#yes i want to stab forks into my eyeballs

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 1/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,809 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Yes this is a repost. My blog is still new so Tumblr didn't allow my original post to appear in the tags. (Shout out to the 10 of you who still managed to find & like the original 🥰)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You climb the last flight of steps up to the fourth floor of your apartment building, stomping each stair into submission as you go. You’re still fuming from the blind date you just escaped. That is the absolute last time you ever let Erin set you up with one of her stock broker bro coworkers. You don’t care how hot or rich they are; you are done. Done, done, stick a fork in you. You love your bestie but by God does the woman have terrible taste in men or what.

Both of the pricks she handpicked for you were narcissistic know-it-alls with egos the size of Texas; a pair of swine in designer suits (who, to Erin’s credit, were smoking hot but that’s beside the point.) Once the pig from tonight decided that you weren’t trophy wife material he became far more interested in his phone than he was in you. And the last pig coddled you like you were a delicate, empty-headed damsel in distress who was lucky to be granted the honor of his company and conversation. You should’ve learned your lesson after that first failed date with Dalton Rockefeller-Vanderbilt (or whatever old money asshole last name he had) but you’ve been feeling lonely lately, especially after Ash introduced you to the fab guy she’s dating (an accountant with a perfectly plebeian name of Abe).

You glare down the hallway as you ascend enough to peek over the top of the stairs. Oh great, you think sourly, pursing your lips, your face hardening into a study in once I step inside that door I’m downing a shot of whiskey before turning up an overflowing glass of wine. You stare molten daggers at the tall, brawny guy in your sights. It’s the hot asshole who lives beside you; the last person you want to see tonight. He’s standing, hunched as ever, in front of his door, key poised for the deadbolt, wearing that same teal baseball cap and red hoodie that he never seems to take off. Your jaw tightens. You’ve tried to be nice to the brute—flashing him a smile, saying hello—but all you’ve ever gotten in return was a scowl, if he deigned to acknowledge you at all. Well, you’re fresh out of smiles tonight, jerk.

A flutter of unease tickles your tummy as you step onto the landing, into the narrow hallway with him, your back turned to the only exit, a six foot tall sus man between you and your apartment. You stand up straighter, squaring your shoulders, trying to make yourself look and feel taller. It’s late, and your building is eerily quiet while the city is abuzz with incessant sirens. The usual ensemble of notorious nutjobs are fighting yet another battle in their never-ending war with their rival nutjob who dresses up like a Bat.

Nutjobs like this guy…

You reach into your handbag and grab your keys in your fist, sliding the sharp ends between your fingers, ready to stab at some eyeballs. (You regrettably didn’t have room for your taser or mace in this bag so you have to improvise.) It’s your own fault that you suspect the guy’s a sociopath lying in wait to jump you. You made up a serial killer backstory for him—the result of one too many true crime podcast binges—despite not even knowing the guy’s name. You can’t help it. He gives off serious Ted Bundy vibes. Well, maybe that’s unfair to Ted. Ted would’ve at least smiled at you before bludgeoning you with a crowbar. This guy though…

This guy doesn’t have a scowl for you tonight. Actually, he seems startled by your sudden appearance in the hallway, dropping his keyring to the floor with a clatter that shatters the uneasy silence, causing you to jump. He ducks his red-hooded head between his hunched shoulders as you pass by, warily eying him, ready to stab those icy blue eyeballs of his if he tries anything.

You arrive at your door and take out your keyring, sighing with likely unnecessary relief as you slide the key into the lock. The guy’s probably a harmless weirdo incel who never learned how to talk to a woman. You steal one last peek over your shoulder at him, and watch as he stabs at his deadbolt with his key, hitting everywhere but the keyhole because, you realize with surprise, his hand is shaking too much to hit the target. This dude’s a disaster, you say to yourself as you turn the key in your own deadbolt. Then, as he misses the keyhole yet again, you hear yourself ask, “Do you need help?” in an annoyed tone. You didn’t mean to sound so bitchy but whatever. He shouldn’t be such a bitch to you.

He seems to jump at the sound of your voice, and his keyring clatters to the scuffed wood floor again. You stare back at him incredulously. Is he wasted or something? You wonder as that unsettling feeling creeps back in, prickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your grip tightens around your doorknob as your pulse picks up speed.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles in response without sparing a glance in your direction.

“You don’t look fine,” you grumble back at him, the flames of irritation rekindled by his rudeness. Why should you care if the jerk’s too drunk or stoned to get in his apartment. Let his rude ass sleep on his doorstep. You shove open your door and take a stomped step across the threshold—you really need that glass of wine. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bend down to pick up his keys, then hear him groan like he’s in pain. You poke your head back around the doorframe, curious, and notice he’s doubled over now, clutching at his heaving chest, breathing hard and fast like he just ran a 5k or—your heart leaps inside your own chest—like he’s having a fucking heart attack. You watch, mouth agape, brows furrowed, as he sinks to his knees, a handful of red fabric still clenched in his trembling fist, then falls forward onto his free hand while he struggles to get control of his labored breathing. Crumpled on the floor like this, fighting for a breath, makes him seem so small, vulnerable, and not the least bit threatening; more like a boy who needs your help and less like an NFL quarterback who murders women on the side for fun.

Just go into your apartment, pour that extra large glass of merlot you’ve been fantasizing about since John Preston Anderson III introduced himself with his full name. Curl up on the sofa with In Cold Blood or a horde of shirtless, oiled, bronzed, and heartily-muscled Dothraki in your Game of Thrones rewatch. Who cares if the hot asshole serial killer next door has a heart attack? But you care apparently because you rush over to him instead, ignoring The Stranger Beside Me audiobook narrator inside your head warning you that this is a textbook Ted Bundy ploy, you idiot. You bend to help him, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when your fingertips brush against him his entire body jerks away from you, like you zapped him with your taser. He throws up an arm to warn you off. “Don’t,” he snaps breathlessly before gulping down a lungful of air, then rasps: “Please don’t touch me.”

You bristle at his harsh rebuff but keep your temper in check since the guy’s clearly in crisis mode. “Should I call an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.”

“It’s… it’s not a heart attack… it just… feels like one.” He bites off each word, every breath precious. The fingers of his free hand dig into the hardwood floor.

“At least let me unlock your door for you,” you suggest shortly, biting your tongue before you can add: since you weren’t able to manage that yourself, then feeling guilty for even thinking that. What had the poor guy done to you tonight except happen to be standing in your shared hallway after some other asshole pissed you off?

He gives you a small, grudging nod so you retrieve his fallen keyring, wondering why a man needs so many damn keys. “The bronze one,” he grunts, as if he read your mind.

You unlock his door with the bronze key then push the door open while he drags himself to his feet behind you, huffing and groaning. The dimly lit apartment that greets you is sterile, spartan; that doesn’t help the serial killer vibes at all. One of the furnished units, you presume, since the furniture looks like it was plucked from the lobby of your building. The walls are white and bare; no art or posters or photos of him scowling beside a lover. And the place is spotless—you’d assume it was vacant if you didn’t know otherwise. A vision suddenly fills your mind, a vision of him on his knees, bright yellow dishwashing gloves pulled halfway up his muscular arms, an uncapped bottle of industrial bleach at his side as he scrubs at a puddle of blood while the lifeless corpse of the last girl who wandered in here lies wrapped up in blood-stained plastic behind him. Oh God, you even smell the bleach. But then you notice the stacks of paperback books here and there, the open sketch pad on the sofa with pencil-scribbled notes and drawings, some charging AirPods beside an iPad, another red hoodie—one that zips up the front—hanging from the back of a dining room chair, a gym bag, and atop the kitchen island, a rather happy-looking houseplant which, you have to admit, is kinda cute.

Before you can take in the rest of his place he staggers past you, bumping into your shoulder with a bruising force that knocks you sideways and nearly off your feet. Then with one last little wheeze, he topples over like an uprooted oak tree in a windstorm, smacking face first into the hardwood with a meaty thud that rattles the floor beneath you.

“Oh my God!” You squeal, covering your mouth with both hands. 

A shot of adrenaline pumps through your veins, spurring you into action. You snatch your phone from your bag with rubber fingers, nearly flinging it aside in your panic, and frantically dial 9-1-1, forgetting all about the emergency shortcuts created for just such an occasion. Your stomach dips at the sight of the bulky body lying prone at your feet, still and silent as the grave. As the phone rings—the long-familiar trilling sound now seemingly drawn out as if it will stretch into eternity—you kneel beside him to check his pulse and see if he’s still breathing, praying he isn’t a corpse, when you spot something that knocks the breath from your lungs and stops your heart dead in its tracks. With a cold, trembling hand you push up the tail of his hoodie…

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator asks by rote, voice booming through your phone’s speaker, but you barely hear it over the alarm bells clanging inside your head. You’re gaping at the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, unable to form any sort of response around your heart lodged in your throat.

“Hello?” the operator asks irritably.

“Hi, uh,” you start with a squeak, eyes still fixed on the textured grip of that deadly weapon, but then smack your lips shut. What are the cops gonna think when they see that gun? And what if he’s wanted for a crime or something and you get him arrested? He said it wasn’t a heart attack, acted like this had happened to him before. You can always call back if he’s actually dead or dying…

Why the hell does it matter if he gets arrested?? Your brain shouts back at you. Why are you even here in the first place when there’s an unopened bottle of merlot waiting for you in the safety of your apartment only a few footsteps away, where there’s not an unresponsive armed man who’s built like a tank, who doesn’t even need the gun when he could snap your tiny neck with those massive hands of his? Could the universe give you any clearer signals that “you in danger, girl”? Have you learned absolutely nothing from hours upon hours of Karen and Georgia? “Stay sexy and don’t get murdered”—this guy isn’t even nice to you! Don’t you dare hang up that phone…

“Um, I’m so sorry. I thought my neighbor was having a heart attack but-but he’s fine actually. False alarm. Sorry to bother you!” Your words tumble out in a rush then you smash the “End Call” button before you can get questioned further or chewed out for wasting their time. In the back of your mind you hear the recording of this 9-1-1 call replaying on the My Favorite Murder episode starring you, before the hostess pair warns their listeners not to make the same foolish mistake you just made.

You sit back on your heels, clammy hands kneading your knees while that chunk of baleful metal glares back at you from his waistband, like a coiled rattlesnake peeking out from beneath a rock. Your mind is racing as fast as your heart through scenarios that all end with you getting shot. Then your hands are moving with minds of their own, fingers curling around the textured grip, getting your dainty fingerprints all over the murder weapon as you slip it free. It’s heavier than you expected, you note as you grip it tighter, careful not to get your finger anywhere near that trigger. Heavy, but not heavy enough for something that can end a life in an instant. The thought makes you shudder. You place the gun on the floor then give it a shove, eager to be rid of it, praying that the damn thing won’t go off automatically as it slides across the hardwood floor out of reach. You’ve never touched a gun before this moment and have zero interest in shooting yourself in the face.

Now your attention shifts back to the poor guy who's still out cold. You lay your hand on his back and feel its steady rise and fall. Still breathing, thank God. Then with a grunt of effort and a mighty heave you manage to flip him over on his back. Immediately your hand shoots back to cover your mouth and you suck in a horrified breath as his pale face, previously hidden beneath the shadow of his hat and hood, becomes visible in the lamplight. 

You were expecting the weals on his chin and forehead, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip swelling from where it busted when he fell flat on his face. What you weren’t expecting to find was dried blood smeared across his cheek up to his ear, or the J-shaped scar beneath his eye that you’d noticed before (it’s unfortunately hard to miss, despite his best efforts to hide it) weeping beads of fresh blood from where someone traced over it with a knife you assume, carving deep into his skin. But it wasn’t the sight of the blood or the crimson J that pulled the gasp from your throat and made your stomach nosedive like you were on a rollercoaster. Nope, that was your reaction to the angry red furrows encircling his throat around his Adam's apple, deep indentations where someone wrapped rope or wire or cable around his neck so tight that it embedded in his skin; ligature marks from where someone fucking strangled him.

You grab your phone then pause, biting at your lip. Maybe you should call 9-1-1 again. What if his windpipe is crushed? What if that’s why he was breathing so hard, why he fainted? Those marks are so deep… he could be seriously injured. But if he was seriously injured, why had he returned to his apartment instead of going to the ER? It seems like he made the choice for you.

You open your phone’s browser and type: how to treat strangulation injuries, then quickly skim over the top result. Ice. That seems simple enough, you tell yourself, noting that you can clean his J cuts with soap and water, at least until he wakes up. And if he doesn’t wake up soon? Well, then you’ll call the cops. After all, he’s probably a law abiding citizen who’s licensed to carry that gun; a guy that you just pinned as another one of the nutjobs because you always get paranoid about every stranger you see after your true crime binges. In your defense, this is Gotham-fucking-City and you’re a young single lady who lives alone. You’d be a fool not to be paranoid.

#sands writes #jason todd #arkham knight #arkhamverse #jason todd x reader #arkham knight x reader #jason todd x you #arkham knight x you #jason todd x y/n #arkham knight x y/n #jason todd x female reader #arkham knight x female reader #reader x jason todd #reader x arkham knight #jason todd imagine #arkham knight imagine #jason todd fanfiction #arkham knight fanfiction #dcu #fic: the sus boy next door

[riley-macnally]

Tag: @emiri-tezel Location: La Macina

"I can't believe I've never been here before," blue eyes wide with delight as the waiter brings hearty portions to their table. Everything looked delicious and smelt even better. "Anyway, so this letter was just taped to the Crem door," he restarts what he was saying as he works on placing their sides into the middle of the table. "It basically told me if I wanted a quick grand, I need to put a purple handkerchief outside the door - provided inside the letter, that's why it was so bulky... And why I worried it was a body part," he snorts, "the letter was handwritten and says how whoever it is walks by every night, and if I ever have the body of someone under thirty, to leave the door unlocked and put that handkerchief outside so they know." Absolutely grimacing, it didn't take a genius to conjure up all kinds of disgusting thoughts for what whoever wrote that letter wanted. "I swear, I'm not even shittin' ye, it's God's honest. I've ordered more security cameras, I'm going to be eyeballing everyone who walks by in the dark from here on. People are fucked up in ways even I can't comprehend. Even if it was a joke, it's still sick." Riley shrugged off the solid frown and took a breath as he stabbed his fork into his first bite of pasta. "So that was my day," chucking, "How was yours, gorgeous? Stick a needle in anyone interesting?"

#riley x emiri #;; thread x emiri

[thenumbersgameif]

TNG Incorrect Quotes

because what's a better way to feel out a character's personality?

__________

Three: I’m way too sleep deprived to be dealing with your negativity right now.

__________

Three: I did a thing.

Zero: A thing?

Three: Let’s not talk about the thing.

Zero: We’ll talk about the thing later.

__________

One: You seem familiar... have I threatened you before?

__________

Zero: I truly believe that water can solve all your problems. 

Zero: Weight loss? Drink water. 

Zero: Clear skin? Drink water. 

One: Want to get rid of someone? Drown them.

__________

Four: Is stabbing someone immoral? 

Three: Not if they consent to it. 

One: Depends on who your stabbing. 

Zero: YES??!!?

__________

Three: You use emoji’s like a straight person. 

One: That’s literally the worst thing anyone has ever said about me.

__________

Zero: *shatters a window and climbs through it* 

Zero: *turns around and helps Three through it* Breaking and entering is wrong Three. 

Three: Okay.

__________

Zero: Do you need help getting up? 

Three: Nah, I'm cool down here on the floor.

__________

Zero: ... One just killed a goldfish. 

One: *licking their lips* Yup. Delicious.

__________

jokester!Four: So I got this amazing plan! 

One: We fail almost every time you say that. 

jokester!Four: Well this is the same! But with a hamster involved.

__________

Zero: Are you this rude to everyone? 

One: Yup. 

One: Don't think you're special.

__________

One: I think I should be allowed on ghost hunter tv shows. 

Three: I think that would be dangerous for the ghosts.

__________

One, holding a fork: You know your talking a lot of shit for someone who has 2 perfectly good eyeballs each cost about $16,000 on the blackmarket. 

Zero: ...

One: *lip smack*

__________

One: I desire moisture. 

Three: Please just say "I want water" like a normal person.

__________

Three: Breathe, just breathe. 

Zero: I’ve done nothing with my life! I’m a failure! 

One: Awww, that never bothered you before.

__________

jokester!Four: Would you take a bullet for me? 

Zero: ... yes? 

*One angrily burst into the room* 

jokester!Four: *running away* Great, thanks!

__________

Someone: So... who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon? 

Zero: We're chopsticks! 

Someone: Well... that's cute! Does that mean you two snuggle together perfectly? 

Three: No, it means that if you take the others away, the only thing the others are good for is stabbing.

__________

Four: Why does Zero always do the laundry so loudly? 

Three: So everyone knows that no one helps them out in the house. 

Zero, in the distance: *slams the washing machine shut*

__________

Zero, about One: They're covered in blood again. Why is it they're always covered in blood? 

Three: Well, it looks like it's their own blood this time.

__________

One: Where are my fucking keys? 

Zero: One, Four is around, can you say it a little nicer? 

One: May I ascertain the whereabouts of my FUCKING KEYS?!

__________

Three, teaching One to drive: Okay, you're driving and Four and Zero walk into the road. Quick, what do you hit? 

One: Oh, definitely Four. I could never hurt Zero. 

Three, massaging their temples: The brakes. You hit the brakes.

__________

Zero: I’m afraid of clowns. There, I said it. 

One: Zero, if you don't like clowns, why are you hanging with Four?

__________

Three: Your smile? It makes my day. 

Zero: Your happiness? I live for that. 

One: A room? Get one. 

Four: Hotel? Trivago.

__________

Zero: Guys, Four is missing. 

One: Good.

__________

Zero: So, One is no longer allowed to take the trash out at night. 

Three: Why? 

Zero: Because I've caught them trying to train raccoons to fight five times in a row. 

One, arms crossed and pouting: You'll be thanking me when the third raccoon battalion saves your ass.

__________

One: Sometimes I like to place my hands on someone’s cheeks, look into their eyes... 

One: ...And violently jerk their head until it snaps. 

Zero: ...That took an unexpected turn. 

Three: So did their neck.

__________

Four: Not gonna lie, I'm kind of afraid of One... 

Three: As you should be. 

Four: No, for real, they're kind of- 

Three: As. You. Should. Be.

__________

Three: Why would you do that? 

Zero: Because I feel guilty. 

One: Guilt is a trick emotion. It’s put there by your parents to stop you from doing things that feel good.

__________

Three: It's pretty cold outside.. wanna hold hands? We should stay close. 

Zero, blushing: Okay. 

One: It's fucking summer.

__________

Zero: Wow, great work on the Halloween decorations. Where did you get the fake skeletons? 

Three: Fake? 

__________

Zero: I know this isn’t going to end well and I don’t care. So don’t you try and stop me, One! 

One: I wasn’t stopping you. I was asking if you had a spare camera so I can record this.

__________

Zero: Why are you smiling? 

One: What? Can’t I just be happy?

Three: Four tripped and fell in the parking lot.

__________

Three: Is there a sign we should watch for if something goes wrong?

Zero: If I get shot. Or scream ‘fuck!’.

#if: the numbers game #incorrect quotes: tng

[whimsicallyreading]

Could you please do "Dude why the fuck are you covered in cake"? I love your writing!

(Here ya go 😎 I took a slight liberty. Forgive me.)

Dark Roast, Cake Please-

When Rowan enters the kitchen, it takes a moment for his brain to catch up with what his eyes are seeing.

“Adelia, why the fuck are you covered in cake?” The tiny brunette with her mother’s eyes is covered in chocolate frosting.

Dell doesn’t look even somewhat remorseful, “Da!”

She makes her grabby hands at him, and Rowan scoops his daughter into his arms. “Love, that was your Mommy’s cake. You ate her cake.”

“Mo?” She points at the ruined mass of chocolate and hazelnuts.

Rowan sighs and grabs a crumb of chocolate to place on her tongue. Dell croons happily and claps her hands. It was impossible to be mad at her. Impossible. “Shit, Delly. You’ve made quite a mess.”

“I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to swear in front of kids, Ro.” Fenrys comes in from Lyria’s garden. “It sets a shitty example.”

Fen holds out his hands, and Adelia willingly melts into his grasp. Traitor. “I’ll clean Delly up. It looks like you have a mess to sort out.”

Dell is placed on Fenrys’ shoulders, her chubby fists clenching into his hair. “Let’s go, Pup! Robot time.” His partner makes some whirring noises and takes a few uneven steps that sends Adelia into fits of laughter.

Fenrys took his job as Del’s godfather very seriously.

When they disappear, Rowan finally lets the disappointment hit him. It really meant a lot to him that tonight goes smoothly.

Half of the cake is perfectly intact, but the side that Dell got to was in disarray. She hadn’t even eaten a great deal, just squished it in her hands. It had taken him over a week to find someone who knew the recipe to Aelin’s favorite dessert. Then he’d had to wait two weeks after that because it was a special order.

Rowan isn’t sure where to even start to fix this, but first, he needs coffee.

It’s at that very unfortunate moment, when his back is turned, that Aelin materializes behind him.

“Wow, Ro. I knew you couldn’t cook, but I thought cutting cake with a knife is just common sense.”

Rowan jumps whirls around. “You aren’t supposed to be here. Get out.”

Aelin’s happy expression dips, and she places a hand on her swollen stomach. “I’m sorry. Let me just leave my house.”

“No,” Rowan digs the heal of his hands into his eyes. “Shit, I didn’t mean it like that.”

He pulls out a chair and sits at the table. Acceptance that his plan was officially ruined finally reaching him. “This was supposed to be a surprise. I messed it up. I’m sorry.”

Aelin’s brow furrows, “A surprise?”

“Yeah,” Rowan tugs Aelin down to sit in his lap and take in the ruined cake in with him. “A baby shower. Since we never got to have one for Dell.”

“What?” Aelin tilts his chin and forces him to meet her gaze. “We had a party for Del?”

“Not until after she was already born,” Rowan trails off. The days surrounding Adelia’s birth were darker than they should have been. Sooner than they should have been.

Aelin had suffered with that pregnancy. Instead of a happy, expectant mother, Aelin was broke, exhausted and caught up in exposing an international drug ring. Rowan felt he had a lot to blame for everything that went on.

Now, Aelin is in a better place. They both are. Still, pregnancy was making her sick as a dog. Fatigue and nausea plagued her, and according to Yrene she was again a high risk.

“Our friends are coming over soon, and we were going to do presents and cake-“ he nods towards the glob of chocolate. “But our child has other ideas.”

Aelin is thoughtful for a moment, Rowan is worried she’s upset, but when she turns her face is cracked with a wide smile. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done.”

She presses a kiss to his lips and he’s taken aback. “No one is going to want to eat that cake,” he gently informs Aelin when she pulls back.

His wife snorts. “No. Our daughter is a genius. Is that coffee I smell?”

“Yes,” Rowan measures his words, “but Yrene said-“

“Nonsense.” Aelin pulls out an knife and cuts the mashed up portion. “We aren’t phased by our own daughter’s germs? More for us. She placed a reservation on the whole thing.”

Scooping the ruined bit onto a plate, what was left looked perfectly edible. Just uneven.

For a detective he’s feels like an idiot.

Aelin grabs two mugs and pours the coffee. No sugar for him, and half the container for her. She returns to the spot on his lap and hands him a fork. “Better get started. We don’t want anyone to get the impression we’re sharing.”

Rowan can’t help the smile creeping up on him. Damn. He loves her. “You are perfect, have I ever told you that?”

Aelin spoons a bite of chocolate into her mouth. Eyes rolling back in contentment. “I’m sure it was somewhere in the vows.”

Fenrys comes back in with a much cleaner Del, and freezes when he sees Aelin. “Shit. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Aelin stabs her spoon in his direction. “Swear in front of my kid again and I’m going to dig your eyeballs out Moonbeam.”

Fenrys looks at Rowan, “but?”

Rowan glares at him and shakes his head. His partner gives him a sour look. “Fine. My bad.”

“Ma!” Dell squirms out of Fenrys’ grip and toddles over to them.

Aelin scoops her up and sets Adelia on her lap. Her stomach gets in the way slightly, but Dell doesn’t care as a bite of chocolate is spooned into her mouth. Rowan closes his eyes to relish this moment.

He has his whole world in his arms right now.

#DRNS #cake #cake never goes right for these two #throne of glass #rowaelin #coffeeshopau #aelin galythinius #rowan whitethorn

[chibistarlyte]

tomorrow is another day

“I think you should see someone, Shouto. A professional. They can help you,” Rei says, and Shouto can hear the quiet confidence in her words. Words spoken from experience. Who would know about this kind of thing better than her, after all?

Shouto nods wordlessly, pulling back and finally looking at his mother. She smiles softly down at him, and tucks some of his disheveled hair away from his face. “Is it scary?” he asks, already feeling the trepidation at the possibility of sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings with a complete stranger.

Rei nods slowly, her smile fading somewhat. “Yes. It can be scary, at first. And painful. Your emotions will be all over the place for a while. But…” she pauses, placing both her hands on Shouto’s cheeks to make sure she has his full attention. “Talking about this, working through it with someone who is trained to help people like you and me...it’s an important step to take so you can heal.”

here’s part 4 of my depressed!todo series with slowburn endgame todobaku. in this one, shouto talks things over with his mama and they decide together that he needs to seek professional help in the form of a therapist.

all my love and appreciation to kat @sunshineijirou for betaing this for me, and just generally being a wonderful human. ilysm friend!

you can read the fic under the cut or here on ao3! you can also find a masterlist of all my bnha fics here!

.

Shouto wakes to the smell of…breakfast?

It doesn’t smell like a Japanese breakfast with all the traditional fixings, but more like an American-style breakfast. The overwhelming aroma of bacon cooking in a skillet is what Shouto can pick out the easiest.

He blinks his eyes open, immediately squinting them shut again when bright sunlight stabs into his eyeballs. Shouto groans and pulls the blanket over his head—wait, blanket? He doesn’t remember having one of those before falling asleep.

Come to think of it, when did he fall asleep? He has no recollection of the end of the previous night. The last thing he can remember is listening to Midoriya laughing—his best friend squished next to him on the couch as the class watched a comedy film of some sort…

Shouto chances opening his eyes again in the relatively safe darkness beneath the blanket, and slowly creeps his head out to give himself a chance to adjust to the light. 

He’s still on the couch, cuddled up in the same corner he’d been in last night, but now with a blanket that he doesn’t remember having when he’d dozed off. 

And the smell of bacon is getting stronger. If Shouto listens closely enough, he can hear the sizzling of food in a skillet.

He stretches his arms out to loosen his muscles up, cramped from being squished against the arm and back cushions of the couch. He looks around the common room, a bit surprised to find himself alone. He would have thought at least some of his classmates would be up already—Iida immediately comes to mind, or Sero, or Shouji. Shouto remembers seeing them around in the early hours when he’s up before he wants to be.

Bakugou, as well, is an early riser.

Shouto turns his head enough to look over the back of the couch toward the common room kitchen, where he sees a familiar blond classmate standing in front of the stove with a spatula in his hand. Before Shouto is conscious of it, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He lets out a bit of a strained noise as he rises from the couch, curling his toes against the floor as he stretches his legs out, muscles sore from being curled up on the couch all night. He grabs the blanket and wraps it around his shoulders like a cape, holding it closed with his fists at his collar bone, and slowly pads across the wooden floors to the kitchen.

Bakugou seems to notice his presence, because his head shoots up and red eyes glare at Shouto from the other side of the countertop that divides the kitchen from the rest of the common area.

“Get your rest, sleeping beauty?” the blond teases with a smirk, not waiting for Shouto to respond before turning his attention back to the contents cooking on the stove.

A blush heats up Shouto’s cheeks before he can even think to fight it down. “That’s...a new nickname. No ‘icyhot asshole’ or ‘half-n-half bastard’ today?” he asks, coming up to peer over the countertop and see what Bakugou’s got cooking in his skillets.

Bacon, eggs, sausage, shredded potatoes, pancakes...yeah, total American breakfast.

“I’m feeling extra nice today, don’t get used to it,” Bakugou says as he flips each of the pancakes expertly in their pan. They’re perfectly golden brown on the side that had just been cooking, and he’s poured them in such precise discs that Shouto thinks they belong in a food magazine.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Shouto says with a small, easy smile. He likes this, likes when he and Bakugou can talk like actual people—friends— without arguing about stupid things.

Bakugou looks up for just long enough to catch Shouto’s smile, then averts his gaze almost immediately and his face reddens considerably.

Must be the heat from the stove, Shouto thinks as he comes around the raised counter and goes over to the fridge. He pulls the door open wide, looking for some cartons of his strawberry yogurt drink.

“Oi, who the hell said you could come in here while I’m cooking, asshole?” Bakugou asks over his shoulder, glaring at Shouto once again.

“I’m not even in your vicinity,” Shouto says with his head still buried in the fridge, the hand not holding his blanket cape closed shoving aside various bottled drinks and leftover containers belonging to his classmates. He lets out a small noise of success when he spots his stash of drinks, all labeled “Todoroki’s—Do Not Touch <3” in Uraraka’s bubbly handwriting, and grabs one. When he closes the fridge, he looks up to see Bakugou plating his breakfast.

Shouto spots two plates on the counter next to the stove, and he tilts his head in confusion. “Who’s the second plate for?” he asks as he pokes the little plastic straw through the foil-covered hole on his drink carton. “Is Kirishima coming down to join you?” 

Bakugou pauses, a spatula full of eggs halfway to the plate. “No, Shitty Hair is still sleeping,” he says, neither elaborating nor sparing Shouto a glance.

The blond continues to move food from the stove to the plates, distributing even portions between the two. Shouto just stands there and watches, sipping his yogurt drink and hoping Bakugou will clear up this mystery by explaining himself.

Bakugou digs through the drawer where the eating utensils are stored, pulling out a pair of forks and knives instead of chopsticks and setting them atop the plates. He picks up one plate in each hand and steps up to Shouto. Shouto watches as Bakugou takes a deep breath before lifting his head and staring resolutely up at Shouto.

“Here,” Bakugou says, holding out one of the plates to Shouto. “You’re going to see your mom or some shit today, right? You should eat something that’s not total ass crap before you go.”

Shouto stares wide-eyed at the offered plate, some strawberry yogurt dribbling out of the tip of the straw and down his bottom lip when his mouth opens in surprise.

“Well? You gonna take it or what, dickhead? I’m not gonna fucking stand here all day holding it for you,” Bakugou prompts, thrusting the plate forward. Shouto is forced to let go of his blanket to take the plate before his breakfast spills all over the floor. Instead, his blanket takes the hit, sliding off his shoulders and pooling around his feet on the floor.

“Holy shit, you’re a fucking disaster,” Bakugou sighs, leaning down to pick up Shouto’s blanket while still expertly holding his own plate without dropping a single morsel of food. 

Shouto hastily uses his sleeve to wipe away the mess on his mouth, both of his hands occupied at the moment, then extends his arm out to Bakugou. Bakugou drapes the blanket over Shouto’s arm and shoves his way past the taller boy. He claims one of the tables closest to the kitchen, plopping down with an annoyed-sounding huff and digging into his breakfast without much ceremony after muttering a small, "itadakimasu."

Shouto stands there in the kitchen for a few moments, staring down at the plate heaped high with food in his hand. He bites the inside of his lip and his gaze shifts to Bakugou—well, Bakugou’s back, since the blond has chosen to sit facing away from Shouto. 

What has Shouto ever done to deserve to be in Bakugou’s good graces? He almost doesn’t know how to reconcile this within himself, the worthiness it takes to be acknowledged by Bakugou.

Shouto blows out a shaky breath, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

He quietly pads over to the table Bakugou has chosen for himself, taking the seat directly across from the prickly boy. He gently sets his plate down and readjusts his blanket around his shoulders before he sits down.

Bakugou pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, cheek puffed out as he stops chewing just to watch Shouto with an unreadable expression.

“I hope you don’t mind my company,” Shouto says quietly, glancing up at Bakugou through his bi-colored bangs.

Bakugou watches him before letting out a sigh through his nose and finishes chewing what's in his mouth. “Do what you want, I don't fucking care,” he says dismissively before shoving another forkful of food into his mouth. 

The two eat in silence after that. It isn't an uncomfortable silence, just a little tense. Not because of any negative feelings shared between the two of them, but because Shouto feels like he should say something but he doesn't know what. 

There are a lot of things he wants to say to Bakugou, namely to thank him for cooking breakfast—which is delicious, as expected from the perfectionist boy—but…ever since last week, when Shouto was in the deepest part of his depression downswing, Bakugou had been…extremely…present? Like, everywhere Shouto would turn, the other boy was there, even if they weren't directly engaging with each other. 

Shouto doesn't know if Bakugou truly is around more, or if he's just…more aware of him now. Either one is a vexing concept to Shouto.

"Thank you, Bakugou," Shouto finally says, moving his eggs around the plate with his fork. "I really appreciate you doing this for me."

Bakugou makes an indecipherable noise in response, something that's a mix of a grunt and a whine. "Yeah, yeah, don't get used to it. I just had to cook all this shit before it fuckin' expired."

Shouto cracks a smile, somehow finding Bakugou’s deflection of his gratitude…endearing. "Right…" he says, agreeing aloud but Bakugou doesn't have him entirely convinced. 

They finish their breakfast without any more words exchanged, and Shouto drops his blanket around Bakugou’s shoulders when he leaves the room to head for the elevators. He smiles to himself when Bakugou lets out an indignant yell and throws the blanket back at Shouto, missing him by a mile.

.

Shouto knocks softly before he opens the door to his mother's room.

"Oh, Shouto!" Rei greets her son, setting down her watering can and coming over to him as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi, okaasan,” Shouto says, hesitating before slowly reaching out and pulling his mother into a hug. Rei’s arms come up under his armpits and rest on his back, and she places her head against his shoulder. 

“You’ve grown again, haven’t you?” Rei asks, pulling away to look up at Shouto’s face. She places a gentle hand against his right cheek, her thumb rubbing the soft patch of skin beneath his eye.

“Maybe another centimeter…” Shouto says quietly, infinitesimally leaning into his mother’s touch.

“Well, come and sit, your sister brought me some green tea cookies yesterday, you should have some,” Rei says, leading Shouto to sit on one of the chairs by the window. 

What a blessed day, Shouto thinks, to have Bakugou’s cooking in the morning and Fuyumi’s baked goods now. The one thing he misses the most from home is his sister’s cooking, which he’s been deprived of since living in the dorms.

“I might sneak some back with me to the dorms,” Shouto says as he takes a seat. Rei sits on her bed across from Shouto, retrieving a large box full of cookies from her side table. She holds the box out to Shouto and he takes it gratefully, gently opening the lid and taking out a few cookies to nibble on.

“How is neesan?” he asks quietly, holding one of the cookies close to his mouth but not taking a bite just yet. “I haven’t spoken to her much this week.”

And that’s definitely an understatement, Shouto mentally chides himself. Not only has he not spoken to either of his siblings in over a week, he hasn’t even seen his mother in two weeks.

He doesn’t want her to know that the reason he skipped out last week is because he had no will to live.

“She’s doing fine,” Rei says with a light smile. “She tells me her class is going on a field trip to the aquarium next week. Her students are thrilled.”

“That does sound fun,” Shouto agrees with a nod, nibbling at the cookie. He still doesn’t make eye contact with his mother. “And Natsu-nii? How is he?”

“Natsu is fine, too,” Rei answers, her smile fading somewhat. “He came to see me a few days ago after his midterms were finished.”

Shouto hums, not really knowing what else to say at the moment. He retreats into himself a little, his mind berating him. 

It’s your fault you haven’t talked to your brother and sister this week. You’re so selfish. You should have at least texted them, instead of moping like a miserable little weakling. 

You can’t always expect them to reach out first. 

They don’t even like you that much.

Shouto sighs, shoving the rest of the cookie in his mouth. Maybe if he concentrates on chewing, he can drown out the bad thoughts.

You didn’t even visit your mother. 

You’ve disappointed her yet again.

When Shouto swallows his cookie, it feels like sandpaper in his throat.

“Shouto...is...is something wrong?” Rei asks, breaking the ice that seems to have chilled the room. Shouto finally dares to look up at her and sees the worried expression on her usually serene face.

“N-No, I mean...yeah…no...maybe? I don’t know,” he stumbles over his words in a way that is very uncharacteristic of him. He rubs a hand down his face and sighs. “Okaasan, I...do you ever just...feel...empty? Like you have nothing inside of you, and you exist outside of your own body?”

Rei seems taken aback by his question, which makes Shouto clam up immediately. He hunches over in his chair, crossing his ankles and staring at the floor to avoid making eye contact. “S-Sorry, forget I asked, it’s nothing—” 

“I do, sometimes,” Rei answers softly, interrupting her son’s attempts at backpedaling. “I used to feel it a lot more back when...everything happened. It’s not as bad now.”

Shouto lifts his head just enough to peek at his mother through his dual-colored bangs hanging in front of his eyes.

“My doctors have told me that dissociation—the out-of-body sensation—is a trauma response,” Rei continues in a gentle voice. “In order to protect ourselves, our minds can shut down and force us out, so that we don’t have to face or acknowledge our emotions or...what’s really going on around us.”

Shouto’s breath hitches.

“Have you been feeling this way lately, Shouto?” Rei then asks, serious and soft, with no judgment in her eyes.

Shouto silently nods, begging his eyes to cooperate and not allow his tears to fall.

“Is that why you didn’t come see me last week? And why you haven’t talked with Fuyumi or Natsuo?”

Shouto nods again, sniffing and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “I feel like...I don’t know, like...I don’t deserve to? To see you, to talk with neesan and Natsu-nii. I keep having...thoughts…”

“What thoughts?”

God, Shouto shouldn’t be saying any of this. He shouldn’t be saying any of this to his mentally ill mother. What if he triggers her by talking about all these ugly feelings inside of him? What if, by giving these thoughts a voice, they turn out to be true? What if—

“What thoughts are you having, Shouto?” Rei asks more insistently, though her voice is still quiet and calm. Comforting. Soothing in a way that Shouto doesn’t feel like he deserves from her.

“I…”

It’s then that Shouto breaks completely. He drops his uneaten cookies to the floor and hides his face in his hands as he quietly cries, trying not to make a sound because if he does, then his father will hear and—

No.

Endeavor isn’t here. Endeavor is far, far away from here.

It’s just him. Just him and his mother.

His mother.

His mother...who burned him because he looks too much like his father.

His mother, whose life he ruined just by existing.

“Shouto…”

Shouto barely registers Rei coming over to him and pulling him into a hug, his head against her stomach. He just cries and cries and cries, as silently as he can manage, while Rei runs her delicate fingers through his hair in a small attempt at comfort.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry...I’m so sorry, okaasan…” Shouto chokes out, the words falling out of his mouth faster than he can catch them. “I’m no good...I can’t...I just…”

Rei just holds her son, soothing noises brushing through her lips as she combs her fingers through his hair, rubs her hand up and down his back in a comforting manner. Shouto gasps and heaves as he sobs, and eventually, he runs out of tears to shed.

When he’s quieted down, Rei only pulls away enough that she can tilt Shouto’s head up to look him in the eye. But he averts his gaze, won’t meet her eyes. Her thumb catches some of the stray tears crawling down his cheek. 

“I’m sorry, okaasan,” he whispers, his voice breathless and shaky. “Sometimes, it’s...everything is just too much and I…”

Rei waits patiently for him to continue.

“I just...want to die…” Shouto says so quietly he isn’t sure if he actually spoke at all. But his mother pulling him into another hug is all the confirmation he needs that she has heard him loud and clear.

“Shouto...do you have anyone you can talk to about these feelings? A friend, a teacher, a counselor? Someone?” Rei asks. Shouto shakes his head, buries his face in the soft material of her sweater vest.

But that’s a lie, Shouto thinks. He does have people he can talk to. Midoriya, Yaoyorozu, Iida, Uraraka, Kirishima…

Bakugou.

“I really worried all my friends last week,” Shouto says, his voice muffled by Rei’s sweater vest. “I...wasn’t myself and I...I tried to hurt myself. I did hurt myself,” he admits, feeling the guilt and shame bleed into his veins once again, as if they had never really left in the first place.

Rei hums to assure him that she’s listening, and Shouto is grateful for his mother’s supportive presence, even if she isn’t saying anything at the moment. He knows this must be a lot for her, to hear that one of her children feels so awful about himself to want to…

“I think you should see someone, Shouto. A professional. They can help you,” Rei says, and Shouto can hear the quiet confidence in her words. Words spoken from experience. Who would know about this kind of thing better than her, after all?

Shouto nods wordlessly, pulling back and finally looking at his mother. She smiles softly down at him, and tucks some of his disheveled hair away from his face. “Is it scary?” he asks, already feeling the trepidation at the possibility of sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings with a complete stranger.

Rei nods slowly, her smile fading somewhat. “Yes. It can be scary, at first. And painful. Your emotions will be all over the place for a while. But…” she pauses, placing both her hands on Shouto’s cheeks to make sure she has his full attention. “Talking about this, working through it with someone who is trained to help people like you and me...it’s an important step to take so you can heal.”

“Heal…” Shouto echoes, averting his gaze. 

“You have so much pain inside your heart. I see it, Shouto. I see it in you, in Fuyumi, in Natsuo. I see it in myself every time I look in the mirror. But you can move past it. You can learn to cope with it in healthy ways. You’re strong...you’re too strong to give up.” Rei slowly drops her hands from Shouto’s face, only to take his hands that have been tightly wound in his lap. “I know you can do this.”

Shouto nods hesitantly, unclenching his fingers and letting his mother twine hers in his. His hands ache, his right hand covered in frost and his left hot and sweaty.

But he holds onto Rei’s hands like his life depends on it, and looks her in the eye once more.

“What do I need to do?”

.

Shouto returns to the dorms much later than he anticipates. After talking at length with his mother about his depressive episode from a week ago and the intrusive thoughts that plague both his waking and his sleeping hours, they’ve come up with a tentative plan. Shouto is to speak to Aizawa-sensei about seeing a UA-employed counselor. He has a soft deadline of sorts to complete this task—Rei had told him that she hopes he'll talk to his homeroom teacher by the time he comes to see her next week.

Shouto sighs, slipping his shoes off by the front door of the dorm building. He passes by some of his classmates on his way to the elevators, actually stopping to say a quick hello to Jirou and Kaminari who are sitting on the couches with their guitars. Tokoyami is also in the common area, at a table reading a book while Dark Shadow flits around and keeps watching for something outside. He waves to them both before he makes it to the elevator. 

When he gets inside, he punches the button for the fourth floor.

For some reason, Shouto feels an unwavering need to see Bakugou. 

The elevator pings and the doors slide open, and Shouto marches to Bakugou’s door with a grim but determined expression. 

When he knocks on Bakugou’s door, his knocking is quiet and concise with only three raps of his knuckles on the door.

It takes a minute, but Bakugou eventually opens the door and scowls at Shouto. "What," he says, not even a question. 

"Can I come in?" Shouto asks almost shyly, opening his bag and pulling out a small plastic container of Fuyumi's cookies his mother had given him to bring back. "I...have these for you."

To Shouto’s surprise, Bakugou doesn't turn him away and actually backs up into the room, opening his door wider to allow Shouto passage. "What, you wanted to pay me back for cooking you breakfast this morning?"

Shouto blinks, looking at Bakugou as if the blond had just grown another head. Did...did he just admit to cooking Shouto breakfast?

"Sort of," Shouto says quickly, opening the container and pulling out a cookie. "My sister made these, and I remember how much you liked her cooking when...uh, when you and Midoriya came over for dinner at my house that one time…"

"What is it?" Bakugou asks, taking the cookie from Shouto and examining it closely, even sniffing it to determine its ingredients. 

"Green tea cookie," Shouto says, watching Bakugou take a bite. Shouto smiles when Bakugou’s expression changes to something between being pleased and impressed, and the boy shoves the rest of the cookie in his mouth. 

"Not bad," Bakugou says, looking at the crumbs stuck to his palm before looking around the room for something to wipe them off with. He spots a small towel sitting at the top of his gym bag by the bed, going to grab it and wipe his hand with it. "Might have to snag the recipe from her."

"I can text her and ask for it," Shouto offers, waiting until Bakugou is finished cleaning his hands before handing the closed container to him. "And...you can have the rest of these. I brought them for you, specifically."

Bakugou looks surprised for about a split second before he smirks, taking the container. "You…sure you don’t want any for yourself? Seems fucking stupid to give them all to me when your sister made them."

Shouto can feel his face heating up and he has to keep a lid on his Quirk before he lights himself on fire. Since when has his Quirk been so hard to control? And for that matter, Bakugou hasn’t said anything remotely close to embarrassing. Why is Shouto feeling so flustered?

"It’s okay, I had plenty while I was with my mother," Shouto says, clenching his hands into fists now that he doesn't have the cookie container to fiddle with. "I…also just…wanted to see you, I guess."

"What the fuck? Why?" Bakugou says, and to Shouto’s shock, he doesn't sound angry at all. Just…confused. 

About as confused as Shouto feels at the moment. 

“I don’t know…maybe…” Shouto rubs his hand over his face, slicking his hair back for just a moment before it falls back into his face and covers most of his vision. “I…had a talk with my mother…about, you know, last week.”

Bakugou seems to stop breathing as soon as Shouto mentions last week, eyeing the half-n-half boy with trepidation.

“Um…can I…sit?” Shouto asks, curling his toes against the rug.

“…Sure,” Bakugou replies hesitantly, gesturing in the general direction of the bed. He himself goes over to his desk, setting the cookie container next to an organized stack of textbooks and notebooks. He pulls his chair out and sits down, straddling the seat and propping his arms on the seatback. Finally, he rests his chin on his arms and watches Shouto curiously.

Shouto just sits on the floor, cross-legged, tucking his feet under himself as far as he can.

“You could sit on the bed, you fucking dingus,” Bakugou says. “It’s not like you haven’t been in it before.”

It takes about a millisecond before both boys register what had just come out of Bakugou’s mouth, and both their faces turn red as tomatoes at the implications.

“Uh…anyway,” Shouto clears his throat, and sets his hands in his lap, joining his fingers and twiddling his thumbs in his nervousness. “I…I don’t know why I wanted to tell you specifically all of this, but I felt like you deserved to know since. Well. You helped me so much, when I needed it the most. Which I still can’t thank you enough for, by the way,” Shouto says, looking up at Bakugou and offering him a tiny but grateful smile.

Bakugou squints his eyes at Shouto before he looks away, cheeks still adorably red. He scratches at the back of his neck. “Tch…whatever, no need to thank me. Literally anyone else would have done the same thing if they were the ones watching you jump off your fucking balcony.”

Shouto’s smile turns a little sad, then, and he looks down at the floor. “I’m…sorry. That must have been frightening to deal with.”

A long silence settles between them, then, a silence that weighs heavily in the air with all the things unspoken between them.

“What I wanted to say…” Shouto begins, buckling under the pressure of the silence, “is that…my mother made me promise to talk to Aizawa-sensei about seeing a therapist. One here at school.”

Bakugou watches him warily, raising an eyebrow in question.

“And, uh,” Shouto swallows before continuing, “I…was hoping you could…come with me to talk to him? Since you were there when I jumped.”

The request takes Bakugou by surprise, if his openly shocked expression is anything to go by. Shouto doesn’t think he’s ever seen the boy’s eyes so wide.

“Sorry, I know it’s a lot to ask—” Shouto says, but his words get cut off by Bakugou’s somewhat indignant response.

“Don’t you have other friends that can go with you for ‘moral support’ or whatever shit this is about? I’m sure fucking Deku would be thrilled to help you, since he has such a bleeding heart for every person on the goddamn planet.”

“That’s not the point,” Shouto says, taking a deep breath to speak again before being cut off by Bakugou once more.

“Then what about Four Eyes? He’s always tryin’ to take responsibility as class prez or whatever, or fuck, even Round Face, she’s so fucking happy and bubbly all the time—she’d be good for that. Or, like, Ponytail? What about her? Aren’t you bougie BFFs or some shit?” Bakugou sounds borderline hysteric at this point, listing off Shouto’s other friends as people much better suited for this task than himself.

But…

“But they’re not you,” Shouto says simply, staring at Bakugou with nothing but sincerity in his eyes, his expression. “I want you to go with me, Bakugou. No one else.”

Bakugou ducks his head behind the back of the chair and breathes out a deep breath through his nose. 

Shouto bites at the inside of his lip. This is a mistake. A very big mistake. Yet he can’t find it in himself to take the words back. He means it—he wants Bakugou there with him when he has possibly one of the most important conversations of his life. “You…if you really don’t want to, then you don’t have to. I’m not going to force you into anything, Bakugou.”

Bakugou tilts his head up just enough to peek at Shouto over the top of his arms. He remains silent, but his expression is thunderous. From what Shouto can see of it, anyway.

“Just…think about it? And let me know what you decide,” Shouto says. He waits a few moments for Bakugou to say something, but when no more words come out of that foul mouth of his, that Shouto for some reason finds endearing, he sighs. He pulls himself up off the floor and adjusts his bag to sit correctly on his shoulders. “Sorry for bothering you. Enjoy the cookies.”

Shouto ignores the snort Bakugou gives him in response, making his way over to the door. He opens it to leave, but pauses, looking back over his shoulder at Bakugou. The blond is still sitting in his chair, glaring daggers at the floor, his eyebrows creased so far down that Shouto’s surprised they don’t permanently stick like that.

Sighing one more time, Shouto exits the room and clicks the door softly closed behind him. He’s tired, and needs to get things ready for school tomorrow, so he heads up to his own room feeling much heavier than he did when he arrived back at the dorms.

.

It isn’t until a couple hours later, as Shouto is laying out his futon for bed, that his phone chimes with an incoming message.

He goes over to his desk and picks up his phone, opening up the text messaging app with a few taps of his thumb. His eyes widen when he sees who the text is from.

“Bakugou?” Shouto says aloud, clicking on the conversation to read the message.

fine, i’ll go with u. but we’re talking to aizawa-sensei after school tomorrow. i’m not letting u put this shit off, got it?

Shouto smiles as he types back a quick response.

got it. thank you, bakugou

yeah, yeah, whatever, shut the fuck up.

see u tomorrow in class

His smile grows a little wider, and Shouto has to hide his mouth behind his hand to keep from letting out a small laugh.

yeah...see you tomorrow

#todobaku #todobaku fic #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #my writing

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 4)

It is only after they part ways that Azula realizes she hadn’t gotten his name. And she thinks about that for a long time afterwards. It is a stupid thing to have nagging her in the back of her mind. A trivial matter. He was a friendly face and a good companion but she didn’t know him all too well.

They’d spent a good week or so together. He helped her craft some tools like a good fishing spear and a bow and some arrows for hunting. She has an abundance of blankets so she traded one for a pan to cook her fish and game over.

They had talked a good deal, nothing of where she is headed or where she had come from. She didn’t have to drop a false name because he didn’t ask for one at all. There had been an unspoken courtesy, a knowing that she didn’t want to be known. So he settled for talking of his wife and of folklore that he’d heard during his travels.

She warned him of a rather troublesome group of bandits just to the south of where she had been before she’d entered the plains.

Azula steers her mongoose-lizard towards the skyline. She can see the outlines of buildings through a thin veil of mist. She hopes to be there before the clouds open up and soak her to the bone.

The man had told her a tale about how he and his wife had been in a thick forest huddling in a cave as they waited out a storm. He claimed that they met a spirit there; one that looked like a rabaroo but spoke like a child. They followed it out into the storm and it led them to a babe. They had taken the babe in and that, that was why he was on this journey. To trade furs and other goods for coin. He promised his wife that he’d have them plenty of food by the time he got back and toys too.

The village is in unobscured view now. And so her nervousness unveils itself too. There is always a pinch of nervousness when entering a new town; the smaller it is, the greater her sense of foreboding. She is more elusive in the bigger towns. In the smaller villages they want to get to know her.

She is almost certain that there is another larger town some miles away but she is just as certain that she won’t beat the storm. As though to diminish any figment of doubt, she spies the first fork of lightning stab into the cloud diagonal from it. She urges her mongoose-lizard to move faster. She reaches the village as the first drop of rain spatters on her cheek. The streets are desolate save for a vendor who had been late to pack in. The woman’s hair whips into her face. A face screwed up in distress and concentration. The wind is certainly picking up, it blows a few more fat droplets into Azula’s face. She hears the woman cry out as she fumbles with the protective tarp and it flies from her hand.

The sky opens up with a fury and Azula chides herself for pausing to gawk. The woman takes notice of her and she inwardly berates herself a second time. And then a third as she steers her mongoose-lizard towards the woman. She slides down from her mount and grabs the other end of the tarp. The woman grunts at the effort of securing it.

“Why did you wait so long to close your stall?” Azula questions over the storm.

“Why didn’t you plan your travels better?” She shoots back.

“I noticed the storm miles back. I can only get my mongoose-lizard to run so fast.” She swats at the wet strands of hair that plaster to her forehead and finds herself relieved that she had chosen to chop it short. The other woman doesn’t have such luck, her hair is flapping into her eyes and sticking to her bare shoulders.

“Thank you for helping me.”

“I was hoping that you could give me a place to wait out the storm.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “So you’re that sort.”

“That sort?” Azula asks. She wishes that the woman would have this discussion with her inside.

“You do things for things.”

“Well yes, that’s how it works.”

“Have you ever done anything helpful just to be generous?”

She thinks for a moment. A moment that turns into a minute and then a span of time long enough for the woman to say, “I didn’t think so.”

Azula frowns. “Fine.” She climbs back to her saddle, there is a decent puddle in it. It doesn’t matter she is drenched down to her last layer of clothing and then some.

“Wait. I didn’t mean anything by that.” The woman calls up to her. “You can stay with me if you want.”

But she is agitated already, perhaps wrongly so, and can’t imagine spending another moment with the woman. She gives the mongoose-lizard’s reins a flick and ventures into the storm. And really, what does it matter? Her sense of urgency has been washed away by having already failed to keep herself dry.

Thunder shakes the cobblestone, she hears a tree branch split. She thanks the spirits that she can bend lightning and has watched Zuko redirect it enough to have a sense of how it’s done. She finds herself an alley to steal away in.

The storm lets up as suddenly as it had come, tapering off with a few final patters. It had raged for a respectable ten minutes, but such a powerful burst can never seem to sustain itself. The village inhabitants are slower to emerge. She wonders if she is due for a second onslaught; she finds that storms like these usually come in pairs or several short sets.

She emerges from the alley dripping and shivering. Her mongoose-lizard looks just as miserable.

The streets don’t fill until the sun has been in the sky for at least an hour. And even an hour later, she is still sopping wet and dripping as though she herself is a raincloud. Her mood goes darker still.

Now, with a crowd, her nerves are flaring again. As wet as she is, she is twice as likely to draw attention. She will draw it thrice over being an outsider who is unmistakably Fire Nation.

She clenches the reigns much tighter than she needs to and guides her mount through the crowd. She watches three children, two boys and a girl kicking up puddles and giggling. An older child floats a paper boat down the stream of the sidewalk gutter. The children pay her passing by no mind. That is one constant from town to town; the children are always oblivious. At least until the adults make a fuss, then they get curious. She doesn’t like children, when they do take an interest in her they ask far too many questions and with all the social grace of a village drunk.

She scans the buildings for an inn. She will stay here for some time, earn herself some more coin, and be on her way. She resigns herself to the possibility that she might have to bypass the inn and sleep in the village green if she wishes to keep her earnings. She might have to do so regardless, this village is so small that it may not have an inn at all.

As she ganders at street signs and buildings, she feels eyes on her. Most are drawn out passing glances, some linger long enough to send a vibration up and down her spine. A very particular set of eyes refuse to leave her.

“Missus, you’re all wet!”

“So I am aware.” She answers dryly.

“I have hair too.” He beams up at her, one of his front teeth is missing. “See!” He points at his hair.

“That isn’t what I said.” She grumbles.

“I also have teeth, missus. But not all of them! Do you have all of your teeth?”

Azula blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because sometimes, for some reason your tooth gets all wiggly and then it falls out. My dad says not to yank it out. Or if you’re like my friend’s brother’s dad...” He stops for a breath and starts over. “If you’re like my friend’s father’s dad you got into a fight and got punched in the face!”

“Yes, well my teeth are fine.”

“Atsu!”

The child jerks. His smile seems to dim. “That’s my dad.”

The man, he can’t be much younger than she, approaches and with a sigh and a nervous chuckle asks, “he’s not bothering you, is he?”

“Yes, he is.”

The man flushes.

“I’m sorry, he just likes talking to people. I’ve tried to tell him that it isn’t polite.”

She shrugs. “Have you tried other means of discipline?” Really it is only a question that borders on being a suggestion, but the man seems to grow more uncomfortable. “Some children only respond to strict lessons and…” She falls short watching his expression flicker into something of concern. Sometimes she forgets that the Earth Kingdom isn’t so rigid with their children. “Nevermind.” She grumbles, her own face growing red.

“Did I do something bad, dad?”

He shakes his head. “No. Fire Nationals tend to be...stern and blunt.” He puts a hand on the boy’s back.

Azula swallows, something in her belly flutters with unease and regret. She shouldn’t care. She has no reason to care. But something in her itches to make a better impression. She opens her mouth to call for him to wait but she doesn’t utter a word. She can’t come up with anything to say afterwards. By the time she thinks up something, the man and his boy have slipped into the crowd. Apparently children aren’t the only ones that have the tact of a town drunk. And so she is left to navigate the town alone. She supposes that she should simply buy some new shoes and make her way to the city over. She has enough food to last until then.

That day she learns that children will probably be her second great downfall. Or maybe it is something about not being so rigid? She learns that she still isn’t a good person. That she’s unlovable at worst and hard to be around at best.

.oOo.

Navigating the palace for the first time in years is not unlike getting used to a new town. It is hardly recognizable, easy to get lost in, and she doesn’t know many of the inhabitants. A lot of them openly and unrelentingly eyeball her as she passes. The stares aren’t particularly malicious. In fact, she doesn’t think that they are ill-meaning at all. Mostly they stare at her as though she is a phantasmal spirit.

“So there are some new portraits up.” He gestures to the gallery. “As in some I mean, one.”

She catches the faintest of jolts as he seems to recall that the feud for the throne is still a delicate topic. She eyes the image of Zuko standing tall and proud, flame in one hand, olive branch in the other. She doesn’t find herself simmering and seething. It is more or less a solemn acceptance. There is a residual tickle of envy that seeps through the cracks. She thinks that it has less to do with the crown and more to do with the respect it represents. The honor she has lost and the purpose she has yet to find. The content and peace he has found that she can’t seem to grasp even when it is securely in her hands.

“He picked a fine artist.” She remarks. And that is all. They are onto the next hallway.

“It doesn’t bother you?” He asks.

“The only thing that bothers me is that you’re starting the questions thing again.”

“How am I supposed to get to know you if I don’t ask questions?”

She shrugs. “Watch. Observe.” She accidently meets the stare of one of the passing servants. “Like everyone else.” She fidgets with the excess folds of her robe. There is a part of her that wonders if she should open up, to tell him everything from start to finish. Perhaps to slip her journal into his bag before he leaves. She backtracks, not knowing what she was thinking.

“Zuko also had a new room added to the palace.”

“A new room?”

“Yeah it’s full of trinkets from the other nations. He thought that it would be a nice way to show that we’re trying to move away from the war.”

Azula nods. “It seems like most nations are. I hadn’t expected people to be so...inviting in the Earth Kingdom.”

“Because you’re Fire Nation?”

“That’s correct.”

“They didn’t recognize you, did they?”

“I have a feeling that they wouldn’t have taken as kindly to me if they did.” She confesses. She wonders if any of the people she had met along the way would still care for her if they found her in the palace with a prettily and painstakingly styled hair and a full face of makeup. Granted, she hasn’t gotten around to that yet.

“Oh! And we can go out to the garden!” Sokka exclaims. She readily allows the subject change. “That’s different to. Your mom and uncle planted this tea garden and Zuko had some flowers imported. There are more turtle-ducks too!”

“That sounds nice, I suppose. Hajime would have enjoyed it.”

“Hajime?”

Azula stiffins and scolds herself for letting that slip. “I’d like to see the spa, it has been too long.”

Mercifully, Sokka gets the hint. “The palace spa is different too.”

She frowns. “Not the spa. I liked the spa.” She folds her arms. “It was perfectly fine the way it was.”

“I think that you’ll like the change. Come on.”

At some point Azula had come to lead the way. Like muscle memory, she finds that she can still find her way about the palace. Mostly anyhow. There are things that throw her off, decor that hadn’t been there before, a new portrait, or something that has been moved from one place to another. The spa though, upon arrival, is both the same and different. It still has the frameworks of what it once was but it is grander now, more elegant. The fountain and its adjoining chair are exactly as they had been and a small tree in a large pot still sits on either side of the staircase leading to it. The carpeting is also much the same and sunlight spills in through a large window on the ceiling.

But there are new dragons that join the ones already accenting the back wall. And these ones jut forward with mouths spilling flames of gold. She notices that they too are fountains that lead to miniature fountains, presumably for hand washing. There are also several small crystals dangling from the ceiling, casting prisms all about the room. And when the sunlight strikes them right, they bounce off of the jets of water. There are also small turtle-duck statues resting near the potted trees.

It is so familiar yet so changed. She admits that she does like the change.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s nice, Zuzu.”

“I was about to have my hair combed, but you can go first if you want.”

She would very much like that. It will take less time for them to wash her hair anyways. Where hers has been mournfully hacked, his locks have lengthened so gracefully. She thinks it somewhat cruel how he is now the one with all of the splendor both visually and in status. She feels ruefully unremarkable.  “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

The serving girls file into the room. “You hired them back?”

“They weren’t supposed to have been banished in the first place.”

She isn’t sure that he had meant it as anything more than a statement of fact, but it still stings. She reclines in the spa chair, feeling terribly uncomfortable and out of place. The longer that she stays the more she feels as though she shouldn’t have come back. It is one thing to be plain in an ordinary world and another to be lackluster when surrounded by splendor.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Fanfiction

[jokerfan99]

Curiousity (Almost) Killed The Cat (RWBY/RVB) by Necroceph

*RVB Opening Theme*

Flying above a barren desert.

Fuel's at 9%. It's not enough to keep this thing flying in space in another few hours. Luckily for Xenotarian Four, she spot this M-class planet on the way with man-made structures with functioning electricity says the scanners. She should reach a base in another few clicks. The residents there should provide her the fuel needed to reach Menagerie Prime. There have always been risks of xenotarian aid but who would've thought that flying a longsword in low fuel would be one of them. Through the windshields, she spots structures in the distance and begins to slow the ship down for landing. She attempts to contact the base's denizens to have their permission to land and refuel.

???: This is Xenotarian Four, calling to whoever's in charge of the base. I wish to have permission to dock my ship there for refueling. I would appreciate the help, over.

No reply, yet they did not give any warning to her. There is an empty landing pad where the ship can land on. The thrusters switched to vertical mode and carefully lands on top of the pad smoothly without problems. Time to fuel up this baby. She couldn't wait to get back home to her kids. They're probably waiting for her at her parent's doorstep ready to pounce at her with one big hug. Before she left, her father was against the idea of her taking this assignment because she's the mother of two litters and can't just leave them orphaned if anything bad ever happens to her. But who's better at delivering xenotarian aid beyond the border without being spotted by the Jiralhanae fighters? That's her. Unless she finds somebody with better skills to take her place. She exits the ship and awaits for the fueling crew, but no one seem to came. And that's not the only thing that surprises her, she looks around and doesn't see a single soul at sight. Don't tell me I landed in an abandoned facility, she thought. If this place is abandoned, then why are there still lights functioning here?

XF: Hello!

Beside the howling desert wind, no one called back. Guess she has no choice but to walk around and find somebody. This place appears to be a military base and human in design. She's not sure whether it belongs to the UNSC or Insurgents due to the lack of any known military insignia at sight. There is one she spots on a wall along the way but not one she's familiar with. It is a black trifoil logo. There's no title or anything written around it, could be just a random graffiti or maybe not.  As she examines it, a smell that's described to be rotten fish, stung her senses. Good God, what is that awful smell? It stinks of high heaven! It's coming from that nearby archway leading to an opened field. She crosses through the archway, with nose pinched, to investigate the source but what she found is something she'll regret seeing.

XF: Oh... my... God.

Her curious expression turned to shock for right in front of her are the bodies of soldiers lying on the dirt. Their armor is riddled with bullet holes with blood seeping out through them. Some have been burned to black charred husks and others still clinging onto their exposed rotten guts. Not a single movement can be seen from any of them. It looks like a huge battle took place, no, a massacre. They didn't seem to have a chance at fighting back. She has never seen soldiers like them before but they do have the same logo on their armors she has seen earlier. They could be part of some paramilitary group, but that's just a theory. She tuned in her cochlear implants, adjusting to the right frequency to hear any heartbeats from any of the soldiers just to be sure if there's any alive. Not a single pumping of blood can be heard from any of them. From the concentration of the pungency they emit, they must've been dead for over three or four days. Good thing if it'd not for her experience in the field, she wouldn't be able to hold out her lunch much longer. What happened to these poor souls or more importantly, what happened here?

TING TING TING

A repeating sound can be heard from nearby. It's coming from one of the buildings, with the blown up radio tower on the roof. She stealthily walks into the building and observe the contents inside. Inside contains a variety of computer terminals, most have been destroyed by gunfire, except for one with a blinking red button on the console. It's as if it's calling out to her to activate it. She approached the terminal and presses the blinking button. The machine activates followed by a Macintosh boot up before a voice synthesizer spoke out through the speakers.

???: Hello. I am the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System, abbreviated F.I.L.S.S. You may call me, Gary. XF: Did you just talk? Gary: Of course I did. What were you expecting, a blue naked babe? XF: Not at all. What is this place? Gary: This is a top secret ONI training facility to train new Spartan soldiers through experimental augmentation and cybernetics. I am the computer system responsible for maintaining this facility to excellent capacity and assist all staff member to easily perform their duties, and daily military reports. I have no record of you in the data banks. Please identify yourself, for you have five seconds to live. XF: Pvt. Blake Belladonna from the White Paw Xenotarian Aid. I'm here because I stopped by to fuel up my ship. Gary: I see. Then why are you in the communications room? Blake: Well nobody came to help so I walked around to try find someone. Gary: And have you encountered the staff? Blake: No. The ones I found are lying dead outside. Gary: Dead? Explains? Blake: The ones lying outside this building. Don't you know about it? Gary: No. I have been offline for... what day is it today? Blake: Tuesday. Gary: Nine days ago. Please let me check the security cameras... oh. They really are dead. What a pity. But at least Jameson Locke's dead too, so that's good news. It would seem that I have missed out what had transpired here. Blake: That's like a week ago. Computer- Gary: Gary. Blake: Sorry... Gary. What happened here exactly? Gary: I do not know, I only remember the events before my deactivation. Blake: Well we just have to go with that first. Starting off, who attacked this base? Was it the Jiralhanae, Insurgents? Gary: No. And if it was those damn dirty apes, I would've detected their ships' signature in orbit before they attack. From what I examined from outside, it is likely that the soldiers killed one another. Blake: They killed each other?! Why? Gary: Did you see any bodies from any opposing forces you mentioned? Blake: Now that you mention that, no. They're all wearing the same uniform and color. Gary: That is correct. No doubt it's connected to the strange events that happened before my deactivation. Blake: Strange events? Gary: Yes. This can be easily explained in the form of a knock knock joke. Knock knock. Blake: Who's there? Gary: You are a dirty dirty Shisno. Ha Ha Ha. Blake: Please I'm not here for jokes, this is serious. What's a Shisno? Gary: Don't ask. It all happened with a blackout three days prior to my deactivation. Every electronic equipment was shut down when one of the base's generators overheated beyond recommended levels. The engineers have no idea what caused it to heat up like that but have concluded there was a computer glitch within the system, so there was nothing to worry about. However, strange things begin to happen the day after. There have been numbers of violent cases reported throughout the facility. A private tried to strangle his drill sergeant with the UNSC flag and an hour after that, the same drill sergeant stabbed the mess hall's chef through the eye with a plastic fork. Blake: Please no jokes. Gary: I'm not. See it for yourself.

Gary opens up a window in the terminal. The video shows the footage of a soldier, probably the drill sergeant Gary mentioned, standing on a table, trying to scare away the other soldiers with... a plastic fork?! And EW, is that an eyeball at the end?!

???: Sir, please put the fork down. We don't want to hurt you. ???: BACK YOU WORTHLESS UNGGOYS! Come any closer and I will use this fork to eat your intestines like spaghetti, with a pinch zucchini and mozarella! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! ???: NOW!

The soldiers quickly grabbed him. He tried to fight back but the plastic fork broke in the process.

???: GAAAAH! GET OFF ME YOU FOOLS! I WILL DESTROY YOU ALL!!!

End of video.

Blake: Okaaaaay? Gary: There's more if you like. Blake: No thank you. Continue. Gary:  In the third day, the staff have been ordered to remove the radios from their helmets and destroy, deactivate or dismantle every military asset within the facility. Landlines, cellphones, vehicles, radio towers and finally me. That is all I remember. Blake: Thank you for telling me this. Sigh, guess I got more work to do after all. First I'll need to get back to the longsword and report Command about this. Gary: Uh oh. Blake: Something wrong? Gary: You might want to have your gun ready. Blake: I didn't bring a...

Suddenly, her implants detected heavy breathing six meters behind her. She turns around and sees a soldier, magnum in hand, looking at her through his broken visor with raging eyes. A survivor! Except it doesn't look like he wants any help. From the way his eyes are looking at her with hate, something bad's about to happen in this room.

Blake: Are you okay? ???: Who are you?... Are you from Recovery... or maybe a Freelancer agent? Blake: (whispers) Gary, what is he talking about? Gary: He's talking about a rescue team. Blake: Well he's got one. Hello, sir. I'm from the White Paw Xenotarian Aid. I've come here to help if you can just put that gun down.

Blake slowly approaches the unstable man and attempts to take the gun from his hand.

???: STAY BACK!!!

But was too late once the soldier aims it at Blake.

???: DON'T YOU LIE TO ME! OH NONONONONONONONO, NOT THIS TIME YOU'RE NOT! I'M NOT GETTING BACKSTABBED AGAIN. YOU'RE JUST LIKE AAAAALLLLLL THE OTHERS! 'HELP ME WITH THIS, HELP ME WITH THAT' UNTIL THEY SHOOT YOU BEHIND THE HEAD! PARANOIC BASTARDS, THEY DESERVED IT!!! Unless... he's inside you... Blake: Inside me? What are you talking about?

BANG!

The soldier fires but the bullet misses her, passing through her ebony hair.

???: YOU THINK I'M THAT STUPID, OMEGA?! I KNOW YOU'LL GET THE CHANCE OF SURPRISING ME WITH THAT INNOCENT ACT OF YOURS AND DON'T YOU DARE ABOUT TRYING TO OUTSMART ME, YOU GODLESS AI! Blake: Sir, wait! Put the gun down, I'm not here to- ??? DIE YOU SON OF A-

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

The soldier frantically fires at Blake again. She manages to jump behind a nearby pillar, giving her cover from the little pellets of death. He's not going to stop until he kills her! She'll have to wait until he runs out and try to knock him out. However, there's a high chance he'll anticipated her move and strike her. She'll need a distraction, something to keep him off his guard enough for her to strike.

Blake: Gary, do something! Gary: What? Blake Talk to him, I have a plan! Gary: Ahem. Hello. I am the Freelancer...

BANG BANG

Two 12.7×40mm armour piercing bullets pierce through the terminal, one making a large cracked hole on the screen and the other on the console.

Gary: Ow. ???: WORKING WITH, OMEGA EH GAMMA? TOO BAD, YOU'LL DIE WITH HIM TOO!!! Huh?

Now the opportunity's open. She gets out off cover and dashes toward the soldier. He quickly notices her but was too late to fire another shot when Blake swings her fist and punches him to the broken face plate, giving him a nasty bloody nose before falling unconscious to the ground. She quickly takes the magnum from his hand to prevent any further use from him. With the crazed soldier taken cared off, Blake turns to, Gary who has been badly shot. The terminal's screen is beginning to glitch out violently and the buttons on the console are popping up sparks like popcorns in a microwave.

Blake: Gary, are you okay? Gary: No-no-no-no. Hu-hu-hu-hu-hurry please remove the-the-the-the-the-the data chip from the sto-sto-sto-storage bank beneath the co-co-console.

Blake rushes to the bottom of the console. She spots a panel and removes it to find the data chip. It wasn't so hard for her to spot it as there's a yellow arrow with a writing which reads: 'Data crystal chip. DO NOT YANK IT!!!' pointing at a chip in a slot and yanks it, despite the warning. She was relieve to get him out before the console catches on fire. To check whether Gary is still intact, she inserts the chip into her armor to see if it's functioning well without problems. Good thing whoever designed the MJOLNIR added an AI slot. Not long after the insertion, a blue ghostly projection flickers in front of her, taking the form of a blue humanoid in standard UNSC uniform. This is something Blake has never seen before.

Blake: Okay this is new. Gary: System diagnostics at 100%. Ah... much better. Blake: You okay? Gary: I am working in perfect condition, thanks to you. I owed you your life twice. Blake: Hey, I'm a xenotarian aid member after all. AIs also qualifies as a life. Anyways.

She turns to the unconscious soldier.

???: Hi, I'm Utah... like the state of Utah... uuhhh. Gary: We should leave before that maniac wakes up.

Gary's got a good point. The man's too mentally unstable to be brought back with them.

Blake: Maniac, yes. But we can't just leave him here. Gary: He manage to survive this long alone, I think he'll be alright by himself. Blake: Gary, this man has gone through a lot over the last six days. He deserves to be in a medical care. We'll bring him along once we find someone who can help him. Gary: I don't like this.

Three minutes later

It's a good thing she found this cart to carry the unconscious wacko, no way she can carry him with her fragile frame. She even tied him up in wires for his own good too. On the way to the longsword, Blake discuss a thing or two with Gary about the base.

Blake: I wonder why ONI needed to develop more Spartans. I thought the UNSC already can handle itself without them ever since the Sangeili traded us Covenant weaponry. Gary: ONI is still paranoid for another interstellar war in the future, so they decided to make more Spartans in case flying spaghetti monsters start attacking the galaxy. Blake: And what does this have to do with that 'omega' this soldier said? Gary: I'm not sure. I have no record of any 'omega' in the files. Maybe he was speaking gibberish. Blake: Well it had something to do with the event you explained. Maybe a secret military weapon, ONI developed. From what I heard , ONI will go beyond ethical restraints to get what they want. Ship's just around that corner, we should... you have got to be joking.

It's no joke. The whole longsword's on FIRE! This is no doubt the work of their friend here.

Gary: Now what? Blake: I don't know. That ship's our only way out off here and without the radio, we can't call for help! Gary: No need to panic. There is another nearby base we can look for assistance, it might still be vacant. Blake: Well that's a relief! And how long will it take us to reach there? Gary: By foot, seven days. Blake: Seven days? Gary: Unless you like walking. ???: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Uh oh, his conscious again. The soldier starts writhing in the trolley as he tries to wiggle himself out off these wires.

???: YOU'LL NEVER LEAVE HERE, OMEGA!!! NEVER! NEVEEEEEERR!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!! Gary: Will you just shut up, you dirty Shisno? Blake: Gary, are there still any functioning vehicles we can use? Gary: The staff have disabled all of them to prevent any use. Blake: Well they're still our only ticket out of here. I know a thing or two about repairing a Mongoose. So if I can fix one, we can finally get out of here. ???: YOU WILL NOT! Blake: Shh! Gary: Since you're confident about that, it's worth a try. There's one Mongoose over there.

Gary points his holographic finger to a nearby Mongoose. Blake looks into the engine. There's some disconnected parts, so it isn't a hard fix but the problem is that the handle bars have been removed. She can't drive this thing without steering. She'll need to find a new handlebar. However Gary has a plan.

Gary: Hold on for a sec. Blake: What?

Gary went silent all the sudden. Suddenly, the engines of the Mongoose sprang to life on it's own, almost made Blake jumped from where she stood.

Gary: 76% of the Mongoose is in working condition and fuel is now 79.3% capacity. Blake: Oh my God, how did you do that? Gary: I am also programmed to take control of vehicles in case of emergencies. Blake: Heh, guess I won't have to drive after all. Not bad for an Artificial Intelligence. Gary: Thank you. Alright I have scanned what you need to fix, first get a toolbox... ???: NOOOOOO!!! YOU CANNOT LEAVE! Gary: And second, shut him up.

Blake presses the helmet's mute button finally shutting him up.

Gary: Ahh... finally. Blake: So this base you mentioned, what's it called? Gary: Blood Gulch.

Deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/necroceph

#blake belladonna #rwby #Red vs Blue #Rooster Teeth #monty oum

[justjessame]

Home Sweet Home Chapter 4

I could hear the lyrical sound of Aria’s giggles ringing from the kitchen as I came down the stairs barely twenty minutes after Harvey had taken her downstairs to get breakfast started.  The scent of vanilla and cinnamon mingled with the sweeter fragrance of maple syrup warned me of a sticky welcome waiting for me in the form of French toast and a happier toddler.  

Sure enough, she was in her booster seat with what I felt certain was her second piece of perfectly made, just messy enough breakfast bordering on dessert with a far jollier disposition than what she left me with upstairs.  

“Mama, look,” she waved her fork, holding a piece of her toast and I bit my lip, hoping that she’d stabbed it tight enough to keep it in place until she got it to her mouth.  Either my prayer, or her will to keep every piece for herself was strong, because it made it to its proper end and her grin was infectious.  

Smiling, I moved closer and leaned over to rub my nose against hers, pleased to see it was still free of sugar and goop.  “You’re gonna be so hyper and ready to play with Grandma,” I murmured, pulling back as Harvey’s body molded into mine to helpfully place my plate on the table beside Aria’s before he joined his two girls.  “I’m sure Daddy wanted to make sure you two had so much fun, that’s why he picked French toast.”  Our eyes met over our little girl’s head and his were twinkling with the mischievousness that told me I was correct.  “I’m surprised you didn’t think to add powdered sugar for an extra kick,” shaking my head I took a sip from my juice before skipping the syrup and adding just a bit of butter to my slice.  

“Considered it,” Harvey admitted, making me giggle.  “Thought it might be pushing it just a bit.”  His nose crinkled and that did it, the giggle grew and Aria, not quite sure what was so damn funny went with it and joined my laughter.  

Breakfast with the three of us wasn’t all that rare, but after what Harvey had dealt with in Chicago, we lingered a bit longer.  I lingered longer, needing the reassurance that we were still alright.  That he was real and fine.  That Aria’s daddy and my husband was - I didn’t really understand why it took this particular case to force me to face the reality of what Harvey actually did for a living, for a calling, but it was a harsh dose. 

When we heard my mom’s voice calling out, Aria had forgotten that she was sad that Grandma was coming to visit.  She forgot that Grandma coming meant less time alone with Daddy.  She clapped and was nearly as excited about her visiting as she had been about the big ‘monee’.  

The same could not be said of Harvey.  “Here we go -” his eyes closed, as if he were mentally preparing for the worst, or praying for strength and I sighed.

“There you are,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen with a grin, her eyes focused on Aria.  “There’s Grandma’s little peacock.”  She held out her arms and Aria held up her own as Mom clucked her tongue.  “I see SOMEONE thought starting out the day with copious amounts of sugar would be the best way to jump start tiny little minds.  Guess you and I are starting OUR day with a bath, Aria.”  Mom shook her head and smiled down at me once she got our little one settled in her arms.  “Today’s a regular schedule, isn’t it Everlea?”  I nodded, suddenly thinking that MAYBE Harvey was right.  “That color really looks lovely on you, sweetheart.”  I was about to remind her that Harvey was RIGHT THERE, but then she sniffed.  “I suppose that YOU are going to be underfoot today?”  She barely glanced at him, but a shift of her eyes included my husband in the conversation.  “After that mess you all made of Chicago yesterday, I’d have thought YOUR people would be on hand to clean it up.  Isn’t that what you brag about doing?  Cleaning CRAP up?”  

My eyes widened, how had I missed this?  It wasn’t even that hard to see.  Dear God.  I glanced at Harvey and his eyes were on me in a clear message of ‘told you so’.  “I get to paper push today, Evelyn.” He was being polite, and short.  “As soon as I’m done, you can head on out and me and MY girl can have Daddy and mini me time.”  

“Mimi Me time!” Aria picked up the thread and ran with it, forcing Mom’s eyebrows to try to meet in the middle.  Shit.  

“Chicago was a poo-show,” Mom was adamant that we NOT curse around Aria, and she was the poster woman for it.  Little did she know, Aria might be a parrot about most things, but we’d managed to figure out the code for how to keep her from NOT repeating THOSE words.  “Surely you’ll be up to your poo colored eyeballs in paper pushing to clean it up.”  

I was watching them lob verbal hits back and forth, because Harvey had a comeback locked and ready for her.  “Why, Evelyn, I didn’t know you paid attention to the color of my eyes.  I’m flattered.”  That damn dimple of his coming out even as he followed up with more on the likelihood of work taking all day.  “As for the paperwork?  How hard is it to write ‘big animals wrecked city, fix it, now’?  I’m not a genius, but even I can type that over and over.”  

It was like a tennis match of words, and I was in the middle of it, but my eyes managed to make a detour to the clock and I knew I had to go.  Standing up, which forced a time out, I kissed Aria first.  Telling her to be good for Grandma, let Daddy work - which got a smirk from Mom - and then I turned to Harvey.  The look in his eyes made me want to shake my head, but seeing that he was right, my mom really did have a grudge against him, for some reason had me react in a completely different way.

Instead of a nice, staid, we’ve-been-married-for-long-enough-to-be-comfortable type of goodbye kiss - I stepped up to him and when our lips met the same passion flared up that had in the shower, or the bathtub, or our bed.  If my mother wanted to freak out because Harvey had helped me create our daughter.  The same little girl she was holding and who she couldn’t spoil enough, I’d like to add.  Then this kiss would sear into her brain that the love and passion that went into making Aria still burned bright and wasn’t ending any time soon.  

“Honestly,” Mom muttered, when we finally broke apart, but our eyes were still locked on one another.  “Do you think that’s appropriate for Aria to see?”

“I’ll see you tonight,” I promised Harvey, ignoring my mother for a beat.  “We’ll continue THIS -”

The rough skin of Harvey’s thumbpad brushed the skin under my eye.  “I’m holding you to that.”  He looked like I felt like parting today felt wrong and was harder than it ever had been.  “I love you.”  

“Love you, too.”  With a sigh, I pulled away to face Mom who had let Aria down.  I guess her arms got tired.  “Yes, Mom, it’s appropriate for Aria to see that her parents love one another.  There is NOTHING wrong with a child seeing displays of affection. It’s not like we were having sex.”

Mom sniffed at me, as if our kiss - which was admittedly bordering on a makeout session in the kitchen - was far greater than a display of affection.  “You’re going to be late, Ever.”  

“It’s MY office, Mom.”  I was moving toward the door anyway.  “Thank you for coming over,” I kissed her on the cheek as I passed her.  “Be nice to him?  Please?”  

“No promises, Everlea Grace.”  Her tone wasn’t nearly as stern though, so I had hope that I’d come home to a house still standing and my family intact.

The best part about leaving my position as the attending physician in the emergency room and starting up my own practice wasn’t just that it was less stress or the shorter hours.  It was the small group of people I’d brought together to create a clinic that felt warm and comforting, while also managing to give our patients the confidence in our expertise.  

I was thankful that the day went as smoothly as I expected from a regular day, no surprises, no upheaval to my routine.  As I hung up my stethoscope after my final patient was on her way out the door, having gotten her next appointment scheduled and I double checked that I’d sent her prescriptions through to her pharmacy, I was debating whether I should call home to see if I was walking into a disaster area or if Mom and Harvey had called a truce.

“Everlea?”  I’d been grabbing my bag and keys from my office when my receptionist, Kendra, ducked her head through the door.  Looking up, she took it as an opening to continue.  “Harvey called while you were with Mrs. Callahan.”  I waited, hoping it was something benign, and not a call telling me he was off to make another shitty bed.  “He wanted me to ask you to pick up a bottle of wine, whatever your mom prefers?”  She shrugged her shoulder and I nodded.

“Thanks, Kendra.”  I pulled my bag across my chest.  “I think Mark is still in Exam 3 with Mr. Randolph -”

She grinned at me.  “Yeah, it’s his monthly, so it’ll take a while to get through the list.”  Mr. Randolph did like to be thorough when he had his monthly visit.  “Don’t worry, Everlea, we’ll lock up.”

“I know you will,” I assured her.  “I just wanted to make sure I remembered.”  Shaking my head, I thought how long the past twenty-four hours seemed.  

“Hey,” my eyes met hers.  “Harvey’s practically indestructible, Everlea, and he’s home, right?”  

I sighed.  “I know, I know.”  Moving toward the door, Kendra moved with me, following behind so she could lock the entrance behind me so no one wandered in after hours.  Letting Mr. Randolph out was nothing compared to telling someone we weren’t a walk-in clinic.  “I can’t seem to shake it this time.”  

“Well,” Kendra took her time before she spoke, obviously thinking about my predicament.  “I guess, if you think about it, it was bound to happen eventually.  I mean, the stress has to compound to the point that it gets too heavy at some point, right?”  

Another sigh and I nodded.  “I guess, but I really wish it hadn’t.”  

Kendra was chuckling as I crossed over to outside.  “No one wants that kind of stress, but you and Harvey will figure it out -”

“We always do,” I supplied, my smile returning, thinking about how that was Harvey’s line.

#Agent Harvey Russell/OFC #Rampage 2018 #alternative universe

[zen3to5]

J/H 7-23: Take It or Leave It

I suspect some of you reading this rewrite are more interested in what happens in this episode than in the season finale. This was certainly the moment of the show I was most interested in changing, and spent the most time on, once I decided to go past Season 5. I hope you enjoy it.

FF.Net AO3

***

SHOW TITLE   INT. FORMAN BASEMENT - NIGHT   It’s a quiet night in the basement. HYDE sits in his chair, sunglasses off, head bowed in thought over the coffee table. He’s bent far enough over that SCHATZI, sitting on the table, can sniff at his hair. DONNA, sitting on the couch, and ERIC, enjoying a popsicle while standing behind the couch, watch Hyde with great amusement.   ERIC: So, Hyde – it’s Friday night. Weekend’s coming up. The end of another week. Almost the end of the month. The month Jackie said you had to decide whether to marry her or let her go take that TV job in Chicago.   HYDE: (looks up) What’s your point?   ERIC: Oh, no point – I just like throwing that in your face.   Donna chuckles, swats Eric on the arm.   DONNA: Hyde, don’t you think it’s a little cruel to make Jackie sweat it out all month? I mean, shouldn’t you just get it over with?   HYDE: Get what over with?   DONNA: Well, you’re gonna say “no” to marrying her, right? Unless...   She and Eric gasp together. Eric drops his now-empty popsicle stick, and Donna’s right hand goes over her mouth while her left hand grips Hyde’s arm.   DONNA (cont’d): Oh, my God, you’re thinking of saying “yes!”   ERIC: Oh, my God. You want to marry her.   DONNA: (mocking) You want to marry her because you love her.   ERIC: (doing Hyde, to Donna) “Jackie, you’re everything this poor little orphan boy ever needed.”   DONNA: (doing Jackie, to Eric) “Oh, my God, I really am!”   HYDE: Would you two shut up? I don’t know yet, okay? And, if I say “yes,” it isn’t because I love her. Love is a concept cooked up by Madison Avenue to sell to losers who’re too afraid to be alone.   ERIC: Uh, no, you’re thinking of kittens.   He exits up the stairs.   Hyde sighs, sets Schatzi down on the floor and starts fidgeting with his eyeball ring. Donna slides down the couch, closer to Hyde’s chair.   DONNA: You really don’t know what you’re gonna tell her, do you? What, you’re not sure if you want to wake up every morning to – (doing Jackie) “Steven, we need new patio furniture! Steven, I need $200! Steven, don’t forget the PTA meeting!”   She laughs; Hyde scowls.   DONNA (cont’d): (serious) Or are you not sure she should stay here?   HYDE: (sighs) Look, remember when Red got sick, and Forman had to stay home but you were still gonna go to college, and he didn’t ask you to stay? And then when you were gonna get married, and he didn’t show up? He didn’t not do those things because he didn’t want to be with you. He just didn’t want to see you give up on your dreams and ruin your life. He let you do that on your own.   DONNA: What do you mean? I didn’t ruin my life. Radio DJ was the kind of job I was gonna go to college for, and I got that job anyway, so I didn’t need to go. I mean, okay, I thought I would travel more – or at all. I thought I’d get to do more of the writing. Point Place doesn’t get the biggest acts anymore. My boss is a skeevy perv. And I only stayed for Eric, and now he's going away, so...   She frowns, looks off in thought. From the corner of her eye, she notices Hyde staring at her.   DONNA (cont’d): Hey, this isn’t about me! This is about you and your loud-mouthed girlfriend, and if you don’t give her an answer, she’s gonna flood every station in the area with non-stop ABBA requests until you do!   She sits back in a huff, arms crossed. Hyde sighs and bends down to scratch Schatzi’s ears.

MAIN CREDITS   BUMPER   INT. FORMAN KITCHEN - DAY   Breakfast with friends, invited or otherwise. FEZ and KELSO sit at the kitchen table, each with a plate of bacon, eggs, and sausages. Eric stands across from them, between the table and the stove. A sheet of paper is in his hand; his practice teaching notes. He pays them an occasional glance as he tries out a lecture on Fez and Kelso while they eat.   ERIC: “And so the baby, safely nestled in a tiny craft, is sent to safety, and is found by a loving couple who raise him as their own until, one day, when that baby is fully grown, he learns the truth about his identity – and his destiny. Now, you may be thinking, ‘that’s the story of Moses.’ But what if I told you that it’s also the story of... Superman.”   Kelso’s jaw drops and Fez’s eyes bulge.   KELSO: Whoa.   He stabs at some eggs with his fork and, without looking away from Eric, lifts them up to Fez’s mouth. Fez takes the bite and does the same thing with a sausage for Kelso.   KELSO (cont’d): (with mouth full) If church had talked more about Superman, I might’ve paid more attention when Moses was knocking down the walls of Bethlehem to save Noah from the Trojan horse.   ERIC: Pretty great, huh? And UW wants to expand the class’s appeal to ladies, so I’m working on a whole series of lectures about female empowerment in Wonder Woman.   FEZ: She can empower me right into the bedroom, if you know what I mean.   KELSO: You know what I always thought would be great? If you did it with Wonder Woman, but she kept her bracelets on the whole time. And then, if she brought the lasso of truth, she could get freaky with the lasso, and then... other stuff could happen.   Fez nods approvingly.   FEZ: Do you think the lasso would work on I Dream of Jeannie? Or would the genie magic grant her immunity?   KELSO: Did you just suggest a Wonder Woman and Jeannie three-way?   FEZ: Or Samantha from Bewitched.   KELSO: Or Wonder Woman, Jeannie, and Samantha from Bewitched!   He and Fez share excited gasps and dopey grins. Eric looks between them, eyebrows raised.   ERIC: Okay, guys – do me a favor and never visit me at UW when classes are in session.   RED and KITTY enter from the living room. Red gives Eric a contemptuous once-over.   RED: (to Eric) Well, well. If it isn’t the University of Wisconsin’s newest teacher. A lazy smart mouth who just wasted a year of his life sitting around in my basement, and who wasted most of the other seventeen years also sitting around in my basement.   ERIC: “Lazy?” I’ve spent all day, every day since I signed up for the pilot teaching program putting together lectures, reading lists, lesson plans – I even picked out Star Wars curtains for the classroom!   RED: Well, isn’t that great – you’ve finally come around to making some use of your time, and you spend it plotting out how you’re going to “teach” a lot of useless crap.   Kitty tuts, swats Red’s arm, and pushes past him to Eric.   KITTY: No, no. Honey, we are so proud of you for finding a way to pay for college and get started on your career. In Madison. The big city. Where there are concerts and restaurants and laundromats and you’ll never have a reason to come home to your mother. (sniffs) Who I guess will just stay here and die.   Lip quivering, she turns away and tends to a plate of bacon remaining on the stove.   RED: (to Eric) Teaching a pilot class that nobody can make any practical use of and making your mother cry. I guess that’s all in a day’s work for Professor Dumbass.   ERIC: Okay, you know what, Dad? I don’t have to take this anymore. Because I did exactly what you wanted me to do. You wanted me to pick a career – I picked one. You wanted me to go to college – I’m going. I even found a way to pay for it on my own. And you’ve just been a jerk about all of it. But I’m out of here at the end of the month, and until then, we’re done.   He gathers his notes and exits out the patio door.   Kitty crosses to Red, smacks him on the arm again.   RED: Ow! That one hurt!   KITTY: Serves you right. Eric’s right, Red. Would it kill you to show your son a little pride and support?   RED: For what? It’s not like he’s gonna be teaching anything useful.   KITTY: You think the only “useful” things are the things they taught you in the war! How many times since Korea have you had to fix a bayonet onto anything?   KELSO: (to Red) You know what? I bet the reason you’re being so mean to Eric is ‘cause you’re sad he’s gonna be gone, but you don’t wanna admit it.   FEZ: (to Red) Aww... someone is feeling the empty nest.   They both snicker.   RED: No, but I’m feeling like your asses are empty. And I’m about to fill them with my foot.   He gives the boys a cold stare. The grins fall from their faces. They jump to their feet and race out the patio door.   BUMPER   MUSIC NOTE: “I Want You to Want Me” by Cheap Trick.   INT. RADIO STATION - DAY   WFPP control room, early afternoon. “I Want You to Want Me” continues; it’s playing on-air. Donna sits at the control panel. JACKIE is with her, in a spare seat she has rolled back against the wall.   Donna turns off her mic, takes off her headphones, and turns to talk to Jackie.   DONNA:  I don’t know, Jackie. I mean, what if Hyde’s right? What if I’ve wasted a whole year of my life, just like Eric? And now he’s going to college and I’m gonna be stuck here in this dinky town, trying to get good music in between farm reports and ads for Benny’s Bodacious Bods Gym.   JACKIE:  Okay, Donna? No offense, but the only words of Steven’s I’m interested in right now are “yes, Jackie, I will marry you.” (sighs) God, why did I open up my heart to him?   DONNA: Yeah, I was a little surprised. I thought for sure you’d just try to manipulate him. I mean, the bitchy stuff is your bread and butter.   JACKIE: You know, I had fake pregnancy right up my sleeve, and I didn’t use it. Now I’m the vulnerable one, waiting for his answer.   DONNA: Well, Jackie, you did give him until the end of the month.   JACKIE: Which is almost here. Look, I thought, “if I really put myself out there, he’ll see how much I love him and say ‘yes’ right away.” And when he didn’t, I thought, “okay, well, maybe he’ll take a couple of hours or a couple of days and then say ‘yes.’” But now I think he’s only taking so long ‘cause he’s gonna say “no.”   She puts a hand to her face and turns away. Donna stands, crosses to her, and pats her back.   The control room door opens, and MAX enters with a stack of records. His long absence hasn’t changed his sense of style or scruffy facial hair. The girls don’t notice him at first, or he them; he crosses the room, sets the records down, and only on turning around does he see Donna and Jackie.   MAX: Donna?   Donna looks up, sees Max. She smiles and crosses to give him a hug.   DONNA: Max? Oh, my God! Where have you been? No one’s seen you since the Steve Miller Band concert.   MAX: Well, after I did the interview with Stevie, I bumped into someone from security. Knocked the drink tray he was carrying out of his hands. He said “wassa matter, you on dope?” And then one thing led to another, and... well, I’m back now. But I’m surprised you’re still here. Weren’t you and your boyfriend going to UW together?   DONNA: Oh, well... you know. Some things happened. (beat) Hey – how did you end up working at WFPP? I mean, was a small town radio station where you thought you’d end up?   MAX: Oh, no. No, I had my wild years, following the tour buses, traveling with talent I managed, living and covering the music scene from New York to L.A. Eventually, you get tired and want to settle down. And it’s a good thing we have going here.   DONNA: But you had your wild years first?   MAX: (nods) And that’s a good thing too.   He gives her a small smile, and Donna smiles back.   Their moment is interrupted by the arrival of the diminutive MR. RANDALL, as stodgy as ever. He knocks on the doorframe to claim attention.   MR. RANDALL: Max! What have I told you about leaving your music recommendations on my desk? You do it again and you’re out of here. For the last time, that Huey Lewis and the News group isn’t going anywhere!   He storms out.   MAX: (to Donna) Of course, not everything about this place is a good thing.   He grunts and exits.   CUT TO:   INT. FORMAN KITCHEN – DAY   Later in the afternoon. Kitty sits at the kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea while she reads the newspaper.   Red enters from the basement, a box loaded with old toys, games, and posters in his arms. One G.I. JOE sticks out prominently from the load, as does a CANDYLAND BOX. He sets it down on the island, and the sound draws Kitty’s attention.   KITTY: (points at box) What have you got there?   RED: Nothing much. Just a few of Eric’s old things.   KITTY: (stands) Oh-ho! Seems like Michael was right after all. Seems like someone’s upset that his only son is leaving us in a few weeks and went looking for a few of this baby boy’s things to remember him by.   She chuckles, raps the table with her knuckles, and folds her arms, very smug.   RED: No, Kitty. I’m hauling some busted parts from the muffler shop to the dump later, and I figured I’d get rid of some of Eric’s old crap while I’m at it.   Kitty’s face drops like a rock.   KITTY: How can one man be so completely devoid of sensitivity?   RED: Easy. It was blown off by shrapnel on Okinawa.   Red picks the box back up and exits into the living room.   CUT TO:   EXT. FORMAN DRIVEWAY – DAY   Overlapping with the end of the previous scene. The Vista Cruiser idles in the driveway. Eric and Hyde are seated in the patio chairs. Eric looks through the patio door into the kitchen, watching Red leave, while Hyde leans back and relentlessly taps his foot and fidgets with his eyeball ring.   ERIC: Man, can you believe Red’s being such a hard ass about this pilot teaching program?   Hyde gives Eric a look.   ERIC (cont’d): What?   HYDE: You’re gonna be teaching nerd books and Scooby-Doo to college kids and you’re surprised Red Forman’s making fun of you? Man, how is it that I’m the long-term guest in your house, and you’re the one who doesn’t get your dad? That’s like Han Solo knowing better than Luke Skywalker about Uncle Owen being a hard ass about the moisture farm.   Eric breaks into a dopey grin.   ERIC: Hey – did you just -   HYDE: Don’t get weird on me, Forman. I’ve gotta plan out my whole life before the end of the month and I’ve gone through my whole stash.   ERIC: Man, why is this such a big deal? I mean, Jackie’s basically letting you off the hook. It’s like the greatest going away gift ever – never having to see or hear Jackie Burkhart again.   HYDE: Oh yeah, it’s the perfect gift. It’s free, she didn’t have to wrap it, and it makes me wish I was dead. (sighs) Screw it. I’m not getting anywhere just sitting here. There’s only one place a man can turn before making a huge decision like this.   ERIC: Dive bar?   HYDE: Dive bar. You drive.   They stand, clap each other on the back, and head for the Vista Cruiser.   FADE TO BLACK   COMMERCIAL   BUMPER   INT. DIVE BAR - EVENING   A dive so din, dark, and dank that even Bud Hyde wouldn’t tend that bar. A small, disreputable looking lot populate the place, which boasts a dart board, pool table, and a few short round tables, all occupied.   Eric and Hyde enter and immediately make for two open bar stools. Eric sits to Hyde’s left; a TRUCKER is already seated to his right. He doesn’t acknowledge the boys, and they don’t acknowledge him. Eric signals the BARTENDER for two beers.   ERIC: Man, Hyde, look at us. I’ve got my future in college to prepare for, you’ve gotta decide what to do about Jackie, and yet – here we are, about to get so drunk it’ll be a miracle if we can make it home with us and the Vista Cruiser all in one piece. (beat) I’m gonna miss this.   The bartender places two bottles of beer in front of the boys.   HYDE: (to Eric) You know, if anybody responsible we know was here, they’d tell me I’m not gonna find the answer to my problems with Jackie at the bottom of this beer. But you never know until you look.   ERIC: And, if it’s not in that one, it could always be in the next.   They pick up their bottles, clink them together, and take a big swill before slamming them back down on the counter. Slow push-in on Hyde’s bottle, and we begin:   MONTAGE. SET TO “YOU REALLY GOT ME” BY THE KINKS.   A) Hyde’s one bottle is now two. Slow pull out as Hyde, now tipsy, lifts up the second bottle, takes a swallow, and leans against a still-sober Eric.   HYDE: Okay – I made up my mind about Jackie. I’m gonna marry her! I’m gonna be Mrs. Jackie Hyde!   He takes another swig of beer and slams the bottle down. Push-in on the bottles, and cut to:   B) The two bottles are now four. Pull out as Hyde, now properly drunk, swings one of the bottles around as he spins his stool to face Eric.   HYDE (cont’d): How dare she give me an ultimatum! This is my life she’s messing with! She can go to Hell! I will see her in Hell!   He throws his head back, empties the beer bottle down his throat, and slams it back on the counter. Push-in on the bottles, and cut to:   C) The four are now seven. Pull out to find an off-balance Hyde and a now-drunk Eric with their arms around each others’ shoulders.   HYDE (cont’d): What the hell’s so great about Chicago anyway? And you’re getting out of here, Donna won’t stay here forever – what am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life in that basement, babysitting Tweedledee and Tweedletard? No way she’s leaving me alone with that!   He and Eric both swoop up their bottles, take a drink, and slam them down. Push-in on Hyde’s bottles, and cut to:   D) Seven is now ten. Pull out as Hyde pounds a fist down against the counter.   HYDE (cont’d): What the hell is she thinking, wanting to stay around here? This is her life she’s throwing away! (to Eric) Would you stick around here for a burnout living in your parents’ basement? No! No, you wouldn’t! No way I’m letting her do that!   He grabs a bottle, takes a swig, and finds it empty. He tosses the bottle over his shoulder and signals the bartender for one more. Push-in on the remaining bottles, and cut to:   E) Extreme close-up on Hyde’s loose, slack-jawed, spacey-eyed face. He’s well-loaded at this point.   HYDE (cont’d): You know what, Forman? I’m a little confused. But I do know that I love you, man. I really, really do.   He leans to his right, and we pan with him as he puts an arm around the trucker and kisses him on the cheek. The trucker shoots him an evil eye, and Hyde leans back slightly.   HYDE (cont’d): Hey, where’d Forman go?   Pan to the left as Eric, now well off-balance, leans in and taps Hyde on the shoulder.   ERIC: Still on your left, buddy.   Pan right as Hyde looks back to the trucker and offers a sheepish grin of apology. The trucker responds with a punch to the face. Hyde just manages to keep his balance long enough to throw himself back at the trucker and tackle him to the floor and out of frame.   Eric spins around for a better view of the fight. He’s slack-jawed and glassy-eyed himself, but still with it enough to pump a fist and cheer Hyde on.   ERIC (cont’d): Whoa, Hyde! You – you get ‘em, man! You got ‘em! You got ‘em! You... you really don’t got him. Wow. This is not good.   He looks all around the room; no one’s coming to help. Eric sighs and picks up his bottle.   ERIC (cont’d): Well, I had a future all planned out. There are worse ways to go.   He takes a swig, slams the bottle down, and leaps into the fray.   BUMPER   MUSIC NOTE: “You Really Got Me” continues.   INT. CONTROL ROOM – NIGHT   THE CIRCLE – or a half-circle, at least. Donna sits at the control panel, headphones on – she’s in Hot Donna mode. She sits to the left of the microphone, and Jackie, also with headphones, sits to the right. A diffuse cloud of smoke fills the control room. A stick of incense, propped in a bowl set under the mic, burns softly.   “You Really Got Me” wraps up. Donna flips on the microphone and leads in.   DONNA: This is WFPP, and you’re listening to Hot Donna. (plays bacon noise) That was “You Really Got Me” by the Kinks, requested by Jackie Burkhart.   Pan across the microphone stand to Jackie, who waves at the microphone as if it were a camera.   Pan to Donna.   DONNA (cont’d): Jackie, you’ve been here in the studio with us for about four hours now. You got anything you’d like to say to the listeners at home?   Pan to Jackie.   JACKIE: Yeah, there’s something I don’t get – why would Sally sell seashells by the seashore? That’s a terrible location for a seashell stand!   Pan to Donna.   DONNA: You know, you’re right. I mean, if she wanted to make money, she would sell seashells by the subway.   Pan to Jackie.   JACKIE: You know what she should sell by the seashore? Shoeshines. ‘Cause your sandals get so sandy.   Pan to Donna.   DONNA: Sandy sandals... we should start a girl band called Sandy Sandals. (into mic) That’s right, Point Place – you may have just heard the launch of Hot Donna and the Sandy Sandals.   She and Jackie both giggle. But it doesn’t last for Jackie; pan to her, we see her face fall as she blinks away the beginning of tears.   Pan to Donna.   DONNA (cont’d): Jackie, what’s wrong?   Pan to Jackie.   JACKIE: Well, sand reminds me of dirt, and dirt reminds me of Steven.   She puts a hand over her eyes. Donna’s hand reaches over to rub her back.   Pan to Donna.   DONNA: For those of you just joining us, Jackie has been requesting songs from the mix tape she made her boyfriend, Steven Hyde, who she’s waiting on a very important answer from. Hyde, if you’re listening, Jackie is down here at the station with me. So if you’re listening – get over here, give her an answer, and get her out of my studio.   Jackie’s hand reaches over to shove Donna, but Jackie’s laugh rings out. Donna smiles, laughs, and shoves back. They get into a playful tussle.   Cut wide – the Circle is broken. Mr. Randall and Max enter the recording room. Max looks bemused, Mr. Randall horrified.   MR. RANDALL: What the hell is going on here?   The girls break apart. Max sniffs the air, waves away some of the smoke around his face.   MAX: Donna, did you get into the stuff I hid in the Hendrix sleeve?   Mr. Randall turns on Max, aghast.   MAX (cont’d): I mean – what’s that smell?   Mr. Randall clearly doesn’t believe that, but he lets it go, turning on Donna instead.   MR. RANDALL: (points to Jackie) Donna, what is this little twerp doing in the recording room?   Jackie gasps, jumps to her feet.   JACKIE: “Little twerp?” Excuse me? I’m Jackie Burkhart! I’m on TV! That’s twice as good as radio – that’s just science!   MR. RANDALL: (to Donna) Get her out of here.   DONNA: No! Mr. Randall, Jackie’s my friend. She’s having a hard time right now, and we’re working through it together – live, on-air. It’s a new format for Hot Donna – lovers’ tolls and rock n’ roll.   Jackie nods. Max chuckles, but Mr. Randall is not amused.   MR. RANDALL: The only format gimmicks I want are the ones we can sell with billboards of blondes in halter tops. Now if you want a long-term career at my station, you’re gonna stick to the regular format. The princess of Munckinland can cry somewhere else.   Jackie takes a step back in shock. Max, behind Mr. Randall’s back, gives him a dirty look.   Donna looks from Mr. Randall to Jackie, to her microphone and all around the studio. She takes her headphones off, stands, and crosses to Mr. Randall.   DONNA: You know what, Mr. Randall? I don’t want a long-term job here. In fact, I don’t want any kind of job here anymore.   Mr. Randall frowns, tilts his head; he doesn’t understand. But Max gives Donna an approving nod, and so does Jackie.   Donna smiles at them both and races back to the microphone.   DONNA (cont’d): You hear that, listeners? This is Hot Donna’s last broadcast on WFPP, thanks to scum-sucking Mr. Randall, who you should feel free to protest. But you can still find me on the student radio at UW, where I’ll be attending this fall with my student teacher boyfriend. He’s pretty scrawny, so if you see any football players coming for him, help him get away.   Jackie races over to the microphone.   JACKIE: And make sure to tune in to next week’s Jackie on Point Place Public Access! It may be our final show – it all depends on the answer my boyfriend gives me! Ya hear that, Steven!   She and Donna grin. Donna puts an arm around Jackie’s shoulders.   DONNA: And if that boyfriend says “no,” then Hot Donna and the Sandy Sandals get a van and spend the summer touring America!   She flips on the next song – “Lovin’ Touchin’, Squeezin’” by Journey. Mr. Randall throws his hands up and exits, while Max nods approvingly again and crosses to join the girls as they sway to the music.   BUMPER   MUSIC NOTE: “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” continues.   INT. FORMAN GARAGE - NIGHT   The garage is in relatively tidy shape. Red’s Toyota rests comfortably in the center, and a large tarp is draped over an indistinguishable shape.   Red stands at his work station. His back obscures whatever he’s working on as Kitty enters with a jar of preserves and sees Red.   KITTY: What’ve you got there, Red? More of our only son’s favorite toys? What, the dump was too far, so you’re just gonna go at ‘em with a ball pin hammer?   Red gives a little jump; he didn’t hear Kitty come in. He turns to face her, still shielding his project.   RED: Um...   The garage door ratchets up, and Eric enters. His shirt is torn, his eye is black, and his hair is ruffled, but he’s never looked more alive. His parents have never looked more shocked at his appearance, either. Eric relishes in their reaction for a second, then points at Red.   ERIC: That’s right, Dad. It’s your son. “Professor Dumbass.” Guess what? I was at a bar. I was in a bar fight. And I WON a bar fight! Yeah, Eric Forman and Steven Hyde got in a bar fight, and I’m the one who saved his ass! With moves I learned from – guess where – Batman, Luke Skywalker, and Hong Kong Phooey!   He strikes a karate stance and does a few air chops.   Red and Kitty turn in toward each other to share a look. As Red turns, Eric gets a look at what’s on the workbench.   ERIC (cont’d): Dad, is that my old G.I. Joe?   Red tries to move back in front of the bench, but too late – Kitty pulls the box of Eric’s things from earlier into her arms and goes through it. Except for the Candyland box, everything’s still there.   KITTY: Red, these are Eric’s things you had earlier in the day. Are you keeping them with you in your workplace here?   Eric takes a step toward Red.   ERIC: Dad – you’re gonna miss me, aren’t you?   He and Kitty both smile at Red, who looks like a caged squirrel. He squirms as he looks back and forth, from his son to his wife, until he finally straightens up and clears his throat.   RED: Yeah, well... (to Eric) If you’re back home more than once a month, I’m throwing all this crap on the grill.   He turns back to his workbench.   ERIC: (softly) I’m gonna miss you too, Dad.   A slight relaxing of the shoulders lets Eric know Red heard him.   Kitty steps around Red toward Eric.   KITTY: Honey, did you say you saved Steven from a bar fight?   ERIC: Sure did, Mom.   KITTY: You? Saved Steven?   ERIC: Yeah. He’s in the Vista Cruiser, trying to put his shades back together.   KITTY: Are you sure? Maybe – maybe you drank so much, you – you got a little turned around.   ERIC: Okay, I’m feeling really good about myself, so I’m just gonna leave before anyone says any... not good things, and go find Donna. But first – I may have saved Hyde from the bar, but now I’ve gotta take him to face a fate worse than death – an ultimatum from Jackie.   A gasp from under the tarp startles everyone. Fez and Kelso stick their heads out from under it, with matching eager faces.   KELSO: You think she’ll kick him in the nads this time?   The Formans all glare down at them.   RED: What the hell are you two doing in my garage?   He rips the tarp away. The Candyland game is set up between Kelso and Fez, with small piles of M&Ms by both boys’ knees.   Kelso and Fez look down at the game. They look up at a fuming Red. They scramble to their feet and bolt from the garage. Fez turns around, slides back to the board, gathers up the candy, and flees again.   CUT TO:   INT. PINCIOTTI LIVING ROOM - NIGHT   The girls are home. They share the couch. Jackie, looking much less happy, is curled up on one end with a bowl of popcorn, while Donna sits at the other end. Some instrumental rock plays on the radio.   JACKIE: Oh, my God. He’s gonna say “no.” Steven is gonna say “no,” Donna. I know he’s gonna say “no.”   DONNA: Jackie, you gave Hyde ‘til the end of the month. He’s still got time, and I’m sure he’ll do the right thing. Marriage is just a big step, and you know Hyde always waits until the last minute to do unpleasant but necessary things.   Jackie tosses a handful of popcorn at Donna, who silently laughs and waves it away.   Eric enters, head held high.   ERIC: (to Donna) Hey there, toots.   Donna looks up, sees Eric. She smiles and crosses to him.   DONNA: Eric, I have great news! I quit my job!   ERIC: Wow! (beat) Why?   DONNA: I’m gonna go to UW with you. I’m enrolling in the journalism college and working at the student radio station. We can get an apartment, and we’ll finally be together.   ERIC: Donna, that’s so great.   He and Donna embrace and kiss. It’s only when they pull apart that Donna notices the state Eric’s in.   DONNA: Oh, my God. What happened to you?   ERIC: I won a bar fight.   DONNA: (beat) Okay, no, really.   ERIC: Well, if that’s how you feel, I’ll just go have sex with someone who’ll believe me.   He takes a mock step toward the hallway. Donna, grinning, pulls him back. They embrace and kiss again, but Eric pulls back.   ERIC (cont’d): One second.   He looks around Donna to Jackie.   ERIC (cont’d): Hey, Jackie? I got something for you.   He gestures to the doorway into the hall; no one is there. Eric steps into the hall, looks around, and then down at something to the left.   ERIC (cont’d): Oh, here it is.   He bends down and hauls something up. He drags it into the living room – “it” is Hyde, his shades crooked and his lip busted. Hyde finds his footing and shoves Eric away.   HYDE: All right, all right! You’ve done enough, Forman. And I could’ve handled that fight myself. I just needed that guy to be shorter. And drunker.   Jackie stands.   JACKIE: Steven?   Hyde looks up; he’s just noticed Jackie is there.   HYDE: Hey.   An uncomfortable silence settles into the room. Eric and Donna back up to the far wall as Jackie and Hyde meet in the center, a few feet apart. “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John comes on over the radio.   HYDE: (beat) So – month’s almost over.   JACKIE: Yes. (beat) Do you have something to say?   HYDE: Yeah. Do you have a place to live in Chicago yet?   A bolt of hurt crosses Jackie’s face. Her eyes turn glassy as she clutches at her chest. Eric shakes his head and Donna looks away.   JACKIE: (voice shaking) Yes.   HYDE: Good.   Jackie bows her head; she’s already started to cry.   HYDE (cont’d): Is it in Chicago, or out in the suburbs around Chicago? ‘Cause big cities are full of connections, but if we’re in the suburbs, that might be a problem. I don’t want to have to look too hard or drive too far.   Jackie, Eric, and Donna are all speechless. None of them knows exactly where Hyde’s going with this.   JACKIE: Steven, what are you saying?   HYDE: What, man? I’m saying – forget this ultimatum crap. You wanna go to Chicago? Let’s go to Chicago.   Eric and Donna’s jaws drop. Jackie’s does too. She wipes her eyes and reaches a hand out but stops short of touching Hyde.   JACKIE: Wait – Steven, are you saying you’d want to come with me? (he shrugs) But – but what about your job? Your future –   HYDE: Jackie, before the Formans took me in, the only “future” I saw was hopping between stints in prison and abusing squatter’s rights so I could say I wasn’t technically homeless. I never saw a future. I just took what came along. I still don’t have a plan for the future, except... except you. And, since you do see a future, and it’s in Chicago... I want to be with you.   He takes his shades off and tosses them on the couch. With a deep breath, he pulls his eyeball ring off his pinky and holds it out to Jackie, who gasps quietly and takes a step back.   HYDE (cont’d): I love you, Jackie. Marry me?   Jackie stares at the ring. Eric and Donna lean in, eager for more. Jackie looks up at Hyde’s face.   JACKIE: Your eye ring?   Her tone is hard to read. Hyde stirs.   HYDE: Look, I know it’s not a diamond or anything, but it’s the only ring I got, and –   Jackie throws her arms around Hyde’s neck and pulls him into a deep kiss. When it ends, they’re both out of breath.   HYDE (cont’d): (beat) So that’s a yes?   The tears are back in Jackie’s eyes, but they come with a smile, the brightest smile Jackie’s ever had.   JACKIE: Yes.   Hyde gives a relieved sigh; he’s smiling too. He slips his ring onto Jackie’s ring finger and takes her hand in his. A glassy look comes to his eyes – something not missed by a beaming Donna and Eric.   DONNA: (points at Hyde) Oh, my God. Tears. Tears of joy.   ERIC: (sniffs) She really is everything our little orphan boy needed.   Hyde and Jackie both give half-laughs, half-sobs.   HYDE & JACKIE: Get bent.   Even with that sentiment, Hyde opens his arms as Donna and Eric cross to hug him and Jackie in turn. They quietly slip out of the living room as Hyde and Jackie embrace again. Hyde wipes away Jackie’s tears and she plays with the ring. It’s too big for her finger; she doesn’t care. They kiss as the music swells beyond the radio to fill the scene.   ELTON JOHN (v.o.): Hold me closer, tiny dancer Count the headlights on the highway Lay me down in sheets of linen You had a busy day today...   FADE TO BLACK   CREDITS   INT. FORMAN GARAGE - NIGHT   Fez and Kelso, back at their game. The lights are all out and the tarp is gone; they sit on the ground in the dark, playing by the light of a flashlight Kelso shines down on the board.   RED (v.o.): I’m coming into the garage.   The boys jump up. Kelso shuts off the light. The screen goes black. We hear frantic footsteps and a loud crash.   FEZ (v.o.): Ai!   END.

#z's fics #that 70s show #zenmasters #jackie x hyde #zen3to5+ #fan fiction #fan script

[jorgecrespo]

3, 13, 23, 33, 43, 53, 63!

The person you would never want to meet:

One girl who I used to be friends with on fb

Your worst enemy:

Guy named Scott in Oregon. Any of you see a dude named Scott near Oregon just start swinging

What is one unique thing you're afraid of

I'm afraid of eyes???? Like, a legit phobia of eyeballs.

Death offers to return the person of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back

My grandma Kathy. I'd love to watch shitty Elvis movies with her again

Do you have any scars

Yes, and they're all stupid!!! I have a large one on my left knee because I tripped while skipping in tap shoes when I was 4. I have one on my shin from walking into a tv stand. One on my foot from stabbing myself with a fork. One on my nose from falling into a wash basket. And one on my arm from hot oil.

What has been your worst haircut/style

I bleached my hair at home. No further details are necessary for that one

Which is cooler: dinosaurs or dragons

DINOSAURS!!! They're so cool and big!!!!!

#thank youuu!!!!! #asks #wtfam

[snarky-badger]

I was wondering if you could continue the "Moral Compass" story?

Here you go!

Sequel to Moral Compass

(Not technically compliant with the Movie’s plot. I wrote the first part of this before it came out, so I’m following that story line.)

EDIT - I intended this to be the last part, but well.... there will be a part 3! When I have time to write it. (Why do I do this to myself? >.

It had been a long time since you’d woken up to someone else in your bed.

Ideally, the other person would have been your boy or girlfriend. Currently it was a tired looking man with a five o’clock shadow and a symbiote half covering him like an oily blanket.

You yawned, scratching at your head as you sat up, tugging your tank top back into place. Heard Eddie - that was his name right? - shift a little, his hands grabbing at a pillow as he nuzzled into it. Poor man didn’t look like he’d gotten much sleep lately.

Really, waking up to a rather nummy looking guy in your bed wasn’t so bad. 

The symbiote sprawled across him rippled then, a black tendril rising to poke him in the back of the head. Eddie grumbled, blindly swiped at it, but it snuck past his feeble defense and poked him again.

“Nughhh… what?” Steel blue eyes cracked open a little, blinking sleepily, before Eddie focused on you. “Shit!” His eyes popped open as he paled, shoving himself up on his arms. Tried to leap to his feet, got tangled in the blankets, and crashed to the floor in a tangle of sheets and limbs.

You sighed, shaking your head as you rose up and crawled over to the opposite edge of the bed, peering down at him. “Are you alright?”

“Jesus! I’m sorry!” He tried to wriggle free of the blankets coiled around his left leg, only managing to pull all the sheets off the bed. “He’s got no fucking idea about boundaries! Last I remember we fell asleep on the couch!”

“Apparently Venom got lonely,” you drawled with a small laugh, moving to your proper side of the bed before getting to your feet. “Need help?”

“Nope. No. I think I got it.” There came a grunt and a muttered curse before he got to his feet, blankets bundled in his arms. “Um…”

“Just dump it on the bed.” You adjusted the shorts you slept in, then grabbed your housecoat and threw it on. “Coffee?”

“Fuck. Please.”

Yawning again, you padded barefoot to the kitchen, giving your Keurig a fond pat as you shoved a small pod of Breakfast Blend into it, put a mug into place, and turned it on. The wonderful sound of brewing coffee filled the apartment, and you scratched at your mussed up hair as you leaned back against the counter, stretching a little.

Heard angry muttering from the bedroom and rolled your eyes as you moved to tidy up all the papers and open textbooks on the small kitchen table, shuffling things into proper order as you did so.

The first mug of coffee was ready by the time Eddie shuffled out, wincing a little at the light coming in from the open windows. Poor guy looked even more ragged in the daylight.

Your mother’s habits of feeding anyone who came into her house had transferred to you. And while you were technically living on a student’s budget, you had enough to at least get some food into him.

“Here.” You pushed the mug of coffee into his hands, then reset the Keurig for an other mug before going to scavenge in your fridge. “I have…. eggs and,” you opened a container a little, gave a curious sniff, and promptly closed it again with a gag. Disgusted by your fridge, you yanked open the freezer door, rummaging around a little. “Huh. I have eggs and some mildly freeze-dried italian sausages for breakfast. Jesus, I have to go do a grocery.”

A tired laugh left Eddie as he sank down onto a chair at the small table. “You don’t have to feed us.”

“You’re in my house, you get fed. Oh. I have tater tots too.”

“TATER TOTS?”

Blinking, you glanced back, doing a double-take at the sight of Venom’s head hovering above Eddie’s right shoulder, weaving on a black stalk of symbiote mass. “Uhhh….”

“He likes tater tots,” Eddie drawled with a roll of his eyes as he sipped at his coffee. “And chocolate. This is really good coffee by the way.”

“It’s the only thing I splurge on. I need coffee to live, otherwise I think my eyeballs would fall out.” You saw Venom blink at that and quickly added. “Not literally! That’s, thankfully, impossible without massive blunt trauma. It’s just an expression.”

Shaking your head at the weirdness of it all, you prepped the oven, dumped the bag of tater tots onto a cookie sheet and then put the frozen italian sausages into the microwave to defrost.

“Sorry you had to skip your classes,” Eddie murmured, and you frowned as you turned to look at him, leaning back against the counter again. Venom was eyeing the frozen tater tots on the counter, and you not-so-subltely pushed the cookie sheet a little further away from him.

“Don’t worry about it. I needed a day off anyway.” The Keurig clicked, and you turned to retrieve your own mug of coffee. When you turned back, Venom’s head had vanished, and you relaxed a little. “Besides, I have a friend I can copy notes off of.”

Eddie hummed, eyeing your textbooks, but he didn’t say anything more on the topic.

Rolling your eyes, you placed the tater tots into the safety of the oven, then went to sit across from him. “You can ask, you know.”

“Ask what?”

“How I ended up at the Life Foundation.” When Eddie dropped his gaze in embarrassment, you sighed and set your mug on the table as you took a seat on the second chair. Curled your fingers around it, letting the warm chase the chill from you as you stared at your reflection in the coffee. “I want to be a molecular geneticist. To study diseases and try to find cures, especially in the medical field. The Life Foundation… Carlton Drake came to one of my classes and offered jobs to a bunch of us with the highest grades. I didn’t know where the first genetic samples came from–” You sighed and looked up at Eddie, who was staring at you. “I was there two weeks before Drake showed us the symbiote.”

“And you started having second thoughts,” Eddie guessed.

“Yeah. I think I was the only one who did too. Drake kept us away from Venom for another couple of weeks before letting us take more direct samples… I couldn’t do it. Got shit from my co-workers for it. And there was this guy, Adam–”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about Adam,” Eddie said with a disgusted tone of his voice, blackness flitting across his eyes.

“I don’t doubt it. Sick fucker.” A sigh left you. “I thought I was going to be able to help people with the research we were doing. Not– Not torturing a sentient being and helping an asshole experiment on the homeless population.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” The microwave beeped, and you pushed yourself up from your chair, going to stab a fork into the defrosted sausages to make sure they weren’t frozen anymore. “There’s no telling what Drake used my research for.”

“You’re not responsible for another person’s evil,” Eddie told you sternly, and you sighed, glancing at him over your shoulder. “You’re not. Drake used you, plain and simple. At least you had the guts to leave when you found out what he was doing.”

“…the other symbiotes? Are they–?”

“Dead, as far as Venom could tell. Drake tried to force them to bond with people, and it didn’t take.”

Something clenched in your chest, and you had to take a few breaths to calm yourself. “He’ll be hunting for the two of you, then.”

“LET HIM TRY.”

The dark, predatory, angry, voice sent a shiver down your back, and you turned, finding that Eddie had vanished, replaced by Venom, who was towering over you, hands clenched into fists.

“Don’t underestimate Drake,” you warned Venom gently, drawing that pale, alien, gaze to you. “There’s nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose. He’ll do anything to get you back.”

“WE CAN HANDLE OURSELVES, MORSEL.”

“I don’t doubt it. But that doesn’t mean that Drake isn’t a threat.“ Venom huffed, glancing away, and you pressed on. “He spent millions of dollars to get you and the others… You’re the only survivor. He’s not just going to let you go.”

A low rumble left the massive form. “BECAUSE OF MONEY.”

“Yes. And because he’s obsessed. Power can corrupt people, and Drake is as corrupt as they come.”

He scrowled, then met your gaze, and you rocked back on your heels a little at being the center of that predatory focus. “AND HE THINKS WE CAN HELP HIM GET MORE MONEY.”

“Yes.” You sighed. “People like Drake, they always want more. More money. More power. More fame. From what I heard from the others at the Lab, he was hoping that using you symbiotes would help humanity evolve. You’re immune to all of our diseases, can heal almost any wound, even help us survive in toxic or low-oxygen environments. The implications of that… If Drake were to transfer even a fraction of your abilities to humans… Well, there are a lot of people who would be willing to pay a lot of money for something like that.”

“MONEY. IS IT ALWAYS ABOUT MONEY WITH YOU HUMANS?”

The disgusted tone of his voice made you bristle. “We’re not all like Drake, Venom,” you snapped. “There are plenty of good people in this world. I doubt you’d have stayed with Eddie for as long as you have if he was like Drake.”

Venom shifted, deflating a little. “NO. NO, EDDIE IS NOT LIKE DRAKE.” A grumble left him, and he visibly relaxed, tilting his head to look at you. “YOU ARE NOT LIKE DRAKE.”

“I try very hard not to be.” Still a little insulted, you turned and went about slicing up the italian sausages before throwing them onto a frying pan, jabbing at them with a fork.

A low rumble sounded from behind you. “WE’RE SORRY, MORSEL. EDDIE SAYS WE’VE INSULTED YOU.”

“I’m not…” You sighed, calming yourself, then glanced at him. “Alright yeah. I’m a little mad. Don’t… don’t judge an entire world of people by the actions of one selfish bastard. We’re not perfect, but we’re not all like, Drake.”

Silence fell over the apartment, apart from the sizzling of the sausages in the pan, and the next thing you knew, Venom was invading your personal space, bending down to rest his chin on the top of your head, arms looping around you.

It was weird, but you didn’t protest, merely forced yourself to relax and concentrated on cooking. “You gonna let Eddie back out so he can eat?”

“AFTER TATER TOTS.”

You peeked into the oven. “Five more minutes.”

He grumbled, then huffed warm breath into your hair. “WHAT IS IT WITH YOU HUMANS AND COOKING EVERYTHING? IT’S ALL DEAD.”

An amused chuckle left you at the petulant tone of his voice. “First off, most foods taste better when they’re cooked. Secondly, eating raw meat can be dangerous. There are bacteria and such that can make humans really sick. Cooking it kills the bacteria and makes it safe.”

“BLEH.”

“Can’t all be bad if Eddie says you like tater tots and chocolate.”

He laughed. It showed that you were getting used to him that you didn’t jump at the predatory rumble. “TRUE.” A pause. “EDDIE IS COMPLAINING ABOUT BOUNDARIES AGAIN.”

You tapped at the arms around your waist. “Most people who aren’t in a relationship wouldn’t be this close to each other. It’s a rule that Western Culture forces on us, I suppose. I know that things are different in other parts of the world.”

“WEIRD.”

“Little bit. Here, let go for a moment, I think your tater tots are ready.” Used an oven mitt to retrieve the potatoes from the oven and set them on an unused round of the stove, idly swatting Venom’s hand away when he tried to snatch up some tots. “You’ll burn yourself.”

He grumbled. You turned back to the almost cooked sausages, glanced right when something tapped on your shoulder, then caught Venom grabbing a massive handful of potatoes out of the corner of your left eye. “Seriously?”

“WE’RE HUNGRY,” was the answer you got as he shoveled food into his mouth, tongue licking up pieces that escaped his fangs.

Shaking your head, you dumped the rest of the potatoes onto a plate, then handed it to him, rolling your eyes when he merely opened his maw impossibly wide and upended the contents into his mouth.

Okay, then.

Marveling at the new insanity in your life, you grabbed the egg carton out of the fridge, then used a spatula to move the sausages across the frying pan. Filled the free space with three eggs, then scrambled everything together.

Heard some curious sniffing, and glanced at Venom as he loomed over you again. “You can have some when it’s cooked.”

“SMELLS BETTER RAW.” And before you could stop him, he’d lashed a tendril out to pluck up one of the remaining eggs and popped it into his mouth, shell and all. “MM. NOT BAD. CHOCOLATE IS BETTER.”

A laugh left you. “Chocolate is always better. There’s a couple of bars in the fridge if you–” Wow. You didn’t think someone that large could move so fast. Miracle the door stayed attached to the fridge too. Jesus.

Rolling you eyes, you retrieved two plates and divided the contents of the frying pan equally, setting the pan onto a cold round to cool. You turned, both plates in hand, sighing when you saw that Venom had left a large dent in the handle of the fridge’s door.

“OOPS?”

“Uh huh. Let Eddie out so he can eat, please.” Doubtless, the poor man’s metabolism was working overtime while his body was hosting Venom. You didn’t voice it though, merely watched as Venom crunched through a final chocolate bar before the symbiote rippled away from Eddie.

“Here you go,” you set his plate and a fork down on the table before claiming the second chair and taking a seat. “Eat up.”

“You’re… being amazingly blaze about all this,” Eddie commented with a curious look as he sat down, picking up his mug of coffee and grimacing as he finished off the no doubt cold brew.

“I had my little freak out about alien life a while ago,” you smirked, spearing a piece of sausage with your fork. “Venom is… intimidating, yeah. But if I thought either of you were a real threat to me, I wouldn’t have let you crash on the couch. Or my bed.”

He blushed, and you hid a smile. “Sorry about that. He’s very… touchy feely.”

Your lips quirked. “I noticed.”

“Sorry.”

“S’okay.” Breakfast went by quietly as Eddie wolfed down his food as if he hadn’t eaten in days, and you glanced over at the counter. “I can make toast?”

He blinked. “Huh? Oh, no. That’s okay. Sorry. It’s just, ever since Venom bonded with me, I’m always starving.”

“Your hosting another living being. Your metabolism is probably in overdrive.”

“Mn. It’s gotten better since Venom started eating junk food, actually.” Eddie polished off the last bits of egg, then rose, ignoring your protests as he took your empty plate and walked over to the sink. Only when he had his back to you did he continue talking. “It– he, kinda ate a guy’s head.”

You did a slow blink. “…well, that’s… kinda… horrible.“

“You have no idea. Got him to promise to only, uh, bite, the bad guys at least. But, still...” Eddie stiffened suddenly and turned to you with wide eyes. “We wouldn’t hurt you though! Jesus, fuck, I’d throw myself out the window first!”

The panic in his voice made you frown. But then again, if you were suddenly host to a sentient, predatory, alien, you’d be panicking from time to time too. “Eddie, it’s okay. I believe you.”

Moving slowly, you rose and went to make more coffee, paused, decided that Eddie didn’t need the caffeine, and put a hot chocolate pod into the Keurig instead.

You were about to insist that he didn’t have to do the dishes when your phone warbled the Doctor Who theme, and you huffed as you rushed back into the bedroom to answer it, pausing a little at the blocked number before thumbing the proper button. “Hello?”

“All of the men I had watching you are missing! Care to explain?”

Drake. Shit.

“Well, how the hell should I know?” you snapped, waving at Eddie to stay silent when he was drawn to the bedroom doorway due to the anger in your voice. “I’m the one whose privacy you’re invading it’s not my job to keep an eye on your thugs.”

“They were highly trained security personnel. The only way they’d be missing is if they were dead.” When you didn’t rise to the bait, Drake tried another approach. “That symbiote is dangerous. Nothing else could have taken out my men. And whether you want to admit it or not, you created a rapport with that creature. With your security detail... missing, I think you should come back to the facility. For your safety, you understand.”

Safety, your ass.

“I appreciate your... concern, Mr. Drake. But that doesn’t change the fact that I find you, and your methods of ‘research’, distasteful at best and criminal at worst.” It wasn’t Eddie in the doorway anymore, it was Venom, and you hoped that the growl he loosed upon hearing Drake’s name wasn’t audible over the line. “Now, and I mean this sincerely: go fuck yourself.”

Hanging up on someone never felt so good.

“Well, shit,” you muttered afterwards, raising your eyes to Venom’s. “I think he knows you’re here.”

#snarky is writing #filled prompt #venom x reader #reader x venom #reader x eddie brock #eddie brock x reader #venom #eddie brock

[ladyvegeets]

T.I.T.A.N. - 01

- 1 Gooseflesh Skin - 

The entire dock was flooded with people, every last head craned up to take in the massive scale of the new spaceship. Everyone except Vegeta. Where others ogled and marveled the F.F. TITAN, singing its praises in awed tones, Vegeta kept his eyes forward and struggled to keep down the black stone of helplessness that rolled in his belly. This was no ship of dreams, but a slave ship taking him home in chains.

Outwardly, he was everything a titan recruit should be: strong, proud, composed. But inside, he was screaming.

The Lord Commander, Frieza, was ahead of him, walking up the gangway to board his new vessel. Though small in stature, the commander was oppressive in presence. Vegeta could feel the weight of his malevolence even across the dock. His father was making a valiant attempt at small talk, a wasted effort given Frieza was far more interested in soaking up the adoration of the crowd than listening to anything a king from a trifling planet had to say. As usual, neither were paying him any attention. They didn’t care or even notice him. He was merely an accessory to this arrangement, the punctuation point of his own indentured sentence.

It struck Vegeta that he could easily slip back into the crowd and disappear before anyone had the chance to discover he was gone.

Unconsciously, his feet slowed.

“What’s the hold up, Vegeta?” The slimy dulcet tones came from Frieza’s right hand man, Zarbon, the last voice he wanted to hear while flirting with the notion of escape. “I understand your stunted stature makes walking difficult, but if you could find it within yourself to trot along inside, I can have a nurse fetch you a hover chair.”

Vegeta’s fists clenched at the humiliating suggestion, but he swallowed back his pride, refusing to rise to the bait. “Forgive me, Titan, I was appreciating the craftsmanship of the ship and became distracted.” It was a good a lie as any.

Zarbon stepped up next to him. He was much taller than Vegeta, wearing ornate dress armor that left his hand and face tattoos proudly on display. The titan looked up at the vessel they were about to board. “Yes, it is impressive, isn’t it? An indestructible ship for an indomitable Lord. I hear they employed the finest minds in the galaxy for its construction.” He looked down at Vegeta, a nasty twinkle in his unnerving eyes. “No one from planet Vegeta, though. But then your kind have never been very bright, have they?”

Vegeta felt the lancing insult cut through him. Back home, such a remark would have been rectified in blood. Here he had to suffer it. “Our talents lie elsewhere,” he growled, his tone barely acceptable for addressing a superior. 

Zarbon smiled, amused to see the Saiyan struggle at reigning in his temper. He held out a hand towards the threshold of the ship. “After you, little prince. Wouldn’t want you getting lost, would we? That would reflect rather poorly on your father.”

Vegeta felt the bitter truth of that burn in his mouth, and he stepped inside the ship. As the door slid shut behind them, so too were his fancies of freedom closed to him forever.

~xox~

Bulma held the holographic tablet in her hand and pretended to be doing a series of last-minute checks on the cargo-hold. In truth, she wasn’t supposed to be here. Despite her conniving and flirting, she hadn’t been able to convince the right people to get her on TITAN’s crew staff for its maiden voyage — apparently her transient background put a crimp in their rigorous screening process. She had left Earth at a tender age with a thirst for adventure and little else. Upon discovering intelligent life — and a lot of  incredible technology — she jumped from space station to moon to planet until, years later, she eventually caught wind of the most ambitious spaceship project to date. There was no way that was going to happen without her throwing her hat into the mix. The chance to be arms-deep in the most sophisticated technology the galaxy had to offer was too good an opportunity to pass up.

But as the project started wearing down, her future grew uncertain. She was told at every corner that she was not wanted once the ship was completed. But like hell she was going to let that stop her. She had helped design and build the F.F. TITAN. She knew every corner and circuit board and system program of the whole damn ship. It took barely a few hours to come up with a plan, a few days to implement it. Stealing a pair of crew overalls and sneaking aboard hadn’t exactly been rocket science (of which she was also quite skilled in). All she had to do now was lay low until the ship broke the atmosphere and it would be easy-street from here on out.

A couple titans marched by; they were easy to spot with their telltale armor, facial tattoos, and unnerving eyes. Bulma kept her face lowered over the cargo dossier, doing her best to be inconspicuous. Titans gave her the creeps, and not only for their fearsome reputation on the battlefield. There was something… off about them. Just a little too arrogant and a little too obedient. Not to mention their eyes; the light didn’t reach them. It probably had to do with the tattoo process they underwent which turned the sclera — the white part of the eyes in humans — black. When a titan looked at you it was like being eyeballed by a shark, and just as potentially dangerous. It was deeply unsettling.

Thankfully these titans had better things to be do than concern themselves about her, the largest of them curling a nasty-looking whip about his tattooed fist. When they were gone, Bulma checked the area one last time before closing her tablet and slipping inside the maintenance room. On the far wall was a hidden door she had installed. She slipped inside to a little room she had built, complete with a bed roll and some supplies. She laid out on her bed and turned her tablet back on, scrolling through the influx of information from the ship’s start up logs — yes, she had hacked into the ship’s computers, what of it? — and got settled in. It wasn’t a big or glamorous space, but hey, it was free. What more could a stowaway ask for?

~xox~

Vegeta let the dinner conversation wash over him. It was hard to concentrate, not only because the topic held little interest for him but because his body was screaming. He was positive the wounds on his back had split and were freshly bleeding. Luckily he had thought to wear his cape to hide any stains. Still, just the act of sitting straight in a chair was agonizing. He refused to let it show, refused to give any of these bastards the satisfaction.

As soon as the TITAN had taken off, he was sent to meet his soon-to-be fellow titans. He suspected it wouldn’t be pleasant. Even prepared for a hazing, he never anticipated they would whip him, one lash for every titan ‘sibling’ he would gain. Something about ‘sharing the burden of responsibility’, ‘bearing your brothers and sisters on your back’, ‘rights of passage’… blah blah fucking blah. He stopped listening after the first few lashes bit right through cloth and muscle and began exposing bone, blood dripping down his back and filling his mouth as he bit his cheeks to keep from screaming.

He lost track of how many lashes he earned. Frieza had a lot of titans.

His Saiyan genetics meant he had healed — at least enough — to make dinner. He sure as hell wasn’t going to lie in a hospital bed and let rumors of weakness spread about him or his people. Whatever these assholes wanted to throw his way, he would take it. He had to, for his own pride and the pride of his people. It was his duty, or so his father kept insisting. “We need this treaty, my son. Our society won’t survive without the technology of the empire.”

Food was put before him, but his usual vigorous appetite was lacking. “Care for some wine, Vegeta? You look rather peaked,” Zarbon drawled, knowing full well why Vegeta was pale. His lashes had been some of the cruelest to bear.

“I do not partake,” he replied curtly, forcing himself to stab at his dinner so as not to appear weak. “It dulls the senses.” He shoved the forkful of food into his mouth and forced himself to swallow.

Frieza laughed airily from the head of the table. “Oh ho ho, your boy is disciplined, I’ll give you that, King Vegeta,” he complimented. “I do appreciate that quality in my titans.”

“I think you’ll find my son to be a fine addition to your ranks,” the king promised. “He is the most accomplished among our people, and at such a young age.”

Frieza’s eyes narrowed. “So you keep telling me. I grow bored of hearing it.”

“Ah… Yes. Well then, Lord Commander, I’m curious. The name of this vessel. Was it inspired by your elite force?” the king hastened to change the subject.

Frieza leaned back in his chair, swilling his wine about in his glass. “Yes. I am ever so proud of my titans, so what better name for my new ship, wouldn’t you agree?” His lips curled in a dark smile. He didn’t wait for a reply. No one would dare to disagree. “And I quite liked how the name encapsulates the sheer magnitude of its size too.”

“One would think you have an unnatural preoccupation with size,” Vegeta grumbled under his breath as the others at the table voiced their agreement. 

A sharp elbow jabbed him in the side. He winced, more from the wounds on his back than anything else, and looked to his right. His father was glaring murder at him. “Remember your place, boy,” the king hissed furiously, casting Frieza a furtive look to make sure the commander hadn’t overheard the insulting remark.

Vegeta thinned his lips and kept his mouth shut for the rest of the meal. By the time dinner was over he was feeling extremely poor, his back on fire and his face sweating. He must have overestimated his healing, or underestimated the severity of his lashes. Either way, he excused himself before he passed out on his plate or threw up what little he had eaten, and headed for the observation deck to get what counted as ‘fresh air’.

~xox~

The observation deck was situated near the front of the vessel and domed by a large glass bubble that protected the onlookers from the vacuum of space while also allowing for a spectacular view of the galaxy.

Bulma lay sprawled on a bench on the lower deck. The view wasn’t quite as good but it was unoccupied and close to an exit in case security came by and she needed to duck out. The stars she could see were breathtaking. She would never grow tired of looking at them. Any time she grew homesick she just looked up into space and considered all the unexplored planets, technology, and adventures there were awaiting her, and she would be motivated to push on.

She heard footsteps. Turning her head to the upper deck, a man in armor approached the railing. Bulma hitched a brow at the sight of him — human? Wait, no… not quite. Was that a tail around his waist? And something about the hair seemed a little unnatural by Earth standards. Still, it was kind of nice to see someone human-ish. Not bad looking, either. The only detractor were a couple tattoos around his eyes. Titan markings, though far fewer than she was used to seeing. And no all-black eyes. Interesting.

Her curiosity piqued, Bulma found herself staring. Though the man’s armor appeared battle-functional, his red cape was less so, the marking of someone important. Most intriguingly of all, it wasn’t titan-standard issue. Neither were the gloves that hid his hands which now dangled over the railing. Who and what was he? A dignitary perhaps? He certainly held himself with importance, even managing to lean against the deck in an aristocratic manner. The man was an enigma.

His sixth sense must have been tripped, for his eyes turned and locked directly onto her. For a moment they stared at each other from across the divide of the decks as stars were born and burned out and died around them. Nothing was said, no smile or nods exchanged. There was just this moment, this raw fleeting moment where they recognized the existence of the other, and were seen in turn.

Then another approached the railing. This alien Bulma did know.

The Lord Commander.

You didn’t get far in the galaxy without quickly learning who Frieza was.

The diminutive lizard-like alien approached the other man, his tail whipping slowly back and forth in his wake. He placed his claw-like fingers on the man’s shoulder and leaned in, whispering something that Bulma couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it caused the man at the railing to pale. Frieza’s fingers tightened and the man’s cheek twitched, struggling to keep the pain from his face — but she saw.

Then Frieza threw back his head and laughed, the sound carrying all the way to her on the lower deck. He walked off, leaving the man sweating and alone. He stood frozen for several minutes before he came back to himself. Consciously or not, his eyes sought hers out, but something in his expression had changed. The light in his eyes was gone. It was like staring into the eyes of a dead man.

Her skin broke out into gooseflesh.

He turned and left the deck. Haunted by what she had seen, Bulma decided to do the same and retreated back to her hidden room.

~xoXox~

AN: Written for The Prince and The Heiress’ 2019 Smutfest. Find them on discord or reddit or twitter. I know this is a smutfest, but this one’s gonna be a slow burn, sorry guys.

Based on a little known movie, not sure if you’ve heard of it, called Titanic by James Cameron. Movie buffs will notice that I’ve used a couple quotes from the film — though modified to fit the narrative. 

DBZ characters are, obviously, Toriyama’s creations.

#ladyvegeets #day1goosefleshskin #tpth #TITAN #vegebul #vegeta #bulma #fanfic #titan au #titanic au #T.I.T.A.N.

[blackholeofprocrastination]

For my @asoiafrarepairs Secret Santa @oberynmartell.

I’m sorry this is so bonkers late!!! December just got away from me this year! We were paired together for our mutual House Martell love (woo), so I thought I take a stab at a seasonal happy ending for Elia. I hope you like it and have an awesome 2019! :)

Merry and Bright(Smile) 🎁

As far as holiday celebrations go, the Citadel University Hospital Staff Christmas Party is one of the more staid events on Rhaenys’ social calendar. This year, however, things are different. This year she has a very special date. Or at least she had a special date until said date disappeared in a flurry of waiters carrying trays of passed hors d'oeuvres.

Rhaenys sighs as she squints into the dimly lit cloakroom. It’s the fourth door she’s checked and she nearly turns back around, until she spots a flash of gold towards the far wall. Sure enough, there, hidden amongst the wool and tweed and fur hanging in nice orderly rows, is her mother.

“Mom? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart!” Elia laughs a little too brightly, waving off Rhaenys’ concern. She’s perched on a low stool, a glass of champagne clenched tightly in her hand. “I just needed some air.”

How one is supposed to get air in a stuffy cloakroom, Rhaenys is skeptical, but she doesn’t push.

Tonight was supposed to be fun. A chance not only for Rhaenys to show off her accomplished, elegant mother to all of her colleagues, but also for Elia to revisit her alma mater and the familiar faces she left behind when she started her practice in Kings Landing. Looking at her mother now, peaked and anxiously tucked away behind a row of coats, Rhaenys can’t help but think that tonight was only a mistake.

“Come on,” she says at last, offering her mother a hand up from her seat. “I could use some air too.” 

They head to an all-night diner by the wharf. The place is nothing special, but it’s kept Rhaneys in coffee on many a late night spent cramming for exams and then later coming off double shifts at the hospital. The staff’s not pushy about making her leave when she’s lingered in her booth with paperwork scattered around and her sixth cup of coffee forgotten and cold at her elbow. They don’t even bat an eye when Rhae and her mom walk in, sliding across the cheap vinyl seats of a booth in their green velvets and red floral silks. Over slices of blueberry pie topped with vanilla bean ice cream, the truth comes out.

“So all of this just to hide from an ex?”

Rhaenys knew that her mother had a life before meeting her father. Divorce and time had killed any little girl notions she might have held about a fairytale romance between her parents. Still, it’s strange to think that there could have been someone else.

“I wasn’t hiding!” her mother is quick to defend, focusing on stirring cream into her coffee. “And Baelor wasn’t…he isn’t…we were never together. Not properly.”

“But you wanted to be,” Rhaenys urges, trying to understand.

Elia sighs.

“We were in medical school together,” she says, stabbing out a bite of pie with her fork. “I was young. And I was unkind.”

Rhaenys stares at her mother incredulously from across the table. Whatever faults may be laid at Elia’s feet, unkindness could never be one of them. 

Elia won’t say more on the subject and so they finish their pie to the soft sounds of tables being cleared and Bing Crosby warbling “White Christmas” on the grainy diner speakers. 

The next morning, after seeing three patients and getting into a rather heated debate in the breakroom with some of the other residents over who finished the last of the coffee, Rhaenys conducts some very necessary internet research.

Dr. Baelor Hightower 59 Widower Father of two Senior partner at Hightower Obstetrics

Rhaenys spends the better part of an hour scrolling meticulously through the man’s Facebook page, on the lookout for red flags. Other than a photo in which the man is surrounded by a sea of pretty blondes (sisters it turns out...six of them) there are no red flags to be found. It’s like he was cut out of the pages of a Decent Dudes catalog, completing the package with somewhat greying good looks and an annoying wealth of adorable pictures with his newborn granddaughter.

Rhaenys hesitates a moment, her cursor hovering over a freshly opened email window. 

She could message Uncle Oberyn. 

He’s got all sorts of connections. She’s sure with his help she could run a full background check, really investigate for any skeletons in the closet (and maybe get to the bottom of what happened between her mother and Baelor Hightower 30 years ago). 

What Rhaenys does is so much worse. 

“I don’t know how I feel about you pimping Mom off like this.” Aegon scowls at her from the open Skype window on her computer. His face is half-hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and he’s wearing the type of garishly patterned tropical shirts made popular by dads on vacation everywhere. 

Rhaenys fights the urge to roll her eyes, and instead focuses on finishing the topcoat on her nails. As much as she misses her idiot brother, it’s probably for the best he decided to spend the holiday with Dad on his yacht in the Summer Isles. 

“It’s just a coffee date.” One that took no small amount of coaxing for Rhaenys to arrange.

“What do we even know about this guy? He could be the Sandstone Strangler, for all we know?”

“Or he could be a perfectly nice man!”

Aegon grumbles under his breath. 

“Do I look alright?” 

Elia interrupts them, hovering nervously in the threshold of Rhaenys’ tiny apartment kitchen. She’s wearing a plum colored wrap dress and a pair of knee-high black suede boots Rhaenys had insisted she borrow for the occasion. As a teenager, Rhaenys had been an unrepentant thief in her mother’s closet, poaching the perfect bag for a night out or the right earrings or wrap for a date. It’s a strange role reversal, but a welcome one just the same. 

Rhaenys lets out a low appreciative whistle.

“You look beautiful.”

Rhaenys and Elia share a smile. 

“Put some pepper spray in your purse!” Aegon’s voice calls out from her laptop speakers. “And wear a sweater!”

Elia laughs before pressing a quick kiss to Rhaenys’ temple and grabbing her coat.

“I’m off!” She waves cheerily over her shoulder. “Be back soon!”

Soon, it turns out, actually means ten hours later.

Rhaenys is eyeballs deep into a Real Housewives of Gulltown binge, the coffee table in front of the couch littered with Pentoshi takeaway containers, when Elia opens the apartment door. 

It’s only midnight. Too soon for the words ‘walk of shame’ to be bandied about, and yet, the hallmarks are all there. The hurriedly pinned up hair. The slightly rumpled dress. The goofy grin. 

“And what kind of hour do you call this, young lady?” Rhaenys deadpans. Elia’s smile slips a little.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

Rhaenys shrugs it off. She hadn’t minded. Much. (True, there had been a moment when a small, stupid part of her listened to Aegon and worried their mother’s organs were being harvested but good sense won out in the end).

“Did you have a nice time?”

The smile is back, brighter than before.

“Yes.”

It’s been a long time since she’s seen her mother this happy. Rhaenys can’t help but smile back just as brightly. 

“Good.”

#oberynmartell #asoiafrarepairs secret santa #happy holidays! #elia x baelor #elia martell #baelor hightower #rhaenys targaryen #emmy writes #aegon vi targaryen #plot? what plot? #not even really sure what this silliness is #i just want elia to be happy

[sam-lives-story]

#SamLives - Chapter 10

“Can I Please Get A Waffle?”

[Previous|Next]

Also find the latest chapters of this story on [Archive Of Our Own]

“So...you show up, say you’re alive and well, and apologize for scaring people on the stream,” Mark was saying, running through his thought processes regarding Jack’s vlog plans. “You don’t outright say it was real, but you don’t say that it was purposely faked. Throw in a joke about losing your voice.”

Jack huffed out a breath with a smirk. Yeah, alright. Not a bad idea. He leaned back against the kitchen counter while he waited for his coffee.

“Then how about,” Mark looked up to Jack from his seat at the kitchen table, “to try and distract people from the stream, you don’t just make it about that.”

“What?” Jack raised his eyebrows and folded his arms over his chest. “What else would I make it about?”

“Me, obviously.”

Mark grinned up at him like an idiot, looking utterly too proud of himself for his own good.

“You.”

“Yeah!” Mark stabbed at a piece of waffle that was on the plate in front of him. He waved it around a little as he spoke. “I’m here, in Brighton, and clearly not in California. I’ll have to let my community know at some point because I only have a limited number of videos to cover the gap, unless I start recording some stuff here. Which is totally an option.”

“Oh, hell yeah, as long as I’m not in there feel free to record whatever.” Jack shrugged and turned to the coffee machine, retrieving his now-finished dirty bean water.

“I just have to watch out for glitch demons, right?”

Mark was joking, teasing; it was obvious enough in his voice without even having to see the amused grin on his face, but that didn’t mean Jack was laughing. He levelled his friend with a halfhearted glare as he sat across from him at the table.

“Not funny.”

“Sorry.” Mark smiled sheepishly, his fork drooping a little in his grip.

Instead of eating the bite of waffle himself, he held it out toward Tim, who was sitting on the table near Mark’s plate with his eyes locked on the YouTuber’s food as though he’d never eaten before in his life. The little box let out a happy sound and grabbed the waffle chunk between his hands, taking bites out of it every so often. Jack could tell that Mark spoiled him.

“But anyway,” Mark continued, “we could make some kind of announcement. Tell people we’re doing some collabs and that I’m visiting for a while. That’d be distraction enough to at least get some people’s focus off of Anti.”

Jack blew on his mug of coffee and took a sip, closing his eyes and letting the heat of it help soothe the ache in his throat. He let out a slow breath.

“...honestly it’s not a bad plan.”

“It’s a brilliant plan.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say brilliant, but…” Jack snickered behind his mug and took another sip. He almost deserved the affronted look he got in return.

“Excuse me, I’m a fucking genius, okay?” Mark sassed. “I was majoring in engineering before my YouTube career got off the ground!” He pressed his hand to his chest and pulled on a mock-tortured expression. “I could’ve been an engineer!”

“And I could’ve been in hotel management,” Jack retorted, grinning. “So what?”

‘Jack?’

Jack saw Sam bounce into the room and his smile softened, his eyes brightening a little.

“Heya Sam,” he greeted the little eyeball. “You hungry, buddy?”

‘Mhm.’

“Want some of my waffles?” Mark offered, turning around in his seat, all mentions of his shattered dreams of engineering seemingly forgotten. “I think I made way too many.”

“I told ya you shouldn’t’ve made eight of them.”

“Your toaster has four slots! I had to try it out!”

“Twice?”

“Yes! That’s how science experiments work.” Mark was waving his fork around again, and Tim’s eyes were following its path with rapt attention. “You’ve gotta test things out more than once, or you won’t get accurate data.”

‘I’d like a waffles please, mister Mark.’ Sam’s cheerful comment effectively cut off Mark’s rant about “real science”, much to Jack’s amusement.

“You heard ‘im,” Jack smirked. “He’d like some of your waffles, mister Mark.”

“Well how could I possibly say no when he asked so nicely?”

There was a warm smile on Mark’s face, one that Jack had seen there before. It was one that Mark often wore when speaking to Tim, and now Sam as well. It was one that he wore the night before when they’d been talking after Jack’s nightmare. Jack had seen it, too, when Mark had called Amy yesterday afternoon to let her know his flight had landed safely and that he’d made it to Jack’s place alright. The smile was a caring one, a familial one. One that, Jack was sure, was associated with those in Mark’s life that he cared the most for. Family. Friends. Loved ones.

The fact that it was a smile he now shared with Sam...it was touching. Sam’s little bubble of family was getting just a little bit bigger, and Jack couldn’t help but smile softly from behind his coffee mug while he watched Mark separate out little chunks of waffles for both Tim and Sam to enjoy.

“Did you want some?” Mark offered across the table, looking up from the pair of familiars.

Jack eyed the waffles for a moment before making a face.

“...nah. I’ve got my coffee.” As if to emphasize this point he brought the mug to his lips and took a drink.

“But–” Mark’s brow furrowed a little. “You haven’t eaten anything. Last time you had a decent meal with yesterday at the cafe. And no, I’m not counting the banana you had for “dinner”.”

He made air quotes around the word.

“I had two!” Jack defended weakly. When Mark’s expression didn’t change he groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll eat later, alright? After we’re done recordin’ that video. My stomach’s in fuckin’ knots just thinkin’ about going back into the recording room. I’d rather not projectile vomit on my keyboard and camera.”

“Gross.” Mark made a face, but he didn’t look concerned anymore. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. We can go out and grab something away from the apartment again for lunch, if that helped before.”

“Oh, yes please.”

Jack was more than eager for whatever time he could get away from his computer. Anti hadn’t so much as made the lights flicker since the incident during the stream, but that didn’t make Jack feel any calmer being here.

If Jack had thought his nerves were bad when he was sitting in the kitchen, it was nothing compared to staring through the open doorway that led to his recording space. He’d pushed the door open almost five minutes ago to get everything set up and hadn’t taken a step since. His hands were clammy, his pulse had skyrocketed, and it seemed to be harder to breathe. A constricting feeling had settled around his lungs and throat and no matter how many time he’d told himself there was nothing in the room right now, it didn’t ease his fears one bit.

‘Jack?’

Sam was settled on Jack’s shoulder, had been there since Jack had left the kitchen. Jack could feel his familiar’s concern in the back of his mind. He let out a shaking breath.

‘It’s okay to be scared.’ Sam’s words, as ever, were pure and friendly and kind. ‘I’m kinda scared too. But he’s not here this time! And we’re going in together, right?’

“R-Right.” Jack reached up to stroke the top of Sam’s “head”, the repeated motion helping to calm him.

“Hey, Jack, where’s the discs for this thing?” Mark’s voice called from the end of the hall. “It’s a pretty sweet Nerf gun.”

“Hm…?”

Jack was grateful for the distraction and he looked away from the door, sidestepping a little so he could see what Mark was holding. His eyes widened in surprise, some of his panic forgotten.

“...oh my god, where the hell did you find that?”

Mark shrugged.

“It was in a shopping bag in the bathroom closet, with a bunch of tea bags and easter candy.” He turned the gun over in his hands, examining it with a grin. “Pretty cool looking. I was looking for some makeup but found this instead.”

“That’s Chase’s gun,” Jack told him, slightly astonished at the sight of it. “I thought I lost that thing ages ago! I’ve been looking for a replacement online, for an Ego video, but apparently they don’t make ‘em anymore.”

“Chase?” Mark closed the bathroom door behind himself and brought it with him as he joined Jack by the recording room. “Is that an Ego? I don’t think I’m familiar with that one.”

“Chase Brody,” Jack shrugged. He saw Mark carrying something else, probably that makeup he’d been looking for, though Jack wasn’t quite sure why he’d needed it in the first place. “I did a video with him last year, a trickshot skit. Called it “Bro Average”...like a parody of Dude Perfect.”

“Oh my god, wait, I think I remember that!” Mark was grinning now. “The guy with the hat, right?”

“Heh, sure, the guy with the hat.” Jack found a smile working its way onto his face. “I’ve only ever done the one video with him though. That’s why I’ve been thinkin’ of bringing him back.”’

“Oh, cool.” Mark was quiet for a moment. Then: “...so where’s the discs?”

Jack snorted.

“Top left drawer of my dresser. Junk drawer. That’s the last place I saw ‘em.” He shrugged, careful not to knock off Sam. “Or whatever’s left of them, anyway.”

“Sweet! Be right back.” Mark turned to leave, turned back, and shoved something into Jack’s hands. “Hold this.”

While Mark was off fetching Nerf discs, Jack looked down at what he’d been handed. It was a makeup tube, one that Jack vaguely remembered his sister leaving behind during her last visit only because it had been sitting on the bathroom counter for a while. Some of the contents had already been used, and for some reason Jack had a memory of his dear sis complaining about how it didn’t last long enough then going out to buy a different brand. Something about changing the formula? Hell if he knew.

Before he could really delve into the memory, Mark was back, a victorious smile on his face and a ziplock of green foam disc in his hand.

“Why d’you need makeup?” Jack asked, eyebrow raised.

“It’s for you.”

“What?”

“You neck.”

...oh.

Jack’s free hand came up to brush against the bruised skin, wincing a little.

“Does it look bad–?”

“It doesn’t look totally gross yet, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mark chuckled. “Nah, I just figured you’d rather try and hide it if you’re gonna record a video. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure saying you’re fine while sporting a more-than-noticeable hand-shaped bruise on your neck, doesn’t exactly scream “everybody stay calm”.”

“Fair enough.”

There was a pause, a moment of silence. Mark glanced between Jack and the recording room.

“So…” he nodded toward the door, still standing ajar. “...did you get everything set up?”

And as easily as Jack had managed to forget about it before, his earlier panic came crashing back into reality. His breath hitched and he tensed, eyes flickering toward the door.

“...not...exactly.”

‘It’s a scary place,’ Sam explained, his voice quiet and a little nervous.

Jack could feel his familiar’s nervousness alongside his own, though the little eyeball’s fear wasn’t nearly to the same extreme that Jack’s was. That same suffocating tightness was back in his chest and his heart was pounding against his ribcage.

“Ah, c’mon,” Mark grinned and grabbed Jack by the elbow, half-dragging his friend through the door and guiding him towards the familiar green chair by the desk. “Don’t think about it too much. Nothing’s gonna happen, not with me and Sam and Tim–” Mark called out into the hall, “–hey Tim! You gonna join us in here?”

“Oh! Uh-huh!” Tim’s voice cropped up from somewhere else in the apartment, bright and cheerful and excited.

Jack vaguely registered the sound of a pencil clattering against a tabletop, and the sound of Tim jumping onto the floor with a soft ‘oof!’. But he wasn’t really paying much attention to it. He was tense, sitting stiffly on the edge of his chair with his eyes wide and his hands clutching his knees so tightly his knuckles had turned white. The room was the same - exactly the same - as he’d left it when he’d ended the stream so abruptly two nights ago. His headphones were on the floor and his mouse was hanging off the desk by its cord; the cup of pencils he usually kept on the corner of the desk had been spilled across its surface, and a half-finished mug of coffee sat, cold, to the right of the keyboard.

‘Jack?’

At Sam’s voice, Jack closed his eyes and focussed inward. Sam was there, in the back of his mind, a constant source of comfort and support that never left him. Just knowing that his familiar was with him, that his little buddy was keeping his eye on things, helped more than he was willing to say. A wave of concern and warmth washed over the mental link and Jack smiled weakly. Sam was being braver than he was. Surely he could pull it together for one stupid video.

“Jack? You good, man?”

Jack opened his eyes, blinking rapidly, and saw Mark in the doorway carrying one of the chairs from the living room. He stared at it, realized which one it was, and snorted out a soft laugh.

“Oh my god. Of course you picked the spinny chair.”

“Hell yeah I picked a spinny chair!” Mark grinned. “That’s the only kind I’ll accept in a recording session.”

“Pretty good motto to go by.”

They exchanged a grin - Jack’s a little more strained than Mark’s - then Jack forced himself to settle back into his own seat and turn it to face his computer. He cleared away the spilled writing utensils and scooped up his mouse and headphones, putting everything back in order before he set about booting up his computer. He didn’t remember turning it off after the stream...but he must have. Either that, or Mark had to have done so when he turned off Jack’s wifi the night before.

Whatever.

Jack started up his recording programs and turned on the camera behind his desk (God, why couldn’t his hands stop shaking…?), then spun his chair to face Mark. Mark, who was now lounging in the chair he’d brought in off to one side of the room, where Jack knew the camera wouldn’t spot him.

“...any...eh...any chance you were plannin’ on helping me with that makeup, Mark?”

Mark smirked.

“What? You don’t know how to do it yourself?”

“No,” Jack snickered weakly. He cleared his throat. Then in an attempt to lighten his own mood, he put on his sassy teen girl voice and pretended to flip his nonexistent hair over his shoulder. “I don’t need makeup! I’m beautiful just the way I am!”

“Have you tried looking in a mirror? Because I beg to differ–”

“Oh, fuck off!” Jack laughed and chucked a pencil at Mark’s head.

Mark responded by dodging it and aiming the now-loaded Nerf gun at Jack, letting loose a foam disc. The disc bounced off of Jack’s shoulder and roquochetted off at an odd angle, making Sam squeak and fly upwards into the air to avoid getting hit. He hovered there for a long moment, his tail wiggling a little behind him, then settled down onto Jack’s shoulder again once he was sure no more projectiles were headed his way.

“Hey, watch it!” Jack giggled a little, and the action was mimicked by Sam in the back of both YouTubers’ heads. “What’d Sam ever do to you?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Mark raised both hands in surrender, still clutching the Nerf gun. His lips twitched as he tried to reign in his smile. “I totally missed the mark. I was aiming for your face.”

“Pfft, oh, thanks, that makes me feel sooo much better.” Jack rolled his eyes, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“You aimed for my head first!” Mark pointed out. “It’s only fair.”

“You started it! You insulted me!”

“Did I?” Mark feigned innocence, chocolate eyes widening and a hand coming up to press against his heart. “Me? Why would I ever do that?”

“You did! You did!” It was Tim who spoke up this time, bouncing on the spot on the carpet beside Mark’s chair. He giggled. “You said a mean thing.”

‘Very very mean,’ Sam agreed, though his amusement was clear in the way he said it.

Mark’s jaw dropped.

“Are you seeing this?!” he gestured around the room. “Everyone’s ganging up on me!”

“Yeah, well, you deserve it,” Jack stuck his tongue out at the American, who hmphed and sank in his seat.

“Oh, shut up. Let me get this makeup on your neck and we can film this thing.”

“Hey guys! Zombie-septiceye here, back from the dead. Heh.”

Jack scratched at the back of his head. If you were looking for it, a faint shadow could be seen on his neck, a darker patch that was only noticeable if you really, really looked. A pattern that was clearly discernible as a handprint...if you were the type to analyse video frames for longer than a few seconds.

“No, I didn’t die, and I’m perfectly fine. I promise.”

Jack was smiling, the same brilliant smile he always wore...but he looked tired. A little bit of stress could be seen around his eyes, barely visible but there.

“I hope the stream didn’t scare you all too much. Some of you might not have seen it yet, but that’s okay. It seemed to be making its rounds. Fair warning: it was pretty…” Jack’s eyes dropped to his desk, and he seemed to struggle to find the right words. “...erm...intense. So...sorry ‘bout that.”

His eyes seeked out the camera again, and he pulled that same genuine smile back onto his face, this time with a touch of apology in his gaze.

“That definitely wasn’t how I planned on ending the stream, heh.” He chucked a little, then held up his hands. “But don’t worry! All’s good on my end. I’ve got a bit of a sore throat right now, but I’m feelin’ a lot better.”

He cleared his throat dramatically, then let out a practice scream, followed by an over-dramatic and very fake cough.

“Yup. The scream machine is still workin’. I know, I usually post something sooner after Ant...er...Ego videos, but yesterday ended up being a hell of a lot crazier than I thought it would be. Robin’s been havin’ issues with editing on his end and we decided it’d be alright for me to take a day off.”

Something green flew across the screen behind Jack’s chair, making an audible ‘thwack’ against the opposite wall.

“Fuckin’–” Jack spun in his chair and chucked a pen in the direction of where the green...thing...had come from. “I told ye to stop that! Shite…”

A quiet chuckle cropped up in the background, one that hadn’t come from Jack, and the Irishman let out a little bit of laughter in response.

“Behave! I swear, it’s like talkin’ to a fuckin’ child…” He swivled back to the camera. “Anyway! I’m alive, I’m well, I’m as loud as ever, and–”

‘Thwack.’

A second green projectile, this one flying forward over Jack’s shoulder and landing somewhere below the camera’s view. The Irishman shot his hand out in front of him and swiped it up, holding it up for his “attacker” to see – it was a lime green foam disc, maybe an inch and a half across – and turning to speak over his shoulder again.

“D’you want me to take that away from you?”

“No, Mom.”

The voice in the background was distant, too far from the mic to be picked up properly, but the deep, rapid laughter that followed the words was easily distinguishable to anyone who watched any of Jack’s Prop Hunt Collab videos.

“I swear to Christ, Mark…”

Despite his scolding, Jack was grinning as he turned back to the camera.

“You know what, screw it, we’re gonna skip to the other half of this video, because SOMEbody–” Jack chucked the green disc at the unseen marksman, who let out a loud ‘HEY!’ in protest, “–can’t stay fuckin’ quiet for longer ‘n ten seconds! By Jaysus!”

Jack slapped his hands down on his desk and took a dramatic breath.

“Okay. So the surprise isn’t so much of a surprise anymore, but I’ve got a guest with me today. He showed up on my doorstep yesterday lookin’ like a lost puppy and I decided to keep him for a while. Dunno how long he’s stayin’ but – Mark’s here in Brighton! Say hi, Mark.”

A second person slid into view, rolling across the room in a wheeled chair and grinning brightly at the camera.

“Hello everybody!” he waved a Nerf gun in the air (many of the viewers collectively gasped and squealed in excitement, instantly recognizing that gun for what it was) and scooted his chair closer to the desk, bumping Jack over a little so they both had room. “This was totally unplanned, so my apologies for not making an announcement.”

“By ‘totally unplanned’ you mean ‘Jack didn’t even know I was coming until I was knocking on his door’, right?” Jack chuckled.

Mark spluttered and gestured wildly with his hands, waving the plastic weapon around as he did so.

“Well – okay, we talked about me staying for a while to do some collabs! I just showed up early!”

“Two or three WEEKS early.”

The banter was familiar, teasing, and a wonderful change from Jack’s last appearance on screen. For many, as they continued watching the announcement video, it brightened their day and brought a sense of excitement. For many, they couldn’t help but wonder what plans Jack and Mark had made for future videos. But for some...for very few...the video held a completely different meaning.

��When did this video appear on the channel?”

“Two days, five hours, fourteen minutes, and seven seconds ago.”

“...interesting.”

“Should I update my current objective?”

“No...not yet.”

“Se̯e̋ w̎h̀a̞t᷀ I mėa̔n?! H̘e̘’̗s c̫h̗e̢a͑t̬i͉n̼g̀! E̻v̤eͤr̠ si͒n̜c̄e̮ h͌e͗ s͋ḧo̐w͝ed̈́ u̠p, I have̘n'͟t̜ eve̎n̫ bēe̋n̚ ãb̖l᷆eͯ ṱoͭ g̉et͎ c̨l̈òs̠e!͘ H̱e's̱ d͇i̟sṫra͐c᷇ti̞nͤg̴ t̂h̃e͋m͂ f̺r̙oͭm̷ m̐e͗, a̝n̰d t̗h᷄eͧ l̏o͏n̓g̹e͋r᷇ it̙ g̛oe̅s̭ o͈n̵ t̚h̎e͊ l̗e̢s͇s᷉ c̛O̕nͥt͞R͇o̓L͍ I͚ h̫a᷊v̈́e᷊.Th̪i͠s̡ i̱s͙n’̞t̤ h̲ōw̰ I pla͑n͒n̫e͓d᷉ t̴h̨e̴ g̵àme̓ to g͙ô! Yo̺u̹ k̭nͅo̬w̎ t̉hat᷁ Ī’d r͓a͟tͅher̹ bͥȇ a͇n᷅y᷅w̉h̛er̠ȇ e̵l̘s̻e̊ but he̍r̾ė,͆ b̐uͣt᷅ t̠h̶i̯s᷊ f̥uc̜k᷉in͚’ ch̲ange̖s̭ t̊h̊ing̯s.”

“I’m more than aware of your...opinion of me. In fact I doubt it differs much from mine of you...perhaps one of the few things we can agree on.”

A distorted scoff was the only response.

“H᷄oͦwe̤v̋e̼r͆.” Emphasis was put on the word, effectively cutting off whatever mockery had been coming his way. “I may be interested in helping you play your little game. What exactly do you require from me?”

[A/N] - Woot! Back from vacation! I had this written before we even left, but I didn't get the chance to post it because I had yet to edit the damned thing. But here we are! While this isn't my favorite chapter, I'm still pretty happy with how it turned out. ^^

As always, critiques and comments are always welcome! Let me know if you spot spelling errors...god knows I'm not perfect lol.

And thanks for reading!

Mark: Dude check it out I found your nerf gun, why didn’t you tell me you had a nerf gun??? Jack: . . . Mark: Where’s the discs, I need to shoot this thing Jack: ...wtf I've been looking for that, I need that for future videos how the HELL did you find it in ten minutes while I've been looking for it for weeks Mark: Cuz I’m a genius, clearly Jack: Haha, right, you’re so totally not Mark: Uh, yeah I totally am, I'm a fuckin GENIUS Jack: Dude no, I think the FUCK NOT Mark: I WAS MAJORING IN ENGINEERING Jack: SO WHAT?? Mark: SO I COULD'VE BEEN AN ENGINEER Jack: AND I COULD'VE BEEN A HOTEL MANAGER, WE CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT WE WANT MARK Sam: *bursts through door* CAN I GET A WAFFLE? CAN I PLEASE GET A WAFFLE???

Also find the latest chapters of this story on [Archive Of Our Own]

[Previous|Next]

[Chapter List]

#SamLives #Sam Lives #Jacksepticeye #Markiplier #Antisepticeye #Darkiplier #Sam Septiceye #JSE #JSE FanFic #Jacksepticeye FanFic #Sam #Jack #Mark #Tim #Dark #Waffles #Chapters #10 #Can I Please Get A Waffle #Can I Please Get A WAffle?

[heartshredded]

“ you can still make something good out of it ” / @ eto

honeybee prompts ll @madamhatter

’ i don’t have time for that, hatter. ‘ eto replies mildly amused, most would recommend her to simply toss away the draft and rewrite a better one in replacement. though she supposed that sophie was anything but that, a pet of entertainment in her eyes. her daily life as a human when she did not attend to aogiri tree or her own plans was spent in company with the other. the half-ghoul could easily dispose of her, yes, but she might as well let her live longer just to be able to witness what sophie might do next. 

it would also be troublesome, eto had little interest in getting into trouble with the authorities when she’s kept her human persona undercover for years perfectly, a missing body report linked to her would be an easy blow. the writer crushes the page she was writing into a ball, before tossing it to the pile beside her small desk. 

‘ if i did that for every page that isn’t as i want it to be, i’ll never finish anything. ‘ a chuckle coupled with an expression of certainty. she stabs an eyeball that had some flesh stuck to it from the plate of human remains on her desk using a fork, plops it in her mouth and chews on it. freshly killed prey were the best, it was still warm and juicy since the decomposition process hadn’t gone far yet. she disliked preserving food but it was necessary in order to have a stash of emergency food or snacks.

the half-ghoul swallows before light green hues turn back to sophie with the tip of the fork now pointed at her, ‘ on the topic of that, i would have killed that annoying man long ago if he wasn’t my editor. ‘ humans were just food, kept as pets if ghouls did not feel the need to eat them. ‘ i’d love to hear him scream while i eat him limb by limb. ‘ her lips curl into a smile, the mere thought of it was already enthralling but it dampens quickly, ‘ though i suppose i can’t do that yet. ‘ 

#madamhatter #gore tw #body horror #blood tw #what else idk.. #m.eto #torture tw