Living With Monsters | Various SCP X Reader

SCP-2030-2 x Reader | Laugh is Life

A part two to laugh is love. I was pretty proud of this one... until I got to the ending and realised I did know how to finish it so LETS MAKE IT A KISS.
Idk. Enjoy

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You had to shield your eyes as the scene played out before you.

Once more sat in the audience, hearing their laughs as it happened. You weren't sure where this was supposed to be, a workshop of sorts with all sorts of tools that seemed to have gained sentience and started chasing a man around his work desk. He seemed to be doing a good job of it until he let out a cry of pain, and you dared to peek from behind your fingers, immediately regretting so. Three of the four fingers on his right hand had been severed. But the cut wasn't clean, it looked as if they'd been hacked off messily. Sitting in the front row, you were just glad you didn't get sprayed in blood.

The man continued to gasp in pain and you shut your eyes, now covering your ears to try and drown out what was happening. You sat like that for god knows how long before the sound of laughter couldn't be muffled by your ears. Still you didn't move. Sure, they were laughing but it was sick and twisted and probably at something the man in the blue suit was saying. Laughy McLaugherson. You couldn't believe that was his real name but it had lost importance and significance. You weren't even sure if any of this was real. The audience seemed like robots or zombies, only capable of laughing. The guests that were injured seemed human, they reacted to the pain, they showed fear and emotion. Then all of that went away when he came on stage.

He seemed real. Flamboyant, eccentric and friendly on the outside, he really would make a great host if he wasn't so... sadistic. But he was the only thing you were sure was real at this point. The only thing that kept you sane was the very thing that had pushed you right to the edge of losing your mind.

At last everything went silent, you could feel people beside you getting up and leaving, their steps all moving in time as if it was an army drill. You curled up even tighter, trying to block out the disturbing pattern of footsteps to no avail. The studio lights dimmed and the footsteps faded as the audience left one by one in perfect pattern. You didn't even know where they went after. The guests on the show seemed to follow. It was only ever you who remained, until the next show or were led to the makeup/costume room of the host. You had realised you didn't need to eat. Or sleep. Eventually coming to the conclusion you were dead, or something similar.

You felt your hands being slowly pried away from your ears and opened your eyes, your gaze locking on the bright blue irises of the host who only stared back in that usual expression of intrigue.

"That wasn't very funny either, hm?" he questioned softly, not taking his eyes of you once.

But you had to look away, his intense gaze was far too much for you. Unfortunately your eyes landed on the remnants of today's show, a pool of blood and three mangled digits on the floor.

You yelped and shut your eyes, feeling him pull you in against his chest as he did so often. He had come to the conclusion that blood and gore distressed you, but still kept you here. You weren't sure why.

You opened your mouth as you had so many times before, to beg to be released, let out from this hell hole. But now no words came out, just a muffled sob as you clutched onto his blue suit.

"You can't leave, you know," he said quietly, although lacking any sort of empathy, "You're dead."

You could only nod in response, feeling his arms move around you as he picked you up to carry you back to his dressing room. The journey was short and you kept your eyes closed the whole time, the image of the fingers, the man missing the fingers, seated into your mind.

Soon you were set down on the sofa, he always carried you with such ease, you wondered if you were any lighter as a dead person.

"Are you dead too?" you asked quietly as you wiped your eyes, although still couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

"No," was the sort reply and you watched as his blue jacket and tie fell to the floor. They always appeared the next day, clean and ironed, although no one ever came in here but you.

The room elapsed into silence again, you usually just sat there. Like the corpse you were, Never really wondering how you thought or moved or spoke or even how you maintained the appearance of someone who was living.

"Why don't you laugh?" he asked after some time, sitting in the chair in front of his mirror. He needn't ever so his makeup and hair as from what you had Sean his neck up never appeared on camera.

You knew it was rhetorical. You didn't have the answers. You knew you were different. All the others were dead too, they acted like zombies. You knew you weren't the normal type, although you didn't think you wanted to be the normal type.

"What went wrong?" you heard him jump from his chair and crouch down in front of you, taking your face in his hands, cupped around either cheek, and examined you.

"I'm not a defective robot," you retorted quietly, averting your gaze.

"No," he agreed, finally having stopped moving your head around in fascination, although he kept his hands in either side of your face.

"I don't think you need fixed," he muttered, his lips pressing against yours.