scoot-woods

[scoot-woods]

unscught​:

In hindsight, some extra attention could have been put forth into ventilation. Having arm holes and a slot to see out of was fine and all, but the core of his body began to feel like the embodiment of swamp ass ( swamp torso? ) after the third drink. Now that he’s consumed a lot more shots, fallen over at least once, danced his little heart out, and escaped onto the streets in costume.. the possibility of coming down with heat stroke was within reach. 

Half bleary from the stuffiness, the only thing that stuck to his booze addled brain was to get something non-alcoholic to drink. Then again, maybe a chilled glass of.. no, no – some water would do him good. 

But..

A sudden altercation meters away snapped him out of his looped thoughts. Danvir might not have the wherewithal to articulate the best in his current state, but he still had two functioning legs ( that were only slightly hindered by the platform shoes ). In the nearly 7ft green worm stomped, already spouting a bunch of ‘hey, the fuck’s goin’ on?’ and ‘whoa- hey, no’s. any further fighting would’ve spurred him to join in with his own set of hands, but the prior duo quickly split. 

Giant googly eyes wiggled as Danvir whipped from old man to slightly less old man. “The fuck was that all ‘bout?”

-

Scott turned, and almost fell over himself in shocked horror. The giant, sentient worm creature... thing man looming over him cursing up a storm made Scott wonder if he was hallucinating. Maybe he died in that fight? And this was some weird form of the after life? Its lifeless eyes seemed to look not at... but through him, directly into his soul and all but terrifying him in place.

Was it still Halloween? Scott's eyes narrowed as he thought. God, I'm such a dumbass, he thought to himself. Clearly, there were no such thing as sentient worm people, just as there weren't giant rats carrying around pizza in the sub--wait. Okay, maybe the latter stood the tests of both time and the sanity, but the former was up for debate. Where the fuck was he again?

Shaking his head, Scott cleared his throat, looking back to the worm. "Well," Scott started, feeling very much like a reprimanded child, "that other guy was calling these girls names and, well," he waved a vague hand around. "Someone had to stop that guy. He was making everyone uncomfortable. So I punched him about it."

[scoot-woods]

marquisebishop​:

—

One minute Marquise had been having a good day. A quiet day - and how often did he get those? He had left the hardware store, having picked up some supplies for the local Veteran’s House that he supported and volunteered at. He had been in talks with the mechanic shop that he worked at, picking up a couple of jobs because the guy who had agreed to do them had gotten sick. It meant that he had to push back his session with his physical therapist, which then impacted his training at the boxing gym - but it didn’t matter. It was more money, and more money meant he’d be able to invest some more into the Brotherhood and his hobby.

That was before he heard a man cat-calling women and saw a tall white man throw a punch. Marquise couldn’t help but stop and marvel. Had Marquise stepped out of line like that, throwing a punch and physically assaulting someone, he’d be thrown in a cell and charges pressed against him. But apparently when you’re tall and built like what white people think Greek Gods look like - you can get away with bullshit.

This comedy of errors had Marquise stepping back. No way was he going to get invol-… well shite – he stuck his foot out, sent the man sprawling and then returned to his nonchalant stance. “Maybe next time - don’t throw a punch at a guy,” Marquise offered. He tsked and shook his head. “Best part is, sandwiches can be replaced.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, removing cash and holding it out to the stranger. “Get a new one - and maybe save the moves for a ring. I know a place if you like hitting things and don’t want to get arrested.”

-

Careless, a little stupid... mindlessly throwing punches first and asking questions after, that was his usual MO. He knew he was afforded a privilege, one that he both hated but found himself utilizing for his benefit more often than he'd like. Who else would get away with starting a fight in broad daylight? And especially dragging the other man in too, even if it was unwittingly, Scott began to doubt. Maybe... for once, he should have actually thought things through.

A little breathless, Scott shrugged, despite his sheepish expression. His head dipped low as he let out a small, embarrassed laugh. But old habits died hard, and while Scott wanted to agree, he couldn't do so without lying. In lieu of an answer, Scott just nodded. Glancing up, he cocked his head, confused. The offered bills in the other man's hands made Scott blink. "I'm alright, I think..." He said in refusal. He. could buy his own sandwich later.

He already had a gym, and he was fighting every other weeknight in some shady little spot outside of the city, but the offer was intriguing. And, never one to turn down an offer, Scott's ears perked up. "Oh?" He asked, brow raising, "Where's this place?"

[scoot-woods]

for: anyone location: some random street somewhere

-

"Well," Scott started.

He had not expected the day to go the way that it had. It had been fairly normal to start: he had spent the first half of his shift at the bookstore unpacking boxes of new releases to stack on the shelves, organizing and then reorganizing the sales section until his brain felt like it had all but turned into goo. He'd taken his break, expecting to make a quick trip to the bodega down the street for a breakfast sandwich and maybe, just maybe, a bottle of that disgusting soda that he had a penchant for as a treat.

It had gone mostly according to plan, minus that guy, standing outside said deli, cat-calling any woman who had tried to walk past.

Scott, not one to mind his business when such things occurred, hadn't thought twice before throwing a punch at the guy. It was more like second nature than anything. For someone people deemed often as sweet and harmless, he resorted to tackling all of his problems by doing just that... tackling.

Maybe his old man shouldn't have ever let him step foot in a ring.

It was going well, until the guy had made for his sandwich, his beloved and most precious bacon egg and cheese, before throwing it rather unceremoniously at his head. That had really been the kicker.

He was about to do something both incredibly out of line and regrettable, when someone steps in. In the blink of an eye, far too quick for even Scott to tell just what the hell had happened, the cat-caller with absolutely no decorum or respect for sandwiches had all but run off, shouting profanities at the newfound pair.

"Well..." Scott tried again, snapping out of his thoughts, "that wasn't what I'd have hoped to happen today." Staring down at the remnants of his sandwich for a moment, he looked to his savior again, letting out a small smile. "Thank you for your help. And for avenging my beloved." He sighed.

[scoot-woods]

GHOSTBUSTERS (2016) dir. Paul Feig