Hey guys! This is my little side blog, where all my art from my favorite community will go! It'll mostly be Brian and Hoodie interacting with the others, so don't expect anything else lol
TW FOR: psychological horror, derealization, body horror (skin peeling, bone snapping, organ trauma), graphic gore (blood, teeth trauma, eye trauma, exposed nerves), physical and psychological torture, dissociation, memory distortion, intrusive thoughts, mental invasion, emotional manipulation by a supernatural entity, violence, implied past killings, trauma symptoms (gagging, silent screaming, uncontrollable crying), smoking.
He shouldn’t’ve said it.
He knows better. But he’d said it anyway, and the moment the words left his mouth, the air got too still.
Now—
He’s nowhere.
He's everywhere.
The Operator doesn’t need to drag Hoodie by the neck or toss him like a ragdoll. All it takes is a look. A presence. A thought. And suddenly the world unzips like a corpse bag, and Hoodie is dropped into that space between spaces where everything hurts and nothing breathes.
It begins with heat.
Like his blood is boiling. Veins turning into wires under his skin, too tight, too hot, burning. He gasps, but there’s no air. No lungs. His body is still here—he feels it—but it’s also not. He watches, helpless, as fingers start peeling back skin from his own hands in long, deliberate strips. He feels each inch, every wet tear of dermis, the nerve endings sparking and screaming. There’s blood pooling at his knees, but nothing to catch it.
Then the bones snap.
All of them.
Each pop is a rifle crack in his skull—his spine contorts like a marionette with cut strings, limbs bending wrong, ribcage caving and twisting and crushing until he’s nothing but a tangle of nerves and broken angles. But he doesn't pass out. The Operator doesn't let him. Not until he's learned.
“You want something to knock the sense back in?”
It's not a voice. It's a feeling. A concept forced into his neurons with the subtlety of a scalpel to the eye.
Then the digging starts.
Hands—his? Theirs? His—burrow into his own chest, pulling apart memories like meat, extracting moments. His first kill. His last breath of air before drowning in loyalty. Every whispered doubt. Every time he flinched. Everything he ever tried to hide.
Dragged into the light.
Ripped raw.
Shown to no one but himself.
He can feel it all at once. His fingernails breaking, teeth pulled from his jaw like piano keys, eyes squeezed until they burst, spine bent back over itself until it snaps—
---
And then.
Silence.
Cold dirt against his cheek.
He blinks.
Hoodie is curled up behind the shed. Same place he was before. Mouth dry, breath caught somewhere in his throat. There's no blood. No bruises. His fingers are whole. Skin unbroken. Teeth intact.
But everything hurts.
The pain is still there. His whole body remembers. His bones ache as if shattered and re-set in the wrong shape. His throat burns from screams he never made. He can taste copper. His eyes leak tears without meaning to, like his system can’t tell if it’s grief or relief.
He gags. Nothing comes out.
He shudders when he hears the crunch of boots on gravel.
Masky crouches beside him, that familiar silhouette blotting out the too-bright sky.
He lights a cigarette, exhales slowly, voice low and distant, like he already knows.
“…All in one piece?”
Hoodie can’t speak.
Masky glances at him sideways. “Yeah. Figured.”
Another drag. The ember flares. Then a pause.
“You asked for it.”
A beat.
“…But I’m still pissed he answered.”
He doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t need to. Just stays there, a quiet constant, while Hoodie’s body trembles from pain that shouldn’t exist, ribs contracting like they’re still trying to knit themselves together.
You remind me of the girls who wear their slightly curly hair in ponytails, giggles with their hands to their face to kinda cover up their laugh, likes those girly makeup girls because they're very confident and you wish you could have it but at the same time you're just also letting yourself to grow and is fine with reaching the "it girl" stage later than others. <33333 tried my best hehe
you remind me of the sunset but also spring!! or the smell of fresh laundry + the smell of long abandoned rooms<3 you have that vibe people can be calm with but you're also very loud and cheerfull!! and you give those homely feelings of familiarity but also deja vu, like we've known e/o for longer than irl
NOW TELL ME MINE HAHAHAHAHHAHAAH (I used to do these typa back and forth quizzes in general, moots who've been w/ me for long enough know that<3)
idk why but the first thing that springs to mind is like younger misato, but like what i imagine her as when she was younger and super energetic after her mutism went away (and she has to 'make up' for all that time she didn't talk)... she takes an interest in everything and doesn't stop yapping and it's really cool !!!
@hamster-princess3 @yournamemakesmytonguetired @asterstella @eloose @tabagge @philosopherjagger @fleurmarie + any other moots i forgot to tag !!! :p
well i'd say summer bc of ur pfp looks like it has sun in it. also harry potter because of ur name. hmmm and cool breezes on a sunny day
@nyxtheghost222 @aneptunicperson @geooo0o @karmaajr @ririwithrice @hansel-the-idiot @ho-ho-homosxual @eepypillmuncher @kitkatthekitkatkat @althazel @eastical + any other moots im too lazy to tag
You remind me of a bird flying in light rain, also for some reason whenever I think of you I think of a panda :3
@thatoneghostcosplayer @the-real-gmail @plutoplaysgames @pigeonentity @aneptunicperson @sokittykingdom @h00d-tr4sh @zonedallthewayout + anyone that wants to do thisss
The door was knocked on so softly Masky almost didn't catch it.
It was late—too late for anyone respectable to be there. The house was still, windows dark, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears. He stood up from the couch, slowly, scowling, fingers already flexing near the pocketknife he kept stashed in his hoodie.
Another knock. Two hard raps. Then nothing.
He approached the door, eyes squinting. Looked in through the side window.
Then he froze.
"...Hoodie?"
No response. But it was him. Standing there, stiff and still in the half-light porch light. Mask off. Hoodie dripping with something—rain? Sweat? Blood?
Masky opened the door. "Hey. Jesus, man—what the hell—"
Hoodie fell into him.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't slow. One moment standing, next tumbling over, arms like dead weights wrapped around Masky's shoulders, body convulsing like he was shaking off a fit of some sort. Masky reached for him reflexively, taking one step back from the impact.
"Shit— okay, okay, I got you—" Slamming the door shut behind them, he eased Hoodie down slowly until they both landed on the floor. "You're okay. You're here. You're safe."
Hoodie said nothing.
He didn't cry, either.
He just clung, silent and rigid, his forehead against Masky's collarbone, his fists in the hoodie of Masky's like if he let go he'd disappear again. His breathing was wrecked—too shallow, too fast, not quite a panic attack but close. Close.
Masky just held him.
No questions. Not yet.
He knew trauma when he saw it.
And this wasn’t just trauma—this was aftershock. This was the kind of shaking that came when the body was still convinced it was dying.
Masky reached up and ran a hand over the back of Hoodie’s head, gentle, slow. Not quite comforting—Hoodie didn’t do comfort—but grounding. Real. Solid.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “In. Out. You’re not there anymore.”
It took a while.
Minutes, probably.
But then Hoodie's grip on him eased. His head fell to the side, and he forward-slumped against Masky rather than bracing himself. Shaking. Silent.
But alive.
Masky exhaled through his nose. "Wanna know what the heck happened?"
Hoodie didn't answer. He just shook his head, small and slow.
Masky nodded. "Okay. Not yet. That's okay."
Another couple of seconds passed before Hoodie actually stirred—just enough to pull up his hand, slowly, as though lifting was agony. He pulled something out of the pocket of his hoodie and put it on the floor between them.
Masky looked down.
Glass fragments.
Mirror glass.
And blood.
His breathing caught.
"...Oh," he breathed.
Hoodie still didn't look at him.
Masky picked up one of the shards carefully, turned it in the light. There was something on it—a reflection, but wrong. Off. Like the angle was bending the light into something other. A trick of the glass. Or not a trick at all.
“I’m guessing he did this,” Masky said, and it wasn’t a question.
Hoodie gave the barest nod.
“The maze?”
Another nod.
Masky hissed softly, examining Hoodie now with a more critical eye. His hands were a mess—half-wrapped in gauze, deep rust red-stained, swollen and bruised knuckles. There were cuts on his arms, some fresh, some scabbed over. And beneath the grime, he looked… wrecked. Pale. Sickly. Hollow-eyed as if he hadn't slept in days.
"Jesus," Masky muttered. "You been in that thing since—?"
"Yesterday," Hoodie croaked, hardly louder than a whisper.
His voice was shredded.
Masky's eyes flashed up, catching his finally. "You came here. You found me."
Hoodie didn't nod this time. Just looked at him with a haunted, exhausted sort of truth.
"You were the one thing I could think of," he croaked. "I didn't—I didn't know where I was. Just. kept walking."
Masky felt something heavy settle in his chest.
It hadn't been Brian who had come to him. Not exactly. Hoodie hadn't asked for help. Hoodie hadn't fallen onto people's doorsteps.
This was a deeper place. An older place. An instinctive one.
Hoodie had dragged himself there because some part of him—some wounded beast, nerve-deep section—had decided Masky means safe.
Not pleasant. Not kind.
Just safe.
Masky could feel the knot tightening in his throat.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I've got you."
Hoodie's eyes flicked open and he blinked once. "I saw you."
"In the maze?"
"Yes and no." His voice cracked. "Before. For a moment. Real house. You were on the couch. I didn't even say anything."
Masky's eyebrow creased. "I don't remember that."
Hoodie laughed hollowly, short and splintered. "Didn't last. He pulled me back. Right after I saw you."
Masky didn't answer right away. His fists in his lap curled slowly.
"That's his trick," he growled. "Dangles things. Just long enough to make it worse."
At one point, Hoodie nodded. "And then he showed me you. Again and again. In the mirrors. Wrong. You were all torn up. Dead. Or glaring at me like I wasn't human at all."
His gaze rose to the ceiling, voice threadbare. "You ever seen someone you trust look at you like they want to gut you?"
Masky did not react. But his jaw clenched.
"That wasn't me," he whispered.
"It felt like you. He made it feel like you hated me. Like I'd let you down."
"You didn't."
Hoodie didn't argue. But he didn't confirm it, either.
He was shaking again. Not as violently. But deeper. Quieter. Like his body had lost the fight to scream and just. settled into the grief.
Masky leaned over and placed a hand carefully on top of his, unfolding the fingers slowly, peeling off the ravaged gauze. "You did what you had to do."
"I broke every mirror," Hoodie told him. "It didn't work. They kept coming back. And they were worse."
"You're not there now."
"I was. For so long. I—I couldn't tell reality from. Sometimes I still—"
He froze. Voice gone. Shoulders locked.
Masky didn't push it.
He finished rebandaging the worst of Hoodie's fingers, hands tight in spite of the writhing nausea in his belly.
Hoodie looked at him in silence.
"...You didn't invite me," he said finally.
Masky raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"You didn't need me. You didn't call me. But I came anyway. Like—like a fucking dog."
Masky stared at him. "Is that what you think this is?"
Hoodie said nothing.
Masky sighed and rolled back just enough to catch his eye.
"I don't care how you got here. I'm just glad you did."
Hoodie swallowed, glancing out the window. "I didn't know where else to go."
"Then you made the right choice."
A very long silence followed.
"...You're still Masky," Hoodie whispered.
Masky's expression never altered.
"But right now?" he said. "I'm just Tim."
Hoodie's eyes closed.
He leaned forward again, this time not in collapse, but in surrender—forehead lightly touching against Masky's shoulder.
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."
And Masky just held him again.
Not like a partner. Not like a murderer. Not like a co-conspirator in their own never-ending hell.
TW: blood, body horror, dissociation, psychological horror, hallucinations, suicidal imagery, self-injury, emotional distress, implied manipulation/torture, forced exposure to phobia, mirrors, spectrophobia (fear of mirrors)
Taglist!: @mis-fortunate @ieatpeninklols
Spectrophobia.
It had only been a second. Barely that.
Brian had opened his eyes and found himself—home. The real one. Not the bloodless, mirrored nightmare. Not the endless maze of his own ruined face.
Just the living room.
Dim. Dusty. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache.
He hadn’t even fully registered it when he saw Tim.
He was sitting on the couch, hunched forward, head in his hands like the weight of the world had finally tipped him over. His shoulders were tight. His breathing shallow. And despite everything, Brian felt something lurch up inside him—recognition, guilt, relief.
Tim.
He didn’t even speak. Couldn’t. He just stood there in the doorway, blood caked up to his elbows, eyes stinging from the light. His throat burned like he’d swallowed fire.
But before he could say a word—
He was gone again.
The world folded, twisted, ripped—and he dropped hard onto mirrored glass.
No warning.
No mercy.
No sound except the faint echo of something like laughter reverberating through the maze.
He lay there for a second, face pressed to the floor, breath gone. The cuts on his hands had barely begun to clot. His whole body shook, numb with pain, blood crusted to his wrists and drying into his sleeves.
He wanted to scream.
But the moment passed.
And the mirrors lit up again.
They showed him Tim, this time. So many Tims. One with a bullet wound to the head. One with blood around his mouth like he’d been forced to bite his own tongue off. One hanging. One smiling.
One looking straight at him and turning away.
Brian shoved himself to his feet, gasping. “No,” he croaked. “No—please, stop—”
He ran. It didn’t matter where. Every turn brought him back to himself. Back to a broken Tim. Back to the echoes of what he’d just had for one second.
The Operator had let him see him.
Dangling the image like bait. Like a test.
And now the maze was angrier. The reflections were worse. One showed Tim kneeling next to Brian’s body. One showed them both burning. One showed Brian holding Tim’s severed head like a puppet.
He slammed his hand into the next mirror.
Glass exploded. So did his knuckles.
It grew back.
Now it showed Tim walking away from him. Again.
He didn’t know how long he’d been running. Bleeding. Screaming. Punching. The ache in his chest was worse than the pain in his hands. Worse than the glass lodged in his palm or the way his arm wouldn’t lift right anymore.
All he could think about was that one second.
Tim, right there.
So close.
So far.
And then he saw his reflection again—not Brian, not Hoodie. Just some broken version of himself.
Ik I already warned for angst but here are the TWs! Unintentional s/h (if that even makes sense), mirrors, punching mirrors, derealization, panic attack/anxiety attack, blood, mention of murder
Tag list 😋 : @mis-fortunate @thatonecatinatophat @ieatpeninklols @ikeaalien123 @xena-lilac-winters
He knows.
Brian didn’t remember how he got there. That was how it always went.
A blink, a skip in time, a sudden lurch in his chest like a dropped elevator—and then he was somewhere else. This time, the air felt cold but still, heavy like it was trying to press him into the floor.
He opened his eyes to a silence that screamed.
Mirrors. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall. A maze of perfect reflections. At first, all he could see were endless copies of himself—Brian and Hoodie and the strange, flickering half-states in between. Some wore his mask. Some didn’t. Some bled. Some smiled. None looked safe.
He spun around too fast and staggered, losing balance as his own face multiplied into thousands. Every movement made him sick—there was no depth, no orientation. Just copy after copy, fragments of himself he didn’t recognize.
And then he felt it—that presence.
The Operator wasn’t visible, but he was here. Watching. Always watching. This wasn’t a trap. It was a punishment.
Because Brian hadn’t obeyed.
He had hesitated—couldn’t bring himself to kill the last one. A kid, practically. Just another scared runaway with more dirt than skin and a sobbing plea that had sounded too familiar.
He had walked away.
Now he was here.
The first time he punched a mirror, it was instinct. He saw a version of himself with blackened eye sockets and a slit throat and panicked—lashed out. The glass exploded under his fist, slicing deep into the skin of his knuckles and wrist.
Blood hit the floor.
He panted, trembling, staring down at the shards.
Then he looked up—and the mirror was whole again. Unbroken. As if nothing had happened.
But the reflection was different now.
This one wore the mask, but it was smiling. Wide. Too wide. The mouth stretching underneath it in ways no real mouth could. Brian backed away, blood dripping from his fingers, eyes wide.He hit another. Harder this time. It shattered with a sound like screaming metal. The pain was worse. The glass bit in deeper. His breath came in ragged gasps, but for a moment, there was a thrill—something he could affect.
The mirror reformed.
Brian gagged.
He hit another.
And another.
Every punch came with pain. Every cut ached deeper. He didn’t care. His hands were a ruin of red and trembling skin, but it was the only thing he could do.
Each time, the reflection changed—worse, more warped, more cruel.One showed Hoodie killing Tim. One showed Brian smiling as he stabbed someone. One just showed static. One looked exactly like real life—but blinked out of sync.
He started to cry without realizing.
Hoodie fronted briefly, tried to take control—but even he couldn’t stomach it for long. Not this. Not them. Not all the selves staring back, accusing, leering, pleading.
They took turns fronting out of desperation, out of instinct, but it didn’t matter. There was no escape. No forward. No way out.
Just mirror after mirror after mirror. Maze with no end. Blood on their hands. Fractured reflections and a silence so total it made their own breathing unbearable.
And somewhere, far beyond the glass—He was watching.
Brian’s legs ache deep in the joints, especially at night when everything’s still. He can’t get comfortable easily; even with layers of scavenged blankets or an old sleeping bag, pressure on his knees is constant. Some nights he sleeps sitting up against a wall, knees slightly bent, because it's the only way they don't throb.
> He shifts again, the blanket twisted under one knee and the joint catching with a jolt of pain. He winces. Hoodie mutters inside his head, agitated—not at Brian, but at the body. “Sleep,” Hoodie grits out, as if willpower alone will dull the pain. Brian huffs quietly, curling tighter, “You tell me how to do that.”
2. Hoodie never sleeps well, even when fronting.
When Hoodie fronts alone, his body may rest, but it’s more of a freeze-state than true sleep. He's hyperaware, often half-awake with one ear tuned for sounds—footsteps, twigs breaking, breathing that isn’t his. If they’re in a more secure spot (abandoned cabin, car with locked doors), he might let the body fall fully asleep. But he’s twitchy. Hypervigilant. Always ready to wake up swinging.
> There’s a quietness to the woods tonight. Hoodie knows it’s false—too quiet. Still, he lays down, folding the coat under his head. The cold presses in, and he sets the knife beside him in the dark, blade up. Just in case. His eyes slip closed. They don’t stay that way.
3. They "tag in" for sleep depending on stress levels.
If Brian's too anxious, Hoodie fronts and lets the body rest—even if Hoodie doesn't get mental quiet. If Hoodie’s too tense from over-exposure, Brian takes over with soft background noise on an old MP3 player to ground them both.
> Brian curls up in the corner of the attic, earbuds in, static from some half-broken radio track crackling softly. “You can rest,” he murmurs aloud, more to Hoodie than himself. “I got it.” And somehow, Hoodie believes him. For now.
4. They sleep light—both of them.
Even when Brian’s alone, he doesn’t sleep deep. Trauma, environment, and chronic discomfort mean he startles easily. A distant sound or sudden drop in temperature can bring him upright in a second. Hoodie’s worse, and he leaves physical reminders of his paranoia: booby traps on doorways, glass bottles by the window, a knife always within reach.
> Brian wakes to the clink of glass. Not shattered—just moved. His breath catches. Hoodie’s voice is steel in his mind: “Don’t move. Listen.” A heartbeat later, a raccoon scurries past the window. Brian laughs weakly, breath shaking. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw the knife,” he whispers. Hoodie doesn’t respond, but Brian feels the unspoken tension release.
5. Sometimes, when it’s safe and calm, they both sleep.
On rare nights, when Brian’s pain is manageable and Hoodie isn't on edge, they both rest. Hoodie retreats, Brian drifts, and the body actually recovers. These are the nights Brian wakes up groggy but refreshed—nights Hoodie doesn’t remember at all, and is glad not to.
> The sun's barely risen when Brian opens his eyes. His back aches but not in the panic-inducing way. There’s a numb quiet inside his head—Hoodie’s present, but not active. Just watching. Brian stretches, slow and careful, then whispers, “Thanks for letting me have it.” No reply. But he feels the quiet approval in his chest.
Took the feeling in my guts and made it into a drabble, if I have to suffer, so does he! Written in the perspective of Brian, because I wanted to write first person ^^
TW for graphic descriptions, rotting, stomach aches, and possibly disturbing imagery (no pictures, but might make you imagine things you might not want to!) Very Dead Dove Do Not Eat type stuff
Guts.
It’s the same dull ache. Same heavy, disgusting pressure sitting in my gut like it owns the place. But now it’s festering. That’s the word. That’s exactly what it feels like. Like something’s rotting inside me, slow and quiet and foul. Not killing me, not fast, just... sitting there. Getting worse. Spreading.
It’s not sharp. It’s not dramatic. It’s just this low, gnawing pain that pulses and twists like it’s alive. Like it’s thinking. Like it knows I can’t do anything about it. And I swear, I can feel it—this slow, filthy decay just festering in the pit of me.
I want it out. I want to claw into myself and dig it out with my bare hands. I think about it constantly—fingers tearing through skin and muscle, just reaching in and grabbing whatever’s in there, yanking it out like a weed. Doesn’t even matter if I bleed out after. At least it wouldn’t be this. At least I wouldn’t feel like a corpse with the lights still on.
It makes me feel sick. Not the kind of sick that passes. The kind that lingers. The kind that smells wrong. The kind that makes you sweat and shake and wonder if something’s dying in you. If you’re already rotting and your body hasn’t caught up yet.
I keep holding my stomach like I’m trying to contain it. Like I can keep it from spreading. But it’s already in me. It’s part of me. And that’s the worst fucking part.
I just want it gone. I’d tear it out if I could. I really fucking would.
I can't fix it. If I could it would've been gone by now. It's like there are maggots inside of me. Eating my flesh.
Drabble for my Brian doodle! Doodle+drabble under the cut!
He wasn't really looking at the fire.
The firecracked softly casting Long shadows along the cabin walls. Brian stood still, half wrapped in the silence, half lost in the warmth flickering before him steam still clung to his skin, beads of water tracing paths down his neck and soaking the collar of his dark shirt. His hair slicked back and damp from the shower dripped occasionally quiet place that barely registered over the low hum of the flames. He wasn't really looking into the fire. His eyes glowing faintly in the firelight tired but sharp were locked on something just passed it or someone. Not physically there, but present all the same he could see the curve of a smile that wasn't his. Hear the echo of a laugh he hadn't heard in weeks that certain someone had a way of crawling into his quiet moments like this between the burn of hot water and hush of the firelight. A ghost in the warmth. A balm to his frayed senses.
Brian let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. His knees ached like they always did but he didn't sit down. Not yet. Instead he let the moment linger. Let him feel just this once, without hoodie breathing down his neck or the creeping chill of blood slick memories ruining it all. Just him, the fire, and a half formed hope he was too scared to name.
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