#and then when he opens that door and it's bright and they're on a stage all together and he looks so content I am normal about that MV

[clarionglass]

yeah, we all knew this one was coming. 5395 words, if you're wondering exactly how bad the brain rot has set in ^^;

----- deja vu (sam reich!master cinematic universe, part 2)

Right from the beginning of Game Changer, Sam had had a small monitor in his dressing room where he could watch the show being recorded. He'd always appreciated it being there, but never quite understood the point of having it, if he was going to be on stage hosting the shows himself. 

When his doppelganger was hosting, though, being able to watch the show while hidden away was absolutely ideal. 

Since Escape the Greenroom, the pair had been less cautious about being seen in the building together. It was always more enjoyable to debrief immediately after a show, and besides, they had their secret weapon. The magic technology that kept anyone from thinking too hard about two Sams in the one place had turned out to be nothing more than a small lump of circuitry attached to a key on a loop of string, and whichever Sam wasn't on set at the time held onto it and watched the session from the dressing room. It was an extra precaution—hell, if everyone knew Sam was in the middle of a recording, why would they be going into his dressing room—but it was handy to have nonetheless. 

It didn't work if you knew what you were looking for, though, so when the door creaked open and his doppelganger walked in, pure glee painted across his face from ear to ear, he turned his megawatt smile on Sam straight away. 

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Good record, was it?”

“Oh, was it ever.”

“Well, great!” Sam replied. “You were pretty keen for this one, glad it lived up to expectations.”

As his double nodded with satisfaction, Sam's eyes flicked back to the monitor, now showing a view of backstage, and Trapp, Ify and Siobhan talking quietly to each other. 

Something felt off. They didn't seem distressed or anything bad, bad, but the energy between the three contestants was weirdly muted. As it was for everyone, actually. Josh, Zac, Brian—the general vibe backstage was sitting noticeably lower than usual, particularly with such big personalities in the room. 

“How'd the cast take it, though?” he asked. “They all look exhausted, was everything alright?”

His doppelganger flapped a hand dismissively. “Oh, they're fine. It was just a long record.”

“No longer than usual,” Sam said, with a brief glance down at his watch and a frown. “We had seven loops planned, right? And you definitely didn't get through all of them, you only did, what—”

“Five, yeah,” his double agreed, speaking with him. “For the episode, we ended up recording five.”

There was an odd tone in his voice as he said it, an emphasis on the specifics that was just a little too weighted. Sam grimaced. 

“I'm sensing there's a but coming.”

“Yeah,” his doppelganger admitted slowly, then grinned, a bright, twinkling expression of pure mischief. “We actually ran a lot more loops than that.”

“Wait,” Sam said, “wait. No, you didn't, I was watching the entire thing.”

“Come on,” his doppelganger shot back, a bite of impatience bleeding into his excitement. “You really think I'd fight to do the fake time loop episode and not throw in a real time loop or five?”

“Oh my god.” It was all Sam could say, and he really couldn't tell if he was impressed, or dumbfounded, or just really fucking worried. “Oh, my god. What did you do?”

The giddy delight shining in his double's eyes as his smile broadened even further, brilliant and infectious and only slightly predatory, did nothing to calm Sam's nerves. 

---

The first loop went well enough, and confusingly enough. Weird trivia, questions that clearly had an answer, but no way of working out what that answer was, cameos that didn’t seem to relate to anything—it was strange, but you knew that was what you were getting into when you signed up for Game Changer. Trapp, Ify and Siobhan knew that there was a solution to it, but they’d just have to work until they found it.

And then Sam pulled out that bizarre dance that he expected them all to join in on, and accidentally kicked Kevin’s camera out of his hands, and the three of them shuffled offstage for a two minute reset.

-

The second loop, the pieces were starting to fit into place. The trivia was a memory tester; the weird questions had answers that could only be worked out with knowledge gained in previous rounds; Zac’s—sorry, Grant’s—spaghetti was going to cause problems by way of Brian’s podium inspector; the list went on. 

This time, it was pretty clear that the kick wasn’t accidental. 

-

The third loop, everyone knew they were dealing with loops right from the start. 

-

“I think my watch battery is dead,” grumbled Ify on the t̷͖͗̅h̶̥̔͗i̴͉̞̊r̴̭͘d̵̢͔͌̈́ loop.

-

Loop aft̵̐͜e̷̘̓r̵̩͊ ḽ̵̞́o̷͉̬̼͈͘ö̸̖̠̭́̈̀p̶̡̣̖͂ ạ̸͌͘f̸̱̲͐͗t̶͈͐̇ẻ̶͇̮̄ř̷̤̗͝ ̷̹̌l̸͎͎̔̀̅̀̀̕ò̸̢̨̜͓̳̮̀̕o̶̮̕p̵̪̫̠̝̘̒͒͗̚ͅ, ad infinitum ad nauseam. 

-

A few loops in, Siobhan watched Brian get paler and paler as he examined the trio of podiums. And this time, he was actually taking the time to look at them properly, not just making an act of peering through that stupid little magnifying glass in order to justify a foregone conclusion. He was acting weird, even for him.

Still, he put a good face on it, declaring each one dirty in increasingly elaborate ways, just as he had every time before. Something had clearly rattled him, though, and it made her uneasy in turn.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” she said, just as she had the last few rounds, and smiled sweetly with a dollar bill folded in her palm. As Brian came over, she locked eyes with him, hoping the look was enough to convey her question.

“Camcorder, Jan ‘97,” he muttered as he took the money, and had given her the (bribed) point and hurried backstage before she could ask what he meant.

She knew the video he was referring to, it was one of his. Creepy, definitely, but very well-done, all about rewinding tape and rewriting time. And—yeah, man, duh. This was the time loop episode, apparently, so why state the obvious? And why so cryptically?

Unless… unless it was something to do with time loops that wasn’t to do with the format of the episode. 

How long had they been recording, anyway? All their phones were in the box backstage, Ify’s watch was dead, she wasn’t wearing one at all, and with her and Trapp on the outside podiums, there was no way she could ask him without making it look stunningly obvious. But it had been a while, for sure, and Sam wasn’t showing any of his usual signs of wanting to usher the recording session towards a natural conclusion.

If anything, he was looking wolfishly pleased with the way things were turning out. He'd even favoured Brian with a wider grin than usual, where Brian's own smile had been kind of watery. 

Another part of that video, Siobhan couldn't help but recall, was that sinister, looming silhouette.

-

Through more and more loops, and the brief interludes they were granted backstage, they’d worked out the rules, sort of. People weren’t affected by the loops resetting, they carried through pretty much as normal. Objects didn’t, though. Things on the set, like the ducks, the money in their envelopes, and the spaghetti stuck to their podiums, reset to the state they were at at the beginning of what they’d begun to call “Loop 3.0”. Things brought across the threshold of the set, like Zac/Grant’s plate of spaghetti, or Josh’s balloons, reset as soon as they crossed over that boundary.

Josh hadn’t had a good time when he realised that one. While the contestant cast and the cameo cast were kept separate backstage, the contestants had to assume that Brian would have told them everything he’d worked out. The next loop after Brian had given his hint to Siobhan, the contestants had to watch a very good character actor try to keep control of the creepy clown role while going through a moderate existential crisis. It was uncomfortable to watch, stuck at their podiums and unable to help. At least they could mutter a few words of encouragement each time they went up to pop a balloon, and the same with Zac and Brian each time they came by to mess up or inspect their podiums. 

It was good to have that connection, brief as it might have been. They might have been stuck, but at least they were in this fuckery together.

The crew, though, seemed to be immune from feeling the weirdness they were caught up in. Or—no. Not immune. Exempt. They weren’t trapped in the loop, they were part of it, moving along their set tracks like automata. It took the cast a while to work that one out, because Sam kept time perfectly, interacting with Ash when she brought out the contraption and the jar of beans as if they were having a normal, fluid conversation. But then Ify spotted that the camera operators were moving completely out of sync with the cast, and Trapp noticed that only Sam’s half of the interaction with Ash ever changed, and the illusion fell apart from there. The crew wouldn’t be a lifeline.

And speaking of Sam… Fuck, it was a hard one to swallow. He was their boss, their friend, and they’d all known him for years—hell, he’d come through for each of them multiple times. Until now, he had been pretty unequivocally a Good Guy. But it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the signs that Sam Reich was the puppeteer of this entire shitshow.

He was still pretending to not know what anyone meant when they expressed frustration with the loops, but the words were accompanied by a twinkle in his eye that said he knew exactly what was going on, and was staunchly refusing to help. He was delighting in their discomfort, even more so now the cast knew just how fucked they really were.

He looked like Sam, he sounded like Sam, every single mannerism was something that the cast knew intimately. But the personality driving his actions was wrong. Maybe this guy wasn’t Sam at all. Fuck, if they’d suddenly been catapulted into a reality where time loops were real, maybe so were evil clones, or brain-snatching parasites, or—no, the magician great-grandfather lore from Escape the Greenroom was still a stretch too far. But given the choice between believing that a weird sci-fi plotline was true, when another one was literally happening around them; or believing that their friend had secretly been some kind of torturer with access to sci-fi tech the entire time they’d known him—the decision wasn’t particularly hard. 

“We have to stop him from kicking the camera,” Trapp said quietly, as soon as they had all huddled backstage. “That’s what he’s going with as the trigger.”

“It could be another bluff,” Siobhan interjected glumly. “More fucking misdirection.”

Trapp shot her a look. “You got anything better you want to try?”

“I can get between him and Kevin if I’m quick,” Ify volunteered, the tallest among them by a good half a head, with a build to match.

“See what happens,” Trapp said. “But be careful, yeah? Don’t get yourself hurt.”

“So what’s the way to get out?” Siobhan asked, as Ify nodded his agreement. “There has to be something, I might start killing people if I let myself think this is actually completely random.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Popping the right balloon? Or winning the video game?”

“Or unlocking that,” Ify suggested, nodding to the green chest that had been sitting on the table the entire time. 

“Yeah,” Siobhan and Trapp agreed together.

“Cool, so we try and—”

“Sorry, y’all, but I’m supposed to take your phones?” Kaylin interrupted, holding out the box as she always did. 

By virtue of podium order, Trapp, then Ify, then Siobhan noticed it as they walked on and gave their introductions. Something had changed.

The point totals on the podiums read 14, 9, 14. The points they’d ended with in Loop 3, not started with. They’d survived it. Time was moving.

-

“Sam, look over there!” Siobhan exclaimed as she entered, and dragged a couple of boxes onstage with her in no more subtle a way than she did the last time. 

Trapp got it, he really did. These loops had been… wearing, was probably the best word for it. “Sadistic” was a bit too harsh, particularly when nothing actually bad had been happening (and to be honest, he didn’t even want to risk thinking too badly of the person who seemed to be pulling all the strings in this scenario, in case he somehow noticed, and decided to turn the heat up), but… yeah. Wearing. So he understood why Siobhan might be trying to keep things the same. Making the group less fun for their host to play with.

The trivia rounds were chaos, as always, and passed in a jumble of noise that Trapp was only half focused on. A quiz show was still a quiz show, even if it had descended into some kind of weird time loop purgatory, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to be first on the buzzer regardless. Maybe the points were the way to get out of this whole shitshow, who could say. But when Ify and Siobhan started to have their exact same argument over the equation question, complete with Ify’s triumphant twerking, Trapp felt his stomach rise into his throat, as if once again, the ground had been cut out from under him.

“Yeah, Solzhenitsyn,” Siobhan nodded in response to a question he hadn’t asked, and his blood went cold. 

Sam, or possibly ‘Sam’, looked him dead in the eye and winked. 

“Next up, there’s a little game I have just for Mike Trapp,” he said with a smirk.

Tinny music started up, and the bright colours of that infuriating video game popped up on the screen, but Trapp didn't care. There wasn't any point in pretending now. 

“You fucker,” he said, walking close to eyeball the host. “You mother fucker.”

‘Sam’ just wheezed with laughter, exactly as the real Sam Reich would when a contestant insulted him out of annoyance at the game, and for the briefest of moments, Trapp had his doubts. Everything about this man said Sam Reich, every tiny detail. Had he really been hiding this all along?

“You were doing great playing as a team,” ‘Sam’ said once he'd regained his composure, looking at Trapp with wide-eyed sincerity. “But that's not really the point of the game, now, is it?”

No. Sam, actual Sam, wouldn't do this to his friends.

“What have you done to them?”

“To them? Nothing,” whoever the fuck this was said brightly. “To the studio, though… Well, it would take too long to explain, and you wouldn’t understand most of it anyway. Let’s just say I can run this whole place like a VCR, and the only two people who wouldn’t be caught up in it right now are you and me, bud.”

“That’s fucked up,” Trapp said, as Ash, deaf and blind to their conversation, came out with the giant jar of beans. “That’s just fucked. Let them go.”

“Aw, but they’re probably having a better time than you are right now,” ‘Sam’ said, mock-serious. “They think time’s finally moving ahead for them, remember? And anyway, do you really want to be arguing with little old me when you’re wasting your one chance to earn points without any competition? It is an individual game, after all.”

Trapp’s eyebrows shot high. “Are you saying only one of us gets out of this? You sick fuck.”

‘Sam’ just shrugged and smiled, looking meaningfully at the empty podium. “Do you want to risk it? The choice is yours, Trapp, but time's a-ticking.” His smile flashed. “Or maybe it isn't.”

-

“Next up, there’s a little game I have just for Ify Nwadiwe,” ‘Sam’ announced.

Yeah, no shit. Ify wasn’t an idiot, even if his point total was sitting below his fellow contestants’. He’d been checking his not-actually-dead watch at the start of every loop, so he knew right from the off that even though their host had been gracious and let them pass through one gauntlet, it sure didn’t mean that the time fuckery had finished. 

This run, though, was looking extra screwed up. Siobhan arguing loudly with him about things he didn’t even say this time was the final confirmation. He was alone in this loop, just him and the guy who was running the show.

He knew that ‘Sam’ knew that he knew that he was the only person who wasn’t stuck. So he waited, staring flatly at the person who had taken over the host’s podium, watching to see what move he would make.

‘Sam’ just smiled. “Left or right?”

Alright, so that’s how he was going to play it. Yeah, no, absolutely not. 

“Nah, nah, nah,” Ify said instead of engaging, because it didn’t really matter. In his peripheral vision, the game kept scrolling through. “Fuck that. What’s the win condition? What do we need to do to get out of here?”

“Play the game,” ‘Sam’ replied.

“Shut the fuck up, man.” Ify shook his head, and ‘Sam’ chuckled like he’d told a good joke. “We’ve already done that, and it’s got us exactly fuckin nowhere. You put us in this thing for a reason, so there’s gotta be something you want to see happen.”

‘Sam’ blinked at him innocently. “Who says this isn’t exactly it?”

Ify took a deep breath. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying we’re in here, doing the same shit over and over again, until you feel like you’ve had enough?”

“In a nutshell,” ‘Sam’ beamed, “yes.”

“Fuck you, man,” Ify said, shifting his weight to lean more heavily on the podium. “Fuck you.”

“Noted,” ‘Sam’ said brightly. “But I wouldn’t spend too long being mad at me, because—” he broke off, giving the front of Ify’s podium a significant look, “—you’ve got quite a lot of ground to make up, in… well. Who can say how much time?”

“Fuck you,” Ify repeated, and ‘Sam’ just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

-

Ify was taking too long to name a goddamn Keanu Reeves film, again, and Siobhan had had just about enough. So when he stalled, and stalled, and still came up with the same title he’d answered in the last round, grinning like he’d just got one over on her, she could have screamed.

And then she remembered where she was, and who was asking the questions, and her heart sank. They weren’t done yet, apparently, and this time she was completely on her own.

She playacted the rest of the argument, that and the equation question, and hated the fact that even to her own ears, she was sounding more and more shrill as she shouted, because yeah, it’s panic-inducing to continue a screaming match with someone who doesn’t even register that you’re there. Every word was another reminder that she was trapped.

And then the melodrama stopped, and ‘Sam’ smiled at her. “Next up, there’s a little game I have just—”

“—for Siobhan Thompson?” she finished with him, voice dripping with sarcastic surprise, just like she had in Loop 3.0. 

“That’s right!” ‘Sam’ said happily. “Now. Left, or right?”

“No,” Siobhan said.

The man in front of her raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“You’re not Sam, which means I’m not fucking playing. So, who are you?”

“Sam Reich,” he answered quickly, easily, naturally.

Siobhan frowned. “No. Bullshit. Who are you?”

“Sam Reich,” he repeated, sounding somehow even more sincere, and genuinely confused that Siobhan would be asking. Fuck that. She wouldn’t take it. Couldn’t take it.

“No. Bullshit. Try again! Who the fuck are you?”

This time, instead of doubling down, he paused. “Do you want to know a secret?”

After a moment, she nodded warily. He beckoned her close, and slowly, cautiously, she left her podium, walking up to this devil in the shape of a game-show host. Close enough to see his eyes properly, and how truly, deeply old they were.

“Even if I told you,” he stage-whispered, those ancient eyes sparkling with terrible glee, “it wouldn’t make a single bit of difference.”

-

“Did you just—”

“Yeah. And—”

“Yeah.”

The three of them were once again huddled backstage, debriefing. 

“So, are we allowed to do this?” Trapp asked quietly. “Because he seemed pretty against the idea of us working together.”

“Didn't say anything to me,” Ify shrugged. “And I don't see another way of getting out of this if we don't share stuff. And even then—sorry, but I think we're here til he wants to let us go.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Ify said. “Because we got the game, we got the key, we opened the chest, and here we all are again, so I dunno what we have to do. I asked him point blank about the win condition, and—”

“He made it sound like the points, to me,” Trapp interrupted.

Ify nodded. “Me too. But he also pretty much said we're here because he's having fun. I don't think the points are it.”

“So we can lose, but we can't win.” Siobhan's voice was dull.

“C'mon, Siobhan,” Trapp said encouragingly. “We'll get out of it. We've gotta have hope.”

Siobhan just looked flatly at him.

“Look, there are silver linings, okay?” Trapp insisted. “Not many, sure, but enough to look for. Like, because it means our actual friend isn't fucking with us—this guy isn't Sam, that's for sure.”

“I'm not…” Siobhan started, and winced. “This is going to sound bad. But I'm not even sure he's human.”

Ify exhaled deeply.

“Don't give me that,” Siobhan snapped reflexively, and Ify raised his hands placatingly.

“I'm not saying I don't agree,” he said. “It checks out. But it's heavy going, that's all.”

Siobhan nodded, looking calmer. “He still wouldn't say who he is, but… I saw him. The real him, up close. And yeah, he's the spitting image of Sam, but… fuck. People don't look like that behind the eyes.”

“Jesus,” Trapp breathed.

She just nodded wordlessly in reply, and despite knowing that it was costing them valuable discussing time, all three lapsed into silence. What could you say to that sort of revelation?

“The microphone,” Ify said abruptly, and Trapp and Siobhan’s eyes both swung to him. “I mean, I’ve still been thinking about win conditions. Or at least how he’s controlling the loop, and how we can use that.”

“He said he can run it like a VCR,” Trapp added. “But I’m not sure how, I assumed it was something in his podium—”

“But he keeps drawing attention to the microphone,” Ify continued. “Every single goddamn loop.”

“So we break it,” Siobhan said decisively. 

Trapp made a face. “Or steal it?”

“Whatever. Either way, we get it out of his control.”

“Sorry, y’all,” came a familiar voice, and they all had to stifle a groan. Planning time was over.  

The game started back up again, and—the point totals were as high as they remembered. The set was just as dirty. All promising signs. 

And then their host’s eyes turned to Siobhan after Ify’s successful run at the video game, and her stomach clenched. Even though the time loop continuing was the worst possible scenario, departures from his routine were never a positive thing.

He gave her an indulgent look. “But, Siobhan.” 

She was focused, she was prepared, she could handle whatever he threw at her. “Yes.”

“Because it is the last round of our game…”

Oh.

The buzzy little chiptune started up again, but to Siobhan, Trapp and Ify, it didn't mean a thing. The words “last round” rang in their ears sweeter than any music.

All of them knew it was probably false hope. Nonetheless, it was better than nothing. Something to cling to as they trod the motions of the remaining questions.

And then the cameo cast and all the crew came onstage when the wenis music played, and that certainly had a grand finale type feel to it; and Kevin didn’t get kicked in the face, no matter how much he was darting around in what had suddenly become a minefield of flailing limbs; and whatever it was that was wearing Sam Reich’s face led them all through more repetitions of the routine than usual, radiating manic joy the entire time.

“And stop!” he yelled as the music cut out, throwing his arms wide and looking around frantically as if the camera remaining intact had any fucking bearing on the time loop whatsoever. “Kevin, did we get that?”

The cameraman pulled open the now heavily duct-taped camera body, then looked up, scripted embarrassment mingling with scripted regret. “There’s no tape in the camera.”

And with that, their host turned away from him to look straight down the barrel of the main camera, favouring it with an open smile of pure, uncomplicated enjoyment; the sort of smile that invited you to share in it with him, no matter how strong the hatred that burned in your veins. “That brings us to the end of our show!” he announced happily. “Our winner tonight: Mike Trapp!”

“No-one’s a winner,” Trapp cut in, shaking his head. “No-one’s a winner here today.”

But even so, he was presented with a cool watch, and the confetti cannons went off, and they left the set for longer than two minutes and weren't called back at all, and finally, finally, they could let themselves believe it. 

The loop was broken. They were free. 

---

“What did I do?” Sam’s doppelganger repeated, pausing for a moment to think. “Oh, nothing awful.”

Normally, Sam would be content to let that slide. But just lately, he’d been getting a weird feeling from his doppelganger, and there was too much grey area between ‘something good’ and ‘nothing awful’ to be comfortable. “No, seriously.”

“We just ran the recording a few more times,” his double huffed, his smile fading—not quite impatient, but visibly put out, somehow, like he didn’t feel sufficiently appreciated. “Look at them, they’re fine.”

“I am looking at them,” Sam said. “And that’s why I’m asking. They’re my friends, I can tell when something isn’t right.”

His doppelganger hummed briefly, moving next to him to come and look at the monitor, and—just for a flash, less than a second—Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck rise when his double passed behind him. 

“Maybe you're right,” he said slowly, after watching the feed for a few seconds. “Okay, I'll fix it. I'll have a chat to them.”

Sam exhaled, relief washing over him. Of course there wasn't anything to be worried about.

“Thanks,” he said.

His double just smiled faintly and nodded, then left the room.

Sam turned back to the monitor, waiting for the moment a minute or so later when his double would appear in the frame. And sure enough, he did. The sound setup was only piped in from the stage, and even then it wasn’t the best quality, so Sam didn’t have a chance of hearing what was actually being said. But he watched as, without exception, every single cast member flinched when his doppelganger touched them lightly on the shoulder to get their attention. 

The conversations were quiet, with a gentle sort of intensity. His double seemed to be focused on making sure each person felt acknowledged—Sam couldn’t recall him breaking eye contact with anyone he was speaking to—and whatever he said, it seemed to work. One after another, he spoke to all the cast, contestants and cameos, leaving calm in his wake. And when he had talked to the last one, and everyone looked settled and genuinely at ease, he shot a look of pure satisfaction towards the backstage camera, and headed out of view.

“Thank you,” Sam said again when his doppelganger returned to their dressing room, and received a gracious nod in reply. “Just out of curiosity, though—what did you tell them? Because fuck, it worked like a charm!”

His double tilted his head, half-smiling. “Oh, you know. All the right things. That I was very sorry for anything that might have gone weird during the recording, that I wasn’t feeling like myself, that it’ll never happen again… Oh, yeah—and then I wiped their memories.”

Sam coughed. “You what?”

“Wiped their memories,” his double repeated matter-of-factly. “It was the simplest solution, really. Everyone stays in continuity, they’re blissfully free of any… more troubling memories, our cover isn’t blown—it’s perfect.”

“No, hang on, you can’t—”

“I can, and I did,” his doppelganger replied. “I fixed the problem—which you asked me to, I might add—and now everyone’s back to their regular happy selves. It’s a totally closed system. The only person who knows it happened at all is me. Oh, and you, of course.”

Sam frowned.

“Besides, this way, you don’t have to worry about having to work out the overtime for a time loop, because they’ve got no idea what the extra pay would even be for,” his double added breezily before he had a chance to say anything, then snapped serious. “And don’t look at me like that, Samuel Dalton Reich, because you were thinking about it. I know you.”

Unfortunately, he couldn’t deny it. The tiny part of his mind that was always in Dropout CEO mode had been grappling with the ethical and financial implications of a time loop and getting nowhere, and the relief of not having to deal with it was like a fist unclenching.

“See?” his doppelganger said, meeting his eyes with a pointed sort of kindness. “I know what I’m doing, Sam, I’ve been doing it for a very long time. And it’s better for everyone like this.”

“I don’t—” Sam started, faltering. On the one hand, there was something intuitively and viscerally horrifying about his friends having their memories wiped. But on the other… 

“If you don’t want to know,” his double said softly, and god, it gave Sam the shivers to hear his own voice used that way, “there is a way around it. I thought you’d rather be a part of everything that’s going on, but…”

His eyes caught and held on Sam’s like magnets, and—something had shifted behind them, something small, but with a seismic effect. He was pinned by that gaze, trapped, electrified; wholly unable to look away.

“I can do the same for you as I did for them.”

On the other hand… his double was right. It was kinder, probably, if they didn’t remember whatever they went through, and in that moment, he realised he couldn’t even begin to guess what that was. And… it was definitely easier.

“No,” he said, and when the word came out as a whisper, he cleared his throat and tried again. “No. It’s okay.”

His doppelganger blinked, and the spell was broken.

“Great!” he said brightly, back to his usual cheerful self, with all traces of that scary side—that dangerous side—folded neatly away. “You know, I really didn’t want to have to do that to you—you’ve been so much fun to work with, it would have been a shame to have it all come to nothing.”

And Sam, feeling like a marionette with its strings cut, hated the fact that he agreed. Even with everything that had happened lately, he couldn’t deny that the electricity that came from working with his doppelganger, the sizzle of pushing ideas just that bit past the boundaries and laughing uproariously at the result, was liberating. Exhilarating. Addictive, almost, a heart-racing excitement that sang in his blood.

Maybe the danger was part of the game. And as long as nobody came to any harm, he could keep playing.

“Just… promise me one thing, okay?” he started, and his double turned wide, patient eyes on him. “Promise me I won’t have to see anything like that again. There’s nothing we can do to change this now, but I can’t let it happen again, yeah? They’re my friends, and there’s a line.”

“Sure,” his doppelganger agreed. “You’re right. And I do like them, so—hm. I’ll treat them like I would my own friend.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied, finally letting the tension drain out of him. “That means a lot.”

His doppelganger just nodded in acknowledgement, then clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “C’mon. We’ve got more work to do.”

----- missed an installment of the sam reich!master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): you are here!

[alice-after-dark]

Wavelength

Inspired by this art from @hiemaldesirae, this art from @ectochoir, and this post by @liulith

Might become an AU or a fic but this is such a fun concept

TW for mild blood and gore.

Vox first starts noticing something is wrong when he begins losing chunks of time.

It's little moments at first. A conversation here and there. Then entire meetings, movie nights, dates. A whole afternoon just...gone.

He chalks it up to exhaustion. Velvette is always saying he's overworking himself. That's it. That's all it is. He just needs to take care of himself a bit better and he'll be fine.

Vox really begins to worry when he wakes up on the floor of his bathroom covered in blood.

He can taste it in his mouth, the flesh in his teeth. He doesn't recognize the Sinner's corpse in the bathtub, flayed open and organs gone. He throws up.

The security footage is clear. He watches himself leave the tower, leaping into the power lines from the privacy of his bedroom. Hours pass before he finally returns, dragging the corpse along behind him as he heads towards the bathroom.

He remembers none of it.

It takes him the rest of the night to clean up the mess. He can't risk anyone seeing. This would destroy his image. How can the people trust someone who just plucks Sinners off the street for a midnight snack?

He disposes of the corpse and his ruined clothes. How would he explain this to Val and Vel? He can't. He can't explain any of it.

Things come to a head when he almost kills a Sinner on live television.

It's his usual talk show. He's interviewing an actor about his latest movie (produced by VoxTek, of course) when he hears it, like static in his mind.

Kill him

He shakes it off and continues the interview, ignoring the way his heart beat kicks up a notch.

Kill him

The stage lights seem so bright, so hot. They're blinding.

Kill him

He can hear the rush of blood through the actor's veins, see the pulse of his jugular. His claws twitch. He wants to rip it out.

KILL HIM

The actor is still speaking, but Vox can't make out what he's saying anymore. His head is filled with static and the sound of rushing blood-

Ǩ̶̨̮̾͠I̷̧̩̋̂͋Ḽ̴̀L̵͎͇̟̔͝ ̷͙̯͝H̶̫̤̿͂I̷̭͚̎͌̕Ḿ̶̤̑

Vox runs off the set without explanation. He cuts the broadcast remotely and does not stop moving until he reaches him dressing room. He slams the door. His heart is pounding. He is shaking. Sparks crackle around him wildly and he struggles to reign them in. Someone is pounding on the door. Velvette is shouting his name. He presses his hands over his receivers.

"Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!"

And everything goes silent.

When Vox opens his eyes again, darkness has descended upon his dressing room, the LEDs around the mirror flickering. And from the darkest corner of the room, a figure emerges. Vox glares.

"You."

"Good evening, darling!" Alastor cackles. "How is your broadcast going?"

Vox staggers to his feet. "What the fuck do you want?! How did you even get in here?"

Alastor's answering grin sends an icy chill down Vox's spine. "Why, you let me in."

"Bullshit! Why the fuck would I do that?"

"Look for yourself."

Vox does, mentally searching out every camera feed for what the Radio Demon might be talking about...and he finds it. Wide-eyed, he watches his own image enter the security office, slitting the guard's throat and tapping a few keys on the blood-splattered keyboard. He recognizes the motion enough to know it's the access code and within seconds, the V Tower is completely exposed. Vox kills the feed and looks at Alastor is shock.

"I told you," the deer says.

Vox shakes his head. "How, I...I don't remember doing that! Why would I do that?!"

"Because I wanted you to. Just like I wanted you to kill that Sinner you found in your bathtub. The actor...while annoying, I didn't truly want you to kill him. No. What I really wanted was to get you alone."

There a rush of static again and Vox's jaw snaps shut, body rigid. He can't move. He can't speak. Panic floods him. Alastor steps closer.

"I've been controlling you for weeks now. It's a splendid little trick, don't you think?" He points to the floor with his cane and Vox kneels. The microphone tips up his screen. "Imagine what I can make you do. Though you don't really have to, do you? I think I made the...possibilities very clear tonight. Of course, we could always make a deal."

Vox feels his jaw come free and he stares up at Alastor's Cheshire smile.

"You want my soul."

"Ah, so there is a brain in that flat head of yours! Marvelous! That will make this all so much easier." Alastor twirls his cane, grinning down at Vox. "So here's the deal: you can either sign your soul over to me or watch as I slowly drive your empire into ruin. I'll even leave you the souls you've collected. You can maintain your Overlord status. No one needs to know about any of this. You come when I call you. You leave when I dismiss you. You follow my commands. So..." Vox feels the control lift completely. "D̴̪͈̃o̷̹̜̎̓͘ ̸͇͙̒̌w̸͕̹̐͘e̵͈͙͆͌͝ ̸̪̜͆h̵͎̫͒á̷̠̂͆v̷͍͒̀e̴̋ͅ ̶̬́ā̸͔̻̉̈́ ̷̤̾͛̓d̴͈͖̈́̈́͝ê̵̗̈́̕a̸͈͚͉̋l̷̜͈̭̈?̶̝́̄"

[thelovelylolly]

Ok-ok, open requests, so hear me out:

Hobie Brown x nb russian reader

And reader is, like, a chill bassist, and they go to play some rock and cause dispute to the rich, and then they go to draw some graffiti and makeout 👉👈

(yes that's extremely specific, so pretty please 🙏)

Noise Complaint

Summary: Your band gets a noise complaint for playing too loud, but you and Hobie sneak away before the police show up. Warnings: police mentions, make out (oooooooo), non-binary reader, not proof read (let me know if i miss any!) Word count: 748 Notes: i know you requested the reader to be russian, but im going to leave it pretty open i hope you enjoy it still (and ofc thank you for the request!) <3

Nights like these were your favorite. Playing on a stage in a crowded and loud bar with Hobie and the rest of your band. You and Hobie were towards the front since you played bass and he played guitar, and you two always made the crowd come alive. You loved the energy of the crowd, their cheers always made you and the rest of the band play louder and louder.

It wasn't until you, Hobie, and the rest of the band wandered backstage for a break that you found out just how loud you were. One of the bar's owners hurried back stage where you were leaning against Hobie and wiping sweat of your forehead with a rag.

"I hate to tell you guys this, but the police showed up with a noise complaint. They're trying to clear out the bar and got some people riled up," the owner said, her arms crossed in front of her as she looked between your little group.

"A complaint from who? We're not bothering anyone," Hobie quickly replied.

"I don't know, some rich asshole who said we were interrupting their quiet night."

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, tossing the rag you were using to the side. "They can't do anything, we weren't doing anything illegal," you said.

"You guys were getting the crowd riled up, so they could blame you."

"Whatever," Hobie sighed as he grabbed your hand and started to lead you out the back door, "c'mon, babe, let's get out of here."

The two of you slipped into the back alley, the blue and red lights from the cop cars bouncing off the brick walls around you. You looked around the alley out of curiosity and spotted an abandoned bag filled with spray paints on the ground. You smirked and nudged Hobie.

"How 'bout we cause a bit more trouble, huh? Really push their buttons," you asked, pointing at the bag.

Hobie looked at the bag then back at you, matching your smirk. "I already know what to write."

You two went over to the bag, grabbing the colors you wanted before finding a large enough space to use. You quickly got to work, doing a rough outline of your design in white before adding bright and bold colors. You wanted anyone who passed by to see what you had to say. Once the words were done, you started to add little details like stars and such.

"Hey! I think I heard something over here!"

You glanced at the end of the alley as you heard footsteps approaching. "Oh, shit," you muttered.

Hobie also heard them coming and dropped the spray paints in his hands. He reached for you and quickly took the spray paints from your hands, dropping them next to his.

"Hobs, what are-"

He pinned you against the concrete wall and smashed his lips to yours, cutting you off. The metal of his lip piercing was a sharp contrast to his warm lips. You melted into the kiss, wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer. His hands were on either side of your head, hiding your faces from the officers that were appraoching.

"What's going on- oh. Uh..." A police officer said, stopping when he saw the two of you. "C-carry on."

He turned and left the alleyway, mumbling curses as he did.

Hobie pulled away to catch his breath, a smirk on his lips. "I think that worked, huh, babe?"

You laughed. "Definitely worked."

He stepped back, but reached for your hand. He intertwined his ringed fingers with yours, turning to see your works. You smiled as you looked at yours.

Wear earplugs!

Maybe if you had more time, you would've thought of something better, but you wished you could yell that at whatever rich assholes called in a noise complaint. If they had a problem with your music, they could just plug their ears. You weren't gonna stop.

"Cute," Hobie teased before directing your attention to his.

F*!K THE RICH :)

More straightforward than yours, but he censored himself with big, bright characters. You laughed then kissed his cheek. "Cute," you replied, doing a bad impression of his voice.

He smiled at you and pulled you towards the back of the alley where the shadows were darker and the police wouldn't see you two as well. You quickly caught on to what he was doing and spun him around, pinning him to the wall.

"Now," you said quietly, "where were we?"

[paintbrushnebula]

Stay On For Me

I was trying to write a Tangled one-shot but then I was stumped on where to begin so I wrote this as a warm-up exercise instead. Just a cute lil quickie composed of some Ghostflower headcanons I've adopted up to this point. (P.S. This def takes place post-BTSV). Enjoy ^^

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Gwen rapped her knuckles on the door of the Morales’ residence to a steady rhythm. She only had to wait 3 seconds before the door was swung open so hard the knob would've punched its way into the apartment's wall had it not been locked in the eager grasp of her boyfriend, Miles Morales, who she could tell was absolutely buzzing. Gwen threw her arms open wide the way a star all too aware of themself would announce their arrival to the stage. 

"Hey, baby!" 

"Hey, queen~!" 

One of his better nicknames for her. 

Although, now that she thought of it, many of his depictions of her in his sketchbook had bright, little crowns haloing her form, so that nickname had to say something about what he thought of her. That thought now had her buzzing, too.

Besides, anything was better than the plethora of nicknames he coined that were just one of many shameless agonizing "cutesy" puns made out of her name. She couldn't take anymore of their friends adopting the nicknames she pointedly and immediately rejected to tease her. She'd since requested nicely him to leave the pet names to her. Just stick to "mi amor," she told him.

Gwen hadn't fished for a hug when she outstretched her arms (not that she was against one at the moment), but Miles took her open arms as an invitation for one, vaulting himself into them, his arms anchoring to her shoulders.

"Oof! Oookay!"

The flush of warmth that immediately spread from his body to hers had her weightless and oh God bless the person who invented hugs. To her it looked like he was drowning at sea and she was the life preserver. That's just one of those intrusive thought visuals that pop up when you're reminded of something, though. Her internal monologue can get needlessly poetic. 

"Yeah, he does that," Jeff scoffed from his place on the dining table, not even looking up from his crossword puzzle. 

"Sup, Captain! Catch anyone good for me? Hey look, if you need a crook to behave, you know where to find me. The donuts are on you, though." One of her hands left its place on Miles' back for a moment to shoot a finger gun at Jeff Morales, the second scariest person she knew, and her horror movie partner. Instead of her actual name, he opts to address her as "Emo." She thought he clearly wants to play the long game with first-name basis, make it really count when there's a special life-or-death occasion when it really impacted their character development. I got your number, Captain Morales. They're basically best buddies at this point. 

"Heheh, yeah right, 'donuts.' That's a good one, Emo"

"It is?"

"It better be."

Turning Jeff's earlier notification in her mind, however, Gwen had to admit Miles' hugs had a habit of being unannounced. Now looking back on all the hugs she's witness him give, from his parents to Peter to their friends, he'd always sprint toward them and collide into their arms, chest-to-chest with his arms wrapped around you like a koala. If he thought you wouldn't mind and you weren't carrying anything in your hands, then there was no reason why he couldn't just throw himself into you, right? She chuckled to herself because she knew that that exact mock phrasing of the sentiment was most likely how he unironically thought about it. Goober.

Speaking of, is he dead? Gwen was pulled from her thoughts to become aware of the fact that they're still standing at the door, with Miles still wrapped around her after what must've been 2 full minutes, having now let his most of his weight rest on her and his breathing had slowed. He was almost completely limp. 

Is he...asleep?

“Uhhh….” Gwen gently bounced the shoulder he was resting on. "Hey. Bambi. Miles. You okay...?"

He turned his head to face her, no real hints of sleep in his features. He seemed to just now become aware of himself, eyes failing to meet her gaze as his cheeks turned a light maroon. "Hmm? Uhh, yeah?" 

Gwen couldn't keep her exasperated laugh out of her words, "Did you just fall asleep...?"

His cheeks reddened even further as he tried (and failed) to feign nonchalance. “Whaaat? No! No. Just.. y'know, got a little too comfortable…”

He seemed to cringe at his words as he rushed to return to his place, like he was trying to hide from her gaze. 

“Got comfor-wait. No. Miles, don't-"

Gwen gently caught his head in her hand before it could fully rest on her shoulder again. Was she really that comfortable to hug? He was buzzing when she came through the door, and now all the energy he had depleted all at once and left him boneless in her arms. 

She should get into poetry with her fancy words. Pays to do the crossword every day.

Miles broke from the embrace, his hands going up in surrender as his cheeks turned maroon again. "Yup, sorry. Got it. Eheh..."

Gwen sighed. She hated when he misread her reaction to something he did as if he'd done something she didn't like. Which was crazy, because she liked when he was touchy! “No, no. Hey-err-listen, uh, just let me sit down, first. Then we can, uhh-heh-y'know-"

Miles nodded before she could trip over any more of her words, "Yeah, yeah, totally. That's cool. Way better idea."

Gwen wasted no time in taking his hand, lacing her fingers between his and getting lost in the smooth, leathery texture of his skin. She took the lead over to the couch, plopping down a little too hard, she'd realize too late. Sorry, Jeff. 

As Miles reached the couch, Gwen reopened her arms, this time meaning to inviting him in. Miles sat down gingerly, taking his sweet time closing the distance between them scoot-by-scoot, lacking any fervor to return to his previous position on her shoulder. 

Once were finally thigh-to-thigh, he proceeded to let his head fall onto her shoulder with the pace and caution one would set down cracked glassware. 

That was when Gwen had had enough. Did he really think he’d irritated her at the door? She sucked her teeth. Without warning, Gwen reached over, wrapped her arms under his pits to lock around his back, and half lifted him back onto his original spot on her shoulders, eliciting a flustered squeak from his lips. She could feel his heart hammering against his chest against hers. 

After a moment, his heart slowed and he allowed himself to go limp again. Only he did fall asleep this time. Gwen didn’t know when, though. Jeff had put on Sicario and they were both fully engrossed in the plot, entering deep discussions about morality and the social topics brought up by the film’s themes. It was only after the film was over that she'd noticed Miles' "spider-purring," something he'd just recently discovered male spider-people could do, which he was decidedly not happy about.

[doe-eyed-fool]

Prey | Chapter Thirteen

Alastor x Fem!Reader

Warning(s): Harassment, Murder, Death, Gore, Blood

You didn't know how long you were staring into your vanity mirror for. Checking your face, your hair, making sure there was nothing out of place. But after a moment, you just...stared "Mimzy? You ever hear things that aren't really there?"

The shorter woman gave you a look after hearing that question. "Honey. That's something people say before they're sent to the nut house, you know?" She laughs weakly.

You sigh before finally looking away from the mirror. "Feels like I should be in there after what I heard earlier. Or thought I heard?"

Mimzy only shakes her head. "Y/n, hon. Alastor's ol place can be a little creepy at night, but you're safe there. Nothing's gonna happen to you. Alastor will make sure of that."

"But Alastor wasn't there. What if something did happen?" You ask. "I know he would have kept me safe if he were there. But it was just me. And that darn driver of yours was taking forever to actually get there, so that didn't help." 

"Yeah, sorry about him. He's not too bright, that one. I promise I'll get a more capable guy to come get you next time." Mimzy walks over to you. "Now pretty lady, it's time to dazzle the crowd once again!"

Your nerves had been eating at you since you left Alastor's home, a part of you wanted to cancel on tonight. But, you were already here. And there was a full house just waiting to see you perform. You inhaled deeply, and put on a false smile before rising from your vanity. 

"Let's knock 'em dead!"

And knock them dead you did. Another amazing performance, another rousing round of applause from the audience. As you were backstage, removing the makeup and getting changed back into your more casual dress, there was a knock at the door. 

You assumed it was Mimzy at first, but Mimzy almost never knocks before coming into your dressing room. You quickly smooth out your dress before approaching the door. You then thought it was Alastor, though, he'd still be working about this time. 

You opened the door and was met with Joe, smiling with a small bouquet of flowers. "J-Joe?" Your force your shock aside with a more cheery tone. "What brings you by?" 

"Well, how could I not come and see one of my favorite show girls? You sing so sweetly, and boy do you look ever so dazzling up on that stage." Joe says before handing you the bouquet. "For for, darlin'." 

You take them and give him a small smile. "Thank you, Joe. But I have to ask, how did you get back here? No one's allowed backstage unless you preform or-"

"Pay to see you?" Joe smirks. 

"I-I was going to say or work here. But yes, I suppose that too." You chuckle weakly before clearing your throat. "But uh, you know, you didn't have to do that. I do visit Alastor sometimes at work, you could see me then." 

"Yes, I know. But you spend most of your time with him when you're there. I'd like to have a conversation with you every now then." Joe winks. "But I guess who could blame you? He's your sweetheart after all." He mutters.

"We're engaged." You say a bit firmly. Everyone knew it. But it seems Joe needed it drilled into his thick skull. 

"Mhm." Joe hums. "But not married. Not yet anyhow." He leans in a little closer to you as he speaks. "I say you're still a free woman. Why not take advantage of that while you still have it?" 

You take a step back. "Joe. I am taken, married or not. Alastor is my-"

Your words were cut short by Joe's heavy sigh. "You're wasting yourself on that man. He couldn't give you what you really wanted. But I..." Joe stepped further into the room. "I could give you everything you wanted, and then some." His eyes look you up in down, sending a chill down your spine. 

"I bet he hasn't even properly bed you."

"Joe, that's enough." You tell him. "I think it's time you leave." 

"Y/n, don't be like that." Joe took another step towards you. Your blower back hit the edge of the vanity. "I mean it. Get out!" You rather loudly, hoping someone near by would here. 

"Y/n-"

"Is there a problem here?"

You and Joe both look to the room's entrance, in the doorway stood Mimzy. And behind her were two tall and bulky men, both glaring Joe down. Mimzy, also glaring at Joe, crossed her arms. "Well?" She asks sharply. 

Joe rolled his eyes and walked away from you. "Not at all ma'am." He stepped aside the two men. "Have a good night." He said before finally leaving. 

Mimzy take her eyes off him until he was out of sight, she then looked up at the two men. "Make sure he actually leaves the building. And do not let him back in here." The two men nods wordlessly before leaving you both. 

Mimzy walked inside the dressing room and shut the door behind her. "Y/n. Are you alright?" She asks gently. "Who was that guy?" You sighed heavily. "Joey Martins. He works in the same building as Alastor. And as you can tell, he has taken a liking to me." 

"A liking is putting it lightly. He's got the hots for you." Mimzy says with a frown. "If you want, I'll make sure that creep doesn't step foot in this lounge ever again." You nod your head. "I feel like that would be best. If Alastor catches wind of this, who knows what he might do."

"Oh I have an idea." Mimzy chuckles. "I would talk to him about this, but, I won't say anything if you don't want me to." 

"Y-Yes, I think I should be the one who lets him know. I might be able to talk him down from whatever he might try and do. Lord knows, Alastor can't risk loosing his job over beating the living daylights out of some fool, who's not even worth the effort."

"Is Al gonna take you home?" Asked Mimzy. You shook your head. "Says he'll be working late again." 

"Then I'll have one of my guys drive you home. One with some sense, I promise." She playfully bumps your arm. 

You smile lightly. "Thank you, Mimzy." 

Once you got home, you made sure to keep your eyes strictly ahead of you, ignoring the sight of the cellar before rushing inside the house. You sighed and shook your head. "I'm working myself up over nothing. Absolutely nothing." You inhaled and exhaled before heading upstairs to get ready for bed.

You took a shower, and slipped into your nightgown before walking to yours and Alastor's shared bed. You sat down and took a book from the nightstand, opening to the page where you last left off. After about twenty of minutes of reading, you started to feel a chill at your arms. You shivered before pulling the covers up over your legs, and continued reading.

You brought the cover up your body further, the colder the room became. At one point, you suspect the heater might be broken. You set the book aside and stand from the bed, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep warm. 

The light from the moon peaking from the drawn window curtains caught your eye, you turn your head towards it before walking over. You move the curtains aside, and down below, you could get a clear view of the shed Alastor used for hunting. 

It shouldn't have bothered you in the slightest. Even though you hated that he used that shed to aid in hunting woodland creatures, he always made sure you never saw it happen or knew about just what he hunted. But from the amount of antlers he had mounted on the walls of his home, you knew deer were his favorite. 

Yes, Alastor always made sure you never knew what went down in that shed, and in some way, it worked. You didn't pay much attention to it all. The shed itself did not bother you.

What did bother you, was that the door was open, and a moving shadow from within the light the shed gave off. 

'Alastor's home.' Was the first thing you would have thought. But you knew better. His car was not parked outside, he was not home. So, who was inside of that shed? You quietly backed away from the window, heart beginning to pick up in your chest. 

Nothing looked missing when you first walked inside. If it were a robber, they might have snuck in while you were in the shower. The nearest phone was downstairs in the living room. But going down there meant risking getting caught, and god forbid there were more than one waiting.

But if they made there way upstairs, and found you, you'd be caught anyway. So. It was either wait for death or go chase after it. If there was even the slightest of chances you could make it downstairs without getting caught, and notifying the authorities, you would take it. 

You walked to the bedroom door, and slowly opened the door to keep it from creaking, before tip-toeing down the hall and to the top of the stairs. You pause for a moment, listening for any voices or footsteps. When silence was all that lingered, you continued making your way down as carefully and as quietly as possible. 

Once you reached the bottom, you paused again. And again, it was quiet. You move to walk again, and that's when you heard it. 

'Y/n...'

Your hand shot to your mouth to keep the gasp from escaping.

'Y/n...Y/n...'

Was...Was that...

'Y/n!'

"Alastor?" You whisper. Another chill brushed against your skin, it's intensity turning into a light breeze. You look up and finally notice that the front door, was cracked opened. And just at the foot of the door, was a trail of blood, leading outside. 

Immediately assuming the worst, you rushed outside and looked from right to left, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alastor somewhere. Your eyes fell back to the blood, you followed it down the stairs and until it wrapped around to the side of the house, leading right towards the cellar.

It's doors were wide open.

You stopped, and stared at that cellar for a moment. Then you heard it again, louder this time.

'Y/n!'

Every step towards that cellar made your heart sink lower and lower into the pit of your gut, a new wave a dread washing over you with ever inch you grew closer. Then you finally reached the entrance of that damn cellar, it's darkness, the eerie silence that came with it, the blood that lead further down...

It made you want to wretch. 

"A-Alastor..." You said, barely above a whisper. 'Please hear me...' You thought as tears fell from your eyes. 'If you're down there...please, please answer me.'

"Alastor?" This time a bit louder, but not much. If that was Alastor's blood, if he was hurt...dying even...

What you be able to do? You acted without even thinking, assuming that it was indeed Alastor's blood, that it was indeed him calling your name. What would you do? You knew you should have stayed inside, you should have just called the cops, you shouldn't have come out here knowing there might be someone out here. The very same someone, who could have hurt Alastor. The very same someone, who could hurt you too.

Why did you do this? 

You began to descend the stairs of the cellar. 

Why are you doing this?

You move your trembling hands out in front of you, acting as your eyes in the dark. Eventually they brushed up against something solid. It felt wooden. Your hand moved around until it reached a knob. You grasp it and turn it, stepping back as the door opened. 

"Alastor?" You tried again. "Al-"

Your words cut short, as a wave of putrid odor filled your nostrils, causing them to burn, and a gagging sensation form in the back of your throat. There was no mistaking that kind of smell, that stench.

It was the scent of death. 

"A-Alastor..." Your voice trembled. Had your fears been true? Did something happen to Alastor? You took a step forward, hands still outstretched. 

Did whoever was out there, had they...killed your beloved fiancé? Was what you heard his dying calls of your name?

The stench grew stronger the further you walked in. Suddenly your hand brushed up against a string hanging from above. Your finger and thumb caught it, but you did not pull down. You did not want to see what you feared you might.

You stood there in the darkness, the smell of rot and decay lingering in your nose, stinging at your throat. You shut your eyes tightly and pulled down at the string, a clicking sound followed after. 

You move your hand away. And for a moment, you truly believed you were alone in whatever room you stumbled across. But the smell was quick to prove you wrong. You slowly open your eyes again, fully expecting to see the corpse of Alastor at your feet.

However, what you saw, made your mind scream and your heart stop all the same. 

It was something right out of a horror story. Hooks and chains hung from the walls and the ceiling. Blood covered the walls, giving it a brown and black stain, though some was fresh. There were a few tables littered with a variety of knives. And worst of all...

The corpse of a man, his front cut open from sternum to pelvis, displayed just feet from you. 

A nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. This wasn't real, it couldn't be. How could something so horrible, so disgusting, so grotesque, be happening right in front of you. It couldn't be. 

But it was. 

"Y/n."

You turn your head, wide eyes met the one person you'd hope to not see. Who you'd hope was not responsible for...this. Who you'd hope was not so cruel and wicked enough to do something so inhumane. 

Because he was not the type of person who would do this. You knew him, you knew him your entire life. He would not do this. 

Alastor would not do something like this...

"You weren't suppose to ever see this, dear."

And yet, he did.

Tags-

@martinys-world

@sirens-and-moonflowers

@catticora

[bubble-popping]

okay this is kinda embarrassing bc i meant to post this a long time ago and just... Didn't.

More dnb gods au bc them <3

Truthfully, Techno didn't know why he stood here, hand hovering above the wood of a door. Even less did he understand why he felt so nervous about going in. The words 'Dream's Study' felt like a permanent 'do not disturb' sign. He knew how much he hated to be interrupted when he worked, especially for trivial matters such as a minor headache. Techno hadn't seen Dream for a while, and it was showing with how Chat nagged and clawed at his brain. He wasn't quite at the stage of attacking his dearest friends and causing major property damage because of their volume and relentlessness, but Dream had asked--pleaded, to be more precise--for him to visit before it got to that point. So, here he stood, trying to think of how to phrase his current predicament without sounding like a total loser. And Chat was not helping.

just knock?

man's forgot how to knock

bro forgor

E

E

average dork in love behavior

no u guys don't get it he's so normal about dream i promise

social anxiety L

L

LOL

L

L

"How do you nerds even know half those phrases? I don't say anythin' like that-" Before he knew it, the sound of squeaks and chirps emitted from behind the door. The Blobs' heightened senses never ceased to amaze him.

"What? Techno's outside? How-OW!"

Techno startled upon hearing the exclamation accompanied by a thud and finally kicked himself into gear, opening the door and peeking inside to see Dream standing up from behind his desk, cradling his horns and uttering more hisses of pain. "Dream? You alright?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine! Jus' bumped my head is all. I'm alright." The blond waved off his concern as he sank into his chair. "Is something up? Chat being loud again?"

The piglin god decided to step further into the room. He'd gone this far, might as well go the full mile. "Well, not at the moment now that you're, ya know, talkin'."

"Aw, they just missed me, huh?" Dream rested his head in his hand, smile smug and eyes scrunched.

YES

DREAM

DREAM POG

simps. every single one of you. me too.

GUYS SHUT UP I CAN'T FOCUS ON HIS PRETTY

pretty dreamie :)

WE AGREED ON DAYDREAM FOR THE NICKNAME IDOIT

**idiot lol

lol

LOL

Lol

LOL

"I didn't say all that. Don't get ahead of yourself, teletubby." As if Techno's absolutely scathing remark wasn't enough of a blow to the man's ego, several Blobs then decided it was their special moment to shine as they dropped down on Techno chirping and cooing not too unlike Phil's crows. He glanced up to see many more piled on a hammock above his head. The majority still soundly slept. Techno could only imagine what it'd look like if they were all awake.

"Hey! What have I told you guys about personal space?" Dream promptly stood from his chair and came over to brush the little Blobs off, a bright gold strong as sunshine glowing on his cheeks. It really didn't match the stern expression he was trying to show. "I'm so sorry about them. We're still working on that..." He didn't meet Techno's eyes as his hands swiped across his shoulders. Not even when he reached further up, lifting on the tips of his toes to pluck away the ones that had settled in his hair.

"They're not so bad. At least they're cute. Chat is just plain annoyin'," Techno grumbled.

WE'RE RIGHT HERE YA KNOW

techno hates us y'all

we're literally fixing your love life?

so ungrateful

Dream giggled softly, shaking his head. Only then did he meet Techno's gaze. "Chat isn't bad either. It's just like the Blobs, they're excitable. I think Chat's cool."

dream gets us y'all

omg he's looking at us guys

HE'S THINKS WE'RE COOL

i hope he wins the custody battle in the divorce

they aren't even married yet

praying on their downfall already is crazy

SHUT UP HE'S STILL TALKIMG

he stopped tho?

**talking

LOL

LOL

L

L

L

Techno pressed a hand to his temple, face twisting in discomfort. "You don't have to hear 'em all the time..."

Dream offered a sympathetic smile before he seemed to get an idea. "Would you like to rest with me while I fulfill some dream requests?"

"I don't wanna bother ya if you're workin'-"

"You wouldn't be a bother, ya big idiot. C'mon, I could use the company." He smiled sweetly, taking Techno by the arm with pretty green eyes begging from under long blond lashes. Naturally, Techno let himself be dragged away--but he still wasn't a simp, Chat, shut up--to a different corner of the office: an area that closely resembled a pillow fort.

Techno really had to duck down to enter it, clearly not built for a god his size. Inside was more spacious than it initially appeared. Made of many different colors and shapes of cushions, all draped with soft blankets, and partially bordered by the lower shelves of a bookcase. Dream easily found a spot to lay down, propped up and facing the curtain canopy. Techno squeezed against the nearest wall out of consideration for Dream's space, but regardless only managed a gap of mere inches. He too looked up, and when he did, he swore that nothing was above them at all. Tiny lights were strategically placed to emulate the night sky. Techno could even see certain constellations in the pattern.

"How did...?"

"Oh, some Blobs got into my glowstone dust by accident and they reminded me of stars, so I got this idea." And Techno believed him because when he squinted he saw, as his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting, many tiny Blobs hanging by thin threads with the proudest grins on their faces.

"Of course..." He huffed, smirking and shaking his head.

A comfortable silence succeeded his words, covering the pair in a particular kind of blanket. The kind that had Techno curiously glancing over to see Dream concentrating on a cloud held aloft by the green strings connected to his fingers.

"What's that one? If ya don't mind me askin'."

"Hm? Oh, well, usually I don't share other people's dreams. They're personal things, meant for your mind alone. But..." Dream got a small, almost mischievous smile on his face. "This one here is for one of my regulars."

"Regulars?"

"Mhm. I think she prays almost every night, always for the same thing. She's an old woman and recently her wife of almost 60 years passed away from an unfortunate accident. Do you know what she asks to dream of?"

Techno couldn't imagine knowing that much about a mortal. But then again, all those that prayed to him usually didn't live very long, so he supposed he just never got the chance to.

"What?"

"She just wants to speak with her again. Nothing else matters, except that she's there. They talk about so many things. Sometimes, they don't speak at all. Just sit there next to each other, enjoying the company. I've put them in all sorts of places. Relaxing on a beach, watching a fireworks display from afar, sitting on their rocking chairs in their living room..." He'd finished crafting the dream by then, offering it to one of the Blobs who devoured the cloud whole and promptly wiggled into the crevice of two pillows. Afterwards, he folded his hands atop his stomach and closed his eyes, smiling wistfully. "Such a sweet, pure love... I only hope someone will love me like that."

A heat unlike any other instantly filled Techno's cheeks.

ASDFGHJKL HE'S LITERALLY ASKING FOR IT

LET'S GOOO

KISS HIM YOU IDIOT

how did that guy make that sound

KISS

KISS

KISS

L matchmakers fr

wdym we're such W matchmakers

yeah he boutta get that sheep pus-

Techno quickly sat up from the comfortable pile onto his elbow, resolutely pushing that thought out of his head.

"Techno?" Dream looked to him, gaze wide and inquisitive. The piglin god turned to stare down at him, and though he knew he had to say something that might finally shut Chat up about this, the words got caught in his throat. Green eyes were simply too pretty, surrounded by freckles and waves of golden blond. A hand surprised him out of his admiring. Gentle fingers pushed the hair that had fallen into Techno's face behind his pointed ear then came to a rest at his cheek. "Something wrong?"

"No," he answered with a shake of his head, placing his hand upon Dream's and leaning into the touch. It still didn't make a lot of sense to him, why Dream was so tender towards him despite his reputation and prowess... Or, perhaps, because of it? Techno cherished it all the same. "Nothin's wrong. 'm just... 'm not sure how to, how to word-"

"Tech," the sheep god murmured, now cupping both of Techno's cheeks and wearing a bittersweet smile, "you don't have to force yourself. I was just thinking out loud. I wasn't trying to-"

"It's not that, I mean, well, it is, but-" He sighed, closing his eyes to collect himself before opening them with a renewed determination. "I get what you're sayin' and I feel the same way."

"You do?"

"Ya think I'd come just to make Chat shut up? That's just a sweet bonus, dude."

Dream giggled, a similar blush rising on his face. "So, what does that mean?"

"It means I... would really like to kiss ya, if you'll let me."

The blush immediately brightened to a shimmering gold. He pushed himself to a sit as well, closing the gap between them to barely a few inches. "I think I'd like that."

They both leaned in, heads tilting to accommodate the other, but when Techno connected with something, he knew it was not Dream's lips. A Blob had managed to slip in at the last second, squeaking happily. The two pulled back in equal astonishment, allowing the Blob to drop on Dream's lap.

Dream's expression rapidly soured. "You little-!" He snatched the Blob up, gripping its little body in a tight grasp. "That's it. You're all going in timeout now." With a snap of his fingers, all the Blobs including the ones that hung from the ceiling exploded into puffs of clouds, leaving the two in near total darkness aside from Dream's glowing eyes. "Much better. Now..." Hands suddenly grabbed Techno by the shoulders and twisted them so he was flat on his back and Dream was straddling his waist. His voice lowered to a whisper as he leaned in once again, bright green illuminating both their faces. "Where were we?"

[musings-of-a-rose]

Back Pain

Back Pain

Pairing: Teacher Ben x f! Nurse reader

Word Count: 1300+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: a belated birthday request for a friend of mine! This is what she asked for, with Teacher Ben:

"Reader is the school nurse

And Ben pulls his back - so two football hunks from his class carry him into the first aid room.

(Let's call her Miss Mint, cause she gets everyone a cup of mint tea all the time)

 Course they're both crushing on each other..

First kiss maybe? 🙂 back massage with no shirt? Poor Ben 🙂"

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

Main Masterlist 

Teacher Ben Masterlist

"It's funny how your illness always seems to coincide with Mr. Shah's quizzes, Maria."

The student in front of me tries her best to hide her guilt. "No, Nurse Mint, I really do feel like, sick." She coughs dramatically, and obviously fake. 

"I see. Well I've taken your temperature and since you're not exhibiting any other symptoms-"

"No, really, I'm sick." Another fake cough. 

"Maria, make sure to sign up for drama class next semester. You'll be brilliant on stage."

She perks up. "You think so? I've been prac- ah dammit!" Realizing I got her to admit she was faking, she groans and grabs her backpack, heading towards the door. 

"Tell Mr. Shah I said hi."

She waves over her shoulder and leaves. Being a high school nurse never gets old. 

—----

It's quiet today. Just the typical stream of kids who need their daily meds and such.

Loud noises come from the hall outside, coming closer to the clinic. I catch a few words, including my name, so I walk around my desk to open the door. 

There, in the hall, are 2 of the school's football players and between them they're carrying-

"Mr. Ben?" I ask, pulling the door open wider as the 2 students carry him inside. 

"Where can we put him?" One of the students asks. 

I gesture to a bed. "Here." I put on some gloves as the students gently set Mr. Ben on the bed.

"Move back, please," I say as I move to stand in front of Ben. The students step back, waiting to see if I need any more help. 

"Hi, Ben. What happened?" I'm standing in front of him, watching pained expressions move across his face. His beautiful face. 

"I think I-" He hisses when he moves "-threw my back out."

"Thank you, boys. You may head to class now." 

They nod, telling Mr. Ben they hope he feels better. 

"Now, what happened?" I ask as I head back to my desk, opening a side drawer to pull out some pain meds for him.

He chuckles softly and then hisses again. "I just..turned wrong."

"Turned wrong?"

"Yeah I'm old. It happens."

"You're not that old," I smile at him as I hand him a bottle of water and a cup with pain meds in it. He hisses again trying to grab the bottle. 

"It's okay. I'll help. Can you turn your head for me to give these to you?"

He takes a breath and moves his head back, his bright, brown eyes finding mine. I can see from the look in his eyes he's in more pain than he's letting on. I help him take the pain meds, stepping back to look at him. 

"Let's take off your shirt."

"I-what?"

"So I can massage your back, help work it out while the meds kick in."

He blushes, bright pink flushing up his cheeks. "I, uh oh. You don't have to. I'll be ok." He hisses again when he moves and I shake my head. 

"I won't force you, but it will help."

He looks at me, eyes like a puppies and I get lost in them a moment. To be honest, I've had a crush on this man since my first day. He's great with the students and they absolutely adore him. Sometimes too much, if you've seen the fancams. 

It doesn't hurt that he's easily the most handsome guy I've ever laid eyes on. 

He swallows hard and slightly nods, closing his eyes at the bit of pain that movement causes. 

"Ok." He tries to move to unbutton his shirt, but grunts out in pain. I move closer to him, placing my hands gently over his. 

"M-may I?" I ask. 

He looks up at me, something else in his eyes. Almost like…

"Y-yeah. Ok."

My fingers tremble, undoing each button, slowly revealing a small smattering of freckles across his chest. He's got a small tummy and the sight of it goes straight through me. He catches me staring and tries to pull his shirt around his stomach.

"I'm not super fit-"

"You're gorgeous."

"What?"

"What? Oh uh let me help you take off the shirt so I can get at your back."

He nods and I slowly slide the shirt off his shoulders, helping him remove his arms. He grunts a few times at the pain and I can't stop apologizing for it. 

"It's not your fault I'm old and turning wrong can put me on my ass for a week."

I chuckle. "You're not that old. And I don't want to cause you pain so please tell me to stop if it hurts."

"Ok."

I move to stand behind him, pulling out my tiny jar of Tiger Balm. Ben approves it and tells me where it hurts the most. I gather up some balm, fingers hovering over the spot he indicated before I touch him, massaging the spot with gentle force. Ben grunts and moans as I work my fingers into his back, and I feel myself flushing, thinking of how else I could get him to make those sounds.

"Oh, shit that feels…ugh there! There! Harder!" 

I massage harder, Ben letting out a gasp and a moan as I feel the knot unwind under my hands. I stop and he breathes deep for several moments. 

"Are you ok, Mr. Ben?"

He nods slightly. "You have magic fingers."

I smile, moving back around to stand in front of him. "Glad to help. Let me help you with your shirt."

I slide his arms back in the sleeves and help him button up his shirt. I'm so close to him I can smell his cologne, woodsy and a bit like parchment. I chance a glance at his eyes and find him already staring at me, an odd look on his face, as if he's trying to decide on saying something. Smoothing out his shirt, I toy with the collar. 

"Is..are you feeling better?"

"Y-yes. I don't know how I would've made it without you."

"You'd have found a way I'm sure."

I move to step away, but apparently my shoes were untied and I trip over the laces. But I never hit the ground, Ben grabbing me and holding me, preventing my fall. We're close, noses nearly touching. 

Ben clears his throat. "Are…are you ok?"

"Hhmm? Oh uh…yeah. Yes, I-"

His eyes travel across my face, lingering on my lips for a moment longer. 

"Are you sure?" He moves his head slightly closer to me. 

"Sure about what?" I move closer to him. 

"Tripping." He's the closest he's been to me, our noses just barely brushing against each other.

"What?"

His lips press to mine hesitantly, waiting for my to pull back. As if I ever would. We both deepen the kiss, a quiet moaning coming from the back of his throat. He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to mine. 

"I've been wanting to do that since the moment you handed me my first cup of mint tea on your first day here."

I smile, "Really?"

"Mmm. Would you go to dinner with me?"

"Absolutely. And if your back bothers you, I know exactly how to handle it."

—----

General Taglist:

@frankie-catfish-morales @chaoticgeminate @janebby @astoryisaloveaffair @balekanemohafe @greeneyedblondie44 @hoeforthefictional @marvelousmermaid @hauntedmama @giuliarogers @icanbeyourjedi @wretchedmo @sunnshineeexoxo @livingmydreams13 @adventures-of-a-noodle @sara-alonso @theewokingdead @punkerthanpascal @giggly-otter @f0rever15elf @phandoz @dirtytissuebox @gallowsjoker @lovesbiggerthanpride @sarahmilesbendrix @booksarekindaneat @mrsudontknowme @swol-bear @charlispersonallyhell @xoxabs88xox @amneris21 @gooddaykate @alindeluce @avengers-fixation @paintballkid711 @harriedandharassed   @ladykatakuri @marrianena  @practicalghost @withakindheartx @batdarkladyvampir @justanotherkpopstanlol   @mermaidxatxheart @alexxavicry @ichigodjarin @justreblogginfics

[iamthecomet]

Comet, you need to be more careful with the power you hold /lh. What if your hand slipped and wrote about Swiss egochecking Dew backstage? You could cause ghumblr wide panic?!

Dew's been a little shit all day. Swiss has been trapped in the bus with him. It's hot. Everyone's miserable. They're three weeks into a tour that doesn't feel like it's ever going to end. Swiss is tired of everyone. Sick of the way Mountain is always drumming on something. Sick of the way Aether butts his way into every issue based on facial expression alone. If Swiss grimaces at something Cirrus says, Aether's there, trying to smooth over a problem that doesn't actually exist.

He's sick of the way they all smell. Something that usually feels like home, but lately has been tinged by the acrid bite of tension. They're all too close, too much. And then, there's fucking Dewdrop. Swiss likes Dew, loves him, he guesses. But Dew has a unique way of digging himself under Swiss' skin and staying there. The others he can brush off. He can roll his eyes at Cumulus' incessant humming and just move forward. She isn't doing it to annoy anyone, it's just a thing she does.

But Dew? Swiss is convinced Dew does all of this shit on purpose. Aether has tried to tell him otherwise. Stepping between Swiss and Dew and dragging Swiss away before he digs his claws into Dew's grinning mouth. He's told Swiss, over and over, that Dew doesn't mean to be obnoxious, whiny, egotistical. He reminds Swiss that those same traits when on display at the Abbey don't always drive Swiss toward murder. Instead, it's usually a clue that Dew's had too much. Overstimulated and bitchy. And Swiss knows deep down that they are all overstimulated and bitchy and that Dew probably can't help being a little shithead. But his fraying nerves stopped giving a shit three hours ago when Dew dropped Swiss' guitar case (with guitar inside) and laughed about it, sneering at Swiss when he said something like somehow the clumsiness was Swiss' fault.

Dew's been acting too good to help all day. Like he is above carrying gear, and talking to his guitar techs, or even participating in Copia's pre-show ritual. Dew had held his mask under his arm and rolled his eyes through the whole thing.

Copia, to his credit, ignored the whole display. He's a better man than Swiss, that's for sure. Because when Dew pushes away from the group and goes back to his dressing room, Copia doesn't follow to reprimand him.

But Swiss does.

It's a mistake, he knows it even as he stalks after the fire ghoul. But Swiss, deep in his gut, knows exactly what they both need to stop this shit before they end up punching each other on stage.

Dew swings the door closed as soon as he steps into the dressing room with enough force that the slam will echo. But Swiss catches it with a flat palm before it can hit the frame.

Dew spins, eyes bright and wild, already enraged before he even realizes who's interrupting him.

"What the fuck do you want?" Dew spits. He tosses his mask towards the tattered couch in the corner of the room.

It isn't a particularly nice dressing room. It smells like stale cigarettes and beer. The carpet is a non-descript shade of brown and Swiss can't tell if it came that way or if it's just stained. The couch is brown too, worn out, and threadbare. But there's a vanity on one of the side walls, near Dew's costume trunks. And it has a mirror. And really, what more could Swiss ask for?

"Do you get off on being a brat?" Swiss asks. He closes the door behind him as he steps into the room. He uses a gentler hand, but then he reaches down and flips the lock on the knob.

Dew's eyes dart from Swiss' hand on the door to his face. His features shift, rage slowly draining into apprehension.

The last opener just finished. Swiss can hear the muffled final notes ringing through the arena, the dull roar of the crowd. They have plenty of time. Dew crosses his arms, he tips his head up to look at Swiss under his creased brows. Swiss keeps an eye on the clenching muscle in Dew's jaw. "You think you're hot shit, huh? Too good to carry your own gear? Too good to listen to Papa?"

Dew scoffs. "C'mon, Swiss. Let it go."

But Swiss can't, not when Dew's still wound so tight. Not when Dew's still looking at him like he's about to light them both on fire. Swiss is on him in one quick stride. He grabs Dew by the back of the neck. He presses his fingers in enough to so Dew knows he's not fucking around.

Dew's eyes go wide, he growls, but he leans toward Swiss anyway, his body betraying him.

"You want it."

"I want you to fuck off."

"No," Swiss leans down. His other hand finds Dew's waist. He pins him in place while he runs his nose up the side of Dew's neck, over his pulse, dragging up over his ear. Swiss worries the shell of it between his fangs, and Dew whines, pitiful already. "You want me to put you back in your place."

Dew goes stiff, he pulls weakly against Swiss' grip. It's token protest. Swiss snarls, then moves, dragging Dew with him over to the vanity. He shoves Dew down onto it, chest first so he can look himself in the eye. He holds him down with the hand on the back of his neck. With the other he reaches around to undo Dew's pants, he yanks them down to mid-thigh, then kicks Dew's legs further apart with his foot.

Dew's already drooling onto the particle board. Spitting and snarling, but not really fighting. His pupils are blown wide. When Swiss reaches beneath them he finds Dew hot and hard against his palm. Dew bucks into his hand, eyes threatening to roll back at the contact.

Swiss shifts Dew a little further up on the vanity, so he can trap his cock between the wood and Dew's body. Dew mewls, shaking at the sensation and Swiss hasn't even really gotten started yet.

"Don't understand why everyone else lets you get away with this shit," Swiss growls. He shoves two fingers into Dew's mouth the instruction clear. Dew could bite him. Could tear his fingers to shreds if he really wanted to. Instead, he drools all over Swiss fingers, licks between them, slicks them as messily as he can manage. They both know it's all Dew's getting.

Dew's face is dusted with pink. Swiss thinks about pulling on that thread. Calling him pretty. Seeing how fast he can get Dew to cry. But they have a show to do, he doesn't have time to gentle Dew through the aftermath of that particular scene. Swiss cum dripping down his legs all set will have to be good enough. He preps him quickly. Shoving those spit-slicked fingers inside of him without too much warning. Dew keens with it, twitching at the stretch, but he doesn't complain. He doesn't do anything except whine and rock his hips back against Swiss' fingers. When Swiss pets his prostate, Dew goes slack under him.

Swiss makes quick work of his own pants. Watching Dew's hole clench around nothing as he strokes himself to full hardness. He presses the blunt head of his cock against Dew's twitching hole. He spits on it, smearing it over the winking muscle.

"Gonna fuck the brat out of you," Swiss promises as he pushes in. Dew digs claw marks into the vanity and keens.

[crowscallthecrows]

A 'what if' scenario

(Spoilers for the blue cult arc, Gregory Violet, etc. Descriptions of character death and needles.)

---

Their corpses lay so still Violet can convince himself they're sleeping, as hands creep up his shoulders, squeezing slightly to imitate some sort of comfort.

He knows Blavat is watching, watching in satisfaction that makes his stomach churn and his breathing catch just a bit more as his mind reels at the sight he's been sent to see by none other then the fortune teller himself. The man behind him sighs, removing his hands to stride towards the chairs that still have their middles held down with familiar thick leather straps. The look on his face can almost resemble regret, and Violet's sore arm prickles at the soft contact he makes with Bluewer's face.

"You know," he shrugs with resignation. "It's a shame, really. They shone so bright on stage." Blavat reaches out again, this time to stroke the blond edges of Redmond before Violet's own voice comes out, tears and rage seeping through the shakiness.

"Don't touch them." he hisses, before the old him takes over, to push his saucy tongue back in place again. "...please. Please."

Warning flashes over the diviner, this is what happens when you try to get sneaky with me, before choosing relent over threats with another sigh. There was a purpose to this after all, and there was no point to any of this if he didn't let the younger man relish in his mistakes. He smiles softly, briefly gazing at the stiff form of Greenhill.

"It's funny. Even when it was obvious they'd accepted their fates, the only name on their lips was yours-" he chuckles to himself then, shaking his head. " 'Where's Violet? What have you done with Violet?' It was as if their minds' couldn't rest unless they saw you safe, or dying with them."

Blavat walks past him towards the entrance, touching his shoulder so tenderly it makes the bile in his throat rapidly thicken.

"It's alright. They can be replaced with brighter stars, and we can start over together," he remarks with a grin, the same grin he does to all under the protection of Sirius.

"You didn't need their blood," is Violet's reply with a swallowed sob. "You had enough of their kind. You didn't need their blood."

He's ignored. The door open and Blavat's gone, surely to find someone to take care of the mess he had no problem causing.

Falling to his hands and knees, he empties his stomach first, tears springing from heaving until there's nothing left, his hacking making echos through the quiet room. Trembling knees make his steps staggered and uneven, his feet taking him to the closest feeling of home he has left.

They lay pale, yet they look like they're meant to be breathing. Slumped forward and half hidden by hair, Redmond's half lidded eyes feed his false hopes. Greenhill sits so straight it's like he's in a classroom again. Bluewer's lips stay slightly parted in one that resembles his expression of perfect thoughtfulness.

Knowing Bluewer, he would know something was wrong right away, twisting his arm hard against the restraints to delay the inevitable harm. Redmond would probably follow suite, probably a little too late, spinning questions and threats through the process until his body betrayed him and couldn't anymore. And Greenhill, how he must've fought, with so much heart, depending on himself to save the three of them alone. And of course...

The only name on their lips was yours.

"Sorry," he whispers to souls long since passed. He touches one of the arms filled with angry red marks, and flinches his hand back. They shouldn't be this cold.

He feels his shoulders start to wrack. "I'm sorry," his hands hover in the air, unsure what to do.

He'll never forget the way they move, the varying characteristics he could easily capture in his art just by looking, yet the other side of him is already forgetting what their voices sound like.

He can only bury himself in his hands. "I'm sorry." he can choke out once more before he's on his knees again, half praying they're able to be forgiven.

"-sorry, I'm so sorry-" How much did it hurt? Did they leave screaming for their parents, or with the acceptance Blavat claimed?

The silence that remains- crushing, unending- is the worst of all.

[dapperbasil]

Fangfest Day 14

Well, I didn't intend to do anything for the vtm tarot because of burnout but since @anarchswild did the lovely Thomas Slater for the Death arcana, it's only fitting to post a snippet from his final nights. Yes a few of you might be familiar with this.

Presenting, the inner thoughts of a Malkavian proxy Prince, to whom the world is a show and he is the star. Sparkle on, you funky little Malk.

My eyes open as day turns to dusk and finally to night, and there’s no time to waste. The next episode of “The Thomas Slater Show” is due to air in two hours, as much as I would like to get back in bed and sleep. The cameras aren’t rolling yet, a blessing in disguise. I love the attention, the applause, the ratings. But I’m so tired of it, all of it. My eyes take extra long to adjust, take in the room around me. That was one of the things the producers couldn’t fix, that and the damnable leg injury I took as a stupid teenager. I was dumb then, thinking I could be an athlete, a star. I guess I got that wish in a different sense, but you can only take stardom for so long.

This new haven is cold and foreboding, unlike my home in NYC. The city is quiet and calm, and it would be a relief if I wasn't in charge of the whole damn thing. This season's ratings have been low overall, and it does wear down on me. My heart's not in it and I think the producers are starting to notice. They sent down a rep, my sheriff. He says he's just here to keep an eye on me, to make sure the producers see what they want to see. Am I supposed to feel safe with that?

What am I even the prince of anyway? They said they're doing a trial run, and didn't want to send too many actors to the new stage, but there's so few of us. I don't think we stand a chance so close to the border. These thoughts begin to fade from my mind as I pull on a purple and red tie-dye blazer and head downstairs to start a pot of coffee. I can't drink the stuff anymore but Alex… it's the only way he'll feed.

For now, he's all that I live for. I messed up and I keep messing up. I messed up with Apollo and now I've messed up with Alex. I shouldn't have embraced even one, but now I've got two childer. Apollo hates me, that much is clear to me, given how our last few chats went. Maybe I won't make the same mistakes with Alex. Call me an empty nester if you must, when I was a kine I wanted to have a family and I guess I never grew out of it.

Alex knocks on the door frame when he comes into the kitchen, his way of getting my attention. I haven't heard him speak once since his embrace, I can only assume it must be part of his derangement. From what I can tell of his derangement, he takes after me in the worst of ways. Well, maybe not the worst. He's still bright and cheerful, smiling as wide as the day I offered a bright young film student an internship. He doesn't even seem to mind not understanding a word I say. We do talk of course, in different ways. Sign language wasn't too difficult for me to pick up, and the critics loved it. He can read lips well enough, and even though I can't, we still communicate fine.

I pour him a cup of coffee as he goes over what's scheduled for tonight. We look over the itinerary together as he sips the coffee deliberately spiked with blood. He still doesn't quite get it, even after all these months. He doesn't understand why he gets so angry once in a while, doesn't understand that he's not keeping food down because his body can't anymore. Blood is all that nourishes him, and I have to slip it into him where I can. Even when the lights overtake me and I have to put on a show, during commercials I make sure he's taken care of.

I'm careful with how much I tell him. I don't want him to grow like Apollo, to hate me yet. Not until he can stand on his own, or has friends to help him like I do. Maybe I'll get him a ghoul, someone who can help him when I'm not there any longer to do so. I don't have much longer.

Those golden eyes haunt me, the eyes of my own childe. Was embracing him a mistake? Perhaps but I was foolish thinking I could change things, I’m not even sure why I did it anymore. If anything I brought my doom closer at hand. I don't really even mind anymore, as I've grown tired from my years of performing. The nightmares have become more frequent as of late, being forced to my knees as an ominous voice speaks over me and Apollo looks down at me with hatred dripping from his eyes. The golden sparkle in his eyes is gone, dimmed and tired. I don't know what he's been through, but I know this is the face of the man who's going to be my death one day.

Hurry Apollo, but don't come too quickly. Not until Alex can stand on his own. For now we exit the haven as the stage lights begin to shine. The curtain will soon rise and all that will matter is the audience. Another night I hope to not see a golden sparkle staring back at me and I face it not with anticipation, but with a tired sigh. The producers will have their show, and soon, maybe not soon enough, their series finale.

[inkweedandlizards]

Fanfic? Fanfic!

So the draft title for this is blood soup, please be warned, there is more blood then soup, lol. Basically TK suffers a kitchen accident and Carlos has to Deal.

I haven't written fic in 20 years so feedback is very welcome, please be nice though, I may crumble to dust. 😅

(I'm very serious about there being a lot of blood, this is your final warning! also injury description, I should warn for that too)

-----

Carlos stirs the simmering stock slowly, absent-mindedly moving his head along to the quiet sound of TKs playlist blending with the rhythmic thud of his husband dicing the carrots with Carlos's new kitchen knife.

They're making soup tonight. A muffled sneeze interrupts his concentration and Carlos sighs, TK was still in the denial stage of being sick and insisted in helping with dinner.

They'd been debating whether TK had seasonal allergies or Nancy's cold as they worked when TK had gotten quiet a few minutes ago, voice giving out, the only sound from him now is the badly concealed sneezing.

"How about you go sit down and we can have dinner on the couch?"

Another sneeze answers his question, followed by a pulse of hot liquid splattering across Carlos's nape, landing in his curls, gross. As he goes to wipe it off, he turns to TK to force the issue but freezes, the words dying on his lips at what it truly is.

It's blood. Bight red, like the artificial cherry slushies TK loves, it's arterial.

Carlos follows the blood splatter to the source and the sight is one he'll never forget. There's a 3 inch gash in TKs trembling forearm, the edges gaping wide, exposing the inside, yellow fat and white bone and blood, so much blood, it pulses with each heartbeat, splattering across the island counter in a sea of red.

Thier eyes met in stunned silence, TKs bright with pain in his rapidly paling face. Another spray jerks TK into motion, the knife clattering to the floor, adrenaline masking the pain as he switches into work mode, grabbing a towel and covering the wound, unsteadily moving towards his phone to call for help before shock sets in.

Carlos remains frozen, his body feels heavy, he can't breathe, he feels strangely detached, the ringing in his ears growing louder as he numbly watches TK apply bruising force to the wound, his knuckles going white around the towel, he's trying desperately to clench the cut closed, to keep his blood where it belongs, it's not enough.

"I need a tourniquet-"

The desperate urgency in TKs voice slams Carlos back into his body with the brutal realisation that he's watching his husband uncontrollably bleed out in thier kitchen.

Carlos's crouching down to pull open the doors beneath the sink before he can register that he's even moved, hands tearing through thier oversized first aid kit for what TK needs, he's falling into work mode as well to keep functioning, to keep from thinking, to keep TK alive.

1 and a half minutes, 90 seconds, if Carlos remembers his training correctly, that's how short it takes to bleed out from an open arterial injury, he can do this, he has too, where the fuck is it.

TKs stopped moving, body swaying, he's trying to use his phone as Carlos searches, unable to do more then pause the playlist, hands uncoordinated and bloody. The towel in TKs grip is soaked red, past its saturation point, dripping blood onto the cement floor, pooling next to Carlos.

There!

Gripping the tourniquet in triumph, Carlos pivots in his crouch towards TK and watches the towel slip from TK numb fingers to land as thier feet, his phone following suit, his husband's face is chalk white, verging into grey, he looks halfway to death already.

TK's eyelids flutter closed as his body gives out, falling as the next pulse of blood goes wide without pressure, covering thier kitchen cabinetry like a cheap horror movie, Carlos catches him before he can hit his head on the counter, lowering him to lay flat on the floor.

The tourniquet is still in Carlos's hand and now TKs life is too.

"Stay with me, Tyler,"

-----

[helix-enterprises117]

Halo Reloaded: Apology Cookies

The day had faded into evening by the time Fred and Kelly, armed with a tray of somewhat misshapen but undoubtedly heartfelt cookies, found themselves standing outside John's door. The smell of burnt chocolate wafted through the corridor, a testament to their baking skills, or lack thereof. They exchanged nervous glances, both trying to muster the courage to knock.

"Okay, on three," Fred whispered, his brows furrowed in a mix of determination and apprehension."One... two... three," Kelly counted softly, her hand landing on the door with a hesitant tap.

The door creaked open, revealing John's surprised face, his eyes red-rimmed but curious. The sight of his friends, standing there with a tray full of cookies and wearing expressions that could only be described as adorably guilty, was unexpected, to say the least.

"Um, hi," Kelly began, shuffling her feet. "We made you cookies. As a... well, as a sorry."

Fred nodded, adding, "Yeah, we felt really bad about what happened. And we know it doesn't fix things, but... we hoped it might help. A little."

John's gaze softened as he looked from the cookies to his friends' faces, seeing the sincerity there. It was hard to stay mad at them, especially when they were going to such lengths to make amends. He stepped aside, a small smile breaking through as he gestured them in. "Thanks. I guess everyone needs a good cookie once in a while."

As they settled down, the cookies taking center stage on a makeshift table, the tension that had been lingering since the incident began to dissolve. They were far from perfect, some too crispy, others barely holding together, but as they each took a bite, the taste seemed to bridge the gap that had formed between them.

"These are... interesting," John commented, choosing his words carefully as he chewed on a particularly crunchy specimen.

Fred grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, we might have gotten distracted by arguing about the right amount of chocolate chips. Turns out, there is such a thing as too many."

Kelly laughed, a bright, genuine sound that filled the room. "Who knew? Anyway, we just wanted to make sure you knew we're really sorry, John. We should have stood up for you."John looked at his friends, their faces earnest and hopeful, and felt the last of his resentment melt away. "It's okay. I know you didn't mean for any of it to happen. And these cookies... they're pretty good, in a weird way."

The three friends giggle, the simple joy of the moment knitting them back together.

In that small, Spartan room, with the scent of homemade cookies in the air, Fred, Kelly, and John found a sense of peace. The cookies might not have been perfect, but they were a symbol of something much more significant—a promise that no matter what, they would always have each other's backs.

The cookies all but forgotten, they talked and laughed, the events of the day slowly fading into the background. It was a reminder that, even in the toughest of times, friendship and a tray of heartfelt, if slightly burnt, cookies could make all the difference.

@jellotherelol

[ghoulangerlee]

Swiss/Aeon ; The Tickling Fic ; M

last Friday there was a video of Swiss getting tickled by the new bug and I sent that to Kel who responded with: "how long do you think it'll take someone to write that fic?"

Hi, I'm here to write the tickling fic I guess.

I use the name Aeon for the new bug haha. Also I don't normally write ghoul/ghoul so I had to resist the urge to add in the old man (my beloved).

rated: M-ish

contains: tickling (is it Aeon's kink? who knows), masturbation, rutting, spit (very briefly, but it's Swiss???)

-

He doesn't quite know why he did it in the first place, crowding up against Swiss as everyone gathered on stage for their final bows, his hands immediately reaching out and grabbing for Swiss' waist, digging his fingers into the muscle.

He feels Swiss jolt against him, hands going down to grab at his wrists, can hear him laugh and squirm—its all silly, a joke, nothing too serious.

That's what he tells himself when Swiss squeezes his wrists just a little too tight before letting go, batting his hands away as they fall into line to bow, and when they bow as one, he can smell the change in Swiss' scent. Full of post show endorphins, full of something, maybe arousal, wafting off of him.

He opens his mouth to inhale deeply and taste and forgets, at the last second that he keeps his mouth covered, because out of all of them, he's the worst at keeping his glamour up when he's not focusing on it intensely.

And then, they're filing off stage as the noise of the crowd reaches a crescendo, and Aeon's eyes are trained on Swiss' back, and the way the sweat makes his shirt stick between his shoulder blades, revealing the definition and shape so beautifully.

He's still new to the band, and will be new for a while now, but he's figured things out recently, with these ghouls, with Papa, how things work after shows, how it's not strange at all for two or three or more of them to break off and find a secluded corner to release some stress.

Which is why he's pretty sure no one really bats an eyelash when he quickens his pace and crowds against Swiss' back again, hands going to rest on his hips as he nudges him forward and away from the others, eyes glowing bright behind the lenses of his helmet as he seeks out one of the unused rooms.

Swiss is laughing, though not loud, but Aeon can feel the way Swiss seems to vibrate against him, his hands dropping down briefly to pet at where Aeon's hands are visible, dragging his fingertips along the backs of his hands before pulling away.

They'd been dancing around each other recently, the tension building up so much even Papa could sense it, a mildly embarrassing moment, to have his boss just give him a look while waving his hand between the two of them as if saying well? are you going to go for it?

And well, Aeon didn't explicitly need permission, but having it made him feel at least a little bit better about not messing up the natural chemistry or whatever.

There's an unused dressing room, the door cracked open just enough that Aeon can see that it's filled with stuff, probably being used as a storage room now, and the heat and want under his skin reaches its climax—he's shorter than Swiss, no doubt not as strong as Swiss either, but Swiss goes easily as he pushes him into the room, kicking the door shut behind them.

And Swiss stands there, relaxed, his head tilted to the side, still facing away from Aeon, as if he's waiting for Aeon to make the first move, waiting to see where this is going.

It drives Aeon a little mad, and he pulls his helmet off and shoves the balaclava down around his neck; his glamour is gone now, keeping his form hidden the last thing on his mind as he crowds against Swiss's back, immediately digging his fingers into Swiss's sides almost a little too harshly. A mimic of what he'd done on stage.

Swiss stumbles a bit, catching himself against a stack of cardboard boxes, his head tilting downwards as he laughs, arching his back against Aeon as the shorter ghoul continues to drag his fingertips along his sides, finding all the sensitive spots.

All the while, Swiss' scent spikes, heavy with arousal as his laughter trails off into a wheezing gasp, a plea of some kind.

Aeon exhales, mouth open as he breathes heavily into the center of Swiss' back, inhaling the scent of sweat and arousal until he's light headed with it, scrabbling to tug Swiss's shirt out of his pants so he can touch his skin properly.

Swiss's skin is sticky with sweat against his palms, but he shivers and lets out something close to a whimper when Aeon's nails, sharp and long, drag lightly against his sides.

"You are going to kill me," Swiss wheezes out, finally saying something, his voice loud among the silence, among their heavy breathing.

Aeon doesn't respond to him, just presses his nails a bit harder against Swiss' sides for a moment, before he digs the pads of his fingers into the muscle there, pulling more confused laughter out of Swiss' mouth.

Swiss swears softly, hunching over a bit as Aeon tries to press closer, sinking his teeth into Swiss's shoulder, through his shirt, the only place he can really reach like this.

And Swiss has to grab Aeon's wrist again, squeeze it tightly even as Aeon sort of growls around the mouthful of shirt and muscle he has in his mouth, as if Swiss is trying to pull him away from touching him.

(He's not.)

It continues like this for a bit, Aeon mostly focused on trying to make Swiss laugh, following lines of goosebumps as they pop up all across Swiss's sides and chest, his fingers insistent, digging in when Swiss gasps out as Swiss holds on tight to his wrist, keeping at least one hand resting on his belly, right at the waistband of his pants.

(Swiss doesn't quite understand where Aeon is going with this, but he's always up for trying something new, and with the way Aeon's pressing into him, hard against the swell of his ass, mouthing at his shoulder through his shirt, Swiss is all on board for whatever this ends up being.)

He hopes, somewhat, that Aeon's intending to get him off and not just tickle him, however arousing this is without any other stimuli. But Swiss is impatient on the worst days and slightly less impatient on the best, so with his free hand he does his best to tear open the lacings on his pants and get them open just enough to relieve some of the pressure there.

It's as if the promise of skin is enough for Aeon to be bolder in his touch, wiggling free of Swiss' grip on his wrist, his fingers inch below the waistband, into the open vee of his pants and Aeon exhales as his fingertips make contact with the wiry hair at the base of Swiss' dick.

"You're going to have to touch yourself," he manages to get out after a few moments, words heavy in his mouth as his tongue clumsily works through them, his fangs feel too big for his mouth like this, "Can't." He presses the tips of his claws into the hair, hearing Swiss exhale sharply, his scent growing heavier with arousal and Aeon growls a little, "Not now," he mumbles, a whine catching at the end.

Swiss laughs a little, files away Aeon's not quite denial for later when he has more time to think about Aeon's claws near his dick and the implications of that.

Instead, be pushes Aeon's hand away and mumbles under his breath as he shimmies his pants down just enough to free himself.

Aeon's hands are back on his sides, his fingers poking and prodding at muscle and fat alike, dragging his nails along the skin in a way that has Swiss shivering, leaning his weight back into Aeon's solid body.

The first few strokes of his own hand are dry and a bit unpleasant, so he pulls away, lifting his arm and reaching back behind him to nudge his knuckles against Aeon's horns.

He makes a confused sort of sound, drunk on the scent of Swiss' arousal, lifts his head and looks at Swiss' hand, "Hm?"

Swiss rolls his eyes, feels a bit fond for the guy, "Spit," he says, wiggling his fingers a bit, "Since you won't get me off because you can't keep your shit under control," he teases, "I'm not jerkin' myself dry."

Aeon huffs, leaning up to nip at Swiss' fingers momentarily before he spits into his palm, a little off center and wet.

"Satanas," Swiss mumbles, and then he's wrapping his hand around himself again, swearing under his breath as Aeon drags his claws down his sides, ruts against him from behind. "Oh, you wanna get off too, now?" He asks, just to be difficult, "Can't even touch me but you want something from me anyway, huh?"

Aeon growls lowly at that, sinks his teeth into Swiss' shoulder again as if he's trying to get the other ghoul to behave, his fingertips press almost cruelly into muscle and fat, drawing a choked sounding laugh from the taller ghoul as he jolts backwards into Aeon.

In his hazy mind, Swiss also files this away for later as well, wonders if he could push Aeon's buttons even more to get him to really put Swiss in his place.

(He's thinking, somewhat distantly, about Aeon's teeth in the back of his neck while he fucks him, claws digging into his sides as he holds him in place.)

Aeon tries to formulate words, a response, something, but all that's going through his mind is rutrutrut and the scent and taste of Swiss' arousal as it grows with each pass of his fingers on his most sensitive spots, tickling his ribs and making Swiss bend over, holding himself up against the boxes he'd stumbled into while he furiously jerks himself off with the hand not keeping him steady.

Aeon growls low in his throat when he feels about to burst, too far gone to worry about the consequences of coming in his pants, just sinks his teeth into Swiss again, digs his fingers in hard and faster, making Swiss breathless and gasp for air, lightheaded with the pleasure-pain.

And then, Swiss yells, no doubt alerting someone, anyone of where they are and what they're doing, shaking as he comes with Aeon's name on the tip of his tongue.

A low whine catches in Aeon's throat as Swiss suddenly grabs his hands and jerks them away from his sides, breaking the skin contact—his grip on his wrists is tight, almost too tight, but Aeon buries his face into Swiss' shirt and ruts against him until he's stifling his own noises as he comes, gasping wetly against Swiss' shoulder.

Aeon is almost distantly aware of Swiss pulling away, and for a brief moment, he wonders if he'd somehow forced this on Swiss, but those fears are soon squashed as Swiss gathers him into his arms, muttering something under his breath about overeager ghouls wearing themselves out.

In the time it'd taken for him to turn around, Swiss had pulled his helmet off and placed it down on the stack of boxes, and Aeon makes a pleased little noise when he's able to easily bury his face in Swiss' throat, breathing him in.

Sated. Warm. Pleased.

"You're a little demon," Swiss says softly, combing his fingers through Aeon's unruly hair, but he sounds fond, "I bet my shoulder looks like it's been mauled by a monster." He murmurs with a laugh. "You're a feisty little fella, aren't you?" He asks, though it's rhetorical, the little fella really makes something in Aeon's gut burn.

He whines, pawing at Swiss' sides now that the other ghoul had righted his shirt, "Shh," he mumbles, trying to get his tongue to cooperate properly.

Swiss laughs and shakes his head, lets Aeon rest against him for another minute longer before he pulls away, "Alright, well, as much as I'd love to stay here with you, we really need to find the others. The bus will probably leave soon. Don't want to be stranded."

Aeon does not whine at that even though he wants to, he steps back and pulls himself together as much as he can, pulls his balaclava back up over half of his face and finds his helmet, upside down, on the floor.

There is however, a stain on the front of his pants, and though he knows it's not really proper, he doesn't feel shame for it. Thinks about how this is really his first time making a move with anyone in the band, and how long he'd manage to keep himself under control, he's not going to feel bad about it. Not this.

"Hey, Bug," Swiss says, drawing him from his thoughts, his own helmet on now, coming to stand by Aeon, "My bunk tonight?" He asks, somewhat casual as he rests his hand on Aeon's side, his palm wide and warm through both of his shirts.

Aeon shivers, feels the way Swiss' grip tightens a bit, can see the sharpness of his teeth when he grins, "Yeah, yeah," he says, a little bit too eager.

[powderblueblood]

@vvitchwords: Oh my god, PLEASE may I request Ronnie Ecker with 'Did you know that cigarettes are a shield against meaningful interaction with people?'

200 CIGARETTES SENTENCE PROMPTS!

you stiffen up a little against the outer wall of the hideout, giving this girl a once-over. she's dressed like a child's cartoon of a train conductor, with her overalls and her peaked cap and her little festive bandanna tied around her neck-- so not the clientele you were expecting when you agreed to see some metal band at the shittiest dive bar your hometown had to offer.

"maybe i want to shield myself against meaningful interaction with people?" you retort through a pointed cloud of smoke. "not that it's exactly plentiful around here..."

"ah!" the girl, with her hands shoved in her overall pockets says--again, she's wearing overalls, "i see the ghost of shitty new years eve has visited you too!"

complete with ghostly voice affectation. who the fuck is this person.

"what?"

why are you smiling.

"i don't-- i don't know what that was," she clears her throat, dodging another exhale from your cigarette. you chuckle a touch, which pulls her eyes from the pavement and back onto you. this smile twists around her mouth, like it's a piece of wire she can't get untangled quick enough and she's kind of panicking about it.

"you here to see this band?" you ask, narrowing your eyes. because it really, really doesn't look like her scene.

"um," she says, kinda high pitched, "yeah? technically?"

"oof. sounds like they suck, the way you just said that."

she cringes in a way you can't quite decode. "like not-- not terrible, but not... a hundred percent in the pocket, either." a beat. "but hey, can you blame 'em? they're filling in. main act cancelled."

"oh? who was the main act?"

"pest control," this girl nods. "they never showed up, even though there's probably roaches, so they had to open the bar anyway. so. that's why--"

that gets you; a giggle pushes past your lips and you push off the wall, crushing your cigarette under your heel. "you're kinda funny."

"please, kinda funny is my father's name!" and she physically cringes again, eyes wincing closed and everything-- warmth pricks at your chest. she's... "ronnie. sorry. i'm ronnie."

"ronnie. right. i'm--"

but before you can tell her, through the swinging doors leading into the bar comes some dude with an incredibly on theme haircut for a place like this. "ron, the fuck! it's ten-- don't tell me you're out here ralphing again."

through gritted teeth, she's all, "eddie. i was not--"

fucking guy, this eddie, turns to you. "was she? because you can tell me-- i mean," his stare gets a little slicker, "you can tell me, sure, you can tell me whatever you w--"

"wrong tree, buddy," you clarify for him.

eddie flattens his mouth and nods, fairly respectfully. he ushers ronnie inside with a pull on her wrist and you decide to follow them, because, sure, weird energy, but it was the most energy you'd been able to squeeze out of tonight.

"you guys must really love this band..."

eddie is shoving ronnie towards the stage, like, really shoving her. but when he hears that, he pivots toward you.

"love the band? sweetheart, we are the band."

your eyebrows shoot up towards your hairline and you guffaw, looking to ronnie. she's climbing over her drumset (clumsily, shit knocking everywhere), shrugging with a drumstick in either hand.

"sorry for what you're about to hear, i guess?"

your grin softens at her; eyes bright and eager and you really actually have decided that you would like to look at 'em a little longer. good thing the night's still young.

"i mean-- better than pest control, right?"

[demcnsinmymind]

@badassxbirdy sent : [ savior ] in order to save receiver's life, sender uses their powers - but reversed, because this being the way Ty finds out The Boy has powers is too much drama for me to resist. 👀 | PROMPTS FOR SUPER POWERS / ABILITIES

It's the first time where it truly feels like things are almost normal again. Sitting in a diner in a quiet little town during the day, actually enjoying a meal and his surroundings for what they are. Peaceful. With ordinary people all around them, in an ordinary place. And isn't it funny. How very much he was against it at first, voicing his doubts that any of this is a good idea, considering his situation.

But of course. The woman before him is none other than Tyler. Just as stubborn as him but with such positivity and bubbliness to it that there really never was a way for him to say no. He still likes to tell himself that it's just because she's from before. But the truth is that he honestly, deeply, and unconditionally trusts her, sees so much in her that he does not want to disappoint or destroy. So here they are, in a diner, eating, and wouldn't you know it - there's a smile on his face. Unfiltered and honest. And they're having fun, talking about ordinary, silly things as if nothing's ever happened to either of them. But of course. This is them. And something like this never seems to last for them.

Because then it happens.

Reality calling, of course it does, and it hits him way harder this time because this is about her . Not him. Look on her face changing so rapidly, joy wiped right off of it in an instant. Replaced with a mixture of so many things he's way too familiar with. Fear. Disbelief. Anger. Fury.

Lance turns around to try and catch glimpse of what she's seeing, though the truth is that he doesn't even need to see. He can feel it. A presence. Having just stepped inside the place, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand right up, activating the thing inside him the millisecond it notices it too. Heavy. Power. Dark. Evil. Twisted. And and overwhelming sense of impending doom. Familiar in a way as it coincides with his hitchhiker's preference for chaos and mischief.

When Lance's body is properly turned around, he's face to face with a man, though he knows that this guy is so much more. Something that scares his friend, ruins a moment of peacefulness and normalcy. As usual, Aza/thoth is more than eager to take the upper hand, protect, lash out, defend territory, but the problem really is that Lance cannot get that image out of his mind right now. The way the look on Tyler's face changed so severely, seeing her scared. Like they'd been.

He swore to himself. Never again. Fucking never again. Would he let any of his friends be scared like this. Sure enough. Mostly, his plan had been all about avoiding it by having no friends whatsoever, keeping his distance. But that's just the thing. Too late for that. She is his friend, and the way this dude can waltz right in here and destroy her moment of peace, have the audacity to talk about him too, ignoring him, using him as a means to scare her more with the prospect of getting him caught in the crossfire of whatever it is that he wants from her....fucking no. This is the one thing Aza/thoth is not allowed to take the stage for. Because this isn't about him - this is about her. His friend, not its friend or him at all.

The dude's mid sentence through a speech which, honestly, Lance doesn't even know nor care what it's about when it happens.Time. Stuck in one single second all around them. A ripple of the entrance door opening over and over again almost rhythmically, doorbell ringing every single time to signal a new costumer who's always the same. A young couple fresh from the road, bright smiles on their faces, eyes fixed on the menu above the waiter who's mid pour, stream of coffee half suspended in the air, only ever touching the mug's bottom only to zip right back up again, looping over and over again. Making each and every one of the people stuck in that one second, pocketed and safe, utterly unaware of what happens in the meantime.

A knife. Hovering mid air, the blade an inch away from the guy's throat. A warning to not dare take one step closer to the woman of his interest. Tyler - still seated right across from him and not at all affected by their looped surroundings.

"She doesn't want you here. No one does" is all he says, eyes drilling into the side of the stranger's face.

[dream-in-fall]

My theory about Maggie and Nina

The fan community has noticed that Maggie and Nina's relationship parallels that of Aziraphale and Crowley. After a while, many agreed that Maggie mirrors Crowley, and Nina mirrors Azi. I've watched the series a thousand times and made my observations.

First of all, I think Maggie and Nina are the metaphorical souls of Aziraphale and Crowley - anima. The anima is the female part of the soul or psyche, the source of feeling and mood. And a conductor between a man's consciousness and his subconscious. So, I think Maggie is Aziraphale's anima. Here are my arguments. The store where Maggie works is called the "the small back room." It belongs to Aziraphale. There is always a "closed" sign on the door of Azi's store, but someone always comes to him. Maggie's door is always "open", but only Azi comes to her. I'm sure this store is a metaphor for the part of his subconscious where his inner female part lives. She is very kind and gentle, always ready to help and understand. She looks like Crowley in some external attributes, for example, she wears bright clothes, often changes outfits (almost every episode she has a new outfit). The place behind the counter where she spends most of her time looks like an old-fashioned car, like Crowley's (only this is a cute version of it. And this car is not going anywhere. It's like pieces of objects in dreams or in paintings by Salvador Dali). And what unites Aziraphale and Crowley is their love of music. That's why Maggie works in a record store. If you look closely, you can see jewelry on Maggie's neck. It's a heart with an eye inside, a snake biting its tail with a bird inside (a nightingale?) and a ring (an engagement ring?). Maggie is a complex and deep image that unites Aziraphale and Crowley into a single female loving image.

Maggie bluntly tells Aziraphale that she loves Nina. She gives him the record (clue) to finding love. And Azi is in fact making a pilgrimage to the place where the miracle of love happened. After this trip, his behavior towards Crowley changes a little and he becomes more courageous. Unfortunately, well-known events will not allow these things to develop.

Nina. So why is Nina not the prototype of Aziraphale, despite the fact that she is in a difficult relationship. I will say that Crowley is also in a difficult relationship. With Heaven, with Hell and Aziraphale himself. Aziraphale doesn't spare Crowley's feelings.

"We're not friends!"

"I don't even like you!"

"You're a demon - you're lying!"

"Come and help me with a naked archangel, and if you don't like something, you liberty to go!"

"I want to perform on stage - shoot me in the face! You're a demon, so you've shot people a hundred times!"

"I'll take your beauty car, and you look after the archangel you hate!"

I think Crowley has heard enough of this kind of nonsense in the last 6,000 years. Yes, as viewers we don't pay attention to it, because Aziraphale is cute and handsome. And it's served up like a comedy. But something tells me that such words often hurt Crowley. When Crowley talks to Nina alone for the first time, he asks her about Maggie. Nina makes a whole nervous speech about how they're not friends. This is very similar to how Crowley would express all the accumulated offensive words said to him by Aziraphale. Later, Maggie and Nina talk in the rain. Nina says, "Of course I'm not your type." Maggie replies that Nina is wrong, Maggie likes her. Nina looks incredulous - it is clear that she is pleasantly surprised. When Shax tells Aziraphale that he's not Crowley's type, Azi has a sarcastic "Of course" look on his face. He knows for sure Crowley likes him. By the way, in Wikipedia, the name Lindsay is of Scottish origin and means swamp (in very short). In the second private conversation, Nina asks Crowley: what exactly is the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale? Just because Crowley is stunned doesn't mean he suddenly realized his love. He has known this for a long time. Songs from his repertoire pointed this out to us (such things reveal the inner world and motivations of the characters). I think Crowley is taken aback by how obvious and visible this relationship is from the outside. That you can talk about them so simply and casually. And that they can really be real. Here's my theory about Maggie and Nina. Through them, we were able to learn a lot about our heroes in one way or another.