how do you feel about writing jayce/velkoz for your loyal fans
hello 1/2 of my loyal beloved fans you are so awesome thank you for supporting me through all the jaykoz haters. here is chainsawman au jaykoz just for you. viktor is here but **** doesn’t follow me so free speech.
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In the end, all the anti-discrimination classes Camille enrolled him in with taxpayer dollars paid off, because when Jayce saw him for the first time the moon-slash of Viktor’s splintered teeth all gnashing in confused mockery of a human grin didn’t quite superimpose upon the half-divine abomination standing before him. Both he and Viktor were perfect negations of space but Jayce saw them separately, which was better than the poor dead rookie, anyway. Jayce’s new partner was an angular creature with long, pale fingers, disjointed as if a hammer had broken his bones one by one, and the remains were stretched and molded by a taffymaker’s touch.
“What are you supposed to be?” Jayce asked, exhausted. Camille was walking away already, black coat trailing behind her and his eye twitched with the odd sensation of rejection. “Fear of voyeurs? Overlord of masturbation? Patron Saint of middle schoolers vaping in the bathroom?”
The devil replied with the acuity of a razor slicing through his thalamus, [Is that any way to greet a fellow scholar?]
He was a giant motherfucking eyeball. He didn’t have a mouth. His nametag said Vel’koz :)! and when his voice rang clear pinpricks of ice kissed Jayce’s retinas. Caitlyn said it was specific to fiend devils, the strange dense way they spoke. Jayce said she was wrong, Camille had the same severity, hard as underwater pressure. All dark and pressurizing, eyes closed and waves crashing into the shore a thousand miles towards somewhere. Nowhere was up. And maybe Viktor’s voice had changed like hell when he finally severed what he said was the fear center in his brain and found his humanity a long black reflective pool where he drowned a young boy and out rose the fear devil. The fiend-fear devil. The Viktor who wasn’t Viktor who kissed Jayce like a scalpel to his gums. Could never get the taste out. Viktor was so fucking scared he handed his fear the bullet-trigger-handgun-key to his mind screaming with scientific reasoning and Jayce walked into the shared apartment complex of their heart to kill him:
Moldy walls. Leak they never fixed. That chiming and Viktor’s steady incongruous voice rendered beautifully self-assured by his steady accent. He could tell Jayce anything, so Jayce shattered the walls which carried his melodious hymn all creaky with coughs and raspy with grit because the asshole liked to shout and a hundred civilians died and now the fiend devil of Benevolence Towards Humanity and Pretentious Tweed Jackets and Protectorate of Your Chromebook Camera was holding out his hand for a shake.
So it goes.
Jayce wanted to scoff but he also didn’t care because one of them was going to end up an empty shot glass and one of Vi’s resounding “he always broke the coffee machine, anyway” soon enough, so he touched Vel’koz’s palm. The eye which was Vel’koz’s face shuttered. The iris shrank and the pupil vanished and a sheen of pristine black obsidian ran over where the purple expunged flesh rotated wetly seconds ago and Jayce saw himself, the hollow slashes of his cheekbones and bruised eyes and thin black suit. The man in the mirror-eye was dull, stupid, and boring. Jayce told the asshole to run into an ice pick and carefully took his hand away. Vel’koz was warm. He looked slimy and cold like seafood but damn he was warm as a summer day that dried the back of your throat.
[I am a hand mirror,] Vel’koz said, and Jayce still felt stagnant in an exchanging of recognition. [I am a yearbook. I am an unseen camera and footprints unbroken behind you in a dusk-filled street, the way the hairs at the back of your neck rise when you’re alone-but-not. I am the burst capillary in the corner of your eyelid as you are forty hours awake chasing a dead king’s dusty footprints along your library’s shelves and the tapping of your fingers against the edge of a page as you beg for another definition. I am your mirror and a frame of your dead mother and my love is unconditional.]
Within the expanse of Vel’koz’s blank visage, Jayce’s mouth moved, albeit slowly. “The Western dichotomous bullshit about all this isn’t real. Heaven and Hell. Good and not-good. There’s no hope, just the absence of fear, and there is no Heaven, only Hell. Your play-acting of God is pathetic.”
[Who made you?] Vel’koz asked instead.
Jayce narrowed his eyes. Scholar? Bullshit. “A somewhat unimaginative evolution,” he said.
[Yes.] Vel’koz sighed with eminent satisfaction. [And God made the prokaryotic cell. He did not make you. He made the primordial Eve, therefore He is simple and ugly, and the one who made something so inconsequential and small and fragile is bound to disappoint you, brilliant and gorgeous you are as a consequence of millennium. But I will not. You created me, therefore I behold you, darling.]
The eye opened. Every inch of Jayce’s skin recoiled with the careless disillusion, the mirage of himself melting into Vel’koz, and only Vel’koz, and his lips parted reflexively with a sharp burst of air. It hurt, to be watched. It hurt that they lingered.
Vel’kos dusted a speck of dust off his suit. [Have we reached an understanding, inventor?]
