LET IT OUT!

is my integrity worth anything at all? but happiness can't come before its fall indie & selective Paul Matthews of Starkid's Hatchetfield musical series Written by Dee, sideblog to horrordeny

[apotheosised]

              indie & selective Paul Matthews of Starkid’s Hatchetfield musical series 

                           WHAT DO YOU WANT, PAUL?

                          written by dee, sideblog to horrordeny / promo credit / psd 

[apotheosised]

IM MOVING PAUL TO A MULTI!

I have decided to give that multi muse life a go on account of how I’ll otherwise just make endless sideblogs, I’ll keep this blog as an archive and to access threads and such that I need / want to move across, but you can now find Paul over here!

[apotheosised]

IM MOVING PAUL TO A MULTI!

I have decided to give that multi muse life a go on account of how I’ll otherwise just make endless sideblogs, I’ll keep this blog as an archive and to access threads and such that I need / want to move across, but you can now find Paul over here!

[kadtherine]

# can you feel the love tonight?

[apotheosised]

injury meme | accepting | @shoreabove​ “keep ice on it.” - Emma

For such a gangly man, Paul isn’t the most uncoordinated person he knows. There are plenty of people in Hatchetfield more prone to tripping over their own feet or walking into lampposts than him. He does have his moments though, as evidenced by the ugly bruise forming just above his left eyebrow. God, he looks like he’s been five rounds with a boxer, and he can only imagine what Ted is going to say at work tomorrow. It’s all Patricia’s fault, she’d batted one of her toys under the coffee table and then looked at him with those big sad eyes. She could have gotten it herself, she’s a cat for goodness sake, but clearly for some reason she needed him to get it and well, Paul is man enough to admit when his cat has him wrapped round her little finger-or paw, as the case may be.

So there Paul had been: his shoulders deep under the coffee table fishing out a tiny catnip filled fish when Emma had walked in, asking him something about take out for dinner. Naturally Paul had turned to answer her, momentarily forgetting he was under the table and now he’s sporting a cut and a bruise, and has lost more than a little of his dignity. Coffee table: 1, Paul Matthews: 0. Patricia doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty about it, the traitor. 

“If you want to divorce me now,” says Paul from under the ice pack, “I won’t blame you. Just do me a favour and take Patty with you.” 

[apotheosised]

facechanger​:

A flash mob? In 2018? The Doctor is well-versed in Earth history, so unless Wherever-He-Is, Michigan is horribly behind the rest of its world, flash mobs stopped being a ‘thing’ a few years back. Plus, glancing around, the Doctor can’t see anyone filming the event. Generally, if something weird happens in the duration of the Doctor’s travels, there’s some nefarious reason for it. And this man seems to be more aware of the implications of the musical number than he pretends to be.

Out of idle curiosity, the Doctor whips out his sonic and does a quick scan of the retreating figure. It might be nothing, but there’s just something about him that makes the Doctor uncomfortable, physically, like he’s eaten something rotten. The scan comes back with a shocking answer. He frowns down at the sonic and shakes it a little, hoping that’ll change the reading, but no.

Looking up, the Doctor realizes the businessman has walked a fair bit away. Time for the Doctor to do what he does best: run. He keeps it to a jog, to hopefully not scare the poor guy more than he already has been, but this body’s legs are long, so he makes up for the lost distance quite quickly. “You know something’s wrong. I can help. I’m the Doctor.”

No, nope, no thank you: Paul does not want to be part of whatever this weirdness is. He’s going to go to his boring job and spend the day surfing the web instead of actually working, and then he’s going to go home to his cat and forget any of this ever happened. This weird, British stranger doesn’t seem to have picked up on that though, given that he’s now following Paul as he walks towards CCRP, hands still balled into anxious, tapping fists. 

“Nothing’s wrong!” he says, too loud and too quick for it to be convincing. Obviously Paul thinks something is wrong, but he has anxiety-he always thinks something is wrong! He’s just overacting to a bit of harmless fun because he doesn’t like musicals. That’s it: nothing weird or sinister about this. 

Paul pointedly doesn’t look at the man-Doctor something or other, he didn’t catch the rest, as he starts walking a little faster towards work. “I don’t need any help I just need to get to work, thank you, have a nice day. Goodbye,” 

[kadtherine]

paul is a fucking mood.

[apotheosised]

Paul Matthews.

[apotheosised]

injury meme | accepting | @chargedconstellate​ “you shouldn’t be walking around right now.” - Xander

Maybe it’s the month long possession, or the two hours he spent puking, or the two day near-coma, or just the general trauma of it all: but Paul is convinced something terrible is about to happen. The lights of peip’s medical suite have been turned down low for the night when he wakes up to find himself alone. Emma-Emma had been there with him, he knows that much, be he doesn’t remember her leaving. Probably she went to sleep in a bed instead of one of the uncomfortable chairs, but-but what if? The med bay is silent except for the quiet hum of machinery, it should be peaceful but instead it unsettles Paul, sends his already frayed nerves over the edge and into panic. Usually he enjoys sitting alone in the quiet like this, why not now? Is it the HIVE? Are they back? What if-what if he’s not fully free of them, and it’s their constant want to expand and grow and feed that he’s feeling? Is that music humming at the back of his mind or is it his own frantic heartbeat? He can’t be sure. 

Bare feet hit the floor and Paul has to steady himself against the bed for a few seconds to be sure his legs aren’t going to buckle under him. Walking is harder than it has any right to be, but he keeps a hand on the wall and forces himself onward. Something is wrong, or is going to go wrong, and he has to warn someone. His breaths come in shaky, shallow wheezes and he aches right down to his bones, but he ignores it and stumbles on. Surely a base this big should have more people around than this? Is he too late? Have the Hive already broken in? Are they watching him right now, laughing and waiting for the right moment to strike and grab him again to make him sing and sing and sing and sing. 

Xander. After what feels like hours of staggering around dark and empty corridors he spots a familiar face and almost collapses with relief, but he can’t, not when he still has to warn him. The agent looks concerned, says something about not walking around but Paul shakes his head even as the floor tilts dangerously under his feet. 

“Something’s wrong,”  he rasps, terrified and desperate for Xander to listen, to understand what Paul cannot. “I don’t-something’s wrong.” 

[apotheosised]

             indie & selective Paul Matthews of Starkid’s Hatchetfield musical series

                      A KICKLINE IS INEVITABLE! 

               written by dee, sideblog to horrordeny / promo credit / psd

[apotheosised]

vines/tiktoks that radiate specifically post-apotheosis paul energy but in a fun way

little jazz man 

The souls of the innocent / a bagel 

Shut up! 

why are you making me sing! 

[apotheosised]

injury meme | accepting | @chargedconstellate​ “take it easy. you’re in rough shape.” - John 

The drive to PEIP Headquarters is a long one, and try as they might the rag-tag bunch of Black Friday survivors cannot make it any further on the road without a quick break. They agree on fifteen minutes to stretch their legs and answer nature’s call. Keeping the bus in sight is a must, and no one goes off on their own. Even with all of that in place, no one sees it coming: least of all Paul. One moment he’s rolling some of the tightness out of his shoulders and enjoying the fresh air, and the next-

“wh-?” hazy eyes open to find the general kneeling over him and Paul blinks, sluggish and confused. Everything’s the wrong way up and his head aches like someone’s taken a hammer to it. Oh, right-he’d been stretching and then someone had been yelling so he’d turned just in time to see three cultists preparing to football tackle him to the ground. Everything after that is a bit hazy, but given how much everything hurts, and how he can hear Emma saying something in an increasingly panicked voice, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened next. He tries to push himself up onto his elbows, only for someone to gently push him back down, ignoring his half formed and slurred protests. Emma sounds worried about something, but her words are fuzzy as if they’re coming from under water and anxiety is crawling up Paul’s spine. Rolling his shoulders, cultists, an attack: that much he understands, but what about the others? 

“Who?” he asks the general, blue eyes meeting grey as Paul struggles to make John understand. His head is pounding in time with the unsteady beating of his heart and he cannot make his thoughts stay where he puts them. Shoulders, cultists, attack. What else? There are voices around him, too loud and overlapping and making everything even more confused in his head. He wants to put his hands over his ears but he cant make his arms cooperate and he lets out a frustrated groan that comes out more of a pained whimper.  Shoulders, cultists, attack, noises, Emma, headache, too loud too much too loud. The general is speaking again and Paul tries to focus on the shape of his words but it’s hard, something about staying awake, he thinks? Which seems a bit of a null point given how loud everyone is being, Paul doubts he could sleep even if he wanted to with the racket going on both inside and outside his mind. 

“Too loud,” he mutters, pleased with his new found two-word coherency. And then, because he thinks he might have figured out what John is saying he adds: “can’t sleep.” 

[apotheosised]

injury meme | accepting | @chargedconstellate​ “is it broken?” -Tim

God, Tom is going to kill him. Any chances Paul might have had of forming a good relationship with Emma’s brother in law are well and truly over now. Putting his foot in his mouth around the man is one thing but this? God he’ll be lucky if Tom doesn’t shoot him on the fucking spot. Or at the very least, he’ll never let Paul hang out with Tim by himself again. To be fair it’s not his fault Tim slipped on the ice and landed on his arm, but try telling Tom that: hell try telling Paul that, because right now he’s feeling about eight layers of guilt. 

Right, focus. He thinks he’s doing an okay job of keeping his panic to himself, or at least he hopes he is. The last thing Tim needs right now is for Paul to freak out and make the whole situation worse. Calm and collected, that’s what Tim needs right now-which is unfortunate, given that he’s stuck with Paul. 

“I think so buddy,” says Paul, gently examining Tim’s rapidly swelling wrist. “I’ll drive you to the hospital so they can check it out there. Hop in the car and I’ll call your dad, let him know so we can meet him there.” -and then I’ll start planning my own funeral, he thinks but at least has the common sense not to say out loud. 

[rocknmeme]

hurt sentence starters blood, broken bone mention.

“you’re going to have a bruise.”

“it won’t heal if you keep picking at it.”

“you were out for a few days. how are you feeling?”

“absolutely not. you’ll pop your stitches.” 

“take it easy. you’re in rough shape.”

“those pain meds knocked you out.”

“where’d you get that bloody nose?”

“make a fist for me.” 

“where does it hurt?” 

“ow, ow, ow.”

“that’s going to need stitches.”

“shit, that hurts.”

“is it broken?”

“keep ice on it.”

“ouch!” 

“i can’t even look. is it bad? wait, don’t tell me.” 

“you shouldn’t be walking around right now.”

“how am i supposed to sleep with all these bandages?”

“stay in bed and let me look after you.” 

“there, you’re all patched up.” 

“let me help you to your room.”

“how many fingers am i holding up?”

“take your time. slow, slow. you’re doing great.”

“you could have a concussion. ”

“i’m okay. you can stop hovering.”

“you’re lucky. you could have gotten seriously hurt.”

“how exactly did you manage to give yourself a black eye?” 

[apotheosised]

facechanger​:

When he set the controllers to randomized, he didn’t expect to end up in America, 2018. “Michigan?” he asks nobody in particular as he squints at the screen revealing to him his exact location. “What for?” There must be something special about this place for the TARDIS to be drawn here; they both favor 21st century Earth, so a randomized trip usually leads them away from it.

The TARDIS has no answer for him, which is exciting: a mystery! Arming himself with the sonic screwdriver, he leaps through the door and into a damp alleyway. The sound of the sparse traffic tells him this isn’t a large city; the sound of people passionately singing tells him this isn’t a normal city. Screwdriver in hand, he walks out into the street and comes face to face with a small crowd of people dancing gleefully around a man in business attire. What the Doctor thought must be a strange local custom becomes even more puzzling when he realizes that the businessman in question looks thoroughly freaked out.

With a great finishing harmony, the pedestrians end their number. And just like that, they continue going about their day as though nothing has happened. The businessman looks as unnerved as the Doctor is.

Glancing up and down the street, the Doctor approaches the businessman. “Sorry, I’m not from here – is that normal around here?”

@apotheosised​

Huh, okay. Okay, okay-okay. That...well that certainly just happened. Paul likes to think that, generally speaking, he’s a pretty down to earth guy. Despite all the weirdness Hatchetfield is known for (Woolyfoot & Watcher World horror stories to name but two) he’s never been one to believe all the bullshit about the town being cursed or connected to alternate dimensions or any of that. No, Hatchetfield is a nice, boring, and predictable town full of comfortingly boring and predictable people. Or at least, it usually is. So safe to say half the town erupting in song around him while he’s making the same commute he has every day for three years-well, it’s thrown him a little bit, if he’s being honest.

As if being directed by some invisible conductor the song ends, leaving Paul stood there trying to process what the hell just happened. “Okay,” he says to himself, brain not quite sure what to do with what’s just happened. He repeats the word a few times, fists balled up and tapping one another in a familiar stim for stressful situations. When he hears another voice he jumps, almost tripping over his own feet in shock. He’d been too caught up in...all of that to notice the arrival of another person. 

“Uh-no, no that’s not normal,” he stammers, fists still tap-tap-tapping and glancing up and down the street as if another chorus line might appear at any moment. “That was uh-that was a flash mob or something, right? I mean what else could it have been?”  he laughs nervously even as anxiety unfurls in his stomach, oh he has a bad feeling about all of this. “Sorry I should-work. I have to go to work.” 

[apotheosised]

fuckers stole his body. can’t have shit in hatchetfield 

[apotheosised]

chargedconstellate​:

Xander had been busy. That was the long and short of it. After Paul woke up and got Pokey’s nonsense out of his system, there was a change in the handful of other infected they had managed to contain. Increased violent tendencies, for one, but also moments of pause - of inner turmoil. Like someone in a chorus forgot the next line in a song. The people, the actual souls, had begun to fight back. 

Thus far none of them made the kind of progress Paul made, but it was promising. It made him hope that they could get everyone back one day. But, that was one day, and today Xander was being asked to talk to someone who didn’t either speak in threats or musical numbers. Paul looked alright. Better than he had, but Xander couldn’t say he was back to his old self. Though, he didn’t know that old self so that could be a factor.

Still, the blue of Paul’s eyes were a light sky, not the neon of a Vegas billboard. That was enough for Xander, who gave an easy smile and waved his hand. 

“Don’t worry about it Paul.” He didn’t need nor want thanks. Not until this was completely over. “You feeling okay? Want something to eat while I field your questions?” Paul was the one who learned that it was Pokotho. Xander figured he probably has some questions about just what the hell that meant.

Well, at least only one of them seems to be dying of embarrassment. It makes Paul wonder just how often Xander handles this kind of thing that he barely seems to be batting an eyelid. General McNamara did say stuff like this has happened before (or rather, he said nothing of the sort, that information is classified). Maybe this really is just another day in the office for Xander, which probably should be reassuring but absolutely isn’t. Paul tries to push his spiralling anxieties aside just like he has for his whole life with varying degrees of success and instead focuses on what Xander is saying. 

“Something to eat would be great, actually.” the doctors have been pretty reluctant to let him have anything more than thin soup on account of it being over a month since he’s actually eaten anything, but the thought of real food practically has him watering at the mouth. Plus it will give him something to do with his hands that isn’t anxiously tap-tap-tapping his fists against one another like he is now. 

“Are you okay, sir? I don’t-I remember you vanishing with that man when we were-” he pauses, unable to find the words, but lets Xander fill in the blanks for himself. Emma had reassured him of Xander’s wellbeing not long after he first woke up, but Paul wants to be sure. He’s hurt enough people over the last month, the least he can do to begin to make up for it is make sure Xander didn’t get badly hurt on his account. “Did it...turn out okay?”