Summery: You and Lando met at a Monster Energy collab years ago and became fast friends. Now, every off-season, you stream games together, and appear in each other’s vlogs.
Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.
The Monster Energy crossover was supposed to be a branding stunt. You walked out with a lifelong Twitch rival and a future boyfriend.
Not that either of you knew that yet.
You were fresh into your second full NASCAR Cup season, still reeking of rookie energy and adrenaline, and Lando had just graduated from “F1 baby” to “that cheeky McLaren menace.” The event organizers threw drivers from all disciplines into a media pit of brand synergy and sponsored chaos, and somehow, you ended up in a sim racing rig next to him.
He won, but only because you drove backwards to block him.
That moment got clipped, memed, and edited with dubstep by a thousand chaotic teenagers on TikTok.
And you? You found your favorite idiot.
Now it’s tradition: every off-season, you and Lando stream together. Mario Kart. iRacing. Minecraft. Whatever ends in shouting and a dozen Twitch clips of “WTF did I just watch.” Twitch chat calls it “off-season therapy.”
Tonight’s stream was no different.
[Stream Title: “Lando vs [Y/N] - MARIO KART WAR IV 🔥🎮 | loser buys Taco Bell”]
[Viewers: 86,421 and climbing]
LandoNorris: “Okay, we’re going no items. Pure skill.”
[Y/N]: “So you're preparing to lose with dignity this time. Got it.”
Twitch Chat:
🏁 Chat is moving fast
“flirting or fighting??”
“KISS ALREADY OMG”
“he’s blushing look at this simp”
Lando’s laugh echoed through your headset. “You’ve never had dignity in Mario Kart, mate. Don’t start now.”
“Oh please, I drive at 200 mph for a living. You think Rainbow Road scares me?”
“You literally screamed last time.”
“That was a strategic vocal maneuver to psych you out.”
You snorted, nearly dropping your controller. “Chat, please. Children are watching.”
“I am the child watching,” Lando muttered.
“You're like a toddler who somehow unlocked Twitch streaming and F1 sponsorships.”
“Yeah,” he grinned into the camera, “and you’re the NASCAR delinquent who puts ketchup on tacos.”
“One time!”
“Once is enough!”
You ended up winning—barely—and Lando screamed dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been betrayed by God and Nintendo. You leaned back, smug, arms behind your head.
“I believe that’s five to four, me.”
“I demand a recount.”
“This isn’t Florida, Norris. Accept defeat.”
Chat lost it again. Emotes. Memes. Clipped within seconds.
You sat there in the afterglow of your digital domination, sipping a monster while Lando reset the lobby. It was moments like this—the quiet in between chaos—that always got you. You glanced at him through your monitor. He was focused, lower lip caught between his teeth, hair a curly disaster. Always a mess. Always Lando.
And always him.
You told yourself, again, that it was just a friendship thing. The way he made you laugh. The way he texted you before every race, win or lose. How he called after your crash at Daytona last year, staying on the phone for two hours because, as he said, “I’ll know you’re okay if I can hear your dumbass voice.”
Just friends.
Sure.
Later, stream off, your call lingered. You always hung out after, talking into the night like teenagers at a sleepover. Lando was still on camera, leaned back in his gamer chair, hoodie half-off one shoulder.
“You ever think we peaked at that first crossover event?” you asked, half-joking.
Lando chuckled. “Peaked? You drove backwards into me.”
“You screamed like a little girl.”
“You said ‘yeehaw, bitch’ before doing it!”
You both burst into laughter, that kind of ugly, stomach-hurting laugh that only came with familiarity and affection. He wiped his eyes.
“God, you’re such a menace,” he said fondly.
“Look who’s talking. You’ve literally named a Minecraft horse after me. And then blew it up.”
“In my defense,” he smirked, “you called it ugly.”
“It had my name, Norris!”
“That was your warning.”
You shook your head, still smiling. It was so easy with him. Effortless, like drafting behind someone you trust—no sudden turns, just rhythm and speed.
“Are you coming to the States next month?” you asked.
“For Daytona? Yeah.” He hesitated. “Well. Mostly for you.”
You blinked.
He backpedaled instantly. “I mean—not like—ugh. You know what I mean.”
You bit your lip, heart rate edging toward a caution flag. “Yeah. I do.”
The silence was warm, not awkward. Filled with things unsaid and Twitch chat jokes that weren’t there anymore.
“I like streaming with you,” he said suddenly.
“I like everything with you.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Lando froze. So did you.
“…That—was that—?” he began.
You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Uh. That was a sentence.”
He stared. Then smiled.
“Cool,” he said softly. “Because I like everything with you, too.”
[Two Weeks Later | VLOG - “OFF-SEASON SHENANIGANS ft. chaos incarnate”]
Your vlog opened on Lando arriving at your place with a Taco Bell bag and a grin that could power a small city.
You zoomed in dramatically on his face.
“This is the face of a man who lost to me on Rainbow Road.”
Lando: “This is the face of a man rethinking all his life choices.”
Cut to you two racing go-karts at your local track. Him yelling. You yelling louder. Someone (you) crashing into the bushes. Again.
Cut to a grocery store run where Lando argued that British snacks were “culturally superior” and you nearly got kicked out for mock-fighting over tea.
Cut to you both in your garage, elbows deep in your modded sim rig, trying to update firmware and failing miserably.
The vlog ended on a couch shot—both of you, soft and tired, with a blanket over your legs and a PS5 controller each.
You: “This is peak off-season. Don’t @ me.”
Lando, half-asleep: “I’m not saying I’d marry you, but…”
The screen froze. Zoomed in.
Dramatic “To Be Continued” music plays.
[STREAM TITLE: “Relationship Reveal ft. the Moron Squad 🚨💘 | it happened.”] Viewers: 146,000+
[Y/N]: “So hey, yeah, surprise. We’re dating.”
Lando: “I lost at Mario Kart and won at life.”
Chat:
“CALLED IT!!!”
“i’ve waited 84 years”
“my crops are thriving, my skin is clear”
“do the ‘yeehaw bitch’ voice again for old time’s sake”
You looked at Lando. “You wanna say it?”
He raised a brow. “Say what?”
You nudged him with your shoulder, grinning. “The thing.”
He rolled his eyes, affectionate. “Fine.” He leaned into the mic dramatically. “Yeehaw, bitch.”
You cracked up. Twitch chat imploded.
[CLIP TITLE: “YEEHAW BITCH BUT MAKE IT ROMANTIC 🏁❤️”] Posted by: sim4life666 Views: 2.3 million
*Lando reaches out mid-stream, just casually grabs your hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s always been this way.*
He says, “It was always you.”
You call him a nerd and squeeze back.
Chat breaks. Internet breaks. The clip hits trending within 10 hours.
Daytona - Trackside
Your season is about to start. Sun baking the asphalt, cars roaring in the background, adrenaline humming in your chest.
Lando’s in your pit box, somehow looking right at home in your colors. You tug off your helmet after practice, sweat sticking to your neck. He’s there with a water bottle and a grin.
“You ready?” he asks.
You nod. “Always.”
He leans in, presses a quick kiss to your cheek, and murmurs, “Don’t drive backwards into anyone.”
You smirk. “No promises.”
The cameras catch it. The fans scream. The TikToks are already editing themselves.
And somewhere, in the chaos of it all, you realize that being an idiot in love isn’t so bad—especially when the other idiot matches your dumbass energy.
Annnd the Critical Role X Doctor Who crossover has come back…
Jo Grant and Caleb Widowgast’s friendship will forever be on the brain
Also wondering which Doctors the members of Vox Machina would travel with individually? (with the exception of Pike and Grog)
(I think Vax would travel with Eight)
If anyone else would like to share their thoughts on which Doctors the Vox Machina members would travel with feel free to engage I’d love to hear your thoughts
tis be i, the chaos architect (named by you :3) with another idea! it aint buddycop, i cant think of something good right now :(
fortunately i do have something. i just recently bulldozed re7+dlc and did re8 on hardmode, and im boutta start doing it on village of shadows difficulty, so i got nothing but ethan on my mind.
onto the idea
you know how ethan cosplays as a suicide bomber and dies at the end of re8? well the idea is that he ate shit so hard from the bomb that ethan may or may not have been flung across time and space!
thus begins the "ethan being in places he shouldn't be" series
part 1, resident evil 0!
could probably put him in the train right before the leeches come along so the civilans freak out while ethan is trying to comprehend the fact that he didn't die (the death-o-meter overflowed and reverted back to ethan hasn't died)
cue ethan getting his as beat by the leeches because yes, and then its meeting the actual game characters time!
you could go till the end of the game or not, its just gotta end with ethan eating shit and dying because he doesn't get nice things (and so he can be dragged to another game :3)
🩸 Resident Evil: Ethan Winters Out of Bounds (One-Shot) 🩸
Fandom: Resident Evil (RE0 crossover) → Genshin Impact
Genre: Dark Comedy | Crossover Chaos | Gore | Whump | Meta Isekai
Summary:
Ethan Winters was supposed to be dead—again. But when the mold decides physics is optional, he wakes up on a moving train full of terrified civilians and hungry mutant leeches. Cue a chaotic team-up with Rebecca and Billy that ends in the only way Ethan knows how: by exploding, again.
Except this time, instead of hell… he wakes up in Teyvat.
A slime burps, Paimon screams, and Ethan realizes his death-loop just got a pastel upgrade.
A/N:
Anon... you absolute menace, chaos architect, my beloved 😭💥. You’ve done it again. The idea of Ethan being flung across time and space like a bad save file is peak comedy and I adore you for it. I couldn’t not write this. We’re calling it the start of the “Ethan Being in Places He Shouldn’t Be” saga (™). Thank you for feeding my unhinged cross-fandom brain!
✨ If people like this, I’ll totally do a Part 2 where Ethan somehow ends up in Raccoon City, fighting Nemesis and wondering why the sky’s blue again ✨
Ethan’s last clear memory is white heat and a wind like razors. He can’t hear his own scream because the world is louder than him—the blast chewing up the edges of reality. The mold inside him sings like a sick choir. He thinks of Mia, of Rose, of promises made in ash. Then he hits the detonator. There’s that split second of resignation before light becomes too much to name.
Light. Noise. The slow, soft shudder of being unmade.
Then, a ceiling.
He blinks at a chandelier that’s not a chandelier but a brass contraption that sways with the rhythm of a train. The lights flicker. Somewhere, porcelain clinks. Somewhere else, somebody laughs like nothing is wrong. The whole car smells of champagne and coal—a scent so alien and old-fashioned it kicks his brain into guessing where the hell he is. He’s pretty sure Heaven doesn’t have upholstery this tacky.
Ethan tastes copper. He lifts his hand and, yep—still missing two fingers, still bandaged in that classic I-should-probably-see-a-doctor way. He inhales, coughs, and the air is heavy with perfume and smoke. His ribs ache; his hearing rings like a ghost is stuck inside his eardrum humming static.
A conductor in a crisp uniform is staring at him like he’s a puzzle that shouldn’t exist. Past the conductor, a woman in a fur stole clamps a hand over her mouth. A boy points. Someone whispers bomb. Someone else whispers drunk. Someone else crosses themselves like it might help.
Ethan sits up slowly, because if he moves too fast the world will slide off its rails. “Okay,” he says to the ceiling. “Quick status check. I blew up. I’m… here. Not ash. Fingers—” he wiggles them, grimaces— “still a set short. Death-o-meter must’ve overflowed and looped back to ‘hasn’t died.’ That’s… new.”
“Sir?” the conductor asks, voice trying for polite but landing on terrified. “How did you get on this train?”
“Long story,” Ethan says. Then, because habit is survival, he asks, “Any monsters? Strange infections? Anyone bleeding from the eyes?”
The conductor recoils. “Absolutely not.”
The chandelier clicks as if disagreeing.
Ethan’s ears pick up a noise under the rattle of the cars—wet. A kind of crawling hum, like meat remembering it used to be many smaller meats. He knows that sound. He’s heard it in walls and cellars and the throat-song of things that used to be people. “Oh, come on,” he mutters.
The lights cut. In the breath between darkness and the emergency lamps, the train inhales. The boy stops pointing. The laughter dies like a candle pinched shut. The hum grows teeth.
When the red lights stutter on, the windows show night like a bruise and the aisle is not empty anymore.
Leeches. Dozens. Hundreds. Glossy bodies piling over each other, inventing new shapes out of old hunger. They test the air with blind mouths and choose the direction Ethan is in like they’ve always known him.
“Everyone back!” Ethan shouts, grabbing the conductor’s arm and shoving him behind a velvet bench. “If you see a door, use it, and if the door moans at you, don’t use it.”
“W-what are those—”
“Leeches,” Ethan says, rolling to his feet, already scanning for anything he can call a weapon. “Fancy ones.”
There’s a silver champagne bucket on the table. He palms it. There’s a cradle of bread knives. He takes two. The leeches surge.
He meets them like he meets bad ideas: with commitment and a low bar for self-preservation. The first wave hits the bucket with a wet clang; he hooks a knife under a slithering rope of them and flicks, sending bodies splatting into the opposite wall. People scream. Perfume has a top note of terror. The floor slicks over with something that doesn’t want to be called blood.
A woman in pearls is frozen, eyes white. A leech tastes her ankle. Ethan vaults the bench, stomps, and the creature pops like an overripe berry. He hates that sound. He hates that it’s familiar.
“Out!” he barks, pushing her toward the next car. “Go!”
The door kicks open from the other side.
Two figures tumble in—one in a S.T.A.R.S. vest too big for her tiny frame, the other shirtless but for a prison tattoo and a look that says I’ve seen worse. The girl snaps a pistol up, eyes bright and unflinching.
“Freeze!” she says. “S.T.A.R.S.—” Then she sees the floor. “What the—”
“Later,” Ethan pants. “I’m Ethan. Those are leeches. They’re—” A rope of them whips at his shin, he hacks it off, “—not friendly.”
The man—tall, haunted, the kind of quiet that comes from bad luck—steps forward with a combat knife. “Billy.”
The girl nods, recovering with the quickness of someone who refuses not to. “Rebecca Chambers. Medic.”
“God bless medics,” Ethan says, half to himself, and dives back into the mess.
They work in ugly harmony, though in the brief pauses between gunfire and movement, Ethan can feel the old panic crawling up the back of his throat. He forces a joke just to hear his own voice, to remind himself he’s still there, still human, even as the mold hums quietly under his skin.. Rebecca trails Ethan, putting rounds into the fattest clusters, her voice calm and clipped: “Behind you—left—back!” Billy moves like a ghost with elbows, flipping benches with one hand and carving with the other. Ethan is the part of the trio that keeps stepping in places he shouldn’t and getting away with it on sheer stubbornness. His jokes start coming out automatically, because humor’s the only thing keeping the terror manageable.
“Engine room,” Rebecca says between shots. “Something’s messing with the controls. We have to get to the front.”
Ethan glances toward the corridor, where leeches have begun to build themselves into a man-shaped problem. The outline shimmers—arms composed of writhing bodies, a face made of hunger. A voice that is all mouths laughs without sound.
“Oh right,” Ethan says, “you again, but in noodles.”
The thing lunges. Ethan meets it with a champagne bucket and a prayer. The bucket dents like a paper cup. Leeches spill up his arm, cold and insistent. He can feel them tasting the mold in him, like recognizing like. He snarls and rams his forearm into a sconce. Glass shatters. Electricity coughs through him and the leeches. He bites his tongue and tastes more copper.
Rebecca’s hand clamps on his sleeve, dragging him backward. “Move!”
They run. The corridor is a throat. The doors on either side offer rooms that look normal at first glance and wrong at second: a dinner service set for ghosts; a sleeper compartment where a mirror reflects a version of Ethan that has more fingers; a closet lined with skin-colored coats that are probably not coats. Ethan hates trains now. He adds that to the list, somewhere under village cultists and giant vampire moms.
They hit the galley. It is knives and steam and freezer-burned meat. Leeches boil through the vents like black smoke.
Billy slams the freezer, shoulders braced. “That won’t hold long.”
Rebecca points at a jumble of canisters under a prep table. “Industrial solvent. If it’s anything like the samples in the lab, it should disrupt them—”
“Disrupt is good,” Ethan says, already yanking a hose free. “Disrupt is my favorite word after ‘safe’ and ‘Mia.’” He fumbles with the nozzle; the hose coughs and sprays the floor with a hiss that smells like citrus and decay.
They splash the solvent. The first wave of leeches that crosses the shimmering puddle dissolves like it forgot how to be plural. A stench like metal and vinegar fills the air.
“Go!” Rebecca says. “Up!”
Up is a ladder that leads to the roof. The roof is wind and rain and the kind of speed that wants you gone. Pine trees whip by in a blur of ink. The sky has that metallic look of a storm that isn’t sure it wants to commit. Lightning forks and shows them a hundred miles of mountain.
They sprint along the spine of the car, boots slipping on slick metal. Behind them, leeches pour out of vents and seams and the place where the train used to be one piece. Ahead, the engine car glows with a red emergency light like a heartbeat.
“Plan?” Billy shouts over the wind.
“Improvise,” Ethan shouts back. “Then die. Then improvise again.”
“We’re skipping the die part,” Rebecca says with a ferocity that makes Ethan believe her for a second.
They drop through a hatch into the engine room. It is a cathedral of levers and gauges. It is also alive in the wrong way; leeches slither through the machinery, gumming up the works, pulsing in time with the locomotive’s pained groan. Sparks dance like fireflies from tortured metal.
Rebecca is already at the controls, hands flying, jaw set. “If I can decouple the rear cars, we might—”
The man-shaped mass of leeches pours through the hatch after them, taller now, bristling with stolen metal. It reaches for Ethan like it knows his name from a thousand other worlds. The air hums with an oily psychic presence.
“Of course you want me,” Ethan pants, backing toward the brake panel. “I’m very collectible.”
Billy empties a clip into the mass. Rebecca throws a lever like she means it. The world lurches. The rear cars shudder and then let go. The leech-thing pitches, tries to catch itself on a pipe; Ethan sees his opening in the same moment the mold under his skin thrums like a warning.
“I hate this,” he tells the universe, which is not listening. He lunges, slams a chunk of fire extinguisher pin into a gear, yanks a live wire free, and shoves both into the leech mass. For a second, the world is white again. For a second, Ethan is only nervous system and bad decisions. The leeches convulse. The engine screams. The whole train skids into a shriek that scratches his teeth from the inside.
Rebecca’s arms are around him, hauling him back. “Ethan!”
“Go!” he shouts, and the mold agrees by refusing to let him fall yet. “Get clear!”
Billy grabs Rebecca’s shoulder. “We’re not leaving you—”
“Trust me,” Ethan says, and for a heartbeat his voice is old, and tired, and full of houses that have eaten people. “I do this. You live.”
The leech-thing rears. Its many mouths open, and the noise it makes is the opposite of a hymn. Ethan throws the switch. The engine coughs all its fire into the wrong place on purpose. The leeches take it like a sacrament and come apart.
Heat. Noise. The slow, soft shudder of being unmade, again.
He wakes up dying. As consciousness drags him back, he’s half convinced death is on a loop—the same pain rewritten in different handwriting. Each time he thinks maybe this will be the last, but the universe just hits replay. He wonders fleetingly if this is punishment or persistence, then decides it doesn’t matter; survival is the only prayer he still remembers.. Not unusual, if we’re being honest. Not preferable, either. The engine is a furnace. The floor is a mouth. He’s pinned under a tangle of metal and leech meat that twitches without consent. His ribs hurt in ways that suggest a write-in campaign for “worst.” His left hand won’t answer emails.
Rebecca appears in his shrinking world like a miracle in a ponytail. She kneels in glass, unbothered, and presses gauze to a place that is doing too much bleeding. “Hey. Hey! Stay with me.”
He opens one eye. “This your first day?”
“Feels like it,” she says, brisk and kind. “You did good.”
Billy looms behind her, face set in a way that means he knows what is happening. He has seen it before. He hates that he will see it again.
Ethan licks cracked lips. “If I ask you a weird question, will you promise not to think less of me?”
Rebecca smiles like a medic who lies when she has to. “Sure.”
“What year is it?”
“1998,” she says without hesitation.
Ethan huffs a laugh that’s mostly air. “Figures.”
The mold inside him hums, low and familiar. He can feel the edges of himself fuzzing, the world thinning, the trick of the light that is not a trick. He puts a hand—his good one—over Rebecca’s wrist. “You’re going to be okay,” he tells her. “Even when you’re not. You keep moving. That’s the job.”
Her throat works. She squeezes his fingers like she’s trying to anchor him. “What about you?”
“Me?” He looks past her, to a hole in the ceiling where rain writes the same letter over and over. “I think my ticket’s… transferable.” He sucks in a breath that tastes like pennies and smoke. “If you meet a blonde guy who makes puns like he’s paid per word—tell him to duck more.”
Billy huffs something that might be a laugh and might be a goodbye. “Guess dying runs in your blood,” he mutters.
“More like mold,” Ethan rasps.
Ethan’s vision tunnels. He’s done this before. He’ll do it again. It isn’t fair, but fairness is for people whose bones don’t creak like haunted houses. “Hey,” he says, voice small now. “Tell Rose—” He stops. Different time. Different universe. The words stick.
Rebecca leans in. “Tell who?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Forget it.” He smiles, and it is a tired, ridiculous thing. “Thanks for the assist, Doc.”
“Any time,” she says, and means it.
“Don’t say that,” he whispers. “You’ll jinx it.” The white comes back—not the clean white of hospitals, but the too white of a page someone erased wrong. Ethan closes his eyes so he won’t have to see it.
Wind. Grass.
For a moment he can’t tell if he’s awake or just trapped in another afterimage. The silence feels too clean, the air too gentle, and his brain claws at the edges of memory trying to name where he is.
Not the kind of grass that grows between train tracks, but the kind that behaves like it’s paid to be picturesque. It smells like an herb garden and a bakery had a baby. The sun feels real in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.
Ethan’s cheek is pressed to damp earth. Birds chat overhead like gossiping grandmas. Somewhere, a bell rings softly, like a town square trying not to be intrusive. There are no screams. No smoke. Just… peace. It makes him uncomfortable.
He opens his eyes. The sky is unnaturally blue. A dandelion puffs itself nearby like it’s posing for a postcard. His brain protests. “...I swear to God,” he croaks, “if this is another bioweapon—”
A small, bright creature pops into his field of view. It’s floating. It has a mouth. It uses the mouth immediately.
“HELLO!!” it chirps in a voice like sugar crashing. “Are you okay? You look very… um… explodey!”
Ethan forgets how to process nouns for a second. The thing blinks. It looks like a starfish and a dumpling had a design meeting and chose violence.
He sits up too fast and the world slips sideways a little. Over the hill, a golden-eyed traveler in a white and gold outfit skids to a stop, sword half-drawn, concern plain on their face.
“Paimon, maybe don’t yell at the injured man,” the traveler says, voice steady and tired in a way that makes Ethan like them immediately.
“Paimon wasn’t yelling,” the thing called Paimon says, yelling. “Paimon was being enthusiastic!” It peers closer at Ethan’s hands. “Oh! You’re missing fingers! Is that a customization option? Where can Paimon equip that?”
Ethan stares. He looks past them and sees a city in the distance with windmills like friendly giants and a statue that might be an angel catching rain. He hears laughter—the normal kind—and music. None of it makes sense in his mouth.
“Okay,” he says to himself, and it’s almost a laugh if you tilt your head. “Not a bioweapon.” He squints at a bush that is a little too round. The bush burps a pyro slime.
The slime glorps happily. “...Probably,” Ethan amends.
The traveler slides their sword away and kneels to offer a hand. “I’m the Traveler. That’s Paimon. You look like you fell out of the sky.”
“Bomb,” Ethan says, taking the hand and letting himself be pulled up. He wobbles, steadies. “Time. Space. Bad habit of not staying dead. I’m Ethan.”
“Nice to meet you, Ethan!” Paimon beams. “Welcome to Teyvat! Are you from Snezhnaya? You have the face of someone who’s seen many bad days.”
“That’s… accurate,” Ethan says.
A hilichurl pokes its mask up over a low stone wall, sees three people, goes “Uupaa!” and throws a rock. Ethan’s body moves before his brain; he snags the rock out of the air with the same hand that used to hold a family he doesn’t get to keep. The motion pulls something in his side. He grimaces and tosses the rock back without thinking. It pings off the hilichurl’s mask and the creature flops backward with a theatrical awuu.
Paimon claps. “Nice throw! Maybe you have a Vision?”
“A what?”
“A little magic badge,” Paimon explains eagerly, spinning in a circle. “It gives you power—like, poof! Elemental energy!”
Ethan blinks, weighing this. “So… like a biological mutation that doesn’t ruin your life?”
Paimon hesitates. “Uh… mostly!”
The Traveler chuckles. “You’ll learn soon enough.”
Main: Supernatural
Pov: Warehouse 13 ( @captainhaterade)
Crossovers:
(do you need to know them all? not really. It’s just a bit of fun chaos)
One Piece ( @unforth )
Ranma ½ - ( Unforth )
Zelda (Ocarina of Time) - ( @xianvar )
Good Omens – ( @thayerkerbasy )
MASH
Knives Out – ( CaptainHaterade )
Rated: G No ships (Implied aziraphale/crowley)
Words: 4541
Events Filled:
@spncoldesthits : Unlikely Crossovers
@reverseprompts Challenge 18: Break Time
Summary: Claudia was returning to the Warehouse when a phone call from Arty has her changing course for Lebanon, Kansas instead. What she finds is pure chaos and way above her paygrade.
Notes:
Ideas have been attributed to the suggesters wherever tumblr LET me - thank you!
Also has Cameos for 12 other fandoms - can you spot them all?
Some Cameos were part of the suggested fandoms - thank you also to @koala-bell and @socially-awkward-chocobo
