#especially when the execution is so so botched

[rawliverandgoronspice]

I think what chronically upsets me about TotK is that. So much of it could have been so good with so little change.

I am into Zelda as a sacrificial, wondrous and silenced creature who must literally carry the blade of the hero as a wound inside her forehead and silently wait to be humanized again --and the injustice of a kingdom built on such a premice doomed to repeat itself, especially if the kingdom was founded on such dubious grounds to begin with. I am into Ganondorf forcing the present to reckon with the past through the most violent clash, forsaking everything that made him a person while sinking down into petty vindictiveness until no connection and no humanity remains, even though independance was what he was trying to protect in the first place. I am into Link as somebody trying to hold onto his most important connection to the world he once knew being used to force him into a conflict that has ultimately nothing to do with him (sure that's SS again but, it could have been explored even further). I am into Rauru as this self-important, self-made king who used his own association to godhood to live out a power fantasy that refuses to ever be acknowledge as such, maybe compounded by the fact he is one of the last of his species and feel, himself, the crushing weight of their fading heritage?

I don't know, the Tears of the Kingdom or something????

But, it all tragically depends on one crucial thing, which is to allow hylians to be wrong sometimes.

And it's wild to me how all of this incredible potential to comment on the series' history and the characters' role in it is just. Flattened into nothing, because Good must be Good and Evil must be Evil, and Hyrule must be righteous at literally every cost --even if it means nervously rewriting their own history through convoluted logic that rejects conflict and depth and vulnerability at every turn.

[takethistoyourstardust]

ALSO like it made sense for seth to use the pedigree when he was triple h’s twink boy toy personal attack dog in the authority but it makes NO sense for seth to have kept it this long.

[meownotgood]

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion.  tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found. 

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device. 

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position. 

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine. 

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired. 

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why. 

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity. 

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did. 

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device. 

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response. 

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you. 

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them." 

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust. 

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder. 

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible." 

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in. 

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm. 

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork. 

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight. 

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock. 

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance. 

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise." 

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then." 

Viktor answers, "As anticipated." 

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached. 

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge. 

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?" 

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers. 

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit." 

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all." 

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement. 

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement. 

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system." 

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors." 

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job." 

"It is." 

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold. 

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself. 

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon." 

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing. 

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular. 

Viktor notices. 

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected." 

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright. 

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?" 

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you. 

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?" 

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss." 

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken." 

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous." 

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms." 

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald. 

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you — 

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask. 

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later." 

Anything you want. 

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours. 

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?" 

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside. 

"Good." 

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside. 

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault. 

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken. 

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move." 

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong. 

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously. 

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-" 

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster — 

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed. 

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep. 

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs. 

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion. 

— 

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?" 

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez." 

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly. 

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt? 

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him. 

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already. 

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed. 

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again. 

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor. 

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter. 

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.) 

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand. 

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings. 

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered. 

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open. 

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out — 

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead. 

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose. 

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there. 

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things. 

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure. 

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch. 

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep. 

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe. 

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges. 

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective. 

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are. 

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent. 

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place. 

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then. 

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become. 

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable. 

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up. 

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you." 

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore." 

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open. 

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist. 

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming. 

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in." 

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it. 

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously. 

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating. 

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed. 

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?" 

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions." 

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand. 

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms. 

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-" 

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it." 

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist. 

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere." 

You groan, tossing your head back. 

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense." 

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them." 

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck. 

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald. 

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework. 

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?" 

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it." 

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute." 

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-" 

"I disagree." 

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault." 

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point." 

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly." 

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen." 

"Fine." 

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you. 

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching. 

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at." 

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-" 

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way." 

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm. 

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up. 

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static. 

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand." 

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all. 

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly. 

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice. 

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest." 

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening. 

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald. 

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence. 

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver." 

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left. 

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him. 

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage. 

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement. 

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go. 

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this. 

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together. 

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?" 

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably. 

"Yes?" 

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?" 

"I thought you did not want to talk about this." 

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me." 

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open. 

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut. 

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield." 

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed — 

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee. 

"I guess that makes sense." 

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?" 

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-" 

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind." 

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart. 

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern." 

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all." 

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction. 

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy. 

"I need you to listen carefully." 

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening." 

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything." 

Right. Just your life. 

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over. 

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned." 

"Potentially." 

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same. 

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter. 

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you." 

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now." 

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name. 

So, you let it. 

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you." 

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully. 

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam. 

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing." 

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course." 

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside. 

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system. 

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open. 

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation. 

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no." 

"Ah. I will take it from here, then." 

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings." 

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics. 

It's… a lot. 

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within. 

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry. 

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system. 

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but. 

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one. 

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart. 

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself. 

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul. 

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.) 

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too. 

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides. 

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve. 

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal. 

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation. 

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations. 

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee. 

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling. 

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced." 

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand. 

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies. 

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?" 

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit." 

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term." 

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?" 

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you." 

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest. 

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside. 

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered. 

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck." 

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold." 

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish." 

"Give me your hand." 

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his. 

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits. 

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you." 

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact. 

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe." 

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."  

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do." 

"Correct." 

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed. 

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted." 

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose." 

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh. 

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?" 

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch. 

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you. 

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation." 

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close. 

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down. 

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir. 

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave. 

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks. 

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath. 

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs. 

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them. 

And yet, here you are. 

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles. 

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch. 

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?) 

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic. 

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?" 

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart." 

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-" 

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many." 

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in. 

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape. 

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible." 

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension. 

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you. 

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes. 

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed." 

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench. 

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?" 

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it." 

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons. 

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten. 

You glance up. "Good?" 

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise. 

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands." 

"Alright. I can do that." 

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck." 

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise." 

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module." 

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it." 

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires." 

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely. 

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in." 

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat. 

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn." 

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit. 

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control. 

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage." 

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully. 

"Sorry. I'll go slow." 

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover. 

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire. 

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going." 

"Does this- am I hurting you?" 

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine." 

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar. 

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it. 

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps. 

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust." 

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely." 

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them. 

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now." 

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy." 

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake. 

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.) 

You really need to focus. 

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done." 

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire." 

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller. 

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik." 

"You may need to come closer, then." 

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty. 

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool. 

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller. 

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire. 

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his. 

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it." 

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in." 

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

[thelazydoodle]

I hate that netflix doesn't have a slowdown feature on consoles

Cause we can miss some cool details that Fortiche did for Arcane. People are finding out about Maddie's botched execution, especially that there's 3 impact frames that expose her true nature and when the bullet hits her. So I went on youtube, found the execution, played at x25 so I can cap them. Here we go!

First, the trigger pull. As you see here grin

The blast, showing off more of Maddie and a bigger outline of Caitlyn in the blast

Then the Third, which was tricky. The bullet hitting Maddie

And the scene all together

What was cool about watching it at ×25 speed, was that the bullet had a red tracer. So you can actually catch the bullet was traveling and where it ricochets

Again, I wish the playback feature on Netflix was on there

[lady-menrva]

I loved Reyna as a character in Heroes of Olympus, but in Trials of Apollo...

• Everyone deserves a break. Especially if you're a praetor who has been through a lot. But I don't know any sane person whose definition of a break is serving a goddess for all eternity, watching their loved ones die, while chasing (*hunting*) wild animals, and doing jobs/quests for said goddess (the last part sounds like Camp Jupiter/Camp Halfblood lite).

A much better closure for her could've been reclaiming her past at San Juan, now that she's moved on and overcome it, enjoying it's things and memories like she wanted too, catching up with her friends at the Greek camp (and her sister too).

Alternatively, she could fulfill her bucket list, enjoy her freedom, take time to know herself, just enjoy life... literally anything. But honestly, why do that when you can just shelve her in the Hunters of Artemis? /s.

• Since her closure was so botched up, the "needs a break" plotline, (inspite of its brimming potential) coalesced with the romance schtick just seems like an indirect excuse to diss shippers. In canon, Reyna not having a relationship could've been a great decision, but the way it was executed left an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

See also: Reyna's "I'm tired of people shipping me" author insert *heartfelt* speech.

• Come to think of it, I'm also positive that Rick conflated aromanticism and asexuality.

It really hurts that Reyna is Rick's ultimate one-book wonder as a character. She could've been amazing in ToA too, but no...

[saxandviolins77]

2024 art hall of fame

Just wanted to make a final post with my favorite pieces I made this year.

that one Tracks piece - I kinda botched this one honestly, but this was one piece that I actually tried to put some care into the detail work (I could do better nowadays, but for what it was worth, it still holds up.)

Prowl from June - I definitely outdone myself with this expression. I really need to draw silly faces more often; I could have paid the composition more mind; it gets kinda messy in the middle, but this was just me experimenting.

Hook and Motormaster - I actually put so much effort into this piece, and I'm glad it got a fair amount of attention. I should redraw this one day because the concept is really strong and I could do it better.

Constructicons as the album cover for B-52's "Wild Planet" - This one is just good. I loved the concept, and I think I executed it very well.

Bonecrusher in many poses - What was I thinking??? I don't know what possessed me here, but this one is just supremely good, maybe it's the character choice; maybe the process of making it was just that satisfying. Either way, I love this one.

Scrapper smoking a pipe - The start of my Scrapper with pipes obsession, I don't know, but it just gives him A vibe. I love Scrapper a ton, and this piece I did of him might just be my favorite because it has all that "cultured" vibe of his and maybe a hint of something more sinister, who knows. (I say, as if I didn't make it).

Hook with a bowling ball - An idea so stupid it had everything to be great, and I think it is. This continues to be the best Hook face I have ever drawn; no competition (not just the smug vibe, but also my "flattened facial features" thing that I have done since the dawn of time).

Cone High - Stupid reference. Makes me laugh.

Hook and Scrapper - I did this one at 2 am in a mental haze so foggy that I think I may have ascended. I finished this in cold sweat, as if a supernatural force had taken over my body. I also had looked at too many of Vernon Grant's magazine covers; one day I'll be as great as him, but in the meantime, be patient with me.

Scrapper and Starscream - I love doing Humanformers, especially if they are just how I personally see the character as a human, not a 1:1 translation. I may also have made my best Humanformers here, and there's no purpose in doing more because I already reached my peak. Like... Scrapper's beret, his beard that looks like his mask, the Ivy League style to signal he's old money, the white bucks, and top it off with a quirky patterned suit. Starscream is just super preppy; I should do a casual fit, but the sporty one is just him; he's athletic but also has that "ken doll" vibe that reeks out of him.

Soundwave's unused design in AHM - Just a good piece; I like it for what it is and for the fact that it is my favorite Soundwave design of all time. Also... I may love my decision to draw SW with that weird ass head.

Scrapper and Long Haul redraw - Another one that I was possessed; I simply destroyed with this piece, and it came out just the way I expected; it gets even better when compared to the original piece (let's be honest, it is kinda trash). I'm just amazing, that's it.

[phantoms-lair]

Watching the new DMC on Netflix, and there's a casual mention that Dante was in Racoon for a job (along with a megaman figure cameo XD) any new nuggets for the Demon Leon au?

I will say my Dante is more based on the old anime, as this is a Dante who's grown up a little bit more, and can step into the role of Dad.

That said, it is fun to see a shared universe. And ReDMC Dante actually was in Raccoon on a job, he was hired to clear up an outbreak of Gorger Malefactors (entities that are incarnations of death by starvation that when they appear consume everything around them, including living people. They were drawn to manifest in Raccoon by unending hunger of the zombies). As for nuggets...

~

"How would you like a part-time job?"

Ada rolled her eyes a little fondly. "Sorry, not looking for a paper route."

"Then consider it a finder's fee. For any information you may happen to overhear while on other jobs." Leon handed her a small slip of paper.

Ada looked at the list of names, topics, and prices attached and raised an elegant eyebrow. Umbrella scientists and executives, as well as different viruses and B.O.W.s. Somehow she wasn't surprised Leon had held a grudge. "Can't argue the price, but last time I was in town your father indicated he didn't have much capital, and nowhere near what you're offering."

"Dad...overspecialized." Leon shrugged. "He only took certain types of jobs for certain types of clients. I've broadened the scope of the business and it's been lucrative."

Ada eyed him. "The double talk is killing you, isn't it?"

"Yes," Leon admitted deflating the 'cool customer' persona he'd had up. "And I know you probably don't care, but the money is all above board. I've been running the 'front' of DMC, regular Detective Agency with some bounty hunting on the side."

And that explained it. Ada could remember Leon both picking apart clues to uncover the truth about the T-Virus and herself as well as him going toe to toe with genetically engineered monstrosities bare handed. Both jobs were easily within his wheelhouse. Especially as the nigh invulnerability his demonic blood granted him would make going after the higher dollar bounties much safer for him than anyone else.

Hmm, it was a good thing she took more infiltration and espionage jobs while the Son of Sparda focused more on combat. She'd hate to have him as competition. It was funny. There was almost no scenario in which she let people know she was alive after a job. But here she was, maintaining contact no less. But while Leon was a sweet guy, as the 'son' of one of the most infamous mercenaries in the business, he was a useful contact. Even a certain amount of protection in saying she was a family friend. (It was fortunate that Leon's morals had loosened to the point where he would consider a mercenary spy as a family friend. But between what Irons got up to in Raccoon, and the federal governments weak attempts to disappear Sherry, he was much more suspicious of authority than he had been) So maintaining a friendship was advantageous. Now it looked like it could be lucrative too. "I already have one tidbit for you. A USSOCOM Agent by the name of Krauser, Codename Silverdax, was reported as missing following a botched operation. He's presumed dead, but he's not. He defected to Albert Wesker for power." The change in Leon's eyes were quick. If she hadn't been looking for it, she wouldn't have noted his pupils elongating almost like a cat's before snapping back to normal. He tapped his phone and Ada go the notification of her account increasing. "Pleasure doing business with you." His grin was slightly fanged and spoke of anticipation for the hunt ahead. One fourth demon. It hardly seemed like much, but oh what a difference it could make. "Likewise. I'll keep my ears peeled"

(Also bonus points to anyone who knows what series the Gorgers are from)

[lunastrophe]

Drow Lore 🕷️ Sorn and Nadal, Drider Brothers (part 1)

Yet another deep dive into drow / drider lore - this time inspired by two drider characters from Icewind Dale 2: Sorn and Nadal, formerly sons of a noble house from drow city Rilauven.

As driders, they guard the entrance to one of the Underdark locations and they can be talked to. In fact, Sorn does practically all the talking, often showing wry, somewhat bitter sense of humour. Nadal's change, on the other hand, left him a little less drow than most - he has trouble with articulated speech, as well as with controlling his thirst for blood.

Sorn, when asked about his past, can share his and his brother's story. Scraps of information about their fate can be also picked up from other sources in game, giving them an interesting background - here is my attempt to reconstruct it.

So, if you like (sad) stories about driders... here is the first part:

🕷️ Before Transformation - Sorn and Nadal are brothers and former members of a noble drow house ...which shall remain nameless. They were both sons of the Matron Mother of their family, so their social status was probably quite high, and they had at least two sisters.

They lived in Rilauven. It is a drow city located in the Northdark, below the region of Icewind Dale, somewhere under Dorn’s Deep – the ancient dwarven stronghold.

Rilauven is neither as big, nor as old as Menzoberranzan, but still, it seems to be quite prominent. It has the academy of magic (Sorcere), the academy of martial arts (Melee-Quartha), the society of merchants (Belaessar) and at least several old noble houses, collectively known as Ultrinnan Qu'ellar.

To 1282 DR, Rilauven was a typical Lolth-sworn drow city with matriarchal society. Then the local followers of Vhaeraun conducted a successful and relatively bloodless coup, overthrowing Lolth's matriarchy and altering the local power balance.

The brothers did not participate in these events, though.

🕷️ Wizard and Warrior - Sorn and Nadal - given their station and the abilities they managed to retain after transformation - probably graduated respectively from Rilauvenian Sorcere and Melee-Quartha.

Sorn was most likely a wizard since even as a drider, he is an arcane spellcaster. His name means literally "enchanted" or "spell". Nadal was likely a warrior. His name, possibly reflecting his character, is assembled from prefix Nad- ("cunning", "genius", "mind", "thought") and suffix -al ("lunatic", "maniac", "manic", "rage").

Their mother and sisters apparently deemed them competent enough to entrust them with executing their plans - at least until...

🕷️ Scapegoats - sometime before 1282 DR, the noble house Sorn and Nadal belonged to became ...involved in a botched attack on a rival house. The house they attacked could not identify theirs to retaliate, which was a small mercy, but still, the whole operation was considered a fiasco.

According to Sorn: To cover up their poor tactics, our sisters blamed their failure on the execution of their plans. Naturally, we were responsible for that. Our beloved Matron Mother did not question their judgement and promptly had us transformed.

🕷️ Among Lolth-sworn drow, transformation into a drider is associated with failure and punishment - but apparently, it is also possible to be changed into a drider because of someone else's incompetence and intrigue... especially when you are a male 😔

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

[themattress]

Danganronpa Pet Peeve

So, one thing that bothers me in Danganronpa type games is when victims forced into a Killing Game or people pressured into murder for understandable reasons end up having other character moralize about their choices and actions. Moral ambiguity is a thing in these situations, and it feels patronizing and sometimes even cruel to have it refuted by people on the outside looking in. Ten prime examples stand out, some of them worse than others.

Trigger Happy Havoc - Leon Kuwata:

This one, in the first trial of the franchise, isn't bad in terms of the charges made, since Celeste's point is valid: Leon cannot claim that he killed Sayaka in self-defense since he clearly did not. My issue is that Leon is cut off before he can fully respond or further defend his position, even if he's cut off by Makoto saying he doesn't blame him. In the manga, we see Leon didn't in fact intend to murder Sayaka, and internally he does concede that Celeste is right about him making the wrong choices in the moment but clarifies it was an ego thing instead of a bloodlust thing: he genuinely thought he was the only one fit to deal with the situation rather than getting help since he was the one Sayaka went out of her way to target. For as much of a Sayaka defender as I am, it feels odd for the game to go out of its way to pass the buck from her to Leon concerning "unclouded intent to commit murder", since she was the one who fully premeditated her murder attempt, while Leon's kill was reactive.

Trigger Happy Havoc - Mondo Owada:

So, this example is purely the fault of the English translation (which was especially bad in this chapter for some reason). In the original Japanese, Makoto's line was "And, that weak part of his heart...that bastard... stabbed it so cruelly...That bastard...!!" He was talking about Monokuma's cruelty, not Mondo's. Monokuma's line, meanwhile, was "Take a good look, everyone! That's what you all amount to! Just for the sake of simple memories and hidden pasts...You think nothing of taking another's life!" He wasn't talking about Mondo and what he did specifically, he was using it as a springboard in an attempt to gaslight everyone into thinking their base nature is murderous. The translation makes no sense, because we can clearly see that Mondo didn't kill Chihiro "in cold blood", he killed him in white heat. He literally blacked out while killing him, and was horrified when he came to his senses. To claim that he killed in cold blood would require a level of consciousness that clearly was not there.

Trigger Happy Havoc - Celestia Ludenberg:

Bad localization strikes again! We once more have a line mistranslated in a way that doesn't make sense, with Makoto saying he can't pity Celeste after dying as if he thinks she deserved to be executed, and saying he doesn't consider her a friend anymore after she committed murder which not only goes against his whole philosophy about the Killing Game but directly contradicts him saying "my friends" about Taka and Hifumi even though Taka was murdered by Hifumi. Manipulated or not, Hifumi chose to commit murder, so still considering him a friend and not Celeste is a double standard. In Japanese, Makoto actually said "I can't sympathize with her after she killed two of her friends, but…but nevertheless, she was one of us." So he is saying he can't sympathize with her as a person after what she did which has nothing to do with her death, is still upset about her death because he still considers her a friend ("one of us"), and the line about Taka and Hifumi was meant to say "her friends" (as in Celeste) and not his. It's ridiculous how official translators can botch things up so badly.

Goodbye Despair - Teruteru Hanamura:

I must point to this example because it's one I can actually completely forgive! Not only is Monokuma's point valid, but it is Monokuma who is making it, so stripping any nuance down to make everything boil down to Teruteru being a criminal who thus deserves what he gets is on brand for him. It's also only after this that Teruteru shares the truly heart-wrenching part of his motivation, and he still apologizes when recognizing that it doesn't absolve him of guilt.

Killing Harmony - Kaede Akamatsu:

This one is weird, because I legitimately cannot tell whether it's supposed to be making a moralistic point against Kaede or not. Because on the one hand, there's a certain truth (ironically enough) to what Kokichi says here, a truth that stands even after the later reveal that Kaede didn't actually murder Rantaro. But on the other hand, it is Kokichi who is saying it, and given the other characters' attitudes toward him vs. their attitudes toward Kaede, the narrative slants players' views against him and anything he has to say. Speaking of which....

Killing Harmony - Kokichi Ouma:

Quite possibly the most famous example of what I'm talking about. The fifth case of DRV3 was similar to the fifth case of DR2, but whereas in that case Nagito truly had no firm moral judgement made against him given the complex factors at play regarding what he did, the attempt at ambiguity with Kokichi gets shut down by basically every other character except K1-B0, the Butt Monkey robot that not even the narrative takes seriously. Even Kaito, the one whom Kokichi let kill him so that he could save Maki from being the blackened, dismisses Kokichi's professed hatred of the Killing Game as possibly another lie. He is dehumanized as "the embodiment of a lie" by Shuichi's internal monologue, and then moved on from. Even revelations in the following chapter that back him up on what he claimed go completely unaddressed. I'm not the biggest Kokichi fan by a long shot, but this still frustrates me, especially when it comes at the exact same time Maki's actions are completely glossed over or even justified, with everyone instantly forgiving her. It's such a blatant case of hypocrisy.

Master Detective Archives: Rain Code - Yoshiko, Waruna and Kurane:

This one drives me crazy because it makes no sense for the character who is making the moral judgement! It's fucking Shinigami, a God of DEATH. Someone who has shown multiple times now to be completely detached from any sense of human morality. Why the Hell is she suddenly acting as though she has standards about murder? If anything, she loves murder because she loves solving murder mysteries! She should be singing these girls' praises, not condemning them as "disgusting" and "evil"! Ugh, she and Desuhiko really weighed this chapter down, which is a shame since it's a really clever, spooky and atmospheric murder.

Master Detective Archives: Rain Code - Yakou Furio:

Good lord, we couldn't even avoid this for a character that is otherwise positioned as someone you're meant to like and mourn for! Yuma is thinking about how Yakou said that he couldn't keep repressing his feelings of knowing that his wife was murdered and who was responsible, and that he had to listen to his heart about what to do to seek justice even if it meant murder and suicide. It's fucked up, but it's better left for the player to decide whether they agree with his course of actions or not. Even if it's because he misses him, we didn't need to hear Yuma's take on the matter. It would have been a lot more powerful without it.

The Moon of Hope and Sun of Despair - Void:

LINUJ's take on Void that he reflects in the game is that their tragic life circumstances didn't excuse them from crime and murder, and that they deserved to be brought to ruin for it. My only issue with that is that it kind of feels the opposite of what Danganronpa posits? It didn't treat the Remnants of Despair that way in Goodbye Despair or the Warriors of Hope that way in Ultra Despair Girls; it said that yes their sad backgrounds don't absolve them of their crimes but also said it didn't mean they deserved to be killed for them and that they could have a second chance. I especially think LINUJ crosses the line when talking about Iroha, showing that he knows nothing of basic psychology. With the backstory he saddled her with, it's not a matter of him choosing he doesn't want to validate her actions - they are already validated! You cannot shame someone who was raised in total seclusion and taught only selfishness, to the point of being severely beaten when she attempted suicide in order to force her to consider her life more valuable than anything else, for having a dysfunctional moral compass. Pretending that Iroha should know better and is making a conscious choice to be bad is disingenuous when her backstory shows that would be impossible for her. Yet another reason (aside from the "humans don't change" bs) Chapter 6 of this game was ass.

Project: Eden's Garden - Eva Tsunaka:

The latest example of this and boy does it piss me off. I'm sorry, but I am fully on Eva's side here. Not on the "killing someone and framing someone else for it" part, obviously that was wrong, but on the "you're all hypocrites vilifying me for your own self-commiseration" part. Several of the others are pissed off that someone started up the Killing Game and is now to be executed via their vote, and thus are scapegoating her for everything in order to feel better, insisting that they could never make such bad choices! Grace is the worst, as she is actively calling for Eva's execution and saying she deserves it, all while ignoring that not too long ago she was basically trying to kill an innocent person (and herself and everyone else but Eva, had she succeeded) because she was convinced she was the culprit and refusing to hear her out. Again, it's not like they've forgotten the fact that Eva is about to be executed, so spending some of her last moments alive telling her how much she sucks and how this is all her fault is utterly tasteless. I love Eva, but a lot about her death rubs me the wrong way.

[fayerambles]

Hiya Faye! This is gonna a be bit long so feel free to not respond if you don’t want😅

Reading your most recent fic rn and I’m super excited to see what angle you go for with the chronic pain… I have a very similar condition (in my hips - multiple botched surgeries/procedures) and one of the most isolating parts, besides the actual pain, is generally just the lack of understanding that comes with having an invisible illness. To be a young, fit person experiencing that type of pain can make you feel more alone than anything, especially if you’re surrounded by other young healthy people who can’t even being to understand what managing pain is like.

My pain started as a young teen, so I had to grow up fairly quickly when deciding things like whether or not to go out with friends (do I want to be/have the time to be limping or bedwridden for days after?), who to open up to about it (will they empathize or see it as a hunt for attention?), and even talking to my parents about it was a task, as neither of them had chronic pain and they were both fitness buffs (they gave infuriating responses like “try going for a walk” lol). A lot of young patients with invisible chronic pain type illnesses end up isolating from those around them as a form of self preservation, clinging too tightly to the few people who may understand, or attempting to ignore and self manage their issue all together.

Yet, so many similarly situated people I know have just learned the push and pull of their own body. “I can work out in the morning if I don’t have anything else planned today in case I need downtime”, or “I’m going out this day and I want to wear heels, so I’ll take it easy for a day before and a day after”. This is kinda how I see Luigi’s behavior as he was still (very) active, but this can give people the appearance that there’s not a physical problem, and from my experience that is almost more isolating. Do you want to maintain an active lifestyle? Is it worth it knowing that pain will almost certainly result? Is it worth it knowing that it may make others not believe you when you are hurting? It can be a very complex and emotionally draining push and pull. (Again , from my experience and from people I’ve met throughout my ~12-15 years dealing with this)

I trust your writing because everything you’ve written has been amazing, but I am excited to see how you attack the nuances of this dynamic that a visibly young, healthy person can have with the feeling of being betrayed by their own body. Its enough to drive anyone mad or into self isolation. I hate to think that our sweet boyfriend ever had to experience it :(

Kinda an unorganized babble/mind dump (thanks for being my therapist lol) but I can’t wait to se what’s next from you! Much love💕

Hi! First of all, thank you for sharing this with me! 🥰

That is definitely something that has been on my mind from the start. I have a few ideas and I hope I won't disappoint you with the execution.

The idea here is that he's gonna be at rock bottom at the beginning of the fic and then she'll help him find a way out of the Deep Dark Hole™️. I think this is gonna be somewhere darker than Luigi has ever actually been (I hope), given what we know. But the goal is to maybe give people a little hope that things can get better, no matter how bad it gets.

Please, if you ever feel like I got something wrong or you think something could have been done better, let me know. Don't be shy or afraid to hurt my feelings or something. It's really important for me to know if the message is coming across as intended with this particular fic.

Again, thank you so so much for your message. It means the world to me 💚

[ilikeyoshi]

one thing i've come to understand and accept about myself is i can NEVER live without at least one other human inhabiting the same walls as me. there are about a million reasons for this but these are the most prominent ones:

the aforementioned adhd meds issue. i CANNOT remember to take them reliably on my own. i've tried alarms, but for these to work i have to take the meds the SECOND i hear the alarm, which means i have to already be awake for the day and have all the components within arm's reach when it goes off: this means the meds themselves AND a drink. if i have to Go And Acquire These, i will get distracted and forget. i also have to remember to keep the cup full. i ALSO have to be awake early enough in the day to take the meds without ending up awake until 4am that night, which is impossible without the Slight Pressure of another person because i WILL sleep until 2-4pm unmedicated, regardless of when i went to bed. i've also tried putting the meds in a location where i HAVE to move them to access a commonly used thing, but this invokes all the same issues: i have to do it IMMEDIATELY, have everything i NEED to do it immediately, and wake up early enough to not botch my sleep schedule. impossible task; i am softlocked without help.

i have found that the combination of adhd, autism and fibromyalgia all serve to make taking care of myself and my living space VERY HARD without another person to, even if only in my imagination, hold me accountable. i am constantly tired and bored, and so tasks that do not alleviate those things are extremely difficult to reliably do. the presence of another human being, even one who has not asked me to do anything, creates a sense of "oh, i want to be a good roommate," and raises the priority of these sorts of tasks. it's not depression, i'm not Not Doing It because i'm too brain sick. for lack of a better way to say it, i just don't care about it because the difficulty of doing it outweighs the benefit of having it done. but the difficulty of doing it DOES NOT usually outweigh the benefit of making someone else happy or comfortable.

however, when a task is too hard even WHEN there's another person in the house, i've found i can solve this by doing those tasks when the other person is ALSO doing such tasks (chores, for example), ESPECIALLY if we can do it together. part of it is that i'm naturally extroverted, and group activities make my brain feel good (hence alleviating boredom and fatigue), but this is ALSO where i can play social anxiety and people-pleasing to my advantage. if someone begins a task i said i would do, or a task i was asked to do, it triggers JUUUUST enough guilt that i can overpower the executive dysfunction and either help with the task, or take it over completely (whichever the person prefers). is it ideal? is it abled? not exactly, but if me and the other person understand and accept it, it works great.

speaking of anxiety: being all by myself scares the crap out of me. there have been times where i am the only person in the house for a few hours, and it FREAKS my ass out. it's definitely related to my issue regarding big houses, where my living space needs to be small enough that i can hear disruptions from even the point farthest from where i currently am—OR, i need to live with enough people for the sum total of us to be able to do so. i don't like dogs enough to get a guard dog, and animals don't comfort me as well as other humans do.

and even if AAAAAALL of that wasn't the case: as mentioned, i'm very extroverted. i start going a lil batshit if i haven't physically, verbally spoken to another human in a few hours. so i'm doomed to need at least one roommate at all times. :D (obviously someone comfortable with all these isms of mine though LMAO.)

[voxofthevoid]

no. 40 sukuna/gojo role swap........ your MIND ohmy god. they're both power tripping menaces just different flavors, idk why i never thought of their places exchanged oughghhu DELICIOUS!!!!! And goyuu, what's closer than close? The vessel and the curse nestled in your ribs huh... the sweet rot growing into your heart and lungs and oh wowowow!!! I'm never not going to be thinking about Fallen God Gojo sealed into eyeballs. King of Curses Sukuna manifesting evil red eyes on yuuji boringgg— King of Blasphemy GOJO turning Yuuji in a overbright disco ball with too many all-seeing eyes like freckles, like stars, eheheeeee I love it i love it♡ and Yuuji popping eyeballs like grapes. I can't unsee it help😭 I found one(1, SINGULAR) fic w this premise already i need to hunt down moreee😬😬😬 thank you SO BMUCH for sharing your fics idea with us, your brain is a marvel♡♡♡ + and a terror, if my wip folder was closer to 100 than 50 for one fandom i'd crack like an egg are you kidding me🫠

Haha thank you 💙

The funny thing is that this idea was actually sparked by an anon ask from several months ago (when my plot bunny count was nearly half what it is now—nvm, I checked again and it was 61 then) that asked if I had any ideas for KoC!Gojou. At that time, I didn't! There was only KoC!Yuuji with Sukuna as the vessel.

But the issue with asking me if I have any ideas is that, if I find it interesting enough, my mind will end up latching onto it and spawning something, which is how #40 came into being.

Also, it's delightfully eerie how closely you've nailed my outline for Gojou's and Yuuji's appearances in that AU:

Blind eyes all over Gojou's body, filling with blue every time Yuuji eats one shriveled little ball. Number of active eyes depends on the number of eyes consumed. Closed slits all over Yuuji's body that stay open but blind after Gojou exits him. He'd have a time looking in a mirror and thinking of the time he called Gojou beautiful.

This is mostly a dark, angsty romance because I think there's no kind ending for Yuuji falling in love with the monster in his soul, even (especially) if that monster loves him back. The fic is meant to start with the aftermath of Gojou getting out and taking over...not the world, but Yuuji's corner of it and then work backward. Either reverse chronological order or non-linear, I haven't decided yet, but I want to cover all the important bits from their first meeting to the botched execution.

Also, I believe @laughing-sock was working on a KoC!Gojou fic when that linked ask came in, so that might help scratch your itch for such fics. Happy hunting!

(Bonus note about Sukuna in this AU: Special-grade curse user Sukuna. Yuuji's brother. He can be Yuuji's best inspiration to not let Gojou out.)

And well, are we very sure I haven't cracked like an egg? The more the WIP/idea number grows, the less sane I feel 😂

[almacambiondaughterofsaleos]

You know what, for the first time in a long while I've finally found a Hazbin or Helluva teaser that I actually find very positive! I'm glad that, at least for now, they still acknowledge Charlie wanting sinners to go to Heaven, which I really hope doesn't get thrown out the window. I also really like her actress, as well as those who voice Vaggie and Angel Dust, they sound very fitting and close to their original voices. Now there are three details I didn't like, like how in the first seconds when Vaggie tries to reach for Charlie, for a split second the whole scene shifts into a new perspective and back like it was an animation error. Charlie seeing those people having sex seems like a Helluva Boss joke, but it didn't really bother me much. And lastly, what can be seen as both a positive and negative, is how Charlie is willfully ignorant about all the awful stuff surrounding her while she sings how great things will become. It's either negative because they make her a dumbass that way, or positive because it shows how staunt and determined she is about her goal despite everything happening, which I can respect. I also like how the hotel is actually surrounded by a whole city rather than far away from other buildings, it makes a lot more sense to have their hotel as close as to many people as possible. I also like the more hellish side of the scenes, it made it feel closer to actual Hell with all the fires, corpses lying around and nobody caring, people openly killing and bashing each other's skulls in for fun, open cannibalism, especially that part made me kinda terrified to think about, so yeah, nice job on this Spindehorse!

I am still on the fence because things can start promising then end up botched in execution down the line.

[moreespressoformydepresso]

What infuriates you most about descendants? From books and movies?

Mal.

More specifically her botched character from descendants 2 onwards and the way it affects the outcome of the story. She started out as a really good character and then the writing ruined her.

Okay so how to explain this in a reasonable word count? My biggest issue with Mal is that she seems to backslide on character development constantly. It’s not a one off, and Dove Cameron’s acting and singing cannot save Mal from the fact that two whole movie plots were caused by her doing something that makes no sense from any angle. To be clear: I like Mal… in D1. The first movie, while suffering from the same general weirdness as all Disney channel movies, is pretty good and Mal has a well-written arc. Its only problem is time constraint, but I can live with it being a little rushed and surface level because it’s Disney and it’s just one movie. It will forever grind my gears that Mal makes the emotional “we be good now” speech when she was literally the only one actively still trying to follow the plan, but again it’s Disney and she’s the main character. My only real critique is that Jay, Evie, and Carlos should have been the one giving the “we don’t want to be evil” speech rather than have Mal list out why her friends don’t want to be evil when they clearly already know (as shown in the montage during If Only’s reprise). But whatever, girl who’s never known anything other than how to be evil learns how to be good and find herself thanks to the love of her life. Compelling nature vs nurture story.

Then Descendants 2 rolls around, and the issues start popping up. Audrey doesn’t exist in the movie, which sucks because I feel like this movie should have at least acknowledged the consequences of Mal’s previous evil behavior (and also I like Audrey), but I can live with that. What I cannot live with is Mal being a horrible (girl)friend and making boneheaded decisions despite supposedly being a better person than she was before. I like the concept of someone breaking under the stress of adapting to an environment that is the complete opposite of what she’d known before, especially with the added pressure of being on the road of becoming the queen of Auradon, but as you may have guessed I find the execution severely lacking. My main gripe is that Mal’s reaction is stupid and goes against what the first movie told us. When you break, you cannot be expected to make great decisions, but Mal went through the trouble of enchanting her scooter to get through the barrier (which makes me ask all kinds of questions about the questionable security of the barrier, but whatever) and then actually went there, and chose to stay there even when her friends came to get her, practicality abandoning all of them even after she had time to calm down and think things through. That’s no longer just the stress. Mal was a better friend when they were all villains who don’t do love than she was when she’d supposedly turned good.

Supposedly, she’s learning to be a good person. But she lies about using magic and then abandons everyone without a word after a freakout where Ben’s clearly not even mad about the magic. She could have left a damn note, said goodbye, explained herself, but no. And that’s me going along with the whole leaving thing at all, but honestly even that’s a massive overreaction. Her issue is the pressure that comes with being the king’s girlfriend, that’s got nothing to do with being good, so why didn’t she just break up with Ben? It would’ve honestly been nicer than not breaking up with him and leaving for the isle forever without telling him where she’s going. This, of course, gets Ben kidnapped by pirates. Mal wants to help save him after making a dumbass bet (which was all kinds of stupid) that forced her to give the pirates Fairy Godmother’s want (idk how it would work inside the barrier that blocks magic but sure) but she still plans on staying on the isle. Okay fine, if that’s where she’s happy, but could she maybe talk to her friends and boyfriend about this at least once?!?! Then of course she goes back to Auradon anyways.

In case you haven’t noticed, everything Mal does in D2 is selfish. Not once does she consider anybody else’s feelings. Only a glimpse in Space Between but that’s a single song and all it comes down to is “we’ll still be together” which, to me, hangs a lampshade on the fact that Mal can leave with her scooter whenever she wants and all the kids stuck on the isle can’t. Nobody considers them, except for the antagonists of the movie. Not once does Mal, who is supposed to have grown from being evil, consider anybody else’s feelings in her decision making. Even accepting she’s going back to her evil upbringing, which could be interpreted as a way to show how abuse victims will often chose what’s familiar over what’s actually good for them, there should be something there to show us she isn’t actually the rotten being she pretends to be. You know, since the whole point of the first movie is that she’s not a bad person but pretending to be because that’s what she’s been taught is who she must be? It invalidates the whole first movie. But it gets even worse, because now we finally get to Descendants 3.

The absolute lowest of lows Mal’s character sees in the trilogy of movies, D3 made me hate her to the core of my very being. Not only does she have the same issue as she did in D2 where all her decisions are driven by selfishness with a callous lack of care for literally anybody else, she now lacks even the paperthin excuse of pressure getting to her. Stress and being overwhelmed can make people do stupid things, which is why I gave Mal leeway and didn’t hate her necessarily. I just didn’t really like her anymore. D3 took that leeway together with any and all character development Mal had over the previous two movies, rolled it up into a ball, and threw it out of a skyscraper’s highest window to splatter it onto the pavement below. One villain (who is her dad) almost gets through the barrier and her immediate reaction is to screw over every single innocent child on the isle and lock the barrier forever?!?! What the fuck is wrong with this chick?! I meant what I said in my post about the descendants boys, Ben should’ve told her that if she thinks the risk of one villain getting out is more important than the lives of thousands of abused children, then by her logic they should throw the kids they’ve already brought over back on there too. After all, there’s a risk they may still want to be villains given Mal’s little freakout in D2, tHe RiSk’S jUsT tOo HiGh! Those villains were dealt with by like- three heroes each. You mean to tell me all of them combined cannot handle that? Bring some guards with you next trip and don’t drag your feet when you close the barrier behind you next time, problem fucking solved! Or don’t tell anyone when you’re gonna go get the kids??? No one followed the core four out, and despite this oh so massive risk Mal’s so worried about she sure as fuck wasn’t worried about opening the barrier to go get Hades’ amber! Then Gil and Harry came out and guess what? They helped the main crew because all they wanted was to get off the isle. Mal didn’t just not oppose this cruel, extreme idea… she came up with it. Supposedly she’s a better person now, but her first reaction to her perfect life being slightly threatened with the possibility of issues (not even ruin, just issues), was to disregard every single child who’s just like her (if not better, because their parents weren’t the literal mistress of evil) and damn them to a life in hell on earth, an existence of nothing but crime and poverty and starvation and abuse! How can she be anything but selfish and mean and cruel with a thought process like that?! Her literal reason is that she wanted to protect her and her friends’s new life! So apparently in her mind, now that she has everyone she cares about off the isle, it’s not worth caring about the isle anymore. She has who she wants off, and fuck everybody else. Then she lies to everybody about it being her idea because she needs Uma and her crew to defeat Audrey, meaning she knows full well that what she’s doing is horribly shitty.

That’s what truly gets me, actually. If she genuinely believed this was the right thing to do, if she truly, 100% believed that there was no better solution and this is what had to be done… why did she lie? Why didn’t she explain herself with good arguments? Well… because there aren’t any. This was the worst possible solution, and she knows that, but it’s the best way to ensure her happily ever after isn’t threatened so who gives a shit? (Everybody else, but clearly Mal doesn’t care about that). She lies so she can use Uma, Harry, and Gil. She lies so her friends won’t get mad at her for her horrible behavior. She lies, because it suits her. Because it gives her the happy ending she wants, and that’s all she cares about. Then when this fails, she decides to go the other extreme route of breaking the fucking barrier so she can be queen of both Auradon and the Isle. That’s her literal reason. She says it herself. Even when she makes a “good” decision, it’s just to serve her. To give her more power. I know the message it’s supposed to send is that bullshit about evil not being inherent but fuck that. I don’t believe it, and I really wish we got to see the moment right after the credits where the villains do what they promised they would: take over Auradon and destroy everything, because some of them were on there for a very good reason. The whole point of the two previous movies was that we shouldn’t judge or condemn people based on what their parents did, but on what they do themselves. I have no idea how that means not judging the parents for their own actions either, and frankly it’s so stupid and shortsighted I’ll leave it there. There’s a reason I completely ignore the ending of descendants 3.

Anyways, what I’m saying is that after the first movie Mal’s character just kept getting worse and worse and I cannot stand her anymore. She’s selfish and mean and doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself, and the narrative tries desperately to convince us she’s a good person deep down but with everything she’s done I just can’t buy it anymore even though I want to. They began well, with a good story about recovering from trauma, and somehow it ended up with them making trauma survivors look even worse than popular media usually does and I hate it. They tried to write a complex villain protagonist who learned to become a better person and escaped from the family cycle that’s implied to exist in Evil Like Me, which is good, but then they fucked it up. Badly. And I cannot stand Mal’s character with how she’s written, nor can I stomach the massive gap between who Mal is and who the narrative incessantly insists she is.

As you can tell I have many feelings on this, and I have a lot more to say but I’ve tried to not make this too long. I hope you enjoyed reading my rant because it was very cathartic to write :).

[smokeybrandreviews]

Multiverse of Madness

I am an unapologetic Adventure Time apologist. i think it was one of the greatest shows ever created and deserves all the love it gets. AT saved Cartoon Network back in the day and spawned so many creators who would, in turn, leave their mark on the industry. Without AT, there is no Steven Universe or that other one with the fighting i guess? The influence of Adventure Time gave credence to the potential popularity of shows like nuShe-Ra and nuVoltron. Those characters are iconic and full of so much depth. Finn Mertens, Jake the Dog, Bonnibel Bubblegum; All of them have become stalwarts of cartoon history. Like, Marceline Abadeer is one of my all-time favorite characters in fiction. When Distant Lands aired, i was emotionally devastated. Obviously, Obsidian was mys sh*t but Together Again brought me to tears. That's how much this show meant to me, so when Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake was announced, i was all over it. I was mad curious how this would play out. Would it be just a romp through a gender-swapped Ooo? Would the target audience still be kids or would the show be a more mature take since the original kids were now wayward adults? So many questions. Well, Fionna and Cake is over and i have thoughts.

First thing first, This show is not about Fionna and Cake. It is on a superficial level but they're more a plot device who participates in the narrative. Fionna and Cake is about Simon Petrikov coming to terms with the loss of Betty Groff and how his relationship with her, was toxic as f*ck. Like, holy sh*t, was it bad! The co-dependency was insane! I mean, you got glimpses of that throughout Betty's arc in the original AT (Betty literally leaping through a Hambo powered time rift, her problematic Magic Woman phase, and the eventual wish that turned her into f*cking GolBetty, all for her "love" of Simon) but this chick was as obsessed with Simon as Simon was with her. When she transcended and become a deity of pure chaos, Simon was left in a depression spiral that, ultimately, shook the core of the goddamn multiverse. And i say that with no hyperbole. F*cking Ice King, put the entire multiverse of Adventure Time in jeopardy, because he missed his boo. What follows is, one of the most well thought out and executed romps through a multiverse narrative I've seen outside of f*cking comic books. I don't want to spoil anything but the first nine episodes of this show are brilliant, rivaling the very best Adventure Time has to offer. The tenth? Not so much.

Fionna and Cake definitely botches the landing, especially coming off such incredibly strong episodes as the three right before it. Again, no details, but, holy sh*t, were those three episodes great. Seriously, watch this show, it's f*cking fantastic. The Simon stuff is definitely the heart of this narrative but what about the show's namesake? The Fionna and Cake bits are good but i never really felt as invested in their story as i was in Simon's trials. It's not like their stuff was bad, per sey, it just didn't feel as... dire? I don't know, i felt more for the characters around them than i did the characters themselves? Don't misunderstand me, i enjoyed their arc. Fionna and Cake struggling with their own identities and coming to terms with who they are was cool and all but, ultimately, it felt more sub than main plot, which is weird because it's their show. Fionna and Cake are basically the inciting action which informs the entire plot but i never really feel like that's a thing. Plus, there is this very important aspect to their character which, kind of never really plays into the overarching conflict, with the exception of a particularly gruesome scene, and i feel like that was a missed opportunity. As an overall production and viewing experience, Fionna and Cake is f*cking exquisite.

The stuff i said about Fionna and Cake is true, to an extent. True for me, i guess. People may get more out of their arc than i did, which is fine, that's a point subjectivity. What isn't subjective is how well this show is produced. Seriously, the art style is familiar, yet, more detailed. The characters are well performed, each true to their own personality beats. But it was the worlds we visited that truly hammered home the butterfly effect, the effect Simon had, on all of those worlds. I loved every second of that experience and, while they didn't fully stick the landing, there were great aspects of that tenth episode. Fionna and Cake turned out to be ten episodes of solid, adult, Adventure Time narrative that felt organic. It didn't feel like a cashgrab or desperate attempt at Max to pull in viewers. It felt like, after the absolutely brilliant reception to Distant Lands, that HBO understood there was a market for a show like that and they just let the staff create. Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake isn't perfect, it's definitely got it's flaws, but of the content I've seen this year, it's easily some of the best. Whether you're a fan of the old world of Ooo, or just interested in what "adult" animation has to offer, this show is one of the best examples of the art form. It was a strong watch and i definitely recommend a viewing.

[helmet-heart]

Hungary 2024. Well, what a race that was.

To put this as an eventful race would be putting it mildly, frankly. 2024 really seems to be leaving us spoiled with exciting races, but I feel – as a Lando fan (and Oscar enjoyer) – this one just might take the cake for me. Seems like Nico’s curse has taken a new method of execution, because that was Lando’s race to win in the 3rd stint.

Now, I am not a huge fan of McLaren as a team, I will state. I didn’t like how they treat their drivers even before this (see Arrow McLaren in Indycar, and Danny Ric in 2022) but it seems to have finally hit the 2024 F1 grid. Silverstone feels more like a forewarning now, with their poor pit timing, alongside the poor tire strategy and imbalanced reliance on their drivers for strategy calls. Now in Hungary they’re really made this obvious with fucking their own strategy and pushing a team order they themselves destroyed.

In hindsight on a second watch, it becomes very obvious that the plan all along had been for Oscar to win. We can see this as far back as when Lando was told his race was with Max and not Oscar, and then further along in Lap 39 with the permission to race between the McLarens only lasting until the mid 40s. Now of course, this is F1. Team orders do happen. Personally, I would rather see the drivers actually compete with each other for the win, as I find that it’s a more satisfying race to watch (and I’d assume to win as well) and therefore I’m not big on team orders. Despite this, I can understand a team orders with strategic purposes, such as securing points for a driver in contention for the Championship title, eg: Lando. One would think this would be priority, especially seeing as we’re very close to summer break already.

What I don’t like is a team order that seemingly came down from upper management solely to give a driver his first win.

Personally, the only thing I can think of for reasoning besides simply getting Oscar his first win (whether to make McLaren look good, to please people or keep them happy, etc.) is just little, like how Oscar would be the 6th maiden win at the Hungaroring. I don’t see any reason why this was a call made outside of that, especially so early. If this were made just before their 1st pits I’d be more understanding, as it’d be a judge of race pace at the time and then holding that 1-2 from there. Unlike this though, the order was already established before that, in the morning before the race if you’re to infer from certain radio clips between Joseph and Lando later in the race.

This is where McLaren’s strategy comes more heavily into play, and by that I mean that they once again botched the pit stops. It’s obvious that the team order came from higher up, but the pit stops was all on them. This will be the 2nd race in a row they’ve butchered Oscar with a bad pitting strategy, and it’s really disappointing to see. They were overly conservative at the cost of the driver they were trying to give the win. As F1TV had put it, it was messy. They should’ve pitted Oscar earlier, a lap or two before would have been fine. They threw him under the bus directly against their own plans. Lando has an attitude to him at times, and I understand some people hate it, but he’s not wrong. They should’ve put Oscar first if they wanted these team orders to go through nicely. They were not in danger in the way McLaren acted their were.

With that butchering, I’d almost be delusional enough to think that the team orders took enough of a hit that they should’ve been allowed to race properly. The strategists should be taking that fall from the higher ups, as it was in fact their fault. But this was not the case.

I would argue that it should have been handled much like it was originally told to Lando on the radio, after Oscar’s botched pit: If you can get to him, you can swap. As much as the pit stop is what fucked over Oscar, I thought he should be bringing himself to a spot where he’s proven he is worthy of that win, which would be done by working on closing that gap to Lando. This is not to say he’s unworthy of wins, that’s not at all true. He’s a very talented driver and I do believe will be a World Championship within his career, possibly multiple times. The fact is that Lando had the pace over Oscar in the 3rd stint, making as wide as a 5 second gap at one point. Judging by the progress Lando had been making on Oscar as well as Lando’s talent for pulling in fastest laps where it counts, I believe he would have won the race even if they had pitted in a sensible way and put Oscar first.

All-in all – biases aside – I do think that was Lando’s race to win after McLaren fucked up the pit stops. I’d say before was a decent balance between being Oscar’s and Lando’s, seeing as Lando was around equal in pace to Oscar into the 30s, but those team orders shouldn’t have been used, or at least not have been so absolute. It’s cruel to Lando, and gives Oscar such a dirty race for a first win. Simply boxing Oscar first would have made this simpler, cleaner, and a much nicer race to watch.

While I don’t think there will be any animosity between Oscar and Lando, there’s definitely already some awkwardness. The cooldown room can show that, as where Lando usually turns into a pretzel in his chair with worst posture then I have, he stood opposite to the chairs in the room with eyes mostly on the screen. The same can be said at the champagne, and at Park Fermé.

I can only imagine a world where we truly had a Multi 21 scenario, and Lando disobeyed the team orders. What the retaliation from team management would be, the consequences for Lando, and the effect on the McLaren drivers’ relationship as teammates.

This was just handled horribly, and sadly, that tracks with McLaren. Lets hope they can learn from this mess and do better, because they need to, and soon.