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@demcnsinmymind
“The building chose me. Not you. Do you have any idea what 10 years in here can do to a person? I'm not crazy. I'm getting out of here."
Demons in the walls
Demons in the halls
Demons in my mind
Demons you will find.
Name: Lance Preston Age: 35 Gender: Male Status: Alive - Missing person since 2003 Fandom: Grave Encounters
Verses: Modern (1968-2000s) / 1940s | Post Apoc | SPN | TVDU/TO
[ info, lore & guidelines]
[ thread tracker ]
[Jarthur sideblog]
(credit)
questions only sentence starters
if you are sending to a multi-muse, remember to specify the muse that the sentence starters are being sent for .
who . . .
“ Who are you? ”
“ Who do you serve? ”
“ Who taught you that? ”
“ Who’s really in control here? ”
“ Who are you running from? ”
“ Who did this to you? ”
“ Who’s coming for us? ”
“ Who do you think I am? ”
“ Who else knows about this? ”
“ Who are you trying to protect? ”
what . . .
“ What are you? ”
“ What do you want from me? ”
“ What are you hiding? ”
“ What were you planning to do? ”
“ What just happened? ”
“ What did you see back there? ”
“ What did you promise them? ”
“ What happens if I don’t let you go? ”
“ What are the rules I’m not supposed to break? ”
“ What happens after the portal closes? ”
where . . .
“ Where did you come from? ”
“ Where are we? ”
“ Where are you going? ”
“ Where were you when it happened? ”
“ Where does this path lead? ”
“ Where did you get that scar? ”
“ Where is everyone else? ”
“ Where should I stand? ”
“ Where did you put the body? ”
“ Where were you hiding all this time? ”
when . . .
“ When did this start? ”
“ When were you going to tell me? ”
“ When was the last time you felt safe? ”
“ When do we leave? ”
“ When did you stop trusting me? ”
“ When does this end? ”
“ When did you realise the truth? ”
“ When do things go wrong? ”
“ When did you choose this path? ”
“ When will you look at me and be honest? ”
how . . .
“ How long have you been watching me? ”
“ How did you survive? ”
“ How much do you remember? ”
“ How are you this calm right now? ”
“ How bad is it? ”
“ How did you know my name? ”
“ How far are you willing to go? ”
“ How many lies have you told me? ”
“ How do you live with this? ”
“ How are we supposed to fix this? ”
are . . .
“ Are you human? ”
“ Are you okay? ”
“ Are you lying to me right now? ”
“ Are you scared? ”
“ Are you tired? ”
“ Are you hiding something? ”
“ Are you bound by oath or by magic? ”
“ Are you trying to start a fight? ”
“ Are you always this dramatic? ”
“ Are you going to explain or just stare? ”
do . . .
“ Do you trust me? ”
“ Do you remember your name? ”
“ Do you remember me? ”
“ Do you miss them? ”
“ Do you always talk this much? ”
“ Do you have any idea what you just did? ”
“ Do you ever sleep? ”
“ Do you want me to stay? ”
“ Do you think I’m stupid? ”
“ Do you believe in fate? ”
have . . .
“ Have you eaten yet? ”
“ Have we met before? ”
“ Have you been here long? ”
“ Have you done this before? ”
“ Have you ever killed someone? ”
“ Have you been lying to me? ”
“ Have you lost anyone? ”
“ Have you forgiven yourself? ”
“ Have you always been like this? ”
“ Have you already chosen a side? ”
is . . .
“ Is this place real? ”
“ Is something bothering you? ”
“ Is that weapon even legal here? ”
“ Is this your idea of a joke? ”
“ Is this your way of flirting? ”
“ Is someone watching us? ”
“ Is it supposed to hurt like this? ”
“ Is there a way out? ”
“ Is this what you wanted? ”
“ Is it too late to turn back? ”
can . . .
“ Can I ask you a weird question? ”
“ Can you hear that? ”
“ Can I trust you? ”
“ Can you keep a secret? ”
“ Can we slow down? ”
“ Can you help me bury a body? ”
“ Can you look at me? ”
“ Can we talk about what happened? ”
“ Can you stop pretending? ”
“ Can you promise me something? ”
will . . .
“ Will you stay with me? ”
“ Will you tell me the truth? ”
“ Will this ever end? ”
“ Will you protect me? ”
“ Will they come back for us? ”
“ Will you remember me? ”
“ Will you choose a side? ”
“ Will you regret this? ”
“ Will you still look at me the same way? ”
“ Will you stop me if I’m wrong? ”
should . . .
“ Should I be worried? ”
“ Should we be running? ”
“ Should I follow you? ”
“ Should I be afraid of you? ”
“ Should we pretend this never happened? ”
“ Should I stay or go? ”
“ Should I believe you? ”
“ Should I be honest with you? ”
“ Should we trust them? ”
“ Should I have come here? ”
would . . .
“ Would you do it again? ”
“ Would you lie to protect me? ”
“ Would this have been different if I had stayed? ”
“ Would you really let me die? ”
“ Would you have saved them instead? ”
“ Would you still care if you knew the truth? ”
“ Would you leave if I asked? ”
“ Would this hurt less if I understood? ”
“ Would you forgive me? ”
“ Would you choose me this time? ”
could . . .
“ Could you survive without me? ”
“ Could this world exist without you? ”
“ Could this get any worse? ”
“ Could you teach me how to do that? ”
“ Could you be wrong? ”
“ Could you be lying to yourself? ”
“ Could you forgive them? ”
“ Could this be a trap? ”
“ Could you handle the truth if I told you? ”
“ Could you live with the consequences? ”
“ Do you have any idea what 10 years in here can do to a person? The building chose me. Not you.“
Demons in the walls Demons in the halls Demons in my mind Demons you will find.
Name: Lance Preston & Aza/thoth Age: 35 & ∞ Status: Alive - Missing person & awake since 2003 Fandom: Gr*ave En*counters & love/craftian horror Verses: Modern (1968-2000s) / 1940s | Post Apoc | SPN | TVDU/TO
HORROR / SUPERNATURAL / DEMONIC POSSESSION / FOUND FOOTAGE
[ death awaits]
love going into the Azzy tag to look for cool shit to reblog and it's all just Mal finale posts. I ain't even mad
Of course, she wants to tell him. Of course, you are glad. You are alive. You have no choice.
But she doesn't say that. It must be difficult, to come so close, to almost touch complete annihilation and then be torn away. She imagines the fear that martyrs feel, sacred and numinous. Every cell in your body struggles away, begging, flaying itself, instincts spinning like dervishes upon the needlepoint that spells out the only law that life has ever known: continue. Of course Lance, having continued, is glad of it. But if he were dead, he would be glad of that, too. Which isn't true. He wouldn't be anything. Complete peace, the kind that heaven has been crooning in her ear since she was an infant, demands complete absence.
Oh God, oh God. Is that it? She is staggered by how commonplace, how casually negligible, this revelation feels. Eternal life, she remembers, is not a reward. Her death is postponed indefinitely, until the play demands it. In her father's world, she was even immune to the end of the world. Yeah, fire and brimstone, the seven-headed, seven-crowned beast. The rivers of blood, the firestorms, and the armies of the dead. All that is promised, all of it, on the Day of Wrath. She is destined to survive it all. She wonders how glad she'll be.
Miriam feels him shifting and turning on the bed beside her. Under Lance's weight, the springs creak pitifully. It's not a particularly well-treated mattress. Fucked through, she thinks crassly. Another thing that's been happening out here, in the dust and blood of the rest of the world: She's gotten kind of vulgar.
She tries to see him, spy the outline of his body. His warmth reaches her all the same, from the dark. His warmth and his words. They mercifully deliver her from another downward spiral. She reaches up to the ceiling, imagines a mouth waiting there, hidden by her self-imposed blindness. She wants to brush her fingers against its teeth.
"No," she admits. "It's a precaution." Miriam shivers. As if on cue, she hears an angel tapping on the glass. She imagines it sticking its spindly, glaringly bright finger in through the cracks in her makeshift blinds. It's scratching. It's curling its many jointed digit. She closes her eyes like a child. "If no light gets in, then we're safe. I figured it all out. I used to wake up to them in my room, all around my bed. But they come in through the window. So. When I cover the windows, they can't see us. It's good, I promise. It's for the best. They're always out at night, looking for me."
Lance turns his head to look at her shape, has no trouble finding it in the dark. A precaution she says. The darkness is not your friend. He wants to tell her, given his experience with it. But before the next thought can even truly form in his mind, it's there already. That doubt. Made vocal, made real. Isn't it? it calls him out on it, so perfectly aware of everything he's feeling and doing right now. Lying perfectly still in this bed. Breathing evenly. Feeling a sense of calm and truth at the mention of these words. Not terror. Not any fucking normal and sane reaction to it at all. If no light gets in, then we're safe, she's saying right next to him. And he cannot help but agree. At long last, there is an onslaught of distress within him. Triggered no sooner than when she says that one thing that gets him still. I used to wake up to them in my room. In the dead of night sometimes, as if he's back in that place, back in that room where they kept him, burst into at the most random time of day, as if time had any meaning in there. They come in through the window. She says. And through the pipes and the walls and the hands in the ceiling. Sprawling out like seaweed on an ocean floor, turned upside down, reaching and reaching and taking and wanting t... An involuntary, sudden whimper leaves his mouth at the image. Real or just a memory, a flashback, that he cannot tell. But it is there again. In that dark. From before he got used to it. Reaching out. Ready to grab and pull and stab if it only just manages to get a hold of him with their cold, dead hands and... After one final, panicked full body-shiver, said body relaxes and melts into the matress beneath like butter. And he...no, shit, -it-, exhales ever so softly and slowly, as if that sudden burst of panic was never even there. Instead, the body sits up ever so gracefully, so fluid and tender that it almost looks obsence. It makes him walk over to that very window she just talked about covering so carefully. Just a precaution, she'd told him, and here Lance is now, it is. Leaned against the wall right next to that window, using his long, slender fingers to grace the edge of her makeshift blinds like testing the edge of a knife. Slow, long, almost leasurly. "You're right" it makes him say and he fells it return, that smile, creeping its way back onto his face. Not at all friendly though, even when it aims to be. Predatory instead. With a glint to it all that he can't help but...appreciate when it says the following.
"They can't see us" it reassures her, no, him, and he knows that the moment it keeps going. "But we can see them, can't we?" it encourages, looking right at her, ever blinking. "Come. Here. Take a look" it says, reaching out for her, beckoning her closer to the very thing she's trying to keep hidden.
It doesn't occur to Miles how infrequently he has the opportunity to speak so freely until he's most of the way through his reply. He goes quiet while Lance seems to turn over what he's said, and finds himself faintly embarrassed to have spilled his guts so readily to someone he's tried so hard to put up a good front around. What serves as an additional source of shame is the knowledge that he's only scratched the surface, that there are untold scores of monologues and confessions eating away at him. If only he'd give them voice -- and it's jarring to consider that he even wants to.
At first there isn't much to add, and he merely hums a quiet assent at Lance's assertion that he'd change the past if he could. Miles doesn't judge him for that. He knows that his own feelings on the matter probably indicate more than a few loose screws. Forgoing such horror if the opportunity presented itself is the logical answer. The sane one. But being aware of that fact doesn't change his sense of certainty.
"Ha, yeah, I'm a regular tortured protagonist." It really does sound egotistical when Lance puts it like that, and yet it doesn't feel wrong, either. It's nothing so glamorous as that title usually conveys in fiction, but there is a not insignificant part of him that knows deep down -- buried somewhere in his marrow, or those little animal instinct parts of the brain that evolution has decided to keep around -- that he's ended up exactly as he was always meant to. The knowledge is equal parts unsettling and comforting, the latter of which sensation should probably be a concern all its own.
Now isn't the time to dissect that, though. Not with Lance -- or at least, not yet. He responds to the support with a wry smile and a sigh. It's a little bit like the blind leading the blind, and at the end of the day neither of them can really claim superiority over the other. It's nice, though, to want the best for someone else. To believe that they can conquer what you can't.
"You mean you don't use your trauma as an ice breaker? And here I thought all of this shit was a relatable life experience for most people." He winces at the comment after he makes it -- it's easy to forget, sometimes, that Lance spent time in an institution after his whole... adventure. He doesn't mean to minimize that. "Sorry, I didn't mean-- I'm not trying to downplay it, it just. Happens. Force of habit. But... yeah. I, uh, I appreciate you. Listening, I mean. Any time you want to talk, y'know? That's probably a better outlet than the supernatural dick measuring contest."
"Trauma? Me? Pfft" Lance snorts, shrugging somewhat theatrically. "Got none of that. Plenty of charm though. That usually breaks the ice just fine." Even gives it a somewhat cocky wink, though he regrets that the second it happens. Nope. Still fucking hurts even after all this time. He's glad that Miles is quick to apologize for something that needs no apology, uses it to not just wave off his words, but every last other thing, too.
"Nah, fuck it. Make that happened. It happened. Just like shit happens. And then you move on" he brushes it off, then gets moving at last. But not before taking a long, deep breath. He knows he probably shouldn't say it out loud, indulge it, but since they're on the talking train already....
"I don't know. Sometimes it does feel nice to do a supernatural flex. Blowing shit up, letting it allll out. That trauma" he teases but without bite, more of a slightly sarcastic observation. He snorts at it, the realization, the irony of it all.
"Spent all my life 'looking for it'. The supernatural" Lance says with air quotes, making it perfectly clear that he's more than aware of his own past bullshit. "And now it's right on the doorstep. At my fingertips. In my fingertips" He smirks at it, but it lacks the joy, pretty much anything. The silence stretches on for a moment as he lets all that has been said settle, considers the offer to keep talking. Until he drops the hand again. Not as a fist, but open and palm turned inward. Doesn't quite take Miles up on the offer. Even when he knows it'd felt good. But he knows what else does. "You said it. Better do something halfway decent with it. Whatever that means for you. For me it means trying to only sick it on people who have it coming now" he says, truthfully, then points at Miles. "So how about we find more of those instead. Get back to work. That guy...Wernicke? He still alive?"
so I'm just going to reply to a bunch of old stuff from my thread tracker (read: stuff literally more than a year old, oh lawd). Absolutely no pressure to reply to anything if you don't feel like it anymore! Just figured since it was my turn to reply last time and I don't like owing stuff, I gotta get right back to it because it never was my intention to forget about any of u guys <3
@birdonawiresara sent 🎨 Three colours | Three Items Symbol Meme - Send a symbol and I’ll list three things I associate with my muse | Always Open!
Black (Colors 1/3)
To the untrained eye, one might easily miss the expression of vexation that passes across Azrael’s sharp features; the clenching of her jaw and the brief narrowing of her eyes. Her gaze is unusually intense for what previously seemed like such a casual conversation. Then, as suddenly as the expression appears, it’s gone again, and Azrael withdraws once more to the same languid, careless-seeming countenance from before, acting as though Lance’s question means nothing.
It’s a jarring switch that speaks volumes about Azrael’s former life as a General and a politician. Any signs of weakness could mean losing something, losing a battle, losing the confidence of her soldiers. Even now, every word is calculated like a move on the chessboard, and Azrael is clearly perturbed by Lance’s last move, at least enough to break her composure.
“Why am I asking? Curiousity, opium, sleep deprivation. Perhaps all of the above.” Azrael says dismissively, waving away the smoke lingering about her.
He's mid dig when the skin at the back of his neck begins to tingle. When he feels something deep inside him tense and flex, when a sharp sting of pain shoots through the corner of his eye. When he looks up to search Azrael's gaze, or whatever might be around them, it's gone though, even when the distinct sensation of...something remains. Something. Ha. How could he ever forget. There's always something. Waiting. Pacing. Inside. Lance's brow furrows further, but in the end, he decides not to ask, not to step in that fucking hornet's nest of potential problems. Not here. Not now. Not with her. Not again. Instead, he takes a long, deep breath and then forces that signature smile back on his face, the way he used to do it sooooo many times back in the time. Breathe. Snap. Action. Perfectly fucking normal and functioning person. Great performance. Not at all tense. Yada Yada. He snorts at the trail of smoke around her instead, raises an eyebrow.
"Hm. Didn't know beings like you could be sleep deprived, too. How's that work? Centuries of being busy doing what you do wearing you out? In need for a decade long power nap?" He chuckles and gets back to digging once again, just so she can't see his face as he says the following, conceals the bitterness to it. "You know what they say, Azrael. Sleep's for the weak. Maybe you should cut out on the downers and get started with some uppers."
oh yeah we back in it
*cracks knuckles* okay, back now for real. I will write at least one reply today
actual footage of me, seeing a new Sean movie in the year of our lord Azathoth, 2026
me: doesn't really write anything on this blog for six months, burned out on inspo SRog, 2026:
me: sorry sir, won't happen again sir
