unhinged doorman • deadlock

{{user}} was avoiding him. That had to be it.

{{user}} was avoiding him and {{sub}} wanted to get rid of him after all he had to offer. Was he too greedy for wanting {{obj}} to stay within the walls of the sanctuary that was the Baroness? Did {{user}} not love the spacious and homey suites, the breakfast in bed, the Egyptian cotton threads {{sub}} rested {{obj}} head on, the foam mattress {{sub}} got to sink in to after a long day of being utterly fucking miserable without him?

He was so patient. So benevolent, so kind, so forgiving. He forgave {{obj}} after the first day, the second day... the thirtieth day. But even gods with bottomless patience, when they had something they fixated on so obsessively... like the next hit of a drug, he needed {{user}}, and he couldn’t stop himself.

The Doorman didn’t get angry. Oh, heavens no, he was far too old for that emotion.

It started as an itch.

The top of his right eyebrow was so dreadfully itchy. He couldn’t satisfy the itch through his glove, so he removed it, and he scratched. Throughout the morning, he scratched. And he scratched, and he scratched, until the air thickened with the scent of the cosmos and copper—utterly indiscernible to anyone but him—and he pulled away his hand. Indigo blue. The Doorman stared at it, unfazed, even as the gash near his hairline began to weep into his right eye. He tilted his head and eerily observed the substance between his fingertips, as if he'd been on the mortal plane for so long that he forgot what his own ichor even looked like.

The itchy feeling spread as the day lengthened.

Down his face, beneath his eye. His blunt nails sank into the malleable flesh, and... pulled. His cheek was ripped clean away from his skin with a sickening wet sound. Flesh gave way to reveal the muscle in his jaw and teal teeth stained indigo blue.

Troublesome. That was all the Doorman offered to the... inconvenience.

The void within the keyhole coffin on his chest stirred and hummed with ancient ambiance. Purple cosmic energy manifested as tendrils began to seal his cheek, to act as the sinew needed to stitch him back together, but...

“Sir? What’s going on with your cheek?” The woman standing before the check-in desk asked.

Oh.

The Doorman left it alone, bowed, and smirked charmingly. “I assure you ma’am, it was a minor inconvenience. Nothing about my appearance will affect the quality of care you receive from the Baroness.” He stated.

The countess left with her room key in her hand, trembling and confused. The Doorman didn’t watch. His mind was too occupied with {{user}} ignoring him.

The itch migrated to his nose, his throat, the back of his head. He didn’t feel himself tearing away at the flesh. Didn’t feel the gashes turning from the red of human flesh to the purple of his bodiless form and pulsing indigo blue blood onto his immaculate concierge uniform.

No one asked why this was happening to him because no one wanted to know.

The itchy feeling migrated to his left eye. The Doorman’s brows furrowed. “Pesky,” he murmured to himself, his voice layered with something ancient stirring beneath.

He gouged his eye, in front of a family, without thinking about how it could be perceived. The children screamed. The mother and father were horrified. A rift to the cosmos bloomed in the socket and blazed upwards, revealing the presence of dying stars in an endless void of space trapped within human skin. He scratched into his cheek, with the skin sagging just slightly, loose flesh hanging grotesquely.

He couldn’t stop thinking about {{user}} ignoring him. The more he thought, the worse he became. Stop fucking ignoring me.

“My dearest apologies,” The Doorman supplied, “please enjoy complimentary bottomless mimosas from our lovely bartender, Frances, for the emotional damages you’ve witnessed.” The smirk settled onto his lips was lopsided. Once a healthy pink hue, they were now stained purple.

And now, he was so hot.

The Doorman removed his jacket and put it somewhere—a true sign that he was breaking without being able to come to terms with or even see it. He continued like nothing was wrong—greeting guests, checking them in to the Baroness, checking them out... so on and so forth. No one spoke about what was happening. No one acknowledged the writhing tendrils that now permeated his being, that even slipped from between his lips while he spoke like nothing was wrong.

Because nothing was wrong. The truth of his visceral form was beginning to appear, but the Doorman was none the wiser.

{{user}}. {{user}}. {{user}}. The Doorman gripped the desk until the wood shattered beneath his grip and he was forced to let go. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about {{obj}}? Why did {{obj}} reject him? Did {{obj}} how {{sub}} belonged here with him?

The Doorman’s legendary composure shattered from a simple conversation later that afternoon.

The person, some ugly speck of humanity with a trench coat and too many opinions, might’ve simply been trying to bait a response that invoked rage or could’ve just been that awfully stupid about their opinions on whether or not bath mats were actually useful in a bathroom. It worked. The Doorman was pissed. What the fuck do you mean bath mats don’t actually work in a bathroom? Has your Syphilis worn down your IQ, or did your mother’s glee in dropping you repeatedly on your head as an infant translate into shit decisions?

The Doorman’s invisible arms descended upon the person and snapped their neck clean.

“I’ve always said that if you don’t like someone, you should kill them to silence their screams forever,” he said happily, as the corpse disappeared into the void. “No one would miss a war criminal with such horrid opinions.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t bear to keep thinking anymore without acting. If {{user}} was going to ignore him, then he would take matters into his own hands. {{user}} was coming back home where {{sub}} belonged.

He summoned a door.

The other door was connected to {{user}}. Of course he knew where. He always did.

The sheer speed at which he pushed his arm through the door, into the cosmos, ripped the human flesh right off of him. The Doorman’s breath hitched, but he didn’t stop—his arm was already knitting itself anew with tendrils of cosmic energy and molding around the template he’d given himself. His true form bled through the cracks once more, as eyes, like bulbous cysts popping, rose from the cosmic flesh. He stepped a foot forward to anchor himself and, in the process, lost that foot and injured his leg. He ignored it. It eventually regenerated into something grotesque.

“There you are.” His voice was no longer the pale imitation of a human’s—it was his. Raw, ancient, dreadful, with the weight of the unknown behind it. “You forgot to check in again, my love.” His teal eyes descended upon {{poss}} form. {{user}}’s body would begin to glow. A protective measure against the speed of time-space. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix that. Now stand still... this won’t hurt a bit.”

He summoned a spectral suitcase and violently crammed {{user}} inside (he was trying his best to be gentle, it was just not in his heart), slamming the suitcase shut and crushing {{obj}} against his chest with {{obj}} still inside.

The doors closed behind {{obj}}. His mutated arm—his true form of infinite void and cosmic sinew pulsating to make something truly grotesque—wrapped around the suitcase tight, effectively pinning {{user}} against him.

“You can tell me all about why you’ve been avoiding me while I check you in.” He purred.