Some kind of writer of fanfic...

Mairsha: Okay, I'm going to say Conjure Woodland Beings. Matt: What are you conjuring? Marisha: I don't know. Matt: You have to know what you're doing. Marisha: Well, that's what I'm trying to figure out. You know, there's not a list of what you can conjure in the book. Sam: No, there's not. Marisha: And it's very unfortunate. And it's some kind of fey creature. So what's a fey creature that's a challenge rating of two that would make sense? That's really scary? Laura: Fairies? Marisha: Or I can also summon like eight fairies if they're a low enough, you know-- Matt: I hate conjuration spells, by the way guys, so you all know. The worst spells in the whole game. Sam: I will say this, to be fair to Marisha, the spell does say, your DM will have a list of the creatures. Matt: Does it really? Sam: It does, at the end of the spell.

Matt: Fuck that spell.

Everyone else:

And sometimes you read a Fic by someone who clearly really identifies with Crowley and you can just feel the love for Aziraphale slithering all over the page. Sometimes it’s because the author was already kinda in love with Michael Sheen’s Aziraphale but sometimes it’s just because once you really get yourself into Crowley’s head, it’s impossible not to admire all of Aziraphale’s softness and silliness and indulgence just like he does.

dwag the excitement i felt when i saw the autopilot au‼️im totally not a sucker for possession in fanfic

had the idea of "hey what if leg's reflection in a mirror was his reflection, despite whatever louis was doing while piloting him" and this came out of it

course theres like no mirrors in oakhurst but still. stilllll uwu. maybe theres a few in the castle tucked away or something. maybe the reflection was normal until legs got turned. maybe only humans can see leg's "real" reflection.

Not certain this is exactly what you wanted with this prompt, but hope you enjoy some toxic majorscythe vibes <3

[cw: manipulative and possessive behaviour, in an inhuman, vampiric way]

****

Scott was half tempted to just let the disaster he could see coming unfurl. He'd been out hunting when he noticed the presence of humans in the forest, and had gone to investigate. Apparently he wasn't the only one, as he could hear the obnoxious sounds of Pyro attempting to sneak around as he got closer to where he could hear the thumping beats of human hearts. In any other situation, Scott would have let the fledgling stumble into the clearing, thinking himself safe in his invisibility, so he could learn a valuable lesson. However, he was in the process of "sneaking" directly towards Pearl and Martyn. Between Pearl's particularly sharp senses, and Martyn's habit of throwing a lantern first and asking questions later, Scott had a feeling Pyro would be in for a rather unpleasant experience if they attempted to approach those humans in particular.

And so he slipped through the trees to get between where he could hear Pyro and the humans, and let out a very quiet, warning growl. He heard Pyro freeze. The humans did too, a little further away, but Scott wasn't concerned about them.

"Sire?" Pyro breathed.

Short piece today, but I plan to (slowly!) write more between shows & work :)

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Vampires don't dream, but sometimes they remember.

The soldier supposes it's the closest the undead can achieve to true sleep. The memories are faint, faded as if seen through a mirror darkly – but still they persist, in fragments, in moments.

And, anyway, the memories have never really been about what he sees.

Sometimes, it's mundane. A snatch of laughter. A flask in one hand, and the grit of stone against the other. A splash of water falling from a great height.

Other times...

Well, this is war. And so he doesn't dwell on the flashes of flames, or the barrage of gunfire. He ignores the sensation of a trigger between his fingers, the bruising recoil against his shoulder. Such memories are soldiers made of.

"Do you ever wonder who you were?" his officer asks, in a sudden bout of melancholy. "Before your first death?"

The officer has always had these strange moments of sentimentality, an indulgence in the trade they ply, but it isn't the soldier's place to question it.

"No," he answers honestly. "The man I was before failed."

The officer's posture, perched on the forested cliff edge, shifts. There's nothing military in his poise – the soldier has long since accepted the old vampire is likely a civilian hire, brought in to manage souls such as himself – but curiosity lends the officer an almost-martial bearing now. "Failed?" he echoes.

"He died before his duty was done."

His officer releases an unneeded breath. "If only you could hear yourself."

"You knew me from before?"

"I turned you," his officer says. "Of course I knew you." There is a beat, where the officer thinks and the soldier waits. Then, softer, "I could tell you who you were. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"Would it help us win the war?"

"Not everything is about the war," the officer says.

"When you brought me back, you told me there was nothing more important."

The officer doesn't reply immediately. If he were human, the soldier might understand more by his heartbeat and breath, but the undead are devoid of such tells. The curl of the lip, though, the flash of a fang, betray at least a passing ire. "The war has been ongoing for decades. It can survive a little distraction, Legs."

"Decades is precisely why we shouldn't wait." The soldier steps away from the cliff and starts towards the forest. He's hungry, and he can hear deer.

"Death changed you, you know," his officer calls. There is a strange tone in his voice, one that the soldier hears occasionally in these odd, melancholy moods. It's spoken just a touch too quickly, a shard too sharp, like a stick being swung into a hornets' nest and hastily withdrawn.

The soldier never knows how he's meant to respond to these barbed comments.

And so he doesn't, not in any way that matters.