize how tightly folded that shit is up in there.

LOOK AT THAT. THE FUCK??? BIRD WRISTS ARE LITERALLY KISSING THE FOREARM. You'd only be able to do this if you completely broke your wrist!

Or if your wrist was weirdly long.

So Birdguy's wrist is weirdly long! and what's funny is that the way I did this, his hand bones kind of look a lot like the endoskeleton for music man's arms? so fun fact, DJMM's wrist joint is at the very END of his glove cuffs, which is weird, glove cuffs are supposed to sit on the wrist.

So it kind of concludes that his wrist is super long for the joint to begin where his cuff ends, and the same goes for the windup music men who have the exact same joint quirk, and the long wrist theory is proved by their endoskeleton:

Superduper long wrist! Birdguy is unintentionally more DJMMlike in the wrist.

THE FEET??? THE FUCKING FEET ARMS????

LOL. LMAO.

so, the legs look weird. Listing the bones down, you have his femur, you have his fused tibia-fibula, you have that little cluster of tarsal bones... and then you get to the metatarsals that are, satanically, twisting over eachother like an ulna and radius. this is for no good reason other than to make it so that birdguy can be disgustingly dextrous with his feet

also, i CAVED. i DID add a little spec evo into this because I've decided that if birdguy DID have ancestors, they were 5-fingered/5-toed, but one finger/metacarpal got sacrificed and became part of his freaky long carpal, and one of his toes/metatarsals sacrificed itself to become a secondary "tarsal" for his disgusting, revolting little bird toe phalanges to sit on, on top of the metatarsal ulna-radius BULLSHIT he has going on. HEINOUS hypothetical evolutionary behavior.

[always-is-always]

More thoughts about JK & JM 💜

Just to get this off of my chest.... I'm scratching my head over the whole dog-tag obsession. I don't understand. Some people on X are treating it like it's the exchange of high school rings, or something. I'm sorry but I think it is weird to romanticize it.

Maybe it is how some are coping with the enlistment? Maybe it is a reflection of where they are on their own life's path? A naïveté, perhaps? I don't know.

There's a whole sub-faction in the fandom that is twisting things into a weird almost glamorized and romanticized story line. Like straight out of AO3. Even the sub-group in their chatter about V and JK. I just want to tell them all to grow up. The enlistment is a very serious and live-changing experience for them all.

What Jungkook and Jimin are going through is something that many of us will never understand, unless we ourselves have gone through bootcamp and served. In my ongoing conversations with my Bestie(the war-Veteran), she has opened my eyes so much. Boot camp is hard. Boot camp strips a person down to the bare bones. Boot camp forces complicance in ways that we cannot fathom.

Add on to that the fact that Jimin and Jungkook are going through the training for front line duty. To say that it is intense is to put it lightly. It isn't for the weak.

My biggest concern is for their mental and emotional well-being. To go from a life where they had the freedom to do, to be, to think, to act, and to live as they chose, to a life where EVERYTHING is monitored, controlled, evaulated and categorized, is extremely hard. To live 24/7 according to strict schedules, exposure to intense physical activity, eating food that is not the quality they are accustomed to, and sharing every moment with other people is hard. In addition to the mental "training", which teaches them how to be soldiers who follow orders. I'm guessing the only solo time they have is when they are at the toilet. Again, it is hard for those of us who have never served to truly understand what it is that they are going through.

This is why I feel frustrated at the way that some are making light of the situation by obsessing on dog-tags.

My ongoing thoughts and prayers are for the physical, emotional, mental, spiritual and energetic well-being of the guys, through their experience. As an empath and intuitive, I can feel the energy there, and I'm continually sending them Love and asking that Benevolent Assistance be with them at all times. Whether it is calling upon Guardian Angels, or simply the Love of the Divine, I continually ask that it be so for them.

My Bestie said this morning that the best thing we can do is send them Love. She would know, from her years of experience.

So, that is my commitment to them. For the coming 18 months, I will continually send them Love, and surround them with Love. Please join me in doing so! 💜