#unfinished snippets

[bearsinpotatosacks]

A snippet of Goose explaining polyamory to Bradley.

---------

Carole shifted as she woke from a dream. The glimmers of it hung around her in the blue glaze of twilight but if she tried to think about it, it escaped her like trying to catch smoke.

Slowly, she unlocked each part of her body. Her arms unstuck from her sides, legs stretched tightly as she tried not to disturb Goose or Slider.

But to no avail.

Slider's hand rubbed her stomach underneath her t-shirt. Or rather, his t-shirt. Her's was somewhere on the floor along with the rest of her clothes, apart from her underwear, Goose's t-shirt and Slider's boxers. Apparently he didn't mind going commando underneath his pajama bottoms, something she could feel evidently behind her. He made an excellent big spoon.

Goose groaned in the darkness. He was flat out on his back, one arm around Carole, another underneath Slider. He made an excellent pillow, didn't move too much, although that was for a more morose reason.

After three months of physio, he could walk, but only with a walker. Every day in the rehab hospital had been intense, it had taken its toll on his mental health even if he tried to be positive for them all. Now he was out, he still had hours with the physio, and stretches and exercises too. The pain was immense even if he still had minimal feeling in his legs.

But that didn't stop them making the most of Slider being on leave. Even if he could only lie back, they had no issues. She could feel the slight ache in her thighs now, could feel their hands on her, the images floating around her head, she smiled to herself at the memories.

"Go back to sleep, Carole," Slider murmured into her hair.

"I will, I-"

A small knock at the door got them all darting up. Goose was the most unconscious of all of them. His eyes barely open, hair ruffled and double chin prominent as he lifted his head to look at the door.

"Momma?" Bradley's voice came through the closed door.

"Coming, baby," she replied.

Rolling off of Goose, she padded along the floor to the door. She'd started to convert the garage into their bedroom as soon as she could after learning Goose would have to relearn how to walk. Climbing up the stairs was too much of a feat for now.

She opened the door and her heart melted. Bradley stood silhouetted by darkness. The outline of his goose in his tight grip, his baggy plane pyjamas and him rubbing his eyes made for an impossibly cute image.

"Can't sleep?" She asked.

He shook his head.

"Come on, sleep in our bed tonight,"

He nodded and toddled after her as she crawled back into bed. Her and Slider shuffled back slightly to make room for Bradley to lie on Goose.

She watched him climb up up the bed, wiggling as he pushed himself up until she sighed and picked him up. He carried on wiggling as he got settled on Goose's chest.

For a second they all calmed down. Her breathing regulated as she watched Bradley with one eye open. Slider's hands locked around her middle. The regular thrumming of Goose's heartbeat ran through her head.

Just as she could feel herself slipping back asleep again, she saw Bradley dart up.

"Why's Uncle Slider in your bed?"

They all looked at each other, then back at him. She gulped. Slider's hands tensed around her middle. Sneaking a glance at him, she saw his eyes wide and him biting his lip.

She didn't know what to say. It was too late to explain the nature of their relationship to Bradley. There would be too many questions and she was far too tired

Luckily, Goose came to their rescue.

"He's in our bed because we love him a lot," he said. "We love him like we love each other, okay? We'll explain it in the morning."

Bradley didn't say anything at first. She knew he was staring straight at Slider, not meaning to be malicious but having that innate toddler nature to be creepy.

But after a few seconds, he simply said, "Okay," and lay back down on Goose's chest to sleep.

[midnightannalore]

a trip down memory lane

I've been looking through my old files at all the things I've written and never finished and then I thought why not post some of them?

Context: You Make Me Feel (Like I Am Home Again)

This is my first Mission Impossible work, a post-Fallout story that's supposed to take place in the context of a much larger story, which I could swear I wrote some of, or at least wrote notes for, but I can find no such thing in any of my files.

The basic premise was that after Rogue Nation, Ethan still wouldn't come in and kept living off the grid, and started appearing in Benji's apartment, at the end of his rope, and piggybacking on his missions with nobody else knowing he was there, and they were sort of friends with benefits -- Benji believes himself to be aromantic at this point and Ethan is emotionally available because of Julia.

Somehow a lot of my story ideas -- the ones that I don't write anyway -- end up with everyone settling down and adopting pets or raising kids and being unbearably domestic.

So: a snippet with Benji and Ilsa. Awkward pre-first time.

“So, this is probably going to be a bit of a disaster.”

She sits up at the bed, puts her phone down. “What’s that?”

Benji comes into the room, collapses beside her. He’s being deliberately casual, she can tell. “I don’t know what Ethan told you...” A lie, she thinks, although she always has trouble telling with him. “But I’ve never actually been with a woman. I’m not sure that I know how all the parts work, and all that.”

She shifts closer. “I can show you, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Then there’s the part where I might be ruining a perfectly good friendship, because what if it’s shit and I don’t like it after all?”

“Benji. Do you think you’d be here if you didn’t think you’d like it?”

He looks at her then and there’s real conflict in his expression. She sighs softly and reaches out for his hand. He takes hers and presses the back of it to his cheek, the way she’s seen him do so many times with Ethan. Countless times. After a moment he turns her hand and kisses her palm, then lets it go.

He sighs softly. “You’re right, of course. I think I will. But I’ve been wrong before. And there’s more than just that to think of. There’s you and Ethan. Me at Ethan. There’s the baby...”

“Ethan and I have talked about this. We’re all squared away. And I’ve never known anything that could separate you and Ethan, not even me.”

“What about us, then, Ilsa? What about our friendship? I don’t want us to be people who merely tolerate each other for Ethan’s sake.”

“I wouldn’t be. I couldn’t be, Benji. I love you.”

She looks at him, pleadingly, despite the fact that she knows that her eyes give her away every time. Despite the fact that she knows that he’s already made up his mind, or he wouldn’t be here, in her bedroom.

“Ilsa. Ilsa.” He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her in. She doesn’t have much of a bump yet, but her stomach pushes against his, prevents them from meeting flush, but it’s her breasts he’s looking at. “That’s, ah, new,” he says, a flush darkening his neck.

She laughs. “We can take our time, if you want. No need to do this now.”

“Oh, no, um. Rip the bandaid off and all that. Do you think you can take your shirt off? Unless you actually don’t want to... god, did I even ask if you wanted to have sex with me?”

“I do, god help us all.”

[uniquethingtastemaker]

This is from Vil x Reader -- Overblot Slap:

“Please, don’t look at me… Stop looking at me like that!” Vil screams, cowering away from you. “Why? I wanted to become the most beautiful in the world, but why am I so–so ugly! I’m so ugly!” 

The dorm leader clutches his hair, hyperventilating. Poisonous gas seeps into the hallway.

“Roi de Poison, you’re not ugly,” Rook refutes.

You give him an incredulous expression. Vil looks pretty ugly to you. He hasn’t looked good since you became an unwilling participant in the reality TV show that’s his life. He has such an obsessive and self-important attitude. It pisses you off. 

“Yeah! Neige and Rook didn’t drink the juice!” Kalim agrees. 

You gape at Kalim with wide eyes. Is he excusing Vil’s actions? That man attempted murder! He might not have done irreversible physical damage, but you have psychological trauma. It’s been accumulating since day one. You can’t do this anymore. You have to hit him before he overblots. As a magicless student, you’re pushed to the sidelines during overblot fights. However, you have a personal grudge against Vil. You’ve put up with his pretentious behavior in your house for a month. You’re going to express your feelings with your fists.

“Please, Vil, come to your–”

You stomp up to Vil and slap him. The sound reverberates off the walls. He stares at you. His eyes are wide, and he has a searing red handprint on his face. One of his gloved hands brushes over it in disbelief. You put your hands on your hips.

“Yeah, you’re ugly,” you confirm. “You’ve been acting ugly for a while now. You almost murdered Neige because of your stupid ego and inferiority complex. Not everything is about you. You don’t get to decide you’ve lost the competition before you’ve even performed. You have a whole team behind you. You’re not being a good leader.” 

There’s a period of silence. The dorm leader stares at you. After a moment, you slap him again. 

“Your face pisses me off,” you explain, “Get your act together and stop whining. You have other things to do, like apologizing.”

(this is the first page of the Overblot Slap fanfic. u're welcome and i'm sorry. u're going to be so mad at me. this isn't going to come out in a while. i'm mostly working on Rook x Observant Reader. Then, the Dreaming of You series... however... I will say that once I get Riddle and Azul's finished, I might work on this more)

[actuallyrandompersondaily]

"Morning," Buck said, glancing back over his shoulder as he flipped a pancake on the stove.

"Morning," Eddie replied, reaching out to ruffle Chris' hair briefly as he padded by him into the kitchen to greet Buck with a kiss. "Wasn't expecting the full Buckley breakfast experience today, but I can't say I'm complaining."

"We were out of cereal," Chris explained, grinning at Eddie unrepentantly when he raised his eyebrow in response. "Good cereal, anyway."

Eddie, who had been about to point out that there was a brand new box of raisin bran sitting on the shelf, just shook his head fondly.

"Stick it on the list, bud, me or Buck will get it next time we go down to the shops."

"Already done," Buck said, hip checking Eddie lightly as he carried the stack over to the table. "There should be some coffee in the Hildy already, babe, do you mind topping me up?"

"Still can't believe you've made me keep that thing," Eddie muttered, but he did as Buck asked, pouring himself a mug alongside it.

Chris perked up slightly as the mugs were set down, glancing between Eddie and the machine with hopeful eyes. Eddie looked at Buck, who managed to communicate 'Well, he is a teenager' purely through facial expressions, and sighed.

"One," he said sternly, pushing a mug over to Chris and going back to fetch a third one. "No more than that, okay? And not every morning."

Chris's blinding grin was worth the pang Eddie felt at the reminder that his kid was growing up, and his heart warmed when he made it back to the table and saw that Buck had already loaded his plate with pancakes for him.

"Thanks, baby," he said, and Buck pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth with a hum.

"Of course, Eds."

[theoneofshame]

“I hate touching people, Harry” he says, his words contradicted with a thumb tracing the veins in Harry’s left wrist, Voldemort's attention to the blue web underneath the skin as intense and focused as he is in all things. 

Harry finds his voice while watching the movement. “But not me.”

Voldemort’s eyes slide away to stare past the burning horizon even as the grip entwining their hands remains cold iron. “No… not you,” is said with detached calm. Voldemort’s thin fingers flutter against Harry’s pulse, tapping out silent notes. It's good to know they're both uncomfortable. It banishes further insecurities from plaguing Harry. Helps him keep his head. 

Together in the dusk of a dying day, they’re alone. Without a soul around them, the rest of the world slips away. There’s no Dursleys, no judging masses to have to play savior to. He doesn’t have to be the Chosen One here. It makes Harry feel brave. He needs to ask.

“Why?”

Voldemort shuts his eyes. “As if you don’t already know.” He says it like it hurts. Maybe it did. 

Harry tightens the hold and cranes his neck to take in Voldemort's profile, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression. “Tell me anyway,” he whispers.

[tinkrtailrsldrspy]

Gravity Falls Fanfic Ideas That I Will Not Finish But Encourage You To = Deranged!Ford Part 1

(if you want, please steal these ideas, no credit needed - just send me a link once it's done cause I wanna read!)

(I will be replying to this post with the other parts (there's like... two others?) so stay tuned!)

Bill knew this place by heart at this point. He could walk around with his eye closed and never get lost. Spin him a hundred times and he’d still know the way to individual therapy, group therapy, arts and crafts therapy, animal therapy, the Solitary Wellness Void, the cafeteria, and his cell. Those were, after all, the only places he was allowed. The only places he had access to.

His cell was his favorite place. After a few millennia, he’d realized that he could make it more bearable if he just covered the walls in paper and colored them. Sure, everything was shaped like triangles, and sure some of his blood had gotten on… all of it… but it still took care of the fucking neutral whiteness of it all!

His second favorite place was animal therapy. Manny the Jabberwocky had taken a liking to him in the last few hundred years, and Bill very much enjoyed the company of the dumb creature. Especially since it kept some of the more… dangerous beings there away from him. Manny had quickly learned how to tell if Bill carried any new injuries, and who they had come from. He’d raked Htrx across the face with his claws after he’d broken Bill’s leg a few months back.

The staff had almost taken away Manny after that, but Bill’s meltdown had successfully persuaded ol’ Ax to step in and allow Bill’s only friend to stay. So, now Bill could look forward to getting to hang with Manny every third day after lunch.

The Solitary Wellness Void was his third favorite - it had once been his least favorite, but after coming to terms with what he’d done to his dimension, it was the only place he got to talk to his parents. Sure, they were hallucinations, but it was still nice. They didn’t say mean things anymore too, so, ya know, bonus! His dad did sometimes start repeating things, but Bill just assumed that was due to his own glitching nature.

Individual therapy was fourth, mostly because it had actually been helpful, but he still fucking hated talking about his feelings. He did, of course - he’d realized resistance was useless in this never-ending hellhole - but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He was on his… what, 147,903rd therapist? This one had actually lasted nearly three hundred million years, too, which was a record! Usually they quit after Bill’s first meltdown at one his horrific memories, but Orb of Healing Light #65-5RXT was a tough cookie! Probably because the thing was one of the few Orbs who had been formed from the soul of a living being. Not only that, but #65-5RXT had the unique claim of being the only human ever selected to work at the Theraprism - personally selected the Axolotl, too.

Arts and Crafts therapy had once been his favorite, but ever since they’d confiscated his journal, it had quickly fallen from grace. It was… fine. Not good, not bad, not really anything special. He was only allowed a handful of crayons these days and a few sheets of paper. He’d made weapons or started a riot with the rest. Thankfully, he usually got to keep the crayon colors he didn’t yet have so he could add to his cell, so that was… nice…

His least favorite was group therapy. Thankfully, #65-5RXT had stopped that nonsense a few months into being Bill’s therapist. Told his higher-ups that all group therapy was doing for Bill was making him hate his fellow patients more. Bill would never share his story with a group, no matter how much the higher-ups wanted him to - and they needed to accept that. Ax had miraculously agreed with #65-5RXT, so, hey, lucky Bill!

The cafeteria didn’t get a rank. It was the only neutral zone in the entire Theraprism, where everyone gathered to eat lunch and dinner. Breakfast was always served to them in their cells, the workers having come to the conclusion long before Bill had arrived that it was probably best to keep cranky interdimensional super criminals away from each other in the morning. Now that was something Bill could agree with.

So, yeah, Bill knew these walls by heart.

Which meant it had come as a surprise to him when there was suddenly a door between the cafeteria and the animal therapy ward. There… had never been a door there before. He hesitated before stepping towards it, hand outstretched towards the doorknob. Before he could touch it, however, the door sprang open with a loud ‘bang’ and two hands had reached out of the dark and grabbed him. Before Bill could make a single sound, he was dragged into the void, the door slamming shut behind him.

[naelmasn]

The child showed curiosity right away, with his mismatched eyes exploring the surroundings as if he had never set foot outside his front door. The world was so big and he was so small. He wanted to run and jump, wet his shoes in the stream, say hello to every being he encountered, and laugh as he rolled down the hills. He wanted to do so many things now that he was here, but at the same time he couldn't take his shaking hand off the hem of his mother's robes.

[g0dspeeed]

Something

Cappie De La Costa x Nikolai

To invite Cappie to his home was one vulnerable step for Nikolai. He should have known that it wouldn't stop there.

Something about that late night taking a hot and heavy turn like a swerve down a blind corner in his hometown. It's dark out and it's just him behind the wheel. Feel it out with high beams, toeing a faded line, and trust that he won't regret it. Life or death, but only because it's her.

Something about thanking good ol' liquid courage and months upon months of silent pining coming to a breaking point. An unraveling, a delicious surrender. Of what, Nikolai didn't know at the time, but because it was her he already knew that the price had the potential to ruin him.

Something about a fantasy coming true, of making out in the mouth of his doorway like they did in his head, fumbling with zippers and buttons, shucking off boots just to–

Stop.

She does. Her eyes caught something, snagged on a photograph hanging in the hallway.

He looks, too, more out of impatience, to find out what interrupted their long-awaited traversal to his bedroom.

"Cool jacket.”

Whether she was murmuring to him or to herself, he agreed with her. Faded denim adorned with an array of military patches, the jacket hung smartly on his broad frame as he posed with a group of Spetsnaz soldiers in the photo. The smiles were real. Their names were not.

"This the 80s?" chided Cappie.

“90s, smartass.”

His scowl was empty as he drank in her cheeky smile. Instead of carrying on with kissing him as he would have greatly appreciated, Cappie continued to look over the wall of momentos, leaning her body against his front and taking his arms to wrap around her, as if it was something they always did, as if her there in his home, his actual home, was normal. No complaints would leave him. How could they? He was drowning on the amber notes of her hair.

Nikolai wasn't much of a man for reminiscing. Secretive and often detached, he found peace in operating in mystery and knowing that the details of his personal history was 'REDACTED' in government profiles. It kept his present life simple, relatively, and his enemies at bay. What more could a modern day fixer ask for?

But of his hanger and home nestled in the mountains, he allowed such liabilities. He allowed old photographs, framed medals, and knick knacks from all over the globe. He allowed for an old gun to gather dust, to never be fired again, but only because he liked to think of the CO who gifted it to him. He allowed for that picture of him in that denim jacket. And because it was her, he allowed some words to pour out past his longing lips.

“Was a good time,” he rumbled.

“What made it good?”

“Was…simple.” Then, after a moment, he added, “Simple, but not. They were good men–mostly.”

Cappie hummed something noncommittal. Then–

“Is it here?”

“What?”

A fingertip tapped the picture frame.

“The jacket.”

His lips twitched a frown as he thought about it.

“I believe it is. Why–”

“Wanna see it.”

Her blunt determination took him by surprise. It shouldn't have. By voice alone, Nikolai knew that Cappie was incapable of letting the matter go, so with a sigh, he released her to find the old jacket. She followed close behind, both in socks padding on the hardwood. It was her first time in his home, and she absorbed all that she saw with vigor while he tried his best to appear nonchalant about showing Cappie glimpses of his past life. It didn't even bother him that their initial plan to end up in his bed was deterred, for his heart was racing at the prospect of letting her in on something special.

Within minutes, the pair stood in a dim attic beneath a flickering bulb and before a sturdy, wooden trunk. Nikolai gripped a flashlight in one hand whilst digging through the trunk with he other. Cappie watched. She observed aged clothing, a journal that's spine was falling apart, some keepsake boxes, dated cassette tapes, but didn't ask about them.

And when he finally retrieved it, the denim jacket, she asked what was perched on her tongue this whole time.

“Why do you even have it?”

The garment was a bit musty, smelled its age, but it still displayed the many patches and pins in all their glory. Nikolai pondered her question for a moment, his fingers running over the sleeve.

“History.”

“Good history?”

He watched as she took the jacket herself, smirking when she almost dropped it due to its weight.

“I was young in that picture” he went on. “And the jacket was a gift. From someone special.”

Her eyes rolled.

“Oh, gotcha. A girlfriend–”

“Mother.”

Something about wanting to shutter vulnerability with a lie, a smokescreen. He would claim that he didn't mean to divulge such a truth to Cappie, that the vulnerability was an accident. Impossible on his end, but he would still lie if ever asked. The truth was Nikolai wanted her to know. He wanted to test her, to see if having her there, in his home with his story out in the air between them that she could fit, that she could exist there willingly.

Cappie was adaptable, he knew. And he should have known, because it was her, that Cappie would rise to the occasion.

Those kissable lips quirked a grin, and in a whisper she asked something he never would have thought that he wanted to hear.

“What was she like? Your mom.”

Eyes as dark as obsidian took in Cappie's face, the tender curiosity gracing her lips and the warmth pooling in the hazel of her own expectant stare. She derailed him as she had derailed their evening, as she had derailed his life.

And because it was her, something about her, Nikolai took in a deep breath, shut the trunk, and sat down on its lid.

“I'll tell you.”

[quadrantadvisor]

Moulting, Good Omens, Falling!Aziraphale au, 2831 words

-

Aziraphale sipped at his chardonnay (not vintage, nothing special, just something he’d picked up to share with company) and sighed contentedly. It’d been a lovely day. Not inasmuch as that the weather had been nice, but rather in that he’d met up with Crowley at St. James’s Park that morning, underneath the gloomy, overcast sky, and then they’d spent the day together. A walk until the rain started coming down, lunch in a new restaurant owned by a pleasant Korean couple, and a trip to the cinema at Crowley’s insistence. Then, finally, to the bookshop to drink and chat. It was getting late, now, and the sky was dark with heavy clouds.

“So you didn’t like it? Not even the actors?” Crowley asked, a note of complaint in his voice.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because it was a terrible habit really, and suited Crowley much better. “That isn’t what I said, I’m just not sure that I understood the point of it all. They all seem rather manic, running around as they do, don’t they?” He took a sharp breath, and tried to work his shoulders back and forth discreetly.

Crowley gestured towards Aziraphale with his wine glass, nearly spilling, but of course the liquid knew better than to slosh out. “In about 50 years you’ll get used to them, and then they’ll invent some kind of immersive hologram technology, and you’ll be saying what a shame it is that no one appreciates films anymore because they were true artistry.” Crowley was looking at him, then, and frowned. “Are you feeling alright?”

Aziraphale gave his best smile. “Oh yes, of course, tip top shape!” Aziraphale knew that he was no good at coming up with excuses on the spot, so he’d prepared one earlier. “I tried out that sleeping thing again, but all it seems to have done is bother my back. These corporeal forms really are much too sensitive.”

“Mm, right,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was buying it or not. There was certainly no reason for him not to buy it. Aziraphale was too tipsy for this, and Crowley was still wearing his blasted shades. Crowley pulled out his mobile phone, glanced at it. “Speaking of, I ought to be off.” He downed his drink and grabbed for the jacket he’d slung over his chair.

“I thought that there was no rest for the wicked?” Aziraphale tried, smiling weakly.

He was rewarded by Crowley giving him a sly look and saying, “Surely you’ve heard of beauty sleep.”

Aziraphale chuckled at him, and stood at the same time Crowley did, to walk him to the door. Only polite. “Don’t forget to sober up before you drive,” he chided. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know, I know.”

The rain was coming down heavily, the sound near overwhelming once the front door was open. Aziraphale thought that Crowley met his gaze for a moment, but the lights were too dim to tell. “See you later, Angel.” He stepped out into the wet, immediately drenched.

“Yes. Later.” Aziraphale kept watching him, saw him shake himself free of both the alcohol in his system and the rain, which began to sheet away from his artfully tousled hair. He got into the bentley, drove off into the dark.

Aziraphale closed the door gently, muting the downpour. He stood for a moment, breathing.

Well. Best to get it over with all at once.

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders back and gently, gently, pulled out his wings. He stretched them to their full length. Then he shook them.

Pain lanced through him, like hot irons applied to exposed nerves, and he gasped. Blackened, singed feathers fell straight down, rather than fluttering, and made soft plink-ing noises as they hit the floor. Like huge, dark raindrops. As they built up around him their smell began to waft up, and Aziraphale nearly choked on it. Sulfur and burned hair and acrid smoke. There were so many this time, must be a few dozen at least.

Good. Aziraphale wished that there was a way to speed this whole process up.

There was, of course, but he didn’t know how to implement it without coming off strange. It wouldn’t do to crowd the dear boy; Crowley needed his space, certainly, and Aziraphale would never want to intrude where he wasn’t welcome. When Crowley wanted to see him, he would seek him out, and Aziraphale would have to continue relying on that.

He’d just left, and Aziraphale already missed him. How silly. His wings seemed to be clear, and Aziraphale let them droop, near touching the floor themselves. He swiped at the tears building up in his eyes. How pathetic. An angel, making such a fuss over a few feathers. It was good that Crowley was gone. Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to see him like this. No point in feeling sorry for himself. No point in feeling lonely. Aziraphale had already made his choices, and now he would see them through.

Just one more moment. Just a few more deep, ragged breaths.

Aziraphale went to find his dustpan. Couldn’t leave the ghastly things lying about, where anyone could see them. That wouldn’t do at all.

-

It had all started some months after dear young Adam had kindly stalled Armageddon, nearly a full year. Aziraphale had been in the middle of sorting inventory (read as: doing some light reading) when the phone rang. Aziraphale jumped to answer it, because odds were that the only person calling would be Crowley. Aziraphale had put the shop's phone number up on its website, naturally, it was the done thing, but that didn't mean that anyone else had access to it. Said website was nigh unsearchable, and completely innavigable for anyone who did find themselves there (could Aziraphale be blamed for having trouble with all this newfangled technology? The fact that it was the perfect cover to keep his bookshop out of the public eye was just a bonus.)

Aziraphale picked up the phone with a bright, "Hello!" wondering what plans Crowley might have for the day.

"Ah, Aziraphale," said a familiar voice. Charming and confident, affable in a way that was distant, above it all. "I see that this human contraption works, after all."

"Gabriel?" Aziraphale was frozen in shock. He had seen neither form nor feather of another angel since they'd dragged Crowley off to heaven in his body. He'd been quite hoping that they'd all forgotten about him after the hellfire incident. And in any case, heaven never communicated through indirect channels. For his entire time being stationed on Earth, Aziraphale had always sent and received paperwork through heavenly messengers, and if his supervisors wanted to check up on him, they did it personally.

"Yes, Archangel Gabriel, that is my name."

Evidently, no more was forthcoming, and Aziraphale adjusted his grip on the telephone. As his corporation came back into feeling, he realized that he was shaking. "What is the meaning of this"? Aziraphale asked, trying for all the world to harden his tone, but knowing he came off as weak and soft as he ever had. "I thought we had an agreement that I would be left alone."

"Yes, Aziraphale, exactly right. None of us will interfere with you. As things are now, heaven won't touch you." Gabriel's strangely chipper cadence gained a new edge to it. "And isn't that a pickle? An angel, with no connection to heaven."

Again, Aziraphale waited for him to elaborate, but apparently Gabriel was determined to draw this out. "I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning," he admitted.

It seemed that that acknowledgment was all Gabriel wanted. "Well, we've been discussing your"—Aziraphale could hear the sneer in his voice—"situation, and found ourselves pretty confused, all things considered! You have obviously been corrupted, deeply, deeply corrupted, and yet," this time it's confusion that Aziraphale hears, the utter bafflement of it almost… innocent. "You haven't Fallen."

"Ah." Aziraphale swallows. "I suppose I haven't."

Gabriel was back to cocksure, the innocence purged. "So, like I said, we were talking about it, and the only thing that makes sense is that you've been affected by an overabundance of demonic influence. And no wonder!" His laugh grated Aziraphale's ear. "You've been stationed down there for what, 6,000 years, give or take a few decades? Not that we had any way of knowing, of course, that your adversary had successfully tempted you into some sort of arrangement, or we would've pulled you millenia ago for some recuperation."

They were trying to blame Crowley. Of course they would. "Now, Gabriel, I—"

The archangel interrupted him. "Don't you see what this means, Aziraphale?" he asked, as sunny as ever. For a moment, it seemed as if he was waiting for a response again, but maybe it was just a dramatic pause. "It means there's still hope!"

"Hope?" Aziraphale was a great proponent of hope, generally, but the word felt like ash in his mouth. "Hope for what, exactly?"

Gabriel, with exaggerated patience, explained, "Hope that you might return to the fold. Return to the Host, Aziraphale. Like I said, you've been gone for too long. Michael wasn't a fan of the idea, but I'm fairly certain that if you spend a few thousand years in quiet contemplation, bathing in heavenly light, you'll be able to purge yourself of all of that, ugh, unpleasantness."

Fear's grip on Aziraphale had tightened, and it felt like it was constricting the muscle in his chest. "You can't take me, you can't, we had a deal—"

"Calm down, of course not," Gabriel said, amused. "We won't do anything against your will. Aren't you the one who always said that it means more if they choose, on their own, whether to be saved or damned? So," the silence on the line stretched for only a moment, and then, "I'm offering you a choice."

"What does that entail?" Aziraphale felt cold now.

"Well, it was difficult to set up, I'll tell you that much. We don't normally do this manually, but we found some old files on the process. I guess you could call it a bit drastic, but, drastic times, and all that."

"Spit it out, Gabriel." Aziraphale wasn't quite sure where that came from. He was no longer feeling like a present part of the conversation.

Gabriel let out a short, aggravated hum. "Alright, here it is. Heaven's ultimatum for the Principality Aziraphale. You've allowed your angelic essence to be tainted by associating with the demon, Crowley. We are offering a chance for you to return, willingly, of course, and purify your essence. However," he says, and he wields the condition like a knife, "should you reject Heaven's forgiveness and generosity, and continue perversely consorting with our enemy, we will have to," Gabriel hummed again, but this one was pleased, self-righteous, "cut you off, so to speak."

"You mean—"

"Yes, Aziraphale. There aren't bad angels. It's antithetical to what we are. We found the files on the manual process, and we'll do it, to keep the Host pure. You'll be damned."

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. "You're saying that I must choose between Heaven and Crowley, under the threat of Falling."

"Yes." And wasn't Gabriel proud of himself, for his clever solution to their little problem. Neatly smudge away the black spot on his record in one move. Checkmate, no options for escape.

Aziraphale, finally, felt calm. "Ah. Well. I choose him."

"What?"

Annoyance crept into his voice. "I choose him, Gabriel. I thought that should be rather obvious. I chose him, and the Earth, over you and your organization already. Remember that? It was rather a big to-do. Does Armageddon ring any bells?"

Gabriel's tone was pricked with discomfort, but firm. "My threats are not idle, Aziraphale. Every moment you spend with him will draw you further from the Almighty's Grace. The contract has been drawn up and sealed. You will not be allowed to continue in this manner."

"And yet, I plan on doing exactly that. If there isn't anything else, I'll be going now."

A few flustered noises, the likes of which Aziraphale had never imagined an archangel making, came over the phone line. Then Gabriel seethed, "Fine. Enjoy your Fall from Grace, freak." The call ended.

Gabriel had never expected Aziraphale to even consider option two, that was obvious enough. It was merely coercion, to get Aziraphale to do what they wanted, which was to sit down, shut up, and become the perfect little soldier that would go along with it the next time they tried ending the world in glorious battle. Bugger that. Aziraphale was his own ethereal being, and he would make his own decisions.

Well. Not "ethereal" for much longer, it didn't seem. Aziraphale refused to let himself be afraid, and so he wasn't. He wasn't.

And there wasn't any reason to be. Everything was perfectly fine. A couple of days later, Crowley really did call, and even if Aziraphale could hardly bring himself to pick up the phone, he made it before it rang out. Crowley had tickets to an outdoors theatre, and oh, wouldn't that be lovely? The evenings were just getting warm enough, the sun lingering in the sky, and they'd sit or stand and watch a performance like they had so many times before. Aziraphale agreed readily, and Crowley said he'd pick him up at 6:30.

The first one had shocked him, it really did. He'd yelped aloud in the middle of a soliloquy, and gotten dirty looks from the audience around them. Aziraphale barely noticed, because his wing, his wing, something had happened to it, and the sharp pinprick pain of a burn was giving way to an ache, deep in the bone, traveling all the way up to his back, a celestial insistence that something was wrong, wrong, so very wrong.

"Angel, what's happened? Are you alright?" Crowley was saying quietly, urgently. He was leaning in towards Aziraphale, who was having to fight against the sudden, foolish impulse to take his hand and let the contact ground him. It was light enough for Aziraphale to catch his eyes darting about, scanning for possible threats. His gaze turned back to the angel. "You jumped like something bit you."

"I—" he couldn't finish the statement, didn't know how to. He tried again. "You know, I suppose something must have." Aziraphale chuckled weakly. "How odd, insects generally know better than to bother us. I suppose it just surprised me, that's all."

Aziraphale managed to excuse himself, promising to be right back. He felt Crowley's gaze on his back the entire time he made his way through the crowd.

It was difficult to find a spot with the requisite amount of privacy and space, but Aziraphale managed. He manifested his wings into physical space, and pulled the afflicted one forward to assess the damage.

He had barely touched it when the feather detached, and fell. 

Aziraphale stared at it. Leaned down, picked it up. A single feather. Among thousands. He was holding a scorched secondary. He had felt no relief when it fell, just a harsh continuation of the pain.

He noticed the ugly look of it, the way it had practically calcified rather than burning away, he noticed the smell.

Aziraphale didn't know what Falling was like. Crowley never talked about it. They'd been out of sight of the Host, when they'd undergone their transformations. There was a war, there were half as many angels in the heavens, and then there were creatures below that turned into beings that always seemed familiar but that no one could ever quite recognize.

Apparently, Falling hurt. Aziraphale knew that, at least, before. It was supposed to. It was a punishment, after all. This was the start, the first taste, and Aziraphale didn't care for it much. One feather out of thousands.

Was he the first angel to Fall, since the war? He hadn't heard of it happening to anyone else. Maybe it wasn't supposed to. Maybe God had split up her teams in the Beginning, and didn't care much what they did after that. Wouldn't that be something, all those angels scared into obedience when The Almighty wasn't even keeping score.

Best not to speculate. It was happening. It had started, and now he had to go through with it. He would go through with it, because some things were worth a bit of pain, a bit of risk.

He considered keeping the feather, but it did smell dreadful, and Crowley might notice it and there'd be no way to explain that. He'd have plenty more, later, if he wanted. He shoved the feather in a bin, and returned to the play. He couldn't very well keep his demon waiting. And, if what Gabriel had said was true, if every moment they spent together mattered, then Aziraphale was going to hoard and savor those moments with every atom of his angelic being.

[bearsinpotatosacks]

I've got a lot of random snippets I may never use so here's a new series of me sharing random scenes in my google drive. This one is from a Mission Impossible idea, written before Dead Reckoning, where Ethan's kidnapped, his death is faked, he's tortured into submission and slowly brainwashed into being the bad guy's strong man. Here is Ethan seeing his friend's for the last time.

---------

Ethan watched from afar, hidden in the slight shadow of the alleyway but not too dark so he couldn't see. The world was busy, as it tended to be. The streets of London were full. Full of businessmen, tourists, a cyclist throwing their arms up in the air in annoyance and a woman laughing on the phone.

Busy, busy, busy. But not missing him. There was no Ethan shaped gap here as he wasn't sure why he expected one. 

For there to be a gap in society one had to participate in it. And although Ethan sacrificed more than his share to save it, he should know by now that he was not part of society. And was never destined to be.

He was happy. Benji was laughing, outside a coffee shop. Ilsa sat to his right, Brandt next to her, Luthor opposite. Someone else was to Benji's left. He supposed, if there was to be am Ethan shaped hole somewhere in the world, it would be there, by his side. 

But there wasn't one. Someone else was. Someone so wonderfully ordinarily handsome, in the most brilliant way. Not 'international spy who needs to seduce for a living' attractive, the kind of attractive that screamed that this person had a life, had a job, passions and hobbies, a family, one of blood or choice. 

He had dark hair, 60's style thick rimmed glasses on. He looked tired yet sophisticated, the kind of guy who could listen to Chopin one minute and belt along to ABBA the next. Someone who fit Benji. Someone who could take him to the opera when it wasn't to find a nefarious terrorist.

Someone who could love him like he deserved.

Benji laughed. And all of this was worth it if Benji laughed, if he was at peace. If he was happy, then Ethan could survive.

It didn't matter if he couldn't be there to see it and wouldn't be the cause of them. Because yes, seeing Benji's fingers interlaced with the man to his left made him feel like he didn't have a heart anymore and he had to restrain himself from blowing his cover by storming over there and kissing him silly. But if he was happy, he could keep his distance. 

"There you go, I've kept my part of the deal," Bad Guy said. 

Ethan almost scoffed, but the fear that had been instilled into his bones stopped him. He knew that over time he wouldn't even know to scoff. They were going to remove all doubt from his mind, make him believe he was free and happy, maybe even forget that he used to be on the law's side. 

He shuddered and looked back at his friends. Well, the people who used to be his friends. A sense of ease almost came over him. Almost because a bittersweet taste hit the back of his throat when he realised he'd never see them again. He hoped he never saw them again, it would break his heart if he did.

"At least tell me what they're doing?" He said.

Bad Guy huffed and Ethan heard the flick of a lighter, the crackle of a cigarette and the smell of smoke. 

"Ilsa is running self defence classes in London, she's doing well, seems happy, has a cat." He said. "Brandt is the Secretary of the IMF, he's putting more care into each agent, treating them a bit more like people. Luthor is still outshining everyone with his tech skills,"

Ethan gulped, "And Benji?"

"He's left the IMF, started his own tech company, that man to his left is Carl Oswald, owns a bookshop, they've been together almost a year now," he said. "Benji's attending therapy, but he's doing better, he's happy."

Ethan nodded. There was that, at least

"They won't matter, in time." He had to ruin it. "They'll forget you, you'll forget them, everything will be better."

He stubbed out the cigarette and pulled Ethan along as the bittersweet feeling turned to a sick anger. 

Better in time? He didn't want to forge them, they were his lifeblood and forgetting them would be worse than death. 

"Come along, Mr Hunt."

And they were gone. Lost behind the crowds of people and soon to be gone from his memory.

Perhaps he couldn't stop the inevitable. This would be his life whether he wanted it or not, god knows he'd tried to escape. Perhaps it was better they forget him because it would make it a whole lot easier to fit into his knew life if he never had to fight them.

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

VH - The Thorn in Villains' side

“Wake up, you creature of the night, and despair !”

“Nooo, sleepy, beddy-bye -”

“I said wake up !”

Vampire Hero opened an eye, blinked and yawned. He didn’t look at Villain at once. That was the courtyard itself that caught his attention. He was in the middle of it, tied to a pillar. All around him were huge spikes of metal, as if he was in the center of a gigantic metal flower. They all were curved at different angles. You couldn’t step amid them without being scratched, at least. In a sense, that was pretty. Villain themself was on a balcony, their hands on the balustrade, dominating the scene.

“Kids”, he whispered with leniency. “What they do these days.”

“Shame”, said Villain who hadn’t heard him. “You interest me. I thought we could talk.”

Vampire Hero yawned again for all answer.

“Is it insolence ? Or is it the pain of having been under the sun for all day ?”

“Pain ? Why ?”

“You vampires can’t bear the sun.”

“Oh, I understand the confusion. No. Do you know how some birds fall asleep immediately when you cover their cage, because they think it’s the night ?”

“I suppose ?”

“Well, I work the other way around. I have a sunbeam on my face, I get sleepy. It doesn’t hurt me; I just take a nap.”

Then his tone shifted abruptly:

“All day long ? You mean I’ve been here for more than a day ?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

His voice was now icy. Villain had a delicate little cough.

“I admit I didn’t know about sunlight. What about silver, then ?”

“That would work on vampires, yes.”

“You’re in luck. All these spikes are covered with silver. If you want to free yourself, you need to get through them.”

Vampire Hero hissed in annoyance:

“Ugh. Any particular reason why ?”

“Unless you want to rot in here forever.”

“No, I mean. Let me get this straight. You’ve made all these spikes so I could walk over them for a couple of minutes ? It just seems kinda wasteful.”

“If you want to talk about waste, time’s ticking. Why won’t you have your little dance right now ? You have two minutes before reaching me.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Vampire Hero slipped out of his bonds and stepped forward. He whistled.

“That’s quite the thorn forest you have there. Gasp ! Curses, even. What’s a poor vampire to do ?”

He slowly turned his head toward Villain and smirked:

“Hey, watch this.”

He extended his hand and casually patted the flat side of the spike.

“Oh no”, he said in a toneless voice, while staring at Villain. “I’m doomed. Ouch. Argh. And such.”

Slowly he smiled, revealing his razor-like teeth.

“Do you see it ? Do you begin to see it ?”

“See what ?”

“Your mistake.”

“Show off”, whispered Villain.

“Possibly, yes. At least I’m not ordering useless death traps on a whim. I’ve always made sure they worked first.”

“Death traps ? You are a hero.”

“Now, yes.”

Vampire Hero took a couple of steps among the spikes, decided it was quite enough, jumped, caught the guardrail and climbed the balcony. He hadn't avoided all of them, far from it, but when he landed on his feet, his face was emotionless. There was maybe a twinge of exasperation. He stood still in front of Villain. They both stayed quiet for a moment.

“What are you ?” finally asked Villain.

“A vampire hero.”

“No you’re not. You don’t fear silver or sunlight and you had death traps. You’re neither. What are you ?”

“I am pissed off. I want to be home every night and you’ve prevented me to do it.”

“Why ?”

“I'm married. Just know you’re very lucky I am what I said. I’ll let you live. Reluctantly.”

Villain barely reacted when he pinned them against the wall, whispering in their ear:

“Now then ! You’ve made me lose time. You owe me a drink.”

*

Vampire Hero is now a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Click on the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

[thegreatyin]

why does the scoundrel speak in first person plural :0?

i am SO GLAD you asked :)

see, the scoundrel is madly emphasis on madly in love with the one and only mr wines, a canon fallen london character that's crucial to her backstory, motivations, and just generally everything about her current state of being. wines is one of the masters of the bazaar, aka one of the scoundrel's current coworkers. it's. well. it's an Interesting bat, to say the least.

there are many, many, many things you can say about wines, both for better and for worse. it's a liar. it's a cheapskate. it's a tyrant. it's a drunkard. it's a whore. it's a pimp. it's, in the scoundrel's extremely delusional eyes, a living god.

but there is one thing (mostly) consistent about wines- its manner of speech.

wines, with few exceptions, always speaks in first person plural (perhaps better described as the "royal we", given its backstory). while this is a trait basically all of the masters slip into at some point or other, wines is the only one who does it consistently enough to qualify as a certified Character Quirk™.

so, well.

say you're the scoundrel. and you desperately want to emulate the bat you love more than anything else in the world. the bat- no, the god that saved you from a life of dull misery. the being you owe everything to. Everything. you want to give all you have, all you ever will be, in order to be Just Like It.

and thus- much to everyone's misfortune- the scoundrel talks just like its idol.

for better or for worse.

TLDR: the scoundrel talks in first person plural because she's a huge fucking loser who's purposefully trying to emulate her crush, an evil alcoholic who sucks. aren't bats beautiful?

[sebdoesthings]

might fuck around and post some miscellaneous old fics that i've never posted before.

One of them is for hgsn/yoshikaru, but it's unfinished, would anyone still be interested in that?

[theoneofshame]

Salutations! Here's more half-baked scribbles because I just can't help myself.

Voldemort has a love for books that rivals Hermione’s. The nebulous feel of Voldemort’s consciousness at the periphery of Harry’s would suddenly snap into laser focus at the forefront of his mindscape whenever Harry studied from a text that piqued his interests. Would practically push Harry aside if he found his attention or notes lacking.

Voldemort's hunger for knowledge was limitless in subject-matter, and makes for a surprising complement to Harry’s wandering mind. Voldemort indulges Harry’s genuine questions where other’s brushed him off or scolded, even finding some amusing. Especially the random thoughts like: aren’t Santa’s elves an awful lot like house elves and did that make Santa a wizard, and what exactly was the difference between alchemy and chemistry, or if there's applied mathematics, does that mean there’s unapplied mathematics?

If the current topics are connected to one of Harry’s classes, Voldemort has him search through specific readings, and circles around conversations with pointed remarks until Harry comes to his own conclusions. He makes learning… enjoyable for Harry. Reminds him that professor Quirell’s instruction was partially responsible for Defense being Harry's favorite subject.

[tinkrtailrsldrspy]

Gravity Falls Fanfic Ideas That I Will Not Finish But Encourage You To

= Muse!Bill AU

(if you want, please steal these ideas, no credit needed - just send me a link once it's done cause I wanna read!)

Something was holding fast to him, and Ford felt the tight terror in his chest ease as he was yanked back through the portal, the Nightmare Realm receding from his vision. He landed on cold concrete with a harsh huff of air, eyes snapping shut at the sharp pain of impact. There was a familiar voice calling out - Stan must have figured out how to bring him back, Gods he couldn’t decide if he was going to strangle or kiss his idiot twin.

Ford’s eyes opened blearily when a warm hand landed on his shoulder, looking up at his brot-

The young man fell back with a scream, scrambling backwards away from the demonic yellow eye that had once watched him with a soft adoration in it’s depth. Bill Cipher. He must have somehow possessed Stan - but the portal couldn’t have been open for that long! He hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of the demon on the other side of it!

“Bill?!”

“Over here, Stan!”

Ford’s head snapped away from the demon to see…

“Dad?” he muttered confusedly.

His father’s eyes bugged out of his head when they landed on Ford, mouth falling open in wordless noises.

“Yeah, that was my thought exactly,” Bill muttered as he stood up fully, stepping back to give Ford more space. “I’ll admit, I’m not exactly sure how this happened… All my calculations were correct, and Specs’ engineering is fool-proof…”

“I take no responsibility for this,” a bored voice intoned from the other side of the room. Ford spun to see what appeared to be an older version of his ex-assistant, chewing absentmindedly on a long piece of red licorice. “I told you we should have gone over the thing one more time.”

“A fifth inspection wasn’t going to do anything, hillbilly,” Bill growled at the other man, glaring poisonously at him. “Can’t you just take the damn compliment?!” Fiddleford merely shrugged without much emotion.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Ford finally cried, his breath coming in heavy pants as he felt tears threatening to spill from his eyes. None of this was making sense - why was Bill here? Why was Fiddleford so much older? Why was his dad here?! Where was Stan?!

“Sixer, it’s okay.”

Ford looked up to see who he had first thought to be his father coming towards him, knees bent and hands held out in submission. The voice… and with a closer look… “Stan?” he whispered in horror. “What… what happened to you?! You were just- I was- what-” Ford was helpless against the small sob that escaped him, allowing Stan to move closer and engulf him in a tight embrace. He clung onto his twin with equal force, terror warring with a desperate need for comfort.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay, we’ll figure this out,” Stan promised softly.

And, Gods help him, Ford believed him.

-

“How the fuck did you connect to a completely different version of the Nightmare Realm, Bill?” Stan asked with a frustrated sigh from the kitchen. Ford could imagine him rubbing his forehead in annoyance, the way their father had when they were but boys.

“Hey! I told you, none of this is an exact science!” Bill protested, Ford able to hear the pout in his voice. It brought a warm smile to his face - before reality hit him with cold clarity and he was left shivering under the blanket that Stan had wrapped around him after he’d been deposited on the couch in the living room.

His… his house looked a lot different.

“All you were supposed to do was fix Ford’s portal, not try and ‘make it better’!” Stan’s voice was getting louder and more aggressive, and his twin couldn’t help but worry for not-his-Stan’s safety. If Bill was here physically, there was no telling what he’d be able to do!

“I didn’t!” Bill yelled right back. “I didn’t change a single damn thing about that portal! And you know it was my design to begin with, Xerox!”

Ford startled when a weight landed beside him on the couch, spinning to see a nearly blank-faced Fiddleford holding out a mug of tea. The older man nodded towards it, and Ford reached out hesitantly for it. The minute the warmth of the ceramic hit his hand, though, he eagerly wrapped both of his around it and brought it close to his chest. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until then.

“They’ll be at it for a while,” F sighed with a soft, fond roll of his eyes. “They usually are when something goes wrong with the portal. Don’t worry about it.”

“But…” Ford glanced nervously between his cup of tea and F, brows furrowed. “What if- what if he decides to… you know!”

“‘He’?” F echoed with some confusion.

“Bill!” Ford hissed. “He could hurt Lee!”

F went silent, blinking at him a few times before bursting into a full belly-laugh, clutching his sides. Stan and Bill’s voices suddenly went quiet before two heads were poking around the living room door, bafflement clear on their faces.

“You good there, Specs?” Bill asked hesitantly, as though F were the crazy one around here.

“Bill, what did you do to this poor man?!” F howled in laughter, turning towards the doorway. “He’s scared you might hurt Stan!”

Stanley, as well, burst out in laughter at that, walking into the room with an indignant Bill on his heals. “Yeah, right! Like this pipsqueak could lay a hand on me!” he chortled.

“Hey! I could if I tried!” Bill complained, though the smile that tugged on his lips spoke to a relationship with the other two that Ford had never witnessed between Bill and… anyone else.

“You couldn’t hurt a fly, fruity,” Stan growled with a wide grin, slinging an arm around Bill’s shoulders.

“You forced Ford not to shoot that Gremloblin even after it got you,” F muttered as he wiped a tear that had escaped down his cheek. “And you barely managed to pluck that unicorn hair without passing out!”

“But I did!” Bill retorted, sticking out his tongue at the engineer.

“Why’re you so worried about this guy, anyways, Sixer?” Stan finally asked, turning a raised brow to his not-brother.

“He- he’s a God,” Ford stuttered as he looked between the three men. That got him three looks of both confusion and concern.

“I mean, calling me a Muse is more accurate,” Bill chuckled awkwardly. “I’m nowhere near as powerful as the Axolotl or even Time Baby. My whole deal is inspiring beings to reach for greater heights and all.”

“No!” Ford denied, shaking his head violently. “That’s what you said when we met, but you were lying! You even admitted it!”

Slowly, Stan let his arm fall from around Bill’s shoulders, giving the creature a reassuring pat before moving over to Ford, kneeling before him. “Hey, Sixer, whatever your Bill did, this Bill isn’t him. Our Ford brought him over to our dimension forever ago, and he’s been helping us try to rescue him after my brother got lost in the Nightmare Realm after an accident.”

“He’s one of the Demon Bills, isn’t he?”

All eyes turned to Bill, who was looking down at his hands as he fiddled with them.

“They’re far more common than anything like me,” he explained softly. “I met one, when I was young, after- well, after I… lost my home…” Ford stiffened at the mention of the destroyed dimension. “I saw my potential future in him, and I ran from it as fast as I possibly could.

[a-crumb-of-whump]

"So, It's you, huh?"

Villain jumped the moment they heard a voice from behind them. They spun around, fists bared as they prepared to fight, but before they knew it they were being pinned against the nearest wall by someone much taller and much more intimidating than them.

The sight of them was enough to cause all confidence to seep away from them. "Supervillain?" they practically squeaked.

They recieved a grin in response, the hands around their wrists tightening as they loomed over them. "The one and only. I heard there was an impersonator in town. Didn't think they'd turn out to be a kid."

"I'm not a kid!" Villain practically sputtered, eyes bulging behind the fabric of their mask. They didn't dare try to escape. Wouldn't be much use anyway. "Why... why are you here? Are you- you gonna kill me?"

There was a snort before the pressure on Villain's wrists were released. "Please. I'm a villain, not a murderer. No, I merely came to see who was trying to steal my identity."

Villain wasn't sure what to say to that. As soon as they were able to escape from the wall, they stumbled backwards a few steps and pushed off their mask, frightened tears welling in their eyes.

Before it could hit the ground, Villain had caught it and brought it up to their face to examine, a crooked smile on their face.

"I'm impressed," they concluded after a moment. "Did you make this yourself?"

The villain nodded. "Yes- yes, sir. I'm sorry. Please."