#I've been scribbling bits of this all day and it kinda wandered a bit

[an-t-hiho]

It's been a while since everybody realized that I'm Second Coming's Creator.

..Needless to say, plenty changed.

"Hello?" Came somebody's muffled voice, at least three knocks sounding from the other side of Alan's room. He was writing in a Book & Quill he deemed as his journal, but as the stick figure on the other side interrupted unknowingly, Alan shut the book and hid it in its usual secret compartment.

"Red?" Alan called out, a more questioning tone in his voice. Although he's been living in his sleeping PC for quite the while, it's still a bit difficult to recognize everybody's voice. They all kinda sound like his own, in a way, and it felt rather odd to listen to a version of his own voice talking even though his own mouth is zipped shut in a straight line.

"C-Can I..." Alan gave a sigh, "How many times do I have to say this?" He gave an awkward chuckle, "You're welcome anytime. Come in."

The stick figure came in.

Oh, Alan thought. It was Blue. ..That's just embarrassing.

Blue was carrying a block-made tray (it doesn't seem to come from Minecraft's normal database, Alan gave a silent hum as his eyebrow ridges raised slightly, did they figure out how to use mods?) that held a mushroom stew and some steak. Judging from the way it was shaking slightly, to which Alan frowned internally at once he noticed, the ex-human could tell that Blue was nervous.

Alan, externally this time, gave a frown. "Why so nervous? I'm still Alan, y'know?" He tried to joke with a faltering smile, but it slowly contorted to a worried sigh when his words didn't seem to do anything to console the other.

Silence fell into the room, the muffled noises of whatever was going on upstairs serving as white noise. As it too came to a stop, Alan bit back his lip and gave a sigh, standing up from his seat and shooting Blue a grateful smile. "Thanks for the food, Blue. ..Uh, tell Sec I said hi."

Without a word, Blue left.

Alan groaned and fell back onto his bed, exhaustion and annoyance biting deeply into his muscles (do they even exist anymore in stick-figure bodies?) after the exchange from earlier. His right hand sprawled to the side in search for something, anything, to distract his untreated anger, and found himself hugging a pillow tightly against his face. If I died in the PC, would I wake up and finally be back outside?

Alas, he was too afraid of death, so he sat back up and gave an annoyed groan. Alan's eyes wandered around his lavender-painted room (or, rather, it had a custom texture pack). Other than the fact that it's oddly colored, nothing else seemed to stand out. It was still somewhat empty. There was just a bed somewhere on the left, a desk next to it, and a nightstand to the south of the bed (he started using the map-y directions out of boredom).

...Although, now that he's focusing on his lack of furniture, Alan could tell that the so-called "secret compartment" isn't exactly secret since it's just inside a drawer under the desk. With his unfinished entry in mind, Alan got up and sat on his desk's chair, taking out the Book & Quill, going back to writing with his purple ink.

Purple...

..Sometimes, I miss the days where I was just "Purple" in their eyes. I remember going on adventures with them all, not having to worry about my true identity. Although I had to get the real Purple to comply to not show their face near them ever again...

Alan stopped, hesitating ever-so-slightly with his next choice of words. With a few thumps, he shook his head, scribbling over a few letters he started writing.

...No, they should know that I'm Alan Becker. I've always been Alan Becker. Purple.. The true Purple shouldn't have been dragged into my mess of an identity crisis.

Another pause.

Then, a melancholy sigh.

..I just wish they treated me the same.

[Entry End, see you tomorrow, PC]

[izzy-b-hands]

More Dethklok fic since ppl are reblogging prompt lists in good but ridiculous amounts lately and now I just can’t stop w/the fic 

Plot of this one is kind of random--just the boys fucking around and needing Charles to bail them out from something kinda dumb (and in turn hoping he’ll come party with them.) This is first draft (as are most of the fics I post on here, since they’re just kinda spur of the moment things) so hopefully it all flows okay!

“Do me a favor and don’t be mad, okay,” Pickles voice slurred through the speaker of Charles’s dethphone. 

“I can’t really promise that, Pickles. But I’m sure you didn’t do anything that bad,” he replied, not actually believing that for one second. He could hear the other boys in the background, all of them probably drunk beyond any safe limit. As long as the police didn’t have to get involved, Charles decided he would keep his good mood.

“Okay...okay...so...” Pickles mumbled. 

Charles could practically smell the alcohol through the speaker. “I’m working, Pickles. What is it?” 

“What? The fu--but it’s like three in the mornin’ you should be partyin’, or screwin’ sluts or whatever,” Pickles yelled, loud enough that the speaker crackled sharply. 

“I’m having a good time where I am Pickles, but thank you for the concern,” Charles said. He was, honestly. Maybe a research paper on trends in metal music wasn’t Dethklok’s idea of fun, but he was pleased with how much he’d written already. He’d have to publish under a pseudonym, of course, but several music journals had already been in contact with him. 

“Naw, naw, Charlie. You gotta come out, and then you can help us with the uh...well,” Pickles muttered.

“Help you with what?” Charles said, fully suspicious now. 

“Just a lil problem, is all. Look, I bet you even still got your tie on and everything. You do, don’t you?” Pickles asked. 

“I--” Charles looked down. He did still have his tie on, but Pickles didn’t need to know that. 

“You do! I knew it! C’mon, come out and have fun. Fer like an hour, just an hour, an help us with the thing,” Pickles said. 

He was stuck. It was time for one of the breaks he’d mandated for himself. And even if he had woken up with the worst hangover of his life the last time he’d gone out with the boys...it had been fun. An unusual kind of fun for him, but fun. The cursor on his screen flashed. 

“Okay. An hour, and I fix whatever mess there is,” Charles said. “But you buy my drinks.” 

He thought that would piss Pickles off enough to lose the invite. Instead, Pickles broke out into laughter. 

“I’ll buy you fucking coke and speed if you want. But Toki’s the one...well, y’know what? You’ll see when you get here,” Pickles said. 

The phone went silent for a moment, then buzzed with a text from Pickles--the address to the club they were at, somewhere seedy but with great drink specials according to its reviews online. It took barely any time at all to get there, thanks to a Klokateer and a helicopter.

That was a very good thing, he realized as soon as he walked into the club. The boys were drunk--very drunk. But what he had thought were the sounds of partying were actually the sounds of very bad attempts at comforting. 

Toki sat in the center of the booth they were at, Nathan and Pickles at his side, a panicked look on his face. 

“Hey, you still got an ear though. And if you don’t put a piercing in it, then the scar’ll be fucking brutal,” Nathan was saying as Charles approached. 

“Yeah, and besides, Charles is, he’s gonna help fix it,” Pickles slurred, awkwardly patting Toki’s back. 

“What exactly did we try to do here?” Charles asked with a sigh. Maybe this wouldn’t be as much fun as he’d been hoping. He’d even taken off his tie before he’d left. 

“We was goings to pierce my ears,” Toki murmured, lifting his head slowly. 

Charles could now see a needle--much too big to be used for a piercing--stuck in one of his ears. Toki was still sniffling, but the worst of it looked like it was over--the blood around the needle had dried. He’d have to make it worse again, of course, to pull the needle out. 

“We’ve talked about doing things like this while we’re drunk,” Charles scolded. 

“You tells us not to do thems. And I tolds them that, but they wouldn’t listen. Looks, they got blood all over my glass,” Skwisgaar said sourly, holding up a half-full cocktail glass with something pink in it. Blood covered one edge of the glass, and lingered in the leftover drink. 

Charles ignored Skwisgaar for the moment. One mini-emergency at a time. 

“Now, I’m not even going to ask where you found the needle,” Charles said. 

“On the ground,” Toki supplied. “Just layings there.” 

Charles made a mental note to have the medical team run the usual battery of tests on Toki when they got home. Hell, to be safe, run the whole band’s bloodwork again. Who knew what else they’d gotten into since they’d been out.

“Ah. Well, we can’t leave it in there, so,” Charles sighed, then ripped the needle out of Toki’s ear as quickly as he could. 

There were screams all around at that. 

“What the fuck, you just fucking--god, there’s blood everywhere again,” Nathan shouted. “Fucking brutal.” 

“Yeah, what if you ripped his fucking ear off?” Pickles asked, gingerly reaching out to pull aside Toki’s hair and inspect the damage. 

“Maybe his guitars playing would be betters; maybe he’d hear how bads he plays,” Skwisgaar muttered. “Ha, no it wouldn’ts.” 

Charles didn’t waste time sighing his frustration out. He grabbed Skwisgaar’s leftover blood-covered cocktail and downed it. 

That shut them up. 

“We are going home,” he said definitively. 

“But you said--” Pickles whined.

“We can still drink at home,” Charles added. 

Nothing from the boys, except Toki’s sniffling. 

“I’m not going to carry you all out to the helicopter,” he said.

“Fine, fine. Get up, c’mon,” Pickles muttered, pulling Toki to his feet. “Hey, you gotta figure out Murderface though. Like, he’s probably not dead. Probably. But I ain’t helpin’ to carry his fat ass outside.” 

Sure enough, Murderface was passed out behind the booth, covered in vomit and blood and other stains Charles wasn’t interested in distinguishing. 

“Here. You will probably be needings this,” Skwisgaar said as he handed over a half-full bottle of vodka. “I don’t envies you; he’s been pretty fucked up all night.”

For a moment, Charles contemplated downing the whole bottle and dragging Murderface out by his hair. That could be fun (for him at least, not Murderface.) Then he got a better idea. 

He poured the bottle out over Murderface’s face and the numerous new scratches and scrapes on it, and watched the magic. He didn’t even have to drag him out--Murderface screamed, straggled to his feet, and dashed for the door like the club was on fire. 

“I’m sorry, this wasn’t, this was supposed to be...I need more booze,” Pickles said as Charles climbed into the helicopter.

“That sounds like a very good idea,” Charles admitted as he buckled in. 

Pickles looked shocked. “You still...you’re gonna party with us. Even though--” 

“Even though you stabbed Toki in the ear and left Murderface to die in a club? Yes,” he replied, having to shout as the helicopter rose and its engines screamed.

“Well, Nathan said he knew how to do the piercing, with ice from one of our drinks and that needle, and Murderface...I don’t know how he got there and I mean, he’s in here now,” Pickles said, as Murderface screamed in what sounded like a combination of confusion, fear, and pain. 

“Yes, yes he is,” Charles agreed as he strapped a parachute to Murderface just before he stumbled out of the open helicopter. Pickles peered with him out of the side as Murderface fell, then slowed with a press of the remote in Charles’s hand to open the parachute. 

“Those are new,” Pickles remarked. “That’s fucking cool--where are we though like--” 

“I’ll send someone to get him; he needs time to sleep that off anyway,” Charles said. 

“Okay, I guess you can sleep off angel dust and booze, sure. He still might die though,” Pickles mused. 

“...I will also send a medical team,” Charles added, wondering exactly how fucked up Murderface was down on the ground. He was an asshole at times, but he was still the bassist and he couldn’t play if he was permanently fucked up. 

“Just don’t send all the medical staff, cause we’re gonna need ‘em for us,” Pickles crowed, and the party atmosphere returned as the other boys cheered (even as a bit of Toki’s earlobe fell away from the rest of his ear to the floor.)

“And maybes we tries pierce your ears!” Toki cried. 

Charles prayed his face wasn’t flashing red as he thought of the more...creative piercings he had hidden for years--not just from the boys, but from anyone who might see him without his suit who might not be expecting to see anything like that on him. 

“Naw, let’s...god Toki, your ear is really fucked up. Just drinking for now,” Pickles said. 

Five hours and many bottles (too many bottles) later, Charles woke up. The floor of Mordhaus was cold, and his back hurt. Badly. 

“Hey, don’t roll over. Yer gonna fuck up the art from last night,” Pickles slurred, slumped on the couch nearby. When on earth they’d gotten inside, Charles couldn’t remember.

“The art?” he asked. 

“Yeah. We got some matchin’ tattoos,” Pickles said with a grin, pulling up his shirt to show a sore (but thankfully clean) tattoo--a circle made up of their signatures, with a skull in the middle. 

Charles struggled to his feet, and stumbled to the nearest full-length mirror (thank God Murderface and Skwisgaar had been vain enough to want them put up in every room, or he’d have no way to see the possible mistake now permanently affixed to his body.) 

“Did...did someone clean this for me?” he asked as he examined the frankly beautiful tattoo. The lines were clean and sharp, and the red ink looked nice on him. That it was exactly where a tramp stamp should go was...maybe not exactly where he’d have wanted it if he’d been sober, but there wasn’t much to do about it now. 

“Yeah, I did. Knew you’d get pissy if it got infected. Yer still gonna need help cleaning it though, since its so far down and all...and when’d you get your nipples pierced?” Pickles asked. 

Charles blushed as he realized his shirt was hanging open. “Well...could we save that for the next emergency slash party you guys create?” 

Pickles nodded and stood, crossing the room in a hungover stagger to stand beside him. “Sure. Probably gonna need to get you drunk to hear that story anyway. I dragged everybody else to bed, so I’m gonna go pass out. You’re going to bed too, right?” 

Charles thought about the work he needed to start for the day, and was about to respond when Pickles laughed and flicked at one of the rings hanging delicately from his nipple. 

“Feckin’ nipple rings. Never woulda thought--and yer gonna tell me now you gotta go work on spreadsheets or some shit, right? Look, I’m not...I’m not the person to look to for advice. But you just partied like a rock star for most of the night, so why not sleep like a rock star for the rest of the day?” Pickles offered. 

Before Charles could respond, Pickles had grabbed him and pushed him towards the hall to his room. He didn’t need anymore convincing than that. 

It had once again been an utter fiasco, but Pickles had been right--it was nice to, perhaps only every once and awhile for Charles, get fucked up and party at three in the morning.