#stationary chuck

[smashwolfen]

Audhhfkfkdhrkfjdjs the con was small but very fun! Was hella nervous being out even with my small amount of dressing up, but a lot of people complimented my mask and my diamond clan sweater(even the strangers on the street well after we left the venue!) and they loved seeing the plushies poking out of my bag matching my mask I HAD A LOT OF FUN AND FEEL LIKE I COULD TOTALLY DO IT AGAIN ELSEWHERES!!!! Once I build up funds to go of course XD

I didnt spend too too much while there but got some fun lil things!

I dunno how bud did it but those are wood burned/pressed(?) versions of the pokemon cards, and they were worried doing a random trainer was a bad idea, little did they know ADAMAN WAS THE BEST CHOICE FOR ME PERSONALLY!! Snagged 2 offical pokemon pins because of course, a lil 3D printed fidget spider friend, and a Vivian sticker! My buddy I went with was very much a confidence booster im so glad i went!

OH AND ALSO WHILE WE WERE OUT THIS FINALLY ARRIVED IN THE MAIL!!!!!

Its actually pretty hefty for the size BUT YEAH BUDDY I GOT AN OFFICAL HISUIAN POKEBALL REPLICA BABEYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!! THE PLA COLLECTION GROWSSS!!!!!!!

The sweater was made by @cecilioque god thank you so much for making such a perfect sweater to wear to a first con!!!! Nintendo wishes they did it before you ;w;

[nostalgiahime]

Chuck E. Cheese Stickers (2010) [✩]

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

Hot take maybe but I think Bertie would be FAR more likely to survive the first two months of Dracula than Jeeves would be. Bertie has a healthy sense of self-preservation. Jeeves consistently underestimates how dangerous a situation might get (Steeple Bumpleigh, the club book) because he’s overconfident about his level of control over any given situation. He'd handle Dracula masterfully if they faced off in England, but on Dracula's home turf? Much more doubtful.

I realize this might be a tough sell, so I will explain further (or it's not a tough sell, and I'm going to explain further because I want to). (criteria taken from @canyourfavesurvivecastledracula) Without further ado.

Would Jeeves and Wooster survive Castle Dracula?

Jeeves

Jeeves' survival will depend on how long Dracula finds him more entertaining than irritating. On that basis, I don't think he's long for this world. On the one hand, he has a huge wealth of knowledge about English society and culture that he can recite perfectly from memory. That should buy him at least a little time with noted teaboo Dracula.

On the other hand, he would be absolutely no fun as a vampire plaything. Jeeves cannot be got. Sneaking up on him while he's shaving will yield zero reaction (though that's at least good for his short-term survival--given that, although he DID take the crucifix from the old woman out of politeness, he certainly isn't going to wear it. The rules of fashion don't go out the window just because you're in a spooky castle). Then, although managing the whims of rich jerks is not an insignificant part of a valet's job, Jeeves usually does this by bending his employers to his will. Dracula is not the sort of employer this will work on. It'll just add insult to injury when on top of being impossible to scare, NOW Jeeves is telling Dracula that his favorite cloak is several centuries out of fashion and he's not allowed to wear it anymore.

Jeeves will 100% go exploring in the areas he was told not to go-- though to be fair, he MIGHT actually get away with this, what with his superpower of appearing in rooms without being seen or heard. Said superpower might save him from the brides as well (though this is by no means guaranteed). Since I find it doubtful that Dracula would come to rescue his annoying ass, not being noticed is his best defense.

There are a couple other things working in Jeeves's favor; the question is just whether they'll be enough to save him.

He DOES know shorthand, and could try to send coded letters. He might even have the foresight to squirrel away some extra stationary where Dracula can't find it. But could he get them posted? Would it even do him any good?

He certainly has enough cultural literacy to figure out what his new boss is pretty quickly. If he didn't chuck the crucifix out the carriage window, he might start carrying it around in his pocket.

Psychology of the individual, sure, but the individual in question is a 400-year-old vampire who lives in an isolated castle in a foreign country and is regarded as a terrifying mythological figure in the surrounding villages. Jeeves has never come up against anything this alien before, he's cut off from his normal resources, and opportunities to play people against each other are limited.

He probably has enough upper body strength from all that shrimping and fishing to climb the wall, so he COULD escape if he wanted to, if he survived long enough. It's just, again, that overconfidence, and also Dracula has a vast library full of rare old books that are entirely at his disposal. He's keeping his eyes and ears alert for potential escape strategies, of course, but I don't see him being as desperate to get out as Jonathan was.

There are just a lot of "depends on"s here, and I'm not convinced that luck would shake out in Jeeves's favor, all things considered.

Bertie

Bertie is so perfect for the job of Castle Dracula Prisoner it's like it was made for him. Think about it. Being held against his will in big manor houses comes more naturally to him than breathing. He's afraid of things that are scary. A lifetime of dealing with Aunt Agatha has made him the world's preeminent expert in "curl[ing] up in a ball in the hope that a meek subservience [will] enable [him] to get off lightly." He will NEVER go exploring in places he's been warned away from if nobody is forcing him to (Rev. Aubrey Upjohn's office notwithstanding. There were biscuits in there). He's both fun to talk to and easy to toy with (and extremely English). A+ prisoner. Dracula adores him.

In my opinion, Bertie is at Castle Dracula either because Aunt Agatha got some wires seriously crossed and thinks he’s going to meet an eligible potential bride (I mean, there are certainly brides there), or because Dracula has something Aunt Dahlia wants him to steal (far less likely, given that one of Dracula’s THINGS is famously not owning anything silver). Either way, he's shown himself entirely willing and able to escape down drainpipes if a sitch gets too scaly.

He DOES take the crucifix, and DOES wear it (which is what will save him during the shaving scene, because you KNOW he's going to jump a foot and cut himself like the dickens). He's read enough supernatural goosefleshers to be genre savvy about terrified old women cryptically pushing crucifixes into one's hands. I also think his sunny disposish endeared him to the villagers, and they were particularly vehement about urging him not to go. He doesn't speak German or Romanian, but he's empathetic enough to recognize Pure Terror. So by the time he actually gets to the castle, his imagination is already running wild and he's plenty aware that he is in imminent danger.

I think the biggest risk to Bertie will be the brides; whether or not he's susceptible to trances, if he thinks they're trying to marry him, it's against the code of the Woosters to turn them down. But that only becomes an issue if he comes face to face with them, which, luckily, I think is unlikely on account of the aforementioned "won't go exploring" (and if he did, Dracula would definitely rescue him).

I'm inclined to say due to his drainpipe-escape habits that he WOULD be able to climb the wall and MAY attempt to sneak into Dracula's room to look for the keys if his desperation grows to outweigh his fear. Whether he does or not, though, he does NOT have the stomach to attempt shovel murder, and therefore won't get magic brain fever, and may very well simply walk out the front doors when the people come to take the boxes away. OR he climbs his way out like Jonathan did. Either way.

When Bertie tells this story at the Drones later, Tuppy will say that no doubt it's been greatly exaggerated and all that probably happened was that he spent a couple months in an oldish house entertaining a weird loner.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Johnny's knee hurts. Price helps him feel better.

cw: messy blowjob. For the @continentcakeshop, who love Johnny.

Johnny shifted his foot for the third time in ten minutes and felt the now familiar twinge through his knee. He couldn't decide what was worse; the constant dull ache of keeping it stationary, like it needed to click, which was driving him batshit insane, or the sharp burn of a quick stretch that made his entire body jolt, knocking the table he was sharing with the boss man himself.

“You broken?” Price asked, tapping the blunt nib of his biro against the manilla folder by his form.

“Naw, sir. Jus’ me bum knee. S’givin’ me grief cause it's cald outside.”

“You been t’ the physio?”

“Not fer a few weeks. No time, ye know…” Johnny gestured aimlessly at the paperwork in front of him. When he'd signed up at fifteen and nine months, he hadn't expected to spend so long with a damn pen in his hand instead of a firearm.

Price hummed and Johnny watched his whiskers twitch as they tended to do when he was mulling something over. Then came the full face grimace as he considered his options. The biro clattered to the table moments later, the chair legs scraping against the concrete floor. “Olrigh’, can't ‘ave ya fallin’ behind. Keks down, leg up ‘ere.”

Johnny blinked owlishly, first at Price's hands as they patted his lap and then at the intense blue eyes watching him from beneath thick eyebrows. “Come again.”

“C’mon, MacTavish. Don't ‘ave all day. Boot off, drop ‘em. Quick rub down will make it feel better.”

Oh, he wasn't taking the piss. Well, shit. Johnny glanced at Price's hands again, big, weathered, with long clever fingers and a scar across the knuckles from where Price had skinned them open on the steel-plated jaw of a Kortac operator. The thought of having them on his body in any capacity made a sudden surge of heat fill his belly.

His knee gave another unrepentant throb and he stood awkwardly to undo his belt, jamming the heel of his boot against the toe of the other to kick it off before loosening the laces. He managed to slide his leg out, the knee support catching on his waistband, before slumping back into the chair. His foot hovered off the floor, suddenly conscious of how fuckin’ filthy his sock was. And how tight his boxers were.

“Ain't got all night,” Price said. “Stop bein’ a pansy. Ain't gonna ‘urt ya.”

Johnny scowled and extended his leg, setting it gingerly across Price's lap while his hands cupped over his crotch. “Naw one says pansy any more, old man.”

Price raised an eyebrow as he hooked Johnny's knee support and coaxed it down his calf muscle, bunching it at his ankle as he wrinkled his nose. “This sock ever seen a washin’ machine?”

“Oh feck, now ye really sound like me pa.”

“I was eleven years old when you were born, I ain't yer dad, MacTavish.” Price chucked the support and the filthy sock onto the floor and ran his thumbs up the sides of Johnny’s leg, pressing into the swollen ligaments and tendons either side of his patella. The sensation sat keenly on the threshold of pain and pleasure; Price couldn't press too hard without oil, but his pressure was damn perfect.

“Oh, fuck… mmm, aye, but I c’n still call ye dad–”

“If ya finish that sentence, ‘m gonna dislocate yer knee cap.”

“Aye, sir."

Johnny tried to stay quiet. He yapped when he was nervous and Jesus wept he was nervous now. Not because it hurt - god, fuck, Price’s hands were a damn dream - but because the heat in his belly was spreading out through the rest of him; a warm, fuzziness humming just below his skin. As the dull ache ebbed into a low throb, Johnny’s chin tilted down and his eyes lidded. He watched those strong hands work, manipulating his muscles and tendons like putty, pressing to and fro in easy glides that left Johnny lightheaded.

Johnny bit back a moan. Price was good. He knew what he was doing. Didn't stay only around the knee, but rubbed behind it and slightly down the calf to ease the resulting tension from where the rest of his leg was overcompensating. That was all fine… it was when those thumbs went up his thigh, one on the hairy outside, the other up the milky soft skin of the inner, that the whole arrangement got a bit spicy.

Johnny was getting hard. Proper hard, not just a cheeky little chubby. He could feel the wet patch in the cotton where his leaking tip was pushing up against his palm. Fuck, fuck. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tried to distract himself. Mentally listing off the steps for stripping a gun, the ingredients for a pipe bomb, the starting fifteen for Man City–

“Ev’ryfin olrigh’, Soap?”

Johnny’s eyes blinked open and he realised he'd been damn panting. Price hadn't stopped though. One hand had wandered a little higher, massaging his thigh muscle while the other cupped beneath his calf. Just a little higher and he could slide his cock into his captain's palm. Those callouses would feel unreal against the silky skin of his shaft… no, no, normal thoughts. Normal.

“Aye, sir. Sorry. Jus’... Uh…”

“Feels good,” Price finished for him. “Been a while for more ‘an jus’ physio then.” There was a wry amusement to his tone and Johnny’s lower lip pushed up in a pout, his face flushing red.

“S’not what it looks like.”

“Looks like yer hard from a little tenderness, sergeant.”

“Fuck, don't tell anyone, ah’ll do dogsbody in officer’s mess fer a whole month.”

“Oof, humiliatin’.”

“Not as humiliatin’ as Garrick takin’ the pish cause ah got a stonner for me captain,” Johnny blurted out, making it infinitely worse. “Fuck.”

Price snorted a laugh and Johnny’s eyes blew owlishly wide again. Those big hands were still working; any pain had faded, and only a warm pleasure remained, pressure coiling in his groin. Price hummed. “Maybe I can help ya with that too. If yer up for it.”

“What?” Johnny squeaked. Price was a gay man. That was no secret. He was one of the few gay men in the service that Johnny had ever encountered that endured precisely fuck all abuse about it. No cunt was daft enough to even try. Johnny had been too feart to own his sexuality, but Price had probably heard Grindr ping one too many times to be left under any illusion that Johnny was straight.

“Yer not the only one goin’ through a bit of a dry spell. Offer’s there.”

Johnny swallowed thickly. He couldn't lift his eyes from Price's hands, watching those strong thumbs circle either side of his knee again, prick throbbing in the confines of his boxers. Of all the days to wear his snug Calvin Kleins that left nothing to the imagination. The bulge had filled his palms now. He could pull away, put a stop to it, but he didn't want to. He wanted Price’s hand wrapped around his prick. “Aye.”

“Whot?”

“Aye, sir… ah’d like some… help,” Johnny finished lamely, his fingers tightening over his cock as he shifted his arse in the chair.

Price blinked at him slowly, leaning back in his chair. Johnny’s leg shifted a little, foot tilting out, and he saw it for the first time. A huge fuck off bulge in the front of Price's Carhartts. “Oh-ho, fuck me, look at the size of it,” Johnny wheezed, and then clicked his mouth shut, lips sucked in so he could chew on them before murmuring, “Respectfully… sir.”

Price chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face, nails raking down through his beard around the edges of his grin. “‘m gonna be glad ev’ryone's on leave, un’ I?”

Johnny flushed to the tips of his ears. “Ah can be wheesht.”

“Nah, don't be.” Price took Johnny's ankles and lowered his leg slowly to the floor. Johnny licked his lips as anticipation bubbled in his chest, hands still clasped over his crotch despite the futility of trying to hide his erection. His eyes somehow widening further as Price slipped from his seat and onto his knees between Johnny’s feet.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Johnny breathed, hands shaking as Price took them and guided them away from where they still cupped protectively over his cock. He felt the warm puff of Price's breath over the hair on his belly and the damp spot on his boxers, and his toes curled against the floor. Those weathered fingers stroked up his thighs, over soft cotton to the elastic of his waistband. Johnny’s cock flicked gratefully free, ruddy and dark compared to the rest of him, and he sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth as cool air found his wet slit.

“Well, pretty all over, ain’tcha, sergeant?”

Johnny knew he had a nice dick, good girth, nice upward curve to hit all the right spots and a respectable length. He'd taken enough selfies with it and then had his phone blow up to know, but to hear Price say it in that silky rumble made him go weak. His hips squirmed, and he bit his lower lip as Price's beard rubbed on his inner thigh, followed by the softness of his lips as he kissed a trail up. Johnny fingers bit into the outside of his legs as they pushed out, urging Price to get to his destination. “Please, sir…”

“Relax, soldier. I gotcha.”

Finally, Price grasped Johnny’s cock, fingers pushing through the coarse thatch of hair at the base. Johnny let out a soft whine, shaft flicking in Price’s grip as a thick pearl of precum welled from his slit. It was sweet, sweet torture. A mixture of relief and yearning that made his entire body light up. Price’s thumb swept below his waistband, brushing the swell of his sac, before he stroked up, fingers brushing over the flare of Johnny’s crown.

Johnny groaned, head flopping back because he needed to briefly thank fucking God for blessing his dick and promise to visit confession at some point in the next decade to repent for lusting after his captain's hands and mouth. He couldn't take his fucking eyes off Price for long, and he looked back in time to watch Price ease his foreskin back, the wicked tip of his tongue pushing though Johnny’s slit to lap it clean of pre. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… god, shite, ahh, sir, mmm.”

The lines around Price's eyes deepened in amusement, and then his eyes slid closed in what Johnny could only describe as bliss as he kissed the thick vein down Johnny's length, brushing the tip of his nose across silky skin until it buried against Johnny's groin with a soft groan. “Mm, fuck, ya smell good.”

Johnny spread his legs a little further, lifting his arse when Price tugged his boxers to bring them further down his thighs. The heat of his mouth enveloped Johnny’s balls, his tongue pressing down the seam, Johnny's cock resting against his cheek as he tasted his fill. Johnny panted through parted lips, one hand finally leaving his leg to slide around the back of his captain's head to pull his face closer. “Aye… sir, fuck… ahh.”

The moan that rumbled from Price’s chest rolled up Johnny’s body like an earthquake, and he heard the clatter of a buckle as Price fumbled with his belt to free his cock. Jacking himself off to the taste of Johnny’s sac in his mouth. When he finally drew away, he left Johnny's dark curls wet with spit, his blue eyes lidded, drunk on Johnny's musk and the pleasure of his hand pumping slowly up and down his own cock.

“God, yer a fuckin’ bonny picture, sir. Love tae suck cock, eh? Fuck.”

Price didn't say anything, just licked back up the underside of Johnny’s prick to draw the tip into his mouth. The wet glide of Price's tongue around his glans made Johnny groan, and he lifted his hips, pressing his tip over the ridges at the top of Price's mouth, fingers tightening at the back of his head. Price didn't need much encouragement to sink down, but he did so at his own pace, slowly, torturously, sucking Johnny deeper into the glorious wet heat of his mouth until Johnny’s head hit the back of his throat.

Johnny held him there for moment, admiring the stretch of his lips around the heft of his shaft, the lidded, fucked out enjoyment in his eyes, the way his broad shoulders were completely relaxed as he palmed himself lazily. Bonny was right. Johnny wondered what he'd be like on his back with his hands pinned above his head, what his moans might sound like when they weren't muffled by cock…

Price drew off, sucking greedily until he reached the tip, before lowering again in a steady glide, fucking his own mouth on Johnny's prick. Johnny moaned loudly with each dip of Price’s head, his thighs shaking as warm, irresistible pleasure curled in his hips, through his belly, his balls firming up beneath Price's chin. “Ah, ah, sir, fu-mm, fuck, yer mouth… is… ahh.”

And then Price swallowed him down proper. Johnny felt the pop as his head pushed into Price's throat, the clenching tightness made him choke out a low, trembling moan, Price’s nose buried against his groin. The sound of Price’s pumping hand, the wet slap of skin, grew more urgent and the thought that Price was even more turned on by having Johnny in his throat was dizzying. When he began to bob his head again, half choking on Johnny’s cock, Johnny knew he wasn't going to last much longer.

He didn't know where to put his hands, bunching Price's hair between his fingers, scrubbing them over his beard just to feel the bristles against his fingertips, sliding them down his throat to feel his Adam's apple bob and strain around his cock.

His heels lifted from the floor, toes pushing into the cold concrete, a sharp contrast to the blistering, pulsing heat of his captain's mouth as it milked him. He babbled incoherently, half Scots, half unintelligible English slurred out like a drunk at last orders, delirious with pleasure as saliva and precum pooled around his groin. His thumb stroked over Price's cheeks, pressing to feel the glide of his shaft through them and trace the damp of the tears that tracked from hazy blue eyes.

“Sir, ah’m, sir…” Johnny tried to tug him off because a gentleman didn't cum down a fella’s throat without asking, but Price fucking growled like a wolf having its meal stolen and that was enough to punch Johnny over into a heady climax. “Sir, fuck!” His stomach clenched, toes pushing against the floor as his hips lifted from the chair. Price kept sucking, drinking every drop offered by Johnny’s twitching prick. It coaxed him higher until he was whimpering in fucked out bliss, his fingers shaking in his captain's hair. Just as he was tipping over into oversensitivity, Price pulled off and pressed his face into the sweaty crease of Johnny's thigh, arm moving furiously, hips humping as he fucked his own grip.

“Yeah, g’won, sir, gonna come for me, liked havin’ my prick down ye throat, belly full of my cum.” Johnny stroked Price’s hair and watched his eyes roll back, his shoulders seizing, as he came hard into his fist. He panted between Johnny's legs, catching his breath for a moment, before he slumped back into his heels. Johnny took the opportunity to look down at his prick, still semi-hard, and he sucked in a breath. “Fuck, look at tha’ beast… ye top with tha’ weapon?”

“Only if you ya’sk nicely,” Price rasped. The sound of his throat, fucked raw, made Johnny's soft prick twitch against his thigh.

“How nicely?”

“State secret. S’classified.”

“I’ll steal L.T.’s clearance,” Johnny replied testily, and his hunch was rewarded with a quirk of the eyebrows. “Knew it.”

Price chuckled hoarsely. “Clean up. Got work t’ finish.” He rolled to his feet and for a beautiful moment his cock bobbed close to Johnny’s face. Be seein’ ye soon, sweet thing.

“Can't, ye jus’ sucked me brain out me prick.”

“Now, MacTavish.”

Johnny's mouth clicked shut, and then he mumbled a “yessir” as he pulled his boxers and jeans back up. He'd be lying if he said it was somewhat difficult to focus on the reports for the rest of the evening, especially when he lifted a foot to tease Price's crotch and the bastard spread his legs to give access. Didn't even flinch though. Wily git.

[purerae]

╭────༺♡༻────╮

YANDERE!PERV X FEM!READER // PT1

warnings ;; nsfw themes, creepy behaviour, overall yandere themes

╰────༺♡༻────╯

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who didn’t really believe in love at first sight. ‘People were horrible and mean, loves not real at all!’

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who immediately disregards his previous statement the moment he saw you, his ears perking up at the sound of your voice speaking to your fellow classmates.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who’s enamoured with you the first time you ran into the lecture hall, hair messed up, books all jumbled and bag almost falling off. You looked so perfect and sweet!

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who watches you so intently as you work, he stares at you as if he’s an eagle. Everyone notices him staring at you and thinks he’s a perverted freak, but you don’t pay any mind to it. That must mean you think he’s okay!? that must mean you like him..<3

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who doesn’t even have a conversation with you for months but just practically eye-fucks you. He remembers all your outfits and if you ever rewore them. Your favourite sweater, which he wants to steal so he can do god knows what to it.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who almost whimpers when you sit next to him, He secretly thanks the person who stole your self assigned seat.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who’s eyes widen as he realises he’s going to have to speak to you. shit shit shit what should he do?!

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who after 30 long minutes, has the courage to shyly ask for a pen. quickly hiding his stationary; he stutters, pauses, and whispers the 7 words. It’s practically impossible to understand him. “d..do you have…a p..pen that i can borrow..?”

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who almost combusts when you give him a polite grin, saying ‘of course!’ and lending him a pen before focusing back on your work. To you it was a conversation you don’t think twice about, for him? It made his entire month.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who can’t even focus on his work as he notices the bite marks on top of your pen. your lips and teeth touched the lid…his slender fingers slowly brush the bite marks, hands quivering with delight. Even a streak of blood couldn’t compare to how red he was. He’s keeping this pen no matter what.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who gasps in relief when you leave forgetting to ask for your pen back, he quickly puts it in his bag and beams happily all the way back to his flat. The happiest he’s been in years!

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who places the stolen pen on his night desk, and kisses the top of it every night like a routine. ‘I’m practically kissing her~!’

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who slowly collects the things you accidentally leave behind. Half drunk water bottle? His. A tissue you used when it was getting a bit cold? In his pocket like it’s his hankerchief. A core of an apple you chucked into the trash can before walking into the class? Treats it like it’s Gods gift

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who built a mini shrine of your belongings at the back of his closet. His harmless little secret, no body, especially you needs to know.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who loves you so so so much! he’d do anything for you! ..even if you guys have only ever spoken once or twice.

“Mmm hey! Can you help me with this question…?”

purerae<3

[divinit3a]

oneshot: out of character -> ao3 link reader x mer animatronic!moon 🌊 word count: 3,403

Working at a Fazbear animatronic theme park hadn't really been your dream, but it is your current reality.

At first, you were starry-eyed. Clocking in each day at a place that brings out the magic of imagination. Revamped from its first attempt that mysteriously burnt down after a rigorous police investigation, inexplicably refurbished into a half VR game center, half water-park. You’d bet the money that fuels such an over-the-top offshoot for the franchise pumps in from the Pizzaplex the next city over.

The ambition of the two owners who picked up the business manifested into a massive aquarium at the center, home to mechanized sea life. Animatronics of all shapes and sizes, perfect replicas of their real life counterparts. Plus or minus a more vivid, appealing, toy-selling color palette. 

The multi-level aquarium showcases beautiful spectacles of engineering that allow all creatures of the deep to intermingle without the limitations of reality. You’ve stood in the tunnels that wind throughout the first floor on the slow moving tracks before, looking around with awe and wonder at the flittering sharks and jumping dolphins. A whale would float by now and then, casting a great shadow across the tunnels as everyone hurried to snap a photo.

Ferry rides are offered at an exuberant price to float atop the largest of the decorative tanks, where a stationary mermaid animatronic waves with a pleasant smile. You stopped going to the ferry rides after they replaced the human staff with the admittedly rather creepy, blank-staring bots and their pre-recorded voice lines. 

Despite all the splendor surrounding you, the position of 'general maintenance' tends to become lackluster after cleaning up one too many barf piles near the food courts. Or being tasked with fishing cellphones out of the tops of tanks, enduring the hellish fury of whichever parent you had the misfortune of relaying the lost or damaged items policy to. Rattling off of a lengthy speech of ‘we wont pay for this,’ in corporate, smiley, customer-service-y terms. 

You sigh, pushing a heavy mop forward as music thrums through your ear buds. You take a moment to rest your head against your curled up hands at the top of the handle, listening to the last few seconds of the track, before popping the ear buds out one by one and shoving them into your jacket pockets. 

The slow drip of a faucet welcomes you back to cold, harsh reality. The last hour or more of your life was spent sopping up the ick that countless shoes tracked in and out the restroom facility throughout the day. 

By now, the sun is setting over the horizon line. You always pick up the latest shifts in the day. The overnight security staff are your regular acquaintances. You’ve bribed the main desk guy into being your ride-or-die with sugary, outdated donuts.  

There's a ding on your pager. You lean the broom handle on the brick wall, which is plastered with Chica and Roxanne themed posters that encourage handwashing. As you rest the mop, you falter to catch it from falling over, as the damn thing could never just stay put. Once you’ve prevented the disaster of the mop tipping over, you check the pager again, missing the glitching and rearranging of the letters on screen. 

Honestly, the technology is considerably retro compared to what's out on the market; looking more like a terminal you’d see in a sci-fi movie, or perhaps a calculator that would be chucked at a classmate in second grade. 

What greets you is an open-ended service ticket for the Haunted Shipwreck. You quirk an eyebrow. The exhibit was usually cleaned diligently by daytime staff in preparation for opening in the evening. Spruced up by the folks who worked at the bar, and the poor teenage saps who had to stand in the queue lines scanning tickets. The ‘ride’ was part of the finale of the virtual reality storyline that guests could pay a premium price to experience, connecting all the dots of the theme park’s attractions together. 

Plus, it was the only place that served alcohol after five pm. The specialty drinks are so neon and vivid that the sugar content has to be astronomical. 

Parents flock there like it is truly an oasis in a kiddy-park desert. 

Scratching at your head, you walk in a circle as you read the details, or lack thereof. The ticket reads, 'Exhibition needs spot cleaning.' Spot cleaning? A whole exhibit? Your thumb hovers over the button to accept the task. It beats mopping bathroom tiles any day.

You wring out the mop into its bucket, and begin the tedious task of ferrying cleaning supplies from one area to the next. On your way out, you sling the heft of a tool bag over your shoulder. 

_____________________________________

The scent of lemony freshness follows you in hot pursuit. You shove open the doors to the exhibit with a “Hello?”, expecting another person or two from the maintenance crew to have accepted the job. Cleaning a whole attraction on your lonesome did not bode well for the ‘no overtime’ policy. 

The response you get is absolute silence.

You feel along the wall for a light switch, and then remember that this is an amusement park, not a hotel. The controls for the area’s lights are all in the breaker room out back. Locked away with a key that is not in your possession. With a sigh, you fish out a flashlight from your tool bag and continue to wheel your cart in.

Without music blaring through the hidden speakers, or patrons milling through the bar onto the dance floor, the main atrium of the ride feels as haunted as its namesake. Grumbling, you pull out your pager and look down. The screen is blank, as if the task had never existed at all. 

Before you can question the disappearing act, spotlights turn on. A deafening click causes you to jolt and nearly drop the device.  

You look up, and are face to face with the animatronic who prowls the exhibit. Your lungs temporary pause all function as your heart works in overdrive. 

Above you is an elaborate trick of puppetry. A skeletal siren with a face as white as bone is frozen in place, with its arms outstretched as if it had been reaching towards you in the darkness to swipe you up. Thin, transparent plastic that shimmers like true fish scales acts as webbing between its sharp claws.

A billowing tail snakes like a serpent atop most of the area’s ceiling, weaving around the lighting system. The tip of its tailfin is curled around the rafters, as if supporting its weight. But that couldn’t be true; as a large cord connects into its back. Following the tubing leads to the pulley system which keeps it on predictable tracks. 

One eye is cyan. The other eye is entirely a deep crimson, casting an eerie glow across your face. The eye with the cyan pupil trembles. 

“Jeez, you scared me!” You say, too shocked to catch yourself before talking with an inanimate puppet.

The robotic siren, Moon, stares at you, not budging from its post. The lack of movement makes it feel more and more like a statue. You feel silly for speaking to it directly. 

But you remember: there's a person whose entire job is to spend the day operating these guys. To keep them lifelike, same as the free-roam 'animatronics' that are actually just staff in sweaty old mascot suits. Learning the truth as an employee had dimmed the magic of the theme park, but you still admit that it is an impressive work of robotics, especially considering the aquarium. 

“Are you still on for the night? Ride’s shut down,” You ask, pushing through the lingering fear you felt from the brief scare. During off-season the park closes earlier and is open about half the days, meaning that Haunted Shipwreck is mostly operational Friday and Saturday. Today is a Wednesday. You didn’t expect the elusive staff who controls the two mermaid animatronics to be on duty. 

In response, the animatronic's massive tail slaps against the faux rocky terrain that decorates its elaborate enclosure. Moon lands back on the main stage it perches on during performances. Without the constant spray of dry ice to create the illusion of fog, and the bright red lighting, the siren lacks the intimidating flare you expect.

“Well, I'm here to clean. That's all.” You rest your hands at your sides, settling your thumbs into the belt loops. 

Moon peers at you. Then it rolls over onto its back. The wires controlling its electronics flatten against the surface as it settles into place. You blink as you stare at a 'belly-up' fish. Its hands rest into a t-rex, claw-like position at its sides, as if it wasn’t used to laying down, either, and instantly felt awkward. 

“Oh,” You exclaim, wrapping your head around the vague task you accepted. At last, you understand who – or what, needs cleaning: the animatronic itself. There’s gum stuck to its sculpted fins and a few pieces of paper wedged into the joints that segment its torso from its abdomen, limiting its range of motion. 

A cruel prank, regardless of the recipient’s ability to feel discomfort. 

You set your tool bag down on the floor and stumble up the plastic molded rocks, right past the ‘DO NOT CLIMB’ sign. All things considered, the ‘spot cleaning’ looks like an easy project to finish off your shift. 

You sit on your knees next to the animatronic. 

You start by pulling the paper jammed into its torso hinge out. You brace a palm against its side, and carefully tug. Hearing the papers tear makes you curse softly under your breath. 

The animatronic watches, and then bends its torso hinge away, giving you easier access to pull the shredded bits out. 

You begin to notice that all the papers jammed inside the robot are actually posters and pamphlets that you can pick up for free at the photo kiosk a room over. Strange. 

Taking a second to indulge your curiosity, you inspect one of the postcards. 

The front of the card is split into two; the daytime half, Sun, spritely and bright on the left. And his cursed form that haunts the seas at night, Moon, in an ominous dark silhouette on the right. A few of these are even lenticular prints that you can shift back and forth, but those have to be bought at the complimentary gift shop at the end of the ride.  

The depicted dark, jagged silhouette of Moon is a sharp contrast to the docile animatronic beside you. Existing to be ���vanquished’ time and time again, by brave patrons, in order to free Sun from the shackles of an evil witch’s hex. 

The witch character is set to debut at long last in a few months.

You find yourself smiling at the memories of watching the performance for the first time; the smoke and mirrors of the robots being switched out on stage to masquerade as one feat of engineering. The silly story never fails to be engaging, with how much production was poured into making Sun’s character so lifelike and memorable.

Now that you think about it, you wonder why Moon never got the same treatment. You look up to see that the ‘cursed siren’ on your mind is staring right at you, almost expectantly. Beneath its chassis where your palms rest is a soft, insistent hum of machinery, fans set to medium gear. It points to a piece of paper you missed under its arm socket. You lean closer to dig in, their gaze burning into the back of your head. 

The silence as you work on the clean-up becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Even more so when you consider that whoever is tasked with puppeting Moon is still up in the server room, no doubt working past their shift’s end to make your job easier by maneuvering the siren this way and that. 

Though, you wonder why the puppeteer didn't just meet you at Haunted Shipwreck themself to talk it through. Must be some kind of NDA, or lack of a remote control.

By the time you are scraping gum off glittering scales, you decisively break the ice with, “Y'know, Im surprised. I thought you'd be home by now,” beginning the idle, one-sided chatter. Just because you are here on business, doesn’t mean the exchange had to be so clinical. Your quiet companion shows that its listening by flicking the long fin that adorns its head. Bright cyan tracks your every movement with what feels like intense curiosity.

While you work, you take out the pager to check on your tasks for the night. In an instant, Moon swipes it, moving faster than you can comprehend. They slither away from you with shocking speed, cable attached to its back whirring to keep up with the momentum. 

“Hey! Give that back!” You reach up, fingertips brushing off the smooth scales upon its long, imposing tail. Up above, the animatronic fiddles with the pager. Frustration ripples off it as its hands clunkily tap away at the tiny, human-sized keyboard. 

“Don't break it, c'mon, it'll come out of my paycheck!” You swat at the robot whose mid-air. You gasp at the audacity it has to curl its tail inward and away from you. An unfair game of keep-away. 

Moon turns the screen of the pager back to you. 'Thank you,' is typed out in simplistic, boxy letters. You blink, staring at the screen as the pager is gingerly placed back in your hands, claws ghosting across your arms. The siren pulls back quickly. Moon fidgets with the hem of its costuming, a subtle act of nerves that trips you up even worse.

“You—you're welcome.” You stumble on your words, not quite sure why the sentiment is so shocking. But it feels like it came from the robot itself—whoever ran these guys was committed to staying in character. Even to other staff. You admire the dedication.

The robot leers down at you. Pupils burning, an unsettling lack of expression except for a wide-eyed stare that never relents the pressure it exerts. A hand extends out, and it takes a moment for you to realize that its asking for the pager back. Dumbstruck, you comply without a second thought. The robot taps away at the keyboard, dwarfed by its palms. You hear the click-click-click of the backspace button as it shakes its faceplate.

The pager returns to you. After all its effort, only one word is on the screen: 'Again.'

“Again?” You repeat aloud, looking up at Moon with confusion. The robot continues to fidget, before nodding so quickly in confirmation, that you are worried you'll need to send in a ticket to fix its neck hinge. That sort of job goes to the on-sight mechanics who the company contracts, not a regular maintenance guy like you. “You'd... like me to stop by, again?” You guess, and Moon's nerves boil over. The tracks in the ceiling creak as the creature 'swims' all around you, showcasing flashes of glittering fins and the faintest glint of sharp fangs beneath its flowing collar. With the blur of violet, magenta, and crimson swirling around you, its like being in the middle of a shark swarm— without any of the fear. 

Because you take the boundless enthusiasm to mean, 'yes.'

”Okay, okay. I will,“ You laugh at the strange antics, charmed by how earnest the supposedly wicked siren can be. You don’t know much about Moon's character here at the park; he was intentionally left mysterious to add to the villainous flare. Or perhaps, to excuse the lack of forethought into an antagonist designed for a theme park. So, to see him instead doing several aerial laps around the perimeter of the shipwreck, you can't help but find them endearing.

Your pager dings, reminding you that there is twenty minutes before your shift ends, and one bathroom facility left half-mopped in your haste. 

“It was nice meeting you,” You hesitate—you have no idea who this person is. You stare into the lens of the animatronic’s eyes, pondering who was watching you back on the camera feed. 

Maybe the two of you could get lunch sometime off the clock, away from the prying of corporate eyes. Perhaps they are nervous to break character. You glance to the security camera in the corner, and back, ”...Moon,” you decide to call them by the character they play, for the time being. 

The siren lurches toward you. 

You reel back, almost slipping on the plastic rocks.

Spindly limbs wrap around you, catching you from your fall, and—Oh.

You blink, struggling to keep up. The wretched siren of the coast is giving you a hug. The fabric of its costume sleeves is silky and smooth, and almost bundles you up like a tarp.   

”O-okay, then.” You pat at the back of the animatronic. Its staring at you so seriously with massive, leering eyes, that you are struggling not to buckle under the stress. The pressure Moon exerts is light, but spikes your heart rate regardless. Your feet are almost off the ground, balancing on the heels of your work boots as you tilt back. You aren’t looking to go for a swim, or to be put on medical leave from a concussion. 

“That’s, um, very sweet, thank you, Moon.” You tap its arms next to indicate you’re ready to be let go of. You find your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, wondering if the animatronic’s puppeteer thinks its amusing to scare you with this level of whiplash. Maybe it is funny to them, to make the theme park's aloof villain act all cuddly for one-on-one exchanges. 

“There we go—nice and easy,” you find yourself narrating, as the siren deliberately sets you back down on the floor. Not back onto the rocks; no, it cranes you over to main floor, where you run a much smaller risk of falling on uneven terrain. 

Walking over to collect your belongings, you shrug your tool bag over your shoulder, and place a hand on the handle of your cleaning cart.

The animatronic waves you off, watching with interest as you shove your way out the door. A glimpse of the outside world, the low lights of the shut-down park and the infinite expanse of the night sky.

You stop in the doorway, prolonging the moment, “Have a good night, Moon.” The animatronic stays perfectly still, playing its role. Poised with elegance and a threatening aura. The sight leaves you with chills, although you hardly had reason to fear the animatronic, or its friendly puppeteer.

The door closes.

A pause. 

Moon stays put until they can no longer hear the roll of your cart. Then it springs up. Pacing back and forth, tail moving as smoothly as kelp in the current, weaving through decorative pillars that sell the illusion of being underwater, trapped in a shipwreck. The sliding of the wire on its tracks plays a symphony as it maneuvers around. Feeling–feeling, like it did something right, by doing something terribly wrong. The sensation was so complex that it keeps cataloguing every second.

Moon couldn't believe that tampering with a maintenance ticket actually worked. A small, small chance that anyone would pick up the task he made up— jamming postcards into its segments in a fury to make the objective believable, once someone had actually said 'yes.'

The cord above squeals, and Moon realizes it needs to relax, less it break its ability to move within its small, small world. 

Settling back down, the siren sits on its lonely perch with a glimmer of hope–that you'll be back again the next night, and the next, and the next. After all, you spoke to them with such ease. Most everyone pretends he’s nothing more than a glorified stage prop. Doomed with an underutilized, elaborate AI on the same caliber as all the others in the park, who roam freely. Who get to interact, learn, and grow daily; who get to make friends and play so many games.  

Until next time, they'll work on their communication. Study the humans who walk through its exhibit closer and closer. Experiment with how to evoke emotions beyond fear.

Their tail thumps, eager to continue daydreaming throughout the rest of its cycle spent awake.

[chocochipsushi]

𝐎𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬!

SFW

🌸Word count: 713 words

🌸AU: Toji x clumsy bimbo reader (part 2)

🌸A/N: I got inspiration for this scenario from tiktok (again lol) and thought it was so cute I needed to write it out.

<< Part 1

You are walking towards the workshop where you see Toji towering over a timid-looking man staring up at him. Your lips stretch into a wide grin as your hold on the strings of some helium balloons tighten in excitement. 

It is Toji’s birthday and you bought a present and a bunch of balloons to surprise him with. You wonder if he will like them. He decorated your room filled with pink and red balloons on your birthday this year so you wanted to do the same for him, but with black and white balloons since those are pretty much the only colours he wears. 

You see the man he is talking to flinch and cower when Toji reaches out to tap his cheek scarily, almost condescendingly. Deciding that this would be the best time to announce your presence, you prepare yourself as you adjust the black box under your arm and the balloons in your hand. 

Except, when you were rearranging the balloons in your hand, the gift box slips so you try to clamp your arm down on it. In the midst of doing so, your fingers loosen around the strings and the helium balloons are carried away by the wind. 

You stand there in shock for a second, just staring at the floating balloons before trying to jump and catch them fruitlessly. Your heart starts pounding with anxiety. 

“Toji!!!” you call out instinctively. Your boyfriend can solve everything. You glance at Toji, who has his hand stationary in the hair of his mechanic, his head turned to you. “Toji!” you cry out again, feeling increasingly more helpless and useless now. 

Immediately, he pushes the man’s head away roughly and strides over to you. He glances up in the sky when he sees you staring upwards. 

“I got you balloons because it was your birthday and they flew away!” you whine, feeling tears spring to your eyes just as you voice out what had happened. 

“Aw, baby, thank you,” Toji coos, quickly placing a hand on the back of your head to hug you to his chest even though your head is still turned to look at the escaping balloons. 

“Toji…” you sob as you watch your gift float away. 

He turns your chin gently so you are facing him, and he notices your tear stained cheeks. “Princess. Why are you crying?”

“Because! The balloons flew away!”

He looks up again to follow your finger pointing at the helium balloons. It is a good thing that it is not even evening yet so the black and white dots are still visible in the sky. 

“It’s okay. I can see them.” You only cry more at his pacifying tone. He cups your face in his huge, rough hands. “Oh, baby. I can see the balloons! Thank you.” Toji leans down to kiss you on your warm lips but it only makes you sob harder. Your boyfriend pulls you into him and engulfs in a tight hug. “Oh, Princess…” he coos into your hair. “We can buy more balloons.”

You wrap your arms weakly around his sturdy frame and cry into his chest. “I’m so stupid, Toji…” 

He kisses your crown and pulls back slightly. “You’re a sweet little thing, that’s what you are.” He wipes your cheeks with the back of his hands. He glances down at the bulky thing in your arm. “You got me another present?”

“Yeah…” You sniffle and hold it out to him. 

Toji takes it as he undoes the neatly tied ribbon and opens up the box. He sees a pair of black leather gloves. He takes them out and looks at you inquisitively. 

“The weather’s cold now so you need something to warm your hands while you’re riding,” you murmur thickly with a pout, still upset. 

His scarred lips tip into a smile. Putting the gloves back into the box, he holds your face again with his warm palms and leans down to drop a gentle kiss on your nose, then your lips. 

“You’re the sweetest. Thank you, Princess. For the gloves and the balloons.”

“Oh, the balloons!” you start crying, now reminded of it again. 

Toji lets out a defeated chuckle. To him, you’re a cute little mess he never wants to stop cleaning up after.

-

© chocochipsushi 2024 all works are mine, please do not rewrite/plagiarise

[lunar-solarsystem]

Favors For Favors - Lose Clarity AU

[ Point in time - Ruin’s been chucked into a dead dimension… again. Left with his thoughts and depleting battery power… again. Incidents with Moon Nexus have already occured. Molten had found Ruin again, his programming still unfixed. He threw Ruin back where he had been before in the same dead dimension. ] ——————————

…Silence. That’s all there was. That is, unless Ruin sung a song to himself again. Nothing to do, nothing to see, nowhere to go. Ruin was stuck. Again. In the same dead dimension for that matter…..

One of the worse parts, he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell Puzzle anything. Explaining things last time was bad enough - having to explain why he was gone for weeks and left Puzzle alone. He, of course, had told Puzzle about his plan for ‘The Collapse’ and needing to get rid of the Creator Council; and the side effect in which Solar had to die. He told Puzzle not to say anything, which they did wonderfully. Being of Ruin’s code, it was easy to understand them and easy for them to learn things. They were already a decent actor and liar when needing to be; Ruin was still the main problem for things and would be encountered with more often. Puzzle was never really in the need to act or lie, but they would if needed. They knew how to hide, too; stay hidden if unwanted guests found where they and Ruin hid. Puzzle understood the extent in which Ruin had to go for ‘The Collapse’ to happen, however they were a bit gloomy for a few days afterwards - specifically from the outcomes, feeling as if they could’ve done something that didn’t have to be so drastic; Ruin still knew there wasn’t any other option. Puzzle would come to visit Ruin every so often when he was stuck stationary in Parts & Service, careful to not be seen by anyone else aside from their father figure. As much as he loathed asking the favor, he asked Eclipse to watch over Puzzle one day just as Eclipse was about to leave, right after walking in and yelling at Ruin and whatnot. Eclipse seemed as if he didn’t care at the time, yet Ruin saw them getting closer once he came back after returning from this dead dimension the FIRST time. Eclipse still denied it, just as he does with Earth, but Ruin believed Eclipse grew a soft spot for Puzzle. Yet of course, Eclipse being Eclipse, would never and will never admit so.

All Ruin could really think about now, as his battery slowly draining, was about the time variation between this dead dimension and the other dimension - Was he gone for weeks already? Months? Hell, a year?? He had no idea. He didn’t bother to TRY and keep track of time. At this point, he only hoped Eclipse stayed again. Sure, he and Ruin hated each other; that is something that’d never change. But Ruin could only hope Eclipse would stay with and watch over the one thing Ruin couldn’t bare to lose. The one he saw as his own, the one he cared for..

Ruin didn’t notice a sound near him, nor faint footsteps. No; not until someone spoke.

-

“Hello again, Ruin.”

Ruin looked up from the ‘floor’ of the vast void, meeting Dark Sun’s gaze. 

“…Dark..Sun?.. Wait, why are you here exactly? I thought you did not need me anymore, as you said it the last time.”

Dark Sun hummed. 

“Hm… Well, it appears I do in fact need you again. My.. ‘business partner’ wants something from you. He asked me to come and get it if you were not already dead, as he finds himself.. ‘busy’, I guess would be the word.”

“And what exactly is this thing you need from me..?”

“That would be your virus. Or its code. Whichever it is.”

Ruin looked taken back for a moment.

“M-…. My virus..? Why would your partne-“

“I’d rather not explain. He didn’t exactly explain everything to me, anyway. He claimed his curiosity still revolves around your code and wanted me to do him a favor.”

Ruin scoffed a bit. 

“It won’t do you any good. It’s never worked on me.”

“I know you’re lying, Ruin. You should know I have my ways of knowing things, and that’s one thing I know is a lie. It’s been acting as a killcode like most Moon’s would have… Now hasn’t it?”

Ruin fell silent. What was he supposed to say? He knew it was true. The cure never worked properly on him - Puzzle had been constructed instead. His virus… It was still working.. since he left his dimension. He knew it too. He’d snapped a few times, at least twice in front of, or at, Eclipse; and others as well. Thankfully, he never snapped around Puzzle. Not fully, anyway. There’s been times he’s been close...

“Hm. I thought so.”

“What do you even want with it..? I’m afraid it may not, or won’t, do you any good.”

“I said my new colleague wanted it. I’m only doing him a favor.”

There was a silent moment between the two before Dark Sun sighed low, taking a small step forward and speaking once more.

“Why not this then, Ruin? A favor for a favor.”

Ruin turned his head slightly towards Dark Sun, reserved with his words as he listened to Dark Sun’s proposal.

“Now; you allow me to take your virus, and I’ll help you get back home. And perhaps get you fixed up as well.”

Ruin stayed mute for moments at a time… Long moments, actually. Looking down at his own hands, they slowly broke away. Disintegrating and disappearing gradually, in some strange way. Hell, his entire body was doing that. He thought himself lucky his important systems hadn’t started doing that yet. He thought for a moment…. he supposed this deal wouldn’t be too bad if he took it… right?

Dark Sun heard Ruin sigh, watching as he made himself stand. Grunting now and then from pain picked up by his pain receptors, Ruin turned to face Dark Sun.

“Alright… I’ll agree to this.. ‘favor’ you need me for. As long as you don’t need me again.”

He seemed irritable, which could be the virus affecting his mentality again. Dark Sun didn’t question it, opening a portal.

“Hm. Believe me Ruin, I plan to stay far away from your dimension after this. It doesn’t have much use to me, the dimension itself nor the people living in it. I can nearly guarantee this is the last time you and I meet. Come on, now.”

Both of them stepped through the portal Dark Sun made then and there, the opening disappearing behind them. Ruin, now leaving the dead dimension behind once again, hoping it’d be the last time he’d do so - and hoping it’d be the last time he’d leave unintentionally. He hoped…

yet it won’t be the last.

.

.

Later…

Dark Sun returned to his and Moon’s Nexus’s place in the pocket dimension after assisting Ruin and taking his virus code. Before Ruin departed, he thanked Dark Sun. It seemed unusual, but it was fine…. Dark Sun supposed, anyway. Yet “Dark Sun”… Heh, he still hated that little ‘nickname’.

Everything around ‘Sun’ was silent, aside from his steps while he walked towards Nexus’s laboratory. He listened as the sounds of Nexus rummaging around his lab and testing his developing newfound power on different objects became louder the more ‘Sun’ got closer. He walked in, standing in the doorway and watching Nexus. Nexus didn’t notice ‘Sun’ immediately, being distracted by his own means. It took a moment to notice.

“Tch. Stupid- Ugh, okay whatever. I’ll jus- ..! Oh, you’re back already. Hm. Did you get what I asked?.”

“Yes; I did, as a matter of fact. I don’t really know what you expect to get out of it, but whatever. Not really much of my business nor do I care too much. Here.”

‘Sun’ gave Nexus what he collected before heading back towards the door. Nexus appeared pleased.

“I’m going to tend to my own matters. Do whatever you wish, Moon. Just don’t destroy the pocket dimension, if you can manage that.”

“NEXUS.”

“…Right. Nexus…”

He left without much care for referring to Nexus by his previous incorrect name, leaving Nexus in his lab once again. Nexus smirked, turning to a small containment unit he made previously and placed the small trinket containing Ruin’s virus code inside. Scanning it, he gathered its data. He could see history on it as well. Not its literal history, however enough to understand where it’s been. Although barely used, it had… potential. Corruptive potential. Unusual, but strangely attention grabbing to Nexus. Hm… 

Studying this should be interesting.

[spiderybobcat]

Sprite movement probably doesn't correlate with how much effort a monster is giving

There's a popular theory that suggests that how much effort a monster in putting in fighting you correlates with how much their sprite is moving. Toriel (Who is extremely reluctant to hurt you at all) and Napstablook (Who skips entire turns because he doesn't feel up to it)'s sprites barely move at all, while characters that really want to kill you like Undyne and Sans sprites bob and wave a lot. Undyne the Undying has a crazy amount of movement and is also the monster who puts the most effort into fighting you. This theory seems to have substantial evidence backing it up and is often used as a reason for why Papyrus would have to be ridiculously powerful. And it's probably also wrong.

Let's look at two other monsters who have completely stationary battle sprites.

Monster kid's genocide battle sprite is completely stationary with no animation at all. Zero. Zilch. This theory would imply Monster Kid was putting 0 effort at all into standing in your way, which obviously cannot be the case.

Ok, but monster kid is just a minor enemy who doesn't even do anything except trigger the Undying fight. One could argue that they don't have an animation because they don't create bullet patterns.

When Dogamy is slain before Dogaressa, Dogaressa will become enraged. Her attacks will do more damage, the patterns will go faster, the flavour text states that she "on the warpath", and she literally says she's going to chop you in half.

And you know what happens when you kill Dogamy?

Dogaressa STOPS MOVING.

So we have a case of a monster that starts putting MORE effort having LESS sprite animation. In my opinion, this proves that Toby Fox could not have designed sprite animation with effort in mind.

By the way, if you kill Dogaressa before Dogamy, Dogamy will become heartbroken. His defence drastically drops and the attack pattern he uses become significantly easier, a sad dog chucking a single heart at the ground. The dog doesn't even do damage. A pair of monsters with differing responses to grief. One who becomes depressed. One who becomes enraged. This would have been a PERFECT moment for Toby to drop a hint as to how the more effort a monster is putting in to fighting you, the more their sprite moves. But nope, Dogamy's sprite does the same thing as Dogaressa. Just stops moving.

And honestly even without that piece of evidence the theory was still a stretch to begin with.

-Sans is sweating buckets and trying harder to stop you than he's probably ever tried in his life and yet barely sways. Moldbygg has way more animation than him.

-Mettaton NEO barely moves either. His EX form (and arguably his box form) moves more than his NEO.

-If that theory were true even regular Undyne should have more animation than anyone else in the game.

-Asriel's final form moves way less than his god of hyperdeath form.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Rooting for You

My first fic for the Magnus Archives! Like most people, being deep in Season 5 meant I was desperate to put them in a nice, soft, fluffy situation so please enjoy a full fic of my Martin playing rugby headcanon!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

-----

There were a lot of things John was willing to do for Martin. Pretty much anything, really.

He learned to love poetry. He let him answer a fraction of a second faster when they watched University Challenge together and a question Martin would know came up. He halved, then quartered, the amount of chili powder he usually put in his rogan josh, even though he could feel his grandmother’s disapproval radiating from beyond the grave. He even broke god knew how many HR rules when they fooled around in the archives’ stationary cupboard, after finding out it was a fantasy Martin had been nursing for years. 

John had done all of this for Martin and he’d do a hell of a lot more, without regrets. But he had to wonder if this was maybe asking a little much. 

It was just so bloody cold. 

Calling it a park would be generous, as John stood at the edge of it, shivering even in his coat and the scarf Martin knitted for him, it looked more like a muddy field. So much so that he had to check the address on his phone, just to be sure he was in the right place and hadn’t accidentally walked so far he was in the bloody Middle Ages. 

But no, this was apparently the place, confirmed when he saw Sasha waving at him from the sparse gaggle of equally cold people standing a little ways away, Melanie being one of them. John felt his heart sink, having to make himself trudge over there to join them. Now there was no chance he could make a break for it, lie and say the tube wasn’t running or he fell down a storm drain or something. No choice but to shove his gloved hands in his armpits and hope to get some feeling back in them as he walked over. 

“Is that Jonathan Sims out of his flat on a weekend? I must be dreaming,” Sasha’s grin was huge, beaming out at him from under the hat jammed low over her curls, another Martin creation, “Welcome to the WAGs!”

John blinked, “The what?”

Even from behind her dark glasses, John knew when Melanie was rolling her eyes at him. It was something in her voice. 

“Wives and girlfriends. Of the players. It’s a football term, John. Football is a game where people kick a ball around and try to get it in this thing called the goal, you might have glanced out of a window one time and seen people playing it…”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” John cut across her sarcasm with his own, “I’ve heard of it. I’ve also heard of rugby, which is the game our significant others actually play.”

“It’s just our little joke,” Sasha pointedly stood between them, a placating wall of a rainbow tweed coat, a bright smile and a pointed subject change, “So what made you decide to come along, John? Martin said we probably wouldn’t see you.”

John sighed, “You almost didn’t. It’s really not my thing, Martin said he was fine with that but…he was so nervous about his first match. Nervous enough that I thought he might pull out altogether and…well, me saying I’d be there seemed to make him feel better.”

His cheeks were already reddening even before Melanie chucked and Sasha cooed, “That’s so sweet, John! Just for that, you can share my thermos.”

“It better be spiked,” John grumbled, though he accepted the plastic mug of steaming coffee, fingers prickling pleasantly as they wrapped around it. 

“Oh, I only break that one out if they’re losing,” Sasha winked, passing another to Melanie.

“And…how do we know when they’re losing?” John frowned at the lines painted on the grass, trying to make sense of them, “Or winning? Or anything really. Like I said, I’ve heard of rugby as a concept but I didn’t get much time to research the specifics.”

“Wouldn’t worry too much,” Melanie snorted but there was something distinctly fond in it, “What our guys play doesn’t really resemble actual rugby, no one joins an LGBT teahoweekend team to play seriously. This is more for fun, y’know? Community and all that.”

John grimaced around his mouthful of coffee. Wonderful. Something he understood even less than sport. 

A few more people trickled in, wrapped in their own woolens, greeted with smiles and waves and inside jokes from everyone else, Sasha handed out a lot more pours from her thermos. But when the match started and the two teams started emerging from the slightly lopsided brick hut that was apparently the changing rooms, there still wasn’t much of a crowd for them.

They sure made a hell of a racket for them, though. Suddenly John was surrounded by whoops and cheers that misted in the air, the sound of gloved hands clapping excitedly. It was an odd bunch, a mix of people in all shapes and sizes; men, women, people who didn’t go by either. The only thing they seemed to have in common was their kit, the opposition in black, bright orange and green stripes across all their team’s shirts, even if some people were wearing ones clearly far too big for them. 

Like Tim for example, who’d tied the excess fabric of his into a knot, showing immense commitment to looking like an extra in a horny beach movie despite the temperature. He and Daisy were tossing a battered looking rugby ball back and forth, half practicing and half seeing who could throw it hard enough to knock the other off their feet. Basira seemed to be the only person on the team who was maintaining any order, barking at people and shuffling them into their positions. Sasha nudged Melanie gently, telling her which direction to turn in to loudly wolf whistle at Georgie and make her laugh. 

Meanwhile John searched the faces anxiously, looking for Martin. Surely he’d stick out like a sore thumb, he was a head taller than anyone here, oh god, what if he’d bolted after all… 

But there he was, lagging behind, looking like he was wondering if he could just make a break for it before anyone noticed he wasn’t there. Too late, Basira shouted at him to get in prop position- whatever the hell that meant- and Martin sagged visibly. He fidgeted towards his station, pushing his hair out of his eyes and back into the headband he wore, straightening his socks where they’d fallen down. He looked so uncomfortable, so scared just to exist, so like the awkward man John remembered from that first year in the Archives. 

It broke John’s heart a little. So, just like he should have back then, he did something about it. 

He joined in with the applause, making as much noise as he physically could, putting his fingers in his mouth and giving a piercing whistle. 

Martin blinked, like John’s voice stood out from all the rest, turning and seeing him there. Instantly a smile broke across his face, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, so wide it made the freckles in the corner of his eyes bunch up. For a moment it was like John had never been cold in his life, something about that smile, about knowing he caused it, lit him up from the inside. 

He grinned back, giving him a thumbs up, the smile not even fading when the whistle blew for the start of the game and Martin had to scramble to get his game face on. 

Though it did when he noticed Sasha smirking triumphantly at him. 

“Oh shut up…” he groaned, retreating back into his scarf. 

“I shall not! It’s adorable how happy you two are and I reserve every right to be smug about it!” she elbowed him in the ribs, making him yelp. 

“John’s happy? Gross,” Melanie said mildly, sipping her coffee, “Come on, Sasha, eyes on the game. I can hear people groaning, surely we’re not losing already?”

Sasha hummed, following the chaos that had erupted in front of them, “Oh, wait. Daisy had the ball, there might be hope, I think…oh no, they scored a try. Yeah, we’re doomed.” 

“Ah well,” Melanie hummed before screaming through cupped hands, “Come on, Albatrosses!”

John was grateful for Sasha’s commentary too, even if he didn’t understand most of what she said it helped him keep track of things, the tone of her voice telling him when to groan, when to cheer. 

It was actually quite exciting, once he got into it. Tim and Georgie must have run a marathon each, streaking up and down the pitch whenever they got the ball in their possession, at least until one of the opposition tacked them to the ground and earned them a mouthful of turf. Daisy was always quick to avenge them, spearing people twice her size with utter fearlessness until the players in black learned to be afraid of her. Meanwhile Basira was like an army major, her voice the only thing keeping them all together sometimes. Every point their team earned happened because she’d demanded it.

At first Martin hung on the edges, eyes darting, clearly hesitant to plunge in. Until, through a mammoth effort of mostly will, Basira took the ball from Tim and threw it into Martin’s arms, freeing it from the tangled knot of markers.

“Fucking take them out!” she barked at him, pointing towards the goal. 

And so he did. Face set with a steely stubbornness that John immediately recognised, Martin tucked the ball under his arm and plowed forward. The other team tried to tackle him but they simply couldn’t, every contact was just shrugged off like they were nothing more than buzzing flies. All the bulk Martin usually tried to hide was suddenly weaponised and, damn it, he was unstoppable.

John knew his jaw was hanging open like a complete fool, that his face was burning so much that he could have served as a space heater, but he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t even take enough of his attention off Martin to tell Melanie and Sasha to shut up when he felt them smirking. 

He could only stare until Martin had stormed a path through enough of the opposing team to throw the ball to Tim who saw it over the line. Immediately the Albatrosses erupted in screams of joy, throwing themselves at Martin until there were enough of them to knock him onto his ass. The crowd made a similar racket, though no one was clapping or yelling louder than John, grinning wide enough to hurt as he watched his boyfriend sit up, laughing, freckled cheeks streaked with mud and grass in his curls. 

“Did you see him?” John breathed, heart hammering like he’d run the length of the pitch himself, “He was amazing!”

“Well no, obviously I didn’t but I’m guessing you just saw why Basira’s been trying to bully him into joining for months,” Melanie snorted with laughter but even her voice softened, “Bet he’s glad he signed up now, huh?”

John laughed, “I suppose…and I’m glad I came to see it.”

Sasha squeezed his arm in delight, though the whistle’s sharp cry pulled their attention back to the game.

It seemed now the Albatross’ secret weapon was revealed, the opposition were on the offensive. Suddenly Martin couldn’t move without tripping over someone in a black shirt, every attempt to get the ball in his hands was snuffed out before they could get anyone near. The gap between the scores got wider and wider while Martin was trapped in the back, boxed out. John watched the lines on his face deepen, he knew the inability to help his teammates would be needling at him like a stone in his boots. John fidgeted, fingers tangled anxiously in the tassels of his scarf. 

Until that mounting frustration finally forced the stars into alignment, Martin shoving forward to catch a desperate throw from Georgie. He started to run, just like before, but it wasn’t going to be so easy. 

The man from the opposite team ran headlong into Martin, grabbing at his shoulders, throwing him so far off balance he was tipped onto the ground with a sickening thump, counterpointed by a groan of dismay from the crowd.

 “What the fuck was that?” John yelped in alarm, only Sasha’s hand firmly holding his elbow stopping him from running onto the pitch, “That was clearly an illegal tackle!”

“Thought you didn’t know anything about rugby?” Melanie reminded him, sounding bemused. 

“I don’t need to know the rules to know it’s illegal for that oaf to try and kill my boyfriend,” John snapped, “What the hell kind of game is he playing, am I going to have to put him back together myself at the end of this?”

“John,” Sasha sounded like she was trying not to laugh, “It’s okay, the guy’s getting a red. And Martin’s okay, see?”

John frowned, unable to believe it until he saw Martin stand up, blood trickling in a thin red line from his nose. Georgie was fussing over him, trying to lead him off the pitch but Martin shook his head gently, wiped away the blood on the hem of his shirt and moved back towards his position. 

“He…he wants to keep playing?” John said in disbelief, staring as the teams formed up for the penalty. 

“He’s a stubborn guy, isn’t he?” Sasha smiled, “There’s not much he wouldn’t do for someone who needs him.” 

“No. There isn’t,” John murmured, mostly to himself, feeling a deep pride burning in the pit of his stomach as teammates came up to pat Martin on the back, punch him lightly on the arm, say something encouraging.

“Think you’re starting to get into sport now?” Melanie grinned like she already knew the answer. 

And community too. “Maybe a little,” John shrugged. 

The game was something of a foregone conclusion but John had learned to love tragedies a long time ago. He cheered along with his friends, hissed and cursed when the tackles started getting dirty, chanted Sasha’s homemade fight songs, rewritten to be a little more bawdy and much, much more gay. 

It didn’t mean they won but it did mean they had a hell of a lot of fun. By the time the final whistle blew, John had been grinning for so long that his jaw ached and his coffee had gone cold without him realising. He knocked it back anyway, shoving the mug back into Sasha’s hand. 

“You’re joining us all at the pub afterwards,” Sasha grinned, collaring him before he could run away, “No ifs or buts, Sims. You’re both on the team now.”

“Understood,” John chuckled, surprising himself with how much he meant it, before taking off towards Martin as soon as she let him go. 

Martin was filthy, he’d been able to get a couple more miracles in but more had ended with him getting tackled into the ground. Legally this time, or at least that’s what Sasha had promised him. There was mud obscuring his freckles and more than a few blades of grass stuck in his auburn hair. His knees were skinned and red with cold, his nose was a little swollen but he still had a smile for John as he came running up. 

Martin gave a soft noise of surprise as John caught him in a huge hug, knocking any breath he had left out of him with a laugh, “Oh! You know we lost, right?”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” John admitted, grinning up at him, “Martin, you were incredible out there! I had no idea!”

“Neither did I,” Martin blushed, grinning, “You really thought I was good?”

“You don’t believe me, wait until we get to the pub and hear what everyone else has to say. You’re the star player today, darling.”

Martin was now red to the tips of his ears, nothing to do with the cold, “That’s okay…I believe you…”

John smiled, pulling him into a kiss before they walked back over to their friends who’d undoubtedly watched this whole exchange and were absolutely going to give them shit for it. 

“Jesus, John, you’re freezing!” Martin laughed, touching his cheek gently, “I can’t believe you actually came, you hate being cold?”

John just shook his head, pressing his lips to Martin’s icy palm. 

“I’m starting to realise there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Martin Blackwood.”

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Fan Fiction: Part One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: Not only did Chuck write books about your lives, but a damn musical theater is putting a play on about your goddamn lives. You try to let them handle this one on their own but they're not letting you go, and it's time to bring insurance to make sure you never leave them.

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

Dean sits outside the motel room working on his car. The hood is up, he's elbow-deep in the engine, and Sam is nowhere to be found. You're standing off to the side with your gun trained in front of you. Your target is a tree that's fifty yards from you, something stationary. You wish you had a moving target but you don't think Dean and Sam would appreciate being put in the line of fire.

You pull the trigger three times, hitting the exact same spot on the tree, scaring some squirrels into fleeing their home.

"Would you quit it?" You look at Dean who pops his head from over the hood. He's a bit sweaty, has a grease smear on his forehead, and his arms look extra thick in his thin t-shirt. You don't have romantic feelings for him anymore, but damn he'd be a good fuck. "We're not the only people out here."

"I'm bored without a real target. Unless you'd like to be mine."

You smirk when he flips you off. The motel door opens and Sam walks out in search of you and his brother. You put your gun away and approach the brothers because Sam has his professional face on.

"Hey, how long have you two been up?"

"I never slept," you say.

"Long enough to find us a case," Dean replies right after you.

"I take it that means you're feeling back to normal?"

"Yeah, whatever normal is in our world. Right here." Dean takes a break from working on his car to hand Sam the newspaper. "A teacher in an all-girls school went missing in Flint, Michigan. She was heading to her car, disappeared, and nobody's seen her since."

"Dean, there's nothing here that even remotely suggests there is a case."

"There is nothing that even remotely suggests there isn't a case."

"Come on, man," Sam sighs.

"Sam! Being out there and hunting is the only normal I know." He closes the hood of the car and moves to the open trunk. He messes around with his weapons before shutting the trunk. "We got work to do."

"I'll tag along. It's not like I have anything better to do."

"Like you had a choice," Dean mutters to himself, but you hear.

It's a seven-hour drive from where you are, and those hours go by quickly. Sam gets the police department on the phone as soon as you enter the state of Michigan to ask about the details of the case. By the time Dean pulls into the school's parking lot, Sam is just about done with his conversation.

"I certainly appreciate it. ... You got it. Thanks, officer." He hangs up just as you three get out of the car. "So, the last place Ms. Chandler was seen by anyone was in the auditorium. Turns out she's the drama teacher."

"Theater kids. Great," Dean scoffs.

"What? I was a theater kid."

"Barely. You did Our Town, which was cool, but then you did that shitty musical."

"Oklahoma? Hugh Jackman got cast off of Oklahoma."

"You ran tech, Wolverine."

"Shut up," Sam, grumbles.

The principal already knows you're coming but she has a bunch of meetings to go to, so she allows you to find the auditorium on your own. There are young kids hanging a banner in front of the building for the musical they are about to do. You hate fucking musicals. You hope there isn't a case here ad you can go back to the Bunker and waste your life away on tanning and reading shitty magazines.

You walk into the auditorium to see students already working on their production of whatever musical they are doing. Before you have a chance to think, you hear a word you never thought you'd hear again.

"You idjits!" You snap your head to the right to see a young girl dressed exactly like your dad, beard and all. "You, idjits. You three are idjits."

"Hey, ass-butt!" You look to the left and see another young woman dressed just like Cas with angel wings on her back. "Hey! Ass-butt!"

Suddenly, someone plays a few notes on the piano on stage and a bunch of young girls begin their musical number. The song is about Sam and Dean's life. How John and Mary had two sons when a demon came into their room and killed Mary, and how the demon took a liking to Sam. The song transitions into your life with your mom starting at the age when she died. They sing about how the demon chased you through the house and killed your mom down the stairs. Sam and Dean are horrified to hear this but you're grinning from ear to ear.

"Cut!"

A young woman sitting in the audience and her friend run up the stage stairs to address the woman who is singing. You slap both brothers' shoulders with the same grin on your face.

"This is the best day ever."

"What in the h-holy..."

"If there is a case, it probably has something to do with all of this," Sam cuts his brother off.

"You think?"

The younger of the two girls grabs the arm of the director and points to you three at the back of the auditorium. Both girls immediately run off stage and over to you as if she knows who you three are.

"Hi! Oh, my gosh, are you guys from the publisher? I'm Marie, writer/director. This is Maeve, my stage manager. I was just--"

She stops talking when she sees Sam's FBI badge. He looks to the stage and sees the women playing Sam and Dean with their own FBI badges. He quickly puts his away and slaps Dean's hand which is holding his own badge. Dean can't even get his out fast enough because he is so shocked.

"I'm Special Agent Smith. These are my partners, Special Agents--"

"Smith," you answer.

"Yeah, no relation." Marie narrows her eyes in suspicion but Sam quickly changes topic. "We're here to look into the disappearance--"

"There is no singing in Supernatural!" Dean blurts out.

You snicker at his outburst to which he glares at you.

"What? Come on, this is funny!" you giggle.

"Well, this is Marie's interpretation," Maeve says.

"I mean, if there was singing, you know... and that's a big if! If there was singing, it would be classic rock. Not this Andrew Floyd Webber shit--"

"Andrew Lloyd Webber," Sam whispers to his brother.

"What?"

"You know, we do sing a cover of Carry On Wayward Son, in the second act," Marie says proudly.

"Really?" Sam asks in judgment.

"It's a classic!" Dean and Marie speak at the same time.

You roll your eyes, already bored of this.

"Right. Anyways. We're here to talk about the disappearance of Ms. Chandler. Any chance you two saw her before she vanished?"

"Yeah. She left around nine-thirty."

"Any idea where she would be headed at that time of night?"

"A bar? A liquor store? Both?" Maeve answers.

"She had a nasty divorce, last year. Most of the time, she's sipping on her 'grown-up juice', or passed out. Usually, in that order."

"Yeah, I don't blame her. I'm gonna need fifty jello shots and a hose-down to get this stink off of me," Dean scoffs.

"Maeve, right?" Sam jumps in. "You're the stage manager?"

"I understudy Jody Mills, too."

"What?" Dean asks in shock.

"That's great! Jody Mills, that's great," Sam says to his brother before turning to her. "So, how about you give me a behind-the-scenes tour, while your director shows my partners Ms. Chandler's office? Deal?" Both girls nod. "Great. Give us a moment, please."

Marie and Maeve leave you three alone, and you let out a loud cackle that causes Maeve to turn around and glare.

"I'm gonna throw up," Dean shudders.

"This is either going to go horribly wrong or horrible right, and I'm here for it," you giggle. Dean gives you a bitch-face look, and you slap his chest as you pass by him. "Lighten up, buddy."

You and Dean follow Marie backstage while Maeve goes off with Sam in the opposite direction. There is a table of props used for the musical, all labeled and in place. You grab one of the guns and inspect it, not impressed that it's all fake.

"Where did you get all this stuff?"

"Some parts are homemade and some parts are repurposed. All of it, awesome--" She looks over at you to see you touching one of the guns and grabs it from you. "Please don't touch them."

"These aren't even real. How are you going to hurt someone with these?"

"Don't mind her," Dean chuckles nervously. "She's having a bad day." Dean looks across the stage where the imposter Impala sits. Leaning against it are the two women who play Sam and Dean. They're standing a bit too close for Dean's liking. "What are they doing?"

"They're rehearsing the B.M. scene."

"The Bowel Movement scene?" you ask.

"What? No! The Boy Melodrama scene! You know, the scene where the boys get together, and they're driving, leaning against Baby, and drinking a beer, sharing their feelings. The two of them. Alone but together. Bonded. United. The power of the brotherly--"

"Why are they standing so close together?"

"Reasons," Marie shrugs.

Dean understands what Marie is hinting at, and you snicker at the thought of Sam and Dean getting together sexually.

"You know they're brothers, right?"

"Duh! It's subtext."

"You know he and Y/N are married and have kids, right?"

"What? No. I mean, I know she got pregnant but she had Cas get rid of the baby. Man, Dean was so pissed at her for doing that."

"Best decision I ever made," you grin and lock eyes with Dean. "I should have gotten rid of the other two."

Hurt flashes across his eyes but he'd rather not get into that right now. Marie looks at you two in confusion but moves on. She takes you away from the auditorium into a long white hallway where Ms. Chandler's office is. She walks ahead of you to open the door, and you look at Dean.

"She's right. You and Sam would make such a cute couple."

"I'm gonna smack you."

"Don't tease a good time," you smirk.

You three enter the office where there are empty bottles upon empty bottles of alcohol everywhere. Dean takes a sweep of the room with his eyes before settling them on a robot head near the bookshelf.

"Is that hers?"

"No, that's a prop from act two! I've been looking for that, actually."

"There's no space in Supernatural."

"Not canonically, no, but this is transformative fiction."

"You mean fanfiction?"

"Call it whatever you like, but it's inspired by Carver Edlund's books with a few embellishments. As you know, Chuck stopped writing after Swan Song--"

"Yeah, that douche," you scoff and Dean slaps your arm to get you to stop talking.

"I couldn't leave it the way that it was! I mean, with Dean leaving Y/N and living with Lisa? Her being on her own after the breakup? Sam in Hell? I wrote my own ending."

"You want to know what happened after that?" you step closer to her. "Y/N fucks Sam over and over again to get over her sad excuse of an ex."

"Okay, stop talking," Dean pulls you back.

"Try this one on for size. How about Dean and Y/N have a baby while he's still fucking Lisa?"

"Go wait outside!"

"No, she needs to know these things! What about them going to purgatory where she ends up pregnant because Dean can't keep it in his pants?" Dean is already shoving you to the door. "Bobby dies, Sam undergoes angel trials, and Dean becomes a demon!"

Dean shoves you out of the office and slams the door in your face. You roll your eyes and make your way back to the prop table where you mess the props up like a fucking child. You see Sam and Maeve in the sound booth chatting, so you make your way over to them to bother them. Sam looks up from the control board when you enter.

"Special Agent Smith kicked me out so I'm hanging out with you," you grin and sit in between them.

You reach over and touch the control board to see what different buttons do, but Maeve slaps your hand away. You stare at her and Sam waits with held breath to see what you're going to do. Luckily for her, you let it go and lean back in your chair.

"Now, have you noticed anything strange during the production? I mean, any odd noises or--"

"You mean something like this?" Maeve pushes a button on the control panel and a scream sounds. "Or perhaps, this?" She presses another button and a ghostly moan sounds. "Maybe this?"

"Okay, I get it. You know, back when I did tech in school, we had two CD decks--"

"Someone speaks to Maeve over the headset, and she cuts Sam off mid-sentence.

"She's not interested in your nerd talk," you say to Sam.

"I'm sorry, I have to go sign the delivery. Please, don't touch anything."

Maeve scurries off leaving you and Sam alone. Sam doesn't like to be alone with you because he's the butt of your very harsh jokes, so he makes a half-hearted excuse and leaves you alone in the sound booth. Dean and Meave come back from Ms. Chandler's office and meet up with Sam. Marie joins her friend's side as they both sign for the delivery. You reach up and begin playing with the controls, messing with the lights and sounds. Everyone on stage looks at you like you're the outsider in a group of best friends. Sam and Dean look like they're ready to kill you, so you press a button and speak into the mic.

"I'm bored. Can we go? I'd rather pull my own hair out than be stuck in here with a bunch of bratty kids."

Dean glares holes through the glass at you and motions with one finger to come to the stage. 

x

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[vegaspam]

until next time / part one / raven's letter

this is not a full fic! this is the text-post version of the letter photos from my fic over on my main blog @vivalas-vega that you can read here

Bradley,

Would it kill you to get some practical stationary for once? I cannot believe this is going to be the backdrop for what I’m about to write. I’m actually pissed with the Navy for sending you out to sea now of all times, how could they not foresee I’d need to talk to you in real time? Super inconsiderate and a waste of my tax-payer dollars. What are you even doing this time? I know you can’t tell me and I probably don’t want to know. Also, I’m a little drunk so, consider yourself warned.

You were right, which it’s way more annoying to hear you say that in my head than it is to actually hear it. Matthew and I broke up. I really don’t know why I wasn’t more interested in your opinion on all hotshot doctors being douchey and a waste of my time. I love talking shit about men, I should have eaten that up. Probably something to do with the whole hot and saving lives thing, I think that could make a girl ignore even the best of advice. I was charmed, even though you explicitly told me not to be and I’m realizing I should probably listen to you more than I do.

He took me to some fancy restaurant to celebrate being in final edits on my article. Before we even had a chance to order, I shit you not, his side girl came up to our table and said they’d been dating for a while. It wasn’t some dramatic confrontation, once she realized we were on a date she seemed even more shocked and pissed than I was. She was actually nice, she complimented my dress before it all went down. Say what you will about the man, he’s got great taste in women. You’ll be proud to know I got up and left without saying a word to him, but part of me wishes I’d at least chucked my wine in his face… but that seemed rude, not to him but to the waiters. He’s been blowing up my phone and obviously I’m ignoring it. I'd block him now but I left my Manolo’s at his place (because of course I left those and not my bargain bin heels I wore to graduation).

I need to go back to my whole emotional celibacy thing… I was doing so well before he showed up. This city is the worst place to try and fall in love, I really don’t know why every rom com is set here; it’s more Hunger Games than When Harry Met Sally. Maybe now with all this free time I’ll make some progress on my novel. Don’t ask how it’s going, answer is the same as last time. Work is work – the article is done, I’ll send a copy when it’s published. My boss said it’s my best work yet which I have conflicting feelings about, you’ll see what I mean when I send it. It just feels a little boring, but what do I know?

I talked to Nat a few days ago, I might miss her more than I miss you. We talked about her coming out for a girls trip soon but really, I wish you were stateside because I’d book a flight right now. I wish we were getting drunk and watching Star Wars – I’m already doing the first two but alone while writing a letter instead of with you trying to cheer me up is kind of depressing. I take back what I said about missing her more; do you have anyone from the squad with you on this deployment? I hope you’ve at least got an actual friend with you.

I can’t remember the last time you were slated to be gone this long – I’ll do my best to make my future letters more entertaining for you. The next one should be good. I'm going home for some shindig my parents are throwing for their anniversary, I expect some juicy family drama to report back on. I guarantee in the first five minutes my mom asks why I didn’t bring my ‘hot doctor boyfriend’, and when she finds out what happened she’s definitely going to say something along the lines of ‘well, now you can reconsider about Bradley’. I swear, if there’s anything that woman wants more than me with a handsome successful doctor, it’s me with a handsome and decorated naval aviator… bonus points if that aviator is you. I’m not looking forward to the family thing but it’ll be nice to get out of the city. It’s more crowded than usual and I feel like I can’t think here anymore.

I’m going to go see your parents while I’m down there, say hi and make sure the headstones aren’t too overgrown like last time. I can’t even recall the last time either one of us was able to make it down there. I’m planning to have a chat with Goose about keeping you safe out there and even though I really want to tell your mom about that girl you dated a few months ago, I’ll probably just yap about Matthew. I really wish she were here, she always gave the best advice. I also wish I was going back for a party she was throwing, she really knew how to host a celebration. Can you tell the wine is getting to me? I’d better cut it off here before I start to get really sappy.

I’ll send out that care package in the next few days with the usuals, let me know if you want anything different. I’m including a book I read recently that you might enjoy, and it’s got some really steamy scenes in it in case your imagination isn’t cutting it for you out there.

Fly safe, there’s only so much Goose and I can do, the rest is up to you.

Love, Raven

[asdfjasklfjdkla]

lathes are literally one of the most docile types of machines around. they're like cows, you treat them wrong or put your fingers where you shouldn't and they'll bite, but usually it's not gonna be more than a cut or a bruise unless you've really fucked up. you're more likely to get hurt handling their chips than handling the machine themselves

it's mills you gotta watch out for. they've got spinning sharp bits, they spit out very very sharp and very very hot chips (which are Incredibly Unfun to get stuck down your bra while you're working), they can take chunks out of you if you get too close and do not let your hair down around them, but they're still fine to handle if you treat them with respect

a fun thing about me is that despite working with machines and shit to make fixing the very expensive guy less expensive, lathes still scare the bejeezus out of me

[interdimensionalburnout]

>> ((from seashaper)) [An elegant, silvery gauntlet trimmed in blue and white arrives in an airtight transparent plastic box; a white gem shimmers from the back of the hand, and its fingers taper into curved points. Though sealed within the internally warded container, it puts off a malevolent, cold energy. A piece of stationary detailing its abilities appears on top, signed in neat calligraphy at the bottom by Rook:

'Benefits:

Resistance to cold-based damage.

Allows interaction with ice as if it were a textured and walkable surface.

Attacks with weapons channel its power to imbue the impact with ice.

Allows repeatable and rechargeable but limited use of ice control based spells: Ray of Frost, unlimited. Cone of Cold, 3 times a day. Wall of Ice, 1 time per day.

Tips of gauntlet can carve and engrave in ice as if they were heated metal.

Curse effects, based in lingering hostile spiritual energy:

Refusal and inability to part with the item.

Gradual ice-based transformation of a metaphysical nature that becomes primarily dangerous in the moment of death- emotion, sympathy and empathy slowly decrease along with melanin and body temperature, eventually leading to an instantaneous and permanent bodily polymorph into solid ice.

Absolutely do not put it on. Based on its other effects and overall nature there is a high chance of the gauntlet freezing to the skin of the wearer until death or violently removed. Thank you and be careful. -- Rook.']

@seashaper

>>You and Maria had the thing set up to arrive in your engine room, where you do all the analysis for artifacts (usually before you chuck them in said engine), and almost instantly your own psionic reception picks up on some kernal of a malicious thought inside the glove. You don't think it can talk, but you find you can exchange thoughts and feelings with it. Maria's busy reading Rook's compiled information when she notices your exposed eye's gone all slack, distant, and asks,

>>"You feelin' alright, Berrberr?" All at once, you find yourself unsettled by the probing, enticing essence in the gauntlet, and ripped from your conversation by 'Berrberr.' Your head snaps to Maria, then back to the glove, which quickly goes from "C'mon, just put me onnnnn" to "OW IM JUST A WIDDLE BIRTHDAY BOY" once you've jabbed the container hard enough to jostle the little bastard into the walls of its plastic prison. Maria's head jerks backwards in surprise, seemingly amused at whatever interaction she missed.

>>You look at Maria, the tips of your ears a little red, and say, "Berr... Berr? Ay?" Maria's expression is cool, her poker-face unbroken; you won't be getting an explanation about whether or not "nickname status" means you're a step further out of the dog house. She swaps the container for the note, taking the glove to your examination table and pulling an adjustable arm down, winding the claw open before donning an apron of shadow, pulled from under the table and the ceiling above. After browsing over the tag, you make your way to her.

>>The container lid is flipped off with the casualness of experts, and the care of novices, but there's masterful hands at play here, and you both put experienced eyes on the thing under a harsh white examination light. You take a metal rod and poke at the gauntlet, and instantly reel your hand back as the rod sticks to the side of the thing. This could be fun.

HEY ROOK WE GOT YOUR GLOVE!

I think Partition might be able to let me talk to whatever essence is behind the curse! It's kinda rude tbh.