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whaleofatjme1920 · 3 years

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At the End of Your Rope (Jeff the Killer X F!Reader)

At the End of Your Rope

[Jeff the Killer X F!Reader]

[Warnings: heavy domestic abuse, violence, murder (not heavily described though), language]

[AN: This one's kinda heavy in some places. Take care of yourself first and foremost.]

It was rare that you had moments to yourself and even rarer when you found yourself enjoying those moments. Usually, you were tense, on edge, bitey and waiting to snap or invert back into yourself. That is what it does to you. It takes away, it destroys and it saps you of all your energy, your drive and your will.

No matter, that’s not what you’re supposed to be thinking about. You hum softly as you do the dishes, wondering how long this set of plates will last until he returns. You scrub hard at the bits still stuck to it, wondering how on earth he even managed to get this much filth plastered onto its surface - you made the meal, served it to him, you even took it back to the sink. Was he trying to key you off?

You took in a deep breath and scratched at its surface, only smiling softly when the piece finally dislodged from the blue floral design. You ran it under the sink, lukewarm water feeling alien against your skin as you continued to mindlessly rinse off the suds. As you began to stare off into space and by extension, the void, you found yourself remembering the times he used to bring you blue flowers at the beginning of every date.

A long time ago, when you were starry eyed about the world around you, he loved you deeply and truly. And it was the most strange of couplings, but they do say that opposites attract.

Last class of the day, what a relief. What wasn’t a relief was that it was chemistry. You’d never been particularly good at the subject, but you would often try your hardest and so far, throughout the year, had managed to coast by with a -B. It wasn’t perfect but it was good enough.

For the people around you who knew you better than that, they were more than surprised you hadn’t managed an A in the class just yet. You were the over achiever, the smart girl, the one who knew it all. But not in a cocky way, no, of course not. You were sweet, helpful and kind. That’s what spared you from how cruel teenagers can get - your aura was incredible and people would be absolutely dense to not like you. For the most part, you were quiet and only spoke to a few close friends.

Unfortunately for you, your last period chemistry class didn’t have any of your dear ones near. You sat in the middle of the classroom, attempting to take notes and kept your head down, honestly focused on the material when you heard laughter from the back of the classroom.

“Don't make me come back there,” your teacher said, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Do I need to split you up?”

“No, sorry Mrs. Haut,” a dark haired boy piped up.

Mrs. Haut rolled her eyes slightly before going back to writing on the chalkboard. She was talking about the electron configuration of atoms or something like that when the laughter picked back up again. Mrs. Haut sighed again before continuing writing. “One of you move up here by Miss Reader, another by Miss. Rhys, and another by Mr. Clarke.”

The three boys in the back verbally voice their distaste with their teacher’s decision but ultimately went along with it. You buried yourself in your notes even deeper when you realized just who it was sitting next to you. Usually, the person sitting next to you wouldn’t bother you, but the fact that this was by far the most disruptive person in the class had you a little flustered. You couldn’t afford skipping the notes or getting sidetracked especially with midterms coming up.

“You have a pen?” He asked quietly.

That made you pause. “Excuse me?”

“A pen..?” He repeated, albeit a little slowly, as to really get the point across.

You didn’t want to disrupt your teacher any further by the idle chit chat and quietly rummaged in your bag for a pen. Once your fingers grazed the object, you plopped it back onto the desk and got back to writing.

“Thanks,” he said.

Your eyes wandered from your notes over to him - and he smiled at you. Fighting back slight heat, you began scribbling down the notes with a nod as if to say ‘no problem.’

The lesson continued on for a little bit longer until you felt him gently poking your shoulder. You pried your eyes off of the board to give him the attention he so desperately craved. With an eyebrow raised, you asked him what was on his mind.

“What’s your name?” He asked softly.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks - how the hell did he miss your name? You were the only consistent question asker in this class! “... Reader,” you answered, eyes narrowed slightly at the fact he’d miss your name. Though, you do suppose what else could you expect from a class clown? “And what is your name?” You asked simply out of politeness.

His eyes widened in shock, and his face followed in suit. “You seriously don’t know?”

When you shook your head he gave a quiet, but exasperated groan and then flew into a tanger about who he was. The guy who set all those frogs loose last year, the same one who orchestrated turning all the furniture upside down, the guy who did donuts on the football field and the one who covered half the auditorium on elaborate post it notes art.

And unfortunately for you, none of those rang a bell. “I knew someone did it, but I didn’t know you were the one who did it.”

And that spirited yet another tangent from the boy sitting next to you. He went into painstaking detail about how he even got some of those things done, and you pretended to care, more so interested in the passion in his eyes than the actual content of the story. He was a surprisingly good storyteller! You hadn’t even realized the both of you had been chatting more than note taking when everything went dead silent. Much too silent.

“Miss Reader, I am more than disappointed in you,” Mrs. Haut said with another frown pulling on her red lips. “Both of you, detention.”

Your eyes widened in shock as she slapped down two pink slips on your shared table.

“Again?” The boy next to you asked incredulously, taking the note into his fingertips along with his bag in the other hand. “Mrs. H, this is like the second time this month!”

Mrs. Haut only shook her head and gestured towards the door, her shoe tapping impatiently on the ground.

“There’s only thirty more minutes left of class,” you said as you began to pack up your things. “I... “ Upon seeing your teacher’s tired expression,and not being one to directly challenge authority, you relented. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled before taking the slip into your grip and exiting her classroom. You took in a deep breath and trudged out of the classroom, wondering how you would explain to your parents your record had a spot on it when you exited the classroom and closed the door softly behind you.

“Do you know where the room is?” You posed your question to the resident class clown with a crestfallen expression.

“You’re actually planning on going?” He said it like it was a surprise.

“Uh, yeah? Where else would I be going?”

“I don’t know, but we can figure it out.” He smiled widely at you and plucked the pink slip from your hand.

“Wait what-? Give that back!” You cried out as quietly as you could to not disturb the other classes.

“C’mon, Princess, come and get it,” he teased. It didn’t sound like he had malice in his tone though.

You chased him through the hall attempting to get the slip back, narrowly avoiding the watchful gaze of hall monitors and the like when you found he had led you out to the parking lot. You didn’t have a car.

“Let’s go,” he beamed, scrunching up both of your pink slips in his hand before tossing them into the trash. “I wasn’t joking about figuring it out together.”

“I… But-”

“But nothing, Princess. Live a little.” He nodded for you to follow him, and you, feeling much too awkward to challenge someone, found yourself being led by him to his car. It wasn’t a fancy car, but it wasn’t near as run down as you expected it to be. It looked like he kept it relatively decent, and the scent was that of lemon. Whatever, live a little.

You slid into the passenger seat and put on your seatbelt as he became once again.

“Atta girl!” He chuckled as the car roared to life. He then flicked on the radio, turned up some music and the two of you left the school.

You can’t quite say you’ve ever had fun like that before. He took you to a diner, out bowling, you two snuck into a movie theatre then got smoothies before he dropped you off at home. And he was so sweet and kind throughout it all. He made you laugh, listened to you attentively, and over smoothies, he attempted to help you study a bit. It was moot, but it was nice that he even attempted.

That was what started a beautiful friendship that lasted throughout the rest of that academic year. Later, it blossomed into a relationship, and further, it transformed into marriage. The day he asked you to marry him was one of the best days of your entire life - and then, you were convinced you had met your soulmate. He was everything you’d ever wanted in a partner, and he was oh so helpful and attentive.

High school sweethearts was what you were referred to, and you both fit the image so well. You were practically glowing anytime anyone had seen you. Your marriage had happened too fast, but you were convinced he was your one and only unaware that growth comes in many forms. And in this specific case, the roots have burst the pot.

Back then, he used to give you flowers nearly every day in various shades of the rainbow. Blue seemed to be the preferred though.

“You always get these, why?” You had asked one evening, fingertips gently petting the soft petals.

“Apparently, they mean something poetic,” he replied before pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “That’s what the flower guy keeps telling me. And they’re kinda hard to find,” he continued, eyes looking out at the starry night sky the two of you laid under. “So, whenever they come in, I grab them tight and bring them back to my baby.”

You giggled slightly before shutting him off with a kiss.

They were damn near unattainable after the two of you had gotten married. It seemed they’d gone out of style, or perhaps they just weren’t thriving as they used to. One day, when you were lonely and missing your husband, you pulled out an old book on various flora and fauna. You must’ve spent hours upon hours learning about the area you lived in when you chanced upon a dash of blue.

Cornflowers, they were cornflowers.

The flowers on the plate you’d run under the faucet for far too long weren’t the same shade of blue, but they were just as pretty. It’s a shame that these plates would most likely be broken before the month was out.

Gods, when did he change? It was hard to pinpoint it because the two of you had been under each other’s spell for a good chunk of that time. When did he flip the switch? When did he… You shook your head and turned off the faucet, deciding you were done with the dishes for now. Accidentally, when you were placing the plate back in its place, you bumped your forearm on the counter. With a wince, you hissed and mentally reminded yourself to mind the bruises that were still fresh there. He gripped your wrist so hard that night you were sure it was going to snap right off.

He really wasn’t like this in the beginning and your mind raked constantly with reasons as to why when you laid awake at night hoping he wouldn’t go too far or burn a bridge only to find it needed to be rebuilt with supplies that no longer existed.

It was nearing the late evening and he wasn’t supposed to be home until later in the night. You could afford to relax for just a little longer. With a deep breath, you walked up the stairs dead set on drawing a bath to just let your mind go blank. Hidden away in the bathroom sink’s cabinet was a ‘mix’ of herbs and such a dear friend of yours had said would aid in relaxing your soul and maybe your wounds. You could only use the clumsy excuse for so long.

You opened the door to your bathroom, quietly shut it behind you and didn’t bother locking it. If he was here, you might have, but you weren’t expecting him back until much, much later. You could afford to breathe. You drew the faucet and let it run for a moment or two until the water got a little warmer, then you plugged the tub and let it fill. You crouched down and poked your hand around towards the back of the bathroom sink before finding the jar filled with herbs and salts. It smelled divine even when closed. Unscrewing the lid, you are able to take in the scent of lavender, chamomile, rosebuds, sweet lemongrass and vanilla. Pink sea salt for added effect made the bath look heavenly when you poured in a generous scoop. As the water heated the herbs, you notice the rosebuds blooming into large, pink and red flowers. It was nothing short of magickal and filled you with some type of serenity.

Once the water was to your liking, you stripped and got into the tub, sighing in contentment as the water heated your form up. And from there, you let your mind go blank and take in the aroma of the herbs and flowers. You feel the stress leaving your body. You wish you could feel like this forever.

You allow your brain to wander as you relax and find it going back to your husband every single time. If he wasn’t asked to sit next to you, would you have been in this awful situation now? This was no way to live - and you wondered if you had just gone to detention that day if things would be different, or perhaps better. You thought you were able to pinpoint when everything went wrong when yet another starting point would come into your mind. It was like your brain was purposely making you move the goalposts so you wouldn’t be retraumatized by anything all over again.

It started small and in little bouts. He lost his patience with you. If you accidentally burnt the pancakes? It was alright but don’t let it happen again. Over watered the petunias just once? Great, now he needed to go to the store and pick up some new ones should those suffer root rot that was relatively treatable. Couldn’t get dinner ready on time? What a mess. Said something slightly off base? Your intelligence was being actively questioned. It kept snowballing until it reached the first time he hit you. Which was a dark enough day that you rather not think about.

He said he loved you. That he would protect you and make sure you were safe from all harm. But he broke that the moment his hand slapped your face so hard you felt the air leave your lungs. That was a really dark day, but it was not the darkest yet.

You must’ve spent close to an hour in the bath when you heard the front door opening. Shit, he wasn’t supposed to be back. You feel your heart pounding as you leap out of the bath, quickly drying yourself before throwing your clothes back on. In your haste, you forget to unplug the bath. But it’s too late, you hear him coming up the stairs. Seconds later, he’s in your shared bedroom.

“Reader? Where are you?” He sounds exhausted. Upon seeing the bathroom door closed, he stalks up to it. “Reader? Open up, Princess.”

It’s not the first time he’s tried to soften the blow like this.

“I-I’m still in the tub-”

“Sure, sure, sweetie,” he hums. “Can you uh, tell me why you haven’t gotten any food ready if you were going to fuck around in the tub like this then?”

Your heart constricts and your stomach twists. “I didn’t know you were gonna be home this early,” you say softly, ready to brace the door.

“Oh you forgot,” he says as if he’s speculating whether that was a decent answer or not. “You forgot,” he repeats. He stands in front of the bathroom door, swaying slightly like he’s waiting for you to come to you. “Come out of the bathroom.”

“I just drew it-”

“Did I ask for your excuses?”

“No-”

“Then come out of the FUCKING BATHROOM!” He hits the door so hard you thought you heard it splintering.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You cried out as you immediately rammed against the door, struggling to keep your husband back from breaking it down.

He didn’t answer, only continued to rattle off about everything wrong. She kicked the door harder and harder, sending you bouncing against the wood. You continued to cry out in pain but dug your shoulder into the door as you prayed it would be enough to keep him out.

“Stop, stop, STOP IT!” You felt tears pour out from your eyes as your husband pounded the door. “You’re being crazy right now, stop it!” Your throat felt raw with anguish as you continued to screech, head coming dangerously close to bouncing against the door as your husband began kicking it.

Eventually, he succeeded. He backed up, reared his leg up and took three hard hits, successfully kicking the door down. You went flying down with it and tumbled down the tile floor with a yelp of pain, landing sharply on your hip. You looked up through your pain and saw he was standing before you, fists balled and nothing but rage in his eyes.

“I told you to fucking let me in,” he seethes as he narrows in on you. Before he can touch you, his eyes travel to the tub. “And now you’re clogging up my fucking pipes?” He asks in an exasperated tone as he feels his blood pressure rise. “You need to learn a lesson,” he sighs as he runs his fingers through his hair. “When dogs are just puppies and they have an accident,” he begins as he bends down to the ground and nears you as you struggle to crawl away from him. “You take their nose and bury it into their mess.” He finishes. He straddles your waist and sloughs off your weak attempts to get him off of you.

You continue to cry and scream, beg and plead as his hands snake up your arms and to your hair. And your eyes widen as he takes a fistfull and then roughly stands up, dragging your body up with him.

“You fucking dog,” he spits as he drags you upwards. He begins to drag you towards the tub.

“No, NO!” You plead as you dig your heels into the tile, trying to grip onto the sink for dear life as he continues to drag you. You feel your strands of hair damn near get lifted from your scalp as he continues to yank you. He’ll kill you if you don’t put up a fight. “I’m sorry! Gods, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Whatever I did to piss you off I promise that it won’t happen again!” You attempt to reason as he finally pries your hands off the sink.

“You should’ve known that to begin with,” he replies as he pulls your hair harder. He then brings you to the tub and roughly shoves you to its lip. You catch yourself and try to get away when he pushes at the back of your head. You still continue to fight him, crying and pleading even harder as your husband kicks in the back of your legs, attempting to cripple you further to get you to bend. You continue to push back, staring into the now cold bath like it’s a watery grave.

A scream rips through your throat as he hits the back of your skull, having you gasping for air and consciousness. He takes that moment as your weakness and finally overpowers you. Your head is thrust below the waters, and you find yourself screeching all the while. From above the water’s surface, you can hear your once beloved husband muttering about you and the faults of your character as he holds you under the water. Before you can even register that air is in your lungs again, you’re plunged back into the water, coughing and hacking all the while as he does so.

When he grows tired of continually plunging your head into the water, he picks up your lower half and tosses you in, sending the water and herbs flying everywhere as your clothed body enters the freezing tub. Your tears mix with the remnants of the bathwater as he holds you under, nothing but rage in his eyes as he does.

When you feel like it’s too much, you begin to let go. Perhaps darkness would be a nicer sight than the sunrise of tomorrow.

You open your eyes slowly to see that you’re still in the tub and laying in a small pool of water that isn’t enough to harm you regardless of how you were laid. You feel aches all over and you feel like water is weighing down your lungs. Slowly, you get to your bearings as you prop yourself up. Step by step and painstaking muscle movement by muscle movement, you stand and grip the edge of the tub, realizing you need to change out of your clothes. You pause momentarily to look at yourself in the mirror.

“Gods,” you whisper to yourself. You look like you were in a car accident. There’s bruises on your throat and your face from where he tried to slam you into the bathtub, and your face is puffy and discolored from crying. Your hair is knotted and you feel like no amount of conditioner on earth can get that out - to even think about detangling it is a nightmare. Your clothes are ripped and waterlogged. Everything about you screams pathetic. When you turn your head and look at the door, you see it’s broken beyond repair. He kicked it out of its latches and the wood itself is splintered in two.

You quietly step out of the bathroom, ready to change into drier clothes when you see your husband sitting at the edge of the bed, waiting for you. You feel yourself begin to shiver, momentarily feeling your mind drift elsewhere to protect your brain from further trauma.

“You’re finally up,” he says, a blank expression on his face. “Are you okay?”

You feel disgust come up in the back of your throat but swallow it back down in favor of not angering him further. “I’m fine,” you lie, not bothering to plaster on a smile.

“Good.” He slowly stands up. “I’m heading out. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” He holds his arms out to you.

Shivering and absolutely terrified, you find yourself bending to his will. Quietly, you pad across the carpet to him and allow yourself to be wrapped up in his arms. His arms feel like a metal cage as they wrap around your quivering form.

“I’m sorry,” he says emptily as he buries his nose into your hair. “It won’t happen again.” He sways the two of you side to side as he holds you a little tighter, not bothering to mind the bumps and bruises he inflicted on your body.

You internally sigh and hollowly nod, allowing him to hold you.

He said that the last time.

It’s been a few days since your husband flew off the handle like that. Your husband stayed in the house, but like every time before, he pretended nothing had happened and instead vied for avoiding you. In a day or so, he’d be back to pretending he still loved you. But, your mind wasn’t entirely on him coming back to you and acting sweet - it was on everything in between.

See, this isn’t the first time that something of this caliber has happened to you. Convenience was something that seemed to pop up in your life more often than not, and you’d just accepted it. The first time you could remember it was when you were in your garage, trying to have a moment alone after your husband had shoved you into a wall for not making the potatoes the way he wanted (what a stupid thing to be upset over). As you sat at the workbench, sobbing quietly, your attention was pulled towards a thing of antifreeze. It was just propped up there. You don’t remember buying it, nor did you remember your husband buying it either. Neither of you regularly did car maintenance, nor did it seem like the kind used for a pool (which neither of you had). What on earth was it even doing here?

You quietly picked up the bottle and tossed it before your husband came calling for you to redo the potatoes.

The second time you noticed something much too conveniently placed was when the coffee in front of you was decaf. Your husband was terrible at waking up in the mornings, and the only thing that kept him up was his morning coffee on the drive to work. Well, one morning it was decaf in the keurig- and you almost didn’t notice it. The last time that happened, he’d almost swerved off the road. In a panic, you switched it to the right one before he noticed. If neither of you did, it could have claimed his life as the drive from your neck of the woods to the city was kind of dodgy in general.

The third most prominent time was semi-recently. You were cooking and once you finished, carried about your day. When you stopped by the kitchen to grab your keys and head to town for some shopping, you noticed that the gas was left on. Your husband was due to come home soon - if it stayed on for any longer, it might have killed him. Of course, you turned it off, but your hand lingered on the dial just a moment longer, wondering what would have happened if you didn’t turn it off. Feeling monstrous for even letting that thought pop into your head, you pulled back your hand like you had thrown it into the fire.

Those were just some of the most prominent things that happened. There were also little things that occurred as well, such as the TV always being clicked onto certain types of true crime documentaries entailing warring spouses, or the reading material being a tad too detailed in how to get away with things that obviously weren't legal. It started with petty theft, or piracy, and then moved onto other things that were much too unpleasant for you to even detail. All of these things seemed to be calling you towards something more sinister than you had ever imagined.

And until now, you’d managed to hold it all back. Sure, you entertain yourself by watching the documentaries and reading the material (which you wonder deeply who put it in your mailbox to begin with) but you never actually thought to harm him, did you?

It all came to a head a few weeks after the bathtub incident. He pushed you around plenty since then, but it hadn’t crossed the threshold like what happened back then - and that was enough to keep you at bay until this specific dinner. Apparently, your husband had missed out on a promotion given to someone younger and more ambitious than him and that killed him on the inside. He had a chip on his shoulder and he was dead set on taking it out on you.

“Gave it to that little prick,” he mumbles as he stabs at his food.

“I’m sure you’ll get it next time-”

“Next time? That’s half a fucking year away,” your husband replies as he bites down on his food. “Worthless job and can’t even move up in it. Stuck in this hellhole,” he continues to mutter as he stabs around.

Not wanting to even think about flaring him, you just drink uncomfortably at your water. “Is…” You close your mouth, not wanting to even hear his voice.

“No, no, finish your thought,” he says with a deep sigh.

“It’s not important.”

“My wife has something to say, she says it.”

“No, really I-”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Reader, spit it out.”

“Is the food okay?” You ask quietly as you avert your eyes to anywhere but at him. You gulp thickly, worrying that you’ve upset him further and lament even opening your mouth up to begin with.

“It’s awful,” he replies before taking another bite. “You must really be testing me, y’know that?”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“I know.”

Uncomfortable silence passes between the two of you as dinner goes on with that same unease. You practically exude discomfort as you sit there, picking at your food and not wanting to even stomach it as long as this monster sits across from you. You wonder if your husband is going to go on one of his tangents when he answers that useless question by opening his mouth.

He talks a lot about how much he hates work, his coworkers, his lot in life, literally anything he could complain about and everything. He has such a hatred for the world around him that you wonder if it was always hiding just below the surface when you first met him. Probably. People tend to grow into who they were always meant to be as the years go on.

“And you,” he continues, pointing his fork in an accusatory manner at you. “You are the worst part of it,” he says as he narrows his eyes. He does this to you at every meal. And by the end of it, he’s always so riled up he almost breaks the plates. “Remember that girl, Jada? From honors math?”

You quietly nod.

“I should’ve married her. Girl with some brains and a nice ass,” he muses. “Instead I settled for you. Worthless, bruised and battered, puffy faced you,” he says with absolute vitriol, getting more and more riled up as his complaints carry on. “Hell, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have been thrown in detention again either.”

“That wasn’t my fault-”

“Oh so she speaks, does she?” He stands up.

You brace yourself.

“You know better than that,” he says lowly like a tiger waiting to pounce. “Than to talk back to me in my OWN GODDAMN HOUSE!” The plates and the dinner go flying off the table as he roughly shoves his arms across it.

There go the plates that reminded you of something nicer.

You immediately stand up and gasp, your chair flying back as you do so. Your hands fly up as your husband’s hands grip ar your wrists, his power taking over your frail form as he begins hurling you backwards to the countertop.

“Teach you to talk to me like that again,” he growls as he slams you down onto the counter, wrists not being jostled into his one hand. “You’ll never learn,” he mumbles, strill wrangling you down to the countertop.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him reaching towards the knife rack - and you see your very life fly before your eyes as he palms one.

You begin to repeat no like a mantra as he grips the knife and then lets go of your wrists, hsi hand going to the collar of your shirt. You cry out as your hands balled into fists and start punching, your legs being held by his body as his hand latches onto your throat and squeezes. Tears prick your eyes once again as his eyes flick down to your shirt.

“Stop!” You weakly cry out as his fingers dig into your flesh.

He raises the knife, a mad look on his faze as the steel catches the light. It shines, and then comes plunging down.

You scream as the knife is stabbed much too close to your neck, instead trapping you by snagging your shirt to the counter.

“You stay here and think about all the trouble you’ve caused,” he says in a ‘bubbling with rage’ tone as he shoves your head into the counter. “And clean up this mess.”

Once he leaves and slammed the front door shut, you pry yourself free from the knife and then fall to the floor sobbing, once again feeling your heart broken over your husband treating you so. But, once the rain fell, all that came was a ping - a spark. As you finally composed yourself and began cleaning his mess, the spark ignited to a flame that grew like wildfire in your mind’s eyes as you gingerly picked up the pieces of plates that you held such saccharine fondness over.

You couldn’t stand for this anymore.

With exhaustion sweeping over your body and the kitchen now cleaned, you allow yourself to move on autopilot and move upwards towards your bedroom. You don’t bother changing and plop down onto it. You stare at your ceiling, wondering if you should run away or - oh! Here comes a thought. With your eyes inching towards your nightstand, you finally give into the overwhelming feeling to open the drawer and you do so. Your hand gropes around before you finally touch something cold. Your mind lurches once you realize what it is.

You sit up, more than surprised to see the handle of a gun under your fingertips. On it is a sticky note with a smiley face: ‘don’t forget to turn off the safety :)’. A shiver of horror runs down your spine when you realize there’s a silencer attached to it. Gods, you knew he had a gun but a silencer? Everything about this - you knew it was wrong.

But holding it in your hand… That felt right.

You decided to stay quiet on things for now and think. Afterall, he was stronger than you. You couldn’t just confront him with the gun. He might wrestle it out of you and shoot you instead. You couldn’t take that kind of risk right now. So, you waited, looked over the gun some more, and waited.

Your husband entered back into the house at some gods awful time at night, more than pleased to see the house was back in order as it should be as he closed the door behind him. He was exhausted on all facets (though it could not hold a candle to how you were feeling) as he trudged up the stairs.

You laid in bed, pretending to be asleep. You knew what had to be done.

When your husband came in, huffed and got ready for bed, you itched for the trigger. You knew you had to act soon, but not too fast or he could hurt you again an take you out instead. Your breath hitched when you felt him sit on the bed and get comfortable, of course, turned away from you.

You took in a deep breath, closed your eyes, and held the gun in your hand once you felt him slip into sleep. The moments felt like hours as you quietly sat up and held the gun in your hands. Were you really going to do this?

Your mind flashed with hundreds upon hundreds of possibilities. At one point, a long time ago, you loved him. You loved him deeply and truly.

You took aim.

You shot.

Gods, if you knew it was going to be this hard to drag his body out here, you would’ve chosen a different place to shoot him. Dragging your now dead husband through the woods behind your house was an absolutely miserable process. You were working up a sweat as you did so and it was so dark that you could hardly make heads or tails of anything.

Finally, guided by the moonlight, you came to a place that looked more than decent. It was far enough, and the growth here was so heavy that if you tumbled the earth around, it would hardly look like anyone had disturbed it to begin with.

“Always making things harder on me,” you mumble as you toss his limp body back to the earth before you juggle the shovel you’d dragged along into your hands. You let your mind go blank as you began to cut into the soil.

A plethora of thoughts entered into your head as you shoveled away, making a deep enough hole to throw your deceased husband in. In a way, you didn’t think he deserved a hole this nice, but you knew deep down you had to hide the body. You continued to shovel, and once you finally made it deep enough to your liking, rolled his body into the ground.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” a low, slightly gravelly voice chuckles, slow clapping.

“Who’s there?” You ask in a slightly panicked tone, holding the shovel up like a weapon. “I… I won’t hesitate-”

“Don’t make me laugh,” the voice continues, a playful bite on every syllable. “No, no, you did good.”

Your eyes frantically look around for the voice when you hear a whistle. There, behind you, is a man. Possibly mid 20s, shoulder length black hair, pale skin that rivals the light of the moon, wearing a hoodie covered in things you’d rather not think of and taller than you by a good head or so.

“You gonna put the shovel down?” He asks with a brow raised.

Hesitantly, you lower the shovel in your grasp just to let him get a little closer. Your eyes widen when you see he’s cut a smile into his face. “Who… Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you if you finish your job here,” he says as he nods to the uncovered, deceased body of your husband. “And before you go through the typical ‘oh my gods, are you gonna turn me in’ bullshit so many of you seem to go through, rest assured that I’m not gonna do anything to you. Just finish your job. Can you do that for me, Bird?” He leans against the tree, looking at you with a small smark.

A mind too frazzled for anything else, you nod and get back to work. It doesn’t take near as long to fill the hole as it did to carve it out, which was a pleasant surprise. When you were done, you wiped the sweat from your brow.

“What are you doing here?” You asked as you held the shovel firmly in your hands.

“Checking in on you,” he replies. “You want to go back to your house and-”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes averting down the ground. “Anywhere but there right now.” You say softly, gesturing to the disturbed earth.

The man pops off the tree and stalks over to the hole you’d covered, lightly shoving some foliage on top of it. “Okay, still sensitive. I get that,” he hums. “Follow me then. Let’s take a walk.” He nods for you to follow, blue eyes silently telling you to bring the shovel along with you.

Not wanting to be near his body anymore despite it being packed below the ground, you relent and follow.

“So, you did good, really good,” the man says as he puts his hands back in his hoodie pockets.

“Why do you keep saying that?” You ask, quickly matching pace with him. “And I never did get your name..?” You trail off slightly, taking in the deep scent of the woods around you. The scent of pine and autumn fills your nose.

“Because you did my job for me, and it’s Jeff,” he replies, his arm momentarily pushing back some low hanging pines. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while, Bird.” He chuckles softly when he sees your confused expression.

“Really? Bird?” You repeat in a dry tone, face deadpanning at the very mention of it. “Job?”

“You’re flighty, like a bird, and judging by how fast you switch topics, bird.” He smiles, continuing to lead you further and further into the woods and away from your now empty house. “Little while back, I was asked to kill your husband. But, I saw you during one of my stalking outings and well, thought I could make things interesting.” He says it like it’s nothing and common knowledge.

“You what?” You ask in a surprised tone. “You stalked us?”

“Well, yeah,” Jeff says. “Normally, I don’t take that much care in my work. I tend to gut first and never ask questions, but you posed something interesting in my wake.”

“Holy fuck,” you murmur as you continue to trot throguh the woods. “We’re both going to jail.”

“Me? Absolutely not. You? Well,” he turns his attention to the deer path laid before the two of you and smiles at the open, moonlit field. “Depends on how you’ll answer my question.”

The two of you step through the remaining brush and finally reach the field. You had no idea this place was even behind your house or even so close. Tall grass rising to your waist sways gently in the wind as you step out of the trees and into the open air. Stars dot the sky as the moon hangs overhead. This place feels nostalgic. Out in the distance is a little stone structure, and upon Jeff taking you closer to it, it’s a little stone shelter.

“Take a seat, gonna be a while,” Jeff says as he rummages around in his pocket. He pulls out a lighter, bends down and lights the pieces of wood conveniently left inside of it, and the night is no longer cold.

You get comfortable and let your exhausted body rest. “Have you been watching me for long?”

“Longer than necessary,” Jeff answers as he cracks his back before finally getting comfortable. “But, I only watched you from a distance. Tell me about yourself first, let me know it wasn’t a mistake to let you breathe.” He smirks at you and winks, sending shivers down your spine.

You take in a deep breath, not really feeling anything but exhaustion and decide to tell him. You tell him everything, about your childhood, about little intricacies and so on. You told him about high school and how you met your husband. Little stories, anecdotes, memories and feelings resurfaced as you detailed how everything was bliss. And then one day, it wasn’t.

“Something in him snapped and went rotten,” you sigh. “And he hurt me. Hurt me really bad.”

Jeff looks up from the fire to see how the light dances across your skin. It’s here that he’s finally able to see the extent of your dead husband’s power over you. Bruises darker than your natural shade line your skin like oddly erased marks on a stubborn piece of paper. Your eyes are hollow, devoid of all life. Hair from your scalp is oddly placed as if it’s still trying to grow back. Your posture conveys nothing but pure exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a tone that’s much more gruff than he originally means. It’s not that he doesn’t genuinely feel bad, it’s that he’s awful at actually verbalizing it. In truth, Jeff doesn’t like abusers. They make him feel wrong, make him feel like something’s not fair. Jeff like to fancy himself as someone who goes by the rule of ‘equality.’ If you pick on someone weaker than you with them having no chance of fighting back or at least inflicting the same damage back, you are nothing but a coward who gets off on hurting smaller people. And that in his mind is nothing short of detestable. “Guess good on me for letting you take him out, huh?”

You look at him with an odd mixture of confusion and absolute relief. “I guess,” you say, the sound of serenity slipping into your tone. “And what about you? What originally sent you out here?”

“Tall guy in a suit,” he stated, a small scowl pulling at his lips. “Y’know, he’s interested in you.”

“Tall guy in a suit?”

“Slender Man. I call him ‘Pale Ass’ though. He’s like… A murderous businessman. Has little drones to do his work even though he’s more than capable of doing it himself. And that’s where you come in.” Jeff shifts slightly and fixes his posture. “He’s the guy who originally wanted your husband dead. Sent me to do it.”

“Why did he want him dead?” You inquire. You knew your husband had done some dodgy things, especially with how strangely he was acting within the last few years as his abuse ran up, but you originally assumed he was cheating or something. Maybe into some other shady things. What on earth could he have done to garner the attention of some murderer kingpin?

“Saw something he shouldn’t have. My guess is Toby - maybe Theo. Both of them suck at covering up their tracks,” Jeff laughs slightly. “Probably saw one of us hiding a body, committing a murder, shit, he could’ve stumbled on some finals when he obviously shouldn’t have done that. Regardless, it got Slender’s attention, and now he’s dead because of it,” Jeff continues as he casts his eyes from you to the flickering flames. “You remember that night he fell asleep in his car in the garage?”

You nod.

“Almost took him out right there.” Jeff’s brows furrow slightly. “Something stopped me and then I saw you. The way he reacted to you asking if he wanted a certain type of potato made me giggle, and then I got a thought.”

“The antifreeze…”

“Yeah, the antifreeze. I’d noticed you were being pushed around for a while, honestly planning on taking you out to give you some rest but,” his eyes flash, “seemed more fun to get you into it too.” He sighs and leans back. “Was it cathartic?”

You find yourself uncomfortably shifting and wanting to answer with ‘no, of course not! I killed someone,’ before realizing that wouldn't be truthful. It was cathartic to put an end to his life. It was cathartic to finally bring justice for yourself in a way that no prison system would allow. “It… It was.” You admit, shyly and quietly like confessing to a bad secret.

“Feels nice to admit it, right?” He smiles.

“It does.”

“Now, imagine doing that to other pieces of shit,” he says as he sits up again. “Imagine being able to do that to every monster that’s ever hurt anyone just like you/”

You close your eyes and feel the red hot rage tingle your fingertips. Being able to unload on your dead husband was more than pleasing - in fact, it was nice, and dare you say, fun. The thought of being able to do that to other people who hurt others like that, while a far off possibility now as you were still frail, was still a possibility nonetheless.

“I mean, where else do you have to go?” Jeff continues, watching as you toss the thought around in your head. “You’d never get caught. He’d handle it all right now. You’d be free.” Jeff stands up and begins crossing the distance to meet you. His shadow walks alongside him. Dusk hangs in the air. “Or, if this isn’t to your liking, you can join him.”

“What?” You question, eyes flicking up from Jeff’s shoes to his eyes.

“You gotta understand,” he begins as he crouches in front of you. “If you say no and

decide to deal with the fallout like a normal human being, you’ll be caught and most likely killed for it. You’d be at the end of your rope.”

You feel an ocean of emotions swell up inside of you. “And if I… What would you even have me do if I followed you?”

“I’ll take you to meet him, and we’ll see what happens next. He’ll cover for you. You won’t ever have to see this place ever again.”

The sun begins to peek over the horizon. The fire is dying down. You can hear birds chirping in the early morning sky as fluffy clouds bid good morning to the dimming stars in the sky.

“Let’s get outta here, Bird.” Jeff stands up, holding out his hand.

You take in a deep breath, hand hovering over his. You thought of your husband, your life and everything that had ever happened to lead up to this moment. You’d gone this far, and there was clearly no going back. Another deep breath in and you pressed your hand down to his.

Jeff’s smile bloomed once again.

#jeff the killer #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #jeff the killer x reader #reader insert #x reader #creepypasta jtk

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saturno-sol · 3 years

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The Brainrot has gotten to me

WELL HERE YOU GO FOLKS (almost) ALL MY NOTES ON WYRMTHREAD (Chantilly/Quezal) both in Canon and in a Happier AU because yes Most put under a readmore because its over 1K long and the very end has some suggestive things because I’m allowed to think like that too so just as a heads up

Anyways here

Canon Codex

Do not establish a relationship outside of a blooming interest in each other that gets nipped in the bud due to...yeah cries

So let us not delve too deeply into Canon rn, and sadly since the plot absolutely needs Chantilly gone to progress we turn to HAPPIER AUS!!!!! :DDDDD because I drove myself deep into brainrot and aoughhhhghhhghhhhghh

Songs I associate with canon because music is good-

I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO DANCE by Tyler the Creator

Mr Loverman by Ricky Montgomery

Rest Easy, I’ll See You Again by Cuco (the title is a LIE)

Pain by Pinkpantheress

La Gata Bajo la Lluvia by Rocío Dúrcal

The Night We Met by Lord Huron (thank you Jaxx)

Noche No Te Vayas by Los Tres Caballeros

Better Timeline AU!!!!

Placeholder name but honestly it might stick because I’m too lazy to think up of a better one hghfdnkj, am open to suggestions tho

Basic Premise of this AU: Through some magic fuckery or whatever, Chantilly is allowed out of the Troupe and decides to tag along with our funky wyrm gal because nowhere else to go/hrnng big lady pretty. They actually do start going out and it turns out hey! They like each other, like a lot.

They like each other so much that they get married and bam, WyrmThread real

This is great because not only is my otp now canon and alive, Fuego (and later on Lune when Fuego adoptskidnaps them into the family) now has both parents! And they love their kids sm like damn do not get in between them else you want to get yeeted to Unalive World.

In this one, the motivations for [REDACTED] have now morphed into somewhat the same way in terms of being dealt with but now we got the lacey boy to help Quezal do [SPOILERS], fight [SPOILERS] and help complete [SPOILERS] and help establish her empire. (I’m sorry but I am not revealing any important Codex spoilers yet)

“Will you be the Malfina to my Connecticut Clark?”

Girlboss and Malewife, except they’re both still murderous and would happily see you to your grave if you intervene with any of their plans. I’ve given Chantilly throwing knives :) because he deserves to be dangerous.

He deserves to look cool!! With knives!!! Fighting alongside his wifey!!

Of course NKG fucks off when Chantilly leaves the Troupe but I love to think of him being akin to a disapproving in-law (“Really Chantilly?? You run off and marry some wyrm that didn’t even have a kingdom to begin with? Have the standards of the Nightmare Vessels deteriorated as time went on?”)

Chantilly is somewhat concerned that Fuego is much more, for lack of a better word, feral than a regular Grimmchild would be but he doesn’t regret the decision to have him. He loves his bitey son even if he scratches through fabrics like water.

And Quezal enjoys having another person to coil around and snarl at anyone that gets too close to them. It does take a while until they’re like velcro due to her issues with touch being equated to violence (Thanks dad /s) but once she overcomes that fight or flight response she absolutely does not let go of him.

Burrowing into a dark place and nuzzling until he smells like her makes Wyrm brain go brr. And since he isn’t a wyrm there’s no instinct yelling at her to maim him if there’s no babies to take care of/mating season passed, he in her eyes is harmless. Even if they both know different, at least in her brain he is just a lil guy, no threat to her.

Chantilly loves all the attention he’s getting from her, absolutely will allow her to carry him off and coil up against him as long as he can work on sewing while she broods over him.

He’s naturally warm and for a wyrm that needs outside heat to regulate her inner temp like a snake he’s like a hot water bottle, world cold husband warm.

Happby family can these Queers be HAPPY PLEASE

Love languages!!!

Quezal once she gets comfortable with physical stuff likes to nuzzle and bite :) but not to draw any hemo or cause harm, just to hold in mouth. She also likes to do acts of service, making sure that her husband is wont for nothing and doing little things like sharpening his knives for him.

Chantilly loves to gift-give! Usually things he made by hand.

“Quezal pls let me make you pretty dresses and outfits please you would so look good in teal”

He likes kissing a lot, smoochies for wife and cuddling is great for him too, as long as he can sleep with his chest unobstructed he’s good

They both love showing each other off

“Look at my partner they’re the fucking best ever, none of you bitches can compare to them.”

When the empire is finally formed and Quezal takes her place as Empress she offers the title of Emperor to Chantilly

He declines, Royal titles are just not his thing and he feels uncomfortable with them, so instead he goes by the title of “Lord”

His duties consist of assisting with any paperwork Quezal doesn’t want to deal with and being eye candy (/j but also not really he loves being shown off esp in new outfits)

He also deals with nobles that aren’t too pushy, the ones that do are quickly steered towards Quezal. And usually after a meeting with her they learn better than to try to smart mouth either of them.

Family Notes!

Chantilly’s the one to go to if you need advice and soothing comfort

Quezal’s the one to go to if you need someone beat the fuck up and also advice but in the no nonsense way.

She also comforts but it's not in the way that Chantilly will delicately soothe the pains away, she tells you how it is but will hug you and tuck you into bed if wanted.

On the other hand, Chantilly is the one Fuego and Lune go to if they want to do something crazy or stupid and know that mom won’t say yes.

He dresses them up in poofy outfits (see the clown costume I’ve thrown on Fuego as an example) and shows them off to Quezal

“Look my dear! Aren’t they the sweetest things you have seen!”

It is very funny

SONGS I ASSOCIATE WITH THIS AU

Meet Me At Our Spot by WILLOW

First Love/ Late Spring by Mitski

I Hear A Symphony by Cody Fry

She’s My Collar by the Gorillaz

My Kind of Woman by Mac DeMarco

New Light by John Mayer

Vivir by Jardin

coffee by Miguel

Never Getting Rid of Me from the Waitress Musical

WARNING WARNING

Ok next few am going to be a bit suggestive so stop here if you’re not into that but

I’m debating on if they’d have more children than Fuego and Lune and if so, how many HDJFJKSJ (thinking of twins named Arco and Iris because Arcoiris means Rainbow and I kind of like that and I’m also a sucker for twins)

Listen, they’re both switches but most if not all the time Quezal’s the one topping. The man is submissive and breedable what do you expect HDJFJS

s i z e D i f f e r e n c e

Chantilly is a sensual romantic and loves a lot of buildup while Quezal just wants to get on with the good stuff, they make it work with communication and understanding each other :)

They’re both capable of carrying so if they did have more kids I’d imagine they’d take turns on who’s turn it is to be eggy. (And I have so many thoughts about how they’d treat each other while pregnant but HHHHFJFJFHHHF too embarrassed rn waagaghgg)

These two love each other very much and I love them.

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theresponsiblefloch · 5 years

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Stormy Thoughts for Stormy Weather

Parties: Javan Floch and Henri Seznec

Location: J2 Bar and Restaurant

Summary: Javan dotes on Lola while Henri updates him on the new changesin his life

@henrixseznec

The stormy weather raged outside, rain coming down in sheets, and if he was sensible, Henri would have stayed home. Unfortunately, Lola had an appointment so he took her out and rather than head for home, he bolted for J2. It was quiet as he pushed through the door, most people apparently choosing to stay home. As he peeled off Lola's jacket, she let out a loud squeal. Glancing over his shoulder, he knew why. Javan. One of Lola's favourite humans on earth. Javan could say all he wanted that he wasn't inclined to children but Lola adored him completely and had since the day she arrived. "Hello. How are you today?" Henri asked as the infant tried to squirm out of his arms reaching for the other man.

With the rain pouring down, Javan wasn't surprised to see that their place was mostly empty. A couple of the die hard regulars were here, but the majority of their tourist business had clearly decided to hole up in their hotel rooms. He looked up on reflex as the door opened and then immediately grinned. Lola was one of his favorite people in existence. Signaling for the house manager to keep an eye on things, Javan walked over and immediately plucked the baby girl from Henri's arms. "Here's my best girl! Looking a bit like a drowned rat there, Henri, so I'd say I'm doing better than you so far."

Henri finished getting out of his soaked jacket and tucked the stroller out of the way. "You know she gets excited every time we pass this place. Ridiculous." Lola was squeaking and leaned in to bite at Javan's shoulder. "Ohh shit ... sorry. She's teething. She's a little bitey."

"Not my fault she has great taste and knows the best place to hang out." Javan let out a small surprised sound as Lola bit him before chuckling. "It's all good. I've had worse bites from less cute girls before. What's the best thing for her to chew on while she's teething cause I'm sure we ahve some of it around."

Henri laughed quietly at Javan's assurance that uglier girls had bitten him. "Well in her defence, she only has one tooth right now." He murmured as he laughed. "I just need to warm up her bottle, unless you wanna feed her?" he asked with a sly look, knowing damn well that Javan was a mushball for Lola.

"See? So no problems at all." Javan offered his finger to Lola so she could nibble on that while they came up with the better solution. He looked up right as he saw Henri's look and mock glared at him. "You're lucky I have an arm full of baby. But we're slow enough right now, I can feed her if you want to dry off or run upstairs to grab a nap or something."

Lola wrapped two chubby hands around that finger and pulled it to her mouth, gnawing on it contentedly as her small feet kicked. "I'll trade a nap for a great meal .... cause I have something I wanna talk to you about."

"We can make that happen. Pick a table to sit at and I'll have Andre put you together a plate so we can talk over whatever is on your mind. You know I've always got time for you." With Lola sitting on his arm, Javan quickly moved to talk to the house manager about going on his break for awhile. Andre was already starting to put together food for Henri so Javan knew he could trust him with the rest of it before rejoining his friend.

"Thanks Javan." Henri replied with a soft sigh. He watched as Lola without so much as a concerned glance at her Papa, disappeared with Javan. He settled into his seat and didn't bother looking at the menu, whatever he got here would be delicious. That much was certain. He set out the bottle on the table, knowing some hot water would be coming for him to set it into in order to warm it up for the baby. "Thanks again Javan. I appreciate your time. I know you are usually busy." Glancing around the ordinarily packed restaurant, "Although maybe not today."

Javan gave a careless shrug as he took a closer look at Henri. The man always looked tired these days, and he supposed that was what came with raising a child full time. But there seemed something extra there. "Like I said, always got time for family. But yeah, it does help that the rain is keeping all the tourists at home and the locals don't usually decide on Tuesday nights for date night out. Do you want food first or do you want to get whatever it is off your mind first?"February 26, 2020

Henri took a breath and let it out slowly, watching as Lola continued to happily gnaw on Javan’s finger without a care in the world. The words just blurred out of him without any further preamble. “Lola’s mom is back. Just out of the blue. Showed up. No call or anything.”

Javan stilled as the words burst out of Henri. "What does she want." The words were flat, but there was a watchfulness to his eyes as he let Lola continue to soothe her gums. Lola was a Maine baby by now, and she was going to stay that way no matter what this woman had to say. The fact that she had walked away from child and father so easily and hadn't looked back for months spoke louder than any possible words she could have.February 27, 2020

"Lola. I think. I mean. At least, to be with her and know her." Henri replied softly, almost unable to take his eyes off the redheaded baby. "She says she has been in the hospital over the last few months. She just got out and came back to Vannes."

"Easy enough to check. Especially since she still walked away in the first place." Javan wasn't sure if Henri was looking for comfort, but he didn't know that he had it in him to offer it to the man. He knew all too well what it was like to have disinterested parents who only showed attention when it served their own selfish interests. He didn't want that for Lola, and he didn't want that for Henri. Not when he was such a good man and a devoted father.March 1, 2020

"Yeah ... I ... umm ... talked to Ben. He's gonna help me hire an investigator to check it out." Henri explained quietly. "I'm letting her stay at mine so I can sort of .... supervise her with Lola. Make sure she ... I don't know ... can actually take care of her, is still clean ... isn't living in some dive. I don't know. I just feel like I have to do something, you know? I want Lola to have a maman, that would be good for her, rather than just me."

"Good." At least this meant he wasn't thinking completely with his dick or whatever had dictated this insane series of decisions. He was taking some practical steps. "And what's your plan for when he walks away again? How are you going to protect Lola and yourself?"March 2, 2020

"I ... I met with a lawyer. Earlier today. She ... she recommended I get a .." The word tasted like ashes in his mouth, "A paternity test. To confirm she is mine. I mean ... she is mine but you know ... biologically." He muttered, reluctantly. He didn't like thinking about the possibility that some other man could roll up and be more tied to her than he was. Alya had the privilege of having given birth. Her relationship was set in stone. Suddenly his felt shaky and he hated it. "She also said if Alya and I came to an agreement that she could draft up something. To make sure Lola stays in Vannes, no matter where Alya goes."

Javan could see how much each sentence was hurting Henri as he talked, and it made his stomach clench. While he was relieved to hear about the lawyer and the private detective, all the steps to make sure that both members of the Maine family would be protected. Alya wasn't included in that. "That's a lot of tough conversations. No wonder you're looking pretty rough. But all of this seems like a lot of good productive steps to take right after she turned your world upside down for the third time." As he spoke, one of the waiters came over with a bowl of hot water and a plate for Henri that Andre had put together. With a nod, Javan indicated where to place each item so that Henri didn't have to worry about anything.March 3, 2020

"This is shit, Javan. Pure shit. I finally felt like I knew what I was doing. I got through it ... all the early confusions. And then this ... what .... " He fell silent when Andre approached. He put the bottle into the hot water to heat up, knowing that Javan's presence would only distract his hungry daughter for so long. He took a sip of his drink and let out a breath, "I really don't want to do the paternity test. The lawyer recommends it though. What do you think I should do?"

Javan took the time to think through his answer and make sure that he was certain in it. Obviously he didn't have any previous experience to point to, but he knew Henri. "You said she's staying with you for now and she seems to want to get to know Lola. That means she's not pushing anything yet. If you don't want to do it yet, you can hold off. Lola's paternity isn't going to change if you test it now or test it later. But. If you do decide to get it done, you know you've got your family at your back and I can go with you."March 10, 2020

It was a relief to hear someone else say it. Henri nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly, "Yeah, there is always time for that.... if things take a turn." He picked up the bottle and screwed on the nipple before giving it a shake. "She's gonna start screaming in five. Here ... she wants to eat. We're working on cereal now. Soon she'll be able to experience the wonders of your menu."

Javan took hold of the bottle and offered it to Lola, smiling more naturally at the eager way the girl started to eat. "That is a relief. I'd hate to have to start coming up with gourmet baby food right as we stop needing it." Still, the levity didn't entirely distract him from the other half of the conversation and he couldn't hide his concern. "What do you want out of this Henri? Keeping her in the house and around Lola?"March 15, 2020

Lola gave a loud grunt as she accepted the bottle. "Gourmet baby food?" Henri had to laugh. "You really do spoil her." The smile faded but he answered honestly, "I want Lola to have a mother. I want to know she is safe with her maman." Then he paused, "Alya was someone to me. I don't ... someone important ..." He was stumbling over his words. "I want to figure out if I had it all wrong or if she was the person I thought I knew. I want to know if I'm the reason she left."

"Never to early to start them learning what good food tastes like. I'm fine with contributing to her eventual food snobbery." Despite his reservations, he listened to Henri as he spoke. He didn't agree with the logic. But he'd also been excruciatingly careful to make sure he never had a child or a someone. So he couldn't tell if Henri was being logical or emotional with this, or which one would be the more right either. He couldn't entirely hide the sigh. "Just...be careful. Of you. Last time you seemed too exhausted to pay attention to the heartbreak. If she does walk again and you don't have any shields up, I'm concerned it'll be much worse this time."

"Well I have no doubt that she will have a very well-educated palate. After all, her uncles are Floches and everyone knows the Floches know what they are about." He replied, laughing quietly. His laugh faded in the face of Javan's kindness. "Thank you but .... as long as my daughter stays where she is, I'll be okay. I know that now. More than I did before. She comes first. In everything."

Javan nodded, refocusing on Lola as she started to fuss a little bit in his arms. Henri might say that now, but Javan was going to keep an eye on things anyway. Lola and Henri were too important to him to take any risks with, and he wasn’t about to start.

#Henri #Henri2

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bluepunkmon · 5 years

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Fe Gen Week Prompt #1: Ride

In which Henry and Ricken (by extension) try to tame a very angry pegasus. Rated G, no blood or violence

Friendship, or really, any relationship, with Henry mandated that one become acclimated to a high level of strangeness. Even if the current subject of conversation, item being considered, or activity being suggested didn’t immediately sound strange, the strangeness would come through eventually.

So, when Henry told Ricken he started training to become a Dark Flier, a totally innocuous and sensible thing given the Shepherd’s current campaign, Ricken knew to be on the lookout for something strange. He found it quickly, in the form of Henry’s choice of steed.

“Where did you even get it?” Ricken asked in a voice that held an equal mix of fear and awe.

He and Henry watched from a distance as the army’s pegasi were tethered and given their evening feed. Amongst the familiar faded dappled grey coats and feathers was a new presence; one larger, sharper and darker than the rest. It was a jet-black shape that loomed over the rest of the flock like a storm cloud blown into a calm summer day.

As if it heard him, the large pegasus turned its head to stare at Ricken. He didn’t know pegasi could even have red eyes.

“In the last town.” Henry answered. “Tied up outside without food or water. The owner was going to kill her because she wouldn’t take any riders. I was just going to free her in the middle of the night, but Robin found out and said they’d pay for it so I wouldn’t steal her. Said I had ‘free reign’ to try to tame her.” He smiled at the pun.

The animal did look skinny despite its height, especially beside such honed war animals – though that didn’t lessen the intimidation factor of its glare at all. It ruffled its dark wings and snorted, stomping a hoof.

“So, it doesn’t like people?” Ricken asked.

“Oh, no, not at all. But I think she gets along with other pegasi, and Sumia said she has the right temperament for battle.”

A pegasus knight walked up to the winged horses, water, brush, and rags in hand. The black horse twisted, red eye watching the newcomer. As they got closer, the pegasus grew more tense, and when the knight reached the animal at the end of the row the winged horse reared and shrieked, slicing the air with gigantic black wings and sending the knight stumbling back.

Henry’s smile fell a bit. “Well. As much as she could tell, from a distance. But I think she’ll be great! And when we’re a team, you can be the first person we give a ride to.”

Ricken looked back at the beast just in time to see it snap up some small scurrying creature and swallow it whole. “Great.”

Over the next few weeks, every moment Henry was not in battle or preparing for one was spent caring for and trying to tame, the foul-tempered animal. And, over the next few weeks, every moment Ricken was not in battle or preparing for one was spent trying to make sure Henry didn’t get killed or maimed in the process.

The winged horse didn’t like any humans, at all, and Henry didn’t appear to be an exception. Henry worked, often times alongside Sumia, to calm it and establish a routine to gain its trust. From Ricken’s perspective, none of it worked. She was always on guard, never accepting food or brushing. At best, it wouldn’t react when Henry stood a few meters away to speak to it, which he did fairly often, (so at least he had someone new to tell his more painful word play). The winged horse was always unresponsive, but if the dark mage even thought about moving closer it would start getting threatening. A few times it went beyond threats, and Ricken would run interference to make sure Henry didn’t get too hurt, because he refused to raise a hand against the thing, even in self-defense.

Ricken at least got to receive a crash course in pegasi behavior. He knew now what parts of the wings they were most protective of, that they were born with canine teeth that were usually removed, that they didn’t like to fly if they could help it, all sort of things. He committed them all to memory – habit of an education in magic – but he didn’t think it would ever be useful. He wasn’t not Miriel, craving knowledge for knowledge’s sake.

After too many of these sessions, Ricken was healing a bruise on Henry’s arm while they sat on the grass a safe distance from the beast in question. The dark mage glanced back at the pegasus and said, “I think that went well.”

“But – she just chased you.”

“Yeah, she just chased me! And she went pretty slow, she could have caught me if she wanted.”

“She bit your finger off yesterday!”

“And you reattached it good as new!” Henry answered. “Also, she spat it out instead of eating it. She didn’t have to do that. Progress.”

Would anything get through to him? “But she’s still as mean as when you first got her.”

“Nah, not mean, just defensive.”

Ricken finished healing the last of the bruises and sighed. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Keep believing she has potential, despite all this.”

Henry looked up to the darkening evening sky in thought, slow to respond. “I’m sure she has her own reasons for being the way she is. And she’s never aggressive with the other pegasi, or even the other horses! She always watches over them, and grooms them, even if they don’t groom her back. Just because an animal doesn’t like humans doesn’t make them mean. Sometimes it just means they’re smart.”

He blinked. “Oh, wow, it’s later than I thought. Got to go, I was supposed to help with dinner ages ago.”

Henry left in a hurry, and Ricken was left to fetch two very harried knights to tether the pegasus with the other winged horses. They only glared a little bit at the request.

Ricken edged closer to her when the knight’s finished, keeping well out of biting distance. The dark pegasus glanced up, ears pricked and alert. Now that he looked, Ricken could see old raised welts along its back and legs, the kind that might have come from a whip.

“You really lucked out,” Ricken said, voice low to avoid startling the animal. “That Henry found you. You couldn’t have found a nicer person.”

As close as he is, he can see that, though the pegasus had lost some of the thinness from before, her wings were still in rough shape, with pieces of leaves and twigs caught in the feathers. There was a large-ish one stuck neat a joint, a place most pegasus dreaded even having touched. Carefully, the young mage case a small wind spell, one tight and controlled enough to straighten some feathers and dislodge the stick.

He couldn’t help much, but he could do this at least.

It proved to be both the least he could do, and the most. After another week, the pegasus was no more tame than before, and Robin tells Henry that the army wouldn’t be able to keep feeding and sheltering the beast for much longer if it kept refused riders.

Henry was still smiling when they go to collect the beast, but Ricken sensed tension behind it. “I’m going to call it quits today. Want to go with me to set her free?”

Ricken agreed, and walked with them away from camp and up to higher ground.

“Why did you want this one, anyway?” Ricken asked. “We have the money to get a tamer pegasus. Or at least a less bitey one.”

Henry’s smile didn’t look like a happy one. “It’s silly, but I just didn’t want her to die. She reminds me of someone I knew. I figured I probably couldn’t tame her, but I wanted to give her a chance to grow strong again. Wild pegasi get picked off by wyverns a lot, but maybe now she’ll have a fighting chance. Though she was still raised on a farm…”

He trailed off, then shrugged. “Ah, well. That’s life! Can’t say we didn’t try.”

“I’m sorry.”

Henry laughed. “Why? You’re not the one who was gonna kill her.” He shook his head. “The strangest things bother you, Ricken.”

He stopped walking, and the mage stopped with him. They were high up enough for Ricken to see the soft wind blow back distant treetops.

“This should work.” Henry said. He moved to undo the bridle while Ricken stood by, ready to heal in case the beast tried to bite off any more fingers. The pegasus barely reacted to the close contact, only giving a half-hearted huff of breath.

The dark mage stepped back, bridle in hand. “This is it! Fly free my friend, take care of yourself!”

The black pegasus blinked, flared its wings, and without much warning launched itself into the air dazzlingly quickly (Ricken might not like them much, but it was still fascinating to see a thing that didn’t look like could ever belong in the air fly so gracefully).

They watched the shape shrink into the distance.

“I hope she’s okay.” Ricken said, surprising himself.

“I hope so too,” Henry said. “Come on, let’s go back.”

All the way back down the hills to camp, Ricken’s chest felt oddly heavy. The pegasus was not a nice animal at all, but he’d still miss it. His mood was so low, he felt chilled, like the sun disappeared.

No, wait. He did actually feel cold, like someone was blocking out the sun. He looked up, and his jaw dropped as Henry started laughing beside him.

The black pegasus dove down, and for a moment Ricken thought that this was it, this was how he died, not in battle or of old age but from an extremely irate flying horse.

But it doesn’t swoop down to start biting or stomping either of them to death. Instead, it did something even more startling; It landed, gigantic wings folding neatly along its back, stalked up to Henry, and slowly lowered its head near his shoulder. Equally slowly, Henry reached up to stoke the bridge of her nose. The pegasus glanced over to Ricken, and gently nudged his shoulder with her snout.

It was strange, and incredible, and Ricken can’t help but to laugh too.

Henry did eventually take him on the ride, after Henry and Hemlock had even enough training to get the all clear from the other pegasus knights. It’s as terrifying as expected and only cements his decision to keep his feet firmly planted on the ground in the immediate future.

#fegenweek #my writing #fe13 #fe #henry #ricken

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dib-adrift · 5 years

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[ @queen-of-lazuroth @zimerstellar @son-of-an-invader ]

“Gah! That’s cold, Midge!”

Midge rolled her eyes, but she was trying to keep from giggling. “I told you it was going to be cold, you goobertron.”

Dib made an expression that could only be explained as a pout. “You’re a goobertron.”

Midge let the giggle out that time, taking the cold tool away from Dib’s chest. The wound had healed extremely well. He had quite the scar, of course, but it wasn’t off-putting by any means. Midge raised up a hand to run her fingers over it. “Does that hurt?”

Dib shook his head. “I’ve noticed sometimes it’ll burn randomly. Is that...normal?”

Midge nodded. “Your nerves and tissue are still healing. You’re gonna feel stuff like that for a while. But, besides that, honestly, you’re free to resume your normal training and routine.” Her hand lingered a little longer on Dib’s chest, her eyes roving over it now and again. Midge did always try to be professional but...well, her mates were rather attractive.

Dib didn’t miss that Midge had yet to remove her touch, his mouth quirking into a little smirk. “See something you like, Doctor?”

Midge met his gaze, blushing a little as she shook her head. “You’re a dork,” she told him, leaning up to give him a quick peck on the lips. “And as much as I would love to indulge you, I’m kinda swamped here. I don’t have the luxury of calling in Chance to help out these days.” It was a little inconvenient, but her pride in how far her protege had come overshadowed any urge to complain about it.

“Come on, you have to take a break some time!” Dib said cheerfully. He put both his hands on either side of Midge’s belly, rubbing around just a bit. He felt the twins move and his eyes lit up, a happy blep on his face. “You can’t be expected to work until these little puppers pop out.”

Midge gaped and gave him a playful bap on the shoulder. “Don’t call them puppers!”

“Well...they are, aren’t they? Didn’t Glitter Dib confirm that they were little werewolfies?” He rubbed Midge’s belly again, feeling the smeets move more. “See? You two even know you’re little wolfies, huh?” He cooed at baby bump.

Midge tried to stay irritated, but watching her new mate interact with her smeets - his step-children. Two more children all four of them would raise together - warmed her three hearts way too much to make that possible. “You make a good dad.”

Dib calmed a bit at those words, his face coloring at the compliment. He’d known going into all of this that children were part of the deal, but it still seemed to hit him just now that he would be another father to these kids. All of them. “I...I hope so. My dad...well he definitely could have done better. Once Gaz and I were older he seemed to get that he hadn’t been the best to us and tried to make up for it.” His face fell altogether. “I wish we’d had more time. We were just starting to act like a real family when...everything happened.”

Midge put her hands on top of Dib’s, taking them in hers comfortingly. “I’m so sorry, Dib,” she told him. “If I could give them back to you I would.” She raised a hand to his cheek. “But I’m sure they’d be proud of you.”

Dib leaned into the touch. After what he’d helped Addie accomplish, he was sure his sister would definitely be impressed. His father...he wasn’t sure. Would he be proud? Would he be more worried about the people his son chose to get involved with? He just didn’t know. He also wasn’t sure how much he cared. It wasn’t like it mattered at this point, anyway.

“Thanks, Midge,” Dib told her, leaning down and kissing her forehead softly. He regained his smile as he moved from the bed and replaced his shirt. “I’ll get going so you can get back to work. You know, since I’m such a terrible distraction.”

Midge snorted. She was not about to admit out loud that Dib was absolutely correct about that. “Yeah, yeah. Just let everyone know I’m gonna be late tonight?”

“Of course. You can count on me, Doctor.” He gave a small salute before walking out of the Team Nebula clinic, heading back upstairs to the main living quarters.

Midge giggled as he left, squeaking as one of the twins kicked her a little harder than usual. “He got you all riled up, didn’t he?” she asked as she got back to work.

Dib found his way back to the living quarters, stopping in the bedroom. Dek had finally replaced the bed with a larger one, since Dib and Zim weren’t using the room they were offered at this point, anyway. He beamed when he found Zim putting away clothes. “Is my Zim being domestic? Whatever is the occasion?” he teased.

Zim huffed at the comment. He was notoriously a neat freak, which he only had in common with Midge at this point. Dib and Dek both thrived in organized chaos, or whatever they called it. It was the only time chaos was not a fun thing for the Irken, when it came to keeping their living space neat and tidy. “The occasion is the Midge somehow swindled Zim into doing the laundry,” Zim said. Which wasn’t entirely the truth. Midge had asked nicely with her stupid big pretty blue eyes and Zim found himself agreeing.

Dib laughed, deciding to lend a hand for the last few things. “Sure. I bet that’s exactly what happened.”

Zim narrowed his eyes, not appreciating that Dib could see right through him. Not that he expected anything less. The human knew him better than anyone else. “It is.”

“Uh huh.”

Zim rolled his eyes as they finished putting up the clothes. Stupid human. He turned to face him fully. “So, what did the Midge say?”

Dib grinned. “Clean bill of health! The scar’s apparently gonna do some weird stuff but - GAH!” He didn’t get the chance to finish before he was tackled to the bed by an extremely eager, bitey Irken. “Z-Zim.”

Zim didn’t stop his assault, continuing to nibble and nip along Dib’s throat. “You’ve grown slow, my Dib,” he purred in the human’s ear. His claws dug into the fabric of Dib’s shirt, tearing it very nearly to shreds.

“I...I’ve been recovering.” He gasped as the fabric of his shirt of literally ripped from his body, feeling Zim’s sharp claws graze against his skin. He arched into the feeling, wanting more. “I liked that shirt.”

“Zim will get you a new one,” the Irken told him between thoroughly marking his neck. “In fact, between the three of us, I’m certain you will have many, many shirts.” His voice took on a primal growl. It had been so long since he’d felt his mate like this. Far, far too long. His hands trailed over Dib’s exposed chest and arms, taking in every inch of skin and defined muscle. Great Irk he was glorious to look at. “So many that you’ll stop caring about when they’re torn off you.”

Dib would have been ashamed of the sound he made if he wasn’t already caught up in all the sensations. Zim on top of him, straddling his body, his hands grabbing and exploring his with a frantic hunger. He swore breathlessly, his own hands traveling up Zim’s thighs to his full hips. His hands slipped under the halter top Zim was wearing, pulling off with far more care than his own t-shirt had been given. Zim would be furious if Dib destroyed his clothes.

Zim purred louder as his top was removed, relishing in feeling Dib’s skin against his own. Warm. The human was so damn warm. He wanted to be closer, as close as he possibly could be. Those thoughts spurred him to bite down on the human’s peck a little harder than before as he rolled his hips wantonly.

“Zim,” Dib moaned, loving the feeling of Zim’s teeth in his flesh and the Irken grinding against him. Dib lifted his hips to meet the needy movements, his hands coming around to cup Zim’s backside for more leverage.

Zim let out an extremely pleased chitter, taking Dib’s hint to grind against him harder. He could feel the humans erection between them, his own member already sliding out readily.

“Zim missed you,” he told Dib heatedly, reaching down for Dib’s belt. Their relationship had given him plenty of practice on ridding Dib of his pants, and even after so long of being apart, he still remembered the swiftest way to do so. “Zim missed you every moment we were apart.”

“I...I missed you, too,” Dib told him, reaching up to remove Zim’s shorts. God, his legs were fucking amazing. His hand trailed up Zim’s body once the Irken was completely naked, sliding up his torso before going back down again and resting on his hip. “So much. God, you’re beautiful.”

Zim inhaled sharply at the gentle touches, a large contrast to their previously fervent movements. His spooch felt like it was swelling for affection for this human. His human. “Zim knows,” he said with a smirk, enjoying the compliments very much. “Dib is quite nice to look at, as well.” He rolled his hips again, unable to help himself the longer he stared at Dib’s naked form. “I want you. So bad, Dib.”

Dib nearly choked at the feeling of their bare bodies rubbing together. “What...what are you waiting for?” he asked, giving Zim a pleading look. Please don’t make me wait anymore.

Zim thought about making Dib beg for it, but he decided to save that for another time, They’d spent so much time a part, so much time only being about to share sweet kisses and cuddles. Not that Zim didn’t enjoy them. He did, perhaps just as much as what they were about to do. But he’d found he simply couldn’t get enough of Dib. Even when he thought he’d had enough, it still wasn’t anywhere near. He lifted himself up a bit to line Dib’s length up with his entrance before sliding down onto it. His claws dug into Dib’s chest. It had been a while, and he had not anticipated having to get used to Dib’s size again.

The sound that came from Dib’s mouth was garbled and quite nearly inhuman. His fingers dug into the soft skin of Zim’s hips, trying to ground himself in someway. He looked up at the Irken’s face, finding his expression to be a bit strained. “Hey, you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Just give me a moment,” Zim reassured him. He knew if Dib became too concerned he would try to stop this, but Zim would have absolutely none of that. He wanted Dib. Needed him, even, And he needed him now. Slowly the Irken rose himself up before plunging back down, throwing his head back in a loud gasp. It felt incredible to have Dib inside him again. To have their bodies united after so, so long. He repeated the action, this time the gasp bleeding into an extremely pleased trill.

Dib let Zim move on his own for a bit, giving the Irken a chance to get used to things. It was almost like their first time all over again, except Dib didn’t feel as nervous. He felt more concerned and aware of Zim’s reactions, but once he was sure that his mate was enjoying himself he rocked his body upward with the Irken’s movement. “Fuck, Zim,” he murmured. He hadn’t quite realized how much his body had craved this kind of closeness until this exact moment.

“Dib,” Zim moaned out, his voice already beginning to grow in volume. His claws drew blood from Dib’s chest, though even now the Irken was careful to avoid the sensitive scar. He threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, beginning to move faster than before. “Dib!” he repeated, returning his gaze to the human. Their eyes locked, and Zim hoped that his silent command would be understood.

Dib cried out at the increased pace, jerking his own hips upward to keep up with the speed. He was practically clinging to Zim, as if at any moment the Irken would disappear and he’d awake alone in his old ship again. He could barely hold himself back from flipping their positions and pounding into the Irken until they were both screaming their release. But then, his eyes met Zim’s. He still remembered that look. A request mixed with permission. And Dib didn’t have to be told twice as he did exactly what his body was craving.

Zim squealed a bit a being flipped, but the sound quickly transformed into a loud moan as Dib thrust into him hard and fast. His claws moved from the human’s chest to his back, digging in and holding on. “Ah! Yes, Dib! Yes!”

Dib squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into Zim’s shoulder. One of his hands was fisting the comforter beneath them, while his other was wrapped under Zim’s hips, holding the Irken’s bottom half up and he thoroughly fucked him. His own blunt teeth sank into Zim’s neck as concentrating became more difficult. However he continued his pace, encouraged by Zim’s throaty moans.

Zim arched his back, feeling an almost forgotten feeling in his gut. A red hot twisting in his spooch, and attempted to move his hips as much as possible to chase the feeling. His claws sank deep into Dib’s skin as he began to babble in Irken before practically screaming with his climax.

The last shred of Dib’s self control vanished as Zim came, feeling the Irken’s hot body tighten around him. His own orgasm caught up with him quickly, and he cried out the Irken’s name as he continued to thrust animalistically, riding the feeling out..

They didn’t separate right away, remaining clinging to each other as the foggy, post-orgasm feeling began to subside. Zim reached up and began to play with Dib’s hair. It was so impossibly soft. He nuzzled against Dib’s face, not feeling the need to say anything just yet.

Dib pulled his face away from where is was buried the crook of Zim’s neck, leaning into the nuzzle and even nuzzling back. He smiled contentedly once their gazes met before leaning down and kissing the Irken’s lips tenderly. “I want you forever,” he whispered. If there was ever an Irken phrase he would never forget, it was that one.

Zim hummed happily at the kiss, kissing back just as gently and sweetly, continuing to play with Dib’s hair. Not too long ago he’d been sure that he’d never find his human again. But now not only had he found him, he’d also found two new mates and a whole family, to boot. Zim smiled serenely.

“I am forever yours.”

0000000

“So, what you’re saying is that I am getting two new daddies?” Ada asked as she sat in Zim’s lap in the living room. They’d all decided it was about time they told their children what was going on. They figured they’d start with Ada, seeing as she was the most likely to get used to the idea if she opposed (and Drun would basically grow up with all of them now, it seemed). Then again it seemed there had been no need to worry about her, at all.

“Well...yes,” Midge replied. She wanted to say Ada’s reaction surprised her. And yet...it didn’t.

“Is that...okay with you?” Dib asked. He was certain that Ada had grown fond of him and Zim, but he was still apprehensive about how she felt about all of them together.

“Don’t be silly! Of course it okay!” Ada said brightly. “I’m just wondering what took you so long. Grown-ups are so silly!”

Zim exchanged looks with his three mates, unable to help but chuckle. “Yes. I’m afraid we are quite silly.”

Ada beamed at Zim, before her face fell into one of confusion. “I just have one question. What do I call you two? I can’t call all three of you Daddy. That would get confusing.”

Dek snorted a bit, though he knew that could actually be a problem. The three of them had a lot in common, but even so they also had niche things that were entirely their own. If the kids need one of them specifically, it would be good to distinguish which one was being called.

“You can call me Pápa,” Dib told Ada. “If you want to, that is. I’m also okay with you sticking with calling me Dib-Dab if that makes you more comfortable.”

Ada shook her head vigorously. “Nuh uh. If you’re gonna be with my Mama and Daddy that means you’re another Daddy.” She grinned. “So yeah! I’ll call you Pápa!” She looked up at Zim with big, curious eyes. “What about you?”

Zim hesitated. Deciding on a parental title was not something he’d ever thought about in his entire life. He took a moment ruffle Ada’s hair affectionately. After discovering his mission to be a lie, he’d at one point managed to hack some very old, hidden files. Records of history before the Brains. Back then Irkens lived in big tribes where all the adults tended to the young. It was why polyamory wasn’t that strange to him, as it had been the norm during those times.

And as such, he’d found Irken words he hadn’t even known to exist. There were apparently all sorts of parental titles that had existed. It was simply about choosing one that he liked the most.

“Tevak,” Zim said sweetly. “It’s one old word for ‘father’ in Irken.”

Dek looked quite impressed. He remember how he’d had to use the Vortian word for ‘father’ when speaking to his own as a child. “I didn’t know there was a word for that.”

“There are several,” Zim explained. “And even more words that I had to discover for myself. I still have the files, if you would like me to show them to you.” His words were smooth, but his eyes shown with a tiny flirtatious gleam. He had been meaning to snatch another kiss from the good captain, after all.

Dek didn’t not miss that gleam, his face coloring against his will. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I would like that.”

Midge shared a look with Dib, the two of them immediately bursting into snickers.

Ada rolled her eyes. There they went, being silly again. “Can I go to my room now?” she asked.

Midge snorted. “Of course you can, baby girl. We’ll call you when dinner’s ready, okay?”

Ada nodded, hopping off of Zim’s lap and skipping off down the hall.

“You know she’s only gonna be more of a handful once she’s older, right?” Dib asked lightheartedly.

“Considering how the other version of her turned out,” Zim said, speaking of Addie, “I do not doubt it.”

“We’re pretty much prepared for all of these kids to wreak havoc one way or another,” Dek said with a grin.

Midge giggled. “They wouldn’t be ours if they didn’t.” She looked at all three of her mates as she said this.

Dek smiled, nodding in agreement. Everything had happened so quickly, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to be overwhelmed by it. It felt like he and Midge had found something he’d never known they were missing, and now all the pieces of the universe had finally fallen perfectly into place. He knew it wouldn’t always be perfect. He was certain they’re small moment of peace wouldn’t last, because if never did. But for now, he’d hold on to everything he had, never daring to take it for granted ever again.

#✨ the stellars ✨#**orange you glad**

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the-desolated-quill · 7 years

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The Snowmen - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

The Snowmen has got to be the least Christmassy Christmas special ever, and believe it or not I mean that in a positive way. Doctor Who Christmas specials have always left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth, not just because most of them have been poorly written and just plain idiotic, but also because every year the show seems determined to drown you in slush. To its credit, The Snowmen does manage to escape that somewhat, keeping the slush to a minimum. Okay the villain is ultimately defeated by ‘a family crying at Christmas’, but it never comes off as mawkish and there is actually a decent in-universe explanation for how that worked, so I’ll allow it just this once.

So who are the villains? A deadpan Richard E. Grant and some carnivorous snow voiced by Ian McKellen. Compared to other Christmas special villains, they’re fairly good. Out of the two, Mr. Simian’s character is the weak link because we don’t learn anything about his character or the nature of his relationship with the snow, but Grant’s performance is still pretty good and it holds your attention. Ian McKellen also does a decent job with the material he’s been given, and I do like the idea of alien snow, even if the bitey snowflakes and smiling snowmen were a bit gigglesome (and the less said about the bad CGI ice governess, the better I think). It’s a bit like the robot Santas and killer Christmas trees from the RTD era. It’s silly, but it’s enjoyably silly. And as an added treat for us classic series fans, it turns out this episode is actually an origin story for the Great Intelligence. Usually you can see Moffat’s plot twists coming several galaxies away, so I was kicking myself that I didn’t pick up on it the first time. Particularly considering how the hints and Easter Eggs are so obvious on rewatches. The Snowmen as in The Abominable Snowmen and the Yeti. A disembodied voice trying to gain a physical form. The map of the London Underground. The snow is being kept in a giant sphere inside Simian’s office. And of course the initials GI. So yeah, that was a nice callback.

All in all, this could have been a fairly decent Christmas special. Nothing to write home about, but still watchable. Unfortunately The Snowmen is ruined by one thing and that’s the characters. Good fucking God are they horrendous!

Let’s start with the Doctor. After losing Amy and Rory, he has decided that he doesn’t want to travel or help people anymore and is now living above England on a cloud as a lonely old miser.

Fuck off! Not in this universe nor in any other universe would this EVER happen!

You may recall a couple of years ago when I reviewed the RTD era that I really didn’t like the Doctor’s reaction when he lost Rose. it just felt too human and it didn’t really gel with his character. He’s lost companions before. He mourns, but he moves on. Why would Rose be any different? But credit where it’s due, at least the Doctor kept travelling through time and space rather than stay in once place and sulk because RTD knew that that at least is something the Doctor would definitely never do. Here... I mean you can’t even use the excuse that the Doctor was in love with Amy. I’m not saying he wouldn’t be emotionally affected by what happened. I’m just questioning why he would be this emotionally affected to the point where he would actually refuse to help people in need. It just feels totally out of character.

Plus it really does display just how arrogant Moffat is. Of course it would be his characters that caused the Doctor to sink into a deep depression and only his character can bring him out of it. And of course his characters are what inspired the creation of Sherlock Holmes, which he will later adapt in his god awful Sherlock TV show. Christ Moffat, I hope you’ve got plenty of tissues to clean the mess up with after you’ve finished wanking yourself.

Matt Smith doesn’t help matters. His turn as a reclusive miser just isn’t in the least bit convincing, but at least it’s preferable to when he magically makes a full recovery and reverts back to his obnoxious goofy self. This is the Doctor now everyone. A man who has arguments with his own hand and sexually molests Punch and Judy dolls. (Sigh. Only 11 episodes to go Quill. Just hang on).

We also see the return of the Paternoster Gang. A group of one dimensional, unfunny cardboard cutouts that people really seem to like for some reason. Strax is by far the worst, with each bad joke and moment of incompetence driving another nail into the coffin of the Sontarans forever. (But wait, isn’t Strax supposed to be dead? Ah fuck it! Everybody knows death is only a minor inconvenience in the Moffat era. Who cares if it ruins the impact of future deaths or that it completely contradicts Sontaran lore. Just laugh at the Doctor calling him a potato, something the Doctor would also never do because I’m sure that’s racist to Sontarans). And Vastra and Jenny have the same problems as every other Moffat woman in that they have no character or agency of their own. They exist solely to help the Doctor. Also Jenny is in a dominatrix outfit for some reason, and they openly talk about being gay. Two things that would definitely have caused shock and outrage in the rigid and repressed Victorian era.

Actually that’s one thing that really pisses me off about New Who and this episode in particular. None of it is true to the period. Clara is completely contemporary in both her outlook and behaviour, and everything unsavoury about the period is dismissed with the Doctor’s sneer of ‘Victorian values.’ Yes this is the Victorian era, but it’s the Victorian era you’d find on the front of a Christmas card. It’s very easy to just sneer at a period of history and congratulate ourselves for how much better we are today, but why not actually explore the era properly? What’s that saying? The past is like another country? Let the audience see that. Why not have Clara behave like a woman during the Victorian era would and have the Doctor come in to challenge that? Have the episode be a clash of different attitudes and values.

Speaking of Clara, she is by far the worst thing about this episode. I honestly didn’t think it could get any worse than Oswin in Asylum Of The Daleks, but boy was I wrong. She is just insufferable. She’s really smug and smarmy and not in the least bit likeable or believable. She’s like River Song, but 10x worse. Also it doesn’t help that Jenna Coleman decides to give Clara this really bad ‘gor blimey guvner! Strike a light! Up the apples an’ pears’ Cockney accent. (Brief side note, why was she keeping the whole nanny thing secret?). I’m certainly not buying her supposed special connection with the Doctor. That’s another thing Moffat is guilty of. He’s so shit at writing female characters that he can’t effectively convey whey they might be so unique in their actions or behaviour, so he has to just flat out tell the audience instead. Well I’m sorry, but that shit just won’t fly. What reason does Clara have for chasing the Doctor’s cab? What reason does the Doctor have for being impressed with Clara despite the fact she’s done nothing remotely noteworthy? What reason does Clara have for snogging the Doctor’s face off despite the two sharing no romantic chemistry whatsoever? Answer: the script said so. Maybe if Moffat spent less time writing stupid scenes like the ‘respond with one word’ interrogation and more time actually developing her character, I might have actually given a shit when she died. (I mean for fuck’s sake, talk about disappearing up your own arse. How the fuck would Clara have known the word ‘Pond’ would have passed the one word test? How does ‘Pond’ convey she needs the Doctor’s help? What is even the fucking point of the one word test other than as a pathetic attempt for Moffat to try and look deep and intelligent as opposed to a pretentious halfwit? God, he’s such a shit writer).

Worse still, despite the fact Moffat had insisted that Series 7 won’t contain a series arc, it turns out Clara constantly dying is going to be a series arc now. So it looks like we’re going to be stuck with this ungodly annoying woman for quite a considerable time. Bugger!

While The Snowmen is considerably less slushy than some of the previous Christmas specials, I unfortunately have to stick this in the bad category along with the likes of Voyage Of The Damned and The Doctor, The Widow, And The Wardrobe due to its terrible characterisation and Moffat’s pretentious, egocentric bullshit.

#the snowmen #steven moffat #doctor who #eleventh doctor #matt smith #clara oswald #jenna coleman #the great intelligence #bbc #review #spoilers

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spinach-productions · 8 years

Text

Baby Spinach, chapter 2

Summary: Gaster knows very little about children. Children don’t know much more about children than he does.

Wordcount: 3646

Sans jolts out of a doze he didn’t mean to take. He doesn't know where he is, something huge is holding him down, it’s hot and he can’t see anything and he can’t breathe—

Papyrus makes a snorting noise.

Sans takes a deep breath and pats him a few times. Papyrus is fine, which means Sans is fine. It’s alright because they’re together.

Yesterday’s memories slowly come back into focus: the guy with detachable hands landed head-first in last night’s safe house and gave them a bed for the night. Sans isn’t being crushed by responsibility, he’s buried in seven layers of quilts and two sets of bath towels and Papyrus is asleep against his chest.

Sans carefully extracts himself from the mountain of blankets (and towels) and creeps to the door, listening closely for any indication that he was heard. When the apartment stays quiet, he sets Papyrus on a pillow and starts folding blankets into the smallest volume he can manage. In the end, he grabs as much as he can carry while keeping Papyrus safely bundled in the middle and makes his unsteady way towards the main room.

The guy’s door is closed. The main room is quiet. Sans balances the stack of bedding (which includes three blankets, a pillow, and a skeleton baby) and cautiously edges around the door. He tip-toes across the room, makes his way slowly around the couch, and reaches for the doorknob to the door that leads to the apartment complex’s hallway—

“Good morning!”

Sans screams and startles so badly, the entire pile flies out of his arms. He manages to grab Papyrus with blue magic, but is still crushed when the avalanche of blankets falls back to the ground. Papyrus, who doesn’t like being woken up at the best of times, starts to cry as he hangs in mid-air; Sans starts fighting his way through the blankets to get to him, shouting reassurances as he digs through mess of fabric. The commotion is loud enough that one set of neighbors starts banging on the shared wall.

Gaster stands in the kitchen doorway wearing an apron over his turtleneck. His sleeves are singed around the edges. He glances at the skillet he’s holding, then back to the shouting mass of children and blankets who are, if the women next door is to be believed, waking up the entire floor in the middle of the goddamn night.

“Do children… not like pancakes?

There's a clock on the kitchen wall. It depicts an inaccurate representation of the solar system, with the planets orbiting a sun at the center where the two hands meet. One of Gaster's coworkers found it at the dump and gave it to him as a birthday gift. Gaster knows giving a piece of trash as a gift would be extremely rude under different circumstances, but since most of the Underground's natural resources come from human cast-offs, he's more than willing to overlook social protocol as it was in the past. Plus, the clock gives the kitchen personality.

In this moment, its ticking is the only thing filling the space. Papyrus is happily chewing on a rolled-up pancake, but Sans is refuses to look up from his own stack. He hasn't eaten any, which would make Gaster question his cooking ability if it weren't for the terrified energy Sans is giving off.

“I can make something else, if you like?” Gaster offers.

Sans shakes his head.

“Are you not hungry?”

He shakes his head frantically.

Gaster cuts a bite from his own pancakes. The clock ticks loudly.

“I get the feeling you think I'm angry with you. Is that correct?” Gaster asks gently.

Sans' shoulders begin to shake.

“Are you alright?” Gaster says quickly. “Have I done something wrong? Tell me what happened, I won't—”

“I'm sorry,” Sans says. He sounds impossibly small. “I shouldn't have taken the blankets, I won't do it again—”

“Sans, you don't need to apologize. It's alright.”

Sans looks up sharply.

“I'm not angry. I didn't need them, and I didn't realize you were unhappy here. If you want to leave, you're welcome to the blankets, and the pillows if you like.” Gaster smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

Sans stares at him. His expression might be comical under different circumstances. “Why aren't you mad?”

“Because... they're just blankets?”

The watch each other. Gaster gets the impression he's being scrutinized in painstaking detail. Sans seems to be searching for any sign of dishonesty. Papyrus, having picked up on the tension and his caretaker’s unease, reaches out and pat Sans' shoulders.

“I like it here,” Sans says slowly, letting Papyrus pat the side of his head.

“I've enjoyed having you here. You are, of course, free to come and go as you like, but your company has been very welcome.” He picks up a napkin and offers it. “Please don't cry.”

Sans touches his face. He seems surprised when his hand comes away wet. “Sorry.”

“You haven't done anything wrong,” Gaster replies as Papyrus continues to pat everything he can reach.

Sans sniffles. He swipes his sleeve across his eyes and blows his nose on the napkin. Gaster takes a moment to wonder exactly how a skeleton creature's nasal mucus membranes work.

“Sorry, got a little carried away there,” Sans says, gathering Papyrus up in his arms and holding him close. Finally given access, Papyrus reaches up to pat his face.

“You don't need to apologize for that either,” Gaster says. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scrubs at his eyes again. “I'm just really glad we're here.”

Gaster vaguely remembers that children enjoy being read to, so he shows Sans the bookcase housing his personal printed collection after everyone has calmed down from the breakfast excitement. It spans across three large bookshelves that dominate one wall of the main room. Each one houses reference materials on one of his favorite branches of science (physics, engineering/technology, magic/energy) and is packed with volumes, notebooks, files, and the occasional decorative ornament he’s received as a gift. He likes to think they give the shelves a whimsical feeling. Guests seem to like that in a house.

“…and these are organized more or less alphabetically by subject,” he explains, pointing out the helpful tabs he installed last year. “So, I believe you were interested in magic research?”

Sans nods.

“What kind of background do you have?”

“I understand the basic principles of energy-to-output that forms magic, but not the variations the output can take,” Sans says, shifting Papyrus in his arms.

“That’s a solid beginning,” Gaster says, scanning the spines of his collection for a few specific volumes. “It sounds like you’re interested in the different types of magic, yes?”

“Yeah,” Sans says, sounding a bit distracted.

The tone catches Gaster's attention. He looks over to find Papyrus putting great effort into squirming out of Sans’ hold; every time Sans balances Papyrus’ weight, Papyrus finds a new way to wriggle into a new, more dangerous position.

“Quit it,” Sans hisses, trying and failing to hold Papyrus at arm’s length. When Papyrus refuses to keep still, he keeps the baby in place with blue magic. “What is with you today?”

Papyrus makes an annoyed noise and continues to wiggle in mid-air.

“If I may make an observation,” Gaster says, “He seems restless. You could let him crawl around a bit?”

Sans looks at Gaster like he’s proposed something ridiculous. “No offense, but your house is a danger zone. I can see three unprotected outlets and six, seven, nine sharp corners, without turning my head. And I’m facing a wall.”

“My house is perfectly safe,” Gaster says.

“You set both sleeves on fire making pancakes this morning,” Sans replies.

Gaster is forced to concede the point, but hardly sees what that has to do with his outlets and furniture. “Alright, what if we constructed a safe zone for him? I’ve seen people let children play in spaces specifically designed for safety, I’m sure I could make something adequately secure.”

Sans considers this as Papyrus continues to fidget. He seems to get more agitated the longer he’s held in suspension, and is starting to work himself into a tantrum. “Okay,” Sans finally says, “But it has to have guardrails at least two feet tall, and padding on the walls and the floor, and something soft for him to play with. And I’m doing the final checks.”

“You do seem to be the expert,” Gaster mutters under his breath. “Alright, let me see what I can come up with.”

Half an hour and two prototypes later, they’ve made an impromptu floor square out of seven pillows, two blankets, and a laundry rack draped with towels. The space is populated with Gaster’s single decorative pillow and an old shirt. Sans tests the pen’s structural stability and softness one last time, then gently lowers Papyrus into it. Papyrus, who was juggled between Sans’ arms and his magic for the duration of the building process, refuses to interact with anything out of sheer stubbornness.

“Come on, Paps, we made it for you,” Sans grumbles, poking the baby’s side.

Papyrus wriggles a bit and rolls onto his front to continue ignoring the world. It takes a minute for curiosity to overcome his bad mood, but he eventually begins crawling towards the shirt.

Sans heaves a sigh of relief. “I thought he was gonna be mad at me forever.”

“I don’t think he’s old enough to understand time that way,” Gaster says, watching as Papyrus clamps down on the shirt and drags it to the pillow. “Is he normally so… bitey?”

“No, this is new. I guess it’s the teething thing you were talking about.”

They watch Papyrus make a nest of the pillow and shirt, and liberally chew on them both.

“Did your teeth come in like that?” Sans asks.

“I wasn’t originally created with a tangible body, so no,” Gaster replies.

Sans looks at him. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I was born a ghost, so I didn’t get a physical form until later in life,” Gaster explains. “Usually a ghost spends a significant amount of time looking for the perfect body to inhabit, but I stumbled into this one by accident. I kept it because it suited my purposes.”

“How do you stumble when you don’t have a body?”

“I still wonder about that,” Gaster says honestly.

They watch Papyrus some more. He kicks his feet a few times, sending the shirt into the air. It flutters and falls to completely cover him.

“Do you still want me to read to you?” Gaster asks.

“I can read just fine,” Sans says. He doesn’t sound offended, so Gaster assumes he hasn’t made another misstep.

“Would you like me to read to you anyway?”

“I’ve never been read to before. What’s the point?”

“My understanding is that it’s something adults do with children as a way to impart information. I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself, if you like.”

Sans seems to think this over. “Couldn’t hurt to try.”

They choose an introductory text on the different types of magical attacks and how they correspond to the color of a monster’s soul. He reads through the first chapter, which explains the physical effects of magic and how they're fueled by soul converting energy obtained through food into magic. The information is slightly out of date (or it will be once some of the papers in Gaster's bag are printed officially), so Gaster supplements with the most recent research the Royal Laboratory has done on the generation of magical energy and how evidence is currently pointing towards the existance of constant that may, one day in the future, be used to determine magical energy output based on traditional energy input. Sans follows along and asks questions about the papers' findings, which leads to a minor debate over whether or not different types of energy could be converted to magical enegery. Gaster conceeds that they could, but that there's currently no way to harness anything other than energy derived by food. Since there's no definitive answers at this time, they agree to disagree and end the discussion by flipping to the ‘blue’ section.

“Blue magic is one of two magicks that restrict movement,” Gaster reads, “Known to effect the gravitational pull on an object or subject, it generally requires the great energy input to the smallest energy output than the other magic types.”

“That makes sense, I get real tired if I use too much,” Sans says.

“I’d love to know more about that sometime,” Gaster says. “While the gravity-altering aspects of blue magic aren’t well understood, on-going studies have proven that blue magic has the ability to temporarily alter a subject’s physical properties.”

“Sounds dangerous,” says Sans.

“It does,” Gaster agrees, “But there haven’t been any cases of damage due to blue magic. Statistically speaking, you’re probably not going to be the first.”

Sans seems to think about this. He laces and unlaces his fingers a few times. “Maybe not,” he says quietly.

Gaster watches the behavior with an emotion he doesn’t recognize growing in the pit of his torso. It feels like concern mixed with a wide dash of anxiety. He doesn't like it. At a loss for how to deal with this, he marks the page and snaps the book shut. “Well, that’s enough for right now. I believe sufficient time has passed for us to make lunch. You expressed an interest in sandwiches?”

Sans jolts out of his mood and stuff both hands in his pockets. “Uh, yeah. I liked the one you had yesterday.”

“Excellent. It’s the only food I have in the house right now.”

Papyrus, naturally, gets the last container of applesauce. Gaster manages to cobble two sandwiches together from the last of his vegetable stash and some old condiments. Sans particularly takes to the ketchup. It’s not a proper drink, but since tomatoes are technically a vegetable, Gaster’s willing to say ketchup probably has a place on pyramid of nutritional requirements. Once the children are properly engrossed in lunch, Gaster excuses himself and dials his assistant's number.

“What are you doing?” Sans asks.

“Calling my assistant, Gerald. He's kind enough to help me with personal errands sometimes.”

Sans' eyes narrow. “Don't—”

“Hello,” Gaster says when his assistant picks up, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“You've forgotten to get groceries again, haven't you?” Gerald asks.

“I have! I can't leave the house right now, could you bring some food by when you have time?”

“You can't leave the house? Are you alright?”

“Oh yes, I just have some guests.”

“...okay,” Gerald says, sounding doubtful. “Do you need anything in particular?”

Gaster rattles off his usual list of groceries, plus a box of hot cocoa powder and few extra packages of applesauce. They say a short goodbye and hang up. Gaster turns around to tell the children they'll have food for dinner to find Sans staring at him again. The entire kitchen is lit by a blue glow surrounding the plates and cups from lunch, which are now hovering above the table in cluttered disarray. Sans' eyes are very wide and very blue.

“You really were just calling to get food,” he says.

“Yes,” Gaster says sheepishly. “I tend to forget things like groceries when I'm focused on work. I'm sorry, was there something specific you wanted?”

“No,” Sans says slowly. The place settings gradually resettle on the table.

Gaster watches water return to a glass as it sets down. “The control you execute over your magic is quite remarkable. Would you mind answering a few questions about it sometime?”

“It's not a big deal,” Sans says, avoiding eye contact by plucking his sandwich out of the air.

“I'd say it's a very big deal! I've seen monsters train their entire lives for the kind of power you seem to effortlessly control, and you're what, four years old?”

“Eight.”

“Eight! That's incredible.” Gaster grabs the magnetic list from the fridge and scribbles a note to ask about Sans' abilities later. Another time, though, because unless he's very much mistaken, the children need something else to do this afternoon, and he has no idea what children like to do.

Papyrus answers the question with a wide yawn. Sans dabs the applesauce off his face and hands with a napkin, then hoists him into his arms. “Just about time for a nap, huh buddy?”

“Nap? As in sleep? Why?” Gaster asks.

Sans looks at him like he's said something ridiculous again. “Paps is barely a year old, he needs to sleep in the middle of the day.”

“Sleep is a waste of time,” Gaster says with a dismissive hand-wave. “There are so many more interesting things to do.”

“You must have gone to bed at some point last night,” Sans says, carrying Papyrus into the living room.

Gaster follows them, leaving the dishes for the time being. “I did not. I spent the night figuring out what kind of things children can eat.”

Sans gathers the blankets and pillows from the safety zone and sets them down on the couch. “Well, we'll be good to go in, like, an hour. You should try getting some shut-eye, too, it might be good for you.”

Gaster watches as Sans lays on his side so Papyrus is between him and the back of the couch, then shrugs off his outer jacket to tuck Papyrus in. From there, he drapes the blankets over them both and goes still. A moment later, Papyrus makes a whining noise and begins to snore.

Sleeping has always been bumped down Gaster's list of priorities in favor of his work, especially since his synthetic body needs less rest than a biological one would, but hist guests will be asleep for at least an hour (probably longer if their REM cycles match the standard ninety-minutes) and it couldn't hurt to try a 'nap'. He grabs a pillow and lays down on the floor. While it's not as comfortable as his bed, Gaster can't deny his body is tired from several night without rest.

“I see your point,” he says.

“Told you,” says Sans from somewhere under the blankets.

Gaster mentally files 'naps' under his 'things children do' folder. In doing so, he revisits the idea that he doesn't know much about what children do to pass the time.

He laces his fingers across his torso. When Doctor W.D. Gaster doesn't know something he sets up an experiment.

Right after he finishes this nap.

Gaster makes sure the children are still asleep, then quietly moves the coffee table and starts gathering items. A pair of mittens, a drinky bird, a magic eight-ball, and several other knick-knacks he's collected over the years are scattered over the floor. He continues selecting small and soft items until he hears Papyrus start to stir.

Not a minute goes by before Papyrus makes a noise. He then makes a louder one, which prompts the entire mess of bedding to start moving.

Sans sits up. He hasn’t untangled them from the blankets yet, so the entire nest sits up with him and it takes several minutes to pull it off. Gaster peers around the couch to see Papyrus somehow scoots out before Sans is free. He immediately zeroes in the things scattered across the floor; Sans emerges to find him already chewing on the (child safe) drinky bird.

Sans looks at the various toys that have appeared on the sitting room rug. “Huh,” he says.

The children proceed to explore the space. Papyrus is attracted to both things he can bite and soft things he can fiddle with, which makes sense with the preferences he’s expressed so far. Sans picks up the eight-ball and shakes it a few times,

Gaster sits back down and jolts a few notes. When he peeks over the cushions again, two sets of eyes are peeking back at him from the other side of the couch.

“What are you doing?” Sans asks.

“…seeing what kind of things you like,” Gaster says, reluctantly admitting the experiment may be compromised.

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

“…I hadn’t thought of that,” he admits, reluctantly admitting the experiment may have been flawed from the start. “What kind of things do you like?”

Sans holds up the eight-ball and shakes it a few times. “This is cool, and Paps likes the bird. He’d probably like anything hard enough to survive being chewed, though.”

Gaster writes this down and underlines it. “Alright. I’ll ask my assistant to bring some things next time he comes by.”

The doorbell rings on cue.

“Speaking of,” Gaster says, “Come in, Gerald!”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Gerald says as he eases the door open. “I have the food you apparently ran out of.”

“Not at all, my experiment was a failure anyway,” Gaster says, dusting off his pants as he stands

A large jellyfish squeezes through the door frame. His main body, which is pale with dark stripes, has a regular facial structure that includes two eyes, a mouth, and a surprisingly large nose. He hangs suspended in mid-air by a series of helium tanks, and a water-based respiratory system is sewn into the short lab coat he wears. Several arms are holding half a dozen plastic grocery bags, which are filled with Gaster’s food shopping.

“These should last you a week, if you remember to eat properly,” he says with only mild reproach.

“Thank you, Gerald. Let me take some of these.”

“It’s not a problem, I needed to get my own shopping done anyway—” He catches sight of the children as he moves towards the kitchen. “Well hello, there!”

Sans, who has been silently watching the situation up until this point, grabs Papyrus and bolts.

Author’s note: this is the clock G-man has. I think my middle school science teacher had one. Maybe they give them out when you get your middle school science teaching degree?

- Baby Spinach - Part 2

[FIRST] [PREV] [NEXT]

#Spinach Productions #Baby Spinach #undertale #undertale fanfiction #undertale fanfic #fanfic #undertale gaster #undertale sans #undertale papyrus

78 notes · View notes

zrtranscripts · 8 years

Text

Radio Abel, Season Two

Part 4 of 6

The clips collected in this section do not have a set chronological order, but occur when certain other gameplay conditions are met.

This post contains clips related to base builder activity such as base attacks, building upgrades, and percentage of morale and/or defense.

Each clip will begin with a brief descriptive note in italics.

(any of the next four clips play if your base has experienced an attack)

JACK HOLDEN: - so I'm not really a -

EUGENE WOODS: Jack was asked to help man the defenses last night.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah, I was.

EUGENE WOODS: Go on, tell them.

JACK HOLDEN: It was like Time Crisis. I was like, bang! Zombie! Splat! Head explodes!

EUGENE WOODS: Ooh, that's not what I heard.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, it was like one of those moments where you think, "Yeah, the zombie apocalypse is bad and everything, but occasionally, it can be pretty awesome."

EUGENE WOODS: So, how many zombies did you kill?

JACK HOLDEN: Well, it's not about how many -

EUGENE WOODS: You were up there for hours, so it must be like triple figures, right?

JACK HOLDEN: Sometimes you're more on "slow them down" duty, so the actual kill count isn't that important.

EUGENE WOODS: I heard you got one. Singular. Uno.

JACK HOLDEN: [sighs] Yeah, all right. Turns out I'm not a very good shot, so -

EUGENE WOODS: They're not asking you back.

JACK HOLDEN: No. Turns out my special skill is witty banter to help calm the populace.

EUGENE WOODS: Wit away, my friend. Wit away.

JACK HOLDEN: Just play the track.

EUGENE WOODS: To all our listeners out there, Abel has just come under a sustained attack from a horde of zombies. We managed to put down a lot of them, but we're seeing huge amounts of sustained activity out there.

JACK HOLDEN: As ever, only travel if it's strictly necessary, and stay safe.

EUGENE WOODS: Stay safe, folks.

EUGENE WOODS: And you're listening to Radio Abel with Jack and Eugene.

JACK HOLDEN: Hi, guys. Uh, we thought we'd make a personal appeal.

EUGENE WOODS: You know who you are.

JACK HOLDEN: You might feel a little bit zoned out -

EUGENE WOODS: - or possibly even a little bit more bitey than usual.

JACK HOLDEN: Does the smell of human flesh just make you want to chomp down?

EUGENE WOODS: Or have you forgotten quite how to use all of your limbs properly?

JACK HOLDEN: Yes, you. We're talking to you. Now, we know that you think it's funny to gather in groups and then suddenly attack us in what some might call a horde.

EUGENE WOODS: I would say it, Jack. I would call it a horde.

JACK HOLDEN: But actually, we were wondering if you could just leave us alone?

EUGENE WOODS: Have you ever thought about not forming concentrated zombie attacks?

JACK HOLDEN: We're just not quite sure what we did to deserve that last one. There are a lot of you, and we're not even sure where you came from.

EUGENE WOODS: We're good people. We're sure you're good people, too.

JACK HOLDEN: Just leave us alone.

EUGENE WOODS: And stay safe.

JACK HOLDEN: Do you remember Shaun of the Dead?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah.

JACK HOLDEN: And how it sort of made zombies look like quite a lot of fun?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah.

JACK HOLDEN: Well, you know what?

EUGENE WOODS: What?

JACK HOLDEN: Zombies aren't really fun, Eugene.

EUGENE WOODS: What, seriously?

JACK HOLDEN: Seriously. Real zombie attacks have fewer slides and no Nick Frost. There are no star cameos, and no one plays queen while you're fighting for your life. No fun at all.

EUGENE WOODS: We should really file a complaint.

JACK HOLDEN: [shouts] I file a complaint!

EUGENE WOODS: That's... that's not how that works.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh.

(the following clip plays after an armory upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: Jack? Jack? Hey, Jack!

JACK HOLDEN: What? Hmm? S-sorry.

EUGENE WOODS: What the hell's got you so distracted?

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, uh, nothing.

EUGENE WOODS: Are you staring at the soldiers again?

JACK HOLDEN: No.

EUGENE WOODS: Jack.

JACK HOLDEN: Maybe.

EUGENE WOODS: Do you want to come back and do some work instead?

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, yeah. Do you think, right...

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah?

JACK HOLDEN: Do you think when they got all that new equipment and guns and stuff, do you think they like... do you think any of them went like, [imitates weapon being cocked] "Lock and load!"

EUGENE WOODS: Oh, sure. For sure.

JACK HOLDEN: Nice.

(the following clip plays after an armory upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: Wow.

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah.

JACK HOLDEN: I mean - !

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah! You know, I'm really not a military man. I never got taught gun or anything, but -

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah.

EUGENE WOODS: - that is something.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah!

EUGENE WOODS: May I have your permission?

JACK HOLDEN: Silliness permission granted.

EUGENE WOODS: How do you like us now, zombies? Pew! Pew pew pew, pew!

JACK HOLDEN: Pew.

(the following clip plays after a communications upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: Oh man, it is nice to have more room in here. I can actually extend my entire leg.

JACK HOLDEN: And I don't have to reach over you to choose a song.

EUGENE WOODS: The Rofflenet connection's way stronger.

JACK HOLDEN: The chairs have backs.

EUGENE WOODS: [sighs] This is bliss.

JACK HOLDEN: Gene! Gene, look. Look, Gene! I can't touch all four walls at the same time!

EUGENE WOODS: Ah, bliss.

(the following clip plays after a communications upgrade)

[something meows]

EUGENE WOODS: No.

[something meows]

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, but I've always wanted to.

EUGENE WOODS: It's cruel!

JACK HOLDEN: But – but it'll be so funny.

[something meows]

EUGENE WOODS: Jack, we already know how much room there is in here.

JACK HOLDEN: But - !

EUGENE WOODS: No! Put it down and let it go.

JACK HOLDEN: Mean.

[EUGENE WOODS meows, coughs]

JACK HOLDEN: Damn it, Gene!

[EUGENE WOODS meows]

JACK HOLDEN: Always ruining my jokes.

(the following clip plays after a farm upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: You know that's not true, right?

JACK HOLDEN: What? No, come on. Don't ruin this for me.

EUGENE WOODS: I'm not saying you shouldn't be excited about the prospect of fresh carrots. I'm certainly not saying you shouldn't be grateful that the farm's expanding its repertoire of produce. I'm just saying they don't make you see better in the dark.

JACK HOLDEN: But... but that's what my gran always told me.

EUGENE WOODS: And you don't think she might have had some ulterior motive for getting you to eat your greens?

JACK HOLDEN: Well...

EUGENE WOODS: [sighs] The story that carrots make you see better in the dark originated in World War II. Air command circulated the myth that British pilots could see better than German pilots because they ate more carrots in order to hide the fact that the British had radar.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh.

EUGENE WOODS: Sorry, Jack.

JACK HOLDEN: That is so cool! Wartime spy veggies!

EUGENE WOODS: What?

JACK HOLDEN: Oh man, I can't wait to get some carrots now.

(the following clip plays after a farm upgrade)

[EUGENE WOODS and JACK HOLDEN imitate sheep sounds]

BOTH: Sheep!

(the following clip plays after a hospital upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: Hey Jack, guess who I saw today?

JACK HOLDEN: I know. I was there.

EUGENE WOODS: Well, yes, but our listeners weren't.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh. Oh, okay. I don't know, Eugene. Who did you see today?

EUGENE WOODS: Well, Jack, I saw our very own Doctor Myers, looking in very fine spirits.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, really? And why do you think she was so happy?

EUGENE WOODS: I suppose it could have something to do with finally having a proper hospital to work in again.

JACK HOLDEN: Ooh. Yeah, that does make sense. Good theory.

EUGENE WOODS: Thanks.

JACK HOLDEN: You're a regular Sherlock Holmes.

EUGENE WOODS: All right.

JACK HOLDEN: Proper Columbo.

EUGENE WOODS: Okay, okay, enough.

JACK HOLDEN: Doc, congrats on the new digs. Keep up the good work.

(the following clip plays after a hospital upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: I must say, I'm impressed.

EUGENE WOODS: Really? By what?

JACK HOLDEN: By – now really, don't take this the wrong way -

EUGENE WOODS: Okay.

JACK HOLDEN: Right. Sure? Yeah, okay. Now normally, when you come back after having a night in the hospital for rehab...

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah?

JACK HOLDEN: Normally you look a bit more disheveled, but this time you look refreshed!

EUGENE WOODS: Oh! Oh, well, that's easy enough to explain. Normally when I spend the night, I'm in a freezing cold tent on a crappy camp bed with water dripping on my head. But this time, I got to sleep in a proper building with a real sleeping bag. Dry and warm and happy.

JACK HOLDEN: Maybe I should chop off my own leg next.

EUGENE WOODS: But then who would go to collect my laundry for me?

JACK HOLDEN: Hmm. Do you have a spare ax lying around?

EUGENE WOODS: [laughs] You're such an idiot.

(the following clip plays after a hospital upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: They're just so... so cool!

EUGENE WOODS: Aw, it'd be super handy to have one.

JACK HOLDEN: Runner ambulances!

EUGENE WOODS: You could pull me around everywhere!

JACK HOLDEN: Runner ambulances!

EUGENE WOODS: I wouldn't have to worry about breaking my crutch!

JACK HOLDEN: I bet I could get enough speed to pull off a sweet jump with one of those.

EUGENE WOODS: Oh, that would be so cool.

JACK HOLDEN: So cool!

EUGENE WOODS: Hmm.

JACK HOLDEN: What?

EUGENE WOODS: I'm not sure the doctor would be too happy if we stole one of her brand new ambulance carts for stunt testing.

JACK HOLDEN: Well, can't hurt to ask, can it?

(the following clip plays after a housing upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: Exciting day!

JACK HOLDEN: Very exciting day!

EUGENE WOODS: Listeners, we're excited about today!

JACK HOLDEN: Very excited!

EUGENE WOODS: We're excited because we're waiting to find out about our housing allocation.

JACK HOLDEN: We're getting a tent!

EUGENE WOODS: A tent of our very own!

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, I hope it's near the loos.

EUGENE WOODS: Oh, that would be great.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, oh, I hope it has a window flap.

EUGENE WOODS: Oh God! Do you think we might get a window flap?

JACK HOLDEN: Well, someone has to, right?

EUGENE WOODS: Man, I just realized how much life has changed in the past year. Excited about a window flap in ancient tent.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, don't spoil this. Window flap!

EUGENE WOODS: Oh, I hope it's us.

(the following clip plays after a housing upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: Ugh, when did we get so much stuff?

EUGENE WOODS: Jack, we have two bags between us.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah, but ugh. Moving. I hate it.

EUGENE WOODS: We're moving two bags of stuff into a bigger tent that is six feet from where our old tent used to be. It's hardly the Exodus. [JACK HOLDEN pouts] Oh, lighten up, would you? We're getting a nicer place to live. It's an exciting day. We'll have enough room to stand up. We'll have enough room to put some flowers. It'll be nice.

JACK HOLDEN: I'm just... I'm just going to miss the window flap.

EUGENE WOODS: You're never happy, are you?

JACK HOLDEN: It was just so flappy.

(the following clip plays after a housing upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: Blue house rules!

EUGENE WOODS: Blue house forever!

JACK HOLDEN: Red house – we're coming for you!

EUGENE WOODS: Green house, you better watch your back.

JACK HOLDEN: Yellow house, don't even start!

EUGENE WOODS: Listeners, if you're confused, we're talking smack.

JACK HOLDEN: Smack talk!

EUGENE WOODS: For the Abel housing color wars. We've just been moved into the new housing.

JACK HOLDEN: Shiny housing!

EUGENE WOODS: It's the very shiny new housing, and we're in blue house.

JACK HOLDEN: Blue house rules!

EUGENE WOODS: And all the houses have decided to have a competition over the next week, and blue house is going to dominate!

JACK HOLDEN: Blue house rules!

EUGENE WOODS: We're going to bring home the trophy!

JACK HOLDEN: Ooh, is there a trophy?

EUGENE WOODS: Well, a commemorative pot plant.

JACK HOLDEN: Pot plant, woohoo! Blue house!

EUGENE WOODS: [laughs] And to further psych out all the other loser houses, here's the blue house fight song!

JACK HOLDEN: Blue house fight song, woohoo!

(the following clip plays after a playground upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: I've heard they've got a Scrabble set.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh no, I'm not playing Scrabble with you again. You cheat! Qi is not a word. It's a TV show.

EUGENE WOODS: It is a word, you idiot.

JACK HOLDEN: Then show me a dictionary.

EUGENE WOODS: You know we don't have a Scrabble dictionary.

JACK HOLDEN: Then I refuse to believe you, cheater!

EUGENE WOODS: You're impossible. What about Snap?

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah, Snap I can do.

EUGENE WOODS: Good! Then as soon as we can get over there, I'll kick your ass at Snap.

JACK HOLDEN: Bring it on!

(the following clip plays after a playground upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: Well, I'm really excited about it.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah, well that's because your character isn't trapped inside a spiked pit, slowly bleeding to death.

EUGENE WOODS: Well, we'll come and rescue you.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah, if you can get past the guards.

EUGENE WOODS: Well, I think Maxine's character still has an invisibility spell left.

JACK HOLDEN: Hmm. And when did you say this was happening?

EUGENE WOODS: As soon as we're allowed back into the rec after renovations. There's enough room in there now for the six of us to get a table, even.

JACK HOLDEN: Really?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah.

JACK HOLDEN: No more standing around the walls?

EUGENE WOODS: No.

JACK HOLDEN: Mm. Okay, now I'm excited.

EUGENE WOODS: Great! Here's a song that'll really get you in the mood for a game.

(the following clip plays after a playground upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: Ball pit!

JACK HOLDEN: [laughs] You'd fall over!

EUGENE WOODS: Ball pit!

JACK HOLDEN: [laughs] There's only about 40 balls.

EUGENE WOODS: Ball. Pit.

JACK HOLDEN: You're a grown man, Gene.

EUGENE WOODS: Look! They just made the place bigger, better, and now they want ideas on how to make it more fun, and all I'm saying is the obvious answer is ball pit!

JACK HOLDEN: [laughs] I'll talk to Janine.

EUGENE WOODS: Ball pit!

(the following clip plays after a defense tower upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: Do you see what I mean?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah, I see.

JACK HOLDEN: It's like Abel's a pirate ship, and the tower's a crow's nest.

EUGENE WOODS: [imitates pirate voice] Arrr matey, Captain Eugene's crow's nest, rising above the good ship Abel.

JACK HOLDEN: Oi, why do you get to be the captain?

EUGENE WOODS: [imitates pirate voice] Jack, come on now matey. I got the missing leg, ain't I?

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah, I guess so.

EUGENE WOODS: [imitates pirate voice] And I got you.

JACK HOLDEN: What's that got to do with anything?

EUGENE WOODS: [imitates pirate voice] You're my squawking parrot, ain't you?

JACK HOLDEN: [imitates parrot voice] Pretty Polly, pretty Polly. [squawks]

EUGENE WOODS: [imitates pirate voice] Polly want to play a song?

[JACK HOLDEN squawks]

(the following clip plays after a defense tower upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: "It is said that the Hornburg has never fallen to an assault," said Theoden.

JACK HOLDEN: Nerd.

EUGENE WOODS: "But now my heart is doubtful."

JACK HOLDEN: Nerd!

EUGENE WOODS: "How shall any tower withstand such numbers, and such reckless hate?"

JACK HOLDEN: By being real, and well-built, and manned by trained snipers with rifles, and by not being in a fantasy book.

EUGENE WOODS: They call it a fantasy book. A fantasty book!

(the following clip plays after a defense tower upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: I can make it.

JACK HOLDEN: Eugene, it's a lot taller than you think it is.

EUGENE WOODS: I can make it!

JACK HOLDEN: The Major specifically forbade anyone who isn't fully fit from going on the tour.

EUGENE WOODS: I am fully fit, Jack.

JACK HOLDEN: You're about seven eighths fit, but you're missing a rather crucial eighth when we're talking about getting up a watchtower.

EUGENE WOODS: But how will my morale get boosted? The Major said the tour was intended to show Abel residents how much safer we are now, to boost their morale. I want my morale to be boosted.

JACK HOLDEN: You'll need a pretty freaking big boost to get up there, is all I'm saying.

EUGENE WOODS: Well then, I'm lucky you're so strong, aren't I?

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, this is going to really suck for me, isn't it?

EUGENE WOODS: Oh yeah, you're going to be totally exhausted.

JACK HOLDEN: Great. Just great.

(the following clip plays after a training area upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: It's going to be great!

EUGENE WOODS: I don't know, are you sure I'm ready?

JACK HOLDEN: Come on, you're a master on that crutch now.

EUGENE WOODS: But training for a walking marathon, really?

JACK HOLDEN: We have facilities now.

EUGENE WOODS: I'm not sure.

JACK HOLDEN: You can do it!

EUGENE WOODS: You really think so?

JACK HOLDEN: You're Eugene freaking Woods, you can do anything!

EUGENE WOODS: All right.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah!

JACK HOLDEN: All right! Marathon training starting tomorrow!

EUGENE WOODS: Nervous!

(the following clip plays after a training area upgrade)

EUGENE WOODS: In case you're all wondering how my training's going -

JACK HOLDEN: Eugene's training for a walking marathon, if you hadn't heard -

EUGENE WOODS: - yup, and we've just -

JACK HOLDEN: - because he never shuts up about it now.

EUGENE WOODS: Okay. Abel just improved its training facilities, so we're just starting using some of the new equipment, and it's going well.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah. We've got a whole yoga thing going on -

EUGENE WOODS: - and bodyweight exercises -

JACK HOLDEN: - and one of those tire jumping thingies...

EUGENE WOODS: Although that's not really my thing.

JACK HOLDEN: Not really, no. But well, we've kicked it up a notch, is the point.

EUGENE WOODS: And I'm really feeling the burn. Every second day, we're out there -

JACK HOLDEN: - reenacting our favorite training montages.

EUGENE WOODS: Your favorite training montages.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah, all right, my favorites. But I'm the coach, so I get to pick.

EUGENE WOODS: He still hasn't let me do Rocky. Mean.

JACK HOLDEN: And where are we going to find a thousand stairs for you to climb?

EUGENE WOODS: Mean.

(the following clip plays after a training area upgrade)

JACK HOLDEN: And you're not nervous?

EUGENE WOODS: No. I got this.

JACK HOLDEN: Course you do! When is it, again?

EUGENE WOODS: Just as soon as Janine works out the schedule for the new training facility.

JACK HOLDEN: Amazing. God, this is exciting, isn't it?

EUGENE WOODS: Sure is. Listeners, the training facilities have just received a refresh, and the new circular running track is perfect for my walking marathon.

JACK HOLDEN: So...

EUGENE WOODS: So we're waiting on Janine to set a date for me, and then I'm going for it.

JACK HOLDEN: And I'm going to be there cheering you on.

EUGENE WOODS: You better be!

JACK HOLDEN: I think Jody's going to knit me a couple of pom-poms, even.

EUGENE WOODS: Okay, now I'm really excited!

JACK HOLDEN: Here's one from your training mix, then.

(the following clip plays after a farm upgrade, if morale is greater than 75%)

ZOE CRICK: All right. Now, I believe Jack and Eugene have had a letter. Am I right, boys?

EUGENE WOODS: That's right, Zoe. Someone sent us -

JACK HOLDEN: Anonymously.

EUGENE WOODS: That's why I said someone, Jack.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh. Oh right, right. Carry on.

EUGENE WOODS; Someone sent us an anonymous letter asking for advice.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Ooh, I've always fancied trying my hand at the whole agony aunt thing.

JACK HOLDEN: Well, now's your chance. Gene, do you want to read the letter?

EUGENE WOODS: Sure thing. Here we go: "Dear Jack, Eugene, Phil, and Zoe - "

JACK HOLDEN: Thorough.

EUGENE WOODS: "I'm a resident at Abel, and there's a person here I'd like to start dating. I'm not much for the standard approach of getting drunk on Ed's moonshine and having a fumble behind the rec center [laughs] and I don't think the object of my affection is, either.

Instead, I'm looking for a more traditional dating experience. Now, for obvious reasons I'm not keen on planning anything that needs us to leave Abel, and I'd rather not spend the whole day playing table tennis in the rec. What other activities would you suggest for a first date in the new world?"

PHIL CHEESEMAN: That's a great question, listener. Thanks for writing in. Now, my first suggestion would be to take her -

JACK HOLDEN: Or him.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: - or him up to the farm. Uh, they've got some lovely sheep up there, haven't they?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah, uh, there's a few sheep there.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Great! So, there's sheep, and you can have a nice time petting them, and um... feeding them, and uh, talking to them... the sheep. Or your, uh, friend.

ZOE CRICK: Well, that's completely terrible. Sheep stink, and they have fleas, and unless I've got completely the wrong idea about our listeners, I doubt their date is going to be a seven year old.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Jeez, pull some punches, why don't you? I don't hear you suggesting anything.

ZOE CRICK: Yes, well, that's uh... what about the cinema?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Abel doesn't have a cinema, Zoe. Does it?

JACK HOLDEN: Well, there's a DVD player in the rec room, but Janine only lets us use it once a fortnight, so no, not really.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Abel doesn't have a cinema, Zoe.

ZOE CRICK: Right, so... how about -

JACK HOLDEN: Dancing!

ZOE CRICK: What?

JACK HOLDEN: Dancing! You can organize a dance party in the quad! We could rig up our system to the PA speakers and have music, and you could invite them along to be your date, and... yeah! Dance party!

EUGENE WOODS: We'd have to ask Janine.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, you know she can't say no to me!

EUGENE WOODS: Except for every time you ask her for anything!

JACK HOLDEN: Well yeah, except for that.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: It's a good idea though, Jack.

JACK HOLDEN: I'm going to ask Janine. Listener, you shall go to the ball!

ZOE CRICK: Oh Lord. Well, listener, just in case Jack manages to pull this off, here's a song to get you in the mood.

One of the following four clips will play, depending on morale AND defense percentage.

(morale greater than 50%, defense greater than 50%)

PHIL CHEESEMAN: All right, Cablers! Welcome back. We've got a bit of a statistical treat for you, now.

ZOE CRICK: Way to sell it, Phil.

JACK HOLDEN: That's right, Phil. You see, today we're going to give you the results of our recent post-civilizational living survey.

EUGENE WOODS: You see, we polled residents of Abel and New Canton, asking them to rate various statements on a scale of one to five, with one being totally disagree, and five being agree completely.

ZOE CRICK: There's nothing people like more than facts and figures, so let's start our rundown. When asked to rate the statement "I feel safe," 75% of respondents agreed strongly or completely.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Which is obviously a testament to the sterling work of our defense forces, and our phenomenal runners. I swear, every time I see that Runner Five bringing us back another huge pack full of supplies... [laughs] Oh! And uh -

ZOE CRICK: It's a testament to everyone involved, exactly, Phil.

JACK HOLDEN: As is the next statistic. Now, when we asked people to respond to "I feel happy," 82% of respondents from Abel and New Canton agreed!

ZOE CRICK: Hm. I mustn't have sent in my ballot.

EUGENE WOODS: Aw, come on, Zoe. Our company's not that bad.

ZOE CRICK: It's not you I'm complaining about, Gene.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hey, you too, Zo.

EUGENE WOODS: Anyway, our most interesting response was this: over 66% of respondents strongly or completely agreed with the statement, "I feel optimistic about the future."

JACK HOLDEN: We're obviously doing a good job of cheering them up, guys.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Well, now that we're all working together, it's hardly surprising, is it?

ZOE CRICK: Oh, come on, Phil. You can't believe that's all down to us.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: No, I meant like, now that we're all Abel and New Canton working together, planning for the future. You know.

JACK HOLDEN: Building a better tomorrow?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Exactly.

EUGENE WOODS: Well, whatever the reason, it seems the future's looking bright. So what do you say to a song, Zo?

ZOE CRICK: You read my mind, Gene. Here's one to the future.

(morale less than 50%, defense less than 50%)

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Okay, Cablers, welcome back. Now we've got a bit of a statistical newsflash for you.

ZOE CRICK: That's one way of putting it.

JACK HOLDEN: That's right, Phil. You see, today we're going to give you the results of our recent post-civilizational living survey.

EUGENE WOODS: You see, we polled residents of Abel and New Canton, asking them to rate various statements on a scale of one to five, with one being totally disagree, and five being agree completely.

ZOE CRICK: Yeah, and there's nothing people like more than facts and figures, so let's start our rundown. Now, when asked to rate the statement "I feel safe," only 25% of respondents agreed strongly or completely.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Which is to be expected, what with the uh, apocalypse and everything.

ZOE CRICK: Sure. Although our runners are out there everyday fighting hard to keep us safe, risking their lives, being heroes, it's... it's still pretty hard to feel like everything's fine when the world's covered with the undead. So... yes, as expected.

JACK HOLDEN: And um, so's this next statistic. Yeah, uh, when we asked to respond to "I feel happy," 10% of respondents from Abel and New Canton agreed.

ZOE CRICK: [laughs] Nice to see I've got my finger on the pulse.

EUGENE WOODS: Oh, come on, Zoe. Our company's not that bad.

ZOE CRICK: [laughs] It's not you I'm complaining about, Gene.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hey, you too, Zo.

EUGENE WOODS: Anyway, unfortunately, the picture doesn't get much better. Less than 30% of respondents strongly or completely agree with the statement "I feel optimistic about the future."

JACK HOLDEN: That's not good. Look, I know it's tough right now, guys, but things'll change. Right?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Well, now that we're all working together, it has to get better, doesn't it?

ZOE CRICK: Oh, come on, Phil. You can't believe we're going to have that much of an affect.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: No, I meant like, now that we're all Abel and New Canton working together, planning for the future. You know.

JACK HOLDEN: Building a better tomorrow?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Exactly.

EUGENE WOODS: Phil's right, everyone. We're having a hard time, and it can be difficult to feel that things will ever change, but we can't give up. The only way this doesn't get better is if we stop trying to make it better.

ZOE CRICK: Hear, hear, Eugene! And here's a song to help cheer everyone up.

(defence greater than 50%; morale less than 50%)

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Okay, Cablers, welcome back. Now, we've got a bit of a uh, statistical newsflash for you.

ZOE CRICK: That's one way of putting it.

JACK HOLDEN: That's right, Phil. You see, today we're going to give you the results of our recent post-civilizational living survey.

EUGENE WOODS: You see, we polled residents of Abel and New Canton, asking them to rate various statements on a scale of one to five, with one being totally disagree, and five being agree completely.

ZOE CRICK: Yeah, and there's nothing people like more than facts and figures, so let's start our rundown. Some good news to start: when asked to rate the statement "I feel safe," over 70% of respondents agreed strongly or completely.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Which is a testament to the hard work our defense forces are doing to protect us. Especially our runners.

ZOE CRICK: Absolutely! Those folks are putting their lives on the line for us day after day, and they're doing a great job keeping us safe. Why, just the other day I saw Runner Five escape a pack of 10 zoms, all while carrying four spades and a can of fuel. Pretty inspirational stuff, as these responses show.

JACK HOLDEN: But um, well, this next statistic's a bit of a different story, I'm afraid. Um, yeah. When asked to respond to "I feel happy," only 10% of respondents from Abel and New Canton agreed.

ZOE CRICK: Nice to see I've got my finger on the pulse.

EUGENE WOODS: Oh, come on, Zoe. Our company's not that bad.

ZOE CRICK: [laughs] It's not you I'm complaining about, Gene.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hey, you too, Zo.

EUGENE WOODS: Anyway, unfortunately, the picture doesn't get much better. Less than 30% of respondents strongly or completely agree with the statement "I feel optimistic about the future."

JACK HOLDEN: That's not good. I know it's tough right now, guys, but things'll change. Right?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Well, now that we're all working together, it has to get better, doesn't it?

ZOE CRICK: Oh, come on, Phil. You can't believe we're going to have that much of an affect.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: No, I meant like, now that we're all Abel and New Canton working together, planning for the future. You know.

JACK HOLDEN: Building a better tomorrow?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Exactly.

EUGENE WOODS: Phil's right, everyone. We're having a hard time, and it can be difficult to feel like things will ever change, but we can't give up. The only way this doesn't get better is if we stop trying to make it better.

ZOE CRICK: Hear, hear, Eugene! And here's a song to help cheer everyone up.

(morale greater than 50%, defence lower than 50%)

PHIL CHEESEMAN: All right, Cablers! Welcome back. We've got a bit of a statistical treat for you, now.

ZOE CRICK: Way to sell it, Phil.

JACK HOLDEN: That's right, Phil. You see, today we're going to give you the results of our recent post-civilizational living survey.

EUGENE WOODS: You see, we polled residents of Abel and New Canton, asking them to rate various statements on a scale of one to five, with one being totally disagree, and five being agree completely.

ZOE CRICK: There's nothing people like more than facts and figures, so let's start our rundown. We'll go with the bad news first. When asked to rate the statement "I feel safe," only 30% of respondents agreed strongly or completely.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Which is to be expected, what with the uh, apocalypse and everything.

JACK HOLDEN: Well luckily, this next statistic's a different story. Now, when asked to respond to "I feel happy," 82% of respondents from Abel and New Canton agreed!

ZOE CRICK: Hm. I mustn't have sent in my ballot.

EUGENE WOODS: Aw, come on, Zoe. Our company's not that bad.

ZOE CRICK: [laughs] It's not you I'm complaining about, Gene.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hey, you too, Zo.

EUGENE WOODS: Anyway, our most interesting response was this: over 66% of respondents strongly or completely agreed with the statement, "I feel optimistic about the future."

JACK HOLDEN: We're obviously doing a good job of cheering them up, guys.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Well, now that we're all working together, it's hardly surprising, is it?

ZOE CRICK: Oh, come on, Phil. You can't believe that's all down to us.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: No, I meant like, now that we're all Abel and New Canton working together, planning for the future. You know.

JACK HOLDEN: Building a better tomorrow?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Exactly.

EUGENE WOODS: Well, whatever the reason, it seems the future's looking bright. So what do you say to a song, Zo?

ZOE CRICK: You read my mind, Gene. Here's one to the future.

#zombies run #zrs2 #s2 radio #s2 radio part 4 #zr transcript

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