For those who don't know: Ikumi Nakamura is the woman who was senior artist on Bayonetta, and designed the titular character along with Hideki Kamiya. Their greatest moment of bonding was over their insistence that Bayonetta keep her glasses on at all times.
Nakamura cannot go to horny jail. She is the warden.
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i think if i were a jedi i would make it my life mission to make yoda angry. i would give anything to hear his little goblin voice mutter the words “thin fucking ice, you are on” and click his little cane on the ground. i would do anything. kick him as im walking and be like “oh sorry didnt see you there.” go with him to the market and try to buy him for four credits and say “oh my bad i thought you were a head of cabbage.” raise all the chairs in the jedi temple just an inch. catch him while he’s sleeping and paint his little nails and then be like “odd that someone caught you slippin master yoda. wonder who could have done that.” leave crumbs in his seat in the jedi council. i mean i would do anything
Summary: Your house burns and the village believes you are dead. Karl Heisenberg finds your body in the ruins and takes you to his factory, intending to use you as material.
The fire starts quietly, there is no announcement of it.
It begins in the beams above your head, in the old dry wood that has stood through too many winters.
You wake to the smell. Smoke curls through the cracks in your ceiling. At first, you think it is only your stove.
Then something crashes.
You sit up too fast. The room spins. Your legs are tangled in blankets. You hear shouting outside.
A scream. Another crash.
The roof groans.
You try to stand, but your foot catches on the rug and you fall hard against the floor. Pain flashes up your leg. When you push yourself upright, the door is already burning.
The world becomes orange.
You grab a shawl and wrap it around your shoulders. You try the window. It is jammed. The frame is warped from heat. You push harder. The glass cracks but does not break. Smoke fills your lungs. You cough. Your eyes water.
The beam above you splits.
It falls.
You do not remember the exact moment it hits you.
You remember the sound. A heavy, final sound. You remember the heat on your legs. You remember trying to crawl.
Then everything goes black.
The villagers stand at a distance.
They watch your house collapse in on itself. The flames eat the roof. Someone says your name. Someone else shakes their head.
No one goes closer. No one helps.
When the fire dies, there is nothing left but char and smoke.
They assume you are gone.
Hours later, when the sky has turned grey and the smoke thins, another figure walks through the village.
Tall. Broad. Coat swaying behind him.
Metal shifts and hums faintly in the air around him.
Karl Heisenberg does not come to mourn.
He comes to collect.
The village has been restless.
Fear makes mistakes. Mistakes make bodies. And bodies are useful.
He steps through the ashes of your home without hesitation. His boots crunch over broken wood. He lifts a beam with a flick of his hand.
The metal nails rip free on their own, drawn toward him.
He sees you then.
Half buried beneath blackened timber.
Still.
Your skin is grey with ash. Your hair was tangled with soot. Your legs are blistered where the fire kissed them too long. Blood has dried near your temple.
He crouches.
Tilts his head.
“Well. That’s unfortunate.”
He presses two fingers to your throat. Your skin is cold from the night air. He waits.
Nothing.
Or so he thinks.
“You’ll do.”
With a lazy gesture, the beam lifts off you. The metal hooks at his belt shift forward like obedient dogs. He wraps your body in a heavy cloth, not gently, but not cruelly either.
You are weight.
Material.
Potential.
He carries you toward the path that leads away from the village.
You wake to cold.
Not the kind that bites like winter wind. This cold is flat and heavy. It presses into your back. Into your bones.
Your eyelids feel too heavy to lift.
There is a sharp smell in the air. Oil. Iron. Something metallic and bitter.
Your head throbs.
You try to swallow, and your throat burns.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling above you is high and dark. Chains hang from beams. Shadows stretch long across stone walls. Somewhere nearby, machinery turns slowly. A steady, mechanical rhythm.
You try to sit up.
Pain explodes through your legs.
A cry escapes you before you can stop it.
The sound echoes.
Footsteps answer.
Slow. Measured.
A figure steps into your vision.
Tall. His hat casting a shadow over sharp features. Stubble along his jaw. Eyes that look at you not with fear, but with interest.
You try to move away. Your arms shake under your weight. Your legs refuse to obey.
He studies you for a long moment.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” he says.
His voice is rough. Calm.
You stare at him.
Your mind scrambles for words.
“Where…?”
“Factory,” he replies simply.
The word means nothing to you.
You try to push yourself upright again. The room tilts. He steps forward and grips your shoulder, steady but firm.
“Easy. You’ll split your stitches.”
You freeze.
Stitches.
You look down.
Your legs are wrapped in bandages. Clean ones. Neat. The burns throb beneath them.
“You…” Your voice cracks. “You touched me.”
He smirks faintly.
“Did more than that. You were a mess. I needed to clean you first, pretty thing.”
Fear rises sharp and sudden in your chest. You try to pull away from him. Your back hits metal. There is nowhere to go.
“Am I…?” You cannot finish the question.
“Dead?” he offers.
You nod faintly.
He snorts.
“Last I checked, corpses don’t panic this much.”
You press your hand to your throat. You can feel it now. The pulse.
Your pulse.
Alive.
The relief is brief. It is quickly replaced by dread.
“Why am I here?” you whisper.
He leans back against a table. Tools are spread beside him. Sharp ones. Heavy ones.
“I found you in the rubble. Thought you were scrap.”
“Scrap?”
“Yeah. Material.”
Your breath stops for a moment.
He watches your fear carefully.
“You weren’t breathing. No pulse I could feel. You were gone.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“No. You weren’t.”
Silence fills the room between you.
The machinery hums in the background.
You try to stand again. Your legs buckle instantly. He catches you without thinking. His hands are warm.
That surprises you more than anything.
He lowers you back onto the table.
“You’re not walking anywhere yet,” he says.
“I have to go home.”
He pauses.
“Home? You mean that pile of charcoal?” he asks.
Your throat tightens.
He does not say it gently. But he does not lie either.
Tears blur your vision. You can't cry in front of him.
“I don’t belong here,” you whisper.
“No, you don’t.”
He pushes off the table and takes a few steps back.
“You should’ve died out there... burns that bad. Head wound. The village doesn’t have the skill.”
"They didn't even try to save me. And after... they didn't even look for me."
You swallow hard.
“What am I to you?” you ask.
He turns back to look at you.
His expression is unreadable for a moment.
Then the usual smirk returns.
“Relax, sweetheart. If I wanted you dead, you’d be scrap by now.”
The word makes your stomach drop.
“But you’re not,” he continues. “Which makes you interesting.”
You grip the edge of the table.
“I’m not yours.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Then let me leave.”
He walks closer again. Stops just short of touching you.
“You can’t walk. You can barely sit up. You would freeze before sunrise.”
You know he is right.
That makes it worse.
He tilts his head.
“What’s your name?”
You hesitate.
He raises a brow.
“I’m not carving it into anything,” he says dryly.
You tell him.
He repeats it once, then he nods.
“Alright, you’re staying put. Heal up. Then we’ll see.”
“That’s not your decision.”
A faint smile touches his mouth as he lets out a chuckle.
“In here? It is.”
You feel very small in that moment.
Almost helpless.
Because you are alive.
And he did not expect that.
He steps back toward his tools.
You lie there, heart pounding, mind racing.
The factory groans around you.
You do not know what he builds here.
You only know one thing, you were meant to be a corpse.
And instead, you woke up in the hands of a man who collects the dead.
Outside, the village mourns you. Or at least, you hope.
Inside, the man who almost turned you into something else watches you breathe.
And he does not look disappointed.
He allows you to sleep. Which you manage to do, even with all that metal rumbling and groaning around you.
You wake to the sound of metal grinding. It is louder than the rest of the noise.
For a moment, you forget where you are. Then the cold underneath you reminds you. The smell of oil.
The factory.
You sit up too quickly again.
Pain slices through your legs, and you hiss through your teeth. The bandages are still there. Clean. Fresh.
Someone changed them.
You look around. You even forgot that he moved you.
You are no longer on the metal slab.
You are on a narrow cot against the wall. There is a thin blanket over you. A pillow that smells of smoke and iron.
You finally remember that he moved you.
Your stomach tightens.
You swing your legs slowly over the side of the cot. The floor is cold under your bare feet. You try to stand.
Your knees buckle instantly.
You grab the edge of a nearby table and barely stay upright.
“Stubborn thing, aren’t you?”
You flinch at the voice.
Karl Heisenberg stands across the room, leaning against a workbench.
His coat is off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hands are dark with oil.
He does not go to you.
He watches you.
“I’m not staying here,” you say, even as your legs shake.
“You can’t even stand.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You won’t.”
You take one step.
Pain blinds you. Your vision spots. Your hands slip. You fall.
But you do not hit the ground.
His arm catches you around the waist.
Strong. Solid.
You freeze.
He holds you steady, not too tight, not too loose.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Let me go."
“If I do, you’ll crack your skull open for real this time.”
You swallow. You know he is right.
Your head still aches. When you lift a hand to your temple, you feel a small line of stitches hidden in your hair.
“You stitched me,” you whisper.
“Had to. You were leaking all over my table.”
His tone is rough, but his grip does not hurt.
He guides you back to the cot. This time, he lowers you carefully.
You hate that your body listens to him.
“I didn’t ask you to save me,” you say.
He snorts.
“Didn’t. I thought you were dead.”
The words hang heavy.
“I wasn’t,” you reply quietly.
“No,” he agrees again. His eyes flick over you. “You weren’t.”
He walks back to his workbench.
Metal pieces shift toward him without him touching them. Bolts roll across the surface. Tools lift slightly and settle again.
You stare.
“You control it,” you murmur.
“Metal? Yeah.”
“How?”
He glances at you.
“You really want that story right now?”
You look away.
He returns to his work, but he keeps talking.
“You’re lucky,” he says after a moment.
“Lucky?”
“Burns like that usually rot. Infection sets in. Fever. You’d be screaming within a day.”
You swallow hard.
“You sound disappointed.”
He pauses.
Then he laughs softly.
“Trust me. If I were disappointed, you’d know.”
You watch his hands move. He works with precision. Each motion is controlled and careful. Not wild like you expected.
He notices you staring.
“What?”
“You’re not what I thought. Not what I heard from others.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t look like someone who helps.”
He studies you.
“And you don’t look like someone who survives a collapsing house, correction, a collapsing building which is on fire.” he replies.
You look down at your legs.
The bandages are wrapped neatly. Too neat for someone like him.
“You were going to use me,” you say suddenly.
He does not deny it.
“Yeah.”
“For what?”
He leans back against the bench and crosses his arms.
“I build things,” he says simply.
“I’m not a thing.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why keep me?”
He hesitates.
It is barely there. But you notice.
“Because now you’re breathing. Changes the equation.”
“I’m not part of your... equation.”
“You are mine while you’re in my factory.”
You hate that word.
Mine.
You press your palms against the cot.
“When I can walk, I’m leaving.”
He tilts his head.
“You think the village will welcome you back?”
The question hits harder than you expect. Almost like an icy shower.
“They thought you were dead. They watched your house burn. No one came close. No one looked for you.”
“They were afraid,” you say.
“Exactly. Yet, they did nothing to help even after the smoke was gone.”
You fall silent.
He walks toward you again. He crouches in front of you and gently lifts the edge of one bandage.
You tense.
“Relax, just checking.”
His fingers are surprisingly steady. He unwraps a small section. The skin under it is angry and pink, blistered but clean.
“No infection,” he murmurs. He sounds happy by the news.
He rewraps it carefully.
“Why do you care?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
He does not look up at you when he answers.
“Because if you die now, it makes this whole situation inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient.”
“Yeah.”
He ties off the bandage and finally meets your eyes.
“But mostly because I don’t like wasting effort.”
You search his face, his eyes.
There is something else there. Something he is not saying.
You move slightly. Pain flares again.
“Stop moving so much,” he says sharply.
“Stop telling me what to do.”
A faint smirk on his lips.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Fire.”
“I almost burned to death.”
“And you’re still arguing with me. That’s fire.”
You do not know whether to feel insulted or complimented.
He walks toward a shelf and grabs something small. When he returns, he holds out a metal object.
It is a brace.
Slim. Curved to fit a leg. Hinged at the knee.
“I made it this morning,” he says. “Lighter than the usual junk.”
You stare at it.
“For me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I had spare parts.”
But he steps closer and kneels again.
“Lift your leg.”
You hesitate.
He raises a brow.
“You want to walk or not?”
Slowly, you lift your injured leg.
He slides the brace into place carefully. The metal feels cool against your skin, it actually feels rather nice.
He straps it gently, adjusting until it sits comfortably.
His fingers brush your scarred skin. He does not flinch.
That surprises you.
“There. Try now.”
You grip the edge of the cot and stand slowly.
The brace supports your weight. The pain is still there, but it is much better now.
You take one slow step.
Then another.
He stays close but does not touch you.
You make it three steps before your balance falters. His hand shoots out and steadies your elbow.
“Easy,” he says quietly.
You look up at him.
You are close enough to see the small scar near his eyebrow. The tiredness in his eyes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you whisper.
He studies your face.
“Yeah, I did.”
The words stay between you.
You do not understand them fully yet. But you feel them.
You pull your arm from his grasp gently.
“I’m not scrap,” you say firmly.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not.”
For the first time since you woke up in this place, you are not just afraid.
You are aware.
He could have finished what the fire started.
He did not.
And that changes everything.
-
The lower levels hum softly. Steam sighs through pipes. Snow presses against the high windows and turns the world outside into white silence.
You are sitting at the long worktable with a lantern beside you.
Your braces are off.
Your legs ache less now, but the scars still pull when you sit too long. You rub them absently while reading from one of the salvaged books you found in the village ruins.
Karl is across the room.
Karl Heisenberg leans over a half-finished construct, tools hovering near his hands. Metal moves when he gestures. Sparks flash.
You read aloud without thinking much about it.
“…and in the end, he realised he did not want power,” you murmur softly, eyes scanning the page. “He wanted something that would stay.”
There is a pause in the grinding of metal.
You glance up. He is staring at you.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” he replies quickly, and turns back to his work.
You smile and continue reading.
But you notice something.
He is not working as loudly anymore.
Later that night, you try to stand too quickly.
Your leg gives out.
The pain is sharp and humiliating. You gasp and grab the edge of the table, but your balance is wrong.
You fall.
You expect the floor.
You get him.
His arms wrap around you before you hit the ground. One arm under your knees. One behind your back.
He caught you without thinking.
For a second, you both freeze.
You are very aware of how close you are.
His breath is warm against your temple. His coat smells like oil and iron and something that is only him.
“You’re supposed to call for me,” he mutters.
“I didn’t know I was falling in advance,” you reply.
He does not let go.
Instead, he adjusts his grip and lifts you properly.
You stare at him.
“I can stand,” you protest.
“Yeah. I’ve seen.”
His tone is dry, but his hands are careful.
He carries you to the chair near the stove and sets you down slowly. His fingers linger at your waist for half a second too long.
Then he steps back.
You rub your knee lightly.
“I hate that my body betrays me,” you admit quietly.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
The room goes still.
“It didn’t betray you,” he says.
“It did. I was strong before.”
“You survived a burning house.”
“That was luck.”
His jaw tightens.
“That wasn’t luck.”
You look up at him.
“You think it was strength?”
“I think, that you’re still here.”
The lantern flickers.
You study him in the low light.
“You look at me like I’m fragile,” you say.
He exhales softly.
“You are.”
You swallow.
“And that bothers you.”
“Yes.”
You blink, surprised by the honesty.
“Why?”
He looks away.
Because this is the moment.
The one neither of you has named yet.
“I build things that don’t break. Metal. Machines. Weapons.”
His eyes shift back to yours.
“You bruise.”
“I’m not ashamed of that.”
“I know.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“I don’t know what to do with something that bruises.”
The vulnerability in that sentence makes your chest ache.
You reach out slowly.
He tenses at first when your hand touches his wrist.
“You don’t have to do anything. You just have to not let me fall alone.”
His eyes lock onto yours.
Something changes.
He kneels in front of you without breaking eye contact.
For a man who commands iron, he looks almost uncertain.
“You weren’t supposed to matter,” he admits.
“I know.”
“I was supposed to patch you up and send you away.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
His hand lifts slowly and rests against your scarred leg.
“You walk through my factory like it’s a home,” he murmurs. “You reorganise my tools. You read as if you belong here.”
“Maybe I do.”
He studies your face.
“And if I asked you to stay?” he asks quietly.
“You already did.”
"Not because you need to. Because you want to.”
Your heartbeat quickens.
You think of him.
Of the way he carried you when you could not stand.
Of the way he adjusts your braces without flinching at your scars.
“I want to,” you say.
The words are simple.
They change everything.
He exhales like he has been holding that breath for weeks.
“Damn it,” he mutters softly.
“What?”
“You’re not scared of me.”
You smile.
“I was.”
“And now?”
You reach up and touch his cheek.
His stubble scratches your palm.
“Now I see you, Karl.”
His eyes darken.
“And what do you see?”
“A man who pretends he doesn’t care, and builds me chairs shaped to fit my legs.”
He lets out a short, breathless laugh.
“That was practical.”
“That was love.”
The word lands between you.
He goes still.
You realise you said it out loud.
You expect him to pull away.
He doesn’t.
Instead, his hand slides to your waist.
“You don’t get to throw that word around lightly,” he says quietly.
“I’m not.”
He searches your face like he is looking for doubt.
He does not find it.
“Say it again,” he says. Begs.
“I love you.”
For a long moment, he says nothing.
Then he leans forward and presses his forehead against yours.
“I don’t know how to do that properly,” he admits.
“You don’t have to do it properly.”
“I’ve spent my life breaking things.”
“Then don’t break this.”
His grip tightens slightly at your waist.
“I won’t,” he says.
And for once, there is no sarcasm.
No mask.
He kisses you then.
Slow.
Careful.
You taste iron and warmth and something deeply human.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes over the faint scar at your temple.
“You’re not scrap,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You’re not a weapon.”
“I know.”
“You’re mine.”
You smile softly.
“And you’re mine.”
For the first time since the fire, since the factory, since the fear, you do not feel like something rescued.
-
The first time you stand before her, you do not bow.
You are not sure if that is bravery or fear.
The factory floor has been cleared. The machines are silent. Even the air feels still.
Mother Miranda stands at the centre of the room, dark and composed, her presence heavier than the iron walls around you.
Beside you, Karl Heisenberg is stiff.
Not afraid. But ready.
Miranda’s eyes settle on you.
“So, this is the human.”
You feel small under her eyes. You can still feel the scars along your legs under your stockings. The faint line at your temple. Proof that you are fragile.
“Yes,” Karl replies.
Miranda circles you slowly. Her steps echo.
“Not infected,” she says.
“No,” you answer before Karl can.
Her eyes flick to you, mildly amused.
“You speak.”
“I’m not a pet,” you say, even though your voice shakes.
Karl’s jaw tightens.
Miranda reaches out and lifts your chin with one finger. Her touch is cool.
“You are not a threat. That is what matters.”
She looks at Karl.
“You build armies from the dead. If you choose to keep one living thing for your own amusement, it does not concern me.”
Amusement.
The word burns.
Karl’s voice is flat when he answers.
“She’s not interfering.”
“She had better not,” Miranda replies.
Her hand drops from your face.
“Keep your human, Heisenberg. She is insignificant to my plans.”
Insignificant.
The word should hurt.
Instead, it feels like armour.
Because if you are nothing to her, she will not try to take you.
Miranda turns and walks away. The factory doors close behind her.
Silence returns.
You exhale slowly.
Karl does not move at first.
Then the metal in the room rattles violently. Bolts tremble. Chains sway.
“She doesn’t get to call you that,” he mutters.
You look up at him.
“You didn’t correct her.”
His eyes snap to yours.
“Because if she thinks you’re harmless, she won’t touch you.”
The anger in his voice is not directed at you.
It is protective.
-
Time passes.
The factory changes.
It is still loud. Still filled with metal and heat. But there is a corner now that belongs to you.
A real bed. Thick warm blankets. A small iron stove that Karl built himself.
A table near the window where the daylight filters in.
You move more easily now. The braces he made are lighter. Almost elegant.
You help where you can.
You organise his tools by size and shape. You bring him tea and food when he forgets to eat.
You sit on a high stool and read aloud from old books salvaged from the village while he works.
He pretends not to listen.
He always listens.
Sometimes you catch him watching you instead of the machines.
When you notice, he looks away first.
He still attends meetings.
He does not tell you everything that happens in them, but you hear enough.
The other lords know about you.
They talk.
One evening, he returns later than usual. His coat smells faintly of wine.
He tosses his hat onto the table.
“You’d think immortality would make people less bored,” he mutters.
“What happened?” you ask.
He hesitates.
Then he huffs a quiet laugh.
“Dimitrescu happened.”
Lady Dimitrescu.
The tall one. The elegant one.
“What did she say?”
He leans against the wall, arms crossed.
“She’s got jokes.”
You wait.
“She suggested I’m going domestic.”
You smile.
“Karl, you are.”
“Yeah, well. She took it further.”
He looks at you then, and there is something unreadable in his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“She implied I’d be producing tiny metal heirs soon.”
You blink.
“She what?”
“She expected me to lose my temper. That’s the game. Push. Provoke. Watch me snap.”
“Did you?”
He shakes his head slowly.
“No.”
You tilt your head.
“Why not?”
He is quiet for a long moment.
Because when she said it, the image formed.
You see it in his expression. The shift. The weight.
“Because for a second, I didn’t hate the idea.”
“You thought about it?” you whisper.
He pushes off the wall and walks toward you.
“I thought about you,” he corrects.
He stops close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.
“You sitting in this place years from now. Not because you’re stuck. Because you chose it.”
Your chest tightens.
“And?”
“And maybe building something that isn’t meant to fight,” he says.
His hand lifts slowly. He brushes his thumb over one of the scars on your leg.
“I’ve spent my whole life making things to destroy,” he murmurs. “For once, I’m thinking about making something that lives.”
You look up at him.
“You mean a child?”
He exhales softly.
“Maybe. One day. If you wanted that.”
The words are careful.
Not possessive.
Not demanding.
Careful.
You reach for his hand.
“I’m still healing,” you say softly.
“I know.”
“I still limp.”
“I know.”
“I’m human.”
“I know.”
You squeeze his fingers.
“And you still want a future with me?”
He looks at you like the question offends him.
“I didn’t drag you out of the rubble to lose you later,” he says.
“You thought I was dead.”
“And I was wrong. I don’t plan on being wrong again.”
Silence stretches between you.
You rest your head against his chest.
His arms come around you without hesitation.
For a man who commands metal, he holds you with impossible gentleness.
“I don’t feel insignificant,” you whisper.
“You’re not,” he replies immediately.
“You’re the only thing in this place that isn’t replaceable.”
That night, snow begins to fall outside the high windows.
You stand together on the balcony overlooking the lower floor.
The machines are quiet. The air is calm.
You lean into him.
“Do you ever regret not turning me into scrap?” you ask lightly.
He huffs.
“Every time you reorganise my tools.”
You laugh.
His arm tightens around your waist.
“No,” he says more seriously. “I don’t regret it.”
You look out at the steel and stone that once terrified you.
“Then what do you want, Karl?”
He watches the snow drift against iron.
“I want you here. Not as something I kept. As something that stayed for me.”
You turn to him fully.
“I’m staying,” you say.
“Good." he says as he leans in.
He kisses you slowly.
Below you, the factory hums quietly.
Not as a place of death.
But as a place where something unexpected survived.
Note: All of these imagines belong to @where-dreamers-go Lol, I just wanted a place to access them more easily 🙂. Additionally, I absolutely showed her this beforehand, and have her permission ✨
Imagine: Gabriel trying to hide his feelings for you while you join to help the Winchesters' hunt.
Imagine: Gabriel returning after missing an outing with you.
Imagine: Gabriel trying to give you hints of where your holiday gifts were.
Imagine: Gabriel encouraging you to set boundaries with Dean and Sam.
Imagine: Gabriel not liking your idea for helping the Winchesters.
Imagine: Gabriel covering for your absence.
Imagine: Dean trying to tease Gabriel about you.
Imagine: Gabriel showing up after you went out on a hunt.
Imagine: Gabriel delivering your notes to Sam and Dean.
Imagine: Having a ridiculous mishap during a hunt and having to ask Gabriel for help.
Imagine Sam and Dean realizing they left you in a dangerous place.
Imagine: Gabriel giving you suggestions for your winter village display.
Imagine rushing to freshen up when Gabriel made a surprise visit.
Imagine getting hit by a cupid's arrow while out on a hunt.
Imagine trying your best to ease your mind by meditating, but Gabriel kept poking you nose.
Imagine: Pretending to use a walkie-talkie when calling out for Gabriel.
Imagine: Sharing a large pizza with Dean.
Imagine the first time you met Gabriel, you ran into his wings.
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going to be entirely real I find Victor’s slight lisp incredibly adorable.
I do also find it incredibly fascinating that all of Victor’s clothing is also designed in such a way for someone who would fundamentally struggle with the motor control that would be needed to use actual buttons. His coat is actually fastened with snaps instead of the typical buttonhole fasteners or zippers you would see on an item of clothing like that.
And his vest obviously doesn’t need to be stated, that is fastened in place with a very simple, large set of hook and loop stud fastenings.
His belt buckle is also large enough for him to obviously get his fingers into it to remove it.
This is to say that I do think that him being so huge has genuinely caused him issues with actually being able to utilize the regular fasteners that people use everyday for their clothes and take for granted due to the fact that his hands either shake very badly (which is the primary reason someone would use these), or because he doesn’t really have the fine motor control necessary for which to use them due to the fact that he is just *too big*.
This is one of the reason I love character design so much, because you honestly CAN tell a lot about someone (and their habits and/or possible behavior) by simply looking at their clothing.
And since I WAS able to get my grubby little fingers on his official model, I can provide some screenshots too from blender when I inevitably get the chance to boot it back up on my shitbox of a laptop
For right now this is the best picture i could find
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Simon "the butcher", who is horrified when he finds out he sentenced a man to death by pressing the camera button.
Simon "the butcher" who keeps apologizing for not knowing better, for causing harm to the people in the room, for being rightfully angry and lashing out, turning every knob and lever and pressing that damn button because why would it work when he doesn't have any power and why didn't they just Tell Him??
Simon "the butcher" who gets teary and has the look of a hurt child on his face when ava mentions filament station and his voice trembles when he is quick to say "that wasn't supposed to happen"...
Simon "the butcher" who apologizes to the sm-13, an inanimate object, after hitting the console.
Just... Simon being so unbeliebably human throughout the whole movie, it makes my heart ache for him
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