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mysisters-bike · 7 months

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Eric Harris: Online

We explore Eric's affinity for escapism and his behavior online. Super long post, tl;dr at end.

As a teenager, Eric grew more withdrawn. His interests began to take shape around computers and he was particularly fond of Doom II, a 90’s first-person shooter in which the main character (Doomguy) fights hoards of demons on Earth. Doom II included multiplayer, as did its predecessor, Doom. However, one large development that Eric especially enjoyed was the ability to create custom levels for Doom II.

To this day, Eric’s Doom files (.wad) still roam the internet, somehow miraculously not lost to the sands of time. He seemed to particularly enjoy creating deathmatch levels and would encourage users reading the .readme files for his levels to email him and play with him.

Creating these levels for Doom was a passion project for Eric. He would work carefully on his wads, even going as far to create his own monster death animations. While it’s very easy to create and distribute modifications for most games today, this was an impressive feat in the mid-late 1990s. Computers and access to the internet was still hitting the homefront, albeit in a massive boom. As technology flourished in the home, Eric found a means to channel his creativity.

In the infamous “U.A.C. Labs” level, Eric created two fast-paced levels that incorporate jump-scares, plot-twists, and lots of action. He nearly overloaded one of the areas with a spawn of 150+ some monsters that is triggered by the player coming too close to a key that’s required to access the next area. Eric was very proud of this particular level, writing in the .readme: …This one took a damn long time to do, so send me some bloody credit man!...Authors may NOT use this level as a base to build additional levels. You may NOT change a damn thing with this WAD, if you do, I will blow you up. And it will be cool.

See below: blueprints drawn by Eric in his journal detailing one of his wads. These can be found throughout his writings.

Clearly, Eric was interested in protecting the level’s artistic integrity. This was work he took a great deal of pride in. Eric was described as being interested in pursuing a career in digital development by Brooks, who thought it was feasible he may end up as a videogame designer.

What was it about Doom that Eric enjoyed so much?

For starters, the game was paramount in its offering of gore, metal music, and gameplay. Doom was nonstop action with intriguing stories that could be followed along in both game and book. It is my theory that Eric enjoyed high-paced, high-action activities to stimulate a mind he was not entirely comfortable being alone with. This was also a world in which Eric could control – he could smite down the monsters in his path and he knew what lay around every corner. This may be considered a form of escapism, which is not necessarily new behavior in teenagers. Interestingly, however, there are multiple studies that have been conducted specifically observing the video game escapism phenomenon.

During periods of heightened psychological distress and escapism, the individual increases the amount of online activity, video game play-time, and gambling frequency (Jouhki, Savolainen, Sirola, & Oksanen, 2022). These three behaviors are specifically intriguing as they all provide forms of distraction.

Have you ever been to a casino? There are no windows, therefore, there is no sense of the passage of time. You are inundated by flashing lights, loud sounds, bright colors, and excitement. I once found myself with a drink in hand, sitting at a digital slot machine with interesting animations and upbeat music. It was a penny slot, but I won $20 on my first try. Next thing I knew, my friend and I had spent 5 fast hours playing slots, digital blackjack, and having the time of our lives. I ended up only losing $10 in the end.

Casinos are intended to be a distracting environment that draws in the consumer and traps them for hours of endless stimulation. This is the same idea applied to video games, which are intended to provide hours of entertainment, something humans are constantly in search of. For example, small rodents do not require a television. While providing pet rodents with enrichment is undoubtedly very healthy for them, their enrichment simulates foraging, which is their biological purpose. Humans, now more than ever, rely on entertainment from every angle. It is especially difficult for those going through a psychological hardship to not stimulate their minds. Rather, it can be easier to avoid and escape the difficult and, often, intrusive thoughts. Psychological distress and a method to avoid dealing with such troubles creates the perfect storm within an emotionally unintelligent and unequipped teenage boy.

Eric spending hours building a new level in Doom was simply a way to ease the passage of time. Controlling and manipulating the environment may have provided a sense of control that was not otherwise found in everyday life. In addition to this, Eric understood Doom better than he was capable of understanding his emotions.

To Eric, Doom symbolized something he was not: powerful, strong, and capable. In the basement tapes, Eric and Dylan explain their murderous motivations. Eric references his favorite game: “It’s gonna be like fucking Doom man; after the bombs explode.”

I often argue against the claim that video games were to blame for Eric’s violent behavior and plans despite this evidence. Longitudinal studies have proven that video games do not influence violent crime or behavior. After a 2-year study on Singapore youth, it was concluded that 27 hours of gameplay per day would be required to see any clinical effects or behavioral changes due to violent video games (Ferguson and Wang, 2019). In Eric’s own words, he was fighting himself to separate from his moral compass in order to follow through with the plan he and Dylan had been concocting. In order to do this, he began to think of their plan like it was another Doom level he was crafting. Video games may not be the direct cause of Eric’s violence, but I do believe he used them to justify his violence (to himself).

It was also during this time that the social internet was booming. WebChat Broadcasting System (WBS) and American Online (AOL) began the excitement of site hosting and chatrooms. Personal profiles encouraged a space for teenagers like Eric to freely share their thoughts and interests and connect with others on a scale that had not yet been seen before. Eric took an extremely strong liking to the new social sphere he’d discovered and created multiple AOL profiles and webpages.

Eric even created a webpage to host a series of “Jo Mamma” anti-jokes, crediting himself, Dylan, and Zack Heckler under their respective screen names Reb, VoDkA, and KiBBZ. One of the jokes on their site read: Jo mamma so fat she doesnt even look at the nutrition value tables on the food boxes she eats.....she just buys them and eats them.....cause shes fat...JJJEEYAAAAAA!!!!

Much like people today sharing private thoughts on Facebook or Twitter, Eric was sharing his private thoughts on his own websites. Ranging from “jo mamma” jokes to death threats, Eric didn’t hesitate over-sharing every thought he had on his personal blog.

Online oversharing is an extremely new and modern communicative phenomenon. The scale at which humans are now able to communicate is unprecedented and, frankly, not something humans were ever equipped to be able to do. Eric’s internet presence feels like a primitive version of how a teenager today would dump their opinions and ideas onto Twitter.

On these blogs, Eric would share self-described “missions” in which he and Dylan would test homemade pipe bombs. He described lists of things he hated, desires to kill others, and people he hated. As we have already discussed, Eric would also make mention of Brooks Brown.

Eric would also describe fantasizing breaking into Brooks’s home and urinating on him and his family members and would also, unprompted, share Brooks’s phone number in a “mission” post. Eric would share Brooks’s number online on multiple occasions:

…This mission was also liquor free as a result of this person named Brooks Brown (phone number) who tried to narc on us.

A reason he might have shared such tenacious things online was to seek the thrill of seeing what he could publicly get away with or attention from outsiders. Eric might have enjoyed attention from any angle, be it support for his ideals or shock. This attention, no matter where it came from, would still feed his ego. Eric wanted people to see and he didn’t care what they thought.

Studies have shown that individuals who post their own photos or private messages to personal blogs are attempting to construct their desired public identity (Jung, Song, & Vorderer, 2012). As Eric shared more and more deeply personal thoughts, he was further crafting the public Doom-esque image of himself he wanted others to see.

Eric also displayed a troubling tendency to overshare online. Have you ever scrolled on your social media timelines and found a post that was just unsettlingly personal and wondered, Why on Earth would anyone want to share that publicly?

The tendency to overshare just stems from an overall need for attention. Social media provides a very easy way to continuously farm serotonin. Consistently sharing ideas and thoughts into a space where others can very easily validate them can almost serve as catharsis for a large amount of people. However, oversharing on social media has actually been discovered to have a direct association with anxiety issues, problematic social media use, and attention-seeking behaviors (Shabahang, Shim, Aruguete, & Zsila, 2022).

I theorize that Eric was mainly searching for attention with each new entry he put forth onto the internet. This was a teenager who had been deprived of the right kinds of attention and would seek to push boundaries in order to get it. His posts were also indicative of his declining mental state. As his posts became darker and darker, it became clear that this was not only Eric’s outlet for gaining attention, but in some areas had evolved into his personal massacre planner.

Read one of Eric's most troubling online posts here (pages 39 and 40)

What would prompt someone to write such horrible things? Why did Eric feel this way? Why did he claim to hate the world? What about his life left him and Dylan feeling like they “had no other choice?” I theorize that Eric projected his loneliness and lack of meaningful relationships onto the rest of the world. After all, how could any of this be his fault? In his mind, something must have been terribly wrong with him to be rejected by everyone.

Why was he so angry? Truly, we can see that Eric’s anger was displaced. I theorize that Eric blamed the world that felt like it had betrayed him so many times for his shortcomings. His self-esteem was incredibly low and he was poor at maintaining friendships. From time to time, he was targeted by bullies and felt like an outsider. Rejected children often react aggressively and underestimate how disliked they are by their peers.

Numerous witness statements describe a distaste or distrust of Eric. One incident after another, people found Eric unapproachable. He kept mutual friends with Dylan, but it’s most likely he was more Dylan’s friend in the circle than he was anyone else’s.

TL;DR:

Playing Doom and creating .wads for the game was a form of escapism for Eric; he could create a world he was in control of

Escapism damages an individual's ability to solve emotional problems; it's not a relief, it's merely "putting off" the problem the individual must solve without teaching any healthy coping mechanisms

Eric was crafting an image of himself that he wanted others to perceive; someone who was strong, badass, in control, and took no names...all of which he did not truly think he was. Eric knew he was just an average teenage boy and he hated it

Eric needed attention from anyone he could find, whether or not those accolades be positive or negative. He was pushing his boundaries to see what he could get away with; to see what he could feel

I've been taking all of what I'm posting from a case study I wrote a while back. I keep forgetting to cite my sources since it's...you know...tumblr.

References:

Ferguson, C. J. & Wang, C. K. J. (2019). Aggressive video games are not a risk factor for future aggression in youth: A longitudinal stud. Journal of Youth and Adolescence, 48. https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s10964-019-01069-0

Jouhki, H., Savolainen, I., Sirola, A., & Oksanen, A. (2022). Escapism and Excessive Online Behaviors: A Three-Wave Longitudinal Study in Finland during the COVID-19 Pandemic. Int J Environ Res Public Health, 19(19). doi: 10.3390/ijerph191912491.

Jung, Y., Song, H., & Vorderer, P. (2012). Why do people post and read personal messages in public? The motivation of using persona blogs and its effects on user's loneliness, belonging, and well-being. Computers in Human Behavior, 28(5). pp 1626-1633. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.chb.2012.04.001

Shabahang, R., Shim, H., Aruguete, M. A., & Zsila, A. (2022). Oversharing on Social Media: Anxiety, Attention-Seeking, and Social Media Addiction Predict the Breadth and Depth of Sharing. Psychological Reports. https://doi.org/10.1177/00332941221122861

#eric harris #dylan klebold #columbine #true crime #tcc #true crime community #psychology #i have a degree :-|

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dawneternal · 16 days

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The Benevolent | Eris x Healer OC | Three

☁︎ notes: sorry it took so long to get this one out 💛

Clementia really is the goddess of mercy and healing but I made up the part about the feathers. There will be more half real/half made up references to mythology so buckle in lol also Eris is kind of Cardan-coded in this chapter

☁︎ warnings: talk of injuries, talk of Beron's abuse, drunk characters

☁︎ word count: 1.9k

☁︎ AO3 Link / Masterlist

☁︎ tags: @cauldronblssd @mybestfriendmademe @teddyhoneybear @tele86 @imma-too-many-fandoms @allyjoe755 @milswrites @shadowdaddies @zenkindoflove

The ring summoned Aya again nearly a week later, just as she had finally made it back to her dorm room in the Healer’s wing. Lessons had run late, after which she had been called to a family dinner by Thesan. Her feet were sore and the pair of clean pajamas waiting on her bed called to her. Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought of what sort of injuries had prompted that ring to glow, regret sinking its claws deeper into her gut. Another long night of keeping Eris’s soul tethered to his being?

She heaved a deep sigh, shouldered her bag once more, and winnowed away from her cozy room.

The designated winnow spot was in Edana’s private courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by her rooms. The Lady had carved a spot out of the wards - or had bribed someone to do it. Edana or one of her two trusted guards were to wait for Aya in the courtyard. The written copy of the bargain details instructed that if anyone else were to ever greet her, she was to winnow back to the Dawn Court without speaking to them.

All very calming, naturally.

Tonight, one of Edana’s guards met Aya in the courtyard, which she considered a good sign. The guard did not say anything, only nodded in greeting before turning on his heel. Aya shivered in the Autumn chill and trailed after him. No one had told Aya the guards’ names yet, and she was too shy to ask. They were a little intimidating, stone-faced and armed to the teeth. Obviously, they cared about Edana's safety a great deal, and she had not stopped to wonder what they thought of the Lady hiring a strange healer and adding her piece to this hidden game board.

The dark-haired man led her through Edana’s sitting room to the stone passageways. She followed him through the dim, winding halls, finding them to be as deathly silent as the first night. She was beginning to wonder if the whole house had a curfew, or if they had all simply adopted this code of silence as a means of survival. Everything had been tainted such a suspicious color after that first night.

His feet made no sound against the stone floor, even in those heavy, clunky-soled boots. Aya followed suit, keeping her steps light, though her satin slippers would not have made much noise anyways.

When she crossed through the wards into Eris’s rooms, a wall of commotion wrapped itself around her, such a contrast from the silent hall that it made her jump. Eris was cursing and arguing with his mother, the second guard attempting to aid her in holding him down. Aya’s widened eyes flicked to the couch by the hearth where a bruised and bleeding man lay unconscious. Or sleeping. He was nearly a copy of Eris - redheaded and tall, with broader shoulders and bulky muscles.

“They got drunk and had a fight,” Edana sighed as Aya made her way to the big bed.

“Bastard had it coming,” Eris spat loudly, trying again to free his arm from his mother’s grasp."

“Stay still,” Edana snapped, “You were stabbed, for Mother’s sake.”

Aya gasped at that, and Eris turned his head toward the sound. He had not even noticed her come in, too focused on earning his freedom. When his gaze landed on the healer he let out a cry of delight and held a bloody hand toward her without even so much as wincing.

“All is well,” Eris pronounced, “Clementia has arrived.”

“Hush,” Edana hissed, “Or your father will hear you.”

Aya’s skin felt hot, her stomach dropping in fear of the knowledge that the High Lord was at home tonight. She chewed her lip and set her satchel on the edge of the bed. Eris was still as a statue now, watching her with interest.

“Clementia is an angel of mercy,” Edana said to Aya, rolling her eyes as other guard chuckled. “He likes to read mythology.”

Aya’s cheeks burned and she looked down at the heir, his amber eyes fixed on her. She shook her head and grabbed a wet rag from the side table. She was familiar with Clementia’s legend but she had not made the connection of who Eris thought she was.

“Did you receive my prayer of thanks?” Eris asked, a hand clutched to his chest like he must brace himself in her presence. He still did not wince as she pulled up his shirt and began to clean his injury. It was shallow for a stab wound, but it certainly would not heal well if he started thrashing around again. She could humor him if it meant he stayed calm.

The second guard, blond and bearded, started to laugh at Eris’s smitten gaze, but Edana shot him a look that shut him up. The Lady turned her attention to her other son, out cold on the couch.

“Yes,” Aya said to Eris, gently moving away the hand that attempted to cover his wound. His bloody fingers wrapped around hers and held on. It was likely he was so drunk that he was not feeling the full effect of his injury. “It was lovely. Please stay still, Eris.”

“Yes, angel,” Eris breathed.

Aya kept her eyes on her work and did not dare look at the glowering Lady or her giggling guardian. She knew it sounded like a pet name. But she didn’t think she minded much, not with how lovely it sounded falling from his lips.

Eris stayed quiet now, obedient to her every command. He watched her with such reverence in his eyes, as if still surprised she had appeared, worried she may go away again at any moment. If only he knew she was just another healer from the Dawn Court, no benevolent angel of mercy.

She wondered if he’d ever truly know her or if all of their meetings would be this way - inebriated or delusional from blood loss. And she hoped for both their sakes that the next time would be different. And maybe a part of her hoped to meet him in a state where she could really learn something about him. Something to compare to the rumors. All she knew at the moment was that he liked mythology. And that he fought like a hellcat when drunk.

“Beron would not approve of them fighting, would he?” She asked as she worked, her voice soft. Every movement tracked by those diligent amber eyes.

“Not in this manner, no,” Lady Edana answered, returning to Eris's bedside, “Not without his command, at least. He sees more honor in besting each other with strategy.”

Of course he would. Only Beron’s hand could inflict pain. That was how he stayed in control. Everyone else must impress him by playing his games perfectly. Aya had never expected to gain so much knowledge about the Autumn Court’s High Family and everything she learned made her more grateful for her own court and Thesan’s gentle rule. It also illuminated another aspect of Edana's secrecy.

This foolish behavior was a stark contrast to the tales and rumors of the Autumn sons, with their father’s brutality and their mother's brains. It certainly dimmed the intimidation to see that hulking brother passed out, mouth open and drooling on the velvet couch. Whatever Aya saw gave her power. And that golden ring took it away again. Edana did not yet know that she had picked someone with such an ambivalent heart. Capable of indifference and yet undecided.

When Aya finished dressing Eris’s wound and cleaning his filthy hands, she slipped a sleeping pill into his water and gave his shoulder a pat.

“Sleep well Eris,” She said, eager to get away from his relentless stare. Then she turned back and added sharply, “And listen to your mother.”

She shifted, about to make her way to the brother on the couch, but Eris’s voice stopped her.

“May I have a feather?” He asked, his voice remarkably soft compared to his terrible volume control from before.

“What?” Aya asked, hoping their audience did not notice the break in her voice. She knew the myth. That Clementia bestowed a feather upon her favored for luck.

“May I have a feather for luck?” He asked again, the gleam in his eye so hopeful it was almost painful.

For a moment, she considered it. It wouldn’t mean much, it would quiet him down and that would be that. But the weight of the Dawn Court customs would not release her. The tips of her ears grew hot, thinking of plucking a feather and handing it to him. Feathers were for honor, promises, and love. Even in the far friendlier, casual environment of her court, it wouldn't be seen as appropriate.

“You’re lucky enough just to be in her presence, you oaf,” Edana muttered, shaking Aya from her stupor. Eris frowned but he didn’t argue. He looked resigned, like he agreed with his mother's sentiment.

Aya silently thanked Edana and turned her attention toward the couch once more. The brother was not in terrible shape, with just a scattering of bruises and small cuts that would heal by morning. Luckily, he was far too drunk to remember anything by tomorrow. She hoped that Eris would not remember any of this either.

She had not failed to notice Eris’s split knuckles and she wondered what this brother had said to provoke him so. She might have asked, as they had humored all of her questions so far. But it seemed that neither Lady Edana nor her guards wanted to meet her eye as she inspected the younger Vanserra. As if there was something about this fight they were not saying. Or perhaps they were just embarrassed.

Aya told herself she did not care either way. She had decided, throughout the course of this visit, not to ask any more prying questions or sleuth or try to solve anything. She could not help her curiosity, but Thesan had ordered her not to meddle. And every answer to every question sat heavy like a stone in her heart. She did not want to carry all of that with her, anyways. So she finished patching up the anonymous brother, left a tonic one for the now-sleeping Eris, and returned to the comfort of the Dawn Court.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

The next morning, Eris’s shame pestered him as incessantly as his headache. Twice now, this poor healer had had to witness him in such a pathetic state. Gods knew what he had said last night. His mother wouldn’t tell him. She told him it was his punishment for being so foolish that he had to wonder what embarrassing things he may have said.

The only hint he got was in the note the healer had left him, beside a tin of fresh balm for his scars and a tonic for the hangover.

Drink lots of water, avoid stretching your wound. I look forward to your next prayer of thanks.

Your angel,

Aya

Eris blushed and cursed himself for it. He hadn’t known her name and had gotten into the habit of referring to her as Clementia in his mind. It must have slipped out.

He remembered little glimpses of what she looked like. Warm brown skin, eyes of lilac-grey, and small, capable hands. His fingers went to the wound in his side. Once again, he had been healed impeccably. This one had left a scar barely an inch long.

He had yet to thank her for all that she’d done and he wished that he could. But he did not know where to reach her or what a proper gift might look like.

Without him even realizing, without even having property met, she had begun to haunt his thoughts. Like a guardian angel, only a shadow of wings at the edge of his vision.

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 3 months

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REWATCHING GO S1, LIVE PLAY-BY-PLAY OF DOOMSDAY WAHOO

HELLO MAGGOTS REWATCHING SEASON 1 BECAUSE THE FIRST TIME WAS A KIDNAPPING CHAOTIC MESS. EPISODE ONE HERE GOES. I DON'T REMEMBER A LOT OF DETAILS BUT YES.

Opening scene and Earth's got vibe-checked by God and I've been gaslit about the dinosaurs

GARDEN OF EDEEEEEN wow his first appearance and Aziraphale's already so prissy and flustered might fuck around and fall in love with him idk

I finally understand who these mf's are hi Hastur and Ligur you're not zombies after all

FOR FUCK'S SAKE SECOND SCENE CROWLEY'S BEEN IN AND SHE WALKED IN, SERVED HIPS HAIR AND CUNT, AND THEN MANAGED TO TALK HER AWAY INTO A PROBLEM

LIKE GENUINELY SHE COMES AND SASHAYS WITH HER HAIR AND SAYS TIMES ARE CHANGING AND HEAD OFFICE LOVES ME AND JUST INSTANTLY HASTUR AND LIGUR USE HER WORDS AGAINST HER

idk sister mary loquacious is kinda doing it for me rn with that satanic nun's habit and losergirl energy

third crowley scene and he's misplaced THE LITERALLY GODDAMNED ANTICHRIST because he made small talk with a bloke outside without checking for details

mmmmhm yes sister mary wink again your bitchless decisions are sexy y'know what i mean

Gabriel feels like his brain was eviscerated and replaced with one of those youtuber's paid course promos at the end of their how to change your life in 45 days: three simple mindset shifts video

so THIS IS WHY EVERYONE KEEPS SAYING PAVLOVIAN IN THIS FANDOM IT'S BECAUSE OF DUCKS of course it's because of ducks

mmmhm yes sure crepes French revolu--Crowley stop eye-fucking Aziraphale you're making everyone at the Ritz horny

Aziraphale don't moan into your food man you can't take these two anywhere

Crowley thanking the driver for slowing down is everything to me

And they're drunk hu-fucking-zzah good thing we'll have 11 year olds saving the world coz these fuckers sure ain't doing shit

OH MY GOD HE WAS TRYING TO SAY BOUILLABAISSE I JUST REALISED. I THOUGHT HE WAS JUST MAKING KISSY FACES AT AZIRAPHALE I'M NOT OK-

What Aziraphale was doing back was definitely kissy faces though that mfer wasn't even trying to say bouillabaisse when Crowley said what sounded suspiciously like baby

kissy kissy from lil miss prissy [i would have made such a great high school bully shame i had no inclinations that way]

SORRY WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK WAS THAT SOBERING UP EXCUSE ME THE FANFICS MADE IT SOUND LIKE IT WAS A CLICK AND THEY'RE SUDDENLY NORMAL WHY IS THE ALCOHOL REFILLING

oop nun down nun down

i want ya see a wile ya thwart amirite on a t-shirt

"actually i encourage humans to-" just say you're a lazy bitch azi we love you

love crowley fake-manipulating azi into helping like azi wants to be manipulated y'know so it's not technically his fault he was wiled over or whatever and they're both just such ENABLERS

not azi going SOFT at being godfathers with crowley

NOT BROTHER FRANCIS PLEASE NO FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS SACRED AZI WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS PLEASE

WARLOCKKKKK I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

HNNNG MICHAEL SHEEN HAD TOO MUCH FUN WITH THIS

why is nanny ashtoreth so seductive with that of course dear is it just crowley's inherent disastergirl sex appeal

HALF PONYTAIL CROWLEY I AM A FUCKING SLUT FOR HALF PONYTAIL

GASLIGHTING HEAVEN AND HELL THAT'S MY BABYGIRLS

erIC THE DISPOSABLE DEMON I DIDN'T KNOW THEY COME IN S1 well not come i hope unless being eaten by a hellho--nope

ANGEL CROWLEY SAID ANGEL ANGEL ANGEL

CROWLEY TRYING TO BE SUBTLE ABOUT KILLING BEFORE GETTING ANNOYED

waiter crOWLEY OUTFIT I CANNOT BE NORMAL AFTER THE WEDDING DRESS DESIGNING ABOUT THIS COSTUME

FOOLS WRONG BOY YOU FOOLS IM DEAD

DOG IS UNIRONICALLY SO CUTE EVEN BEFORE IT GOES SMOL

gonna give my roxie a kissy brb she's my angel and all this dog talk makes me miss her (she's a few feet away under the bed)

i asked her for a kissy and she crawled out and gave me a kiss i love her

DOGGGGG ADAMMM

...roxie's crying to be taken downstairs it's nearly 2 am this is on me for waking her up i crowley'd myself fml

EYYYYY WELCOME TO THE END TIMES don't mind me I'll have to take roxie down yes I know maggots I'm crowley-coded I KNOW THAT I'M A BLOODY DISASTER BYEEEEEEEE

#good omens mascot #good omens #weirdly specific but ok #asmi #maggots #good omens fandom #good omens season 1 #in the beginning #WAHOO #OK GTG TAKE MY DOG DOWNSTAIRS AT 1:45 IN THE MORNING #THE CROWLEY LIFE #IT'S HARD WORK BEING THE RESIDENT DISASTER #BUT SOMEONE'S GOTTA DO IT

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eldritch-spouse · 3 months

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You swear you saw a glint of sadness in his expression. It might be presumptuous to ask but you feel the need to. Turning away from foraging for food, you look up at the god “Protector Saudramar, how has your day been going? You seem… lost in thought.”

He had been staring off for a while now, beyond the sea gently swaying before him, beyond his powers, dominions and virtues soaring dutifully through the skies. Saudramar looked past the clouds and saw the edges of Eden as the annex gently orbited Earth.

There's no words to describe the utter impotence he feels.

To be the pinnacle of perfection as a Protector yet desire so much more, know that he's capable of so much more but completely powerless to take his place amongst the great Fathers and Mothers. Born to see others fit into place like puzzle pieces while he's doomed to push against the walls of his cage.

Nothing he does can fill the void that's been growing in the siadar's very core. Every single day, boiling rage and vicious envy turn him into an increasingly sour shell of his former self. The pain of his own existence grows heavier on his weary shoulders and he retreats into his own mind to avoid putting those who have been entrusted to him at risk.

Most of these sentiments are unleashed in the great battles against Perdition and the Betrayer's growing forces. He has looked the first fiends in the face as he slayed their kin effortlessly, never a hint of fear to be found in his brilliant ocean eyes, just monumental hatred projected onto the abominations created by a rebel.

It was different, this time.

As he held one of those slithering, disgusting, deformed parodies of celestials- It had stared at him. In a way none had before.

It saw him. It saw the real him.

And the way that foul creature laughed in Saudramar's face made him pause.

You and Them are not so different.

It had rasped, bloodied and broken.

You live in the shadows of those that are inferior to you, as did They once.

Look at us now.

Saudramar couldn't kill it. He couldn't even process what was said to him in that moment. He launched the demonic lifeform into the bowels of its own degenerate annex and moved on. But those words, hissed through chipped teeth and a slithering tongue, held only truth, engraved themselves in his soul.

And the realization alone leaves a taste in the Protector's mouth he hasn't been able to wash off.

The Betrayer is a reflection of him.

The very things he's mercilessly slaughtering with others of his cast are no more than unauthorized creations, in an unauthorized annex, designed by a siadar who was also unhappy with their role in the universe.

Except, that one was strong enough to achieve a modicum of their vision, if only just for a glimpse in time. A window of self-fulfilment worth more than an entire existence of conformity.

What is he doing?

...

The sound of your soft voice has Saudramar snapping his gaze towards you, hardened stare gradually receding.

" Lesser. "

He has a complicated view of humanity. As much as he is unbelievably fond of your design, he's also of the opinion that this project was much too ambitious. The fruits of aimless impulse from Creators who, to him, have neither a plan nor a solution for the trouble your kind will eventually brew.

Alas, you are his favorite so far. Saudramar has witnessed many lessers be born and succumb to age, and not one was as captivating as you. He can't place what it is about you yet that's so appealing, but the Protector knows he'd like to keep you closer, the same way some other casts get to perform binding ceremonies with their favored.

You are his chosen.

But Saudramar won't burden you with that.

The god shakes his head.

" Fret not. Do you require my assistance? "

You smile, relieved. " No, my Lord. " There's a pause, you can clearly tell he's upset, and the siadar chides himself for displaying weakness like that to one of his entrusted.

" Was today's battle exhausting? "

He observes you forage idly.

" Never. Every day Perdition suffers the righteousness it deserves, and I am only fueled by its destruction. "

Saudramar squats when you look into his eyes. A pallid, beautiful hand reaches out, brushing over yours. One set of eyes studies the contrast, another keeps your attention on him.

" Not once shall the filth of the impure taint your sight. The land you step upon is under my protection, and harm will fall upon those who conceive of desecrating it. "

You hold onto his hand with both of yours, and Saudramar feels his chest blossom with a sensation that chases away the thunder in his soul for the briefest of moments.

" Can we cook for you tonight, Protector? " You offer, and Saudramar is thankful no one else is around to see the way he bleeds adoration through his stare.

" Of course, my lesser. "

He will have to hide you away from the seraphim this upcoming Spring, the though of you paired to another lesser is displeasing at best. None of the males here are of enough quality to impregnate you. You are exemplary, a perfect specimen.

Saudramar will protect you.

That's one thing he'll always be able to do, no matter what the future may bring.

" Now, finish. Night will fall soon. "

#Krulu oc #tce rp ask

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weirdmarioenemies · 7 months

Text

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

We have a frightening tale for you today... reader be scare, you're in to beware! Please, come in. Sit in the Chilling Chair at our Terrible Table in our Devious Dining Room. Now, I hope you're hungry, because we've made plenty of PETRIFYING PASTA! Fufufu... let's begin.

It was looking to be a very special Halloween. This particular year, the holiday had fallen on Friday the 13th! Spooktacular! Alas, nobody could go trick or treating, for there was a blood moon that day, and nobody wanted to be outside where their costumes would be stained with all the blood. Sigh... what a boring, uneventful day it was shaping up to be!

But then... a sound right outside. The sound of the mailbox opening and closing. Mail? On this federal holiday? How strange! And a bit disconcerting... who would dare to venture out with the town moist with blood? Maybe a vampire... eep! I opened the door, shivering, worried I may accidentally invite the hypothetical vampire inside, only to find...

Nobody there. No body at all. Just a severed, green hand clinging to the mailbox. So that's what the sound was! And here I was, worried it would be something scary. I shooed the little critter away, and as it scuttled off on its fingers, I saw that it had left something in the mailbox! Something familiar.

Why, it was a copy of Super Mario 64 DS! How generous, a Halloween miracle! I had been wanting to play this lately, but my childhood game card had stopped working. This was shaping up to be a nice Halloween after all! It was a used copy, and it still had the price sticker on it, having been resold at $6.66. Upon seeing this number, I immediately screamed. Someone had gotten an incredible deal on this game!

So, I opened the box. Everything was in great condition! Even the manual was included! I don't remember the manual looking like a torn piece of paper with "I SEE YOU" written on it with blood, but it's been a long time. I know I still have my original manual around somewhere, so no need to flip through this one. I got right to playing the game!

What a rush of nostalgia! There was my friend Mario's funny face on the touch screen, ready to be tapped! And tap I did! Rather than the game drawing the lineart of Mario's face, though, it drew something else. A tombstone with my full name, date of birth, and another, later date written on it. Weird! Must be a weird coincidental thing drawn by the previous owner? I played around with the squiggly lines and spun it around. It was fun :)

I got right into the game, and everything was just as I remembered it! I was visited by Lakitu, went into the castle, and jumped into the first painting, like I had so many times before. But something definitely was strange here. I was reasonably certain that the first mission of Bob-omb Battlefield was not called "Kill The Big Bob-omb Dead" in any version of the game! Nevertheless, I continued on.

That was when I saw it. Where I would expect a Bob-omb Buddy to stand was the most terrifying character design I had ever seen. Against my better judgement, I approached and interacted with it.

"Hi! I'm Bob-omb...

BLOODY!!!"

EEK! I could not believe my eyes! I would expect such material in an "adults only"-rated game, but in MARIO?! I had no idea what to do. I continued playing for some foolish reason, running off toward the Big Bob-omb the way I always would, hoping to find comfort in the familiar. The game felt normal again, aside from how Big Bob-omb left a large splatter of realistic blood on the ground when defeated, and I was mercifully brought back to the safety of Peach's Castle.

And yet... I felt a morbid curiosity. An urge to continue playing. Maybe it was just a glitch? Maybe the second mission would be back to normal, and I would get to see my friend Koopa the Quick? That would be nice. I selected the second mission, and...

It was normal. It was safe. The Bob-ombs, Buddies. Maybe none of that was even real. Maybe I was still shaken up about the knock at the door earlier? Whatever it was, it wasn't important anymore. I could finally play my funny Mario game and have fun! I walked on over to my friend the Koopa and interacted with him.

"Excuse me? Can I help you? Who are you?"

I was confused. Wasn't he supposed to ask for Mario? Wasn't this Koopa the Quick?

And then, as if he heard me, he turned his head. He wasn't looking at Yoshi. He was looking straight through the screen at me, and his eyes were more realistic than ever.

"I'm not Koopa the Quick.

I'm Koopa the TRICK!"

AIIIIIEEEEE!!!

Of course, none of this has been real! Just some Halloween Hijinxs! There is no such thing as a realistic turtle!

...Or is there?

That's for you to find out... heehee! Happy Halloween!

#mario #super mario 64 ds #bob omb buddy #koopa the quick #halloween #creepypasta #unreality #long post #mod chikako

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sgiandubh · 9 months

Text

The sound of silence

With the end of August already in sight - somebody, please, tell me where did this botched summer go, all of a sudden? -, a somewhat different landscape is slowly emerging, on the S&C front.

Dare we hope? The new normal seems to be a mix of latergrams, sibylline tweets, ultra-muted innuendo (most of it the result of a couple of pundits' sterile speculations on meagre hints dropped on purpose) and secondary (even third-circle) players being conveniently called to the rescue. A low budget, almost homemade solution to keep the prayer wheels of this fandom spinning. A fandom both of these two know, by now, like the back of their hands.

For months and months in a row, I tried to understand something that puzzled me constantly: not the messages being ventilated in here, but their circuit and lifespan, if you want. For what is worth, the rinse and repeat image is fine in my book, but in no way comprehensive, nor intellectually satisfying. And then, a couple of weeks ago, I started to suddenly figure it out.

I am not going to insult you with savant jargon or Venn diagrams, rest assured. However, I need some arrows. I called it the 4 R Circuit and here we go:

(an information is being) Released (via Anons or DMs exclusively: it's never sheer luck, that is a bloody lie and a poor one, at it) -> (it then prompts a couple different) Reactions -> (followed by an almost immediate) Retcon (by the other side of this very antagonistic fandom) -> (in response, an old information is being) Recycled (thus effectively keeping the chatter alive, but re-oriented until ) -> (a new or old/new information is being) Released

Historically, the lifespan of this news cycle was never shorter than 24, but seldom (if ever) longer than 72 hours. This summer is a resolute break off this pattern, but old habits die hard: the collective attention span has been also conditioned accordingly.

And how could it be otherwise? Because neither of them had any consistent A-list level gossip history, the emerging fandom had to resume itself to their social media accounts, for a start. And boy, were we copiously spoiled, with banter and innuendo and double-entendre galore, and then with voluble Anons being simultaneously directed to the main players of all the factions. I bet it was elating. I am sure it was also great fun: a merry, sunny age of innocence. Until it wasn't and the ugly manipulative streak began its inglorious march in here. The thirst grew, and so did the stakes. Pictures, pictures or it did not happen. And when we got them, we started to immediately diss and hiss and hum and drum. In the Real World (you know, out there, where we all go every morning and are civilized, amiable people), this kind of behavior would be more than uncanny: it would be uncalled for and drastically sanctioned as such. But, I digress.

The result of this disco inferno by design is a pattern of reactivity I have never seen in my entire life. Nano-inquisitors immediately spring out of their chairs once you dare write something: why did you say that? how dare you speak your mind, you are supposed to be a stupid, stupid shipper? In the meantime, almost nobody bothers connecting the dots, finding a solid background for arguments, placing facts or speculation in a logical context. It's frowned upon. Yet, the whole experience would be way more enjoyable, if instead on focusing on idiotic and obviously doctored details, we could bring some perspective to all this hubbub.

Last case in point, this freshly baked imbecility:

We all know who the fuck Brave Heart is: the kilt obsessed, once Mightiest Troll of Mordor. The one who invented by herself the grotesque story of the Hôtel Costes Rash sightings, last April, via Anons written in painful English. Also, the one who spun, based on a friendly snap at a sportive event, the Ellenwood Innuendo, promptly ditched - it didn't stick well enough- now reactivated. A sample:

Calling all stations: there is no side exit at the Hôtel Costes' restaurant, you fool, who's been to Paris as often as I went to Oahu, which is to say never. There is a back exit, through the kitchen, madam: next time, do your damn homework properly! Unlike you, I often went there (I preferred other, less nouveau riche playgrounds, that being said), back in 1996-2002, when it still was the boldest celeb' spotting venue in town. Not anymore. And who in their right mind would bring luggage or shopping bags in a very peculiarly laid-out French restaurant, without immediately taking the risk of being a conversation stopper, a bull (heh) in a china shop?

The "have seen it with my own eyes" gave you away, this time. A classical, by the book way to spin a cheap lie.

Also, C's witty latergram, via a tertiary player. I am sure (and I will film myself eating my socks live, if proven wrong) that back in Mordor someone already came with the agit-prop retcon: "it's irrelevant when the picture was taken".

It is very relevant. July 31. One day before August 1st: I always admired her humor. But who would take the time to tell 1+1= 2?

If I could gift this fandom anything, let it be this: context is always important. Manipulation starts exactly when you stop questioning and let your brain live the 72 hours news cycle.

The only real sound of this August, on the S&C front, is the sound of silence.

I rest my case.

#fandom

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whizzinpast · 16 days

Text

Lord, Give Me One More Chance

Chapter 1: Requiem

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Ivan (Alien Stage)/Till (Alien Stage), Ivan (Alien Stage) & Till (Alien Stage)

Chapter Warnings: Drug Abuse, Implied/References Non-Con, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Suicide Mentions

Chapter Summary: Till experiences an unusual chain of possibly unrelated events after the sixth round.

A/N: So, uhm, that Round 6 Behind The Scenes Patreon post, huh?

Anyway, give me your flower emojis below if you want to give that one design of Till in a black turtleneck + harness a big smooch and a fancy bouqet.

Read on AO3 / Prelude / Chapter 1 (you are here)

Till’s god died in the fifth round.

The last he had seen of her face was a beastly display of shrieks and torn Mercurian silk. Her long, lithe arms struck her fellow contestant, Luka of Guardian Heperu, hands clasping around his slim neck like a serpent’s jaw. She had beaten the man bloody. Sentinels dragged her and her wild tendrils of pink hair, kicking and screaming.

Then the stage was invaded. Amidst the red, flashing lights and blaring sirens, Mizi was taken out of the competition.

Ivan believed she was not dead. Till wasn’t nearly as certain. Heperu prayed she wasn’t— only so she could be brought back and have several holes burned into her skull, then have it screened live across the entire Virgo supercluster.

Regardless of her fate, something broke out of her skin that day. On the curated stage of a deceased segyein’s ossuary, something ripped its way out of her chest and left behind the dead skin of a depraved, grieving Mizi. Something too raw and too bloody to be worshiped.

Ivan knew it would not kill Till’s faith, but it was tested.

“No, no, I understand. As soon as the round is over, it’ll be off your shoulders. He can be very sweet, I promise, he’s just shy.” Ivan explained saccharinely over the phone. “Thank you. I wish you the best.”

His face fell as soon as he hung up.

Ever the opportunist, Ivan’s guardian sent him off to deliver gifts for Luka before he could make his way to Till’s containment chamber. Last he heard, Till’s hysteria was so loud he had to be collared, muzzled and accompanied by two sentries. If Ivan intended to keep his privileges, including his visits to Guardian Urak’s sector, he had to play his part.

And so, with his gloved hands clenching the package and flanked by two henchmen, he was driven to his guardian’s most sought-out business associate.

Guardian Heperu’s sector boasted a distinct luxury compared to Urak’s. Its expansive alabaster interior housed multiple floors exclusively adorned with trophies of diverse kinds. Ivan was greeted by a receptionist, who marveled at his absence of a collar. One polite smile and a compliment later, he was directed to the escalators.

Luka’s enclosure was at the top, a stunning cage of bone and glass. He was kept in a neo-Gothic chamber, with pointed arches and spinal columns holding up a dome of hazy glass panes. Ivan found him in a gazebo below the great oculus, propped up like a doll in a round, oversized bed and surrounded by cables and pale machinery. Against so much paleness, the bruises on his face can be seen from the entrance.

Ivan and his escort’s entrance was announced by an approving, tinkling sound when they crossed the doorstep. Their black attires broke the bleached monotony, capturing Luka’s and Heperu’s attention.

“If victory came at this price, I’d hesitate to congratulate you.”

Luka acknowledged his presence with a curious tilt of his moonlit head. He seemed otherworldly, as if he were never fully present in this world, the next, or any that followed—somewhere beyond reach.

Guardian Heperu stood by the bedside, his small mouth curling in displeasure. “Nonsense! All victories of the Alien Stage are bloody. This— this is—“ He vented all too eagerly, gesturing aimlessly at his prized possession, decorated with bruises instead of medals. “Absolute animosity. Unacceptable. Shine should be ashamed of herself.”

“All the more to perpetuate the true virtue of the victor,” Ivan said. “And all the victories to come.”

Heperu was pleased enough with his comfort before his bulbous, violet eyes were drawn to Ivan’s package. “You bring gifts?”

Ivan smiled cordially, then handed the steel box to one of his escorts so it could be carried to Heperu’s small, grabby fingers. He took off his white gloves, their purpose fulfilled now that the package was delivered without a trace of human contact.

“Guardian wishes Luka a speedy recovery. This is something you could use to keep yourself nourished and entertained before Luka’s next round. They’re the best on the planet.”

Heperu eagerly unlocked the box’s mechanism and peered inside. “Ah, Gara. Excellent, excellent! He knows how to sort his specimen well. I myself never had the patience.” He looked up at Ivan with a critical eye, and once again, seemed pleased with what he saw. “But you’ve turned out the finest I’ve ever seen. Are you certain you’re not homegrown?”

Ivan shook his head with a little laugh. “No. My qualities are my master’s.”

“Then your master has potential.” A bot was dispatched to take the package, so Heperu could fix the sleeves of his robe. His focus didn’t last long when his appearance demanded his attention. “Send him my regards, I cannot keep you here any longer. My child requires rest.”

Ivan bowed as he was shooed off by flicking gestures of Heperu’s hands.

“Poet.”

Luka’s need for oxygen was so desperate it sucked all breathable air out of the room. Ivan paused, and so did his escorts.

Mizi’s hand prints painted his neck a vicious pink. Heperu had the money to fix it before his next round, but until it was dealt with, it cracked Luka’s acclaimed baritone. “When should I be expecting your requiem?”

It was a better acknowledgement than his dull, absent-minded gestures— and a challenge. Ivan recognized it, and responded in kind, his shoulders squared.

“Soon.” He outstretched his hand in good will. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Instead of shaking it, Luka’s icy fingers took hold of his own. He pressed his lips against his knuckles, dried blood brushing against Ivan’s skin.

“I know,” he rasped, his blue lips stretching into a slow, sordid smile.

Ivan rarely believed in bad omens, but when he left the sector, he made sure to ask for wet wipes instead of contaminating his suit.

Till’s god died in the fifth round. The last he had seen of her face was when tin-cans gathered to keep her on her scratched knees and pointed a rifle at the back of her head.

Her dress was torn. Her fists sore. Mizi’s face was a twisted, alien grimace that showed the strained wrinkle of her skin and the vicious cut of her brow. Seeing her bathed in red lights made him think of Anakt flowers in full bloom, and it was terrifying. Till was terrified. Despite the distance, he could see it clear as day— he drew her jaw wrong. Not only the jaw, but the lips, too. The teeth. The eyes.

Ivan was right.

She was gone. Gone. Gone.

And Till was left all alone as a finalist, which called for celebration.

Urak rented a VIP lounge to a group of gold diggers. They lifted him up on a pedestal to sing them his woes. Till didn’t— sing his woes, that is. He sang whatever came on screen. They asked for Black Sorrow five times in a row. The most recent addition, Cure, seven. A mogul with two planets under his belt, whose name Till remembered only because of how it was growled against his neck, mentioned how he had more flavor than the previous reigning champion and the brand ambassador combined. Till barely processed that he was talking about Ivan, too.

Brand ambassador. Child protege. Model. Musical powerhouse. Titles spat at his face like he was supposed to know what it meant. Like he was supposed to know who Ivan was.

Ivan was.

He was.

That was it. He was; no longer is. What is— is a drenched corpse. Dried and cleaned. Displayed in a museum or hidden in the back of his owner’s freezer, right next to some bougie extract or segyein champagne. He was too expensive to be dumped. What is— is the white coat that Urak let him keep.

Urak’s associates laughed at his fortune, their spittle on his face, and pushed blue pills into his hands. No, it was the spindly one. The one on his neck. Karlak. He was no longer a mere pet, he said. Now, he could party like a segyein.

A dead part of Till, the one with the collar, would’ve told him to go fuck himself on a pike.

What remained of Till, the unshackled one, downed it like it was candy.

And it was easier—so much easier—when he was another famous acid freak, puppeteered by the bourgeoisie. Everybody could have a piece of him, the old money dickwads and the nouveau riche. Till was spun around, weightless, and brought back to the stage, where he sang and swayed for them. Even out of his mind, they thought he sounded like a fucking angel.

Till grunted, his pulsing temple pressed hard against the mic while he waited for the chorus, grasping ecstasy before it slipped through his fingers, like the blood, like the rain—

Ivan is— was— is—

Till’s voice cried out the lyrics and the room boomed. Thunder and lightning. Blazing trails streaking the sky.

Twisted freak. Snaggletoothed bastard. Handsome corpse.

Till knew the shape of his fist better than he knew him. He knew his dead-eyed gaze and the fake quirk of his lips, and the swathe of his pale skin plastered across every holographic billboard. Of course he wasn’t scared of dying. He was immortalized on every commercial Till came across. It would take weeks to wipe his image from public conscious. It would take centuries to wipe him from Till’s.

He walked off the stage and draped himself across some segyein’s lap, who offered him a shot and a pat on the back. Their claw ran through his sweat-soaked hair. In return, Till bore his neck to the room, and the room marveled, its walls sodden with blood and gold. The music smelled like booze, and Till could see cigarette smoke wafting in cloudy patterns above his head. His jaw parted so it could drip down his throat, his tongue curling for a taste, only to be greeted with nothing.

Bored, he stumbled to the stage and sang three more songs. Then he went back.

He tripped on something, and when he rotated, stumbling, he realized it was a comet-white corpse. Till went around it, and fell back onto a table with shatter-screams in his wake. White-hot light burned his eyeballs. He nearly thought they strapped him to a table to poke his skin again, until a spiked shell loomed from above and pincers clacked above his beloved neck. Something roamed across his chest, but Till’s limbs were made of rubber. His head lolled back over the edge of the table, and he flinched at how the room spun. Vertigo struck him. Curtains of pink hair covered the door of the lounge. A tall, anthropomorphic form phased through.

Somewhere between staring at all the unimaginable redness of everything and licking his incisors, a jagged sound crawled out of his throat. “Dead meat,” he laughed, “you’re all dead fucking meat.”

And then— a shatter.

The lounge stopped pulsing.

Groaning in effort, Till tilted his head upwards. Blood-soaked forms of segyein shifted around, and somewhere in the background, he could hear Ivan halfway through the second verse of Cure. Till’s head lolled around Karlak’s pincers to see what all the fuss was about, and was promptly disappointed. A tin-man. The same kind of one-eyed tin-man that dragged Mizi off stage and nearly shot her in the back of her pretty head. He could hear gargling sounds and some warbles. He didn’t know that tin-men could talk.

Its metal head swiveled to face Karlak’s hot-white eyes. Till watched as it stepped forward and raised its arm to—

—shoot Karlak’s skull clean through.

Till’s eyes blinked through the spray of violet fluids. Karlak’s decapitated body slid off him, rolled over and hit the ground with a hard thump, soft belly facing the ceiling.

Another deafening shatter rang out. Till watched with bloodshot eyes at the result. Colors. Colors spraying the walls. Blues and greens and yellows.

A massive indigo form screeched and stormed across the lounge, knocking over sofas. The tin-man blew a clean shot through one of their kneecaps, then another through their chest as soon as they collapsed. Their body skidded to a stop at the sentry’s feet. The room suddenly exploded with glorious, saturated colors, and Till’s hand violently twitched with inspiration.

The rest of the segyein scrambled to the door, clawing at the keypad in hopes of getting it open. One was dragged by the back of its uniform, smacked with the butt of a gun before its head was raised above the edge of a table— splat. Yellow. Its skull was battered once, twice, thrice in continuous splatters of neon liquids and marrow.

It continued. It squashed, punctured and melted forms like sculpting art. Till couldn’t bring himself to move. The show was too fucking good to be true. It only got better when the upholstery caught fire. That— that was when he started cackling.

This was his life. Nothing else could surmise it better: Till splayed out on a coffee table in a blazing VIP lounge, laughing like a maniac while a mad sentry masacred segyein to the sound of Ivan’s requiem.

He had to pause to take a breath and close his damp eyelids. His head was throbbing. When he opened his eyes again, the firey silhouette of the tin-man came into focus, bleeding black out of the gap in its left shoulder.

Then and there, in the center of chaos, was Till. Then and there, haloed by licks of flame, was the cold, red orb of the sentry’s optic.

A broad hand floated towards him, its fingers spreading to close his eyelids.

Till allowed it. He smiled for the cameras.

His body slumped backwards, falling into the familiar comfort of a black abyss.

He heard murmurs of rain. The wind’s whistle followed his descent.

Lower, and lower, and lower.

…

But the spotlight followed him, spearing the darkness to catch Till for one last show—

And Till had no other choice but to open his eyes to a pure, bone-white ceiling.

He screamed.

His hands flew up to claw his eyes out. To block the light. To fight it. To shut it off. Shut it off. He whined through ten minutes worth of mind-numbing agony before his pupils adjusted to the light.

It was a pain to look at, but Till could discern shapes. A ceiling, walls, furniture, floors. A pale figure perched on an old-fashioned, alabaster chair beyond the foot of his bed.

Till recognized him. It was the lab-grown showpony; the other finalist.

The bleached blonde ghoul sat with his legs up on the edge of the seat, his chin resting on his knees while he spun colorful sections of a cube-shaped puzzle. He was mumbling something into his knees.

Till felt something on his face twitch.

“Hey.”

Silence.

Till growled harder, “Hey.”

The ghoul’s, the other finalist’s, eyes snapped upwards.

Gracefully, he hopped off the chair, his white nightgown flowing as he walked, glided, to Till’s bed.

“Where—“

In one smooth motion, he laid his palm down and lifted his legs up onto the sheets, hopping into the bed right beside Till’s frozen body. He leaned in close and personal. Thick, pale lashes brushed against his bloodless cheeks. Up close, there was too many wrong things to consider him human. It was Ivan, but worse. It was manufactured humanity, copy-pasted until it was mere parody of the source material.

“Who did you see?” He asked in a curious, lilting tone.

“What?”

“Not what,” the ghoul sighed and that, too, was musical. “Who?”

Till’s gaze skittered to anything except his murky, champagne eyes. “Flowers, rainbows and dancing corpses. T’was a death parade and I was the only guy alive. Dunno. I was tripping.”

He stared for a solid five seconds before his gaze glazed over, and his mind went fuck-knows-where. Till forced himself to clench his teeth through it, and waited. The competitor rolled his neck. His blue fingertips tapped absentmindedly against Till’s new collar.

He didn’t tell him anything. He sat, he thought, then his lips pursed in a delicate, peeved motion before he slid off the sheets, barely leaving a wrinkle. Till couldn’t even form a sentence before he slipped out of the room with his cube puzzle.

And left him alone with the sentry posted beside the door.

Till released a long, painstaking groan. Nothing was making sense. Urak’s shindig was a blur of colors that still made him crave paint and paper. He assumed he spent his night comatose. The reality of his visions was too questionable to be considered reliable. In which case, why did the ghoul ask him about it? What was he asking him about?

Till’s gaze was drawn to the sentry. It barely differed from the one he saw that night. Same height, same white plating, same optic. Different optic color, indigo; two arms, both intact; and a less robust frame. It didn’t make it look any less capable of snapping a human in half.

Generally, they can’t talk.

“Hey. Tin-can,” Till nodded at it. Its head calmly shifted his way. “Where am I?”

“Heperu’s sector.”

Its voice was smooth and modulated, like a filtered human voice. The organic nature of it sent shivers down his spine.

“Why? Urak lost a bet?”

“Urak has been fatally injured in a surprise attack by the Human Resistance Forces.” It explained in an unnervingly calm tone. “Ten investors were murdered on his property, half of which was lost to bombing.”

Till’s silence was long and heavy.

His head hit the bed frame. The canopy above his bed was so clean and pristine it made him want to climb up and smash it open.

“How— how long is it gonna take him to recover?”

“A month at least. Guardian Heperu volunteered to keep you until his recovery.”

A month. A whole month.

Till couldn’t tell whether he should laugh or cry or both.

Something bunched up in his throat. He swallowed it down and inspected the room. It was so white he could’ve been in a medical facility, and yet, the hue signified more age and less disinfectant.

The size of it, the segyein calligraphy carved into the ivory pillars; the massive, pointed window showing off a view of the two moons circling their host planet; his canopy bed with white chiffon sheets and pointed arches— it was night and day compared to the kitschy indulgences of Urak’s newly attained riches.

This room had none of that. This room had history. It was old money, through and through.

“Is this—“ Till’s arm vaguely gestured at the room, “—mine?”

“This is your enclosure.” The sentry nodded, then gestured at the wardrobe opposite of his bed, an ornate capsule with rib-like engravings. “You can find some of your belongings here, although some of it was damaged in the fire.”

“You come with the package or what?”

“I was assigned to be your escort and bodyguard until the winner of the fiftieth Alien Stage is declared.” The sentry placed its hand atop the holster on its hip. “There is reason to believe that HRF will make attempts on the contestants’ lives in order to sabotage the competition.”

Gingerly, and with far less grace, Till slid out of the bed. He was barefoot, and the tiles were cold and worn under his soles as he made his way towards the capsule. He didn’t know how they knew what his belongings were. Till had never owned much in the first place.

The wardrobe clicked open. The contents made his face morph into a pained expression.

The sentry was right; it was all his. The sketchbook, a stack of papers clamped together with staples, tape and sheer force of will; the two pencils and a pen, one used to vandalize his first page with Ivan’s clean, blocky signature; a slightly singed recorder; and the coat.

Till’s fingers reached for it. The edges of its coattails were heavily singed. The three holes, rusted over with blood, were still there.

He clenched his teeth, shoved the damn thing back inside and slammed the wardrobe closed.

Till had nothing and nobody. No believers, no gods. And yet, Ivan’s death made him impervious to wasting his life out of spite. He couldn’t do it by overdosing. He couldn’t do it by giving in to a HRF fighter’s gun. His fate was in the hands of Alien Stage— again, and forevermore.

There was no other route of escape except one: a demonstration. Win and kill the overpriced pet or die by gunfire, or whatever the tin-cans decide to do after he slaughters the fan favorite.

He pivoted, then made a beeline towards the door with his heels stamping prints on the fancy floor. “Tin-can, show me around.”

The sentry perked up. “It is recommended for you to rest one more day.”

“Can’t,” Till said grimly. “I need to write a requiem.”

The sentry didn’t respond immediately. Its indigo optic flickered. It stared through him, beyond him. Till thought it would block the way, until it smoothly stepped aside, and grandiosely gestured at the door. It spoke like he was more than a mangled thing covered in weary flesh.

“As you wish.”

AO3 / Prelude / Chapter 1 (you are here)

#alien stage #alnst #alnst till #alnst ivan #ivantill #alien stage round 6 #alien stage fanfiction #whizz writes

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yandereunsolved · 2 months

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Hello!

So I had this idea for a yandare oneshot about Kit Walker from AHS Asylum and I was wondering if I could maybe request it to you... It goes like this:

A yandere female nun who is secretly obsessed with Kit while he's an inmate in Briarcliff, so one day she goes to the extreme and assaults him while he is in bed or something

I would really appreciate it if you could shape this idea into a oneshot xxx

God's Design - ,, yandere fem. reader nun × kit walker

tw(s): yandere themes, physical assault, suggestive themes, toxic religious ideals, dubcon kissing, semi-graphic gore word count: 2.5k a/n: thank you, anon! Hope I fulfilled your request correctly. :)

The halls of Briarcliff almost near cease their cacophonous noises: patients screaming at the top of their lungs, the pipes straining from being overused, the sound of the orderlies correcting someone, and the loudest of them all was the noise of God. That nagging feeling in the back of your head whenever a sinful thought came to mind. How tempting the devil had made those thoughts to your malleable mind. One moment you were praying with your rosary, and the next your hand was slipping down towards your frilly-laced underwear.

It was an unspoken rule to never adorn anything provocative, nothing possibly pleasing to the eye. It was a rule that every nun held sacred. Not allowing men's eyes to stray was the woman's job. Those were the rules set within the pages of the holy book.

Despite that, all you wanted to do was make his eyes stray. From the first time you saw him, you could feel your determination crumble. That holiness within you began to shrivel up like a prune. You began wearing lingerie under your uniform, teasing yourself at night. You began fantasizing about what a night with him would look like. You had never been with a man before. You had promised that you would wait until marriage.

They call him Bloody Face, but he didn't have the eyes of a killer. No, his hazel irises encapsulated much more of a lamb to the slaughter, a spooked doe in the field of life. Those eyes have called to you since you first glanced at them. They were drawing you in like a sailor at sea. Only the sea you have yet to sail is one of the most forbidden ones—the seven sinful seas. All you yearn to do is explore lust, dip your toes into its waters, and relinquish control of your sails to allow the winds of sensuality to guide you.

You sneaked peeks at him in-between your normal shift. You tried your hardest to suppress these bubbling desires. Every time you popped one another, a few would float to the surface. It was like a never-ending cycle of torture. Each peek and small exchange left you wanting more of him. You wanted to devour him entirely, to wholeheartedly feel him in ecstasy. You wanted to see those tears and puppy-like expressions directed at you. You didn't. You still don't want any of the other nuns near him.

You sat at the foot of your bed for many hours that fateful night. You re-read many biblical passages to set yourself right. Losing yourself in your bodily flesh would be a great sin, wouldn't it? Your mind brimming with these detestable daydreams only led you to seek further counsel. You prayed to the highest angels and saints and to the great God himself for guidance on what was to become of you.

'1st Corinthians 6:18— Flee immorality. Every other sin that a man commits is outside the body, but the immoral man sins against his own body.'

You repeated it quietly, with your hands ardently colliding together. The other night, there had just been a slip in your judgment. You hadn't meant to walk past his cell and feel your body grow hotter. You hadn't meant to skip your nightly devotional in favor of more covetous inclinations. You hadn't meant to slip on that white, satiny baby doll and admire yourself in it. You hadn't meant to almost break into his room and show yourself to him like a needy whore.

How vile! You recoil from your bedside at your own enervated nature and decrepit mind. The devil is tempting you and your womanly nature. You took a vow—an oath. You have to wait until your marriage. You have to wait for your man.

He killed women after all. He is not a man of God. He is a man of pure sin. He is a man of cruelty and evil. He could be the devil himself, trying to tempt you into impurity. Yet you wanted to allow him in.

'1st Thessolonians 4:3— For this is the will of God, your sanctification; that is, that you abstain from sexual immorality.'

You read again. Your eyes are blurred as heavy droplets of your own suppressed sexuality bleed onto the pages filled with divinity. You were slipping. Are you losing your devotion to God? Are you losing your devotion to the cause of saving these twisted souls?

No, you assure yourself. This must be God's calling for you. He's telling you that Kit is innocent. He's compelling you to marry this man. He's urging you to find sanctity within his arms. God knows he is your future husband. That's why you feel this way! It has to be.

In the next few weeks, you will begin to add Kit to your normal schedule. You assure the other sisters that you want to take on the challenge of caring for such a dangerous man. Sister Mary Eunice keeps giving you weird side glances and avoiding you, but you don't quite care. Her overall attitude has changed towards Briarcliff, but so has yours. You've found your purpose now.

Every interaction with him fuels your desire to be his wife. You flirt with him subtly. When he gives you that curious expression you brush it off with a certain amount of charm and naive innocence. Your attempts at courting him are clumsy at best. Yet, it seems to be working well enough.

You keep him away from Grace forever. They had been growing too close. They had been through too much. You planted fake evidence in her room so that she would get punished. You whispered rumors around her and sowed distrust in their once-inseparable bond. You make her life a hell of your own making. One even worse than the walls inside Briarcliff had given her.

You saw the wedge growing in their relationship because of you. You planted yourself in her place, like a sprout replacing an invasive weed. You always slipped him extra food when it came time. You always read the Bible with him; he gave his life to Christ because of you. You both shared your most intimate secrets in the dead of night. Your relationship had grown to be something even God would envy.

That bitch just had to go and sow discord into your plentiful relationship.

You walked into the kitchen with a batch of dough that needed to set for a few hours. Your eyes widened in horror at what you saw, your pupils dilating to adjust to the lack of light in the kitchen. The large bowl slipped from your hands and crashed onto the floor. You turned around and bolted away like a frightened rabbit. You couldn't even stand to look at the scene for more than a moment. It was like seeing an angel get its wings torn off while falling from paradise.

That succubus was defiling your man. His head was thrown back in pure ecstasy—a dream in your head that you wanted to be between the both of you. Instead, that leech had him in between her legs. They were both in sync, their souls and hearts intertwined. It tore what little self-restraint you had to pieces. You could no longer wait for him to realize God's plan for the both of you.

In the dead of night, after both earned their punishment, you sneak into her room. A kitchen knife lies in your left hand, right behind your back. You'll stab her and make her feel the excruciating agony you felt. Every last drop of it. You enter her room swiftly with a slightly unhinged grin gracing your shadowed features.

She turns and gives you a surprised expression. Her stomach rumbles as she is expecting a bland dinner with as much nutrition as a wet rock. She blinks wearily as you move towards her. She seems apprehensive, but her body language is mostly relaxed. You were the one person who always seemed to be there for her. You were there for every patient. That's what made you everyone's favorite nun.

"Sister?" She calls out anxiously as she wraps an arm around her midsection. "Is dinner late? Or is this concerning my sterilization?"

"Oh, Grace." You murmur in a frenzied manner.

She backs away against the wall as her eyes dart quickly towards the door and back at you. You had locked the door, and your key was somewhere under your garments. She really didn't want to have to grope you to escape. Still, if you did have ill intentions towards her, she'd do whatever she needed to survive.

"God gave me a Revelation. I found it in my Bible."

You move towards her and swing the knife clumsily. You were a nun, not a murderer. You weren't a murderer until your one true love came along. He just makes you a little unhinged sometimes. It's all in God's plan.

She stumbles back as her palms rest against the stone walls. Her breaths become frantic as her heart speedily beats. She goes into survival mode. A punch is thrown at you as her eyebrows furrow in concentration.

"What the hell! Doesn't your little book tell you not to murder or something?" She screams in a high-pitched tone, doing her best to possibly get someone's attention in this damned hellhole.

She begins to shriek like a banshee as she fruitlessly struggles against you. Your free hand wraps around her wrist as you sink the knife into her throat. It makes a satisfying squelch as it slices through her skin like a knife through hot butter. She bucks against you like a wild bull as the sanguine fluid spurts out of her gaping wound.

Another strangled scream escapes from her cracked lips. Her cries and wails fuel your murderous rage as your knife continuously sinks into her supple flesh. You stab, and stab, and stab for what feels like hours on end. You make sure she knows how much she betrayed you. How much she betrayed her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Eventually, her body and mind fail her. She slumps against your figure as the light escapes her eyes swiftly. Her soul is forced out of her body as she becomes a permanent part of Briarcliff. You giggle and smile as the knife digs into her heart. You carve it out of her chest and stab it for the umpteenth time. It squirts out more of her sinful, gooey fluid.

You stare at her limp, lifeless body. Your rage cools a few moments after that. You have no regrets. In the eyes of God you were doing something holy.

"I gave her time to repent, and she did not want to repent of her immorality." You state passively as you grimace at her corpse.

You'll clean yourself and then tell everyone tomorrow that a crazed patient broke into her cell and killed her. You are the asylum's perfect little golden nun, after all. No one will suspect a thing, just as they shouldn't. Visting her was only your first stop tonight. Your second and final, Kit's holding cell.

You slip through the darkened halls with a spring in your elated step. You stopped at your room to wash off and get rid of the kitchen knife. You slip into that precious baby doll as you put your coveted uniform over top of it. You smile in the mirror gently, your spirits as high as the heavens.

Entire months now come down to these few moments. Your figure slips into his room. The poor thing is still strapped to his bed. Bruises line his toned figure. The paper-thin blanket barely covers his body. His thick, white hospital shirt ridding up, exposing his v-line and abs. His chest is gently moving up and down, calling to you.

You don't want to interrupt your man's slumber, but you need him to know the truth. You climb on top of his sleeping body. Each of your thighs straddling his side. One of your hands reaches down to his exposed stomach as you trail feather light touches over it. An overly excited giggle escapes your lips.

It has all led up to this moment. Your meeting, your small talk, and your private moments. Those torturous minutes that turned into hours transformed into days in which you were barely able to see a glimpse of him. You spent all those nights praying for a man, and now you have the one that God meant for you. You'll make him forget all about that whore who besmirched him.

"I wore something just for you, Kit." You whisper those honeyed words into the soft flesh of his pale ear.

You press a hungry kiss onto his lips as your nails dig into him. He bolts awake and panicks as his mind tries to sluggishly process what is happening. He struggles against you for a moment as his pupils dilate to adjust to the surrounding darkness. He recognizes you as his hands grip onto the sides of your thighs. A strangled groan escapes his lips as your assault on them doesn't stop.

"Sugah, slow down now." He murmurs gently with a purr escaping his velvety throat.

His lips don't resist you but return your fervent devotion to his. Everything stops in those moments as the world fades to black. There's nothing more to the both of you than two touch-starved bodies that crave an intimate connection. It was as if, in that moment, both of your hearts became one; your souls had found each other after so long.

Kit hadn't realized how starving he had been. Not just of mind but also of body. This pure sense of need wasn't something he got from Grace or Alma. Somehow, theirs was something corruptly desperate. Yours was nothing more than a divine and guttural urgency for his presence. Your movements were like those of a follower pleasing their divine being.

Everything that happened so far was for this moment. It was worth every single moment. It was worth getting caught with Grace. To see that absolute expression of anguish in those saintly irises of yours. He knew it would drive you right over the edge. He knew you wouldn't be able to resist him after that. He just wanted needed to have a pretty little nun save him from his sins.

"No, no, I can't. We were meant to be. I—"

Kit cuts you off as his hands curl around the edges of your uniform. He presses his forehead against yours intimately as he looks up at you with those doey hazel eyes. A short pant escapes his mouth as he tries to form words. It proves difficult because his entire being is yearning for the proximity of yours.

"I love you." He croaks out in pure bliss. His mouth moves from sacred lips down to the inviting nape of your neck.

God's design? No, it was his.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

✎...ღ taglist: @coentinim @cxndiedvi0lets @nahoyasboyfriend @bluerthanvelvet444

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ckret2 · 1 year

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This design is so good!!! Would love to know more about Mabel’s interactions with Bill!

(Footnotes: "wtf is that purple thing Bill's wearing?" The first thing he could find. "Mabel has an earring?" Yeah that's how I've decided to show she's 13. Also her braces are a slightly different color because I got to choose new rubber bands colors whenever I went to the orthodontist. "What's the joke with Xanthe?" It's an Ancient Greek name that means golden/yellow. "Is this why Bill's fake name around outsiders is 'Goldie'?" Yes. It's short for Goldilocks.)

They get along like a house on fire. They get along so well it makes everyone else kind of nervous. They get along so well the others suspect Bill's faking it to manipulate Mabel.

In truth, they actually do get along like that. If the inside of Stan's mind looks like a black-and-white Escher painting and the inside of Ford's mind looks like a somber Kubrick movie and the inside of Dipper's mind looks a lot like reality, then the inside of Mabel's mind looks like a collaboration between Hieronymus Bosch and Lisa Frank—and wouldn't you know, the inside of Bill's looks a lot alike. Neon DayGlo chaotic colorful anarchy.

They're similar enough that if everyone in the shack takes a random guess at what it is Bill wants, Mabel's guess is usually closest to the mark—and because of that, he gravitates more toward her, which gives her more practice making sense of him, which quickly turns her into the household Bill expert.

Add to that, when Bill's not being creepy, Mabel's the most willing to help him with not-bad not-evil things. And as the local arts & crafts specialist she's the most qualified to help with his acute self-image issues. It sounds fun!!!

Bill won't talk about (or acknowledge) his feelings unless he's hit an explosive boil-over point; but inwardly, privately, he's raw and lonely and desperately grateful for someone who's on the same wavelength as him and who's willing, in a tiny way, to help fix his body.

He's also too alien to recognize (or care) that Mabel's efforts are straight up ridiculous.

For all their unexpected and frightening similarities, the main difference between Bill and Mabel is that Mabel's idea of a good time ends when real harm to other people begins—but that only applies when she notices the harm. Bill only half comprehends that she has limits at all, and when he does understand, he assumes her limits are like his: they're driven by fear of external consequences rather than an internal moral compass.

He thinks with enough time he could free her from those fears. She doesn't mind recklessly shooting a fireworks rocket if she doesn't notice the broken bones and bloody noses it leaves behind; so the next step is to teach her to notice them without fearing she'll get in trouble for it; and from there he'll teach her to enjoy the bones snapping as much as she enjoys the rocket exploding, just like he does. She's got a whole world of bright, colorful, sparkly mayhem to enjoy once she stops worrying about the consequences!

But until he can teach her to appreciate a cherry bomb, he can deign to appreciate a glitter bomb. They're both overstimulatory assaults on the senses, and that's great.

Mabel, meanwhile, is convinced she's well on the way to reforming Bill into a Fun Big Sister/Brother.

(Starting from this post, I'm gonna put all my human Bill AU posts under the tag #bill goldilocks cipher. Easy to remember—but you can bet nobody else is using that tag.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #human bill design #mabel pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #bill goldilocks cipher #(I wanted to hold out on starting to use this tag until y'all got to see where it came from)#fanart #my art

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vidavalor · 3 months

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Hi! I love your language metas! I would like to request one of your dives on your favorite bit of innuendo if it's not something you've already written about? Or just one you think is underrated? :D

Hi there! Thank you. Hope you're having a great day. Fun question! Please help yourself to some tea and blueberry pie. 💕

Choosing one bit would be tough but one I love and also think is underrated is Crowley's joke after Warlock's birthday party in S1 that Aziraphale has gotten a bit too friendly with his bird. It's just the one line but there's several layers happening at once, like there is with so much of this show.

Crowley knows that the "it" that Aziraphale is referring to is The Hell Hound but he responds as if Aziraphale is referring to the prone bird that Aziraphale is tapping near where it would carry baby birds. In the midst of it, the bird is close to death while a joke about it having had sex with Aziraphale is being made is-- a reference to orgasm as "the little death" and its contrast with actual death that recurs throughout the series.

Birds, though, obviously don't have menstrual cycles the way that some humans who can become pregnant do so you wouldn't say a bird is "late" to refer to it is as pregnant but you would say that about a human. Also in here is the English slang of referring to women as "birds"-- so, Crowley's playing with human language that doesn't know how close it is to reality. The joke here being that Aziraphale is an angel, which is both kind of a bird and a human being at once, and that, as a human being, he's not know as a great seducer of women not named Crowley lol so Crowley's jokingly explaining the birds and the bees of bird sex to the bird-and-human-like angel with whom he has human sex on the regular. The bird getting pregnant is what "comes of putting it up your sleeve" and letting it neck him when, as even though Aziraphale is fully in his human corporation, he's also kind of a bird as an angel. Crowley obviously knows that Aziraphale has no such intentions where this bird is concerned but the humor relating to the bizarreness of their existence is too good to pass up.

The bird is a dove, in the pigeon family, and they mate by the female selecting a mate from the male birds, who all preen themselves and puff out their chests and angle themselves in an effort to look good and be selected. Once the female chooses, the two birds preen and nuzzle one another by kind of tapping their beaks around the shoulder/breast/neck areas of one another. This the dove foreplay here that leads into bird sex and is what Crowley is referencing by saying that Aziraphale let the bird in his clothes enough to get all up on him.

Additionally, the phrase "up your sleeve" is a funny choice because of Aziraphale as a magician literally putting things up his sleeves as part of his magic tricks but the phrase also meaning to hold something back and keep it secret-- as if Aziraphale has been hiding a torrid affair with this bird from him.

What's very cute in here is that Crowley's quip is, on one level, just about the bird mating dance and less about the actual mating. The joke is designed to sound in tone on one level like well, that's what happens when you have unprotected bird sex with your magic trick dove, Aziraphale... but since the bit he's referencing is more the bird mating dance foreplay thing, it's actually also really just calling Aziraphale hot-- as in, the bird got pregnant just by being let up Aziraphale's sleeve. The angel's so hot that's all it took.

This is made funnier after S2 by the fact that Aziraphale's magician's assistant in 1941 was Crowley himself, who is then, in 2019, jokingly faux-jealous about being replaced in the magic show by another bird who is getting far too friendly with Aziraphale for Crowley's comfort. The one thing Crowley's going to get possessive about are the nuzzly Aziraphale snuggles. The joke really also has a light air of: That bloody pigeon is getting more of a canoodle than I am today, angel... the number of snake babies I've nearly had slithering around your vest and here you are, letting any old dove off the street cop a feel, you shameless tart.

Also might be why the S2 dance has so much shoulder and preening on Aziraphale's part here. 😂 Tongue-in-cheek mating dance with Aziraphale's preferred bird, who chose him ages ago, and who is just grateful this already stressful party doesn't also include another bird groping his husband.

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens meta #aziracrow #spicy omens

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tj-dragonblade · 1 year

Text

FLUFFBRUARY 2023 Feb 10, 11, 12, & 13

Feb 10 prompts: moment strong neck Feb 11 prompts: unlikely fog anniversary Feb 12 prompts: amber tenderness incandescent Feb 13 prompts: whole steam(ing) first

On AO3 - 3400 words

Another multi-day fill, because 'strong' gave me a good starting scenario but then it took longer than one day and kept growing and each day's words were either already in it or slotted in nicely, which worked out well.

===== "Ohhhh, no. Nope. Uh uh," Hob enunciates, carefully, when Dream has maneuvered them to the foot of the stairs. "Not bloody likely." He sags a little further; Dream hitches Hob's arm higher around the back of his own neck, tightens his arm about Hob's waist to keep him upright.

"Shall I carry you up the stairs, then?" It has been quite the undertaking already, to get Hob from the pub, down the back hall, to here. But Dream finds that he does not. Mind, the effort.

Hob turns to look at him as best he can, through the fog of his inebriation. "Sure, 'f you think you c'n manage?" His tone is lightly sarcastic, lightly scoffing, mirthful; the idea amuses him.

Dream graces him with an impassive stare, then braces Hob's arm across his shoulders and dips fluidly, slides his free arm behind Hob's knees and scoops him easily aloft. "Perhaps."

Hob's eyes are wide, gratifyingly so, and he is quick to grasp at Dream's shoulder to steady himself; Dream shifts his stance to maintain balance.

Dream could, he is aware, have simply passed through his own realm with Hob in tow, emerged directly in Hob's bedroom without half so much effort as he is currently expending.

But then, he would not get to. Carry Hob, this way.

Hob makes a sound that can only be described as a giggle. "Princ'ss carry," he elaborates, shifting his arms more securely around Dream's neck, and then, mumbled: "God's wounds, you're strong."

Dream lets himself preen just a bit, at Hob's praise, but. His thoughts are also circling around Hob's other words, as he starts up the stairs. Princess carry. Also commonly called 'bridal carry'. Often portrayed as highly romantic, in stories.

He wonders if Hob is thinking the same.

He would like. The opportunity, to carry Hob up to his rooms for romantic reasons, but. This is not the time to dwell on such thoughts.

At the door to Hob's flat, he again braces himself steady while Hob fishes his keys from his jacket and fumbles them into the lock. Hob does not ask to be set down; Dream does not offer.

It is cool and dark in Hob's flat. Dream nudges the door closed behind them, moves carefully through the familiarity of the interior with his armful of Hob, to the bedroom. "Not quite how I imagined this," Hob chuckles as Dream sets him down in his unmade bed, and Dream pauses, marginally. Hob's words have struck a note…but no. He will save such thoughts for a sober Hob, should he choose to pursue them, when they both can be. Certain, of their meaning.

However. There is little harm to be had, in seeking further info. "You had designs for this evening, Hob Gadling?"

Hob's face, already flush with alcohol, darkens a little more. "It's our annual…our annivershy," he manages, "an' I thought. Great time, t' finally tell you how I feel, right?"

June 7th. That Hob marks it as an anniversary of such import is. Enchanting. Dream is enchanted, no less so than by Hob's off-hand implication of. Feelings, for Dream.

That much is…unexpected. But not at all unwelcome; it lights a warmth in Dream, that steals the breath he doesn't need, that swells with. Hope.

"But I got ins'cure," Hob continues, mournfully, "an' I thought, okay, a li'l liquid courage, that'll help right? An' then I jus' kept going, and now here we are." He lets out a gusty, dramatic sigh.

Dream would like to kiss him. He will not, not like this. But. He would like to.

"The morning will not be kind to you, Hob," he says instead, a fondness in his voice that is obvious even to him. "You need rest." He touches the sleeve of Hob's jacket. "Let me help you."

Wide-eyed, Hob nods, moves accomodatingly while Dream maneuvers his arms free, lays the garment aside. He considers Hob's pants next, uncertain. "And these?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Hob leers, his drunken mood mercurial as the whims of children, and Dream. Resolutely keeps a chaste gaze, helps Hob free of his trousers, leaves him in tshirt and boxers.

"Lie down, Hob," he directs then, and while Hob obeys, letting Dream pull the covers up over him, his thoughts are plainly still following their previous path.

"Join me?" Hob manages a charming grin despite his inebriation, a come-hither lift of his eyebrows, and Dream, afloat on the possibility that his interest need not be one-sided, is. Tempted.

But no. This is not how he would have it happen between them. He is certain Hob, when sober, will agree.

He cards his fingers through the sweep of hair that has escaped the elastic band meant to contain it, brushes it tenderly back from Hob's face. "You are very drunk, Hob."

Hob presses into his hand. "I know. I know." He heaves a huge sigh, ending on a hiccup. He is still leaning into Dream's touch. "Sorry I messed this up." His eyes, when they meet Dream's, are wide and mournful, begging forgiveness.

His offenses are entirely imagined; Dream reassures him regardless. "You have not 'messed this up', Hob. I look forward to having. A proper conversation, when you have recovered. I would hear about every feeling you wish to share, in detail."

The pout that Hob gives him is not likely meant to be as. Adorable, as Dream finds it. "C'n I maybe have a kiss, at least?"

"Ask me again, when you are sober." His thumb brushes the corner of Hob's mouth.

Hob's eyelids are drooping of their own accord, but something like hope glimmers beneath them all the same. "'F I ask you when I'm sober, will you say yes?"

Dream smiles, a minute upturn at one corner of his mouth. "Perhaps," he allows, then leans down and softly presses his lips to Hob's forehead, breathing just a touch of his power into it. "Sleep, Hob."

Hob passes into his realm with a sigh.

Dream watches him a moment, cradling the softness and warmth in his chest, the hope that is by now glowing incandescent within him. Then, he ensures that Hob's curtains are all closed and his front door locked, brings a glass of water to the bedside table, brushes his fingertips through Hob's hair again.

He returns to the Dreaming.

He keeps a piece of himself attuned to Hob, as he goes about his work, thinking forward to their continued discussion with a sense of pleased anticipation.

~~~***~~~ Hob wakes to a dark bedroom and insistent pressure in his bladder. Blearily, he stumbles up out of bed and into the bathroom, not bothering with lights. The amber glow of the nightlight over the toilet is almost too bright as it is. His head is fuzzy, in that weird liminal state where you're technically awake but haven't had near enough sleep to really be with it; he vaguely recalls he'd been drinking, which just compounds it. He pisses, washes up, and is shambling back to bed when his stomach lurches.

Right, then. Straight back to the bathroom.

It's after, while he's rinsing his mouth at the sink, that he hears Dream's voice.

"Hob?"

He spits one final time and turns off the tap. "Yeah. Gimme sec." He dries his face, dries his hands, cracks a huge yawn in between.

Dream is in the middle of his bedroom, when he returns, and he's still not sure if he's actually awake but he's also too out of it to care. Dream hands him a glass of water, which he downs on auto-pilot. His stomach is still a bit temperamental but doesn't protest too much.

"Thanks love," he mumbles, handing the empty glass back to Dream. His head, on top of feeling muddled in cotton, is beginning to ache. "You're really here?"

"I felt you wake," Dream says, as if that explains anything.

Hob is vaguely aware there are things he should probably be remembering, but he will worry about them in the morning proper, when he is properly awake.

"Head's starting to hurt," he announces, climbing back into bed. "Mebbe it'll be fine in th' morning. I hope."

"Unlikely," Dream says, frowning, and then he disappears. Which doesn't help much with the sense of unreality Hob's got going on, but then Dream is back. And he's got the paracetamol from Hob's bathroom cabinet and more water from the kitchen, is handing him pills and propping him up to drink, and Hob is. He's not objecting to the care, okay, and he wouldn't be even if he was fully awake and aware.

"Sleep, Hob," Dream says, softly, and Hob's pretty sure Dream's skinny fingers are stroking his hair, but he's asleep again without really thinking too much about it.

When next Hob wakes, it's to muted daylight—someone had made sure the curtains were all properly closed, and he doesn't think it was him—and…considerably less of a headache than he expected. Still there, still bad enough that he's grateful for the thoughtfully-closed curtains, but nowhere near the head-splitting agony he might have expected. His mouth tastes like garbage and feels stuffed with cotton, his stomach is unhappy but not heading for a revolt, and he could stand another hour or two of sleep but.

But there's Dream, appearing suddenly in the bedroom doorway, and Hob shrieks the most undignified shriek he's ever shrieked, scrambling back against the headboard at the same time. All of which pushes his headache a bit further into 'pounding' territory, and he groans.

"Bloody christ, Dream—!"

"My apologies." Dream glides over, offers Hob the glass of water he's holding and the bottle of paracetamol from the bedside table, and Hob downs both gratefully.

Something cool touches his forehead and Hob has closed his eyes, is groaning his appreciation of the relief it brings before he registers that it. That's Dream's hand, touching him, but it is far too soothing and he's far too much of a mess just now to get properly excited about it.

They've touched, plenty of times by now; hand to arm, hand to shoulder, hand to hand occasionally, but never quite so intimate as hand to face.

It's nice.

He cracks one eye open. Dream smiles down at him, the tiny little smile that touches his eyes more than his mouth.

"How are you feeling, Hob?"

"Bit like crap. Could be worse." He opens his other eye, looking up at Dream. "Not that I'm complaining, mind, but…why are you here?"

Dream gently pulls his hand away. Hob misses it immediately. "I have been. Eager, to continue our conversation," he says, consideringly, and Hob frowns.

Bits of memory are starting to surface, and Hob is not quite sure how he feels about them. Had he…he woke up in the middle of the night to puke, he's pretty sure. Had Dream showed up and given him water after? Had Dream…put him to bed, before that? Had—

Oh god, Dream had carried him home last night, literally.

He needs a second.

Also, he's really gotta pee.

"Excuse me for just a minute," he says, climbing out of bed as Dream steps back. "Meet me in the kitchen?"

Dream does that regal kingly dipping of his head that means 'of course'. "I will make tea."

"Thanks. Thank you." Hob hurries past him, shuts himself in the bathroom, and quietly freaks out.

He deals with his bladder, too, and brushes his teeth while he's at it, but mostly it's the freaking out.

He can remember now, hanging on Dream in the hallway, Dream picking him up, carrying him up the stairs, waify stick-thin twinkish Dream carrying him effortlessly to bed like it was the easist thing in the world and it's actually pretty hot to think about, okay, and he will be thinking about it.

Later.

Because he also remembers confessing his feelings to Dream, only it was less confession of the feelings themselves than it was admission that he'd been planning to confess, gotten nervous, gotten drunk, and chickened out.

Either way, the existence of The Feelings was pretty much out there in the open, now.

Also, Dream had taken his pants off for him and Hob had half-assedly propositioned him, so. There's that, too.

He remembers the whole damn evening and he is so. Disappointed in himself.

He squares up, stares at his face in the mirror, gives himself a decisive nod. "Alright, Hobsie, let's go face the music," he says, and marches off to the kitchen like he's heading to the gallows.

Dream greets him with a smile, and his brave front crumples before he's quite gotten it in place. "Look. Can I just say, I'm sorry for getting so drunk last night? Sorry you had to drag me home?" Sorry you had to carry me upstairs to bed like it was our honeymoon—

Dream glances up from pouring tea, gives him a gently-admonishing up-tilted stare, the kind he'd first seen when being chastised for defending Dream's skinny ass against Lady Johanna's henchmen back in 1789. "You were no burden, Hob. I. Did not mind."

Hob swallows, heavily. "I. I kind of. Said a lot of things? And I don't. I hope I haven't made things…awkward."

Dream waves him to the table, brings two steaming cups over and sits. "Was anything you said untrue?"

Hob sits as well, facing Dream, the corner of his kitchen table between them. "No. No. Just—"

"I told you that I. Looked forward, to hearing about any feelings you wished to discuss, did I not?"

"…You did."

"I am listening, Hob. Should you wish to elaborate."

Like it's that easy.

"Okay well. Ah." He fidgets a little, on the spot and flustered and his head still aches and he's scared, dammit, despite the fact that Dream has the gist of it already and is still here asking for more; he can't help the little curl of terror deep in his chest that remembers 1889 like it was yesterday and screams What if, what if, what if over and over again.

But Dream is gazing at him over the tea that he's made them, patient and softly regal and so damn beautiful it hurts, and he can't not follow through.

"I love you," he blurts.

He'd tried to come up with a coherent and dignified way to ease into this last night, laying out their history and his own journey to realizing what this impossible infuriating magnificent eldritch creature meant to him but. He'd flubbed the hell out of that and he does not have the mental wherewithal this morning to reconstruct it all.

Dream looks absolutely delighted, eyes glimmering wetly and mouth pulled up at the corners, and Hob can feel the bit of him that's waiting for rejection ease.

"So…yeah. That's…that's what I meant to work up to, last night. You're my oldest friend, my one constant, my beautiful stranger turned familiar friend, my oldest friend—" he's repeating himself, he knows he is, but this is about getting the words out not bloody poetry "—and somewhere along the way here I've realized you're more important to me than anything. I love the days you show up best. I love sharing everything in my life with you. I want to make you happy, I want to see you smile and hear you laugh that godawful laugh and I want to kiss your gorgeous face and hold your hand and I don't know when it happened, but. I love you. And I know you're okay with 'friends' now and I don't want to push for more if you're not—I don't want to make you—I don't know how you feel, but I think you might be…amenable? To my feelings? And I just. If you're not. Please don't storm out on me again. I can live without your love, if it's not in the cards. But I don't want to be without your friendship."

He feels a little like he wants to throw up. Nerves, adrenenaline, hangover, all of the above. He takes a sip of his tea to help settle his stomach.

Of course it's perfect; of course Dream knows exactly how he takes it.

God, Hob loves him. So much.

Dream has both hands gently wrapped around his own teacup, but hasn't drank any. He's watching Hob intently, waiting to see that he's truly done babbling, maybe. His eyes are still bright with the threat of tears, and the rest of his face still looks like they'd be happy tears, if they did manifest.

Hob dares to hope.

"Hob," Dream says at last, and it sounds like he's savoring each letter as the name leaves his mouth. He blinks, leans marginally forward, and his eyes drop to his tea. "I am secretive, I know, and…slow, to share. To. Trust, others, with anything of myself." His eyes come back up, catching Hob's again. "But I would not have you think your feelings unrequited. You are. Very dear, to me, and I. Would welcome your affections, in whatever way you wish to express them."

Hob feels like the air's been punched out of him, fist straight to the gut, but in a good way.

"Really?" His hopes have taken flight, are fluttering gaily around in his stomach rather like butterflies.

Dream's eyes flick down to Hob's mouth and back up, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, but Hob isn't blinking, and he didn't miss it.

Oh. Oh. Oh, oh oh.

Dream tilts his head in that bird-like way he has. "Do you recall what you said, last night?"

"Which bit, specifically?" He'd said a few things, after all.

"You asked for a kiss. I told you to—"

"—Ask you again when I'm sober, yeah." He remembers.

Dream is looking at him expectantly, and it takes him a second to catch up. And then he flushes. "What—now? Really? I-I'm a mess, I smell bloody awful, I haven't shaved—" He's panicking, just a little.

"You are human, and you are beautiful. Beautifully human." Dream sets his tea aside. "Ask me your question."

"Really. Really?" It's not that he's dense. He's just. A bit hungover yet and trying to process an awful lot of really significant information in a terribly short span.

"Hob. Please. Ask me."

The eagerness in Dream's tone finally registers, finally clicks.

Dream would welcome his affections. Dream wants him to ask for a kiss. Dream has apparently been waiting all night for Hob to sober up and ask to be kissed. The Prince of stories is crafting their misbegotten evening into a tale of the following morning, just for them, and he is waiting on tenterhooks for Hob to say his line and move the plot along.

Everything slows around him, the whole world holding its breath. Or maybe it's just him.

"Dream. Can I." He swallows, heart pounding, more nervous than he's been in hundreds of years. "Can I have a kiss?"

Dream's whole face softens and brightens at the same time; he rises gracefully from his chair, leans across the corner of the table, takes Hob's unshaven chin between his thumb and curled forefinger and.

And then.

And then. Dream's lips touch his, brush across them with such aching tenderness that he could cry, they fit perfectly together and never. He's never going to forget this moment, not if he lives to be a million—

And then.

Dream's thumb on his chin presses oh-so-gently down, coaxing his mouth open, and Dream's mouth opens in kind and there are soft thrills racing down Hob's spine, lighting every nerve with unbridled joy as everything becomes just. More. He cups his hand in the bend of Dream's elbow, gets absolutely lost in the deepening kiss, the slow movement of lips, the delicate flicker of tongue, and. Just. Breathes it in, all of it, Dream and this moment and You are very dear to me and—

It's world-tilting, earth-shaking, entirely mundane and yet the most profound thing that's ever happened to him, Hob thinks, getting kissed by Dream in his kitchen on the tail end of a hangover, a first kiss fitting for the story they've been writing since 1389, and it's just.

It's just.

Perfect.

#Dreamling #Fluffbruary 2023 #TJs Fluffbruary #TJs Fics #Sandman

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star-going-supernova · 6 months

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i love the prompt you did the other day of Gregory protecting other kids and I was wondering if you planned on expanding on it ?

Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it! I wasn’t planning on expanding it, but I need more words for NaNo, so here we are! And just to be clear, this isn’t one of my tumblr generated prompts. Reminder that Gregory’s thirteen in this AU! This picks up pretty much right where The Most Dangerous Game left off.

The Most Dangerous Prey

Gregory ran through the daycare lobby. He pushed through the doors with only as much care as he did because the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to this part of the pizzaplex. Sprinting in the direction he thought the scream had come from, he dodged STAFF bots left and right without pause. Tonight, every second counted, and he’d already been delayed.

He nearly kept going down the main hall, but he got lucky. He saw the blood splashed on the shiny floor tiles and skidded to a stop. There was a smear that trailed off in the direction of an employees only door.

Trying to balance caution and haste sucked, but the element of surprise was one of Gregory’s greatest advantages, one he couldn’t afford to just throw away. He slipped silently through the door and hurried along as fast as he dared.

His restraint was rewarded. He came upon the child and their attacker, one of the animatronics. The poor kid was practically being dragged along, breathing raggedly as he scrabbled uselessly at Freddy’s iron grip. His shaggy blond hair was half red with blood. Freddy didn’t notice Gregory sneaking closer.

He unholstered his crowbar and eyed the back of the animatronic to choose the best place to hit. They weren’t as fragile as the bare endoskeletons, so their weaknesses weren’t as obvious.

But make no mistake: they had weaknesses.

Freddy was tall, but Gregory was a gangly teenager. When he raised his crowbar behind his head, both hands wrapped around the end, he was more than capable of heaving it up and over and down into the very base of Freddy’s neck.

The awful crack of plastic was so loud in that empty hallway, and Freddy’s body gave a great spasm. He dropped the kid, who gasped and curled into a ball on the floor. Gregory wrenched the crowbar free, pulling down as much as he could without getting it stuck. Twitching violently as more than one severed wire was suddenly jutting out from the hole in the back of his neck, Freddy stumbled forward.

His head turned as far as it could, which was farther than Gregory thought was reasonable and therefore was really, really creepy. Nearly looking straight behind himself, Freddy’s blank, glowing eyes settled on Gregory. His body turned itself around without his head even bobbing in place, which was so inhuman that Gregory’s arms got goosebumps.

He flipped the crowbar around in his hands and blew out a thin breath. He settled on his next target: the connections between legs and pelvis. They were the largest joint openings on Freddy’s front.

Just as dumb as the endoskeleton, Freddy lumbered toward him with one hand outstretched. He was decently fast for something his size and weight, and if Freddy managed to catch someone off guard, Gregory could see how easily they would fall prey to his bloody claws.

Gregory, though, was prepared. He smashed the flat of the crowbar into Freddy’s wrist, pushing it away, something audibly breaking under the orange plating. It also served to give Gregory some space, and he used it well. When Freddy overcorrected with his other hand, Gregory dodged forward, metal fingers just barely skimming his shoulder. He drove the less angled end up into the gap and then threw his weight to the side.

The crowbar did as the crowbar was designed to do: it pried those two pieces apart like they were held together with twine. A sharp pop inside Freddy’s hip sure sounded exactly like he imagined a robotic joint dislocating would.

His leg went limp, and Freddy tipped over like a tree being felled.

Taking that as the advantage it was, Gregory hissed an apology as he scooped up the younger boy and dragged him down the hall, out of reach of the animatronic watching them in intense, eerie silence. The kid cried out but didn’t protest, even trying to help by holding on to Gregory.

“Wait, wait,” he whimpered, and Gregory obligingly paused. “There’s—inside him.” He shakily pointed at Freddy, who was attempting to stand without seeming to understand that his leg was useless.

“What?”

“Inside him,” the kid pleaded. “He’s inside him. In his stomach.”

Gregory looked at Freddy in horror, because now that his heartbeat wasn’t pounding in his ears, he could hear it: very faint crying. And it was coming from inside Freddy.

Gregory bounced up on his toes a few times, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do. “Stay here,” he warned the kid, handing him his crowbar. And then Gregory charged a robot that was easily twice his size and way heavier.

It never would have worked if Freddy’d had both legs working, or if he’d been any smarter than he was. Gregory plowed full force into Freddy just as he got himself upright with the help of the wall, and relief flooded his chest when it proved to be enough. They toppled over together, Gregory on top of him.

He pushed himself up as fast as he could and swung his legs around. Freddy’s undamaged hand shot toward his face, and sharp pain exploded across his cheek as Gregory kicked forward with both feet, slamming his sneakers into the underside of Freddy’s jaw.

He got a satisfying snapping noise for his efforts, and the damage was, thank goodness, enough to shut the animatronic down. Freddy’s eyes flickered off, and his hand fell limply away from Gregory’s face. He hissed as he brushed tentative fingers over his cheek. They came back dripping with blood.

Climbing off Freddy, he gestured at the boy watching with wide eyes, and he obligingly slid the crowbar over. Gregory snatched it up, then tapped gently on the metal of Freddy’s chest. “Hey,” he said. The crying paused with a little sniffle. “I’m gonna get you out, okay? Just, stay back.”

He waited a moment for the trapped kid to get clear, then shoved the flatter end of the crowbar into the thin space between chest plates. It took a few tries to get it deep enough that it didn’t just slip out, but finally, he was able to leverage his whole weight down on the crowbar. With a strained hiss, the panels popped open. Gregory stood up and pulled them outward.

Inside a hollow cavity that made up Freddy’s torso was a kid maybe even younger than Jenna. He looked up with watery eyes, tear tracks shining on his cheeks. He looked a lot like the first boy.

Gregory holstered his crowbar. “Hi,” he said gently. “I’m Gregory. Can I help you out?”

The little boy nodded, and Gregory mostly lifted him out of the robot. He was shaking, his legs barely able to hold him up. When he spotted the other boy, he gasped and stumbled forward.

“Connor,” the older of the two wheezed, pushing himself up even though it looked to hurt him a lot. There was… way more blood on him than Gregory had initially noticed.

Gregory helped Connor to his presumed older brother, and he gave them a few minutes to reassure themselves that the other was okay. He kept a wary eye on Freddy, but the animatronic gave no sign of powering up.

However, he was worried Freddy might have sent a message, either to another member of the band or the crazy killer herself.

“We’ve gotta go,” Gregory finally said. Connor didn’t look injured, just shaken and honestly terrified. His brother, though… “What’s your name?”

“Cooper,” he said. He was probably only a year or so younger than Gregory. “Thank you. Thank you for…” His eyes drifted past Gregory to Freddy.

“No problem,” Gregory said. “Look, I’ve got a—a place that’s kinda safe. There are others there already. Can I bring you guys?”

Cooper nodded. “Anything’s gotta be better than just running around and hoping for the best.”

“Yeah,” Gregory agreed tiredly. “C’mon, I’ll carry you piggyback.”

With some maneuvering, they managed to get Cooper onto Gregory’s back. Gregory had to admire the kid—he barely made a sound even though he had to have been in a lot of pain.

“You ready?” he asked them.

Connor took hold of Gregory’s shirt, looking up at him with trusting eyes.

“Ready,” Cooper said, strained. “Does your safe place have first aid kits by any chance?”

“Oh,” Gregory said, not without humor, as he imagined the sort of first aid kits the overprotective daycare attendants surely had lying around in spades, “I think we’ll be able to find you something.”

They set off, another pair of kids for Gregory to protect. Another robot he’d taken down. Another blood stain ruining his shirt.

And he doubted it’d be the last.

#i answered a thing #anonymous #fnaf fic #fnaf security breach #star's stories #life and times of star

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pianocat939 · 1 year

Text

A little fluffy post of Yan Jiang Shi Donnie! I love his dumb little brain so much.

He is going to be a bit more physically affectionate in this so his personality is most definitely a little off to the canon show.

In short, Jiang Shi is a Chinese Vampire Zombie who can steal people's life forces. In other words, a vampire but cooler and not basic. Here's a Wikipedia link.

Little Sketch of his Design

Tw: bloody raw beef, forced moving-in, Donnie is slightly possessive, mentions of blood, he's a little dum dum

Dum Dum of a Genius

You stare at the plate of raw beef before you, the meat covered in its juices. It's disgusting, the sight of it absolutely grotesque. You can't eat this; otherwise, you would get sick. But to the creature who sits beside you, it's a delicious meal.

He was a zombie you encountered at the edge of a forest, blankly staring at you with his cold, dead eyes. He wore Qing Dynasty clothing from Ancient China, which was weird enough already. Within the first sighting of the reptilian, you fled, quickly walking away in hopes he wouldn't chase you. But to your dismay, he followed you back home.

From then on he's become your househusband. To be fair was really giving you affection and keeping you company. He's horrible at adjusting to the modern world, finding the oddest things a threat. For example, he almost broke your sink thinking it was a demon attempting to hurt you. In other words, he's quite dumb.

He is a nice thing to come home to every day, especially when your days are not so great. From the moment you walk through the door, he'll hop to you and churr excitedly that you're home. He's silent if he's doing anything else, but with you, he's louder than a kindergarten class. Occasionally he gives nuzzles to your head or cheek as a greeting, mumbling something in Ancient Mandarin.

"Darling...You need...To eat...I provided...For you so...You can be...happy." He states, nudging the plate.

You glance at him in confusion, not understanding the language. You've tried to teach him English, but it seems he would rather communicate in short little phrases of the language he used three centuries ago. You did somehow manage to get his name despite the barriers: Donnie.

"Donnie, I can't eat it. I'm not like you. I'll get sick, especially since I'm a human."

He chirps excitedly at the sound of his name, always loving the way it sounded coming from you. But his joyful expression soon vanished into annoyance. His eyes narrow, snout scrunching up.

"My love...I promise...You...This meat...Is the best...Of the best...As I am...Such a capable...Loving spouse." He bumps his mouth against your cheek, giving a peck.

You blink rapidly, giving a smiling frown. Ah yes, the reptilian Jiang Shi who decided to live with you and become your husband: who is quite the idiotic person for anything other than math formulas. And is a violent blood-sucker you can't seem to have the heart to kill...

"I can't understand you, but I think you need to reconsider what the human diet consists of. Especially with all this blood."

He smiles before returning to his deadpan.

#rottmnt #tmnt #rottmnt x reader #tmnt x reader #yandere rottmnt #yandere tmnt #yandere #yandere x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #tmnt 2018 #donnie #Jiang Shi #Jiang Shi rottmnt

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the-white-void · 1 year

Text

I Found You Again

~Synopsis: You were killed one night while waiting for your love to return from the battlefield, waking up in another world with one of its "archons" who came for you. She saw through you and helped you find your lover, back in your world

~Note: Reader was inspired by Michiko from IDV, Fem!reader

You open your eyes to see a bright light, rising to a sitting position, you see yourself in a garden, frozen in time, the frost preserved the flowers and leaves. The sky was grim, crying frozen snowflakes as you gaze upon the stars that seem to welcome you.

"Hello? Who's there?" A voice echoes from the hall and a woman emerges from the dark night with a small lamp on hand "You! What are you doing here?" Her voice raises as her pose shifts to a more defense form.

You were tired, and felt as if you were about to faint. You were slouching on the floor as your arms began to weaken and dropped to the floor along with your consciousness.

The next morning, you woke up on a soft and fluffy bed with a generous amount of food set aside, and some clothes at the side of the bed. You rose from the bundle of pillows and blankets onto the floor as the doors opened by a maid with a mask hiding her face. She came in and bowed then asked if you had needed anything, but even so, you still felt tired but still wanted some answers to your questions.

"Ah, yes. If you have some time, are you willing to answer some questions?" You asked while your voice was dry and hoarse "Of course" she nodded "But I advise you to drink some water first" she gestures to the food set aside

"... Ok. Maybe come back a little later after I finish?"

She nods and leaves the room leaving you alone again "I should go eat" you mumble to yourself as you turn to face the set of beautifully arranged food and desserts on a tray "I feel bad eating this" you whisper as you sit on the bed to eat.

You began to chew on the food while memories began flashing in your head. You swallow some food and flop on the bed you try to recall what happened that night.

That night, you were preparing for the night and a shadow loomed over you, you turned to see ----- with your hairpin sharpened then... it's blank.

The sound of the door opening snapped you out of your thoughts. The woman that you saw last night came to you but this time she wears a beautifully designed dress with jewels and embroidery all over it "I see you had awoken... and still did not change. Were the clothes not to your liking?" She asked as you looked down at your clothing, it was bloody and filled with holes. You were embarrassed to have been seen like this, even to that maid earlier, but you felt tired and in pain that you can't shake off.

"I'm sorry, it's not that, it's just... I'm having some trouble remembering things from last night" you say as you rub your temples trying to recall what happened that could have resulted in this. "Don't worry about it for now, it looked as if you were in great pain so let's rest for now" the woman held to you and sat you down "But you should change first, the dirt on your clothes could stain" she said as she stands "I'll leave you to that for now, I'll return" she turned to leave and leaves you alone again.

You turn to your food and pick the utensils and poke your food for some time.

You finally put some food in your mouth and started chewing again until the food on your tray was all finished and drank some water. A maid comes in and takes the tray away while you stare at the clothes lent to you, it was beautiful, from the embroidery to the design of the decorations, you felt as if you didn't deserve to wear such clothes but you needed to since your current wear is... unwearable for the public to see.

You change into them feeling the weight of the world as you put them on and sat on the bed once more with utmost care trying not to damage the clothes, and sat there for what felt like an eternity.

You try to remember what happened with your old clothes. Remembering ----- snuck up to you and killed you with a sharpened hairpin that was given by your husband... You were then thrown into a lake left to die alone.

You were then awoken by the woman once again who was startled by your reaction as you jolted awake from when you drifted to sleep "It seems you had quite the dream, you wore the dress, is it to your liking?" She asked while you were flushed in embarrassment "well, I think it's a bit too expensive for someone like me but thank you" you bowed to her as you say those words "no need, they are but clothes so there's no need to be weighed by it" she says but it still troubles you.

"So, if I may ask, what brought you to my garden all beaten like that?" she suddenly asks but you were speechless as you yourself didn't know how you got there as well "I don't know, I just woke up there after getting killed by my father-in-law" you whispered to her while hiding to yourself

"... you were what?"

"Well, I was killed by my father-in-law since he didn't like me and I married his son so he killed me using a hairpin my husband gave me"

The fell silent but her face was filled with silent rage

"Don't worry about it too much, I am dead now, so I don't have to worry about him?" you say as your voice begins to crack " I was just expecting, that's all" you smile while tears fall down your cheeks "and it's not like I'm waiting for my husband to get back from a war... not at all" you began to break down

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin fic ideas #genshin imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin fanfic #genshin oc #genshin angst #genshin impact x reader #sagau idea #sagau isekai #this is genshin I promise #just lemme make part 2 #/j #i'll try to make it work #lol #tsaritsa x reader #astronetwrk

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viscerax · 2 years

Note

Omg bro ur writing is so amazing, like I am so shook, I love how u write Vance sm so if ur requests r open could I request something where YN always tries to subtly hint or suggest anger management to Vance but he always shuts the idea down cause he thinks he doesn’t need it yet consistently proves he does need it. And you know how people trick their dogs by saying they’re going to the park when they actually take them to the vet? YN gets Vance in their car with the idea of a date, being extra flirty to lure him in, but is secretly taking him to an anger management meeting. And when they pass their designated date spot thats when Vance starts to get confused/suspicious in the ride until they get there and he’s just like “🧍 is this a joke”. Thank u💖💖

Tricked

"Vance, I really think some... therapy might be good for you. You can't keep beating kids up like this. Thats not gonna pass when you're an adult." You sighed, wrapping bandages around his bloodied knuckles.

"I don't need fucking anger management. I'm perfectly fine. Just because I'm not a pussy doesn't mean I need to go talk to some shrink. I'm not an angry person. I'm perfectly fine." He sounded worked up about it, which convinced you that you probably shouldn't push the subject any further.

"I just think it would be good for you. I just want whats best for you, V." You hummed and placed a kiss on his cheek.

You continued to suggest therapy or anger management. But Vance never agreed. You loved Vance the way he was, but you knew if he continued to express his anger like he does, he'd end up getting hurt or in jail.

You had finally devised the perfect plan.

"Vance, hun! Are you almost ready? We're going to be late!" You called out to him. He had been fixing his hair for the past ten minutes.

"How are we gonna be late? We're just going to the park for a picnic!" He called back, and you rolled your eyes.

"Yeah but- ugh. Just hurry up. If we get there to late, its gonna get dark!" You leaned against the front door, swinging your keys around your index finger.

A few moments later, Vance emerged from the bathroom. His hair looked especially done well, which made you almost feel bad. You could tell he was excited because he smelt like expensive cologne. You smiled and grabbed his hand, pulling him closer and gently kissing him before leading him out to your car.

You seemed especially flirty and doting for the car ride, which made Vance a bit suspicious. You held his hand with your left, and steered with your right. "Vance, you look great tonight. You should always do your hair like this more often." You hummed, letting go of his hand and gently running your hand through his hair. "It looks amazing." You smiled and leaned over once you hit a red light, pressing a soft kiss on his lips until the light turned green.

Vance knew something was up as soon as you passed the only park in town that wasn't filled with homeless people or dead grass.

Vance gave you a suspicious look, and you tried to ignore it. "Y/n?" He glared slightly, not out of hatred, and more pit of suspicion.

"Yes, hun?" You hummed, trying to act normal.

"Y/n. Where are we going?" Vance spoke with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"You know where."

The rest of the drive was filled with silence, until you arrived at the building. Vance, who was kind of oblivious, didn't notice where they were until he found himself seated in a circle filled with a bunch of buff guys or people who looked like they had just broke out of prison. You sat next to him, legs crossed, having scooted one of the chairs closer, and holding his hand. He leaned over, whispering into your ear.

"I can't believe you tricked me. This is so not fair." He grumbled, and you couldn't help but chuckle.

"And I can't believe you fell for it." Yoy smiled and kissed his cheek. "Trust me hun. This is gonna help you. Please just do it. For me?" You pouted. Vance sighed, and you knew he couldn't resist it.

"Fine. But you totally owe me for this."

"Whatever. Next time, I'll take you on a real date. Your choice." You kissed him again before leaning away as the counselor walked into the room.

Vance hated that you had tricked him, but you seemed really happy that he was going. So maybe he could do it. Not because he wanted to, of course. Only to make you happy.

A/N: when I got this request I giggled so much I thought it was so cute I loved writing this.

#vance hopper #the black phone #robin arellano #the black phone x reader #black phone edit #finney shaw #vance hopper x reader #headcanon

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