. a question mark is like the half of a heart and with you i felt answered
★ 𝓜𝐀𝐃𝐒 | she/they/he | 23 | music lover | part time writer | art student | infj
◟this blog contains 18+ content, i’m not responsible for what you read
. on-going work: a crown of ink (last updated: 22.06.25)
★ current media hyperfixation: monster hunter world
◟ current song hyperfixation: blue gangsta, michael jackson
. fandoms : arcane, bg3, the pitt, got/hotd, hannibal, marvel (daredevil, punisher, xmen mainly), grishaverse, tvd, tadc, animal kingdom, the wheel of time, star wars, lotr/hobbit, umbrella academy, house md, lost, sherlock, soul eater, peaky blinders, fleabag, x-files, atla, ahs, avatar, vikings
. this post was last updated on : 04/06/26
@madschiavelique 𓂃 all the works i post are my own. don’t rewrite, copy, claim, translate or feed to AI any of my works on any platforms.
𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: being the backup engineer for project hail mary, you didn't think you'd wake up on the ship, or that you'd fall in love with the science officer for a second time
𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔: 18+, slow burn, eventual smut, amnesia, colleagues to friends to lovers to colleagues to friends to lovers again, bad science idk i barely passed chemistry and physics
words: 1.6k
𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇-𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒚 no one
want a handwritten letter from a character? / join the discord for updates
← part 1
It had been a week since he’d opened his eyes. A week since he’d been woken up from his extended slumber by a voice he didn’t recognise asking him simple math questions.
A week since he’d settled from his almost-spiral into madness, but that’s natural when the only light you can see is the fluorescent bulbs of a ship you didn’t remember boarding, and the multitude of stars out of every window.
Grace had come to terms with the fact that he was 11 light years away from home, and his only company was the three-armed ceiling creature that had tried to forcibly shave him, and the ship that didn’t understand his jokes.
He’d even accepted the reality of the situation when he’d said his goodbyes to Commander Yáo through the airlock, that one took a little longer to process than the others.
He wasn’t in the habit of moving bodies through a ship, or going through their belongings in an attempt to remember anything worthy of a eulogy- at least, he didn’t think he was.
It was difficult to know what he could and couldn’t do, what he did and didn’t know, who he was and what he wasn’t.
“Who am I?” He’d asked the manufactured air around him, “Dr. Ryland Grace,” the ship had responded, and that was the only source of confirmation he’d been provided. He had no choice but to trust a disembodied voice, a tag on his suit, and a sticker on a case that claimed to be his belongings.
Grace had reconciled with the fear, anxiety and panic that came with being alone, but he wasn’t truly alone.
The main thing that he couldn’t quite accept was how the name attached to the oval cot above his own made him pause every time he read it.
Those white digitised letters caught his attention each night before he allowed himself the courtesy of sleep, and every morning he awoke.
The name was familiar, yet distant. He spoke it aloud to himself on multiple occasions in an attempt to jostle the memory loose from the back of his brain and fall onto his tongue with recognition.
It was fruitless. It was the ghost of a memory; like a word you were certain you knew but the letters were translucent the moment you tried to attach them to your recollection.
It had happened to him before but never on this scale. He recognised the feeling from being at the front of his classroom, whiteboard behind him, board marker in hand when the word he was looking for slipped from view.
In those times one of his students would shout the forgotten word back at him and the synapses in his brain would light up and he could continue.
But here, there was no classroom - no bright eyed and bushy tailed students eager to guide their teacher’s train of thought back onto its rails.
Here, there was only that disembodied voice programmed to answer with the pocket of information it had been fed by its creators.
“Who’s in pod two?” He’d asked, and the voice replied with the same name he’d spoken to himself.
“Yes-no, I can see that, but who are they?” Grace had tried, only to be met with the same answer. A name delivered with monotone and slightly automated packaging. A name that made his breath quicken and his heart flutter.
To get any detailed answer out of the ship’s computer was a task within itself. It was clear that the intention behind its creation wasn’t for socialising or conversation but for the basic function of keeping its humans-human-humans alive.
In a moment of frustration, Grace had climbed the ladder up to the occupied cot and reached for the zipper, perhaps a face would piece together the puzzle of his confusion but the robot in the sky had startled him with a loud “Unauthorised!”
He’d recoiled his hand and glared at the singular circular camera attached to the body of his only conscious companion. He wasn’t sure if the voice was attached to it, but he supposed it had to be, it was part of the ship afterall.
“Why not?” Was yelled back, “Unauthorised,” the computer spoke each syllable exactly as it had before.
There was no real emotion, no humanised input, only facts. “I just want to open it and see-”, “Unauthori-”, -”Yes, I know you said!” Grace yelled back with such energy that his body swung backwards and collided with the metal bars of the ladder.
Pausing, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of calm, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” he lifted the one hand not holding onto the ladder for support in surrender, mediating the one-sided tension.
He was met with silence, clearly the computer wasn’t entirely aware of social conventions to understand that he was upset.
“Why can’t I open the-” he paused, looking at the see-through orange fabric that shielded the body inside just enough to make features indistinguishable, “-Bag?”
He tilted his head to the side and traced the shrouded features with his eyes; over the expanse where a forehead would be, down the slope of the nose that protruded against the fabric and into the flattened surface punctured by a tube that disappeared beyond where he could see.
A mouth, he was sure. Lips parted by a tube that kept this person fed and nourished.
“Unauthorised,” the voice sounded for a fourth time and Grace wondered if he were to hear that word again would it lose its meaning to him.
It took everything in him to not react the same way he had the three previous times. It was a computer after all, he just needed to ask the right question to get the right answers.
“Uh,” he rubbed the heel of his palm against his head, the fibres of his hair audibly scratching against each other as he thought of the correct wording, “What’s your function on this ship?”
The mechanical hands twisted like the attempt of a hand gesture, one after the other then back to their original position, “Medical assistance.”
“And mine?” A question he somewhat knew the answer to, but asked regardless. “Dr Ryland Grace; Science Officer,” he nodded along with every word. He’d surmised his role was science based, it was the first of his memories to come back to him. Math he knew.
“What about the rest of the crew?”, “Captain Li-Jie Yào, Pilot. Deceased.” Grace tugged his glasses from their perch on his nose and let them dangle under his chin, rubbing his face with his free hand. He didn’t need to be reminded.
Then the third name was stated, the one that made his ears prick to attention and his fingers fix his glasses back onto his face with eagerness, “Engineer: Stable,” was the description that followed.
“Stable,” he repeated to himself in a mutter, glancing back to the screen attached to the cot, “Can we wake them up?” He traced each letter with his eyes, “Unauthorised-”,”-Yeah, yeah, okay unauthorised.”
‘Stable’. He’d make do with ‘Stable’
Every day he would start his morning staring at the underside of the bed above, wondering if today was the day he would meet his crewmate.
Every day he had opened his eyes and waited, holding his breath in case there was a movement he missed, or an inhale not generated by the ship’s life support.
Every day, when no such sound could be heard, he’d ask the voice, “What’s the Engineer’s condition?”, and every day he’d hear, “Stable.”
Grace had heard the word so often it had begun to lose its meaning.
At first it was a reassurance, a reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone, but after two weeks the meaning grew roots into something else.
‘Stable’ was another day of loneliness. Another day of the mountain of hope being chipped away piece by piece.
It had been 28 days of ‘Stable’, if Mary was tracking the average Earth days properly; and Grace was only a few hours into the 35th day since his own awakening.
The numbers stared back at him from the lab whiteboard, scribbled in the same handwriting he dated the top of the top of the one in his classroom.
“Mary, how many days does it take someone to go crazy from being alone?” He’d asked the ship he’d so lovingly nicknamed.
“There is no specified timescale for psychosis to appear from isolation.” Mary explained but the answer didn’t fill him with reassurance.
Grace huffed to himself and tapped the butt end of the marker against his bottom lip with a sigh before pressing the tip back against the board, “Possibly already insane?” He spoke aloud as he put his words into their physical form.
“Would you like a psychological assessment, Dr. Grace?” The ship asked, more with a hint of curiosity than genuine concern, “No-no, it’s fine. It was-it’s a joke,” he waved the notion away and shook his head, clicking the marker back into its holder on the board.
For now, he was okay, all joking aside. He was healthy, sane, and- as much as he hated to say it- stable.
𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: being the backup engineer for project hail mary, you didn't think you'd wake up on the ship, or that you'd fall in love with the science officer for a second time
𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔: 18+, slow burn, eventual smut, amnesia, colleagues to friends to lovers to colleagues to friends to lovers again, bad science idk i barely passed chemistry and physics
words: 1.6k
𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇-𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒚 no one
want a handwritten letter from a character? / join the discord for updates
← part 1
It had been a week since he’d opened his eyes. A week since he’d been woken up from his extended slumber by a voice he didn’t recognise asking him simple math questions.
A week since he’d settled from his almost-spiral into madness, but that’s natural when the only light you can see is the fluorescent bulbs of a ship you didn’t remember boarding, and the multitude of stars out of every window.
Grace had come to terms with the fact that he was 11 light years away from home, and his only company was the three-armed ceiling creature that had tried to forcibly shave him, and the ship that didn’t understand his jokes.
He’d even accepted the reality of the situation when he’d said his goodbyes to Commander Yáo through the airlock, that one took a little longer to process than the others.
He wasn’t in the habit of moving bodies through a ship, or going through their belongings in an attempt to remember anything worthy of a eulogy- at least, he didn’t think he was.
It was difficult to know what he could and couldn’t do, what he did and didn’t know, who he was and what he wasn’t.
“Who am I?” He’d asked the manufactured air around him, “Dr. Ryland Grace,” the ship had responded, and that was the only source of confirmation he’d been provided. He had no choice but to trust a disembodied voice, a tag on his suit, and a sticker on a case that claimed to be his belongings.
Grace had reconciled with the fear, anxiety and panic that came with being alone, but he wasn’t truly alone.
The main thing that he couldn’t quite accept was how the name attached to the oval cot above his own made him pause every time he read it.
Those white digitised letters caught his attention each night before he allowed himself the courtesy of sleep, and every morning he awoke.
The name was familiar, yet distant. He spoke it aloud to himself on multiple occasions in an attempt to jostle the memory loose from the back of his brain and fall onto his tongue with recognition.
It was fruitless. It was the ghost of a memory; like a word you were certain you knew but the letters were translucent the moment you tried to attach them to your recollection.
It had happened to him before but never on this scale. He recognised the feeling from being at the front of his classroom, whiteboard behind him, board marker in hand when the word he was looking for slipped from view.
In those times one of his students would shout the forgotten word back at him and the synapses in his brain would light up and he could continue.
But here, there was no classroom - no bright eyed and bushy tailed students eager to guide their teacher’s train of thought back onto its rails.
Here, there was only that disembodied voice programmed to answer with the pocket of information it had been fed by its creators.
“Who’s in pod two?” He’d asked, and the voice replied with the same name he’d spoken to himself.
“Yes-no, I can see that, but who are they?” Grace had tried, only to be met with the same answer. A name delivered with monotone and slightly automated packaging. A name that made his breath quicken and his heart flutter.
To get any detailed answer out of the ship’s computer was a task within itself. It was clear that the intention behind its creation wasn’t for socialising or conversation but for the basic function of keeping its humans-human-humans alive.
In a moment of frustration, Grace had climbed the ladder up to the occupied cot and reached for the zipper, perhaps a face would piece together the puzzle of his confusion but the robot in the sky had startled him with a loud “Unauthorised!”
He’d recoiled his hand and glared at the singular circular camera attached to the body of his only conscious companion. He wasn’t sure if the voice was attached to it, but he supposed it had to be, it was part of the ship afterall.
“Why not?” Was yelled back, “Unauthorised,” the computer spoke each syllable exactly as it had before.
There was no real emotion, no humanised input, only facts. “I just want to open it and see-”, “Unauthori-”, -”Yes, I know you said!” Grace yelled back with such energy that his body swung backwards and collided with the metal bars of the ladder.
Pausing, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of calm, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” he lifted the one hand not holding onto the ladder for support in surrender, mediating the one-sided tension.
He was met with silence, clearly the computer wasn’t entirely aware of social conventions to understand that he was upset.
“Why can’t I open the-” he paused, looking at the see-through orange fabric that shielded the body inside just enough to make features indistinguishable, “-Bag?”
He tilted his head to the side and traced the shrouded features with his eyes; over the expanse where a forehead would be, down the slope of the nose that protruded against the fabric and into the flattened surface punctured by a tube that disappeared beyond where he could see.
A mouth, he was sure. Lips parted by a tube that kept this person fed and nourished.
“Unauthorised,” the voice sounded for a fourth time and Grace wondered if he were to hear that word again would it lose its meaning to him.
It took everything in him to not react the same way he had the three previous times. It was a computer after all, he just needed to ask the right question to get the right answers.
“Uh,” he rubbed the heel of his palm against his head, the fibres of his hair audibly scratching against each other as he thought of the correct wording, “What’s your function on this ship?”
The mechanical hands twisted like the attempt of a hand gesture, one after the other then back to their original position, “Medical assistance.”
“And mine?” A question he somewhat knew the answer to, but asked regardless. “Dr Ryland Grace; Science Officer,” he nodded along with every word. He’d surmised his role was science based, it was the first of his memories to come back to him. Math he knew.
“What about the rest of the crew?”, “Captain Li-Jie Yào, Pilot. Deceased.” Grace tugged his glasses from their perch on his nose and let them dangle under his chin, rubbing his face with his free hand. He didn’t need to be reminded.
Then the third name was stated, the one that made his ears prick to attention and his fingers fix his glasses back onto his face with eagerness, “Engineer: Stable,” was the description that followed.
“Stable,” he repeated to himself in a mutter, glancing back to the screen attached to the cot, “Can we wake them up?” He traced each letter with his eyes, “Unauthorised-”,”-Yeah, yeah, okay unauthorised.”
‘Stable’. He’d make do with ‘Stable’
Every day he would start his morning staring at the underside of the bed above, wondering if today was the day he would meet his crewmate.
Every day he had opened his eyes and waited, holding his breath in case there was a movement he missed, or an inhale not generated by the ship’s life support.
Every day, when no such sound could be heard, he’d ask the voice, “What’s the Engineer’s condition?”, and every day he’d hear, “Stable.”
Grace had heard the word so often it had begun to lose its meaning.
At first it was a reassurance, a reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone, but after two weeks the meaning grew roots into something else.
‘Stable’ was another day of loneliness. Another day of the mountain of hope being chipped away piece by piece.
It had been 28 days of ‘Stable’, if Mary was tracking the average Earth days properly; and Grace was only a few hours into the 35th day since his own awakening.
The numbers stared back at him from the lab whiteboard, scribbled in the same handwriting he dated the top of the top of the one in his classroom.
“Mary, how many days does it take someone to go crazy from being alone?” He’d asked the ship he’d so lovingly nicknamed.
“There is no specified timescale for psychosis to appear from isolation.” Mary explained but the answer didn’t fill him with reassurance.
Grace huffed to himself and tapped the butt end of the marker against his bottom lip with a sigh before pressing the tip back against the board, “Possibly already insane?” He spoke aloud as he put his words into their physical form.
“Would you like a psychological assessment, Dr. Grace?” The ship asked, more with a hint of curiosity than genuine concern, “No-no, it’s fine. It was-it’s a joke,” he waved the notion away and shook his head, clicking the marker back into its holder on the board.
For now, he was okay, all joking aside. He was healthy, sane, and- as much as he hated to say it- stable.
𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: being the backup engineer for project hail mary, you didn't think you'd wake up on the ship, or that you'd fall in love with the science officer for a second time
𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔: 18+, slow burn, eventual smut, amnesia, colleagues to friends to lovers to colleagues to friends to lovers again, bad science idk i barely passed chemistry and physics
words: 2.2k
𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇-𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒚 & 𝒅𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 @hwalovs
want a handwritten letter from a character? / join the discord for updates
“Flight team, I want you to meet Doctor Ryland Grace,” Stratt’s calm and rational tone commanded the attention of the small group following her footsteps through the room.
From how tall the white metal ceiling was, mixed with the hustle and bustle of people traffic, it was difficult to remember that you were currently standing in the middle of the ocean miles from any sort of civilization.
The man that Stratt was directing your attention towards sat behind a computer, guarded by a thick plastic window, seemingly completely unaware that there were at least fifteen pairs of eyes watching a Twizzler dangle from between his teeth.
The way he chewed at the red gummy straw and concentrated on the screen in front of him with such conviction reminded you somewhat of a rabbit gnawing on celery, only much slower and oblivious to his surroundings.
When simple perception hadn’t pulled his eyes from the computer, Stratt resorted to knocking on the tempered plastic screen as if it were a door. The scientist’s head popped up, eyebrows slightly risen and Twizzler swinging then slipping from between his lips.
“He is currently the world’s leading authority in Astrophage biology.” You weren’t one to question the organisers of this mission, especially as you weren’t technically part of the flight team, but you’d spent most of your life around government scientists and this man did not fit the usual description.
Doctor Grace stood from his swivel chair and lifted his hands to shrug, a look of humility at such a grand introduction wrinkled his face. Definitely not like the previous experts you’d met.
Stratt continued to walk the group alongside the makeshift lab, or enclosure, and the man mirrored the pathway. He eyed the cluster of new faces over the rim of his glasses, head tilted downwards with what you’d almost call timid.
He followed adjacent to the plastic walling until he was momentarily out of sight, the thick windows switching to thinner blue opaque film. If you’d have to guess, you’d put all your chips on it being a door of some kind to his enclosure- laboratory.
“Doctor Grace-” Stratt continued, “-These are the three astronauts going on the mission and their backups for redundancy,” he reappeared next to her as she finalised the introduction.
The last part of her statement made your stomach ascend to your lungs and drop back down without caution. ‘Redundancy,’ she had called you and the two people beside you. ‘Redundancy,’ she’d said, but ‘Redundant’ is what weaved its way into your train of thought.
Logically speaking within the literal terms of engineering, it meant duplicate. A copy of the original, a safety net that meant if anything happened to said original, the operations would continue as smoothly as planned.
“Yáo, Ilyukhina, and DuBois. Our pilot, engineer and science officer,” Stratt’s hand extended forward with a slight bounce between each person as she allowed their name to be airborne.
The originals, you thought. If their ‘Redundancies’ were as important as them, learned as much as they had and were willing to sacrifice as much as them, why were your names not also given?
You closed your eyes for a moment and inhaled softly so as to not interrupt the fragile nature of the meeting, catching yourself in your own panic and caging it before it could escape and infect your surroundings.
It wasn’t ego that made you linger onto the word, it was deeper. It was the years and years of studying, training and the newfound anxiety that had been thrust into your lap aboard the premise that you might be spending your last few weeks on solid ground.
A formal apology would need to be written to Sir Isaac Newton for defying the laws of universal gravitation and motion, regardless if it were to be Ilyukhina or you climbing into the ship; what was going up, was most certainly not coming back down.
No, it wasn’t ego. Many had been approached for your position, but only you and Ilyukhina had accepted, and that had to mean something. You had to mean something. At least enough to have your name spoken alongside your colleagues.
Stratt shifted her position to stand beside Dr. Grace and towards the pairs of waiting eyes, halting its movement, waiting for a response from either party.
Dr. Grace nodded along to the silence and observed the group, once again unaware that they were waiting for him to finally speak. His head shifted towards Stratt sharply and you were sure if you squinted you may have seen the cogs of his brain turning.
“It’s an honor,” were the first three words out of his mouth. Dipping his head in a quick polite bow then shifting his eyes between each person stood before him.
He held contact with yours for a moment, meeting one in fifteen- or thirty if you counted each pupil individually, but you glanced down to the t-shirt he was wearing, distracted by its uniqueness. Everyone else in the lab was wearing button up shirts, or something plain and clinical.
Not him. Curtained by the baby blue of his coat was a cartoonish print of a large tabby cat perched on the Golden Gate Bridge.
Of course the cat was adorable, but the shirt was vintage; it wasn’t just a tabby cat, but the Kilban cat. It was strange enough that a government employed scientist was wearing a graphic tee instead of a uniform, even stranger that it was a print based off of a comedic cartoon of the 1970’s.
If anyone else in this field were to buy something ‘vintage’, your last guess would’ve been that.
The blue curtains adorning the shirt quickly closed and you were greeted with the hands, then crossed arms of Dr. Grace, causing you to return your gaze back to his own.
“I’m, uh-” he stuttered, averting his eyeline from yours, you’d clearly caught him realising just how out of place his attire was, “-I’m excited to share what I’ve learned about Astrophage and spin drives.”
His hands clapped softly together and the rhythm of his voice was steady but just a little bit too slow. In all your years of being surrounded by ‘the leading authorities’ in their fields, not once were you addressed as if you were learning this information for the first time.
Some may have taken this as arrogance. As a man thinking he is the smartest in the room, and the others so below his own intellect that the science needed to be dumbed down, but the genuine enthusiasm of his expression, paired with the hesitance of his gestures was evidence otherwise.
Dr. Grace’s attention flicked back to you as he awkwardly pulled at his coat to ensure it was covering the cute feline beneath before he continued. “We have 1,009 of these Little Engines That Could on the Hail Mary and-”, Commander Yáo interjected.
What was said was unknown to you. You’d attempted to learn Mandarin when you first started studying astroengineering, but ultimately decided you only had enough brain capacity to focus on math instead of a language too.
It seemed that Dr. Grace was just as lost as you were, glancing between Yáo, Stratt and, for some reason, you. Unfortunately, you didn’t have the guidance that his desperate eyes and pinched eyebrows were looking for, so you simply subtly shrugged.
He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, possibly deciding that staying quiet was the better answer than to question what was so important that it had to be said in a different language.
“What do you think?” Annie Shapiro, the secondary science officer and DuBois’ back up, leaned in to whisper to you without either of your attentions being taken from the discussion ahead of you. There was a hesitancy to reply, the last thing you wanted was to be seen as disrespectful
Stratt nodded once confidently and turned to continue the tour of the carrier, knowing the rest would follow. “Of?” you sighed, taking the footsteps of the group as an opportunity to muffle your speech, but also trying to keep the movement of your lips to be as minimal as possible.
Out of the corner of your eye you saw Shapiro jut her chin upwards to point through the first line of the flight team and towards the person you’d just met, “Dr. Grace?” you whispered back, gaining a confirming hum from her.
“He’s…” you began but paused when the man in question turned his body to glance back at the group. For a moment you wondered if he’d heard his name spoken aloud and was looking for the owner of the sound, but, unlike Stratt, he was checking to see if you were all following.
“He’s different,” was the wording you chose. It wasn’t entirely incorrect, but you needed more information to form a real opinion on him.
“He’s a school teacher, apparently,” Shapiro pinched the zipper of her uniform, pulled it down an inch then back up again to secure the collar around her neck. You wanted to ask why and how a school teacher had found himself in such a position of authority when he slowed to listen to Commander Yáo.
Too close to talk about him without him hearing, but close enough to observe him a little more.
It started to make sense; the clap to gently get the attention of the group as he spoke, the rhythm of his explanation and even checking that he was being followed. They were all tiny mannerisms a teacher would gain when having to control a classroom of rowdy and excitable children.
But you weren’t children. You were experts, handpicked by Stratt to carry out a mission that you wouldn’t see completed. Even standing in second place to the people destined to be strapped into a pod and forcefully comatosed was terrifying, but that wasn’t the strongest emotion the mission had given you.
Dr. Grace’s expression shifted between being overwhelmed, to shock, then sympathy as Commander Yáo explained to him, returning the same slow rhythmed speech you’d all received earlier, about how they had decided the ways to terminate themselves once the mission was complete.
His eyes wandered between the six of you; Yáo, Ilyukhina, DuBois and their back ups, giving you all the individual attention such a statement deserved. Stratt didn’t say your name during the introduction, but Grace made you feel just as seen for your potential sacrifice.
There it was. That emotion that was stronger than the fear of dying in space. Guilt.
It was a potential sacrifice. Ilyukhina was the one that deserved to feel the weight of the mission on her shoulders, not you. Yes, you’d both received the same training and debrief. Yes, you’d both made peace with the facts of the situation.
“I want to do lethal injection with a little bit of heroin,” she stated with a hint of humour, Yáo continuing the sentiment with “I’ll have what she’s having!”
They were happy, happy enough to make a joke about dying. But here you were, pushing down the creeping fear of a potential sacrifice. They were courageous and selfless, and here you were, scared to be a backup.
Dr. Grace stopped in front of a cylindrical bunker half-full of equipment, hands on his hips and an expression that reflected just how absurd of a punchline the situation had become.
A school teacher, you thought. A school teacher with too much empathy, being met with the gravity of what he was contributing to and not knowing what to say.
His vision drifted back to you and you provided him with a sad smile that seemed to relax him slightly - it confirmed to him that at least someone else in the room recognised how macabre the whole conversation had become.
‘Little Engines That Could’ was the last thing he’d said to the group and now he was being expected to respond to ‘Lethal injection with heroin’. You’d never seen someone so out of their own comfort zone that it didn’t share a Zip Code.
Your smile lost its sadness and curled into something genuine as you lifted your hand to tap your chest three times. His eyes descended to where you’d pointed on yourself, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, causing a crease to form between them.
An inaudible puff of air left your nose and your smile deepened as he searched your face for the answer your mouth couldn’t provide.
You tapped your chest again and nodded your head towards him, the little cogs in his head churning to understand as he stared at you blankly. Then his eyebrows raised, he glanced down to his own chest, and was met with the tabby cat he’d tried to hide.
His lips stretched into a smile of his own and once again pulled the flaps of his coat over his chest to hide the fluffy cartoon, shaking his head slightly and looking over the rim of his glasses with a gaze that said ‘thank you’.
tomodachi anon: viktor confessed like 3 times in one day. man is head over heels!!! (my mii rejected him all 3 times lol but still considers him they’re closest friend). more updates on their love story to follow
!!!! SOBBING SCREAMING THROWING UP
he’s such a yearner, it’s profoundly accurate god i miss this man
ur mii has more restrain than me because i’d have shown him a great evolution before he even asked
I desperately need you to know I got tomodachi life living the dream, made viktor, got him to crush on my mii, and made the nickname he used for said mii “Miss”. acoi lives in my head rent free
the way i woke up and my vision got blurry from tears and the strength of my smile 🥹 oh anon you are the absolute sweetest!!! don’t hesitate to share the journey and evolution of your mii and viktor i’m beyond curious to know ❤️
hi loves!! it’s been a hot minute since i’ve been here, but fear not i hopefully will be more present soon!
uni has been sucking the soul out of my ass through a straw BUT i am thankfully seeing the end of the tunnel!
i want to come back on writing eventually this summer and add some chapters to acoi, i’ve been receiving really sweet comments on ao3 and it warms my heart every time <33 a huge thank you to all for supporting me! i’ll have to work on making commissions this summer, but hopefully i can get time to write c:
i do also want to write some personal projects, maybe present you guys my ocs a bit more in them 👁️👁️ who knows!
anyway, thank you for your patience and your kindness! love you all big mwahs and huge hearts
i have a lil request for hcs for all of the ocs cited in your post (abraxas, aidan, ambrose, asten, bailey, dante, diego, elias, jasper, micha, oscar, phoenix, ramiel and theodore) : do they have a morning routine?
like, do they shower in the mornings or more at night, with a specific soap of a kind? what do they eat if they get breakfast? is it easy to wake up or hard for them? do they have a specific order or do they just go with the flow of how they’re feeling at the moment?
thanks in advance i love learning more bout your boys c: im so excited to read about them
hey bbgirl < 3 this made me wrack my brain so i'm sorry if they're repetitive or boring (also adding clayton for you)
𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐣𝐚𝐰 𝐨𝐜'𝐬!
𝙰𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚡𝚊𝚜 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚛 ⤵︎
abby doesn't struggle to wake up in the morning, he doesn't have a specific time he gets up, it's usually whatever time he finds himself unable to get back to sleep.
abby is the king of soap and water. he showers in the morning, he normally wakes up sweaty because of the night terrors he has. he's also a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner boy, but god is his hair still soft and smells nice.
abby's breakfast is always a cigarette and redbull.
𝙰𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗 𝙰𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎 ⤵︎
aidan is an early riser, often he wakes up before his alarm. the first thing he always does is remake his bed.
aidan enjoys a quick colder morning shower, it wakes him up enough to start the day. he uses a mid-range shampoo and separate conditioner, and he takes time to exfoliate his whole body with a loofah and a sandalwood body wash. he also uses an exfoliant on his face and moisturiser when he'd dry.
aidan's breakfast would be a coffee in a thermos mug and something light like oats or fruit. he always feeds his cat ivy before himself.
𝙰𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝙲𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚎 ⤵︎
ambrose doesn't subscribe to the notion of having an alarm, they simply wake up when their body feels like it, which is usually midday.
ambrose has a quick wash in the basin every morning, but will take a bubble bath every night whether they have time for it or not, they'd add scented petals if they've had a particularly stressful day.
ambrose's breakfast would be made for them if they had the option. if they asked what they wanted, it would be belgian waffles with raspberries and lightly powdered with icing sugar.
𝙰𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 ⤵︎
asten doesn't use an alarm but somehow wakes up at 5am every morning without fail.
asten is the fastest and most efficient showerer you've ever met. he gets in, washes his hair and body, then he's out. he is also a 2-in-1 enjoyer.
asten's go-to breakfast is scrambled eggs, sausages and black coffee.
𝙱𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝙱𝚘𝚒𝚔 ⤵︎
bailey will, and always has, relied on his sister blair to wake him up in the morning. if there's a function or plan for the day, he will be late.
bailey would deny it, but he doesn't always wash in the morning as he doesn't leave himself time. if he has somewhere to be, he'll pull on yesterday's boxers and a kind of clean shirt. chronic axe body spray is a shower user.
bailey's breakfast is leftover pizza or chocolate.
𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚂𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊 ⤵︎
clayton does not like mornings. years of getting up early for gymnastics practice has made him really value his mornings. asleep, and in cosy in bed.
clayton's showers run a little bit longer than he ever plans them to be. not for any particular reason other than getting lost in thought. he uses unscented and 'for sensitive skin' product due to his vitiligo. he uses a sunscreen-moisturiser every day for the same reason.
clayton's breakfast always includes a banana. pancakes, a smoothie, banana milk or just a banana on it's own. he hates that he enjoys them so much and calls himself a stereotype.
𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚊 ⤵︎
dante doesnt have an issue waking up, but he does spend an extra bit of time staring at the ceiling before getting out of bed.
dante trims his beard every morning, keeping it as a short stubble, then would shower to make sure the hair is off of his body. his showers are almost too hot.
dante often skips breakfast.
𝙳𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚂𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚊 ⤵︎
diego loves the morning. every night before bed he checks when the sun will rise and sets his alarm for 15 minutes before that. he always takes a moment to watch the sun rise.
diego likes to take his time in the shower, normally because he's planning his breakfast at the same time, but he uses pretty good shampoo and conditioner to get sand out of his hair. his body wash is citrus scented.
diego's breakfast is whatever he baked that morning. usually muffins, some sort of bread, flapjacks, brownies or cookies.
𝙴𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝙸𝚜𝚋𝚓ø𝚛𝚗 ⤵︎
elias wakes up at 8am every morning to facetime his daughter before she goes to school, it is a ritual he wont miss.
elias has come to appreciate the nicety of taking his time in the shower, but he's conscious of his water usage, so he tries to be quick. his body wash has a herby scent to it.
elias' breakfast requires a cup of earl grey tea, marmalade toast and a stroll around the garden to check on his plants.
𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚜 ⤵︎
jasper is a late riser, he much prefers to wake up in the afternoon and work through the night. he spends an hour or two in bed scrolling on his phone before he actually gets up.
jasper prefers a night time shower, when the sanctuary is quiet and he can really think and plan the next day. he uses specific hair products for white hair and curl protection.
jasper's breakfast is a cigarette, a coffee and contemplating his enemy's downfall.
𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊 𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 ⤵︎
micha's sleep schedule is so messed up that he doesn't have a specific time of day he goes to sleep, let alone wake up. he cant sleep without his raccoon plushie his mom gave him as a kid.
micha doesn't like showers, he doesn't like how the water splashes on his face, so he almost exclusively has baths. his body wash would be skittle scented. he spends a little too long in the bath because he likes the water on his hands.
micha's breakfast is mountain dew and doritos.
𝙾𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝙸𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖 ⤵︎
oscar's morning consists of a ritualistic routine. he wakes up at 5:30am, pulls his duvet covers back to air his bedsheets, and strips his pillows to wash them. he changes his bedcovers every two days.
oscar takes two showers a day, one in the morning and one at night. he might take another in between if anything messy occurs. his showers are lengthy with medical-grade antimicrobial body wash. he also uses a fragrance-free, hypoallergenic moisturiser to stop his skin, particularly his hands, being irritated from how often he washes them.
oscar's breakfast is strictly one cup of black coffee, and a fruit salad consisting of one banana's, one orange, one mango, two kiwi's and a handful of grapes that he peels himself. the skin on the fruit helps him worry less.
𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 ⤵︎
phen doesn't have a specific routine, he tried to have one at some point but he gets distracted too much for any consistency.
phen showers every other day, or after he has a particularly difficult choreography. he doesnt sweat much so he doesn't feel like he has to, but he always wears a perfume that smells like cherries.
phen forgets to have an actual breakfast that isnt monster.
𝚁𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 ⤵︎
ramiel has a loose routine, but as someone who is nocturnal, it's different from the others. he wakes up around 4pm, and puts his glasses on so he can find his contact lenses by his sink.
ramiel showers after he wakes up and has his contacts in, but he specifically likes to shower with the light off, he finds it more peaceful. he doesnt always wash his hair as it doesn't need it too often.
ramiel's breakfast is a coffee and cereal with oat milk, he also likes to eat that in the kitchen with the light off.
𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 ⤵︎
theo's mornings are slow, usually taking a moment to allow his body time to adjust to being awake, then followed by soft stretches when he's ready.
theo is a simple man with simple showering habits. in, clean, out. his body wash, shampoo and conditioner is whatever was bought for him by elias at christmas and birthdays.
theo's breakfast consists of a bowl of fresh strawberries with yoghurt and a fruity cup of tea.
fuck me that was longer than i expected, and also lowkey makes me wanna write some of these as a oneshot, but enjoyyy!
proof-read by no one, i let no one proofread this, you all find out together
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight |
want a handwritten letter from a character? / join the discord for updates
At some point the clock had churned itself forward enough to hit 5am. 5:23am being the last timestamp you recalled before sleep had wrapped its lithe fingers around your ankles and dragged you into the realm of unconsciousness.
When a particularly loud car with a spluttering engine had passed your bedroom window and woken you from your restless sleep, you realised you’d actually fallen asleep with your phone still on.
There, on the dimly lit screen, was the last document you’d found on the subject of Hybrids.
Henry was correct when he’d forewarned you of the unpleasantness of your bedtime story, it made you wish that it was all just fiction. An amalgamation of dystopian sci-fi meeting biological horror.
Hybrids had been around for a very long time, beyond yourself, your parents, possibly even your great-grandparents. Four generations of life- of history mostly erased due to hatred and bigotry.
The earliest indication you could find was in the 1920’s, but you were certain there were trickles of them even further back than that, there had to be.
Weapons. They’d been made, initially, for the sole purpose of being expendable weapons for the military during the fallout of the first world war.
Whilst the world was healing and making reparations, Piltover were planning and preparing in the ways they do best. Deliberating and debating ways they can improve the safety of their own council should something similar happen in the years to come.
The brightest scientists that the country had to offer had devised a way to splice the DNA of animals with that of humans; maintaining their human appearance, while harnessing their animalistic traits to give them an advantage that their human counterparts couldn’t compete with.
The eyesight of a big cat was far superior to technology from the simple fact that it didn’t require calibration, testing or constant upgrading to best its enemy. Night vision that didn’t need to be turned on manually.
Similarly, their biology meant they could outrun a human, and their stamina replenished faster too. Nature’s predator manufactured into something that could be trained to follow orders while thinking for themselves to adapt to any given situation.
Not to mention that the skin of certain mammals is thicker and tougher; an elephant or rhino was a human- or Hybrid- shield with enough empathy to protect the members of their squad without a second thought.
These Hybrids were considered as a barricade, a hunter, reconnaissance, navigation, anything that was useful to the scientist that made them, but not as human. Just a tool to be harnessed and exploited.
If the mere idea of raising Hybrids just to be soldiers wasn’t enough to make your stomach turn in on itself, the way they were described in the documents finished the job- from what you could read around the constant grey bars of redactions.
It was dehumanised and devoid of any compassion; people who didn’t know any better were reduced to a description of ‘subject’ or labelled only as their animal counterpart.
You’d needed to take a moment to stare at your bedroom wall after that. A moment of pause to calm down and collect yourself that you were certain these Hybrids were never given.
Luckily, and you were using the term very loosely, the council of Piltover had voted in favour of abolishing the programme under the description of being ‘One step too far’.
The ache in your jaw was persistent from how many times you’d clenched and unclenched it in anger.
A member of the council, whose name had been redacted for- what you assumed to be- security reasons, had called the manufacturing of Hybrids to be ‘the beginning of a self-funded release of an invasive species’.
Your thoughts drifted to the man you’d left slumbering on your couch within the pillow fort you’d made together with such care. There was nothing ‘invasive’ about him. In fact, from the few short days you’d spent with him, he’d seemingly gone out of his way to shrink himself and his presence.
He was guarded, of course, and aloof with his emotions but he was kind and considerate. He shared his food with you, and tried to move you out of harm’s way when he thought there was the possibility of trouble ahead. Jayce was not ‘invasive’.
He had his own taste in music, movies and loved boardgames. He wasn’t a weapon.
The idea to check on him had crossed your mind, and you wondered if you’d find him still sat up like you’d left him, or if he’d woken up and assumed a more comfortable position within the bed of pillows and blankets you’d left him.
However, your need to understand him more overtook any notion of leaving your bed. Instead, you grabbed one of your pillows to hug it before you continued on your search. If so many exotic and larger animals were an integral part of the original designs, then why had you never seen or heard of them in your lifetime?
It had taken you the best part of an hour to locate the answer to that question, and when you’d found it, you immediately wished you hadn’t.
The words on your phone became blurry, unintelligible wobbles of lines in front of you as a few tears trickled down your cheeks and into the pillow you were holding for a comfort that it couldn’t provide.
They were ‘disposed of’. Living, breathing, sentient beings with thoughts and feelings had been wiped clean from existence simply for being as strong as they’d been created to be.
The voice of the councillor who had deemed them as an ‘invasive species’ had been heard too loudly and too clearly by the hearts of those who feared the consequences of what they’d done.
Not a single one slipped through the cracks.
The pit you felt in your chest was hollow, as if a slight breeze would pass through the chasm and hit the expanse of where your heart was supposed to be. Even so, it felt selfish. Selfish to cry and feel such anguish for something that didn’t affect you personally.
But it did. The man that struggled to sleep at night and refused to let you touch him; either through the apprehension of what you might do to him, or worse, what such a gesture might do to you, made it personal.
The document that had been a witness to your unplanned slumber had explained that, unsurprisingly, the best and brightest that Piltover could offer was unhappy with having to throw away years of research into what they proclaimed to be ‘groundbreaking’.
Shocking absolutely no one, the council agreed. They had put too much money and reputation into the project for it to be discarded, and if you weren’t hitting the very limits of your ability to stay awake, you would’ve screamed in frustration that the same sentiment hadn’t been extended to the lives they’d abandoned.
The programme had been ‘revised’, or so the document had stated. Accompanied with a law that the production of Hybrids was to be limited to ‘domestic breeds’ only. Easily tamable, and easily trainable.
A media campaign is what really put the concept of Hybrids into the public eye. They were advertised as a ‘companion’ or ‘accessory’ to the rich society of Piltover, something to flaunt a wealth that some could only dream of.
Although, like all fads and trends, the excitement died and Hybrids fell into the gutter of capitalism. Only now, the council couldn’t quietly sweep them under their gold-encrusted rug and pretend it never happened.
They were a part of society, whether or not they wanted to accept that fact, and humans would simply need to learn to co-exist.
Once your eyes had adjusted to sunlight creeping through your bedroom curtains and you’d conceded to the fact that you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep after remembering what you’d learned, you checked your notifications.
Henry had sent you a follow-up text around the same time you’d fallen asleep, asking how the reading had gone.
You’d managed to get out of bed and begin mentally forming your reply to him when one very loud question blurted itself into your thoughts.
How did Henry have this information?
If the council had been so secretive and thorough in their eradication of any trace of their blood stained history, then how did Henry- a man casually taking his own Hybrid out for coffee- have access to classified documents?
You slowly turned your head back to where you’d left your phone on your bed, screen open on your texts with the man in question, and your blood turned thick with enough ice to cause frostbite.
How you proceeded next had to be calculated, not just for your own safety, but for Jayce's.
proof-read by no one, i let no one proofread this, you all find out together
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight |
want a handwritten letter from a character? / join the discord for updates
At some point the clock had churned itself forward enough to hit 5am. 5:23am being the last timestamp you recalled before sleep had wrapped its lithe fingers around your ankles and dragged you into the realm of unconsciousness.
When a particularly loud car with a spluttering engine had passed your bedroom window and woken you from your restless sleep, you realised you’d actually fallen asleep with your phone still on.
There, on the dimly lit screen, was the last document you’d found on the subject of Hybrids.
Henry was correct when he’d forewarned you of the unpleasantness of your bedtime story, it made you wish that it was all just fiction. An amalgamation of dystopian sci-fi meeting biological horror.
Hybrids had been around for a very long time, beyond yourself, your parents, possibly even your great-grandparents. Four generations of life- of history mostly erased due to hatred and bigotry.
The earliest indication you could find was in the 1920’s, but you were certain there were trickles of them even further back than that, there had to be.
Weapons. They’d been made, initially, for the sole purpose of being expendable weapons for the military during the fallout of the first world war.
Whilst the world was healing and making reparations, Piltover were planning and preparing in the ways they do best. Deliberating and debating ways they can improve the safety of their own council should something similar happen in the years to come.
The brightest scientists that the country had to offer had devised a way to splice the DNA of animals with that of humans; maintaining their human appearance, while harnessing their animalistic traits to give them an advantage that their human counterparts couldn’t compete with.
The eyesight of a big cat was far superior to technology from the simple fact that it didn’t require calibration, testing or constant upgrading to best its enemy. Night vision that didn’t need to be turned on manually.
Similarly, their biology meant they could outrun a human, and their stamina replenished faster too. Nature’s predator manufactured into something that could be trained to follow orders while thinking for themselves to adapt to any given situation.
Not to mention that the skin of certain mammals is thicker and tougher; an elephant or rhino was a human- or Hybrid- shield with enough empathy to protect the members of their squad without a second thought.
These Hybrids were considered as a barricade, a hunter, reconnaissance, navigation, anything that was useful to the scientist that made them, but not as human. Just a tool to be harnessed and exploited.
If the mere idea of raising Hybrids just to be soldiers wasn’t enough to make your stomach turn in on itself, the way they were described in the documents finished the job- from what you could read around the constant grey bars of redactions.
It was dehumanised and devoid of any compassion; people who didn’t know any better were reduced to a description of ‘subject’ or labelled only as their animal counterpart.
You’d needed to take a moment to stare at your bedroom wall after that. A moment of pause to calm down and collect yourself that you were certain these Hybrids were never given.
Luckily, and you were using the term very loosely, the council of Piltover had voted in favour of abolishing the programme under the description of being ‘One step too far’.
The ache in your jaw was persistent from how many times you’d clenched and unclenched it in anger.
A member of the council, whose name had been redacted for- what you assumed to be- security reasons, had called the manufacturing of Hybrids to be ‘the beginning of a self-funded release of an invasive species’.
Your thoughts drifted to the man you’d left slumbering on your couch within the pillow fort you’d made together with such care. There was nothing ‘invasive’ about him. In fact, from the few short days you’d spent with him, he’d seemingly gone out of his way to shrink himself and his presence.
He was guarded, of course, and aloof with his emotions but he was kind and considerate. He shared his food with you, and tried to move you out of harm’s way when he thought there was the possibility of trouble ahead. Jayce was not ‘invasive’.
He had his own taste in music, movies and loved boardgames. He wasn’t a weapon.
The idea to check on him had crossed your mind, and you wondered if you’d find him still sat up like you’d left him, or if he’d woken up and assumed a more comfortable position within the bed of pillows and blankets you’d left him.
However, your need to understand him more overtook any notion of leaving your bed. Instead, you grabbed one of your pillows to hug it before you continued on your search. If so many exotic and larger animals were an integral part of the original designs, then why had you never seen or heard of them in your lifetime?
It had taken you the best part of an hour to locate the answer to that question, and when you’d found it, you immediately wished you hadn’t.
The words on your phone became blurry, unintelligible wobbles of lines in front of you as a few tears trickled down your cheeks and into the pillow you were holding for a comfort that it couldn’t provide.
They were ‘disposed of’. Living, breathing, sentient beings with thoughts and feelings had been wiped clean from existence simply for being as strong as they’d been created to be.
The voice of the councillor who had deemed them as an ‘invasive species’ had been heard too loudly and too clearly by the hearts of those who feared the consequences of what they’d done.
Not a single one slipped through the cracks.
The pit you felt in your chest was hollow, as if a slight breeze would pass through the chasm and hit the expanse of where your heart was supposed to be. Even so, it felt selfish. Selfish to cry and feel such anguish for something that didn’t affect you personally.
But it did. The man that struggled to sleep at night and refused to let you touch him; either through the apprehension of what you might do to him, or worse, what such a gesture might do to you, made it personal.
The document that had been a witness to your unplanned slumber had explained that, unsurprisingly, the best and brightest that Piltover could offer was unhappy with having to throw away years of research into what they proclaimed to be ‘groundbreaking’.
Shocking absolutely no one, the council agreed. They had put too much money and reputation into the project for it to be discarded, and if you weren’t hitting the very limits of your ability to stay awake, you would’ve screamed in frustration that the same sentiment hadn’t been extended to the lives they’d abandoned.
The programme had been ‘revised’, or so the document had stated. Accompanied with a law that the production of Hybrids was to be limited to ‘domestic breeds’ only. Easily tamable, and easily trainable.
A media campaign is what really put the concept of Hybrids into the public eye. They were advertised as a ‘companion’ or ‘accessory’ to the rich society of Piltover, something to flaunt a wealth that some could only dream of.
Although, like all fads and trends, the excitement died and Hybrids fell into the gutter of capitalism. Only now, the council couldn’t quietly sweep them under their gold-encrusted rug and pretend it never happened.
They were a part of society, whether or not they wanted to accept that fact, and humans would simply need to learn to co-exist.
Once your eyes had adjusted to sunlight creeping through your bedroom curtains and you’d conceded to the fact that you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep after remembering what you’d learned, you checked your notifications.
Henry had sent you a follow-up text around the same time you’d fallen asleep, asking how the reading had gone.
You’d managed to get out of bed and begin mentally forming your reply to him when one very loud question blurted itself into your thoughts.
How did Henry have this information?
If the council had been so secretive and thorough in their eradication of any trace of their blood stained history, then how did Henry- a man casually taking his own Hybrid out for coffee- have access to classified documents?
You slowly turned your head back to where you’d left your phone on your bed, screen open on your texts with the man in question, and your blood turned thick with enough ice to cause frostbite.
How you proceeded next had to be calculated, not just for your own safety, but for Jayce's.
✩₊˚⋆︱𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡: adhd, stage fright, emotional food avoidance, previous addiction, fear of fire, deep water and locked doors
✩₊˚⋆︱𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥: small but athletic build, with burn scars down the left side of his arm, ribs and hip
✩₊˚⋆︱𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 :
✧ phoenix was born in the circus to loving parents, he learned tricks at a young age, favouring aerial ropes and hoops. as he got older he found a love for dancing and music. eventually becoming a performing trio with his parents.
✧ phoenix does not have a last name, neither do his parents. their stage names were their only names.
✧ his parents were on the older spectrum, and age wasn't kind to bodies that had spent a lifetime performing, forcing phoenix to perform more than his parents to allow them rest.
✧ shortly after his 20th birthday, his mother passed away from an illness, his father following shortly after from a broken heart
✧ (tw: drug use and addiction) for a year phoenix grieved while maintaining the circus' schedule, developing an almost debilitating anxiety about going into the ring alone. the circus owner introduced phoenix to drugs to help calm his increasing stage fright.
✧ as the excitement for hybrids declined, so did the income for the circus, causing the owner to transition to a new business model; once the circus closed for the night, a club with mature dancers would open.
✧ after a few years of trying to return to normality without his parents, phoenix agreed to try the club. within the music and dancing, he found a momentary enjoyment from the fleeting affection of strangers, but he wasn't happy.
✧ eventually, the circus couldn't sustain itself and closed its doors for good - the owner tried to sell as many of the hybrids within his care as he could, but phoenix was not among them.
✧ he spent three days locked in his cage without food or water. on the third day, law enforcement collected the remaining hybrids and distributed them to organisations that could give them a home.
✩₊˚⋆︱𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 :
✧ after a while of hesitation, phoenix acclimatised to life within the sanctuary. previously having access to no technology, he slowly begins to teach himself about the world and gain an education his parents tried to give him.
✧ he continues to dance but for his own enjoyment, teaching others through social media and eventually finding a club that specialises in hybrids and prioritises their safety.
✧ he becomes best friends with a german shepherd hybrid called kaida (oc belonging to @hwalovs) from stealing her lighters and hiding them. they bond over kaida filling him in on the drama he's missed and gives him a run down on the whos-who of the sanctuary.
✧ he starts a friendship with a snow leopard called jigra (oc belonging to @madschiavelique) from the emotional support jigra provides him during medical examinations, and the movies they watch together so phoenix can understand pop-culture references.
✧ jigra is the one who gives him the nickname 'phen'. their friendship turns romantic and begin dating, which eventually develops into a polyamorous relationship with jigra's best friend, a panther hybrid named seth (oc also belonging to @madschiavelique).
✧ the three of them get an apartment together, have a family, and phoenix finds his happiness.
a/n: jfc i did not expect to write so much for my boy, but if you got this far, thank you!
the post for my other lockjaw oc's are here, if you would like me to do a similar post for them please lmk, i'd love to!
jack abbot who’s a vampire working on the night shift and has been taking some of the blood in the reserves for a little bit until you come along and become his personal blood bag
he has known how to control himself over the ages and perfectly knows when to stop sucking your blood so that it makes you a bit dizzy and calm in his arms but nothing more because he’s staying aware of your state and knows how your body works and enjoys the way your react to him hit tweet
i think i might merge accounts by posting my art here rather than my tumblr art account why do we think gang? i have ocs to spill on and that i might write about huhu
